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i could bring paradise

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“Are those rules?” Pixie says, once Harry’s finished stammering. She looks amused. “Do we have rules on our holiday now?”

“I didn’t mean, uh-”

“Don’t be a dick, Pepo,” Aimee says, kicking Pixie’s chair, glass of wine in hand. “Be nice to the poor kid.”

"He’s only eleven,” Ian adds, and Harry gives him the finger. Ian sticks out his tongue, laughing.

“They’re not rules, I’m just-” Harry stops. They’re all staring up at him. Two years ago they’d laugh about it, but maybe it’s different now. “I’m just asking, like-”

“We get it, you’re famous and important and a secret international spy,” Alexa drawls. “Can you come give me a hug now?”

Pixie laughs, and the tension snaps, everyone’s eyes going off Harry, the conversation starting up again. Harry swallows, tosses his bag down. He hugs them all in turn. They smell of suncream and alcohol and they’re so relaxed it makes Harry feel uptight in comparison.

Pixie kisses both his cheeks, no trace of the sharpness that was in her voice before.

“Have fun,” she says. “There’s booze in the kitchen. Wine on the counter, beer in the fridge.”

“What’re you drinking? Looks amazing.”

“Sip?” She hands it over, and he takes it, feeling weirdly grateful for the gesture.

“Cheers.” He gulps it. Something sweet and cold, with a piney kick of gin. It makes his head tingle. “That’s incredible.”

“Bombay, tonic, lemon, orange…” she’s counting them off on her fingers. “And- Ian, what else is in this drink?”

“Uhh, gin, tonic, citrus,” Ian says, looking up from his phone. “Splash of Cointreau…?”

“Yesss,” Pixie says with satisfaction. “Everything’s in the kitchen, if you want.”

“Amazing, cheers.” Harry nods at them, fumbles for his bag and takes it inside.

He’s slicing an orange when he hears footsteps, and his mouth curves up in a grin just as Nick says-

“There you are.”

He sounds half-drunk, voice shot like he’s been screaming or singing. There’s not much difference between the two, with Nick.

Harry sets the knife down. Nick’s leaning against the counter, watching him. Smiling. He’s tan, skin golden against his sheer white t-shirt. Thinner than the last time Harry saw him. Probably been starving himself for telly like an idiot.

Christ, he looks good, though.

“I hear there are rules,” he starts, and Harry groans.

“Jesus, that’s not what I- I know I’m being a dick, but it’s the only way I could get a few bloody days off if it looks like I’m in-”

“Calm down,” Nick laughs. “Tell me what the hell you’re talking about. Pixie’s been pissed since brunch, couldn’t get it out of her.”

Harry shrugs, wiping his damp hand off on his t-shirt.

“No photos,” he says.

Nick shrugs. “What else?”

“Nothing on social media about- y’know, me being here,” Harry says, hating that he has to say it. “Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat-”

“I can’t believe you know what Snapchat is. Who are you and what’ve you done with my favorite granddad Harry Styles?”

Harry huffs a laugh. “Lou’s always on it.”

“Well, I won’t be,” Nick says, shrugging again, eyes steady on Harry’s face. Harry can feel his cheeks heating again. “That it?”

“I mean it, though, Grim. It’s - I know it’s so fucking annoying, I really do-”

“What’s annoying is that you’ve still got your shirt on.” Nick’s mouth tugs up at the corner. “And you haven’t given me a hug hello.”

“Hug first, or shirt?” Harry asks, a bubble of happiness rising in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

“I think you can guess the answer to that, popstar.”

Harry laughs, choked, and tugs his shirt over his head from the bottom hem in the way that always used to make Nick simultaneously go all breathless and yell at him for being cheesy.

When he drops it on the ground Nick’s watching him, eyes dark. His eyes flit down to Harry’s belly, his chest. Harry’s not as tan as he could be, but he’s fit from weeks of tour. Nick likes that, he always has.

“There’s the shirt sorted,” Harry says, taking a step closer, and Nick laughs giddily, pulls him in and kisses him. Harry puts his arms over Nick’s shoulders, lets himself enjoy it, slow and wet and hot. Nick’s mouth tastes of tequila and lime, and he has a hand on the back of Harry’s neck, fisted in his hair. His tongue is slow where it sucks at Harry’s, gentle little nudges that make Harry’s eyes flutter closed.

They break apart when someone shouts outside. A burst of laughter follows, and Nick huffs a laugh of his own, dazed. His face is flushed, damp with sweat, shiny wet gathering in his collarbone. Harry wants- he wants- god. He’s not sure. That’s the trouble with Nick. His brain fizzles out when he sees him, like he’s still eighteen and trying to figure out how to hide his hard-on every time Nick looked at him or touched him or treated him to one of his monologues on hip-hop or reality television, rambling on while Harry watched, shifted in his seat.

He’s saved the trouble of deciding by a polite cough. Ian’s in the doorway, holding an empty glass.

“Soz,” he says. “Refill time.”

Harry snorts.

“Were you using this, Harry?” Ian says, picking up Harry’s orange slice.

“I - no,” Harry says, abruptly. He cares less about drinks than he does Nick’s hand, still on the bend of his waist, a thumb rubbing just above the top of his jeans. “Go for it.”

“Cheers, mate.”

“Seen your room yet, Haz?” Nick says, very pointedly. “Because I could show you.”

“Oh, could you?” Harry grins at him. “That’d be wonderful-”

“Yeah, yeah, get out of here,” Ian says, laughing and waving them off, and they do.

Harry’s room is Nick’s room. The bed’s elegantly mussed, like Nick made it hastily, fluffy white duvet and white pillows. One’s on the floor, crumpled. Nick probably flung it off in his sleep the way he does. 

Harry tosses his bag to the ground, breathing deep and slow. Nick has a view of the ocean, curtains billowing in the breeze. The place smells of salt and fresh linens, late-afternoon sun streaming in.  

“Posh, innit?” Nick says, right before he steps up to Harry from behind, slides his hands around Harry’s waist. Harry shudders, leans back into it. Nick toys with his waistband, one finger slipping under.

“Very.” Harry’s voice only wobbles a bit.

“And now I’ve got my very own popstar to complete the fancy holiday package,” Nick says, ghosting a breath against Harry’s neck. “How nice of them to include you.”

“Full service,” Harry says, breath catching when Nick’s fingers spread lower. “Early - early birthday present.”

Nick hums happily into Harry’s ear, and opens his mouth against his neck, sucking a kiss into the skin. Harry’s eyes close, losing himself in it, until-

“Shit,” he says, putting his hand over Nick’s on his waist. “That’s the other rule.”

“Hm?”

“Y'know. No teeth.”

Nick huffs a sigh. “You’re making it very hard to be romantic, Styles.”

“Romantic,” Harry laughs. “Is that what this is?”

“Heyy,” Nick whines in his ear, before he knees the back of Harry’s knee, making his leg buckle. Harry chokes on a laugh and staggers forward, Nick pushing him from behind, until they’re collapsing onto the bed.

Harry’s breathless for a minute, panting up at the ceiling, Nick propping himself on his elbow next to him.

“Shit,” he says, eloquently. Harry looks over at him. “You’re so fit. I forgot.”

Harry’s belly goes warm. Coincidentally - completely coincidentally - his dick twitches in his jeans, excited.

Nick stares at his mouth.

“I want to, like, ask how you’re doing,” he says. “And talk about tour and all that. Like, we’ll do that later, I promise. I’m a good host. Get you fed and watered.”

Harry nods, as Nick drags his fingers over Harry’s bare stomach. Traces over one of the laurel tattoos.

“But right now I really want to blow you,” he says, voice dropping low and heavy. “Hope that’s alright.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, trying not to let it squeak. “Alright.”

“Mm, didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I’m pretty easy, so. Have at it.”

Nick laughs, creaky and soft, and slides off the bed onto his knees, tugs at one of Harry’s ankles.

Harry sits up halfway, feet landing solidly on the floor, watching Nick undo his jeans. It’s one of the most familiar sights, Nick between his legs like that, but it’s been a while. Harry reaches out to palm over the gel-sticky puff of Nick’s hair as Nick wrestles his jeans and pants down to his knees.

Nick grins up at him for a moment. “Hiya.”

“Hi,” Harry breathes.

“You’re here.”

Harry nods. Slips his thumb down to Nick’s cheekbone, strokes across it lightly. 

Nick makes a face, tugs Harry’s hands off and lowers his hot mouth to Harry’s prick. Oh- there. Harry has to gnaw at his knuckles to keep quiet, toes curling on the rug when Nick snogs the head of his cock. There it is, Christ. Harry missed that. 

They join the others for dinner, stumbling downstairs freshly-showered but flushed, Nick all giggly and boneless from Harry jerking him off in the shower. Harry ducks his head when Aimee cat-calls them and Pixie whistles. He sinks into his seat, accepts a drink from Alexa, his first since he got in. It’s strong and tequila-y. Sweet.

They all swim after, drunk and splashing in the cool blue pool. Harry has this idea in his head, of him and Nick being the last ones in the pool, when the sky’s a blanket of stars and the house is hushed. He wants to kiss Nick like that, like a romantic film, and he keeps that plan right up until Nick looks at him across the crowded pool and calls, matter-of-factly-

“You want to go to bed, Haz?”

It’s a different kind of thrill hearing it like that, right out of Nick’s mouth in front of everyone. 

Harry smiles at him. Starts to say yes, and then Aimee dunks him hard, squealing as she shoves his shoulders.

He comes up laughing, spitting water. “Gonna get you back-”

“Oh are you?” Aimee says, treading water, hair all matted to one side of her face. Her mascara’s perfectly intact, because she’s a witch. “Think someone’s waiting for you.”

Harry looks up. Nick’s sat at the side of the pool, reaching back to grab his drink where he sat it a safe distance away from the water. He takes a gulp, props himself up on his hands, peers over at Harry, hairy legs kicking in the water. His dick’s a bulge in his tight swim shorts.

Well? he mouths. Jerks his head back towards the house.

Harry clambers out of the pool so quick he stubs his toe. Instead of sympathy he gets laughter, including Nick’s. Bastards, the lot of them.

He’s following Nick inside when he hears Pixie say, “Right, then! Aims, get your camera, I wanna do a handstand.”

“Important Snapchat content,” Aimee says, and Harry flushes down his neck, as the door closes behind them.

“Am I ruining your holiday?” he asks, as Nick fills them glasses of water in the kitchen.

“Yep,” Nick says readily. “Totally ruining it. I wanted to be celibate this trip. I mean, I’m always shagging my dick off, really, I needed a break, and then you showed up, and-”

“Shut up,” Harry says, laughing.

Nick turns, hands him the glass of water, and Harry takes a grateful gulp.

“You ruin everything, Harry Styles,” Nick says, half-laughing, before he pushes Harry back against the counter and kisses him very slowly.

It’s better than the pool, that. The kitchen hushed and dark, Nick’s mouth and tongue working softly. Harry strokes over his damp chest, sodden hair and tight nipples, making Nick hiss into the kiss. God, he forgot how nice it is to have time to touch. Nick’s body is delightfully imperfect, a varied landscape. Skin and hair and soft bits for Harry to run his fingers over.

Nick shivers when Harry reaches his arse, grabs a handful. Harry uses both hands, wanting another shudder. Slides his mouth down Nick’s neck as he squeezes the soft of Nick’s arse.

Nick’s pulse is juddering fast under the skin.

“Upstairs,” he whispers.

Harry kisses the underside of his jaw, stubble rasping against his lips.

Harry,” Nick groans, taking Harry by the wrists and tugging his hands off Nick’s arse. “Upstairs.”

“Upstairs,” Harry repeats, dazed, dizzy. He meant to make Nick all gooey with it, his mouth and his hands, but instead he’s the one melting. Always seems to happen. No matter how old he gets, how many people he shags. Nick strips him bare.

Nick draws his face up with a hand under his chin, gives him a kiss. Harry lets it linger, keeps his mouth wide open, lets Nick suck his tongue. It’s another minute before they find the willpower to break apart.

“Upstairs,” Nick repeats.

Harry follows him.

“Reach back,” Nick says, breathless as he eases himself down onto Harry’s prick, balancing himself with one hand.

“What?” Harry can’t fucking think. He swallows thickly. “What?”

“Reach back,” Nick breathes. “Grab the headboard.”

Harry has a hand wrapped around his dick at the minute, holding it steady while Nick sinks down. He gasps out a breath, pulls his hand away, and Nick sits down fully.

“Jesus,” Nick mutters, eyes rolling back. He breathes heavy for a moment, like he’s savoring it. “Christ.”

“Nick,” Harry says through gritted teeth. He’s gripping the headboard with one hand, the other in a fist on his belly, trembling.

Nick looks down at him.

“Both hands,” he says, licking his mouth, huffing a breath. “Back.”

Harry puts his other hand back, grips the headboard tight. It stretches his arm muscles, makes him shudder. His nipples are hard.

“Yeah, good,” Nick mumbles, and finally, bloody finally, he starts to move. Harry groans, sinks into the feeling. He can’t control what Nick does, can only keep steady and let Nick use his cock the way he wants to. It’s fucking hot, when Nick does that. Hot when anyone does it, but Nick especially.

He’s lost in it, eyes closed, when he feels Nick wriggle halfway off his prick.

“Mmgh?” Harry mumbles, forcing his eyes open just in time to see Nick straighten up again, phone in one hand, sink back down with a little puff of breath.

“What’re you doing?”

“Now when you said no photos,” Nick says, arching an eyebrow. “What about if they’re just for me?”

Harry doesn’t let go of the headboard. He stares up at Nick for a minute, steadily, and Nick bites his lip, unsure.

“I was just - I mean,” he says. “Just thought it’d be fun.”

Harry’s arm gives a twinge, and he lets go to roll his shoulder, like he does after boxing practice.

“What about a video?” he says, and Nick’s mouth spreads in a grin.

“Harry Styles,” he says. “You’re pervy.”  

“Not the one who brought the camera into bed.”

“Dirty photos are one thing, but sex tapes are a whole other level.”

“As long as it’s just for you,” Harry says, and Nick’s face softens.

“Haven’t screwed you over before, have I?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, sheepishly. Christ. It’s Nick. “No. Sorry.”

“Plus it’s my dick on camera, innit. Yours is safely hidden in my arse. I’m the one with a spot on the X Factor panel to lose. Let’s face it, no one would be surprised if you had a sex tape. Just another day in the life of One Direction at this point-”

“Alright, shut up, Grim,” Harry laughs, bouncing his hips up. Nick lets out a surprised moan. “Camera. On.”

Nick grins down at him, and lifts his phone.

Harry’s forced to take his hands off the headboard after a minute, because Nick’s shit at filming and fucking at the same time. He slides his palms against Nick’s hips, soft flesh over his knobby hipbones, guides him while Nick gasps and groans, camera clutched in one hand.

“Focus,” Harry says, at one point. “Grim. The camera.”

Nick’s letting his hand loll off to one side, as he fucks himself in short thrusts on Harry’s cock.

“Nick-”

“Gnnghh,” Nick says, very coherently. He points the camera back at Harry’s face. Harry rolls his eyes. 

“This sex tape’s gonna be shit.”

“This sex is gonna be shit if you don’t shut- up-” Nick gasps, balancing himself on Harry’s belly, rocking up and down. “Oh god, your cock. Your fucking cock.”

Harry watches Nick’s cock bob up and down, hard and red, slapping against his belly. That’s a lovely view, that.

“Gimme the phone,” he says.

Nick’s whining now. Not touching himself yet, cos he likes to wait for that. Likes to get himself all worked up on a dick. Bit of a slag for it, really, and-

“Niiick, give me the bloody phone,” Harry moans, grabbing at one of Nick’s absurdly long arms.

Nick drops the phone on Harry’s chest unceremoniously.

“Ow! Wanker.”

“Shut up shut up shut up,” Nick groans. “Goddd, fuck.”

Harry fumbles the camera open, hits record again, lifts it so there’s a nice clear view of Nick’s dick, his hips lifting up and down.

“Fuck, yeah,” Harry mutters. He lifts the camera, but then he can’t see it, so he lowers it again. Tries to angle it down.

“Stop fucking with it,” Nick laughs.

“You should turn around.”

“What?”

“It’s a better view. Can see, like, your arse.”

Nick stops rocking. Stares down at him. “This was supposed to be a sex tape of you.”

“Well, Grim, I’m having sex with you, so. Turns out we’re both gonna get involved.”

Nick opens his mouth to argue, and Harry realizes he’s still filming. Oops. He shuts it off. If anyone got hold of that, Harry’d more embarrassed over how petty they both are than any of the actual sex.

“Christ,” Nick grumbles. “Fine.”

Harry waits patiently as Nick lifts up, rustles about til his back is to Harry. He starts to sit and Harry goes dry-mouthed at the sight.

“Wait,” he says, hoarsely. “Need the camera.”

Nick whines impatiently, as Harry fumbles for the phone, turns the video on.

“Alright,” he says. “Go on.”

Nick sinks down slow, and Harry lets out a breath, holding the camera steady. Shit, there it is. There it bloody is.

“That’s the money shot,” he murmurs to himself, absently. Fuck, he looks big like that, sinking inside Nick’s hole, Nick spreading to accommodate him.

Nick makes a squawky indignant sound. “Don’t narrate!”

“Why can’t I?” Harry huffs a laugh, grabbing for a pillow to prop his head up, reaching out with his other hand to thumb over the dimple in the small of Nick’s back. “Fuck, look at that. Gorgeous.”

“Sound like you’re doing a nature documentary.”

Harry snorts. “And here we have Nick Grlmshaw’s arse in its natural habitat. Observe the way he has to struggle to take Harry’s monster cock. But he is determined-”

“I bloody hate you,” Nick laughs, one of his hands wrapping around Harry’s thigh, just above the knee. “God, this sex tape is now too embarrassing to leak. Not even scandalous, just weird.”

Harry grins. “I was just thinking that.”

Nick starts to roll his hips, gently. Gingerly.

“S'that good?” Harry says, watching him through the phone camera. “Good angle?”

“Yeah,” Nick pants. “Feel really - really good.”

“You do too.” Harry swallows thickly, not laughing anymore. “You’re so fucking tight.”

Nick cries out, goes faster, short jerky thrusts up and down.

“You close, Grim?”

He can see Nick nod, feel the pulse of Nick tightening up around him as proof. Nick’s hand is jogging between his legs now, arm moving fast. Harry can hear the wet slap slap slap of it, and it does his head in, makes him feverish.

“Go on, fuck,” he groans. “Come on it, come on it, come on my dick, Grim, go on-”

Nick curses, hand speeding up, until - he draws in a sharp breath, and Harry whimpers helplessly at the feeling of Nick clenching around him as he spurts.

“Fuck-” he gasps, phone dropping, both his hands going to Nick’s hips and holding tight. “Fuck, fuck, m'close-”

Nick gives a last little squeeze around Harry’s dick, sinking back until Harry’s in him balls-deep, and Harry comes, by surprise almost, hips jerking furiously, gripping Nick’s hips so hard his fingers dig in.

He ends up flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, letting it sink in as Nick pulls off, cleans himself up. He’s breathing deep, happy. He’s happy. It’s always a bit weird, being happy somewhere other than the stage. Or- that sounds dramatic. Not like he’s crying and depressed when he’s not on stage, it’s just. There’s normal-happy, and stage-happy, and then Nick-happy.

He shuts his eyes.

“Planning on keeping that condom on for a while, Styles? New fashion accessory?”

Harry opens his eyes again. Fair point. He reaches down to tug it off, lifting his head. “Bin?”

Nick waves lazily at the side of the bed.

They settle down into bed after, side by side, Harry half-asleep while Nick flicks through his phone. He can hear frogs chirping outside, through the open curtains. Crickets maybe. Whatever chirps and lives in Spain.

“What kind of animal chirps?” he asks drowsily.

Nick scoffs. “What?”

“Heard a chirp,” Harry mumbles, tugging the sheet up over himself. The bed smells of Nick, warm and hair-gel-fruity and slept-in.

Nick laughs again, tosses his phone aside. He presses a kiss to the top of Harry’s shoulder. His neck. Then he flops back down at his side, til their shoulders are pressed together, fingers brushing in the space between them.

Harry’s mostly asleep but he tries not to succumb, just for a minute. It just feels so fucking good. He wants to savor it. The perfect bed, the breeze blowing lazily through open curtains. The tang of salt. Nick’s pinky finger curling against Harry’s palm, an idle touch. Harry loves all of it.

“G'night,” Nick murmurs, turning over onto his side the way he likes to sleep.

Harry reaches up to stroke the muscles in his back. He can feel Nick heave a deep sigh.

“Night,” he says, dropping his hand, and he’s not sure who falls asleep first.