Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/719797.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      One_Direction_(Band)
  Relationship:
      Zayn_Malik/Harry_Styles
  Character:
      Zayn_Malik, Harry_Styles
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_High_School, Artist_Zayn, Underage_Sex,
      Crossdressing, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-03-14 Words: 7605
****** that's what you do, baby ******
by shuttermutt
Summary
     "Huh. Well, if you're ever up for it, you should let me. My name's
     Zayn, by the way. Zayn Malik."
     "I know," Harry blurts out before he can stop himself. There's his
     voice, then. And his blush, Christ. Zayn is giving him an odd look,
     so he says, "I mean, I've seen your art. In the halls. It's really
     good."
     Zayn perks up at that, smiling. "Well then, I guess it's settled.
     You'll model for me. Great."
Notes
     This is a HS-au where they don't actually go to school very much and
     somehow dressing Harry up in panties happened (when does that not
     happen in my fics though lbr) and then sex? idk, this got away from
     me in a big way. Not betaed, sorry for any mistakes.
Harry is an average lad. He gets up and goes to school and spends time with his
friends and mum and sister. He might be a bit more emotional than other boys
his age, but that's just because he's sensitive. His mum's told him so. She
says he wears his heart on his sleeve, which is a good thing. Harry tries to be
good, as much as he can. He doesn't like getting in trouble, and he quite likes
receiving praise, so he does what he's told, keeps his head down. It doesn't
stop him from getting noticed, sometimes, though.
"Christ, you're pretty," someone says from behind him. He's at his locker, so
he startles a bit, drops his books. "Oh, sorry, lemme help."
Harry finally turns to see Zayn, from art and drama club behind him, bent down
to collect his dropped things. "Um," Harry says smartly.
Zayn looks up at him and grins. There's a cigarette tucked behind his ear that
Harry ends up focusing on. Zayn, Harry knows from the fact that Holmes Chapel
is a tiny town with a gossip mill so strong it probably powers the local
economy, is at the Academy because of lottery. They've never shared a class,
but Harry’s seen some of his stuff hung in the arts wing and heard several of
his classmates talk about his performances on stage.
"Was that a weird thing to say?" Zayn asks, holding Harry’s books out. "Only,
you've been staring at me like I'm crazy."
Harry takes his books, tries to convince himself that blushing is stupid. "No,
it's fine? No one's ever said that of me, though." And he really doesn't think
Zayn should be throwing out the word pretty like that, with the way he looks.
Harry’s never seen someone with eyelashes that long and thick, before, and he
knows loads of girls.
Zayn's eyebrows go up, like Harry’s said something unbelievable. "People must
not have eyes around here, then." Harry clutches his books to his chest, tries
to figure out what to say to that, but Zayn beats him. "Anyways, I usually
don't approach random people like this, but like I said, you're really pretty.
Has anyone ever drawn you, before?" Harry shakes his head. "Huh. Well, if
you're ever up for it, you should let me. My name's Zayn, by the way. Zayn
Malik."
"I know," Harry blurts out before he can stop himself. There's his voice, then.
And his blush, Christ. Zayn is giving him an odd look, so he says, "I mean,
I've seen your art. In the halls. It's really good."
Zayn perks up at that, smiling. "Well then, I guess it's settled. You'll model
for me. Great." Zayn looks excited and Harry can't seem to make his mouth work
long enough to question what's going on, even though he’s never this flustered
to talk to people.
And that's how Harry ends up giving Zayn Malik his mobile number and setting up
a date to get drawn. What even.
-
Zayn, Harry finds out, lives in a tiny flat on his own, above the bakery that
Harry worked at over summer hols. He feels like he should have known that, but
he hadn't been back since the term started, so there’s really no way he could
have known.
"My family had to stay back in Bradford, since we can't afford to stay out
here, but the scholarship I got to the Academy came with some housing money as
well," Zayn tells him, when Harry comes over on the Saturday they agreed on.
Harry hadn't asked, but he's sure he'd looked curious enough for Zayn to pick
up on his unvoiced questions.
"That sounds lonely," Harry finds himself saying, even though he doesn't mean
to. He does that a lot around Zayn, he finds, says things he doesn't mean to,
even though they’ve literally only had two conversations at this point.
Zayn shrugs. "I visit them during holidays and one weekend a month. I keep
myself busy with school and work."
"What do you do?" Harry asks, sitting down on the battered couch that's across
from the bed. There's a small television on a milk crate and the kitchen is
tiny, but clean.
Zayn brings him out a cup of tea, sits on the coffee table in front of the
sofa. "Freelance work, mostly." He nods to the tiny desk by the bed that's
stacked high with sketchbooks, canvases and other art supplies Harry wouldn't
even begin to know how to use.
"That’s cool," he says, trying to sound as genuinely impressed as he is. He's
never met someone as put together as Zayn seems to be. "You’re quite
independent."
Zayn nods, takes a sip of his tea. "I also do the occasional portrait or
commission for the folks around here. Higher disposable income, so they'll pay
a lot for something a bit different."
Harry feels his cheeks heat up at that; Zayn doesn't sound like he's commenting
about Harry specifically, but it's hard not to feel that way when he's sitting
in Zayn’s tiny flat, wearing brand new clothing his parents gave him the money
to buy for. "I worked in the bakery downstairs last summer," he says, feeling
childish just for bring it up. Like he has to prove something.
Zayn grins, not letting it get awkward at all. "Really? They make great sticky
buns. That’s cool. I can barely cook at all. S'why I live off these things,
really," Zayn says, patting the pack of cigarettes in the coffee table beside
him. "D’you mind if I smoke while I draw? It helps me concentrate."
Harry doesn't like the smell, but it's Zayn’s flat, so he won't tell him no.
"It’s fine."
“Great. Let's get started then, shall we?" Zayn grins again, sets his mug down
and gets up.
"What should I do?" Harry asks, standing up a well, feeling quite out of place.
Zayn looks back at him, but Harry knows he's looking at him differently, now.
Like he's looking at what could be instead of what's actually there. "If it
won't make you uncomfortable, could you maybe get down to your pants and sit on
the bed?" Zayn is digging a cigarette out of his battered pack as he asks, so
he doesn't see Harry biting his lip, thankfully.
Harry doesn’t have a problem with nudity, not at all, but it's still a bit
forward to strip down this soon after meeting a person and coming to their
house, isn't it? But, well, if Zayn is the one asking, it shouldn't be such a
big deal, he guesses.
"Yeah, okay," he says softly, already going for the hem of his shirt.
Zayn walks to his desk, cigarette lit and hanging from the corner if his mouth.
There's an easel set up beside the desk that Zayn moves to in front of the bed
while Harry strips down to his pants. There's a palette with dried paint on
Zayn’s desk but he doesn't pick it up. Instead, he grabs what Harry thinks
might be a charcoal pencil, if he’s remembering the scant art classes he’s had
to take over the years.
"Where should I sit?"
Zayn gets a large sketch pad set up, then turns to Harry, hands on his hips.
"Just cross-legged in the middle," he says finally.
Harry climbs onto the bed, trying not to think about what he usually does when
he's crawling into someone else's bed. He may not be the most experienced boy
in his year, but he’s seen his fair share of bedrooms. This is definitely the
most unique activity he’s done in one, though. He sits right in the middle as
asked, legs crossed and arms hanging at his side, uncertain of what to do with
them.
Frowning, Zayn moves from behind the easel and comes towards the bed. "No,
that's not right at all," he mumbles to himself. He tucks his charcoal pencil
behind his ear and grabs Harry’s right leg, pulling it out so that his foot is
dangling over the edge. He moves Harry’s left leg up so his knee's by his chin.
Zayn's fingers leave little black smudges in their wake. "And tilt your head to
the side, okay?" Harry turns his head to the side, so he's looking at the sofa.
Zayn touches his neck, smudges his fingers there and Harry realizes the
charcoal was probably on purpose.
Harry’s hands are still at his side, so he lets them tangle in the sheets so he
doesn't fidget. The sofa is rather boring and he can hear Zayn drawing, but he
can't really see—his knee is blocking his view from this angle—so after a
while, he turns to watch.
Zayn is frowning at the paper, cigarette almost down to the filter. He's put on
glasses that Harry didn't even know he had, but they look quite good on him.
His eyes flick up over the pad and he says, sharply, "don't move."
Harry turns back quickly, biting his lip until it hurts. He knows he's flushed,
just hopes it hasn't gone all down his chest like usual.
After a while, Zayn moves him so that he's leaning against the wall the bed is
pressed against, legs straight in front and head tilted up so his throat is
bared. Zayn leaves a collar of black fingerprints around his neck and over one
thigh. Harry spends his time between poses just breathing in the smell of
cigarette smoke and thinking to himself, trying to sit as still as possible.
Trying that hard mostly makes him tired and his thoughts go soft, and he
doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until Zayn is shaking his shoulder, saying,
"Hey, c'mon, wake up. It's late."
Harry blinks his eyes open, looks up at Zayn, and for a horrifying moment,
leans up as if to kiss him on instinct. He stops himself just in time, though,
falls back against the bed. "Sorry," he says, voice scratchy. He wonders how
long he's been asleep. The light coming in through the tiny window above the
sink is orange.
Zayn is staring down at him pretty intensely. "It’s okay," he says lowly.
"Did you get everything you needed?"
"Mostly, yeah."
"Can I see?"
Zayn is still looking at him in that concentrated way. It makes Harry’s throat
go dry. "Yeah, sure," Zayn tells him, climbing off the bed.
Harry sits up, slides off the bed and goes for his trousers, gets them up over
his hips but doesn't bother to zip or button them up. Zayn spreads the torn out
pages on the floor and Harry gets a good look at them. "Oh," he says softly.
"Wow."
Zayn smiles, lights a cigarette Harry didn't even notice him get. "You like?"
It's amazing, because Harry knows he’s the person in all these pictures,
but...they look better. Sensual. The smudges around his hips and chest and arms
and neck look like bruises from rough sex. They're weirdly arousing, even
though it's Harry in them.
The last one is of him facing away from the viewer, sheets slung low on his
hips. There's a line of bruises along his hip and up the curve of his side.
They go down past the sheets as well. Harry looks down at himself, surprised he
didn't notice the black smudges when he woke up.
"Yeah," Harry says. He licks his bottom lip. "They’re great."
"Had a good muse, then, didn't I?" Zayn laughs, stubs out his cigarette. "So
that was really just figure study. If you want to come back so I can actually
paint you, I wouldn't say no." Zayn flops down on his sofa, picks up Harry’s
cold mug of tea and drinks from it. He makes a face at it and Harry lets out a
bark of laughter, covers his mouth when Zayn looks at him with raised brows.
"You doing alright over there?"
Harry smiles behind his hands. "M'fine." He gets his shirt from by the sofa and
pulls it on, floundering when his hair gets caught in his top button.
"Hey, you're okay," Zayn says from right beside him suddenly. He untangles
Harry’s curls from his shirt, pulls it down and straightens it over his
stomach. The gesture makes Harry's breath come short.
“Um. If you’d like, I could come back?” Harry fidgets with his zip, then with
the buttons on his shirt, trying not to actually look up at Zayn. He has no
clue why he feels so flustered around him. He doesn’t get flustered around
people. Even especially attractive people.
“I just said that, didn’t I?” Zayn asks. He’s still got his hands on Harry's
shoulders and he’s sort of smoothing down the fabric again and again, like he
doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. “You should come back here with me next
Friday. We’ve got that half-day.”
Harry nods. “Yeah, sure. That’d be great.”
“Cool.” Zayn finally pulls away from him and Harry can feel like he can breathe
again. “I’ll see you at school, then.
-
Harry spends the next few days at school in a sort of haze. He sees Zayn in the
halls and smiles at him, but they don’t talk. Zayn’s crowd really isn’t
Harry's—the art kids and drama kids; the ones who wear their ties loose around
their necks and rainbow belts around their trousers.
The days leading up to Friday pass by in a blur, and honestly, Harry couldn’t
tell you anything he’s learned, or anything he’s really done in any of his
classes since Monday. He’s just really focused on what happened and how he felt
about it, and what it means that he’s feeling it about Zayn.
This isn’t a gay crisis or anything. Harry has kissed enough boys at enough
parties to know that he likes guys and girls. He’s just never gotten so
flustered around someone, before. Harry's usually put together and can talk to
anyone, but Zayn makes him lose his words. He feels shy around him, for
Christ’s sake. Harry isn’t shy.
Friday rolls around before Harry is really fully prepared for it.
Zayn finds him at his locker and grins, bag already slung over his shoulder.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yeah, I think so.” Harry adjusts the strap on his bag, even though it’s
perfectly fine. He just can’t stop himself from fidgeting.
“Cool.” Zayn hooks his arm around Harry's shoulders, steers him towards the
front entrance.
Zayn asks him about his classes for the day and Harry's pretty sure he answers
him in a normal way, because Zayn doesn’t give him any weird looks. They get to
the bakery sooner than Harry expected and then they’re back in Zayn’s flat and
Harry feels out of place again.
“You want me to get my kit off again?” he asks, dropping his bag on the floor
by the sofa.
“Yeah, sure.” Zayn’s already in the kitchen, banging the kettle against the
sink as he fills it up. “Got a new chair, so we’ll use that.” He points the
kettle at the ugly, overstuffed chair Harry hadn’t noticed that’s by the desk.
It’s got a horrible floral print that reminds Harry of his gran’s house. “So
just settle down on that, alright?”
Harry nods, gets his clothing off and onto the sofa while Zayn makes them tea.
He’s got on briefs, today, hadn’t even thought about it when he’d put on his
outfit for the day (or maybe he had, Harry just doesn’t even know anymore).
They’re black and quite good on his bum and when he turns around, he notices
Zayn looking at them. “These okay?” he asks, feeling quite breathless.
“Sure,” Zayn says again. He brings out their mugs of tea, hands one over to
Harry when Harry's finally sat down on the chair. It’s scratchy and sort of
awful, but it’s worth the way Zayn’s eyes rake over him.
They sit in silence for a bit while they drink their tea, then Zayn sits up
from the couch abruptly. “Can I put some eyeliner and stuff on you? It’ll
really bring out the colour of your eyes in anything I paint.”
Harry thinks about it for a bit. He’s seen loads of other boys with eyeliner
on, before, plus no one else is actually about. Zayn wouldn’t make fun of him
for wearing it, certainly, not if he owns it.
“Sure, okay,” he says, putting his mug on the coffee table. “Don’t know how to
put it on, though.”
“Good thing I do, then,” Zayn says, grinning. He puts his tea down as well,
jumps up and goes to rummage through a desk drawer. “Brought some home after
practice once, on accident, and never got around to bringing it back. Lucky I
didn’t, eh?” he asks, coming back up and brandishing an eyeliner stick and a
tube of peach lip gloss.
“Where’d you get that, then?” Harry asks, nodding at the tube.
Zayn laughs, wiggles his eyebrows up and down. “Girl forgot it here and I never
got her number to be able to return it.” He comes back over to Harry and moves
him so that his legs are hanging off one arm of the chair, elbow on the other
used to prop Harry's chin up. “Okay, this is going to be odd, but bear with
me.”
Getting eyeliner put on is a strange experience, for Harry. Maybe Zayn is used
to it because of his time on the stage, but Harry definitely finds it odd. Zayn
pulls on his lower eyelids to line the bottom of his eyes, instructs him to
look up while he does it, then tells him to close his eyes altogether so he can
line the top lids. The pencil is sort of scratchy, like it hasn’t been properly
sharpened and it’s weird to feel it dragging so close to a place that makes
Harry want to flail out and protect instinctively, but he controls himself.
Zayn ends up rubbing his thumb beneath Harry's eye, to the corner of the lid a
few times until he’s satisfied with how it looks.
The lip gloss is easier, if even stranger once applied. Zayn uncaps the tube,
squeezes the bottom so some of the gloss pools out at the tip. It smells like
vanilla and sugar and makes Harry's mouth water.
This time, Zayn says, “open your mouth a bit, but keep it soft,” like Harry is
supposed to know what that means. He opens his mouth anyways, lets Zayn put the
thick, smelly gloss on his lips, drag the tube around to make the coat even.
Harry smacks his lips together when Zayn is finished, like he’s seen in movies,
and is sorely tempted to lick at the gloss, even though he knows there’s no way
it could taste near as good as it smells.
Zayn pulls back, sits on his haunches and surveys Harry. His eyes are soft as
he looks at Harry, but Harry keeps getting distracted by how sticky his mouth
is, now. He keeps wanting to rub his hand across his lips, but he knows that
would smear what Zayn’s done.
The easel is set up again, with a canvas, this time, and Zayn drags it away
from his desk and in front of the chair. He uses a pencil, which makes a sort
of sense, to Harry—it would be daft to just start with paint on something like
a canvas, wouldn’t it?—but Harry soon gets bored of watching just the hunch of
Zayn’s shoulders over the canvas and lets his mind wander.
He comes back when Zayn quickly repositions him so that his legs are completely
over the arm of the chair, toes just dragging along the carpet, head pillowed
on the other one. He’s got one arm along the length of his torso, tips of his
fingers against his thigh while the other one is hanging down off the chair,
fingers tracing over the carpet.
Harry ends up spreading his fingers, tracing patterns over the carpet as Zayn
erases and fixes what he has on the canvas. It’s soft, like it’s been walked on
a lot. Harry thinks about whether or not Zayn paces up here when he’s trying to
be creative, if maybe he has loads of people up to be drawn or to have parties
or to have sex—because that’s what Zayn was implying about the lip gloss, Harry
isn’t oblivious.
His mind ends up wandering to the thought of Zayn and some random girl--or even
boy, there are rumors about what Zayn gets up to when he goes out to the next
city over with his mates. Harry quickly makes himself stop thinking about Zayn
pressing someone against a wall, smoothing his hand down the lines of their
body because it's turning him on and he's in nothing but tight briefs, Zayn
will see.
"I think I have everything I can get today," Zayn says. He looks a bit
frustrated when he steps away from his canvas, like things aren't going quite
how he wants them to.
"Everything okay?" Harry asks, sitting up and reaching for his pile of clothes.
He puts them on slowly, watching Zayn all the while.
Zayn shrugs, seems to have to make himself look away from his canvas to watch
Harry dress. "It's not looking the way I want."
"Maybe I'm not the right sort of model for what you want to draw?"
"Nah," Zayn says, finally grinning. "You're good. Just not in the right mind
frame, I guess. Think you can come back tomorrow?"
Harry has a report he needs to write for Monday, but that's not going to stop
him. "Yeah, of course. One okay?"
"Sure." Zayn moves over to his bed, flops down and puts his hands over his
face. He looks annoyed and Harry wants to say something, try to cheer him up,
tell him it'll be okay.
Instead, he finishes dressing and leaves.
-
When Harry comes to the bakery early, he ends up chatting with the owner for a
while. She's glad to see him, chastises him for not coming around more often to
talk, asks if he thinks he'll want to come back over Winter holidays to work a
bit. Harry isn't sure, but he's always glad to have extra pocket money, and he
did genuinely enjoy his time here, so he tells her maybe, probably, he'll just
have to talk to his mum first. She sends him away with a smile and a bag full
of goodies to share with "that sweet, quiet artist lodger of mine, don't think
he's had a proper meal since he came out here, all skin and bones, that one,
not like you, you've got a good bit of weight to you, good chap, go on up,
then."
Harry goes up the stairs to Zayn's flat, cheeks flushed and a prodding at his
stomach. Sure, he has baby fat, still, but he's young. His mum keeps telling
him he'll hit a growth spurt and all that softness will stretch out to leanness
soon enough. He just has to be patient.
Zayn opens the door, laughs when sees Harry lifting up his shirt to stare at
his little bit of pudge. "Starting early, then?" he asks, reaching out to grab
the bag of pastries from downstairs.
"What? Oh, no, I was just trying to see if I was fat. Mary said you needed
feeding up while I had a 'good bit of weight'." Harry's pouting, he knows, but
he's sensitive. He's not fat, he's just not as lean as Zayn is.
"She's an odd bird," Zayn says, digging through the wax bag and bringing out a
sticky bun. He stuffs half of it into his mouth, chews messily as he says,
"She's always trying to feed me. I'm surprised I haven't gained like six stone
since I moved in." He eyes Harry, holds out the bag. "You're not fat. You're
just what I want. To draw." There's a pause in what he says that makes Harry
flush, feel that initial stirring of arousal in his gut. Maybe it wasn't just a
slip in his hearing. Maybe Zayn—
No. Harry stops himself. If he lets himself think about it, he'll get weird.
Weirder. And he likes spending this time with Zayn. So he cuts that thought off
right at the knees and reaches into the bag for a croissant. It's buttery and
light and golden and melts on his tongue in a way that makes Harry groan. He’s
forgotten just how good everything is downstairs, how he actually did gain a
stone working there before he went back to school and lost most of it again.
“Would you be comfortable posing nude?” Zayn asks after clearing his throat.
He’s walking away from Harry, towards the kitchen for their usual cup of tea
before starting and he doesn’t see Harry swallow nervously.
“Um. No, that’s okay, but uh.” He looks down at his trousers, knows he’s a bit
hard just from thinking of Zayn and the fact that he’s a teenager and
perpetually just a bit horny.
Zayn laughs like he knows exactly what Harry is trying to say even though he’s
not there to look at him, but he’s not unkindly about it. “It’s okay, it
happens all the time when you do figure study with men. I can work around it.”
Harry flushes and the embarrassment, the thought of Zayn having to work around
him having a semi, is enough to calm him down. He gets his clothing off while
Zayn is puttering around making the tea, folds them neatly onto the coffee
table even though usually he just lets them drop onto the floor. He’s nervous,
being completely naked in front of Zayn, who’s obviously drawn loads of naked
people before. What if he sees Harry and is disappointed or disgusted or loses
his desire to draw him? Harry ends up standing in the middle of the living area
since he has no clue where Zayn wants him, hands covering himself as he tries
not to fidget.
“It’s okay,” Zayn says, coming back into the living room with two mugs. “You
don’t have to feel obligated. You can put your pants back on if you want.”
The offer makes Harry pause for a moment, but he ends up shaking his head,
taking his hands from in front and letting them hang at his side. He knows he’s
blushing but he tries not to think about it.
Zayn hands him his mug, eyes sweeping over him like a caress. “You really are
gorgeous,” he says, finally. “I still can’t believe no one has ever asked to
draw you, before.”
“Nope.” Harry takes a sip of his tea, but it doesn’t set well in his stomach,
so he sets the mug down on the table. "How do you want me?" he asks, fingers
tapping uselessly against his thighs, unsure what to do with them yet.
"Uh," Zayn says. He licks his lips, sets his own mug down and moves closer to
Harry. "Sort of, like, sit with your legs under you, soles of your feet pressed
against the back."
Harry climbs awkwardly onto the scratchy floral armchair, sits back on his
heels so that his knees are poking out over the edge of the armchair, feet
pressed against the back on either side of his bum. Zayn moves in as soon as
he's in position, spreads his knees a bit more and puts his hands down so that
his fingers are splayed out over his thighs. The position makes him feel open
and vulnerable and although his cock is soft, it's just there, so close to
Zayn's hand that Harry can feel the warmth of him.
"Lean back so your shoulders are touching the cloth, and tilt your head back as
well." Zayn follows his words with his hands, moving Harry back so his
shoulders and head are against the armchair. He stands in front of Harry,
looking down the line of his body, fingers twitching like he wants to touch but
he draws away instead, grabs a pack of cigarettes from below the coffee table
and lights one quickly. "Just stay like that," Zayn says, moving away from
Harry's line of sight to grab his easel and bring it back in front of the
armchair.
Even though it's not hot in the flat, Harry feels hot. He can feel sweat
beading on his forehead and under his fingers where they're pressed to his
thighs. He wonders if Zayn can tell, if he'll add that in his picture. Harry
also wonders what Zayn is going to do with this. If he's going to put his
pictures in the arts hallway for the rest of the student body to observe. He
would guess the nude one wouldn't be allowed, but wouldn't people recognise him
like this? Wouldn't they be able to look at the line of his neck or the spread
of his fingers and know it's him?
The thought makes him shiver, even though he still feels overheated. He doesn't
want anyone else at school to see him like this. He wants Zayn to keep it
private, to himself. Wants him to keep these pictures of Harry, vulnerable and
exposed, to himself. He doesn't want Zayn to share this with anyone else.
"What will you do with these pictures?" Harry asks, voice hoarse. "Will you
show them somewhere?" He opens his eyes—didn't even realise they'd closed—and
looks at Zayn from the angle his head is tilted back as best he can.
Zayn is smoking, still, pencil in the other hand, but he's paused, looking over
the canvas at Harry. "No," he says. "I might use them to develop an abstract
for a show I have at the end of summer, but these are for my own study." Zayn
presses the side of his pencil to his leg, licks his bottom lip. "Do you want
me to show them?"
"Not really." Harry lets his fingers curl on his thighs, but flattens them out
quickly. "They're yours."
"Yeah," Zayn says softly. He watches Harry for a long moment, then goes back to
the canvas.
After they're done, and Harry is pulling on his clothing, Harry wants to ask if
he can see how it ended up, but he feels oddly shy over it. He's not sure if he
can look at how Zayn sees him when he's drawing him. So he just gulps his cold
tea down and nods when Zayn asks him over for the next weekend to probably wrap
things up.
-
Harry spends the next week alternately feeling anxious, excited and
disappointed. He doesn’t want it to be the last time he sits with Zayn, but he
doesn’t think that Zayn would want to hang out with him outside of their
sessions. Every time Harry spots him in school, Zayn always seems so busy with
his friends and his activities with his clubs. Sometimes he’ll look up during
lunch and spot Zayn looking at him sort of intensely, but Zayn never makes a
move to talk to him.
It’s just that, even though they don’t talk much during, Harry really likes
Zayn. He’s obviously talented and passionate about his art, he smokes far too
much and drinks a lot of tea and always seems busy. But he’s funny, too, when
he cracks jokes around his cigarettes, and he’s so bloody gorgeous it makes
Harry’s eyes cross sometimes. He doesn’t want to lose whatever it is they have
with one another.
So when he gets to Zayn’s that Saturday, he’s tired and grumpy from not
sleeping because he’s been thinking about the whole situation too much. Zayn
answers the door with a grin and immediately reaches out to pull Harry in.
Harry stumbles after him, laughing before he can stop himself. He’s never seen
Zayn so eager before.
“What’s going on?” Harry asks, feeling ridiculously breathless when Zayn stops
short and he bumps into his back.
Zayn turns around and just stares at him for a long time. Long enough that
Harry starts to fidget in place, impatient to know. “Since this is our last
session, I thought we could do something different? You don’t have to if you
don’t want, I’d completely understand. It might be weird.”
“Tell me?”
“It’s…here.” Zayn lets go of Harry’s hand and goes over to his desk, picking up
a black bag Harry hadn’t noticed before. His curiosity peaks even more. He
holds the bag out, like he’s afraid to walk over and hand it to Harry.
“I’m sure whatever it is, it’s not too…weird…” Harry trails off when he
actually gets to Zayn’s side and takes the bag, looking inside. There’s a pair
of pink, cotton knickers settled in a pile of tissue paper. “Um.”
Zayn looks red around the ears when Harry glances up at him. “You don’t have
to,” he says again. “Sorry, this was a weird idea. I shouldn’t have suggested
it. We can just do it like before. I’ll take those—”
“No, I want to,” Harry blurts out, pressing the bag to his chest and away from
Zayn’s reaching hand. “Can I use the loo?”
“’Course.”
Harry makes his way quickly to the bathroom, not letting himself linger over
the way Zayn is looking at him. When he looks at the mirror he sees that his
cheeks are pink but that’s probably pretty normal when someone asks you to put
on girls’ underwear. What’s not normal is how he’s already half-hard in his
trousers, just from the thought of putting the pink clothing on.
“Do they fit?” Zayn calls through the door.
“Gimme a sec!” Harry curses, fumbles the bag open to actually get them out.
There’s no reason he needs to be spending so much time thinking about this.
It’s absolutely fine. Loads of guys have put on girls’ clothing and stuff for
ads and modelling. Not that Harry thinks he’s a model or anything. But it’s
totally not abnormal. Right.
He strips down, leaving his clothes in a pile next to the toilet. Zayn has a
few clothes here and there, like he doesn’t bother with a hamper before he
takes a shower. Harry’s mum would have a fit if he left his bathroom in that
sort of state. He really has to stop thinking about Zayn having a shower,
totally naked, though, because that’s definitely not helping his situation.
The knickers are light pink, and when Harry slides them up his legs, barely
fit. He has to put his dick to the side and his balls are barely covered, and
he knows for a fact his bum isn’t. He can feel the air back there. Fuck, how do
girls wear these? His leg hair is really fair and sparse so it doesn’t look
weird, him wearing these. Harry turns around to look at himself in the mirror.
Definitely not weird. He tilts his head to the side. They’re definitely too
small for him, but maybe that’s on purpose? The pink looks good against his
pale skin, anyways. So there’s that.
“You okay?” Zayn asks, voice closer, like he’s right on the other side of the
door.
Harry jumps, startled. He sort of forgot Zayn was even there. “Yeah, it’s
fine.” He sounds a little breathless so he clears his throat. “Okay, I’m coming
out now.”
Zayn really is right outside the bathroom when Harry opens the door. He’s
looking at Harry’s face, but his gaze immediately drops and he swallows, Adam’s
apple bobbing. “Looks good,” he says, sounding a little breathless himself.
“Thanks.”
They stand there for a few long moments until Zayn shakes his head and turns
around, trotting out to the living room. “We’ll use the bed, again. I have
enough stuff of you on the armchair, but not much on the bed. That okay?”
Harry nods, going over to the bed and sitting on the edge. “Any way I should
sit?” he asks, letting his fingers spread through the folds in the top sheet.
“However you want.” Zayn drags his computer chair over to the bed, sketchpad in
his hands. He hasn’t used that since the first day. There’s a pencil in his
hand and a cigarette already at the corner of his mouth that he lights before
settling into the chair.
“’Kay.” Harry stretches back, arms braced against the bed and feet still
pressed to the floor. It puts the lines of his body on display and he still
feels a little worried about what he looks like, but Zayn doesn’t say anything.
Just stares at him for a long, silent minute, eyes raking over Harry’s body.
Harry tries not to think about getting hard in front of Zayn.
It’s different, doing this while he’s wearing knickers. Before, he was in his
own boxers, but now he feels...different. He can’t come up with any other word
for it. The knickers feel the same as his boxers, but he knows it’s not the
same. Not from the way Zayn’s hand is moving over the sketchpad, eyes moving
from Harry to the pad and back again with a speed Harry didn’t know was
possible. His cigarette is dangling from his mouth like he doesn’t even
remember it’s there.
Harry thinks about what Zayn will do with these pictures. If he’s ever asked
another boy to wear knickers to be drawn in. If maybe he’ll think about the
fact that Harry was on his bed like this. If that’ll keep him up the way it
keeps Harry up.
His arms get tired quickly and he flops down, letting out a startled noise when
his back hits the bed. “Sorry,” he says, spreading his arms out across the bed
until the fingers of his left hand touch Zayn’s pillow. “Arms got sore.”
“S’okay.” Zayn sounds rushed and distracted.
Harry stares up at Zayn’s ceiling until he gets tired of looking at it. He
shuts his eyes, the sound of a pencil scratching against paper lulling him into
thoughts he really shouldn’t have when he’s lying like this. He thinks about
Zayn setting his sketchpad aside and crawling onto the bed, hovering over him
and looking down at him with those big, pretty eyes. He imagines Zayn tracing
patterns over his skin, fingers calloused from the brushes he uses. He wonders
if he could persuade Zayn to fuck him, right here, with these stupidly tight
knickers on.
He realises he’s hard when Zayn clears his throat. “Uh,” he says, moving his
hands over his face and trying not to groan out loud. “Sorry.”
“It’s really okay,” Zayn says. Harry sits up a bit when he hears him shift.
Zayn is staring at him with dark, half-lidded eyes. “You can take care of it if
you need to. I don’t care.”
“Um,” Harry says again, sounding stupid even to his own ears. “That’s not
weird?”
Zayn grins. His cigarette is gone. “I’ve done weirder.”
“If you say so.” Harry really does want to get off, but no matter what Zayn
says, it is weird to just...get himself off in front of Zayn. But he’s really
hard and he’s probably staining the front of the knickers anyways, because he
knows he’s leaking. He always gets really wet when he’s turned on, and this
whole situation is turning him on. Zayn and the knickers and mostly Zayn. So
Harry shrugs and slumps back down against the bed, squeezing his eyes shut.
His hands seem tentative, at first, but he tells his brain to shut and stop
worrying and to just get to work. Harry moves one hand down his chest, not
bothering to stop and play with his nipples or belly, even though that’s
something he usually likes to do before he really goes at it. He’s already hard
enough, he doesn’t need to tease himself.
The front of the knickers are wet and cold against his hand when he slides it
in to grasp his cock. His skin is hot, though, and he’s leaking enough that he
doesn’t need lube for the slide of his hand to be easy. Harry tries not to
think about the fact that Zayn is sitting right in front of him, watching him,
but he can’t help it. He wonders if Zayn can smell him, smell how turned on he
is, just from this. He lets out a little hitched breath when he finally pulls
himself from the knickers, hand really starting to move up and down faster. His
thighs are already shaking, stomach quivering like he’s about to come right
now, even though he’s just started.
“Oh,” he says softly, toes curling into the carpet when he twists on the
upstroke, pleasure sparking through his entire body. He loves getting off,
loves fucking and messing about. He loves feeling good, and getting off
definitely feels good. Harry knows he’s close to coming, can feel his impending
orgasm curling in his stomach, ready to spring.
“Fuck,” Zayn spits out, startling Harry into letting go of his cock, eyes
flying open and sitting up a bit. He really had forgotten Zayn was there,
watching him. Zayn’s eyes are wide, now, shot black like he’s turned on. He’s
not scribbling on his pad, hand clenched tight around the pencil. There’s a
light flush on his cheeks and when Harry looks down, his trousers are
definitely tighter than they were, before. “You really are gorgeous,” Zayn
says, bringing Harry’s attention back to his face. He looks like he wants.
Harry wants, too.
“You should come up here,” he says, voice low and wrecked like it gets when
he’s beyond turned on. Zayn hesitates for half a second before throwing his pad
to the side, standing up and starting to undress himself. He doesn’t ask if
Harry is sure, which Harry appreciates. Just strips down and Harry finally gets
a good look at him. “Oh my god,” he says, sitting up fully again, completely
distracted from his own cock.
“What?” Zayn asks, looking down at himself. He sounds like he might be self-
conscious but Harry has no clue why he ever would be. He’s well fit.
“Look at you! I can’t believe you keep calling me gorgeous when you’re pretty
much the most attractive person I have ever laid eyes on,” Harry says. Zayn’s
cock is hard, pressed against his stomach and wet at the tip and Harry wants to
get his mouth around him, wants to taste him, can’t stop looking.
Zayn laughs, gets a hand around his dick and stokes himself once before moving
to the bed and standing between Harry’s legs. “You wanna get back to what you
were doing?” He’s still jerking himself off, slow, looking at Harry’s cock,
now, instead of his face.
“Fuck,” Harry groans, putting his hand back on his dick and tugging hard and
fast, too turned on for words. Fuck, he’s got Zayn between his legs, watching
him get off. What more could he want.
“God, you’ve got no finesse.” Zayn knocks his hand away, wraps his own fist
around Harry’s cock and Harry sees white. His grip is tight and slightly
calloused in a way Harry’s isn’t and it just feels so fucking good, God, he
can’t even control the way his hips are fucking up into Zayn’s touch, desperate
for more. “Look at you,” he whispers. His thighs are touching Harry’s, spread
out obscenely over the bed. The points of contact between them send jolts up
Harry’s spine.
“Shut up,” he mumbles, grasping fistfuls of the sheets and holding on, trying
to keep from coming.
“I want to fuck the words right out of you,” Zayn says, rubbing his thumb
across Harry’s slit.
It’s enough, more than enough. The thought of Zayn fucking him, coming inside
him, maybe, is enough to push Harry into orgasm, thighs clenching up, spilling
all over Zayn’s fist and his own stomach and thighs, getting the knickers even
more wet.
“Oh, Christ.” Zayn lets Harry’s cock go, grabs his own dick and jerks himself
hard, using Harry’s come to slide the way. The image has Harry’s dick twitching
in interest, but it’s far too soon. “You’d look so fucking pretty on my cock,
God.”
“Wanna feel you in me,” Harry mumbles, words slurred from how exhausted he is.
Swearing, Zayn comes, aiming his dick away from himself and towards Harry. He
gets his come all over Harry’s thighs, as if there wasn’t already a mess there.
“Shit, stay right there,” he says, wiping his hand on the sheets next to
Harry’s hand and rushing over to get his thrown sketchpad. His pencil is on the
floor as well, under a sock and he curses as he grabs it and moves back to the
computer chair.
“Is that your definition of afterglow?” Harry asks, laughing and trying not to
squirm too much. His thighs are sticky and cooling, now, and he feels
disgusting. He really wants a shower. Plus, the elastic of the knickers is
cutting into his thighs and he wants to take them off.
Zayn grins, looks up at him, pencil poised over the pad. “Let me finish this,
and we can go for round two. Then you’ll get your afterglow.”
Harry swallows, licks his lip. The look on Zayn’s face makes his dick twitch
again. “Yeah, okay. Let’s do that.”
“Good.” Zayn goes back to his drawing and Harry sits on the bed as patiently as
he possibly can be with the thought of being able to do this again running
through his head.
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