Fic: I Know, Baby, You're Frustrated (NC-17)
Title: I Know, Baby, You're Frustrated
Pairing: Harry/Nick (established relationship)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "I would've been nine, Hazza. Do you know what happens when you're nine? Nothing. You're still eating your own snot." The one where Nick is upset about being mistaken for Harry's father and Harry makes it up to him with his mouth. [On AO3]
"I'm still bothered by it," Nick says, apropos of nothing. He's hanging onto the glass of wine they'd been passing back and forth with lax fingers and staring at the telly with a pair of glazed over eyes.
The air is surprisingly crisp and cool in Nick's spotless apartment. It smells like cinnamon despite the amount of weed they'd burnt through in the past few hours, and Harry thinks the soft scent must be coming from the overpriced deep orange candle with red swirls that's burning away on the table to the side of them.
They're sat on the floor -- even though Nick's pristine white couch with patterned plush pillows is only a few feet away -- and they're watching one of Nick's obscure French films with dubious subtitles that he'd bought off eBay while drunk on chardonnay. The film was Nick's choice, of course, and so was the wine, so Harry's not too sure what could be bothering him at this point.
"You're still bothered by what, exactly?" Harry asks when Nick doesn't finish his thought of his own accord.
"The comment," Nick says with a touch of exasperation as he turns his gaze onto Harry's, as if it were painfully obvious. "I couldn't even be your father. That's not, like, scientifically possible. I would've been nine, Hazza. Do you know what happens when you're nine? Nothing. You're still eating your own snot."
A smile finds its way onto Harry's lips, curving them up to one side as he huffs out a raspy laugh. "You're really still thinking about that? It was hours ago, Grimmy."
"Yes, I'm still thinking about it! I'm well fit. I moisturize nightly, I sleep an average of eight hours a day, I even went for a treatment at the spa last week with Alexa, cleared out my pores and all that. Nine years old, I would've been. That's all I'm saying. At worst, I could've been ten, but even then--"
"Nick," Harry says, interrupting him from going any further as he shifts onto his palms, crawling the small distance between them. He settles onto his knees and curls a hand against the side of Nick's neck, leaning in to press a kiss to his ear, then just below it, then to the vein pushing out on edge of his throat, lips pressed to his pulse. Harry can feel Nick tilt back to give him more access, so he breathes warmly against his skin. "You're not my father."
Nick's eyes have fallen shut by the time he mutters, "Well, clearly, but--"
"Nick," Harry says again, and this time Nick gasps, shoulders going momentarily taut as Harry's hand finds its way to his groin, palming him slowly through the rough denim of his trousers, rubbing his hand up and down the length of his cock. "You're well fit."
Nick tilts his head to meet Harry's eyes and Harry smirks. There's a glint of wild amusement in Nick's gaze. "Are you going to give me head to make me feel better about being called your father?"
"You're surprisingly quick for someone who's just gone through most of their alcohol supply. And for someone so old," Harry teases, taking the wine glass from Nick's fingers and moving it to the table. He starts to undo Nick's trousers with practiced ease, fingers popping open button after button, and pulls them down with the help of Nick raising his hips off the ground. He manages to get them all the way to Nick's knees, which will have to do for a pair of lazy fucks like the lot of them.
Harry lifts one of his own thighs and drapes it over Nick's lap, settling down lightly over Nick's shins. He holds onto both sides of Nick's neck and leans in at the same time he pulls him up into a kiss, licking his way into his mouth without hesitation, too familiar for any formalities. A quiet moan follows, but Harry's not sure if it's him or Nick or the both of them at once.
Nick curls his fingers into the thin fabric of Harry's oversized tee, bunching it upwards, kissing him back with just as much obscene warmth as the heat that's radiating off his pants. His cock begins to harden and he presses it upwards into Harry's stomach when Harry arches in to meet him halfway.
Harry laughs lightly into Nick's lips and Nick laughs as well, kissing the smile from Harry's lips.
"Definitely not my father," Harry murmurs into his mouth, and Nick makes a disgruntled sound that trails off into another laugh, as though the word itself was off-putting when they were in a state like this.
Harry bites into Nick's bottom lip and drags it outwards before letting it pop free, then kisses it back into place. His long fingers sneak their way into the slit of Nick's pants, urging his cock out by the base. He curls his hand around the glistening wet head and smears pre-cum over his length in a firm downward stroke before moving up again.
He feels his cock twitch when he hears Nick's small sound of approval. He glances down between them to look as he repeats the motion, this time twisting his hand as it finds its way all the way down to his base and up again. Harry's heart starts to race as he watches himself bring Nick to full mast; this is his favourite part of being with him -- the way that he can feel his excitement grow in his palm, wholly at his mercy. He revels in the way Nick's cock becomes heavier with every stroke, filling up his hand bit by bit, pushing his slender fingers further apart with its girth. A shiver runs down his spine at the sight.
Harry squeezes Nick lightly before shifting himself backwards, far enough that he can bend himself nearly in half. He rests his head against Nick's belly, lowering his lips over the head of his cock. He sucks it into the warmth of his mouth and moans at the bitter taste of him, swirling his tongue around the slit in lazy circles, then widens his lips experimentally and takes him in deeper, slow enough that he doesn't gag by the time Nick hits the back of his throat.
Harry swallows around him, letting his spit trickle slowly down Nick's base before curling a hand around it, wet with his saliva. He drags his mouth off of him bit by bit to kiss the tip of his cock and breathes against it.
"Fuck my throat," he murmurs hoarsely, and then he's all the way back down his cock before Nick can even moan his approval, hips twitching upwards in response.
Harry feels Nick's hand curled in the back of his hair within moments. He wriggles backwards so that Nick can maneuver himself to stand on his knees. Harry finds himself bent awkwardly on Nick's cock like this, but he's too gone to care, curling his hands around the backs of Nick's thighs. Nick thrusts in deep.
It never gets too rough. It's just rough enough that Harry's throat will feel and sound raw for a few hours after, but never rough enough to make Harry come undone. Harry has the tendency to turn pliant and submissive if he's manhandled hard enough, if his throat is abused, if he's pushed around, but with Nick, it always seems to stop just a notch before that, and Harry has been revelling in the in-between since they started doing this.
Harry digs his fingers in the back of Nick's thighs and lets him thrust in short strokes, fucking his throat, making Harry drool down his chin despite his best efforts to keep himself composed. Harry's cock presses painfully against the constraints of his trousers, and he has to sneak a hand between his own legs to squeeze lightly at the distraction.
"In or out?" Nick asks breathily, quiet as ever, but Harry hears him -- he's been expecting the question to come, after all. He moans around Nick and says in, but he's so far down Nick's cock that he's afraid Nick will misunderstand the muffled sound and pull out. His panic doesn't last long as Nick's fist tightens in his curls and presses his nose into his belly, coming in hot, lengthy spurts down his throat, making Harry cough and sputter momentarily before swallowing hard, taking a deep breath through his nose.
As soon as the last of his release is out of him, Nick loosens his fingers in Harry's hair, but Harry doesn't move to pull off. He leaves his mouth around Nick, stroking him with featherlight fingers as he sucks the last of his come out of him, swallowing it down.
He lifts off once Nick becomes too sensitive and licks his lips, gently tucking him away and doing up his jeans, smirking small as he meets his eyes.
"You're not old," Harry tells him matter-of-factly, as though the whole bloody blow job was just a demonstration of how young and fit Nick was.
Nick raises his eyebrows and says, "Old people get blow jobs, too, you know."
Harry laughs at that, takes Nick's hand and guides it down to his own cock, achingly hard, the ridge of it pressing against Nick's palm. "Well, then I must have a thing for geezers, mustn't I?"
Nick smirks and kisses Harry's lips, murmurs, "Dirty lad." He unbuttons Harry's trousers as the forgotten French film plays on behind them, the deep orange candle with red swirls burning away to the side, the glass of red wine sitting on the table, waiting for Harry to find his release before he and Nick share what's left of it, just like always.
Pairing: Harry/Nick (established relationship)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "I would've been nine, Hazza. Do you know what happens when you're nine? Nothing. You're still eating your own snot." The one where Nick is upset about being mistaken for Harry's father and Harry makes it up to him with his mouth. [On AO3]
"I'm still bothered by it," Nick says, apropos of nothing. He's hanging onto the glass of wine they'd been passing back and forth with lax fingers and staring at the telly with a pair of glazed over eyes.
The air is surprisingly crisp and cool in Nick's spotless apartment. It smells like cinnamon despite the amount of weed they'd burnt through in the past few hours, and Harry thinks the soft scent must be coming from the overpriced deep orange candle with red swirls that's burning away on the table to the side of them.
They're sat on the floor -- even though Nick's pristine white couch with patterned plush pillows is only a few feet away -- and they're watching one of Nick's obscure French films with dubious subtitles that he'd bought off eBay while drunk on chardonnay. The film was Nick's choice, of course, and so was the wine, so Harry's not too sure what could be bothering him at this point.
"You're still bothered by what, exactly?" Harry asks when Nick doesn't finish his thought of his own accord.
"The comment," Nick says with a touch of exasperation as he turns his gaze onto Harry's, as if it were painfully obvious. "I couldn't even be your father. That's not, like, scientifically possible. I would've been nine, Hazza. Do you know what happens when you're nine? Nothing. You're still eating your own snot."
A smile finds its way onto Harry's lips, curving them up to one side as he huffs out a raspy laugh. "You're really still thinking about that? It was hours ago, Grimmy."
"Yes, I'm still thinking about it! I'm well fit. I moisturize nightly, I sleep an average of eight hours a day, I even went for a treatment at the spa last week with Alexa, cleared out my pores and all that. Nine years old, I would've been. That's all I'm saying. At worst, I could've been ten, but even then--"
"Nick," Harry says, interrupting him from going any further as he shifts onto his palms, crawling the small distance between them. He settles onto his knees and curls a hand against the side of Nick's neck, leaning in to press a kiss to his ear, then just below it, then to the vein pushing out on edge of his throat, lips pressed to his pulse. Harry can feel Nick tilt back to give him more access, so he breathes warmly against his skin. "You're not my father."
Nick's eyes have fallen shut by the time he mutters, "Well, clearly, but--"
"Nick," Harry says again, and this time Nick gasps, shoulders going momentarily taut as Harry's hand finds its way to his groin, palming him slowly through the rough denim of his trousers, rubbing his hand up and down the length of his cock. "You're well fit."
Nick tilts his head to meet Harry's eyes and Harry smirks. There's a glint of wild amusement in Nick's gaze. "Are you going to give me head to make me feel better about being called your father?"
"You're surprisingly quick for someone who's just gone through most of their alcohol supply. And for someone so old," Harry teases, taking the wine glass from Nick's fingers and moving it to the table. He starts to undo Nick's trousers with practiced ease, fingers popping open button after button, and pulls them down with the help of Nick raising his hips off the ground. He manages to get them all the way to Nick's knees, which will have to do for a pair of lazy fucks like the lot of them.
Harry lifts one of his own thighs and drapes it over Nick's lap, settling down lightly over Nick's shins. He holds onto both sides of Nick's neck and leans in at the same time he pulls him up into a kiss, licking his way into his mouth without hesitation, too familiar for any formalities. A quiet moan follows, but Harry's not sure if it's him or Nick or the both of them at once.
Nick curls his fingers into the thin fabric of Harry's oversized tee, bunching it upwards, kissing him back with just as much obscene warmth as the heat that's radiating off his pants. His cock begins to harden and he presses it upwards into Harry's stomach when Harry arches in to meet him halfway.
Harry laughs lightly into Nick's lips and Nick laughs as well, kissing the smile from Harry's lips.
"Definitely not my father," Harry murmurs into his mouth, and Nick makes a disgruntled sound that trails off into another laugh, as though the word itself was off-putting when they were in a state like this.
Harry bites into Nick's bottom lip and drags it outwards before letting it pop free, then kisses it back into place. His long fingers sneak their way into the slit of Nick's pants, urging his cock out by the base. He curls his hand around the glistening wet head and smears pre-cum over his length in a firm downward stroke before moving up again.
He feels his cock twitch when he hears Nick's small sound of approval. He glances down between them to look as he repeats the motion, this time twisting his hand as it finds its way all the way down to his base and up again. Harry's heart starts to race as he watches himself bring Nick to full mast; this is his favourite part of being with him -- the way that he can feel his excitement grow in his palm, wholly at his mercy. He revels in the way Nick's cock becomes heavier with every stroke, filling up his hand bit by bit, pushing his slender fingers further apart with its girth. A shiver runs down his spine at the sight.
Harry squeezes Nick lightly before shifting himself backwards, far enough that he can bend himself nearly in half. He rests his head against Nick's belly, lowering his lips over the head of his cock. He sucks it into the warmth of his mouth and moans at the bitter taste of him, swirling his tongue around the slit in lazy circles, then widens his lips experimentally and takes him in deeper, slow enough that he doesn't gag by the time Nick hits the back of his throat.
Harry swallows around him, letting his spit trickle slowly down Nick's base before curling a hand around it, wet with his saliva. He drags his mouth off of him bit by bit to kiss the tip of his cock and breathes against it.
"Fuck my throat," he murmurs hoarsely, and then he's all the way back down his cock before Nick can even moan his approval, hips twitching upwards in response.
Harry feels Nick's hand curled in the back of his hair within moments. He wriggles backwards so that Nick can maneuver himself to stand on his knees. Harry finds himself bent awkwardly on Nick's cock like this, but he's too gone to care, curling his hands around the backs of Nick's thighs. Nick thrusts in deep.
It never gets too rough. It's just rough enough that Harry's throat will feel and sound raw for a few hours after, but never rough enough to make Harry come undone. Harry has the tendency to turn pliant and submissive if he's manhandled hard enough, if his throat is abused, if he's pushed around, but with Nick, it always seems to stop just a notch before that, and Harry has been revelling in the in-between since they started doing this.
Harry digs his fingers in the back of Nick's thighs and lets him thrust in short strokes, fucking his throat, making Harry drool down his chin despite his best efforts to keep himself composed. Harry's cock presses painfully against the constraints of his trousers, and he has to sneak a hand between his own legs to squeeze lightly at the distraction.
"In or out?" Nick asks breathily, quiet as ever, but Harry hears him -- he's been expecting the question to come, after all. He moans around Nick and says in, but he's so far down Nick's cock that he's afraid Nick will misunderstand the muffled sound and pull out. His panic doesn't last long as Nick's fist tightens in his curls and presses his nose into his belly, coming in hot, lengthy spurts down his throat, making Harry cough and sputter momentarily before swallowing hard, taking a deep breath through his nose.
As soon as the last of his release is out of him, Nick loosens his fingers in Harry's hair, but Harry doesn't move to pull off. He leaves his mouth around Nick, stroking him with featherlight fingers as he sucks the last of his come out of him, swallowing it down.
He lifts off once Nick becomes too sensitive and licks his lips, gently tucking him away and doing up his jeans, smirking small as he meets his eyes.
"You're not old," Harry tells him matter-of-factly, as though the whole bloody blow job was just a demonstration of how young and fit Nick was.
Nick raises his eyebrows and says, "Old people get blow jobs, too, you know."
Harry laughs at that, takes Nick's hand and guides it down to his own cock, achingly hard, the ridge of it pressing against Nick's palm. "Well, then I must have a thing for geezers, mustn't I?"
Nick smirks and kisses Harry's lips, murmurs, "Dirty lad." He unbuttons Harry's trousers as the forgotten French film plays on behind them, the deep orange candle with red swirls burning away to the side, the glass of red wine sitting on the table, waiting for Harry to find his release before he and Nick share what's left of it, just like always.