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suliigwp · 16 days ago

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PART ONE OF 'THAT ONE' - part two

The Sainz Boy

Carlos Sainz x Reader

SULI: I cannot explain to you what me andy phone and my Tumblr have gone through to get you to this moment of reading this fic— This fic is fully finished but ummmmm it's 15k+ words so my phone nearly blew up that's ok— this is part one, mostly about how the bond started when they were kids and a little snippet for what's to come in future chapters- idk if it'll be two or three parts but I have a feeling it's gonna be three — also I completely BUTCHERED Carlos' mom's name I remembered it being something else I'll fix it tomorrow DW ignore it please🫶 love you

Based on This!

Warnings: started writing it with the 1920's in mind but I imagine it's not accurate so just — the past, this is set in the past

Nine and Ten

It was the kind of summer morning that clung.

Even before the sun was fully up, the tiles beneath her bare feet were warm — too warm. The shutters groaned as the breeze pushed through, carrying the smell of dry herbs, copper polish, and that particular sharpness of ripe apricots left too long in the bowl.

She sat on the edge of her bed, legs swinging. Her nightdress clung at the knees, and her ribbon had slipped in the night again. She didn’t bother fixing it. Let the maids fuss if they wanted.

From the hallway came the slow shuffle of slippers and the brush of skirts — the housemaids lighting lamps in the darker corners even though the sun had begun to bleed gold across the floors. Somewhere down below, the heavy rattle of kitchen pots echoed up through the stone.

She slipped quietly out, past the linen-draped parlor, through the long corridor of portraits whose eyes never blinked, and out into the courtyard where the fountain bubbled gently beneath its layer of fallen flower petals.

The adults were already at breakfast under the arbor. Her father’s voice — low and steady — met her first.

“—not a word to the neighbors yet. Let them arrive quietly, without fanfare.”

Her mother sniffed into her porcelain teacup, pale pink lipstick staining the rim.

“As if she ever arrives quietly. That woman hasn’t taken a discreet breath in twenty years.”

“It’s not the lady I’m concerned about.”

“Mm. The boy, then?”

“He was sick all winter. Something with the lungs. They say the air here will do him good.”

Her mother lowered her cup with a soft clink. “Poor thing. How old is he now?”

“About her age.”

That stopped her. The girl. Standing half in shadow near the courtyard steps, where the trellis hung heavy with wisteria.

“Who?” she asked.

Her father turned, just slightly. “The Sainz boy. They're arriving this afternoon.”

She blinked once. The name didn’t ring familiar — not exactly. But it echoed. Like a dream she’d overheard.

Her mother waved a hand.

“You were children together, years ago. Played in the orchard one summer. You wouldn't remember. Pale little thing with knobby wrists. Looked like he’d break if you touched him.”

“I think she bit him,” her father added drily.

She frowned. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“He must’ve deserved it.”

Her mother gave a long-suffering sigh, dabbing her lips with a monogrammed napkin.

“Well, try not to do it again. The family is staying through the season. Their estate’s been opened up. There’ll be dinners. Appearances. It would be nice if you behaved like a young lady for once.”

She looked at the apricot jam glistening on the table. She had no appetite for it now.

“And what does he look like now?” she asked. Voice light, feigned indifference.

Her father exchanged a glance with her mother, then shrugged.

“God knows. Boys grow like weeds.”

Her cousin chimed in with a grin. “Maybe he’s handsome now. Wouldn’t that be funny.”

She kicked him under the table.

He yelped.

“Enough, both of you,” her mother snapped, folding her napkin neatly.

From somewhere inside, a clock began to chime.

No one said it aloud, but they all heard the same thing:

The Sainzs were coming back.

And things would not be quiet

Got it — here is a fully rewritten, more immersive version of the scene. The dialogue at the end is now subtler, truer to how cautious and proud kids would really behave in the 1920s. The tone leans literary, character-focused, and richly atmospheric.

By noon, the heat pressed in like wool.

The gravel drive had been raked twice. The maid dusted the same vase for the third time. Someone had even sent the stable boy out to watch the road, as if he might ward off lateness by sheer force of will.

She sat perched on the stone banister of the terrace, legs swinging just above her polished shoes. Her stockings itched. She was told not to scratch.

Below, the estate shimmered in the midday sun — olive trees trembling in the breeze, the path down to the orchards like a ribbon unraveling into dry grass and memory.

She remembered it only in pieces: one summer, years ago, when she was too small to sit at the adult table and too sharp-tongued for the nursery. There had been a boy. He cried too easily and wouldn’t climb trees, but he had soft hands and a way of watching things that made her uneasy. She’d pushed him. Maybe bitten. Maybe not. No one ever told the full truth in this house anyway.

A flutter of voices snapped her upright.

Her mother swept onto the terrace in a haze of lilac perfume, lifting her skirt slightly to keep it from the dust. A parasol snapped open. The sound made the girl flinch.

“Sit like a lady,” her mother hissed, barely glancing at her. “They’re almost here.”

“Who?” she asked, though she already knew.

“The Sainzs.”

The name tasted foreign in the heat, too sharp for the soft, sleepy morning.

“There will be a boy,” her mother added. “Your age. You remember him, don’t you?”

She shrugged.

“Be kind.”

She didn’t answer. She was already watching the road.

At first, it was only the distant hum of tires on gravel. Then the glint of black metal, long and gleaming, parting the heat haze like a mirage. The Hispano-Suiza came to a stop beneath the cypress trees, its engine sighing into silence.

The driver stepped out. The back door opened.

Señora Sainz emerged first — a tall woman with skin too pale for the southern sun and lips painted the red of crushed cherries. She wore a dress better suited for Paris than the countryside, and she didn’t smile as she stepped down, sweeping her eyes over the house as if deciding whether it was worth remembering.

Then came the boy.

He was thinner than she remembered — not frail, exactly, but spare. Neatly dressed, with the stiffness of someone who'd been taught early not to fidget. His hair was dark and combed flat; his hands stayed politely at his sides. And when he lifted his head—

His eyes met hers.

The world didn’t stop, not exactly. But something in her paused.

He didn’t smile. Neither did she.

Her mother stepped forward, voice bright as summer porcelain.

“Señora! It’s been far too long.”

The women embraced with the stiffness of people who disliked each other but knew how to hide it. Polite kisses were exchanged. Remarks about weather, travel, health.

She barely heard any of it.

Her eyes were still on the boy.

He looked at the terrace, at the archway, at the columns — and then finally back at her. When he did, he inclined his head, a fraction too formal.

“Hello,” he said.

His voice was low, hesitant but careful. The kind of voice that had been taught what not to say, but not quite what to say.

She stood, slowly.

“You remember her, don’t you?” his mother asked lightly. “You used to follow her like a shadow.”

His ears flushed pink. He didn’t look away.

“I remember the orchard,” he said.

That surprised her.

She almost said something. Almost made a joke, or teased, or bit like she used to.

But he looked too serious for it.

“We could walk there,” she offered instead. Not warmly. Not kindly. Just… neutrally. A gesture, more than a welcome.

He blinked.

Then, slowly, nodded.

“All right.”

Their mothers didn’t notice as the children slipped down the terrace steps, past the fountain, toward the trees.

Absolutely. Here’s the continuation in the orchard — detailed, immersive, full of the quiet tension that builds when two children from different worlds are trying to understand one another, especially under the 1920s pressures of appearance, pride, and silence.

The gravel path gave way to cracked earth and roots.

Down here, the estate opened up in ways the house never did—less polished, less watched. The olive trees leaned in over the narrow path, old and knotted like they remembered every secret ever whispered beneath them.

Neither of them spoke.

She walked slightly ahead, out of habit. Not out of confidence—never that—but because she’d learned long ago that if she didn’t move first, no one else would. Her fingers trailed against the tall grass, the smell of dust and sap thick in the heat.

Behind her, Carlos kept pace.

The orchard was older than both of them. Some trees grew at odd angles, leaning as though bored of standing upright. Green figs hung heavy on branches, their weight threatening to split their skins. Bees drifted lazily through the air.

“It’s smaller than I remember,” he said, finally.

She turned. He stood beneath a fig tree, his hand hovering near one of the fruits but not touching it.

“You were smaller,” she replied.

Carlos raised an eyebrow—not insulted, just thoughtful. “You bit me once.”

She rolled her eyes. “Everyone says that. I don’t think I did.”

“I think you did.”

“You probably deserved it.”

That earned a pause. He nodded slowly. “Maybe.”

The word sat oddly between them—an admission, not quite forgiveness. She watched him as he stepped off the path, brushing a low-hanging branch aside. He was careful with the tree, like he thought it might bruise.

“You’ve gotten quiet,” she said, crossing her arms.

He glanced over. “My father doesn’t like noise.”

Something about the way he said it made her quiet too.

She dropped her gaze, toeing the dirt with her shoe. “Mine doesn’t like much of anything.”

They stood like that for a long moment. The wind stirred the grass. Somewhere in the trees, a cicada screamed like it had something to prove.

“Do you live in Madrid now?” she asked eventually.

“Mostly. Paris, sometimes.”

“Do you like it?”

Carlos considered. “It’s different.”

“From here?”

He nodded.

“Different can be better,” she said. “Or worse.”

“Or just different.”

There was a maturity in that answer that made her uneasy. Not because it was wrong—but because it was true. And she hated when people her age said true things like that. It made her feel behind. It made her feel seen.

They walked again, slower now, the distance between them less exact.

At the edge of the orchard, a rusted bench sat under an arch of honeysuckle. She dropped onto it unceremoniously, dust kicking up around her stockings. Carlos hesitated—then sat beside her.

Their shoulders didn’t touch. Not quite. But they could have.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said.

“You never are,” he replied.

That startled a breath out of her—almost a laugh. Not quite. She looked down at her hands instead.

“They’ll make us be friends, you know,” she murmured.

“They’ll try,” he said.

And then, after a pause:

“We don’t have to make it easy.”

She looked up at him sharply.

He didn’t smile. But the glint in his eye was unmistakable.

Neither of them said another word.

But they didn’t go back inside, either.

Late June

The sun came in streaks through the lace curtains, making patterns on the parlor rug. Dust danced in the light like it had a life of its own, and the ceiling fan turned lazily above, stirring nothing. The air was heavy—one of those afternoons where the whole house seemed to sweat.

He was sitting stiffly on the velvet settee, one ankle crossed over the other, pretending to read Ivanhoe. He held it like a shield. Every so often, he turned a page too quickly for someone who was truly reading it. His suit jacket was too formal for the weather, but he wore it anyway. Always did.

She watched him from the doorway, barefoot and bored and entirely unimpressed.

“You look like you’re dying,” she said flatly.

Carlos looked up without surprise. “I’m reading."

“You’re pretending,” she said. “You're ten, you can't read that well. And No one actually likes Ivanhoe.”

He didn’t argue, which meant she was right.

She stepped into the room, curls unruly, cheeks pink from the heat. In her hands, she held a stolen napkin filled with biscuits from the breakfast tray.

She tossed it on the table between them with a lazy thump.

“Peace offering,” she said. “Or maybe bribery.”

“For what?”

“For climbing the tower.”

Carlos blinked. “The watchtower?”

“Obviously. Unless you’ve found another ancient stone structure in the back garden?”

He glanced toward the window. “It’s not allowed.”

“That’s why it’s fun.”

She was already walking toward the back door, not waiting to see if he followed. Her bare feet slapped softly on the wood floor. She didn’t look back until she was outside, standing in the harsh, blinding light of summer.

He hesitated only a second before closing the book and rising to his feet.

The watchtower had been part of the estate for longer than either of their families. It stood at the far edge of the property, past the gardens, past the fig trees—half-choked by ivy and pride. No one used it. No one dared.

The climb was hot and rough. The stone steps were narrow, crumbling in places, and the air grew thicker with the scent of old dust and sunbaked lichen the farther they climbed. She went first, light on her feet, daring him with every look back over her shoulder.

He followed in silence, never asking for help.

At the top, the world stretched out before them—hills rolling toward a hazy blue horizon, trees casting long shadows that looked like arms reaching for home. Wind moved through her hair and pulled at his jacket like even the air wanted him to relax.

She dropped onto the cracked stone ledge and stretched out her legs.

“You can see everything from up here,” she said, shielding her eyes. “Even the orchard. Look—there’s your father. Talking to mine.”

Carlos stepped beside her, hands on the edge. “Looks like a duel.”

She smiled slightly, but it didn’t last.

He sat beside her, careful not to touch. A beat passed in the quiet.

Then she reached for the napkin between them, unwrapped it, and offered him the last biscuit.

“It’s the best one,” she said. “I saved it.”

“Are you being nice to me now?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

He took it anyway.

Absolutely — here's the Orange Scene, written in rich, detailed fic style, following the mood and tension of their growing friendship that feels too deep for ten-year-olds, but unmistakably present.

Mid-July

The heat was different in the orchard.

It wasn't the dry, dusty heat that pressed against your back like a warning. It was thick here, fragrant — oranges and figs split open in the sun, sap running from broken bark, bees humming lazy hymns as they floated from fruit to fruit. The air felt gold. Sticky. Alive.

She walked with a half-limping sort of gait, barefoot again, a blister forming from where her sandal had rubbed raw the day before. The orchard was her escape — it was always empty around this hour, the adults inside sipping chilled vermouths and talking about how things used to be better, or worse, or something.

The trees arched over her like a church, quiet and full of ghosts.

And then she heard it — the soft, wet sound of teeth sinking into something ripe. A low grunt. A rustle of grass.

She turned the corner, and there he was.

Carlos sat with his back against the largest orange tree, legs stretched out in front of him, a sun-streaked book lying face-down beside him. There was juice on his chin, running down his hand, and in his lap was the guilty corpse of a peeled orange.

He looked up as if he’d been caught stealing gold.

“You’re not supposed to eat them,” she said coolly, folding her arms over her chest. “They’re for the house.”

Carlos didn’t move, except to wipe his wrist on his trousers.

“It fell,” he said. “Technically.”

“So did Eve’s apple.”

He blinked at her, then slowly brought another segment to his lips and bit down.

“Tell someone,” he said, not rudely, just plainly.

She hated that about him — that soft, unreadable calm. He never barked back, never cried. He just said things like facts, and you had to dig for the rest.

She marched over, dropped to her knees beside him with more force than necessary, and snatched a segment from the half-eaten orange before he could react.

She ate it in one bite, juice slicking her bottom lip. Her fingers brushed his — barely — but it felt like a spark regardless.

“That one was mine,” he said, glancing at her hand.

“You stole it first,” she said, licking her thumb. “This is redistribution.”

Carlos let out a low sound — something between a laugh and a scoff — and leaned his head back against the bark. The leaves above filtered the light, casting strange shapes across his face. His eyes had gone warm, half-lidded.

“It’s better than the ones in the bowl,” he admitted, after a pause.

“That’s because it’s forbidden,” she whispered, in mock-reverence.

They sat like that for a while. Not speaking. Not needing to.

Every so often, one of them would reach for another slice. They shared the rest without speaking.

When the orange was gone, she didn’t get up.

And neither did he.

Late July

It started raining sometime in the afternoon.

Not a soft, summer sprinkle either — but thick, pouring rain that turned the garden paths to mud and rattled the old window panes. The air smelled of stone and lavender soap, and the walls of the house felt closer than usual. Narrower. As if they were watching.

She wandered toward the room that connected the two estates, ancestors sharing a love for each other, having a room to celebrate together, the music room, because it was the only place no one ever looked for her.

The door was open just enough. The light inside was low — muted greys and the pale gold of storm light slipping through lace curtains. Dust motes swirled like tiny ghosts in the air. The piano sat untouched in the corner, as grand and unsmiling as always.

And he was there.

Carlos.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, a book open beside him, though he wasn’t reading it. His eyes were half on the window, tracking the drops. His hair curled a little when it was humid. She’d noticed that before.

She hesitated.

He looked over without speaking. Just... looked.

“I didn’t know anyone else came here,” she murmured.

“Neither did I,” he said, his voice quiet.

She closed the door behind her. Tiptoed over like the rain might hear her. She sat down a few feet from him, mimicking his posture, legs crossed beneath her skirt.

The silence settled like a blanket.

Outside, thunder rolled.

“They’re fighting again,” she said, suddenly. “My parents.”

Carlos didn’t react right away. He didn’t ask what about. He didn’t offer a fix. He just nodded, like that was enough — like it made sense.

“They fight about things I don’t even understand,” she said. “I think sometimes I’m the thing they’re really angry at.”

She hadn’t meant to say that.

It came out like a secret slipping between her ribs.

Carlos turned toward her, slow and still, his expression unreadable in that familiar, maddening way.

“That’s not your fault,” he said. “Whatever it is.”

She stared at him. He wasn’t even looking for her eyes — just speaking the truth like he always did, like the truth was just something you picked up off the floor and handed over.

“Do your parents fight?”

“Sometimes,” he said. “But mostly... my father just doesn’t listen.”

She watched the rain trace patterns down the glass.

“Do you want to be like him?” she asked.

That one surprised him. He blinked, and for the first time, something uncertain flickered across his face.

“No,” he said, after a long breath. “I don’t think I do.”

“Good,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t.”

A pause.

And then, softly:

“You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

She didn’t say it as a compliment. Not quite. It was just... true.

Carlos looked at her for a long time, as if memorising something. Then he reached over without a word and handed her one of the handkerchiefs he always carried in his breast pocket.

“Here,” he said. “You’re crying.”

She hadn’t noticed.

But she took it.

And she didn’t give it back.

August

It was a Sunday, hot and windless.

The kind of day where the sky looked painted on — too blue, too flat — like someone had forgotten to give it clouds.

The suitcases were already loaded into the boot of the car. Her mother was making a show of pretending not to cry, fluttering around the garden with a lace handkerchief and too many instructions for the maids. Her father was clapping Señor Sainz on the shoulder, talking in those low, rich tones that only grown men used when they wanted to sound important.

The children — if they could still be called that — stood near the stone wall, just out of earshot.

Carlos had his hands in his pockets. His shirt was pressed, and his shoes were too new. His hair looked brushed for once, but still curled slightly near the ears.

“You’ll come again next summer?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

Carlos looked at her for a moment, then down at the grass.

“Maybe. Papa says we might spend it in Madrid next year.”

That hurt more than she thought it would.

“I see,” she said, her voice cooler than she felt. “Madrid sounds nice.”

Carlos looked up, watching her carefully, like he didn’t want to miss a flicker of her expression.

“You could write,” he said.

“Girls don’t write boys,” she replied, chin lifting just slightly.

“Who says that?”

“Everyone.”

Carlos didn’t answer. He pulled something from his pocket — not the usual white handkerchief but a small, worn coin. It looked foreign, heavy. Bronze, maybe. He held it out.

“Here,” he said. “For good luck.”

She took it with both hands.

Their fingers touched — not the clumsy, accidental brushes of before, but a pause. A hold. The kind that said more than either of them could say out loud.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Carlos didn’t smile, not really. But his lips curved slightly, like he was holding something back. She wondered — not for the first time — what kind of man he would grow up to be.

“Don’t forget me,” she said, as softly as a breath.

“I won’t,” he said. “I couldn’t.”

And then the car door slammed. A final noise. A punctuation mark.

He looked over his shoulder once as he was ushered inside. Just once.

But she’d remember it for the rest of her life.

The coin stayed in her pocket all day. She didn’t cry until nightfall, when the lights were out and the cicadas were too loud to blame the sound on anything else.

Sixteen and Seventeen

The brushes sat still for a moment in her hand, hovering just above the canvas.

She squinted slightly, assessing the blue she'd blended — it was almost right, but not quite. Too much ultramarine. Or perhaps not enough light. The morning sun filtering through the tall windows hit the parquet floors in warm streaks, brushing against her skirts and the edges of her easel like a visitor trying to make itself known.

The soft scratch of bristles on canvas filled the quiet room, accompanied by the steady and the whisper of autumn wind tapping at the windowpanes. The scent of oil paint clung to the air — linseed and turpentine and something faintly floral from the soap she’d used to scrub her hands earlier that morning.

Sunlight drifted in long golden bands across the floor, pooling at the base of her easel where an unfinished painting rested. Her strokes had grown slower lately. She wasn’t sure what she was painting anymore.

Behind her, the morning paper rustled.

Her father cleared his throat — not out of impatience, but in that careful way he always did when he wanted her to listen before she spoke.

"Your mother received a letter this morning."

She kept painting, eyes narrowed slightly. "From whom?"

"The Sainz family."

The brush hovered mid-air. Her hand stilled. She didn’t turn around.

"Oh."

She turned slowly, eyes narrowing ever so slightly — not in suspicion, but in preparation. "I thought they were still abroad. Italy, or Paris?"

He folded his paper and set it aside with a heavy sort of grace. "They’ve returned to Madrid. For good, this time. Lucía writes that the children have grown — as you both have — and that it's high time for proper introductions to be renewed."

"I don’t think we need introductions," she muttered, more to herself than to him.

Her father smiled faintly, catching it anyway. "No. But circumstances are different now. You were what — ten? Eleven? You played in orchards and threw oranges at each other. That hardly counts as acquaintance in the eyes of society."

She frowned. Her hand tightened around the paintbrush.

"They’ve returned to Madrid — permanently, it seems," he said, standing now, unfolding the letter with the familiar crinkle of soft paper. "Lucía writes warmly. She hopes to see us again. Says she remembers you — and Carlos — quite fondly."

There was a beat of silence.

She set her brush down carefully on the palette’s edge.

"They’re inviting us for the autumn season," her father continued gently. "To stay with them for a time. It’s been long enough. Too long."

"And you want to go."

He didn’t answer at first. He moved toward the window instead, pulling aside the lace curtain with a thoughtful glance at the trees outside.

"I think," he said, "that it’s time you were seen. Properly."

She frowned. "Seen?"

He looked at her now — really looked — with that soft, furrowed expression that always made her feel small and known at the same time. "You’re nearly seventeen. The world’s going to look at you differently whether you like it or not. You’ve grown up in this house, among paintings and books, and we’ve let you be... free. But you’re a young woman now. And sooner or later, the world is going to notice."

She sat straighter, fingers curling against her lap.

"I don’t want to be noticed," she said softly.

"I know," he replied. "But it's not about being paraded, not truly. It's about being seen in the right light, by the right people. The kind of people who understand who you are. What you could be."

"Wealthy men," she said, sharper than she meant it.

His mouth quirked slightly. "Not just that."

He stepped closer, resting a hand gently on the back of her chair. His voice softened.

"I’m not trying to marry you off. Not yet. But... I want you to have choices, darling. Real ones. You’ve always seen more than you let on — the way you observe, the way you listen. You deserve to walk into a room and know you belong there."

She swallowed hard.

"And Carlos?" she asked, quieter now.

He hesitated — not out of discomfort, but with care.

"He’s grown too, I imagine. He was always a good boy. Polite. Clever. I think you two were rather fond of one another, once."

"That was a long time ago."

Her father nodded. "Yes. But some things remain."

The silence between them wasn’t heavy. It was thoughtful, familiar.

He tapped the letter against his hand once before placing it neatly on the table.

"We leave in two weeks," he said. "We’ll stay through the season, perhaps longer if it suits us. You’ll need a few new gowns. Something light, perhaps in that soft green you favor. Your mother’s already written to Madame Eloise."

She said nothing, only reached for her brush again. Her hand moved almost instinctively, painting the gentle slope of a shoulder — fabric just beginning to take shape. She wasn’t even aware it resembled him until the stroke had dried.

Her father leaned down, kissed the top of her head — a quiet, habitual thing — and left the room without another word.

And though she wouldn’t admit it aloud, her heart had already started to beat a little faster.

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139 notes · View notes

ktownshizzle · 5 months ago

Note

K, for the Phukket Yoongi fic that I def don't want (absolutely need on my desk like yesterday I'm actually in crisis and only phukket Yoongi can save me 🥲) I'll take a lil snippet of that please 🧚🏽‍♀️✨️

Watermelon & Suga (drabble)

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: idol!Min Yoongi x tour guide!reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Wc: 440 for this drabble ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, eventual idk—could be anything based on feedback ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Set during the events of D-day tour Phuket Vlog

While they eat, you stay behind on the boat, finishing your own lunch. There’s still some leftover watermelon, so you have it for dessert. It’s sweeter than any you have had all summer, but not sweet enough to distract you from the thought spinning in your head: Did the Min Yoongi really just invite you to join their group for lunch?

Ah, never mind. He was probably just being polite. Right? But then why did he stare at your lips for ten whole seconds when you were exploring the caves?

Fuck. You really need to get Lasik because your eyes cannot be trusted. Maybe a psychiatric evaluation too, while you’re at it.

Who are you kidding? At this point you can only afford the oh-so ahjumma-chic wide-brim hat so your lone brain cell is not fried by the sun.

BUT. Why does it feel like you had a connection?

Him with his kind eyes and that sexy smile.

Shaking your head, you grab a beer from the cooler and chug it, the cold brew doing its damnednest to wash down your delusions. For a moment, the only sound is the faint lapping of waves against the boat’s hull.

But then, footsteps.

You glance over your shoulder.

Speak of the devil.

Yoongi is walking into the shaded area of the boat, pushing damp strands of hair with his beautiful fingers.

“Hey,” you say, clocking that he’s coming in alone. Your pulse races.

“Hi.”

“Craving more watermelon?” you ask, smiling as you gesture to the plate.

He leans against the table, his gaze steady, but there’s something else there. “I was,” he says, his voice softer now, “but I think I’m craving something else.”

Your breath stutters. The plate in your hand feels heavier. The tips of his fingers brushes along the edge of the table as he walks closer, and closer.

“There’s, uh, more delicacies on the island,” you try to use your tour guide voice, but you’re faltering. “Thailand has, umm, over 1,000 species of fruit, you know…”

“Mmm.” A faint smirk touches his lips, but his eyes are fixed on you. He’s literally in front of you now, so close that the air is sucked out of your lungs. You notice every macro detail—the faint streaks of sunscreen on his cheek, the fine grains of sand clinging to his hair, the way his scent is a mix of the sun and the ocean and his own musk. And those lips. Goddamn those lips.

“What is it that you like?” you ask, your voice small and shy as he studies you, too.

“I think I prefer,” he murmurs, his hand brushing yours before leaning in. “This.”

A/N: so……….??? do we continue?

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shouyuus · 2 months ago

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zoro + moss :3

send me a character + a word (any word) and i'll try to post a snippet of a wip/abandoned fic that i have in my drafts for them containing/relating to that word!

YAS I KNEW I COULD COUNT ON U TO COME THRU W THE ZORO PROMPT hehehe; this is a snippet from a fic where zosan are arguing bc zoro and u r both bad at realizing ur into each other and sanji and nami have haD ENOUGH:

working title: behind closed doors

Down on the lower deck, Sanji is cracking open a new pack of cigarettes.

“I’m tellin’ you man, just tell her.”

“Why would I do that when I know she hates me?”

“For the last time, fam — she does not hate you.”

“Yeah, she does.”

Sanji throws up his hands as Zoro takes a long breath and readjusts his grip on a wooden practice sword.

“Fine, how do you know?” Sanji asks, lighting up and taking a long drag.

“Oh — I don’t know —” Zoro huffs as he swings the practice sword down with perhaps a bit more vigor than perfectly necessary, “She never looks at me, she always leaves the room right after I walk in, the last time we were in the same space together, she finished half the entire bottle of bootleg whiskey we got and spent the rest of the night throwing up —”

“Mate — mate — I know you know nothing about women but that doesn’t mean she hates you.”

Zoro whips the wooden sword around so that the tip rests just below Sanji’s chin, the blade pointed up as Zoro scowls.

“I don’t remember asking you for advice.”

Sanji gapes at him for a second longer before falling back half a step with a defeated sigh, taking another puff of his smoke.

“Fine, mosshead— I’ll leave you to your —” he waves at Zoro’s sullied shirt and the belt of three swords leaning against the wall.

#🌧 raindrops #one piece #one piece x reader #x reader #opla #opla x reader #roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro x reader #one piece live action #one piece scenarios #opla zoro #roronoa zoro x you #one piece netflix #opla zoro x reader #one piece live action x you #one piece live action x reader #i couldn't actually find the word MOSS in any of my wips slkfdjadsd but sanji does call him mosshead and that's the closest i got #wip games

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dottielovegood · 22 days ago

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Beautiful! When can we indulge in some more „Heat“? I am cravibg your fic sooo bad 🥺

Hi!

The next chapter is currently 2034 words long (my chapters are usually 7000+ words). Out of those 2034 words, I would say that 65 % are shit, or not even written in English (my drafts are usually a messy mix of languages, lol).

BUT

Since it's the last day of Elriel month, I'll give you a little snippet of the next chapter. My original plan was to finish the fic during Elriel month, but life had other plans (like a new job that kept me busy + writer's block).

Mind you, I might change all of this when I actually finish + edit the chapter, but for now, this is the first part of the last chapter of HEAT.

Enjoy <3

───── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─────

Mate.

You are my mate.

Elain could do nothing but stand there and stare at him as the words seemed to echo between them. She knew what the words meant, of course she did. She had read the books. She had heard the stories. She had laughed at the absurdity of people believing that soulmates were real. Just a few months ago those words had held no meaning to her because she didn’t believe in such a thing.

Mates.

It was something that only belonged in movies, or in romance novels, not real life. It was a fantasy that was about as real as unicorns. Nuala had even asked her a few weeks ago if she thought that she would find a mate now that she was an omega, and Elain had laughed at the question. Not because the question was funny, but because it made her feel a new sense of panic she had never experienced before.

What if she did find a mate?

What if she was mated to someone she didn’t know?

What if she didn’t even like the person?

If mates were real, how would you even know that you were compatible?

The questions she had never before considered had invaded her mind that day and for days after, she had been on edge, especially when she knew that there was an alpha nearby. What if that mate-thingy just snapped into place while she was in line at the grocery store? Could she be mated to an alpha that smelled like sour socks and sadness? Did she have a say in who she was mated to? Could she say no?

The mere thought of being mated to another person had scared the living shit out of her and now, here she stood, one hand on the doorknob while the other rested on Azriel’s chest.

Over his heart.

My mate, he had called her. She waited for the panic to set in. She waited for the questions and the doubt and the shock to bubble up from the depths where she had buried it all. She waited, and waited, and waited, but the panic never came. Azriel’s heart was beating a steady rhythm beneath her palm. A rhythm that matched her own. Home, her heart seemed to tell her. He was home.

#elriel

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willownwisp · 1 year ago

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ree's leon valentine's day advent <3

hi everyone. <3 as the leon kennedy fluff truther, i'm making an advent for valentine's day because pookie deserves so much love! everyday, i'll be posting a fic ranging from nsfw/sfw fluff for babu leon, i'll be putting out the scenarios and snippets below if y'all are interested. author's note: i've been meaning to put this out like a week ago when i finally figured out the problem w my account as to why tumblr wasn't letting me reply to comments :( but sadly, college got me so head empty. anyway, i've already got 2 days worth of fics already finished so i hope y'all can give me a read. <3

FEBRUARY 8 𖹭 nice legs, daisy dukes. (vendetta!leon x fem!reader) Leon feels like a creep, fuck that. He definitely looks like a creep. Thirty-six year old in all of his 5'11 glory standing outside his girlfriend's college leant against his Ducati like a dick, carrying a box of those, instagrammable pastries you always like to look at. It doesn't hurt to be sweet. Not when you walk — run, at the sight of him in your preppy mini dress, highlighting those long, long legs. Nothing is sweeter, especially when it's wrapped around him.

FEBRUARY 9 𖹭 starry skies, blue eyes. (re4r!leon x fem!reader) Stars dot stygian skies, the night is young, the moon is high. Leon's heart soars with your every laughter. The way your eyes close and your nose scrunches. God he was so in love with you, he could forgive the fact that the tent should have been up hours ago before night. You swear you remember your knots from your wide-eyed Girl Scout days, and he swears these silly moments with you are what makes life bearable.

FEBRUARY 10 𖹭 cold woes. (re4r!leon x fem!reader) Leon S. Kennedy. The apple of his instructors' eyes (and yours), he's a top graduate in the Police Academy for fuck's sake. He's decimated hordes of zombies in his first day as a rookie cop. Endured military training in the middle of nowhere, he's saved the President's daughter. He doesn't get sick. Only that he does catch a cold at the expense of prioritizing you, his clumsy girlfriend, who forgot to wear a jacket on a camping trip, offering his warm clothes to you. He doesn't regret it, he likes taking care of you, but there's something adorable about your sheepish apologies as you wait on him. He could get used to being babied. FEBRUARY 11 𖹭 love on me. (di!leon x fem!reader) As much as Leon loves the sun, the beaches, the tropics. Oh what he would give to become a beach bum in his next life instead of being smacked by bioweapons day in, night out, and being a good bitch to good ol' U.S of A. Unfortunately, after the events of Alcatraz, maybe he's had enough of the sea for now. He gives himself a pat on the back, takes out a chunk of his savings to go to Japan because you've been eyeing it. You said you were interested in the food, culture, and sights. So why in the world were you dragging him to a love hotel? FEBRUARY 12 𖹭 fill up your cup. (re6!leon x fem!reader) He feels himself spiraling recently, turning to the bottle because a glass is never troubled by his woes. He breaks them of course, can't help it, seems like his life is doomed to him breaking in the end. Fragments of glass scatters on the floor, vodka spills on the floor splashes it around like his grief because his body can only take so much. You arrive as he tries to pick them up, attempts to pick himself up. You whisper assurance, he doesn't deserve it. The way you look at him ardently, the gentleness that is your existence. You empty out his pain, and fill it with love. FEBRUARY 13 𖹭 the thrill, the love. (damnation!leon x fem!reader) He wills his old Yamaha to go faster. Your dainty arms clinging to him, the softness of your touch as his speed breaks the sound barrier. What started as mere curiosity turns into rituals. Secrets that only the both of you know. He knocks on your door at midnight, drives you around town. He scolds you every time your arm breaks free, throwing them to the wind. You don't care, you love the thrill, you love him. Leon admits that there is something alluring to the thrill of the chase. Perhaps that's why he's spent his years chasing Ada, but with you it was different. FEBRUARY 14 𖹭 kiss it better. (di!leon x fem!reader) Leon is a man full of stories, his pain, his peace, his fears, his needs. There is more to him than just being a formidable weapon against bioterrorism. He never was a weapon, just a flesh and blood human, and in his mortality there are scars. Deep within him, and littered in his skin. You kiss the faded slash on his hand, he tells you how he'd got it from when Ashley Graham had tried to stab him under the influence of the plaga. You kiss it again, and what he doesn't tell you is the wave of warmth that washes his entire being, it tugs on his very soul. You kiss the scars because it's there, because it's him, and in his reverie, he thinks you truly are his person.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy x you #leon x reader #leon x you #leon s kennedy #leon scott kennedy #resident evil #leon kennedy fluff #leon s kennedy smut #leon kennedy imagine #leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x y/n #leon s kennedy x reader #resident evil x reader #resident evil x you

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carmelves · 3 months ago

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snippets of fics I'll never finish: 5/?

Context: this is an au of the ending of Sylus's myth, where MC is more of an actual sorceress. She travels to the afterlife to bring Sylus back, Orpheus and Euridice style, passing through a series of trials, including the following dive into his childhood memories. I don't think it's mentioned in this section, but he's about 12 here

He’s light on his feet, an echo of the deadly elegance he’ll someday possess hidden inside gangly limbs, and you struggle to keep up as he slips into the forest, weaving between trees with the grace of a born predator. It’s only the red of his shirt, the glint of sunlight in his bright hair, that allows you to keep sight of him. Eventually, you emerge into a clearing beside a pond just in time to see him drop to his knees beside the water, leaning over to look at his reflection. Slender fingers probe through his hair, parting it to reveal a tiny black nub.

The beginning of a horn.

“No, no!” he whispers harshly. “I told you to stay away!” He sits back, hands clutching his hair, breaths coming fast and heavy. With one shaky hand, he reaches down to grab the knife from his belt. It’s a small thing, a boy’s knife intended for gutting fish and whittling sticks, but its blade gleams wickedly sharp in the sunlight. From your position, frozen at the edge of the treeline, you can’t see his face but you can see the deep breath he takes, the way he squares his shoulders as he raises the knife to his horn.

“Stop!’ you can’t stand by anymore, watching this boy, this echo of the man you’ll someday love, hurt himself. You emerge from the trees, taking a few steps towards him.

He’s on his feet in an instance, knife pointed straight at you. His eyes narrow. “Who are you?”

You raise your hands placatingly. “Doesn’t matter, I’m not going to hurt you. Will you put down the knife?”

His shoulders tense, and he doesn’t change positions. “You saw, didn’t you?”

You nod.

“Tell anyone and I’ll kill you.” His voice shakes but the point of the knife is steady. “I’ll eat your soul. I’m a monster, it’s what we do.”

“You’re not a monster.” you keep your voice soft, posture unthreatening. What an irony it would be to survive doomsday, your own execution, the rampages of a half-mad dragon, only to be killed by the child version of the man you’re trying to save. “And I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“I don’t believe you.”

You shrug helplessly. “Okay, fine. It’s the truth, though.” You walk around him, keeping a wide berth, and sit down by the edge of the pond, dangling your bare feet in the water. They’re scraped and battered from your chase through the woods, and the cool water feels soothing. You sigh in relief, closing your eyes, though you remain tense, ready to fight back if he decides to actually attack you. After a moment of silence, soft footsteps approach you.

“Why are you here?”

You ignore the question, looking up at him. “It’s too bad you have to keep cutting the horns off. They’re pretty.”

He scoffs, sitting down a few feet from you. “They’re horrible.” He hugs his knees to his chest, the knife still gripped in his hand as he looks over at you with suspicion. Your heart clenches when you notice how his pants are just slightly too short, revealing a few inches of bony ankle. “...you’re really not gonna tell?”

“Why would I? The Judicators are a bunch of puffed up hypocrites. They don’t deserve anything, let alone you.”

He snorts, glaring into the pond. After a moment, one hand comes up to lightly touch his horn. It’s grown slightly in the few minutes you’ve been sitting here, now long enough to poke above his hair. “They aren’t pretty. They’re horrible and ugly and if anyone knew, they’d kill me.”

“They could try,” you respond softly, thinking of Sylus’s words. One hundred and eight attempts on his life, all failed. Only you, against your will, had succeeded. You reach out and gently run a finger along the length of his horn. He shudders, eyes falling closed before he tenses, batting your hand away.

“Stop it. Don’t touch me.”

You raise your hands in surrender. “Alright. But is this your plan for the rest of your life? Just to keep cutting off parts of yourself and hoping no one notices?”

“What else can I do?” he says harshly. “All the other dragons are dead. If I can’t hide what I am, I will be too.”

“You could leave. Go where nobody can find you, where you can be yourself.”

He just hunches over, tightening his arms around his legs, staring out over the pond. You think of the way his eyes practically glowed when the woman in the market had praised him. How even as an adult jaded by centuries of suffering, he tolerated your chatter, let you drag him through markets and taverns, a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth only to be quickly hidden whenever you glanced at him. The kitten that had showed up in the cave.

He wasn’t built for solitude.

You sigh, knowing it’s futile to give him advice. You know exactly how his story ends, that the boy in front of you is nothing more than a memory, but still… a part of you yearns to take him away, show him a life that isn’t full of pain and fear.

“Things will get better,” you say softly. “Not for a long time, but... but someday somebody’s going to see your horns and tail and love you anyway.”

He stares at you, eyes wide in his soft, childish face. To your utter shock, you see tears gathering in the corners. He wipes them away harshly with the back of his hand, turning away from you. “Shut up, you can’t know that, you don’t know anything.” He sniffs, shoulders shaking with repressed emotion.

You can only stare. You’d never had to comfort a crying child before. You’d never dreamed that Sylus would cry, let alone in front of you. Death threats, you’d expected. Anger, biting sarcasm, feigned indifference… but tears? You hesitantly place a hand on his shoulder, ready for him to lash out but he leans into it instead. You shuffle closer, putting your arm around his shoulders, and he leans his head against you. The small, sharp horn pokes your arm, but you make no effort to move.

“Sy- Stayrus, I promise you that things will turn out alright. Remember that, okay? Things will be alright in the end.”

#lads #lads sylus #sylus x reader #love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #sofinf

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flusteredfools · 5 months ago

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Only three days for this poll instead of a week; I feel it should be plenty of time for those who want to have a say! This poll is to let me know which order I should write the fics in and I'll stick to this plan until all four are finished; with the exception of random drabbles and MerMay (cause sometimes I'm slow OTZ)

So please vote for which you want to read first! Info snippets & chibi art below!

Oh and maybe reblog so more people can see & vote too 👉👈

Faeful Hearts II

The continuation for Faeful Hearts (which you can read part one here!)

This part focuses on what comes after the Artisan Y/n's marriage to Sun and Moon; little halfling Fae babies, their romance route taken with Fae Leader Eclipse and a bit more about what's going on since William's imprisonment. You'll learn more about Eclipse's past as well as what he hopes is his future (spoiler alert: his future is you).

We Can Serve You Better II

The continuation for We Can Serve You Better, Than They Can (which you can read part one here - but please note it is NSFW)

Congratulations your Royal Highness, your curse is broken and you've found your true loves! It's time to start working on that 'happily ever after' you've always read about in fairytales. Just because you're no longer cursed to feel lust every night doesn't mean you don't still end up that way now that Sir Moon and Sir Sun are more forward with their affections. You have a encounter with the very Sorcerer who placed the curse on you in the first place, but this time she gives you a gift for finding your true love(s) and breaking her curse; a gift that is nothing short of a miracle, a bundle of joy, love and happiness that the three of you thought would never be possible.

Summer Daze

(You can read the summary here or browse snippets/teasers on my blog)

Summer loving happens so fast! Specially when you fall head over heels for your camp counselor coworkers who start off not wanting you to work with them at all. Slowly you prove your worth and start to think it's all is smooth rowing from there...until another counselor comes by and rocks the boat, making your summer dreams ripped at the seams.

Naga'na Let You Go

Poor little Flaminglet runt Y/n becomes abandoned and fed to the snakes; more specifically, Naga Snakelets at Fazco's MegaZoo. They try their best to run and hide from the young Nagas, though they unknowingly hide away in two Naga's favorite 'secret base'. The two friends had never seen or heard of a Harpy before, though you've certainly have heard of the terrifying beasts that are Nagas. The young snakelets are quite curious, wanting to know everything they possibly can about you; not seeming to understand that they're what's causing you to be so distressed... From childhood friends to cross species lovers? At least that's what the Naga's are hoping for.

#no color cause I'm lazy #you're welcome to treat them as coloring pages though #fnaf daycare attendant #fnaf dca #fnaf sun #fnaf moon #fnaf security breach #bearitt doodles #fnaf #fanfic

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prettyboykatsuki · 3 months ago

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Now that we're talking about Rin...I've reread your Shoujo fic about him like 10 times like it is one of my all time faves fr Shoujo reader and Rin are so beloved to me...I'll be very happy if you share something about them. It can be anything really I'll just take any crumbs you give me like the happiest ant to ever exist

here is a snippet of a jealousy sex fic i want to post for them whenever i get around to finishing it. rin and shoujo reader u are everything to me actually.

But the most important thing for Rin to remain sane in your relationship is a designated amount of alone time where he can monopolize you completely. He will pretend that this alone time has nothing to do with you. You haven’t noticed that it has everything to do with you for the last five years and he thinks its better that way. It was the most egregious during your university days. You were busy running your club and socializing and Rin was busy with his career. Seeing you felt like the only thing that was keeping him from losing his mind. At some point it was less of a desire and more of a base need. Each week, he’d figure out your free time and move around everything in his schedule to make sure that he could be alone with you - emphasis on alone. Not with people, not with friends - but a chunk of time where he is completely alone with you. He’ll never tell you any of this. You shouldn’t have to know. It’s better for you to think that things just always happen to line up. He wants to see your happy little smile when you believe it’s coincidence. ( “The universe must want to see us together, Rin-tan,” ) Rin has to see you. It’s something of a compulsion. You’re an anchor in his life, a beacon of warmth and glow for all of his doom and gloom. He’s plenty logical, and plenty capable - but he’s irritable and quick to anger by default. He needs you to give him the balance. Needs to feel the weight of your body as you stumble in his arms. Needs to look at you while you ramble on and on about something silly. Needs to feel your magnetism when you kiss his cheek and push his bangs from his eyes, when you dote on him so affectionately.

#zero;answers #select * from bllk;#where rin;#FROM shoujo rin;

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martsonmars · 6 months ago

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Hi friends! I keep committing and recommitting to making a serious effort to come back to the fandom, and I think this time finally I got my Snowbaz feelings back for real. So I'm going to try. Thank you to everyone who kept tagging me; I'm a little lost re: new people existing on Tumblr, but I hope to catch up!

So much to do in this post. For now, some snippets.

Exhibit A: my writing goal for the month. It's okay if it doesn't work out, but I decided I need short-term writing goals and this is my first one.

Baz pushes his sunglasses up his nose, staring at the man behind the counter of the shop. He hopes that hiding in plain sight—without his costume, without his mask—is a more effective disguise than trying to wear a fake moustache.

The apron is there, gloriously stretching over a broad chest that does not turn Baz's insides into soup and make him wish he could go back three—five, ten—years and do everything differently.

Exhibit B: COBB idea. I'm so excited!!!!!!!!!!!!

Going right is never the right choice.

I've known this since the first time my father brought me along on his travels (read: I hid in his trunk) and I had to face a crocodile armed only with a blunt Swiss Army knife I'd stolen from said trunk. All because I'd turned right. And then right again.

When he found me, scraped knees and his precious knife lost in the belly of the beast, he didn't even yell. He just looked at me like he always did. Like the biggest disappointment in his life of failures.

Exhibit C: potential second COBB idea, that I'm going to submit only if I make enough progress by the end of the month.

[Baz] holds my hand like it's the only thing keeping him grounded. Present. The minutes are trickling away from us like sand in a broken hourglass. The sun hasn't started rising yet, the night as dark as it gets, the cold seeping into our bones.

He holds my hand like he's afraid he'd float away if he didn't.

I know I'd be glad if it happened.

I have a lot of fandom resolutions for this year and I'm scared they'll end up like any New Year's resolutions... but I'll list them anyway. 6 resolutions Sunday:

Be more involved on Tumblr. I want to post more, but especially start reblogging and commenting on things again.

Write more. Last year I wrote so little and posted even less, and it made me sad when I realised it in the past days. So much was going on, so I don't blame myself, but I miss writing and I believe I can try to make it a regular thing again.

I want to read more fics. It's been years since I last read fics consistently. I missed everything!! Time to slowly catch up.

Relatedly, I want to try to comment more. I've never been a great commenter because it overwhelms me, but it's hypocritical since I need everyone and their brother to leave 10 paragraph long comments on everything I write... So I want to commit to doing better.

I want to try to publish a fic every month, at least. @palimpsessed suggested doing some sort of monthly countdown to Carry On's birthday in October and I'm all in.

I want to succeed at COBB. For one reason or the other, more often than not because I am cursed and I never finished writing my things, I've never managed to start and finish posting something for COBB. But I have two concepts I'm so excited about (not sure yet if I'll try both of them) and I want to commit to doing well. Wish me good luck.

My good old tagging list <3 I hope to add new people soon! But hi my dear old friends, how's it going?

@facewithoutheart @sillyunicorn @onepintobean @shrekgogurt @wellbelesbian @palimpsessed @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @forabeatofadrum @fatalfangirl @cutestkilla @ileadacharmedlife @bookish-bogwitch @artsyunderstudy @orange-peony @larkral @raenestee @stitchyqueer @hushed-chorus @technetiumai @brilla-brilla-estrellita @thewholelemon @theimpossibledemon @imagineacoolusername @blackberrysummerblog @theearlgreymage @rimeswithpurple @messofthejess @alexalexinii @whatevertheweather @jbrrring @prettygoododds @youarenevertooold @best--dress @theotherhufflepuff @monbons @run-for-chamo-miles @confused-bi-queer @aristocratic-otter @dragoneggos @gekkoinapeartree @ionlydrinkhotwater @erzbethluna @shemakesmeforget @basiltonbutliketheherb @otherpeoplesheartachept-2 @noblecorgi @j-nipper-95

#six sentence sunday #my writing

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faynthearted · 6 months ago

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god I love rediscovering half-finished tianshan fics/drafts that I started years ago and completely forgot about. it's like I'm reading someone else's work and it's fantastic! there's so many.

in case anyone is interested, so far I've found:

a WIP named "leverage" that seems to be about guan shan having to stay at the He estate for his own protection against whatever mess the He family has gotten into. I feel like someone might have requested this a long time ago and I forgot?

another WIP named "p.s." that's about tianshan being bitter exes and yet somehow guan shan finds himself housesitting for he tian while he travels for work because he tian has a dog that they adopted together that needs to be looked after and guan shan still cares about it -- and, clearly, about he tian too. I honestly still like this idea and the writing isn't too awful... hmm.

a VERY primitive draft of desecration, probably written when I was just beginning to brainstorm. it's crazy to see how much the story has evolved based on this flimsy WIP draft. I'm half-tempted to post it just for shits and giggles even though it's poorly written

another very short, primitive draft of desecration, written from zheng xi's perspective

a WIP named "smoke and mirrors" for a switched family background AU for tianshan. I actually got pretty far in writing this (~7k words) and I don't remember a single thing about it. veryyyy interesting. I kinda want to post this one too, or at least one scene that stands out

a WIP (unnamed) that seems to be about guan shan conning he tian at the train station for some money. I'm almost positive this was a tumblr request, but based on the date/time stamp of the draft's document, I'm not surprised I never finished it. life was crazy and miserable at the time

and while I'm here, I might as well mention the WIPs I do kinda remember but decided not to pursue in favor of desecration:

a WIP named "patchwork" set in historical China, wherein guan shan (a potter/artisan) has the ability to see and manipulate (i.e. tie and cut) red strings of fate. he's commissioned by the he family to participate in a traditional wedding ceremony for he cheng. of course, he tian takes an interest in him while he's there. the only issue is that guan shan cut his own red string when he was younger, an irreversible action -- and, for some reason, he tian's is cut too. weird, right? yeah. but he tian doesn't know this, and guan shan isn't planning on telling him anytime soon 😌

a WIP named "arsonist's lullaby" written from he cheng's POV throughout he tian's childhood. I'm not going to say much about this one since it might actually be written/posted one day as part of the terra firma series...

and finally, a WIP (unnamed) for an AU in which guan shan is a retired police dog trainer/handler (??) who now works at an auto shop. he adopted some of the dogs that either flunked out of the academy training or developed medical issues that required their retirement, and the dogs hang around the shop while he works. one day he tian shows up and asks if guan shan would be willing to do some off-the-books commission(?) work. the he family business has a drug/weapons problem, and they need the dogs' trained noses -- and their handler's experience -- to fix it. (I'm still obsessed with the idea of the dogs being fiercely protective of guan shan. he tian not only has to earn guan shan's trust, but the dogs' too)

I love the variability in all these AUs/ideas. I wish I could work on them all at once but that's frankly impossible. but I'll consider posting a few snippets if anyone is interested! (no promises about the quality of writing, though!)

#19 days #tianshan #fay talks #I'm sure there's more WIPs/outlines in google docs or something but I primarily use Notion now. google docs was an organizational nightmare

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accio-sriracha · 8 days ago

Text

On The Ministry's Galleon

A snippet of a Drarry WIP <3

Content warning: slightly smutty implications

Everyone please feel free to send me any number between 1 and 200 to get a snippet from a fic!!

This is #3 for @garden-of-runar

Description:

Harry has to make a late night call to his Auror partner Malfoy about a case they're working on.

One thing leads to another, and nothing would ever be the same between them again.

(Or: Harry accidentally teaches Malfoy how to have phone sex.)

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Harry gave a frustrated sigh, staring at the paperwork that sprawled the table in front of him.

"Can't anybody get anything done around here? You're honestly telling me that neither of them has turned in their reports? It's been weeks, Malfoy."

Harry's voice was sharp, coming out far harsher than he meant for it to.

Malfoy made a strange sound on the other end. There was a sudden static he couldn't quite place. It sounded almost like the noise a blanket would make being moved too close to the receiver.

Harry paused.

"Are you in bed right now, Malfoy? Merlin, I'm sorry. I should have realised I was going to wake you up calling you at this hour."

He checked the time again. It was much later than he thought. He'd been working for nearly four hours.

"I'll-er, I'll let you get back to sleep, then. I'll finish up what I can from here. Thanks for the help."

He was just about to hang up when the static suddenly got louder.

"Wait-" Malfoy's voice was far away. There were more shuffling sounds, then his voice was right next to the phone again. "Wait. I'm sorry. You're fine. I wasn't sleeping. It's these... muggle devices. They won't listen from far away."

Harry frowned. Malfoy's voice was edging back towards that strange pitch from before.

"Right... earlier you said you were... cooking?"

Malfoy exhaled slowly. The sound crackled in Harry's ear. "I might have lied about that."

Harry laughed quietly. "Why would you lie about what you're doing?" He asked, a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

His tone was light, but Malfoy's panic only grew in response.

"No- no, I- I didn't-" He stumbled over his words, something Harry had never heard him do before.

Harry's laugh was louder this time, more genuine.

"Malfoy, it's fine. I'm not judging you or whatever it is you're worried about."

"Right." Malfoy made another odd, strangled sound. "I have to go-"

"Wait-" Harry called. "Wait, I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to pry. It's none of my business what you're doing."

He paused suddenly, remembering the sound of Draco's heavy breathing and edgy voice. That, and the fact that he was definitely lying in bed, caused another thought to pop unprompted into Harry's mind.

"Hang on... are you... are you with someone right now?" He asked.

"With someone?" Malfoy repeated distractedly. There was the sound of a drawer being rummaged through.

It took another moment longer before the question seemed to catch up with him.

"With- Salazar, Potter. I'm not some common whore."

"I never said you were," Harry shot back, his laugh escaping him again without him meaning to.

He'd never laughed this much during a conversation with Malfoy... ever.

"I'm just... I'm dealing with something at the moment and it's requiring more of my attention than I would like for it to." He cleared his throat, sounding awkward again.

This was strange for Harry. Never in all the years they'd known each other had Malfoy ever been awkward.

"Do you need help?" Harry asked, frowning. "You seem... upset. Is there anything I can do?"

It took a solid six seconds for Malfoy to reply.

"Please don't say that," he whispered.

"Say what?" Harry asked. "Don't offer you help? I'm your partner, Malfoy. That's sort of what we do."

Another strangled sound.

"Potter-" His voice broke off. The phone made everything sound different than in person but Harry could still pick up the trace of panic.

"Malfoy, tell me what you need." Harry sat up straighter in his chair, the beginnings of worry starting to spread through him. "Are you in trouble? Do you want me to come over?"

"Oh, Merlin, please do not come over right now-" The words fell from his lips in a breathy sort of way, as if he'd been running a marathon and only just now had the chance to get some air.

"Malfoy, tell me what's going on."

"I-" Malfoy broke off again. He made a sound in the back of his throat that Harry's couldn't quite make out. "Gods-"

Harry's eyebrows pinched together. Everything about this was setting off all sorts of alarms in his mind.

"Are you hurt? You sound hurt." Harry stood, collecting his things. "I'm coming over."

"Wait-" Malfoy shouted suddenly, so loud Harry had to yank the phone back from his ear. "Wait- please. I-"

Harry could hear him swallow hard.

"I'm not hurt, I'm just... I'm just a little out of sorts at the moment.

Harry snorted. "Yeah, I kind of gathered that already, Malfoy. If you don't tell me what's going on in the next five seconds, I'm flooing over to check on you."

There was another sound, something similar to a choked sob.

Harry grabbed his wand, slipping into his boots on the way to the fireplace.

"I'm-" Malfoy let out a slow breath again. "I'm dealing with an... intimate issue at the moment, Potter."

His voice was so quiet Harry almost didn't hear him.

Harry kept walking even as he replied, swinging his coat over his shoulders without breaking his stride.

"What? What does that mean? Like private? Malfoy, I don't care about your privacy if it means you don't get help when you're injured."

"I'm-" Malfoy groaned in frustration. "I'm in the middle of something I would really prefer you not to walk in on." He amended, sounding strained. "It's difficult enough being on a call with you, I would just very much appreciate if you would give me some privacy while I try to... sort this out."

Harry shook his head even though he knew Malfoy couldn't see him.

"Not good enough. You're acting weird. I'm not hanging up until I know you're okay."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Potter." Malfoy hissed, sounding closer to the phone again. "I'm... I was trying to get off before you called me, alright?"

Harry froze mid-stride. It was a miracle he didn't drop the phone from his hand.

He didn't reply, mostly out of shock, but partly because he didn't know what he would say if he could.

#harry potter #draco malfoy #drarry #draco x harry #harry x draco #drarry snippet #drarry wip #drarry smut #wip snippet #snippet #drarry fic #unpublished wip #i have so many wips its not even funny #sriracha's number game

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