19 Works by fondleeds
Listing Works
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It’s still that dreamy kind of dark, nothing seeming real, but he knows that it’s time to go, to whistle for Pippa and eat whatever he’s got left in the fridge and start the drive down to Molly’s.
He can’t seem to open the door. Maybe he doesn’t want to face it, this new thing. Having Louis here feels like a betrayal. Harry tries not to think about what his Dad would have to say if he saw the journo sleeping on their pull-out, here to shake a settled sheet and watch the dust fly again.
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AU. Harry's a farmer, Louis writes for The Age, and it hasn't rained in the Bourke Shire for six years.
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“Are you avoiding me?”
Louis glances over his shoulder. There Harry stands in his dark coat, the soft fray of his sweater catching far away light. He’s only teasing. But Louis finds he can’t deny the accusation.
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AU. It's just a night of drinking before exams begin, but it becomes the end of something else.
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Maybe he’s still drunk. Maybe there’s something else going on here, some feeling for Harry he will not name, fighting to the forefront of his thoughts. Maybe it’s the forgotten painting. That entire forgotten life, exchanged for bland stability. And here lies Harry. Here lies this boy.
Louis gets between his legs.
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AU. After a night out with his co-workers, Louis sends a text.
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Mitch has never been a believer in that pin-drop saying. There’s always something else going on, especially in bars, especially in bars at two in the morning after the crowd has just witnessed a painfully mawkish Cyndi Lauper cover. Even the most focused of people will breathe out a sigh and disrupt the air.
Then Harry starts to play. Knees tucked close, bottom lip bitten between teeth, ringed hands melting into his strings.
And, yeah. Mitch holds his breath, along with every other person and possible noise-making object in the room. Not a sound.
If only he had a pin, just to test the theory.
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AU. Mitch, Harry, and Portland in the 90s.
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The shadowy blob of his reflection is his closest company at present, more defined now that he’s nearer to the water. Which is completely still. Glasslike. There’s a sheen coming from it that didn’t appear so glossy before. He peers down at himself. The reflection seems, quite suddenly, corporeal.
Harry doesn’t realise it’s eyes are closed until they snap open to stare back at him.
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Harry and team head to Cancun to film Lights Up. It doesn't go as planned.
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“Um,” Harry starts. He looks out of place. Louis can’t really believe he’s seeing Harry like this, so unsettled, so unlike himself. He holds out his hands. “Should we–. Should I, um. Did you wanna, like, cuff me to the bed or something?”
Louis raises his eyebrows. “I don’t know. Do I need to?”
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AU. Harry’s a criminal, Louis’ a cop, and they’re stranded overnight at the Motel 6.
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“Do you ever think about that?” he continues, both thumbs now folding over the edge of the book, pages bending and flickering back into place, like the dull beat of the moths wings. “Like, if you died, would another version of yourself keep living? Or would the other you, all those people, would they disappear, too?”
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AU. The lake house is all gold and they've only got a week.
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Louis looks at him like his words might break him, glass about to splinter, one wrong footfall away from shattering into a million tiny pieces.
“Hey,” Harry breathes, and he knows, meeting Louis’ eyes, that his words could break him easy as anything. He almost wants Louis to bring his boot down.
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AU. Nova Scotia, 1968.
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They were never meant to be two ships passing in the night. They’ve never been like that, and Harry doesn’t want them to ever become those people. Glossing over each other with each visit, slowly drifting further and further apart each time until they’re just specks across a chasm of deep sea.
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In a different universe, a parallel dimension in which Harry is a braver version of himself, maybe he’d cup the back of Louis’ neck softly and melt their mouths together.
Maybe they’d tread on light feet up to Louis’ room because the house would be empty and they’d just kiss-and-kiss-and-kiss until their lungs burst, and then Harry would press his face into Louis’ neck and whisper I know you’re Blue, and Louis would do the same in turn, breathe that sentiment into Harry’s skin like a relief, and all the bad weight would lift, just the hot pressure of feeling so much remaining.
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Love, Simon AU.
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He doesn’t remember the first time Harry kissed him. It might have been at the bungalow, an empty vodka bottle spinning between five scared-shitless boys who knew nothing about anything at all. It might have been in a dark hotel room with the television glowing red-hot and grimy, spilling shadows between the wet space of their mouths. It might have been on the bus, on that couch, four in the morning with their eyes half-closed and Harry’s laptop ebbing Patsy Cline like a third pair of eyes.
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A night in New York.
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“I’ve got the same,” Harry says, pointer finger moving up and down in lazy, little lines as he talks. “In my notebook, I cross off each day. Write something down.”
“And what happens when you run out of pages?” Louis says, a little snarkier than he means it to be, slipping the matchbox closed. He can feel his ribs constricting, curling in to protect his chest.
“Well,” Harry says softly, looking out to the emptiness, to the dry, dead earth. “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
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AU. It's the end of the world.
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“Hey,” Louis kicks his leg out at him, misses by a mile, but Harry’s cheeks still glow at it, all close-mouthed smile and dimples. “It’s Christmas. I refuse to let you be lonesome and dejected on Christmas.”
"It’s not Christmas yet,” Harry says, matter-of-fact, like he knew that before Louis told him about it that first week of December, when the lights had started appearing and Harry had risen out of the water with such wonder and dreaminess in his eyes, the last dustings of snow caught in his wet lashes.
“It’s the Christmas season,” Louis responds. Harry rolls his eyes at him.
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AU. Harry is a mermaid lost at sea and Louis is a boy determined to make his first Christmas a memorable one.
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With a stuttered mixture of a laugh and a groan, Harry lets his head droop, pushes his forehead against Louis’ chest and leans into him, fingers curled around the railing.
"You’re driving me crazy,” he breathes.
Louis lets out a puff of laughter, and when Harry lifts his eyes, the look in Louis’ gaze is one he knows too well, so distinctively coy and mischievous and gently charming, his lips quirked up with a smirk. Harry’s heart falls into the palms of his playful hands. “You’re into it.”
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AU. Harry plays on Saturday nights at The Motley. Louis bartends on Saturday nights at The Motley. It’s a thing.
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louis’ mouth tastes like nectarines and summer and his fingers are sticky and grimy with dirt, mulch and tiny wood chips clung to the static of his shirt, in his hair, and above him the swing is floating lazily back and forth.
today they’re nine and soon they’ll be ten and he’s got paint on his cheeks and harry is humming nonsense under his breath and painting tiny m birds on his palm. today they’re at the park and things are simple in the way that only children know.
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As the sun kisses the horizon, one last flash of light before the stars and the moon take over, his phone will brighten in his grasp, Louis’ name appearing on screen, come over or wanna see you or miss your mouth. Harry always lingers on those messages, elbows bruising on the cool metal of the railing by the lookout, watching the water as he thumbs at the side of his phone, lips bitten into his mouth, trying to will away the bubbling in his stomach, the heat that flushes to his neck at the thought of being thought of.
At the thought of Louis thinking of him.
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AU. Harry spends his summer away from the city.
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They walk slow, unhurried, and they talk about everything, the earth and the glaciers and themselves, little bits and pieces. Harry finds himself falling open, caving in like the crevices that run like cold veins from the icy lakes. It feels strange to talk this way. He feels like he should be having this conversation hidden under his covers, whispering in the dark. It feels like the kind of talk that means too much, that means trust and revealing the small things that make up the bigger ones, except they’re both barely blinking an eye.
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AU. Harry is a WWF journalist with big dreams and Louis is a glaciologist that flies helicopters for fun. Greenland is an odd place to spend Christmas, but just maybe, the perfect place to fall headfirst into love.
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“If you hadn’t noticed, I don’t have many friends,” Louis whispers, the blossom of insecurity in his stomach unfurling and clawing its way into his throat.
Harry is silent for a long time, and then he speaks; a soft, slow uncurl that makes Louis’ stomach shake. “I’ll be your friend.”
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1970’s AU. In a tiny town in Idaho, Louis’ life is changed forever by the arrival of a curious stranger.
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We'll Cast Some Light (You'll Be Alright) by fondleeds for edi-neil (sweet_trick)
Fandoms: One Direction, zayn malik - Fandom
30 Jul 2016
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There’s tense silence, the whole room completely hushed. The other teams on surrounding tables look between each other. Then, Louis pushes himself away from the table noisily, chair scraping. His face is angered and crumpled, red at the ears. The door slams behind him as he rushes out. The surrounding teams look at Harry simultaneously.
“God, Simon is going to kill us if we don’t die on this mission first,” Niall moans into his hands.
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There’s a standard procedure for this. Scan, track, kill. But with a solar eclipse and a Greater Demon with unfinished business looming, the path to keeping England safe from harm becomes complicated and shadowed by mystery and secrets. For Harry and his team, times have never been harder, especially when a few old friends turned foes show up. Harry is left with just over forty days to overcome the hurdle of tension between them and reconcile their past, and figure out just what Louis is hiding from him before it’s too late.