𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 ✓

t-w-o

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nh

The sight of people bustling around the entryway of the mansion greets Niall as soon as he walks through the door.

"Oh good, you're home. Go upstairs and bathe, Carmen will be up in a half hour to do your hair and Alex will be up afterwards to dress you," Niall really doesn't need to be told what to do, not after all the years of these pointless galas and parties, because he already knows exactly what needs to be done. But, in order to appease his mother, he simply nods and goes upstairs without a word.

Standing under the scalding water of his shower, Niall can't help but wish he could disappear forever. If he never has to wear another tuxedo for the rest of his life, then so be it.

Well, save for the day he marries Zayn. He'll gladly wear one then, but never again after that.

The thought of finally getting to see Zayn in a tuxedo does something to Niall, and he quickly finds himself lost in his imagination.

Yanking the bow tie off, but leaving it hanging around his neck so Niall can pull on it, tearing the shirt open and sending the buttons flying across the floor with a clatter, ripping the trousers off his legs so Niall can get a good, long look at his man before pulling him down on the bed and having his way with him.

Niall can just imagine how good it's going to be, getting to tear all those fancy pieces of clothing off of Zayn and allowing the older boy to have free reign.

"Niall James, five minutes!" His mother's voice calls from the hallway outside of his bedroom.

Niall steps out of the shower, drying himself off, but frowning when he sees his fully hard self.

Damn him and his imagination for getting carried away. He's been dying for some extended alone time with Zayn for days, and now it's so much worse.

He presses the heel of his hand into his crotch once he's wrapped the towel around his waist, the simple touch enough to bring a hiss of pleasure as his muscles squirm.

Fuck him. Fuck him for making himself hard.

And fuck Zayn.

He's not really mad at Zayn, but it's easier to blame him than anything else, so fuck Zayn.

But also, fuck Zayn.

Niall's room is more like a suite - large open space, even larger bed, vaulted ceilings, a massive walk-in closet filled with more designer clothing than he knows what to do with, a bathroom with a bathtub fit for a royal, an elaborate shower with a rain setting, marble counter tops, the fanciest sink Niall can imagine, along with drawers filled with Egyptian cotton towels.

Oh, and heated floors.

For Winter, of course.

In a flurry of activity, Niall is sat down at the dressing table in front of the large mirror, Carmen immediately getting to work on his wet hair. Within twenty minutes, she has it dry and standing tall in a perfect quiff, leaving Niall in awe. He's terrible at doing his own hair.

He's immediately lifted out of the chair and thrown into the large closet, where he stands on the pedestal that is about six inches off the ground, so Alex can begin to dress him.

He really should be allowed to dress himself - he's eighteen, he knows how to put a tuxedo on - but his mother forbade all members of the family from dressing themselves for events such as these.