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Want a Good Girl

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The problem, after the fact, is that when Harry gets off against Zayn’s thigh, it’s not the sort of orgasm that makes him feel settled when it’s over. Or, like, it did for a bit, immediately afterward, when he’d been clutching and gasping against Zayn with his cock still out, letting the soft buzz of his orgasm trip through his body for as long as they could reasonably stay shoved against the door of the dressing room. But eventually they’d had to pull apart, Zayn straightening his skirt with a crooked smile that’s somehow both sly and dazed at the same time, and by the time Harry had changed his clothes and let Cal herd him into the car that’d been waiting to take him back to the hotel, the buzz had shifted around, gone from settled relief into something nearer to adrenaline.

The problem is that he keeps thinking about it. He keeps thinking about the way Zayn’s hands had tried to fit up against his hips, grasping at him ineffectually, and eventually dropped at his side, fluttering about restlessly. He keeps thinking about the streak of his own come across the black lace of Zayn’s knickers, and the breathless moan he’d made when Harry had sucked his fingers into his mouth after Zayn had come on them, salty and sticky all over them both. He can’t stop thinking about it, and it makes him want to scream, just a bit.

He feels at loose ends when he’s finally back in his room, the door locked behind him, unsure what to do with his time and the empty room around him. He leans down to pry open the minibar, pulling out a beer, and then crosses the room and flops backward onto the massive bed, feeling fidgety.

He could wank off, but that seems pointless, like it’ll inevitably be a bit disappointing after he’s just gotten off against Zayn in women’s knickers. He could try to go find someone to get off with, but even that seems like a lot of effort for something that probably won’t quite get at the itch that’s under his skin.

He sets his sweating beer onto the table next to the bed and pulls his phone out of the tight pocket of his jeans, idly toying with the idea of texting Zayn to ask if he’d at least thought to hold onto the knickers for future use, when a better idea strikes him. He scrolls through his contacts and taps Nick’s name, toeing off his shoes and letting them hit the carpeting near the bed with a thud.

It’s ringing on the other end before he even bothers trying to do the math and figure out what time it is back home. He thinks it’s probably not so late in the states as to be too early in London, at least, and anyway, it’s the weekend, so even if it is, he doesn’t feel that badly.

“Well, well, well,” Nick says when he picks up, in that way he always manages, the way where Harry can hear him smirking. “An incoming call from the famous and elusive Mr. Styles. What an honor.”

“Shut up,” Harry says fondly. “Hi.”

“Hi yourself.”

“Are you at home?” Harry asks. It’s -- what, nearly two a.m. there, if he’s counting right. It’s unlikely that Nick’s out, because all Harry can hear in the background is the distorted hum of a television, but it’s probably the proper thing to do to check.

“Yeah,” Nick answers. “Got in, like, an hour ago or something.”

“Hm,” Harry mumbles in agreement. “What’d you get up to?” He’s still feeling worked up, and Nick’s voice isn’t necessarily doing anything to settle that, but it at least refocuses the energy into something more purposeful.

“Had dinner with Gels,” Nick says, his voice bordering on sleepy. Harry tries not to picture him curled up on his sofa in joggers, under that one afghan that itches like crazy, his new dog that Harry hasn’t met yet beside him. “Drank too much wine. Did you know I’m actually very old? She made us go to some club with these friends of hers afterward, and once we were there all I could think about was how my knees sort of hurt, and how I wanted to leave and check on Puppy. It was humiliating.”

“I keep telling you,” Harry murmurs. He switches the phone to his left ear and throws out his right arm, tracing patterns along the soft duvet with his fingers. “You’re practically decrepit. Too old to be going out and embarrassing yourself in clubs around young people.”

“Hey,” Nick says without any actual protest in his voice. “I very manfully held my own. I was out until nearly one, I’ll have you know.”

“You’re out of control, you are,” Harry says, a smile curling on his lips.

There’s a pause, just the sound of them both breathing, before Nick asks: “What about you, then, what’d you get up to? I’m sure it was miles more interesting.”

“Filmed the music video,” Harry answers. He can’t remember if he’s talked to Nick about it yet or not. “For Best Song Ever.” Nick snorts, but doesn’t interrupt. “We all got dressed up as these characters that were like, different versions of ourselves, I guess. Louis and Niall were old and fat. Had to wear prosthetics.”

“What were you?” Nick asks.

“Twitchy marketing exec named Marcel,” Harry drawls slowly. “Had these taped up glasses and a knitted waistcoat. They slicked my hair back and everything.”

“That sounds sickeningly endearing,” Nick says, which hits Harry a little, just below the stomach. He shakes his head and ignores it.

“I’ll send you a picture,” he says instead of whining low in his throat, which is what he really wants to do.

“Should do,” Nick agrees. “Anything else interesting happen?”

Harry pauses. “Got off with Zayn while he was dressed as a girl,” he answers slowly.

He says it conversationally but still cautiously, knowing that it’s not the most solid ground to stand on. They’re still trying to sort out the details of whatever this thing between them is, how to go about it all while Harry’s gone for months at a time, or at least sort it out as best they can without ever addressing it directly, which is probably not the most effective way to go about it, but. But Harry’s not quite sure how else to do it with Nick besides a bit roundabout and mixed-up, and anyway, it seems to be mostly working so far.

Nick is silent for a long moment. “Did you now?” he finally asks, and his voice is raspier than it had been just a moment ago.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, his throat sticking a bit, voice going lower -- it’s sort of intentional, but also sort of not.

“I take it that was his costume?” Nick asks.

“Yeah,” Harry says again, and there’s another pause.

“And how was that?” Nick finally asks, carefully.

“Fucking -- brilliant,” Harry breathes out heavily. And that’s not what he’d meant to say, necessarily, would’ve prefered to play it a little cooler, but there it is. “It was -- I dunno, it was different.” Nick knows he’s gotten up to it with some of his bandmates before, Zayn included, but something about this time stands out. Probably because they’re not usually dressed like fit girls when it happens, but something else is different too, the twisted-up feeling in his stomach that won’t dissipate, won’t let him take the edge off. “Seriously, I’m still all --” He struggles to find the word for it.

“Hard?” Nick supplies with a hint of a laugh.

Harry makes a pouting sound. “No,” he says, but then reconsiders, because that’s actually not strictly true. He doesn’t think his cock ever went fully soft afterward in the first place, and he’s been more than half hard again since the car ride back to the hotel. He lets his right hand drift back towards his body and palm idly over his dick through his jeans. “Well, all right, a bit, but that’s not...” He trails off. It’s something more than that.

“Still worked up,” Nick supplies, and Harry makes an agreeable sound, because that’s closer.

“D’you want to go find him and ask for a repeat?” Nick asks him, his voice a bit unsteady still, but sounding like he’s settling into it, getting his footing. “Sounds a bit like it.”

Harry whines in his throat. “No. Well, like, maybe later, but he’s off at a club with Louis tonight.” He squeezes the meat of his thigh in his hand until it stings a bit, trying to focus. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you.”

The line is silent save for a quiet crackling for a long moment, and Harry thinks he hears Nick shift at the other end.

“Okay,” he says after a long moment. “Tell me about it.”

Harry squirms on the bed.

“He had these knickers on, Jesus, I dunno where he even got ‘em,” Harry says, breathy. “But they were black and lacy and it was -- fuck, you should’ve seen ‘em on him.”

“Think I’d rather see ‘em on you, love,” Nick says with some effort. “No offense to Zayn, but--” He cuts himself off, and Harry thinks if he strains, really listens carefully, he can hear Nick shifting around, palming against his thigh and maybe even working the button of his trousers.

“Would you?” Harry says with interest, feeling a bit dizzy at the change in direction. “Is that -- is that something you’d want?” Nick hasn’t ever really mentioned this to Harry, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t something he’s thought about -- Harry knows from experience that trying to guess at everything Nick’s not telling him is a pointless endeavour.

“I wouldn’t turn it down,” Nick says after a pause.

“Really? That’s good to know,” Harry says, because it is, that’s exactly the little bits of Nick that he loves to know, shiny little things that he hoards in his chest like a magpie -- things he can come back to and say I know this, I have this bit of you. Also, it’s not like he’s against the idea himself, either, not at all -- just hearing Nick say it has Harry’s cock thickening up with interest. “Really?” he asks again. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up if Nick is just saying it to humor him.

“Maybe,” Nick says, and then, “Yeah. Look, if there are knickers about, you’re the one I want to see them on, okay?”

“Could do that for you,” Harry tells him after a moment. He can feel himself getting properly hard at the idea, of dressing up for Nick, going soft and pliant and coy under his big hands while he runs them over Harry, marking up his arms and his back, soft where the rough scratch of the lace covers his cock. “Ask Zayn where he got ‘em, get a pair of my own.”

“Normal conversation between mates, then.”

Harry huffs out a laugh, and drags his hand away from his dick, working it up under the hem of his shirt. “Hold on,” he says, and then drops the phone on the duvet next to him for a moment so he can yank his shirt up, loose enough with the entire top half of buttons undone that it comes off over his head easily. “Ok,” he says into the phone once he picks it up, propping it under he left ear again.

“Where’d you go?” Nick asks.

“Getting my shirt off,” Harry tells him.

“So it’s that kind of phone call,” Nick says with a breathy laugh, caught somewhere between amused and turned on, just the way Harry likes him best.

“If that’s all right.”

Nick makes the breathy laughter noise again. “Are you asking permission to get me off over the phone?”

Harry shifts on the bed, the muscles in his stomach tensing at the way Nick’s words sound in his ear. “Maybe.”

“Yeah, okay,” Nick agrees. “We can do that.”

The permission jolts through Harry, and he immediately uses his free hand to undo the fly of his jeans, working them lower on his hips. There’s still not quite enough room for his cock to come free, and he’s not sure if the sudden lack of pressure is the good type of relief or the bad.

“D’you wanna tell me more about today?” Nick asks, his voice going low and sure, falling into the easy confidence that always makes Harry’s skin prick up in gooseflesh. “I think you would,” Nick continues. “I think you called just so you could tell me what a little slut you’ve been.”

Harry groans at that, cock jumping.

“Tell me, Haz,” Nick instructs him. “Tell me how bad you’ve been.”

Bad,” Harry breathes out. “Really naughty, didn’t mean to, but God, he looked so pretty, ah--” He cuts himself off when he rubs his hand over his cock, the drag of his briefs rough and perfect.

“Already touching yourself?” Nick asks.

Harry nods, but remembers Nick can’t see him, and forces himself to croak out “Yeah.”

Nick pauses, considering for a moment. “Did I say you could?”

Harry whines and stills his hand “N-no,” he admits.

“But you did anyway.” Nick sounds patient and calm, but Harry thinks over the sound of his own quick breathing he can just hear the slide of Nick’s fist over himself, slow and idle like he gets when he’s making Harry wait for it.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, forcing his hand away properly. He tucks it underneath his thigh so it can’t squirm back to his dick, and digs the blunt edge of his nails against the backs of his legs through the denim until it stings.

Nick doesn’t respond to his apology. “So how did it go with Zayn?” he asks. “Did you go all easy for him as well, beg him to let you touch him?”

Harry lets his eyes flutter shut at the memory of Zayn, shirt rucked up around his ribs but straining at the buttons around the chest from the press of his tits, black hair spilling over his shoulders like a waterfall, his cock peeking out from the waistband of his knickers. Then, without his permission, the image shifts around until he’s the one in the knickers, squirming and begging to be touched.

“Not -- not the whole time,” Harry argues, because in his defense he had only really begged towards the end -- he’d also started out quite smooth, working Zayn up like he had during the video shoot, which ought to count for something, only going shaky and fuzzy-headed when he’d realized how dizzyingly into it he’d been, how badly he wanted to get his mouth on Zayn. That’s when the begging had come in.

“Dunno if I believe you, Haz,” Nick says, exhaling heavily. “I know how you get, y’know, so desperate for it -- bet it only took a second before you were gagging for it. Did he get you off right away when he saw what a slag you are?”

“No,” Harry says. “Sucked him off first.”

Nick laughs softly again. “Figures.”

“Can I -- Nick, please, lemme just--” Harry asks, the itch under his skin maddening now.

“Go on,” Nick says indulgently, “touch yourself.”

Harry’s hand flies out from underneath his thighs, and he grips the phone between his ear and shoulder as he plants his feet on the bed and lifts his hips so he can work his jeans and pants further down. They get tangled around his ankles, but he doesn’t bother trying to yank them all the way off, flopping back down and getting his hand on his dick in an instant. The relief is immediate, and he breathes out, squeezing the fist of his hand tighter to feel the clench of it.

“Don’t come until I say, though,” Nick instructs, which has the complete opposite effect, making Harry feel like he’s about to shoot off any instant.

“Okay,” he says slowly, keeping his hand steady, the drag just this side of too slow to get him to the edge of coming. “You first?”

“Yeah,” Nick agrees. “Want you to keep telling me about it until I come. Then you can, alright?”

“Yeah, alright.” Harry thinks he’d agree to just about anything Nick says just then, wants to do anything Nick asks of him, because nothing quite gets to him like when he follows instructions properly, when he gets Nick to drag a hand through his hair and murmur “Good boy” to him.

“So you sucked him off first,” Nick says steadily. “Not surprised, you love a cock in your mouth, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Harry agrees a bit wildly, twisting his hand around the head of his cock on the upstroke hard enough to make him gasp into the phone. Nick must heard, because he makes a soft noise back, something pleased and warning all at once.

“Tell me,” Nick instructs.

“I was -- ah, I was supposed to be flirting with him, because, like, Louis said I hadn’t got any moves, but then, like.” He remembers the way Zayn had gone shivery and leaned into him, and the furtive glance Niall had given him before he’d shepherded the other lads out of the room. “But he was so fucking pretty, fuck, and he spread his legs for me, and...” he trails off, tracing his hand down his balls and into the crease of his thigh. He wonders if Nick will tell him to finger himself open, and ghosts his fingertips over his hole. He thinks there’s a good chance he won’t last long enough to do it properly.

“And?” Nick prompts.

“And I got his skirt up round his waist, and he had on those knickers, and his dick was so pretty too, and I just--” He whines again, losing the thread of what he’s saying. “Nick,” he groans.

“And you had to suck his dick, yeah?” Nick finishes for him. His voice is a bit breathier now, not quite so carefully calm, and Harry hopes he’s wanking himself off properly now, hopes he’ll come soon so that Harry can as well.

“I told him -- I told him I’d be so good for him, that I’d make him feel good,” Harry explains.

“Think he probably already knew that, though,” Nick says. “Probably everyone knows how good you are with your mouth, Haz, how you’re made to suck a cock--” If he says anything after that, Harry doesn’t hear it, because his pulse is rushing in his ears and his hand is flying over himself too quick. He forces himself to stop, refusing to come before Nick and disappoint him.

“So he was good for you?” Nick asks after a moment. “Let you get down on your knees and suck him off like a proper slag?”

Yes,” Harry hisses. He pulls his hand off his dick and brings it up to his mouth, spitting sloppily into it twice before bringing it back down, moaning at the slickness of it. He loves it like this -- loves it when it’s the side of too dry too, sometimes, likes the ache of it, but this, when he’s messy and wet, makes him feel overwhelmed, slutty and indulgent and decadent.

“Then what?” Nick prompts him, and Harry has to take a moment to sort it out, put together the chain of events from earlier when all he can focus on now is the slide of his own hand and the tenor of Nick’s voice in his ear.

“He -- he came for me, ‘cos I told him I wanted to taste it, wanted to -- um -- swallow it.” Harry’s hips come off the bed an inch to meet his fist, curled tight around his erection, fingers tensed and tendons flexing.

“Sounds about right,” Nick says. “Nice of him to indulge you.”

Harry nods again, even though Nick still can’t see.

“What else?”

“Um, when he was done, I -- fuck -- rubbed off against his knickers. He wanked me off a bit, but I came really quickly.”

“The knickers were still on?” Nick asks with interest, honing in on that bit like an arrow.

“Yeah, yeah, I just pulled them down enough to get his cock out when I sucked him,” Harry recounts. “It was so fucking hot, Nick, he was all made up like a girl, he had tits and this hair and his knickers, but I got to suck his cock as well. Jesus.”

“No wonder you came so quickly,” Nick says. “Was it on yourself, then? On your stomach?”

“No,” Harry says breathlessly, “on -- on his knickers. I tried to clean ‘em up a bit afterward, but -- it was messy.”

“Jesus, Harry,” Nick marvels. “You’re something, aren’t you?”

Harry’s not sure what to say to that, so he says nothing, focusing on the feel of his hand, curling his toes into the duvet.

“Wish you were here,” Nick admits, and beneath the arousal curled in Harry’s stomach, something else twists. “Want your mouth, want to see you in those knickers,” he continues. “Want to finger you till you’re shouting.”

Harry closes his eyes and pictures it, and it’s so easy, so easy to imagine himself bent over on Nick’s bed, sucking Nick’s cock until he pulls Harry off by the hair, getting round behind him and shoving the lace of the knickers to the side until it starts to rip, working his long fingers into Harry until he’s sweating and bucking and desperate, rutting against the lace and the bedsheets until he comes everywhere. Nick would put his fingers in Harry’s hair afterward, yank softly until his scalp just started to ache with it, and tell him how good he’d been, what a good, beautiful boy he was, and then pull him up by the hips until he’s sitting back on Nick’s lap as Nick fucks into him, jerking bonelessly up and down on Nick’s cock.

“Me too,” Harry says after a long moment. “Want you to fuck me and tell me I’m good, want to suck your cock, fuck. Please say you’re gonna come soon, Nick, m’gonna die.” His balls are tight up against his cock and the tingling in his toes is spreading upwards, molten gold and hot under his skin, and he has to stop his hand moving entirely so he doesn’t come.

“No you won’t,” Nick says. “You’ll be good and wait. Didn’t even tell you everything yet, did I?”

“Tell me,” Harry says despite himself, because as much as he wants to come, he wants to hear Nick talk just as much, maybe more, describing all the ways he could take Harry apart.

“If you were very good,” Nick says slowly, “very good and sucked me off like a good girl without touching yourself, I’d probably have to find a way to reward you, yeah?”

Harry lets out a noise that’s more of a choke than anything, because -- that’s new, not the part about being good and being rewarded but the part where Nick’s called him a good girl, and Jesus, he’d not had any idea he’d like that so much but he does, so, so much.

“You would,” Harry agrees quickly, trying to answer the unspoken question in Nick’s voice, that it’s all right, that it’s more than all right, that he should keep going with it. “I’d be so good, I’d be your good girl, anything you want, I swear--”

“Good girls get their cunts eaten out, don’t they?” Nick asks him steadily. Harry has no idea how Nick’s keeping his voice so even, only just the barest tremor to it even though he must be near coming himself. The words make Harry’s skin feel too tight just hearing them. “Would you like that?”

“Yes,” he says, and he’s not sure if he’s answering the questions or just agreeing in general, but it’s the only word he can think to say, yes to whatever Nick offers him.

“I think you would,” Nick carries on. “I think you’d want me to spread your legs and get between your thighs, get you all wet with my tongue until you’re soaked through your knickers.”

“Please,” Harry begs, because it’s begging now, there’s no question. “Please, yeah, Nick, I want it, want your tongue in me.” He closes his eyes and sees the knickers so clearly in his mind, wet with his precome and Nick’s spit, shoved off the side of his hips, pulled taut against his arse, leaving red marks on his skin while Nick holds them out of the way and licks into him, teasing his hole with the flat of his tongue before shoving it in messily.

“Bet you do, you’re a proper little slut for it.” Nick’s voice cracks an inch, his composure slipping.

“For you,” Harry says. He wants Nick to know that he’s the only one who really does this to him, makes him feel dirty and naughty and good and perfect all at once, thrilling at Nick calling him his, calling him his slut, his girl -- that he winds up desperate and begging most of the time when he fucks someone no matter how cool he tries to play it, but he only gets like this for Nick, that this is all theirs.

“Yeah,” Nick agrees. “You’re my good girl, aren’t you, even if you are easy for it.” He huffs in a breath, and his voice is hoarse when he speaks again. “Should I come for you?” he asks.

“Oh God, please, do it, fuck,” Harry gasps. He can’t decide which he wants more, the permission to come himself once Nick does or just to hear Nick getting off, whining high in his throat, picturing how he’d want it on him if he was with Nick. On his arse, maybe, or in his mouth, bent over to catch it all before crawling back up Nick’s body and kissing him while his mouth’s still full of his come.

“Where d’you want it?” Nick asks with some effort, and Harry can definitely hear him wanking now, the slip-slide of his hand on his dick, long fingers clutching tight. He misses Nick’s fingers, and Nick’s dick, wants to be reacquainted with them immediately. “Harry,” Nick says, “tell me where.”

“My -- my tits,” Harry says, squeezing his eyes shut as he does. He hadn’t known that’s what he was about to say, but there it is. He can feel himself flushing, his cock jerking in his hand as he fists sloppily over himself, all rhythm gone as he thinks about Nick coming hot and thick over Harry’s chest, rubbing it into his collarbones and nipples once he’s done and then making Harry suck what’s left off his fingers. The idea makes him keen, high-pitched and a bit frenzied. He can’t hold off much more -- he’s going to come. “C’mon, Nick, please, want you to come on my tits.”

Jesus,” Nick whimpers, “anything you want, sweetheart, anything--” He cuts off, then, gasping in a mouthful of air sharply, and Harry knows he’s coming, and he almost wants to cry he’s so desperate to see it, get the mess all over him. He bites the inside of his lip, seeing stars with how badly his chest is wracked with the effort of not coming, the only thing stopping him how desperately he wants to hear Nick praise him for holding off. He wants to be Nick’s good girl, and if this is how Nick wants it -- he has to do it for him.

“Good?” Harry asks desperately, eyes still squeezed shut as he tries not to cry with the ache of holding himself back. “S’I good for you?”

“So good,” Nick says, his breathing evening out slowly and his voice low and gravelly. “Such a good girl, letting my come on your pretty tits.”

The noise Harry makes at that is more high-pitched than he’ll ever admit, too close to a sob.

“D’you think I ought to let you come?” Nick continues. “Christ, you’re desperate for it. Probably soaked for me, aren’t you sweetheart?”

“I am,” Harry says frantically, and it’s true, his cock and his hand all wet with spit and precome and he has to come soon, he’s been on the edge for too long now. He feels a prickle of tears in the corner of his eyes, and squeezes them tighter.

There’s a long stretch of silence, so long that Harry wonders if Nick’s hung up on him, left him to languish like this, knowing that if he did, Harry would just wait, wouldn’t get himself off without Nick telling him to no matter how badly he wants to.

“Go on,” Nick says finally. “Come on, show me what a good slut you are.”

Harry grunts once more, and it’s only a matter of seconds, a few frantic jerks of his cock before he’s coming like an explosion, flecks of light going off behind his eyes as he sobs brokenly, shooting hot halfway up his chest. It feels like it goes on forever, the feeling of falling off a cliff, and it’s a long moment before he collects himself enough to speak again.

“Well,” he says finally, still a bit unsure how words work. “Well.”

“Yeah,” Nick says with a laugh that sounds punch-drunk from coming, teetering on the edge of exhausted now that his heartbeat is evening out.

“That was, um,” Harry starts. “That was -- good? For you?”

Yes, you prat, Jesus. Did you not hear me coming? I’m sure I made some truly embarrassing noises.”

“Didn’t,” Harry argues, but it’s punctuated with a yawn. “Feel much better now,” he says. He does, too -- whatever frantic itch had gotten under his skin is finally gone, enough that he thinks he’ll drop off to sleep soon even though it’s still early.

“Good,” Nick says. “That all -- that was all okay with you?” He sounds a bit tentative now, after the fact.

“Yes, God,” Harry says, because the thought of Nick not knowing how blissed-out he feels right now makes him frown. “It was -- you can definitely do that again,” he says.

“Just the talking about it thing?” Nick asks cautiously.

“Well,” Harry says, scratching at his stomach. There’s still come everywhere, and he’ll have to stand up and fetch something to clean himself up with soon, but at the moment he’s not sure he can move. “Suppose it’d have to be just talking for now, not home for a while.”

“Suppose so,” Nick agrees.

“But,” Harry says carefully. “When I am back, we could, um. Not just talk about it, maybe? If you’d like?”

Nick exhales. “Okay,” he says. “When you’re home.”

They’re silent for a while, Harry listening to the in and out of Nick’s breath made crinkly over the phone.

“Really do wish you were here,” Nick says eventually. “Not just for like, pervy reasons.”

“Like so you can come on my tits,” Harry says, his mouth curving into a smile.

“Right. I mean, I’ll do that too, obviously,” Nick says with a huff of a laugh before he quiets again. “But -- for not pervy stuff, also.”

“You miss me,” Harry says with a smile, stretching out his legs and letting the warmth of it flow through him.

“Obviously,” Nick says quietly. It’s not what Harry expects.

“I miss you too,” Harry tells him. “Massively. Not just for your dick, too.”

“Yeah,” Nick agrees, and they’re quiet again. After a while Nick yawns.

“You’re tired,” Harry says. “You should go to bed. Sorry I kept you up late with weird sex stuff.”

“Takes two to have weird phone sex, though,” Nick says. “So it’s my own fault as well.”

“I’ll send you a picture of me dressed up like Marcel,” Harry says. “Maybe you can have a weird wank over that and tell me about it later. D’you have, like, a fetish for nerds?”

“I must,” Nick says, “else I wouldn’t be -- with you, would I?”

The way he says it makes Harry’s chest swell a bit -- with Harry. Not just getting off with Harry -- with him, full stop. It just a small phrase, could have just been Nick leaving off words because he’s fucked out and tired, but it still makes what they’re doing seem somehow much less complicated, to say it like that.

“Guess not,” Harry agrees. “Go to bed, okay?”

“Bossy,” Nick says, and Harry laughs. “Call me again sometime, yeah?”

“‘Course,” Harry says.

“Doesn’t even have to be about sexy mischief with your bandmates,” Nick clarifies. “Although, by all means, keep me updated on that front. But it can just be like, normal mischief.” He clears his throat. “Or no mischief at all, if you like.”

“I can do that,” Harry agrees. “Go to sleep, I’ll call you soon.”

“Okay,” Nick agrees.

“And then you can call me, and I’ll call you back, and then you’ll--”

“Oh God,” Nick laughs. “I’ve created a monster.”

“Probably,” Harry says, still smiling.

“G’night, babe,” Nick says softly.

“Night, Nick,” Harry says, and forces himself to ring off before it gets any more ridiculous. He stays where he is for a long moment, eyes closed and running his fingers through the come that’s cooling on his stomach before finally getting up and wiping himself down with a towel in the toilet.

It’s still early, probably too early for bed, but he flops down on and wriggles underneath the duvet anyway, happy to sleep for the next twelve hours if he can get away with it -- if his body even remembers how to sleep that long uninterrupted. And anyway, if he wakes up at four in the morning he can just order room service -- or bother Nick some more. He’ll be awake properly, by then. The thought makes Harry smiles again, slow and sleepy against the white pillow, before he drifts off.