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straighttohellbuddy · 3 years ago

Text

to show you the stars (and win your heart) {Wilbur Soot}

Request: This is really simple and no where near as interesting as your writing. But, what if the reader has a rooftop spot they go to a lot to think or draw or whatever. And one day they get the news that they've lost their job so they go there but a really lanky guy with curly brown hair is already there. Idk, not my best but it's somethin

Summary: Five moments after you move to Brighton, and the one where it finally feels like home. // (Five moments online after Wilbur Soot meets his new neighbour on the roof, and the one where he finally introduces them to his audience.)

Need to Know: They/Them. Some discussions of unemployment, a bit of possible second hand embarrassment. Reader has no idea about Wilbur's online activities. Fluff.

A/N: 5075 words. I LOVE THIS REQUEST!!! My life has been kind of falling apart lately but Ive been working on this on and off for a week or so. So I kind of tweaked the prompt, I hope you don't mind, so instead of the reader having just lost their job, it's the aftermath of having lost their job and having to relocate to a new city (because that's literally what happened to me), and adapting to the new city and meeting Wilbur while settling into the city, you know?? I hope you like it, it brought me great comfort. Written on my phone and unedited.

The air smells different here. On top of the building? Brighton? On the other side of your life going absolutely tits up? Where is here, really; it's such a relative concept. But the air smells different. Different to your old home. Different to your old town. Different to your old life. Not good necessarily, just different -

The door to the roof creaks something dreadful as it opens. You're focus is caught, naturally, and your pensive expression turns upon a surprised stranger.

"Sorry," tall, brunette, pale but not freckled enough for them to be visible to you at this short distance. He hovers in the doorway but ultimately joins you on the roof. When he lets go of the door, there's that noise again, that awful, attention grabbing noise.

"No, it's fine," you're not sure why he apologised, or why you're accepting it. Maybe the noise of the door. It's like the two of you are locked in a stalemate; he clearly wasn't expecting anyone to be up here.

"Am I in your spot?" You ask, already getting up.

"No! No, uh, no," he shakes his head, and he apologises again, this time gesturing to the city beyond the edge of the roof. Maybe he feels guilty for drawing your attention in the first place, is urging you that it's safe to go back to whatever you were doing.

Giving an awkward nod, you turn back to the city, to breathing this new air and new life. Behind you the sound of his sneakers against the pavement gets marginally fainter as he finds a spot for himself a good distance away from you.

"It's a good roof," you're not sure what possess you to say it, voice rising above the faint wind to make sure you're heard by this stranger sharing your silence.

"What?"

"It's a good roof," you repeat yourself without a hint of hesitation. You feel like an utter fool, at least until his reply comes.

"'spose it is."

You head back inside. The door's creak, as always, begs for attention, and gets it; glancing over your shoulder you meet the stranger's gaze. He nods at you with the faintest smile, but then his attention his back on the horizon. He doesn't watch you leave.

New air. New city. New neighbours.

----

(There is nothing about Wilbur Soot's next stream that would differentiate it from any other in any significant way.

It doesn't matter, you don't know who Wilbur Soot is.)

----

Music flows from the flat above yours, and you find out in the best possibly way. It's not that it's loud at all hours, soaking through the floor to wake you up, there's nothing to complain about, instead, with the window open for the sweet, Spring breeze, the faintest guitar notes carry on the wind, as if from an adjacent open window. It's not enough to pick out a proper melody, it's not even enough that you can still hear it if you move away from your window.

It doesn't even sound particularly rehearsed, it almost sounds like it's being rehearsed. Alone; an in-progress melody.

Encore, you want to cheer when the music grows quiet and the window slides shut, but the musician wouldn't hear you. Every part of this building begs for the attention it's occupants don't seem to want. Closing doors, closing windows, louder always than a hello in the hall.

Still, you keep your window open.

And sometimes the music comes back.

At least this new building sounds better than your old one.

----

(It's been a few months since Wilbur's played Soft Boy for anyone online, whether that be his own stream or for his friends. It's March now, well into Spring, and Tommy's stream is as good a place as any. Wilbur himself isn't live, he's just on a headset at home, desk by his open window where the street below is for once mercifully quiet. Still, it's not ready for proper release, he has other priorities, maybe he wants to workshop it a little more before getting it properly produced. But the fans and his friends enjoy it.

You, of course, are ignorant to all this context; still you don't know who Wilbur Soot is.)

----

The stranger visits the roof at night as often as you do. Rugged up at night despite the days growing ever warmer, you grant yourself a reprieve from job hunting if only to take peace in the stars. At night the horizon sometimes becomes difficult to discern, stars dancing dangerously close to the night light of the city.

It's different again at night, a new kind of night that you're still getting used to. But the creak of the door is familiar. The stranger's apology is familiar. The way he sits a bit closer to you each time, or you to him if he's there first, that's all becoming familiar too.

"I'm Will," he offers the second time the two of you meet. He's still a fair distance away; it will be weeks before the two of you are side by side. You introduce yourself and he nods, "you moved in not long ago, right?" Something about the lights of the city make him glow.

You nod. He smiles.

"It's a good view," he looks back out to the city, and you take a long moment before you look away from him. You like the way he smiles; you like these moments on the roof, the ones that have passed and the ones yet to come. You're not quite sure why you prefer the moments with him in them rather than the moments alone on the roof without.

"'spose it is," and though you're looking out to the city, you don't really see it.

----

(Recently, Wilbur has been streaming earlier in the day, at least for him. Not every stream, of course, maybe once a week. He seems disappointed when it gets too late after he loses track of time.

"Alright, Cinderella," Quackity scoffs after Wilbur comments that he has to go, that it's later than he realised, "abandoned me," he plays up being hurt, "what is it? What's more important than me, Wilbur?"

"Don't be like that, Q," Wilbur responds dotingly, "I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"How?"

"I'll DM you how," Wilbur's voice goes low and exaggeratedly flirty, giving an over the top wink to his camera, "you can't see it but I'm winking suggestively at the camera," he adds for Quackity's sake, who at seems placated by the exchange. Then, Wilbur finally explains; "I've got a friend who keeps a strange schedule, I'm- I'm just trying to work around them right now." And Quackity finally gives his blessing, which makes Wilbur laugh.

You don't see the quiet sigh of relief he breathes when he gets to the roof and sees you there. Even if you did, you wouldn't even begin to know why. Well known internet celebrity Wilbur Soot has started scheduling his work is in the hopes that he'll see you more often... Not that you know who Wilbur Soot is.)

----

The stranger Will has an office and you don't even have a job. Still. All this you learn while going for a job in the same building as his office, apparently. Except that it's late in the afternoon and you're just leaving your interview and he's just arriving and he seems just as confused as you.

"Do you work here?"

"Hopefully," you answer, and something about his look of genuine interest has something stirring in your chest, "I just had an interview," you elaborated, not wanting to admit to yourself that this single moment, in which Will tells you he's also hoping for the best for you, has you more flustered than the interview itself.

When you ask if he works here too, he candidly admits he does, but is cagey about the details. He's not part of company you'd just interviewed with, his office is his own.

"Will I see you on the roof tonight?" He asks, catching you completely off guard.

"What time?" Thankfully at least your mouth works faster than your brain, "I'm headed home now." Then, as he's checking the time on his phone you blurt out - "have you- will you have eaten before then?" And he looks at you with confusion, "I could make some food, if you're working. I could make dinner for when we hang out on the roof."

Will absolutely beams.

Something about his smile has your heartbeat stuttering in your chest. It hits you in this moment that Will genuinely enjoys your company on the roof just as much as you do his.

He asks you how late is too late, and when you let him know, he nods and suggests and hour before then. How does his smile seem to get wider? There's a look in his eyes that's all warm and fond; did that always happen when he smiled? How had you not noticed it before?

"That's very kind of you, I can see about getting some kind of dessert for us on my way back," he offers, and you try to waive off the suggestion but he laughs softly, "I never said it'd be gourmet, I was thinking more along the lines of something from a petrol station, I'm not sure what else would be open; any preferences?"

"For petrol station sweets?" And even though you're grinning, you're clearly endeared.

"For petrol station sweets," Will confirms with a nod. It takes you a moment to think it over before giving a few suggestions as options, and he takes a long moment to focus on remembering them, repeating them back to you to confirm.

Then he tells you he's looking forward to it, and he sounds so sincere, and the feeling in your chest is frighteningly hopeful. This is a new feeling in your not so new town that you weren't anticipating.

You grin back.

"Me too."

----

(Close to the end of April, there is a day in which several members of the DreamSMP go live together for a lighthearted, mostly lore-free stream. These creators included, among a few others, Wilbur Soot who happened to be in notably high spirits.

"Am I not allowed to be in a good mood, Tommy?" Wilbur jokingly demanded when Tommy pointed it out.

"No, it's freaking me out," Tommy didn't even hesitate to play along with the bit, "do I have to bully you? Do we have to bully you?"

"I think... we should," Ranboo agrees after a moment of deliberation, holding back his laughter.

"Tommy, I love you man but you need to come up with new go-to solutions," Wilbur responds blithely, "and I'm pretty sure you couldn't actually bully me in any way that mattered," he turns his nose up, wearing a wide grin, "I've got dinner on the roof to look forward to, nothing can ruin today."

"Can I try?" Tommy deadpans without missing a beat, and Wilbur breaks into surprised laughter almost immediately.

"Tommy," Philza just sounds faintly exasperated, and Wilbur can't stop laughing.

His friends and his content are his entire life, and he's acutely aware of how lucky he is to be a content creator, the opportunities he's been afforded, so he keeps it to himself that the best part of that night wasn't the filming, it was coming back to seeing you smiling on the roof of the flat.

Because it didn't take him long to figure out that you had no idea who Wilbur Soot was; every time he remembers this, he lets himself enjoy it quietly, letting himself get close to someone who, for the first time in a long time, has no preconceived notions of him. You like him for him, and one day he hopes he can tell you how much that means to him.)

----

You're surprised at how long it's taken you to ask what floor he lives on, and even more surprised to learn that he's on the floor above you.

It's been a very long day, instinctively looking forward to heading to the roof at sunset after finishing a trial shift that you're not completely confident went well.

"Are you the one with the tiny, little pot plants on your windowsill?" He asks, which surprises you.

"Uh, yeah I am, they were gifts from when I moved into my last place," part of you wants to ask how he knew, but somehow it makes sense. Of course he's seen the pot plants, of course he knew they'd be yours.

There's a pleasant lull in the conversation before you think to ask -

"Are the walls thin?"

You don't even for a second consider that there may be some suggestive implications until Will squints at you in confusion. There's a parcel of fish and chips open between you both, and he had been picking through the chips trying to find the most crisp.

"Not as far as I've noticed," he pauses, before adding pointedly, "floor seems pretty soundproof too." He's too invested in figuring out what you're implying to go back to food, at least not immediately.

"No, no!" Realising your mistake your smacked your hand to your mouth out of embarrassment. Wide eyed, you find yourself waving with one hand trying to chew and swallow your own food faster to clarify, "no, sorry, nothing weird, I swear," you laugh awkwardly, finally finding your voice, "I just wondered if you knew who lived in the flat directly above mine, they play guitar, I thought that you might have heard- that it might help identify -" but Will's expression has turned unreadable, and again find yourself realising your misstep only after the fact yet again. Immediately you begin apologising.

"Sorry, I- I must seem so creepy I'm so sorry, I should just go up and knock on their door instead of eavesdropping and asking you, I'm sorry Will -"

"Is it good?"

Your mouth snaps closed, and when you look to Will you're surprised to see him looking genuinely curious. He picks up a chip and gestures like he's prompting you to answer.

"What?"

"Do you think they play good music?" He asks again, tone free of any kind of judgement. It takes you a moment to process the shift in the mood.

"I don't recognise any of it," you murmur, trying to properly order your thoughts, "I don't hear it a lot, only very occasionally, when I'm sitting next to my window if it's open, which is why I think it's the person above me..."

Will blinks at you, eyebrows raised, still waiting for a proper answer.

"I like it," you nod, ducking your face to hide your embarrassed smile, "I keep wanting to call out 'encore'," you chuckle a little self consciously at the admission, "but that feels like crossing a line."

"You are very sweet," you hear Will mumble, his tone endeared, "and you have no idea who it is?"

"Every time I think about going up and knocking on their door I feel like a creep," you sighed, "which, I mean, given the situation I definitely am, and it gets worse literally every day. It's not like telling them at this point would do any good."

"It might," he offers.

"I admire your optimism but I'll keep my dignity while I still can."

"I think it'll go better than you'd think," he muses, doing a bad job of fighting back a smile.

"Oh yeah," you roll your eyes, "just knock and admit," perhaps your patience is wearing thin after a long day as you put on a mockingly saccharine voice, "you play such lovely music! How do I know this? Well I've been listening in for months like a stalker, just downstairs, sometimes I'll even make a cup of tea and pretend like it's my own private concert!" You let go of the act as you pitch yourself back to lay on the roof, scowling at the sky, "I'd rather die," you huffed.

"Months," he murmurs, almost awed and barely audible, before asking, "your own private concert? That's kind of adorable, honestly," he tells you, sounding frankly delighted.

"Oh shut it, Will," you sulked, crossing your arms over your chest.

"You're very sweet," he reiterates in that same soft tone as before.

"You're biased," you roll your eyes.

"Of course, that goes without saying," Will answers blithely, and you can hear his shit eating grin in his voice, "considering I'm the musician who lives above you."

You know he's watching you, he's waiting for your reaction.

"Will you know if this is true that I'm never going to recover from the embarrassment, right?" You manage, as level as you're able, your body stiff as an absolute board with tension.

"Nothing to be embarrassed about," he assured you, though in this moment it wasn't exactly effective.

"You're pulling my leg, aren't you?"

"Would you like me to prove it to you?" He offers easily. When you finally sit back up, clearly apprehensive, there's nothing but that familiar, warm kind of fondness you find in his smile. He gives you time to process, he doesn't push you, doesn't grow impatient or irate as you scrutinise him. Finally, you sit back, as if done with your analysis of him and were still unsure of what to make of all this information.

"Come on," he says gently, getting to his feet and offering you his hand, "let me play you something I've been working on, I need a second opinion." Warily, quietly, you take his hand.

The shock wears off. He makes you tea. You peer out his window to see your little row of pot plants just below. Then, just as he promised, he plays you something that you're already familiar with despite it never having been released.

Front row seats to your own private concert.

He turns faintly pink when you do in fact ask for an encore, but he can't stop smiling.

----

(Lovejoy, the band which Wilbur Soot fronts, releases their first EP 'Are You Alright?' on May 8, and it almost immediately begins to trend across various charts, including internationally. It's unequivocally a success, and is being plugged online by fans and friends alike.

Wilbur, however, is blindsided by the text he receives from you in the week that follows the release. If you were ever going to find out what he did for a living, it would have been this week, instead:

[interview went well, I've got my fingers crossed, thank u for the luck xx and omg literally in such a good mood I mistook a song on the radio as one of yours THAT WOULD BE SO COOL TOO HEAR THO!!]

[hey actually if you're up for it do you wanna call? I'm all high on adrenaline and there's some stuff I wanna talk about when I feel like I'm on top of the world 😅💖]

And Wilbur, who was due to start streaming in only a few minutes, pushed back from his desk and pressed Call. On the other end of the line you're bright, brimming with excitement and enthusiasm and confidence and -

"I've been wanting to ask you for ages, actually even before I found out you were the talented musician living above me, that was just a bonus, and might be the reason I'm calling, because that song I heard was so familiar -" you're rambling, something Wilbur rarely heard you do. When he asks if you're okay, you grow quiet, "I'm nervous."

"About what?"

"Misreading things. Fucking with our friendship."

Oh.

"I have it on pretty good authority that you have nothing to be nervous about," Wilbur assures, a warmth flourishing in his chest as he hears your breathy, relieved chuckle.

"I'd like to get a drink with you some time," you tell him with a newfound confidence, "or see a movie, or a band, or anything. A date. Away from our building." There's so much excitement in your voice it's infectious, Wilbur finds himself grinning.

"I'd like that very much," then, after a long moment, he clears his throat, "do you remember what the band was called?"

"What do you mean?"

"On the radio, you said you thought you heard my song; what band was it?"

"Oh," you pause, considering, "not quite sure. Love-something?"

"Ah."

"Ah, what? Wilbur I don't like that tone, ah what?"

"Ah, I might have to tell you something."

"Christ, what now?"

"I'm at work; if you want I can pick up take out after and we can have dinner together."

"Are you going to tell me what you do for a living yet?"

"Do you trust me?" He asks softly, and there's a long pause, in which you sigh.

"Of course I do, Will," you answer honestly, "always, you know that."

"I know," he agrees fondly, "and that means a lot to me. I promise I'll explain it all tonight, I promise." Softer now, he smiles, "I hope you know how glad I am to have you in my life," he hesitates for the barest moment before quickly adding, "and I'm very proud of you for getting the job."

"Thanks, Will," he can hear you smiling, "I can't wait to see you tonight."

Five minutes later, Wilbur Soot begins his geoguesser stream. There's something different, the vibe has changed, but no-one can put their finger on why.

There's no outward difference, but there's electricity in the air. When you finally find out the truth about Wilbur Soot, when you see the VOD for the stream, see how big he smiles right as he signs off, you will call him a sap.

----

Your tiny, little pot plants sit nicely on Wilbur's windowsill. It takes a while, but slowly your things begin to migrate from your apartment upstairs to his. Before coming to Brighton, you'd paired down your things, and so it's nice to find space for yourself in his apartment, in his life. It doesn't feel empty here, it doesn't feel sparse and new.

And Wilbur? It seemed like things with him just kept getting better. You took every chance you got to hype him up, endlessly proud of him and all he was doing with his online and musical careers.

When you meet his band, they all greet you with a warm familiarity, and Wilbur spends the first half hour bright red as they jump at the chance to tell you that they feel like they already know you. However this makes you turn all sappy and endeared, and it takes all of your energy to stay even semi professional and not act as enamoured with your boyfriend as you felt.

While you end up meeting and getting along with his family, the thing that gets you properly nervous is when he asks if you want to get lunch with his friends Phil and Kristen. You know the family-dynamic bit by now, so of course you say yes; you need them to like you so much.

Both Phil and Kristen hug you when they first meet you. It's like they can tell you're nervous, their words, their tone, everything about them is gentle. At one point, Wilbur and Phil get caught up talking about some upcoming streams they're planning, and while you're excited to watch, their discussion goes over your head for the time being. Almost as if by instinct, you look to Kristen, as if to gauge how you should be reacting, but she's looking back at you, expression endeared.

"This is still new to me," you admit, shuffling your chair a bit closer to her as to not interrupt the other two. She laughs softly, but the sound is kind and understanding.

"It gets more coherent in time," she assured, to which you ducked your head to hide your faintly embarrassed expression.

"I understand all of the words individually, but this streaming stuff is so far out of my usual realm," carefully, you look up to watch how animated Wilbur is getting as he talks over his plans for the DSMP stream for the following night, running it past Phil, "tell me I'm not weird for watching old VODs in my spare time to try and figure out how it all works, and what's happening in that Minecraft thing. I know he's doing cool shit, I'm just trying to figure out how to properly appreciate it."

"You're not weird, that's adorable," Kristen is grinning from ear to ear, which served to brighten your own smile, "you'll get it in no time."

Wilbur looks over for a moment, practically glowing with enthusiasm, hands raised mid-expressive gesture, and catches your eye. His expression softens as he seems to briefly forget what he was saying; Kristen looks between the two of you and fondly shakes her head.

It's easier to hug them goodbye than it was to say hello, no nerves as you tell them honestly it was good to meet them, that you look forward to seeing them again soon. Something eases in your chest when they both return the sentiment in kind, genuine in their affection.

"Home?" Wilbur asks as he unlocks the car, and you pause as you turn the word over in your mind. He's said it before a million times, but somehow this time is different, this time feels real. Home.

"Yeah," you say softly, sounding a little dazed as you climb into the passenger seat.

"You okay there?" Tone light, he's smiling as he asks, and you turn, unable to stop the grin as it makes its way across your face.

"I love you," you tell him like you can't quite believe it yourself, though maybe it's more the fact that- "I can't believe I've never said that before."

"What do you mean you can't believe you've never said it before?" He's grinning now, endeared.

"I love you, Will, I've loved you for ages, we practically live together," you laugh, "but I've never actually said it, I hate that! I hate that I've never said it! I love you, Will!"

"I love you too," he tells you sincerely, leaning across the centre console to kiss you, which you enthusiastically meet him in the middle for. You've kissed him more times than you can rightly remember, but it never feels to give you butterflies.

At home, he's quiet, smiling to himself while lost in thought throughout the afternoon. When you ask about it, he hesitates.

"You never had to say it," he admits with a shrug, "I knew." When your brow furrows with confusion, his expression turns vaguely guilty and self deprecating, "you have to admit, I was acting pretty sketchy about a lot of my life -"

"- with good reason," you countered, but all he could do was smile fondly, shaking his head.

"In hindsight," he points out, "now you know why I was being evasive about a lot of things it makes sense, but at the time I didn't really know, or, well that's not true," he flushed, "I didn't exactly believe why you would still trust me after all that," he looks to you once more, "but you did."

"Of course," you answer automatically, before it hits you what he's saying, "because I had a crush on you; because I love you." Then, as he's nodding in agreement, your eyes go wide with realisation, crowing with glee; "because you had a thing for me too!"

He doesn't disagree. He wraps you up in his arms and kisses you, and this moment feels like home.

----

(Wilbur's stream entitled 'SPECIAL SPOOKY GUEST CHATTING AND LOWKEY Q&A BE ON YOUR BEST BEHAVIOUR!!' happens on Halloween. Its the first video to ever even explicitly name Y/N, let alone feature them.

"I'm so nervous I'm going to be sick," is the first thing the internet hears of you, while Wilbur's sitting in frame, watching you off frame.

"You don't have to do this," he assured. He's wearing something shimmery on his skin, and plastic vampire teeth that are giving him a faint lisp. He's wearing eyeliner.

"No, I know we're live, I want to do this, I do, I do!" You insisted, before making a noise of anxiety, "but I might pass out. I need to study more." At that, Wilbur gives you a fond look, before looking to his camera.

"They call watching my VODs 'studying'," he explains. You make another anxious noise, before taking a deep breath and quickly sitting yourself into the chair beside him, looking at him and not the camera.

"I'm going to get a good grade in streaming, which is both normal to want, and possible to achieve," you mumbled; you too sparkle with some sort of shimmer, but are holding your plastic fangs in your hand, fidgeting with it.

Even without explaining who you are, everything about the way Wilbur looks at you says that he's in love with you. After a moment, your anxious expression softens as you find yourself fascinated by how he's sparkling, and you reach out to faintly touch his cheek. While you may have forgotten the audience, Wilbur has not, yet he still allows the moment to go on as you grow more comfortable in front of the camera, beside him.

"Love?"

"Yeah, I know," you mumbled, finally coming back to reality. Looking away from him and to the screen in front of you both, "Q and A," you murmur, reading the stream title. Thankfully you don't seem as daunted as moments before, "the first question seems to be 'who am I'." You take a deep breath and look to Wilbur, who grins back.

"Welcome to your first stream, you wanna say hi?"

"What if I just didn't? We go the whole stream without explaining who I am," you couldn't help yourself, snorting a laugh, which makes Wilbur cackle at the idea.

"You do whatever you want, I'll support you, that's hilarious."

"But cruel," you conceeded, despite how amused you were by the idea. Looking back to chat, you could see half having a meltdown at the idea. But you are not cruel; you'd both talked about it for far too long to chicken out now.

It's time for the world will know who you are.

"I'm Y/N, nice to meet you all!"

"And," Wilbur adds with a proud smile, "if you hadn't guessed, they're my partner.")

#wilbur soot x reader #wilbur x reader #wilbur soot imagine #wilbur imagine #cc!wilbur x reader #cc!wilbur imagine #cc!wilbur soot x reader #cc!wilbur soot imagine #cyltlanp #we fell in love in october event

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technowoah · 4 years ago

Note

Hi! If you do tommyinnit x reader (romantic), I would like one where reader is tubbo's sister perhaps? She would have the feature reader has still not tubbos. Maybe they meet when tubbo and tommy meet up and he just kinda starts to like her? If not that's ok! -paw <3

Prepare For Trouble Make it Double

I hope this suffices 😋

Requested!

Romantic(?)

Tommyinnit x Tubbo's sister!reader (blurb?)

⚠︎ its tommy so it'll be slight swearing-

It wasn't a secret that Tubbo had siblings, he had Lani of course, but what people didn't know that he had another sister closer to his age.

You tended to stay out of the spotlight, for reasons. Streaming was interesting but not your fortè. You usually tended to stay behind the camera when Tubbo was streaming or off to the side quietly talking to him as he did his own lore or sitting on Lani's bed doing your own thing listening to her talking to her viewers.

Your siblings never tried to convince you to go out of your comfort zone and appear on streams, only once in a blue moon you would talk to Lani out of frame. Lani of course would respond, the chat would freak out asking if you were a friend, finally the moment was gone as fast as it came.

Thats how days go in their household. Tending to hover around eachother and whatever they were doing at the moment. But it was this one particular moment when Tubbo was streaming and he suddenly decided to bring you on to show his 700k viewers that he had another sister.

He had pulled up a brown folding chair next to him and patted it beckoning you to sit down in frame.

Tubbo was currently streaming on the Dream SMP, you didnt think he was doing lore today so you hesitated a little bit. Other days you wouldn't have budged out of your spot out of sight, but he looked so excited in his yellow jumper you had bought for him whe going to out to the shops.

In a unrelated note You remember saying that "yellow is your color" and he ended up buying it, and his stans loved the jumper. So a win win.

"C'mon Y/N!" He yelled as continued to pat the folding chair next to him.

You ended up shuffling over to the seat next to him and smiling at the camera. Over in the corner of your eye you saw the chat which was going 1 million miles an hour. You saw some comments that were basically copypastas of other comments in the chat. It was basically nonsense, now the only thought in your mind is that you're going to make an uproar on twitter.

"This is my sister chat!" Tubbo said while shaking you around by the shoulders making the both of you laugh.

"Yes chat! I have more siblings" he continued while rocking back and forth in his gamer chair.

He continued to answer more questions and ask you some too, wanting to include you in the stream.

"Lani isn't the only one! My big sister is just shy."

"I just chose not to be on their streams! I was in the background of Lani's streams though."

"Out of frame. Dosent count." Tubbo said bluntly while still walking around SnowChester in the Dream Smp not looking your way.

You could still see the chat in the corner and you couldnt tear your eyes off of it. It was slight glare from the lights and the sun shining in his gaming room. He always had the lights bright in his room. The chat was spamming purple hearts and either still freaking out that Tubbo had a sister. It was getting old to you, so you decided to lean into Tubbo's space focusing on his screen as he quickly hopped around the map.

He continued talking to chat about anything else, but your presence. He continued to talk about gathering supplies and what he needed to bring back to SnowChester. You knew a lot about the Dream Smp lore because you weren't in it. Spending time on Twitter interacting with people and their theories and also making theories and showing them to Tubbo and him debunking them, or accepting them in some way.

"So we need some more lapis." Tubbo said suddenly after being quiet for a while.

"I can help you!" You said wanting to be apart of the stream.

You might as well, you're already here.

"I dont think you can help, 'cause you're not on your account. Plus it'll be awkward with your laptop." Tubbo said while speeding through his water transportation system.

"Well I can just point it out to you." You said while leaning back into your seat.

"Talk to the chat while I go mine for lapis."

"Fine then." You smirked as you turned your attention to the speeding words in the chat.

"Is there a slow mode on this?!" You laughed.

Tubbo laughed as well. "This is on slow mode!"

You both screamed in fake agony and then turned your attention back to the chat where the you caught a few questions. You were about to answer until the chat stopped for a quick second and you saw one comment out of all for a quick second.

✔tommyinnit: HI TUBBO'S SISTER IM TOMMY LETS MAKE A VIDEO TOGETHER

After that comment the whole chatt was just spamming the word 'TOMMY' or 'TOMMY IS IN CHAT'. That confused you even more than that comment.

When you did know about the Dream Smp you also knew a little bit about who Tubbo hangs out with. You knew about the time Tubbo had met up with Wilbur Soot, Philza, and Tommy. And that prompted you to look up their individual accounts and get into their content.

You knew about Tommy and his character and channel, you enjoyed his content a lot as well, but you wanted to play around a little bit. Hopefully Tubbo will play along.

"Why is the chat spamming Tommy?"

"Tommy? You know Tommy don't you?" Tubbo asked with a small bit of shock in his voice.

"No I dont, who's Tommy?" You asked again, acting oblivious.

"Oh. Oh well then, Tommy is like my best friend, we're actually meeting up soon!" Tubbo said with excitement.

He continued. "You hear that chat! You get Tommy and Tubbo content!

You had lost interest in Tubbo talking with his chat about hanging out in Brighton with Tommy again. Your eyes drifted towards the chat again and saw Tommy comment in the chat again.

✔tommyinnit: HOW DARE YOU NOT KNOW WHO I AM

✔tommyinnit: I WILL NOT MAKE A VIDEO WITH YOU ANYMORE

"Well Tommy I dont have an account so, sorry I cant get you views whoever you are." You said responding to Tommy with a smirk.

"Woke up and chose violence huh?" Tubbo laughed and you joined in as well.

"Tommy chose violence today too."

"You both are violent you will be nice together." Tubbo said with his focus still in his screen.

"Together?!" You exclaimed.

"Yeah together!" Tubbo said matching your energy.

You rolled you eyes and continued answering other comments instead of thinking about Tubbo's answer.

After that whole, incredibly longer than you thought, stream Tubbo decides to invite you along to their little meeting. Which you didnt know how you found yourself walking along Brighton's rocky shore in old Crocs. You were walking along the shoreline letting the cold water come up and hit your feet every so often.

He was waiting for Tommy at the moment, but you wanted to walk for a bit, he let you ho on by yourself while he waited for Tommy by himself.

You were quite a long way from where Tubbo seated himself on the rocks, you were doing your own thing looking at people who stared back at you for temporarily blocking their line of view of the shore, and little kids who decide to run away from their parents who weren't paying attention. Your peaceful walk got interrupted by your thoughts because you were quite a long way from Tubbo's resting place.

You started to head back, following back the way you came, but this time picking up the pace a bit to reach your destination. As you came upon Tubbo you saw a taller figure approach Tubbo and they seemed to greet eachother, it was hard to see where you were standing. Of course it was Tommy so the two of them started talking about who knows what, until Tubbo pointed your way.

As you kept walking, Tubbo continued to wave you over enthusiastically. You waved back with the same energy, finally making your way over to the both of them.

"What's up?" You asked the two of them with a smirk.

"Nothing much! Apparently you two haven't met before! So Tommy this is Y/N! Y/N thjs is Tommy!" Tubbo user hand gestures to introduce eachother.

You held your hand for Tommy to shake it, "Hey Tommy! Im a big fan."

"Big fan?! I thought you said you didn't know me?" Tommy exclaimed.

He was a lot less shouty in real life, than online. He was still loud, but to a lesser extent.

"Yeah I lied back then." You sent him a huge grin.

Tommy scoffed and groaned a little, "I cant belive you fuckers lied to me."

"Im actually a big fan. Well not big, but a fan at least." You laughed.

Apparently you and Tommy were the only ones standing while Tubbo typed on his phone while sitting back on the rocks not paying attention and letting you both talk amongst yourselves.

"Oh! That's an honor that Tubbo's big sister like my videos." Tommy's eyes widened slightly as he talked to you.

"Big sister only by 1 year! It's close!" Tubbo complanied, looking up from his phone.

"It still count big man." Tommy said to his friend.

"Thanks Tommy!" You thanked the tall man standing next to you.

"It's only a year! It dosent count! We're the same age!" Your brother continued to complain.

After the laughter and joking around calmed down you and Tommy stood there awkwardly until he spoke up again.

"Well good thing I know what I have to deal with. I cant deal with one of you, now I have to deal with two." Tommy joked around taking a seat next to Tubbo.

The exact moment when Tommy took a seat next to Tubbo, Tubbo shot up from his spot on the ground.

"Do you think we can do Uber Eats here?" Tubbo asked as he stood up.

You say down next to Tommy. "Yeah maybe if you go to a certain place and not say "the beach".

"I'll go to the pizza place and order there. What do you both want?" Tubbo asked, ready to put in any order.

"Just get McDonald's really." You sighed leaning back on the rocks.

"Im not hungry." Tommy said bluntly.

Tubbo nodded and walked away from you both leaving you two to sit in silence for a while with the small waves crashing, and kids having their own fun. It was a comfortable silence to you, but Tommy kept figeting over where he sat criss-crossed.

Tommy finally spoke up. "Im actually fucking starving ya know?

"No I don't! You should've asked for food!" You laughed in disbelief.

Tommy sighed. "Do you want to get some food and ditch Tubbo for now?"

Your eyes widened, not opposed to the idea, but was this his plan the whole time?

He continued on, "We could go sit at that pizza place and order some food there. Just the two of us until Tubbo freaks out."

You opened your mouth to protest leaving your brother in the dark, but he beat you to it.

"Dont worry about Tubbo! Stuff rolls off his back easy."

"No it dosent-"

"Yeah it does! You wanna just go out with me now?!" Tommy exclaimed.

"Are you getting annoyed?" You asked amused at his words.

"No I am not I just-"

"Yeah I want to go to the pizza place now. I would love to Tommyinnit." You smiled at him and he smiled back.

Both of you got up and made your way over to that small pizza diner close to the beach. You only could hope this goes as well as you wanted it to

857 notes · View notes

artificialqueens · 4 years ago

Text

Don't Just Stand There Staring Honey (Try to Move Your Feet) (Taywhora) - Pinkgrapefruit

Georgie lets out one long sigh and lets her head fall back, dirty blonde hair falling onto the couch. “I. Need. A. Date.” She repeats, exasperated. “My friend is getting married in a few months and I need a date for the wedding.”

Tayce raises an eyebrow, repositioning herself on the couch so she can actually look at Georgie. “Georgina Aurora, I’m sure you can find yourself a date,” she smirks, “A’whora.”

A/N -

for my love ortega.

may our clowning be long and prosperous.

It’s times like this when the flat feels too small. Tayce has just gotten out of the shower, water rolling down her calves as she pads down the hall to her room and she can see Georgie doing her Chloe Ting workout - laptop being played through the TV. She’s wearing these tiny little shorts that leave her surprisingly tan legs on full display and her sports bra can barely be considered a sports bra - it’s a wonder the people in the flat across the street haven’t said something.

They’d snatched this place up the second it came on the market - the wall of glass windows in the living room making the two-bed London flat feel bigger than it was (at the time at least). It had been the natural progression from their tiny box flat they’d shared for the last three years of uni.

After living on top of each other for three years, they’d felt like queens in their new place, neither of them sleeping on a pullout sofa bed.

They’d alternated (of course) though Georgie tended to whine if she wasn’t feeling the sofa bed so on occasion they’d both end up in the double bed. By the end, on occasion turned into whenever she was drunk, sad, lonely, uncomfortable, on her period or bored. For all her jokes, Tayce wasn’t really complaining.

She tears her eyes away from Georgie’s ass and hurries into her room before she soaks the hallway rug, too scared of the blonde’s temper to risk ruining another of her interior design choices.

She presses play on Spotify and lays the towel on her unmade bed, perching carefully on the edge before beginning to moisturise her clean-shaven legs.

“I need a date.”

“What?” Tayce yells, eyes fixed on Mortal Kombat but brain anywhere else.

“I need a date,” Georgie replies, perching on the arm of the sofa and positioning her tennis skirt in a way so as not to show her knickers - she never knows when Tayce’s videogame friends might be able to see her (she once flashed one of them and it’s not something she wants to repeat).

There’s a huff of breath from Tayce before she gives up and stops moving, allowing her opponent to kill her. She sets the PlayStation controller down and faces the blonde, confusion clear on her face.

“I repeat, what?” The softness of her welsh accent slips in at times like this - something that six years of living in London hasn’t quite been able to take away.

Tayce raises an eyebrow, repositioning herself on the couch so she can actually look at Georgie. “Georgina Aurora, I’m sure you can find yourself a date,” she smirks, “A’whora.”

It’s a joke from uni about Georgie’s innate ability to find the one person in the club who’s only there for a shag (and then go home with them).

Georgie pouts. She bats her lash extensions and runs a hand through her hair, the other running down her thigh. She knows what she’s doing is flustering Tayce (that’s why she’s doing it) and really tries to play it up.

“They’ll just want me for sex though,” she whines, “They won’t get me like you.” She bats her lashes one more time and sees the exact moment Tayce melts, a pretty blush finally becoming visible.

“Just for you.”

Georgie cups a hand behind her ear, wincing as if she’s having trouble. “What was that? I didn’t quite hear you,” she jokes and it makes Tayce bat an arm at her.

“I’ll do it for you Brat.”

The blonde bounces up, her tennis skirt flying up to show her lace knickers. “You’re the best!” She squeals before pressing a kiss to Tayce’s cheek, “Veronica will be so happy!”

“Have you finished in the shower?” Georgie calls from the hallway, snapping Tayce back into the moment.

“Is the shower still going?” Tayce shouts back sardonically and she hears Georgie hit her door on the way past. “Bitch.” She calls out before falling backwards onto her bed. She can see her outfit out of the corner of her eye and it twists her stomach in knots just looking at it.

It’s pretty simple, grey plaid cigarette trousers - a white shirt with red stitching and a matching suit jacket, but somehow it feels like Chinese handcuffs.

The telltale clunk of the waterpipes tells her that Georgie’s started her shower and she sits up again, feeling around on her bedside table for her hairbrush.

She goes through the motions of getting ready until Georgie is banging on her door again. She yanks it open, intending to say something cutting or at least sarcastic but she finds that it’s quite difficult to speak when your jaw is on the floor. Her’s certainly is.

Georgie’s dress is red satin with a sinfully high slit and her lipstick might just be the same shade of crimson currently on Tayce’s own lips. That might just be wishful thinking.

“Wow’” she stutters out, eyes trailing up and down. She gets caught on the wispy hairs that have come undone from Georgia’s chignon and has to catch herself because she wants to wrap it around her tongue and there isn’t enough time to unpack that.

“Wow, yourself,” Georgie says with a smirk, her tongue darting out between perfectly painted lips. She holds a hand out and Tayce gives her her forearm so she can walk the blonde out of the flat.

They blast Taylor Swift in the car, screaming the lyrics to Out of the Woods while on the A23. Tayce pulls them into the churchyard in Brighton and they both look at the amassing crowd with sighs.

“Damn baby, it’s like half your high school is here,” jokes Tayce as she touches up her powder in the fold-down mirror of the rental car.

Georgie smiles softly, “you don’t wanna meet half my high school,” she replies, remembering how she felt in the Nottingham public school system. She’s grateful, in a way, that Veronica’s new man is from Brighton so they don’t have to return to her hometown.

Tayce insists on coming round to open her car door and they stand arm in arm in front of the church for a moment before they go in. It’s closer to a cathedral than a church but from what Tayce knows, Veronica’s family could afford that. There’s a welcome sign out the front and it makes them both smile.

“Green and Blacks,” Tayce chuckles, “clever.”

Georgie looks at her and smiles, “Joe owns a coffee bar in Brighton and he hired her to sing one day,” she explains, finding the story sweet despite herself. Tayce gently sets her head on top of Georgie’s.

“Bless ‘em,” she hears Tayce murmur. She coughs quickly and they both straighten up. Just as she goes to fiddle with Tayce’s collar she smirks.

“Everyone thinks we’ve been dating for six months,” she whispers, rising up on her toes so her breath brushes Tayce’s ear.

If Tayce curses, Georgie doesn’t hear it. She’s too busy swinging her hips as she walks away.

“Tayceeeee,” comes a whine from the bathroom. None of the letters sound quite right but the meaning is there so Tayce puts down her coffee and slides a well-worn bookmark into an equally well-worn copy of pride and prejudice that she pretends she doesn’t read before hauling herself off the sofa in the direction of the bathroom.

“Georginaaaa,” she mocks back once it’s clear that nothing serious is going on.

Georgie has almost a full face of makeup on, sans lips and eyelashes but she’s still trying her very best to bat what she has. She’s sat on the counter, feet in the sink and toe separators on her feet as she finishes the final coat on her dusty pink toenails.

“Going out?” Tayce asks, a casual eyebrow raised and a soft smirk playing on her lips.

Georgie brightens up, “Astina and Bimini invited me out clubbing,” she explains animatedly. “I get to wear that dress I’ve been showing you but I want the rest to be perfect.

‘That dress’ in question is a slinky little number that’s been on the dress-form in Georgie’s bedroom/office/sewing room/dungeon for months. It’s baby pink and ruched and while Tayce doesn’t know any of the technical terms (she was not in the fashion school, nor does she claim she was) she knows it’s going to look gorgeous.

“Sounds fun,” she replies, though her tone is questioning and Georgie must pick up on that because she holds out a pair of flash eyelashes and an applicator with a smile.

“Can you put them on for me?”

They both know very well that Georgie can put on her own lashes - in the depths of the A’whora days, she wore them nearly every day and used to leave the house before Tayce had drunk enough coffee to feel alive. Nevertheless, Tayce leans forward, one hand holding Georgie’s cheek gently so she won’t move her head and the other hovering a lash over her eye. Her thumb strokes the prominent cheekbone under the soft skin and powder and Georgie’s breath flutters over Tayce’s pulse point.

The moment lasts forever but not quite long enough and Tayce leaves in a hurry, going back to Jane Austen and strong espresso.

She catches Georgie before she leaves, eyes trailing up and down her body appreciatively, though knowing Georgie likes her bike shorts just as much.

“For the love of god George please don’t fight anyone in the kebab shop - we’re running out of places,” she scolds, “And don’t get grumpy when you’re tired, save that for me - the girls won’t know how to handle you.” She feels like she’s wrapping a child up to send them to school but she just unlocks the door for Georgie and tells her that she’ll wait up.

Georgie pecks her on the cheek and leaves. Tayce turns the PlayStation on and tries to forget about the blonde in the pink dress grinding against half of London.

Tayce skitters across the gravel until she reaches Georgie, a hand wrapping around the satin covered waist as they queue to enter the church. She takes a deep breath and lets it out through her nose. She’s never been good with surprises.

Georgie notices (she always does), feels Tayce’s fingertips pressing into her ribs and gently removes the arm, intertwining their fingers instead so she can softly brush her thumb up and down Tayce’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, head falling against Tayce’s chest briefly. Tayce feels her heart rate slow from the contact and sighs, inhaling the scent of Georgie’s conditioner.

“It’s okay,” She uses her free arm to pat Georgie’s bum, trying to move the blonde along as they near the front of the line into the church.

At the very front of the line, just inside the ornate doors, is an older looking woman with chestnut coloured hair and a lavender chiffon dress. Georgie’s face lights up when she spots her and the woman gives her a motherly smile before embracing the blonde.

“Georgina,” she gushes, “it’s been so long.”

Georgie at least has the propriety to blush and she ducks her head abashedly. “Mrs Green- Margret,” she responds, “I’ve missed you.”

Mrs Green looks up, spotting Tayce hovering by the door and smiles lovingly, beckoning her over. “And who’s this lovely lady,” she asks Georgie with a bemused chuckle, watching as the girl blushes an even deeper red.

Tayce sees this as her moment and slides up next to her, hand wrapping around her waist, cheek resting on the top of her head. “I’m Tayce, Georgie’s girlfriend. It’s lovely to meet you Mrs Green and we’re so happy to be here.”

It slips out all too easy and even if she wasn’t prepared for this situation, somehow she is.

Mrs Green smiles. “Please, call me Margret,” she tells them graciously. “We’ll catch up later Georgina,” she informs them and then points them through another set of double doors.

They seat themselves towards the back of the pews, not wanting to encroach on family seating and Georgie twists her hands together until Tayce takes one of them in her own.

“Margret was like a mother figure to me,” she explains quietly, thoughtfully, “I feel bad for how out of touch I’ve become.”

Tayce just rubs her back, unsure of what to say.

She grew up popular. Her blonde hair was always pin-straight and her eyebrows spent half of high school looking like someone had drawn them on with melted chocolate but that was in vogue.

People loved her and feared her in half measure and she used it to her advantage, getting what she wanted and feeling like she was part of an American high school movie while she did it. That was until she got too high on her own bullshit.

She forgot she was from Worksop, she forgot she has friends from popularity instead of just her personality and she forgot that not everything always went well for the mean girls in the movies.

She came out. She’d known she was gay since she was in primary school when she used to want to play mummies and daddies and always asked to be the daddy. (Until her best friend Jade told her that girls couldn’t be daddies, because daddies couldn’t marry other daddies and girls have to marry daddies).

She came out and suddenly her mean girl personality was abrasive and arrogant, and she had to come to terms with who she was all over again.

Then she met Veronica.

Veronica was lovely and sweet and the captain of the theatre club - who wanted Aurora to help with sewing costumes.

“Call me Georgie,” the blonde has said. She’d wanted people to call her Aurora because she wanted to be special and Georgina was too plain. Apparently 'special’ meant being called a dyke and losing all your friends though, or so she figured.

Veronica did make her feel special.

She’d invite her round for tea - to her house on the nicer side of town - where they’d eat freezer waffles and pizza that tasted a little bit like cardboard but also like home. Margret Green would teach her to crochet and help with designs. And slowly, Worksop felt like home again.

And then she met Tayce - and learnt what it truly meant to feel special.

The ceremony passes quick enough, Tayce’s hand in Georgie’s. They only time they let go is when Georgie has to dig around in her purse for a tissue - the wedding not getting to her, but Tayce.

It’s a short drive to the gazebo for dinner but they still don’t let go of each other’s hands, Georgie’s wrapped over Tayce’s on the gearstick.

They finally let go when they enter the venue for the reception. The ceiling is lit with fairy lights that cast an ethereal glow and there’s ivy in the exposed fittings. There are four long tables set up and the seating chart is hell to find but they eventually spot 'Georgie and Tayce’ opposite Mrs Green making Georgie blush that they’re on the same table as the Bride and Groom.

“I mean I’m honoured,” She mutters to Tayce under her breath as they navigate the chairs, “I just didn’t realise I meant this much to her and honestly I would have worn a nicer dress.”

“Shush you,” Tayce replies, pulling a rustic looking chair out for her. She gently pushes it back in, taking her own seat and patting Georgie’s thigh comfortingly. “You look hot as shit.”

Georgie blushes but suddenly Margret Green sits down and she feels sixteen again. She ducks her head almost shyly and Margret chuckles.

“I’m not going to tell you and your girlfriend off Georgina,” she tells them both, nodding to Tayce who wonders if she might be sweating under the weight of Mrs Green’s gaze. Margret never quite stopped calling her her full name - it took long enough to break the habit of calling her Georgina Aurora. Sometimes you have to pick your battles.

“I know Mam,” Georgie replies, straightening back up with a smile.

“That’s better dear.”

They’ve taken a break from socialisation and are leaning against the bar - the party in full swing behind them. Georgie swirls the stick in her Vodka Cranberry while Tayce leisurely sips on her Mojito. The faintly golden light of the gazebo casts shadows on her face that make her look almost ethereal and Georgie just can’t stop looking.

“You enjoying yourself?” Tayce asks softly, and Georgie blushes under her gaze, nervous she’s been caught staring. She taps the stick against the side of her near-empty glass a few times and sighs.

“It’s nice,” she muses, looking over her shoulder at the rabble. “Weird, but nice.” There’s an odd tone to her voice and Tayce nods for her to continue, quietly sipping her drink.

“I guess I’m a little angry,” Georgie admits after a short pause. “About why they can all accept you with me now - but they couldn’t when I really needed them to."

Tayce reaches across the gap between the chairs, frowning slightly as she brushes a thumb under Georgie’s eye. The pad of it slides along her jaw again before Tayce brings her hand back to her lap and Georgie has to hold back a sigh at the loss.

"I’m sorry baby,” she replies, “I know that doesn’t help fifteen-year-old Georgie but I really am.” Her hand moves back up to cup the blondes Cheek and Georgie brings her own hand up to hold it there. She leans into it, revelling in the warmth.

“It’s okay. Really, it is. I have you now."

The pad of Tayce’s thumb brushes Georgie’s painted bottom lip and she may have been leaning in but Georgie suddenly sits bolt upright. Her eyes are wide and Tayce drops her hand reflexively before grabbing the hand in Georgie’s lap.

"Shit,” Georgie mumbles, eyes still staring at a figure in a suit a few feet away. She tugs on the hand Tayce is holding and drags her over to the dancefloor.

“That’s my ex.” She tells Tayce who’s just looking at her oddly. “He’ll try and hit on me so you,” she pats Tayce’s chest with a wink,“ are going to dance with me.”

Tayce sighs before smiling at the proposition. “Well it’s not exactly Salsa music but I’ll give it a go honey.”

They’re pressed together, chest to chest in the kitchen. As Tayce inhales, chest heaving, it sends vibrations through Georgie’s body.

Tayce has switched the speaker on out of boredom, dancing around where they used to have a dining table and showing off all her moves. She had gotten bored back in uni and used to frequent the salsa society on her free evenings. They’d all made jokes about it but it’s quite clear that none of her friends had taken it seriously when she sees the awe painted on Georgie’s features. She’d offered a hand and the blonde had taken it, allowing herself to be pulled close as they worked through the basics, rocking back and forth.

She spins Georgie but makes sure to pull her close again as the traditional salsa music finishes and a new song comes on.

“Don’t just stand there staring, honey. Try to move your feet,” Tayce sings along, her voice breathy but it doesn’t have to be stronger when her lips are brushing Georgie’s ear. She lets her free hand trace patterns into the parts of the blonde’s back not covered by her flimsy crop top.

“I can make it nice and easy,” she hums, looking down to see Georgie’s eyes are half-lidded, a coy smile playing on her lips. “I'ma take the lead. They ain’t even looking at you, baby."

She drops Georgie but catches her almost immediately - a move that makes the blonde intuitively grip her tighter.

"They’re looking at me."

Georgie locks her eyes on Tayce, not noticing if they drop a bit towards her lips. "Fuck.”

It may not be a salsa but it turns out that Tayce’s dancing skills don’t just lie in the world of Latin.

She pulls Georgie close to her - as she does whenever she has an excuse - and they sway to the music together. It’s reminiscent of the forties - a song for soldiers to dance to with their wives and all the couples are on the floor slow-dancing together.

“Impeccable timing,” Tayce whispers in Georgie’s ear, enjoying the way she shivers and yet moves even closer into Tayce. She always seems to have her bold moments and then goes back to letting Tayce be the big, strong night in shining armour.

Not that she minds.

As Georgie is a few inches shorter, she can tuck her head nicely under Tayce’s chin and it gives her the perfect vantage point to hear the way Tayce’s heartrate seems to be skipping beats.

She lifts her chin, looking up into Tayce’s green eyes and seeing them staring straight at her, a soft smile playing on the taller girls lips.

Tayce gets a funny feeling in her stomach, like she’s ingested butterflies and they’re trying to get out. Suddenly it all makes sense.

She places a hand under Georgie’s chin to hold her gaze and just smiles.

“I love you, you know,” she whispers, feeling like the music is all but silent.

They were drunk, hands travelling to places they wouldn’t normally dare - Tayce’s fingers trailing the lines of Georgie’s underwear through her dress.

The blonde giggles, hiccuping before hoisting herself up on the kitchen counter and pulling her shoes off. They land somewhere that will undoubtedly be a nuisance later but she’s too gone to care.

Tayce stands in between her legs, each hand resting on a smooth ivory thigh. “I can’t believe you shouted at that girl,” she says, lips pressing together as if she’s trying to look disapproving.

Georgie smirks, running a playful finger across the cut of Tayce’s jaw.

“She was looking at you,” she explains as if that’s a perfectly reasonable excuse and it almost makes Tayce chuckle. Instead, the welsh girl mimes biting Georgie’s finger, getting the blonde to laugh.

“She was the kebab girl… The cashier!” She pumps a fist triumphantly at remembering the right word. “She was the cashier. She was meant to look at us.”

“Noooo,” Georgie whines. “You’re not getting it, she was looking at you. Just you.” Tayce quirks her eyebrows, clearly still not getting it and her obliviousness makes Georgie lean forward to rest her forehead on Tayce’s shoulder. A sigh escapes her lips as she wonders if this is how Tayce feels putting up with her.

“She wanted you.” She states as plainly as she can. Her voice drops to just above a whisper, “she wanted you.”

It’s only then that she realises just how close they are - how she can feel Tayce’s hands on her thighs and the smell of daiquiris on her breath.

Their noses meet before their lips do until Tayce tilts her head just a little bit more and then it feels like something inside Georgie has snapped.

She pulls away, the back of her head bumping against the kitchen cabinet as she tries to reconcile what she just did with her own feelings.

It was good, too good, and it scared the living daylights out of her.

She slides sideways off the counter, leaving Tayce standing there - her dumb drunk face frozen in confusion.

Georgie’s eyes widen and then she shuts them, taking a deep breath. When they open again, tayce is still looking at her - though some of the sparkle in her eyes has dimmed and she suddenly feels the need to put all of it back.

She leans up, lets their lips brush against each other in a chaste kiss to test the waters but before she can pull away, Tayce has her bottom lip between her own.

She’s sure they’re being stared at but she can’t bring herself to care because she’s at a wedding and somehow she’s kissing the prettiest woman in the room.

Georgie finally pulls away, lips slightly swollen and lipstick smudging at the edges. her eyes are wet but they’re so bright.

“I love you too,” she murmurs, “ you fucking twat.”

45 notes · View notes

borderline-rat · 5 years ago

Text

SUMMER IN BRIGHTON GOTHIC

Summer and winter are two different worlds. Saturday and the rest of the week are on different planes.

You know the Lanes are a maze, they’re meant to be friendly and pleasant to the tourists, and most of the time they are. Most of the time. You know they shouldn’t come here when the sky is grey, but they’re so stubborn.

You were in the city centre today. You live uptown. You hike your way back home. You walk. Up. And up. And up. And up. And up. And up. You don’t look behind you. In front of you, the road keeps going up.

Seagulls. They are everywhere. They outnumber pigeons. You hear them scream and call for each other out at night. Sometimes it sounds more like rage, agony or cries. You ignore it. You turn in your bed, tuck yourself under the blanket. Just the seagulls. Just the seagulls.

Sometimes, as you walk in busy, colourful streets, you take a turn and end up in a tiny, hidden, narrow back alley. The buzzing sound just stops, although it comes from right behind you. All of a sudden – utter silence. You spot a cat. You follow it. It stops in front of a house, a flat. It won’t go any further. You’ve been here before. Something is missing. You’ve been here before. You can’t point out what it is. You’ve been here before.

You walk out of the alley. It’s night. You could have sworn sun was shining when you walked in.

The beach near the North Pier is always so crowded when it’s sunny. People from all over are sunbathing and planning to go out Iater tonight. They’re having fun, they’re not concerned. When you sit on the ground next to them, the pebbles are softer, the sea looks calmer, you know they’re safe here. Here.

You keep walking along the beach, heading West. Just a ten minutes walk from the North Pier, and yet it’s so different. You walk along the shops, they’re all open for now. Noise, people. Life is back here. You didn’t notice it was gone. To you, silence is normal– this is a lie. They don’t notice.

You take a turn to reach the pebbled beach. All of a sudden, the air feels different on your skin. It’s colder. Wind rises, slides underneath your T-shirt, pushes your hair away from your face. Eyes half closed, you keep walking. Your ankles twist as you walk your way down. The pebbles here aren’t soft at all. They try to make you fall. But this is your place, and this is a test. You’re gonna pass it. Not everyone does.

The West Pier beach. What else is there to say? You sit in front of the sea, as close as you can. It isn’t calm here. It isn’t tamed. It is free. You’ve learnt to respect it.

You respect the Pier itself, too. You have to. When you were younger, you didn’t dare to look at it. Now that you grew up, you know you can face it, but you still feel that pinching sensation in your stomach. You know that you’d better come here with good intentions. You came here angry once. You didn’t salute the Pier. The pinching turned into a pit. You fell inside yourself. Now, no matter how bad you feel, you bow. You’re on Its land, It’s not on yours.

It’s never the same. Everytime you come, and you come nearly everyday, It’s never the same. You’ve taken a thousand pictures. You’ve hanged them on the wall of your bedroom to compare, but you had to take them down. You felt like they were changing while you were asleep.

You remember seeing It on telly when you were a kid. 2003. March and May. It was burning. You didn’t see it with your own eyes but there were photos everywhere, everyone was talking about it. Some guys claimed the arson, calling them political statements. It was never proven. Can’t have been the weather either, said a man on television. So many rumours. No truth. You don’t ask. You know better.

You sit in front of It. Wind blows, waves crash. It stays silent. People are swimming. They could reach the Pier. It’s not that far away. But they don’t try, not even the tourists. Something tells them to stay away, and you’re glad they’re listening. Once, you saw a man trying to get closer. You watched him, you didn’t look away, you were afraid but you needed to know. The Pier must have been in a good mood, because he just looked like he was hovering. He gave up and came back to the shore. You felt relieved. Next time, maybe It won’t be that kind.

Night comes. The sky turns blue, purple, pink, lilac, fire, fire, fire. The Pier is burning all over again, majestically. It won’t ever let anyone forget. As the moon shows herself, and all the sky and the sea are melting into each other, that’s when you can see them. Inside the remains of burnt wood, a glimmer, a light flickering, and something moving underwater. You only notice before your eyes blink. You know what lays under. You suppose that everyone does. But no one ever mentions it.

You have to go back home now. You get up, climb back, tripping on the pebbles again. You can feel the Pier calling for you. It wants you to look. It wants you to stare. Like in the legends – don’t look back, leave, and never look back. Another test. You force yourself to keep going. It’s pulling your hair, you bite your lips, you know walking faster won’t help. Your heart is pounding.

Don’t look back. Don’t stare. Keep going. Don’t stare. Go home. Don’t stare. Juste another test. Don’t stare.

If you stare at It, It will stare back at you.

#regional gothic #gothic #small town gothic #town gothic #gothic horror #eerie #cryptidcore #strange #liminal spaces #liminality #liminal tumblr #regional horror #regional stories #horrorcore

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writernomore · 5 years ago

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Two sides of the same coin.

Sorry I haven’t posted for a long time, I’ve been busy and I’ve been tired lately, but I hope I can make it up to you guys for my absence lately.

And I’ve discussed this lately that I will be doing this with my oc insert and the reason behind it would be anonymous please respect my decisions. :(

Summary: You go to Diagon Alley to get your books for your Second year in Hogwarts but while in the shop in Flourish and Blotts you are taken somewhere by a book that turned into a mysterious door with a peculiar symbol.

Chapter 5.

It was finally to go back to Hogwarts so you had to buy this years books and anything else needed so that would mean your grandfather will be taking you to Diagon Alley with him, since your grandparents wanted to go to Diagon Alley with you to go shopping for your first year but they couldn’t since they were out on a 1 week vacation so now was there chance.

But this time your grandmother can’t go since she’s been feeling under the weather lately so she had to stay in bed today to rest.

So you went to eat breakfast and dress up to go outside today in a Dark Blue sweater, black shorts, a black beanie, the scarf your grandmother knitted you, with loose white socks that pooled around your ankles and black shoes.

After brushing your hair you picked up your bag and placed the letter with the list of books and things you have to get that are required.

But noticing that most of the books are by Gilderoy Lockhart, he was famous for his stories and they have been written into books but I guess you didn’t mind it anyways since that’s what the school wants you to get then that’s what you’ll get.

Tying up your messy red hair in a ponytail was always that task since it would always poof up on how thick it was so you always tied it so it wouldn’t go to your face and have to push it back out of annoyance.

“Juniper!” Your Grandfather called out.

You shouted ‘coming’ and gathered your things and put them in your bag rushing down the stairs and went to your grandparents room to kiss your grandmother goodbye and went to Diagon Alley by floo.

You really had to get used to travelling by floo really, patting away dust from your clothes you stood up and saw how the streets on Diagon alley was packed of people.

Looking around from where you stood you saw two boys standing in front of Flourish and Blotts, where you were supposed to go so walking up to them since they might be new students going to Hogwarts.

“Hi!” the two boys looked at you like they were looking at a ghost, the shorter one said a quiet ‘Hi’ that it probably would’ve not had been heard by you.

“You guys must be shopping for your books for your second year of Hogwarts! I’ve never seen you before but My name’s Juniper Brighton and you are?”

They both looked at each other then the taller boy nodded the shorter one spoke up and said “I’m Abdel McCohen and this is my older twin brother Thomas McCohen”

“Are you guys perhaps new to Hogwarts?” “Yes we are” Thomas spoke up.

“We were finally allowed to go out in public and attend school” Abdel said “Oh so you guys were Homeschooled?” you asked “Yes we were”.

You told them that you guys should go inside the store so the three of you can talk and get to know each other, They met your friends Hermione, Ron and Harry.

The McCohen twins were kinda a weird bunch but who am I to speak when I’m a witch? Hehe.

They told me that they weren’t used to speaking with kids their age since their Father would force them to business gatherings with adults and they had to talk with them since they were like their Father’s future successors.

You were looking at a Wizard and Princess romance book when it was swiped away from your grasp, looking up it was Fred with a mischievous smirk on his lips, pouting you told him to give it back and his smirk only grew bigger shaking his head he said no and that you had to get it from him.

Yeah that kinda didn’t end well, running around the store for it and stumbling on your feet and ending up falling and bringing Fred down with you, that was your chance.

Groaning Fred looked up at you and you snatched the book from him and standing up, extending a hand to Fred and pulling him up.

“Got the book” You said in a sing song voice.

“That wasn’t fair you did that on purpose” Fred whined “Wish I did” Fred crossed his arms over his chest but went to ruffle your hair making a small blush creep to your cheeks.

Opening the book to scan the pages but then when it was in the middle of the book it started to glow and float into the air, you backed up a bit and Fred went in front of you as in of a protective manner, thinking Fred told you to stay there to get the others for help or maybe to ask what to do.

Staring at it the then, the book glowed brighter and grew larger in a form of a door, engraved was a strange symbol.

It looked a bit familiar but the memory was pretty foggy and it was very vivid it kinda looked like a-

"What is that?"

Hermione.

"Bloody hell" Ron mumbled.

The conversation was going on but you've been long gone from that racing all your memories because the familiarity of the symbol would be killing you from the inside.

You went to walk slowly towards the door going to touch and trace the doors symbol, the symbol glowed and the door opened to a what you would say a some kind of portal.

"Guys...Hey guys!"

They turn to you and their eyes widened at the opened door, Harry walked forward and next to you and asked what it was, you told him you had no idea but you were going to find out what, they asked what you meant but before they could get a reply from you, you ran forward and went inside the portal.

Harry was going to grab your hand to pull you back but it was already too late..you were on the other side of the portal, where ever it lead, you weren't going to be able to make it on your own.

Without thinking Fred went on and ran after you entering the portal and so did George going after you and his twin brother, Harry, Ron and Hermione were going to enter the portal as well but it had quickly closed and disappeared the book falling onto the floor, quickly, Hermione picked up the book and tried to get the portal open again.

But it didn't work, the portal didn't open again the three looked at each other concerned but then suddenly the book was snatched away from Hermione's hands, looking to the person it was someone they least expected or wanted to be with at the moment right now.

"What's the mudblood got right here?" Draco sneers.

"Give it here Malfoy." Harry says sternly.

"...No" Draco says and begins to run down to the main floor, the three follow behind him.

----------------------

Rubbing your eyes you open them and see that your in a forest, looking around the environment looks far from normal, the clouds forming into silly shapes and in different colors, the trees twisted into weird shapes and in the color purple and decorated in colorful leaves.

Standing up, you went to glance around and see Fred and George on the floor, running to them you try to get them to stand up.

"Are you guys okay?" You ask.

Fred groans sitting up and rubbing his head "Were alright, right George?" you look to George and he just puts his hand up and puts it down groaning, you walk up to him and help him get up seeing if there are any injuries "Don't worry about me, I'm a big boy I'm alright." you nodded.

And stood up and looked around again, your eyed landed onto a flower it looked like the symbol on the door, crouching down the ground surrounding it was ice, hovering your hand under it to look at it, it was surprisingly cold like ice but it was still alive.

Maybe it was only a coincidence that it matches the symbol on the portals door, standing back up there was a green path.

That wasn't there before you thought, but right now you dragged Fred and George with you and others are still on the other side of the portal.

"We have to find a way out." "What why?" You didn't answer you just looked around and tried to find a way back, you were going to climb a tree to find out where you were but a hand on your shoulder stopped you, you were turned around to be faced with Fred and George giving you questioning looks.

Biting the inside of your lip you turned back around and tried to climb up the tree but once again you were stopped "Put me down!" You tried to wiggle yourself out of Fred's grasp but he was older and stronger, not to mention he was a beater in Quidditch so you decided to stop squirming around since it would definitely be useless.

"June.." "I was reckless and I went inside the portal and I dragged you two alongside me! There are you happy?" You pouted and crossed your arms over your chest, carefully you were placed down and turned around and put into a hug.

It surprised you, but it made you feel better "How about we go and follow the path and see where it leads us?" "Don't you wanna go back home?" "Nah, not now but there might be stuff we could use for pranks when we go back to Hogwarts!" Fred exclaims.

Ofcourse you thought but giggled nonetheless "Hey I'm serious!" "Right Freddie, sure" George says.

The three of you follow the green path to see where it would lead Fred talks about countless plans and possible things you guys will find here and George just jokes around earning some elbow shoves from Fred you just giggled glad that maybe it wasn't a bad idea to enter the portal.

------------------

That was it for now! And this is definitely not following the plot of Harry Potter, but I think it's better than having to follow all of the plots and this is probably what fanfiction is all about.

Not following the main plot of the original story!

Anyways that concludes it for chapter 5 I hope you guys enjoyed today's chapter and I'm sorry it doesn't make sense at all.

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carryonsimoncarryonbaz · 5 years ago

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NEW FIC!!!

Written for the Carry On Quarantine event organized by @xivz for the prompt of food delivery. My thanks to @fight-surrender and @basic-banshee for the beta reads and support!!

Baz is a teacher quarantined at home and Simon is doing temp work delivering food for The Girl and the Goat, a local pub. A craving for a burger leads to Baz ordering from the pub, followed by weeks of mutual pining, the slow burn of a developing relationship thwarted by the physical constraints of social distancing, and a refrigerator full of pub food. Movie nights, exasperated friends, lots of texts, way too much food, and multiple awkward encounters.

Let My Love Open the Door

Baz

I close my laptop and drop my head down onto it. I’m knackered. The metal feels cool against my forehead. I roll my face from side to side, relishing the smooth chill of it against my cheeks. And then I remember.

Fuck, now I have to disinfect the damn thing.

I’m done. Done for the day but also so done with this.

How can I be expected to effectively teach students—Sixth Form students at that—from a computer terminal? I’m almost three weeks into this, but their looming A Levels and GSCE’s are still on schedule for May.

That’s less than two months away. Five weeks and three days, to be exact.

Thank fuck it’s Friday. I’ll at least have two days to prepare next week’s frightfully inadequate lesson plan.

I grab a disinfecting wipe from the canister and methodically wipe down my laptop. I’m not sick—not a cough, not a sniffle—but I’ve bought into this not touching my face directive and I shouldn’t be smearing my germs on random surfaces. For all I know I could be carrying this thing. One of the asymptomatic Typhoid Marys, spreading it far and wide.

Not that there’s anyone to spread it to, seeing as I’m on my own here, but I wipe the laptop down anyway, unnerved by the whole idea of it.

I’ve washed my hands more in the past month than I have in my entire life. I spent the first day at home wiping down every surface, laundering the bedding, mopping the floors. My house went from having a pleasant, woodsy scent to the overwhelming stench of bleach instead.

It gave me such a headache that I had to open the windows and damn near froze. Bloody coldest March we’ve had in years. April’s not proving to be much better.

My mobile buzzes. I should have left it in the bedroom but I’ve become painfully attached to it.

If I’m not planning out curriculum, video conferencing with my class, answering frantic emails from parents, students, the other teachers at my school, or compulsively cleaning and reorganizing my house, then I’m moodily scrolling through Twitter and Instagram and ratcheting up my anxiety.

I should delete my social media.

My mobile buzzes again.

I glance at my watch. It’s six o’clock.

Bound to be Wellbelove.

Wellbelove: are you done yet?

Wellbelove: Baz!!

Wellbelove: you can’t still be doing classwork it’s after 5

Wellbelove: BAAAAZZZZ

Me: Give it a rest, Wellbelove. Some of us are actually working from home.

Wellbelove: I am working, you poncy bastard I’m obviously far more efficient than you.

Me: Look, some of us can’t just post our morning exercise routine and somehow have that count as work.

Wellbelove: Why are we friends again? Can you remind me why I put up with this slander from you?

Me: Because of my sparkling wit and undeniable charm.

Wellbelove: more like your fashion sense and propensity to pick up the bill when we eat out. Neither of which are in evidence at the moment so I may have to rethink my devotion to you

Me: Still, I’m indispensable.

Wellbelove: then buy me dinner. what are we watching tonight?

This all started at the end of that first week, when Agatha couldn’t concentrate on the book she was trying to read and I’d reached the pulling-my-hair-out state of lesson planning. She suggested we watch a film together—FaceTiming while our Netflix accounts played in sync.

We’ve done that almost every night since. Dinner and a movie, separately, from a distance.

We spend almost as much time arguing over what to watch as we do watching, but that’s just how we are. I’ve known Agatha Wellbelove since we were toddlers at the same crèche when our parents were at uni. Same primary school, same secondary school.

We drifted apart during our uni years, with Agatha at Brighton for phys Ed and Oxford to read for English Language and Literature for me.

It was some bizarre twist of fate that we were both hired to teach at the same secondary school in Chilham. She was the last person I expected to see on my orientation day.

We picked up where we left off, latching onto each other as we navigated our first real world experience after uni.

It’s been three years now and I think the past three weeks have been the longest stretch we’ve gone without seeing each other since we moved here.

She’s self-centered, brutally straight-forward, horribly short-tempered, dreadfully impatient, and devastatingly gorgeous.

A perfect match for me if I wasn’t so irrevocably gay.

And if she wasn’t . . . well, categorically uninterested in me in that way is probably the best way to phrase it.

But she’s my best friend and I know it hasn’t been all that long but fuck, I miss her.

Wellbelove: WHAT ARE WE WATCHING BAZ ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION

She’d be kicking me in the shin by now, if she were here. Maybe I don’t miss her quite that much.

Ugh, it’s my night to choose. I don’t know what I want to watch. Something soothing, not one of those action films or plucky sports dramas she likes so much. I actually like Bend it Like Beckham but not those sappy American ones she’s inflicted on me.

I need something familiar. Comforting.

Me: Pride and Prejudice.

Wellbelove: 2005. Kiera Knightley. I will accept no substitutes.

Me: The 1995 version is superior.

Wellbelove: Colin Firth doesn’t look like that anymore Baz. Let it go.

I start to type “Keira Knightley doesn’t either” but fucking hell she does still look the same.

Wellbelove: and you owe me dinner

Me: 2005 AND dinner? You are greedy and demanding, Wellbelove. I’ll agree to Knightley. Make your own dinner.

Wellbelove: I want a burger I’m ordering out since you’re being a berk and won’t send me food

Fuck. I’m craving a burger now too.

I don’t even want to think about cooking anything. I’m so sick of pasta, even though I’ve tried to make it a different way each time, with my dwindling pantry supplies. And much as I love the curry place down the road I can’t eat it every day.

I used to think I could. I used to say I’d be happy eating tikka masala every day for the rest of my life, but I was mistaken.

And no more chippies. I can’t do another chippy.

Me: Who’s delivering burgers? Please tell me you aren’t getting McDonald’s.

Wellbelove: why would I get McDonald’s when I can get a lamb burger from The Girl and The Goat?

Me: they’re not still open?

Wellbelove: of course they’re still open you stupid git.

I don’t know why I hadn’t thought to check. Why I assumed the pubs would close down, when they all have kitchens and food service, just like the chippies and fast food places.

Me: why didn’t you bother telling me, you hag?

Wellbelove: You are a grown man Hunter gatherer type you should be able to forage for your own food

I want one of those burgers. We don’t go there all that often but The Girl and The Goat has some of the best burgers in town. Fucking hell, I’m salivating at the thought of it.

Me: Text when you’ve got dinner and we’ll start the movie

Wellbelove: you’re ordering from The Goat aren’t you you hypocrite and not even paying for mine

I close the messenger app to look up The Girl and The Goat online. I scan the menu and then ring them up.

The warm, cheerful voice on the line assures me the order will be delivered to my door within a half hour. I give my mobile number so the driver can text when he arrives.

“Just be looking for the text, love,” the woman’s warm voice continues. “Simon will leave everything at your door, no need to open up until he’s gone. I know how wary people are these days so we’re trying to make it easy.”

A little over a half hour later my mobile buzzes with a message from an unknown number.

Unknown number: Food’s here!

Unknown number: I’ll ring when it’s on your doorstep

The doorbell chimes and I peek at the doorway video display only to startle at the huge grinning face looming on the screen. I push the audio button.

“Yes?”

“Hullo! I’m Simon. I’ve got your order from The Goat. Lamb burger and chips.” He holds up a gloved hand carrying a bag. “I’ll just leave it right here for you.” I get a brief glimpse of a broad back clad in a brown leather jacket as he bends down, before he’s back to grinning at the camera again. “Thanks for ordering from The Goat. We appreciate the business. If you text me back you’ll get a discount for next time!”

“Text you back what?”

He leans in closer and shrugs. “Whatever.”

He’s got brilliant blue eyes. A scattering of freckles dotted across his face.

“Um, right, ok then. Thanks.”

He waves and then he’s out of sight again.

I move to the front window and twitch aside the blinds to watch him get in a blue car with “The Girl and The Goat” displayed across the door in white lettering.

I wait until the car is long gone before opening the door, gloves on, carrying the parcel of food as if it’s radioactive until I reach the kitchen, where I can dispose of the bag and transfer the food to my own dishes.

It’s likely overkill, I know, but I find being wary and methodical helps calm me.

I settle down in front of the television with my meal and my mobile, ready to message Agatha, when I see the text from the unknown number again.

I’d not say no to a discount. I click on it to text back. What exactly does one text to an attractive delivery man?

I shake my head. He’s just the delivery man, it’s irrelevant if he’s attractive or not.

My finger is still hovering over my mobile. I’m having an existential crisis over what to text a delivery man so I can get a discount on a pub meal. These are the depths that I have sunk to with this self-quarantine.

It would help if he were ordinary looking. It really would.

Me to unknown number: Whatever

I hit send before I think too hard about how unoriginal and trite a response that was.

My mobile pings back a moment later.

Unknown number: 15% percent off the next order. Just say Simon said when you call it in! :)

Read the rest at ao3!!!!!!!!!!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23590015

#carry on quarantine #carry on #baz pitch #simon snow #snowbaz #quarantine au #my writing #my fic #wayward son #agatha wellbelove #agatha is all of us #food delivery

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theroseandcrown · 4 years ago

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The Rose & Crown: Chapter Twenty-Four

Rating: M Chapters: 24/24

Summary: Clara is getting ready for her big date with Danny Pink when she is unexpectedly visited by the sound of a telephone ringing.

Read this story on another platform: Archive of Our Own Fan Fiction WattPad

Present Day

“The Satanic Nebula,” the Doctor called towards the other side of the wall, then shifted his attention to the brightly lit fish tank situated above the icebox. “Or the lagoon of lost stars. Or we could go to Brighton!” He exited the small kitchen and followed the sound of his companion’s shoes tapping around in the next room. Discovering her in her bedroom, he stopped at the entrance and leaned against the doorway. “I’ve got a whole day worked out,” he informed her, somewhat impressed with himself for having managed his time in advance to prepare something for them.

“Sorry but, as you can see, I’ve got plans,” she replied over her shoulder as she hurried to put on her coat.

A confused look passed over his furrowed face as he studied her, unable to place what was unnaturally different about her more than usual. “Have you?” he inquired, failing miserably at sounding interested.

“Look at me,” she invited, finally acknowledging him for the first time all evening.

“Yeah, okay,” he replied, perplexed by the strange request. A test maybe?

“No, no, no. Like, no. Look at me,” she tried again, signalling to her hair and clothing as she approached him.

“Yep, looking.” Definitely a test, he thought. But what could I be missing?

“Seriously?” she asked, feeling deflated by his misuse of the obvious.

He found himself increasingly distracted by the brightly lit features of her face, his eyes fixed upon what he could only assume was some sort of reddish war paint plastered to her lips. “Why is your face all coloured in?” he questioned her, watching obliviously as she returned to the mirror to begin applying a floral-scented liquid to her neck and wrists. Something was definitely different about her, he was sure of it. “Are you taller?” he asked, sizing her up and down.

“Heels,” she answered, lifting her foot to reveal one of her black heightened shoes. Taking one last look at her finished form in the mirror, she turned and headed towards him once more.

“What, do you have to reach a high shelf?”

“Right,” she replied, smirking at his adorable cluelessness as she passed him in the doorway. “Got to go. Going to be late!”

“For a shelf?” he prodded, trying to prevent her from leaving before he had solved her little mystery.

“Bye!” she called to him and headed towards the front door. She reached for the knob and began to turn it when an unexpected sensation of fear caused her to stop, freezing her in place. A tremendous sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach was felt as if something were warning her of an oncoming threat. “Don’t answer it,” she blurted out inadvertently as though the words had been spoken by someone else.

The Doctor, employed by his curiosity, removed himself from the doorway and stepped into the hall. His head tilted slightly to the side as he studied her from afar. “I’m sorry?” he called to her.

His words seemed to dissolve into oblivion as her consciousness was dragged deep into the dark unvisited centre of her thoughts. Before she could determine the cause, her mind became flooded with thousands of images bursting their way into her head faster than she could even process them. She heard herself gasp under her breath as the visions tore through her defences and shattered her understanding of reality altogether. The more she tried to latch onto them, the quicker they passed her by. It was as if someone else’s terrifying memories were being downloaded directly into her thoughts all at once. A dark mask, a hooded demon, a red raven. The frightening images and emotions rushing through her were so very foreign and yet strangely intimate as they consumed her. Red grass, an infant girl, a vast sea of unknown faces, strange exotic new destinations never seen before. They felt so real, so powerful, it was as if she were drowning in the depths of an endless out-of-body experience. She found herself questioning her existence as the vast amount of fragmented memories swarmed around her. The part of her still fighting to take control was desperately clawing its way to the surface of her thoughts hoping to latch onto any aspect of familiarity before she became lost in the sea of inevitable insanity.

At last, the faint whisper of the Doctor’s voice penetrated the darkness like a pillar of light guiding her back to him. Following the sound of his calming lull, the walls around her slowly faded into recognition once again. Her eyes searched for anything commonplace that might anchor her to this world until they met with the Doctor’s own. The expression on his face suggested he had been waiting for a reply from her. Quickly attempting to shake the images from her mind, she released the knob and turned towards him. “Sorry, what?” she called back.

“You said, ‘Don’t answer it,’” he accused her softly.

“No, I didn’t,” she disputed, unwilling to accept the temporary loss of control in his presence.

“I’m rather sure that you did,” he insisted, taking a hesitant step in her direction.

She could feel his inquiring eyes upon her, dissecting her piece by piece in search of answers. And yet, as frightened as she was of the true meaning behind the strange visions burning their way into her thoughts, something about the look in his eyes felt calming as if he were luring her towards him for protection. Slowly approaching him, they looked to each other with an equally puzzled expression as if trying to decide amongst themselves in which order they were supposed to speak next. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t find the words to calm his growing concern for her well-being. She feared the thought of telling him the truth. That he would somehow think she’d gone mad. And maybe she had. What other possible explanation could there be? As he continued to study her, she couldn’t help the uneasy feeling of nervousness growing within her at having become the target of his sudden interest. The longer he retained his position in front of her, the harder it was to keep hidden what was going on inside her head. Taking a deep breath, she opened her mouth to speak but was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a telephone ringing nearby which shattered the awkward silence between them. Startled by the noise, her head quickly turned towards the entrance of the living room where the sight of the time machine could be well observed.

The Doctor raised his brow and followed his companion’s distracted gaze towards the direction of the blue box parked in the middle of the room. Clara stared at the TARDIS intently as if entranced by its presence there. Her pulse began to rise as the unexpected feeling of déjà vu emanated from somewhere in the back of her mind. “There you go, you’ve got another playmate,” she recited as if by memory, though the words seemed to fall unnaturally from her lips as she spoke them. Through their returned silence, the phone continued to ring.

Returning his attention towards his companion, his eyes narrowed as he continued to ponder her strange behaviour. “It isn’t me. It’s you,” he replied, gesturing towards her pocket.

Her wide eyes shot back to his as if searching for the truth behind his words. Reaching into her back pocket, she hesitantly pulled out her phone and held it in front of her for inspection. She frowned in disbelief as a series of unfamiliar numbers were displayed upon the screen. This isn’t right, declared a voice from somewhere deep inside her mind. Something has changed.

“Are you alright?” he asked, growing more concerned by the less-than-satisfied expression on her face.

“Yeah, sorry,” she replied, trying to mask the rising apprehension forming at the thought of who or what could be calling her.

“Who is it?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, aren’t you going to answer it?” he questioned her, taking notice of her unusual reluctance. It wasn’t like her.

Taking a deep breath, she brought her hand to the screen and hesitantly hovered her finger over the answer button. “What if something happens?” she asked nervously.

“Like what?”

“A thing.”

“It’s just a phone, Clara,” he assured her, attempting to ease her scattered mind. “Nothing-”

“Nothing happens when you answer the phone,” she interjected, observing as he stared at her in a bewildered state of silence. “That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?” she asked, though his reaction only seemed to confirm her accusation. She lowered her glance towards the ringing object. Staring at the screen one last time, she pressed the button and answered the call. “Hello?” she spoke into the receiver. “Who is this?” The suspension between them grew by the second as they waited for an answer.

“Clara?” asked a familiar voice she knew very well.

The tension in every muscle of her body quickly dissipated as she realized who the voice belonged to. “Yes, hi! Sorry, I didn’t recognize the number.”

The Doctor felt his face frown with displeasure as he finally put two and two together. “Oh, I see. Is that the boyfriend then?” he asked, not even attempting to hide his irritation over the diversion taking place between them and anything else that could have been more interesting.

She glared at the Time Lord murderously and brought her finger to her lips to shush him. Turning around, she stepped away and plugged her ear to bring even the smallest amount of privacy to her conversation. The old man rolled his eyes and scoffed quietly to himself over her ridiculous attempt at ignoring him. “Yeah sorry, running a bit late. I’m just about to head out. Where are you calling from?” she wondered, making her way towards the front door. Before reaching it, she paused momentarily and leaned her shoulder against the wall. “Oh,” she replied discouragingly, trying to hide her disappointment. “No no, it’s fine. Yeah, totally understand. I was feeling a bit tired, actually,” she lied. “Rain check then. Okay. Yep, see you tomorrow. Bye.” Lowering the phone, she hung her head in defeated silence and ended the call.

Though her back remained turned to him, he needn’t see her face to understand what had happened. He uncomfortably cleared his throat, feeling very unsure of what he should do or say next that might alter the sombre mood in the room. “So, you’ve been stood up I take it?” he asked, then immediately thought to himself that it probably sounded a lot better in his head.

Clara quickly gathered her thoughts and did her best to appear unaltered by the unexpected interruption to her night. “Yeah, uh, I guess something came up,” she answered, turning towards him once more. Returning the phone to her pocket, she slowly made her way to him and concentrated all of her energy on trying not to feel sorry for herself.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he inquired delicately. Though concerned for her current state of mind, a part of him remained hopeful that the sudden disruption to the evening would still work out in his favour.

“I’m fine,” she replied unconvincingly towards the floor.

“I see,” he conceded, seeing little point in challenging her obvious deception. He didn’t have to. He knew her all too well. As the silence grew between them, he peered at her hanging head and gently lifted her chin to meet his curious expression. “How did you know what I was going to say?” he wondered, eyeing her suspiciously.

Her eyes passed back and forth to each of his as she searched for an answer. “I dunno. Just a weird feeling I guess. Maybe we have been knocking about too long. I’m starting to think like you,” she teased with a warm smile. He matched her smile with his own as he continued to hold her in his grasp. His thumb inadvertently grazed over the surface of her cheek as if he had become possessed by her. His eyes seemed to be pulled into hers at their strong connection to each other. She found his unexpected touch oddly soothing despite her lingering fear of what was happening inside her head. Embracing his simple display of affection, she caught herself glancing towards his lips for the first time since she was in the presence of his last body. The thought alone of what they would feel like against hers betrayed everything she thought she understood about their relationship. And yet, the longer he held her, the more natural his sudden intimacy had become. In that one small moment, she sensed something developing between them that she hadn’t noticed before. Buried somewhere beneath her many layers of security was an aspect of familiarity she couldn’t quite place. A feeling she couldn’t explain as if he had held her this way many times before. Whatever the cause, she felt the need to break their connection to each other before she became lost in his gaze any further. It took all of her remaining willpower to carefully pry herself from his grasp. She nervously cleared her throat and quickly attempted to change the subject. “Well, I suppose it’s just you and me then. How do I look?” she asked, raising her arms from her sides.

“Uh, well,” he began, unsure of how to respond. “Sort of short and round-ish. But with a good personality, which is the main thing.”

“I meant my clothes. I’ve just changed,” she noted, gesturing towards her appearance once again.

“Oh,” he stated awkwardly, looking her up and down. “Well, good for you. Still making an effort I see.”

“Thanks,” she replied, frowning at his unsuccessful attempt to cheer her up in his own Doctory kind of way. Hoping to relieve her mind from the strange and very disappointing turn of events, she looked to her best friend and sighed. “Well, come on then. You’re my date.”

“Who, me?” he asked, pointing to himself in disbelief. “Oh, no. No, no, no. No, I don’t think so.”

“Yes, you. Like it or not, you still owe me from that little death-defying detour to the frost fair last week,” she pointed out.

“I agreed to no such terms,” he retorted. “If I’m not mistaken, you rather enjoyed that one.”

“I was almost vaporized by an incendiary grenade, no thanks to you,” she bit back.

“You’re still here, aren’t you? You can’t expect me to come running every time there’s a minor threat of death. We’d never get anything accomplished.”

“Easy for you to say. You weren’t the one left alone with Strax, all day,” she replied, squinting her eyes at him.

“You’re right, that sounds terrible.”

“You think?!”

“I’m starting to, yes.”

“Good. Glad to know at least something works up there,” she noted, gesturing towards his daft head. “Now come on, let’s go! Chop chop!” she insisted. She took his hand and began to pull him towards the door as he sulked behind her.

“I don’t do dates, I’m not a dating person!” he argued, trying to release himself from the vice-like hold she had on him.

“Not sure you get a vote,” she disputed, continuing to drag him down the hallway.

Realizing too late that he was rapidly losing the battle between them, he quickly pulled her into him and placed his arm around her waist to herd her towards the direction of the blue box. “I’ve just remembered! I know this extraordinary little restaurant at the other end of the universe. They only serve invisible food there! Bit of a gamble, but I’m sure you’ll love it. Let’s just pop into the TARDIS and-”

“Oh no you don’t,” she spun out of his grasp and pointed a stern finger up at him. “I’m not falling for that one again. The last time you promised me dinner on another planet, we nearly drowned trying to escape from an angry mob of fish people!”

“And? We didn’t, did we? Besides, what’s dinner without a bit of perilous entertainment?” he countered.

“Just dinner!” she exclaimed, trying her hardest not to murder him out of frustration.

“Exactly, boring. Very not me.”

“Doctor, so far my night has gone horribly and I’m extremely upset about it. Just this once, I’d like to pretend I still know how to live a normal life among actual people without things exploding all around me! Is that so much to ask?” she inquired adamantly. He opened his mouth to speak. “Never mind, don’t answer that,” she stopped him. “Look, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to walk out that door and do my very best to enjoy what’s left of the evening. And if you care about me in any way at all, you’ll put away your screwdriver for just one night and come join me.” Allowing him only a moment to think it over, she turned from him to make her way down the hall and out of her flat leaving the door wide open behind her.

Surprised by her unexpected leave of him, he found himself torn by the choice she was forcing him to make. His focus teetered between his time machine and the direction of his impossibly stubborn companion. Either way he saw it, it all came down to which decision could be worse. Travelling without his best friend by his side or the gruelling experience of having to mingle amongst other humans. It was so unfair.

“Doctor?” she called from outside. “Are you coming?!”

Having weighed his limited options in the moment of brief abandonment, he rolled his eyes and childishly groaned at the question. “Fine!” he conceded, knowing deep down he couldn’t resist the charm she had about her that continued to draw him in no matter how hard he tried to fight it. He adored that about her and wouldn’t change it for anything. Reluctantly making his way towards the exit, he took hold of the knob and called to her from the doorway. “But there will be absolutely no dancing!” he insisted.

“Yeah, still not sure you get a vote!” she called back.

He frowned and glanced at his hand still grasping the knob of the open door, suddenly realizing that she had already anticipated the choice he planned to make. He had fallen right into her clever laid trap. She knew him all too well. Returning his gaze towards her direction, he sighed defeatedly and watched from the doorway as she strode farther away from him. He observed intently as she made it to the end of the walkway and peered over her shoulder at him with those irresistible sparkling brown eyes. As she turned the corner out of sight, he allowed a warm smile to spread across his face before closing the door behind him to pursue the next potentially dangerous mission of following after her.

#dr who #dr who fan fiction #dr who fanfiction #12th doctor #doctor who #doctor who fanfiction #twelfth doctor #the doctor #twelve/clara #clara oswald #whouffaldi

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inmyownlittlecorner5 · 5 years ago

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Moonlight Chapter 26: Scraps

A fanfic Novel by la-topolina

Rated for Mature Audiences

Warnings: Language, Violence, Sexual Content

Chapter 26/26

Moonlight Masterpost+

<< Chapter Twenty-Five+

Wherever she was, it was quiet and safe. It was also dark. She thought that her eyes were open, but she could not see anything at all. It was like the time her family had gone to that cave that Jesse James had hidden in, and the tour guide had turned off all the lights so they could see how dark it was. She and her brothers had waved their hands in front of each others’ faces, laughing themselves silly at the fact that they couldn’t see them. But she wasn’t worried; not now. The taste of elderflower tickled her tongue, she was bone-weary, and whatever she was lying on was deliciously soft. A sound like water lapping at the shore rocked her, and she felt no pain in this half-world.

It was her time; and she was ready to go.

Something cool touched her; something sharp and prickly that prodded her forehead, her cheek, her chest. She wheezed and tried to protest the invasion, but no words came out. It was like trying to talk underwater. A babble of sounds mixed with the rushing noise in her ears; and though she thought she heard voices, she could not make out their words. Her eyes were shut after all, and she had not the energy to pry them open. She wished they would stop, these things that tormented her. As the voices grew louder and came into sharper focus, she tried to flinch away and failed. Being touched hurt. The voices hurt. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. Everything…

“….Miranda….”

Oh. That voice. She knew that voice. It washed over her like dark honey and she panted, desiring more of its soothing tones.

“Severus?” Her own voice was a pathetic plea, but she was past caring about trifling things like dignity and pride. She was thirsty for his voice, thirsty for his touch, thirsty for his very presence, and dying—of thirst or something else—but dying all the same.

“I’m here. Don’t talk. I’m taking you to St. Mungo’s.”

Her heart tripped; and though she had surfaced to intolerable pain, she was willing to bear it for a little longer, if only for the pleasure of hearing him speak. She was no longer content to lie still and wait, she had to move, had to touch him. But her limbs ignored her like rebellious children, and she could only whimper her disapproval as the thing underneath her jerked her body. White-hot streaks of agony stabbed her everywhere, and she heard him swear brokenly under his breath. That wouldn’t do. She would be brave for him. She quieted her complaints and willed her eyes to open. And, though it took every ounce of strength she had left, open they did, and she saw him.

His face was pale, like always, and his hair hung limply on either side of his angular cheeks. It was oily today, like it was when he’d spent too much time in the potions room, or when he’d forgotten to wash it for too long. When they had first met, he had been careless about that aspect of his appearance. But after she’d gone to Romania, every time she saw him, his hair had been scrupulously clean. She’d never mentioned it, but she had noticed. He must not have expected to see her today.

“Severus,” she whispered, “it’s been good.”

His tone was stern when he answered her. “Miranda, I absolutely forbid you to die. It is completely out of the question.”

A laugh bubbled up in her, and she tasted blood in her mouth. “I don’t think there’s anything that can stop that now.”

“You took the Stasis Potion, did you not?”

She struggled to remember, but her brain felt soft. “I…think the Spiridus…fed it to me.”

The ground jerked beneath her, and her stomach rolled as the world around her started to spin. A sickening heat flashed through her body, and she thought she might retch. She could not tell how long the torture continued, but just when she thought it might go on forever, it stopped abruptly. Now she was blessedly still, and a soft, wet rain was kissing her face. God she was thirsty.

“Kiss me, Severus.”

A shattered moan escaped his throat, and he brought his lips down on hers. She drank the life she knew he was willing into her, even though she could feel it pouring back out of the innumerable wounds that had destroyed her body. Everything she’d ever felt for him; desire, anger, friendship, compassion, blended together into a brilliant mass. She sank into it, and as it washed over her she felt a tenderness beating at its core. As the jackel-men had ripped open her body, this feeling wrenched open her soul, and she was undone.

His heart was in his eyes, and he was close enough that she could feel his breath. She would tell him now, before she lost the chance to do so.

“Severus, I want to tell you…”

He laid his finger over her lips, and she closed them against the weight. “I said you are not allowed to die.”

His hand rested gently on her cheek, and she turned her face towards it. Then there was darkness again, and an awful sensation; she was being sucked dry, pulled apart, suffocated.

Then there was nothing.

*****

Apparating in a state of agitation, particularly while bringing the body of an injured person along for the ride, was a feat that Severus did not desire to repeat any time in the near future. He glanced at Miranda’s inert form, finding that the experience had thrown her back into unconsciousness. As he choked on the malodorous stench of decay that hung in the air, he reflected that it was probably better that way. Whoever was responsible for the brilliant idea of placing the emergency entrance to St. Mungo’s between a line of Muggle dumpsters should be submerged in one and lit on fire.

He flicked his wand violently at the stretcher he’d transfigured from Miranda’s sofa, levitating it off the filthy street with a sickening jerk. Berating himself for his carelessness, he ran his fingers lightly over her battered face. Her breath was still coming in shallow, irregular pants, and the pulse at her throat was thready. A steadier wand swish set the stretcher moving, hovering through the air on invisible strings. He hurried up the delivery ramp with his patient close behind, to a large metal door painted with the warning “Do Not Block.” His slapped the ‘D’ with far more force than necessary, and an unpleasant pulling sensation drew both of them through the entrance into the brightly lit passage beyond. A witch with dark hair and enormous, rectangular glasses was perched at a desk, imperiously directing a queue of witches and wizards in various degrees of distress. He joined it begrudgingly, burning through the remainder of his patience with the speed of an inferno devouring tinder.

“Welcome to St. Mungo’s,” the witch said in a voice like a strangled goat when she finally deigned to notice him. “What is the nature of your emergency?”

“Severe injuries sustained in battle,” he replied tersely.

The welcome witch was unimpressed. “Name of the injured party?”

“Miranda Jane Rose.”

“Affiliation?”

“Order of the Phoenix.” He put his hand on Miranda’s wrist, reassuring himself that her heart was still beating as the inane interrogation continued.

“Magical I.D.?”

Would the witch never get on with it? “I don’t have it.”

She gave him a disapproving sniff and thrust a stack of parchment into his hand. “I see. In that case, you’ll have to fill out all of these.”

“I hardly think this is the time for such nonsense. Or is it the hospital’s practice to allow patients bleed to death while they attempt to satisfy the insatiable demands of pointless bureaucracy?”

“Hospital protocol exists for a reason, sir.”

“Apparently so. The more patients who perish in the anteroom, the fewer you actually have to bother with treating.”

“It’s not my fault you forgot the necessary parchments. Residence?”

“A cabin at Upper Diddling, near Brighton.” Two more questions and then he was going to cast a Confundus and take her to triage, protocol be damned.

“Place of birth?”

“Edgewater, Kansas.”

“Kansas?” The welcome witch peered over the rim of her oversized glasses. “Do you mean the Kansas in America?”

“No, I mean the Kansas in Northumberland,” he sneered. “Of course I bloody well mean the Kansas in America.”

“Is she a MACUSA citizen?”

“Yes.”

She clucked her tongue. “Why didn’t you say so at the beginning? Foreign citizens require a completely different set of parchment.”

“What this woman requires is a healer’s attention immediately,” Severus growled, sliding his wand out of his sleeve. “And if you possessed the brains of a flobberworm, she would already be receiving it.”

“One more word like that out of you, sir, and I’ll be calling security.”

“Professor Severus, I wasn’t expecting to see you again today.” Healer A’isha appeared from around the corner, and Severus quickly replaced his wand. “Has something happened? There is blood on your lips.”

His hand automatically went to his mouth and his fingers came away streaked with red. “It’s not mine. It’s…”

“What is going on here?” Healer A’isha had cleared the desk and now had an unobstructed view of Miranda’s mangled body. “Is she one of yours?”

“Yes.”

Healer A’isha began barking orders. “Miss Rhea, I am taking this woman and Professor Severus to triage.”

Miss Rhea put her hands on her hips and snarled another attack. “Healer A’isha, these people are not cleared to enter the hospital. I was just about to pull the files with their security questions. That is, assuming they’re even on the Order’s list at all.”

“I am overriding that protocol.”

“If they turn out to be Death Eaters, I want it noted that it was your rule-breaking that let them in.”

“I’ll put it in my report. This way, Professor Severus.”

“But the parchments,” the welcome witch whined as they maneuvered Miranda around the impediment of her desk.

“Send them up with Healer Augustus. He will be on the hourglass within the next ten minutes. And send up Healer Hippocrates, too.”

“Healer A’isha, you know he hates to work when he’s already flipped his hourglass for the day!”

“He’ll hate it more if he misses this, I promise you.”

Severus could have kissed her. As they moved swiftly through the candlelit corridors, he felt air moving through his lungs for the first time since he’d seen Catalina at the castle gates. Even as they walked, Healer A’isha was making her preliminary examination, her long brown fingers moving lightly over Miranda’s motionless form.

“Tell me what happened,” she said in a tone both firm and gentle.

“She was in Romania on a mission for the Order. There was a battle with an army of creatures. We thought she was lost, but a being called a Spiridus brought her here.”

“A Spiridus? I have only read about them. What potions has she taken?”

“At least three vials of Strengthening Solution.”

“Ah. That accounts for her pulse. She should not have taken so many.”

“I am aware of that. She also took a Stasis Potion.”

“I am not familiar with that potion. Is it one of yours?”

“Yes.” Unlike the welcome witch’s sniping, this volley of questions was somehow soothing to him.

“When Healer Augustus comes, I will need you to list the components of the completed potion to him.”

“I understand.”

“What were the creatures she fought?”

“I don’t know what they are called. I lent her comrade my portkey to come here. She will be able to tell you more about the battle itself.”

At last they entered the winged doors of triage, and Severus brought the stretcher to a halt. Healer A’isha ran her wand slowly over Miranda’s body. As she traced each limb, an image of her patient’s bones and organs appeared in color-coded light. Green for health, yellow for mild injury, purple for severe injury, red for mortal injury…Merlin there was so much red…

“I should have brought her via portkey as well, it would have been faster,” he blurted. “All the members of the Order have been carrying portkeys since Arthur’s attack. But I remembered what you said this morning about moving injured persons and I thought…”

“Peace, Professor,” she said, halting his babbling. “It was better to bring her the slower way and avoid moving her as much as possible. You did the right thing.”

“Thank you,” he choked, his vision blurring for a moment. He shut his eyes, he was not going to cry again, not here, not now.

“Healer A’isha?” A disgustingly chipper nurse in blue robes swept into triage, with an irate Romanian witch close at hand. “I’m not sure, but I think this witch is looking for someone. She came in with the finger-print linked portkey, so I don’t think she’s a Death Eater; but the Rosetta Stone is acting up again; and she doesn’t speak any English; and we’ve just been going round and round for the last twenty minutes.”

“Thank you Nurse. That will be all,” Healer A’isha said, dismissing the woman briskly.

“{Professor Snape, this is the most disorganized hospital I have ever seen. Things are not like this in Romania,}” Catalina complained.

“{I don’t disagree, Doamnă Dragnea,}” Severus replied.

The next half hour was a blur of answering questions, translating between Healer A’isha and Catalina, and doing his best to avoid staring at the lighted map that revealed the extent of Miranda’s internal injuries. He could read the thing well enough to tell that his Stasis Potion had worked better than he’d ever hoped that it would. Unfortunately, he found that he was in no way gratified by that knowledge. Rather, he felt vaguely sick when he realized that his efforts at brewing an experimental potion were the only thing standing between his lover and her grave.

A rotund Healer with spectacles and a white handlebar mustache joined them presently. He barely bothered to introduce himself as Hippocrates Smethwyck before he and Healer A’isha whisked Miranda away for treatment. For a moment, the ground seemed to shift beneath Severus’s feet, as though he had been running for hours and had come to a sudden and unexpected stop.

He had no idea what to do next.

An athletic boy in lime green robes, surely too young to be a Healer stepped up to him, saving him the trouble of taking a decision.

“Hello, Professor Snape,” the boy said with the wide-eyed eagerness of a Hufflepuff. “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Augustus Pye.”

Severus eyed the boy—young man—shrewdly. “Of course I remember you. Class of ’89. Decent N.E.W.T. work.”

“Thank you, sir. Coming from you, that’s a compliment. I’m a full Healer now.”

“Congratulations.” A headache was starting to pound behind his eyes, and he was beginning to see stars at the edge of his field of vision.

“Why don’t we go find somewhere quiet to sit,” Augustus suggested. “I’m afraid we’ve got a little more parchment work to fill out. Might as well be comfortable while we do.”

“As you say.”

Answering yet more questions sounded as appealing as taking tea with Dolores Umbridge, but Severus had not an ounce of fight left in him. He allowed the new Healer to lead him and Catalina into a deserted alcove, fitted up with a low-burning candelabra and three enormously comfortable armchairs. Catalina promptly curled herself into a ball and fell asleep, and Severus couldn’t say that he blamed her.

“Okay, Professor. Let’s take it from the top.”

*****

Severus’s throat was raw when he pried his stinging eyes open sometime later. He did not ever remember closing them, but when he had rubbed them with the backs of his chapped hands, and glanced out the arched window that graced the alcove, he saw the moon was high in the sky. When he’d arrived at the hospital on this second errand it had been barely sundown. It must be near midnight now. Catalina still slumbered in the chair next to him, and Healer Pye was nowhere in sight. He made an attempt to extract himself from the armchair, but his joints were so stiff that it was not worth the effort. His stomach rumbled, requesting his attention, but he ignored it, as though his discomfort might somehow aid Miranda in surviving the night.

Light footsteps drew his attention, and he saw Healer A’isha enter the alcove. She had dark circles under her eyes, and her expression was implacably serene. As she sank into the vacant chair, he braced himself for the blow that he knew he could no longer avoid.

“Miss Miranda is alive, Professor Severus.” Healer A’isha’s voice was as cool and calm as her bearing. “Healer Augustus and Nurse Grace are settling her in a room, and then you will be able to see her.”

“Thank Merlin.” It was as close to a prayer as he’d ever said in his adult life.

“Infidel,” Healer A’isha teased with the ghost of a smile. “We have done as much as we can tonight. We must wait until her body has cleared the Strengthening Solution before we attempt anything further.”

“It is dangerous to wait, I take it?”

“Yes, but it is more dangerous to add to the stress on her systems now.”

“I see.” He no longer felt hungry—he felt like his stomach was full of lead.

“It will be as Allah wills, but do not lose hope. She is strong, and we will do our best by her. I promise.”

He snorted. “You say that to everyone.”

“I do. And I mean it every time.”

“Healer A’isha, I am well aware that your promise is worth fifty of any other Healer’s. But don’t lie to me. If she is dying, simply say so.”

“We are all dying, Professor Severus. But if she has any family or friends who would want to see her alive, you may wish to give them the opportunity.”

She did not torture him by completing the thought, and he nodded numbly, grasping the mirror she held out to him with stiff fingers.

“Just return it to a Nurse when you are finished. I must go home now, but you are in good hands, and I will return in the morning.”

“Thank you, Healer A’isha.”

“It is my pleasure, Professor Severus.”

He forced his creaky legs to stand so that he could return her bow. Once he had gained his feet, he paced the alcove, loosening his limbs and avoiding the calls that he knew he had to make. He allowed himself five minutes of procrastination, then he turned the mirror over in his hands.

A wizard with bright eyes and a voice too cheerful for the witching hour appeared in the glass. “Good evening, sir. Where can I direct your call?”

“Mr Aaron Lee, number 76, MACUSA Embassy, London.”

*****

“{I think she looks worse now than when we brought her here,}” Catalina said darkly.

“{I don’t recall asking for your opinion,}” Severus retorted, privately agreeing with the Romanian’s assessment.

The three of them were alone at last in a cramped, windowless, but mercifully private room in Jude the Unfortunate’s Ward for Hopeless Cases. In addition to the poisoning from the extra Strengthening Solution and the physical damage to Miranda’s body, the căpcăuns contained a venom in their claws that was spreading a slow, deadly infection throughout her system. Add to that the Stasis Potion which, while it was working for her, was also, in some ways, working against the Healers, it was anyone’s guess as to whether or not she would ultimately pull through.

Severus was pacing the paltry length of the sterile space, dodging chairs not nearly as comfortable as the ones in the alcove. His attention was divided between staring at the charmed etching on the wall that claimed Miranda was still breathing; and staring at the body on the narrow bed that was so still he hardly believed that the etching was correct. Miranda was laid out as for the undertaker, as pale and motionless as a marble gisant waiting to grace a tomb. She was clean though; someone had washed away the blood and sweat and dirt. The wounds were staunched and dressed where required. Her caretakers had even taken the trouble to comb her hair and plait it into a shining braid that snaked over her shoulder. She looked like the storied princess, patiently awaiting the live-giving kiss.

Unfortunately, he was not that kind of a prince, and this was not a fairy tale.

Around two in the morning, according to the miniature astronomical clock above the door, Rachel Lee joined the somber trio. She came bearing a pair of bento boxes and a thermos of hot tea, and she would not be satisfied until both Catalina and Severus were crammed into the chairs, balancing the offerings on their knees. Catalina dug in immediately, but Severus picked at the miso salmon and the rice, until Rachel cajoled him into trying the cucumber salad. The tanginess of the vinegar married with the depth of the sesame oil coaxed his dormant tastebuds to wakefulness, and he found he had more than enough room to demolish the whole of the dish and wish there were more.

“{I can’t stay long, Maggie is waking up constantly to nurse these days. Growth spurt, I think,} Rachel said in ponderous, but intelligible Romanian.

Severus cocked an eyebrow at the American witch. “{Rachel. You didn’t tell me you spoke Romanian.}”

She winked at him. “{You didn’t ask. I picked it up when I was procrastinating translating all those potion texts. Why don’t you both come back and sleep for a while? We have loads of room in our flat.}”

Catalina’s exhausted eyes brightened at the mention of a bed. “{But only if it will not be any trouble,}” she stipulated wearily.

“{No trouble at all,}” Rachel insisted. “Well, Severus? Won’t you come too?"

“No, I thank you. I want to be here when Aaron arrives with Miranda’s parents.” He did not, in point of fact, want to be there when Miranda’s parents arrived, but he felt that he owed them his presence, even though he doubted they would return the sentiment.

“I understand, and it’s a standing offer. Anytime you want to drop in, day or night, no warning necessary.”

She collected the dishes and left him with a MACUSA eagle that would gain him admittance to the Embassy. Catalina trailed after her, yawning. He shifted in the chair, but every position was equally uncomfortable. Eventually his legs fell asleep, and he sat, staring at Miranda over his steepled fingers, wandering in and out of a doze as the minutes ticked away.

Mercury was halfway across the painted sky on the clock, and Severus’s sleepy brain registered it was nearly dawn, when the door opened again. Aaron, almost unrecognizable without his carefree grin, led a pair of Muggles into the hushed room, and Severus rose stiffly to his feet with all the eagerness of a man facing the gibbet. Miranda’s father was a barrel-chested man, nearly as tall as Aaron, with piercing blue eyes and a neatly trimmed, hoary beard. Her mother was a willowy woman, her dark hair peppered with silver, her grey eyes the mirror of Miranda’s and brimming with tears.

“Conor, Monica, this is Severus Snape, the fella I told you about,” Aaron said, breaking the silence. “Severus, Conor and Monica Rose.”

Now that he was facing Miranda’s parents, pinned by Conor’s suspicious glare and Monica’s gaunt sorrow, Severus wished he had taken Rachel up on her offer of respite. What a damned, sentimental idiot he was to think he should be here at a time like this. What was he even supposed to say to these Muggles? So nice to meet you Mr Rose, I’m the one who’s been fornicating with your daughter for the last year or so. Mrs Rose, how enchanting to finally make your acquaintance. I am a great admirer of your embroidery work, especially the piece gracing the wall of your daughter’s bedroom, with which I am intimately familiar.

In the end, when Mr Rose crushed his hand in an iron grip, he simply muttered, “Good morning Mr Rose. I am sorry we did not meet under better circumstances.”

Conor pumped his hand once and released him. “So am I, son. So am I.”

Severus bristled at the epithet ‘son,' but bit his tongue. Conor had obviously not meant it as a compliment, and in any case, he had already moved past Severus and drawn up a chair to sit at his daughter’s shoulder.

Monica held out her hand to him in a polished, but distracted greeting.

“Professor Snape, we’re glad to meet you. From what Aaron was telling us, we have you to thank that Miranda is still among the living,” she said warmly, but her eyes kept darting between his face and her daughter’s body.

Her gratitude made him feel worse than Conor’s spite ever could have accomplished. “I’ve done nothing to deserve your thanks, madam.”

She neither confirmed nor denied his statement, and he let go of her hand in order to place a chair for her by Miranda’s side. She slipped into it, and brushed a stray lock back from her daughter’s bruised face. Aaron took the final chair, and Severus backed away as far as the room would allow, feeling as unwelcome as Actaeon in Diana’s wood. He wouldn’t put it past Conor to turn and rend him if the opportunity presented itself.

“I don’t know, Conor,” Monica said in a strained voice after she’d examined the state of her child. “She looks better than she did after that time with the Jersey Devils. Remember? It took the Healers a week to set her straight and we still had to get Father Donnelly to exorcise her.”

Conor glanced up at his wife, and a boyish smile broke across his face, making him appear years younger. “You might be right, Butterfly. Do you remember that, Aaron?”

Aaron let out a low whistle. “Sure do, Conor. The Tin-Hat Brigade was busy for a month, writing copy for the tabloids, trying to convince the No-Majs that the whole shebang was a result of fumes from a putrid cranberry bog.” He gave a jaw-splitting yawn. “She’ll pull through. She’s too tough to die.”

“Don’t I know it. Takes after her Ma.”

“You’ve got the eagle I gave you?”

“Yessir.”

“Good. The welcome witch’ll be able to call an escort for you when you’re ready for a break. Rachel’ll be around later this morning, and I’ll be back after work.”

“Thank you Aaron, for everything,” Monica said.

“No trouble at all. I’ll see you soon.”

The room seemed smaller after Aaron had taken his leave, rather than more spacious. Severus was painfully aware of the awkwardness of the situation and, much as he was loathe to leave Miranda’s side, he was becoming more certain by the second that his presence was not at all desired by her progenitors. With a sick heart, he slunk towards the door, Bellerophon repulsed for having dared to sully paradise.

He was in the hallway when Monica spoke his name; but he pulled the door shut after him, pretending not to hear.

He would rather wander the world blind and broken by his own decision than give the gods the pleasure of casting him out.

*****

On Tuesday the Healers decided to risk administering the first round of antidotes to the struggling patient. That night, Miranda was feverish, tossing and muttering nonsense; still unaware of her surroundings. In the small hours of the morning, she finally settled into a quieter sleep; although her face was still flushed and her breathing rapid and shallow. Monica dozed, feet tucked up on her chair and her chin resting on her knees; Conor sat, busily whittling with a large pocket knife, letting the scraps of wood fall heedlessly to the floor; and Severus paced, determined to wear a track in the tile beneath his feet. He had not bothered to enquire if the Roses desired his presence at their daughter’s sickbed, and he had come into the room, both this evening and the one previous, prepared to insist on his entitlement to be there. He had a list of reasons, carefully curated and impeccably logical; not one of them stooping to the baseness of feeble-minded emotion. Neither of his antagonists condescended to question him, and while Monica was unwaveringly polite, Conor's adroit blend of silence and pointed observation communicated his opinion of his daughter’s paramour with perfect clarity.

“Miranda never mentioned you,” Conor said matter-of-factly without looking up from his creation.

Although he had thought his armor impervious to slights, Severus was taken aback by how much that revelation stung him.

“That does not surprise me,” he replied evenly.

“Aaron mentioned you’re wrapped up in some dodgy shit over here.”

“That is not untrue.”

“Said you’re head-over-heels stupid for my girl, but that nobody’s supposed to know.”

Severus was going to hex that American blabbermouth at the first available opportunity. “Aaron talks too damned much.”

“He does, don’t he?”

Conor let that comment hang in the air for a while and continued his work; slowly transforming the smooth wood into a trim little sparrow. Severus resumed his pacing, dividing his attention between crafting an appropriately acrid diatribe with which to revenge himself on Aaron Lee, and berating himself for the mistake of giving the man that much information in the first place.

At last Conor spoke again, and his voice was soft, unmarred by the edge of hostility that had been present in it up to now.

“You know, I’ve always been proud of Miranda. Couldn’t ask for a tougher, smarter girl. And sweet too. Sweeter than she ought to be. But damn if she don’t scare the shit out of me something regular. I suppose every father comes to the understanding that he can’t protect his children, ‘specially once they’re grown. But most fathers don’t have to watch their girls get cut to pieces by things that ain’t supposed to exist except in nightmares or Hell. Humbles a man.”

“Most unfortunate.”

“Eh, a man has to be humbled now and then. It ain’t good to have too much pride, makes your head soft.” He looked up from his whittling finally, and his eyes had the twinkle in them that Severus had only witnessed when Conor was talking to those in his favor. “What I’m saying is, I’m glad that she’s got you at her back. Even if you are stuffed shirt Englishman.”

It was the most flattering insult Severus had ever received, and he was embarrassed at how much it soothed his troubled heart. “I take it you expect me to thank you for that.”

“Nah. I expect you to sit down and play a round of Rummy with me. That pacing’s driving me nuts.”

*****

By the end of the week, the Healers were cautiously hopeful that Miranda would recover. The balancing act continued between the spells and potions she required, and the amount of stress her damaged body could stand; but the scales seemed to have tipped decidedly in her favor. Severus found that he was firmly ensconced in the strange little coterie of her family and friends; and—stranger still—he found that he was pleased to have been accepted into it. His days had settled into a grueling, but satisfactory, routine which allowed him to spend most of his unscheduled time in Miranda’s hospital room. He did yield to Monica’s insistence that they take a walk in the early evenings, and he did consent to eat whatever food Rachel foisted on him. But he drew the line at actually retiring to the Lees’ flat to sleep, preferring to catch what rest he could at Miranda’s bedside, or in his office between classes.

On Saturday evening, the entire party conspired to drag him away to the Embassy for dinner. Rachel had prepared a feast of sushi, sukiyaki, pickles, and sliced mango. Intoxicated by the mutual good-will, and one glass too many of sake, he had relented to Rachel’s gentle commands that he lie down after dinner for a catnap. When he opened his eyes several hours later and stumbled into the darkened kitchen, he cursed to himself that he’d let so much time slip through his fingers. With clumsy hands he lit the lamps and put the kettle on for tea, flinching at every clang and clatter that he made. He did manage to wrestle both the tea leaves and the water into the pot without breaking anything or burning himself by the time Catalina slipped into the flat.

“{Good evening, Severus,}” she said, looking amused by his state. “{It is good that you finally slept. We were becoming worried for your sanity.}”

“{A concern I share every day, considering the company I keep,}” he quipped. But the nap had done him good—though he’d never admit to it. “{How is she?}”

“{The same. The Healers say it is only a matter of time before she wakes up, and that then they will have a better idea of how long it will take for her to recover.}”

He poured them both a cup of tea and they gathered companionably at the table to partake of it. “{Will you be returning home soon?}” he asked.

“{Yes. I want to stay until she wakes if I can. But I cannot put off going home for much longer. Gabi is waiting for me.}” Her brow furrowed at the mention of her brother, and she hastily turned the subject. “{Before I go, I would like to meet your son, if opportunity permits.}”

Severus choked on the tea he was attempting to drink. “{Pardon me? I do not have a son.}”

“{I…you don’t?}” Catalina eyed him dubiously. “{Are you certain of that?}”

The memory of the appalling conversation he’d had with Miranda in this very flat sprang to mind and he shook his hair forward to ensure that his ears were concealed. “{Quite.}”

“{Oh. Well. Never mind then.}” She took a prim sip. “{Is English weather always so dismal this time of year?}”

“{Catalina,}” he said in as stern a tone as he could manage in another language. “{Why were you under the impression that I had a son?}”

Her cheeks colored and she pursed her lips. “{I was making assumptions where I shouldn’t have. I knew that Miranda had a son and I thought that her child would naturally be yours as well. Pardon me for the mistake and for prying.}”

Had the lights in this room always been so blinding? And why had he suddenly forgotten how to breathe? Quick, fool, pull yourself together and get whatever information you can out of her.

“{How do you know about Miranda’s son? It’s not something she talks about with most people.}” Like her lover, for instance.

Catalina gestured like an angry bird. “{We talked about it on the mountaintop when we were waiting for the Sânziene. I already knew she was a mother because Doamna Lupul made it a stipulation that she be one to participate in the competition. I was exempt from that requirement because my brother was one of the lost children, but Doamna Lupul said that a mother would have true sympathy for the families who had lost their sons and daughters, and so could be trusted with competing, even though she was a foreigner.}”

“{Naturally.}” It took every ounce of restraint to hold his tongue in the hopes that she would continue and reveal whatever else she knew.

The silence discomposed her and he was rewarded. “{She said his name is Isaac and he’s eleven this summer. I assume he is in America?}”

“{Where else would he be?}” Merlin, if he were that old he must be David Clearwater’s progeny. He would be at Ilvermorny by now. How could she never have mentioned him?

Catalina hastily finished her cup and excused herself to bed, but Severus hardly noticed her going. He let his tea go cold and left it sitting on the table as he wandered out into the night towards the hospital. But when he reached Purge and Dowse, Ltd, he kept walking, venting his frustration on an empty beer can that he hexed up the deserted street as he fumed.

A son. David Clearwater’s son. And she’d never told him—never even hinted—insisted she couldn’t have children at all. But then, he’d never thought to ask the devious woman if she already had children, had he? None of it made any sense to him. No, that wasn’t true. Some of it did make sense; and as the threads wove together, he did not like the picture they made in the least. But he was a logical man; a sensible man; and so he did what any man of his ilk would do, and made a list.

Item the first; Miranda had a life that he knew nothing about; moreover, it was a life with which she wanted him to have nothing to do.

Item the second; Miranda was pleased enough with his services as a companion and a lover that she had spoken favorably of her return to Britain following her Romanian misadventure. As far as he knew, she had no immediate plans to return to America.

Item the third; Miranda was a capricious witch, and he would not be at all surprised if one day she left him with no warning whatsoever.

Item the fourth; she had beguiled him to the point that, if he were not already in love with Lily Evans, he would think that he harbored the traitorous emotion for her instead.

Item the fifth; he had even started to hope that one day—in some far off nebulous time that would surely never come to pass because he would be dead before it could—they would make a home together with a stone cottage and a potions room and a dueling hall and a garden in the back (not that he’d imagined it in any sort of depth, thank you very much).

Item the sixth; She obviously was making no such plans. How could she wish to make a future with someone when she could not even be bothered to tell him such pertinent information as the fact that she had a bloody child back home that called her Mama?

Item the seventh; if he were wise, he would end this whole incautious affair immediately. It was an irresponsible whim and indulging it—especially since she obviously did not suffer the same doltish regard for him—was moronic at best.

Item the eighth; Hecate’s Withered Tit, he did love her. Thank Merlin he’d never been stupid enough to say so.

Item the ninth; he was a damned idiot.

He slashed the can with a savage hex and it skittered through a broken grate into the sewer. His breath came in pants and he raked his fingers through his hair, as though he might plough some sense into his brain. The moon was his only witness; and he thought that he could see the cold goddess’s face; heartlessly taunting him from her chariot on high.

*****

Something was resting on Miranda’s chest. Something warm and comfortable. She wanted to wrap her arms around it and keep it there, but she couldn’t seem to move them. She also wanted to scratch her nose; the itch there was driving her crazy. But there was no sense in fretting about things she couldn’t manage, so she just floated along in this dreamy limbo; certain that at some point she would be directed what to do next. She knew she was dead. And since she wasn’t in torment, she assumed that she’d avoided Hell. Maybe this was Purgatory, and soon she’d be handed her load to carry up the mountain where she would sing the praises of God with her fellows on the climb to Heaven.

Gradually a chill seeped into her bones, and the pressure on her chest became crushingly burdensome. She struggled to breathe against it, and wondered why she bothered. If she was dead, what use was oxygen? But struggle she did, and with every pant, another part of her body joined the chorus of pain. Her head hurt. Her legs hurt. Her stomach hurt. Her chest hurt. Good Lord, even her fingernails and her hair hurt.

Maybe she was in Hell after all.

There was a scraping noise in the world outside her body, and for a sick moment she thought it was a demon preparing a blade to vivisect her like she’d seen in a picture once as a child. She thought she’d been shriven before she’d made that final quest, but maybe it hadn’t taken.

Deciding it was better to see the evil threatening her than imagine what might be there, she bravely pried her eyes open. At first everything was a confused blur of light and shadows, but as she ponderously blinked, her vision cleared.

“You look like hell, Pixie,” said a voice that was almost as comfortable as the weight she’d left behind.

She peeled open her dry, cracking lips and mustered a smile at the sight of her dear Papa. “You should see the other guy.”

“I’ll bet you handed those mongrels their asses.” He leaned down to kiss her, and his whiskers tickled her cheek. “It’s good to see you, girl.”

“Where’s Mama?”

“I’m here, darling.” Her mother came into view next, kissing her with cool, soothing lips. “You gave us a scare.”

She tried to lift her arms to embrace her parents, but they were too heavy. “Why can’t I move?”

“You’ve been mostly dead for a week now. The Healers are pretty sure you’ll be right as rain eventually, but it’s going to take time,” Conor reassured her.

She should have been happy. Hell—she’d cheated Death—she should have been ecstatic. But instead she felt like an abandoned shell; like a stranded traveler who’d missed the last train; like the lame boy who had hobbled along after the pied piper only to be shut out of paradise.

“Mira, are you alright?” Monica’s discerning eyes were searching her face with concern. It would frighten them to know that their daughter was lying there wishing she were dead. They mustn’t know. She wouldn’t let them know.

“I mean, all things considered, I’m peachy.” She tried to smile for them and doubted she managed. “How long have I been here?”

“Severus brought you here a week ago tomorrow,” Conor said with an ease that startled her.

“Severus? When did you meet him? And when did you get to be on a first name basis with him? He’s usually a stick in the mud.”

Her parents exchanged a knowing look over her head, the kind that usually made her want to roll her eyes in irritation. Unfortunately, her eyes hurt too much to roll at the moment.

“What can I say, Pixie, we bonded over our mutual terror that you were going to kick it.” Conor laughed. “I’m not denying that he’s a stuffed shirt, but the man’s crazy for you, that’s for sure.”

Miranda no longer felt the pressure on her chest—she felt like she was in free-fall. She hadn’t said anything stupid had she? She did remember being emotional when Severus had found her dying in her cabin, but she hadn’t thought she’d actually said anything about it. Hadn’t he stopped her before she’d passed the point of no return? God she hoped so.

“I don’t know about that,” she protested weakly, but the door opened, and her admirer swept into the room, commanding everyone’s attention.

He looked angry, but that was usual. Her parents greeted him like an old friend, which was strange to witness, but not unusual for them. Her parents had a way of befriending even the most standoffish persons. In a whirl of hand-shaking and congratulations, her parents tactfully excused themselves to the tea room, and before she could speak a word to defend herself, she was alone with him.

When he turned to her, he was a man at war with himself, and she could see the battle playing out in his eyes. The ever-present pique yielded to something softer, and while she told herself it was melancholy or fatigue that effected the change; she suspected it was something else that she did not wish to see.

“It is as I said,” he observed, “More lives than a cat.”

“I’m durable. It’s one of my more useful qualities.”

He smirked at her, burying his heart beneath his sardonic mask. But his lips trembled on hers when he kissed her, and she could taste the salt of his tears. She tilted her head back, taking what he offered, and refusing to think about the implications.

He did not linger there, but seated himself next to her bed and retrieved a book from the folds of his robe.

“As I recall, the only sure way to keep you in bed when you are convalescing is to read to you constantly.”

Her relief at the realization that she would not have to make conversation was palpable. She was far too exhausted to know what to say.

“You remember right. Although I don’t think I could move now even if the room were on fire.”

That softness flickered across his face again, and he reached out to grasp her hand with his.

“Soon, my Barbarian. Soon.”

*****

He was a genius, if he did say so himself.

When he’d first volunteered to superintend Miranda’s recovery, he hadn’t been certain he could manage the necessary alterations to his quarters that the situation required, but it had all come off without a hitch. The Extension Charm had worked perfectly, enlarging the interior of his rooms without requiring him to go about the drudgery of moving any of his books. There was space enough for Miranda’s turntable, for her pictures, for her books and sundries. He’d selected the best of her nieces’ and nephews’ drawings to arrange on the wall by her side of the bed, and he’d widened his armoire for her clothing. The pièces de résistance were the windows. Each room now sported windows running from floor to ceiling; charmed so magnificently that one could open them wide to let in a magical breeze and smell the air outside. It had taken a fair amount of trouble but, as he expected her sojourn in his rooms to be a lengthy one, he wanted her to be comfortable.

He set himself to the pleasant task of arranging her books on an empty bookcase, sorting them by subject and author as he did. If he were honest, he would admit that he harbored the foolish desire for her stay to be indefinite. But he was practical enough to realize that she would not wish for it to be so. Two weeks at St. Mungo’s and she was already chaffing; already longing to fly. He would keep her here for as long as he could, but in the end, he knew that she would leave him behind.

When he had been a child, he had learned to live on scraps. Scraps of food. Scraps of attention. Scraps of love. He had hoarded each paltry piece and squeezed as much good out of it as his tiny hands could muster, like a man squeezing blood from the proverbial stone. It hadn’t been enough, but he hadn’t had a choice. As a man, he had yet to come to a place where he truly had a choice. For fettered as he was by his vows to Lily, Albus, and the Dark Lord, how could he possibly be free?

Miranda was a better woman than he deserved, and even her trifling regard was preferable to being alone. He knew that, when she left, it would be worse than if he had never met her at all. But he also knew that, although the scraps of affection she let carelessly fall from her fingers would not satiate him, he would accept those scraps like priceless pearls and store them up against the black day when she finally left him for good.

It wasn’t what he wanted, but it would have to do.

*****

By the beginning of November, her parents and Catalina had returned to their respective homes, and Miranda had been released to Severus’s care. She had a daily routine of disgusting potions to take, and painful exercises, both physical and magical to perform; as well as a diet to follow that was designed with more strength-building than palate-pleasing in mind. Severus was a cruel task-master, and she was beginning to see the side of him that his students whispered about behind his back. But he also touched her with a tenderness that broke her heart, and fretted around her like a worried hen caring for its brood.

One Friday evening they sat in front of the fire while the rain pattered on the enchanted windows, echoing the mournful storm outside. He was at his desk, marking a pile of essays and muttering to himself about the idiocy of his students. She was curled up on the sofa, whittling away at a chessman for her nephew Brendan. Although she was going out of her mind from her confinement, she was trying to embrace the sedentary time as an opportunity to renew her acquaintance with the almost-forgotten hobby. If she were diligent, she might be able to make a present for each of her nieces and nephews by Christmas.

Severus threw down his quill and rubbed his temples. “Enough. If I read one more word of this rubbish tonight I shall go mad.”

“Encouraging words from their teacher.”

“It is not my fault that these dunderheads have had a string of incompetent teachers before me. Not only do I have the students’ natural stupidity to contend with, but I must repair all of the mistakes made by their previous so-called instructors as well.”

“I have every confidence that you will succeed, or die trying. You’re as tenacious as a pit bull when you get your teeth into something.”

“Your words of praise never fail to overwhelm me.”

He retrieved a stack of books from his shelf and deposited them in her lap.

“What’s this?” she asked, curiously examining the covers.

“Miss Lovegood gave them to me after class today. She said she used to read them when she was ill and she thought you would enjoy them.”

She opened the top book and smiled to see the opening of the first story. “ ‘To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name.’ Did you ever read these?”

“I?” he said, feigning indignation. “I, muddle my brain with such common twaddle? Surely you jest.”

“Well if you haven’t, you should. A little light reading is good for the soul. How did she know I was down here anyway?”

He sat down on the sofa and took her feet in his lap, rubbing his fingers over them in practiced circles until she sighed and sank back on the pillows; content.

“Ah, that. She claims that the thestrals told her.”

“The thestrals? Does she talk to them often?”

“Only once a week when they have tea.”

“Tea?” Miranda laughed merrily at the idea. “I can see her doing that. Have you been to this exclusive tea?”

He cleared his throat and she could see the pink tinging his ears. “Certainly not.”

“Don’t you lie to me, you have!”

“I will not dignify that with an answer.”

“Do you think she’d let me come along?”

“Of course she would, she delights in the ridiculous. And I’ll have you know…”

His words ended in a hiss and he dropped her foot like he’d been burned. His playful mood turned instantly serious, and he got up without a word to fetch his cloak and mask. She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. She hated to see him this way. Hated to watch him go into the lion’s den alone. But she tried to keep her anxiety to herself. He needed all his wits about him, not the burden of a silly woman worrying for him at home.

“Tell the Dark Lord I said hello.”

“I think that I shall not say that, if it is all the same to you.”

He kissed her heartfully and she gave him a careless smile. Then he traced her cheek with his finger and left without saying goodbye. Neither of them ever said goodbye. It was a good luck charm; as though by refusing to acknowledge the parting they could ensure the return of the one who had gone.

She stretched like a cat and braced herself on the back of the sofa to complete the arduous task of getting up. Although the silence in these rooms never bothered her during the day, at night it pressed in on her with bony fingers; like a boogie man that only crept out from under the bed when the parents were asleep. Her turntable was nestled between two of the bookshelves, and her records were lined up neatly close at hand. She pulled one out and set it spinning, letting the rich, mellow voice cover her fears.

At the dark end of the street, That’s where we always meet…

The renovations to Severus’s quarters were beautiful. They must have taken him days to complete. He’d brought all of her favorite things to keep her company while she healed. He showed her every day by his actions how much he cared for her. And though he still often adopted the role of the cold, callous Englishman, he was letting her glimpse the man underneath the facade with such casualness that she wondered if he was even aware that he was doing it.

She loved him, she couldn’t lie to herself about that. But she was never, ever going to tell him. There was simply too much standing in the way.

A pile of wood scraps from her whittling had accumulated on the floor by the sofa, glinting in the light of the fire. She knelt down to scoop them up, even though bending that far made her body scream in protest. She welcomed the pain, as though she could expiate her failures with it. When she had pushed herself up to her feet again, she swayed unsteadily, then limped across the stones to the fireplace, and cast the scraps into the flames.

They sparked, and danced, and crumbled to ash, like the dross of obliterated dreams.

*****

End Notes:

The Rosetta Stone is a charmed translation aid that works about as well as google translate.

Gisant: a recumbent effigy for a tomb, representing the deceased.

Jersey Devils are something like wyverns.

Miranda is quoting from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s story, A Scandal in Bohemia.

The song she is listening to is At the Dark End of the Street by James Carr.

This story is the first of a trilogy. I’ll post chapter 1 of book two, libera nos a malo, by the end of the week.

As always—thank you for reading!

*****

Moonlight Masterpost+

<< Chapter Twenty-five+

libera nos a malo masterpost+

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inkribbon796 · 4 years ago

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Like a House of Cards Ch. 9: Magic and Might

Summary: The heroes and villains learn more about the troubling future.

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13

Dark was coming to, slowly, with a pounding headache. A headache that was made worse because two people were literally screaming directly over him.

Wilford and Brody had gotten into a bit of a disagreement. Brody had gotten upset that Dark was just lying on a cold table and had gone looking for a pillow or some kind of cushion. But Wilford used the Void to grab what he wanted before Brody could take two steps to leave the room. That caused a light argument about how Wilford wouldn’t have done anything if Brody hadn’t spoken up. Which Wil immediately argued that was not the case. And that led to the louder argument that had woken Dark in the first place.

“Mhmmm!” Dark complained, his aura not quite strong enough to lash out at them without worsening his migraine. He was a little dazed as the memories of before he’d been hit hadn’t come back yet.

“Great, yeh fookin’ woke ‘im up,”[1] Brody complained.

“I woke him up?” Wil argued heatedly. “The absolute nerve!”

Nestor had his head in his hands, “Fuck, I forgot that they do this when we put them together.”

“Wil?” Dark called out, his aura naturally tugging Wil closer.

Wilford instantly turned to go and tend to Dark, Brody looked away and sighed in defeat, taking a seat close by. “Yes, my Darkling?”

Dark grabbed Wilford and pulled him close, Wil realized he was shaking. Brody looked over, noticed the shaking and gripped his knees as he forced himself to sit there.

“My sweet licorice,” Wil frowned as he didn’t try to escape or wriggle free from the Entity. “What’s wrong?”

“You almost died,” Dark told Wil, who looked very confused.

“My Darkling, death is—” Wil chuckled, running a hand through Dark’s hair.

Dark grabbed his hand, “No, Wil, that blast would have killed you. I barely survived. You don’t have enough aura to survive an attack like that.”

Wilford thought on that, “Well even if I did die, I would haunt you. Here let me—”

Wil tried to pull away, but Dark held him in a vice grip. Panic flooded the Entity’s mind.

“No! I can’t let you be attacked by something like that,” Dark ordered. “You can’t—”

Dark’s voice became choked and Wil leaned in to gently kiss his forehead.

“I’m not going anywhere my dear, I promise,” Wil smiled and Dark seemed to calm down a bit now that Wilford wasn’t pulling away again.

After a bit, Dark pulled himself up, and noticed everyone still in the room. He groaned and protectively curled his own aura around himself. He didn’t have enough aura at the moment to spare to make some sort of display of power. Which made him uneasy. Wil and his children were safe but who even knew how long he’d been out for. He had an image to uphold and he was wasting it sleeping on a desk of all things.

As the Entity’s thoughts were thinking of something that would help him look like he wasn’t about to fall apart, he felt aura tap towards his own and his cracked and battered soul was so eager for more aura to take that he grabbed it without thinking and felt like it was massaging the inside of his scalp. The feeling made Dark feel better almost immediately.

Dark’s migraine blissfully began to fade and he recognized the almost tangy sweet of Wil’s aura creeping towards his own. Dark thought it was weird but he was desperate for aura and trying not to show it maybe he could—

Wil’s aura aggressively shoved the first aura — Brody’s — off of Dark. The headache flared back into his senses and left Dark a little whiplashed.

“The hell was that? He was fookin’[2] calmin’[3] down!” Brody spat at Wilford.

Dark looked around the room in confusion before he saw Anti. The individual he initially assumed was the cause of the argument. But Anti wasn’t coming over and Wil and Brody were on either side of him. The glitch wasn’t even looking their way, he was just hovering over Henrik. The German doctor was with Iplier still tending to the Host’s and the Dealer’s eyes.

Nestor got in to pull Brody away before it got violent and Wil stood next to Dark who was soon distracted by Illinois and King who were trying to catch Dark up on what everyone had discussed while he was unconscious.

Ethan and Silver were going through the huge file of pictures and videos.

The former sidekick paused on a group shot of Dark sitting in his warehouse office with J.J, Brody, Nestor, and someone who looked a lot like Henrik just in suspenders and without his lab coat.

“Hey, I thought you guys said Henrik was dead?” Ethan asked.

“Henrik’s not in that picture, it’s—” Nestor told him, but looked at it again before doing a double take and snatching the screen back. “Oh shit! It is.”

Brody looked up, when Nestor walked over, “Hey Chase, this is Heinz’s last picture.”

“Huh,” Brody leaned to look at the screen. “This was the fourth right? Not the last time I saw him in the front, but definitely the last picture.”

“What happened ta[4] him?” Anti hissed. Now that Glitch Logan had been physically taken away from him he was far calmer, but he hovered protectively around Henrik.

“Well,” Brody began. “When the hunters were burnin’ Brighton down an’ I was runnin’ around trying ta help stop it, yah were tryin’ ta protect Kay an’ his kid from some ‘a the hunters. The fight almost killed yeh an’ Henrik agreed ta let yah hitch a ride until yeh got better. But yeh never left an’ after ten years yeh both became the Mortician.”[5]

Anti just stared at him in alarm.

“Same thing happened to Nate and Mare, it was just more traumatic for them,” Nestor told Anti, before immediately changing the subject back to the Mortician. “Morty’s alright, comes into town every Thursday to shoot the shit and show off his knife collection he got from you. I think Henrik might still be in there but it’s been ages since I could tell the difference. I think Dark can but I don’t ask him about what Mortician does and I have enough to do every day. Which is a shame.”

Anti came over and looked at the screen, uncertainty and a bit of unease in his eyes. There were some pictures of this . . . Anti didn’t know whether to call him a new demon or not. He had Henrik’s face and something in Anti’s long dead soul twisted a bit. He didn’t like the idea of Henrik with some other demon, even if it was some other version of himself.

Henrik, who was finished cleaning up the Dealer’s eyes walked over, “May I see?”

“No!” Anti tried to surge over to destroy the drive and the tablet it was in before Henrik could see it.

“Anti, don’t be fookin’[2] difficult, just let him see it,” Brody shouted at him. “If Brighton’s not burnin’ then Mort’s got no reason ta e’en exist.”[6]

“Anti!” Henrik, starting to shout at him in a mix of German and English as he stomped over and took the screen away to look at it.

“If somezing[7] involves me, zen[8] I deserve to know!” Henrik shouted at Anti.

Henrik studied the picture for a bit, curious and a little nervous about this future version of himself.

After a minute of seeing his own body moving in a way that was similar and alien all at the same time, he handed it back to Nestor as the group went through the videos. Chase saw some of the pictures taken of his future self talking to Dark in the mob boss’s office. Himself in a vest and button-up and what was obviously a real gun on his belt.

Everything about the photographic evidence making him uncomfortable.

As most of the heroes and villains were still in the meeting room they’d been originally brought to, Logan went down to the ground floor parking lot. His glitchy counterpart had to move there to help build whatever device he’d been working on. The Googles and Bing were helping him to assemble the machine parts that were being constructed and printed.

Roman hovered right next to him, apprehensive about if the glitch would attack or not. Janus was with him and the other Sides were hanging back within earshot.

“Are you able to talk and work at the same time?” Logan asked the computer.

The image glitched and the young demon was on the monitor, as if he was simply being recorded in another room. “Such is the wonder of automation. We have much to discuss.”

“We do,” Logan agreed, feeling nervous but tried his best to hide it. “You spoke of a Collider earlier. What is that?”

Schematics popped up on the screen for Logan to see and scroll through. It was some advanced laser or turbine.

“I have been working on this for the past three resets, when it became clear we and the Dealer had different end goals,” Glitch Logan announced. “It is a fusion of magic and technology powerful enough to cut through dimensional rifts.”

“What would be the purpose of such a device?” Logan asked, “you are from the future.”

The computer showed images of the generator that Logan’s drive and three Sides’ lockets had been in. “After our last resulting failure, I decided it was time to ensure the Core Sides’ survival so that was why I constructed my generator. Which, I had plans to use Anti as a power source. He was older than I am and 99% likely to survive with little more than some scraps against his soul. After a month or two he would have been fine.”

“Why were we in that generator?” Logan demanded.

“Well, after I would reclaim Anti,” Glitch Logan began, as if his answer would be oblivious, “I planned on using the excess energy to finish cracking the souls of every single Side. If that wasn’t enough to turn all of us into instant demons, nothing would.”

“You heinous monster!” Roman shouted. “More proof you are not who you say you are!”

“I would merely be finishing what Wilford’s soul splitter started,” Glitch Logan announced gleefully. “It is far easier to kill all of you as you now stand. I am trying to keep all of us alive. I do not care if I am liked or thanked for what I have done. My actions so far have led to not only your survival so far, but made Dark suspicious and guarded enough to save Wil.”

“So the mages and hunters you murdered were worth nothing but power to you!” Logan roared.

“Yes,” Glitch Logan admitted with no hesitation. “Their magic would have fueled the generator to ensure a successful merge, but now that Wilford is still alive the Host has agreed to use our Anomaly to fuel the generator instead. Meaning that Anti’s involvement will be completely unnecessary. I have already handed over the magical amulets I used to store their magic to the Host, Dark can keep them, he needs them more than I do at the moment.”

“Glad to know that sentient life will not be used for your personal gain,” Logan spat. Anti was his enemy, but he did not deserve to be turned into a living battery. None of the mages or hunters deserved to be turned into batteries.

“You have lost nothing, you would be prepared to roil in your own grief if I were not here!” Glitch Logan spat. “Roman and Virgil will not die, and Patton will not be hunted like an animal. I have saved them.”

Logan didn’t have an easy rebuttal.

“Maybe you have, but this is our future now,” Janus proclaimed, nudging himself protectively in front of Logan. “We will make of it what we will.”

The glitch demon chuckled, his screen version pushing up his glasses, “I suppose you will. I’d be more concerned if I wasn’t sure they were still in capable hands.”

Because it was a screen, it was unclear if Glitch Logan was looking at anyone in particular, but Logan felt it. As if he was being specially targeted.

“Why decide on the generator now, and not earlier?” Logan tried to move the conversation, Janus looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

“That was because I was so close last time,” Glitch Logan proclaimed. “The Host forced a reset, I didn’t know that he could do that without J.J but apparently the Anomaly is more powerful than I could have imagined if it granted him the ability to do so.”

“Why did he reset you, if things were going so well?” Logan asked.

“Hmmm,” the Glitch hummed. “Uncertain, but Chase went into the dome, it shrank into a smaller one and after five seconds we were standing at the same spot we always do when we are thrown back. Chase was crying and immediately he and I got into a fight with the Host. It was some nonsense about a doll and that the Host didn’t want to discuss him. All I know about this “doll” is that it had something to do with Dark. I can infer that Dark had some reaction and whatever the Anomaly made in that dome, it scared the Host.”

“Scared him, how?” Virgil asked, he’d been listening in and came over.

“Uncertain, but the results speak for themselves,” Glitch Logan smiled as a camera detached on a long cord to look at Virgil. “Come out from hiding, my sweet nightmare?”

“Get away from him,” Roman nudged himself in front of Virgil, drawing his sword.

Glitch Logan was smiling, “So full of life, I’m glad something is finally going right. Now if you all will excuse me, I have to ensure my future.”

Then his video turned off and the construction on the machine sped up.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Accessibility Translations

1. Great, you fucking woke him up

2. fucking

3. calming

4. to

5. When the hunters were burning Brighton down and I was running around trying to help stop it, you were trying to protect Kay and his kid from some of the hunters. The fight almost killed you and Henrik agreed to let you hitch a ride until you got better. But you never left and after ten years you both became the Mortician.

6. If Brighton’s not burnin’ then Mort’s got no reason ta e’en exist.

7. something

8. then

#Superhero AU #Masks and Maladies #footnotes #Darkiplier #Wilford Warfstache #Chase Brody #Antisepticeye #Henrik von Schneeplestein #Crankgameplays #J.J #Logan Sanders #Roman Sanders #Janus Sanders #darkstache #DarkAverage #Dark's not used to people flirting with him #confused Dark #Glitch Logan is a bit creepy

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dvp95 · 6 years ago

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quiet on widow’s peak (4)

pairing: dan howell/phil lester, pj liguori/sophie newton/chris kendall rating: teen & up tags: paranormal investigator, mystery, online friendship, slow burn, strangers to lovers, nonbinary character, trans character, background poly, phil does some buzzfeed unsolved shit and dan is a fan word count: 3.9k (this chapter), 13.5k (total) summary: Phil’s got a list of paranormal experiences a mile long that he likes to share with the world. Abandoned buildings, cemeteries, and ghost stories have always called his name, and a particular fan of his has a really, really good ghost story.

read this chapter on ao3 or here!

Phil did not invite Chris and Sophie to come to Rossendale with him. Not because he doesn't like spending time with them, but because he wouldn't know how to explain a situation to his parents that he doesn't even understand himself. To his knowledge, PJ also did not invite them.

"Change it," Chris whines from the backseat. He'd lost the scuffle against Phil to claim the front, and he's been complaining about Phil's music choices for half the trip so far in retaliation.

"You like McFly," Phil huffs, continuing his search for an album that won't elicit a loud sigh from behind him.

"That's fucking slander, is what that is. You hear that, PJ?"

"Oh, I hear you both," PJ says, flat. "Loud and clear."

They've only been driving for probably forty minutes and PJ already looks like he wants to kick them all out of his car. Phil doesn't exactly blame him, although he resents being lumped in with Chris in the 'annoying background noise' category.

He has no idea how they've managed to invite themselves along, but Phil was too polite and PJ was too smitten to tell them off when they came out to the car with their bags.

So, this is a group activity now. Phil's parents had been thrilled to hear it when he texted them the updated situation - they're taking it as a sign that Phil has a motley crew of good friends again, like he'd had as a kid and again in uni. He supposes that they're not wrong, exactly, but he's definitely anxious about introducing them to Chris.

"I like this song," Sophie says, mild, and Chris closes his mouth.

"Fine, this one is alright," he says begrudgingly. Phil glances at them in the rearview - Sophie is patting Chris' knee and giving him the sort of smile that always makes Phil feel like he shouldn't be present. He looks back down at his phone so he doesn't have to sit with that feeling too long.

PJ turns up the volume, probably to curb any more bickering before he has to toss them all out of his car, and Phil tries to just lose himself in the music for a little bit.

His friends sing along at varying levels of obnoxiousness and Phil tries not to keep opening the Tumblr app to see if someone has messaged him. Well, someone specific. I'm going north today!, is the last message sent between them, and Phil is still waiting for Winnie to offer to meet up or something.

After their non-starter interview, Phil and Winnie kept missing each other's free time to finish it over Skype. Phil kind of wants to hear more from them before he checks it out himself, but that's not looking likely at this point, especially if he's lugging his housemates along with him all weekend.

Phil opens a puzzle game on his phone and lets the mostly-mindless swiping distract him. It's a long drive up to Rossendale, and the last thing Phil wants is to be left alone with his thoughts.

Phil's parents love having guests round almost as much as they love to have him home, so Phil isn't at all surprised to walk in and smell a roast cooking. He expects that treats will be made as soon as the oven is free, because that's what his mum is like.

"Hello," Phil calls into the house, kicking off his shoes. His friends follow his lead - PJ puts his boots carefully on the mat that Phil didn't bother aiming for, and Sophie struggles with a particularly stubborn knot in her laces - as he hangs up his jacket. "Mum? Dad?"

"Child," his mum greets him happily, appearing in the entry to the kitchen and making grabby hands at him until he envelops her in a hug.

"Missed you," Phil tells her, quiet enough that his friends won't hear to make fun of him.

"Oh, I missed you," she says, giving him a kiss on the side of his face. She turns her beaming smile onto his housemates, who all pause in what they're doing like a frozen tableau. It's a little funny. "More children! Hello! I'm Kathryn, it's so nice to meet you. And so nice to see you again, PJ," she adds in that somewhat pointed voice that Phil hates so very much.

"Hello, Kath," PJ says, grinning wide. He gives her a hug, too. Chris holds out his hand for her to shake when she's done squeezing the life out of PJ, but Kath will have none of it.

"Don't be silly," she says, wrapping her arms tight around Chris' waist with a laugh. "We hug in this family."

"Really?" Chris asks, and the look he gives Phil is almost more embarrassing than if he'd asked 'so why isn't your son a hugger?' out loud. "Something smells absolutely delicious, Kathryn. Is that you, or is supper cooking?"

Phil stops himself from groaning out loud, but barely. He probably shouldn't be surprised at all that Chris' cheeky, flirtatious charm extends to mothers as well. Kath laughs and smacks lightly at Chris' chest before she turns to Sophie.

Skilled at making people feel comfortable in four seconds flat, Kath chatters away about supper and how lovely Sophie's curls are and how long it's been since she's seen Phil, did they know how long it's been? She herds them all into the kitchen like they're cattle and insists that Phil take their things upstairs while she puts the kettle on.

"Er, alright," Phil says, looking at the small collection of bags that they'd brought with them. Their clothes and toiletries are all there, of course, but so is all the filming and hunting equipment. He'll have to make at least two trips.

"Your father got the guest room and Martyn's room all set up before he went out," she tells him, either not noticing or ignoring his internal struggle.

Oh, wonderful. Phil had somehow forgotten about the part where they had three beds for four of them. He's positive that his housemates won't mind sharing with each other, but now he's been tasked with the anxiety-inducing puzzle of whose bags to put where.

"Okay," Phil says again, even though they've moved on to talking about their favourite kinds of cakes so that Kath can wow them all with her skills. He tries to catch PJ's eye, but PJ is too wrapped up in a conversation about strawberries to notice.

Alright, well. Phil grabs as many bags as he can carry and brings them upstairs, feeling some tension deep inside him get a little tighter as he notices that most of their personal effects are packed away, either in storage or already on the island, and his childhood home looks more like a show home than he's comfortable with. The stairs only creak a little under his weight, nothing like the old house in Brighton, but Phil still feels unsettled.

In the end, he throws PJ and Sophie in the guest room. It's a selfish move more than anything, because he's brought PJ for enough visits to be familiar with the way his parents look at each other every time PJ teases him.

They don't ask. They're not the type of people to pry, and Phil isn't the type of people to offer information unprompted. They've all been in this limbo for years where Phil doesn't tell them that he likes boys and they don't outright question if PJ is just a friend and, frankly, Phil is tired of it. So, Chris can sleep alone.

He takes his own bags up last, because he knows that stepping into his bedroom and seeing all the personality stripped from it is going to make him feel things he isn’t prepared to feel. Phil takes a deep breath before he goes inside, and releases it shakily as he drops his things on the floor.

The beige carpet is almost mocking him, telling him that it's time to grow up, and Phil leaves the room as fast as he can.

God it is so hard to get anything done here. Sorry to complain at you randomly but like... I forgot how hard it is to work when my parents are hovering and asking a million questions lmao

Winnie still hasn't responded to Phil's early morning message, but the frustration of his parents distracting him and his friends from their work is starting to get to him. Chris has completely charmed them, somehow, and both Sophie and PJ are too polite to put headphones on and ignore them the way Phil has decided to.

Surprisingly, he gets a reply right away: omg how have i never considered the fact that you had to tell your parents you wanted to hunt ghosts for a living thats so fucking funny also that sucks i live in a house full of students and i always have to go to the coffee shop to work on essays and shit

There's nothing good like that where my parents live. Your coffee place is in the city, right?

“No! He didn’t!” Chris is laughing, somewhere in the living room, and Phil has to turn up the white noise on his headphones. The idea of his parents and housemates trading embarrassing stories about him while he's holed up at the table with audio files he hates makes him itch.

yeah, Winnie says. Phil is so thrown off by the short message that his fingers pause on the keyboard.

Is he annoying them? He doesn't mean to. Phil thinks over the messages they've exchanged since talking on Skype, the wheel of worst case scenarios spinning quickly.

Before Phil can apologise or even really get his anxious mind to settle down, his laptop bloops again, once, twice, three times. Relief from the worry that Winnie doesn't like talking to him curls around Phil's shoulders, relaxing them.

It's a screenshot of Google Maps with an address pulled up, a different building circled in a bright blue. yeah i hella recommend and it's really close to wilkins as well, is the message accompanying the screenshot. Then, right afterwards, 10/10 hot chocolate if i do say so myself.

Phil isn't very big on hot chocolate on its own, but he is very big on quiet coffee shops.

It takes a lot of cajoling and promises that he won't be out too late for Phil to convince his parents that they'll be fine to drive to the city by themselves. His dad gets the same look on his face that he always does when Phil talks about work, but his mum merely pats his cheek and says, "Oh, love, be careful. I'll be cross if I have to get you from the police again."

"That was one time," Phil says, feeling his face flush as Chris looks at him with glee.

"One time too many," Nigel says, a bit too sternly to be a joke. Phil wonders if his friends pick up on it or if they just think he's banting like he's been all through supper, that same dry humour that Phil can see in Martyn making him funnier than his housemates had expected.

PJ and Sophie both laugh a bit, so... probably just Phil's knowledge of his dad making it more pointed than it really needs to be.

The coffee shop is open late, so Phil and his housemates decide to do some recon at the Wilkins place. The sun hasn't quite set yet, and the street isn't completely deserted or anything, so they have to wait for a good moment to leave the car.

They're careful. They've done this before.

The Wilkins place is an older townhouse in Rusholme with windows that have been boarded up since the early noughties because they kept getting broken. Technically, someone still owns the property, but the Wilkins family either didn't care about it or had forgotten it existed, because it's been abandoned as long as Phil can remember.

It also isn't very scary in his memory. It's draughty and has rats scurrying about, but the electricity and heating still worked, somehow, and the social situations he'd gotten thrown into at Martyn's shoulder were definitely more nerve-wracking than the house itself.

All of these things are still more or less true, according to everything Phil has been told, but when Phil climbs in through the loose boards of the kitchen window, the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up. He hesitates for so long on the sill that Chris pushes a bit at him, reminding him to move before some annoyed neighbour calls the police.

It's dim inside but not so dark that Phil's eyes strain; the streetlights and setting sun filter in through the boards and showcase the dust covering every surface.

Phil helps Sophie and then Chris through the window, PJ giving them boosts from the outside. They take the various bags from PJ and Sophie immediately pulls out the camera, ignoring the thuds that PJ's feet make as he launches himself up and clambers in like a monkey.

"Sexy," Chris drawls as PJ nearly tumbles onto his face. He's grabbing out equipment of his own, and so Phil is tasked with getting PJ through the window safely.

"At least I've got a modicum of upper body strength," PJ says. Neither of them are bothering to whisper, and that's making Phil anxious.

He can't put his finger on it, but... it doesn't feel like they're alone in here. There's probably someone hiding out from the chill of late October in one of the various empty rooms, and Phil's worst case scenario wheel is spinning so fast it's making him dizzy.

"Do you hear that?" Sophie asks, hushed. That stops PJ and Chris from continuing their bickering, and all three men freeze as they strain for whatever it is that Sophie's hearing. After a moment of complete silence, Sophie shakes her head. "It stopped. Hopefully the mic caught it over you lot."

PJ looks appropriately abashed, but Chris just shrugs. He's got a flashlight and an EMF meter, and he slings one of the bags over his shoulder before disappearing.

This is technically for Phil's channel - they're checking the place out, and Sophie is filming just in case something happens - but Phil still feels weird when PJ ducks off in another direction and Sophie stays at his side instead of following one of her boys, camera steady in her hands and the tip of her nose pink from the cool air.

"What did you hear?" Phil murmurs, beckoning her further into the house. The sound of creaking wood is so loud, like it's right above their heads, and Phil can only hope that it's one of his friends going upstairs.

"It could have been the wind," Sophie says mildly. "Or rats."

"Is that what it sounded like?"

Sophie blinks up at him and her mouth twists in an emotion that Phil can't place. "No. No, it sounded like a person talking."

Yeah, that's what Phil was afraid of. "Someone might be living here," he whispers, focusing on the dark hallway and trusting that Sophie is following.

The creaking again, this time from beside them, and Phil peeks his head around the corner to confirm that the staircase is what he's hearing. Chris is halfway up it, flashlight off between his teeth as he grips the railing like he's afraid the stairs are going to give out under him.

Phil hates this part. He'd rather do this completely alone than have to herd his friends like sheep. He leaves Chris to his own devices and moves into the lounge. This is where the majority of the litter is, empty bottles and cans and crisp bags everywhere. Phil takes a couple photos of it all and sends them to Martyn.

Remember your friend who used to bring a garbage bag to every party? Looks like he was the only one lol

He pauses. All too aware of Sophie's eyes and possibly the camera lens on him, Phil sends the photo to Winnie as well with a different caption: Does it always look like this?

Neither of them respond by the time Phil has picked his way through the first floor, which is at least good for his focus, but it doesn't explain why the house feels so much different than it had seven or eight years ago. Phil feels unsettled here in a way that he doesn't usually get anymore, goosebumps down his arms that aren't from the cold and the constant, unnerving feeling that someone is looking at him from the shadows.

Phil's phone buzzes as he and Sophie debate in whispers if they should go upstairs. Phil hates leaving anything to someone else, even if it's just a few rooms that surely PJ and Chris are capable of exploring on their own. He's in the middle of trying to explain that to Sophie when his voice catches in his throat.

"Peej says we should go," Phil says, interrupting himself. "He found something weird in the attic."

"What's he doing in the attic?" Sophie hisses.

"Dunno. I didn't even know there was an attic."

"We should go, then," says Sophie, like that decides it. Although it does rankle a bit to be lower on the totem pole of his own project, Phil has to admit that Sophie is right. If PJ is saying that it's time to go, then it's time to go.

Phil climbs out of the window first, taking the equipment with him, and then helps hoist Sophie safely down. She's so small that it's not even a strain, really, even with how little exercise Phil gets. They wait, huddled together, and Phil feels some of the knot in his chest start to loosen when he hears Chris and PJ arguing in whispers before the window boards get slid out of the way again.

"What did you find?" Phil asks immediately, and PJ hushes him on his way down.

"Let's go, I'll tell you at the café," he whispers, leading the way down the pavement with strides so purposeful that Phil wonders if he's been in this area before. It's all the rest of them can do to keep up with him, and Phil spares a moment to feel sorry for Sophie and her short legs.

He hangs back with her and lets Chris keep pace with PJ. Chris is still talking at a silent PJ in a hushed, passionate tone, like he's fighting with a brick wall, and Phil doesn't need to be involved in that.

The coffee shop is only a couple of streets away, but the tension that the Wilkins place and PJ's subsequent discovery has brought to the group makes it feel much further. PJ stops in front of a purple door, and Phil has a begrudging respect for his ability to remember where something is after simply being told the address. The shop is small and a little dingy, but the lighting inside is soft through the narrow windows and there's a fireplace that Phil longs to curl up in front of like a cat.

Chris scowls at PJ and holds the door open for him in the same breath. Phil doesn't understand their relationship and at this point he's too afraid to ask, but he ducks into the inviting warmth anyway to try to get the goosebumps off his skin.

The two employees behind the counter look at the door like they've been caught with their hands in a cookie jar. A girl with brightly-coloured hair is holding a bunch of marshmallows, a hand poised mid-throw, and an unreasonably tall guy with an unreasonably large mouth is gawping as one of the marshmallows hits him in the chin.

"You missed," Phil informs them, grinning a bit as he unwinds his scarf.

"Oops," the girl laughs, setting the marshmallows down and pulling up a customer service smile. "What can I get for you guys?"

While PJ and Sophie pore over the menu and Chris starts asking if she'll throw marshmallows into his mouth if he asks very nicely, Phil's eyes drift to the other worker.

His mouth is still open, a bit, and his face flushes when their eyes meet. "Er," he says, glancing behind him as if Phil is looking at someone else, and that's so endearing that Phil is sufficiently distracted from the mystery down the street.

Phil isn't extremely self-conscious or anything, but he also knows he's not going to be the hottest guy in a room, so he's a bit flattered and a lot confused about this guy's reaction to him.

The thing is, the guy is very attractive. A couple of perfect curls poke out from under his cap, and there's some type of shimmer on his face that Phil could not put a name to if you paid him. He knows literally nothing about makeup, but he knows that it makes this giant of a man look softer and his blush even more obvious when it deepens.

"Hi," Phil says, giving him a little wave. He can still hear Chris chattering on and Sophie debating the merits of a hot chocolate versus a cappuccino, so he's pretty sure nobody is paying them any attention. The guy twitches like he wants to look over his shoulder again, but he stops himself.

"Uh, hi? Sorry to be, like, weird, I just - I didn't expect -"

The voice is familiar, the rambling is familiar, and then it clicks. "Oh, hi," Phil says again, warmer this time. He steps closer to the counter and grins up at them - an unusual thing in itself, since Phil doesn't meet many people taller than him. "You didn't mention that you work here."

Winnie's shoulders slump forward in a kind of relief, and they scratch the back of their neck, looking awkward and out of place even in an outfit that coordinates with the colour scheme of the whole shop. Phil looks the uniform over and immediately regrets it, because he didn't mean to see Winnie's name tag and now he feels weird about knowing something he wasn't actually told. He doesn't feel too weird about being here, though, because - well. Winnie had technically invited him.

"Honestly, I didn't know you'd be 'investigating' so soon," says Winnie. They're still blushing and the finger quotes are somehow cute, even though they're being used to poke at Phil's career. Their nails are dark and sparkly, and Phil desperately needs to stop noticing things about their hands. "I would have told you, probably, or I'd just - I dunno, try to make a better first impression."

"You're making a fine first impression," Phil assures them.

Winnie snorts. "Oh, bullshit."

"Phil," PJ says, nudging him. Phil suddenly remembers that there are, in fact, other people around him, and he can't just keep looking at Winnie's long, dark eyelashes. "What are you having?"

Honestly, Phil hasn't even looked at the menu. He's so easily distracted by pretty boys with big hands and - oh, right, he's got to be careful about that, even in his own head. Especially in his own head. Winnie isn't a pretty boy, he really shouldn't be thinking about them like that at all.

"Uh," Phil says eloquently. He's very particular with his hot drinks, usually, but he's got a lot going on in his mind right now and it's easier just to shrug at Winnie than to look away and think. "Dunno, actually. Surprise me?"

Winnie smiles, and Phil's stomach twists. "I can do that."

#quiet on widow's peak #phanfic #phanfiction #dnp fic #words words words

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