#i just... the fic has huge autumn vibes and i think it would be really fun to write

[hexesandroses]

I'm not feeling very passionate about genshin these days which - don't get me wrong - comes as a huge disappointment, given... You know, the obvious, but maybe I can use this as an opportunity to pick up a draft for another fandom that I abandoned months ago?

[phanfictioncatalogue]

Monthly Fic Recs

Monthly follower recommendations for the month of July 2024

a bit ridiculous (ao3) - manchesterau

Summary: And it would all feel a bit ridiculous if Dan wasn’t so madly in love.

Come Clean (ao3) - castrotophic

Summary: Dan thinks Phil might be in love with him, but he's not quite sure how to figure it out.

dan buys a skirt (ao3) - baroquen

Summary: Dan is thinking about buying a skirt. Phil thinks this is a very good idea.

Did Your Son Take It? (ao3) - steddieornot

Summary: “Did your son take it home?”

She watched as his face distorted into a bizarre mix of horror and disgust. Whoops. Not his son then.

She went to open her mouth to apologise before he slurred out “erm, yep, he’s bringing back clean clothes,” he then sluggishly attempted to school his expression into a neutral one.

Feels Right (ao3) - philforscale

Summary: Dan proposes.

hanami picnic time (ao3) - antiadvil

Summary: “I hear Dan and Phil got married in Japan.”

Phil laughed. “You can't believe everything you read on the Internet.”

I Will Find You in Any World (ao3) - husbants

Summary: After watching their old Fortnite video, Phil asks Dan if he'd really find him in any world.

Just Sneak Out, And Don’t Tell a Soul Goodbye - phanlight

Summary: the famous arch-rivalry between the howell and lester family dates back to an era no-one has any remembrance of. but the sons of the parent enemies, dan and phil, share feelings towards eachother so different from their family, that the move of the howells to edinburgh is anything but ‘delightful’ for dan. but he has an idea. (based on the song check yes juliet by we the kings)

Like a Bowl of Oranges (ao3) - cloej88

Summary: Dan has built a solid career for himself as a ghostwriter. He safely hides behind other people’s words, crafting their tales and pocketing the cash without any threat of notoriety. But lately he has been working on a book of his own, itching for a change.

Phil is an indie filmmaker who happened into some huge breaks over the last few years. He wants to use his influence to uplift queer stories for the screen, so he puts out an open call for story submissions. At his agent’s behest, Dan submits his story.

The writer!Dan and director!Phil friends/co-workers to lovers AU that we never knew we needed.

new horizons (ao3) - cityofphanchester

Summary: “Bry,” Phil says again, crashing to a halt against the table. Someone’s jammed the rickety sliding door to the back garden open and the kitchen is flooded with bright, sweet autumn air that he’s in absolutely no position to appreciate. “My Switch is broken.”

She turns away from the sink to look at him with much less urgency than the situation demands. “Were you playing Animal Crossing in the bath again?”

“No!” he says, much too loud, and there’s a muffled laugh from the other side of the breakfast bar. He notices only a few seconds late that obviously Bryony hadn’t been talking to herself. It’s Dan, oversized black hoodie and shadows under his eyes, clutching a Game of Thrones coffee mug like he hasn’t slept in a week. Which maybe he hasn’t, Phil can never quite get a vibe off him. “That was one time.”

the hot doctor (ao3) - jonsaremembers

Summary: Plot twist: it was Dan.

[magpiefngrl]

Fic author self-rec

Rules: Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you’ve written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💙

Thank you for the tag @tenthousandyearsx a few weeks ago! I wanted to wait and get a couple of my WIPs ready and posted before doing it, but I'm now back to full time work so it's unlikely I'll finish those WIPs any time soon. 😢 So, here's 5 old fics of mine that I'm fond of. It's hard to choose a favourite, so I chose rather randomly, whatever popped in my head first tbh.

They're all drarry.

The Unquiet Grave (E, 21,5k, gothic vibes)

Quote: ‘What will happen is this. You’ll drag me to a poncy restaurant one evening soon, and I’ll complain about the number of forks and the size of the portions. Then I’ll drag you to my local and you’ll complain about the wine list and the clientele. This will be a recurring theme. But every time, every single time, we’ll end up in my bed — or yours — and I’ll make you forget your own name.’

My thoughts: I reread this yesterday after years, and I ended up really enjoying it. I particularly liked the dialogue in this read. I'm pretty happy with how this fic turned out. It's got a gothic mood and fits an autumnal mood; I often rec it for Halloween.

Sometimes a man needs (E, 5.5k, Flower Shop)

Quote: Harry knew what a huge mistake the whole thing was, but he’d already fallen for Malfoy, so what harm would a few more nights do? What harm would it do to kiss Malfoy some more and inhale his intoxicating smell? What harm was it that Malfoy spent almost every evening with Harry and whispered things in the dark that he never alluded to in the day? Harry was in love and in pain, but he might as well get what he could while he could.

My thoughts: I love the magical flower shop I created here, the types of flowers I came up with, and, craft-wise, I love Harry's voice. I remember I'd struggled with this fic, starting and deleting, starting and deleting, until I got a handle on Harry's voice and then it flowed in a morning.

The Gift (E, 29,5k, Captive Prince references)

Quote:  Draco’s desires — at least where Potter is concerned — are a tangle, messed up like he is. A war of contradictions: Draco wants to please Potter, and he wants to hurt him. He wants to see Potter in ecstasy, but he can’t allow himself to be the one to do it. So, he’s chosen another way, a way that gives and takes at the same time. ‘You’ve been such a good boy so far,’ Draco tells Potter and watches with pleasure his instant reaction, the blood colouring his face. ‘I think you deserve a treat for being so good. So… obedient. Which is why Adam here will give you a… gift.’

My thoughts: Used to have complicated feelings about this one. I'd hidden it for years and only revealed it a couple of months ago. Draco is a writer here and channels many of my doubts and insecurities. It's not a fic that has a wide appeal, not cute or fluffy at all, but I love my prose here and I had fun with inserting CaPri nods and writing excerpts of a magical CaPri story.

The Boy Who Died (E, 26.8k, Voldemort Wins AU)

Quote: At times he thought he noticed his own lust mirrored in Malfoy’s gaze, like when he cooked and Harry sat on the kitchen table, mouth and fingers sticky with treacle syrup or brown sugar, or when Harry left the shower in his pyjama bottoms, his hair soft like a waterfall down his bare shoulders. Harry had taken to sleeping topless; he couldn’t get used to Malfoy’s fancy pyjamas, and although Malfoy had looked extremely put out the first time, he didn’t object.

My thoughts: I'm just so fond of this one! I thought of the reincarnation plot because of wangxian and I peppered some wangxian Easter eggs in this fic, but I didn't expect to fall in love with this dystopian, Voldemort Wins 'verse. It's a bleak world but somehow this fic has become one of my comfort reads and I've reread it often since posting it.

Through the Looking Glass and What Draco Found There (E, 17.4k, Mirror of Erised alternate dimension)

Quote: Getting to know Harry was to love him: hearing him laugh at Weasley’s jokes, watching him sleep, witnessing his passionate devotion to what was right and the ardor with which he supported his friends. He had butterflies in his stomach just at the sight of him; a sentiment he attempted to hide under a mask of cool detachment, because if anyone found out, Draco would be kicked out of Slytherin for incurable soppiness.

My thoughts: I love the Mirror universe I came up with, and am proud of the treatment of the Shrieking Shack in this fic, which I haven't seen elsewhere. It's one of my works I'm most proud of. I didn't expect it'd be emotional, but I've received a bunch of comments, some of them very recently, saying it made readers cry. oops?

I'm guessing many of you have done the latest round of this author game. So, tagging everyone who hasn't done it and wants to! Would love to see the fics you rec and why xx

[barlowstreet]

I'm curious, I've noticed that lately in your fics you base more on the tlou hbo events than the game, I wanted to know if personally when you write them you imagine GameJoel&Ellie or ShowJoel&Ellie? And which do you prefer, the game or the show?

I love your fics btw, you are very talented!

It's kinda just all mushed together in my head, honestly. I like a lot of the changes but some of them I ignore completely. Like I like Sam being Deaf and the more diverse casting with Sarah and Maria, but I completely ignore them not letting Ellie have her backpack at the end because nope.

In the one WIP I have, I'm doing another foster au (shh don't tell anyone) and a lot of the game dialogue and timeline has worked better for writing that, actually. And I tend to include things the show doesn't like Ellie's mom's letter and - actually people might not notice this because it's a little less known, but I own the comic and actually reference it sometimes in fics/base my timelines for Ellie's birthday and things on it.

It's kinda just what I'm vibing with at the moment XD Lately it's been a little more show, but I just kinda pick out what I like from both. I also really like to take cute game dialogue moments and fit them into more show-verse fics. I'm just on a show kick at the moment after writing... like 18 or 20 game-only fics XD

And I'm not a super visual person, so I don't really picture either when I write? They just kinda are Ellie and Joel. Show!Joel can be a little softer a little sooner, I think, but I do feel like those are the same characters so. Not a huge difference for me.

But which one I like better? Still game, honestly. I love the show and there's a lot of things I really enjoy about it (like tbh as a queer person Bill and Frank is a change I really enjoy, plus seatbelt???) buuuut I'll always be a game person first.

Controversial option, but I actually think Left Behind and Winter/When We Are in Need are more tense and scary in the game versions. I think both of those episodes, as much as I love them, would have been better if they were longer. In the game you REALLY get a sense of how long Ellie is alone. That's a thing I tend to pull from more. She is cold and alone and scared for so long. It feels like weeks have passed that she's been alone. And I love that shift in the seasons from the warm autumn day to the cold emptiness of winter as Ellie explores the mall in Left Behind.

Also, bridge scene. That is a thing I am sad about them not having in the show XD "You'll keep me afloat"???? Come on!

[darling-archeron]

Hello it’s me again!!!🧑🏻‍🎄

Coming in with some more questions that I personally think are Very Important™️

1. Cats or Dogs (or some other animal?👀 I love cats but am also partial to guinea pigs and horses)

2. Coffee or Tea? How do you make them? I have such varied ways to make these drinks depending on what the Vibe of the hour is and I’m always curious about how others prefer them too!

3. What’s your favorite season? (And seasonal court?👀) I’m a summer girlie irl ☀️ but autumn court has such drama and potential 🍂

For a fic update: I’ve been chipping away at the outline for the past few days and I’m so excited with where it’s going!!! Once I figure out how tf I’m going to end it😅

Also are there any triggers you might want me to avoid? It probably will end up having no archive warnings apply or maybe a bit of violence but nothing extreme. But still just want to double check😊

And finally what is your opinion on smut?👀 would you prefer the fic to have it, avoid it, or no preference?

Hi Santa! I'm sorry it's taken me a few days to see this - I just got back from a busy trip. I hope you're having a great day! :)

I love both, but cats hold a special place in my heart - I love to share pictures of my baby especially.

I'm not a huge fan of hot beverages, so I almost always get iced coffee, but I don't drink it much, I usually go for caffeinated sparkling water instead. The only tea I really drink is the throat coat stuff that's supposed to help when you have a sore throat/strain your voice. (Which, as a former theatre kid, happened to me way too often haha)

I go back and forth between summer and autumn! Warm weather is my favorite, but autumn has the ~vibes.~ Unfortunately, the winters are pretty miserable where I live, so the idea of perpetual autumn is very ideal - like you, I love the drama and aesthetic of the autumn court!

I don't really have any specific triggers to avoid - the only thing I'm not a fan of is graphic whump/torture, but it doesn't sound like you're going in that direction! I don't have a preference on smut - if you want to include it, go for it, but I'm also ok without! :)

I'm so excited - figuring out the ending is always the trickiest part for me as well! Have a great week, Santa!

[vidalinav]

I have this little headcanon that at some point they try to learn more about eachothers culture cause i refuse to believe humans didnt have celebrations, foods, clothing, traditions, LANGUAGES, or at least things that werent directly related to their colective trauma around the fae. And i also refuse to believe that illyrians are just some bunch of brutes and cruel people

I’ve actually written a headcanon about this before at least in terms of language for Illyrians, and food, and what not. But I LOVE the idea of Nesta having a culture, though maybe not one she realizes that she has. I personally come from an Americanized, mixed ethnic background, so I grew up feeling like I didn’t have one myself. But, you know everyone has certain traditions that they do, food they make, holidays they celebrate. Even if it’s not necessarily based on race or ethnicity. So Illyrians have culture, fae have culture, humans have culture. 

I would LOVE that at the same time Nesta wants to learn Cassian’s culture and language, because she does, Cassian wants to know what it means to be a human across the fallen wall. And so do Gwyn and Emerie, because humans to them and to the fae are so fascinating. I have a headcanon that Nesta knows four languages, the four most spoken through the human territory and it surprises them when she tells them, and they love to have her teach them words or just to say them because they think the languages are so beautiful or just plain odd. Nesta always scrunches her nose about it, because she doesn’t really like speaking them and she only learned them because her mother was trying to sell her off so to speak. It’s socially advantageous to know more than one language. But she gets more comfortable speaking them, or teaching them, and gets more proud about knowing all of them along with the fae languages she starts learning. 

I also like this idea that there are holidays in the human world that are very similar to holidays in the fae world... because... well that’s how territory expansions and globalization work in some respect. So, Gwyn, Em, and Cassian will compare holidays with her, and usually it ends up being them mixing all of these traditional things together. My most favorite to think of is Halloween, because it’s my favorite holiday and time of the year, and I SWEAR I will write a fic in the fall about this. But, I love the idea that in Prythrian, they obvi have the autumn equinox, which I imagine is a lot of apple picking, and cauldron boiling, and general fall/ harvesting/fair type of things. Scaraborough Fair type stuff. But I like imagining that it’s more magical to tie in with this Samhain type of vibe. Maybe like the fall version of Calanmai, where it’s to bless the harvest or stave off the winter. Something like that. To keep magic flowing through the land. In the human world though, I LOVE to imagine that it gets more halloweenish--like costumes and lore and superstition, because humans live across a wall of fae who could potentially harm them if the wall ever fell. I love to take this idea of wearing costumes to ward away ghosts (and demons, witches, etc), blending with them even in their masks, and that maybe the humans are superstitious and believe that on this specific day, the day that is the same day that fae celebrate their fall holiday, the fae are free to roam, so they have to protect themselves. So this is where costumes come in and this is wear pumpkin carving comes in too--to ward off evil spirits, and to the humans, anything fae-ish. So, Nesta brings pumpkin carving (or gourd carving) to Velaris, because she personally loves this part. She manages to find like the largest pumpkins known to man, so that she can carve them with her friends. But someone in the market asks her what she’s doing with them, what does she need pumpkins and candles for, and she’s like oh I’m carving them and I’m going to put them outside, and they’re like why would you do that? And she’s like to stave away evil spirits. LOL and they take her word VERY seriously, because she’s the witch in the mountain, the one blessed by the mother, they’re like HELL NO, we’re doing that too. And so Nesta accidentally starts a tradition that’s originally human which gets integrated into fae culture. The entirety of Velaris is filled with pumpkins and any manner of gourd that are carved with various “scary” faces and lit up in the night to ward off spirits that Nesta doesn’t tell them are suppose to be the fae. She thinks it’s too late by the time she realizes what has happened, and possibly offensive.

Gwyn ends up carving a unicorn into hers. She spends wayyy too much time on it. Emerie makes a smiling face instead. Nesta tries to make a scary face but it ends up just looking more grumpy than anything. Cassian says she should gift that one to him, because he wants to keep it. It reminds him of her, he says and she throws pumpkin guts at him for that. 

It ends up actually being a part two because Feyre doesn’t really remember this tradition, and she does want to spend time with Nesta and realizes that perhaps she doesn’t know much about humans after all since she was separated from all of this for most of her childhood. So she once again buys a huge pumpkin but instead this is a size that you can get in. They carve it together. And they also buy a mini pumpkin for Nyx. He mostly just tries to eat the pumpkin guts. 

[anchoviesinthenightsky]

AO3 Tag Game

Tagged by @sagesiren​ :D

1. How many works do you have on AO3? 5 (+6 on my dead account)

2. What is your total AO3 word count?  50,207 (+81,696)

3. How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?  from oldest to most recent: Sherlock, Supernatural, Doctor Who, Good Omens, and Luca

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

The Cold That Lingered in London Air (Good Omens, 799)

Take My Hand and Tell Me About the Stars (Luca, 229)

We'll Chase the Moon Tonight (Luca, 128)

Autumn Chill at South Downs (Good Omens, 68)

The Way We Pass the Night (Good Omens, 12)

5. Do you respond to comments, why or why not? I... eventually. I eventually respond to comments, but I often do so in bulk, long after the commenters have stopped thinking about the fic. I don't mean to do it this way, and, like sagesiren, I'm going to blame it on the ADHD (and the RSD). But I do read all the comments, multiple times and I talk about pretty much all of them with sagesiren as they come in. I think I have a fear that if I reply, the commenters might dislike me and stop reading altogether. Which... is silly 😅

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending? Currently, all of my fics have pretty happy endings, but y'all already know that I've started work on a tragedy. But even then, I'm aiming for an ending that's cathartic, even if it's sad.

7. Do you write crossovers? Usually no, I'm still in the planning stages of Beyond the Shore and they may end up being an Achilles/Patrolus cross over. I keep going back and forth on how if I actually want to place the fic in that setting, or if I want to place it in a similar but different setting.

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic? Nope

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? Nah, but I appreciate the skill it takes for people who do write it.

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen? I don't think so.

11. Have you ever co-written a fic before? Uhhhh, kinda. When I was in high school I was doing a story with two friends, but it fizzled out around chapter 4 or 5. And I haven't done it since, because I don't really enjoy co-writing? I think it's a combination that I get very strong headed in my ideas for stories, and also that I have trouble communicating my ideas without writing them. (When it comes to story construction, I run purely off vibes, vague images, one of those peg boards connecting everything with red string, and a general guide to plot beats for that style of story. I find it very difficult to verbalize all that, even if I can clearly understand what I'm thinking myself.) That said, I love working with editors/betas. That takes places during the revision process more than during the writing process, and I find that getting other's thoughts during revision is hugely helpful!

12. What’s your all time favorite ship? hmm, I mean it's got to be Aziraphale/ Crowley or Luca/Alberto? Those are both somewhat recent ships for me, but I do love them both very much.

13. What was the first fandom you wrote for? You know, I think it was Harry Potter, but I didn't realize it was fanfic at the time. Before I had a tumblr, I ran a HP facebook page, and I would write little ficlets for fans of the page (essentially ask box prompts). The first fandom that I wrote for on AO3, though, was Sherlock. (back in 2013!)

14. What’s your favorite fic you’ve written? Oh, hands down We'll Chase the Moon Tonight. It's the longest and most involved fic I've written since high school. Pulling together this plot felt like doing a puzzle, and I had so much fun writing it. I think I mentioned it the other day, but this was also my first attempt at a romance plot line. So writing in a new genre and something this long has just been so interesting. I love leaning new skills, and I feel like this fic taught me so much.

Tagging @skypied!

also @/y'all. If you read this and want to answer the questions, please answer them! And say I tagged you so that I can read your answers!! /genuine

Also @anons, I suspect some of you are writers so feel free to do this as well! And if you want to do it anonymously. feel free to pick a few of these questions and drop your answers in the ask box :)

[honeyhenry]

A Saga of Sweaters

inspired of course by the incredible knitted sweater chris wears in Knives Out! However this is still a Chris fic, not a Ransom one (as I have yet to see the movie!)

word count: 1.5k+

warnings: a lot of fluff, smut if you squint/nsfw descriptives

enjoy!

the first instance in which you met, was just after Christmastime. it was in the new year where the coldest January on record meant that his thick knitted sweaters were a staple piece of your outings together, once if not twice a week

a new year, a new start with a new love for one man who made you smile for so many reasons

he wore The Sweater, now your favourite, for your first official date

a thick fisherman’s sweater knitted and twisted into various complex patterns that gave it its own character, and matched every expensive coat he had in his wardrobe

it’s a statement piece of his and you wondered, if things were to go further, that one day you’d get to pull it over your own head and wear it yourself. it looked so damn cosy.

he soon became the cosiest, warmest person in your life, giving you that feeling from the top of your head to the tip of your toes, capturing your heart and filling it with joy

if you ever decided to put fashion over common sense in the cold weather, forgoing a proper jacket for the chance to look your best for him, he’d sigh and roll his eyes while grinning at how ridiculous you were

“you know, we’re on the sixth date. you don’t have to freeze to death to keep me around”

he’d give you his coat, insisting that his sweater keeps him warm enough

and after a couple more dates, the sweater ends up on the floor, as he takes you to bed, finding a much better way to warm you up

and you’d get your secret wish finally, as you wear the sweater the following morning, with some soft pyjama shorts

he really likes the sight of you wearing his huge thick sweater, Dodger in your lap as you read a copy of a book he had on his nightstand

it smells of him which you adore

you catch him staring at you from the bathroom and you don’t even look up from the words on the page that you're reading, nor pause stroking Dodger’s fur to say;

“i hope you know you're not getting this back”

“it’s okay” he’d replied “i dont mind the sweater stealing, i love whats underneath”

making you giggle when he rushes to you, his hands reaching to crawl up the inside of the sweater where you’re wearing nothing underneath

he makes plans to buy you one for yourself but it’s no secret that you only love the sweater because it reminds you of him

he wears a different sweater when you go to meet his family

he’s not about to wear a sweater that you’ve recently been wearing along with nothing else

seeing that sweater can now really get him going just thinking about you in it.  it makes him twitch with want for you.

his family adore you, admiring how happy chris is with you, and how cosy and coupley you are, connected and drawn to each other somewhat magnetically

you know that those perceptions are true, however the ‘coupley’ vibes had only been enhanced by chris’ absolute need to bone you the moment you get back to his place

Christmas would come around again, bringing even more sweaters that you realise that he only keeps for the festive season 

it inspires you to buy him one that lights up with the press of a button

its cheesy and he loves it, and wears it for the entirety of Christmas day

it’s hard to ignore, but somehow you manage to when he drags your attention away only to ask if you’ll move in with him

you say yes and it’s definitely too hot in the bedroom to be wearing anything that evening

you move in, halving the amount of space chris has for his clothes, but he installs a closet elsewhere in the house, fit for all his winter wear

as the year bleeds from cold, dark nights, to a warmer spring, then to a humid summer, the sweaters stay put in the drawers and closets

however, nestled between the bottom two rows of sweaters in Chris’ drawer, is an velvet box he’s waiting to give you at just the right time

the right time comes when he finds you at home, dancing to the radio in one of his sweaters and a pair of shorts, making dinner

finally it’s cold enough to wear warmer items of clothing and he loves that its already that time of year again

he also panics slightly because the sweater you're wearing was kept only one or two inches from where the silver engagement ring lay in his drawer

and he realises, whats the point of waiting anyway? he wants you dancing in the kitchen in his clothes while playing with Dodger and making the dinner, forever

and so he waits until after dinner, after all the washing up is done and you finally sit down on the sofa ready to relax with him

that’s when he does it

you’re so shocked but ridiculously overwhelmed with happiness that you cry out your “yes!” and he’s placing the ring on your finger as you press kisses to his face

“i’m sorry it wasn’t fancier-”

“it’s perfect”

the ring glints as you hold up your hand, pulling up the sleeves of the sweater you’re wearing to take a proper look

takes a picture of it and sends it to family with “congratulations” following

and an extra message from Scott: “so she’s still adamant on wearing your clothes huh”

you have your wedding and then honeymoon, and for the latter you wear practically nothing - truly not missing the sweaters in the hot weather that begs for nudity, sweet cocktails, sea-swept hair, and sex on the balcony 

you spend 3 weeks there before flying back and spending autumn and winter in Boston

as newly weds, you have matching rings now, shiny and beautiful and it distracts you so much at one point that you spill coffee all over the sweater of his you're wearing

he calls you a teasing name and all you can reply is “well you married me!”

the sweaters make their return soon enough, and it’s first year of your soon to be traditional Christmas card, nearly 3 years since you first met

you, him and Dodger wear matching sweaters so you can send out a cheesy christmas card ‘with love from, The Evans Family”

it’s taken in your apartment and Dodger has to be bribed with treats for a good picture to be taken of the three of you

you’ve never been happier, your smiles so genuine and warm

a year later and not much has changed except the location of your home

you’ve bought a bigger house in Boston, with a lovely porch and 5 bedrooms to fill

so the second year of your Christmas card picture tradition, you all sit on the gorgeous Christmassy decorated staircase

(Dodger still needs a couple of treats before cooperating)

you take the picture 3 weeks before christmas

it just so happens that it’s 3 weeks later is when you tell Chris that there was actually a fourth person in the picture, a new addition to “The Evans Family” underneath your sweater

you present him with a tiny matching sweater “we’ll have someone around to wear this for next year”

“babe if this is you telling me we should get another dog-”

“it’s not for a dog”

he pauses and looks at you, his eyes full of hope but still slightly doubting

“don’t...really?” 

he’s scared to assume but you finally show him little sonogram pictures

“they’ll be 4 or 5 months old next Christmas”

he kisses you so softly and passionately by the Christmas tree, his hands on your hips, smiling into your lips as you brush away his tears, and then your own

after that, you wearing his sweaters means even more

keeping Baby Evans as your little secret while going out in public, is the most important thing for you, and so to hide any hint, you wear his sweaters

it’s his favourite thing in the world - to see you grow his baby, while you wear his sweaters even in the springtime

they can hide a tiny swell in January, but are unable to cover the bump as you hit 5 months in April

“Hi meatball” he’d smooth his hand over the sweet swell that he’s so drawn to

he puts his hands up inside the sweater, making you giggle

“i told you before,” you murmur “you won’t be getting this back”

“and as i said, i dont mind the sweater stealing, i love whats underneath”

you can bet that next Christmas, he’s got Baby Evans on his lap, wearing their own little Christmas sweater, with drool all over it and the sleeves rolled up twice so you can see their tiny hands

Chris’ hands take up their whole tummy, and Baby gives a little lopsided smile that everyone receiving of a card coos at

(Chris can definitely claim that the smile was gas)

and it had all started with the hope that one day you’d get to be in his life to try on his fisherman sweater

now, you’ve gained a lot more from Chris - love, and warm morning cuddles, safety, and a family

sweater weather would forever be the sweetest time of the year

TAGLIST: 

@katiew1973​ @thevelvetseries​

MASTERLIST / FEEDBACK

[maih-em]

who am i tag

i was tagged by @fitzrove - thank you!!! :)

Name: Emma (a nice and generic one!)

Nicknames: Honestly don’t think I have one? My family occasionally call me Em but not a lot. I spent my whole childhood bitter that my name wasn’t very nickname friendly.

Zodiac: Gemini (but I’m kind of on the cusp of Cancer so it depends on what website you look at, I think. I always say Gemini though.)

Height: Literally bang on 5ft I’m so small

Languages: English. Also, I’ve done 7 years of Spanish in school so I’d like to think I’m semi-fluent (but my Spanish teacher would probably say different)

Nationality: British

Favourite season: SPRING. Like I love autumn for the aesthetic and summer because it’s holiday time, but spring is just so PRETTY. There’s something so lovely in realising suddenly that the air just feels different and that winter is giving way to spring. I love a good crisp spring afternoon when you don’t need a coat, but it isn’t too hot to wear one if you want to.

Favourite flower: I don’t really know a lot of flowers but orchids are so beautiful (but I find the concept of growing them very intimidating – my mum’s are constantly thriving and I don’t think I can ever live up to it)

Favourite scent: Just classic things like fresh cut grass, rain when it hasn’t rained for ages. I also love the smell of tomato stalks & also coffee (but this is a very Different vibe and depends on my mood)

Favourite fictional character: Well I have to say Morse (mainly Endeavour era but I’m slowly working my way through the original Inspector Morse series) & obviously Peter Jakes (my son). I haven’t finished watching the Witcher yet but Jaskier is such an icon! Other favourites include Dirk Gently (in the BBC America series) and Richard MacDuff (in the older BBC Dirk Gently series) 10th & 13th Doctors, Ollie from the Thick of It, and Fleabag!!

Coffee, hot tea, or hot chocolate: Tea 100%. I’m not a huge fan of hot chocolate – I find it too sickly even though I have the sweetest tooth known to man (I generally just eat the cream and marshmallows off the top and then immediately get fed up with it). Coffee I’ll have occasionally but nothing beats a good cup of tea. I have mine black and really weak (it’s basically just water to be honest) and sometimes I’ll but a little bit of sugar in it. And I love an Earl Grey if I’m feeling fancy!

Average sleep: When I don’t have to get up for college I’ll literally sleep until like 10 or 11 am, but that’s normally because I go to bed really late (recently I’ve struggled to go to bed before 1 because it feels like more effort to go to sleep than it is to stay up on my laptop). Generally I get a minimum of 7 hours.

Dogs or cats: cats all the way. I’ve not ever had pets and see very few animals in my day to day life, but dogs just intimidate me idk. I only like small breeds but even then, it’s a fine line. Cats, on the other hand, though I see a depressingly small number of cats and get to pet even fewer, are PERFECT IN EVERY WAY.

Number of blankets: 1

Dream trip: Probably going back to Iceland because I love it there, or to various mainland European cities like Amsterdam, Berlin etc.

Blog established: about April 2019 I think?? I’d just watched Icarus and was desperately looking for George Fancy content because I was crying too much to sleep. Only actively started using it around the summer because I had managed to lock myself out of the account because my browser fucked up so I couldn’t log in with an autosaved password and I have far too many emails/passwords/lost Tumblr accounts that finding it was almost hopeless. I swear every email I could think of ever having logged me into yet another discarded Tumblr that I’d made at some point between 2015 and 2017 and never used again.

Random fact: uhh I have no idea what to say for this I’m so boring. Literally all I can think of right now is that I see pain kind of as shapes? Idk how to explain that u can do with that information what you will.

Gender: female

Current time: 8:55pm

Favourite artists: Hozier, Ashnikko, Pulp, idkhow, sundara karma and probably millions more.

Stuck in my head: Say So by Doja Cat because it keeps coming up as an ad on Youtube and Instagram.

Last movie I saw: I watch films so rarely that I genuinely don’t know I’m having to try so hard to remember literally any films I’ve watched in the past year ugh. I think it was Maurice at some point between October and December but late 2019 has all merged into one for me so I have no clue what.

Last thing I Googled: what the dates were for being a Gemini or Cancer for one of the earlier questions.

Other blogs: none that I use- if I were to try and find every Tumblr that I’ve ever had we would literally be here all day.

Do I get asks: Not really, I did an ask challenge recently only to learn that you had to enable asks to receive them on Tumblr, so that gives an idea of how good I am with technology oops. I’d love to answer any u guys have though!

Reason for URL: This is just the name of my a03 account. Honest to god I was making my a03 account in like 2018. because I had a fic I wanted to post and I was like hmmm, I need a funky username oh god I’m so bad at usernames and this was literally the first collection of words that came into my head. They mean absolutely nothing.

Followers/following: 27 followers, I’m following 41

Lucky number: I wouldn’t say I have a lucky number, but my favourite number is 4

Currently wearing: PJs, which was a mistake because it’s making it very hard to motivate myself to get up and have a well-needed shower.

Dream job: Idk I’ve always liked the idea of being a teacher but other than that I have absolutely no idea.

Favourite foods: Oh god this is so hard to pick. Redcurrants, minestrone soup, feta, kale, wraps, I could go on infinitely.

Instruments: I’ve owned a guitar for years and yet can only play a very small range of chords quite badly. I’m a little better at ukulele mainly because it’s a better size for my tiny hands. I play a little bit of piano, but I don’t practice as much as I’d like because I don’t like doing it when other people are around idk.

Favourite song: it changes all the time but currently Sour Times by the Civil Wars (which I found on @bryndeavour ’s ‘falling in a chain reaction’ playlist which I’ve been listening to almost exclusively for an entire week.) Also probably Damn it all by The Staves, working bitch by ashnikko, coconut skins by damien rice, that’s all i can think of right now

I’m sure most people have been tagged already but if anyone who hasn’t would like a go, consider this me tagging you!

[winterromanov]

from the dining table - twelve/missy fic

They don’t kiss that often, not properly, because he hates the thought that each one could be their last. But this time he doesn’t mind, not at all, because her lips are damp from steam and she tastes like champagne. This time could be their last time, but it’s a good last time; he’d rather it ended like this than the awful, awful, awful alternative. “I’m so proud of you. I don’t say it enough. I’m so proud of who you’ve become.” (twelve/missy fic, where they invite bill round for dinner. 8k words. hope you enjoy).

--course one: hors d’oeuvre

It’s at about seven pm that Bill’s phone judders across her desk, waking her from the powernap she’s enjoying across the keys of her laptop. The screen reveals a picture she’s drawn herself in a shitty paint app of a penguin with its arse on fire. Well—she’s doing a degree in theoretical physics, not fine art. She’s not expected to be good at these things.

She swipes her screen, smile tugging at her lips. “Hello? Doctor?”

There’s some vague rustling on the other end of the phone. Maybe he’s butt-dialled her. He’s done that before, not long ago actually, and she’s really pretty bloody sure she wants to know nothing about the noises she was hearing on that occasion. But there’s a break, and—“Good evening, Bill. Is it evening where you are? Missy says…”

“Yes, it’s evening,” Bill cuts in, glancing at the blinking digital clock on her bedside table. “Where are you?”

“Not sure. We were trying the new anti-gravity bowling alley they’ve set up on Venus, but that was a few hours ago now. Space, probably.” He clears his throat. “Would you like to come for dinner?”

Bill splutters on nothing. Checks she’s heard correctly. “Dinner?”

“Yes, dinner. Oh, wait, sorry, I forgot humans were quite argumentative when it comes down to semantics… do you call it tea? Supper? Hors d’oeuvres?”

“No, I call it dinner,” Bill says, forehead furrowed, “It’s just—that’s not what we usually do, is it?”

“What are you talking about? We eat together all the time. That reminds me, I still owe you for the chips the other day, I think I’ve got some Earth currency around here somewhere…” There’s more rustling. Another muffled voice. “Yes, that’s a good idea; I always lose things down the back of the sofa.”

“Wait—who are you talking to? Is someone else there?” Instantly, Bill gives up on that line of inquiry. It’s blatantly obvious who the other voice is. “And anyway, that’s not what I meant. We eat chips on park benches or, like, that time we went to India in the 1980s and ate all that street food and Nardole got the runs.”

“It still troubles me that a cyborg somehow managed to get the runs. I need to look into that, if he’ll let me.”

“Better you than me. Will you let me finish?” A discontented murmur allows her to continue. “As I was saying, the way you asked before sounded really formal. We don’t usually do formal. Is it a special occasion? Have I forgotten your birthday?” Bill narrows her eyes. “Do Time Lords have birthdays? Do I need to bring a cake? I’ll have to go down to the Asda, they do this huge chocolate—“

“Stop, Bill. It’s not my birthday. Don’t panic.”

Bill sighs, relieved. The thought of buying over two thousand candles is enough to give her an aneurism. “Okay, okay, so what’s the occasion, then?”

There’s a pause on the line. “There’s no occasion. It’s just Missy has found this recipe for roast lamb that she really wants to—“

“Missy is cooking?” Bill splutters, leaning back in her desk chair. Oh, boy, she’s really heard it all. “Your homicidal human-hating arch nemesis is cooking me dinner?”

“Not just you. Me too. And Nardole. I’ve given him some medication so we shouldn’t have a repeat of Kerala.”

“That is—that is beside the point!” Bill gestures to thin air, “This is Missy we’re talking about here! Give her a bloody slow cooker and an oblivious human and she’s already thought of a thousand ways she could kill them!”

The receiver rumbles and Bill wonders if the Doctor has dropped it, until a very different Scottish accent responds. “Just a thousand? Bless you, it’s way more than that, not counting if I pick up the slow cooker in question and smash it against…hey, what? I was hardly going to let her believe that I only know one thousand methods of murder, was I?” Bill blinks, waits, as a small altercation appears to occur. “Sorry about that, Bill, she’s just a bit…sensitive, at the moment.”

Bill hears something smash in the background. Jesus. Even she realises that using words like sensitive in relation to the self-proclaimed Queen of Evil is an awful idea.

“You know she’s trying to change,” The Doctor says eventually. “She’s trying to show you that she’s changing. Please. Come.”

Bill’s still not sure if someone so inherently cruel could ever change, not completely, but the way the Doctor wants to believe it so much has her heart pounding, teeth tugging at her bottom lip. She doesn’t know a whole lot about their complicated, ancient relationship, but she knows that the Doctor is linked to Missy in a way that is impossible for any human to comprehend. Bill’s observant. She notices things. She notices how he clings onto her like a lifeline.

(She clings onto him, too. It’s obvious. It’s so fucking obvious.)

“Fine,” Bill relents, letting out a breath. Drums her fingers against the white Ikea wood of her desk. “Where and when?”

She can hear his smile through his words. “The TARDIS, usual spot. In about an hour, your time. She insists you wear your best clothes because she’ll be wearing hers.” A pause. “Thank you, Bill. Thank you.”

***

--course two: soups

Bill’s not one hundred percent sure what best clothes actually means so she decides on the black dress she wore when she first met Heather, because she’s always felt her best in that dress. She buys a bottle of mid-range white wine from the Asda and debates buying a cake out of paranoia, but decides against it. Even if Time Lords do have birthdays, doesn’t mean they’ll have cake, and she doesn’t want another excuse for Missy to laugh at her.

The TARDIS is stood majestically on a patch of grass in front of St Luke’s, the blue ghostly and ethereal in the late autumn moonlight. Bill’s heels sink in the damp soil as she treads carefully over, bangs her fist on the door. Nardole opens up merely seconds later, looking surprisingly dapper in a new suit and shiny, leather boots. He grins as they catch eyes.

“Bill! Welcome!” He steps back and allows her to walk in out the cold. Goosebumps bristle up and down her arms. She hands him the wine, because what else is she supposed to do with it? “Oh, lovely! The Doctor loves a white, especially with salmon.”

Bill idly wonders what Missy’s favourite drink is. Probably the blood of the innocent, or something like that. “Um—where is the Doctor?”

Nardole raises a hand, like he’s remembered something he’d previously forgotten. “He told me to take you to the dining room when you arrived. He should be in there. Just follow me.”

Nardole guides her through a network of complex corridors to a room deep within the TARDIS, much further than she’s ever dared to explore before: probably to assure she doesn’t escape mid-meal. The door opens into a grand, echoing hall with a ceiling higher than she’s ever seen, decorated delicately in religious renaissance art; fat cherubs and naked men with exaggerated penises, swathes of bright cloth and wispy clouds. Her jaw drops open.

“Michelangelo,” the Doctor appears beside her, gesturing towards the decadent artwork. “Missy’s idea. She’s a fan. I thought he was a bit of a show-off.”

Bill snorts. Michelangelo. Of course. “I don’t claim to know much about that area, but I’m sure no man’s dick is actually that big.”

“Like I said, show-off. In every single department.” The Doctor nods knowingly, and Bill wonders how exactly he knows that information. Not that she’s remotely surprised. “Would you like a drink?”

Bill nods vaguely. There’s a dark mahogany table in the centre of the room, too small really for its surroundings, intimate. Four chairs with burgundy velvet covers in the same wood sit squarely around it. The floor is bare stone, like that of a medieval castle, but the patch beneath the table is draped in a rug. There’s no chandelier or any modern light fittings, rather rows of tall candelabras that reach out into the room, flickering light. Wax drips and cools onto the ground. It’s all a bit goth, in Bill’s opinion, like the time her and the Doctor visited King James V at Edinburgh Castle when he’d been invaded by giant space spiders.

(The Doctor had told her they weren’t giant space spiders, they had a proper name from a proper planet, but they were giant and spidery and from space. Giant space spiders.)

A string quartet plays something she thinks is by Pachelbel, but there’s no musicians to be seen, just a melody that drifts through the atmosphere like a breeze. Each plate on the table is lined with a dozen pieces of cutlery. She shivers. “God. What’s with the medieval vibe?”

The Doctor pours her a glass of opened champagne, the bubbles rising to the rim. Foam oozes down his fingers, which he wipes on the velvet lapels of his smart jacket. He gestures in no particular direction. “It’s her aesthetic. Apparently. Are you cold?”

She accepts the champagne gratefully. The liquid warms her throat, her chest. “No, I’m fine. It’s just eerie.” She glances down at the table, notices the way it’s been set. “What is she cooking, exactly? Because this seems like an awful lot of cutlery.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve vetted the menu. She wants it to be a surprise.”

Nardole props his head round the door, then, smiling weakly. “Doctor, she’s asking for you.”

The Doctor shrugs at Bill—what can you do—and gently places his glass back down by his plate, before following Nardole out the room. The invisible quartet plays on. Bill wishes she didn’t feel so damn suspicious.

***

--course three: fish (interlude one)

The kitchen is warm, much warmer than the dining room, and the Doctor knocks on the extractor fans without Missy knowing to clear some of the steam. There’s hundreds of kitchens sprawled across the TARDIS somewhere, but this is her favourite—it has a rustic stove with a real log fire and an exposed stone floor, a big off-white fridge and a vintage kettle. She’s hunched over the hob when he finds her. Her hair is knotted up under a ridiculous chef’s hat and she’s wearing an apron, like dressing up like a chef will actually make her one.

“You called?” he says, coming up from behind her, pressing his hands down on her shoulders. She’s stirring soup—it smells herby. Rosemary. She lifts a ladle.

“Taste this,” she asks, “It’s got pepper in it. I’m worried it’s too much.”

He raises an eyebrow, slurps it gently. There’s pepper, yes, and rosemary. Chicken stock. “That’s fine. I can hardly taste it.”

“Yes, but we’re catering for humans here. They’re practically famous for their weak taste buds. I just don’t want a pepper overdose, of all things, to be the reason I kill one of your…friends.”

The way she says friends is hesitant, unsure, but it’s a thousand times better than some of the less complimentary terms she’s called his companions in the past. He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Bill’s been to the New New York Curry House and barely batted an eyelid. I think she’ll deal with it.”

Missy pouts, continues stirring. The stove hums. “On your head be it.”

Well, that’s usually the way. He puts his hand over her own on the pan handle and for a moment her body freezes beneath him, tenses, relaxes. “I can finish this off if you want to get ready.” She chuckles. He can feel it vibrate up his arm. “What? What is it?”

“It’s just—this is very domestic of us. Alarmingly so.”

“It was your idea,” he shrugs, “I’m just following through.”

She laughs again and for a moment they’re kids on Gallifrey, zealous and high on adrenaline, skipping class at the Academy. Hiding in the eves and wondering if the Professor would ever catch them and tell their parents. He thinks she taught him to kiss, the day they first skipped class. Her lips were warm and tasted like black cherries, her hair as red as the burning grass, as she was back then. Or maybe he’s made that all up—it’s hard to tell, now, after two thousand years. Sometimes memory and dreams are the same, sometimes completely different.

Maybe she remembers too. Missy pauses, biting her lip, as she unravels her hand from his. She pops the chef hat on his head, tugs it over his ears. Nods appreciatively at her handiwork. “Can you be a dear and check the lamb? In about ten minutes. I’d do it myself, but I want to do my hair.”

She’s got lots of hair, this regeneration. He kind of loves it. “Of course.”

She presses a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek, lets her hand linger round his neck. It might mean everything; it might mean nothing. “Thank you.”

As she leaves, he wonders when that invisible line that always instigated a boundary between them was breached.

***

--course four: entrees

It’s a good while before the Doctor returns and Missy has roped Nardole in as a waiter, so Bill waits in the dining room patiently, drumming her heels in the ground. The music shifts to a piano, a Beethoven suite that Bill remembers Missy playing back in the vault days. Maybe she’s sealed the musicians into the walls. Bill wouldn’t put it past her. It’s a pleasant composition, sweet, soulful, sorrowful. It makes her think of Heather and the ache she left behind.

Can you miss someone you barely knew? Yes, yes, you can, Bill decides. Because you don’t just miss the brief time you had with them, the past. You miss all the future you could have had with them too. Potential is always more painful than history.

She sips the champagne carefully. It’s dangerous to dwell. Looks up at the ceiling and concentrates on that instead. As well as the abundance of cocks, there’s quite a few decent pairs of boobs up there too. She can’t help but cringe when she realises that one of said pairs of boobs belongs to a dark-haired goddess that looks a lot like Missy.

She shudders. Perhaps Michelangelo and Missy’s relationship was a lot more… intimate, than she really wants to picture. She’s never going to get that image out of her mind. Luckily, the Doctor entering the room drags her away from that certain train of thought.

“What?” the Doctor blinks, “Are you alright? You look… unsettled.”

Oh, she’s unsettled alright, but it’s probably best not to mention the reason for it. She flashes him a grin. “Just thinking. I’m fine, really. Hungry.”

The Doctor walks over to the table and gestures towards the chair opposite his, urging her to sit. “Nardole will be bringing out the first course shortly. Missy’s just getting ready. Sorry we’re terrible hosts, I haven’t done this n such a…”

His voice trails off and Bill waves a hand. A candle in the centre of the table flickers. “I think you forget I’m a student. The other week a friend offered to cook me dinner and all she had was rice and ketchup. I’m used to it.”

The Doctor raises an eyebrow. “A friend?”

“Yes, a friend,” Bill emphasises the noun forcefully, “No-one special. I don’t… I don’t want to...”

“It’s fine, you don’t have to explain to me.”

From behind them, the door opens and Bill almost expects a fanfare, a flurry of trumpets. But this time—she needs no introduction. Missy enters in a full length burgundy ballgown, matching the colour of the seat covers. The silk shines in the candlelight. The sleeves are long but she’s clearly modernised the look, the back of the dress exposing her skin. Her hair is mostly knotted up in its usual style, but a few rogue curls trickle down her neck, her torso. Bill has never looked at her with anything other than mild curiosity, maybe disdain, but bloody hell. She’s not blind.

And the Doctor—for want of a better comparison, it’s like Prince Charming catching eyes with Cinderella on the night of the ball, before the clock strikes midnight. Admittedly, Missy is a far cry from the meek and dainty fairytale princess and the Doctor no prince, but the simile still stands. She’s unable to think of anything else.

“Oh, I must look beautiful,” Missy twirls her skirts, “You two can’t keep your jaws closed.”

Almost simultaneously, the Doctor and Bill subconsciously lock their gaping mouths shut. Bill flushes, takes another sip of champagne. Hopes this little incident will get forgotten. Missy settles elegantly in the chair next to the Doctor, gestures for him to pour her a glass of champagne. He rolls his eyes but pours one anyway.

“Anyway,” Missy gulps back a couple of mouthfuls, “I do hope that the Doctor has been keeping you entertained, uh…” She glances over at the Doctor, over-exaggeratedly widens her eyes, tugging at her earlobe. The Doctor shakes his head and mouths her name. “Bill! Yes, Bill. I remember.”

Bill raises an expertly plucked eyebrow, but otherwise makes no comment. She knows she’s teasing her. “Why are you doing this?”

“So loaded a question so early on in the evening!” Missy nudges Bill’s glass with the rim of her own. “Drink some more, then maybe I’ll tell you. Now, where’s baldy with the first course? I’m positively malnourished!”

***

--course five: removes

The soup smells good and doesn’t look particularly suspect, but Bill’s still wary to let anything prepared by Missy go anywhere near her insides. From beside her, Nardole wolfs down the food like a stray dog that hasn’t eaten in weeks, whilst the Doctor and Missy go for a much gentler approach. She swirls her spoon round her bowl, picking it up, dropping it again.

“Well, eat up,” Missy gestures at Bill with her own spoon, “You mustn’t have had a proper meal in weeks, you’re so scrawny. What’s that disease you humans get? Rickets? Yes, it’s highly likely you have that. You look rickety to me.”

Bill narrows her eyes. “I don’t have rickets.”

Nardole drops his empty bowl down on the table with an unceremonious ceramic plonk. “That was delicious. Is there any more?”

“See, baldy likes it,” Missy brings her spoon to her lips, “Why aren’t you eating?”

The Doctor tries to drag the attention away from Bill. “Give her chance, Missy, it’s still hot—“

“You think I’ve poisoned it, don’t you? You think I’d do that?” When Bill neglects to reply, Missy laughs manically, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, honey, do you think if I wanted you dead I’d go through this much effort? Slave away in the fucking—“

“Missy, calm down,” the Doctor reaches out to touch her elbow, but Missy pulls it away quickly. “It’s just hot, isn’t it, Bill?”

“What’s the fucking point?” Missy slams her fist down on the table. The cutlery clinks, and Nardole’s glass dances for a second before falling onto the floor, smashing into confetti. “What’s the fucking point of trying to—I’m never going to be good, I’m never going to be you, but I’ve been trying so fucking…”

Bill’s blood runs to ice. Of all the reactions, she never expected this. She never expected her to feel hurt by her apprehension. She doesn’t want to feel bad, but that’s her. She’s always wanted to make people feel happy. Even if that person didn’t necessarily deserve happiness. She’s about to apologise, but Missy pushes back her chair noisily, storms off into the kitchen. The Doctor follows quickly after her. Bill’s left staring in their wake, a hole opening up in her stomach.

“She’ll be alright in a minute,” Nardole says confidently. He points to the still full bowl of soup set out in front of her. “Are you going to eat that?”

Bill looks down. She doesn’t feel that hungry anymore, so slides the bowl to Nardole who accepts it graciously. It’s not just food, just dinner, not a special occasion. It’s more important than that. She knocks back the rest of her champagne and reaches out for more. Wonders what Heather would say, if she were here. She’d probably say the right thing. In her mind, the Heather that lives there—well, she always says the right thing. Potential. Huh. It’s always more painful than history.

***

--course six: punch or sorbet (interlude two)

He can feel the rage radiating off her like heat, the way she frantically rushes between the sink and the sideboard, dropping plates into soapy water. One slips from her grasp and drops to the floor, smashing loudly. She swears—a Gallifreyan curse word which is roughly equivalent to fuck—and he notices a splash of crimson on the stone.

“Missy, Missy, hey…” He reaches out and tries to still her, but she’s having none of it, trying to shake free of his grasp. “Missy, stop. You’ve hurt yourself. Stop.”

“The funny thing is,” she starts, gesturing madly, “I don’t care what your little pet thinks of me. I’ve never cared, they’re idiotic, they’re dispensable, they’re human. I care what you think, and you like her, and that makes me want her to like me, which is fucking stupid—“

Pet. Things have got worse, then. He reaches out for her hand. Blood trickles through the cracks in her palm like channels in a river, the gash slightly worse than he anticipated. “It’s not stupid. I don’t think it’s stupid.”

“It is, it is, it is, because I’ve never cared before, not once, why do I care now?” She hisses, springs back, when he tries to dab at the cut with a clean, damp cloth. “It’s fine, leave it. Leave it.”

“No, it’s not fine. It needs cleaning, at the very least.” He winds the cloth round her hand until red bleaches through the material, blurs with the water. “Keep that on it. I’m sure there’s a first-aid kit around here somewhere.”

Missy laughs bitterly. “You did this to me. You made me care. All those years in the vault and this is what you’ve turned me into. Someone who cares.”

The Doctor shuffles round in the cupboard for a couple of minutes until he stumbles across a kit he thinks Martha might have given him, a lifetime ago. Missy’s angry breathing and the drip of the tap are the only things that break the silence. He clips it open, finds a sealed bottle of antiseptic and a bandage. He unwraps Missy’s hand and for once, she lets him take care of her, watches as he dries it carefully and applies a thin layer of the cream around the broken skin. “I refuse to believe that that’s such a bad thing.”

“It is when it makes me weak,” she winces and he tuts, pulling her hand closer to him. “I’m weak, I’m compromised. I’ve made her dinner. I don’t make dinner for anyone, I don’t care about anyone, especially not her.”

The Doctor starts wrapping the bandage round her palm. “You have to remember that she knows about the things you’ve done, in the past. She’s wary, still, but she’s open to the idea, she’s seen—Missy, she wouldn’t be here otherwise. She came. Remember that.”

He can feel her pulse relax a little, her eyes soften. They’re ice blue, this time, like glaciers. He brings the bandaged hand to his lips and presses a kiss between her knuckles, keeps it there for a moment as she calms. A tide returning to the shore.

“I’m so proud of you. I don’t say it enough. I’m so proud of who you’ve become.”

Missy scoffs scathingly, rolls her eyes, but there’s no denying the flush across her cheeks. “Please. Don’t make me ill. Don’t be sappy. That kind of talk is exactly why after this I’ll go and blow up a planet, or go enslave Trivoli again, or something.”

“After this?” the Doctor quirks an eyebrow, “So you’re staying?”

Missy hums. Brings her arms to her sides. “Only for you. And if you make the human try some of that vodka you picked up in Russia a few weeks ago. The ninety percent stuff.”

“Bill, her name is Bill.”

“Fine, whatever, Bill,” Missy clicks her tongue and grins, “Get baldy back in here. He can deal out the fish.”

Well, it seems they’ve reached a resolution, for now.

***

--course seven: roast

A considerable amount of time passes before Missy and the Doctor return and Missy looks calmer, lulled, like a wasteland after a hurricane. Bill notices the bandage round her hand but decides not to question it. It’s best not to dwell. It’s best not to dwell.

“So…” Bill trails off, champagne on the brain. Her limbs are fizzing and fireworks are exploding in her gut. “What’s the next course?”

The Doctor glances over at Missy expectantly. Missy knocks back half a glass of champagne and wipes her top lip, lipstick smudging slightly onto her chin. “Fish. Poached salmon. It’s a bit bland, but the Doctor insisted I stuck to human delicacies.”

The Doctor points to his own chin and Missy understands, picks up her napkin and blots her face. “What are you talking about? You love salmon. It’s all you ate in Germany.”

“Only because it was the most tolerable thing on the menu,” Bill wonders which Germany, when Germany, why Germany. Two thousand years of friendship, she supposes, that’s quite a big timeline to think about. “The cheese was okay, but the sausages were awful.”

“The sausages were awful,” the Doctor agrees, “Odd, considering its what the Germans are famous for.”

“Depends on the German,” Missy winks, and Bill considers leaving the table to vomit. This is almost as bad as the whole boob thing, which she desperately tries to stop thinking about. Thinking makes her want to look. Looking equals permanent mental scarring.

“You’re horrific. Genuinely horrific.”

“It’s why you like me,” Missy grins. Her fingernails are painted midnight blue, matching with the stacks of silver rings she has on every other finger. Bill thinks this conversation sounds an awful lot like flirting, and has the nasty feeling that maybe this whole come for dinner thing is a ruse to reveal some rather disconcerting information. She pushes the thought back quickly and drinks some more champagne. No, she’s not going there, not tonight. Thankfully, Nardole re-enters, managing to balance all four plates up his arm—perhaps they’re magnetic. The salmon is bright pink, like flamingo feathers, and is remarkably soft when Bill prods it with one of the many forks.

She can feel the Doctor and Missy staring at her, their eyes burning into her hair. Gently, she cuts a little off, drops it in her mouth. It feels like silk on her tongue. “This,” Bill gestures towards the rest of the plate with her fork, “This is really good.”

And like that, the heavy atmosphere in the room parts, Nardole visibly relaxing from beside her. The Doctor smiles, and Missy pretends to not look pleased. “Caught the fish myself, you know.”

The Doctor frowns. “No you didn’t.”

Missy sighs, shaking her head. “Well, I could have caught it myself. It’s not difficult.”

“Hmm,” the Doctor says, chewing his food. He gulps the rest down with a sip of champagne. “It is good, by the way. Bill’s right.”

Missy doesn’t look up from her plate, instead daintily cutting her fish into tiny strips. “I don’t know why that surprises you. You know I won first prize in the three-hundredth series of the Great Outer-Space Bake Off.”

“That’s only because you cheated. You sabotaged Howard-Bot’s custard in the final round.”

“Yes,” Missy insists forcefully, using her fork for emphasis, “But I still managed to get to the final round sabotage-free. Other than when I turned off the Tin Princess’ hydro-oven in round two. She was bribing the Corporation, you know. It was my moral duty to ensure that behaviour didn’t go unpunished.”

“Wait,” Bill leans forward, eyes narrowed in confusion. “What?”

“I’m quite the celebrity on New Earth,” Missy sighs nostalgically, “And for once, not because of a mass-murder charge.”

Bill watches as the Doctor laughs and the two of them share a look, the kind of look Bill’s only seen in terrible films—a look of longing, of a shared history, except more raw, more real. Without the artifice of transcripts and camera angles and shitty actresses. Nardole spoils the moment by dropping his plate noisily, having licked the china clean. His eyebrows quirk up and Missy snorts derisively. “What’s next, then? I’m starving!”

***

--course eight: salad

After the blip early on, and the assurance Missy wasn’t going to slip cyanide into the gravy, the rest of the dinner passes quite smoothly. Well, even. Enjoyable. The roast lamb is beyond anything Bill’s ever tasted, but she supposes, it’s not that big a feat. Moira was never a great cook and Bill’s competent, but that’s only because she literally has to do it for a living. Those spuds don’t peel themselves.

For dessert, Nardole brings out chocolate mousse in four ornate parfait glasses, the glass engraved in blooming roses and petunias. When Bill spoons it into her mouth without hesitation, she notices that it’s got quite a fiery kick to it.

“What’s in this?” Bill asks, with her mouth still full. The chocolate is creamy and unbelievably decadent, and probably about a billion calories.

“Oh, just a handful of arsenic,” Missy says nonchalantly. Across the table, both the Doctor and Nardole drop their spoons noisily, a metallic clang against the wood. Panic drains all colour from Bill’s face, looking desperately at the Doctor. Missy slaps her chest and laughs heartily. “Oh, god, the looks on your faces! It’s brandy. Arsenic doesn’t taste like that at all, you imbeciles. It’s just brandy.”

The Doctor laughs first. It’s a gruff, croaky sort of laugh that emerges deep from within his chest, like it’s been hanging round there a while, waiting to be set free. Then Nardole starts. His is surprisingly high-pitched and sort of mechanical. Before Bill realises, they’re all at it, laughing so hard their limbs ache and hot, fast tears roll down her cheeks, smudging her makeup.

For a moment, she feels warm. She feels complete. She feels something that’s been absent her whole life, a gaping hole with nothing but ash and sawdust and concrete to fill it.

She feels… well, she feels home.

***

--course nine: cold dish

The Doctor slumps off to find his guitar so Bill takes the liberty of bringing some of the empty plates back through to the kitchen. She empties the now tepid washing up bowl, filling it with clean water. The cleaning liquid smells like lavender and bubbles drift up into the ceiling. One bursts on her nose. She drops a few of the plates into the water and starts scrubbing some of the gravy off with a scouring pad, the rush of the tap swallowing any background noise.

She gets a shock when an arm reaches out and switches it off. “You don’t have to do that.”

It’s Missy. She looks alarmingly earnest; a look Bill’s never seen on her before. “Honestly, I don’t mind. Might as well make myself useful.”

Missy shrugs, grabbing a tea-towel hanging loose on a nearby radiator. “Suit yourself.”

They stand there in silence for what could be seconds or minutes, Bill quietly cleaning each piece of crockery in turn and placing it upside down on the draining board, Missy wordlessly drying them and propping them back in the big, glass-faced ceramics cabinet. Bill can’t think of the right words, or how to phrase them. Her lips keep tripping over themselves.

“I’m…” Bill says, on an intake of breath. The ceramics cabinet clinks loudly as Missy tries to squash in a casserole dish. “I never said—well, I’m—sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”

Missy pauses. Looks down at her shoes. “I can’t blame you. I was a terrible person. Still am. Mostly.”

“No, no, I was wrong. You spent all that time in the vault, you’re good…”

Missy sighs with a hint of exhaustion, kneading her forehead with her fist. Bill frowns. “Why is this such a difficult concept for humans to comprehend? I’m not good. I never will be good. It’s not—it doesn’t work like that. You’re obsessed, you’re all obsessed, by putting unintelligible abstracts into tiny little boxes. Labelling them. It’s like your whole ridiculous gender debate. You strive for neatness and compactness and it bothers me. Why are you so eager to be confined?”

Bill laughs out of disbelief. As if she doesn’t know how harmful being confined and labelled is. “Fine. Go on. Educate me.”

Missy grabs another plate. “Good and bad are not as black and white as you like—want—to believe. They’re interchangeable. The boundaries merge and it’s all…” She smirks to herself, like she’s in on a joke Bill doesn’t know. “Bumpy-wumpy. Being bad, or what you perceive as bad, is what I’ve always been. It’s debatable whether that was more me or what Gallifrey made me, but I’m not going to go into that, especially with someone who will never understand what being a child on Gallifrey is like. As much as you try, you can’t remove your heart, without killing who you are. And what would be the point if you’re not fully you anymore.”

The water in the bowl is going lukewarm now, and Bill’s fingers are all pruney.

“I’m never going to be good, like the Doctor will never be fully bad. It’s just a fundamental fact. It’s too late to change what is effectively in our DNA. But the vault—the vault was an opportunity to balance my equilibrium, both our equilibriums. The way I was heading wasn’t sustainable. I was going to burn myself out. I can see that now.” She blinks hard, staring at the wall. “Earlier, you asked why I was doing this. This whole ridiculous display of domesticity and kindness and, and, and tranquillity. Well—that’s why. I’m balancing myself out.”

It’s more a confession than Bill expected. Probably more than Missy was expecting, too. The words just keep tumbling out her mouth like uncorked champagne, impossible to pour back into the bottle. Maybe she regrets it. Maybe she thinks it’s a weakness, this emotional vulnerability. It’s not, though. This is more proof she’s changed to Bill than all the soup and the lamb and the brandy-infused chocolate mousse. She jolts out of her stupor quickly, going back to drying the dishes, placing the row of parfait glasses in a cabinet that hangs over the wall.

“Missy,” Bill says, tentatively, pouring the cold water out the bowl and down the plughole. “Can I ask you something?”

“I have a feeling you’re about to. Ah, humans. Absolutely no boundaries.”

Bill ignores her, turning her back on the sink, resting her spine against the side. She watches as Missy closes the cabinet door carefully. “When did you realise you needed to, uh, change? Reform, I guess?”

Missy exhales heavily, staring at the shelves rather than at Bill, like she’d prefer not to look her in the eye. “The Doctor and me—we don’t have many constants in this world, not for a very long time. But we have always had each other. The thought of someday killing him was what kept me going for a while, and he’d be lying if he’d never thought the same about me. But…” She glances down at her knuckles, fiddles with one of her rings. “I was going to lose him. Irreversibly, this time. And the thought of losing him took precedence over the thought of killing him.”

Bill doesn’t know what to say. She knows how loss feels—her whole life has been one big epic sad story, from the mum she never had and the girlfriend she couldn’t have, but her loss feels like nothing compared to the ancient sadness that exudes from Missy’s tone. She’d never fully comprehended the Doctor and Missy’s relationship properly until now; mainly because she’s never fully understood just how hard it must have been, to try and change the person you have been for thousands of years. Missy has always been just the evil, devil incarnate figure to her. Yes, the things she’s done in the past can never be undone; maybe there will still be more chaos to come. Definitely. But she’s trying, and she has changed, and maybe that’s good enough for now.

“Don’t you dare mention any of this to him,” Missy comments as an afterthought, “He’ll think I’ve gone soft. And I’m not making a habit of this. Just because I’ve… told you things, doesn’t mean I like you. I can tolerate you, like one can just about tolerate a chipped mug or a terrible romcom. But I’m not going to start getting gooey-eyed over apes like he does. It’s nauseating.”

Bill smiles. Maybe somethings will never change. “Sure. Whatever you like.”

Missy narrows her eyes, not quite believing her but accepting it anyway. She hangs the tea-towel back on the radiator and flattens out the creases. Distantly, Bill can hear the chords of a song she hasn’t heard before—a beautiful song, an eerie song, that sends shivers rushing through her—but Missy freezes, like she recognises it.

Perhaps, Bill wonders, it’s her song.

***

--course ten: sweets

The air is cool and the sky above is hazy with artificial light, pinpricks of white breaking out amongst the blue. Engines blare from the main road running adjacent and there’s faint giggling, shouting, as students head from the halls and drunkenly into town. It’s rolling on for eleven pm. Bill rests her empty glass on the step of the TARDIS and watches as her shoes sink into the soil, her toes wet with dew. She feels him before she sees him; maybe two hearts beat twice as loud.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, sitting beside her with a groan. Bill nudges his boot with her toe. “It does—even if it doesn’t feel like it. It means a lot. To the both of us.”

“I actually quite enjoyed myself in the end,” Bill muses, “Missy sure knows how to host a party.”

“She’s always been like that. When we first…” he trails off and stares at the moon, peaking out amongst the clouds. “She’s not had an opportunity to do it for a while. Would you like me to walk you home?”

Usually she’d decline and order a cab, or just go on her own, it’s not that far away. But it’s a nice night, not too cold for the time of year, so she might as well take advantage of his company. He stands first and offers a hand to help her up. The grass snakes up Bill’s legs but it’s refreshing, a reminder of just how alive she really is.

“Feel free to tell me to piss off,” she says when they reach the road, “But was there an ulterior motive to this?”

The Doctor’s expressive brows furrow, dodging a group of students clinging onto each other and spilling red bull on the pavement. “What do you mean?”

“I know Missy’s reason. I think. I just don’t know yours.”

He shrugs. “There isn’t one. I just went along with what Missy wanted.”

“I just—I find that hard to believe.” They pause at a pedestrian crossing. The Doctor presses the button, taps his foot as he waits for the light to change. Bill gathers her vowels and consonants in the hope of making a somewhat coherent train of thought vocal. “Look, when I was younger, Moira, she had quite a few boyfriends. There was Cliff from the rugby club and Martin the gym assistant and Kevin the geography teacher—they were all ginormous dickheads, probably why I don’t like men. But every time she found a new one she’d bring them round the house, make them dinner, and introduce them to me.”

The crossing flashes green. “Look, Bill; is this going anywhere?”

“Yes. Yes!” Bill walks quickly to keep up with him, “What I mean is… Moira hasn’t been the ideal mother figure, not at all, but she knew how fucked up my childhood had been. She brought these boyfriends round to the house because somehow, for some reason… she was seeking my approval.”

The Doctor slows in his strides. Blinks.

“Is that it, then?” Bill looks up at him, “Is it an, uh, approval thing? I’m not stupid Doctor, or blind. I know I don’t have a hope in hell in understanding Time Lord relationships or how you two work. I don’t even think I want to understand. But I know how much she means to you. I’ve always known, even if I didn’t want to know.”

The Doctor smiles softly. Bill knows it really isn’t as simple as she’s making out, but maybe she’s thought of an analogy that just about fits. “And does she?”

Bill looks confused. “Does she what?”

“Have you approval.”

Oh. Oh. Bill grins and bites her lip. They turn the corner into her street, where Bill can see the porch light glowing dimly. The teenage lad that she’s seen on many occasions stare at her arse on the way to uni rushes by on a bicycle. The air smells damp, as if there’s rain on the way. “I don’t… She still scares me, to know what she’s capable of. But I think she’s capable of being better too. And I think that’s probably enough.”

Bill undoes the latch on the little iron gate in front of her garden and closes it behind her.

“For the record, Bill, your opinions do matter to me. They will always matter to me. Doesn’t mean I’ll always listen to them, but I take what you say seriously.” The Doctor gives her a small wave, opening his fist and splaying his fingers. She waves back. “See you on Monday. You’ve still got a paper on parallax theory to hand me.”

And like that, it’s back to reality, sitting at her laptop for hours on end in the hope of writing something remotely clever. “See ya.”

“Goodnight, Bill.”

“Goodnight, Doctor.”

***

--course eleven: dessert (interlude three)

Nardole tells him she’s in the bath when he returns, and he instantly know which bath he means. Missy has a thing for outrageously big rooms with very little furniture—her bathroom is easily the size of a normal person’s flat but the claw-foot tub sits isolated in the middle, the space around dominated by stone tiling. She’s humming some ancient Gallifreyan lullaby they were both taught as children and it chills him, despite the heat, as her soprano echoes around the high-ceilinged room.

sing the days of love, softly lay me down

Her clothes are haphazardly laid about like she’s removed them one piece at a time, walking over to the bath. The gown swallows the ground like a bloodstain, one shoe next to it, the other at the side of the tub. His footsteps feel ridiculously loud but if she notices, she doesn’t look up.

“Where did you disappear off to?” she asks, sticking one leg in the air. He still finds it funny, watching her shave her legs. It’s been a while since she was last female.

“Walked Bill home,” he murmurs. Sits on the side of the tub and plops her flannel in the bubbles. “She enjoyed herself, by the way. Miraculously.”

“I enjoyed myself.” She tugs on his arm. “You joining me?”

“If you’ll have me.”

“Of course, my love.”

He peels off his jacket and shirt, folding them neatly a few feet away. He can see her watching him as he unlaces his boots, pulls off his trousers. The water is still hot as he sinks in, smelling pleasantly like honeysuckle—or maybe that’s just Missy. She reaches across, pulls herself close to him, rests between his knees. Her hands caress his shoulders, tracing shapes he assumes are nonsensical bits of Gallifreyan.

“I’m not making a habit of this,” she says eventually, “How often do you have to be nice to humans to keep them on your side? Their lifespans are so fleeting, I forget.”

He sighs. Presses a kiss on her bare shoulder. She’s got a mark like a crescent moon there and he can’t remember if it’s a recent thing or a regeneration thing. “It’s not about sides, Missy.”

“I know, I know,” she smiles, “I’m just playing with you. You’re so easy to play with. Always so easy.”

She snakes her arms round his torso, her fingers drumming across his spine, his collar bone. He finds himself wanting to return the gesture and they end up holding onto each other, but it’s soft, not like the world is ending, not now. He remembers gripping her and crying so hard he’s almost sick, tears he could never shed for anyone but his own. She’s finally back. She’s finally where he’s always wanted her, all these fucking years.

“I love you. You know that, don’t you? I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I know that,” he says. Her hair is tickling his cheek. He leans back so he can face her, see those cold blue eyes and cut-glass cheekbones. He loves all her regenerations in their own little way, but perhaps he loves this one the most. He presses his forehead against hers and she can feel her smile, effervescent, blinding. “I know that.”

They don’t kiss that often, not properly, because he hates the thought that each one could be their last. But this time he doesn’t mind, not at all, because her lips are damp from steam and she tastes like champagne. This time could be their last time, but it’s a good last time; he’d rather it ended like this than the awful, awful, awful alternative.

“I had a word with Mickey, the other day, about that mural.”

“Mickey?” the Doctor’s frowns, “Who’s Mickey?”

“Mickey. Michelangelo. Idiot. Anyway, he says he can pop round and paint you in if you like. He remembers all the necessary measurements, although he does tend to go a bit overboard.”

“Can we not talk about Michelangelo while we’re kissing, please? It’s distracting.”

“Oh. Sorry, dear,” Missy smirks, kisses him again. “You didn’t seem that bothered last time he visited.”

“Shut up. Shut up, right now, or I’m getting out. You’re spoiling it.”

She laughs, and kissing her is much more fun when she’s laughing. They sit in the bath until it goes cold and they have to find somewhere warmer.

***

--after dinner

Bill wakes up the following morning to a voicemail notification from the Doctor. Intrigued, she rubs her eyes, unlocks her phone. Scrolls through until she finds the call in question. She’s too tired to be panicked just yet and surely she would have noticed if the world had ended in the meantime.

The speaker is muffled by something but even blurry with sleep, it doesn’t take her long to figure out just what exactly is going on.

“Fucking hell!” she yells, disgusted, manically trying to shut down every single app she has open. Deletes the message. Wipes her call-log. Debates throwing her phone straight out the window or just burning the thing, devoid of all evidence. Instead, she opens the Doctor’s contact, and begins to type out a message.

Stop. Fucking. Butt-dialling. Me.