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Because I'm Disturbed. Ask Anyone.

@theinsidiouspitch

I'm Fran.  I live in the Watford dumpster and I roll around in Mint Aero wrappers and drained rat corpses all day.  I'm living a charmed life.  Cover photo by the super frigging talented @ohcararara
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begin again | chapter two

one | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | masterpost | ao3 | playlist

It’s been three years since Baz left the sleepy Isle of Mage to attend university in London, and he hasn’t regretted a thing–except maybe leaving Simon behind. Convinced he’ll never be forgiven, Baz refuses to even visit until a frantic phone call from his stepmother sends him running home. Once there, Baz is forced to confront his past, question the future, and maybe, just maybe, get that second chance he’s always desired.

genre(s): angst+fluff+smut (in later chapters)

chapter length: 1743 words

triggers/warnings: none for this chapter

author’s note: a giant thank you to @cherryonsimon & @rainbowbaz for the beta/britpicking! full acknowledgments will be posted with the last chapter

(@arituzz​ i meant to get this chapter out on your birthday and i didn’t but it’s still dedicated to you 💜💜 happy belated bday!!)

I’m still here.

I’m still in Watford, still on the island, and I tell myself it’s because Daphne is anxious and scared, and won’t leave my father’s side. I tell myself it’s so Andrea can have a holiday alone with her girlfriend without me third-wheeling. I tell myself it’s because my siblings miss me.

(I tell myself and I tell myself and I tell myself, like if I do it enough, I might actually be telling the truth.)

On the subject of Daphne, I’d nearly given her a heart attack of her own when I came down for breakfast my second day back with bruises under my eyes and swelling around my nose. She wouldn’t stop stealing glances at me as I ate my eggs, but didn’t ask any questions. (Not that I would have told her anything. As far as my parents knew, Simon and I were secondary school rivals who could barely stand to be in the same room together.) (I never bothered to correct them when those circumstances changed.)

One week—and many cold compresses from Vera—later, the swelling is gone, but the bruising still remains. I scrunch up my face at my reflection in the mirror, hissing as I remember why I shouldn’t do that. Fuck Simon.

I’d just wanted to push him a bit, see if he would yell. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming. Simon’s never fought with his words, and me egging him on could have only ended one way. I just wish it hadn’t involved my nose.

I haven’t shown Andrea yet. I’m afraid she’ll think it’s the reason I’ve cancelled on  our holiday. Maybe I should, actually. Then I won’t have to admit the real (much worse) reason. Except she’d just cover up the bruises and drag me to the beach anyway—one of the downsides of being friends with a makeup artist; you can never get out of social gatherings because of your appearance. (That doesn’t mean I don’t try.) (It never works.)

After determining my reflection a lost cause, I leave the bathroom, bumping into Daphne in the hallway.

“Oh, Baz,” she says once she notices it’s me, “I was just looking for you. Can you take the twins to football club again today?”

I nod, because of course I will.  I can’t say I intended to spend my hols as a nanny, but I’m finding that I don’t mind all that much. It gives me something to do. (It gives me excuses.)

Normally Daphne would be the one taking them places, but  my father’s heart attack had shaken her more than I’d initially realised. According to Vera, she’d been out shopping for most of the day when it happened—apparently she and my father had a row—and she’d returned just in time to see him being loaded onto an ambulance.

She’s been glued to his side since he came home. As if on cue, Cecily and Roseline—my six year old half-sisters—come tumbling out of their room. They’re followed closely by Winston, Daphne’s black and tan corgi, who makes a beeline for me almost immediately. I brace myself for an assault on my ankles, but before he can get to me Daphne’s scooping him up, admonishing him in sickening baby talk while he licks at her face. “Why is that dog so obsessed with me?” “He just wants to be your friend,” she replies, and I frown—I don’t like dogs, and I especially don’t like Winston. (This has done nothing to dissuade his love for me.)

“I don’t want to be his friend.”

Daphne just shakes her head and laughs—like she always does when I voice my opinion on her dog—and looks past me at the twins. “Are you two ready to go?”

They nod.

“Do you have your bags ready?”

Wide-eyed, they run off—presumably in the direction of the bags, and I grab the keys, rolling my eyes at Daphne as she tries to get Winston to give me a kiss goodbye.

Keep reading

#oh my goddddddd#KATIE WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME#if you love snowbaz and you aren't reading this what are you doing with your life???#let yourself have nice things#snowbaz#carry on#carry on fanfic#💕💕💕
Avatar
Reblogged
Avatar

begin again | chapter one

 two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | masterpost | ao3 | playlist

It has been three years since Baz last set foot in in his hometown of Watford, with no plans to return. When a frantic phone call from his stepmother brings him back from university unexpectedly, Baz is forced to confront the events of his past, question his plans for the future, and finally resolve what has haunted him ever since he left Watford–and Simon–behind: do people really get second chances?

genre(s): angst+fluff+smut (in later chapters)

chapter length: 3163 words

triggers/warnings: none for this chapter

author’s note: a giant thank you to @cherryonsimon & @rainbowbaz for the beta/britpicking! full acknowledgments will be posted with the last chapter

The Isle of Mage is six kilometres long and six kilometres wide. It’s home to a mere 1,078 citizens who inhabit its three villages–Salisbury, Thistledown, and Watford. The island relies on tourism as its main source of income, and every year people flock here to see the various sights. There’s no shortage of those; everything from the natural tide pools on the rocky beaches to the castle that looms on top of the hill. It’s the type of idyllic place everyone fantasises about living in.

Everyone who isn’t me, of course.

I hate this place. I’d hated it then, and I hate it still. I hate how small everything is, how everyone seeks to know everyone else’s business. I hate the near constant stench of fish that never seems to go away–despite the fact that the fishery shut down close to a decade ago–and I hate all the fucking sheep.

I hate how everyone is content to stay here, to waste their lives in this mediocre village on this mediocre island where no one has ever actually accomplished anything noteworthy. At all. Ever. (If you don’t believe me, check the Wikipedia page.)

The thought of living here forever–of being stuck–had terrified me as a teenager. I’d always known I would leave when I could, that I had no future here. For most of secondary school all I focused on was getting out. I worked hard to stay at the top of my class, and had my eyes set on uni (any one, really, as long as it wasn’t here) as long as I can remember. It had been the perfect plan; I wasn’t attached enough to anyone on the island to miss them. Not enough to stay.

(Except maybe Simon.)

“I’m going to bed,” Daphne says once she turns off the car.

Her voice sounds remarkably different than it had when she rang me in a panic yesterday afternoon to let me know that she was at the hospital with my father, and that he’d had a heart attack. She hadn’t explicitly asked me to come, but the expectation was obvious. So I did. I came back, like I said I wouldn’t, to play the role of the dutiful son, standing by my father’s bedside and consoling my stepmother as she cried.

I nod to show I’ve heard her, but make no move to exit her SUV. I’m not ready to enter the house just yet. (Or at all, really.)

Eventually the lights inside shut off, and I crack my neck before I climb out, slamming the door harder than necessary. The empty space where my car used to sit makes me sadder than it should. I’d only had it for a short time, but it was long enough to grow attached.

The fact that my father sold it is old news—he wouldn’t allow me to take it to school unless I went to Oxford like he’d wanted. Which I didn’t. So I left it and he sold it. (Bastard.)

My gaze flicks to the right and a slow grin spreads across my face, because on the opposite side of the garage is my father’s most prized possession: his forest green Jaguar, kept in perfectly pristine condition, with the top down and the keys still in the ignition. Growing up I’d barely been allowed to look at it, never allowed to ride in it. Definitely never allowed to drive it.

Taking that car would be a spiteful, juvenile thing. Petty. Immature. Unnecessary.

I do it anyway.

Keep reading

#oh. my. GODDDDDD#i have been waiting for this and this day is finally here#is this real lifeeeeeeee#begin again#snowbaz#carry on#carry on fanfic#💕💕💕
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