fic dump: climbing on my desire
climbing on my desire
rocker!harry/nick grimshaw. nc-17. ~2500 words.
a/n: fic dump. i had an idea of like one direction as a arctic monkeys / black keys sounding band that nick writes about and then starts fucking the lead singer but there’s no actually beginning. or end. just a really short middle. so enjoy i guess. title taken from r u mine? by the arctic monkeys. a good accompaniment to the fic if you’re interested! unbeta’d.
nick looks up at harry, breathing hard through his mouth as he wraps his fingers around his bony hips. he looks like an angel, pale skin and soft face; or maybe he looks like god, mischievous green eyes and a knowing smirk, one hand braced against the wall. he rolls his hips and he is sin. he is the fire burning in hell and the breeze cooling the heaven, and fuck if he’s not beautiful to look at.
harry doesn’t lift his hips up, just rocks back and forth; it’s a slow rhythm at first, dragging lazily through the room, but then it becomes frantic, desperate. harry pants between them and then moan softly in the back of his throat, hands braced against nick’s chest now as he tips his head back and rides. nick lifts him up and lets him sink back down, does it again and again until harry’s slamming himself down all on his own, still so quiet.
nick leans up enough to wrap his fingers around harry’s neck, growling when he pulls his head forward and meets his eyes, gaze deep, intense, and wrecked. nick slides his hand down harry’s neck, over his chest, until he wraps it around his cock and jerks in short, quick tugs. he feels harry clench around him and his stomach lurches, orgasm on the verge. he holds out until harry falls into himself, shoulders slumping as he spills over nick’s hand, and then nick’s fucking into him in sharp thrust and gasping as he comes, free hand digging into harry’s thigh.
harry recovers from his orgasm much quicker, rolling off nick in an instant before reaching out towards the floor. he comes back with a dirty white shirt that’s got a red stain on it, most likely blood, and wipes the mess off their stomach with the cleaner end before reaching for cigarettes.
“you want one?” harry asks, a stick already dangling between his lips. his greasy curls are messed into an odd natural quiff, fringed pushed back and to the side. nick can see a bruise purpling just above his collarbone.
he smirks, shakes his head.
harry leans into the flame of his lighter, sitting crossed legged beside nick. a wispy cloud of smoke erupts around him as he exhales his first drag, letting it filter out with his fag still sitting on his lips.
“you recording today?” nick asks, sitting up enough to prop his head against his hand, elbow resting on the mattress.
harry nods, pulling his fag away to exhale, “yeah. lou’s gotta drop el at the train station, though, so we’ll probably start late.”
“she doesn’t live here?” nick asks.
harry shakes his head, “she’s from mancs. they met at a gig six months back.”
nick nods. the conversation is stilled, forced. they don’t talk about these things, usually. usually they fuck, harry smokes, and nick sleeps. other times nick gets up and dresses quickly, kissing harry’s tar flavored lips before slipping through the door. but today harry’s staring at him fiercely, like the wheels are turning in his head. his eyebrows are pressed together as he flicks his cigarette into a coffee mug beside the bed.
“do you like me, grimmy?” he asks finally, voice gravelly from sex and smoke.
“what?” nick replies, sitting up in bed. the blanket pools around his hips, and he looks around harry’s small room for his clothes.
harry drops his cigarette in the mug, crawling into nick’s lap suddenly. he curls his fingers around nick’s neck as he straddles him, yanking his head back by the hair of his nape. nick groans softly, fingers digging into the thin flesh of harry’s paperthin hips. he looks up at him, gasping softly at the sight of his wild hair and clear green eyes. he always looks unearthly, and nick’s always at his mercy.
“do you,” harry pants, licking into nick’s mouth, “like me.”
nick takes in a sharp breath, surging forward to kiss harry like he means it, wrapping his arm around the small of his back before laying him out on the sheets. nick holds himself up by his hands, rolling his hips into harry’s. harry whine softly, face worrying as he bends his legs at the knees and uses the leverage to meet his thrusts, hands gripping nick’s waist.
“are you mine?” harry whispers, and his face is so open now.
nick groans, gets a hand between them to start jerking them off together. harry whimpers and scratches his nails down nick’s back. it burns enough that nick wonders if he’s left surface wounds, irritated skin that’ll burn until the sweat on his skin has dried before turning into bright pink battle scars. he hopes so.
“are you mine?” harry repeats, says it like he’s gasping for air, and nick groans into his shoulder, bites down hard.
yes, he thinks. but he won’t say that out loud.
-
nick lights a stale cigarette outside rocket publishing house, gritting his teeth against the january cold. it’s not snowed in weeks and as a result the weather’s freezing. nick blows hot air against his fingers uselessly, sucks down another drag while he’s at it. harry hasn’t texted him in three days which is... a bit unusual. they haven’t stopped texting each other since he interviewed the band two months ago.
but now it’s radio silence and nick’s on the wrong side of hungover from his weekend binge with pix and aimee and he’s just really like some of harry’s shitty cheap coffee and even cheaper cigarettes.
nick’s phone rings and he curses, shuffling his fag into the opposite hand in order to fish through his coat pocket. he slides his thumb over the screen, rushing to talk into the receiver.
“‘ello?” he growls, coughing to clear his throat. fuck, it’s cold out.
“he loves you already, you know,” a familiar voice says. high and nasally. must be louis.
“tomlinson?” he asks, confused. he and louis get on well enough but they definitely weren’t on casual phone call status. the only other person in one direction who calls him besides harry is niall.
“he’s loves you, so you best not fuck it up,” louis continues. he sounds like he’s in a rush, like he’s only got a moment to spare before something or someone interrupts him. nick can hear, even through the phone, the distant sound of harry’s deep voice getting clearer and clearer.
“he loves you so much it’s stupid. bloody idiot, two fucking months and-- he’ll write song about you. wrote a whole album about a girl who destroyed him once.”
“you’re not making any sense,” nick replies emphatically, but louis’ already hung up by then.
he pulls his phone back, watches the screen clear out and turn to black.
fuck.
-
the next time nick sees harry, it’s because his boss caught wind of a rumor that one direction are playing a secret show at the dublin castle and wants him to review the set. nick can’t exactly tell him that he can’t go because he’s kinda sorta been fucking the lead singer and that he might possibly have serious feelings for him. so instead he nods dutifully and walks into the buzzed, crowded room knowing that tonight has no good endings.
the stage is lit if bright red with a white spotlight in the center, techies setting up the drums and testing out guitar pedals. there’s gotta be at least a hundred people more than capacity in here, and it’s fucking impossible to get a pint in the madness. nick already feels the hot air sticking to his skin, a layer of sweat on his forehead.
the band comes out on stage and the crowd starts to get rowdy, hollering out names and catcalls. first it’s zayn come out to sit behind his drums, smiling shyly as he takes his seat. then louis slips out on bass, grinning and winking at the crowd. niall comes out full of energy, wagging his tongue at the crowd. nick’s pretty sure he sees a few girls lift up their shirts and flash him.
but of course, harry’s the main course, the crowd eats him up like a christmas dinner. he revels in it, comes out syrup slow and grinning mischievously as the spotlight hits all the right corners of his face. harry’s always striking but on stage he’s downright ethereal, the light hitting the edges of his curls like he’s made diamonds. the stage craves him, and he loves it.
one direction is the kind of band that nick mostly hates. this isn’t his usual scene. he hate how disconnected everything sounds, how hard the guitar is on his ears. he shouldn’t be as into this gig as he is, but he hangs on harry’s every words like he’s reciting the bible. maybe his is; there’s a room full of people looking at him like he’s reading one scripture after another.
harry sees him three songs into his set, and suddenly nick feels the intensity of his stage presence. he focuses all his aura into projecting, slurring into the mic with your lips nearly kissing it and green are boring into him. he’s in the middle of the floor, but nick knows. he knows that these words are meant for him, and those eyes are scalding hot just for his viewing pleasure.
and are you mine, babe? i’m you’re bloody gravel, let me take you to the grave.
nick feels the hot prick of the anger in his words like a virus. he tries to shake it off, but it infects him, runs through his veins until harry’s screaming the last line of the final song, falling to his knees with it. how can harry be mad at him? he’s not the one who went and changed all the rules. he not the one who didn’t call or text, not the one who cut everything off in an instant. they play by harry’s code of conduct; nick signed the dotted line when he kissed him outside the 100 club when he still had blood on his lip.
the band clears off stage but nick doesn’t go looking for harry. he has no doubt in his mind that he’ll find him on his own; they’ve got unfinished business.
nick orders another beer and waits for harry to take the bait. maybe for once he’ll have the upperhand, have harry wrapped around his finger instead of the other way around. he chugs the last half of his glass and when he sets it down harry’s right there in his face.
“fucking asshole,” he says right away, glaring.
nick scowls at him, stands up so that he can crowd into harry’s personal space and stare down at him. “you’re the one who didn’t call,” he snaps.
and harry growls, reaching up to pull nick down in a bruising kiss. nick groans into it, wraps an arm around harry as he pushes them towards the bathrooms. the bust through the door in a clatter and harry reaches behind himself to push into a stall. nick spins him around quickly, slams it shut by shoving harry against it.
“fucking asshole,” harry repeats, but there’s less venom this time. he pushes nick jeans and pants down, reaching into his own jeans for a condom and small packet of lube. he rolls the condom over nick in a hurry, squirting the slick straight onto the hard line of his dick before tugging on nick hastily.
nick yanks harry’s jeans down to his thigh before lifting him up, legs splayed awkwardly as nick lines up against his hole. it won’t be completely comfortable this way, too much fabric in the way, but harry reaches about his head and latches onto the stall door, gasping as nick begins to fucking into him roughly.
“what do you want from me?” nick moan against harry’s neck. his back hurts from the strain of leaning into harry’s chest, his arm tired from holding him up. harry cries out softly above his head, and nick feels his dick throb hard. this is he loudest harry’s ever been and fuck, nick is so fucking drunk. he’s so drunk and he wants harry forever and always and the only thing in the way is his own fucking stupid head. what’s the problem? what’s the fucking problem?
“nick,” harry whines quietly, and nick thrusts until the doors rattling loud enough that he’s worried it’ll break, until they’re both being loud and reckless and he comes so hard he sees stars.
“i love you so fucking much,” harry whimpers to him when they’re both on two feet again, harry’s fingers brushing against nick’s cheeks.
nick closes his eyes, kisses him until the only things he tastes is himself.
they don’t go home together.
-
nick’s chain smoking in his office, desperately trying to get his latest article about some northern band done and turned in before the deadline when someone knocks at his room.
he looks up and is so surprised that he has to push his glasses further up on his nose. zayn malik’s standing in his doorway.
“uh...” nick says dumbly. he reaches for his pack of marb lights, flashing the label at him. “d’you wanna fag?”
“cheers,” zayn says softly, sitting down in nick’s guest chair as he lights up the cigarette.
they sit in a weighted silence for a moment, blowing smoke back and forth. nick leans back in his chair and rocks side to side, waiting for zayn’s inevitable speech about how he and harry and fucking everything up. it takes him much longer to come out with it than louis, like he’s considering his words very carefully.
“he’s writing about you,” is what zayn goes with, squinting as a cloud of smoke crowds his face.
nick laughs dryly, shaking his head as he takes a drag, “yeah, i heard.”
zayn sighs, inhales deeply before blowing smoke out his nose. nick considers trying to do the same and opts out in favor of not looking like a dumbass when he coughs everywhere.
“i don’t understand why you both act like you don’t want each other,” zayn emotes, frowning, “being in a room with you two is tiring.”
“harry doesn’t want anyone, not really,” nick replies, even if he doesn’t feel it’s true in his gut, “he likes the idea of people. he likes the idea of us fucking and fighting and being some new age sid and nancy. he likes the drama.”
zayn shakes his head at his smashes his cigarette butt into the ashtray, “you’re wrong.”
“he’ll forget about me,” nick concludes, already reaching for another fag as he puts out the other.
“like how you’re forgetting about him?” zayn snipes.
he’s gone before nick can reply, but whatever. he’s wrong, anyway.