Watching phasmophobia videos now automatically puts me in a headspace to reread A Phantom's Soap Opera lol, I hope you're happy with yourself /lh
😆 I'm glad! It's one of my favorite fics to work on-- I know I've been positively silent on account of my senior thesis (and I never published your prompt, which I really ought to finish, but I wish you luck on yours!) but it's being worked on, slowly but surely. I usually have to pull up Wade's playthroughs, or play with friends, to get into the mindset.
Although, speaking of Phantom..
A treat, to promise I'm not dead. [/aff]
--
He sees four new messages when he wakes up. Two from Jackie, and one apiece from numbers he doesn’t have saved- which leaves it as either one of the other three in his… from IRIS, or maybe he’d fucked up so bad that he’d forgotten he’d given out his number at the bar.
Either way: he doesn’t open them. He can imagine well enough what’s going to be said, and he’d like to delay it for just… a little longer. Long enough for him to take a bracingly hot shower, and make some disgustingly strong coffee, and spin yesterday around his head like if he just thinks about it a bit harder, it wouldn’t have happened.
Because here’s the thing: he knows Marvin isn’t wrong. A bleeding-heart is a liability, and you’d think he’d know better when there are still faint shadows around his neck. But he’d looked at Cody, and seen little Yenna, and–
He chucks the mug into the sink with perhaps strictly more force than he needs to. It’s already half-full of bowls and mugs, remnants of nights and mornings exactly like this, where even getting out of bed is a slog followed by a heartstopping jolt of adrenaline as he realizes he has places to be, but it’s– he’ll handle it later. Just like he’s handling this later. Just like–
Swearing under his breath, Chase slings his guitar over his back, juggling his phone to also scoop up his messenger bag, and hip checks the apartment door open. Another minute to make sure he has his keys on him, before he can begin the descent down to the lot.
He’d forgotten his jacket, he notes tiredly- the hair along the back of his neck rises from the chill in the stairwell, but he’d also figured that five flights of stairs would be enough to warm him up, and either way, it shouldn’t be that cold in the morning.
Well, we've crossed 20k for Phantom. Chapter 4 is... it's shaping up to be something.
A snippet!
--
Because here’s the thing: he knows Marvin isn’t wrong. A bleeding-heart is a liability, and you’d think he’d know better when there are still faint shadows around his neck. But he’d looked at Cody, and seen little Yenna, and–
He chucks the mug into the sink with perhaps strictly more force than he needs to. It’s already half-full of bowls and mugs, remnants of nights and mornings exactly like this, where even getting out of bed is a slog followed by a heartstopping jolt of adrenaline as he realizes he has places to be, but it’s– he’ll handle it later. Just like he’s handling this later. Just like–
Swearing under his breath, Chase slings his guitar over his back, juggling his phone to also scoop up his messenger bag, and hip checks the apartment door open. Another minute to make sure he has his keys on him, before he can begin the descent down to the lot.
He’d forgotten his jacket, he notes tiredly- the hair along the back of his neck rises from the chill in the stairwell, but he’d also figured that five flights of stairs would be enough to warm him up, and either way, it shouldn’t be that cold in the morning.
For your patience, a little snippet for A Phantom's Soap Opera:
--
The ukulele is fully tuned now; he tests out a few chords on it, before blowing out a breath the way he’s learnt to at the bar, letting the last of the tension flow out of his shoulders. He doesn’t look up from the ukulele- his eyes catch on a chip on the body of the ukulele, and he smooths a thumb over it, before strumming another chord.
Clearing his throat a little, he segues into the first bar, blending it into the background as he says, softly, “I think this is the last situation either of us want to be in. F- uh, freaking huge house, empty as a grave, and a bunch of strange people walking around. I don’t blame you for being quiet- hell, I wouldn’t blame you for being pissed.”
He has no fucking clue what he’s trying to do here. He’s kind of hoping that he doesn’t regret this decision, but it’s a little late to back out. So he does what he does best: he keeps talking, forcing the knot in his throat to take shape.
“I don’t know how long you’ve been here. Marv- that’s the long-haired one you probably saw- didn’t tell us a lot about that. We… don’t actually hear a lot about your stories before we get here. Not a great set-up, honestly, we just… know your names. But it can’t have been… it must’ve been lonely, either way. Being around a bunch of people, but none of them look at you.”
Good morning! I'm alive, as you may have guessed; writing is slow, still, as I'm picking up both longer days and been placed on a new research project, but I've been getting both my requests ready to be queued up and writing the two long-fics for you all.
For your patience, have a pair of snippets, both from my latest long-fic.
--
He plasters on his most charming smile; is just about to steel himself when a sharp hoy! catches his ear. He startles, badly enough to slam his elbow into the wall, and hisses to himself- great first impressions, great first impressions-
“The fuck are you doing here,” snaps the same voice, and Chase glances up into possibly the most vivid green eyes he’s ever seen in his life. His brain stalls for a moment out of sheer mortification. “We’ve got a permit, you can fuck right off if you’re here on trespassing complaints.”
Fortunately for Chase, his mouth has never needed his brain to run.
“Pest control,” he says, cheerfully. “I was told there are- five other pests here, and to catch ‘em before they disappeared back into the walls. Also, I feel like I should be offended, do I look like a cop?”
Dark-and-stormy’s expression grows even more thunderous, which is impressive, because Chase was already sort of wondering if his face had stuck that way after a particularly unfortunate childhood incident.
--
“They never do, if they’re hired in,” says another voice from behind him; Chase startles, nearly knocking the tripod next to him over, and grabs madly for it.
He bobbles the thing a few times, steadying it. There’s a faint snicker to his side; he maturely ignores them, and turns to look up-
And up, and up.
Chase isn’t a tall dude. He knows this. He’s average, maybe a bit on the shorter end, but he’s got presence enough to make up for that; it’s all in how you carry yourself, anyways.
This guy looks like he should be stooping to step in the van. Chase eyeballs him for a moment longer.
“You must get a lot of questions about the weather.”
“All the time,” Jackie says, cheerfully. “We’ve joked that he should get a degree in meteorology.”
“Go big or go home on that student debt,” snipes dark-and-stormy. Which, yikes, Chase can sympathize, university is not getting cheaper, but also reminds him-
“More of you just keep filing in,” he points out, cheerfully, “and I’ll admit, I’ve just been coming up with various very entertaining names to refer to you, but I really think knowing your names would save time for everybody.”
Long-hair-and-petty raises an eyebrow. “Entertaining names.”
It’s not so much a question as a statement, flatter than the soda that- oh, shit, Chase left his soda in the car. Gods damn it all. He wiggles his eyebrows right back.
“Thinkin’ I should’ve named you ratboy, for your impassioned defense of the little guys.”
His expression does several revolutions through what Chase feels safe in identifying as astonishment and lands on a face Chase only sees before someone tries to deck him. He surreptitiously checks the distance between them; he’s got a tripod, he’s fairly sure he can trip the newly christened rat attorney up.
