I’m going to fuck you so hard when we get home,” Zayn whispers in Harry’s ear, voice deep and rough around the edges and going straight to Harry’s dick. “You won’t be able to walk any more, and everyone will know what a slut you are for my cock.” Harry swallows visibly, shifting in his chair. His palms are beginning to sweat and it makes it difficult for him to keep a good grip on the pen in his hand. Another girl walks up, efficiently cutting off whatever Zayn was going to say next, and Harry signs the picture or whatever that’s put in front of him. She walks away, going on to talk to the other boys, different girls filtering to take her place. Paul calls for a five minute break, and Zayn uses this time to resume his whispering in Harry’s ear, filthy things that make Harry’s blood relocate south. “Mmmm, I can just picture you on your knees, my cock between your lips. You’re a little cockslut, aren’t you? You practically gag for it.” Zayn’s breath tickles the shell of Harry’s ear, warming his neck and sending shivers of pleasure down his spine. Zayn doesn’t let up, whispering his dirty desires into Harry’s ear relentlessly and causing Harry an almost painful arousal. “Jesus Christ Zayn, there are other people around.” Harry closes his eyes, trying to think of every repulsive thing he can to will his uncomfortable erection away. “You like this, yeah? Get off on the thrill of people overhearing, of catching you. Little exhibitionist.” Harry’s eyes flutter now, eyelashes brushing his cheeks. He suppresses a moan, lips parted and wet from his tongue. “God Zayn. You just…fuck you.” Harry can’t even form a coherent sentence now, his thoughts consumed with the pornographic images Zayn has planted in his mind. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Their break is over now, all five boys sitting in their respective seats again. Zayn mumbles, “filthy whore,” before sliding his seat back where it belongs. The rest of the day seems to go by so slow, the only thought on Harry’s mind the things he was going to do to Zayn - it was like a constant stream of the boys name in his brain, like a chant almost. The signing finishes and Harry rushes from his seat, his feet taking him to the bathroom without any instruction from his mind. His steps are loud in the quiet hallway - it smells vaguely of cigarettes and that only works to turn Harry on more, reminds him of the countless times he’s had sex with Zayn after the boy’s smoked a few. He reaches the bathroom soon enough, pushing the heavy door open with a relieved sigh. The cool air coming from the vents high on the wall work to cool him down a bit, the tenseness leaving his shoulders with a resigned whoosh of air from Harry’s mouth. Harry’s alone for not even two minutes before Zayn’s joining him, pressing his chest flush against Harry’s back. Zayn slowly begins to sway his hips, first a side to side motion with wet kisses planted at the nape of Harry’s neck as he grinds his crotch into Harry’s ass. He moves his hips faster, grinding down even more to create friction. Harry palms himself through his jeans, cupping and rolling his hand slowly. Zayn swats his hand away though, replacing Harry’s larger hand with his own smaller one. He moves his hand to the rhythm in which he’s working his hips. Deciding it’s not enough, Zayn removes his hand, ignoring Harry’s pathetic mewl of protest, and grips his hips. Zayn loves Harry’s hips, even if he doesn’t exactly have much of them. He takes this moment to push up the hem of Harry’s shirt and rub the revealed skin there that’s pulled so taut over Harry’s hip bones. Digging his fingernails in and hopefully leaving bruises, Zayn forcefully whirls Harry around to face him, pushing the younger boy against the sink for support. He resumes their grinding, now made more pleasurable by the fact that their crotches can now touch. Harry pushes down Zayn’s shirt collar, past his collarbones, and sinks his teeth into the tan and unmarked skin that lays there. He sucks just enough to leave a purple bruise, kitten licking over it. That combined with their hips knocking together is enough to send Zayn over the edge, spilling in his boxers and wetting his dark denim jeans. Harry follows soon with one last thrust that connects his and Zayn’s lower bodies. They stand panting against each other, Zayn’s forehead resting on Harry’s shoulder and Harry’s ear on top of Zayn’s head. Harry cards his fingers through Zayn’s hair, effectively messing up the quiff he had worked so hard on that very morning. “Suppose we’ll just have to wear our stains proud,” Zayn murmurs, not all that bothered by the fact. “Suppose so.”
