It seems innocuous enough in the beginning. Flu-like symptoms, shortness of breath, weakness, lethargy, some mild pain. Nothing to worry about.
Within a few days, the more severe symptoms develop with alarming momentum: unexplained ecchymoses begin to form all over the body, patients begin to experience vomiting, bleeding and hemoptysis. Patients experience intense headaches, delirium, and many fall into a comatose state. In most cases, the eventual result is death.
On the first week and a half, hospitals see an increase in volume of patients. By the end of the month, emergency rooms are flooded, hospitals are nearly overwhelmed, and there is a charged sense of fear and panic all over London.
There is noticeably less traffic on the streets, and those who venture from their homes walk hurriedly from point A to point B, their faces covered by surgical masks, determinedly avoiding any sort of physical contact. One cough, a sniffle or a sneeze can clear a room. People in hazmat suits entering and exiting homes, carrying large bags of biohazardous waste, are no longer an uncommon sight.
The first direct contact you have with the disease, strangely enough, is not through contamination.
The call comes sometime around midnight, and you glance up from the microscope, annoyed at the interruption.
You briefly consider not answering the phone, but the ringing has pulled you out of your concentration enough to realize the full extent of your sleep-deprived state. Your eyes are burning, your muscles are tense and cramped, and a pounding in your head reminds you that the last time you slept was forty-eight hours ago.
The ringing becomes more insistent and provides a shrill accompaniment to the throbbing in your head. You get up reluctantly to answer it, suspecting that it’s Mycroft. If there is a bright side to this epidemic, it’s that the whole situation has made Mycroft’s life a living hell.
You check the screen, but it’s not Mycroft. It’s an unknown number.
You frown and try to deduce who might be calling at this time of night. The phone vibrates insistently while you’re thinking, and with a roll of your eyes, you give in.
You answer with your customary greeting, a terse “Sherlock Holmes.”
The voice on the other end of the line is small and young, disembodied and faint, muffled by slight static. “Hello?“
Male, a child probably between six and ten, the voice is distinctly British, with just the slightest hint of a foreign accent on the enunciation of the vowels. You don’t recognize this voice.
“Who is this?”
“Mr. Holmes,” The childish voice is a little bit stronger now, emboldened perhaps by a response, no matter how terse or unwelcoming that response might be. “My name is Nero Wolfe… Nero Hamish Wolfe.”
You freeze, breath half-caught in your throat, and your hand clenches rigidly over the phone. Your heart thuds dully in your chest, and there’s a faint rushing sound in your ears.
One word, one name tells you so much.
… Hamish… If you were thinking of baby names.
… I’ve never begged for mercy in my life.
… If it was the end of the world… if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?
It’s been too long. The first thought that assaults you is how? Which is, in its own ridiculous way, the easiest question to answer.
One night is sufficient to answer how – that bare room in Karachi had been stifling hot, oppressively so; the sounds of the city had been loud outside the door, but it didn’t matter; everything else was insignificant, even the fact that she almost died, or the fact that you attacked all those people as a trade for her singular life; all that mattered was that her pulse was rapid beneath your fingers, her body warm and vital, and her clever eyes told you all you needed to know…
One night before you parted ways forever and never heard from her again. How is the only question you cannot comprehend, but can answer with perfect recall after all this time.
The tiny voice over the phone interrupts your thoughts and pulls you out of the cloud of shock. “Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes,” your voice is hoarse, and you clear it for the sake of the boy on the other line. “I - I’m here.”
“My mother told me to call you. She said to tell you: Eaton Square, ten o’clock tomorrow morning. She said you would know the address. She also said you would recognize me. I’ll see you there at ten sharp.”
“Yes, I know the address, but wait –”
Too late. The other line cuts off, and you’re left staring uselessly at a blank phone screen.
You arrive a good half an hour early, and in deep disguise as a precaution. There are very few people on the street when you arrive, and you linger far enough from 44 Eaton Square to avoid detection, yet close enough to see every single person who arrives. The mask and gloves help you blend in and it’s an excellent way to ensure that no one recognizes you.
At precisely one minute to ten, a black car with heavily tinted windows stops at the corner of the street and the door opens. A little boy hops out.
He pulls out a small brown rucksack – high-quality leather, clearly expensive – hefts it over his shoulders and starts down the street without looking back at the car. He’s neatly-dressed in a turtleneck pulled well up to obscure his face, and gloves, and then there’s the very telling black coat he’s wearing, a tailored miniature of your own.
The pointed clue is unnecessary – the moment you see his mop of black curls and his bright blue eyes, your suspicions from last night are confirmed.
The shade of the boy’s eyes are closer to his mother’s, as well as the cheekbones, though not quite as prominent due to childish roundness of his face… but the ears, the nose, even the shape of his forehead are as familiar to you as your own reflection.
The boy walks determinedly to 44 Eaton Square, cautiously crossing the street, before finally stopping at the steps leading to the house. He looks up at the facade, head tipped and contemplating it with a curious expression, before unceremoniously dropping his rucksack on the ground, and settling on the bottom step.
You don’t move immediately, not even to signal that your attention is drawn to him, but the boy is quicker than you. He turns his head and stares directly at you, as if he’s known you’ve been there all this time.
It’s slightly unnerving to see that clear blue gaze light on you with such direct intensity, and it takes you back to the first time you were at 44 Eaton Square and that very same translucent gaze stared right through your disguise so many years ago.
Disguise is always a self-portrait.
There’s no doubt who his mother is.
In the face of such blatant knowledge, your lips twist into a wry grin under your mask, and you finally shed your disguise. The boy – Nero – watches you approach with a wary look of recognition.
“Do you know who I am?” you ask.
There are so many ways to interpret such a loaded question, and the boy decides to take it at its hidden meaning. He looks at you with a very serious expression on his little face and nods, straightforward but cautious.
“You covered the lower half of your face, but studies have shown that the upper half of the face is more significant when recognizing kinship signals and facial similarity. But it doesn’t matter because I researched you last night and saw your picture. We have the same forehead and nose, and similar ears. And the hair.”
The boy looks calmly up at you, but you can see his hands fiddling slightly with the straps of his bag. A nervous habit, probably. He notices you noticing, and attempts to control it by shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat.
“She’s sick, isn’t she?”
Nero blinks, and he doesn’t answer, but a small tremor makes its way over the boy’s lower lip. His voice wobbles on a tiny, very unconvincing “No.”
“Did she tell you to say that?”
The boy’s lower lip pulls out despite his brave attempts to stop it, and you can see his hands balling into fists inside his coat pockets. For the first time, he looks away, but not before you see the tears pooling in his eyes. He swipes them away stubbornly with one hand.
Children have never been your area of expertise; especially not crying children. The fact that this crying child is your own further adds to the strangeness of the situation. But something tells you, that this time, you need to try.
Cautiously, you lift your hand and hesitantly touch the top of the boy’s head. When Nero doesn’t pull away, your hands settle on the boy’s soft dark curls, so like yours, and you stroke them gently, in what you sincerely hope is a consoling manner.
The touch seems to release something inside the boy, and the tears spill from his eyes, running down his cheeks and wetting his turtleneck. Nero makes a small whimpering sound, and then another, and another, before turning violently toward your leg – about the highest part of you he can reach – and burying his face in your trousers to muffle the sound. His arms wrap around your leg, clinging doggedly as he sobs.
You wrap your arm around him awkwardly. This is not the crying of a child like Rosie, who sometimes cries to get what she wants, or maybe that time when she skinned her knee. This uncontrollable outburst comes from something deeper, probably something the child has been trying to control, to hold back and keep himself from breaking down like he is now.
You wait patiently for the boy to expel whatever fear and confusion and anxiety and helplessness he is feeling. When his grip finally loosens on your clothes and his sobs dwindle into tiny hiccups, you kneel down in front of him and take his shoulders.
“Where is she, Nero?”
The boy’s lip wobbles dangerously again. “I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me. I wanted to go with her, but she wouldn’t let me. She said she didn’t want me to get sick too.”
You exhale slowly. You’ve never been one to care before, but there’s more relief in it than you’d like to admit.
She’s still alive.
Or at least she was when Nero left. But that in itself is a good sign. She was still well enough to take precautions for the boy.
Perhaps it’s the boy’s crying, but you find yourself being more careful around him, less brusque, less terse. You rub his back and take the time to wipe the tears from his cheeks, before picking up his discarded bag and slinging it over your own shoulder. You straighten up and hold your other hand out to him.
Nero looks up at you, eyes still watery, but he takes an almighty sniff and takes your hand with his own smaller one.
You take one last look at 44 Eaton Square, before turning away. With your son’s hand in yours, you head home.
Might have a part two. It was supposed to be just a few sentences long, sorry. And there might be some inaccuracies, my research wasn’t as in-depth as I would have liked.
Prompt: ’You’ve never been the type to care before.’
Situation request? SO has a major panic attack after coming face to face with a past abuser in the street who they never thought they'd see again.
Oooh I’m very excited to do this one! Also I assumed the abuser was a man just for pronouns sake but feel free to substitute it for a woman
Altair: Altair would be waiting for his SO when he realized they were going to be late for the training date. He would begin to trace their walk from their home to the training grounds and find them zoned out sitting on a bench. He would instantly run to them and kneel down, scanning their face to see what was wrong. After a lot of questions, his SO would have a single tear roll down their face and admit to seeing their past abuser. Altair would fill with rage at seeing the tear but his duty was to get them safe. He would lead them back to the assassin complex in Masyaf and have an assassin he trusted watch over them. Then he would go out and hunt this abuser down like the dog he was.
Ezio: Ezio and his SO would be shopping in a town market when they would freeze up and drop the necklace they were holding. Ezio would look quickly at his SO and follow their line of sight until he saw a person perfectly matching the description of the abuser his SO gave him before. Instantly, Ezio would be inflamed with rage. Who could ever hurt his SO? He would quickly take his SO home and have Claudia watch over them while he set out to put a hidden blade to the abuser’s throat.
Connor: Connor took his SO to The Miles’ End tavern on the homestead for a date night dinner. But when his SO stopped eating and stared at a person within the group of travelers, he knew something was wrong. “It’s him,” they would mutter, before averting eyes. Connor immediately knew what they meant and began to walk to the person. No one, and I mean no one, was allowed to make his SO feel uncomfortable. After a bar fight which would end in the abuser being kicked out, Connor would bring his SO home and hold them tightly to his chest, reassuring them that they were safe now.
Edward: Edward and his SO would be out at a tavern when the abuser rolled in with his crew. Edward immediately recognized the abuser the second he saw him, and he would put a protective arm around his SO. The rest of the crew of the Jackdaw would draw tighter to Edward’s SO, knowing of how terrible the abuser was. The night would end with the abuser saying something out of line and a bar fight erupting. The Jackdaw crew would win, of course, and have free picking of the spoils from the abuser’s ship. But instead of killing the abuser, Edward would maroon him on a deserted island, never to be seen again.
Arno: Arno and his SO would be enjoying a nice dinner in Paris when they spotted the abuser on a date with another woman. Worried about her, Arno’s SO would beg him to do something so she could get her to safety. Arno agreed and waited until the gentleman excused himself to go to the bathroom. Arno followed him while his SO went to the woman and persuaded her to leave. As soon as the woman left, Arno would grab his SO and make a run for it back to the home. There, he would kiss his SO like there was no tomorrow and hold them tightly. The next day, there would be news of a mysterious murder at the same Parisian restaurant.
Jacob: When dating Jacob, you had not only your handsomely protective boyfriend, but you inherited a protective sister as well. So when Jacob’s SO saw their abuser on the streets of London, the twins would would quickly to bring them back to the train. Jacob would stay and comfort his SO by holding them close and whispering compliments to them until they fell asleep. Meanwhile, Evie would be on the hunt, happy to bring such an abuser down.
Weeks had passed since Countess Musgrave’s party. In those weeks you found yourself unable to stay away from James. After Benjamin had left for work you would go down to Dolphin to meet James. You spent whole afternoons cooped up in his offices at the dock. In the beginning he seemed unbothered by the idea that you returned to Benjamin every evening. As weeks stretched on he became bolder in his need to see you. Sometimes in the evening if you looked down onto the road he was there across the street, looking up at your window. You would wake in cold sweats from dreams of James.
Summary: Storms are scary enough as it is. But what’s scarier is waking up panicking in the middle of one.
Word Count: 1699
Warnings: fluff, a panic attack, feels, storms
Notes: It may be valentines day and although this fic isn’t exactly themed to match the holiday, it should be fluffy enough to suffice. It’s a little drabble fic I thought was cute to write when I couldn’t sleep, so I hope you all like it as well:)
This fic was edited by the hilarious and talented @doujinshidan; thanks Sage for dealing with my late night nonsense:P
As always, I love feedback more than I love myself, so ask away! And of course, enjoy:)
I’ve mentioned in fic before that Satya & Mei seem like a perfect couple to Angela so… lmao here I am putting my money where my mouth is and writing them. Seriously though I love them as a pairing & they need more attention.
Spot taking Race on a cute date in the winter looking at
all the Christmas lights, and when Race points out it’s more romantic than they
usually get he just argues that it’s cheap, but at the same time he takes hold
of Race’s hand because he’s learnt that some times it’s okay to show a feeling
Race buying cheap tickets to West End shows and trying to
convince Spot to go with him because ‘come on, Spot, it had ‘murder’ in the
title, how can that not be good?!’ (Spot goes. Spot always goes)
Tipsy walks home across Waterloo bridge at night, when Spot
will occasionally stop and pull Race into a hug, burying his face against his
neck and just standing there, soaking up the life he never through he’d get to
Grumbling at all the tourists walking slowly, but at least
once a month they do something horrifically touristy like go on the London Eye
or visit a museum and pretend to hate it
Spot begrudgingly attempting to ice skate at Somerset House.
Race is incredibly good at it because his mum took him as a child; Spot’s
parents didn’t take him anywhere they went – they didn’t go places fit for
children. Race knows that Spot’s thinking about it every second they’re on the
ice and he skates close beside him instead of doing circuits of the rink.
Afterwards he concedes that they don’t have to do it again, and Spot is more
grateful than he’ll ever say
New Year. They don’t watch the television to tell them when
the countdown starts. Instead they open a bottle of wine and sit together
curled up on the sofa, tasting the wine off each other’s lips until they hear
the fireworks in the distance that tell them another year has passed and they
still have each other
Sometimes Race will wake up to an empty bed and panic, but
Spot always comes home and admits he just needed to haunt the streets alone for
a while. Eventually he starts leaving notes when he has to get out for an hour
or two – worrying Race was never his intention
Hermione’s head drooped against the bus window. She knew she couldn’t keep this up. It was madness.
And it was rampant misuse of a time turner. She’d picked it up on a curse-breaking run. Snuck it into her pocket. One of hundreds her department had found. It wouldn’t be missed. But if the Ministry ever found out…
They wouldn’t. They couldn’t. What she was doing was too important. She couldn’t help but think that her fellows needed her. Their past selves, at any rate.
Past-Remus was all alone, waiting for nothing, with nothing to look forward to, struggling with depression.
Past-Sirius existed a few years later than Remus’ timeline. And he was on the run. Looking for Harry. In his dog form most of the time.
There was no danger of running into her past-self. So there was no danger of being found out while time-travelling.
She wondered when she’d get a visit from their current selves. When they’d put it together and traipse together into her office to tell her off. Or worse… relay their disappointment. It was a matter of time, funnily enough. They were both very clever. Remus especially. And she existed in three timelines now. It was only a matter of time before she made a mistake. If she hadn’t already.
But she couldn’t really be bothered with those thoughts. Not when there was so much pressure to do the right thing.
Anyone who thought she could be happy as a Ravenclaw had obviously not stuck around to see the adult she’d become. A do-gooder with no respect for the rules. Hermione Granger was a Gryffindor. No doubt about it.
She pulled the cord to stop the bus, knowing that she’d still have to walk a ways to get to the exact place she said she’d meet Remus. Twenty years before.
Her head was pounding. A side effect of all the time-hopping.
It was becoming an addiction. She was smart enough to know that. But she was also unable to stop. Hence the compulsory feeling of her actions. It gave her power. Knowing that she could change the past. Right wrongs. Save lives.
It was true. The two of them were alive because of her meddling. A few day’s worth of charm work ensured that Sirius merely fell through a wormhole into another part of the Ministry during that fateful night in her fifth year at Hogwarts. A simple cushioning charm and a few well-timed Proteus kept Remus from succumbing to a Death Eater’s spell at the Battle of Hogwarts.
And now? She was really just… well… She was stalling. Stalling for time. Bringing food and supplies to both of these men who had somehow stolen her heart throughout her travels. Visiting them in the past because she was too much of a coward to visit them in the present. Bit of a conundrum for a Gryffindor, she realized. Cowardice.
What had started as a personal quest to right two horrendous wrongs had turned into a compulsion. An addiction she couldn’t fight.
She stood and walked to the front of the bus, dropping a few coins as a tip into the tip box and stepping off onto the darkened street. She didn’t know why she never worried for her own safety in these situations. Another dastardly Gryffindor trait, she’d wager.
Ron and Harry certainly seemed to suffer from the same affliction.
She heard footsteps behind her. Which wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. She was in London, after all. Muggles and Magical folks alike frequented this area.
I knew something was off when my Twitter started going crazy.
It usually remained pretty quiet, only receiving the occasional burst when I appear in Joe’s vlog or main video, which doesn’t happen much. We’ve managed to keep our relationship pretty quiet, out of the YouTube realm. Of course his viewers knew of us, kind of hard to hide a relationship from the world.
I swiped across my phone to unlock it, frowning at the screen as I continued my walk past the shops, out and about in London. Pulling up Twitter, I start to scan the various tweets coming in at me, and when I realize what’s happening my entire world comes to a stop.
I stop moving, stop breathing. People continue to move around my, the traffic continues to move past on the street, but none of it registers to me, my eyes stuck on the screen of my phone. I can feel my heart dropping into my stomach, the shortness of breath catching up, a panic attack.
“No.” I say to myself, my thumb moving the screen on its own. “No, no, no.” I continue to mumble, hoping that if I keep scrolling it will all disappear. It doesn’t.
When someone accidentally bumps against me, offering an apologetic look, it breaks me out of the trance.
I click my phone off and turn around, starting back on the path towards home, walking quickly, trying to beat the tears I can feel pooling in my eyes.
As I close the door behind me, I lean against it, breathing heavily. My phone has continued to buzz the entire time, more twitter notifications. I turn the screen back on, pulling up Twitter, seeing if its still as bad as it was. It was worse.
I dial Joe’s number quickly, placing a shaking hand against my forehead, trying to calm down while it rings.
“I don’t know what happened.” Is there first thing he says. “I was hacked. I’m sorry. I am so sorry, love.” Joe rambles, sounding as panicked as I felt.
“Joe, I don’t know what to do. They are everywhere! Those were private photos…VERY private.” I close my eyes for a moment, but the intimate photos I had taken for Joe splattered across the internet flash across my mind, and I snap my eyes open again.
I can’t believe this is happening.
“I know they were, Y/N. I didn’t even know it had happened, Oli sent me a message asking if I’d heard about it.”
“Oli?! Oli has seen them!?” I finally push away from the door and walk further into the hallway.
“I didn’t show him! I swear…but he saw them online. All the boys did apparently.”
Even though it isn’t his fault they got leaked, I still feel a burst of anger.
“What the fuck, Joe! I can’t believe they saw them. That’s all they will ever think about every time we hang out! And I’m pretty sure you know that we all hang out quite a bit! Fuck, this is horrible. How many people have seen these bloody photos?!” I’m pacing back and forth in the living room, anger pumping through me.
“I couldn’t stop them! I didn’t even know it had happened, not until they told me.” Joe sounds tired, and for a moment I feel bad for yelling. “Apparently they weren’t released very long though.” That statement causes me to pause in my pacing.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been reading through, trying to figure out what happened exactly, and most people are saying that there is apparently photos of you out there. Not many claimed to have actually seen them. Except the boys I guess.” I can almost hear him flinch at that last statement.
“Did they send the photos to each other?” Its more of a threat then a question.
“I’m really not sure, Y/N. Honestly.” Joe lets out a sigh. “I’m sorry, love. Really. I’m at the office right now, we are seeing what we can do to control it.”
“Why would someone do this, to me? I’m not even on bloody YouTube.” I collapse on to the couch, suddenly feeling exhausted. “Why did I go fall in love with a bloody YouTuber.” I grumble, and I hear Joe chuckle on the other end.
“Couldn’t tell you, love. But I promise we will get this figured out. Somehow.”
“Well, start with figuring out how to erase the boys memories.” I let out a groan, leaning against the back of the couch. “I’m never going to be able to look at them in the eye again.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much, Y/N.” Joe comforts, and I can’t help but scoff at that. “No, really. They’ve all said they’re jealous because I have such a hot girlfriend.” I can hear his smirk and pride in his voice.
I can’t help but laugh at that, feeling some of the tension disappear.
“Damn right you do, Sugg.”
We both laugh for a moment, before falling back into a silence, the events of the day still weighing on us.
“We’ll get through this.” Joe’s voice is soft. “I love you.”
“I love you too. But I’m still pissed at you because the boys saw.”
“Alright, I’ll take the blame for that.”
“You going to be okay until I get home in a bit? I shouldn’t be here too much longer.”
I nod before remembering we’re on the phone. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Want me to stop by the boys homes and give them amnesia first?”
“Anything for you, love.”
With that, we say our goodbyes and hang up. I look at my phone, debating contacting the squad before shaking my head and tossing my phone onto the table, curling up on the couch to try and forget everything thats happened.
Everyone assumed, due to their difference in ages and upbringings, that Harry was the more artistic of the two. That he would prefer painting and sketching and going to art museums. That’s not to say that this wasn’t true - one of his favorite memories with Eggsy was the two of them at the Louvre. Eggsy had all but outright refused to hold his hand while they were there, content to stand slightly away from him and enjoy the exhibit separately (when he had asked, the young man’s only response was that “The signs say not to touch the masterpieces, Harry”).
But it was Eggsy, rather than Harry, who had an affinity for fine art.
RATTLE YOUR BONES to this exquisite selection of halloween-themed songs! guaranteed to include your favorite october jams! invite all the friendly ghosts you know, some brave skeleton soldiers and other creatures of the night and have yourselfa very spooky monster mash!
thriller – michael jackson. // the addams family theme - vic mizzy. // this is halloween – panic! at the disco. // weird science – oingo bongo.
// i was jekyll jekyll hyde – the brain.
// actual cannibal shia labeouf (live) – rob cantor. // remains of the day – danny elfman. // werewolves of london – warren zevron. // ghostbusters theme song – ray parkers jr. // halloween – misfits. // genetic repo man – repo! the genetic opera cast. // time warp – RHPS. // jack’s lament – danny elfman. // pet semetary – ramones. // spooky scary skeletons – andrew gold. // ghost – mystery skulls. // mean green mother from outer space – little shop of horrors. // werewolf bar mitzvah – 30 rock. // everybody – backstreet boys. // nightmare on my street – will smith. // sweet transvestite – RHSP. // livin’ la vida loca – ricky martin. // monster mash – bobby “borris” pickett. // superstition – steve wonder. // friends on the other side – keith david. // every breath you take – the police. // somebody’s watching me – rockwell. //
black magic woman – santana. //
sympathy for the devil – rolling stones. // zombie – cranberries. // forever halloween – the maine. // spooky scary skeletons (remix) – the living tombstone.
It was the middle of the night and you were running as fast as you could. You didn’t know from what but your flight-or-fight response kicked in, and you fled. The street was considerably empty considering you and your boyfriend, Greg, lived in the middle of London. No cars passed you on the street, no lights were on in the buildings around you, and no one was walking the streets.
You stopped running and just looked around. Suddenly, you heard footsteps approaching from an alley nearby. You turned to look and saw a dark figure approaching. As the figure got closer you were able to make out his face.
You had left Ian over a year ago after some encouragement from Greg who knew that he was abusive. You had been through countless therapy sessions, had enough panic attacks for two lifetimes, and had cried enough to fill the Thames. You hadn’t had an attack in a couple of months, you thought you were free.
As he got closer to you, he mumbled “I finally found you Y/N.”
You took off running again but not getting too far before you tripped. You looked at your feet and Ian had chained them together and was pulling you back to him.
You started shaking and sweating. You were having a panic attack. You screamed.
Greg shook you awake out of your nightmare. “Here, here. Calm down Y/N. I’m right here,” Greg comforted as he held you against his chest. “Deep breaths, come on. You’re alright. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
“Greg, he was there in my dream,” you said while trying to get your breathing in control.
“He can’t hurt you. He’s in jail, he can’t get to you,” he said, kissing your forehead.
“Thank you Greg,” you said, coming out of your attack. You turned to face him and kissed him. “Thank you for everything. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“You don’t have to think about what you would do without me because I’m never going to leave you,” Greg said as he kissed you again.
You wrapped your arms around him and he pulled you down on the bed. “I love you, Greg,” you said in between kisses.
“I love you too, Y/N,” he said as he deepened the kiss.
Passengers were injured following the blast at 08:20 BST at Parsons Green station on the District Line.
A police cordon has been put up around Parsons Green station, with every side street blocked off by blue and white tape.
Others have spoken of “panic” as alarmed passengers left the train at Parsons Green station.
“Image copyright Reuters Image caption Witnesses have described seeing at least one passenger with facial injuriesAre you at Parsons Green station?
Justine Daniels had just arrived from South Africa, laden with suitcases, when her Tube train came to a stop.
A/N: So this is my first fanfic/phanfic and I hope you like it :D
As Phil sat on the couch in the lounge he heard a noise, a noise that sliced through the air like a knife through butter. A noise that he hated, dreaded, wished didn’t exist. The noise was a piece of nature, no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t ignore it. He felt the house shake beneath his feet as he curled into a ball.
Prompt: “Dan and Phil get caught kissing in public by a phangirl, and major shit storms happen.” (found on phanfic)
Summary: Dan decided to drag his boyfriend with him into the dark, sketchy alleyways of London at 3am to be able to kiss him in the fresh autumn air. However, when they get noticed by a phangirl who leaked a picture, they are forced to come out, and Dan didn’t plan on anything small…
Genre: Angst? Fluff? Comfort? Let’s be real here this is angst and comforty fluff and then a lot of normal fluff because jesUS CHRIST
Warnings: !!!Panic attack!! also swearing because Dan and Phil combined with shock. You shouldn’t be too surprised about that
Word count: 2909 (you’re welcome)
A/N: was planning on mostly angst but this turned out to be so fluffy i am hurt