One…last…loop of the shoe lace and now you could sprint across the lush green lawn and through the front doors of your high school. The swish of your tied up hair felt refreshing against the back of your neck. Knowing the big black and gold bow was secure and displayed in your ponytail ignited a pleasure in your chest and stomach. You felt very pretty and proud, the varsity cheer captain and ribboned in silver and teal to prove it. The charcoal skirt didn’t do much for the cold, however cute it was. But the excitement for practice, moving your muscles and feeling that power, was enough to help heat you up.
The halls are, as usual, hopelessly crowded. Skateboards and instruments and football gear jostled at the knees of students. Bits of conversations washed in and out of your ears, eyes taking it all in. You were a people watcher, an observer. Tristan always liked to tease you about how completely entranced you looked all the time. Just soaking it all up, really. You didn’t mind your boyfriend’s playful jabs. You loved him, after all…you did.
It was minutes before first period and that meant Art for you. Another jolt of happy anticipation coursed through your body. Taking in everything around you was so natural for you because it was your firm belief that beauty was in the details. A flat smile skidding across someone’s jawline in the lemony sunshine of the morning. The way a boy’s converse would contrast the grass, or fingers in t-shirts. Nerves and joy and lies. All in the details. And they were just too precious to lose in the mediocre "How are you today?"
People are so many different things. And you knew that "Okay" was never one of them.
A pair of strong arms wrapped around your middle from behind, something he did all the time. Tristan had the things he liked to do, and do again. And then again.
"Babe," he whispered into your neck, fingers squeezing the skin surrounding your belly button, over the thick material of the uniform. Your hands cupped his and your brain just pushed down that feeling. So you knew the meaning of the word predictable. Congrats, so did a billion other people. Tristan was nipping at the shell of your ear and you decided it was a good time to turn around, still in his arms. Your hands laced at the base of his neck, eyes meeting his. Well, they would if he was looking at you.
"Hey…baby…" You tilted your head and sighed as you watched Tristan gaze around the halls, a relaxed expression sitting on his sharp features.
"Earth to Tris, hello!" The snap of your fingers and a tap to his broad chest was enough to boggle him out of his little stupor. "Oh," he laughed and finally looked at you. It was funny, the hands claiming you fully touched your body. The boy’s eyes wandered…
You chose to laugh this one off.
"Sorry I…I’m just tired."
"Late practice last night?"
And that seems to be it. Tristan gets a slap to the shoulder as a few of his teammates stride past you two, crude comments tumbling into the air around them. Rolling your eyes, you let him go.
And the filthy little word predictable tugs at your skirt when he turns slightly, making to leave and join the boys in jerseys. He’s stopped though, stepping into a blonde boy in a ripped baseball tee.
"Whoa, watch it there," Tristan mutters with a self-assured smirk. And it’s friendly. Except its not. He was the one not watching it. You want to let him know that.
"What? Babe, it’s nothing."
The blonde is glancing between you two, brows furrowing at Tristan. There’s a covered guitar strapped to his back, and thank goodness that didn’t get hurt.
"Well maybe…apologize…" And you hate that your voice comes out weak, soft. You meant what you said, and it shouldn’t feel hard to say that. Your boyfriend just blinks at you and clears his throat, then shakes his head. The scoff stabs at the bubble you just blew into the space between you three. You didn’t know that could hurt. Now you did.
"Whatever, I’m off…" the blonde chuckles and you smile as your eyes meet. An apologetic one, on behalf of the boy rolling his eyes before you. You took a deep breath and watched him start to go. But the blonde isn’t past you both before he purposefully knocks his shoulder into Tristan’s arm. The only allowance he has with the height difference. Your teeth clench and another word comes to mind. Guts.
"What the fuck bro?" Tristan’s defensive whirl is instant, eyes cast down at the smirking blonde. The right side of your mouth tugs up and it feels an awful lot like instinct.
"Sorry, but you should watch it there.” The blonde lifts his fingers from his sides to ice quotation marks in the air. He’s smiling wickedly and Tristan is too wrapped up in this kid to even think about acknowledging you.
"Oi! What’ve we got here?" Liam, the boy from your Chemistry class shouts as he and two other boys walk up to the blonde, who is being crowded up against a locker by Tristan the next second.
"Stop." You bite out firmly, gripping your boyfriend’s arm and pulling him back with much effort. His shoulder knocks into your head, his grunt must be his apology. Taking a deep breath, you look at Liam and the blonde. The boy on Liam’s right is the tall, curly headed brunette that transferred to your school late last year. Harry Styles. His pink cheeks and loud laugh helped to float his name around the campus. You never spoke to him with the exception of in AP History when he baked orange muffins for the whole class. You remembered because he had grinned from ear to ear like the cheshire cat and mumbled "Orange ya glad you took this class?"
The boy leaning into the blonde was Louis Tomlinson, and everyone knew him as the legend that convinced Ms. Mason the word twerk was the new teenage slang that meant the same as work hard. There was a solid month of Geometry in which every period ended with her motivational instruction to “Go out there and twerk, kids.”
The blonde you didn’t know. He was relatively new, but you had seen him gather together some students in the quad for guitar sing alongs and snack swaps. He always had laughter around him.
"We were just leaving, sorry about that," you said sincerely to the blonde as Liam massaged his shoulder in a friendly manner. His lips were pouted and his eyes scanned you and Tristan. Harry was huffing out a breath, annoyed as Louis kicked at his old brown boots.
"Just tell your friend to watch himself."
"Tristan for fucks sake, let’s get to class and calm down."
Liam’s eyes widened at that, stepping closer to Tristan and tilting his head in thought. “I saw the whole thing hot shot, some of us need to watch ourselves more than we think.”
"Fuck off," Tristan barks.
"Hey!" Harry drawls, offense scrawled all over his soft features. His green eyes look considerably more fiery.
"Listen to your girlfriend, ey quarterback?" Louis cocks his head with an impish smile spreading his thin lips.
Tristan looks close to losing it, the veins in his biceps straining with his flexing muscles.
"Babe…please.” You had to beg. Fucking beg your boyfriend to find reason somewhere up there in his testosterone-riddled brain and not punch one of these poor boys. Harry did look exceptionally built, as did Liam. But Tristan was 6’3 and okay, ill-tempered. You hated this. Hated it. Lowering your voice wouldn’t help with the other four right across.
"I’m not fucking joking. Let’s. Go."
Tristan’s nostrils flare as his brows let up from framing his furious eyes. He steps back with the pull of your fingers on his biceps.
"Name’s Niall by the way bro! Nice to finally meet ya!" The blonde shouts across the hall as you walk Tristan to his class. You turn to look, cheek against his arm, nails digging into his forearm.
Niall is waving with a laugh bubbling off his lips as Louis slaps his back in giddy approval. Harry is trying to convince Liam to give him a piggyback ride, the other boy jogging to get away from him. All boys are in tattered skinny jeans and different shades of black and dark blue.
Their varying heights contrast the bleak white walls, moving skyscrapers complimenting the other. As Tristan presses his thumb into your hip, mumbling a goodbye without a kiss, the bitter flavor on your tongue has an aftertaste.
It’s a bit like memories you wish would cast a warmer shadow than what your tongue is truly picking up.
"Hey, y/n." Zayn Malik smiles at you, so bright and warm. He’s doing that really happy smile you’ve learned about, where his tongue presses against the back of his gleaming white teeth. The pink visible in the angles of his sharp canines. It’s so cozy and endearing. Your tense, tepid muscles relax considerably at his greeting.
"Hey Zaynie," you chirp back with a mirroring grin. His blush at the nickname makes you giggle into the sleeve of your uniform. Zayn slides into his seat behind yours as the teacher projects the picture of a butterfly on a lily on the whiteboard. The lights are flipped off, draping you in darkness. The beam of light tunnels across the tops of your heads, everyone setting up their easels.
"So, excited for the big game then?" Zayn whispers, scooting up to get next to you. You glance down at his careful hands as they twist the bolts of the easel into the wood. His thumb dragging from his ear piercing to the course bristles of the paint brush.
"Yeah, I am…I…" but the big ball of air that Zayn helped inflate in your chest starts to lose its oxygen, your mood deflating. He catches on like that, just knowing you. Like…really knowing you…
"Well…today started great, I felt great."
Zayn is nodding, eyes watching the slump of your shoulders, the press of your lips before letting out a sigh.
And Zayn sighs now, and apparently doing so louder than he thought he would. You look up, a little shocked, his eyes displaying the same emotion.
"I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to…" Zayn stumbles over his whispers for a moment before shaking his head and clearing his throat. His hand cut a line through the air between you two as if to start over. Begin again.
"It’s…Zayn, it’s okay." You tell him with a gentle smile.
"I get it." And Zayn lifts his head in more surprise, this time at your words. You feel it in yourself as well. You let out a small laugh at how alike you two reveal to be every time you talk.
"What do you mean?" Zayn asked softly. Both of your right hands lifted the brushes to the canvas at once. You could sense the heat on your cheeks just as the giggle escaped your lips. Syncing up once again.
"Well, I mean that Tristan can be…um…"
"Self-assured at a disproportionate level."
Your eyes widen as you turn to make contact with Zayn’s big amber ones.
His face is calm and shoulders even. Not frowning but not smiling either. The word that pops into your mind spells out as involved.
"Yeah…" Zayn mutters, his voice breathy as his brush strokes a fat stripe of red. He’s shaking his leg up and down quickly as he paints the wing of his butterfly. You’re watching him do it all, the sounds of others’ artwork taking over the stretched canvases waft a serene quiet over you.
"I couldn’t have said it better myself," you whisper more to yourself, eyes trained on the linoleum floor under your white cheer shoes. Zayn’s black combat boots have paint all over the edges, soft pinks splattered the torn apart laces.
"Yeah you could have. I know you could have." Zayn is gripping his thigh tightly, then releasing. His tongue is poking out and over his plump bottom lip, eyes glued to his blossoming work ahead. Suddenly the room isn’t so quiet as his words melt with your thoughts. The paint brush in your hand has been pressed to the canvas without moving this whole time. The thick, goopy green is slicking and starting to drip against the white.
Your hand is shaking slightly as you watch the teardrop of color hit your shoe.
"You’ve always been amazing with words," Zayn speaks when you do not.
"Hell, you’re so smart it’s scary sometimes." He laughs lightly. A bud of confidence and toasty warmth flowers in your stomach. You’re looking back at him. His eyes on the monarch he is creating by mixing his red with yellow.
"I know you’ll find the words for your boyfriend one day and they’ll be…" he takes a breath, paired with a split second to decide which way the wings will sit.
The game was almost over and as usual, the home team was in the far lead. The girls beside you with straight, locked arms. Fists punching into the air and legs working to point the toes. The bleachers were full of rowdy boys and girls in black and gold. Silver and teal. Their cheers in time with the strong claps of your hands. You smiled brightly at the crowd, occasionally turning to the football field to find your boyfriend, directing the players on the next move.
The last few minutes weren’t so exciting since your win was locked in by the second quarter. But you did see Liam, Niall, Harry, Louis and Zayn all step around popcorn bags and soda cans to sit in the middle of the stands, the game nearly over. You knew Zayn was friends with Liam and the others. Remembered him mentioning jokes that Harry had told that were “just awful”, his adorable scrunched up nose and eye crinkles punctuating how he felt.
And here you were in the breezy summer evening air, laughing to yourself at the memory of Zayn’s story about Louis’ younger sisters pranking Harry. Something about a banana and a water balloon. You bit the heel of your hand, blushing like crazy and trying not to look Zayn’s way as the final touchdown was made. The clock ran out and the game was won. The crowd erupted in chants and cheers and you nearly forgot to shake your pom poms, eyes glancing quickly in the boys’ direction.
The words jumping out of your chest bounce into your head and echo throughout your skull. And as Harry throws popcorn into Niall’s mouth and Zayn listens to something Louis is whispering into his ear, those words sound like crush. Wander. Fit.
We just might fit.
Then Zayn’s eyes whip up from the bleachers before him and land right on you.
"Oh shit," you mumble and lift the sparkly pom pom to cover the rush of blood to your cheeks. "Holy fucking shit…what is happening?" You ask yourself under your breath.
You debate looking over again, settling on insanity and are about to hazard a peek when Tristan’s arms are scooping you up off the ground with no warning.
"Whoa!" You yelp in shock and grip onto whatever part of him you can, holding on tight. He just takes this as an opportunity to smack a wet kiss to your hair, shoving the bow to one side. All askew.
"Babe! We won!" He yells, so close to your ear and so sweaty. Before you can do more than send him a congratulatory nod, he’s plopped you back down.
"Party at mine. Ryan is bringing booze, my mom and dad are totally letting me have the house tonight. Baby…" Tristan is licking his lips and tugging you in by the waist, knuckles wrapped up and rough against the sliver of skin you have exposed.
"Alright babe," you say with a half smile as you turn back to see if the boys are still there.
Tristan has walked away to go and talk about every single play he made. You don’t need to turn and see to know it for sure. What you do need is to figure this out. This…dilemma, with Zayn. Boy had you feeling like jelly with curiosity. You couldn’t point your toes or lock out your knees with the fuzzy tingle of his smile invading your stomach.
It felt like a drug.
And the boys aren’t there anymore. The drop in your chest runs down to your thighs and pools at your feet. You look down at the green spot on your shoe and have to bite your tongue so you don’t say his name right here, right now.
No matter how many times you forced your eyes to focus on your boyfriend’s light green eyes and scruffy blonde locks, or his defined biceps and broad, strong shoulders…all your mind wanted to zone in on was Zayn.
Tristan was hammered, laughing louder than anyone ever should at his own joke, the red solo cup crunching beneath his clenched fingers. You paced the sips of vodka entering your mouth, past the hibiscus pink of your lips. The sting of the petrol-tasting liquid was softened only slightly by the watermelon juice you added. But you liked it strong. And after having to stand here and listen to Tristan’s over detailed play by play of him, you sure as fuck needed it strong.
His house was packed against the walls with half pissed and fully baked teens. The air was crammed with the smell of perspiration and nerves. Why did you, a fully independent and capable girl, have to deal with this? Because you didn’t like it. No…you were not enjoying this.
"Tris…I’m going to go…get some quiet in your loft."
"So I totally told him to fuck off right? Fucker was begging to be wrecked!"
Okay. He didn’t hear you. Or, he quite possibly could’ve forgotten who you were. Just another face in the crowd surrounding him, goading him on and rapt with his meaningless slurs. Rolling your eyes particularly hard, you slipped out of the kitchen and pushed through bodies to the living room. The shitiest playlist of repetitive club songs is starting to hurt your ears.
It was almost 9 o’ clock and that only meant the beginning of the night. A groan and ache in your neck pierced your chest simultaneously. It was physically painful to pretend any further. Panic circled the brim of your red cup. This isn’t me….this is not who I am.
Just as the dreadful feeling of unfamiliarity started to settle inside of you, the door swung open so hard it banged against the wall in the foyer.
Liam is laughing earnestly at something Niall is barely getting out, a bottle of Jack in each hand. Harry is already nursing a frosty bottle of tequila limeade, to his left is Louis, tucking the sleeves of his black button up, bitting his lip piercing. And-
"Zayn." You didn’t feel yourself blurt out his name but you tasted how sweet it was rolling off your tongue. The alcohol was starting to crawl into the parts of your brain that fed the anxiety, shutting them down.
Zayn was in his favorite muscle tank. The one you complimented several times when he padded into class wearing it on hotter days. The MTV logo is bright in different prints against the burnout black of the rest of the fabric. He’s still not shaved since class, the dark stubble lightly framing his gorgeous face.
He’s fucking gorgeous and I want him to bother with me.
The words sprint up and into your head and fucking heart before you can stop them. Zayn looks up from his boots and runs his hands against his thighs, and he’s wearing the black jeans with slashes right underneath his fingers. Swallowing and running your tongue across your lips, you remember how to breathe. He looks right at you as Niall shouts into the room, somehow louder than the relentless bass.
"This party is a fucking sleeper! The Horan Jack and bourbon shots have arrived!" He yells with crimson cheeks and hands above his head. The people crowded in the house all cheer and sing out their raging excitement. Fists clenched and cups sloppily rising to the ceiling.
You’re facing all of them and they all look back at you as they step into the house, the door shut behind them.
"Hey missy," Liam says to you, his smile kind. "If I recall correctly, you’re Tristan’s girlfriend, that brute who threatened Niall?"
"That’s not all I am…" And I’m not sure if I want it to be any part of me. You mumbled back to him, fingers tapping the ridges of your plastic cup. Your eyes flit back up and over to Zayn, who is licking his lip and biting it the next second, right hand kneading into his elbow nervously. His eyes blink away from your mouth fast enough to be missed. But you don’t miss it.
Your heart jumps into your throat and down to your stomach. Underneath the black tank top you changed into after the game. The silver key necklace rested on your slight cleavage, chest rising and falling faster to accommodate the beautiful boy only inches away. The necklace was the same one that Zayn smiled at in class one rainy day. Asked if he could before reaching forward to rub his thumb across the silver of the jewelry.
You remembered that while getting ready for tonight. That was why you trailed your fingers past the heart pendant Tristan bought you as an apology for forgetting your one year anniversary, picking up the key instead.
"Of course not, love." Liam’s voice pulls you back like a bungee cord, all the other boys off except for Zayn.
"I just…I’m sorry about that. He’s got a temper and is stupid sometimes…" You hear yourself say before you can think better. But you don’t fumble to take the words back. They feel correct, which scares you almost as much as it thrills you.
You definitely catch Zayn’s little smile and blush.
"Hey Zayn…" You mutter and inch closer, not having to think about it. The magnetic tug he had on you was powerful as all hell, whether or not he was aware. The chilled friction swimming in his eyes gave off the clue that maybe he was very, very aware.
"Hey beautiful," Zayn says slow and Liam is gone like magic.
It doesn’t feel wrong. It doesn’t feel like he shouldn’t have said it, because he is all things right. All words that hit the nail right on the head, the same ones you’ve been aiming at for years it seemed and that sounds crazy but it’s true.
He takes your hand in the middle of the crammed foyer, eyes leading yours to the staircase. Up to the loft you were planning on crying alone in earlier. The idea of crying felt miles and miles away now…Zayn’s palm hot and perfect pressed to your skin. His head cocked to that direction and you’re walking.
You’re walking, you’re walking….Zayn’s lips close to the shell of your ear so you have a chance of hearing him in the raucous house.
"I’d like to talk to you, if you don’t mind."
You don’t mind at all, feet carrying you up the blue carpeted stairs quick.
You and Zayn make it to the top and down through the closed door into a secluded hallway. You locked it behind the two of you and shook your head, leaning it into Zayn’s shoulder and giggling.
"No, I don’t mind Zaynie…"
He laughed with you and nodded his forehead against yours, his foot kicking the door separating the loft from the rest of the house closed.
Tristan’s house had sound proof walls, the silence covering every inch of your skin. The blue moonlight gushed across the whole room, a big plush couch and fireplace. Your fingers were laced with Zayn’s in each hand, foreheads still touching. The beanie on his head rubbed to your hair, a static hum filling what little space was there.
Your eyes are closed when Zayn whispers.
"It’s pretty serious…what I…what I have to tell you…"
"Me too, Zayn….I….me too." Your voice is trembling but you’ve never felt so sure and so radiant as you speak those words.
Zayn lets out a breathy laugh, sounding so elated.
And as your hands tuck into the back pocket of his jeans and feel the lighter in the left, you know his tongue is pressing into those pretty, pretty teeth.
His lips parted slow like a sugary syrup dripping off the edge of a sliver spoon, the thick white cloud of smoke swelling in front of your faces. Your pupils dilated, the pitch bleeding into the pigment of your eyes. The joint is loose between his thumb and forefinger as he hands it to you. He giggles.
"S’good. I’m shit with words hun but that’s it." He nods to the rolled paper climbing to your lips as you suck. His fingers pointing.
"It’s fucking good."
You can only nod your agreement as you crawl on your bare knees, rubbing over the plush carpet. Tristan’s mother would have a conniption if she could only see her cream rug soaking in the smoke of the drug filling both of you up.
You reach Zayn’s crossed legs and plaster your hands to his pants, the inside of your knuckles scraping against the dried paint on them. It’s midnight blues and almost grey purples. You arch your back patiently, stretching like a cat, eyes taking all of the boy underneath your hands in. You bite your lip, canines sinking in deep as Zayn gazes back hazily. He’s high but no part of the connection is lost. All the meaning felt between you two is only strengthening as you close your lips around the joint. He rolled another on your boyfriend’s glass coffee table, laughing as you nibbled on his shirt.
It’s quiet and Zayn’s chin lifts, his breath twisting in a downwards direction as the hit curls up in his blood. Deep. You blink and huff out a sigh, an inkling of doubt breaching through the wall of your high.
"You must think I’m an idiot," you say.
"I never could." Zayn replies easily, as if it’s the most simple thought to be had.
"But I…I don’t love him. I never have. I thought I did when he was nice and attentive but…" and you don’t like this feeling now. The tears enter the canal of your eyelids against your will.
"He doesn’t deserve you. So breathtaking…" Zayn says, louder and more clear than his whispers before. He leans across the small spans of limbs separating you and cups your cheeks. The joint is blazing weakly in your hand on your lap, embers getting brighter as the room gets flooded with the night sky more and more. His eyes are all you can see now, the boy closer.
"I didn’t want to miss out on you. Not since the second I laid my eyes on you." Zayn shakes his head.
"Zayn…" You manage, body waving in small circles as he touches you. Hands dragging down from your jawline to your chest, hands resting on your breasts with such delicacy you shiver with pure want.
"Not since I first spoke to you, baby."
And Zayn nods, eyes darting down to your thighs and nose sniffling. Lips wet as he keeps licking them.
"Yeah, pretty girl…I always have…"
And he leans in so your noses bump softly, nuzzling after a moment. His lips are almost there but not quite. The beating of your hearts have to be in time, not because you wish that they would. They do because it fits like that.
Zayn closes the gap by pressing his drenched, sweet lips against yours, kissing you….fucking…finally.
Zayn’s hands wind around your waist like a hiss to your nervous system, breathing life back into your body. Tristan kissed you with his eyes open, you knew that. Tristan said you were beautiful and never showed up that night he promised to meet you by the stream. He sent you yellow roses to ask if you’d go steady with him.
You once read that yellow roses meant friendship.
Zayn’s knuckles pressed down on your hips and right into that little dimple at the top that Tristan never found. Right where your legs curved into your heat, a spot you would rub and dig into to make yourself squirm and cum. All alone.
Zayn’s artful fingertips went deep into that spot, sending you up and spreading your knees apart, bracketing his. Zayn’s eyes opened, his moan from the whimpers that fell from your pink lips. He clutched your hips harder and his fingers traveled to the fullest part of your covered ass. Squeezed.
"Zayn.." You moaned and pushed your body smack against his, now sitting yourself down onto his lap. Zayn leaned his neck back to look up at the beautiful girl rubbing down onto him. You whipped your hair to one side, opening your mouth to groan as his hands only got stronger and more determined.
The joint was burnt out onto the plate you set it on in your haste to get onto Zayn’s legs, smoke marching up the periwinkle walls, nowhere to escape. It would have to join you two, then. “I’ve thought about this for so long. Dreamt of it,” he growls into your neck and starts sucking wet kisses there. And that has you throwing your head back, wrapped in the ecstasy of his tongue. He purrs hot and sticky against your flesh, licking filthy figure eights and nipping with his sharp teeth as he goes.
"Yeah? I wanted you…I always wanted you," you gasp out when Zayn lifts your wet center off his hard on, only to pull you back down, your arousal crashing into his. You both moan loud and dirty, the music downstairs not heard but felt through the walls. Covering you two up and keeping you safe.
"Fuck…" He groans, long and drawn out as you attach your lips to his jaw, kissing the facial hair and all the way to his ear and behind it. You’re nibbling on his earring when he speaks into the otherwise static sound of your bodies writhing against each other.
"I dreamt of your perky tits, your delicious lips, this…fuck…this ass,” Zayn is flat out wrecked, so gone and moaning out his words. You squeak out, your pussy twitching with more slick when Zayn’s hands slap each ass cheek and grip hard. Possessive.
"Baby, tell me about it."
"God, I jacked off so fucking hard, came so strong to thoughts of those eyes."
And those words, those are the words that have you squirming up and shoving Zayn’s chest down so he’s on his back, you straddling him on the floor. Your palms lay flat against his pecs, his hands finding their way back to your hips and are then unzipping the side of your skirt.
"I…I once…" You fully understand everything about this now. You always did, but fought it because you never thought in a million lifetimes that you could deserve your best friend. Zayn Malik.
"Say it beautiful girl," Zayn encourages.
"I love your way with words baby, please…" Zayn breathes with desperation scratching the heart of his voice. His neck is strained as he lifts it to get a better look at you. You never knew of someone else’s eyes needing your presence to see. Now you did.
You squeeze your eyes shut tight. “I once fingered myself thinking of your voice. I came the best I ever had…”
Zayn has you on your back on the plush rug and gazing up at him, eyes so big and legs wrapping around his hips. Your’e holding him close to your chest and whispering just what you want around the shell of his ear.
"Gonna suck you off." You say these words that nearly send the boy on top of you collapsing onto your heaving chest as your fingers drag the beanie off his head. You muss and tangle his thick black hair, the sounds he’s making between growls and moans.
"How do you make me so wild, y/n?" Zayn gasps when you grip him through his skinnies. His nails claw into the carpet by your head, hips bucking and stuttering before grinding down hard.
You giggle and bite at his earlobe, tugging with the groan blanketing his skin.
"I just can’t find the words, babe."
Zayn’s breathing was getting so shallow you started to worry. His chest was shaking with how much he needed it, his eyes not wanting to blink and miss a single second of the sight below him. With your palm pushing and guiding him, he was sat on the leather couch, legs apart and you filling that space right up. Your eyes dug into his lean and tight body as your fingers flexed around his belt buckle. The metallic sounds clinking shot a sharp tick of pleasure to your dribbling sex, the wetness running down your thighs. You rubbed them together as you licked your lips, shucking the zipper down on Zayn’s pants.
"Babe," he drawled, completely gone and floating on a cloud of desire. Now both of you were left in just your underwear. You only had the emerald green lace of your bra covering your other half. "Let me baby…" He muttered while moving forward and unclipping the back. His bulge was so fucking massive, his clothed cock making the elastic of his tight boxer briefs work.
His eyes never left your skin as the cups of your bra fell the to floor, joining the skirt and jeans. The key necklace around your neck stuck to the sweat on your chest. Now the only dressing there. Your soft nipples hardened to the cold air around you two, and Zayn sucked in a harsh breath. His eyes gave off the implication that he could not believe this was real.
"You’re gorgeous, y/n."
His hands fondle each breast, palms squeezing and gathering them deep to massage slow and delicately. He licks at his lips, little whimpers escape and enter your ears as promises. You didn’t know you could be touched so softly, like you were a precious gem found in the dusty sands of the wild.
Now you did.
"So….so beautiful it’s art, baby. You’re body’s fucking art."
"Zayn, baby…” you sat up and you kiss long and so perfectly dirty. Tongues lapping over the other like the first drop of water after being stranded for dead. Zayn’s mouth tasted of the joint and a sweetness you search your brain to find words for. Like a green apple just ripe enough to break the skin of. Like the spray of mist at the end of a hot hot maze.
You’re gasping right into his hair as Zayn sucks on the dip of your collarbone, so flushed and needy. Your fingers are scratching at his elbows, pinching skin and biting down on his locks.
"Fuck! Zayn!" You’re a moaning mess, pliant in his capable hands, under his tongue. You needed him in your mouth as of yesterday and you’re ability to hold it in was waning quick.
With a blissful shove back against the cushions, Zayn is reaching up to eagerly tug at his hair, so worked up as you play with the waistband of his boxers that he’s reduced to sniffling out his moans.
"Holy fuck, want this…need this…"
"I know baby boy…I know."
And you drag the underwear off his aching hard on and down to his toes. Coming back up you see just how massive Zayn truly is. It’s enough to make you speechless. For once in your life.
Your hand comes out to take him by the thick base, standing his cock at attention. It’s so so long and drenched, the fat tip shiny with pre come as it blurts out of his pretty slit. Zayn is sinking his teeth so far into his lip it turns white, knuckles the same color as he grips the couch. You watch his eyes and then his cock as you drag your hand all the way up to the tip and back down to the base.
"Shit b-babe…so…good." Zayn pants, his eyes catching fire and dick twitching out for more friction.
"You’re so beautiful baby.." you say and rub him faster this time. His hiss of pure ecstasy cuts a clean line down your center and his tip leaks more slick just as your pussy cries for more. You’re now lowering your lips to his cock and Zayn sounds as though he might lose it. Breath fast and then so slow he could black out. But when you peek up as your lips press a gentle kiss to the head of his dick, you see that he’s still with you. His jaw is dropped and letting out the most filthy groans you’ve ever heard. He’s sure as hell still with you.
"Such a beautiful, big cock."
He shudders, jerks even as you flick your tongue all around his glistening head and leaking slit. His girth is so wide and bigger than you anticipated but you take it like the last meal and you’re headed for the electric chair. His skin is soft and the curly hairs framing his cock are nuzzling your nose as you take a deep breath and deep throat him. Long. And hard.
"Fuck!" Zayn gasps into the crook of his arm, you see him biting the skin there in a feeble attempt to keep his moans silent. His hips buck up, making you gag on his long dick. The choking sound is so obscene and gets you to grind your pussy onto the firmness of his shin. Your lips spread open, soaking the front of your panties as you chase the rub against the boy’s leg.
"You alright?" Zayn asks, wheezing and swinging his weak neck to look up. You moan around him as an answer, sending him into another fit of curses and chills. "You’re so good to me, y/n."
Bobbing up and down, stopping to suck hard, catching the pre come he shoots down your throat and asking for more relentlessly. Zayn gives it all to you every time, whimpers and squeaks and guttural grunts fueling the hunger of your mouth.
"M’gonna…baby I’m gonna cum."
You pop off with a wet sound, rubbing him to replace the heated walls coated in your saliva and his arousal. Zayn’s eyes flash open wide and he sits up fast, kissing you all kinds of desperate. He’s tasting himself on your tongue and it makes you so hot.
"There are condoms in my bag over there. Zayn."
You’re hands grip at his wrists, getting his attention enough so he can absorb words. So he can gather himself enough to get your purse and pull out the packet. His fingers are more sure as they rip open the foil, taking himself in his fist and squeezing. He’s so red and heavy as you help roll the condom on, so incredibly full.
"Get outta these sweetheart," Zayn instructs, fingering at the bows on your panties. Your stomach somersaults and twirls at the name, filling you with so much light you think you could float with him above the street lamps outside. The party is all thumping bass and crashing cups below you, a world outside of a world you two have created.
You do as you are told, his knuckles kneading into your thighs and then sinking into the dips that got you to moan every time. You clutch at his shoulders and mewl out in delight at the feeling of muscle to muscle. His wet cock slides against both stomachs as he works broken sobs of pleasure from your throat. His fingers easily entering the soaking svelteness of your walls. Two fingers knuckle deep and getting you ready for his behemoth of a cock.
"Need it so bad. God I need you…always." You’re almost shouting it right to Zayn’s temple but you don’t care. His rings were cool and smooth inside of you and the third finger scissored you open just fucking right.
"Right there! Oh fuck, yeah…"
"That it baby girl? You ready for me?"
"Ngh…yes. Yes yes yes! Zayn yes…"
You’re biting down so hard on his shoulder you know the marks will be a mix of purple and red. Zayn growls out and stops fucking his fingers in and out, retracting completely. The emptiness is sudden and harsh but the next second is filled with his hands guiding his cock to your entrance. Your eyes meet and stick like the paint to your brushes….his throbbing tip catches on your clit before sinking….sinking….sinking.
The room is filled with the trembling cadence your bodies give off and into the air. Zayn’s deepened to the hilt inside of you and when you finally sit down on his lap, it’s all the beautiful words you’ve ever learned in your entire life. All the letters than screamed off the pages at you and shoved their way into your brain forever. The scary ones. The provoking ones. The utterly perfectly stunning ones that made you love the details all around you in the first place.
The nerves. Joy. Lies. You’re involved in all of it. Of this. You’re so perfectly full of him, Zayn still and shaking with the effort as you adjust. The frozen blue of the window sill and black bookshelf capture the words you can’t sputter out and throw them back at you. As they smash into you, they spread the heat of Zayn’s cock twitching all throughout you. A spinning inferno. You nod.
"R-ready. Go ahead."
Zayn pushes in even as he’s balls deep and finds a purchase right at your g-spot. Right out of the gates and lifted at the pulsating tip, nudging that delicious spot so it springs tears to both your eyes.
"Oh god," you moan, voice breaking in half at the end. Zayn is nosing at your chest, long lashes tickling and bringing goosebumps to life. And now you start to move. Zayn’s breath is knocked right out of his chest when you start to grind and lift only to bounce back down onto his cock. His hands cover each bare cheek of your ass, jerking to touch at the fingers at your tailbone. They groped at the skin there, turning the same shade of pink on his boot laces as he helped guide you onto his aching erection.
The pace you two create gets faster and more obscene, both taken to another frame of mind as the pleasure heightens. His cock slip-slides in and out of you from the wide girth of his base to the smooth rounded tip. Your eyes sprint to the back of your head at a particularly hard thrust from Zayn.
"You feel fucking sinful, you’re so good," he’s gasping into the center of your throat, dragging his spit laden kisses up to your ear. "He didn’t know what he had…fucking lost the most amazing girl…"
"He did…fuck baby…Z-Zee…he fucking did."
"I’m yours?" Zayn asks with gleaming eyes and parted lips, such a dusted rose from biting them so much. The sight makes you want to breathe until you pass out, so amazed and in awe.
"Yeah Zayn…and I’m yours," you nod, face breaking into the biggest smile you’ve ever felt.
Zayn looks just how you feel. Overjoyed.
Now your bodies rub and grind and slide against each other as if you’d lose oxygen without the contact. The desperate “Oh’s” tumbling off your tongue and Zayn’s repetition of grunts and gasps from his stomach indicate that it’s close. That knot in your hipbones is spiraling to your gut and all the way to your chest. His heart is beating sporadically against yours and he lets out the hardest moan yet.
"Close…f-fuck…" Zayn bleats out and you shove your fingers into his hair, neck hanging down to bury your eyes into his cheekbones. "Me too Zee."
The choked out sobs you’re barely getting out over the foamy waves pushing you closer and closer to the edge are so wet. Wet like the boy’s huge dick that’s fucking you so damn incredibly you could only be his. Always.
All the words you could say and scribble in a panic to get down on paper and remember flash before your eyes at once. A lot of different colors compliment what you meant and there’s a cracked emerald to the word “compatible.” Sticky, satisfying orange to “peace.” Iced purple with a chill down it’s spine to your “hope.”
A blazing pinky red to the word “love.”
"Zayn!" You shudder and writhe in his arms as the knot bursts through the confines of your body. The orgasm awakens every nerve ending, goosebumps screaming out just as you do. Zayn is hit by the wave just after, his fucked up groans and sputtering hips going harder harder fucking harder.
You cum on the condom and he shoots his white hot load straight into it, the sensation making you see spots against the pale blue walls hiding you two. Zayn’s hips are swiveling as he comes down, cock rubbing inside of you just right to take every last drop he can. It feels so right it’s no longer a question as you’re fingers slide down his jaw.
Your eyes meet and you catch the cocoa of his burning a hole through the pigment of your own. Then you spot the smear of pink on his earlobe. You laugh, barely making enough noise with your wrecked voice.
"You were painting earlier, weren’t you?"
Zayn rolls his gaze all over your face, mind full of deep thoughts. You could tell. You quieted at that.
"Yes I was…" He’s still inside of you and you’re still flat on his lap, ass spread above those ripped jeans.
"It’s always…pinks and reds…on your shoes…on your clothes. More than any other colors," you whisper, shaking fingers knotted in his hair. Zayn nods again, closing his eyes and opening them back up to hold you in the most magnetic look of your life.
"I paint a lot about you."
The room is so quiet and your heart is just as still.
"I paint like the colors of your heart."
School is much more fun after that. You’d laugh at yourself for how simple it seems but it’s the truth. Tristan was passed out at his house, not noticing you and Zayn leaving together or the rest of the world for that matter. He got angry when you broke it off, but the hurt was more to his ego and not losing you. The predictability was something you laughed at. It wasn’t sad, not when you saw Zayn jogging up to you in the halls. Massive smile and open arms wanting you.
Wanting you. Needing you. Zayn made that so meaningful and easy and yeah, simple.
But what your heart did when he’d lean over in the darkened art room and rest his head on your shoulder, or when he’d lay his body down to give you a place to sleep….that was something beyond the words you knew.
You felt it…oh…you felt it. And on a Friday in class when Zayn tilted his head at the punctures of sunshine yellows and minty greens on your canvas…you explained it to him.
"I paint like the colors of your heart, Zayn."