what am i writing?
i was tagged by my bab emilia @tequiladimples to share what i’m working on at the moment, which i totally want to share with u guys because i’ve been super slack with posting anything fic related lately!!
heres what i’m up to:
1. a new chaptered fic, historical au thats very niche and is slowly destroying me that i’m not going to spoil:
Outside, all is set in yellow haze, morning light filtering through the grain dust that settles low over everything, accumulated in a fuzzy cloud by the distant fields where the air is disturbed by the beginning of the harvest. Louis lets his fingers brush through the airy plumes of the switchgrass that’s consumed the surrounds of the Tomlinson property, blurring the places where the fence meets the road, heavy and loping over the dirt laneway, almost as tall as his shoulder.
As they turn onto the wide expanse of the lane, gravel crunching under their feet, a soft gust blows down from the pillowy hills in the distance. It sends with it the wispy remains of cotton-grass and pastel petals, drifting all the way from the slanted meadows to tangle with the pale brown of the switchgrass, looking like golden strands in direct sunlight as they do now. Looking ahead, Louis can see the tall, swaying cornfield, and he watches it move with the wind while Lottie toddles beside him, her tiny fingers looped tight around his pointer finger and pinkie.
2. the sequel to a rhythm in rush:
Mâlia keeps her nose low to the ground as she moves ahead of him. Louis walks idly, watches the dewy blades fold under his feet, the cool blue undertones of the earth and the frosted, pale bundles of the moss. By the time he’s reached the peak of the hills, Ilulissat stretched out below, his calves are aching pleasantly, and he finds a patch of ground that’s bare of the slick grass, just the smoothed out grey of rock.
The moss settles in pillowy bundles around his feet, and he leans his elbows on his knees, breathing out slow, chest rising and falling in one steady movement. He looks down at his hands, the callouses that have formed there, the little cracks and scars. When he flips them over, he traces his finger over the lines running across his palms softly.
A soft breeze pushes up the hill, and with it, he hears Ánga’s gentle whisper; lidenskab, hengivenhed, hjerte, du ønsker så desperat at blive elsket, lille kerub. He curls his fingers into his palms slowly, doesn’t think of Harry bathed in blue light, of the suspended moment when Harry’s eyes had been so wide, his soft, murmured, so do I.
3. summer au thats v personal and angsty but also very fluffy
“Who was that?” Harry murmurs, unsure if he’s even formed actual words. His only indication is that Louis tilts his head to look at him, and suddenly, his features are frosted by moonlight, every dip highlighted by icy-blue, every curve shadowed by navy. “That guy.”
“Don’t worry,” Louis curls onto his side and lays a hand over Harry’s chest, but he does it so slowly, so hesitantly, like his body is too quick for his brain. “An old friend of mine. Are you feeling better?”
“Not really,” Harry says, breathing out slow. He can’t break his gaze away. “Please let me kiss you.”
Louis shifts away slightly, chest rising and falling in a solid movement, eyes flicking all over Harry’s face. “I shouldn’t.”
“You already have,” Harry whispers. He turns onto his side slowly. “I’ve kissed you here,” he presses an unsteady palm over Louis’ neck, “here,” his stomach, “here,” his thigh, “here,” a whispered brush over his underwear, then, finally, his fingertips on his lips, “here.”
“This is a bad idea,” Louis says, but he’s moving closer, his fingers curling up into small fists by his chest, like he’s ready to fight, to keep them at a distance.
“Great,” Harry says. “Summer’s full of bad ideas. Look at me right now.”
That makes Louis laugh, the softest giggle Harry’s ever heard a person make, softer than moonlight on ocean spray, than the wispy strands of a dandelion. And then, when they do kiss, when Louis leans forward and slots his bottom lip between Harry’s, it’s softer than any terrible metaphor or simile Harry’s drunken mind could ever think up.
It feels to soft for a summer love.
4. italy au, or in other words, 50k of poetry and odes to my family and my second home, also v personal and close to my heart
The streets are bathed in silver and blue, the light from the moon almost as strong as it’s lover. Harry basks in it as he and Louis walk silently through the streets. It cuts across them luminously, and the air is cool against his skin, comfortable. Occasionally, their path is lit by a dull street lamp, and they step into a bubble of orange glow.
“Thank you for letting me come tonight,” Harry says eventually, because he feels like he needs to say something.
“That’s okay,” Louis says. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“Where did you learn to cook like that?” Harry asks. They come to a little bridge, intricate patterns carved along it. They cross over the black water.
“My Nonna,” Louis says, after a moments hesitation.
“Oh,” Harry makes a noise of recognition. “She was at the lace store, in Burano, right?”
“Um, no, actually,” Louis says, and it’s quiet. Harry looks over at him, and his eyes are cast down. “That’s Melissa. I just call her that because I’m close with her and stay at her place a lot. My Nonna…she, um, she died a few years ago.”
Harry lets out a long breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” Louis looks up at him. “It’s been a while, but, I still miss her. She taught me everything.”
“What was she like?” Harry asks carefully.
Louis’ lips quirk up and he lets out a puff of laughter, his eyes shiny. “Different. She would always make my mamma mad because she’d steal me away from my chores to play and paint and write. My mamma would go out into the backyard looking for me, and instead of hanging her sheets I’d be in the little wagon that my Nonna built, being pushed down the hill. Mamma used to throw fits.”
“She sounds like the coolest,” Harry laughs. Louis’ eyes are sparkling.
“She was,” he continues. “When I got old enough she started teaching me to cook. At first it was just simple things like crostoli and prezele, biscuits. I loved it and we used to practice together all the time. I’ve still got a massive book full of her recipes in the kitchen. I was kind of pudgy as a kid because she used to feed us all day. It was always mangiare, mangiare, mangiare! Maybe that’s why I’m constantly feeding my friends now.”
Harry lets out a tiny giggle and pokes Louis’ side. “I can picture that so well, you toddling up to her to get more biscuits.”
“Hey,” Louis drawls. “Don’t get cheeky with me.”
woooo there we go, there’s a few other things here and there that i’ve started but at the moment, those are the ones i’m flicking most between!! hopefully i can post something soon, uni and work are just filling up every crevice of spare time i have right now :( i’m going to tag @alienproof and @churchrat because i love u both and ur writing fuels me, but don’t feel obliged to post anything if u don’t want to!!