The Pan-Fandom Frottage Fest!
Fucking and sucking are gr8 but who doesn't love grinding, right? Naked, fully-clothed, in a car, on the couch while watching the Avengers…the Avengers in the helicarrier, whatever, right? Of course right! So
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"We should go," says Nick gently, but Harry just leans harder into him, until their knees and shoulders and hips are touching, and Nick is confused and turned on in equal measure. "We have all this sausage to take care of, after all," he adds, and that is probably a mistake because now he can feel Harry's laughter down the entire length of his body.
Harry hugs him around the waist, and Nick takes a deep breath through his nose. The evening is cool and damp--in sharp contrast to Harry's breath on Nick's neck--but the fact that none of the hurrying passersby have noticed the pop star wrapped around the radio DJ seems like a minor miracle. Nick doesn't want to press his luck. "Harry, honestly," Nick starts again, and that's when Harry kisses him, and it is all Nick can do not to spill groceries all over the pavement in response.
Harry's mouth is unfair at the best of times, but feeling it on his is nearly painfully good, Harry's full lips parting, giving Nick's tongue a way in. Nick is older and should therefore, perhaps, be wise enough not to make out with a teenager in view of a street full of people, but instead he tilts his head to kiss Harry more deeply, Harry's hips beginning to hitch against his, Harry's dick making itself obvious between them. Nick plants one foot, cocking his hip and giving Harry something more solid to grind against. "We shouldn't," he says, into Harry's open mouth.
"Yeah," Harry agrees and kisses him again.
Nick feels the rhythm of Harry's movements change when he realizes Nick's not going to stop him, that Nick's just going to let him get off like this. The roll of his hips gets faster, messier, and Nick can't even touch him properly, but it's still more illicit than any sex he's ever had. Harry gasps into Nick's mouth, rubbing himself against Nick's thigh, eager little shoves of his hips as though he just can't help himself. And at eighteen, perhaps he can't.
Nick's fingers are starting to hurt, clenched around the handles of the grocery bags, but the noise it would make if he dropped them--the clatter of tins, the crash of broken eggs, the tumble of the infamous sausage--someone would be sure to hear. And Harry must be close, he thinks, kissing Nick distractedly, working against him, hands fisted in the wool of Nick's coat. When they make it back to his flat, he'll ask for some sort of reciprocation, but just now it hardly matters. He watches Harry's expression knot in concentration, watches him lick his lips and gasp softly, bucking and shuddering, and he knows that this is how Harry Styles looks when he comes. Harry's flushed cheeks catch the glow of the streetlight at the corner as he tips his head back, and Nick kisses his neck, burying his face there for a moment. Harry's pulse is racing.
"Um," says Harry finally, squirming back a bit, adjusting his jeans, although the small wet patch is still obvious. "I think I didn't plan this very well."
Nick has to put down the groceries to shrug off his coat. He hands it to Harry. "It's understandable. You were too busy thinking about sausage."
Harry's laughter bubbles up brightly again, and they're back just where they started. Or maybe somewhere altogether different.
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FOR REAL THO.
HOW ARE THEY.
UGH THIS WAS PERFECT.
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