Chapter Text
“So, Harry, there’s plenty of talk going around that you’re a bit of a womanizer. Do you have anything to say about that?”
Harry thinks about protesting, but his PR person is shaking his head from offstage, and he knows what’s expected of him. So instead, he gives the interviewer a smile that’s more than half a smirk, and gets a flush right on cue.
“Well,” he drawls, dragging it out, “I’d say I’m a man-and-womanizer, really.”
The audience laughs appreciatively, the PR person nods, and the interview goes on.
---
Harry is late. Not just in a few minutes late sort of way, but in a going to be an hour late and still counting sort of way. It would be fine usually, even if he’s generally obsessively on time except when his PR people tell him not to be, but he needs to get to this interview. And his car breaking down when he was already late because of an accident was the last thing he needed.
But break down it did, in the wheezing, uncertain way that means he can still drive it but he’s not sure he should, and of course the closest mechanic’s shop is in some middle of nowhere town Harry can’t even see the name of on his phone. And also, closed. This is the problem with small town life, because it's only 1, why is it closed? One in the morning, Harry could understand, but this?
He stares at the window, trying to figure out what to do. His phone lost the last of its charge trying to find this place, so he can’t call Liam, or the radio station, or anyone, and he would really prefer not to go into public because while someone would definitely lend him a phone, he’s in too much of a hurry to be Harry Styles, Pop Sensation. He loves signing things, but not when he has places to be.
He’s just about gotten up the steam to go see if he can dig up some sort of disguise to find a payphone when a black motorcycle takes the turn into the parking lot hard and stops on a dime right next to the office door, so sudden and fast that Harry almost loses his breath with envy and fear.
The person on the motorcycle pauses for a second before they get off, but then they do, long leg swinging over the seat so the tight jeans pull over his thighs and Harry almost loses his breath for another reason. He is every fantasy Harry has ever had, he thinks, black leather jacket over broad shoulders and dark jeans on lean legs and a helmet still encasing his head. But Harry is also still late and the garage was still inexplicably closed, so he’s ready to be angry as the guy walks up to the office and takes out a key to unlock it. Harry yanks on a hopefully-disguising beanie and gets out of his car the instant he does, follows him over to the door. He tries not to tap his foot impatiently, he really does, honestly, but he has somewhere to be and he hates it when he's a minute late and people start talking about how entitled he is, because he's not, it’s not like he could stop his car from breaking down. But then the guy—who's still wearing his helmet—turns to him, and asks—no, demands, "What's your hurry?"
And he's got a nice voice, Harry can admit, somehow gravelly and smooth all at once, but, still. Late. "I've got places to be, okay?" he says, and hopes the guy doesn't recognize him. He is so not looking his best, he can’t afford another picture like this.
If he does Harry can't tell—because, helmet—but he can hear the scorn in the guy's voice anyway. "Sorry for eating lunch, mate. I'll be sure not to do that in the future."
Harry can't help but smile. He's been friends with Louis long enough to appreciate a good comeback. And it’s not this guy’s fault he’s late. "No, it's not—I've just—sorry, it's been a bad day."
"Days when your car breaks down usually are," the guy replies, a little softer, and nudges the office door open with his hip. Harry trails him into the office, which is an odd combination of neat waiting area and a desk in back that is obviously covered in papers around the beat-up old computer. The guy walks back to the desk (Harry shamelessly ogles his ass as he walks away, because it’s too nice a ass not to look at, even if it’s kind of non-existent) and ruffles a few papers before he takes off his helmet and turns. "What's the problem?"
This time, Harry actually does lose his breath. The guy—he's literally the most beautiful person Harry's ever seen, and he's seen plenty of beautiful people. But this guy isn’t beautiful like the models Harry hangs out with are beautiful, like they carefully craft themselves that way; he’s beautiful like he couldn’t not be. He has got eyelashes longer than any girl Harry's known sweeping over cheekbones Harry wants to bite and a jawline he wants to lick, and his hair is dark and thick and just the littlest bit ruffled from his helmet where it falls over his forehead, and Harry can see the edges of ink curling across his collarbone from the loose t-shirt he has on under his jacket.
He spares a brief thought for the interview, but it's very brief.
"It just—stopped," Harry says plaintively, and sidles forward. He runs a hand through his hair so it falls to best advantage, tilts his head so he can use his eyelashes too. "I think there might have been lights on?"
"Of course there were." the guy rolls his eyes, and he even looks pretty doing that. "I'll take a look, okay? No guarantees I’ll get it done as fast as you want, though. It's just me here."
"Well, us," Harry points out with a cheerful wink. The guy nods as he walks back around the desk, a little warily. Harry is used to that reaction, he barely notices it anymore. "I'm Harry, by the way."
He holds out a hand. The guy takes it, lets Harry engulf his hand. His hands are smaller than Harry’s, but there are callouses that brush against Harry’s skin as he holds the hand a few beats longer than necessary. "Zayn. And I know who you are. My sister's got a poster of you on her wall."
"Oh does she?" Harry asks, and smirks. Because there are some things he dislikes about being famous, but the edge it gives him with hot guys isn't one of them. "You heard any of my music?"
"On repeat, ad nauseam," Zayn says, and Harry's barely gotten over the shock and heat of those pink lips wrapping around Latin words in a leather jacket when Zayn strides past him and their arms brush and Harry's turned on all over again. Who even is this man, and who thought it was okay to make him have tattoos and be able to use Latin phrases? He’s not sure he’s ever wanted someone more.
"Like it?"
Zayn shrugs, but he's outside by this time, and walking over to the car. "It still runs?" he calls back, and doesn't answer Harry's question.
"Sorta? I mean, I got it here, but it was making noises? A sort of clunking thing?”
"Sounds dangerous."
"I thought so. That's why I stopped. So, you live here?"
"Clearly."
"Your whole life?"
"Yeah."
"You don't get bored?"
"Not really."
Harry doesn't quite know what to do with these answers. People usually go out of their way to talk to him, or are scared speechless but still try to talk. But Zayn sounds unimpressed. Or even more than that, he sounds like he doesn't care about talking to Harry, and that's always been like catnip to Harry.
Also catnip are hot guys, and Harry watches as Zayn pops open the hood and leans in. His jeans are just tight enough to show off his ass while still letting him straddle that motorcycle. Harry's jeans, on the other hand, are feeling tighter than usual.
"Well, it's pretty clear," Zayn says as he stands up. If Harry had any shame left, he might blush, but he thinks he lost all shame around the time he was papped snogging his makeup artist. Or maybe when he had been pantsed on stage. Either way, it doesn't bother him.
But still, "It is?" he asks, because he can play the game, too. And there's something about Zayn, about the tilt of his head and the twist of his lips, that hints that he doesn't mind playing either. Harry hopes not. He likes playing games.
"What's wrong, here," Zayn slams the hood, loud enough that Harry jumps. Harry thinks about adding some sort of comment about the only thing wrong is him not having tasted Harry's dick yet, but holds himself back. Liam would be proud. Louis, less so. But it's probably a good thing, because Zayn goes on, "It's the--"
Harry nods at all the car stuff he says, and occupies himself by nodding whenever Zayn pauses and spending the rest of the time imagining what those pretty pink lips would taste like. But he only gets to for a minute, because then,
"You don't really care, do you?" Zayn asks.
Harry shakes his head. "I have no idea what any of those words mean," he admits cheerfully, because guys and fans alike tend to like when he plays the dumb pretty boy (even if he really doesn’t get cars), and Zayn snorts.
"It's an easy fix. Should be ready in an hour or so."
"Really?" That distracts Harry enough to widen his eyes and grin, because if that's the case he might actually make it to the interview on time. "That'd be ace."
Another shrug. No one should look that pretty shrugging. Harry considers writing to someone about it. Or maybe just telling Nick he needs to complain about it on his next show. "'s my job. Keys?"
Harry digs them out of his pocket, which is not always an easy proposition in these jeans, and tosses them to Zayn. The throw is, as usual, wildly inaccurate, but Zayn sidesteps neatly and catches them. "Great. You can wait in the office."
"Okay." But Harry leans against the wall as Zayn slides into his car and drives it into the garage, then follows him in.
The garage is pretty big for a one man operation, enough room for three or so cars, and an entire wall on the back that's empty except for this wild graffiti. Harry finds an empty spot where he's more or less out of the way and probably can't touch anything that he can hurt himself with, and leans against the wall. Then he notices the table next to him full of tools, and starts picking through them, seeing if he can identify any of them.
"You hurt yourself, the nearest hospital's half an hour away," Zayn says, and Harry jumps. He hadn't notice Zayn approach, but he's suddenly close enough to remove something from Harry's hand that he thinks might have something to do with fire from the images on the side. Harry has enough presence of mind as they do to move his hand so it brushes against Zayn’s. "And you'd have to pay for it."
"Not really a problem."
"That's why I'd make you pay."
Zayn puts the thing back down on the table then strides back over to the car. He's gotten it jacked up, and then Harry's breath hitches as he lies down on a dolly and slides under the car. Harry's pretty sure he's seen porn start this way. He's pretty sure he wants to make porn that starts this way, with just Zayn's legs out from under the car, spread a little so Harry thinks he could fit between them, grab at the laces of his combat boots and pull Zayn back out towards him.
But he might get slapped for that, and also he does need Zayn to fix his car, so he holds back, just leans against the wall and watches.
Or he does for the first five minutes, but he's never been able to deal with silence well, so, "So do you like my music?" he asks, because everyone likes talking about his music, even if it’s to bash it.
"Not really a pop fan."
"Not even for me?" His best smirk is wasted on the underside of the car.
"Why would it being you change anything?"
Harry doesn't really have an answer for that—he doesn't usually need to explain the cheeky things he says, usually the focus of them is too busy swooning to pay attention to things like logic.
So he changes the subject. That didn't seem like it was leading back to the point anyway. "Is this your shop?" he asks, instead.
"Do I look old enough to own a shop?" Zayn throws back. He's muffled a little by something clanging, and his legs shift, like he's really putting effort into it. Harry should really not be this turned on by a set of calves, but he's just lying there with his legs moving like that and really, Harry has no choice but to scoot forward so he can lean against the car and let his leg press against Zayn's through their jeans.
"Not the age limit I think of when I look at you."
"It's my family's." Zayn doesn't even acknowledge Harry's line, his leg not even twitching a little. "So it's mine in a way.”
"And did you always want to be a mechanic?" Harry lets a little bit of his smirk sink into his voice, "Always been good with your hands?"
"Something like that."
And so it goes for the next hour, Harry trying all his best lines and trying to stay as close to Zayn as possible, to get into his space as much as he can, and Zayn just—well, Zayn just not responding, really. Either he's impossibly thick or is ignoring Harry. He's going with the former, statistically speaking; he’s not sure he’s ever met someone he couldn’t convince to want him if he tried hard enough.
Until finally Zayn slides out from under the car for the last time, doesn't react to the fact that standing up puts him inches away from Harry, and slides around him to twist the keys. The car starts, and it doesn't sound any different, but it must be because Zayn nods in satisfaction and turns it off again.
"There you go," he announces, and wipes the oil off his hands on a dirty rag he sticks back into his belt loop. Harry follows the line of that rag right down to his ass, to how it outlines a slim hip that Harry's pretty sure he could wrap his whole hand around.
Zayn makes a noise that's basically an eye roll in noise form and pushes past Harry to get to the desk. Harry doesn't move, so he has to press himself all against him just to get by, and maybe he shifts his hand a little so it draws a line across Zayn's thigh as he goes. But again, Zayn doesn't even react, really, not even to punch him or anything. He just sits at the desk, punches some numbers, and waits as a receipt prints off a machine. He names some numbers Harry barely even notices, because he's rather busy watching Zayn's lips and licking his own. He'll manage this, somehow. Louis will never let him hear the end of it if he doesn't, if he doesn't manage to score with the hot mechanic in a middle of nowhere town.
He thinks Zayn is telling him what he did to the car when he hears the word fuck and zones back in.
"Pardon?"
"I'm not going to let you fuck me against your car," Zayn repeats conversationally. Harry chokes. Partly because of the way Zayn says 'fuck', how it makes him think of him doing it and that's all sorts of hot, but also because of what he said.
"No?" Harry manages to get out. He’s not been this floored in years.
"Or blow you, or whatever fantasy you've been thinking about. It's not going to happen."
"Maybe I don't want it to happen," Harry immediately backtracks. There's no way Zayn's going to believe it, though, and sure enough he just raises one eyebrow, more condescending than even some of Nick's hipster friends.
"Mate, you want it. You're not exactly subtle." He shrugs, and his lips twist together. "It's alright. Well no, it's actually not, because it's sexual harassment, but you probably just don't recognize ‘no’. It's not exactly your fault. I know how it is."
"I—" Harry's mouth opens and closes. He's—sexual harassment? He wouldn't. He's the nice one. Everyone always said so. He makes sure to always have things like verbal consent and doesn't go home with people who are too drunk and says progressive things about women on TV. Yeah, he can be aggressive, but never in a—harassment?
"I'm so sorry! I mean, I didn't realize—harassment is bad, obviously, if it's really no I wouldn't—you're just really hot—" he's rambling and he knows it, rambling like he hasn't for years ever since the PR team got on his ass and started training him in interviews, but something about Zayn—about the even, cool look in those whiskey-colored eyes, about his hands folded neatly over the table like a judge with oil-stained fingers, about the feather on the back of his neck Harry noticed when he turned around and wants to just bite and bite and bite—it flusters him. It makes him feel sixteen again, with floppy hair and no idea what he was ever saying. But he swallows, and rolls back his shoulders, and takes five seconds to think about his words like Liam always tells him to do. He’s not a feckless sixteen year old anymore.
He’s Harry Styles, pop star. "Sorry," he says at last, drags out the word like it's a privilege for him to be saying it at all, because that's what it is, right?
He turns blindly to leave before he says anything more stupid, but then somehow a stool gets in his way and he goes sprawling instead, landing on his hands and knees hard enough to bring tears to his eyes.
"Oh, fuck," Zayn swears, and darts around the table almost before Harry's finished his cry of pain. His hands are soft on Harry's shoulders and at least there’s finally something under then disinterest in his voice, even if it's just concern. "Are you okay?"
"Fine." Harry pushes himself back into his knees, wincing when he feels the concrete against them. That's going to bruise. "It's not the first time. I'm a bit of a klutz, really. Like, more than a bit, actually," he admits, and grins despite himself, "my mum always said that it was a lucky day when I didn't have to go to the a&e."
“Well, good. I can’t have Harry Styles dying in here. My sister would never forgive me.”
“My fans might attack you,” Harry agrees. He tries for a smile, something that might maybe make Zayn not think he is an evil sexual harasser. “So might my sister, and she’s feisty. Pulls hair and everything. Or maybe just mine…”
And then—Zayn chuckles, still crouched beside him looking deep into his eyes like he might have got a concussion or something, and there’s a bit of crinkling at the corner of his eyes, and his lips are very very pink against his stubble as they curve upwards.
“Bet I could take her. I’ve got sisters, I’m feisty too.”
“Yeah, but your sister likes me, so she’s probably not as badass as mine.”
That gets another smile, just as painful. “Want to bet?”
Maybe Harry did get a concussion because he meant to say something charming about Zayn’s sister, but suddenly he's asking, "So is it no to everything?"
The smile freezes, drains off Zayn's face. "What?"
"Only, is it just no to me fucking you? Or—would it be no if I sucked you off?" He can see Zayn swallow at that, can see his Adam's apple move in a throat as pretty as the rest of him, and Harry holds in his smirk at that. Hah. He knew Zayn thought he was hot, at least. But then he has to add, because sexual harassment, "If it's still no, that's fine, obviously, I've paid and I'll go, I just think you’re really hot and I’d like to but—"
"Yeah," Zayn cuts him off, but slowly, like he's thinking better of it as he says it, "Yeah, that'd be okay."
Okay. Harry immediately sets about making sure he realizes it'd be more than just 'okay'. He’s Harry fucking Styles, he’s so much more than okay. Also, to make sure Zayn doesn’t think better of it, because for some reason he’s decided this is what he wants, who he wants, and he’s not good at not getting what he wants.
So he shuffles forward on his knees, hoping the lip-biting smirk he puts on is enough to distract from the fact that no one looks sexy while shuffling (Harry’s tried), edges right into Zayn’s space then keeps going, so Zayn falls backwards rather than get run over. He catches himself on his wrists, his knees bent and spread just the right width apart for Harry to fit in between, so he does, grinning as wickedly as he knows how when he reaches down to undo Zayn’s belt buckle.
“Fuck, not on the floor,” Zayn says, then, and edges away, “that’s so unsanitary.”
Harry heaves a sigh. Some people have no imagination. But he draws himself to his feet, then reaches down and yanks Zayn up with him. It’s easy to do, really, because despite the lines of muscles across his forearms he’s small, a lot smaller than Harry. Harry could push him against a wall and hold him there, probably, hold him there until he’s sobbing with how much he wants him. Until he’s taken back everything he said about ‘okay’ and not liking his music and his unimpressed, pretty, pretty face is contorted with Harry Harry Harry. Or—he looks around the room for other places, other ors. There’s a tool bench that has a lot of things Harry could hurt himself on, the desk (and there’s a fantasy), and…
Zayn must follow his gaze. “I’m not letting you blow me against your car either,” he says, deadpan.
It’s the deadpan that gets to Harry, like it did earlier, like that rich, gravely voice coming evenly out of those pink, pink lips just goes straight to Harry’s groin. He’s never liked slow anyway.
He leans down and bites at Zayn’s neck, his teeth scraping against the gold skin at the meeting of his neck and shoulder, hard enough to sting. He wants to leave a mark. He wants Zayn to push at it tomorrow and think that was Harry Styles, Harry Styles made me come so hard I saw stars, Harry Styles the pop star made me feel like that despite all my scorn and protests. So as one hand sneaks between them to undo Zayn’s buckle, Harry bites and licks and sucks until Zayn’s “What are you, a vampire?” is cut off by a moan. Fuck yeah, that’s right, Harry thinks in as close to a growl as he can get.
But instead of growling, instead of palming his aching dick for some relief from the salt and oil taste of Zayn’s sweat and the way his eyelashes look spread across his skin, Harry just gives Zayn his most innocent smirk and sinks down to his knees. He keeps one hand on the back of Zayn’s thighs, squeezes into the firm muscle there, and undoes Zayn’s jeans with the other. He’s got black batman boxers on, and Harry spares them a snort that has Zayn trying to knee him in the ribs before he gets down to business. Batman pants aside, in this moment he thinks he wants this more than anything else he’s wanted in years. Wants more of the snuffling grunts Zayn makes as Harry yanks the pants aside to free his cock. Harry licks his lips as he looks at it, only a bit for show. It’s not the biggest he’s seen, not the biggest he’s sucked, but it’s nice, got a good width to it.
“Going to look at it or do something with it?” Zayn asks, his voice raspy.
Harry pauses, tilts his head, and when Zayn huffs out a breath he grins as cheekily as he knows how. “Still deciding,” he retorts, and Zayn’s next breath has a bit more laughter in it, until it chokes off when Harry takes him into his mouth almost all at once.
“Fuck,” he swears, and Harry grins around his dick and pulls off with a wet slurp.
“Said you didn’t want that,” he points out, and Zayn actually fucking growls at him, which is hotter than maybe anything in the world. Harry’s own dick is painfully hard against his jeans, from the sounds Zayn’s making and the feel of him in Harry’s mouth and just fucking looking at Zayn as he shakes, his hips bucking uncontrollably against the hand Harry has keeping him back.
He’s always liked this as much as getting a blow job, liked the feel of taking someone apart with just his mouth, just the way his tongue circles the head and then flicks down the side. Liked how much in that instant Zayn needs him more than anything, needs him more than air or life or anyone else who might have done this before. It’s heady, the need; Harry became a pop star because he needed that need, needs it enough to fumble open his jeans and shove a hand down his pants, jerking himself off fast and hard, like he’s sucking on Zayn.
He could make him wait for it, draw it out so that Zayn’s swearing and begging and saying his name like a prayer, but Harry doesn’t have time for that really and he wants to get off and something about Zayn, about blowing the prettiest boy he’s ever seen in the middle of a mechanic’s garage after knowing him an hour, that makes Harry want it to be over quickly, to blaze and die like a firework. So he doesn’t pull out his bag of tricks, just sucks deep and hard and digs the fingers of the hand not wrapped around his cock into Zayn’s hip until Zayn’s just saying something unintelligible under his breath like a spell.
Then, “Fuck, I’m gonna—“ and he comes into Harry’s mouth, and it’s worth the oil stains on his knees and the grit that will be in his voice on the interview and every other thing in the universe, because Zayn coming apart is like watching marble come to life, his eyes fluttering, his whole body going loose, his hands grasping fruitlessly at Harry’s shoulders. Harry comes too, with the sight of it, come spilling onto his hand and the floor a little, shivering into Zayn’s leg as he presses his forehead against his thigh.
Once the sound of Zayn’s breathing evened out, once Harry’s stopped shaking, he settles back on his heels. Zayn’s eyes are still closed, but there’s already a bruise blooming on his throat. “So? Okay?” Harry asks.
Zayn opens his eyes. “You’re a little shit, aren’t you?” he asks, as he does up his jeans. He doesn’t answer Harry’s question. He also doesn’t seem to be any more impressed with Harry now, though he does pull the rag out of his pocket and toss it to Harry. “Here, you can clean up with that.”
Harry picks the rag up slowly. There’re oil grease stains on it, but he wipes his hands, then the floor to be safe, before he does up his own jeans and gets to his feet. He’s not sure what he expected after, but usually people are a little more ‘I got blown by Harry Styles’ or ‘thanks for the amazing blowjob’ or ‘will you marry me’, which admittedly only happened once but Louis’s never let him hear the end of how he stuttered a little before saying ‘no, thank you’ so he thinks it counts. Not this… he doesn’t know. Coldness? Or it’s not even that, really. Coolness, maybe. Like it didn’t matter at all. Like it’s some hook up in a bar, wham bam thank you ma’am, and who it was with doesn’t matter.
“No thanks, even?” he asks, calmly, as he throws the rag back. Zayn makes a face as he catches it, then sticks it back into his pocket.
“You were the one who wanted that. Think you should be thanking me.”
“Are you always this nice to guys you sleep with?”
“I didn’t see any sleeping.” Zayn folds his arms across his chest, raises his eyebrows. He might as well be wearing his helmet again, Harry thinks, for all he can read him. It’s a little odd, because there was a moment, when Harry tripped and fell and he looked concerned, where Zayn’s face was like an open book. But not right now. “And don’t you have places to be?”
He does. He should go. Liam’s going to yell at him, and nothing’s worse than that. But he—there’s just something about Zayn that’s throwing him off, that’s making him forget that he’s the one who dismisses people, not the other way around.
“I do, thanks.” A bit to ground him, but mainly because he wants to, Harry stops in front of Zayn on the way to his car. He presses his thumb against the bruise he’s left, leans in close enough to whisper, in his best low, rumbly, sexy voice that had always made Carmen forgive him whatever he did in front of the paps, “Hope you remember this next time your sister plays my music,” and gets into his car with the sound of Zayn’s chuckle behind him, and the memory of Zayn’s eyes going dark when he pushed the bruise hard enough to hurt.