How’s the dentist
Why the fuck am I doing this again
Luna & Cassie’s wedding probably
This dental assistant is way too pretty to be working here
when I look like this
That witch next door is listening to her shitty music again
I might stab her with her own nails
Also she brought weird tarts by
They’re annoyingly good
Save me some
Letting you move in was a mistake
Marcus met Ginny in a bar—or more specifically, a barfight. Neither of them had started it, and frankly Marcus wouldn’t have even noticed the tiny ass redhead and her soft-eyed blonde friend if said friend hadn’t tapped Warrington on the shoulder, too damn politely for the circumstances, and inquired if he “wouldn’t mind giving her a boost to grab that decorative paddle, please”, because she was much better with a weapon than bare handed apparently, and if one was going to be in a barfight for the first time one ought to be prepared; and the redhead was clearly willing to throw down with people twice her size, weapon or no. Which was a sentiment Marcus respected.
And after the cops had come to break it up, the four of them had gone for 2am shawarma where Luna, the blonde, talked about Bose-Einstein condensates and dynamical phase transitions and what that meant for proving the existence of pixies with an increasingly mystified and enchanted Cassius; and Marcus and Ginny talked about England’s chances in the World Cup (bleak); which turned into lounging by the harbour, watching the fishing boats go out into a grey sunrise, and drinking terrible coffee.
For Luna and Cassius, it was the first of many dates, and by far the most normal. For Ginny and Marcus, it was the foundation of a firm friendship; because if you’re going to have a friend, it should be one you trust to have your back in a barfight.
A year later, Ginny broke her ankle in a rugby game, stared down two straight months in her parents’ house—and promptly moved into Marcus’ freshly empty spare room without fuss or fanfare. Molly Weasley had fretted a bit, and Arthur looked a bit unsure; but they left a month’s worth of foil-wrapped two person dinners in the freezer, a container of homemade biscuits on the counter, and Molly hardly cried at all.
The first few months or so were unremarkable. Chores were discussed and divided, red lines were drawn (Ginny hated wet socks on the floor and noise before 8am; Marcus’ geraniums were sacrosanct, and if Ginny’s twin brothers ever mailed them a glitter bomb again he would make them suffer), and domestic harmony was maintained. Once Ginny’s ankle healed, she was even willing to collect a groggy, bad tempered Marcus from his monthly dental appointments, and listen to him complain variously about the constant, coppery tang of blood in his mouth, or the way this whole dental thing was seriously impacting his playing, or how he nearly cried in therapy over the handknitted jumper Molly had made him for Christmas. Ginny never brought up his parents, and Marcus didn’t snap when she complained about hers, and it was good.
The house next to theirs gained a new occupant. Marcus hadn’t really known his old neighbour, but he found himself missing them desperately.
Because it turned out that Ginny loathed Pansy Parkinson.
She let Marcus know this, at length, the first time the two had met one evening in the driveway and Parkinson had arched a perfect eyebrow at Ginny’s dirty uniform, threadbare gym bag, and sweat-slicked skin; and Ginny had taken in the lacy black dress and too long legs and 6 inch, red soled heels, and promptly made some annoyed assumptions regarding Pansy’s personality and accompanying bank account (which, it must be admitted, were found to be mostly correct).
It probably wouldn’t have mattered so much if they didn’t share a somewhat thin connecting wall.
In Marcus’ opinion, it really wouldn’t have mattered so much if Ginny hadn’t been annoyed that she wanted to fuck Parkinson’s brains out.
It began like this.
Marcus and Ginny had had some friends over to watch the rugby game, which had gotten a bit rowdy—and Pansy had called bylaw instead of knocking on the door and asking them to kindly shut the fuck up (Which Marcus understood, because most of their friends were huge, hulking brutes and Pansy was a woman who lived alone; but Ginny did not, because Ginny had a tendency to be a bit unreasonable when she disliked people).
Then, of course, Parkinson’s music was too loud one evening (“Some of us need to sleep!”, Ginny had shouted; and when that was ignored, left a full volume loop of hardcore BDSM porn playing in the living room the next time Parkinson had company).
Then Marcus’ hydrangeas were crossing the property line, and Ginny’s many garden gnomes were unsightly (“At least attempt to nurture a modicum of taste.” Parkinson had snarled over the fence).
Parkinson needed to trim her tree back, since the topmost branch was tapping on Ginny’s window when it was too windy (That had been a succession of increasingly bad tempered post it notes, which had the benefit of being quiet, at least).
Ginny’s friend’s birthday party was intolerable in a multitude of different ways (Marcus agreed wholeheartedly with that one, frankly, and not just because he thought Potter was a complete fucking knob).
Parkinson’s early cooking experiments were olfactory crimes (“Holy fuck, is your house on fire? What did the poor food ever do to you?” But since Parkinson looked to be on the verge of tears, Ginny had videocalled Molly to troubleshoot what, exactly, had gone wrong, and Marcus had come home after yet another dental consultation to find the two of them bickering amicably and making macarons, almost like they hadn’t spent a summer snapping at each other over petty bullshit).
Ginny’s car sounded like a dying gazelle.
Parkinson needed to mow her lawn more.
Ginny painted the front door violet, and it was hideous.
Parkinson parked her car in Ginny’s spot.
Ginny’s stomping flattened Parkinson’s cake.
It went on and on, until it cumulated in a shouting match in front of God and everybody, and Marcus wondered if he could be traded to, perhaps, Iceland. Or Venezuela. Or have Ginny traded to Iceland or Venezuela.
Instead, he bullied them both into the kitchen with a pot of tea and demanded they sort themselves out.
The hostilities blessedly stopped after that, though the bitching did not; but Marcus had grown used to it by then, and almost never yearned to bash their heads together anymore and demand they just fuck already, fuck. And eventually, Pansy became less “malignant hellbeast” and more “We aren’t fucking friends, Marcus, no I don’t want to sleep with her, what the hell.”
Pansy started coming by for dinner, or drinks, or to watch rugby (or rather, make snarky commentary with an equally disinterested Percy Weasley while everyone else got way too involved in watching rugby).
And then she and Ginny started making plans; Pansy would sometimes attend Ginny’s games, or Ginny would sometimes invite her to the pub, or they stayed in to watch cooking shows on youtube while Marcus discreetly texted documentary-style commentary about the mating habits of emotionally repressed jocks and wealthy former socialites-turned-bakers (but not to their faces; he wasn’t that stupid).
And the fancy desserts Pansy brought by got better and weirder, Ginny got more distracted when Pansy was around and moody when she wasn’t—and Marcus almost, almost, forgot that he was going to let someone break his jaw and wrap metal around his teeth, for reasons that seemed horribly like vanity, and pay them for the privilege.
So when’s the big day?
You still okay to pick me up?
As long as it isn’t Tuesday
I told mum pansy and I would test her puff pastry instructional video
See if she missed any steps
I still can’t believe Bill got her to make a Youtube channel
Her chickens get fanart now
I fucking love your mum’s chickens though
They deserve fanart
Oh btw they don’t have to break my jaw in 4 places anymore
That still sounds fucking hellish
Here’s the thing.
Marcus knows his teeth are crooked and ugly. Marcus knows, through extensive commentary from parents, friends, dentists, teammates, enemies, and complete strangers, that his teeth are messed up. He has to eat pizza with a knife and fork because they don’t actually meet. Wings are a fucking trial. It’s a fucking issue, he knows, choke on a sack of dicks, Monty.
Reading over the waiver and consent sheet the annoyingly chipper and (distressingly) attractive dental assistant hands him, with its long list of potential complications, he thinks the solution really might be worse.
Because the real issue? The one he refuses to admit to anyone?
Is that he’s here because a guy he was interested in at one point had mentioned, offhandedly—to someone else, not knowing Marcus was even there— that he had a thing for nice teeth.
And Marcus, like a fucking knob, had booked a consultation the next week.
It’s a year after that—after the crush had dissipated, after four dental grafts and twelve appointments and spending a truly absurd amount of money, just before he was sedated for the (hopefully) last time—that Marcus admits to himself that it probably wasn’t about anyone else at all.
Good Afternoon! This is your requested text message to pick up Marcus T. Flint from his surgery. Please remember that the patient has been heavily sedated and will require observation for 24 hours. If you have any questions, please call us at xxx-xxx-xxxx.
Ye evr thin aboutwombats
They hage little noses
But dense!35kg of furry bastard
They will fuck you up
Youd b wobatlth
We should adopt atree
It seems wrong that you csan buy something that is alive
Older than us
We will die before the rtee
Can trees be sad?
U dating Pasmndy yet
We shud ask her abut trees
Y is the assistant hot
Its duking intolerable
What the hell did they give you? I’m almost there, btw.
Marcus is right; the dental assistant really is astonishingly attractive. The woman is clearly aware of this; and if she wasn’t before, she certainly is now, since the first semi-coherent words out of Marcus’ swollen, freshly wire wrapped mouth was apparently “fuck you’re hot, that’s so annoying, what the fuck” and Ginny can’t stop giggling at the reddening ears and embarrassed, amused grin the dental assistant is giving him.
“Take him home, let him sleep it off. He’ll be groggy for a day or so—here’s his care sheet and his medication. Call us if there are any concerns.”
Marcus is then dutifully poured into the car by Ginny and the assistant while he rambles about wizard cassowaries and how they’d be right bastards, but he passes out almost instantly, still drooling blood. The drive home is blessedly silent while Ginny tries to figure out how, exactly, to get Marcus out of the car and into the house without giving herself a hernia.
Pansy comes out once Ginny pulls the car in, black shorts dusted with flour, white tank top almost sheer, and Ginny tries her best not to look at the amount of skin she’s showing—at the absurdly cute polka dot bandana her hair’s tied back with, showing off the line of her throat; at her crooked, amused grin as Marcus grumbles something incomprehensible about bees. Pansy then helps Ginny haul Marcus’ limp carcass into the house and into bed, which is suspiciously nice of her. It’s annoying. Pansy’s annoying, and selfish, and snobby—and Ginny is helpless at that amused smile, at the way Pansy thoughtfully tucks him in with a fond roll of her eyes.
And Ginny’s helpless at the way Pansy starts playing with her hair when they’re on the couch after, watching Bake Off. Casually running her hands through it, braiding and scratching and occasionally gently tugging, and Ginny’s both very relaxed and a little aroused, like an itch under her skin.
She’s a lot less helpless when Pansy kisses her though, just as Mary Berry starts gently critiquing someone’s chiffon cake.
The kiss is a little more tentative and....softer, honestly, than Ginny had expected. That doesn’t last long though, because neither of them are tentative or soft by nature, really, and there was a year of pent up sexual frustration to deal with, and it rapidly becomes a riot of teeth and tongues and rough, calloused hands—and then Ginny’s bedroom, and a litany of gasps and sighs and there, there right there oh fuck Pansy, Pansy please…
Marcus’ face is too sore and swollen for him to smirk when they stumble into the kitchen the next morning, but his eyebrow raises at the livid mark on Ginny’s neck and the scattering of lovebites across Pansy’s chest. He cheerfully ignores Pansy’s vengeful criticism regarding the violently blue and alarmingly bloodstained bands of his braces (“It makes them so noticeable— “
“They’re noticeable anyway—”
“Shut up both of you, it’s too early, is the tea ready—")
You back this weekend? Should come by and tell us about Slovakia
Clair De Lune
We are! I promised Daddy we’d help him look for the Morgawr on Sunday, though, so we can’t stay late
The hell is a Morgawr?
The Falmouth sea serpent
What do they teach you in those fancy prep schools
How to manipulate people to get what we want, mostly.
Clair De Lune
Did you want to come? I can’t promise we’ll see the Morgawr, but it’s supposed to be a very nice day and there is room on the boat
Me and Pans are down
Wanna get milk on your way home marky
Eat a dick
What colour should I get my bands in
Harpies are gonna slaughter you lot, get green
Clair De Lune
Pink is lucky for sporting events that occur during solar flares
Yellow is good luck for weddings
[ Image sent]