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As anyone who saw the breakfast show adverts can attest, Nick owns a very big bed. This is not, contrary to what Henry might say, for the sake of the (vastly overstated) parade of Diesel models rolling through his sheets.
In fact, it’s not for sexual escapades at all. Nick is just very tall and lanky, and likes to have endless space in which to put his limbs. So. He owns a giant bed.
However, now that he might possibly maybe be contemplating getting all five members of the world’s most famous boyband between his sheets, it looks like the big bed will come in handy.
He tilts his head, considering. Every time he pictures it it’s a horrible mixture of confusing and arousing. Obviously he finds all five boys attractive, in different ways. But…six people is also quite a lot. A lot of elbows and knees and potential injuries.
He wishes he had someone he could ask for advice, but not even Pixie or Alexa has ever made it past a threesome, and besides…he’s pretty sure he’d be killed by Simon Cowell himself if he started spreading this kind of thing around. So instead he just tilts his head to the other side, as if that will shed some light on how a sixsome (which is not even a word, his brain treacherously reminds him. Probably for a reason) will work, logistically-speaking.
It’s not just the size of the bed, although he would rather avoid people getting unceremoniously dumped on their asses mid-whatever. But he has to consider all the different personalities, and how they work together. Harry, who’s sweet and cuddly and wants love and attention. And Louis, who wants attention too, but will probably bite if he doesn’t get it. Liam, who needs to be reassured that there’s nothing dirty about (the inherently dirty) things they’re doing. Niall, who needs to not feel left out, and Zayn, who gets surprisingly possessive over all his boys.
It’s…complicated, is what Nick is saying. And that’s before he even starts thinking about who does what to whom.
Which he isn’t totally clear on. He knows they all do…things. To each other. And he got a little taste of that the other night. There were hands, and mouths, and fingers, and enough going on that they made use of the lube Nick had brought along.
Which was…something. He feels his face heat. Something he’s probably going to be thinking about when he’s alone in the shower for the rest of his life. Maybe longer. The afterlife will probably just be that memory, on loop. For eternity.
Assuming he’s been a good boy.
And given that five very, very, ridiculously good-looking boys are coming over to his flat this evening, Nick assumes he’s done something right in his life.
Nick gives up on his consideration of the bed and tracks back out into his lounge. His fridge is stocked, full of wine (for him and Harry), beer (Niall), and hard liquor (for Louis, obviously. The lush). He’s got snacks (again, Niall), and condoms and lube, and flavoured lube, in case any of them are into that sort of thing. (Nick empathically is not, but some of them are still teenagers, which is an age when he remembers stuff like cherry lube seeming exciting. God he was such an idiot).
They’re going to be here momentarily, the whole lot of them, travelling in one big pack as they always seem to. Nick isn’t really sure why they own separate flats and houses. Harry’s house is practically around the corner, but he’s never there unless all the boys are.
Nick ducks into the bathroom to check his hair, fluffing his quiff uselessly like it will make the whole situation less strange. He looks…like he always does, really. Pretty good, all things considered. But he’s not an internationally famous boybander for a reason, even beyond the fact that he can’t sing worth anything.
These boys...they’re all quite handsome, Nick admits with a sigh. Harry, of course, is ridiculous. With his hair and his eyes and his lips. Christ, his lips. But all of them are beautiful. Carefully selected for their looks and their bodies and their voices. And yet, somehow they’re all good lads, too. It’s infuriating, actually.
The buzzer rings before he has a chance to fully psych himself out (more, anyway).
Nick lets them in with the press of a button and steels himself by the door.
“Grimshaw,” Louis says, all bright sarcastic grin, leading the pack.
“Tomlinson,” Nick returns. It’s banter he’s used to, banter he can deal with, until Louis pushes up on his toes to press a kiss to the corner of Nick’s mouth.
That is still new enough that it throws off Nick’s game, especially when Harry fucking Styles grins at him like he’s just done something phenomenal, rather than just kissing Harry’s best friend. Boyfriend. Bandmate. Whatever they are.
“Nicholas,” Harry leans into his space, a large hand squeezing his hip and those absolutely ridiculous lips grazing his own.
“Um, yes. Hello,” Nick agrees, wondering if it would be considered rude to just drag Harry in and reacquaint himself with those lips a little more firmly.
Probably, since there are still three boys waiting to file into his flat, and oh god, if Henry could see him now, Nick thinks with an incredulous shake of his head.
Diesel catalogue casting call indeed, he thinks, eyes skating over Zayn’s black leather jacket, Liam’s skinny jeans, and the way Niall’s weather-inappropriate tank top is sliding over one pale shoulder.
“You’re staring, Grimshaw,” Louis points out.
“I’m wondering what the likelihood is that I’m actually in a coma,” Nick muses, shutting the door behind the last of them. Five sets of eyes blink back at him.
“I can’t work out if that’s a compliment or not,” Liam says with a puzzled frown.
“It was,” Nick promises. “Also, I’m normally cooler than this,” he feels compelled to point out. The incredulous looks he gets in return don’t make him feel much better. “What? I am!”
“Of course you are,” Harry soothes, squeezing his waist.
“If Harry thinks so, then we know it’s not true,” Niall laughs, his gaze skating over Nick’s flat. “Got anything to eat, Grimshaw?”
“Thirty whole seconds,” Zayn says with an approving glance at his—likely very expensive—watch. “You’re improving.”
“Shut it,” Niall’s voice floats back from the kitchen where, from the sound of it, he’s helping himself to whatever’s in Nick’s fridge.
“Just make yourself at home, then,” Nick calls back with a roll of his eyes.
“Ta!” Niall appears in the doorway with a bag of crisps and a beer, grinning widely around his braces. It’s oddly charming.
“Can I get the rest of you lads anything?” Nick asks, ever the gracious host.
“I’ll get drinks,” Louis announces firmly, giving Nick a little push towards the sofa. “Go snog Harry or summat.”
Harry throws himself down on the cushions and opens his arms, giving Nick a wide, cheeky grin.
Nick’s really not about to argue with that suggestion. So even though it feels strange, with all the other boys in his house, milling around and, like, watching him, he pads over to the couch and settles against Harry’s side.
“Hello.”
“Fancy meeting you here,” Harry laughs.
Nick rolls his eyes, but Harry’s idiocy really doesn’t detract from how red his lips are. So.
Harry meets him halfway when he leans in, his mouth quirked into a smile against Nick’s own. It’s adorable, but not really the snog he was promised (if Louis could promise snogs off of Harry, which Nick isn’t really sure about), so he cups Harry’s jaw to tilt him into a better angle, forcing his lips to go slack against Nick’s.
Nick works his way inside, licking teasingly at the back of Harry’s teeth until the boy groans, his jaw dropping open invitingly.
“Hot,” Zayn’s voice comments from far too close, as Nick feels the sofa cushion sink under his weight. He pulls back because it’s weird making out with Harry now that there’s someone else on the couch with them. Not that Nick hasn’t made out in front of other people before, but he was always drunk.
“Drink?” he asks hopefully.
“Aw, Harry’s not that bad a kisser,” Zayn laughs, earning him an indignant “Hey!” from Harry and a swat from across Nick’s body. Nick burrows back into the cushions as the boys slap at each other, far too obviously children, given what Nick’s planning on doing with them.
“Now, now,” Louis chides, emerging from the kitchen with a drink in each hand and the bottle tucked precariously under one arm.
Nick has a sudden moment of prescience: everything in his flat is going to get broken.
He accepts one of the glasses gratefully, swigging back the wine in a great gulp as Harry and Zayn more or less subside next to him. Louis juggles the bottle down to the coffee table, along with the second glass and then grins. “Right. Trousers off?”
Nick chokes on his wine. “Wha?”
Louis’ already thumbing open the button of his trousers. He arches an eyebrow. “Nicholas. You do know you invited us round here for sex, right?” He tugs the button open and plants his hands on his hips, looking for all the world like a pornographic Peter Pan.
Nick gulps helplessly, turning to look for Liam. Liam is a sensible person, who probably doesn’t take his trousers off in people’s lounges mere minutes after arriving.
Only, Liam is too busy snogging Niall in the doorway to Nick’s kitchen to offer any sense to the situation.
Nick turns to Harry instead, which is clearly a mistake, because Harry has somehow already wriggled out of his trousers and is now sat next to Nick in just a pair of tight black pants and a shit-eating grin.
“Guh?” Nick offers. Its not that he hasn’t seen Harry without trousers on before—everyone in the nation has, he’s pretty sure. That’s how much of an exhibitionist the boy is.
In fact, he’s seen all of the boys without trousers on. But that’s not the point. The point is that this is all moving much faster than Nick had anticipated.
He hasn’t even had the opportunity to get good and drunk yet. And it looks like he won’t, because Harry’s laying a suggestive hand on Nick’s inner thigh, and batting those ridiculous lashes at him, while purring, “Bedroom?”
Nick deserves a goddamn award for not choking on his own tongue.
“Excellent idea, Harry,” Louis says, stepping out of his trousers and leaving them pooled on Nick’s floor. His boxer briefs are as tight as Harry’s, hugging the thick curve of his thighs.
“Come on, mate,” Zayn says, slapping him on the back as he stands, shrugging out of his jacket. “No one’s cock is going to suck itself.”
“I wish,” Harry sighs, trailing after him.
Nick stares longingly at his glass of wine. “I’ll just bring the bottle, shall I?” he manages.
He takes a drink directly from it as he stumbles after the five semi-dressed superstars who are crowding into his bedroom.
“This bed is massive!” Louis crows, bouncing onto it on his hands and knees. “You sure you haven’t done this before?”
“Oh yeah, I have Take That in here every other weekend.”
“Always knew you liked Robbie,” Harry says with narrowed eyes.
Nick does think Robbie Williams is quite fit, but the number of times he’s watched the Rock DJ video is neither here nor there.
“Ah, but everyone says you’re the new Robbie Williams,” Louis says with a laugh, throwing himself onto his back and starfishing in the middle of the bed. “And everyone knows Nick only likes them young and pretty.”
“Superficial bastard,” Zayn laughs, knocking his shoulder against Nick’s.
Nick thinks this is all spectacularly unfair, except that all the boys are removing clothing at this point, so it doesn’t seem like he should complain. He sees flashes of Niall’s slender body and Liam’s perfect abs and Zayn’s skinny legs.
“Care to join us?” Harry asks, curling up next to Louis in only his pants. Nick’s eyes sweep over his pale skin and his dark tattoos and he gives a shaky nod. He takes another slug from the bottle before he even thinks about taking off his shirt. They’ve already all seen him without most of his kit on, but a little liquid courage never hurt anyone.
He’s aware that he’s not a sleek, chiselled specimen of perfection, like the five of them. He’s a bit flabby, because he really likes pastries and hates the gym, and he’s a bit hairy, because he’s a grown man, thank you very much, unlike these smooth-chested boys.
But they don’t look like they’re complaining, five sets of eyes watching him with quiet hunger as he shucks his shirt.
“Trousers too,” Louis commands imperiously. One of his hands is resting low on Harry’s perfect stomach, stroking over the “might as well” emblazoned there.
Might as well.
Nick feels like he’s putting on the least provocative striptease in the world, fumbling the button and unable to meet any of their eyes. His jeans are tight, and while he thinks they look great on, it’s basically impossible to look good while taking them off. One day he should ask Harry for tips.
He peels them down his thighs slowly, gets caught around the knees, wobbles on his feet and has to put a hand onto his wardrobe to stop himself falling over. And that’s the easy part.
They’re basically painted onto his calves, and it takes a strange sort of hopping dance to get them off, balanced on one foot and tugging with all his might. Nick knows his face must be on fire, far too aware of the lads watching him.
“Need some help?” Louis finally snickers, and Nick sighs, contemplating going and lying in traffic. But it’s cold out, so he just glares with all his might and wrestles the trousers the rest of the way off.
“I’m fine.” He ignores the way Liam and Niall are trying not to giggle right along with Louis. Terrible, the lot of them.
Well, maybe not Harry, who isn’t laughing at all. He’s just watching Nick with those big green eyes and biting at his stupid pink lips. When he pats the bed beside him, Nick most certainly does not trip over his own feet to get to his side.
He clambers onto the bed, kneeling next to Harry, unable to tear his eyes away from all his bare skin.
Louis laughs. “Everyone in!”
Liam, Zayn, and Niall finish shucking their clothes and dive for the bed.
Niall launches himself onto the bed, landing on Louis with an “oof!” Liam follows at a more sedate pace, as Zayn crawls up from the foot of the bed. It should be unbelievably sexy, watching him slink his way across the duvet, all catlike grace and dark eyes. But there are already quite a few people in the bed, and so instead of feline grace, Zayn mostly looks confused as to where his hands and knees can manage to fit.
Suddenly Nick doesn’t know where to put his limbs. He gets a knee to his thigh from Zayn and an elbow to the belly as Harry rolls away from the tussling Louis and Niall. Liam slips and crashes into the blond, and Nick has to cover his face to protect himself from his flailing limbs.
“I thought you lot would be better at this,” he mutters, his complaint lost into the pillow his face is shoved into. Zayn is laying half on top of him and half on Harry, who’s still mostly crushed into Nick’s side. It should be a lot sexier than it is.
When he finally surfaces from the bedding, Louis and Niall’s slapfight has subsided into kissing, and everyone is mostly on the bed.
“You alright?” Harry whispers, blinking up at him. His curls are tousled, hanging in his face, and Nick softens and leans in, pressing his lips to Harry’s redden mouth.
“Mmm,” Zayn hums, rolling off of them to curl up at Nick’s back, his mouth on Nick’s neck. Nick shivers under his touch, stretching his neck and winding his arms tighter around Harry. It’s wet and perfect and Harry presses closer, wriggling into Nick’s arms until Nick rolls, drawing him on top of him.
“Hey!” Zayn squeals, and then there’s a loud thump.
“Huh?” Nick and Harry peer over the side of the bed. Zayn is lying on the floor, looking very disgruntled indeed.
Louis pops up from Harry’s side like a snickering meerkat. “That happens more than you might think.”
“Only normally it’s me,” Liam says ruefully.
“That’s because you’re not willing to push back!” Niall laughs, shoving at him.
“I just don’t know why sex should be so violent!” Liam laments, but when Louis joins Niall in slapping at him, he fights back with a squeal. Niall kicks out and Harry yelps, diving into the fray and pushing Nick dangerously close to the edge. He takes one look at the pile of boys in the middle of the bed—he can’t even tell if they’re fighting or kissing at this point—and eases himself over the side to the floor.
“Seems safer down here,” he whispers to Zayn, who hasn’t moved.
“Good call, mate.” Zayn opens his arms invitingly.
Nick thinks longingly of Harry, still up on the bed, but Zayn is beautiful, slender and dark, and more importantly, not currently hitting or biting anyone. He shrugs and crawls over the other boy. “Is it always like that?”
“Normally much worse,” Zayn smirks. “They’re on their best behaviour because you’re here.”
Nick hears something crash behind him—most likely the lamp that he actually quite liked, thank you—and shakes his head. “What have I gotten myself into?”
“We can buy you a new lamp,” Zayn promises, wrapping his arms around Nick and tugging him down to settle between his spread legs. “And we make up for it in other ways.”
“I bet you do,” Nick murmurs, leaning down and capturing Zayn’s lips. They’re nearly as full and pink as Harry’s. There’s no confusing them once they’re kissing, though. Zayn tastes slightly of smoke, and his stubble scratches at Nick’s chin. He kisses slow and cool, all sensual slide of his tongue.
“Hey!” Harry protests from somewhere behind them. “What’re you two doing?”
And then Nick has a popstar falling onto his back, smushing him into the popstar lying beneath him.
“Oh! Are we doing this on the floor?” Louis asks enthusiastically, and Nick hears the scramble of limbs across his sheets.
He’s going to have bruises in the morning, he muses. But as Harry’s lips find his ear, and Zayn’s mouth presses against his own, Nick isn’t sure he can bring himself to care.
It turns out getting six people into bed is just as ridiculous and destructive to personal property as Nick imagined it would be. Maybe more, he thinks, as something else in his bedroom goes crash.
But Louis starts kissing Harry, and Nick can see Liam and Niall tangled up together out of the corner of his eye. Zayn is sucking on his tongue and Harry’s hands are on his waist, and it all seems pretty perfect, actually.