You know how cats know when you’re allergic to them? Perhaps it’s just Dusty, but whenever Harry’s uncle Richard comes to visit, she makes a beeline for him, rubbing herself against his leg, her tail swishing back and forth, until his throat closes up. Zayn’s the same; when he knows that you’re pissed off with him, he doesn’t leave you alone. He straight up harasses you until you forgive him.
It usually works. Harry can’t remember the last time he was mad at him for more than a few hours. All Zayn has to do is send a Sorry, babe x text or worse, nudge him with his nose and whisper it in his ear, and Harry forgives him, usually with a giggle and a clumsy smile that makes Zayn giggle and smile too. Not this time, though. This time he’s fucked up royally. If being sullen with him for a few hours is Zayn’s usual punishment for blowing Harry out then he’s not sure what his sentence should be for being in LA for three days and not telling him.
So Harry’s going with avoidance.
He’s not ignoring him. That would be immature and Harry isn’t immature. He’s very mature, in fact. The maturest. He must be to be in this super mature, super casual, absolutely-not-a-relationship with Zayn. Harry’s merely reminding him that he’s not a booty call, that after three years of doing whatever the fuck they’re doing, Harry shouldn’t find out that his not-boyfriend is in the same city as him from TMZ. Zayn knows that too, which is why he’s been calling constantly, his voice become increasingly higher with each voicemail he leaves. He’s not one to be ignored, though, so when Harry is woken up by someone kissing the nape of his neck, he isn’t entirely surprised.
Harry doesn’t flinch, as much as he wants to, as much as he wants to roll onto his back and kiss him until he can’t remember why he’s mad at him, but he refuses to be won over so easily, even when Zayn’s two-day old stubble catches on Harry’s skin and it almost makes him purr. No, Harry is strong and Zayn is a dickhead. A dickhead who has been a mile down the road from him for three days and not told him. He’s on his own as well (not on his own own, but not with her), they haven’t had three days on their own since, well, they’ve never had three days on their own. It makes it feel like more of a betrayal, especially when Harry thinks about all the things they could have been doing. Silly things they never do like taking a bath together or sharing a pizza. Stupid shit he does with her.
Maybe he doesn’t want to do those things with Harry.
The thought sinks into his heart like a splinter, but then Zayn kisses the warm patch of skin behind his ear. His traitorous heart skips a beat, of course, as if it’s forgiven him already. Perhaps it has because he’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t enjoying this, Zayn grovelling. It’s usually so frantic between them, a few minutes here, a few there, an hour if they’re lucky. Zayn doesn’t even bother to pull Harry’s jeans all the way down now before he’s inside him, just tugs them down as far as his knees and tells him to turn around, so it’s kind of nice to be kissed and nuzzled, to feel Zayn’s cool hands on his shoulders and in his hair, fingers turning idly in Harry’s curls as he sucks a bruise onto his neck. Tomorrow he’ll touch it when no one is looking. He won’t even need to say anything, he’ll just press his thumb to the livid mark and smile as if to say, I did that and it will make Harry so proud, he’ll blush.
But that’s tomorrow. Tonight he’s still pissed off, especially when he cracks his eye open to check the clock on the bedside table to discover that it’s 04:37. ‘What time do you call this?’ he wants to say but doesn’t. This is why it works, because Harry doesn’t say those things. He doesn’t tell Zayn off for not texting back straight away or making sure that there’s a roomful of people between them when they’re in public. He can’t. Everything else is so complicated and this is supposed to be easy. Simple. So Harry doesn’t complain about these things because he doesn’t want to put any more pressure on Zayn. But sometimes he wonders if he’s just making it easier for Zayn to do them.
Either way, you’d think Harry would be used to it now, to Zayn coming and going, like sunshine on a cloudy day. It’s been like this since those early days, back when they first met and somehow always ended up in the same bed at the bungalow, when they’d kiss in the dark then pretend nothing happened the next day. Zayn would tell Harry all of his secrets, about the places he wanted to go and the things he was going to buy as soon as he could. Ugg boots for Doniya, a Tiffany necklace for Waliyha, Legos for Safaa. Maybe even a house one day, somewhere with a kitchen and a garden and a conservatory, where they’d have a bedroom each and two sofas so no one had to sit on the floor. And Harry would tell him about how he wanted to learn French; about the songs he wrote in the notebook he carried everywhere. The lads thought it was a journal. ‘Dear diary,’ Louis would swoon whenever he caught him writing in it, ‘do you think Caroline will ask me to prom?’ And Harry would laugh because he’d rather Louis thought that than know that he was tired of songs about first love.
He told Zayn, though. He told him everything until there was nothing left to say. Then they’d kiss until they fell asleep, their foreheads touching. But the next morning, Zayn would be gone. Harry would hear him singing in the shower or eating toast in the kitchen with Niall, and even if he was still there, he wasn’t, his back to Harry as he slept soundly. So after three years, he should be used to it, but it hasn’t gotten any easier. Harry’s heart stops every time he gets a text and he still waits, waits for hours after Zayn said he’d come to his room because it’s worth it – so fucking worth it – even if it’s just a few breathless minutes before Zayn’s phone rings and he has to go again.
Harry tries to tell himself that it’s not enough, but it is because when Zayn’s there he’s there. His fingers leave bruises, his nails cuts. He kisses and bites and licks, lets Harry hold him down and ride him until he’s limp and shaking and muttering nonsense. He doesn’t just give Harry a piece of himself, he douses him, drowns him, devours him. It’s as close as Zayn will ever get to being underwater.
He doesn’t do that with anyone else, Harry knows, let go like that. He doesn’t care that his hair is sticking to his forehead, doesn’t care that he tore his shirt in his impatience to get it off or that someone might hear them. He used to. When they were in the bungalow, Zayn would pull the duvet over them so it would muffle their stuttered moans as they fisted one another, their open mouths pressed together. Then, when that wasn’t enough, they would drag the duvet off and fuck on the floor. The floorboards would creak crankily, but not as loudly as the bed, the rug beneath them giving them heart-coloured burns on their knees and elbows that would sting for days.
Zayn doesn’t worry about being heard anymore. Perhaps it’s that they can afford to stay in suites now, suites with living rooms and balconies they can kiss, under a duvet of stars instead. Or perhaps it’s that Zayn knows Harry won’t tell, that Harry keeps all of his secrets. And perhaps that’s why Harry forgives him so easily, because he knows that of all the things Zayn is scared of, he isn’t one of them.
So he lets Zayn kiss him behind him ear. ‘You smell different,’ Zayn says, almost to himself, his hand on Harry’s hip, turning him so he’s face down on the bed. ‘New shampoo?’ Harry presses his cheek into the pillow, fighting the urge to scream because he hates it when Zayn does shit like that. He’s not supposed to know what shampoo he uses, and if he does, he’s not supposed to mention it.
‘Smells nice,’ Zayn tells him, biting his neck. Not hard, but hard enough to make Harry lift his head off the pillow. ‘You’re drunk,’ he murmurs. And he is. He smells like that club Ben takes him to sometimes, of leather chairs and cigars and warm whiskey that burns your throat when you drink it.
It isn’t entirely unpleasant.
‘Missed you,’ Zayn says. Breathes, actually, into Harry’s hair as he climbs on top of him and dips his head to press a kiss to the skin between Harry’s shoulder blades. He must know that Harry’s naked under the sheet. Perhaps that’s why he’s breathless, at the familiar curve of Harry ass under the white cotton. I bought these sheets for you, he wants to say, but doesn’t. And he doesn’t tell him about the Lichtenstein print in the kitchen or the green suede sofa in the living room Harry hoped Zayn would say was sick if he ever came to his house. Harry doesn’t even know how he got in, just that he’s there – finally. In his bed, his knees creasing Harry’s SFERRA sheets, the mattress shifting under the weight of him. He’s fully dressed, however. Harry hears his jeans brush against the sheets followed by the satisfying thud of his boots hitting the floor as Zayn kicks them off. The mattress quivers again as Zayn straddles him, the buttons on his shirt pressing into his back as he dips his head to kiss Harry’s cheek this time. It’s red, Harry realises – Zayn’s shirt – when he puts his hands on either side of his head on the pillow, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the tangle of tattoos he knows so well and has to fight the urge to kiss.
‘Sorry, babe,’ Zayn says with a smile that Harry feels when he kisses his cheek again. He’s already forgiven him because, as neglected – no, overlooked – as Harry feels sometimes, like a photo Zayn walks past in his hallway every day but doesn’t actually see, Zayn hasn’t promised him a thing. Just that he’ll never question Harry – question them – and Harry agreed to that, so he can’t very well complain about that now. But he can’t help it because when they’re apart it doesn’t make sense. Harry doesn’t know why they keep colliding like this, just that when they do, something off in the universe corrects itself and Harry can breathe again. Maybe it isn’t supposed to make sense. That’s why it’s so strange – so beautiful – because there are no words, only looks and smiles and kisses that feel like conversations.
When he doesn’t respond, Zayn bites his jaw, then licks it by way of apology before dragging his mouth down to his neck. ‘Gonna let me make it up to you?’ he says into Harry’s skin then sucks another bruise under the one that’s still throbbing before sweeping his mouth over his shoulder. He moves his hands too so they’re tucked under Harry’s armpits, then grinds his hips to let Harry feel that he’s getting hard. Harry curses himself when his hands fist in the sheets, but at least he presses his face into the pillow so he doesn’t give Zayn the satisfaction of hearing him moan. But he must because he does it again and again until Zayn’s dry humping him and Harry has to lift his head off the pillow because he can’t breathe. ‘Gonna come before I get inside you.’ Zayn pants, then bites his shoulder.
Harry tries to turn over but Zayn doesn’t let him, mouthing his way down Harry’s back then climbing off him so that he can pull the sheet away. As soon as he does, Harry lifts his hips off the mattress with a needy moan, which is embarrassing enough, but when Zayn puts his hands on the cheeks of his ass and parts them, the sound he makes it nothing short of obscene. The back of Harry’s neck flushes with shame, but he doesn’t care as he rises onto all fours, his back arched and his forearms resting on the mattress. ‘Fuck,’ he says with a shudder, as Zayn’s thumbs press into the cheeks of his ass. ‘Said I’d make it up to you,’ he says, his breath hot and thick. He kisses him first, starting at the small of Harry’s back and peppering his skin with quick, wet pecks that make Harry’s cock twitch at the promise of where he’s going. But he doesn’t, his lips graze Harry’s hip before he stops to nibble at the soft flesh. He hates it, but it’s his favourite part of Harry’s body, the swell of his hips. Zayn says that his mouth fits perfectly into the curve between his hip and waist and it does, Harry realises, as he kisses him there too.
‘Gonna make it up to you,’ he promises again, then works his way back to the small of Harry’s back with one, slow lick. ‘Gonna let me make it up to you?’ he asks, and Harry just nods, unable to catch his breath as Zayn moves down, down until he kissing the cheeks of Harry’s ass. First the left, then the right before meeting in the middle. ‘Here, babe?’ Harry can only whimper because Zayn knows – he fucking knows – he’s just making him wait before he licks where he knows full well to lick. Harry can’t help but push his ass towards him when he does, which makes the stubble on Zayn’s chin catch on his perineum. The shock of it is enough to send a shudder through him. ‘Tell me,’ Zayn says when he groans, stopping to bite Harry’s left cheek. Zayn’s more of a grunter, so he’s not usually so talkative. Harry might earn the odd ‘Yeah’ or ‘Fuck, babe’ out of him but for the most part, Harry’s the one who does most of the talking. Maybe it’s because he’s drunk or because Harry’s been ignoring him, but he suddenly has Zayn’s full attention and Harry isn’t quite sure what to do with it.
‘Tell me,’ Zayn says, biting him again, and Harry hisses There through his teeth as he reaches around for his cock. He’s hard – painfully so – and when he starts fisting himself with all the grace of a horny thirteen-year old, he hears Zayn chuckle softly. ‘I’d do that for you,’ he says, stopping to part the cheeks of Harry’s ass a little wider. He licks then blows, which is enough to make Harry reach his other hand out for the headboard and hold on. ‘But I need both hands free.’ That makes Harry fist himself furiously, so furiously that he almost comes when Zayn finally begins to lick him in slow wet circles.
‘There,’ Harry whimpers when Zayn finally stops teasing, lapping at him until Harry feels a bead of sweat roll down his back and between the cheeks of his ass. ‘Get your tongue in there,’ Harry says, or he thinks he says, it’s hard to be sure because it’s good, it’s good, it’s good. So good that Harry doesn’t know how he hears his phone – let alone why he turns his head to look at it – but when he does, he goes rigid. ‘Stop,’ he pants, his heart suddenly in this throat as he reaches over to snatch it off the bedside table. ‘Mum, what is it? What’s wrong?’ Zayn stops and when Harry rolls over to lie on his side, Zayn’s checking his watch with a worried frown. Harry’s worried, too. It’s 5 a.m.; something’s wrong. He holds his breath, but when his mother starts on at him about his cousin Claire’s birthday, he rolls onto his back with a sigh. ‘Mum, it’s five o’clock in the morning, I thought someone had died.’ Harry rolls his eyes to let him know that it isn’t an emergency and Zayn sits back on his knees.
She’s mortified, apologising for forgetting about the time difference, but before he can tell her that he’ll call her back, she carries on. ‘I forgot her birthday once,’ Harry says, but she isn’t listening, too busy reminding him about how much Claire needs their support since she dropped out of Oxford and married that old bloke who lived on a boat. Harry closes his eyes and bangs his head on the pillow as she tells him the story again, about how Claire threw her future away for a man who didn’t even have a flushing toilet and had the audacity to die on her last month. Apparently he had a heart attack while they were having sex. ‘So he came and then he went?’ Gemma said when she told them.
‘I’ll be home for the party, Mum, I promise,’ Harry says, trying not to laugh as he recalls how tea came out of his nose when Gemma said it. He’s so distracted by the thought that he realises that he’s forgotten about Zayn. Or he had until Harry feels his hand on his hip. Before he can register what is happening, Zayn’s other hand curls around the base of Harry’s cock and he’s in his mouth. The sound Harry makes as his head rises off the pillow is somewhere between a gulp and a grunt and it’s loud enough to make his mother stop mid-sentence. ‘Harry, are you okay?’ He has to press his lips together to hold back a moan, so can only ‘Mhhm, mhhm,’ as he tries to swat Zayn away with his free hand. It doesn’t work, Zayn ignoring him as he starts sucking him off. He swats at him again with a hiss he hopes communicates, I’m on the phone to my mother! but it only seems to encourage Zayn as he picks up speed, using his hand and mouth in unison as Harry trembles with impotent rage.
‘What are you doing?’ he hisses, moving the phone as far away from his mouth as he can. But Zayn just licks his lips and smiles, giving Harry’s cock a quick tug before taking him in his mouth again.
‘Harry, what’s wrong?’ his mother asks as his head falls back onto the pillow.
‘Fine,’ he forces out, but it sounds like the word’s been punched out of him.
‘You sound funny.’
She knows, Harry thinks, his face burning as he covers it with his hand. She must be able to hear it. How can she not given that Zayn is making no effort to be quiet as is sucking him off with porn star glee? He’s even humming contently, the way you do after the first bite of a particularly satisfying slice of apple pie, and fuck, he’s going to come. He’s going to come while he’s talking to his mother.
‘Come on, babe. Come on,’ Zayn pants and Harry doesn’t dare look at him because just picturing the look of determination on his face as he works Harry’s cock is enough to make him let rip in his mouth. Harry deserves this – oh God he deserves it – after that time in Verona when he snuck into Zayn’s hotel room drunk and, with hindsight, a bit hysterical. Poor Zayn woke up to find Harry standing by the edge of the bed, unbuttoning his jeans, but instead of telling him to do one, he propped himself up on one arm and let Harry fuck his mouth, right there and then. She was asleep, cheek turned away from them and one delicate hand on the pillow next to her cheek and God forgive him, it made him harder as he put one hand under Zayn’s chin and the other on the top of his head and thrust his hips back and forth. Mercifully, with her there it only took a few minutes before he was coming, and he doesn’t know how he only said Zayn’s name once before he unravelled in his mouth.
So yeah, he definitely deserves this.
There's antimony, arsenic, aluminium, selenium, Harry sings in his head, like he used to when he and Zayn first started doing this and he didn’t want to come too quick. He thought they were over that now, but here he is reciting the damn periodic table. And hydrogen and oxygen and nitrogen and rhenium. Zayn must know what he’s doing because he picks up pace, tonguing him sloppily, just the way Harry likes it.
He taught him this and now Zayn’s using it against him.
Harry lifts his head again to tell him to fuck off and he shouldn’t have because holy shit, Zayn looks obscene. He’s kneeling at the end of the bed, his ass in the air, one hand working Harry with ruthless celerity and the other inside his jeans, wanking himself off. Harry can’t help but watch for a moment, utterly transfixed as Zayn’s head bobs up and down in his lap, and he shouldn’t because Zayn is making this sound, this greedy little hm hm hm that Harry can feel the tickle of in his bones.
‘Mum, I’ll call you back,’ he manages to say, and he has to because if Zayn makes that fucking sound once more he’s going to come. He’s right because Zayn does and Harry’s done for, his eyes closing and his jaw falling open as his head tips back onto the pillow. He doesn’t even know if he’s hung up the phone, just that when Zayn stops and says, ‘Tell her I said hello,’ Harry’s hips buck, his back arching off the mattress, the phone falling out of his hand as he comes over Zayn’s fist.
When Harry comes out of the bathroom he doesn’t expect Zayn to still be there, but he is. There and naked. Very, very naked. He’s smoking a cigarette and watches Harry with what can only be described as a leer as he walks across the bedroom. And so he should, Harry equally naked, his cock bobbing heavily as he approaches the bed with an equally lascivious smile as he spots the dark tuft of pubic hair poking out from under the sheet that’s barely covering the bottom half of Zayn’s body.
‘I’ve called you a cab,’ he tells him with practised nonchalance, plucking the cigarette from between Zayn’s thin fingers and dropping it into the glass of water on the bedside table. He hasn’t and Zayn knows that, so he ignores him, sitting up and reaching for him with an easy sigh.
‘Still haven’t made it up to you,’ he says, kissing Harry’s stomach, his mouth warm and wet.
‘What for?’ Harry let him dot his stomach with little kisses before stepping back. ‘For being in LA and not telling me or for giving me a blow job while I was on the phone to my mother?’
Zayn giggles, clearly unrepentant. ‘Both,’ he says, biting Harry’s hip.
‘So how are you going to make it up to me, then?’
Zayn bites his hip again, a little harder this time. Hard enough to make Harry’s cock twitch.
‘Wanna ride you.’ Harry thinks he mishears, but then he adds, ‘Wanna feel you in me.’
When Zayn looks up with a slow smile, Harry frowns. ‘But we’ve never.’
Zayn dips his head and presses another kiss to his stomach.
‘I always,’ Harry adds, his voice suddenly not as steady. ‘Because you’ve never.’
Zayn moves his hands around to his ass and squeezes.
‘Are you sure?’ Harry asks when he does, shivering as Zayn squeezes him again then clambers onto his knees on the edge of the bed, taking Harry’s face in his hands. Their mouths meet in a slow, deep kiss that tells Harry absolutely nothing other than he doesn’t want it to end. So when he pulls him onto the bed, Harry lets him, the headboard knocking against the wall as Harry kneels in front of him.
He wants to ask again if he’s sure, but then Zayn’s falling back and taking Harry with him. They land on the mattress with a bounce and a gasp, their front teeth knocking together as they do. It’s enough to make them break their kiss, but when Harry giggles, Zayn doesn’t.
‘What’s wrong, babe?’ he asks, kissing his jaw.
‘You mean apart from almost breaking a tooth?’
Harry laughs, but it sounds so fake that his cheeks flush.
‘It’s okay.’ Zayn presses a kiss to his mouth this time. ‘You won’t hurt me.’
‘Why now, Zayn?’ Harry says suddenly. ‘It’s been three years.’
His tips his head back to look at him with a frown. ‘Don’t you want to?’
‘’Course. I just don’t get why now.’
Zayn shrugs and kisses him under the chin. ‘Wanna know what it feels like.’
‘But you’ve never?’
Zayn shakes his head and kisses him under the chin again.
Harry waits for him to look up at him. ‘Say it again.’
Zayn sweeps his thumb along Harry’s bottom lip. ‘Just you.’
When he’s brave enough to look him in the eye, Harry knows that it’s more than idle curiosity, more than making it up to him for not telling him that he was in LA. It’s Zayn telling Harry that he trusts him, that he’ll do anything for him. Zayn can’t give him everything, but he can give him this, something that she’ll never have. Something she can’t have. She can have everything else, Harry thinks as he stoops his head to kiss him, but they’ll always have this. Zayn must be thinking the same thing because he peels his mouth away to kiss Harry behind the ear. ‘No one gets this but you,’ he whispers and Harry nods because it’s true. Even the other lads don’t, they don’t know each other like this. They don’t know what Zayn’s skin tastes like or the things he says in his sleep. She does, but she wasn’t on that stage when Simon offered them another chance, wasn’t in the bungalow when they were alone and scared, with the whole world at their feet and no clue what to do with it.
Only Harry knows both, and this is Zayn’s way of reminding him.
When Zayn climbs into his lap, Harry straightens his legs so that he’s sitting on the bed. Zayn has to hook his arm around Harry’s neck to steady himself as he does, then gasps and bites his lip when their cocks touch. He’s over him slightly, high enough that Harry can easily dip his head and lick a stripe along his left collarbone as Zayn straightens his legs as well. When he does, the pair of them sitting in the middle of the big bed, the sheets tented around them, Harry gestures at the pillows. Zayn reaches over to them and Harry takes advantage of the opportunity to lick his nipple, circling it with his tongue until it tightens. Zayn shivers when he does, then giggles as he pulls out a bottle of lube.
‘Do you always sleep with lube under your pillow?’
Harry giggles as well then licks his other nipple as Zayn settles back in his lap.
‘What’ve you been doing with this, Mr Styles?’
‘Just a bit of handwork.’
Zayn softens, his smile a little looser when Harry looks up at him again. ‘Yeah?’
He puts his hands on Harry’s shoulders and squeezes. ‘Did you think about me?’
‘What did you think about?’
Harry licks his lips when he hands him the bottle. ‘That night in New York.’
Zayn knows exactly which one because his eyes light up. ‘Yeah?’
‘You.’ Harry opens it and squeezes some onto his fingers. ‘Fucking me from behind against that window, remember?’ He rubs his fingers together. ‘The one overlooking Times Square.’
Zayn remembers, his hand straying to his cock.
‘Anyone could have seen us up there,’ he breathes as he begins to stroke himself.
‘You’re so scared of heights but you still did it.’
He presses a kiss to Harry’s mouth that tells him Zayn did it for him.
‘You going to do this for me, too?’ Harry asks, easing his middle finger into him.
Zayn closes his eyes and lifts his hips with a long sigh.
‘You gonna ride me?’
Zayn nods, pressing his lips together as his muscles slowly give way to Harry’s finger.
‘I know you love it when I ride you.’
Zayn sighs and tips his head back and when he does, Harry can’t resist dragging his teeth down his tight skin, leaving red lines down Zayn’s throat that quickly disappear.
‘Love to hold my hands and look up at me.’
Zayn blindly reaches for Harry’s free hand, their fingers threading together.
‘You gonna let me be your first?’
Zayn whines as Harry eases his hand back and inches another finger into him.
‘Gonna let me fuck you like no one else has?’
Harry fucks him with his fingers, slow and deep, as deep as Zayn’s muscles will allow. Each time Harry pushes in a little deeper until his knuckles are touching Zayn’s hot, tight skin. When they do, he stops, letting Zayn feel it. He has before, when Harry’s going down on him, his finger hooked, seeking out the swell of his prostate, but this time it’s different. This time he’s taking his time, opening Zayn up with as much patience as he can muster given that he wants Zayn so much he’s dizzy, his cock, heavy and weeping on his thigh at the promise of being inside him.
‘Like this?’ he says again, licking the sweat from Zayn’s neck.
‘Yeah.’ His nails dig into Harry’s shoulders as he holds on. ‘Yeah.’
‘Like this?’ He does it a little quicker, a little deeper, so deep that Zayn’s mouth tightens into an O when Harry scissors his fingers open, much wider than he usually does when he’s eating him out. He wishes he had the patience to, that he had the restraint to take his time, open him up with his tongue, but he’s already so hard he’s light headed and he’s sorry but he can’t wait.
He can’t wait.
‘You ready for me?’ he asks, keeping his fingers as far apart as he can.
‘What do you want?’
Zayn puts his hand in Harry’s hair and pulls.
‘No, say it properly.’
Zayn lets his chin drop, his face flushed as he meets Harry’s gaze. ‘Fuck me, please.’
Harry smile and gestures at the beside table. ‘Get a condom.’
Zayn shakes his head. ‘Just once. Please,’ he breathes, curling his fingers around the base of Harry’s cock and lifting his hips. ‘Wanna feel you.’
Harry should probably protest, but he can’t as Zayn begins to sink down onto his cock. Harry’s fingers are still inside him, so they groan and throw their heads back in unison, Harry grabbing at the sheet under him with his free hand to stop himself grabbing Zayn’s hip and thrusting up, up.
‘Stop. Stop,’ Harry pants, his hair sticking to the back of his neck.
Zayn looks disappointed when he raises his hips so Harry’s cock falls out of him.
‘Am I doing it wrong?’
‘No.’ Harry turns his cheek to kiss his arm. ‘No. I just-’
He doesn’t have the breath to finish his thought as he eases his fingers out of him. Zayn winces slightly as he does, then winces again as Harry takes his cock in his hand and begins push inside of him again. ‘It’s too big,’ Zayn whimpers and Harry doesn’t know how he doesn’t shoot his load then, especially when Zayn licks his lips and whimpers again as he sink back down onto him.
‘Like that?’ he breathes, both hands on Harry’s shoulders again.
‘Am I doing it right?’
‘You’re doing so good.’ Harry turns to kiss his arm again. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘Do you want to stop?’
Zayn shakes his head this time. ‘No. It’s nice.’
‘So nice.’ He drops his chin to look at him. ‘I didn’t think I could feel this close to someone.’
He dips his head as Harry lifts his and they meet in the middle for a long, deep kiss that has Harry’s hands reaching up into Zayn’s hair. ‘Take this stupid thing off,’ he laughs, tugging off Zayn’s black hair band. ‘Who gave you this? Louis?’
‘Sorry. It’s not McQueen, I know.’ Zayn nudges him with his nose.
‘You’d look good in McQueen.’
‘Yeah?’ he says, practically mewling as he rolls his hips.
Harry has to let out a groan before he says, ‘Yeah.’
‘Black and white one.’ Harry loses his breath again, biting down on his bottom lip as Zayn lifts his hips then sinks back down on to him. ‘Black and white one with skulls.’
‘Where do you want me to wear it?’
Harry’s suddenly so overwhelmed by it all, by Zayn, by being inside him, that he can’t speak and pulls on Zayn’s hair as if that will steady him.
‘You want to put it around my wrists?’
Harry’s eyes almost roll into the back of his head.
‘Wanna tie me up and fuck me, babe?’
Harry can only nod.
When Harry opens his eyes again, Zayn is reaching for the headband. Before he can ask him to put his hands behind his back, he already has. It’s not tight enough around his wrists, but it will do.
‘Come on, show me,’ Zayn says with a loose smile as Harry puts his hands on his hips.
Harry thrusts up once, not hard, but hard enough to make Zayn gasp.
‘Oh yeah. That’s it.’
Harry does it again, his teeth clenched as he tries not to give into the urge to fucking pound him.
‘Come on, show me.’ Zayn pants. ‘Show me.’
Harry begins thrusting up and up, the muscles in his thighs quivering as he digs his heels into the mattress. Zayn’s bitten down nails dig into Harry’s shoulders as he bounces up and down in his lap, saying his name over and over until it turns into a breathless grunt. Huh, huh, huh over and over, every time Harry slams into him, until a bead of sweat rolls off Zayn’s chin. When it lands on Harry’s bottom lip he feels something in him unspooling, like the old cassettes his dad used to play in the car.
‘Zayn, quick. I’m close. I’m close.’
But Zayn doesn’t move. ‘Come in me.’
But he does, unravelling inside him with a helpless groan.
When Harry wakes up, he isn’t surprised when Zayn isn’t there, just sighs and rolls away from the light pouring in through the open curtains. He’s about to close this eyes when he hears the bathroom door and lifts his chin as Zayn emerges in a cloud of steam. He’s still dripping from the shower and Harry wonders if he’s dreaming, but then he bends down and presses a kiss to Harry’s mouth.
‘I’ll call you later, yeah?’
Harry doesn’t know if he will call, but when he pulls Zayn down into another, longer kiss, he doesn’t care because he smells of his shampoo.