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It’s not that Niall doesn’t know how to get off.
Getting off’s the easy part as far as he’s concerned, if you call it easy spending most of your prime wanking years surrounded by four other boys.
Niall knows how to get off. He knows how to do it quietly, in his bunk on the tour bus with his music up loud so it won’t be as obvious, biting his tongue when he comes so he won’t make noise. He knows how to do it quickly, in the shower 10 minutes before a photo shoot with conditioner in his hair and his hand slick from it, working his dick and chasing his orgasm like he’s getting paid for it. He knows how to do it thoroughly, propped on an elbow at the edge of a hotel California king, eyes flicking back and forth to the full-length mirror, so he can watch himself and trace the flush that always crawls up his chest.
But he doesn’t really know how to do it differently.
By the time he was fifteen, he had managed enough wanks to know that it didn’t take a lot of creativity on his part to get his junk from start to finish.
It’s not like that one time with Rebecca during lunch behind the sports shed, when she got on her knees and put her mouth to work in the most sinful, inventive way, bless her. When it was obvious that nobody was coming anytime soon, sinful or not, she had gotten pissed and, when the bell rang at the end of the period, she had clumsily gotten to her knees, brushing the dirt off her stockings and scoffed “Nice one,” as she walked away, skirt bouncing.
Awed, Niall had watched her go, tucking himself back in, and thought over and over again that it would’ve been a great blowie, he would’ve come, he knows he would’ve, if only Rebecca had been more concerned with the “how” rather than the “what” of the thing.
Because at fifteen, Niall had already discovered that the important thing to keep in mind when playing with one’s cock, or any cock at all, was not what you did to it but how you did it.
And poor Rebecca, bless her beautiful mouth, was too focused on deepthroating to pay much attention to anything else. Her nose had practically rested at his pubes for the whole twenty-minute ordeal and she did all the right things, her technique was aces, but if she would’ve slid her mouth back just a little (and Niall had really tried to hint; he tried to pull his hips back to make it easy for her but every time he so much as breathed wrong, she had dug her talons in and kept him, and his cold arse, pinned to the shed)—if he could have had any leverage at all, just a tad, he could’ve shown her that the tip was the ticket with him. If she would’ve just kept her mouth there, warm and wet as it was, sucking and kissing the tip, with maybe a little hand bobbing here and there, Niall would’ve been gone in two, two and a half minutes flat.
Naturally, he’s had a few more experiences since then, and really just bless them all, and some have been really good, some have been bad, but most have been “ehh, I jizzed.”
The one thing that hasn’t changed, in all the different ways that other people have played with his cock, is how he plays with it.
When it’s a quiet night, his hand knows what to do so it does it. When it’s a quickie, sometimes he can’t even remember when he put his hand down his pants. When it’s a languid, relaxed time, his hand gets into a rhythm in three seconds or less and doesn’t miss a beat until he comes.
He’s never really thought about it, the ‘why’ of the thing: Why do I only get off the same way every time, Why do I never switch it up. Who the hell cares why when it always ends with a hand full of jizz.
And if it wasn’t for what happened at 10:22pm on Wednesday, he’d probably still be stuck in that ignorant, more blissful place. If it wasn’t for what happened at 10:22pm on Wednesday, he’d probably still be able to pretend that he was just a lad having a laugh. Haha! A laugh.
A laugh, he thinks to himself now, shaking his head and bending down awkwardly to tie his shoes, minutes before he and the boys go on stage. It’s mad chaos, like it always is, and usually that’s enough to calm him down, to make him focus on the show. But it’s not doing shit for him right now and, too soon, his eyes catch on Zayn. He’s in the middle of getting his hair spritzed, flinging his arms up and telling Lou that’s enough, that’s enough, reallythat’s fine. He walks through the mist and the particles, illuminated by a stage light, dance around his head so it looks like he’s twinkling.
Christ. Looking away, Niall vows to punch himself in the face.
Because for all his pretense of not thinking about it, laughing big at the tail end of some stale Harry joke, snatching Liam’s snapback and twisting it on his own head, Niall is definitely thinking about it. He can’t help but pivot towards Zayn and revisit 10:22pm on Wednesday.
He can’t not think about it, not with Zayn standing so close and smelling like the same fresh aftershave he had used then.
Niall looks at Zayn now, watches his eyes crinkle in laughter, and, unbidden, his brain short-circuits back to—
10:07pm on Wednesday.
Niall is gearing up for what is certain—no element of surprise, here!—to be a nice, leisurely wank. The show had gone really well, all the boys buzzing, but Niall had turned down invitations to go clubbing, citing a headache. Yeah I’ve got an ache alright, he thinks to himself now, in my cock! He chuckles at his own genius. The moonlight is just starting to leak into the room through the curtains, lighting streaks onto the floor. Sighing, he flops onto his back until he’s sprawled across the whole bed. He pushes his sweats and briefs down and kicks them off. He goes to take his shirt off, then, changing his mind halfway through, leaves it hooked behind his head, bunched on his shoulders so that if he flexes he can feel it, can press against the resistance there. Resistance is good.
The good thing about these long wanks, he thinks judiciously, is that his entire body can get into it. It's not just about his cock but about everywhere else, too; all the places that never got the attention they deserved. The attention he craved, really. He loved learning about his body, mapping out all the things it liked, all the places where, when he touched, lit him on fire from the inside out.
10:16pm on Wednesday.
Like clockwork, Niall’s right hand travels south while his left hand makes its way up his stomach, to his chest and to his nipples. His nipples are extremely sensitive, he had found that out quite early on, and the opportunity was rare when he got to worship them like he wanted. But now, with nothing between his nipples and his own pinching fingers, there’s no reason to hold back so he doesn’t.
The second he gets his right hand around his dick and his left on a nipple, he moans.
He’s always loud, never could understand how people got around it or denied themselves the noise. He groans now as he twists his wrist, letting himself be loud. Closing his eyes, he seeps into it, that hazy post-arousal, pre-orgasm space where his only focus is on his body.
He keeps it up for a while, pulling with one hand and pinching with the other, until he’s wet enough to slide his hand up and down his cock. The noise is audible, the slick squelch of it, and he uses the precome to rub around the tip until he’s so wet it’s all he can do to keep his hand tight. His breath has kicked up and he’s panting, really working himself, and he roams his other hand around his chest so he can feel the warm skin there, can visualize how pink he’s gotten. Throat dry, he opens his mouth to get some air in which only manages to let out more sounds, getting louder and more uncontrolled the more his hand speeds up.
And he’s close, can feel his orgasm drumming around in the very pit of his stomach, when suddenly a white light cuts through his closed eyelids.
Confused, he blinks his eyes open and snaps his head to the side where his door is flung wide and there’s Zayn.
Niall’s rhythm-conscious hand, unfortunately, chooses that precise moment to dig his palm right into the base of his cock, a trick he’d learned over the years that both worked to stave off orgasm and make his stomach flip; the bittersweet denial of it.
So when he catches Zayn’s eye, instead of speaking he whimpers.
“Oh, god,” he stutters out, “oh shit, sorry, sorry” and yet he can’t move. He’s frozen. He can’t do anything but stare. Every single part of his body (except his traitorous hands, damn them) is immobile.
And Zayn, fucking Zayn, is just standing there and not making noise at all, eyes wide and gaping like a fish.
Niall thinks he should probably stop. But before that thought can lead to action, another one crushes it—why should he stop? This was his room. He was just a lad having a wank; nothing unnatural about that.
But the way Zayn is looking at him—now, that’s unnatural. Regardless, Niall thrusts up into his hand. And Zayn just watches him, eyes blank, jaw slack. He’s dressed down, in sweats and a ratty tank, but he kept his rings on. Niall can see them glinting on the door handle where he keeps clinching and unclenching his knuckles.
A good ten seconds passes just like this, without anyone doing anything but staring, like a bunch of mute squirrels. Niall figures that this is ridiculous now, so he tries to swallow over the arousal lodged in his throat to speak but Zayn beats him to it.
“Mate, I…” and he sounds like he’s speaking underwater, slow and clogged. “I think I left my…” and he trails off, pointing vaguely to the corner of the room where all the boys had left a pile of crap from their movie marathon the night before.
Instead of continuing, and instead of closing the goddamn door, jesus, he walks briskly over to the shadowed corner and rummages around until he gets what he’s looking for. A beanie, apparently, that he yanks down on his head as soon as he stands up.
Turning around, he coughs. He catches Niall’s eye again, but not before looking at his hands first. And Niall’s hands are relentless, at this point he couldn’t stop them if he wanted to, pumping up into his fist and flicking his nipples in turn. So Zayn coughs, again, and mumbles something about knocking next time, bumping his hip into the dresser in his haste to get out, and softly shuts the door.
As soon as the door clicks back into place, Niall comes.
He comes with the smell of Gucci aftershave in his nose and the memory of the curious look that had been on Zayn’s face.
Wiping his hands on the sheets and rolling over to the other side, the last thing he sees before he falls asleep is the clock, 10:22pm, and the last thing he thinks is maybe, just maybe, he’s found a way to do things differently.
So that’s what happened at 10:22pm on Wednesday and now they’re two days later, two minutes before a show, and, still, two mute squirrels. Niall assumed they needed to talk, maybe, probably, but he’d been trying to read Zayn for the last few hours and couldn’t get any clues. Either Zayn was ignoring him or there really was nothing to talk about.
I’ll ask him later, Niall thinks now as he places his hand on top of Zayn’s. They’re all in the group huddle, Louis yelling encouragement in all their faces, and Niall tries not to focus on the cold metal of Zayn’s rings kissing up under his sweaty palm.
Pasting his best smile on and clearing his mind of anything that isn’t lights, music, and energy, he throws his head back and cheers, bouncing up on stage with the rest of the boys.
Pretty soon, Niall’s entire body is vibrating with life, thrumming with energy.
He looks out into the crowd now and there are tons of signs, hundreds of them, so he cups his hand around his eyes so he can read some of them. Liam comes up beside him and they point them out together, laughing at the dirty ones. He always tries not to be, but he can’t help being surprised every time he does this and sees his name on the signs. In dozens of languages in dozens of countries, it never fails to take his breath away how many people have said they love him. Just seeing his name, his name, on a sign with the Irish colors or some incredible fanart just always makes him…it makes him…
Harry starts his introduction for the next song and Niall has to turn away and wipe furiously at his eyes, act like stray confetti got in them.
They’re doing “Better than Words” and the crowd erupts the second the beat starts.
The smile nearly splits Niall’s face in half.
All the boys love this one, and it’s so new still that their excitement at performing it live is tangible. Niall can almost taste it, sees it on Harry’s face now as he starts. He bounces along to the beat then looks over to Liam, who isn’t much better when he does his verse, putting his whole body into the words. And when the chorus comes up, they all throw their heads back and let the words cascade like gems out of their mouths.
Niall’s part is coming. He knows he should be concentrating on it, but suddenly he’s overwhelmed again, by everything. His boys are all around him, the lights are shimmering glitter and colors onto the stage, and he’s singing to a stadium with thousands of people who all know his name. He can’t help it, the emotions course through his body like a drug and he feels manic with it, eager to do something, anything. And god, the audience is going nuts, scream-singing at the top of their lungs.
Ecstatic, he jumps onto the nearest platform and starts his part. The spotlight is on him, he can feel the sudden heat of it, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he burst into flames.
“Best I ever had,” he sings, hears his voice peal through the stadium, and there’s so much emotion in him, boiling his blood it feels like, he’s got no idea what to do with it.
“Hips don’t lie,” he shakes the sweat out of his hair, feels frantic, feels almost insanely good, feeds off the screaming that just gets louder and louder.
“You make me wanna,” and before he can think twice about it, before his brain can even catch up to his hand, he “tsss one more night,” presses the heel of his palm right into his crotch and grinds up into it.
It’s over in a second, a nanosecond, but with the way crowd goes bonkers he guesses a second was all they needed.
He doesn’t have time to think about it before he’s got to keep singing, bursting out in chorus with the rest of the boys. Harry comes over to high five him, both of them grinning madly and Niall feels absolutely wired. Girls keep screaming his name, he can hear them clearer as he walks to the edge of the platform to bend low and wave to them, and he thinks Yes and he thinks Thank you and he thinks That was for you.
The rest of the show goes on without a hitch but Niall’s entire body feels stretched taut, electrified right through to his core.
Later, when the show’s over and he’s in his bunk, he thinks about all the people, the millions of people, who now know how he likes his hand on his dick and it takes him three minutes to come.
Unsurprisingly, it becomes a thing.
It becomes such a thing that in Buenos Aires, when he leaps onto the platform, he can see an entire shift in the crowd, all of them snatching their phones out and turning to face him, deliberate like a machine, as soon as he starts his part.
The spotlight hits him, burning through the sweat on his back, and he—
“You make me wanna,” really, just palms his entire crotch this time “tsss one more night,” and welcomes the sound of a million screams reverberating off his eardrums.
Laughing , high with it, he skips back to the middle of the stage where Louis is beckoning him over so they can all hit the chorus. He bumps into Harry on purpose, throws an arm around Liam’s shoulders, and jumps in the chorus at the precise moment that he happens to catch Zayn’s eye.
The smile slides right off his face.
Zayn looks like he could kill a man. More importantly, Niall thinks he could be that man. Zayn’s expression is steel, his eyes hard, and his mouth is a thin line even as he sings into his mic.
Niall’s breath leaves him so fast he might as well have been kicked. He almost misses the beat, having to snatch at his mic with both hands so he doesn’t drop it.
And Niall can’t look away from him, is aware that his own mouth is moving and making the right sounds, can see Zayn’s doing the same, but suddenly it’s like they’re back to two days ago.
Niall’s dick jerks so hard his knees buckle.
Untangling himself from where Liam had him locked, he jumps down the edge of the platform, suddenly needing to be as far away from Zayn as possible.
The song ends and he immediately busies himself with the crowd. They’re insatiable, practically dying for his attention, and at this point he’s dying to give it to them. Focusing on keeping his breaths steady, in, out, he waves and poses for pictures and generally tries to avoid getting back on the mainstage for as long as possible. Harry’s talking, thank christ, so that gives him plenty of time. He’s determined not to be distracted.
He’s so distracted by his determination, in fact, to not be distracted, that when the crowd suddenly erupts into chaos again he has no idea why, figures that it’s because he just blew obnoxious kisses.
He has no idea why until he feels it on the back of his neck, tight, the cold metal of—
“Zayn,” he whispers. Panic breaks out on his face but he shuts it down quickly, hopes that he was fast enough.
And it is Zayn, wearing the same rings he had on Wednesday night, Niall can feel where each of them cut into his neck and remembers the glint of them, the sound of them on the handle as he stood and watched him get himself off. He’s standing behind him so Niall can’t see his face. And they all do this, get really close to the other’s ear when they need to say something, too loud to do anything but whisper, but the way Zayn’s lips are grazing his ear now has never felt this intentional before.
“What the fuck was that,” he hisses, and Niall’s entire body breaks out in goosebumps.
Swallowing, he turns his head as much as he can and smiles, hopes it doesn’t look as fake as it feels. “W-what was what?” He swallows again and feels the pinky ring bob with his Adam’s apple.
“Don’t do that,” Zayn whispers, squeezing ever so slightly. “Don’t play dumb.” His voice is dripping, falls in Niall’s ears like honey.
Niall’s arms are locked at his sides. He knows he has to do something, anything to make this look normal, can’t even see the crowd clearly through the blinding lights but fuck knows they can see him, so he cackles, loudly, hopes it doesn’t seem as nervous as it sounds.
“I—”
But Zayn’s not interested in what he’s got to say, tightens his fingers again until Niall’s entire throat seizes up. He can feel Zayn’s hair at his temple he’s that close, can smell the sweat on him. Zayn dips his head close enough that there’s no way anyone can read his lips, no way he doesn’t make it clear that this is for Niall and Niall alone.
“I’m the only one that gets to see that.”
Niall’s heart nearly beats right out of his chest. Before he can say anything else, can think up other ways to pretend that he’s anything but well and truly panicked, Zayn’s hand disappears and he’s gone, as quick as he was there.
Niall nearly slumps to the ground.
Pulling himself together quickly, he smiles and waves and laughs obnoxiously a few times, pretends to read the signs that fans are waving madly to get his attention, trying to ignore how it feels like his stomach’s been pumped with lead.
“Niall! Niall, come on mate!” Louis shouts suddenly into his mic, pulling Niall’s attention back. Louis and Harry start chanting his name until the whole crowd is just about involved, until Niall’s name is thundering off every inch of the stadium. His face gets hot, blushing and grinning despite himself, and with what he considers Herculean effort he turns and jogs back down to the mainstage.
“Weyheyyyy!” Harry screams into the mic, pumping his fist in the air.
Niall grins at him and doesn’t even look in Zayn’s direction.
Instead, he sits by Louis on the steps and wills himself to calm down. Calming down means he starts to think, starts to pull thoughts together on a thread in his mind, and the more he thinks the angrier he gets. Because the thing is, the thing with his hand on his crotch, that wasn’t about anyone but him. It wasn’t about One Direction, it was about Niall. Yeah, he thinks, in awe of this discovery: that was my gift to the fans. In all the ways the fans had helped him, had helped them all, it always felt ten times more amazing when they could give something back. He pops his in-ear out now so he can hear them, can feel even more connected to them.
And if I choose to give them me on my dick, he thinks, defiantly, well who tells me I can’t?
Zayn apparently. Or so he believes, Niall thinks, as they start up “Little Things.” That was mine. And who the fuck does Zayn think he is, he continues, singing his lines from memory alone. Coming into my room when I’m having a wank and not even saying anything. God, he thinks, and it sounds right in his head, sounds angry, sounds righteous, so he thinks it again.
That’s mine.
By the time the show is over, Niall’s fit to bursting. He curbs his anger though, keeps it at bay right up until the final bow. He’s so wrapped up in his head that he doesn’t even notice who he’s standing beside until they clap him on the back, hard, and he looks up straight into Zayn’s smug face.
They’re all supposed to link up for the bow, arms around shoulders, but Niall will be fucked if he’s doing any of that now. So he smiles, sweetly, and claps Zayn right back, twice as hard. Zayn blinks like he wasn’t expecting it, caught off guard.
Feeling bold and reckless, infuriated, he pulls Zayn in by his shirt and puts his mouth right at his ear.
“That,” he whispers, inflecting hard so there’s no question what he’s referring to, “had nothing to do with you.” And he tries to bite it out, tries to make it sound like poison.
He leans back and pastes a smile on his face.
Zayn licks his lips as he leans down, putting a hand on Niall’s lower back so he can tug him in, and, grinning, say “Never said it did.”
Niall can feel his nostrils flare. “Yeah you did, mate,” he says, not even bothering to whisper anymore, Liam’s got the crowd screaming again, their outro music starting up.
Zayn blinks at him, looks at Niall like he’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. “Not what I said.” At some point, he had snuck his hand up Niall’s shirt; Niall figures it out when he scrapes his nails down his back. He doesn’t, but he nearly jumps.
Suddenly there’s too much happening, in his brain and in his dick area, and he has no idea what to do. What to say. So he flounders.
“I…that,” he starts, not knowing how to explain himself, not knowing how to say just the right thing to express his anger, “I’m just—”
Sliding his hand up his spine, Zayn laughs, warmly. “I know. Stop talking.”
And Niall’s about to demand why, but Zayn snatches his hand away and faces the crowd. They’re all facing the crowd, Niall notices, except for him and he doesn’t know when it happened but his whole body had pivoted, turned to Zayn and tucked right into his side.
What the fuck.
With a huff, his spins his body to the front so he can bow with the rest of them.
If there’s anything Niall’s good at, it’s ignoring things.
For example: When they’ve bowed once, twice, Niall ignores how Zayn takes his time sliding away from him, dragging his arm lazily across his shoulders. He ignores how Zayn jets off the stage faster than anyone, ignores the rest of the boys all screaming their heads off when he finally gets backstage, ignores the bottle of champagne being passed and sloshed around, ignores how his first thought is “Where the fuck is Zayn” and ignores Louis’ scrunched up look, puzzled, when he realizes that he’s said it out loud and Louis says “Think he’s changing,” ignores them calling after him, ignores everything but the conviction of his own anger propelling him to the dressing room, ignores how he flings the door open hard enough to bounce off the wall, and comes to a halt when he realizes he can’t ignore anything anymore because Zayn’s standing in front of him wearing the same thing he had on two nights ago.
10:22pm on Wednesday.
Niall’s entire body aches with fury.
Making a noise even he doesn’t understand, somewhere between a growl and a yell, he hooks his nails into Zayn’s shoulders and, putting all his strength behind it, presses him up against the nearest wall.
“What the fuck, mate,” he says, shaking him, and he hopes Zayn understands that he’s not using ‘mate’ in the friendly sense this time. “What’re you—what was—”
In a voice Niall’s never heard Zayn use, deeper than he thought possible, he says, “Let go of me.”
Niall blinks. He’s panting and that only makes him madder. Zayn looks statuesque, untouchable, in total control of himself. It’s not fucking fair; Niall feels like he’s going to implode in on himself.
“No,” he bites, defiant, digging his nails in. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
Zayn’s eyes are ablaze. “Niall…let me go.”
Niall blinks at him again. He narrows his eyes, wondering how long they’re going to let this pissing match go on, both daring each other to break eye contact first. Distantly, Niall hears shouts from down the hall and realizes that he left the door open. So be it, he thinks, digging his nails in one last time before unhooking his fingers. He’d love a witness for when he mops the floor with Zayn’s face. He steps back.
Without being held to the wall, Zayn tips slightly forward and stands up to his full height. He looms over Niall, but only a little, and Niall forces himself to straighten his own back.
It takes a while for him to realize that instead of looking affected, really, Zayn just looks amused. Which only sparks his anger again.
“Now, you finished?” Zayn asks, casual as anything.
Niall laughs and it comes out pained. “Am I…no, I’m not fucking finished! What are you on about, coming to me on stage and saying—saying that, like you fucking own me, you don’t—”
“I know I don’t,” Zayn says, gazing down at him. He leans back against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest. His voice sounds husky, like he’s had a cigarette, and Niall thinks idiotically that there’s been no time for that how could he possibly sound—“I’m sorry if it came out that way.”
Like a deflated balloon, the anger whooshes out of him. It’s suddenly very obvious that this is Zayn, one of the sweetest people he knows. Sheepish, he gapes and has to clamp down on the urge to apologize right back, that annoying gut response to apologize profusely for something he didn’t even do, because the truth is that Zayn still said what he said.
He supposes the confusion shows on his face, because Zayn grins at him.
“The other day, when I…” 10:22pm on Wednesday, Niall’s brain supplies frantically, and his eyes widen almost impossibly.
So they’re talking about this. They’re really talking about it.
Suddenly, he’s never felt less prepared for something in his life, would welcome his anger back with bells and whistles if he could, if it meant taking the place of this.
Zayn stares at him for a long time before he continues. “When I…came to your room. The door wasn’t exactly shut.” He trails away, rubbing the stubble on his jaw, and looks at Niall like he’s pleading for him to put the pieces together.
But Niall’s had it with that.
“Ok,” he says, and his voice sounds unsteady. Ok, he thinks to himself, trying to keep calm.
Zayn clears his throat and crosses his arms tighter over his chest. “So the door wasn’t closed, like I said, and you were…well you weren’t exactly quiet, mate. So I didn’t know what you were doing until I got right up on the door and you were—”
I was touching myself, Niall thinks, and his entire face enflames. I was spread out on the softest comforter in the world, naked as the day I was born, and I had a hand on my dick.
Zayn gestures vaguely, murmurs, drops his eyes, and a thought hits Niall so hard, barreling into him like a freight train, and he think, finally, that he understands.
He finds that, desperately, he hopes he understands.
Because in all the ways he knows Zayn, he’s never known him to show anger like he’s been doing tonight. He’s never known him to act like this when he’s angry; possessive, attached, tactile, fidgety. Zayn’s anger is a quiet beast, it’s not—and Niall looks at his face again, drops his eyes to his chest where he imagines his heart pumping, sees his arms crossed, like he’s self-conscious, his shifty eyes like he can’t bear to look at him too long.
It all comes full circle.
And Zayn is still murmuring, euphemizing, but Niall needs to hear him say it.
“Say it,” he whispers, and the need spreads through him like a wildfire.
Zayn glances up at him, sheepishly, and visibly pulls himself together to say it. “You were havin’ a wank. You had a hand on your cock and the other at your chest and you were…christ, you were moaning Niall, and when I walked in and you saw me, you… you moaned again, you sounded…you sounded like you’d never been so happy in your whole life.”
Niall’s ears are ringing. He can imagine what he looked like to Zayn because that is how he felt, precisely, like he’d never been so at ease in his own body. And when Zayn had appeared, it was like finally, someone was sharing it with him.
Someone was sharing him with him.
He gulps and feels the flush start on his chest, crawling like it always does when he’s turned on.
Balling his hands into fists at his sides and licking his lips, deliberately and slowly, breath hitching, he says, “Keep going.”
Zayn’s pupils have dilated, eyes gone twice as dark, and Niall would be lying if he said if he didn’t feel his dick twitch in his pants.
“God, you were the hottest thing I’d ever seen. You were…you were so into yourself like, just doin it for yourself and I didn’t even want to interrupt, but then you saw me and you didn’t stop.” Slowly, like Niall might bite him, Zayn lifts a hand up and brings it to Niall’s cheek where he strokes with his thumb. Immediately, Niall turns into it like a moth to flame, closing his eyes and sighing.
Zayn’s voice is so soft when he speaks again and his curiosity is audible. “Why didn’t you stop?”
Niall’s eyes snap open. It takes him a second to follow his train of thought to an answer, the right answer. And Zayn won’t stop thumbing his cheek so Niall looks him in the eye and blushes, knows that Zayn will feel it in his palm where his face is getting hot. He parts his lips to say something but the words get stuck. Zayn presses him again.
“Why didn't you stop?”
“I dunno…” he says, on an exhale. “I think I wanted—wanted someone to see.” He realizes that it’s true the second it leaves his mouth.
Zayn smiles and it spreads across his whole face, nearly lights up the entire room. “So that’s what that was about, then. On stage?”
“Kinda,” Niall says, trying to keep up, trying not to completely zone out with Zayn’s hand so tenderly on his face and, god, it’s been a while. “I just, I wanted to give the fans something.”
“Mmm,” Zayn murmurs, deep in his chest. “You wanted them to see how they make you feel?”
“Yeah,” Niall breathes out, and he barely even knows what Zayn said. He’s moved his hand from his cheek to the back of his neck where he scratches, right at the nape where sweat’s still drying and his rings press cool metal into him. He bends his neck down, lolls his head forward and does his level best not to purr.
“Niall,” Zayn says. “Open your eyes.”
And Niall didn’t even know he had closed them but when he blinks up he sees that he is, unexpectedly, much closer to Zayn. Close enough to count his eyelashes, if he wanted.
“Yeah?” His voice sounds wispy to his own ears, like he’s floating.
Zayn stares straight at him and tightens his fingers, just like he did earlier on stage. When he speaks, the words rumble out of him from the deepest part in his throat. “And I…how do I make you feel?”
Niall’s entire body jolts and, faster than he’s ever done this, more than he’s ever wanted to do this, he surges forward and presses his mouth to Zayn’s.
Zayn opens to him immediately and whines right into it. Niall maybe wants to cry. Where his own lips are chapped, Zayn’s are soft, plush, and Niall skates his mouth over them as fast as he can. It’s not slow or deliberate like their voices, like their conversation, but it’s messy. Zayn’s mouth is delicious, of course it is, Niall thinks, half furious, he’s perfect. Zayn’s entire mouth is open, so Niall slides right into it. He licks past his teeth and brings his hand up to claw at his hair, to run his hand through the sweat and the gel that’s caked spikes into it. Niall’s whole body is vibrating, and he thinks Zayn must be able to feel it, has to feel it, where he’s rubbing his hands up and down his sides, pressing his palms in like he’s never touched Niall before, like he’s brand new. And Niall can’t do anything with finesse apparently, keeps opening his mouth and twisting his head, desperate to give and get as much as he can. He doesn’t care. He can’t care, not when Zayn is keeping his head still for him, so sweetly, and gripping his waist like he’ll float away if he doesn’t, keeping his mouth open and groaning every time their tongues catch. The sounds they’re making are amazing, Niall thinks, he could easily jack off for the next hundred years off that high noise Zayn keeps making, alone. And the whole time they’re kissing, the entire time Zayn pulls at his lips with his teeth and tugs at them, licking the burn away, there’s a song in Niall’s head going You were turned on, you were turned on, you were turned on. He can’t believe it, doesn’t want to open his eyes to it unless it disappears, like a fever dream, so he moans into Zayn’s mouth and sucks his tongue like he’ll die without it.
“Oh god,” he says, pulling apart to gulp in air, and Zayn’s eyes are blown, mouth spit shiny, so Niall lurches forward again, his whole body feeling off kilter.
And Zayn welcomes him right back, bringing his hand to the back of his head and holding him there, so close that their noses bump and their chins knock into each other with the force of it. Niall’s never been more grateful for a wall in his entire life. Keeping his tongue twisted with Zayn’s, he presses his whole body into him. Zayn groans, loud and long, and abruptly snatches his head away. With both hands, he grabs Niall’s ass and grinds into him, right at the hips where their cocks can touch, and Niall has to brace a hand to the wall and sink his teeth into Zayn’s shoulder so he doesn’t shout. Quick as anything, Zayn grinds up again, pushing Niall’s hips into his, and this time he lets himself feel it, fully, and lets himself shout.
“Fuck fuck fuck,” he says, and he’s glad Zayn at least knew he was loud, glad he doesn’t expect him to curb it. His whole body feels like one big nerve ending, like he can’t do anything in halves anymore but has to do all of it, more of it, the loudest he can be.
“Yeah?” Zayn asks, panting and digging his fingers into his ass.
Delirious, Niall laughs “Yeah, you dick.” He rolls his hips and pulls back, just to see Zayn’s face. “Yeah.” He kisses him again, sweeter this time, and Zayn smiles into it, bites at his bottom lip when Niall tries to pull back.
Zayn kisses around his face, little pecks that make him laugh, and sucks at his jaw. “Show me,” he says, voice raspy.
Niall’s running a hand under Zayn’s shirt, down the planes of his chest and his stomach, darting his fingers through the dips of his abs. “Show you what,” he breathes out, turning his head so Zayn can get a better angle.
“Show me what you do to yourself. Show me how you get off.” And Zayn smirks as he says it but his eyes are serious.
Niall’s entire bloodstream might have been replaced with electricity. He leans back so he can look at his face. “Show—”
Lightning quick, Zayn puts his hand on his dick through his jeans and squeezes. Niall makes a sound like he was strangled.
“I said, show me.”
Smooth, like butter, Zayn slides his thigh right between Niall’s bent legs and nudges his knee up until Niall has no choice but to straddle him. Grabbing his ass, he keeps him there. He noses in the sweat dripping down his cheek, chases it with his tongue, and finds his ear, biting it hard. Niall doesn’t even know which way is up.
“Show me,” Zayn whispers again and it’s so guttural, so dangerous, that Niall’s moan falls out of him unexpectedly, even as he rolls his hips to slide on his thigh.
If there’s been a time when Niall was more turned on than this, he can’t remember it.
Absurdly, he thinks back to Rebecca and the sports shed, how eager she was to get him off but not even coming close. But Zayn…Zayn is right here, Zayn is offering his leg so he can—fuck, so he can hump it, Zayn is offering himself so Niall can use him. So he can do it himself, for himself.
“Oh christ,” Niall says, bowled over. He attacks Zayn’s mouth again, can’t help but kiss him, and he grinds down on his thigh like he was made to do it. Zayn is so good, keeps his thigh still, keeps it steady, so he can get a rhythm. And Niall tries to keep their mouths locked, he really does, but he can’t breathe. Yanking his mouth away, he throws his head back and, loudly, groans like he’s dying. It feels so fucking good.
“This feels…so fucking good,” he says, rolling his hips up and bringing his head back down to look at Zayn. And Zayn looks awestruck, looks exactly like he did that night at the hotel. His fingers are clawing into Niall’s ass, so Niall rolls his hips back into them, feels the spaces where they’re digging a little too hard, the spaces that’ll leave marks later. His dick seeps wetness into his pants. Deliberate, he slows his hips down, rolling shallowly, until he catches his breath. He places his hands on the wall, on either side of Zayn’s head.
He feels bold, wild, powered by the blown look on Zayn’s face, knowing that he put it there. “This what you meant,” he asks, keeping his voice and his eyes low.
Zayn’s entire jaw falls slack when Niall crosses his arms at the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it to the side. “You’re getting there,” he rasps, eyes roaming across Niall’s exposed chest, watching where the pink crawls all the way up his throat.
Grinning, Niall feels insanely proud of himself. Bracing himself on the wall, he leans down quick to get his tongue back in Zayn’s mouth, to breathe into him at the same time he rolls on his thigh, getting the pressure right on his cock. He pulls back but keeps his hips rolling and, making sure he’s got Zayn’s full attention, takes a hand off the wall and raises two fingers, pressing them on his lips.
He pauses for a second, breathing hard, and feels pure arousal lick through his body as he watches Zayn watching him suck his fingers into his mouth.
Zayn’s hips thrust so hard off the wall Niall nearly falls off.
Like it’s a dick instead, Niall sucks and moans and bobs his head around his fingers. Zayn looks like he could eat him alive, like he wants more than that, and Niall’s cock spurts in his pants like that’s exactly what it wants, too.
When he’s satisfied, he pops the fingers out. He goes for a nipple, already anticipating what it’s going to feel like, but Zayn snatches his hand and, before he can even blink, wraps his lips around the same wet fingers.
“Ohh,” Niall says on an exhale, and his heart flips in his chest.
Zayn is…he’s magic, is what he is. He sucks Niall’s fingers like he could do it for the rest of his life. He’s insistent about it, scraping his teeth on them and sucking them all the way down to the hand and, slow, licks back up them so he can suck at the tip. He keeps making these desperate little sounds and, god, Niall looks down and he can see his dick, can see that it’s hard where it’s peeking up from the waistband of his sweats. And he’s…he’s not…
“You’re not wearing any pants,” he says, dumbfounded.
Zayn’s eyes fall open and, slowly, he pulls his fingers out. “No,” he says, shaking his head and his voice is absolutely wrecked. “But this ain’t about me.” Deliberately, he drops Niall’s hand and leans back against the wall, like he’s waiting.
Before he can moan at that, before he can seem even more appallingly desperate than he already is, Niall takes his finger to his nipple and pinches, pretends that he’s moaning at that instead. He braces himself on the wall with his other hand before he tips over.
“That’s it,” Zayn says, soft like a prayer. His hands have crept back to Niall’s hips where they hold him still, where they hold him in place so he can keep grinding. And Niall can’t stop grinding, can’t stop riding his thigh, can feel how slick he is in his pants. The fingers on his nipple are good, like they always are, and he pinches them cruelly, wants Zayn to see how much he can take, but knowing that Zayn’s mouth is right there…
“Can you,” he starts, ready to beg if he has to, “your mouth, can you—”
“No,” Zayn says, shaking his head slowly. “I can’t.”
Niall’s eyes fly to him, hand stuttering. “But, please, you—”
“No,” Zayn says, more insistent this time, pulling Niall forward so he can roll his cock into him. “Ride me.”
Niall nearly blacks out.
It should be difficult, he thinks, getting off through his denims and Zayn’s sweats, but the way he’s seeping through his jeans says otherwise. It’s not difficult at all. It’s easy like it is when he’s alone. It’s easy like, like Zayn isn’t even there. As soon as he thinks it, Niall is struck again with the fact that this is what Zayn wants. He wants to see Niall’s pleasure, watch what it does to him; watch him like he watched him at the hotel. Whining, Niall pinches his nipple one last time before he hits both his hands back to the wall and punches his hips back, suddenly eager to prove to Zayn that this is what he wants, too.
“God, yeah,” Zayn says, “just like that.” He licks his lips, fast, and Niall rides his thigh desperately, feeling his orgasm simmer around in his belly.
“Keep—keep talking,” he manages to choke out, because this is new, hearing someone else tell him what to do, how he looks, how he’s making them feel.
“Baby,” Zayn says, sounding awed, and he takes a hand and pushes the hair off Niall’s forehead. The metal of his rings is cooling. “You’re doing so good, look at you. This how you make yourself feel good?”
Pressing his hot forehead into Zayn’s hand, he nods, not trusting himself to speak. He feels like words aren’t adequate, could never be adequate. And his dick is so wet now, he slides in it each time he pushes his hips up. Under any other circumstances he’d hate the feeling but now he revels in it, knows that Zayn can have it leaking out of him in seconds.
“You left the door open, you know, anyone could see,” he continues, cupping Niall’s chin and turning his head to the door so he can see where it’s— where it’s—god it’s wide open, anyone could walk in at any second and see them, has probably heard them, shit, and Niall feels panic clawing at his throat. Zayn sees it and turns his head back around, to face him. “But you’d like that, wouldn’t you,” he says, and it’s a statement, confident like he knows; Niall shivers and tries not to turn beet red.
Zayn leans forward to kiss the side of his neck, to slide his lips down to his collarbone and up his throat where he teethes at the thin skin at his jaw. “Anyone could see you riding my thigh, couldn’t they…could hear you gagging for it, could see it on your face the second they walked in…could see how much you love it.”
And Zayn’s talking quietly but he might as well be blaring in a megaphone for all it feels like he’s turning Niall’s whole world upside down. His arousal is boiling now, well and truly threatening to explode out of every pore on his body, and he can hear himself whimpering but he doesn’t know how to stop.
Zayn bumps his thigh up so Niall jostles on it, so the pressure changes that much more on his cock and his toes curl. Kissing under the spot just under his ear, where it’s most sensitive, Zayn says “This how you want to ride me later, hmm? Me on my back and you on top of me, not being able to touch you? Just taking what you need?”
Boneless, Niall drops his head to Zayn’s shoulder and tries not to cry, not to come, not to laugh insanely, not to fall to pieces.
“You would, wouldn’t you,” Zayn goes on, grinding up and matching Niall’s rhythm as much as he can, dropping both his hands back to his hipbones. “You’d just take what you needed, wouldn’t you…you’d make me come so hard, god, Niall.”
And he stops because Niall’s clawing at the back of his head, pulling his hair like a lifeline, and his hips are grinding so deep now, shallow thrusts that mean he’s close.
“Zayn,” he chokes out, and it sounds like he swallowed marbles, digging his nails in his scalp and in the wall. “I’m—”
“You gonna come,” Zayn asks, taking a hand back and, fast, slapping Niall’s ass so he cries out, “you gonna come in your pants, for me? Gonna let me see it?”
Niall can’t breathe. Shaking and feeling like his whole body is coming apart, just floating right out of his skin, he takes one of Zayn’s hands and puts it at the back of his head. Immediately, Zayn yanks his head back so he can see his face. With his other hand, he scrabbles at Niall’s fly, ripping the zip down and thrusting his hand in, sliding it hastily through the wetness that’s there. And there’s so much, he can barely keep his fist tight, but it doesn’t stop Niall from whining and curling into it, thrusting harder.
“Let me see you,” Zayn whispers, mouthing up the column of his throat, thumbing at the head of his slit. “Baby, please…let me see you.”
It’s the “please” that does it, earnest like a promise. Niall’s entire back curves into Zayn’s chest, the orgasm hitting him like a tidal wave and punching a shout out of him. His hips pump through it, automatic, and if he wasn’t sitting on Zayn’s thigh, if his hands weren’t holding him up, he knows he would fall down. Zayn keeps his hand curled and still it keeps going, so much pleasure that Niall can hardly see straight, making him grit his teeth and groan around it. Zayn kisses him through it, rubs at his back, shushes him.
When it stops, Niall just lays there for a long minute, draped over Zayn’s back while he holds him up. He had pressed his face into the hollow at his neck and he inhales, deep, noting the same aftershave from before. 10:22pm on Wednesday, he thinks to himself, and can’t help but grin, feeling absolutely sated.
His eyes are closed and he works to get his breaths even, back to something normal and not erratic. Zayn’s drawing circles in his back, patient in a way that he always is, with everything, and Niall feels his heart swell.
Eventually, he leans back and looks at Zayn’s face. That’s when he realizes that Zayn’s still got his hand in his pants. He’s about to say something about it, going to force himself to be casual about it, but Zayn is quicker. He tightens his grip one last time, smirks at Niall’s yelp, and slides his hand out.
Without so much as breaking eye contact, he takes two fingers and, parting his mouth, sucks them in.
Hilariously, Niall’s dick jerks and he chokes on a laugh, delirious.
Zayn doesn’t stop sucking, not until his hand is completely clean. He’s messy with it, doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he loves it, palming his own dick through his sweats.
Niall can’t take it. Snatching Zayn’s fingers out of his mouth by the wrist and ignoring his amused expression, he surges in and kisses him. He licks into his mouth, desperate for the taste of himself, can’t believe that Zayn was too, and kisses him as meaningfully as he can, presses breath into him and thinks Thank you thank you thank you.
After a while Zayn slows it down and, gently, pushes Niall back so he can get off the wall. And Niall hardly knows where he is anymore, can feel how puffy his mouth is and can only imagined how fucked out he looks.
“You should probably hop in the shower, yeah?” Zayn asks him, eyeing him steadily.
Niall looks down at his pants and grimaces, nothing hot about the way they’re sticking to him now.
“Ugh,” he responds, “yeah I guess I should.” But are they not—are they just not going to talk about it?
He looks back up and Zayn’s smiling at him, as fond as he’s ever looked. He makes it a point to adjust his own dick, tucking it down into his pants.
Niall sees it and feels rude as hell.
“Oh, I—” he starts, apologetic, and pointing, moves forward like he wants to help. Before he can finish, Zayn walks into him, meeting him halfway, and cups his face, kissing him again. It’s sweet, and gentle, so Niall sighs into it and closes his eyes, lets himself be kissed. Zayn’s mouth is warm and welcoming, his thumb back to rubbing at his cheek.
Breaking apart, Zayn smiles down at him. “I don’t want you to,” he says, and before Niall can hide it he feels his face fall. Zayn laughs, shaking his head. “No, not…just not right now. I want to save it,” he says, skating his knuckles across Niall’s jaw.
So that means—“Later,” Niall says, drawing it out like he’s unsure.
“Yeah,” Zayn says, and he still hasn’t stopped smiling at him. “This wasn’t about me, remember?”
Slowly, Niall feels the corners of his mouth creep up and then they’re both smiling. Like a bunch of loons.
“But later,” he says again to Zayn’s back where he's already headed to the door. It’s truly amazing how he’s totally back in control of himself while Niall’s still wobbling on his feet with his fly down.
“Yeah,” Zayn responds, chuckling. He snatches a hoodie off the floor, pulling his arms through it as he grabs the door handle. He’s halfway out before he turns and, leaning against the door frame, smirks. “Leave your door unlocked,” he says, winking, and then he’s gone.
Niall can hear when he gets back to the boys, can hear Louis' "There he is!," can hear someone yelling to pass Zayn the bottle, imagines what Zayn must look like, what he must smell like, how he must be trying to ignore the hard-on in his pants.
Smiling to himself and thinking, like a chant, later, later later, Niall heads to the shower.
And if his legs are a little shaky as he walks there, he figures no one has to know.