Fic: Exception (Harry/Zayn, NC-17)
Fic: Exception
Fandom: One Direction
Pairing: Harry/Zayn
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Zayn admits during drunken Truth or Dare that Perrie has given him an exceptions list - people he's allowed to fuck without asking her - and the only four people on it are the rest of the band. Harry is intrigued and wants to know if Zayn would exercise that right.
Notes: Prompt by, and subsequent fic written for, lazy_daze.
They don't do this all the time, or anything. It's not like they're kids. It's just that sometimes, holed up together in a hotel room somewhere after the latest show of many, when one city has long since begun to bleed into the next, there's...not much else to do. Sometimes, when Paul has come in for the second time and told them to get away from the windows 'cause their fans are going mental in the car park, it's nice to resort to piling all together in the central room of their suite and at least pretending to be normal.
Like, it isn't, still, not quite. For one thing, there'd never be this total absence of girls at the sort of late-night uni party they're all missing out on right now, in favour of little things like international fame and adulation. But it's getting there, something nostalgic and reassuring about it when Harry hitches his blanket up around his waist and says, wide mouth quirking at the corners, "So -- truth or dare?" His eyes flash wickedly, seeking out their target. "Liam?"
Liam's always good for a laugh with this. Not as much these days -- used to be far easier to make him blush -- but even still, it's a running joke that he'll always say 'truth' and always give a boring-as-shite answer to whatever he's asked, even the first time. It's expected. Liam always goes for truth, and Niall, when it gets to his turn, will always say 'dare', and then manfully eat curry powder or stick his bare arse out the window, anything. Nialler's fucking mad. It isn't till they get to Louis that things start to get less predictable, because Louis can go either way, depending on his mood; some nights will say anything and mean it, and sometimes will duck his head and avoid the question.
Then there's Harry, and Harry is -- well. Zayn doesn't want to think about that too hard. He's thought a lot of stuff about Harry lately that's bubbled up out of nowhere sometime in the last year, somewhere between the time they shared a fangirl in a London flat and the time Zayn fell asleep in Harry's bed, fully clothed, and woke up tingling and oddly shy. Things've all gone a bit weird with Harry lately, and it wouldn't have been such a big thing if it hadn't been for -- for what Perrie'd said, of all people, the last time they were together. Christ, Perrie. Fucking blunt, big-mouthed Geordie girls; they'll come out with anything and plant it in your head like a seed just waiting to sprout and get in the way.
Zayn doesn't mean to let the seed come up, or anything, but when Louis asks him, "Truth or dare?" he says "Dare" anyway, just to be safe, and sticks his hand in the toilet bowl without complaint.
"Bloody waste of a dare," Niall says, but Zayn just shrugs.
"Blame Lou," he says. "Truth or dare, Haz?"
By the time the game gets round to Zayn again, though, things have all gone a bit sideways -- Louis included. They'd started off with most of a bottle of vodka; now there's maybe half left, and Louis is waving his cracked blue tumbler in the air, demanding, "Barman! Hey, barman!"
"All right," Liam soothes him, unscrewing the lid to top him up, "hold your horses, God."
Louis makes a pleased little kittenish sound as he lifts his cup again, and as Zayn watches him, chest swelling fondly, he realises how drunk he is himself, suddenly, everything going a bit blurry at the edges. God, he loves Lou, his sweet little scrunchy-nosed faces and the way Liam's fussing him like someone's maiden aunt.
God, yeah, he really must be drunk.
This time round, he's disinclined to get up and go anywhere, do anything; doesn't really want to risk having to. When Lou pops the question, Zayn says "Truth?" without really thinking about it, and only realises his mistake when Harry grins evilly and cuts in, before Louis can speak, "Lou, have you got a good one or can I jump in?"
Louis just waves one hand, and Zayn feels his stomach clench as Harry's smile widens further, as he leans across the circle and says, "So, Zed-man. Would you ever cheat on your Perrie?"
Fuck, how does Harry do it? This is what Zayn's been struggling with for months, now; how the bloody hell Harry can always know the wrong (right) thing to say and say it; how he can always move just the right way to make Zayn seize up and flush all over. Zayn's got half a mind to lie, or give a one-word answer that explains nothing, but that would be against the rules, wouldn't it? And something in Harry's face forbids cheating.
He knocks back the rest of the vodka in his tumbler, sets it down before answering, the hot clean burn of it searing his throat. "Well," he says, "I wouldn't go outside our arrangement, mate, no."
Harry's on that like a shot, of course. Zayn hadn't expected anything else, but it's still frightening, almost, the way Harry leans in and says, "Oh? Arrangement?" It's not entirely a bad sort of frightening, though, with the wide neck of Harry's t-shirt slipping off one shoulder and his full attention fixed on Zayn's face.
Zayn could still cry off, tell Harry he's had his question and his answer, thanks, but something in him doesn't want to. The others are watching him close, now, too, and he tries for nonchalance as he shrugs his shoulders and says, "Yeah, you know. The exceptions list."
Everyone hoots with laughter at that, Niall loudest of all. It's a relief, cutting through the weird tension that'd been settling into Zayn's shoulders, so when Niall demands, "Who's on your fuckin' exceptions list, then?" it's somehow not difficult to laugh and toss back, "Rest of 1D. No, serious," and everyone just laughs harder, like they think he's kidding. Zayn's smiling too, slightly off-kilter with drink, and the knot in the pit of his stomach is beginning to unclench until he glances left and sees the look on Harry's face, the curl of his smile that's not amused like the others, but something else.
Intrigue? Nah, Zayn's imagining that, wishful thinking. Brought on by the way Perrie had laughed and tossed her head as she rode him, told him they'd be pretty together, the two of them, and wasn't Harry tall? Perrie liked a big lad.
Zayn shivers suddenly, abruptly, and reaches for the vodka bottle. "Right," he says, "bored with this game now. Let's do Star Wars shots."
*
It's not a party night, not exactly. There's stuff to do in the morning, places to be, and Louis was zonked from the moment they got back to the room, blatantly so. They're just trying to pass the time, and by the time they're half an hour into their drinking game it feels like a natural end to the evening has been reached, Louis asleep on Liam's shoulder and Niall drooping, uncharacteristically quiet, against one corner of the settee.
"I'm gonna take," Liam says, gesturing, "these two -- if you --?" He trails off, eyebrows raised, and Harry nods, flipping off the telly immediately and standing up. It doesn't escape Zayn's notice, watching the precision of his movements, that Harry doesn't seem to be half as drunk even as Liam is.
"Need any help, mate?" Harry asks. Louis and Liam are in the room next door. Niall's on his own this time, across the corridor, but Zayn supposes he'll just end up in bed with the L's, in all probability, the state he's in.
"You're all right," Liam says, shaking his head. His supporting arm shifts around Louis's chest, and Louis makes a snuffly little sound against Liam's shoulder. Zayn bites back a laugh.
"Night, guys," he says, and Niall shoots back melodically, "Gooooood night, lads. Don't do anythin' I wouldn't do, all right?"
The words hang in the air after the door has closed behind the other three, and Zayn couldn't say why, but they feel a little like a challenge.
Harry disappears into the bathroom -- Zayn can hear him faffing around, turning the taps on, brushing his teeth. Should do that an' all, Zayn thinks dimly, but the idea of getting all his stuff out of the relevant bag and actually doing these things all feels like too much effort when there's a bed right here, big and soft and cool when he flops back onto it, rubbing his cheek against the pillow. It's the bed Harry bagsied when they checked in this afternoon, but fuck that; Harry's still upright, so he's got one up on Zayn on that score. He can bloody well walk another couple of feet and get in the other bed. Hopefully right at the far side of it so Zayn can attempt a crafty wank under the covers once they've put the lights out. Idly, he spreads his legs, feels the denim catching on the smoothness of the sheets, then pulls them back together again. It's just exacerbating the slight heat in his groin, a bad idea, really, but his head is light with vodka and loose with having been awake too many hours, and then -- then there'd been Harry's collarbones showing stark and pale and licked with sweat, and Harry's -- fuck. Fuck Harry.
"Oy, bed-snatcher!"
He's not expecting the way the mattress bounces as Harry launches himself onto it, and he grips at the sheets hectically, scowls up at Harry's laughing face. "What."
"I picked this one earlier fair and square, that's what." Harry prods him soundly in the breastbone, then shakes him by the shoulder. "I'll just take it back when you go and brush your teeth, so you may as well just give it up, you know."
That's a challenge if Zayn's ever heard one, Harry's eyes bright and close and his hair all stuck to his face at the temples. He's awfully close, smelling mintily of toothpaste over the suggestion of new sweat, and suddenly Zayn there's more than one reason Zayn doesn't want to move. The heat in his groin pounds. He says, "Well, I'm not going to brush 'em, am I? So put that in your pipe and smoke it."
For a second, Harry just -- just looks at him, before he flops over abruptly onto his back on the bed and just starts laughing and laughing. It goes on and on, and Harry must be drunker than Zayn had been starting to think, because it wasn't that fucking funny and Harry's got both hands on his stomach, now, like Zayn had told the most hilarious joke in the whole world. Somewhere along the line, Zayn starts laughing as well, it's so infectious, Harry rocking the whole bed with his giggles.
"All right," Zayn says after a bit, when his face has started to hurt weirdly, too many hours of grinning. Harry's very close to him now, his arm pressed to Zayn's from shoulder to elbow, and it's making Zayn's blood sing giddily, his heart race. He pulls himself up and leans over Harry, paws at his arm. "All right, not that funny, come on."
Harry snorts and kicks and the bed shakes, and Zayn's hand comes down in the centre of Harry's chest, flat and a little damp. Beneath his palm, Harry feels overheated through the thin single layer of his t-shirt, and Zayn doesn't mean to look at his mouth but it, it's fuckin' difficult not to from this close, really. Harry's all mouth and hair; that was Zayn's first impression of him ever, and even now that he's half-hard against the bed and thrilling to the smell of Harry's soap, he's still...just...
"Fuck," Zayn says, pushing his fingers in, trying to get up.
Harry's too quick for him, hand closing around Zayn's wrist and pinning it there, right where it is. He's not laughing now, Zayn notices, dazed; now he's just looking at Zayn, and looking, and looking. Zayn can't remember the last time he saw Harry look this serious about anything, and this is just the two of them sprawled on one bed after a drunken lads' night in; it's weird.
But then Harry says, "So, your exceptions list," and the feeling in Zayn's gut that says weird shifts readily right back into turned-on with more than a dash of absolutely fucking bricking it.
"Yeah," Zayn says tightly. Says might be overstating it. It's just this little puff of breath, hardly a word, even, and Harry has gone properly still beneath him on the bed, chest going up and down under Zayn's hand.
Slowly, Harry lifts one hand. Zayn sees him do it -- watches him do it, can't not with the position they're in, but it's still a shock when the hand curls lightly against Zayn's shoulder, barely touching. When Harry takes a breath and the hand slides upward to cup the nape of Zayn's neck, Zayn shudders, whole body convulsing, and it's pathetic, but it makes Harry gasp and grip harder, part his lips.
"Zayn," Harry says, pulling, hips lifting slightly, and Zayn goes, lets himself be urged downward, grips Harry's shoulders in both hands. Harry's on the exceptions list, after all. If Zayn's honest with himself, Harry's the reason the exceptions list exists, so this is okay. Fuck, this is -- this is way, way more than okay.
Harry's mouth is soft. It's always looked soft, but this is more than looking; this is the soft give of it under Zayn's and the dampness of it parting around Zayn's lower lip, catching briefly, then again. It's late, and Harry's a bit of a five-o'clock matinee idol by now, but the sandpaper drag of his stubble against Zayn's just makes his full lips and hot tongue, when it comes out tentatively to find Zayn's, feel softer, smoother, better. Harry's hand is broad and flat between Zayn's shoulderblades, fingers curling and uncurling reflexively, and Zayn shifts over without even thinking about it until his thighs slot between Harry's, their legs tangling and Zayn's weight full on Harry's chest. Harry makes a broken little sound in his throat, opens his mouth. Zayn groans softly, head spinning, and licks along the insides of Harry's teeth, rubs his tongue against Harry's soft and flat until Harry's groaning too, hips shoving restlessly up against Zayn's.
If someone had told Zayn when they'd come up to their room that they'd be finishing the night like this, mouths slanted wetly over each other and hips pulled flush, Zayn would have -- well. Zayn would've been uncomfortably turned on, probably, and left it at that. Harry's had this effect on him for months, now, but he'd never quite let himself think Harry might be into it too, certainly not as into it as he seems to be, hitching his hips up against Zayn's and clutching fiercely at the back of his shirt. His tongue is rubbing slickly over Zayn's, crooking up to push at his soft palate, and when Zayn shifts his legs a fraction, the next shift of Harry's hips brings them fully together, the fat bulge of Harry's erection slotted neatly into the notch of Zayn's pelvis. It's hot, Harry panting ragged into Zayn's mouth, fingers digging in, and Zayn grabs for Harry's waist without thinking, braces his knee against the mattress and ruts down, going for whatever friction he can get.
"Christ, Zayn!" Harry gets out, jerking his mouth away as his head tips back, and, fuck, yeah; Zayn's blood does a giddy skip in his veins and he fucks down again, and again, until Harry reaches up and takes hold of him bodily, muscles bunching in his bare forearms as his hands make fists around Zayn's hips.
Even half-immobilised, it's an effort to fall still. Zayn's panting, heart pounding a furious tarantella in the hollow of his throat, and everything in him is screaming to rut down again against Harry, get himself off that way, come inside his trousers against the hard line of Harry's thigh. But then Harry's thumb slides, tentative, from Zayn's hipbone to the centre of his stomach, the underside of his navel, and all at once Zayn's gasping, shivering. Harry traces the edge of a button, and that's it, signal enough, promise of more; Zayn gets both his own hands between them in seconds and starts fumbling with Harry's jeans, stupid fucking tight things caught on even his boyish hips and
"Fuck!" he spits in frustration, flinging himself off Harry and onto his back, hauling at his jeans and underwear together.
"Knew this was a daft fashion," Harry mutters, flashing Zayn a grin, and then he's whipping his t-shirt up over his head and Zayn feels all the blood in his body rush to his dick, sudden and absolute.
"I'll show you daft," Zayn says, nonsensically. He kicks his tangle of clothes off his ankles, struggles out of his t-shirt, and by the time it's disappeared off the side of the bed, Harry is naked too, long lithe stretch of him on the dark sheets, broadening shoulders and narrow little hips, legs for miles and dick curved fatly up towards his flat belly. He looks edible, sweat glistening, showing up all the angles and planes of him and Zayn wants him with a sudden fierce want that surges up in him like nausea or tears, that makes him feel like his head's about to come off if he can't be all over Harry right now, right this fucking minute.
"Jesus," he mutters, and moves. Harry's ready for him when he re-settles himself on top of him, legs tangling bare through Harry's, hands threading into the sweat-damp thickness of his hair. Harry hums softly in his throat, tips his head up, chin-first, and just like that, they're kissing again, hard and wet and deep. Zayn's shifting, rocking, hips driving down into Zayn's and if it was good before, it's amazing like this, the two of them hot and smooth and naked together, the sticky head of Harry's dick catching at the crux of Zayn's thigh as they move, Harry's abdomen flat and hard for Zayn to rut against.
"You gonna," Harry pants, and the thought suddenly hits Zayn that if Harry can still talk, something's wrong. He clutches at Harry's thighs, pushes them wider, settles himself more fully between them, and their balls are shifting against each other with every thrust of their hips, now, the coarse hair between Harry's legs rasping gloriously against Zayn's cock. Zayn ducks his head, bites at Harry's throat, and Harry pants, harsh and hot; clutches at the back of Zayn's skull, fingers firm and desperate.
"C'mon," he says, hot in the curve of Harry's neck; puts his mouth to the place where his teeth had been and sucks until the blood surges up in the shape of his mouth, blossoming dark under the skin. Beneath him, Harry cries out, hips bucking, and it's fucking furious now, Harry's cock sliding like hot silk against Zayn's, and Zayn could come like this, just a few more strokes, but he has to, God, it's taken so long to get Harry in his bed like this and he has to feel -- just --
He gets one hand between them, wraps it around the fat, straining length of Harry's dick. Harry's breath punches out of him, shuddering, this little whine emerging against the shell of Zayn's ear, and Zayn groans, bites his lip. "Fuck," he manages, the word choked out, and he's still moving, leaking slick all over the inside of Harry's thigh as he rocks against him, faster now, harder. Harry's smooth and strange-familiar in his hand, hot, gorgeous; Zayn can smell him from here, the dark, clean tang of him, and one of these days, he realises, he wants that in his mouth, wants to swallow Harry down and suck him dry. Now, though, Harry's pulsing in his hand, pistoning sticky-slick through the tunnel of Zayn's fist and, God, precome pearling up out of his slit when Zayn presses his thumb there, the pad of it glancing over Harry's crown.
"Zayn," Harry says, and he's, fuck, he's talking again, is he, even though his thighs are trembling around Zayn's now and there's sweat between them, sweat all over them, everywhere. Zayn moves impulsively, crams his mouth down on Harry's, and then Harry's lips are closed around Zayn's tongue and he's shuddering, tensing, buckling under Zayn's weight as he comes all over his fist. It works its way out of him in deep, wrecked pulses, in a low cry that breaks out of the back of Harry's throat, and it's more than Zayn can take. He wanted to last, maybe, for the first time, but there's too much vodka in both of them for that and Harry is so fucking, so fucking hot.
"Are you gonna," Harry pants, hot and breathless in Zayn's ear, "you gonna tell Perrie what you did to me?"
"Fuckin' hell -- "
He hadn't even realised he was so close, riding the edge, but those words in Harry's mouth are enough to shove him over the edge, slicing through him like a knife-edge so he torques and shudders and groans, hips bucking. Harry's own hand moves slackly between them, still lax from orgasm as it encircles Zayn's length, but it's enough, just that unfamiliar touch enough to get Zayn shivering as he comes, hot white spurt after spurt streaking Harry's stomach.
"Yeah," Harry coaxes, squeezing, "yeah, c'mon, fuck, yeah," and Zayn feels a final dribble of come work its way down the outside of Harry's fist, smearing between them. When, at length, he stills, the outsides of Harry's thighs, clamped around Zayn's hips, are wet with their sweat, but Harry's chest has stopped heaving, and his arms come up readily to encircle Zayn's shoulders, coaxing him down.
After a minute, Harry says, "So is that a 'yes'?" and Zayn half-laughs as he paws through the mess of his post-orgasm mind to remember what the question was.
"Oh, yeah," he says, nuzzling into the curve of Harry's throat, "definitely." Alcohol and sex have made him stupid, and he adds, "She'll be so fuckin' turned on, Haz, you've got no idea."
Harry laughs. Something about the way he pauses makes Zayn expect some smart comment, some suggestion, but in the end all Harry says is "Lucky boy," stroking the hair back from Zayn's ear, and Zayn supposes he's knackered too, the evening taking its toll on him.
"Lucky boy," he agrees, lips mouthing the line of Harry's clavicle, and feels the truth of it in every cell of his body.
*
text on AO3 (seems to be where the party is)
Fandom: One Direction
Pairing: Harry/Zayn
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Zayn admits during drunken Truth or Dare that Perrie has given him an exceptions list - people he's allowed to fuck without asking her - and the only four people on it are the rest of the band. Harry is intrigued and wants to know if Zayn would exercise that right.
Notes: Prompt by, and subsequent fic written for, lazy_daze.
They don't do this all the time, or anything. It's not like they're kids. It's just that sometimes, holed up together in a hotel room somewhere after the latest show of many, when one city has long since begun to bleed into the next, there's...not much else to do. Sometimes, when Paul has come in for the second time and told them to get away from the windows 'cause their fans are going mental in the car park, it's nice to resort to piling all together in the central room of their suite and at least pretending to be normal.
Like, it isn't, still, not quite. For one thing, there'd never be this total absence of girls at the sort of late-night uni party they're all missing out on right now, in favour of little things like international fame and adulation. But it's getting there, something nostalgic and reassuring about it when Harry hitches his blanket up around his waist and says, wide mouth quirking at the corners, "So -- truth or dare?" His eyes flash wickedly, seeking out their target. "Liam?"
Liam's always good for a laugh with this. Not as much these days -- used to be far easier to make him blush -- but even still, it's a running joke that he'll always say 'truth' and always give a boring-as-shite answer to whatever he's asked, even the first time. It's expected. Liam always goes for truth, and Niall, when it gets to his turn, will always say 'dare', and then manfully eat curry powder or stick his bare arse out the window, anything. Nialler's fucking mad. It isn't till they get to Louis that things start to get less predictable, because Louis can go either way, depending on his mood; some nights will say anything and mean it, and sometimes will duck his head and avoid the question.
Then there's Harry, and Harry is -- well. Zayn doesn't want to think about that too hard. He's thought a lot of stuff about Harry lately that's bubbled up out of nowhere sometime in the last year, somewhere between the time they shared a fangirl in a London flat and the time Zayn fell asleep in Harry's bed, fully clothed, and woke up tingling and oddly shy. Things've all gone a bit weird with Harry lately, and it wouldn't have been such a big thing if it hadn't been for -- for what Perrie'd said, of all people, the last time they were together. Christ, Perrie. Fucking blunt, big-mouthed Geordie girls; they'll come out with anything and plant it in your head like a seed just waiting to sprout and get in the way.
Zayn doesn't mean to let the seed come up, or anything, but when Louis asks him, "Truth or dare?" he says "Dare" anyway, just to be safe, and sticks his hand in the toilet bowl without complaint.
"Bloody waste of a dare," Niall says, but Zayn just shrugs.
"Blame Lou," he says. "Truth or dare, Haz?"
By the time the game gets round to Zayn again, though, things have all gone a bit sideways -- Louis included. They'd started off with most of a bottle of vodka; now there's maybe half left, and Louis is waving his cracked blue tumbler in the air, demanding, "Barman! Hey, barman!"
"All right," Liam soothes him, unscrewing the lid to top him up, "hold your horses, God."
Louis makes a pleased little kittenish sound as he lifts his cup again, and as Zayn watches him, chest swelling fondly, he realises how drunk he is himself, suddenly, everything going a bit blurry at the edges. God, he loves Lou, his sweet little scrunchy-nosed faces and the way Liam's fussing him like someone's maiden aunt.
God, yeah, he really must be drunk.
This time round, he's disinclined to get up and go anywhere, do anything; doesn't really want to risk having to. When Lou pops the question, Zayn says "Truth?" without really thinking about it, and only realises his mistake when Harry grins evilly and cuts in, before Louis can speak, "Lou, have you got a good one or can I jump in?"
Louis just waves one hand, and Zayn feels his stomach clench as Harry's smile widens further, as he leans across the circle and says, "So, Zed-man. Would you ever cheat on your Perrie?"
Fuck, how does Harry do it? This is what Zayn's been struggling with for months, now; how the bloody hell Harry can always know the wrong (right) thing to say and say it; how he can always move just the right way to make Zayn seize up and flush all over. Zayn's got half a mind to lie, or give a one-word answer that explains nothing, but that would be against the rules, wouldn't it? And something in Harry's face forbids cheating.
He knocks back the rest of the vodka in his tumbler, sets it down before answering, the hot clean burn of it searing his throat. "Well," he says, "I wouldn't go outside our arrangement, mate, no."
Harry's on that like a shot, of course. Zayn hadn't expected anything else, but it's still frightening, almost, the way Harry leans in and says, "Oh? Arrangement?" It's not entirely a bad sort of frightening, though, with the wide neck of Harry's t-shirt slipping off one shoulder and his full attention fixed on Zayn's face.
Zayn could still cry off, tell Harry he's had his question and his answer, thanks, but something in him doesn't want to. The others are watching him close, now, too, and he tries for nonchalance as he shrugs his shoulders and says, "Yeah, you know. The exceptions list."
Everyone hoots with laughter at that, Niall loudest of all. It's a relief, cutting through the weird tension that'd been settling into Zayn's shoulders, so when Niall demands, "Who's on your fuckin' exceptions list, then?" it's somehow not difficult to laugh and toss back, "Rest of 1D. No, serious," and everyone just laughs harder, like they think he's kidding. Zayn's smiling too, slightly off-kilter with drink, and the knot in the pit of his stomach is beginning to unclench until he glances left and sees the look on Harry's face, the curl of his smile that's not amused like the others, but something else.
Intrigue? Nah, Zayn's imagining that, wishful thinking. Brought on by the way Perrie had laughed and tossed her head as she rode him, told him they'd be pretty together, the two of them, and wasn't Harry tall? Perrie liked a big lad.
Zayn shivers suddenly, abruptly, and reaches for the vodka bottle. "Right," he says, "bored with this game now. Let's do Star Wars shots."
*
It's not a party night, not exactly. There's stuff to do in the morning, places to be, and Louis was zonked from the moment they got back to the room, blatantly so. They're just trying to pass the time, and by the time they're half an hour into their drinking game it feels like a natural end to the evening has been reached, Louis asleep on Liam's shoulder and Niall drooping, uncharacteristically quiet, against one corner of the settee.
"I'm gonna take," Liam says, gesturing, "these two -- if you --?" He trails off, eyebrows raised, and Harry nods, flipping off the telly immediately and standing up. It doesn't escape Zayn's notice, watching the precision of his movements, that Harry doesn't seem to be half as drunk even as Liam is.
"Need any help, mate?" Harry asks. Louis and Liam are in the room next door. Niall's on his own this time, across the corridor, but Zayn supposes he'll just end up in bed with the L's, in all probability, the state he's in.
"You're all right," Liam says, shaking his head. His supporting arm shifts around Louis's chest, and Louis makes a snuffly little sound against Liam's shoulder. Zayn bites back a laugh.
"Night, guys," he says, and Niall shoots back melodically, "Gooooood night, lads. Don't do anythin' I wouldn't do, all right?"
The words hang in the air after the door has closed behind the other three, and Zayn couldn't say why, but they feel a little like a challenge.
Harry disappears into the bathroom -- Zayn can hear him faffing around, turning the taps on, brushing his teeth. Should do that an' all, Zayn thinks dimly, but the idea of getting all his stuff out of the relevant bag and actually doing these things all feels like too much effort when there's a bed right here, big and soft and cool when he flops back onto it, rubbing his cheek against the pillow. It's the bed Harry bagsied when they checked in this afternoon, but fuck that; Harry's still upright, so he's got one up on Zayn on that score. He can bloody well walk another couple of feet and get in the other bed. Hopefully right at the far side of it so Zayn can attempt a crafty wank under the covers once they've put the lights out. Idly, he spreads his legs, feels the denim catching on the smoothness of the sheets, then pulls them back together again. It's just exacerbating the slight heat in his groin, a bad idea, really, but his head is light with vodka and loose with having been awake too many hours, and then -- then there'd been Harry's collarbones showing stark and pale and licked with sweat, and Harry's -- fuck. Fuck Harry.
"Oy, bed-snatcher!"
He's not expecting the way the mattress bounces as Harry launches himself onto it, and he grips at the sheets hectically, scowls up at Harry's laughing face. "What."
"I picked this one earlier fair and square, that's what." Harry prods him soundly in the breastbone, then shakes him by the shoulder. "I'll just take it back when you go and brush your teeth, so you may as well just give it up, you know."
That's a challenge if Zayn's ever heard one, Harry's eyes bright and close and his hair all stuck to his face at the temples. He's awfully close, smelling mintily of toothpaste over the suggestion of new sweat, and suddenly Zayn there's more than one reason Zayn doesn't want to move. The heat in his groin pounds. He says, "Well, I'm not going to brush 'em, am I? So put that in your pipe and smoke it."
For a second, Harry just -- just looks at him, before he flops over abruptly onto his back on the bed and just starts laughing and laughing. It goes on and on, and Harry must be drunker than Zayn had been starting to think, because it wasn't that fucking funny and Harry's got both hands on his stomach, now, like Zayn had told the most hilarious joke in the whole world. Somewhere along the line, Zayn starts laughing as well, it's so infectious, Harry rocking the whole bed with his giggles.
"All right," Zayn says after a bit, when his face has started to hurt weirdly, too many hours of grinning. Harry's very close to him now, his arm pressed to Zayn's from shoulder to elbow, and it's making Zayn's blood sing giddily, his heart race. He pulls himself up and leans over Harry, paws at his arm. "All right, not that funny, come on."
Harry snorts and kicks and the bed shakes, and Zayn's hand comes down in the centre of Harry's chest, flat and a little damp. Beneath his palm, Harry feels overheated through the thin single layer of his t-shirt, and Zayn doesn't mean to look at his mouth but it, it's fuckin' difficult not to from this close, really. Harry's all mouth and hair; that was Zayn's first impression of him ever, and even now that he's half-hard against the bed and thrilling to the smell of Harry's soap, he's still...just...
"Fuck," Zayn says, pushing his fingers in, trying to get up.
Harry's too quick for him, hand closing around Zayn's wrist and pinning it there, right where it is. He's not laughing now, Zayn notices, dazed; now he's just looking at Zayn, and looking, and looking. Zayn can't remember the last time he saw Harry look this serious about anything, and this is just the two of them sprawled on one bed after a drunken lads' night in; it's weird.
But then Harry says, "So, your exceptions list," and the feeling in Zayn's gut that says weird shifts readily right back into turned-on with more than a dash of absolutely fucking bricking it.
"Yeah," Zayn says tightly. Says might be overstating it. It's just this little puff of breath, hardly a word, even, and Harry has gone properly still beneath him on the bed, chest going up and down under Zayn's hand.
Slowly, Harry lifts one hand. Zayn sees him do it -- watches him do it, can't not with the position they're in, but it's still a shock when the hand curls lightly against Zayn's shoulder, barely touching. When Harry takes a breath and the hand slides upward to cup the nape of Zayn's neck, Zayn shudders, whole body convulsing, and it's pathetic, but it makes Harry gasp and grip harder, part his lips.
"Zayn," Harry says, pulling, hips lifting slightly, and Zayn goes, lets himself be urged downward, grips Harry's shoulders in both hands. Harry's on the exceptions list, after all. If Zayn's honest with himself, Harry's the reason the exceptions list exists, so this is okay. Fuck, this is -- this is way, way more than okay.
Harry's mouth is soft. It's always looked soft, but this is more than looking; this is the soft give of it under Zayn's and the dampness of it parting around Zayn's lower lip, catching briefly, then again. It's late, and Harry's a bit of a five-o'clock matinee idol by now, but the sandpaper drag of his stubble against Zayn's just makes his full lips and hot tongue, when it comes out tentatively to find Zayn's, feel softer, smoother, better. Harry's hand is broad and flat between Zayn's shoulderblades, fingers curling and uncurling reflexively, and Zayn shifts over without even thinking about it until his thighs slot between Harry's, their legs tangling and Zayn's weight full on Harry's chest. Harry makes a broken little sound in his throat, opens his mouth. Zayn groans softly, head spinning, and licks along the insides of Harry's teeth, rubs his tongue against Harry's soft and flat until Harry's groaning too, hips shoving restlessly up against Zayn's.
If someone had told Zayn when they'd come up to their room that they'd be finishing the night like this, mouths slanted wetly over each other and hips pulled flush, Zayn would have -- well. Zayn would've been uncomfortably turned on, probably, and left it at that. Harry's had this effect on him for months, now, but he'd never quite let himself think Harry might be into it too, certainly not as into it as he seems to be, hitching his hips up against Zayn's and clutching fiercely at the back of his shirt. His tongue is rubbing slickly over Zayn's, crooking up to push at his soft palate, and when Zayn shifts his legs a fraction, the next shift of Harry's hips brings them fully together, the fat bulge of Harry's erection slotted neatly into the notch of Zayn's pelvis. It's hot, Harry panting ragged into Zayn's mouth, fingers digging in, and Zayn grabs for Harry's waist without thinking, braces his knee against the mattress and ruts down, going for whatever friction he can get.
"Christ, Zayn!" Harry gets out, jerking his mouth away as his head tips back, and, fuck, yeah; Zayn's blood does a giddy skip in his veins and he fucks down again, and again, until Harry reaches up and takes hold of him bodily, muscles bunching in his bare forearms as his hands make fists around Zayn's hips.
Even half-immobilised, it's an effort to fall still. Zayn's panting, heart pounding a furious tarantella in the hollow of his throat, and everything in him is screaming to rut down again against Harry, get himself off that way, come inside his trousers against the hard line of Harry's thigh. But then Harry's thumb slides, tentative, from Zayn's hipbone to the centre of his stomach, the underside of his navel, and all at once Zayn's gasping, shivering. Harry traces the edge of a button, and that's it, signal enough, promise of more; Zayn gets both his own hands between them in seconds and starts fumbling with Harry's jeans, stupid fucking tight things caught on even his boyish hips and
"Fuck!" he spits in frustration, flinging himself off Harry and onto his back, hauling at his jeans and underwear together.
"Knew this was a daft fashion," Harry mutters, flashing Zayn a grin, and then he's whipping his t-shirt up over his head and Zayn feels all the blood in his body rush to his dick, sudden and absolute.
"I'll show you daft," Zayn says, nonsensically. He kicks his tangle of clothes off his ankles, struggles out of his t-shirt, and by the time it's disappeared off the side of the bed, Harry is naked too, long lithe stretch of him on the dark sheets, broadening shoulders and narrow little hips, legs for miles and dick curved fatly up towards his flat belly. He looks edible, sweat glistening, showing up all the angles and planes of him and Zayn wants him with a sudden fierce want that surges up in him like nausea or tears, that makes him feel like his head's about to come off if he can't be all over Harry right now, right this fucking minute.
"Jesus," he mutters, and moves. Harry's ready for him when he re-settles himself on top of him, legs tangling bare through Harry's, hands threading into the sweat-damp thickness of his hair. Harry hums softly in his throat, tips his head up, chin-first, and just like that, they're kissing again, hard and wet and deep. Zayn's shifting, rocking, hips driving down into Zayn's and if it was good before, it's amazing like this, the two of them hot and smooth and naked together, the sticky head of Harry's dick catching at the crux of Zayn's thigh as they move, Harry's abdomen flat and hard for Zayn to rut against.
"You gonna," Harry pants, and the thought suddenly hits Zayn that if Harry can still talk, something's wrong. He clutches at Harry's thighs, pushes them wider, settles himself more fully between them, and their balls are shifting against each other with every thrust of their hips, now, the coarse hair between Harry's legs rasping gloriously against Zayn's cock. Zayn ducks his head, bites at Harry's throat, and Harry pants, harsh and hot; clutches at the back of Zayn's skull, fingers firm and desperate.
"C'mon," he says, hot in the curve of Harry's neck; puts his mouth to the place where his teeth had been and sucks until the blood surges up in the shape of his mouth, blossoming dark under the skin. Beneath him, Harry cries out, hips bucking, and it's fucking furious now, Harry's cock sliding like hot silk against Zayn's, and Zayn could come like this, just a few more strokes, but he has to, God, it's taken so long to get Harry in his bed like this and he has to feel -- just --
He gets one hand between them, wraps it around the fat, straining length of Harry's dick. Harry's breath punches out of him, shuddering, this little whine emerging against the shell of Zayn's ear, and Zayn groans, bites his lip. "Fuck," he manages, the word choked out, and he's still moving, leaking slick all over the inside of Harry's thigh as he rocks against him, faster now, harder. Harry's smooth and strange-familiar in his hand, hot, gorgeous; Zayn can smell him from here, the dark, clean tang of him, and one of these days, he realises, he wants that in his mouth, wants to swallow Harry down and suck him dry. Now, though, Harry's pulsing in his hand, pistoning sticky-slick through the tunnel of Zayn's fist and, God, precome pearling up out of his slit when Zayn presses his thumb there, the pad of it glancing over Harry's crown.
"Zayn," Harry says, and he's, fuck, he's talking again, is he, even though his thighs are trembling around Zayn's now and there's sweat between them, sweat all over them, everywhere. Zayn moves impulsively, crams his mouth down on Harry's, and then Harry's lips are closed around Zayn's tongue and he's shuddering, tensing, buckling under Zayn's weight as he comes all over his fist. It works its way out of him in deep, wrecked pulses, in a low cry that breaks out of the back of Harry's throat, and it's more than Zayn can take. He wanted to last, maybe, for the first time, but there's too much vodka in both of them for that and Harry is so fucking, so fucking hot.
"Are you gonna," Harry pants, hot and breathless in Zayn's ear, "you gonna tell Perrie what you did to me?"
"Fuckin' hell -- "
He hadn't even realised he was so close, riding the edge, but those words in Harry's mouth are enough to shove him over the edge, slicing through him like a knife-edge so he torques and shudders and groans, hips bucking. Harry's own hand moves slackly between them, still lax from orgasm as it encircles Zayn's length, but it's enough, just that unfamiliar touch enough to get Zayn shivering as he comes, hot white spurt after spurt streaking Harry's stomach.
"Yeah," Harry coaxes, squeezing, "yeah, c'mon, fuck, yeah," and Zayn feels a final dribble of come work its way down the outside of Harry's fist, smearing between them. When, at length, he stills, the outsides of Harry's thighs, clamped around Zayn's hips, are wet with their sweat, but Harry's chest has stopped heaving, and his arms come up readily to encircle Zayn's shoulders, coaxing him down.
After a minute, Harry says, "So is that a 'yes'?" and Zayn half-laughs as he paws through the mess of his post-orgasm mind to remember what the question was.
"Oh, yeah," he says, nuzzling into the curve of Harry's throat, "definitely." Alcohol and sex have made him stupid, and he adds, "She'll be so fuckin' turned on, Haz, you've got no idea."
Harry laughs. Something about the way he pauses makes Zayn expect some smart comment, some suggestion, but in the end all Harry says is "Lucky boy," stroking the hair back from Zayn's ear, and Zayn supposes he's knackered too, the evening taking its toll on him.
"Lucky boy," he agrees, lips mouthing the line of Harry's clavicle, and feels the truth of it in every cell of his body.
*
text on AO3 (seems to be where the party is)