#pro surfer au#the uk hasn’t had a world number one since martin potter in the 80s#and now there are two bright young things duking it out for the title#same team#same goal#’may the best man win eh payno’ louis says#flicking his too-long hair out of his eyes#liam doesn’t know what to say to that#all his life he’s only wanted his board and the waves#but lately he’s been wanting something else#something more#YOU GUESSED IT#IT’S LOUIS#LATER THEY’LL KISS#LOUIS’S LIPS TASTE LIKE SALTWATER AND SUN#LOUIS’S LIPS TASTE LIKE HOME (backbackforward)
Hedwig? HEDWIG?! You know what? Fuck him. Harry wouldn't even know who Hedwig was without Louis. So just... fuck him.
*
(Future fic set in the New York theater scene, full of love and angst and allusions to mythology-- ancient mythology, and Hedwig's mythology, and the kind you find and build in your own life.)
"YOU!" someone bellowed, causing Taylor to look up from his glass, shocked by the sound more than he was convinced anyone meant to address him.
Except it was him. He was being addressed. By a tall, impossibly limbed, tousle-haired popstar. One of the most famous ones on earth, actually. Harry Styles. Harry Styles was halfway across the dim, decrepit bar, pointing at him and smiling imperiously. Taylor couldn't help but smile in return, feigning shock and pretending to look behind him, in case there was someone more important back there.
*
Taylor Hanson runs into Harry Styles alone in a Manhattan bar. Or really, Harry Styles runs into him. This is what follows.
They’re all moments that pale in comparison to what Harry feels right then, standing in front of the dark Parisian restaurant, with the sun barely peeking over rooftops of the 4th arrondissement. It’s a late September morning.
He feels like he might throw up from excitement, or cry from nerves, or both. But he doesn’t. He’s learned to keep it together. Harry tries to regulate his breathing, and stuffs his hands into his coat to do something that isn’t fidgeting. He’s only been here for two days, but his heart hasn’t stopped beating since he got off the train.
It’s Paris. Here’s finally here, with a semi-fluency in French, and he somehow gets to extern for three and a half months at British ex-pat Simon Cowell’s contemporary brasserie.
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Culinary AU. Harry is an extern pâtissier abroad for three months, Niall gets him the job, Louis is a cheeky server who only speaks French, and Liam is Harry’s boss and really likes Zayn’s bread.
Hey guys -- I've been waiting for this to be revealed, but I wrote my first slashfic for the hlwinterexchange! For any of you Larry fans out there, of course. Hope you like it. -A
The books I read this year were great, but then, so was the fanfiction. Over the years I’ve been asked if I’ve read anything good lately, and I’ve always bitten my tongue: I often have, but it’s not “real literature,” after all, but rather some 30-chapter masterpiece that someone has penned for free — for the love of the source material. I’m kind of done glossing over this major part of my reading life: for every good novel I read this year, I read a fantastic novel-length fic as well.
Elizabeth Minkel's Year in Reading (via millionsmillions)
Drabble (Nialls’s POV, 667 words, mid-Things to Ruin timeline)
The thing is Niall had totally thought he could do this. Like. Gemma'd done just fine that time a few months back when she'd minded the twins for an entire weekend by herself. And christ, Harry basically did it full time, and Harry was essentially he biggest spaz Niall had ever even met. But holy lord jesus god in heaven above, Niall could not do this. He should never have said yes.
It was just that Hellie had called in a bit of a poorly-concealed panic. She had a last minute business trip and Harry was in Australia for something with that new girl he was seeing and the entire rest of his family was busy and Hellie's family was in bloody America and it was the middle of the school week and she just needed him for two nights. And it had seemed simple enough at the time. Louis was always going on about how good the twins were, and what was that thing he'd always said about children behaving better for other adults than for their actual parents? How hard could it be?
Really goddamn hard, that's how bloody hard it could be. And he hadn't even been alone with the kids for more than four hours by this point. Easily two of them had been spent carefully negotiating a place to eat dinner. And of course, by 'negotiating,' Niall really just meant 'arguing sensibly until he capitulated entirely to the demands of a really stubborn four-year-old boy.' And now, they were waiting for a table, because of course the literal only place where Ollie would consent to eat food had a 30 minute wait. And Cass seemed basically determined to get herself plowed down by a moving vehicle. Didn't seem like she was picky as to whether it was a car or a bus or like, a bicycle, either. She was just really into darting into traffic and cackling with laughter every time Niall snatched her back out of the road in a desperate panic. Was it possible for a four-year-old to be suicidal? If so, were suicidal four-year-olds this giggly? What was going on in that restaurant hadn't they been waiting for more like five years than five minutes? Couldn't they see these children needed to be sat at a table and placated with ice-cream-sundaes or whatever right this very bleeding second?
"Cass Cox Styles!"
Oh god. He'd turned into his own mother already. He's twenty-five years old and he's been responsible for a child for all of four hours and he's turned into his mam.
Whatever, like. Too late for anything else now. Cass was still trying to die in the streets on his watch.
"If you do not get back over here and stand very still beside your brother, we are going home right now and I don't care what either of you thinks about that."
"But, Uncle Ni-Ni, I hungry!" Ollie protested.
"Well then maybe you need to peer-pressure your sister into behaving herself."
"What?" both twins asked in unison.
"Nevermind. Just hold her hand very tight, yeah? Because if she tries running into the street one more time, I'm taking you both straight home."
For a moment or two Cass stared at him mutinously, and for a second, right at the end, she raised an eyebrow and looked exactly like Harry always does before he's about to do something foolish, and Niall felt a stab of fear that he might actually have to make good on his threat of taking them straight home. Which was bad because he didn't know what was in the house that he could feed four-year-olds and he was relatively certain you weren't supposed to actually send children this tiny straight to bed without supper, and--
"Niall?" the hostess called. He raised a hand. "Your table is ready."
"Oh thank god," he sighed, the words tumbling out in a rush as he grabbed Cass' hand and pushed Ollie in front of him. "We're right here."
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