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16 June 2012 @ 05:21 pm
fic: yours, the breakfast club (harry/louise, zayn/liam), 1/2  
title: yours, the breakfast club
summary: in which the princess, the criminal, the burnout, the athlete, and the good girl are stuck in detention together.
(or; a genderbent breakfast club au. uh.)
word count: ~6,100
pairings: harry/louise, zayn/liam, kind of ot5.
rating: pg-13
warnings: recreational drug use, non-explicit sex between consenting minors, cursing, mention of (false) teacher/student relationships, lack of capitalization.
notes: so this has been eating my life for a bit. i dunno, i thought one day, "i should write a breakfast club au - there's five of them, after all!" and then i decided they should be ladies. this is also, weirdly, 6,000 words. not sure how that happened. but. 
beta'ed by the ever-wonderfultheviolonist and taekwoon. thank you, lovelies. <3


louise stares out the window when she gets to school, shaking her head at her father’s warning.


she turns her head to face him, biting her lip. “you sure you can’t get me out of it?” she asks, and her voice is soft, candy-sweet.

a quick shake of the head and her father’s mouth pressed into a thin line is all she gets in return (though she doubts that’s true, thinks her father’s trying to scare her straight - literally). “you know i would if i could, darling.” his words are lies; have always been. (the lies he said to her mother looked like this.)

“can’t or won’t?”

she gets out of the car as quickly as she can, ignoring her father’s shouting after her (ignores the way he’s only doing what he can and trying his best and please, lou, please).

(it’s almost nice, this way - she’s never stood up to him before but the anger and satisfaction curl deep in her with each step.

she steps inside, and the door clicks shut behind her.)


there’s already a girl there when harriet gets inside. she raises an eyebrow.

“who are you?” she asks, as if she doesn’t already know (louise tomlinson, princess of the school, with lips like sin and a perfect body).

the girl barely gives her the time of day, which -

“okay,” harriet says, mild, and thinks fuck you, too.

(she comes here because she can, because on days like today no one gives a fuck about her, and why should they? she’s a fuck-up of the worst kind, a stoner, almost a drop-out. she’s everything parents don’t want their children to become.

here she can look at them and see them fall from grace, can watch the princess do the common people’s time, watch the good girls go bad; only for a day.)

she’s not one for friends, but she likes to think that if she had any, they wouldn’t be like louise, wouldn’t put on a facade for the world around them.

(she turns around and louise looks away, quick.

harry grins with a wink, and leans back to close her eyes.

today’s going to be fun.)


“i’m not taking you,” zayn’s mother hisses through her teeth. “find your own goddamn ride.”

and - all right, she thinks, and “fuck you,” she says.

so she goes.

she walks quickly, anger pounding through her, and the door fucking slams shut when she walks into the room. good, she thinks when two other girls - she vaguely remembers the dark-haired one selling her weed once - look up, surprised.

“morning,” she bites out, and the girl with the diamond earrings (she bets they’re real, too) raises one condescending eyebrow... though there’s something in her eyes, interest carefully masked as revulsion.

she sits down, feeling the anger fade into a sort of acceptance - and when the dealer asks how she is zayn answers in an almost pleasant tone.

“lovely,” she says, turning around, and it’s a lie but she doesn’t care because beneath a mop of curls the girl is fucking stunning. zayn wants to fuck her up, make her bleed - and she turns back around, heart racing, mind flooded with a thousand images she doesn’t want.

fuck, she thinks, and shuts her eyes.

“is it true you blew a teacher?” the girl with the diamond earrings asks, and zayn whips her head around.


“word on the street is you sucked his cock to pass.”

and whether it’s true or not doesn’t fucking matter (as though she gives a shit what they say about her anyway) - but - “who the fuck are you?” she asks, anger back in full force.

“louise tomlinson,” and she looks serene.

“mind your own fucking business,” she whispers, and louise looks as close to apologetic as zayn’s sure she’ll ever get. “fuck you,” she says, louder now.

she turns back around.


“this is not going to happen again,” niall’s father says, looking at her, sharp. “do you understand me?”

she nods, staring at her hands. “i’m sor -”

“get out,” he says, and unlocks the car. he doesn’t look at her.

she goes inside without another word.

the atmosphere in the library is tense, to say the least - louise tomlinson is there, which, what, harriet styles (what’s she done, though, she hardly ever comes to school), and zayn malik, who must be the prettiest girl she’s ever seen - but none of them acknowledge the others.

the only one that gives her the time of day is harriet and it’s just “tennis practice isn’t in here, sweetie,” but harriet sounds almost kind. she’s smiling, which is comforting. niall smiles back.

“i’m not here for that,” niall says.

harriet raises an eyebrow. “oh?”

she doesn’t say anything, shaking her head.

“well, then. the more the merrier.” harriet pats the seat next to her.

“thanks,” niall says as she sits down, biting her lip.

harriet shrugs. “no problem.” she seems amused by the proceedings, as though there’s some sort of joke niall just isn’t picking up on.

niall breathes out slowly through her nose, and tries not to panic. you’re okay, you’re all right, she thinks, and breathes in and out again, in and out, inandout.

her heartbeat returns to normal, slowly but surely, and when the door slams open, niall doesn’t jump.


“liam, honey, are you sure you’re okay?”

her mother is looking at her, pseudo-concern in her eyes.

no, liam thinks, not at all, but what comes out of her mouth is, “yes, of course.”

her mother visibly relaxes, and liam bites her tongue past the hurt, past the inability her mother has to read her. for years she’s been lying to everyone about everything; liam herself isn’t quite sure what’s the truth and what’s not anymore. she can’t fault her mother for that.

her mother is hesitant. “just - this can’t happen again, li, you know -”

liam nods, quick, before she’s through. “i know. it won’t.” her voice sounds long-suffering even to her own ears but her mother just nods, looking relieved.

“good, darling, good,” she says.

liam can’t stand it anymore; the lies, the pretending to be okay when she absolutely isn’t, when she’s keeping another bottle of valium in her pocket just in case.

she leaves with a kiss to her mother’s cheek; a cloud of powder invades her senses.

the room is nearly silent when she walks in, except for a little blonde (liam remembers downcast eyes and a name starting with an n) talking animatedly to another girl with dark hair that looks dead behind the eyes.

"hello," she says to the room, feeling supremely stupid, "i'm - liam."

a long-haired girl with pretty eyes and a raised eyebrow snorts. "liam's a boy's name," she drawls, a smoker's voice tinged with mirth, and she leans into the table, sitting up on her chair. "you're the prettiest boy i've ever seen."

liam doesn’t know what to say to that, so she flounders a bit, hand wrapping around the bottle in her pocket. "i," she starts, and she could say a thousand things, they wanted a boy they didn't want me at her lips.

instead, though, she shrugs and smiles a bit as she takes her seat in front of the girl.

(out of nowhere, she hears it - "i'm zayn, but you can call me z," the whisper comes, and liam looks behind her, surprised.

"liam," she says idiotically, and she turns pink - "but you can call me li." she’s not sure what possessed her to say that last part, and she bites her lip after.

"it rhymes," zayn says, smiling a soft smile that seems private, meant just for her. "z and li. maybe we're meant to be, eh?"

liam knows she’s fucking with her, but it still makes her smile, a bit. she’s got her mouth open to respond, but then the curly-haired girl speaks up - “oh, fuck, you two, this is sickening - keep it down, please.”

liam flushes again, turning forward. she stares ahead.

she hears the start of a sentence, the scrape of a chair on the floor (a whispered hey), but then mr. cowell is walking in, hands behind his back, and the room goes silent.


“good afternoon.” mr. cowell looks at all of them, eyebrow pointedly raised.

liam swallows and makes herself look at him, almost frightened by what she sees.

“your assignment,” and his accent is carefully english, affected but not overly so, “is to write an essay, telling me who you think you are.”

an assignment, at detention? it seems a bit far-fetched but then, liam’s never been in this position, what does she know?

zayn scoffs out a laugh (liam wants to reach out for her but she’s not having her parents hear about anything else, she’s not doing that to her mother, and this guy seems like the kind to get her in trouble for anything). “why the fuck do you care?”

“language,” he says, mild. “you may not respect me but you will act as though you do.”

“fine.” she leans forward; everyone else looks at her so liam does too, turning around to mouth don’t. zayn looks at her but ignores it. “why on earth do you care, sir?”

“that’s irrelevant.” he looks at them, again, ill-disguised contempt in his eyes. “you will all write me an essay. five hundred words, no less. i want to know why you’re all here - what makes you think you’re above the rules you see as so unworthy of your time.”

liam’s hand closes around the pills again, and she thinks no no please don’t make me write this but she will, she’ll scrawl some bullshit that’ll get her credit for this detention and nothing else.

“who are you?” he asks them, and folds his arms.

a fuck-up, she thinks, and shuts her eyes.


niall listens, nodding dutifully, but inside -

fuck this, is what storms through her head, plays on repeat, because fuck this “assignment”, fuck all of this, she’s not done anything wrong, not really (she remembers the shouts, remembers - but she didn’t do it, it wasn’t her fault; not my fault i didn’t i wouldn’t i’m not) -

mr. cowell’s looking at her. “miss horan?”

she jerks her head up, eyes wide and doe-like. “yes?”

“did you hear me?”

she smiles a bit, nods. “an essay about who we are. yes, yes i did.”

“you looked as though you were off in space - and might i remind you that while this might be fun for you, that’s not what this is for. you are here to do as i say, and i say to work. is that clear?”

she nods, and she wants to hit him and watch him bleed. (that, she’d own up to.)

“yes, sir,” she says, and if it comes off derisive - well. nobody’s perfect.

next to her, harriet gives an almost sweet giggle, and niall feels as though she’s on top of the fucking world.


“fuck this,” zayn says. she folds her arms, shaking her head at him. “fuck this, fuck you.”

simon smiles, a cold smile that barely reaches his lips. “i was merely giving the assignment. do or don’t do it at your own leisure, miss malik.”

she rolls her eyes and tips her head back, breathing out at the ceiling, hard.

simon (mr. cowell, she thinks with a sort of derision; he’s done nothing to gain her respect) keeps on talking, but she tunes him out, thinking of the pretty young thing with the brown hair and the shy eyes.

liam’s back’s stiff in the chair, and zayn smiles at her, tilting her head to the side.

“something funny, ms. malik?”

she leaves her eyes on liam until she turns around; only then does she answer the question. “no,” she says, and breathes out, a smoker’s breath, short and rasping. “nothing’s funny, sir.”

liam catches her eye, and zayn smirks a bit until she turns back around.

(man, she’d like to fuck her up - but she wants more than that, less than that, wants - wants.)

mr. cowell talks on.


harriet’s a little bit stoned.

and - niall’s funny, a really sweet kid.

(she thinks they could be friends, maybe, if niall weren’t niall and harriet - well. she doesn’t have any limitations on friends, but.

that’s just how it works.)

who am i? she thinks, and lets the question float around her mind a bit, closes her eyes - but mr. cowell doesn’t say a damn thing, barely notices her.

that’s how it works, these days. people look at her and they look but they don’t see, they never see anything of importance.

not that she’s important. not really.


who am i?

she’s more than they think she is - she’s a joint smoked behind the school, yeah, but she’s also, she’s also.

(she’s rubbing a friend’s (when she had friends) shoulder as she cries into a mug of tea; she’s a warm hand on the steering wheel, needing to get out, to get away -

she’s more.)

mr. cowell doesn’t say a goddamn thing to her.

she breathes.


“who are you?” the asshole principal with the bad hair asks louise, asks all of them. “write about it,” he says, and she rolls her eyes, popping her bubblegum.

he looks at her but doesn’t say a word, and she smirks.

oh, fuck that. it’s not as though he cares. he doesn’t give a fuck about any of them.

(he cares about his job and his money and while she commends him for being able to admit it, still - still - she likes to feel respected.)

she tilts her head, rolls her eyes.

who am i?

who the fuck cares?

(and then - and then zayn’s standing up, and she’s going this is bullshit! and mr. cowell’s leading her out of the room.

and then there’s silence.

louise smiles.)


zayn is hot.

i wonder if she'd let me fuck her, harriet thinks, and she twirls her fingers around together, biting her lower lip. or maybe she’d fuck me.

like she does all the teachers (but she wouldn’t dare say that out loud, not after pretty little louise got yelled at like she did).


she's hot, no telling - but they all are, all of them, even niall, looking for all the world like a scared schoolgirl.

she's never been one to act like this - she's a big supporter of personality and all that shit, but sometimes it's nice to just... wonder.

and with zayn gone, things are tense.


louise has always known her preference for women.

she’s never questioned it, not even when those around her did; but. but.

she’s never seen anyone as hot as zayn. she’s never wanted as much as she does.

(though, if she’s being honest with herself, she’d settle for anything, anyone by this point.

sometimes being forever-virginal has its drawbacks.)

she presses her legs together and wants.


the silence is too much.

niall can’t stand it; she has to say something.

“so how’s everyone today?” is what comes out of her mouth, and she kind of hates herself in that moment - but.

the silence stretches, doesn’t break. next to her, harriet (harry) pats her knee, shaking her head.

she hopes zayn’s all right. she’s been gone quite some time, now.

niall goes back to her piece of paper, doodling in the margins, and the waiting, the silence, continues.


liam writes.

she outlines her paper, because it’s easier, like this, it’s easier to do the work and to not have to think.

who am i, she writes at the top of the paper, and then a list, bullet-pointed, in neat handwriting - smart, college-bound.

(she writes suicidal but crosses it out, again and again, until it’s nothing more than a black mark on the page, meaningless.)

she hears niall’s question and she wants to speak up, say something, but she can feel the absence of zayn behind her and any bravery she might have had goes away at that.

she’s never been one for that sort of thing, after all.

and she supposes niall’s sort of cute, in a naive way; she’s cute and wide-eyed and has braces, the absolute picture of innocence.

liam wonders what she had to do to get here - but it’s none of her business, none of her concern.

she’s not concerned, really. she’s just.

you don’t get saturday detention like this unless you’ve done something awful (unless you get caught with a bottle of vicodin in your pocket, unless someone says she tried to sell them to me!, unless you have to watch your parents cry and press hands against your cheeks, ask how could you, aren’t you happy?

and maybe it isn’t a big deal, but she wants to know.

what’s niall done?


(zayn follows him to an empty room.

“sit down and shut up,” simon says, glaring at her.

zayn sits on the edge of the table, arms crossed, and rolls her eyes. “really? how original of you. should i also have my rights read to me?”

“i’m not playing a game, ms. malik, i -”


he pauses, and raises an eyebrow at her. “or everyone can find out about you and mr. corring.”

her mouth falls open a bit. “what?”

“that you sucked his cock for a good grade?” he smirks at her, leaning forward. “oh, yeah, zayn, i know about that.”

“i - i didn’t,” she whispers, shaking her head, “i wouldn’t -”

“and who do you think they’ll believe?” he rolls his eyes at her. “you, who sleeps with people for her own gain - or me, the principal?”

anger roils in her, hot and fast, but she doesn’t let it go, not yet. “you’re - you’re fucking sick.”

“i don’t fuck around.”

she breathes out, slow and steady. “okay,” she whispers, “i’ll be good.”

he half-smirks at her, raising his eyebrow again. “i knew you’d see the light, ms. malik. now, back to your detention.”

she’s near tears when she walks back in (tears, like she’s some fucking little girl), but liam smiles at her, waves a tiny bit, and her chest relaxes the faintest amount.

i didn’t do it, she tells herself, and she wants to tell the world, but - the world just doesn’t care.


simon looks around the room, smirking.

“i’ll be right there,” he says, gesturing to a room across the hall. “don’t do anything that would jeopardize your place in this school,” and he’s talking to all of them but he’s looking at zayn like he wants her to.

and niall’s heard the stories, but zayn’s lips look pinker, now, and she wonders - she wonders if she might have done something.

she’s never put much stock in rumors (too many lies said about her) but - now she’s not so sure.

(she knows about zayn and adam, knows what she did - and she wonders if she should trust people’s words a little bit more when zayn doesn’t move, stares at her desk.)

zayn puts on a fresh coat of lipstick, her right hand shaking just a bit, and niall closes her eyes, wants to hug her and tell her it’s okay, it’s all okay.

(and if she wants that mouth too, blood-red lipstick applied with a shaking hand, going down on her - well. that’s for her to know.)


zayn looks so pretty with her bright red lips - but harry’s worried about her, because simon looks smug and she knows enough to know that’s never a good thing.

she smiles at her when their eyes meet. zayn looks down at the table, so different from before, her calm, controlled demeanor.

honey, harry thinks. sympathy pours through her, and she looks away, shaking her head.


zayn comes back.

liam gives her a smile and a small wave. zayn looks like she's been through hell and back, and liam gets that more than she's willing to admit (a cold bathroom floor under her knees and a bottle in her hand, and then a laugh, and caught, caught.)

liam gets a smile back, and her heart sticks in her throat.

she writes maybe i should have died across the top, in her neat cursive, and this time she doesn’t scratch it out.

(it’s not like anyone gives a fuck, anyway.)


harriet’s really pretty.

she looks - hmm. she looks shy, on the outside, but with a personality underneath, something undefined and a little bit wild.

(louise has never found herself so entranced by wild, but she supposes there’s a first time for everything.)

her mind fills with images she can’t be thinking of here, so -

she pulls out a bottle of candy-pink nail polish and paints her nails, slow and methodic.

when she looks up, harriet’s got an eyebrow raised, just looking at her.

it shouldn’t make her go hot all over, but.

it does.


zayn sits behind li, crosses her arms, watches the girl write across her paper - and she thinks she sees the word died but she’s not sure, doesn’t know, isn’t going to ask - pretends she doesn’t give a fuck.

(it would be easier, so much easier, if she didn’t.)

simon leaves almost as soon as she gets in there, and she relaxes against the chair, breathing out, hot.

louise is doing her nails, and harriet’s staring (it’s not a good look on her, the almost-pining. she looks insane, and not in the good way) and niall’s just sitting, and liam writes, doesn’t look up, doesn’t move.

zayn huffs out a laugh and props her feet on the table, leaning back.

fuck this.

fuck this.

part two