#Grace Newport

[sixaus-meaa]

SIX THE MUSICAL - MODERN!AU: illustration

Rocky's family tree

[gracie-bird]

Princess Grace of Monaco receives a jewellery box from his cousin Anthony Kelly during a visit to Crowpatrick in County Mayo, home of her ancestors and relatives. June, 1961.

[ritahayworrth]

anyway grace kelly in high society (1956) is actually good. while as far as she is from being a Comedienne™, she totally could have become one if she had had the chance to. like isolating her performance, her tracy is charming and funny, and i think her spin on tracy works and she is able to make it her own especially when you consider that tracy was originally written specifically with kate in mind. its just totally undermined by the fact that when unavoidably you compare the film as a whole to the 1940 version, the film is just not as good because the pacing of high society is horrible, and really just feels like they just cut and pasted the quippiest lines from the original and added some cole porter songs in between. and then of course there is bing crosby...........

[ironmanrecords]

John Murry and Michael Timmins - A Little Bit of Grace and Decay (Gatefold CD)

TENOR VOSSA CD / TV022CD / RELEASE DATE : 20/09/24 **Pre-order now for an Estimated dispatch between Thu 19 Sept and Fri 20 Sept 2024** Gatefold CD. The Soundtrack to accompany the Award winning Documentary “The Graceless Age: The Ballad Of John Murry.” Written and performed by John Murry and Mike Timmins (Cowboy Junkies). The film has already won Best Irish Documentary at the 35th Galway Film…

[coffeeshades]

credits to the gif maker!

LOVE IS COMPLICATED - PART VI

summary: the trials and tribulations of falling in love or two idiots who can't get their shit together.

pairing: pedro pascal x actress/singer!reader.

word count: 4.2k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni). mentions of sex. angst!!! cursing, age gap, mentions of drugs and alcohol. asshole!pedro maybe? no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know!

a/n: hi everyone, happy reading <3

masterlist!

October 19, 2019

Newport, Rhode Island

The crisp autumn air greeted you as you arrived at your friend Jennifer's wedding. The historic estate, bathed in the soft golden light of the setting sun, seemed like the perfect backdrop for such a special occasion. The large, opulent estate, adorned with seasonal flowers and fairy lights, buzzed with the excited chatter of guests.

Daniel was by your side, his arm casually draped around your waist. You’d opted for a classic blue dress, elegant and understated, which seemed to enhance the sparkle in your eyes and the quiet grace in your movements.

Jennifer greeted you with her usual infectious energy and a hug that felt like a balm to your nerves. “You two! I’m so glad you could make it!”

The ceremony had taken place 40 minutes earlier, outside in the estate's lush garden, under a canopy of white roses and twinkling lights. And now the reception was in full swing. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses filled the air.

"Are you kidding? I wouldn't have missed your wedding for the world," you replied, returning her hug. "Everything looked amazing, and you were absolutely stunning in that dress."

She beamed at the compliment, her eyes sparkling with happiness.

"Congratulations, Jen," Daniel said, raising his champagne flute. You looked at him, his brown eyes shining with genuine happiness, and smiled. Jennifer took notice of this and grabbed your hands in hers, squeezing them tightly. "Thank you both so much for being here," she said, her voice filled with emotion. "And who knows, maybe you two will be next to tie the knot."

Both of you laughed at the suggestion, but you couldn't help but feel a warm flutter in your chest at the thought. A strange warm flutter, something you haven't felt in months; sadness, perhaps?

No, it couldn't be.

For the past six months, everything with Daniel has been nothing but perfect. He's been the perfect boyfriend: supportive, caring, and always there for you. You couldn't imagine being with anyone else right now. So the idea of marrying him didn't seem too far-fetched at all. On the contrary, it made perfect sense. So this feeling of unexplicable warmth and ache must've been nerves and excitement, nothing else.

The time for your speech arrived, and you took a deep breath as you were handed a microphone. The room fell into a respectful hush, the chatter and clinking glasses fading as the guests turned their attention to you. You glanced around, taking in the elegant decor and the sea of faces, many of whom you recognized. The soft, golden light from the chandeliers cast a warm glow over the gathering, and the atmosphere was filled with anticipation.

You adjusted the microphone slightly, feeling its cool metal against your fingers. You didn’t feel nervous; instead, a calm confidence washed over you. After all, you were good at this—pretending you were the best.

“Good evening, everyone,” you began, your voice clear and steady as you introduced yourself. "I have the distinct honor of speaking about our beautiful bride tonight.”

The crowd responded with polite applause, and you smiled, taking a moment to find your rhythm. "Jennifer," you continued, “where do I even begin? From the moment I met her, I knew

she was someone extraordinary. It’s not just her infectious laugh or her incredible talent that stands out, but her heart. Jennifer has a way of making everyone feel like they’re the most important person in the room.”

A soft chuckle rippled through the audience, and you saw Jennifer’s cheeks flush with a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure. You continued, weaving in anecdotes about your friendship, each story punctuated by a touch of humor and warmth. Laughter filled the room, and you finally caught Pedro’s eye momentarily. He was sitting at a table near the front, his gaze soft and attentive. The first time you saw him that night was when you arrived at the ceremony; he was already deep in conversation with someone.

You couldn’t quite read his expression, but you felt a flicker of emotion as your eyes met for a brief second. As you moved towards the more emotional part of your speech, your tone grew softer and more reflective.

The room cheered and applauded as you wrapped up your speech. Jennifer got to her feet and walked to the front, her eyes glistening with emotion. You stepped down feeling a sense of relief. The reception continued with lively music and dancing. You and Daniel enjoyed the evening, laughing and dancing with the other guests.

The joy of the celebration was palpable, but it couldn’t completely erase the tension you felt every time you glanced in Pedro’s direction. Exhausted from all the drinking and dancing and seeking a brief reprieve, you excused yourself to the bathroom.

"I'll be right back."

You give Daniel a quick kiss, his hands coming to rest on your waist.

"All good, baby?"

"Marvelous," you reply before slipping away from the crowd and into the quiet sanctuary of the bathroom. Its marble countertops gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, the delicate scent of lavender soap mingling with the faint aroma of champagne and floral bouquets from the reception. You stood by the sink, staring at your reflection in the polished mirror, your fingers tracing the edge of the elegant marble as if it could ground you amidst the chaos of your emotions. You took a deep breath, trying to calm the flutter of unexpected anxiety in your chest.

The silence was briefly interrupted by the sound of the door opening.

Well, so much for peace and quiet.

The door creaked open, and Pedro walked in with his usual confident stride, albeit slightly unsteady. His suit was pristine, the dark fabric impeccably tailored to his frame. Yet the disheveled state of his dark hair and the slightly rumpled collar of his shirt betrayed a night of indulgence. The contrast between his polished exterior and the evident effects of alcohol made him appear both charming and vulnerable.

Pedro’s eyes softened as they settled on you, taking in the sight of your dress—a stunning creation that clung to your form in all the right places, the deep hue accentuating your features. He stepped closer, his gaze lingering with an almost palpable mix of admiration and regret.

"I was looking for you," he said, his voice low and filled with a hint of longing. "And I saw you come in."

He locked the door behind him, the click echoing in the quiet room.

“You look incredible,” he said, his voice carrying the telltale tone of someone who had enjoyed a few too many drinks. “But then again, you always do.”

The compliment hung in the air, unacknowledged. You kept your focus on the sink, pretending to be absorbed in the intricate patterns of the marble. Pedro’s gaze remained fixed on you, sensing your reluctance and frustration.

“Not going to say anything? I come all the way in here to tell you how amazing you look, and you give me nothing,” he said, his tone a fragile blend of irritation and desperation. The words cut through the silence, revealing the cracks in his façade.

You remained silent, and the quiet only seemed to fuel his frustration. Pedro leaned against the wall, his posture both defiant and defeated. His eyes were filled with a mix of sadness and exasperation, reflecting the weight of the emotions he struggled to keep in check.

“What’s with the silent treatment?” he pressed, his voice barely more than a whisper. “We used to talk about everything, and now you can’t even respond to a compliment?”

The tension crackled like electricity in the confined space. Pedro’s dark and aching eyes betrayed the vulnerability he usually masked with confidence. He took a step closer, closing the distance between you with a sense of urgency.

“Is this how it’s going to be, then?” he asked, his voice a tremulous echo of desperation. “We’re just going to ignore each other until it all blows over again? pretending like everything’s fine when it’s clearly not.”

His proximity made your heart race; the warmth of his body and the intensity of his stare were both electrifying and suffocating. The room, once a refuge of privacy, now felt like a cage closing in on you, amplifying the emotional turmoil swirling between you.

"If I remember correctly, we already had this conversation," you finally said, your voice steady. “You come and go as you please, and then you act like nothing happened. How am I supposed to handle that?”

Pedro’s eyes filled with regret as he reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as they touched your arm.

"I’ve been trying to move on, like you told me to, but it’s impossible when you’re always on my mind." His touch was hesitant, the warmth of his hand a stark contrast to the coldness you felt inside.

As the minutes ticked by, the two of you remained locked in this intense, silent exchange. The muffled sounds of the party outside felt like distant echoes, drowned out by the gravity of your shared history and unresolved feelings.

Pedro’s eyes, dark and glassy from the alcohol, bore into yours as he closed the distance, his body pressing lightly against you. You could feel the heat of him, the scent of whiskey clinging to his breath, mixing with something familiar—him. Your pulse quickened, the rush of emotions swirling uncontrollably as you met his gaze.

“You’re drunk,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, but it came out softer than you intended. The barrier you’d built so carefully maintained was beginning to crumble under the weight of his presence.

“And you’re beautiful,” he murmured, his breath grazing your skin. The way he said it, with that low, gravelly voice, made your heart stutter.

You wanted to hold onto the anger, to remind yourself of the hurtful words exchanged and the distance you had fought so hard to maintain, but his nearness was intoxicating. The warmth of his body, the brush of his fingertips against your arm—it was all too much. His scent, the alcohol, his desperation—it clouded your judgment, making everything hazy.

His gaze flickered over your face, searching for something you couldn’t name. “Do you love him?” he asked, and though he didn’t say Daniel’s name, the weight of the question nearly took your breath away.

You froze, refusing to answer, instead turning your head to the side, your eyes seeking solace in the marble counter or the door—anywhere but him. But Pedro, in his drunken determination, wouldn’t let you escape so easily. He gently tilted your chin up, forcing you to face him, his fingers warm against your skin.

“Look at me,” he whispered, the words barely a breath. “Tell me.”

Your eyes, betraying you, flickered to his, and in that moment, you felt everything unraveling. The years of history, the on-and-off again, the unsaid things—they crashed over you, threatening to drown you in their intensity.

“Pedro,” you managed, your voice shaky. “You’re drunk. Stop it.”

He ignored you, his eyes locked on yours, filled with a rawness that made it impossible to turn away. “No,” he insisted, his voice low and thick with emotion. “Answer me.”

The weight of his words pressed against your chest, squeezing the air from your lungs. You could feel your eyes starting to burn, the overwhelming need to cry pushing at the edges of your control. His touch was maddening—pulling memories to the surface that you’d spent so long trying to bury.

“Tell me, princesa,” he said, his voice barely a whisper now, the nickname slipping from his lips like a plea. “Do you love him?”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you couldn’t speak. The question lingered between you, suffocating the space; the answer too painful, too heavy to voice.

Finally, the words came, slow and trembling, barely louder than a breath. “I don’t know.”

The admission hung in the air, fragile and heartbreaking, and you could see the way it struck him, deep and unguarded. For a brief second, his hand dropped from your chin, and the look in his eyes—the sorrow, the regret—cut through you like a blade.

But still, he didn’t move. Neither did you. The gravity of everything left unsaid, everything unresolved, weighed too heavily, pulling you both into a moment from which there was no easy escape.

“Would it change something if I said no?” you asked, your voice sharp, cutting through the charged air between you both. The words were cold, edged with bitterness, the hurt simmering just beneath the surface.

Pedro’s reaction was instant—he grabbed your face with both hands, rougher than usual, though not enough to hurt. You didn't feel afraid; he could never make you feel as such. His grip was desperate, trembling slightly with the weight of everything unspoken. His eyes, though hazy from alcohol, searched yours with an intensity that made your heart pound harder. He was trying to find an answer, a way to salvage something, but you weren’t done.

“Would it change something, Pedro?” you pressed, your voice rising as you spit out the words like venom. “Would it? If I said no, would that make all of this—" you motioned between the two of you, your chest tight “—would it make this easier? What if I told you I don't love him? What if I told you I still think about you all the time? What would you do?”

Each question hit him like a physical blow, and you could see the pain etching itself deeper into his face with every 'what if' you hurled at him. He didn’t respond, but his grip on your face tightened, as if he could somehow hold onto you through the force of his hands alone. His silence only fueled your fire.

“No,” you finally said, your voice trembling but firm, “it wouldn’t matter because you're too late, Pedro. It wouldn’t change a damn thing. You think saying something now and asking me these questions will make up for all the times you left, all the times you didn’t say anything? We’re broken. And it’s too late to fix it.”

Pedro's breath was uneven as his fingers dug into your skin, not with malice but with a desperation you hadn’t seen in him before. His face crumpled for a brief second, his lips parting like he was about to say something—something big, something important—and you stopped him.

"Don't. Don't say it, not now," you whispered. "It wouldn't change a thing, so don't."

You were suffocating under him, until a sudden banging on the door jolted you both out of the moment. A voice called from the other side, followed by impatient knocks.

“Let me go,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. The words were for more than just this moment. You needed him to release you—not just physically. But in that bathroom, right then, it felt like the only thing you could control.

Pedro didn’t move at first, his hands still gripping your face as if he couldn’t quite let go. His thumbs grazed your skin, and for a moment you saw the flash of something behind his eyes—fear, maybe, or regret—but then it passed, replaced by the same helplessness that had filled the space between you for years.

“Let me go, please,” you said again, softer this time, but it felt like more than a request. It was the final thread holding the two of you together, and cutting it felt both terrifying and necessary.

His hands slowly dropped, the warmth of his touch leaving your skin cold in an instant. It felt appropriate, almost painfully so, that this was how it ended—here, in a bathroom at a wedding, with a banging door and the realization that no matter how much you wanted it, there was no going back.

You turned away, your body trembling, unsure if it was from the confrontation or the emotional weight pressing down on your chest. The moment felt fragile, like something you needed to step away from before it shattered completely.

You weren’t sure if it was the right decision, but in that moment, it felt like the only one you could make because someone else was involved now, and the consequences of continuing down that path were too great to bear.

November 10, 2019

Los Angeles, CA

Pedro’s day had started much like any other, but there was an added weight hanging over him, like the prelude to something significant. He woke up to the sound of light rain tapping against his windows, a rare occurrence in LA and a subtle reminder of the calm before the real storm—the Mandalorian premiere later that evening. He spent some time with his nephews, who had flown in for the event. They were excited about the premiere, already talking about how "cool" their uncle looked as The Mandalorian—though he couldn't show them much yet.

The early afternoon was a blur of preparations: phone calls from his team, final wardrobe checks, and trying to keep his mind from wandering too much into places he didn’t want it to go. Places that involved you.

He chose a classic black suit with a beige shirt, effortlessly tailored—the kind of look that made him feel composed, even when he wasn’t. The nerves were creeping in.

As the car pulled up to the red carpet, Pedro felt the energy shift—flashes of cameras, the buzz of fans, all converging in one chaotic, yet intoxicating, atmosphere. His nephews were with him, their excitement helping ground him. For them, this was magic; for him, it was part of the job. But he couldn’t deny the thrill of it—the anticipation of seeing the first episode on the big screen with an audience.

And then, there you were.

You stepped onto the carpet in a buttery yellow dress that made you look radiant—warm, untouchable, yet familiar in a way that left him breathless for a moment. The dress was soft and flowing, but the way you held yourself was sharp, like you had an invisible armor. He could tell you avoided looking at him at first, but when the group photos began, there was no choice but to stand next to each other, cameras clicking, people cheering. You posed for pictures together, smiling for the crowd, playing your parts.

Pedro could feel the space between you—so small, yet it felt like a chasm. The cameras didn’t catch that. He stole a glance at you as you laughed at something the director said during the photo op. You looked happy, at ease. He wondered if you were.

Inside the theater, the atmosphere was electric. The cast and crew gathered on stage for a brief panel discussion before the screening. Dave talked about the legacy of Star Wars and Jon about the vision of the show. Pedro listened, nodding along, just grateful for the opportunity to be a part of it all.

When it was your turn to speak, he watched you, waiting, unsure of what you’d say. Your voice was steady, confident as always, but then your words shifted.

You spoke about him.

“Pedro is... well, he’s a scene-stealer, as you’ve all seen from the trailers,” you joked, earning laughter from the audience. “But seriously, finally working with him has been one of the highlights of my career. His dedication, his talent, his kindness—it’s inspiring. I’m lucky to share this with him, and I hope we get to keep doing this for a long time.”

Pedro’s heart swelled at your words. He wasn’t sure if you meant it or if you were just saying what the audience wanted to hear. But for that moment, he let himself believe it was the truth. That you did still care, even in this small, professional way. But then again, this was your new normal—co-workers, partners on-screen, and nothing more.

December 25th, 2019

Perth, Australia

Christmas in Perth was like stepping into another world, a sun-drenched, easy-going atmosphere that felt miles away from the traditional snowy scenes of the holiday season. Daniel’s family welcomed you with open arms, not that you were expecting any less. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, fresh seafood, and eucalyptus from the trees outside, creating a kind of domestic vibe that you hadn't realized you craved until you were in the middle of it.

Daniel was relaxed too—his racing season over for a few weeks now; he was finally at ease, the stress that usually clung to him gone. You spent every moment together, just soaking in each other’s presence. He even traveled with you to your last film shoot, attending your workdays like you had attended some of his races, a seamless give-and-take in your relationship that made everything feel, well, easy.

It was bliss.

On Christmas Day, after the exchange of gifts and an extravagant lunch, you received a call from your mom. You sat on the veranda, watching the cicadas buzz lazily in the midday heat, and spoke to her about how things were. She asked about Daniel, about his family, and about how you were doing with everything. You promised to visit soon, reassuring her that you were fine, happy, even.

But later, as you scrolled through Instagram, something pulled you out of that happiness, if only for a moment. A post from the Rise of Skywalker premiere a couple of days ago, you assume—a photo of Pedro and Oscar standing side by side, their smiles broad, their laughter captured perfectly in the shot. Pedro, inexplicably, was wearing... pajamas? Or maybe a robe? It was such a bizarre choice, so utterly him, that you couldn’t help but laugh aloud at the sight of it. The sound surprised you, breaking through the blanket of serenity you'd wrapped around yourself. But the pang that followed was sharper, unexpected. You scrolled past quickly, trying to ignore the ache it left behind.

•••

As New Year's Eve approached, the festive atmosphere grew louder, more carefree. You found yourself caught in the whirl of it all—the parties, the lights, the endless laughter—but always with Daniel by your side. On the night itself, amidst the dancing and celebrations with his family and friends, you received a call from Oscar and his wife. They both wished you a happy new year, their voices warm and full of affection. You exchanged pleasantries, caught up for a few minutes, until Oscar, in his usual thoughtful way, asked gently, “Have you heard from him?”

You paused, knowing exactly who he meant. “No, not really,” you said, your voice steady, but there was a crack in it that even you could hear. “But it’s okay.”

Oscar hesitated on the other end. You could feel his discomfort, the weight of watching two people he cared about drift into something neither of you could quite name. “I’m sorry,” you told him quietly, not sure why. Your words were soft, almost lost in the noise of the party around you.

“It’s no one’s fault,” he said, trying to comfort you, but it didn’t land quite right. There was a shared understanding, though—one that didn’t need words.

The conversation ended soon after, and you returned to the celebration, but it felt like a weight had settled back onto your chest, one that hadn't fully disappeared, no matter how much love surrounded you.

Later that night, as the party raged on downstairs, you and Daniel snuck away to your room, laughing softly as you closed the door behind you. The moment between you shifted quickly, from playful to urgent, as his hands found your skin and yours found his. It was quick, hot sex—an eruption of need in the midst of celebration. Afterward, he whispered, “Happy New Year,” his breath warm against your ear, and you nestled into his arms, letting yourself be wrapped in the comfort of his embrace.

But as you lay there, the world outside falling quiet, that familiar ache gnawed at your chest again. No matter how happy you seemed or how full your life felt, the longing never fully disappeared. It clung to you, a ghost from the past, waiting in the shadows for moments like this to remind you it was still there.

You wished, as you lay in Daniel’s arms, for the ache to go away with the old year. To leave behind all that hurt, all the unanswered questions, and move forward into the new year with nothing but joy.

But deep down, you knew that wasn’t how it worked.

a/n: a like, reblog or comment, anything is very much appreciated <3 next part coming very soon!!

[berthas-russells]

Mrs. Russell is to entertain an English duke at her home in Newport.

MRS. and MR. WINTERTON in THE GILDED AGE (2022- ) | 2x04 "His Grace The Duke"

[csuitebitches]

A Brief Guide to Yachts

This is a continuation to my cultural education segment (aka my rich bitch guide).

The yacht is an invention of the 14th century Dutch. The Dutch used small, fast boats for chasing smugglers, pirates and criminals. Rich ship owners and merchants began using these small “jaghts” to sail out to celebrate their returning merchant ships.

The first yacht club in the world, called the Cork Water Club, was established in Ireland in 1720.

Some famous clubs include:

USA:

1. Annapolis Yacht Club: Surrounding the Spa Creek Bridge in Annapolis, the Club boasts over 75 wet slips and dry dockage. The club began in 1886 as an informal canoe club, and today has 1600 regular members active in social, racing, and cruising programs

2. Chicago Yacht Club: Founded in 1875, Chicago Yacht Club is one of the oldest and most respected yacht clubs in the world. The Club is home to more than 1,400 members, including a winning America’s Cup skipper, and Olympic medalists.

Italy:

1. Circolo Canottieri Aniene

2. Circolo degli Esteri

3. Compagnia della Vela

Canada:

1. Royal Canadian Yacht Club

2. Royal Vancouver Yacht Club

Yachts are most active in the summer months (May- August in the northern hemisphere) or the winter months. many yacht owners decide to keep the maximum number of guests onboard to 12 (plus crew) for chartering.

Different types of yachts:

Sailing Yacht: a yacht mainly propelled via wind and sails

Motor Yacht: a yacht propelled via one or more motors

Gulet Yacht: a hybrid yacht with both sails and motors

Open Yacht, Cruiser, Cabin Cruiser, Express Cruiser: an otherwise uncategorized standard yacht for cruising and entertaining

Luxury Yacht: a yacht that includes high-end finishes and features and the latest in modern performance technology. The term ‘luxury’ can precede any type of yacht, i.e. “luxury motor yacht”, “luxury sailing yacht”, etc.

Sports Yacht: a yacht geared towards fishing, water sports, or cruising with a sleeker design and more powerful motor for faster cruising speeds.

Catamaran Yacht: a yacht with two hulls (pontoons) often made of fiberglass that can be used in shallow waters.

The most popular destinations:

1. Monaco

2. The French Riviera

3. Greece

4. U.S. Virgin Islands

5. Palm Beach, Florida

6. Costa Smeralda, Italy

7. St. George’s Parish, Bermuda 

8. Newport, Rhode Island 

9. Nantucket, Massachusetts

10. Greater Victoria, Vancouver Island

Insane super yachts

Football club owner Shahid Khan's 95 metre Lürssen Kismet was delivered in 2014. On match days, a four-metre silver statue of a jaguar, its paw resting on a football helmet, graces the bow. Elsewhere, its sizeable foredeck has enough space for Khan's beloved football team, the Jacksonville Jaguars, to stage a practice.

The 70 metre Feadship superyacht Joy features a deck that's wide enough to enjoy a tandem jog around. This yacht is all about exterior living, which includes making use of these ample decks with some great sporting facilities. A basketball and badminton court is set all the way forward on the owner's deck. This is complemented by her large gym and dedicated spa. All of this adds up to make Joy an ideal choice for those interested in a yacht with ample fitness, wellness and sporting amenities.

[mvltisstuff]

labyrinth - r.a

summary: five months after y/n breaks up with her boyfriend, she leans on ryan for help and as a comfort zone. when she has to face her ex again for the first time since at a party, ryan and y/n realize that their connection is stronger than their friendship can handle.

ryan atwood x reader

“summer, do you have that black top i can wear?” marissa asked her friend while preparing for a summer party with the teens in newport. getting ready for their senior year, the group was elated. they were ready to start thinking about their future and it seemed like everyone was happy with their current situation. summer had seth, and it seemed like the drama had dialed down.

y/n was spending a lot of time with ryan. her boyfriend, anthony, was brutally dumped by y/n. ryan was her main support after the fact. everyday, ryan saw her and helped her get back up on her own two feet, being her crutch. ryan knew she needed a shoulder when she didn’t have anyone else’s.

anthony and y/n were the cookie cutter couple. they had the whole town on their back, praying their relationship could be as perfect. the walking hand in hand, the meeting at each others lockers completely concealed the emotion of the real people. none the social part their relationship showed could fix the personal part. toward the end, she was checked out. the fighting and words had become too much, so one night, when the words were stronger than the love, y/n decided it was over.

it’s been five months since that stormy night. she knew he was going to be there, and they haven’t spoken since the end of school. she doesn’t want him to ruin another fun memory for her, so she made the choice to go. if marissa and summer were there, she could be too.

“yeah, its in my closet, grab it.” summer replied as marissa went into the closet. “hey you.” summer came over and sat next to y/n on the bed while she was painting mascara on her eyelashes.

“hey.” she mumbles.

“you ready to go soon?” she said understandingly.

“yeah, i’m just nervous. he’s gonna want to talk to me.”

“i know, he’ll try. but ryans coming too.” summer nudges her arm, a thin smirk on her face. even after knowing ryan and being close for years, she still got nervous hearing his name. “your knight in shining armor will come and protect you!”

————————————

the scent of hard liquor and joints were surrounding the mansion that the party took place at. people taking shots and sparking up outside the fence. people were thrown into the pool and the music from the speaker boomed through the whole neighborhood.

summer and seth arrived, arms twisted together. marissa met up with her own individual friends, and y/n was off to the side, taking small sips of a hard seltzer she took from the outdoor freezer. she observed the group of people in front of her while she leaned against the wall of the house. she felt a hand on her shoulder and she whipped to the side.

“sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” ryan said, softly with his own beer. “what’s a pretty girl like you doing hanging out all by yourself?”

“what’s a pretty guy like you doing coming over here?” she retorted. they laughed together and stood for a few minutes, making sly comments back to each other. “i have a question.”

“i have one too.” ryan replied back. “say it at the same time.” y/n nodded back at him.

“wanna get out of here?”

“wanna leave?”

ryan and y/n smiled and shook hands, agreeing to leave. marissa, summer, and seth were all aware we were leaving. they probably figured they’d leave anyway.

y/n threw out her seltzer can and ran to catch up to ryan. her sandals slapped on the cement surface of the deck as she skipped next to ryan. they smiled at each other, looking at ease and peace had graced both of their feelings. feeling another hand on her arm, she slowly turned around. because it was not ryan, and she knew all too well who it was.

she turned around to see the outgrown buzz cut on the boys head and looked into his deep green eyes. his height towered over her and all the words came crashing back into her mind like a wave. the aggressive aroma of marijuana and whiskey came running into y/n’s nose. his taunting smile peeled up on his face. “y/n! nice to see you.”

“im leaving, anthony, let go.” she assertively said.

“why you leaving, babe the party’s just starting!” his words slurred together and she found it slightly impressive how he managed to drink this much in such little time. she grimaced at the old name he gave her.

“shes leaving with me.” ryan came out of the side and stepped between us, ripping anthony’s hand off y/n’s wrist.

“oh! i see it really took you no time to get a move on.” anthony looks her dead in the eyes, stepping closer as she steps further. all the fears of coming to this party were displayed on the table. “and of course with this kid. ryan atwood everyone!” he shouted, making some heads turn and spilling some of his glass onto the ground.

“y/n lets just go, we can go back to the cohens.”

“nuh-uh, buddy, we’re not done here, y/n and i.” anthony spat out.

“oh, i’m sorry, my memory might be a little foggy, but,” ryan turned toward y/n. “she called it quits here.”

“exactly, y/n said it’s over.” he nodde his head and perked his head up a little. he adjusted himself toward y/n a little. “sweetheart, I never said it was over.”

“well you didn’t have the balls to call the shots.” y/n spoke up for herself.

“fuck, you still got that mouth on you. lucky Chino over here.” he winked at ryan. ryan started to laugh at anthony, rubbing his hand on his jaw.

y/n grabbed onto ryan’s side and pulled him in. “ryan, don’t. do not get involved and do what i think you’re about to do.”

“…fucking idiot… taking out the chino trash..” anthony’s voice from the corner while talking to one of his friends escaped their bubble and made it’s way into ryan and y/n’s. ryan smoothly turned around and laughed audibly, again.

“god, i love these damn parties.”

his fight response clicked into play. ryan landed a clean punch to anthony’s jaw, drawing it back and shaking it. anthony stumbled back, barely being able to stand straight in the first place. his friends caught him and all eyes were on the three. anthony was strong, and y/n knew it.

before anthony could pull himself together to throw back another punch at ryan, ryan and y/n were running to the car in the street. ryan’s hand had turned a faint purple on his knuckles and a red in the middle of the joints. the second his hand collided with anthony, y/n’s heart skipped a beat. she never wanted to start something new with anthony, and she just wanted it to end. she thought it was over, and the relationship was, but they wouldn’t be separated for a while.

y/n drove the two home in the cohens range rover in silence. ryan didn’t want to talk about it, because he knew she wasn’t mad. she was scared. scared of what a punch would do to them and what would happen to their relationship.

everyone around them knows that when ryan was there for her, neither of them would’ve been able to let go. ryan knew she wasn’t ready to move on, and he wasn’t ready to start something new after his life changed dramatically in a couple years. y/n didn’t want to change things, as he was the only stable thing in her life and she didn’t want it to end up being different.

summer always teased her, and seth always teased ryan, but the pairs fears and history prevented them from changing anything.

once back home, ryan and y/n went to his bathroom and she grabbed a few bandaids and alcohol. she started dabbing on the liquid and ryan hisses at the sting as she apologizes.

“i’m sorry, ryan. i never would’ve gone if i knew this was how it was gonna pan out.” she breathes out.

“don’t apologize. maybe he shouldn’t run his fucking mouth.” ryan looks up at her defeated eyes and sighs. “don’t be pissed off, y/n.”

“i’m not pissed, i just don’t know why you had to punch him.” y/n admits.

“what else did you want me to do? stand there and let him say shit about you?” his voice starts to get more fierce. he straightens his back and stretches his fingers.

“oh, i don’t know ryan, maybe we could’ve just walked away!” she tries matching his tone, but it’s no use. she decides not to fight back and layers on the bandage. “i’m just sick of seeing you get hurt over stupid stuff like this.”

“it’s not stupid considering the shit he’s done to you!”

her eyes well up with tears at the situation she’s in. her best friend, her soldier, is angry at her and her ex is on her back again. the scene’s running in her brain like a broken record. “i’m just worried about you, ryan, jesus christ!”

“why? you always get so worked up over shit like this when it’s not a big deal!”

“it’s a big deal to me because i fucking love you, ryan!” she spits out her secret. both of their faces drop in realization. his is relief and surprise, and hers in humiliation and regret. “shit, just… forget it, ryan. i have to go home.”

she turns around to leave with the thoughts spilling out of her head. she thinks, “he’s disgusted now, i just ruined the best thing going for me, he’ll never look at me the same…” she figured she broke her crutch. her soldier broke his weapons. her king put down his crown.

the tears are openly flowing at this point. the tightness of the bathroom and the bright lights making her more vulnerable than ever in their relationship. the pessimism of the situation over weighing the optimism. y/n goes to throw open the door when he grips her hip. he jumps down from the top of the counter and spins her around.

the fire is ignited between them and he pulls their lips together. ryan was scared, too. maybe she changed her mind about him now and didn’t want him anymore. at least not in the way he wanted her. his muscles relax when she leans in and places her hands on the sides of his face. their heartbeats were fluttering against their chests. his hands roamed her body and he tried to built the strength to pull away. he backs away, breaking the kiss between them.

“i’ve been falling in love with you this whole time.” he whispers.

[thinkingimages]

PHOTOBOOKS, 4 books by Nancy Hall-Duncan, Laura Gilpin, Deborah Turbeville.

Nancy Hall-Duncan, "The history of fashion photography", Alpine book company, inc. 1979 First Edition.

Laura Gilpin, "An Enduring Grace", Amon Carter museum, 1986 First Edition. Soft cover.

Deborah Turbeville, "Newport Remembered", Abrams 1994 First Edition.

Deborah Turbeville, "Wallflower", Quartet Books Limited 1978 First Edition.

(Provenance ~ Tuija Lindström)

[mermaidsirennikita]

hiya, do you have any recs that mostly takes place during a countryside house party?? like what i did for a duke and the viscount who loved me and etc. No real plot, just a couple of dumdums stuck together in a house, falling in love in ~literal~ days lmao

Hmmm

Joanna Shupe's Fifth Avenue Rebels kicks off with a beachside house party in Newport. One of my favorite series of all time—the latter two books take place largely back in New York, but most of The Heiress Hunt (the first book) and a lot of The Lady Gets Lucky (the second) take place at the house party. You have some overlapping timelines stuff, and of course it all leads up to the final book, The Duke Gets Even, when you learn that there was muuuuuch more to that house party than what was originally thought...

Again, beach instead of countryside, but it's very much the same thing But With Water Shenanigans. Also tennis. Nobody has a job. People hide. It's great.

A lot of Grace Callaway's The Viscount Always Knocks Twice takes place at a house party. This being a Grace Callaway book, there's a mUUUUURDER (which the intrepid heroine decides to solve, while the stern, flustered hero is all "PLEASE. SIT DOWN. SIX FEET AWAY." to no avail) and it's super fun. Like, please know that Grace Callaway murders are not like normal murders. I don't always love a mystery, but she does it in a way that props up the romance, versus the other way around.

Also, this is another one where in a later book (my favorite Grace book) Regarding the Duke, you find out that OTHER STUFF happened at the house party. Namely, Adam Garrity attempting to scheme his way into seducing a woman for power and money, only to play himself as it turns out Oh No, He Loves His Wife.

Infamous by Minerva Spencer largely takes place at a Christmas-adjacent (but Christmas isn't really the point, though people do sled and get snowed in together) country house party. There are actually two romances, and the heroes are twins. The nerdy twin (who is very slutty now, but in a super efficient way) runs into the woman who bullied him back when she was the hottest girl on the block. But NOW she's an old lady's paid companion and has fallen on (very) hard times. And naturally.... it's on. The titled twin has been married to a woman he had to marry due to a compromise situation (which was the aforementioned hot girl's fault) for the past decade. They have a totally quiet, dutiful marriage where they only do it for procreative purposes. Two kids in, they get along fine but it's very distant. Except. He's SUPER in love with her now. And he wants the marriage to be real!!!!

A Rake's Rules for Seduction by Caroline Linden is a house party book. In this case, the hero is best friends with the heroine's brother, and he was about to court her six years ago after realizing his feelings, but then she got engaged to another man. Now she's a depressed widow, and he is a NOTORIOUS rake who everyone talks shit about. But.... the feelings are still there. And things go down. Mostly him.

A Rogue's Rules for Seduction by Eva Leigh is one where they're at a house party except it's on an ISLAND, and this is important because the hero and heroine absolutely don't want to see each other, what with him leaving her at the altar a while ago. But their friends are like "TOO BAD. LOVE IS HAPPENING." and basically they trap 'em on the island. And they're like D:. It's great.

Goddess of the Hunt by Tessa Dare... I can't remember if this is a house party book, exactly? But I feel like it is. Everyone is at a house. It's in the country. The heroine and the hero are stuck in a closet together at some point (this also happens in The Viscount Always Knocks Twice, it's a historical thing). The hero is friends with the heroine's brother, and the brother basically sends him in to distract her, as she's trying to seduce their OTHER friend, who's supposed to marry another woman. Real feelings ensue.

Never Seduce a Duke by Vivienne Lorret has, I believe, a house party situation. The hero and heroine met each other in this very insane situation wherein he thought she was stealing his priceless Arthurian cookbook. Then he chased her across Europe for a minute, and she didn't realize this was like... a thing. THEN. Things Happened. THEN. They got separated and she was unable to reach him. Which was a bit of a problem, as she had a Thing Which He Really Should Have Been Notified Of after the Other Thing Happened. A Special Souvenir, you could say. An Unexpected Eurotrip Consequence. Anyway, he shows up at her brother's country estate for like, a gathering situation (I forget exactly why, but you get me) and everyone is together, and this girl has to cover up the fact that she absolutely had this man's baby, wasn't able to tell him, and now has to deal with his feelings.

It's really funny AND really hot, and I would recommend heartily. I believe Lorret's The Wrong Marquess, which is in the same series but a couple books earlier, also kicks to a house party at some point in the book. I also love this one. The hero initially hates the heroine who he sees as a bad influence on his little sister (who's actually.... the one who gets pregnant on a Eurotrip.... so idk points may have been made there in retrospect) but he later becomes oBSESSED. She's waiting for another man to propose, but during this whole countryside excursion, he makes his argument for banging known.

Oh. OBVIOUSLY, the first two Wallflowers books take place in large part at Westcliff's big country estate and various house party shenanigans occur. In Secrets of a Summer Night, Operation Trap a Man takes place there, with Annabelle accidentally trapping Simon. And in It Happened One Autumn, Westcliff is all "all of my friends and also that annoying girl Lillian who I want to impregnate should visit my house!!!! Even my broke slutty friend Sebastian!!!!"

[hazel-of-sodor]

The Q2 Tank was a proposed Southern Railway Tank Engine version of the Bulleid Q1 after the war, but irl they remained unbuilt. These are how they appeared in my AU. Who can pick the odd engine out before reading the list?

02C1 (33041) was the class prototype. Intially preserved by a private engine, she was donated to the National Railway Musuem upon their passing in 1978.

33053 (02C13) is preserved in a Musuem in Ashford, Kent

D39 (02C39/33079) is in service with the Denbigh and Wrexham Railway.

33047 (02C7) is in service with the Chester and Holyhead Railway.

02C34 (33074) is preserved on the Spa Valley Railway.

02C20 (33060) and 02C26 (33066) are both preserved at the Sodor Railway Museum. When 02C20 was bought from BR, 02C26 was included as a source of spares. however when the pair arrived it was found both engines were largely intact, and the musuem decided to keep both.

33078 (02C38) is privately owned, but leased for Heritage service with South West Trains.

02C16 (33056) is preserved on the London New Eastern Railway, and has recieved a GCR tribute livery at their request.

33050 (02C10) and 33063 (02C23) are both in service on the North Western Railway's Norramby Branch Line.

33077 (02C37) is also on the North Western, allocated to Tidmouth.

33080 (02C40) , the youngest member of the class, is preserved at the Krestaen Railway Museum.

33009 (C9) Violet was one of the Bulleid austerity 0-6-0 tender engines. She would serve her entire working life as a Q1, until being sent for scrap in 1965. She was sent to Cashmore's Scrapyard in Newport, and she would remain there until fire broke out during a protest. The protesters blames Cashmores, and the yard blamed the protestors, but either way the blaze raged out of control and destroyed part of the yard. 33009 was very nearly caught in the inferno, and her tender was destroyed as protesters worked to drag her away from the fire. A picture of her after the fire graced the newspapers announcing the fire, and a small preservation line named the lloches Hertiage Railway noticed her. The line had been looking for a steam engine to restore and felt drawn to the stricken engine. They visited her at Cashmoores and bought her from the yard for less than scrap price the same day, as the yard thought she was more damaged then she actually was. As her tender had been destroyed and the line had no turntable, it was asked if she would mind being rebuilt into a tank engine. She agreed and Violet emerged in 1969 as the 41st member of the Q2 class. She has remained the lines pride and Joy ever since.

[invisibleicewands]

A ROCK BAND hailing from Caerphilly has teamed up with a Hollywood star, to fund the education for aspiring actors in an arts funding project.

Rockers Manic Street Preachers have teamed up with Hollywood star Michael Sheen to fund aspiring actors. 

Mr Sheen said: "We’re in the midst of an arts emergency in Wales.

"Cuts are taking away tongues at the very moment our stories need to be shouted loudest."

The Manics and the Good Omens actor handed thousands of pounds to 11 aspiring actors over the past three years to fund their educations. 

Sheen, 55, has pumped more than £250,000 of his own money into the arts funding project, which is also backed by the "Design for Life" rock band. 

Sheen revealed that the funding - given as part of his Mab Gwalia organisation - will be renewed for a further three years after he hit out against government cuts to the arts. 

The Damned United actor, said: "Mab Gwalia has emerged to provide support to give tomorrow’s talent a platform and pathway to develop their craft and tell our truth to the world. But the door is open to others with shared values who can contribute financially to the fund."

The Mab Gwalia Welsh drama student scholarship has so far handed up to £15,000 per academic year to aspiring actors and announced it will continue for a further three years. 

One of those students, Hollie Saunders, said the funding helped her attend Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama. 

Maesteg-based Holly, said: "The scholarship really made me feel so confident and just kind of hopeful, and without that scholarship, I wouldn't have been able to have that propeller to be like, I could do this too."

Sheen - who is known for his roles as former Prime Minister Tony Blair and soccer boss Brian Clough - has also helped fund a writing project and given bursaries to 11 writers from working-class and under-represented backgrounds.

One of those to benefit from the A Writing Chance scheme, Grace Quantock, of Newport, Gwent, praised Sheen for funding the initiative. 

Ms Quantock, said: "Michael Sheen’s belief in Welsh working class voices changes lives. He knows art makes change, revolutionises lives, opens horizons and he is willing to step up to make that happen in his art and in his actions. 

"His support changed my life through the A Writing Chance programme."

Outside the arts, Mab Gwalia has supported causes as vital as autism support, army veterans, mothers suffering post-natal depression, community skills hubs, foodbanks and more.

[gracie-bird]

Miss Grace Kelly gives victory cup to Straight Clark, winner of exhibition tennis match at Newport Casino on July 9, 1955.

[mybeingthere]

Melanie Ferguson, b. 1955 Newport, OR, from the series ON THE LOOKOUT.

Melanie explains" "On the Lookout" is a series inspired by a raven that occasionally sits outside my studio window watching for, and responding to, sound and movement. One spring day, while reading about the phenomena of crop circles, I noticed this raven peekiking through the window as if checking out the photos. At that moment, the seed for "On the Lookout" had sprouted..."

"Eroding hillsides, the swirling ripple on water's surface, the rhythmic patterns of ocean flora and fauna each provide me

with endless relationship intrigue; their associated shadow and reflection, sound, smell, and effortless energy feeds my

inner spirit. These key sensory "notes" inspire creative concept by revealing a story that challenges my expression

through any given medium utilizing elements that demand physical involvement in building form and surface. Using

stoneware, earthenware, or porcelain, I hand-build my sculptural forms to preserve this symbolic gesture of energy.

Applying clay coils, I frequently paddle the form's surface to engage with its inner resonance, reminiscent of tidal rhythm

and flow as the form evolves with direction and movement. I then add oxide stains (usually copper and iron), slips,

colour-tinted underglaze, and etching techniques to establish a surface visual that maps a spirited dance within. I engage

many firing methods appropriate for each work, with a preference for atmospheric firing. How the surface elements

attract and cast flame plays an integral role in the evolution of the story that ultimately engages the beginning of my

next work."

- Melanie Ferguson

+5

All reactions:

209You, Ikat Nedej, Geneviève Roustit and 206 others

[floridakilo]

list of insane shit that occurred over the last day…my car radiator tube exploding in the middle of rural kentucky 2 hrs away from west virginia…random rednecks at this auto shop that happened to be nearby actually being able to fix it just in time to get to the concert at 8…showing up to the concert at 7:45 with 1% battery left on my phone with just enough time to get my ticket scanned and walk in…vibing in the pit with a dead phone taking no pictures no videos no blogging all vibes…wandering the streets aimlessly for an hour after bc no google maps and stepping in a puddle of mystery fluid thus ruining my ballet flats…finally making it back to the fuckin air bnb by the grace of god and having dinner and wine with the host and the other guest who also went to the concert…spending the entire night with the host guy afterwards chainsmoking newports and drinking…ending up (fucking the text man for texts voice) fucking the roomshare man for rooms and waking up the next morning realizing i didnt pack enough clothes for more than two nights…walking around in dirty leggings covered in sweat and dog hair like a whore…anyway classic west virginia moments…

[harryforvogue]

Part Two | Chapter Twelve: Kiss Me Like You Want To Be Loved

Bellefonte, Pennsylvania

July 1919

In the span of just one week at Aunt Geraldine's home, we've caused quite the ruckus.

Still she shows remorse when we pack the taxi and glance at the massive house once more before turning to hug each person. The train we've decided to catch is an early morning one, too early for little Grace to stand outside fully awake, knuckling her eyes as she waits for her turn to be hugged. I hug her tightly and tell her I'll see her soon and we can read all the books we can. She smiles at the idea, and Geraldine sends her back inside to go back to sleep. I nod appreciatively at Geraldine and let myself be engulfed in a hug.

During this week Geraldine has become a friend to me, despite her lack of relation to me. Her hug for Harry is shorter and more cautious, but loving nonetheless.

Regardless of the pleasantries, I feel it's my duty to step forward and apologize for the mess Harry and I have made during our stay.

"If we've disrupted you in any way," I insist, holding Jared's hands, speaking firmly. "I'm sorry. I couldn't have predicted any of it."

Jared gives me a nonchalant shrug and tells me that it's the price of marriage, but Geraldine is kinder yet more strict when she speaks to me, holding my elbow tightly and making sure I hear every syllable of her words.

"Don't you ever apologize for a man," she tells me lowly, furrowing her brows. "You are too good for him."

I shake my head and nervously check over my shoulder to see if Harry's listening or within earshot. "I rather think we're both pathetic enough for each other."

Geraldine smiles, holding a hand to my cheek. The gesture suddenly, and quite violently, reminds me of my mother, who used to hold my face like this when I'd be crying to wipe the moisture immediately after it fell from my eyes. She never tolerated weakness in the house, though on some events, weakness was the only friend I had.

"You are too good for him," Geraldine repeats, leaning in to press a kiss to my forehead. "Be safe. Let us know you've arrived in Newport safely."

We've decided Newport is the next destination. Harry's decided it. He's told me that men in his company have raved about how beautiful of a place it is and how he must go to see it himself. It's on the East Coast and only a day's ride by train.

"I will," I promise, waving goodbye to them as I walk to the car. I sit beside Harry and wait for the rumble of the car against the pavement to remind me how far I'll be from the family soon.

Harry notices a few minutes later, cautiously peering at me. His curls are tucked behind his ears, and the way he ducks his head allows a strand to fall into his eyes. He messily pushes it away when he glances at me, waiting a moment to gauge my expression before speaking. This is progress, I think, though it's not anything more than an inch in the direction of our goal.

"Are you alright?" he asks finally.

I crack the window open a bit and nod, glancing out. "I'm going to miss them."

"Oh," Harry says, agreeing. "Me too. They're a lovely family. I do hope to visit them again soon before winter."

"Geraldine reminds me of my mother."

"Do you miss your mother?"

I nod, biting the inside of my cheek. "A lot." I look back at him and study his now distant eyes. "Don't you miss yours?"

"Of course I do." He stares out the window behind me, his eyes oddly matching the color of the sky. "I miss her all the time."

"She should visit us."

His gaze flickers to mine as he raises a brow. "I couldn't convince her to leave London. I doubt she'd want to be here. You know how she is."

"Still," I say. "It's a thought."

"Maybe soon." He cracks his knuckles. "I can't wait to sleep on the train."

"You didn't sleep well?"

"No," he admits, rubbing his eyes. "Barely slept. I've got a migraine."

I turn my body towards him. "Did you have a nightmare?"

He pulls his palms away from his face and sends me a wry smile. "Yes, I did have a nightmare."

"Will you tell me about it?"

Uncertainty touches his eyes as he focuses back on the scenery outside the window as we just pass over the recent town and enter a larger field, the breeze from the cracked window blowing his hair around.

After a tense silence and inner battle, he nods once. "Alright. I'll tell you on the train." He seems to regret the words as soon as they come out of his mouth. "But you won't do anything except stay quiet and listen. I don't want commentary."

I cross my arms. "I want to comment."

"Well, I won't let you."

"Is it about France?"

"Yes."

"How about this: for every bad memory you tell me of France, I'll tell you a good one."

"Annaliese," he says dryly, "I mean no offense, but there is nothing you can say that will make me think France is a nice place. I appreciate the thought, but it's going to be useless."

I mull this over in my head, eventually agreeing to it. "You're right. I want you to be comfortable."

His glassy eyes soften before they glance back out his own window. This is progress, I think happily. The kind of progress we need.

***

"Who will we be staying with?" I ask Harry as I sit in my seat on the train, taking my hat off.

Harry says, "We're staying at a hotel. I do know some people in Newport, but I doubt I'll go to see them. It's best if you sleep now."

"Are they the friends from the army?"

Harry nods. "Though, I wouldn't call them my friends. Friends stay in touch and none of us have decided to do that."

I stretch my legs the best I can, slumping against my seat. The thought of his promise brightens me, and I eagerly turn to face him. "Okay well, start talking, Styles. Tell me what your dream was about."

Harry, alarmed at my eagerness, raises his brows. "Annaliese, it's not one of those cute bizarre dreams."

"I'm not excited to hear your misery, Harry," I assured him gently. "I'm excited to hear you talk. I want to know."

A part of this desire comes from wanting to fill in the blanks of what happened during the time I was absent from his life. I want to know it all: his early mornings, his training, how he felt on the trains, how he felt having a dry laugh with his company. I want to know all the happiness but also the pain. If the pain outweighs the happiness, I will be more than willing to oblige and listen to his struggles.

Harry seems conflicted, unsure where to start, but finally, he gathers his thoughts and begins in a deep voice just as the doors of the train cars close and it jerks to a start. I listen intently.

"I can't sleep on the mattress very well," Harry admits, looking out the window, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm too used to the hard ground of the trenches or the cots in the infirmary. The night you accidentally came to my room was the last time I tried to sleep on the bed. It's quite uncomfortable for me. I laid down on the floor with my blanket over me, just thinking for a bit." Harry's ears go pink. "I have to do that before I sleep, to tire my brain out. If not, my body will be tired, but not my mind, and it's my mind that puts me to sleep, isn't it?

"I had settled in and shut my eyes after thinking a bit. Most of my dreams occur after I've already woken up through the night, but this time I had the dream as soon as I drifted off. It was quite bearable at first, just memories of France and my company, but it soon became violent."

He pauses and I think he's finished, but then he picks back up.

"I didn't think you could hear things in your dream. But it's the most frightening part, I think. Hearing things you can't see, wondering how your brain is able to come up and mimic those sounds when you've buried them in your everyday life. I don't hear those noises anymore, but for some reason, my brain likes to remind me of them, to make sure I don't forget them.

"I heard," he says, frowning, "the shells." He pauses once more, clearly trying to filter as best as he can. "See, the thing with shells," he continues, glancing at me, "is that you can tell what kind they are and how close they are as you spend more time at the Front. And these particular ones in my dream, they were both loud and shrill."

He doesn't need to fill me in for me to figure out what that means.

He opens his mouth and then closes it. "That's it. That's my dream. I was at the Front and I heard shells, increasing in both volume and quantity until I was suddenly awake," he concludes quickly.

That isn't the full story, but I remain patient. I wait a minute before speaking. "Did you get hurt?"

Harry raises his eyebrows. "In my dream or during the war?"

"During the war," I clarify. "You mentioned the cots in the infirmary."

"Oh. Well, yes. I did, a few times, but it was nothing more than a few grazes." His expression turns sour. "I did, however, have an unfortunate incident with a broken shrapnel."

"Will you tell me about it?" My eyes wander to the cut that runs through his eyebrow, knowing the scar was the result of that particular incident.

He glances down at me for seemingly eternity, before shaking his head. "Not today." He looks ashamed.

My heart aches with love for him and the steps he's taking. He's wiping his palms anxiously on his trousers, fingers trembling. Impulsively, I reach over and touch his hand in an attempt to stop the quivers. He freezes. I hold my breath as I pick up his hand and turn it over, palm facing upwards. I study the long digits of his hands, slowly tracing the lines separating his fingers into thirds.

I pick up his hand again and put it in my lap, encasing it with both of my hands.

His green eyes are stormy, his tense body conflicted. I trace the veins on his wrist as I wait for him to either relax or pull away. His eyes burn into mine, searching through them for some answer that I hope I'm able to provide him.

When he makes no move, simply watching me, I push myself closer to him, begging him in my head to not move away. My shoulder brushes against his, then my ankle, then my knee, and finally my thigh. The warmth of his body pressed to mine makes me smile reassuringly at him, reminding him that it's alright with my expression. He doesn't move or shift or even breathe, still as if he's being hunted, eyes firmly glued to mine.

"I'm sorry," I whisper sincerely. "I wish I could fix it all for you, my love."

I crane my neck slowly and focus on his mouth. His pink, wide mouth that's always thinned or in a firm line. Keeping a tight grip on his hand to ground him, I carefully look at his dark eyes with a look that reads "Stop me now" before I press my lips to his, watching his eyes flutter shut just in time.

To say I've missed his kisses is a grave understatement. It's a brief, chaste kiss, but it's not one sided. I've shared enough kisses with Harry to know that. Harry tilts his head and kisses me back slowly, his pulse quickening under my fingertips. Slowly, I pull back and quickly check his reaction. His eyes open and he stares at me for a minute, jaw tight with either regret or interest.

I never find out which one it is as the train conductor comes by to ask for tickets. Harry shows him both of ours. He doesn't say anything, but he leaves his hand in my grasp, giving my fingers the softest squeeze. His frame is more relaxed, breathing heavy, but that's all.

The storm passes and he finally glances at me and whispers, "You should get some sleep. We've got a long ride."

I nod, feeling like a teenager who has just got her first kiss with her high school crush. Oddly enough, the fluttering in my stomach feels a lot like how it did during my first kiss with Harry, on that hot summer evening in London, exactly 3 years ago.

***

When I wake up, Harry's still gazing out the window. He's called for lunch and the smell wakes me like an animal out of hibernation. Harry gives me a soft smile and lets my hand slip from his when I begin eating.

When talking with him, I must listen closely to his words. I lean in, listening to him intently, watching his every movement on his face to grab onto his softening eyes -- a clue I've read to look into when inspecting a man's face, particularly a man you're in love with -- and his fluctuating voice as it increases when talking about something exciting and decreasing when making observations of the city we're passing.

Unhappy with the lack of findings, I sit back in my seat across from him and just listen instead, glancing out the window as he points out what exactly we are passing. Currently still in northern Pennsylvania, it's all just open fields. It's quite a romantic scene, I think to myself, the skies littered with a few white clouds acting as chaperones over the cattle and horses that graze in the fields. Occasionally, we'll see farmers herded animals, but for the most part, it's free will. I find myself longing to be in those fields, frolicking with my husband beside me, asking me not to go too far or he'll miss me.

The husband in question sits in front of me, talking about labor unions in Pennsylvania. When I glance back at him, his eyes are wide with excitement over his own findings in the library and book ship in Bellefonte. I listen halfheartedly for a moment before returning my full attention to his voice, finding serenity in the low rumbling tone rather than the words they're making. His eyelashes flutter when the sun hits his eyes squarely, his green eyes becoming paler like a cat's eyes. Unlike a cat's pupil, however, he doesn't recoil and become slits. They stay wide and excited as he continues speaking, incorporating his hands in his speech to aid him as well.

When he finishes his speech, glancing at me a bit shyly, the tips of his ears are pink, and I highly doubt it's due to the heat from the sun and lack of curtains on the window.

"That's all," he concludes with a slight cough. "That's all there is until 1917. Not quite sure what happened with the men all away when American troops began migrating to the east for the war. I don't think there would be strikes with no men."

I put my chin in my palm and tilt my head. "Can't women go on strike?"

He raises his eyebrows, most likely surprised I was even listening. "Well, yes," he says, quite mildly, "but there isn't a reason to go on strike in dire situations. Ends must be met, right? Despite living conditions. If the price of living is high, though it doesn't seem like it was during the war in America particularly, it doesn't correlate with the wage of the workers. That is," he continues, "the reason for most strikes. The lack of good pay. But at this point, desperate times called for desperate measures. The American government, like the British government, if you remember, became strictly war manufacturers. Someone has to do the work, regardless of how much they're getting paid."

"What if," I say, "the woman refused to work?"

"That's entirely possible and completely up to the woman. If she were single during the war, I doubt her working a man's job bothered her. Independent women, I find, are far more ambitious than married men," he adds.

"Really? You believe that?"

"Yes. I see that dynamic between us."

"Between us?" I hum, running a knuckle over my lips to hide a smile. "You think I'm more ambitious than you?"

"Yes," he answers confidently. "Do you disagree?"

"Not exactly. I'd argue we're both quite ambitious. In different ways. For example, while I may be adamant about my work and creating a living for us, you're more ambitious about traveling and researching history."

"Traveling," he says with a twitch of his lips, "isn't ambitious."

"I'd argue that it is."

"Why?"

"It takes guts to go to a foreign country and expect to just blend in."

He looks thoughtfully out the window. "Right, but it wasn't just me who blended it. I believe it was harder for you to settle in, with English being your second language and the Americans so... American."

"It was your idea to come here."

"It was yours. I merely agreed. And you've been here longer than me."

"You've been in a more foreign country for longer than me. While France is my home country, it's unknown territory for you."

"Was," he interjects, glancing back at him. "It was unknown territory."

Leveling with him, I reply, "It still is."

He shakes his head slightly and links his fingers together, rubbing over his silver wedding band. "I think your definition of France and mine are wildly different, Annaliese."

This is true, but a part of me strives to continue educating him in the country that I've loved even during the years I've been away from it, to remind him what exactly beauty is. The appeal of the country shouldn't have been the proximity to the enemy on the eastern front, but the people, the language, the arts, and the communities built into the villages for many generations. It is the true meaning of what it means to be French, yet when he closes his eyes, he imagines machine guns, artillery, and scarlet blood.

"I understand," he continues, unbuttoning his jacket and removing it swiftly from his torso, "that we're quite different in our definitions, however, I can assure you that I have no plans on changing my mind about it." He proceeds to undo his collar and open it, revealing a flushed pink color, his chest rising and falling a little easier. He rests his head back and sighs deeply. "And I have no intention of you converting to my side."

"Well that's a relief."

He smiles a bit, raising an eyebrow. "Yes, well, you stay in your area, and I'll stay in mine."

"Because if you tell me about your experiences in France, I will not think of France as just yards and yards of trenches. I will still see it as the beautiful country I know it as because I know that the war is over and well in the past--"

"Miles," he softly interjects. "Miles and miles of trenches."

I pause, quickly assessing the atmosphere between us. His eyes have become a little glassy and unfocused as I continue to speak, so I catch my breath and stop talking.

"Nothing will change your mind," he says finally, resting his temple on the window, "and nothing will change mine. Seems like we're in agreement." The light streaming past the glass creates a small rainbow against the bridge of his nose.

Dropping the subject, I nod. "Very well. Nobody's won this round."

"Round?" he says, distracted."Are you keeping score?"

"I'll be damned if I let you win."

"I've already let you win a few times."

"Stop letting me. I want to win fair and square. I'd be more than happy to admit when I'm wrong and apologize when needed."

He doesn't reply, closing his eyes instead, offering me nothing more than an amused expression and a shake of his head.

A few moments pass in silence until he opens his eyes again and watches me. I feel his gaze on me, and to give him peace, I don't startle him by glancing back immediately. "Hey," he finally says softly. He bumps his knee against mine gently. "I don't want you to ever apologize to me. Please don't again."

I bump his knee back. "I don't like when you apologize either."

"Then let's make a deal. Nobody apologizes."

I stick my hand out and look him in the eyes. "Sounds good."

He hesitates for a moment, but finally places his hand in mine, giving it a firm shake. When he goes back to sleep, I hold that hand in my lap, running my thumb over my palm. I watch him sleep as his protector.

***

Summer is, arguably, the best season. Spring, while a predecessor of summer, often has cold fronts and the rain is icy, dark clouds hovering over our heads. Rather less in New York, but the gloomy weather stays as if we were still in London, now just surrounded by skyscrapers instead of fancy buildings with ancient architecture. London has, to me, quite a Gothic touch, and perhaps the gloominess of the weather fits its personality, however, spring in the East Coast is vastly different, thankfully. As we still find ourselves in the East Coast, the state we are in now, traveling fast towards our destination has no change. I'm unsure where exactly we are, I think, looking out the window, finding nothing more than a thick post rain fog that blocks my immediate view.

Summer brings rain, and sometimes it is frigid and cold, but when you're inside, staring at the soft rain dropping onto the windows and eventually disappearing into the atmosphere, you can't help but grow an appreciation for it. The air is humid and thick, barely breathable, and the rain a cold contrast against the skin to ease the tightness caused from the lack of air. The rain holds oxygen and solace.

Harry's slept through the rain, but he's rising now, his eyebrows pinched together with discomfort. Upon opening his eyes, he sees me and sits up a little straighter, rolling his tight neck.

"It rained?" he murmurs, knuckling an eye. My heart swells with love, wanting nothing more but to cradle him to my chest and tell him that yes, it rained, but I didn't let him get wet.

"Yes," I reply instead, smiling. "It looks lovely, doesn't it?"

Harry's unfocused eyes drowsily glance at the window. "I can't see anything."

"That's the best part."

He slants me a look and hums.

"I think we're almost here. I overhead the conductor a few minutes ago. I wish we could get something to eat," I say.

He's still rubbing his eyes. "I'm starving."

"What's the plan for Newport, then?"

"Still the same." He stands up and stretches his long legs, suddenly aware of the cold, bending down to pick up his jacket and rest it on his shoulders for warmth. "I'm going to sleep so well tonight."

Taking the topic of conversation to be a little cheeky, I say, "Sure! I'll keep you warm."

He sits down again and glances out the window, fog still blocking his view. "You're quite funny."

"Fine, I'll take the floor then."

He ignores me, running his finger over the foggy glass. "We can get two rooms."

"I will hurt you if you pay for separate rooms just to sleep, Harry," I say seriously. "Hey." I deliver a small kick to his ankle. "Stop thinking about it."

To my surprise, a slight smile plays on his lips, a mild one. "I'm kidding."

"I don't think you are," I reply suspiciously.

"If there's a couch, I'll sleep there."

"Or, I can make a wall between us when we sleep and we'll stay on our sides, hands to ourselves."

He rests his head back and looks at me through his dark eyelashes, raising an interested eyebrow. "You really want this," he states, not quite a question.

"Well, most wives would like to lay with their husbands."

"Most husbands would like to lay with their wives," he answers with a strained undertone. "And I can assure you that I am no exception."

There's a less reasonable side of me that wants to lean in and argue with him that all his actions and words prior to his conversation have suggested otherwise, that he would rather lay on the cold, hard floor than lay on a comfortable mattress besides his wife. His face gives him away, surprisingly, since he's been so hard to read recently, but this is clear on his face, in his transparent eyes with which he holds eye contact with me, waiting for his words to settle into my head. They no longer hover, settling finally. And then it hits me, quite violently, that the issue isn't laying besides a body, but what happens when temptation gets the best of him.

I feel my face growing hotter, and he seems to relax when he sees the realization on my face.

"You know I would not mind that," I say firmly, hating the blush on my face.

"Maybe not, but I would. You have always known how hard it is for me to keep my hands off of you."

I do know. I think about it all the time. "Is it so bad to want to lay with your wife?"

"Of course not," he says, peering distractedly out the window. "But it's not the right time. I've told you that it's not you."

"Well, why does the thought of sleeping with me displease you so?"

"Displease me? It doesn't. It's quite attractive, but it's...it's..." He breaks off, slightly flushed. "Never mind."

Eagerly, I continue to convert before it's lost. "I want to know. What is it?"

"You'll laugh."

"I won't!" To be truthful, there's a chance that I might.

He starts, pauses once to inspect my unmoving face, and then sighs, continuing once more. "I treat it like a reward. For when I'm better."

"For when you're better?"

"Yes. I'll have you as a reward for when I'm healthy again."

Perhaps this won't be as funny as I anticipated. "Are you sure that's such a good idea? I'm not too excited by it."

"You don't think it's odd? Or creepy? That I use you as an incentive?"

I smile, nudging his knee with mine. "I don't think it's odd or creepy, but it might be a little useless. I don't think I can last as long as your recovery seems to be taking."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Are you making fun of my illness?"

"Well." I shrug. "You are testing my patience. If you think I'm waiting that long, you're wrong. What if mine stops working?"

Wide eyes blink at me. "Stops working?"

"Yes," I say seriously."

"Wow. Your priorities are not in order."

"Think about it."

Harry smiles. "I have a feeling you'll hurt me if I tell you I expect you to wait for me."

"I'll wait because I have no other outlet for relieving my pain."

"Pain," he repeats, eyebrows raised.

"And I'll wait, but I won't be happy about it."

"I don't expect you to be happy about it."

"Harry," I say, squeezing his hand. "Don't worry about whether I'll be happy or not. I'm completely kidding. If it's helping you, then it's okay. I'm here for you, remember? The point is to make you comfortable. Don't worry," I add. "It won't suddenly become inoperable."

Harry's hidden dimples suddenly deepen when he turns his head to look at me.

"I know that, Annaliese," he says, flicking my forehead. "Quit saying that. I don't like the image in my head."