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great minds

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Zayn does this thing where he stares off into the middle distance for hours at a time.

When Harry first caught him at it, back at the bungalow in the dead of the night, he honestly thought he was possessed. But Zayn shrugged off suspicion born of agitated cows and Louis having made it his personal mission to scare everyone into an early grave, and said, a little shy, just thinking, mate. Just thinking. Thinking. For hours! Sixteen-year-old Harry had never heard of anything so wonderful. It wasn’t long before he began to sit in on Zayn’s thinking sessions whenever he could—unobtrusively, of course. He was considerate; he made sure to sit in front of a different wall—and tried his hardest to be as unbothered as Zayn about everyone taking the piss.

Nothing seemed to fluster Zayn. He intimidated Harry in the way those sort of people always had, people who didn’t care whether anyone liked them, or their hair. It took him a while to realize that Zayn did care—he was just better at hiding it, and far more intimate with disappointment—and even longer to figure out that there wasn’t really anything profound about sitting on his arse and staring at the bloody wall.

There hadn’t even been any breathing exercises, for fuck’s sake. Harry only judges his younger self a little, because Zayn has a way of handling things with more gravity than they deserve (see: superheroes) and he’s always sparked this queer sort of anxiety in Harry, this urge to impress. Harry isn’t normally prone to exaggeration—he’s certainly not a liar—but something in the way Zayn looks at him scrambles things up in his head so badly he resorts to boasting about everything from how much he craves spicy food (he doesn’t) to how well he can deepthroat (he can’t).

But that’s all in the past. Harry meditates, now. Like, properly. It took a while, but he’s lost the stars in his eyes and learned to see Zayn for the ridiculous tit he actually is. So when Harry comes out of the hotel shower to find him sat on the loveseat, blank-faced and dead-eyed, he doesn’t even bother to roll his eyes before throwing a wet towel at his head.

It goes wide, and Zayn doesn’t so much as blink. Harry considers and ultimately rejects the idea of picking the towel up and trying again, choosing instead of wander around bare-arsed as he air dries. He keeps Zayn in his periphery while he rummages through his bag, because he’s not bad to look at, and tries not to wonder what he’s thinking about.

There’s no way of knowing, really. Sometimes Harry thinks he’s just gone and fallen asleep with his eyes open. He doesn’t always have something to say once he’s shaken it off, just as likely to stretch and head off in search of a blunt and a proper nap as he is to engage anyone. But sometimes, he’ll deign to share whatever’s on his mind. Sometimes—

Sometimes he’ll blink, leans his head back, and say, “Anyone ever eat you out?”

His voice has that low, syrupy quality it only really acquires when he’s turned on. He’s probably hard, or getting there, and Harry’s never been made so suddenly aware of his own arsehole and the fact that he’s still a little damp from his shower and smells strongly of apricot.

“What?” he says, and then clears his throat, because that sounds like he’s stalling. “I mean, what, I didn’t hear you?”

Fuck. That sounds worse.

“Has anyone ever eaten you out,” Zayn repeats patiently. He’s shifted so Harry can’t really see his face from this angle, and the ear that is visible, while handsome, isn’t giving Harry any clues on how to respond.

So he says, “oh,” and “oh, yeah, of course. Loads of times.”

It was just the once, and more unsettlingly enthusiastic ball-licking that got out of hand than anything else. So, fine, when it comes to Zayn maybe Harry’s still a work in progress.

Zayn hums. “You like it?”

“Yeah, it’s, uh. It’s all right.”

“All right?” Zayn parrots, and sounds like he’s smiling. Harry decides he’s had enough of the back of his head and gets up, making his way around the bed until he’s at the floor-to-ceiling windows, and in Zayn’s line of vision. His skin is prickling, and for an absurd second he’s even tempted to slip on his briefs, because that’s how crazy Zayn makes him.

They haven’t been doing this long, and all this consists of is sloppy handjobs and the occasional blowie where Harry tries to live up to the deepthroating standard he’s managed to set for himself. There was a memorable ten minutes backstage after a show where they humped each other until they came in their pants, but it’s just—lads, really, fucking about, nothing to get worked up over. Harry gets around, and arse-licking aside, he’s done some crazy stuff. He’s the adventurous one—everyone knows that. He gets wild. And all signs still point to Zayn being uncommonly attached to missionary, so there’s no real reason for Harry to feel as nervous as he does, but there’s that fucking look on Zayn’s face again, the one that makes him go tongue-tied and stupid.

“Just all right, huh?”

Harry shrugs and tries to ignore the way his cock’s filling out. Zayn’s eyes don’t waver from his face, and that makes it harder, somehow, the way they’re just—looking at each other.

Zayn’s eyes are bright. He’s been growing his beard out again, and it’s started to sting when they kiss now, roughing up Harry’s mouth enough to make Lou grumble. He doesn’t know what it’d feel like if Zayn were to put his mouth to Harry’s arse, but the thought makes him clench, cock fattening right up. He can feel himself start to sweat, and thinks Zayn would be able to taste it.

“Do you want to?” he blurts out. “Right now?”

“Nah,” Zayn says lightly, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Was just thinking.”

Of course he was.

Harry shrugs again, like he doesn’t care either way, like his dick isn’t so hard it’s bobbing under its own weight. He tries to school his face into something resembling nonchalance, but he can’t help the way his mouth draws up and goes sulky. It’s just—if he wasn’t going to do anything, why bring it up at all? It doesn’t seem right to back out as soon as it becomes the only thing Harry can think about. Seems rather unfair, really.

He opens his mouth to say as much, then remembers he doesn’t care enough to. Fine. Whatever. He had plans for tonight, and they didn’t include convincing Zayn that his own bleeding idea was a good one.

He heads for his bag again, but Zayn catches his wrist as he stomps past and tugs him onto his lap, laughing.

“Don’t get stroppy,” he says, kissing Harry’s pout and holding him fast when he tries indignantly to squirm away. “You’re so easy, babe.”

“And you’re a twat,” Harry mutters against his mouth, but melts into him anyway, because he’s warm and smells good and never teases him for too long. Harry’s used to being coddled, but no one’s as deliberate about it as Zayn is, as careful of hurting his feelings. Sometimes it makes Harry feel young and unsteady, like he isn’t even a fraction as capable and worldly as he likes to think, but most of the time he just basks in it, lets it light him up like an afternoon in the sun.

“Yeah, I want to,” Zayn says, between soft, wet kisses. “Been wanting to lick you out for ages, get my tongue in you.” He pulls back when Harry shivers, cocky grin just wide enough to be sweet. “I’d make it better than all right.

“Not if you eat arse like you suck cock,” Harry says, and obligingly makes a little clawing motion when Zayn meows.

Harry doesn’t realize he’s smiling until Zayn reaches up to thumb at his dimple. His other hand sweeps over Harry’s back and cups his arse, gives it a quick squeeze before spreading him. Fingertips brush against his hole and retreat when Harry tries to squirm back into the touch.

“You know how fucking fit you are?” Zayn murmurs, biting at the hinge of his jaw. He laughs when Harry makes a noise low in his throat, spreading his legs as much as the loveseat allows. “Yeah, you do. You want it now?”

His fingers find Harry’s arsehole again, the touch firmer this time. It’s a dry catch, and he doesn’t try to fuck in, just—pets him, drags a finger down to knead at his taint. Harry’s no virgin, and Zayn’s gone further before, opened him up on spit-slick fingers while they tugged each other off, but this feels different somehow, more focused. Harry’s insides tremble like he’s about to get fucked, and they haven’t—they wouldn’t—go that far, probably, but his hand is shaking when he curls it around the back of Zayn’s neck to draw him into a kiss.

His mouth is so soft, but the kiss turns hungry, and his beard scratches the thin skin of Harry’s upper lip, the corners of his mouth, his chin. It stings when Zayn licks at him, and they should slow it down or Harry’s face is going to be a right blotchy mess, but the hurt goes straight to his cock and Harry nuzzles into him helplessly, wanting it everywhere. His heart is beating somewhere in his throat and nothing’s even happened yet. Zayn’s still dressed, vest twisted in Harry’s grip, cock trapped in his jeans, but Harry could come from this, just from rutting up against him, snogging like kids who don’t know any better.

It hasn’t been this way with anyone else. Harry loves sex, and he’s had a lot of it—great sex, fantastic sex—but it’s never felt like this, like it’s too big to contain. Like it’s going to consume him. He doesn’t often think about what that could mean, because self-reflection tends to be something he only dabbles in when it gives him the answers he wants, but it sneaks up on him, sometimes, and leaves him winded.

“You can come,” Zayn tells him, teething at Harry’s swollen bottom lip while he tries to catch his breath. “I want you to, babe. Yeah? Want you all loose and sweet for me.”

“‘m always sweet,” Harry says, but drops a hand to his cock and tugs, rougher than he’s used to. Zayn makes an approving noise when Harry starts panting, and gives his arse a squeeze before dragging both hands up his back, over his shoulders, down his chest. Harry gasps when he pinches his nipples, too sensitive when he’s this close to coming, but Zayn says, “shh, babe,” and, “I got you,” and digs his nails in.

Harry’s back bows when he comes, and he doesn’t manage to catch any of it in his palm. It gets all over Zayn’s vest instead, and he knocks Harry’s hand away to milk out the last of it, working him with slow, hard pulls until Harry whines and bites him. His whole body’s tingling, and he can’t tell whether it’s from the orgasm or anticipation, because Zayn’s finally coaxed them both upright and Harry knows what’s coming.

It’s not like they’ve never taken their time before. Zayn’s thorough, and Harry’s eager, and they’re both greedy, in their own way. They once spent an entire night getting each other off with their hands and mouths, over and over again, just to see if they could, until they were so spent and sore they could barely drag themselves to bus call. So there’s nothing novel about moving to the bed, but this still feels—bigger, because Zayn had been thinking about it, and now Harry can’t stop. His heart has gone a bit mad in his chest, like he’s been caught at something, and he wants to be touched so badly he aches.

Harry doesn’t look back to see what Zayn’s doing, whether he’s undressing or just watching. He strips the covers off the bed before flopping down onto his front, and the sheets are cool against his burning face when he draws his knees up under him and spreads, flushing as Zayn silently settles in behind him.

“Know what you look like right now?” he asks, finally, after Harry’s started biting the pillow in agitation. He’s not touching him, but Harry can feel the heat from his skin, so close, and it’s driving him mad. His cock hasn’t gotten a chance to go soft, and it hurts a little every time the head catches on the sheets. Harry tries to keep himself from doing it on purpose.

“Ready,” he mumbles, and Zayn laughs softly.

“Yeah, ready. Desperate,” he says. “Begging me for it.”

Harry buries his face in the pillow again and can’t help pushing his arse out when Zayn draws a finger down his spine. “You want me to?”



Zayn snorts. “I’d be shocked if you didn’t, mate.”

“Hey,” Harry starts to whine, but it catches in his throat when Zayn grips his arse with both hands, spreads him, and breathes hot right against his hole. Harry doesn’t know what he was expecting—wet, mostly—but what he gets is a dry, soft kiss pressed to flinching skin, and the flicker of Zayn’s tongue, too quick to really feel. His beard tickles a little, and Harry swallows a hiccuping laugh when he shifts, dragging it over his cheeks, all the way down to his balls.

“Having a good time?” Zayn sounds amused, and Harry’s just about to lift his head and tell him to put his mouth to better use when he drags the flat of his tongue over Harry’s arsehole and, oh, there’s the wet.

It gets wetter. Zayn gives his hole a slick, dirty kiss, so sloppy it draws a sound from Harry’s throat, and another, and another, until he’s moaning, fisting his hands in the sheets so he doesn’t reach back to spread himself open. His cock twitches every time Zayn draws back to take a breath, because the sudden rush of cold air against sensitive skin is almost worse than the heat of his mouth, but Harry’s toes are curling from how good it is, hole screwing up tight and then going loose and welcoming in the span of a heartbeat, again and again, until his whole body feels like one big, frantic pulse.

There are nails digging into the meat of his arse and Zayn’s beard doesn’t tickle anymore. Every time he works his mouth it scratches tender skin, so rough that Harry tries to squirm away before pushing back again, caught in a fit of indecision. His cock is hard again, leaking plaintively, and when Zayn starts to lash his tongue against his hole, working him over fast, Harry has to stretch into it even as he protests.

“Slower,” he gets out, the bit of pillow he’d had in his mouth dragging wet against his cheek. “Zayn, I want—”

“Yeah?” He sounds wrecked, and Harry hadn’t realized how affected he was until now. When he turns his head to see, the flush on Zayn’s face and his wet, red mouth make Harry’s heart thump wildly. “Slow?”

“Yeah,” Harry manages, “slow, like. Kiss me again.”

He wants to keep watching, but his head feels too heavy to hold up. Zayn bites a cheek before putting his mouth to Harry’s hole in a lazy, open-mouthed kiss that turns into slow suction and gentle rub of tongue. Zayn barely needs to move this way, his jaw doing all the work, and it feels so good Harry has to worm a hand under him and cup his swollen cock.

“Like that,” he gasps, when he’s drawn enough breath, “just like—like that, fuck, Zayn—” and then, because he can feel himself go loose and wanting, “put your tongue in, please can you—fuck me, fuck me with it.”

Zayn gives it to him, and the first press of his tongue makes Harry shudder and claw at the sheets. It gets better the more he works it in, nipping a little at the rim before each slow, thorough fuck, and Harry doesn’t even realize he’s been talking, demanding more, and more, and more until Zayn draws back and slaps him, hard enough to make him yell.

He’s flipped over onto his back before he can really even process the sting in his arse.

“Fucking brat,” Zayn says, when Harry blinks up at him, eyes a little wet. His mouth is twitching the way it does when he’s trying not to smile, and Harry draws in a breath to tell him off for stopping but is kissed before he can let it out. It’s hungry, and Zayn fucks his mouth with his tongue the way he fucked his arse. Harry clutches at his shoulders and spreads his legs so he can fit in between, whines when he pulls away.

“You done giving me directions?” Zayn asks, and tweaks a nipple when Harry opens his mouth to answer. “Maybe I’ll just let you sit on my face next time, yeah? You can go as slow as you want, use my mouth. Fuck yourself on my tongue. Here, lift your legs up.” Harry does, face burning, and Zayn folds his knees up to his chest, spreading him so quickly that it draws a moan from him, and nudges a pillow under his hips. “Hold them there. Yeah, like that.”

It’s harder to breathe like this, though Harry doesn’t know if that’s from the way he’s been folded up or the way Zayn’s looking at him. He jolts when he gets another slap across the back of his thigh, and another on his arse, the tip of a finger catching against his hole. Zayn’s eyes don’t flicker from his face, but it’s hard for Harry to look back with any kind of focus when his vision is blurring, cheeks so hot they hurt. He’s been spanked before, been tied up and flogged and smacked around more a little, and Zayn knows he likes it because—well, because Harry can’t fucking resist telling him, even when he hasn’t asked. Especially then. But he’s always reacted the way Harry expects him to, with an eyeroll that belies how shy he can really get, don’t need details, mate and keep that to yourself, would you?

Nothing about tonight has gone the way Harry thought it would. He holds his breath while Zayn hits him lazily, at random intervals, almost like an afterthought—or it would be, if his eyes weren’t so bright and sharp and fixed on Harry’s face, cataloguing every little shudder and twitch and stray tear. He doesn’t stop until Harry’s gasps turn wet and his arse and thighs feel like they’re on fire, probably as red as Zayn’s mouth, and just as tender.

“‘m waiting on you, babe,” Zayn says, voice low and soft, digging his nails into the hot, painful skin of Harry’s thighs and dragging them down. “You want another kiss?”

“Please,” Harry says, and it sounds like it’s been torn from his throat. “Yes, please.”

Getting Zayn’s mouth back on his arse just makes the sting worse, tongue rough and hot, and Harry’s cock flexes helplessly in his fist. He gets his kiss, as slow and sweet as the last one, and then Zayn fucks his tongue right in, as deep as it can go, and it’s—it’s not enough, not with how badly Harry wants to come.

“Zayn,” he says, more of a whine than he intends it to be, and gets a low hum in response, the vibrations making him squirm. “I want—fingers. Two, I want two.”

Zayn gives him one last kitten lick before looking up, and Harry holds his breath. Halfway into tour, when they’d first fallen into this, Harry had gotten demanding. He couldn’t help it; they’d pulled girls together before, even shared one once upon a time, but that wasn’t anything compared to having Zayn all to himself. Excitement made him mouthy, and that night, somewhere between dropping to his knees, nuzzling Zayn’s half-hard cock through his jeans, and ordering him to get his kit off, Zayn shoved three fingers in his mouth to shut him up and said, you’re too bloody used to getting what you want.

You going to change that? Harry asked, once he was allowed. It wasn’t a tease; he was curious. Zayn had always been better at denying him than most.

But Zayn just looked down at him, lashes fluttering when Harry sucked on his fingertips, and said, might do, before feeding Harry his cock, as much of it as he could take, and then a little more.

He has that same look on his face now, as he tucks three fingers into Harry’s arse. His free hand grips Harry’s thigh and holds him in place, makes him take it when Harry tries to squirm back. Then he angles his fingers just right, kneads at his prostate until Harry groans, but the stretch is still—too much.

“I said two,” Harry points out when he catches his breath, and Zayn bites the inside of his thigh, playful.

“Did you?” He ducks his head to lick at where Harry’s stretched around his fingers, keep him wet, but spit isn’t much for lubricant and Harry’s sore already, so hard his cock’s gone all drippy, slick enough to fist as roughly as he wants. He has to rock back onto Zayn’s fingers because he’s not fucking him so much as keeping his place, long fingers curled up inside him, and Harry’s so close he can feel it spark in his balls, and thighs, and the arches of his feet. “Fuck,” Zayn sighs, twisting his fingers. “If you could see yourself.”

“I can see you,” Harry says, and Zayn looks at him through his lashes, the corner of his mouth kicking up.

“Nice view?”

Sweat and dim lighting sets Zayn’s skin gleaming and makes his tattoos seem nearly as dark as his eyes. They shift every time his arm flexes as he fingerfucks him, and his abs contract at every sound Harry makes, like he’s just as close. Closer.

He’s easily the most stunning thing Harry thinks he’ll ever see. There’s no way to keep his voice from shaking, so he tries for a shrug, says, “can’t complain,” and tilts his face up for a kiss when Zayn laughs.

When it starts to hurt this good Harry gets a bit lost amid all the sensation. He knows he’s not kissing Zayn back so much as sucking on his tongue in little fits and starts, but it seems to be enough because Zayn nudges their noses together and says sweet things too softly for Harry to hear. The closest they’ve come to this was after the show in Stockholm, where Harry slipped on stage and knocked his hip into the platform. Zayn put his thumb to the fresh bruises while he sucked him off at the hotel, later, pressed in slow, rhythmic pulses that mimicked the drawn out pump of Harry’s heart. This feels like that, if the bruise covered every inch of his skin.

“Gonna come?” Zayn murmurs into his mouth, and slows his hand down as soon as Harry cries yes. “Shh, it’s all right. Just take it for me. You’re fucking made for this.” He noses at Harry’s sweaty throat, pumping his fingers in at a pace steady enough to hold Harry right on the edge. They’re slender, but long, and rub over his spot with devastating accuracy. Harry curls his toes and bears down to make the ache a little sharper.

Zayn hisses.

“You think you’ve been fucked, yeah?” he says, and bites Harry’s bottom lip hard enough to make him whimper and pay attention. “Dunno who’s put their prick in you, but if they’d fucked you right—if they fucked you like I would, you’d be gagging for it, Harry. All the fucking time. You’d beg for a cock in your arse, and not—” He huffs out a laugh. “Not the way you beg for it now, when you know you’re going to get what you want.”

Harry doesn’t know he’s been whining until Zayn shushes him again. Crouched over him the way he is, he’s the only thing Harry can see, even when insistent pressure against his prostate makes him squeeze his eyes shut. The tips of his ears are burning, and he shudders every time Zayn drags his beard against his face, but strains into it anyway, aching for more.

“You’d cry for it,” Zayn tells him, soft like a secret, driving his fingers in hard. “And cry harder once you got it, because it’d feel that—fucking—good—”

Harry’s hips snap up when he comes and he clenches down on Zayn’s fingers so hard it makes him curse. There’s not enough air in the room for the long seconds it takes him to wring the come out of his cock, striping his own chest before it gets smeared between their bodies. He cries out when Zayn slips his fingers free, and bites when he’s kissed, oversensitized and tender, sore all over.

His face feels wet, the skin around his eyes stretched thin and tight. You’d cry for it, and Harry had--he is, in that distracted sort of way when you’re not sure what your body’s doing or why, but you’re powerless to stop it. Zayn’s voice keeps echoing in his head and making his insides knot. Harry’s the one who runs his mouth, usually, whether he’s ordering Zayn about or begging for it, and if he’s shameless as a rule he has no filter at all during sex, prone to saying whatever he wants, whenever he wants, no matter how filthy.

But Zayn tends to stay quiet, even in the face of Harry’s goading. He doesn’t talk unless he knows what he’s going to say and how he’s going to say it, deliberation behind every tease. And Harry wants it, now that it’s been said. He wants to get fucked so well he forgets everything but Zayn. Maybe he’s always wanted it.

The thought makes his insides tremble. It isn’t until Zayn sighs, “babe,” and tucks his face into his neck that Harry realizes he’s shaking too, panting, tugging at his own cock. His briefs are only shoved down to his thighs, and his cock, when Harry squirms down to see, is so hard it looks painful. That Zayn is cut has been an endless source of fascination for Harry, and the sight of his wet, vulnerable cockhead peeking out from the circle of his fist makes Harry want.

“Put it in me,” he blurts out, and his speech is still slurred and slow from orgasm, but clear enough to have Zayn lifting his head and fixing him with an incredulous look. “Just a little. Just—just the tip.”

“You’re fucking crazy,” Zayn tells him, and there’s something so hopelessly fond wrapped up in the obvious judgment that Harry melts even further into the mattress, hooking his legs around Zayn’s slim waist.

“You’re wet enough,” he murmurs, because Zayn’s been steadily leaking precome and Harry’s still loose and sore and good for it. “Or just—fine, get the lube. Come on. Zayn. I want—”

Zayn kisses him, deep and slow, and it’s so good Harry gets lost, for a little while, in the catch of their mouths, and doesn’t notice Zayn coming until he feels it splatter hot on his thighs and belly and softening cock. He breaks the kiss with an indignant noise just in time to see Zayn squeeze his eyes shut and gasp from it, mouth twitching into a grin even as he starts to comes down. ”Zayn.”


The betrayal must show on his face, because Zayn can’t quite bite back a smile. Harry bats his hand away when he reaches up to poke at his absent dimple and wriggles out from underneath him. His arse hurts, the sheets aren’t so soft that they keep from scratching his reddened thighs, and he can feel his mouth throbbing, what has to be an angry red from Zayn’s beard. And he still wants to get fucked.

“I can’t believe you.” Zayn blinks up at him, slow enough that Harry knows he’s being mocked. It’s his way of getting back at Harry for mimicking his duckface, and would normally dissolve into a wrestling match, but Harry’s not in the mood. “You can’t just—say things and not fucking mean them.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like wanting to fuck me.”

Zayn raises his eyebrows. “Did I say that?”

“Fuck you,” Harry says, and proceeds to smother him with a pillow. He ends up flipped onto his back before he can even get a proper hold on it, which is unfair, because Harry’s bigger, and works out more. But he’s also still a bit woozy from coming as hard as he did, and Zayn’s coordinated and mean, twisting his arm and sitting astride his thighs.

Somehow, they end up kissing again. It’s careful this time, barely-there presses of their mouths, and Harry lets Zayn settle into the cradle of his hips despite not getting his way, because he’s warm and smells good and never teases him for too long.



Zayn huffs and leans their foreheads together. Harry can see his brain working, shaping sentiment into words that won’t give too much away. But maybe he’s a little woozy too, or in a rush to get it out, because he ends up saying, “Whatever you’ve thought about—whatever you want. I want it more. All right? I’ve wanted it for—”

He cuts himself off, and Harry lets him get away with it.


Zayn shrugs, tugs on an earlobe. “Yeah.”

Harry reaches up to tug on the other one, and smiles so wide that Zayn won’t be able to resist poking his dimple.

“Well. Maybe you’ll tell me about it someday.”