Chapter 2: Steam and Memories: Zayn's Shower-Stall Fantasies
The shower hissed, a weak, spitting stream that never got truly hot. Zayn braced his forearm against the cracked tile, the cool ceramic a shock against his skin. He let the water beat down on the back of his neck, trying to loosen the knot of yesterday’s fight and this morning’s tense silence. His body was a catalogue of aches. But underneath the fatigue, a different kind of tension hummed, low and persistent.
He closed his eyes. The water sluiced over his shoulders, down the line of his spine. His right hand, the knuckles still angry and split, drifted down his stomach. His fingers circled his cock, already half-hard from the memory alone. From last week.
It had been a fucking good night. A rare alignment of planets. He’d won the fight—quick, brutal, a second-round knockout that left his hands clean enough. And Eli… Eli had met him at the door with a smile that didn’t look worried, just hungry. Sherry from the library had “found” an extra book of food stamps in a returned textbook, she’d said with a wink. They’d had real groceries. A steak, even. Eli had cooked, humming to some melody only he could hear perfectly through that sleek hearing aid.
And after, Eli had disappeared into the corner by the dresser and came back wearing them.
Black silk panties from Ross. Cheap, probably, but on him… fuck. They were a stark contrast to his soft skin, the lace stretched taut over his hips, the pouch at the front doing little to conceal the shape of him. Zayn’s breath had just left his body, a knockout punch of a different kind.
“You like ‘em?” Eli had asked, his voice soft but his chin lifted, a challenge in his hazel eyes.
Zayn hadn’t answered with words. He’d crossed the room, his hands finding Eli’s waist, his thumbs hooking into the delicate silk at his hips. He’d kissed him, deep and filthy, and walked him backward until Eli’s knees hit the futon. He hadn’t taken them off. That was the point. He’d just pushed Eli onto his stomach, yanked his own jeans down, and spit into his hand, slicking himself up roughly.
The first thrust made Eli cry out, a sharp, surprised sound that melted into a long, ragged moan. Zayn fucked him just like that, with the black silk still on, the lace digging into Eli’s hips, the material growing damp with sweat. Eli moaned loud. He never did that. He was usually quiet, stifled, a habit from a childhood spent in a house where any sound could draw the wrong kind of attention. But that night… that night he was loud. Each snap of Zayn’s hips punched another broken ‘fuck’ from his lips, each one feeding something primal and possessive in Zayn’s gut. He owned this. This sound, this surrender, this pretty boy in fucking silk panties coming apart under him.
They went three rounds that night. Like the fight, but better. Deeper. The second time, Eli on his back, legs hooked over Zayn’s shoulders, those panties stretched obscenely, soaked through with come and sweat. Zayn came so much inside him, painting his guts, it had leaked out afterward, dripping down Eli’s trembling thighs when he finally stood up. The third time was slow, desperate, a grinding, aching conclusion that left them both wrecked.
But it was Eli’s face Zayn remembered most. His eyes. They’d gone distant, soft, unfocused. The longer Zayn thrusted, the deeper Eli slipped away, into that quiet headspace where nothing existed but sensation. Subspace. Eli had murmured the word once, shyly. It meant he was present. It meant he liked it. It wasn’t an escape from something, but an escape into feeling. It meant he trusted Zayn completely to take him there, to keep him safe while he fell apart. That trust was a fucking nuclear bomb in Zayn’s chest, more powerful than any victory, any cash. It made him feel like a god and a guardian all at once.
In the shower, the memory was a live wire. His fist moved faster, rougher. The water stung his broken knuckles, the pain a bright, sharp counterpoint to the building pleasure. He pictured it—the ripped lace, the sheen of sweat on Eli’s back, the helpless clench of his hole, the way his moans had climbed to a sobbing pitch. Zayn’s breath came in harsh grunts, echoing off the shower walls. He thumbed over the leaking head of his cock, spreading the pre-cum, the filthy slide perfect under the spray.
“Fuck,” he gritted out, his forehead now pressed to his tattooed forearm. “Fuck, Eli.”
His balls tightened, a fierce, drawing-up sensation. His hips jerked forward into his own tight fist. The climax ripped through him, raw and blinding, shooting thick stripes of semen against the grimy tile where they were immediately washed away, down the drain with the soap and the memory and the lingering shame from the blood on the pillowcase. He rode it out, shivering, until he was just a man leaning against a wall, empty and spent.
The water ran cold. He shut it off.
The silence in the loft was profound. Dripping water. The hum of the fridge. His own breathing slowing. He stepped out, the frayed curtain clinging to his damp skin. He grabbed a thin towel and rubbed it over his head, his body humming with a residual, grateful peace. The memory had done its job. It had temporarily erased the tension, the phone buzzing on the table, the future. It was just a good memory. A perfect night.
He pulled on clean boxers and jeans, moving with a lighter stiffness. He avoided looking at his phone. He made another coffee. He stared at the pillowcase, still hanging over the chair, the stain now a faint, ghostly watermark. Sodium percarbonate. He’d pick some up later.
The image of Eli’s gone, trusting eyes floated back. That was real. That was his. Everything else—the fights, the money, the ghost of his father—was just noise. For now, he could hold onto the quiet. He had to believe there would be more nights like that one, more reasons to fight for the quiet instead of with his fists. The texts could wait. The world could wait. For this moment, the steam still clearing from the mirror, he was clean.
For this moment, the steam still clearing from the mirror, he was clean.
He wrapped the towel around his waist and padded into the main room. The memory of Eli in those black panties, so fucking loud and present, was a warmth in his chest. It always was. That hadn’t happened overnight, though. Getting Eli to that point, to that unselfconscious noise, had been a slow unfurling. Zayn’s gaze drifted to the futon, not seeing the duct tape or the sag, but seeing a much younger Eli curled into a ball of pure, flustered embarrassment.
It was maybe two months in. They were tangled up after a different kind of sweat, Zayn still breathing hard, Eli quiet as a mouse against his side. Zayn, feeling proud and possessive, had nuzzled into his neck.
“Christ, you wreck me,” Zayn had murmured, his voice hoarse. “I’ll be jerking off to this for a week.”
Eli had gone utterly still. Not a good still. A stiff, frozen still. Then he’d made a small, distressed noise and tried to roll away. Zayn held him fast.
“Hey. What?”
“Nothing.” Eli’s voice was muffled against the pillow.
“The hell it is. Talk.” Zayn propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at the profile of Eli’s face, his eyes tightly shut. A horrible thought dawned. “Shit. Are you… are you not into that? Me thinking about you like that?”
“No! I am. I just…” Eli trailed off, his cheeks flaming. “It’s stupid.”
“Nothing you feel is stupid.” Zayn’s tone left no room for argument. He waited.
Eli finally opened his eyes, looking everywhere but at Zayn. “It’s just… you think about me… like that? When I’m not there?”
“All the fucking time.” Zayn said it like it was the most obvious truth in the world. “Don’t you?”
Eli’s blush deepened. He swallowed. “I don’t… I haven’t.”
“Haven’t what?”
“I’ve never… done that.” The confession was a whisper, shamed and small. “Touched myself like that. Thinking of someone.”
The pieces slammed together in Zayn’s mind. The hyper-religious household. The shame woven into the idea of desire itself. Eli had spent years being told his very nature was a sin, and he’d internalized it so deeply he’d denied himself even the private fantasy of pleasure. A slow-burning fury, protective and fierce, ignited in Zayn’s gut. Not on his watch.
“Okay,” Zayn said, his voice shifting into a low, deliberate calm. He lay back down, pulling Eli firmly against his chest, wrapping his arms around him. Eli was tense, a coiled spring of embarrassment. “We’re fixing that right now.”
“Zayn, no—”
“Yes.” He kissed the top of Eli’s head. “You’re not doing it alone. I’m right here. You’re safe. Nothing you do with me is wrong, you hear me? Especially this.” His hand smoothed down Eli’s arm, his own tattoos a stark contrast against Eli’s unmarked skin. He guided Eli’s hand down, under the sheet, over the soft cotton of his boxers. Eli’s fingers trembled violently. “Just rest your hand there. Breathe.”
He could feel Eli’s heart hammering against his own ribs. He kept talking, his voice a steady, warm rumble in the dark room. “Remember how I touched you earlier? That slow circle with my thumb? Do that for yourself. Through the fabric first. Just get used to it.”
A shaky inhale. Then Eli’s hand moved, a tiny, tentative rub. Zayn praised him instantly. “Yeah, just like that. Good. So good.” He kept one arm anchored around Eli’s shoulders, his other hand stroking his hip. “Think about where my mouth was. Think about how I sucked you. Imagine it’s my mouth on you right now.”
Eli’s breathing hitched. His movements grew less hesitant, the friction a little firmer. A soft, ragged sigh escaped him. “Zayn…”
“I know, baby. I know. It feels good, right? That’s yours. That feeling belongs to you.” Zayn’s voice was gravel and honey. “Slide your hand under the waistband now. Go on.”
Eli’s fingers hooked into the elastic, pausing. Zayn nuzzled his ear. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.” Eli obeyed, his cool fingers brushing his own stomach, then lower, until his hand was curled around himself. A sharp gasp tore from his throat.
“That’s it. Wrap your fingers around. Just feel how hard you are for me.” Zayn’s own body was responding, but this wasn’t about him. This was about watching Eli discover a continent of his own body. “Now move. Slow. Up and down. Picture my fist doing it. Picture my mouth.”
Eli’s hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. His strokes were clumsy, uncoordinated, but they were happening. The rhythm was born of pure, unadulterated sensation, not technique. His breath came in puffs against Zayn’s collarbone, warm and quickening.
“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” Zayn whispered, his lips against Eli’s temple. “Taking what you want. Using my voice to get yourself off. That’s so hot, Eli. You have no idea.” He felt Eli shudder, a full-body tremble. The pace of his hand increased, the slick sounds under the sheet becoming unmistakable. “You close? You gonna come for me thinking about my mouth?”
Eli made a choked, desperate sound, half a sob, and went rigid. His whole body clenched, his back arching off the mattress as he came over his own fingers with a broken cry. The waves seemed to go on and on, wracking him, leaving him trembling and breathless in Zayn’s arms.
Zayn held him through all of it, through the aftershocks and the sudden, shy retreat. He kissed his sweaty hair. “See?” he murmured, his own voice thick with emotion. “That’s yours. You can have that anytime. You deserve that.”
Now, years later, the man who’d been that shy boy was working a closing shift at the library, conquering textbooks. Zayn looked at the pillowcase, at the ghost of his own violence, and then at his buzzing phone. He picked it up.
Three texts from Rico. The first two were about a backed-up toilet at the gym. The third read: Heard about Fri. Big Rick from Bayonne is looking for a warm-up for his new kid. 750. Clean fight. You in?
Seven hundred and fifty dollars. More than the drywall job would pay. It would wipe the hearing-aid payment for two months. It would buy groceries that weren’t rice and beans. It would be a cushion. A breath.
Zayn’s thumb hovered over the screen. He saw the blood on the pillowcase. He saw Eli’s exhausted eyes this morning. Then he saw Eli’s face in that flashback, awash with a newfound, personal pleasure, trusting Zayn to guide him into it. That trust was the most valuable thing he’d ever been given.
He typed a single word. When?
The reply was immediate. Two weeks. I’ll get details.
Zayn put the phone down, screen against the table. He got up, took the pillowcase from the chair, and balled it in his fist. He walked to the door, shoved his feet into his boots, and went out into the fading afternoon to find sodium percarbonate. He would clean the stain. He would make dinner. He would pick Eli up from work. He would not mention the text. Not tonight.
The fight was two weeks away. For now, he would choose the quiet. He would choose the man who had learned to touch himself to the sound of his voice. He would hold onto that, and to the fragile hope that maybe, this time, the money would be enough to finally stop the cycle. The door swung shut behind him, locking in the quiet, the decision already sitting heavy in his pocket next to his keys.
The door swung shut behind him, locking in the quiet, the decision already sitting heavy in his pocket next to his keys. The bodega’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, harsh against the creeping dusk. Zayn found the sodium percarbonate next to the bleach, the powder in a generic white tub.
“That shit really work?” he asked old Mani behind the counter.
Mani shrugged, his eyes on a small TV playing telenovelas. “For blood? Sometimes. You gotta soak it cold first. Hot water sets the stain.”
Zayn nodded, tossing the tub on the counter with a pack of gum. The routine of it, the domestic problem with a simple solution, was calming. Outside, the streetlights flickered on, casting long, distorted shadows of fire escapes onto the wet pavement. He walked the long way home, past the gym. The CLOSED sign was up, but he could see Rico inside, mopping. He didn’t stop.
The loft was dark when he returned. He filled the sink with cold water, sprinkled in the powder, and submerged the pillowcase. He watched the water turn a faint, cloudy pink. Mani was right. The ghost of the stain seemed to loosen, to bleed out into the solution. A small victory. He left it to soak.
The drywall job on Seventh was tedious, mindless work. Tape, mud, sand, repeat. The dust coated his throat and clung to his eyelashes, a fine, white grit. His knuckles ached with each press of the trowel, a raw reminder. He worked silently alongside two other guys, the radio crackling classic rock. He thought of Eli’s mid-term, of the careful way he highlighted his textbooks. He thought of seven hundred and fifty dollars. The money was a physical weight, a magnet pulling his thoughts back to the warehouse, the lights, the adrenaline that felt like clarity.
He picked up Eli at nine-fifteen, idling the beat-up Civic outside the library’s limestone steps. Eli emerged under the arched light, a silhouette with a overstuffed backpack. He slid into the passenger seat, bringing with him the smell of old paper and crisp autumn air.
“Long one?” Zayn asked, leaning over to kiss him, tasting the cold on his lips.
“Endless returns.” Eli sighed, buckling in. “But I finished the problem sets for stats during my break. How was the mud?”
“Dusty. Fucking boring.” Zayn put the car in gear. “Hungry?”
“Starving. I got ground beef. Thought we could do chili.”
“Yeah? Sounds good.”
The loft felt different with Eli in it. Warmer. The single bulb seemed brighter. Eli shrugged off his sweater, removed his hearing aid with a practiced pinch, and set it carefully in its charging case on the shelf. The quiet that followed was a comfortable one, a mutual shedding of the day’s noise. Zayn watched him move to the kitchenette, the efficient way he browned the meat, chopped an onion. This was the center. This right here.
They ate from mismatched bowls on the futon, knees touching. The chili was spicy, beans soft. Eli talked about a patron who’d tried to check out a reference book, his hands animated. Zayn listened, scraping his bowl clean. The decision in his pocket felt like a lie. He pushed the thought down.
“You’re quiet,” Eli said, nudging Zayn’s foot with his own.
“Just tired. From the dust.” Zayn set his bowl aside. “Come here.”
Eli came, settling sideways into Zayn’s lap. Zayn wrapped his arms around him, burying his face in the soft cotton at Eli’s neck. He breathed him in—chili, soap, that unique Eli-scent underneath. His hands slid under Eli’s t-shirt, palms skating over the smooth skin of his back, feeling the knobs of his spine. He could feel Eli’s heartbeat against his own.
“I cleaned the pillowcase,” Zayn murmured into his skin.
Eli’s body softened further. “Yeah?”
“Soaking. Looks better.”
It was an apology. An offering. Eli turned his head, found Zayn’s mouth in a slow, deep kiss. It tasted like comfort, like home. Zayn’s hands grew more possessive, sliding around to cradle Eli’s ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of his pectorals. He broke the kiss, breathing hard.
“Bed,” Zayn said, the word rough.
They moved to the futon, a synchronized shuffle of limbs and discarded clothes. The overhead bulb was too bright, too clinical. Zayn left it on. He wanted to see. He pushed Eli onto his back, the mattress springs groaning in familiar protest. He knelt over him, drinking in the sight: Eli flushed, half-hard already, his curls a mess on the thin pillow, his eyes dark and waiting.
Zayn kissed a trail down his chest, his stomach, his tongue dipping into his navel. Eli hissed, his fingers threading into Zayn’s hair. Zayn moved lower, taking him into his mouth all at once, swallowing him down to the root. Eli cried out, a sharp, unfiltered sound that went straight to Zayn’s cock.
“Fuck, Zayn… oh, god.” Eli’s hips twitched upward.
Zayn worked him with a wet, relentless rhythm, his own need a sharpening knife in his gut. He sucked hard, using his tongue in rough, flat strokes along the sensitive vein underneath. He could feel Eli trembling, his thighs tense. He pulled off with a filthy, wet sound.
“Not yet,” Zayn growled. He reached for the lube on the floor beside the futon, slicking his fingers. He pushed one inside Eli without preamble, working him open with a focused, driving urgency. Eli moaned, back arching, heels digging into the mattress.
“More,” Eli breathed, his head thrashing side to side. “Please.”
Zayn added a second finger, scissoring him, searching. He curled his fingers and Eli jolted, a ragged shout tearing from his throat. “There! Right there, fuck, don’t stop—”
Zayn didn’t stop. He fucked him with his fingers, stretching him, watching his face dissolve into pure, shattered sensation. Eli’s cock leaked against his stomach, a bead of pre-cum glistening in the harsh light. When a third finger slid in alongside the others, Eli came with a choked, surprised gasp, his body seizing up, spilling over his own stomach and Zayn’s wrist in hot, pulsing stripes.
Zayn slowed his fingers, gentling him through the aftershocks. He leaned down, licking a stripe through the mess on Eli’s stomach, the taste salt and bitter. Eli whimpered, oversensitive. Zayn moved up his body, lining his cock up with Eli’s well-used, still-fluttering hole. He pressed the head against him, not entering, just applying pressure.
“Look at me,” Zayn said.
Eli’s eyes fluttered open, hazy and blissed-out.
“You with me?” Zayn asked, his voice low.
Eli nodded, a slow, dazed movement.
Zayn pushed in. Slowly. The tight, slick heat was unbelievable, a crushing, perfect vise. Eli gasped, his body accepting him inch by inch. When Zayn was fully seated, balls-deep, he stopped, letting them both feel the full, breathtaking stretch. He dropped his forehead to Eli’s, their breath mingling.
“You feel that?” Zayn whispered. “That’s me. All of me.”
Eli’s answer was a broken moan. He wrapped his legs around Zayn’s waist, locking him in.
Zayn began to move. Long, deep, grinding thrusts that had Eli seeing stars. Each drive forward brushed that perfect spot inside him, wracking his oversensitive body with tremors that weren’t quite another orgasm, but a sustained, torturous pleasure. Eli babbled, nonsense words, filth, prayers.
“You take me so good,” Zayn grunted, his rhythm faltering, becoming harder, more desperate. “This perfect fucking hole. Made for me. Gonna fill you up, Eli. Gonna pump you so full of my come you’ll taste it tomorrow.”
The vulgar promise tipped Eli over another edge. He came again, dry, his body clamping down on Zayn’s cock in a rhythmic, milking spasm that pulled Zayn’s own orgasm from him. He slammed in one last time, buried to the hilt, and erupted. Heat flooded Eli’s depths, pulse after pulse, a claiming so profound it felt like violence. Zayn collapsed on top of him, spent, the world narrowed to sweat-slick skin and the frantic beat of two hearts.
Later, after a clumsy, shared cleanup with a damp towel, they did it again. Slower this time. Eli on his hands and knees, Zayn moving behind him with a languid, possessive rhythm, one hand fisted in his hair, the other wrapped around his leaking cock. Eli came a third time with Zayn’s name on his lips, the sound soft and wrecked, before Zayn found his own release with a deep, satisfied groan.
They lay tangled in the damp sheets, the room smelling of sex and chili and their shared life. The harsh bulb was still on. Zayn eventually got up, found the half-smoked blunt and a lighter in the coffee table drawer. He sparked it, took a long pull, and held the smoke in his lungs before passing it to Eli.
Eli took it, coughing softly. He passed it back. Zayn smoked, watching the haze curl toward the ceiling, blurring the edges of the room. Eli’s head was a warm weight on his chest, his breathing deep and even. The sodium percarbonate was still working in the sink. The text from Rico was still on his phone. The fight was still two weeks away.
For now, the night was normal. The futon was shitty. His lungs were full of smoke. The man he loved was asleep on his chest. Zayn took another hit, held it, let the warmth spread. He stubbed the blunt out, darkness finally settling around them.