It’s the same every week, Harry face down on the bed, gagged with Zayn’s tie and his wrists bound behind his back with his belt. They don’t even undress, Zayn just removing enough to get inside him, and it should make Harry feel worthless, like he’s nothing, but it makes him feel like everything, like Zayn’s an alcoholic and he’s a bottle of bourbon that he can’t stop drinking. Even the next day when every bit of him his sore and Harry keeps touching the corners of his mouth to feel the sting of where Zayn’s tie cut into him, the thought of it makes him so lightheaded that he has to press his face into a pillow in case he says Zayn’s name while he’s with another client. After that, it’s the only thing that will get him off, the thought of Zayn, because no one has ever fucked him like that, with such wild, mindless desperation. He won’t even let Harry look at him, the heel of his palm digging into Harry’s cheek as he holds his head to the mattress and whimpers at him not to. The first time he did it, it made Harry think of the time he walked past his parents’ bedroom and saw his father crying. He was furious when he saw Harry in the doorway, lips parted with concern, and kicked the door shut, and that’s what it feels like when Zayn won’t let him look at him, like Harry’s seeing something he shouldn’t.
He has Zayn then, Harry knows. Even bound and gagged he owns him. He’ll inch up the bed so Zayn has to follow and raise his hips so Zayn holds him down and fucks him into harder, so hard that Harry cries out, tongue straining against the silk tie across his mouth. And there’s something almost feral about it, about how it’s all spit and sweat and swearing, Harry panting the most obscene things. Zayn can’t hear a word of it, just the muffled grunts that the tie allows, but that doesn’t stop Harry telling him not to stop, telling him that he’s the best, that he’s the fucking best. But then Zayn doesn’t say a word, either, choking it all down until he’s hissing through his teeth because he won’t even give Harry that, won’t even allow him the pleasure of hearing how much he wants him, too. But that just intensifies it so when Zayn can’t stop himself saying fuck or please it’s enough to make Harry come, sudden and fierce. Zayn always pulls out of him when he does and the first time, when Harry rolled onto his back and sat up as Zayn pulled off the condom and tugged the tie down, he didn’t need to tell Harry to stick his tongue out and look at him, but he did, eyelashes batting as Zayn came. And he sounded astonished when he did, his whole body shuddering like he didn’t know he could come like that.
He probably never had.
The truth is: Harry’s never come like that, either. He’s been doing this job for three years and he thought he’d done it all. He’s been pissed on and spanked, been blindfolded and fucked by two guys at once, fucked until he’s weeping and weak but still asking for more, and just the weight of Zayn’s hands on his hips or the tip of his nose on the back of his neck is enough to make Harry come so hard that he bucks under him.
It must be chemistry, some magical, maddening balance – or imbalance – between them, the sort of thing that people write books about and sing songs about, that sends them fucking mad. It must be because despite how deeply Zayn fucks him, they barely touch. They don’t kiss, don’t speak, don’t do anything other than react. Zayn gives Harry nothing – absolutely nothing – he doesn’t even say his name, just thrusts into him like he doesn’t know what he’s doing, like he has to, and it makes Harry come like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Sometimes it feels like it will be, his heart beating so hard he’s sure that it’s going to come through his ribs, and it’s been so long since he felt that, since he felt the delicious agony of wanting someone so much that when he comes, he cries, not just because it’s a relief, but because it’s over for another week.
It’s all Harry thinks about now: Mondays at nine. His whole week revolves around those few moments, the dizzying high of seeing Zayn again that’s too quickly followed by the battering low of feeling his hand against his cheek when it’s over. But when Zayn asks him if he’s okay, Harry always says yes because even though he feels so far from okay it’s enough to break each of his bones, he can never find the words to say anything other than yes. So he presses his cheek to Zayn’s palm and savours the sweet second of fondness as Zayn sweeps his thumb over his mouth and it’s nothing – he knows that it’s nothing – so why doesn’t it feel like nothing?
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Keep the Car Running (Zarry AU)
FanfictionBelieve none of what you hear and only half of what you see. That’s what his father always tells him with that smile of his, the one that says, I’ll tell you that much, but the rest will cost you. Harry never knew what he meant, but he gets it now t...
