It starts off as a joke; unwinding in the lounge of one of their hotel suites, tiny empty bottles of clear liquor litter the carpet, the minibar a casualty to their lethargy and the American public drinking age. Louis’s playing DJ with Niall’s laptop, spread out on a loveseat with his feet in Liam’s lap. “Gee Niall,” he starts with that shiteating grin that never leads anywhere good, “Boyfriend sure has a lot of plays, seeing as it came out, what, last week?”
Niall makes a face at him, tries to go back to his conversation with Harry, but the avoidance must be too enticing for Louis because he immediately hits play and Zayn watches the color drain from Niall’s face with a sort of morbid curiosity. Niall’s voice falters for a second, then picks up louder again like he’s trying to compensate for something, a little too intent on explaining guitar chords to Harry, who’s already drunk enough that he can’t help giggling at the word ‘fingering’. Zayn’s laying on his back with his legs propped on the couch between Niall and Harry, passively involved in the conversation. But when Harry starts to respond, slurring a bit and sloshing his drink that’s probably less than one part mixer by now, Zayn starts to notice something strange. Niall’s still looking at Harry, gaze fixed on his mouth looking as if he’s a lip reader trying to understand but his eyes are all glassed over. Like without the distraction of speaking it’s hard to concentrate and he’s fixated on Harry to compensate for it.
Harry must pick up on it too, and apparently has better skills of deduction than Zayn, because he snaps his fingers in Niall’s face, making him jolt, “Stop daydreaming about that Canadian cock.”
Niall blushes, mutters something that sounds like, “Shove it.” Looks like he’s consciously trying to laugh it off, and that’s his first mistake. It’s probably a sign that whatever’s going on is really messing with Niall’s head because rule number one for getting Louis to leave something is to play along.
“Get ready for falsetto in three, two...,” Liam trills, tapping out the rhythm on Louis’ calves, oblivious to the way Niall is subtlety grabbing for one of the couch throw pillows to bring it to his lap. But Zayn isn’t. And that’s when he realizes what’s happening, “You’ve got to be fucking joking.” They all startle at his voice, low and rough, breaking on an incredulous laugh. He’s been laying on the floor with hooded eyes for a while now, they all probably thought he’d fallen asleep. Niall’s eyes snap to Zayn, looking wide and a hint frantic, knows he’s been caught but still looking for an escape.
Zayn lets a slow dirty smile unfurl on his face, his blood feels syrupy with vodka and it’s shaping up to be a more entertaining end of the night than he had expected. He hears the last na na na, na na na, ey fade through the speakers, but then it picks up again. Zayn cranes his head back to look, Louis’s got this reckless grin on his face, placing the laptop aside and settling up closer to Liam like he’s getting ready for a show. Zayn rolls his eyes back around and Harry’s watching Niall with that intense stare he gets when processing something, the one that shows up like blatant eye fucking on camera. The song’s still going in the background, when Bieber’s voice dips low in the bridge Niall’s fingers flex on the pillow and his face is flaming. Zayn thinks if he put a palm to his cheek he’d feel the redness, uncomfortably warm.
Liam seems to have caught on because he’s stuttering something about how it’s ‘no big deal, really, he got a boner the first time he watched the Collide music video.’ And Louis snickers, pinching Liam’s side, “Isn’t that video just shirtless blokes frolicking at the beach? You dirty slag.” But Niall doesn’t look like he wants to hear it, Zayn can see him bite his lip and press his hips up into the pillow, miserable and desperate, last shreds of his dignity slipping away.
Harry must have come to some sort of conclusion because he’s sidling closer to Niall, teasing, “Do you write Mrs. Twink-Bieber in your lyrics notebook and draw little hearts around it?”, other quiet things murmured too low for Zayn to make out from his position, ears straining past the music and the buzzing in his head. Niall just keeps getting more and more breathless, sucking in air through his nose, scrunching his eyes shut and not rising to the bait. Zayn watches Harry’s mouth move, catches the words “dick sucking lips” and Niall actually whines.
That shocks something deep in Zayn’s gut, spreads his hand out over the expanse of his own stomach, soothes at the punch of arousal. Harry chokes on what he was going to say next, flicks his eyes around like he’s checking to make sure the rest of them are seeing the same thing as he is, then just says, “….holy shit . This is actually doing it for you isn’t it?” Loud and out in the open so they all hear, any pretense still left shattering.
Niall manages a shaky little nod, rutting his hips into the pillow when the part about fondue comes up again and Zayn laughs, sounding halfway between a moan, “Of fucking course with the food.”
In the morning when Zayn wakes up, head sore and muzzled with his trousers undone and limbs uncomfortably tangled with Niall and Harry on the floor in front of the couch, everything after that moment is a haze. Trying to remember is like watching a dream through gauze, impossible to consider that it actually happened but knowing with a frightening certainty that it did. His headache gets him up before the rest of them and he snakes away from the twist of bodies for a shower, pores stinking of alcohol and skin caked with things he doesn’t want to inspect.
They’ve done some reckless shit while drunk but he thinks this might be their crowning jewel. There should be a scientific study on the way things can spiral out of control with Louis egging Harry on, glinting smile and a silencing hand over Liam’s mouth. But after last night they’ve learned that apparently a hand on his dick works even better. A hot ugly feeling lashes in the pit of Zayn’s stomach when he thinks of the way Niall had crawled into Harry’s lap without needing that much prodding, frenzied for touch in a way none of them had ever seen.
Zayn had an indecent view from his spot on the ground, watched it happen like a peepshow, Niall’s ass looking plush and sleek when Harry moved inside him after Louis had coached them through the prep. As if he knew what he was doing any more than the rest of them, quieting Liam’s protests about the implications with teeth on the side of his neck. That is until Harry had locked eyes with Zayn, saw him palm his dick at the spectacle they made, beckoned him over with a jerk of his head. Zayn’s pretty sure Harry had said something crude about keeping Niall quiet, cheesy line straight from a porno, but it didn’t do anything to dampen the want, fierce and awful, curling inside him. Didn’t stop him from kneeling up on the couch with his zipper undone, letting Niall nurse sloppily on his cock until they all shook apart.
He beats off quick and ashamed under the spray of the water, slips out of hotel for a cigarette after, doesn’t come back until he’s sure the others are up and’ve had enough time to make their excuses to themselves.
Zayn sets Boyfriend as his ringtone, thinks Pavlov was really onto something with the way Niall goes beet red and scampers to the bathroom every time Zayn gets a text. Usually Louis is the one to sink his teeth into a joke and not let go until he’s wrung the last possible ounce of amusement from it, but Zayn can’t seem to get over how fast a blush can travel up the side of Niall’s neck.
It doesn’t get out of hand again like the first time, the memory of it like some shared fever dream they’re not acknowledging. Zayn keeps his phone on vibrate when the others are around, not wanting anyone analyzing why he hasn’t let the joke die. A joke that makes Niall hide behind a locked door and desperately tug on his cock, a joke Zayn isn’t laughing at. But those rare times they’re alone he flicks the ringer to loud, hopes Liam texts him some obscure fact about turtles he sees on the Discovery Channel.
Zayn thinks it’s not a big deal, all under control, until he gets a call while he and Niall are loitering in some deserted basement hallway of a venue and Niall’s hand goes to his crotch at the sound of the tinny ringer, palms at his dick like he’s going stiff too fast and it hurts. Zayn’s vision goes hazy and he’s pressing up behind Niall without remembering moving, rhythm of his voice somewhere above a whisper but loud in the desolate space, following along to the tune, “Girlfriend girlfriend would you be my girlfriend.” Niall groans, all annoyed, but Zayn knows he’s popping a woody anyway. The way Niall’s so helpless to it sets a smirk on Zayn’s face, crowds Niall up against the nearest wall.
Niall’s chest hits the surface with a quiet huff and Zayn wonders if he has any right to feel smug the way he starts falteringly rubbing off against the swell of Niall’s ass. Doesn’t even realize he has Niall’s wrists cuffed in his hands, too intent on the way Niall’s hips are working back into the staccato motions of his own that are jostling Niall into the wall, defenseless to hold himself steady. Zayn’s lets him go to anchor his hands on the jut of Niall’s hipbones, or that’s the plan until his fingers are somehow working at the snap of Niall’s trousers, shoving a hand down the front of Niall’s pants to jerk him off quick and dry. Niall whines and claws at the wall, looks like he can’t help needily pushing back into Zayn’s hips, forward into his hand, while Zayn breathlessly starts sing-songing, “I can be a gentleman, anything you want.”
Zayn imagines he can see the words teasing a flush to the sweaty skin at Niall’s hairline like a physical touch, leans forward to taste it, and the mewl Niall makes is a visceral punch to the gut. Sounds like when Harry was fucked deep inside him and Zayn goes feral with the sudden need to be the one in that position, to fuck the memory of Harry’s cock out of Niall. Grinds deeper into the cleft of Niall’s ass to stave off the feeling and Niall grunts, “You fucking tease.”
Zayn sneers, if Niall’s going to goad him like that he can't be responsible for the results. One hand still jacking Niall makes it a little difficult, but Zayn manages to hustle Niall’s pants further down his thighs, Niall wriggling about, legs caught up in his ridiculous drop-crotch trousers. Zayn gets a hand between them, thinks of the condom in his wallet, wonders if it’s lubed enough for him to get up inside Niall without tearing him. But the finger he slides between Niall’s cheeks meets slickness and Niall ducks his face into the crook of his elbow against the wall like its going to stop Zayn from noticing the feverish heat of his skin.
Zayn presses the flat of his fingertip to Niall’s pucker and it goes in smooth, insides feeling slick too, like Niall’s a girl and he’s gone wet and slutty for the promise of Zayn’s cock. “What the hell, Niall,” Zayn punctuates it with a jab of another finger into him. Niall doesn’t answer, just whimpers, shuffles his feet like he’s trying to get them farther apart but is trapped. Zayn frigs him roughly a few times, “C’mon Niall, tell me how you’re so wet for this dick.”
“Your fucking ringtone, you prick,” Niall heaves, swaying a bit on his feet when Zayn stops moving his hand. Zayn stares at the fine hairs curling around Niall’s red tipped ears, rubs his his thumb around the skin of Niall’s rim for the choked intake of air it causes.
“Be more specific.”
“I...,” Niall quavers, like there’s a point in being modest when Zayn’s two knuckles deep in him, “You got a call during lunch and I.. went back to the dressing ro-ung-om,” Niall’s voice catches as Zayn starts to finger fuck him again, “f-for a wank.”
“Did you do this to yourself?” Zayn murmurs, movement of his fingers turning brute at the thought, “D’you nut off in your hand, finger yourself like some filthy twink?” and Zayn can only breathe, “Jee-sus,” when Niall just nods, shamefaced. Zayn’s fingers are fumbling and stupid, Niall hissing when they’re hastily pulled from him, trying to grope for his wallet and split his pants open at the same time.
He rips the packet with his teeth and spits out the tab like a pornstar clichè, rolls the rubber over his cock when he’s got it in hand and hopes the oily viscosity of the outside will be enough. Niall is mumbling to himself like he’s somewhere else mentally, hand moving soothingly over his own dick, and Zayn brings him back to reality, spreads his cheeks open, hands landing with stinging smacks.
“C’mere,” he growls, drags Niall closer by the grip he has on the flesh of his ass, lines himself up. Presses in hard enough that Niall’s body starts to open to him before teasing back just for the lewd sight of it, head bent to watch where their bodies meet, Niall’s chest heaving under him. Zayn has a moment of hesitation, maybe he should stop, slow down, ask Niall if this is really okay. It’s hard to think straight past the delirium in his head, the way Niall’s body clenches maddeningly at his tip but then Niall is saying, “Cor, get on with it you fucker.” Sounding like he’s on the edge of a sob.
Zayn gives it to him. Thrusts with enough intent that his cockhead squeezes past Niall’s tight ring of muscle. Niall whines high in his throat but Zayn just braces his arms on the wall, hooks his chin over Niall’s shoulder and says, “Well, you want want it so bad. Take it.”
Zayn can see when Niall realizes what he means. His face screws up, all mottled heat, looks like he’s not actually sure he can. But he lets out the air that must’ve been choked up in his lungs, shifts his feet a little farther apart, tilts his hips back so Zayn slips in a bit farther. Zayn chuckles, “Look at you.”
And Niall blushes harder, grits out, “Shut. Up.” But still moans at the feel of Zayn’s shaft sliding deeper when Zayn nudges forward. Then Zayn’s caught a little off guard when Niall takes in a big lungful of air, breathes it out and bucks his hips back, uses the wall and one hand gripping at Zayn’s wrist for leverage so Zayn bottoms out inside of him in one excruciating slide.
“Shit shit,” Zayn chants and shoves in that last inch so they’re pressed flush. Niall’s panting heavy but it almost sounds like he’s laughing a bit, head dropped down so his chin’s against his chest, shoulders hunched so his collarbones hollow. Zayn strokes a hand up the line of Niall’s spine in wonder, a shade away from comforting, reverential.
His hand next to Niall’s on the wall moves to twine their fingers and then Zayn starts this slow grind that Niall echos, hips just working against each other, Zayn not really thrusting but dicking into Niall with these little rocking motions to get Niall used to it. He doesn’t want to hurt him, the sudden stretch was almost painful from his end, can’t even imagine the feeling of being split in two Niall must’ve had.
But then Niall starts whining for more, fingers reaching back to dig his nails into the flesh at Zayn’s hip, urging him on, his head lolling the side to bare his neck. After that it turns into this frantic fucking, Niall’s blotchy face pressed against the wall, hands scrabbling to find purchase, Zayn’s hands splayed out on the flesh of his ass, thumbs sneaking down to spread Niall’s cheeks so he can see the pink of his hole when Zayn’ cock slides out, the friction making the skin of Niall’s insides catch and pull. Zayn’s mesmerized, hears himself snarl, “Jesus fuck, take it,” then lean forward so his mouth’s against Niall’s ear, hips still pistoning, Pitching Niall forward so his wrecked cries are smothered in the wall, Zayn’s voice resonating, “If I was your boyfriend, I’d never let you go.”