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“Harry what the fuck are you supposed to be?”
Turning to Niall with a frown, Harry places her hands straight down at her sides. “What do I look like?”
“Honestly, no clue. The hair reminds me of… something. Bride of Frankenstein?”
Harry pouts and huffs. “Niall, Bride of Frankenstein’s hair is black with big white streaks! And she wears all black too. I look nothing like her!” She turns back to the full length mirror in frustration to examine herself.
“Well excuse me for not always getting your obscure pop culture references, Harry,” Niall replies. “I’m sure you look exactly like what you’re going for, whatever it is.”
“I’m not obscure, Niall! I’m a fucking broom! Can’t get much less obscure.”
“A broom?” Niall’s laughter booms through the flat and Harry’s annoyance doesn’t stand a chance against it.
“I guess it’s not exactly obvious without context,” she finally admits as their laughter subsides.
“And what might that context be, pet? You meeting up with a sexy roomba?”
Harry laughs again and shakes her head, suddenly remembering that she should maybe be embarrassed about her plans for tonight.
“Harry?” Niall asks, drawing out her name and tilting her head. “What are you up to?”
There’s little point trying to hide anything from Niall. She’s relentless and far too charming to resist. “Fine!” Harry relents, dramatically flouncing to the couch and collapsing before grabbing her phone from the coffee table and pulling up the screenshot she’d taken of Zayn’s costume sneak peak. She hands the phone over to Niall and looks down at her lap, sheepishly biting her bottom lip as she waits for Niall to mock her.
“She looks hot,” is what Niall says instead.
Harry jerks her head up to protest. Not that Zayn looks hot – she looks extremely hot; it’s why Harry had scrapped all her previous costume ideas within 2 seconds of seeing the picture and decided to try to throw something together to go with Zayn’s witch – but that Niall sounds a little too into the fact that Zayn is hot. The ire drains right out of her, though, the second she sees Niall’s smirk.
“Just love your jealous face so much,” Niall laughs. “It’s adorable. And so easy to pull out.”
“It’s not adorable,” Harry protests. “It’s sexy.”
Niall laughs. “Whatever you say, pet. Although, it might be less sexy than you think when your hair looks like you’ve been electrocuted and you’re dressed like a stick.”
Harry pouts again and fiddles with the gold chain headband that’s wrapped around her forehead before she remembers her face full of makeup. “Shit,” she mutters, and runs back to the mirror to check she hasn’t mussed it too much.
She thinks she’s done quite well in a pinch, actually. Ok, yes, she does look like a stick. A broomstick, thank you very much, Niall. A broomstick in a nude-colored tank top and hot pants that show off her assets in a very flattering way, she thinks. Plus she’d gotten some blonde-ish spray dye for her hair to lighten it up and had moussed and hairsprayed the hell out of it to get it to stand all on end (with the help of some lightweight wire), which she thinks is somehow actually kind of hot in a strange, punk-adjacent way. And she happens to think that painting her face to match her fake-straw hair, and wrapping the gold across her forehead and all the way around was a brilliant touch.
“You do look quite like a broom, now I know that’s what you are,” Niall calls from the kitchen, where she’s apparently moved on from tormenting Harry about her crush on Zayn long enough to seek out snacks. “Kind of impressive, actually.”
“Thank you, Niall,” Harry says, her mood lifting immediately and emphatically. “You think Zayn will like it?”
“I think Zayn likes you, love. And despite your baffling nervousness around her after having literally snogged her twice and fondled her once–”
“Niall!”
“Am I lying?”
“No,” Harry huffs.
“Right, so. Despite your inexplicable uncertainty, Zayn would love literally anything you showed up in tonight.”
“You don’t think she’ll be freaked that I basically hijacked her into a couples costume when she didn’t even tell me what she’s planning to go as?”
“First of all,” Niall says, shutting the fridge and walking herself and her string cheese back towards Harry, “I have no doubt that Zayn posted that picture online specifically so you’d see it. And second, yes, if we were talking about someone you only had some unrequited crush on, this would be a… bold choice, and I’d either try to talk you out of it or handcuff you to the couch until November 1st. But there’s a definite line between creepy and romantic, and I’d say you and Zayn crossed that line the second time her tongue was down your throat and your hand was up her shirt.
“Niall!”
“Better get going, pet,” Niall says, air kissing Harry’s cheek and smacking her ass before twirling away and walking towards her room. “It’s gonna take me a while to get ready. I’ll just see you there!”
Harry’s just wondering if her heated flush is visible beneath her face makeup when Niall spins back towards her and adds, “that is, if you and your witchy girlfriend haven’t receded to an empty bedroom before I’ve even arrived.”
Niall’s cackle and slamming door would drown out any rebuttal, so Harry doesn’t even bother. She just gathers her things, takes a final look at herself in the full length mirror, and heads out with a deep breath and a sparkle in her chest.
_/\_
Harry regrets her costume the moment she steps foot in the party.
It’s already crowded and everywhere Harry looks is someone who makes her feel ridiculous. Fancy-dressed to the nines. All beautiful or extravagant or both. All in costumes that are either clearly identifiable or too sexy for it to matter.
She’s just about to let her panicky doubt get the best of her and order her right back out the door she just stepped through when she hears her.
It’s just a giggle, but Harry would know it anywhere. Even over the pounding base. Over the din of multiple rooms’ worth of conversations and dancing and off-key singing.
Zayn’s here.
So Harry’s not going anywhere.
It doesn’t take long to find her, following her laughter and her half of the conversation she’s in like a bloodhound who’d just picked up a scent trail. The moment she does, the moment they lock eyes, Harry’s flooded with doubt yet again.
Because the picture Zayn had posted hadn’t done her even a sliver of justice.
She’s breathtaking.
Literally. And not in slow motion, but all at once. Sharp. Painful, even.
But the pain is exquisite. Just like Zayn is.
Sharp angles cut with just enough hints of softness to be inviting to people who’ve been welcomed in before.
Darkness and sparkle and mirth and severity.
She’s unmistakably dressed as a witch, but Harry could swear she’s staring at a goddamn angel.
“You made it,” Zayn says, walking between the two people she’d been talking to and stepping towards Harry like there isn’t a single other person in the room.
And Harry’s doubt melts away just like that. “I made it.”
“You look amazing, babes. Just perfect.” Zayn leans in to half-whisper the praise in Harry’s ear, her long fake lashes brushing against Harry’s neck, prompting goose bumps to prickle her exposed arms.
Maybe she just didn’t want her compliment to get lost in the swirl of music and shouted greetings, but Harry doesn’t care. She allows herself to ascribe meaning to the proximity. Lets it embolden her.
“Well,” she says, her voice warbling more than she’d hoped, but still loud enough to hold Zayn’s attention, “I saw what you planned to wear, and just thought it looked like you might need a ride at some point.”
Harry’s never thought the phrase “wicked smile” made any sense, but when Zayn pulls back enough for Harry to see her face, that’s exactly what Harry’s met with. And it sends a zing down her spine that has her standing up so straight she’s practically cosplaying at this point.
“Dance with me?” Zayn asks, and Harry has no idea whether she actually nods in response because the second Zayn wraps her arm around Harry’s waist and pulls her close, Harry’s brain fills with static.
A lovely, pleasant static that blurs all the people around them but keeps every inch of Zayn crystal clear. It mutes the music just enough that Harry can hear the soothing, steady pounding of her heart in her ears but still follow the beat of the song – though she’d be able to follow the rhythm of Zayn’s hips regardless.
Her nerves are buzzing, making her skin feel as though it’s less a protective barrier between her and the rest of the world and more a soft mesh. Except for the places where her skin is touching Zayn’s – Zayn’s finger teasing her back in the space where the bottom hem of her top meets the waist of her shorts, Zayn’s lips faintly brushing Harry’s ear as Harry’s own mouth ghosts the side of Zayn’s neck while her interlocked fingers hold fast to the back. At each of those points, the sensation is precise. Solid. Heated and alive.
Zayn kisses Harry’s jaw and suddenly, the buzzing stills. The room snaps into focus. Harry’s mind is clear.
“Take me upstairs.”
She’d meant to ask, but she’s quite glad she hasn’t. Because Zayn pulls back and there’s that grin again. That smirk.
The warmth where their bodies are still pressed together sparks and Harry wonders if she’s somehow made herself more flammable, dressed as wood.
“You’re done dancing, are you?” Zayn asks, a playful glint in her amber eyes.
“Well,” Harry replies, moving her hands from behind Zayn’s neck to her hips, stilling them both with a squeeze. “This doesn’t really work as a couple’s costume when we’re both standing upright.”
“This is a couple’s costume, eh?”
The Harry from earlier tonight might have balked at Zayn’s teasing question, receded to safety. Maybe even run away. But Zayn’s stare is too steady. Her finger on Harry’s jaw, where her lips had just been, far too soft.
“It can be. If you’d take me upstairs and get me horizontal so you can actually ride me like a proper broomstick.”
Zayn doesn’t have a teasing reply to that. She just raises an eyebrow and turns, grabbing Harry’s hand and pulling her off the dance floor and up the stairs.
They don’t even bother undressing, and Harry’s thrilled. Her short shorts hadn’t been an accident, and it turns out Zayn had dressed with intention as well, skipping out on panties and wearing thigh highs rather than full hose.
Harry had been ready to beg for Zayn to ride her thigh, but it hadn’t been anywhere close to necessary. She’d simply laid herself out on the bed as Zayn had turned the light on and locked the door. And when Zayn had turned to face her, raking her eyes up and down Harry’s body as she walked to the bed, Harry had simply asked.
“Wanna go for a ride?”
Harry'd half-expected Zayn to giggle, roll her eyes even. But instead, she'd nodded, licking her bottom lip as she kneed onto the bed near Harry’s feet.
Niall had been right that Harry had kissed Zayn before. Properly and thoroughly. And she’d been right that they’d explored each other’s bodies a bit as well. So Harry knows how perfectly Zayn’s breasts fit in her hands. And she knows how soft and nimble Zayn’s fingers feel pressing into the flesh of her own tits and hips.
But they hadn’t yet gotten each other lying down.
So Harry had never seen how stunning Zayn looks crawling up her body. How she could look needy and strong at once. Ferocious and hopeful.
And she could never have fucking imagined how perfect Zayn’s plush, slick pussy would feel when it first settled on her thigh. How gorgeously their moans would swirl together as Zayn started rocking back and forth, her wetness spreading across Harry’s leg, easing the glide as she begins to ride Harry’s leg in earnest.
Harry tenses her thigh muscles to give Zayn a more solid surface and Zayn speeds up in response, leaning forward and grabbing Harry’s tits, more for her own balance than Harry’s pleasure, but Harry doesn’t care, happy to be useful as Zayn chases her orgasm. Harry watches Zayn, eyes roving her face – her expression a mix of serene and determined – torn between wanting to pull her down to taste her lips and continue watching her silently from below.
“Fuck,” Zayn gasps, and Harry thinks she’s simply found the perfect rhythm, that the friction on her clit has begun to send pointed heat to her core. But instead, Zayn slows to a stop rather suddenly and Harry worries something’s wrong. Before she can ask, though, Zayn opens her eyes and steals Harry’s breath with her stare. “Facing the wrong way, aren’t I? We should make this more realistic, bristles in the back, innit?”
Zayn’s wink startles a gasp from Harry but she can’t come up with a clever reply before Zayn’s turned around, repositioning herself on Harry’s thigh, this time with her back to Harry. Before she starts writhing again, she twists enough so she can smile at Harry, pursing her lips into a kiss and scrunching her nose before she turns away again, pulling her skirt up to reveal her arse as she does.
Harry’s hands are drawn to Zayn’s supple cheeks as though they’re magnetised and when she grips them, a stuttered moan tumbles from Zayn’s lips and she begins riding Harry once again.
She puts on a show for Harry, and Harry’s rapt. But not so caught up that she can’t pay acute attention to every sound Zayn makes. Every twitch of her back. Every clench of her cunt.
So, though they’ve never done this before together, Harry’s quite sure she knows when they reach the moments before Zayn’s orgasm will hit.
Time for her treat of a trick.
They’re off the bed before Zayn realises. Her eyes are probably closed, Harry thinks with a smile. So she won’t be scared.
But her body can probably sense it. That something’s not quite right.
Her legs and her feet probably notice the absence of the bedding, that they’re dangling from Harry’s form. Even if her brain hasn’t quite caught up.
If she were to open her eyes, with the way her head is titled back, she’d notice the ceiling is much closure than it had been. Than it ought to be.
“What the fuck? Harry!”
There it is.
Zayn startles, and begins to lose her balance – though Harry knows she won’t fall – instinctually clenching around Harry’s thigh, just as Harry’d known she would. She cries out and releases a gush of slick warmth, just as Harry’d hoped she would.
“Fuck,” Zayn rasps, heaving through her climax, bent over Harry’s legs as Harry slowly brings them back to the bed, gently petting Zayn’s back.
Zayn scrambles to turn around as soon as they’re safely settled and Harry tenses, worried she’s gone too far. That she should have warned Zayn. Should have asked her first.
But Zayn doesn’t look angry. Or scared.
She looks hungry.
She crawls back up Harry’s body and captures Harry in a heated kiss, her tongue demanding entrance immediately. Harry grants it, and gives up any pretence of keeping up, just letting Zayn take what she wants.
When Zayn pulls back long enough to demand Harry tell her what the fuck that was, she doesn’t let Harry answer, instead diving back in to kiss her some more. Eventually, she breaks their kiss again and all Harry can manage in the moment is, “witch.”
Zayn pulls back more fully, looking a bit mad, what with her heaving chest and tilted head. “Yes, I’m a witch, Harry.”
“You’re dressed as a witch, Zayn. That’s not the same. Not what I meant.”
“Are you telling me–”
This time Harry surges up, kissing the question off Zayn’s lips. For now at least. Just for a moment. Just in case it’s the last moment like this. The last Harry has with her.
Zayn places her hand on Harry’s chest, pushing her back to the bed, breaking their kiss and Harry’s heart, too.
But instead of jumping off Harry and storming out of the room, instead of freaking out or going silent or any other possibility Harry’s feared since the moment she considered letting Zayn in, Zayn just smiles coyly and snakes her hand down Harry’s torso until it reaches the waist of Harry’s shorts.
“May I?” Zayn asks, and Harry’s eyes go wide.
She manages to nod. “Are you sure? Do you– I mean, you’re alright? With me–”
“Harry,” Zayn says, leaning down to press a kiss to Harry’s lips, softer than any have been tonight. “I’m sure that you’re amazing. And that I want you.”
“You too. Me too,” Harry whispers, and Zayn’s smile fills her face.
“And I’m also sure,” she continues, as her fingers slink beneath the fabric of Harry’s panties and reach between her throbbing, wet lips, “that since our costumes should clearly be switched, it’s time I be the one to sweep you off your feet.”