𝑓𝑙𝑜

Masterlist

When a hotel mix-up forces you to share a bed with the one member of the band you can’t stand, years of bickering with Zayn explode into something far rougher—and far more intimate—than either of you ever planned.

Tags: Zayn x reader, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, smut (unprotected p in v, fem receiving oral, light choking)

…

You’ve been part of One Direction for almost two years now—long enough that the fans have finally stopped calling you “the new one.”

It was meant to be temporary. A label experiment. A single feature on a single track that turned into a last-minute tour spot, and then somehow, a permanent place onstage beside them.

The boys took you in like family. Louis is your chaos partner. Niall brings you coffee every morning without fail. Harry hugs you just because he can. Liam makes sure you actually sleep. They’re your brothers in every way that matters.

All of them—except Zayn.

Zayn has always been… difficult.

He’s never liked you, not from the start. You don’t know why, and you stopped asking a long time ago. Every word between you two is short, sharp, and delivered through clenched teeth. The others call it “banter.” You know better. You’ve tried civility, silence, sarcasm—nothing works.

And now you’re in a hotel lobby somewhere in Germany, staring at Paul like he’s just announced the end of the world.

“Only three rooms?” you repeat, your voice flat.

Paul sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There was a mix-up with the booking system. They’re completely full. I’ve tried calling around, but everything nearby’s the same story. It’s one night. You’ll survive.”

You open your mouth to argue, to suggest maybe you could share with literally anyone else—

“I’m with Liam,” Niall says quickly, tossing his bag over his shoulder like it’s already settled. “He doesn’t snore. Much.”

“Oi,” Liam mutters, but he doesn’t argue.

“I call Harry,” Louis chimes in, spinning his room key between his fingers. “He lets me use his conditioner.”

Harry gasps. “You use it? I thought it just vanished! You little thief.”

You whirl on them. “Wait, seriously? You’re all just—”

“It’s one night, love,” Louis says sweetly, far too sweetly, already backing toward the lift. “Think of it as… trust-building.”

“Or a social experiment,” Niall offers, eyes twinkling. “Can the two mortal enemies survive a king-sized bed?”

Harry leans in behind Louis, stage-whispers, “Spoiler: they can’t.”

“I’m not sharing with him,” you hiss, jabbing a finger in Zayn’s direction.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Zayn mutters, dragging his suitcase behind him with the enthusiasm of a man heading to the gallows.

Paul groans, rubbing at his temples like the headache just kicked in. “Can we please not do this here? It’s two in the morning, I haven’t eaten since Berlin, and I swear to God, if anyone else makes a joke about ‘enemies to lovers’ I’m putting you all in bunk beds.”

“You hear that?” Louis gasps dramatically. “That’s a trope threat. We’re this close to a ‘there was only one sleeping bag’ situation.”

“Or—” Niall leans toward you with a grin “—we lean into it. Really lean in. Sparks fly. One bed. The tension. The rage. The—”

“The restraining order,” you cut in.

Paul claps his hands once. Loud. “Enough. You’re all acting like children. Room keys have been handed out. No switching, no whining. I don’t care if you build a pillow wall or sleep in the tub, just don’t cause a scene.”

He looks at you, then at Zayn. “And you two—try not to end up on the news.”

Then he walks off muttering something about needing a raise.

You glance over at Zayn. He’s silent, jaw tight, gaze fixed on the elevator.

You grip the key in your fist. “I hate this.”

Zayn shrugs. “Good. We’re off to a great start.”

And with that, he turns and walks toward the lift without waiting for you.

You stomp after him, wheeling your suitcase behind you with all the grace of a hungover rhino. Zayn doesn’t even hold the lift. He just steps inside and hits the button like you’re not two feet behind him.

The doors are nearly closed when Harry wedges his boot in and squeezes in beside you, Louis, Niall, and Liam following like a pack of gossip-hungry hyenas.

“Cozy,” Louis chirps, practically bouncing on his heels.

Zayn leans against the wall, arms folded, hood still up, eyes closed like he’s trying to pretend the rest of you don’t exist.

Unfortunately for him, you do. Very loudly.

“Don’t fall asleep,” you mutter. “I’m not carrying your sulking corpse upstairs.”

His eyes flick open. “As if you could.”

“Oh, I could. I’d just drop you halfway up the stairs.”

“I’d rather that than listen to you talk all night.”

“You wish I’d talk to you at all.”

Louis lets out a dramatic gasp. “Enemies to lovers speed run, lads, we are witnessing history.”

“I give it till midnight before one of them gets handsy,” Niall says, elbowing Liam. “Ten bucks says it’s her.”

You scowl. “I will shove you all down this elevator shaft.”

Harry snorts. “Please don’t. I’m too pretty to die.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything else, just mutters something under his breath in Urdu that you’re pretty sure is not complimentary.

The elevator dings.

Mercifully.

The doors slide open and you barrel out, not bothering to wait for him this time. Your room is at the end of the hall—of course it is—and you lead the way with a huff, ignoring the snickers echoing behind you.

“You two have fun,” Louis calls after you, sing-song and evil. “Remember—cuddle therapy! It’s real!”

“Sweet dreams,” Harry adds. “Try not to kill each other. Or do. It’d be interesting either way.”

You slam the door shut behind you as Zayn steps in.

The room isn’t small, but it sure as hell feels like it. Neutral-toned walls, one low lamp casting a soft yellow glow, and a bed that is definitely not made for two people who hate each other.

You drop your suitcase at the foot of it and cross your arms.

Zayn doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t say a word. He just shrugs off his hoodie and tosses it onto the nearest chair.

And underneath it?

Black tank top.

Tattooed arms on full display.

Of course.

You try not to look, which means you absolutely do look, and then regret it instantly.

Because Zayn’s hot. Infuriatingly, unfairly hot. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? If he were just a dick with no jawline or tattoos or that voice like molasses and smoke, you could hate him easily.

But no. He has to smirk at you when he catches you staring.

“See something you like?” he says, all low and smug.

You scoff. “Please. I’ve seen more impressive shoulders on coat hangers.”

He chuckles under his breath, slow and deep. “That why you’re still staring?”

“I’m not—” you start, then clamp your mouth shut when you realize you are.

Zayn moves toward the bed like he owns it, dragging his suitcase closer and unzipping it with one hand. “Let me guess. You’re the type to steal all the blankets, yeah?”

“You’re the type to hog them.”

“Not if you stay on your side.”

You glare. “I’m going to build a pillow wall.”

He shrugs. “Good. Maybe it’ll muffle the sound of your whining.”

You throw a pillow at him.

He catches it one-handed, grinning now—sharp and wicked—and tosses it onto the bed before peeling off his tank top in one smooth motion.

Your brain stalls.

Every inch of his torso is light olive skin and ink and lean, defined muscle. Tattoos swirl across his chest, down his arms, over his ribs. He stretches just a little as he tosses the shirt aside, like he knows what he’s doing.

And then he crawls into bed.

Not slides.

Not climbs.

Crawls.

Slow. Casual. Effortless.

Like he’s done it a thousand times. Like this is his bed. His room.

You’re still standing there blinking when he flops back against the pillow, one arm tucked behind his head, sheets riding low on his hips.

He doesn’t even look at you.

Just mutters, “Turn the light off when you’re done staring.”

Your jaw drops.

You grab your pyjamas from your suitcase with a snap, fists clenched tight around the fabric, and storm toward the bathroom before you do something insane.

Like look again.

Or punch him.

Or both.

Inside, you slam the door and lock it, breathing hard.

Your skin is flushed. Your heart’s racing.

And you hate—hate—how warm your face feels.

Because no matter how much you loathe him, no matter how much he grates on every last nerve you have…

You’re still flustered.

You change slowly, trying not to overthink it—but of course you do.

The red satin set wasn’t chosen for this. It’s just what was clean. A camisole that dips a little too low, shorts that cling a little too well. Silky, soft, and completely inappropriate for sharing a bed with the one person you swore you’d never even nap near.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, mutter a quiet “fuck it,” and open the door.

He’s still in bed.

But now he’s looking at you.

Lying there on his side, head propped on his hand, sheets tangled around his hips. His eyes trail over you—slow, deliberate, unbothered. Heat simmers behind them, dark and unreadable.

You freeze in the doorway. “What?”

Zayn doesn’t blink. “Didn’t realize we were dressing for seduction.”

You narrow your eyes. “Didn’t realize you were such a perv.”

He hums like he’s amused. “You’re the one wearing lingerie.”

“It’s pyjamas, you dick.”

“Sure.”

“You were shirtless first,” you snap, stomping toward the bed.

“Not my fault you’re easily flustered.”

“Not flustered,” you lie, yanking the covers back and sliding in with sharp, irritated movements. “Just repulsed.”

Zayn’s voice is close when he murmurs, “That why your cheeks are still red?”

You nearly launch a pillow at him again, but instead, you turn your back to him with a dramatic huff and yank the covers up to your chin.

The bed shifts beside you.

You feel it—his body moving just enough to make the mattress dip. His leg brushes yours under the covers, a light, irritating graze that makes you jolt.

You snap your leg away like it burns. “Try that again and I’ll break your fucking knee.”

Zayn exhales a quiet laugh. “Didn’t realize breathing was an act of war.”

“You didn’t breathe. You drifted. There’s a difference.”

He shifts again—deliberately this time—and his foot presses against yours, slow and unapologetic.

Your pulse spikes.

“Zayn,” you warn.

“What?” he murmurs, voice low, almost amused. “Worried you’ll like it?”

You roll toward him with a glare. “Touch me again, and I swear to God, I’ll stab you in your sleep.”

He raises a brow, eyes flicking lazily over your face—and then lower. “That a threat?”

You lean in, your voice sharp enough to cut. “It’s a fucking guarantee.”

He smirks, something wicked curling at the corner of his mouth. “Mm. Might be worth it.”

Your blood boils. From rage. From heat. From him.

You should turn away. You should shut your eyes, roll over, and pretend none of this ever happened.

Instead—your knee brushes his thigh.

Slow. Deliberate.

His smirk falters.

Then he snaps.

In one fluid, furious motion, Zayn rolls on top of you—body pinning yours to the mattress, hands grabbing your wrists and slamming them into the pillows above your head.

You gasp, startled.

“You started this,” he growls, voice rough and right at your ear. “And now you’re gonna pretend you didn’t want me to do something about it?”

You writhe beneath him, your anger tangling with something hotter, deeper—your body betraying you, reacting to the weight of him, the scent of him, the way his chest presses to yours, bare skin sliding against satin.

“I hate you,” you spit, but your voice breaks around it. Your hips lift, trying to find friction, your breath already quickening.

Zayn looks down at you like he’s ready to ruin you.

“You hate me?” he repeats, grinding his hips into yours—slow, punishing. “Then why are you so fucking wet for me?”

Your eyes snap shut as a desperate noise escapes your throat, and you curse yourself for the heat pooling between your legs, for the way your body arches into his touch without permission.

Zayn doesn’t wait for a reply.

His mouth crashes down on yours—hot, rough, furious. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s teeth and tongue and years of unsaid words poured into a single, punishing kiss.

You fight him.

Your hands twist in his grip, your mouth trying to pull away, but it’s all for show—and you both know it. Because the moment his tongue sweeps past your lips, the moment he groans into your mouth like he’s starving for it, your body melts beneath him.

He growls against your lips, releasing your wrists only to slide his hands down your body, gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. “Keep struggling,” he mutters darkly. “See how long I hold back.”

“I’m not.” You gasp as he grinds down harder, cock pressed thick and hot against your core.

“Bullshit,” he hisses, dragging his mouth down your neck. “You’ve wanted this for months. You just didn’t want to say it first.”

His teeth sink into your throat, sharp and possessive, and you cry out—not in pain, not really. It’s too hot, too intense. It sends a shiver straight through you.

You slap at his shoulder, but it’s weak, half-hearted. “You’re such a prick.”

“Keep talking,” he growls. “Say something else I can bite you for.”

And he does—right at the base of your throat. Then lower, dragging the strap of your camisole down with his teeth until your breast spills free, flushed and aching.

“You look better like this,” he mutters. “Messy. Needy. Mine.”

You hiss at the claim. “I’m not—”

But he cuts you off with another kiss, this one even rougher. His hands are everywhere—palming your breast, tugging your hips higher, pressing you exactly where he wants you. You can feel how hard he is, how ready.

“You are,” he growls against your mouth, biting your lower lip before kissing you breathless again. “You fucking are.”

Zayn’s mouth is everywhere—biting, licking, tasting. Down your neck, across your collarbone, then lower, lips wrapping around your nipple as he sucks hard, hand splayed across your stomach to keep you still.

You squirm, hips shifting against him, but he growls and pins you down harder.

“Stop moving,” he snaps, voice dark and frayed. “Or I’ll make you beg.”

You glare, chest heaving, every inch of your skin prickling under his touch. “I’m not begging for anything.”

He smirks against your skin. “You will.”

Then he slides down your body, dragging the satin shorts with him. The fabric clings to your thighs, soaked through, and he hums low in his throat when he sees it. “Look at that,” he murmurs. “So wet. All that attitude, and you’re already fucking dripping.”

You move to kick him, but he grabs your thighs and shoves them apart, spreading you wide and lowering his face between them.

You barely have time to snap another threat before his mouth is on you.

Hot. Wet. Unrelenting.

Zayn licks you like he’s trying to punish you with pleasure—long, deep strokes of his tongue that make your hips jerk and your thighs clamp around his head, only for him to shove them apart again with a growl.

“Stay still,” he snaps against your pussy, voice muffled and rough.

You try.

God, you try.

But his tongue is ruthless, circling your clit just right, dipping lower, fucking into you with practiced precision. He moans against you like he loves the taste of your surrender, and the sound goes straight to your spine.

Your fingers twist in the sheets. Your body’s trembling. Your legs won’t stop shaking.

“Zayn—” you gasp, a warning, a plea.

He groans again, arms locking tighter around your thighs, holding you in place while his mouth devours you. Lips, tongue, teeth—every part of him claiming you, ruining you.

You’re so close.

The pressure coils low in your belly, hot and tight and overwhelming. Your hips twitch, your breath breaks, your whole body tenses—

And then he stops.

Pulls back completely.

You whine—loud and raw, shocked by the sudden loss. “What the fuck—”

Zayn wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wild and glinting.

“You don’t get to come yet,” he says, voice wrecked. “Not until you beg.”

You stare at him, panting, furious, soaked and throbbing and trembling beneath him.

“You bastard,” you breathe.

He smirks, lips still glistening. “Keep talking like that,” he murmurs, crawling back up your body, “and I’ll edge you ‘til you’re crying.”

His mouth brushes your ear. “Say it.”

Your body aches—every nerve lit, every muscle trembling, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate and empty and throbbing with need. You’re furious. Humiliated. Soaked.

And still—your hips roll against him again.

Zayn groans into your ear, his teeth grazing your skin. “Say it,” he breathes. “Say you want me to fuck you. Say it and I’ll give you everything.”

You bite back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

But then his hand slides between your legs again—fingers slipping through your slick folds, teasing, cruel.

He doesn’t push in.

He doesn’t touch your clit.

He just hovers there. Threatening. Promising.

“Beg,” he growls. “Come on, princess. I’ve got all night.”

You glare up at him, chest heaving, heart pounding.

And then—

“Please,” you rasp. It rips from you before you can stop it. “Please, Zayn.”

He stills.

Your pride cracks in your voice as you meet his eyes. “I need you to fuck me.”

His mouth crashes against yours before the sentence is finished—biting, claiming, starved. One hand grabs your thigh, pulling you open, and the other wraps around your throat, just enough pressure to keep you his.

“Good girl,” he growls against your lips. “Now don’t fucking hold back.”

He doesn’t waste a second.

Zayn shoves his briefs down just far enough, his cock thick and flushed, heavy against your thigh. You feel the heat of him, the weight, the sheer intent in the way he lines himself up and presses the head right where you need him most—slow and teasing at first, like he wants to savor your desperation.

But he’s not in the mood to be gentle.

Not tonight.

With a low, vicious growl, he thrusts in hard—deep and sudden, burying himself inside you in one unforgiving stroke.

You cry out, back arching, fingers clawing at his shoulders as the breath gets punched out of you. The stretch is intense, overwhelming, but it’s perfect. He feels too good, too deep, too much—and your body takes him anyway, clenching around him like it’s exactly what you’ve been starving for.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice rough and ruined. “You feel that? You were made for this. Made for me.”

His hand tightens at your throat—not choking, just holding. Just claiming.

“You begged for it,” he snarls, hips snapping forward again, the pace brutal from the start. “So take it.”

And you do.

You meet every thrust, your body greedy for more, your moans growing louder with every slap of skin against skin. He’s feral with it, fucking you like it’s the only way to shut you up—like it’s the only way he knows how to make you his.

“Look at you,” he pants, watching the way your face twists beneath him. “So cocky until you’re full of me. You love this, don’t you? Love being fucked like you’re mine.”

You nod, barely able to breathe, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes from the intensity. “Yes—fuck, Zayn—”

“That’s right,” he growls. “Say my name. Let the whole fucking hotel know who’s making you come.”

Your voice is hoarse, raw from moaning, crying out, begging. And he’s not slowing down.

Zayn’s hand slides from your throat to the back of your neck, forcing you to keep your eyes on him. “Keep looking at me,” he grits out. “I want to see your face when you come.”

You’re close. Too close.

Your thighs tremble, body arching into every brutal snap of his hips, the bed creaking beneath you as he fucks you hard enough to make the headboard slam against the wall. It should be embarrassing. Should make you shy, make you want to crawl into yourself.

But you don’t.

You meet his thrusts with all the fire still left in you, teeth bared, fingers digging into his shoulders as you growl, “Harder.”

Zayn snarls like an animal, shifting his grip to pin both your wrists above your head again, body slamming into yours with even more force.

“You don’t get to ask,” he spits. “Not anymore. You gave yourself to me when you begged.”

You can barely breathe, tears slipping down your temples now—not from pain, not really, just too much pleasure. Too much of him.

“I hate you,” you rasp, voice shaking.

“I know,” he pants, hips grinding deep. “Hate me while I make you come.”

His free hand slides between you, fingers rubbing your clit in tight, punishing circles. You cry out, body jerking under him.

“You’re shaking,” he growls. “You gonna come for me?”

You nod, frantic.

“Say it.”

“I’m gonna come—fuck, Zayn—please—”

That’s all it takes.

Your orgasm slams into you like a freight train—violent, overwhelming, all-consuming. You scream his name, back arching, legs locking around him as you pulse around his cock, every nerve lit on fire.

Zayn doesn’t last another second.

With a guttural growl, he thrusts once, twice, then buries himself deep and stays there, hips twitching as he spills into you, hot and thick and endless. His body shudders over yours, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin as he pants through the aftershock.

You both lie there, wrecked.

The room is thick with heat and sweat and the scent of sex. Your pulse echoes in your ears, your body trembling with the aftershocks of everything he just gave you—took from you. You don’t know where the hate ends and the need begins anymore. Maybe it never mattered.

Zayn stays buried inside you for a moment longer, breath warm against your shoulder, chest heaving against yours. His hand still rests at your throat—no pressure now, just a possessive hold that lingers like he’s reluctant to let go.

Neither of you speaks.

Because what is there to say?

Eventually, he shifts. Pulls back slowly, carefully, as if suddenly remembering you’re not just a body he can use to vent years of tension. You hiss at the sensitivity as he slips out of you, the loss of him making your legs twitch, the ache setting in deep and low.

You expect him to roll away.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he rises from the bed and disappears into the bathroom.

You lie there, blinking at the ceiling, dazed and sore and flooded with adrenaline. You don’t know if you should feel victorious or defeated. You don’t know if you won whatever twisted game the two of you have always played.

You don’t hear the tap run, but you hear the soft sound of the towel wrung out, the rustle of movement. You half-expect him to just toss it at you from across the room—some smug comment to match it.

But instead, he returns quietly. Stands at the edge of the bed, eyes sweeping over you with something unreadable in his expression.

Then he kneels between your legs.

“I’ve got it,” you mutter, trying to sit up, your voice still wrecked.

Zayn ignores you.

“I said—”

“Lie back,” he says, low and firm. “You’re making a mess.”

Heat rises to your face. “It’s your mess.”

“And I’ll fucking clean it up.”

You scowl, trying to shove his hand away when the towel touches your thigh. “I don’t need your help.”

“You can barely move,” he snaps, catching your wrist mid-swat. “Stop being difficult for five seconds.”

You freeze, eyes locked on his. The heat between you hasn’t vanished—it’s just simmering now, molten and quieter, tangled up in pride and tension and something you don’t have the strength to name.

He softens the pressure on your wrist, then lowers it back to the sheets.

“I’ll be quick,” he says, and this time it’s almost gentle.

You lie back with a huff, turning your head to the side, refusing to look at him while he moves the warm towel between your thighs. He’s careful. Irritatingly so. And despite yourself, the care in his touch makes your throat tight.

It’s not a grand gesture.

It’s not even tender, really.

But it’s real.

When he’s done, he tosses the towel toward the bathroom, not bothering to check if it lands, and climbs back into bed beside you. He doesn’t touch you—not yet. Just lies there, head tipped back against the pillows, chest rising with deep, steady breaths like he’s finally coming down too.

You stay facing the wall, jaw clenched, muscles tight, already rehearsing tomorrow’s regrets.

But the mattress shifts behind you.

And then—without warning—Zayn drags you back into him, one strong arm locking around your waist, chest pressing flush to your back like he owns the space between you.

You jerk in his grip. “Get off.”

“No.”

You squirm harder. “This isn’t a fucking sleepover.”

“Good,” he mutters. “I don’t do those. I just fuck girls who hate me and then hold them anyway.”

Your elbow shoots back, catching his ribs.

He grunts. Laughs.

“Still full of fight, huh?” His lips brush your ear. “Didn’t sound like that five minutes ago.”

“Touch me again and I’ll bite your fingers off.”

Zayn hums. “Tempting.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re warm,” he says simply, already settling in. His thigh slides between yours again, lazy and unapologetic. “Don’t act like you don’t like it.”

“I don’t.”

“Your heartbeat says otherwise.”

You open your mouth, ready to fire something back—but the words die in your throat.

Because you’re still not moving.

Because his arm feels too good around you, solid and steady, the heat of him wrapping around your frayed nerves like something dangerous you can’t quite bring yourself to escape.

“You’re not staying like this,” you whisper, one last stab at control.

Zayn’s voice is low. Confident. “Then push me off.”

You don’t.

And after a beat, he knows it.

You both do.

So you lie there, seething, tangled up in the boy you swore you couldn’t stand—his breathing slowing, his body melting against yours, and your pride burning hot behind your eyelids as sleep starts to pull you under.

…

The NUMBER of times I imagined this, even to this day after so many years.

me who’s been reading smut about fictional characters for the past 6 hours: