And Boys Will Be Girls, Harry/Louis, 1/4
Title: And Boys Will Be Girls [1/4]
Pairing: Harry/Louis
Disclaimer: Entirely fictional. Title taken from Lola by The Kinks.
Word Count: 1, 378 [5, 000 + total]
Summary: Burlesque club!AU. He’s boldly beautiful. He’s half naked and Harry’s heart is betraying him, just as his eyes are, near enough cracking his ribs with it’s beating. Harry’s never seen a boy exude such elegance before, so smooth and fae with each ballet toe point perfectly controlled. He’s never seen a boy with sparkling stars pressed over his nipples and feathered fans laid below him like clouds, and although Harry has looked a little too closely at guys who’ve stood beside him in bar queues or grazed up against him in mosh pits before, he’s never found one to be so alluring it’s clawed at his lungs.
Warnings: Slurs and other language, alcohol, explicit sex [in later parts].
A/N: Inspired by this prompt at 1dkinkmeme.
Of course, their table is the rowdiest in the club. It’s heavily laden with pints and neat little rows of shot glasses, a couple of pitchers of something fizzy [since it was on special offer] and surrounded by a gaggle of screeching first years who are a month into their university studies and still treating every night out like fresher’s week. Always as though it’s a competition to see who can vomit onto the pavement first. All of the lads are about tonight, in their sharp toed Topshop chelsea boots and suffocating skinny jeans. Make-believe rockstars in order to pull hipster birds and it usually works. Harry is the prettiest rockstar of the lot, with his choppy sweep of natural curls and clinging vintage t-shirt and he gets flaunted as their lucky charm.
“Bet they’re gonna be fit as fuck, Hazza. Bet you’ll go and get some retro pussy too, with them fucking curls,” Harry’s room mate, Jack, slurs up against his ear, fair oilier than any eighteen year old should be. It’s whiskey that does it to him, makes him sound as though he should be chewing at a fat cigar.
Harry giggles as he shrugs. Sweet nonchalance, like he doesn’t know just how charming he is. Still, he thinks of that famous Dita woman with her crimson smirk and waist so bloody tiny he could probably work one hand around it and he knows that he wouldn’t mind getting past her french knickers. Burlesque does things to Harry- it’s soft dangerous curves and taunting eyes. He’s not seen any in person before but he did pull some routines up on Youtube when they decided on checking out this club and had a reasonably good time watching a bleach blonde pin-up writhing in a clam. Hand shoved, most classily, down his pants throughout.
“Supposed to start in five minutes! Get ready, boys!” A familiar Scottish voice announces from Harry’s left, and right on cue, all of the bulbs in the club dim right down until there are just two ice blue spot lights turned in on the stage and it’s veil of smoke.
The light beams illuminate ostrich feather fans. Downy and vast, held in such a way that they perfectly obscure the somebody clutching them. The crowd hushes as one and Harry flexes his long-fingered grip around his pint, his eyes unmoving and intrigued. Some of his friends titter with boyish excitement and the same sort squirms in Harry’s belly. He’s already picturing teased, coiffed hair and shoulders bowing to reveal an endless cleavage.The belly squirming shifts, the eighteen year old’s hips follow it and he draws his lower lip in under his teeth, tasting the half a cigarette he had strolling up from campus.
“You look like you could fuckin’ spontaneously come here and now, mate,” Jack whispers and then cackles- very nearly loud enough to blot out the first bar of the song starting up.
Harry catches it, though, and instantly recognises it. Diamonds Are Forever, from that Bond film, but the Arctic Monkey’s cover. His boot starts going heel-to-toe against the tacky floor and his green eyes gleam. He sucks in a sweat-sodden breath, Alex Turner croons in his too-cool Northern twang and the fans begin to flutter- slowly slowly, like unfurling wings- until they drag right through the opaque air. When the feather-tips rest gently against the floor, everything is still shadows, but the spotlights start to spin. The feathers quiver once more and the lights explode into glittering shards. The flickering picks out a face, a neck with pretty tendons held taught, bird boned wrists fleshing out into biceps....a whole boy once they’ve settled back into something solid.
He’s a vision of tousled hair over razor-edged cheek bones and the pattern of toned tummy muscles, two silver stars where Harry expected to see tits, and tiny shiny shorts. Harry feels the air go stiff around the table from the collective exhales of shock, and tries desperately to drag his eyes back to Jack. Or to the full pitcher a few inches away. He feels dizzy, brain splintering behind his eyes like the lights had been seconds before, and he wants to make some comment about fucking needing a drink after that, Christ but it gets stuck in his throat. The boy on stage begins to roll his hips- moody in the blue lights. Harry’s thoughts slip more rapidly from where they ought to be.
“Fuuucking hell!” Exclaims the Scot, ripping unceremoniously through the moment. The boy on stage blinks but doesn’t falter. “Is it fucking faggot night?”
Harry winces and grazes his blunt nails against the bone of his arm but doesn’t utter anything other than a practically silent ‘shit’. He’s not that kind of boy at heart, but university’s been a strange beast. His mates here like him because he looks like a forgotten member of The Strokes, not because of any morals or intellect. God, god, god, his brain chants, puzzling it’s self back together, and Harry desperately tries to make his features read as passive. Anything that wont get him teased mercilessly for the next three years.
“I think our Hazza’s gone into shock!” Jack smirks, his hand slapping against Harry’s back and snapping him out of his reverie.
All Harry can think to do is laugh just as uproariously and drain his flat pint as though he’d been dying of thirst- “What the Hell is this about?” He hisses towards the centre of the table, once he’s gathered some feigned composure, “Should we get goin’ or?”
“Nah man,” Someone argues, smacking their bottle against the table for emphasis, “I swear I’ve spent half of me student loan on all this fuckin’ drink tonight! Let’s get through this first- we don’t have to look at ‘im like, do we?”
A collective cheer of agreement follows and drinks clink together sloppily across the table. Everybody’s attention swiftly switching from the show on the stage to the shots they’ve still got left to race through. As raucous as before, they settle into the familiarity of downing and spilling and sniggering like kids in the playground. When things slow somewhat, Jack takes it upon himself to start chugging directly from a jug, the Sex on the Beach inside sloshing over his chin and button-up, and because of the round of the applause it earns, Harry doesn’t quite hear when the song fades from the indie cover into the original but he does catch the dancer’s moves becoming more elaborate.
He’s boldly beautiful. He’s half naked and Harry’s heart is betraying him, just as his eyes are, near enough cracking his ribs with it’s beating. Harry’s never seen a boy exude such elegance before: so smooth and fae with each ballet toe point perfectly controlled. He’s never seen a boy with sparkling stars pressed over his nipples and feathered fans laid below him like clouds, and although Harry has looked a little too closely at guys who’ve stood beside him in bar queues or grazed up against him in mosh pits before, he’s never found one to be so alluring it’s clawed at his lungs. He blinks like the closing of a lens aperture, photographing what he can of the show to memory. Then he stares resolutely into his empty glass until his friends decide that it’s time they escaped.
He’s especially quiet on their trek home, finding that he feels hollow if he attempts to bark out laughs or throw comments into the mix. His mates refuse to shut up about how it was the most disturbing thing they’d ever seen, how they were scarred. Jack, the bloody comedian, insists that he’ll have to watch all the fit lesbian action he can find on Redtube to purge his memory and everyone except Harry whoops. Harry, feeling defensive over the pretty pixie stranger, scowls and keeps to the shadows. Out of the way of any knowing eyes that might pry his true feelings from him. When two of the boys go to swing their arms around Harry’s shoulders and drag him into a football chant, he shrugs them off with a grunt, and everyone agrees that it’s post traumatic stress.
Part 2
Pairing: Harry/Louis
Disclaimer: Entirely fictional. Title taken from Lola by The Kinks.
Word Count: 1, 378 [5, 000 + total]
Summary: Burlesque club!AU. He’s boldly beautiful. He’s half naked and Harry’s heart is betraying him, just as his eyes are, near enough cracking his ribs with it’s beating. Harry’s never seen a boy exude such elegance before, so smooth and fae with each ballet toe point perfectly controlled. He’s never seen a boy with sparkling stars pressed over his nipples and feathered fans laid below him like clouds, and although Harry has looked a little too closely at guys who’ve stood beside him in bar queues or grazed up against him in mosh pits before, he’s never found one to be so alluring it’s clawed at his lungs.
Warnings: Slurs and other language, alcohol, explicit sex [in later parts].
A/N: Inspired by this prompt at 1dkinkmeme.
Of course, their table is the rowdiest in the club. It’s heavily laden with pints and neat little rows of shot glasses, a couple of pitchers of something fizzy [since it was on special offer] and surrounded by a gaggle of screeching first years who are a month into their university studies and still treating every night out like fresher’s week. Always as though it’s a competition to see who can vomit onto the pavement first. All of the lads are about tonight, in their sharp toed Topshop chelsea boots and suffocating skinny jeans. Make-believe rockstars in order to pull hipster birds and it usually works. Harry is the prettiest rockstar of the lot, with his choppy sweep of natural curls and clinging vintage t-shirt and he gets flaunted as their lucky charm.
“Bet they’re gonna be fit as fuck, Hazza. Bet you’ll go and get some retro pussy too, with them fucking curls,” Harry’s room mate, Jack, slurs up against his ear, fair oilier than any eighteen year old should be. It’s whiskey that does it to him, makes him sound as though he should be chewing at a fat cigar.
Harry giggles as he shrugs. Sweet nonchalance, like he doesn’t know just how charming he is. Still, he thinks of that famous Dita woman with her crimson smirk and waist so bloody tiny he could probably work one hand around it and he knows that he wouldn’t mind getting past her french knickers. Burlesque does things to Harry- it’s soft dangerous curves and taunting eyes. He’s not seen any in person before but he did pull some routines up on Youtube when they decided on checking out this club and had a reasonably good time watching a bleach blonde pin-up writhing in a clam. Hand shoved, most classily, down his pants throughout.
“Supposed to start in five minutes! Get ready, boys!” A familiar Scottish voice announces from Harry’s left, and right on cue, all of the bulbs in the club dim right down until there are just two ice blue spot lights turned in on the stage and it’s veil of smoke.
The light beams illuminate ostrich feather fans. Downy and vast, held in such a way that they perfectly obscure the somebody clutching them. The crowd hushes as one and Harry flexes his long-fingered grip around his pint, his eyes unmoving and intrigued. Some of his friends titter with boyish excitement and the same sort squirms in Harry’s belly. He’s already picturing teased, coiffed hair and shoulders bowing to reveal an endless cleavage.The belly squirming shifts, the eighteen year old’s hips follow it and he draws his lower lip in under his teeth, tasting the half a cigarette he had strolling up from campus.
“You look like you could fuckin’ spontaneously come here and now, mate,” Jack whispers and then cackles- very nearly loud enough to blot out the first bar of the song starting up.
Harry catches it, though, and instantly recognises it. Diamonds Are Forever, from that Bond film, but the Arctic Monkey’s cover. His boot starts going heel-to-toe against the tacky floor and his green eyes gleam. He sucks in a sweat-sodden breath, Alex Turner croons in his too-cool Northern twang and the fans begin to flutter- slowly slowly, like unfurling wings- until they drag right through the opaque air. When the feather-tips rest gently against the floor, everything is still shadows, but the spotlights start to spin. The feathers quiver once more and the lights explode into glittering shards. The flickering picks out a face, a neck with pretty tendons held taught, bird boned wrists fleshing out into biceps....a whole boy once they’ve settled back into something solid.
He’s a vision of tousled hair over razor-edged cheek bones and the pattern of toned tummy muscles, two silver stars where Harry expected to see tits, and tiny shiny shorts. Harry feels the air go stiff around the table from the collective exhales of shock, and tries desperately to drag his eyes back to Jack. Or to the full pitcher a few inches away. He feels dizzy, brain splintering behind his eyes like the lights had been seconds before, and he wants to make some comment about fucking needing a drink after that, Christ but it gets stuck in his throat. The boy on stage begins to roll his hips- moody in the blue lights. Harry’s thoughts slip more rapidly from where they ought to be.
“Fuuucking hell!” Exclaims the Scot, ripping unceremoniously through the moment. The boy on stage blinks but doesn’t falter. “Is it fucking faggot night?”
Harry winces and grazes his blunt nails against the bone of his arm but doesn’t utter anything other than a practically silent ‘shit’. He’s not that kind of boy at heart, but university’s been a strange beast. His mates here like him because he looks like a forgotten member of The Strokes, not because of any morals or intellect. God, god, god, his brain chants, puzzling it’s self back together, and Harry desperately tries to make his features read as passive. Anything that wont get him teased mercilessly for the next three years.
“I think our Hazza’s gone into shock!” Jack smirks, his hand slapping against Harry’s back and snapping him out of his reverie.
All Harry can think to do is laugh just as uproariously and drain his flat pint as though he’d been dying of thirst- “What the Hell is this about?” He hisses towards the centre of the table, once he’s gathered some feigned composure, “Should we get goin’ or?”
“Nah man,” Someone argues, smacking their bottle against the table for emphasis, “I swear I’ve spent half of me student loan on all this fuckin’ drink tonight! Let’s get through this first- we don’t have to look at ‘im like, do we?”
A collective cheer of agreement follows and drinks clink together sloppily across the table. Everybody’s attention swiftly switching from the show on the stage to the shots they’ve still got left to race through. As raucous as before, they settle into the familiarity of downing and spilling and sniggering like kids in the playground. When things slow somewhat, Jack takes it upon himself to start chugging directly from a jug, the Sex on the Beach inside sloshing over his chin and button-up, and because of the round of the applause it earns, Harry doesn’t quite hear when the song fades from the indie cover into the original but he does catch the dancer’s moves becoming more elaborate.
He’s boldly beautiful. He’s half naked and Harry’s heart is betraying him, just as his eyes are, near enough cracking his ribs with it’s beating. Harry’s never seen a boy exude such elegance before: so smooth and fae with each ballet toe point perfectly controlled. He’s never seen a boy with sparkling stars pressed over his nipples and feathered fans laid below him like clouds, and although Harry has looked a little too closely at guys who’ve stood beside him in bar queues or grazed up against him in mosh pits before, he’s never found one to be so alluring it’s clawed at his lungs. He blinks like the closing of a lens aperture, photographing what he can of the show to memory. Then he stares resolutely into his empty glass until his friends decide that it’s time they escaped.
He’s especially quiet on their trek home, finding that he feels hollow if he attempts to bark out laughs or throw comments into the mix. His mates refuse to shut up about how it was the most disturbing thing they’d ever seen, how they were scarred. Jack, the bloody comedian, insists that he’ll have to watch all the fit lesbian action he can find on Redtube to purge his memory and everyone except Harry whoops. Harry, feeling defensive over the pretty pixie stranger, scowls and keeps to the shadows. Out of the way of any knowing eyes that might pry his true feelings from him. When two of the boys go to swing their arms around Harry’s shoulders and drag him into a football chant, he shrugs them off with a grunt, and everyone agrees that it’s post traumatic stress.
Part 2