#I keep thinking of this time I went to visit a friend in Yorkshire
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Well, we had Iliad summer, now it’s time for Odyssey autumn. (Getting stuck in random places. Absurdly lengthened travel times. Telling outrageous lies. Crying, probably.)
#I doubt I’m the first to make this joke but still#I keep thinking of this time I went to visit a friend in Yorkshire#ostensibly a two hour train journey#but the connection at Leeds broke down in this tiny village called Broomfleet#(connection FROM Leeds I mean)#and they let us out and I had to ring my friend like ‘hey uhhhh I’m stuck in fucking… Broomfleet??????’#and she didn’t drive#so she had to go with her mum (who had NEVER MET ME) to pick me up from Broomfleet station#and it RAINED#I felt sorry for her mum who had to drive all the way to a village NO ONE HAS EVER HEARD OF#and then I get into the car looking like a drowned rat#WAIT it didn’t break down I remember now#there was a gas leak (?) at Hull station which is where I was meant to get off#it was fixed the next day when i went home but YEAH#so when I say ‘odyssey autumn’ that’s the kind of nonsense I’m on about#the iliad#the odyssey
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Keep On Rolling - MV1
Chapter Six
Summary: Lando's best friend having feelings for anyone on the grid? Impossible, right? She worked with them, sharing her friendship with the grid with the world via the FormulaY/N youtube channel.
After film a video including... spicy water (alcohol), everything changes between her and a certain world champion. Good thing she hasn't had a crush on him since his F1 debut, right?
Right?
1.9K words
Series Masterlist
A/N: I've actually had the best day (and it's only midday)! Did a couple of hours of studying, completing one of my essays, went to the outlet shop and found my perfect pair of cargos (my friends all look for xs so I feel bad when we go retail therapying, but I went alone and I'm so happy)
Silverstone. Lando's home race. Y/N couldn't wait. Ever since she was a little girl, Silverstone had been one of her favourites. When they were kids, Y/N's father had taken her and Lando to Silverstone. It was the first race Y/N had ever attended, and the race that let Y/N fall in love with Formula One.
It had been a full month since Y/N had last spoken to the current world champion. Y/N didn't know why Max wasn't speaking to her. Or answering her text messages. He'd been missing out of Y/N's life completely for the last month.
For once, Y/N had nothing special planned for Silverstone. Just a simple Q and A video.
Y/N missed the Friday free practice. Where she'd usually be there to watch Lando and the rest of her friends (namely Charles), but, this time, she was at home with her family.
British families had some weird traditions and Y/N's family was no exception. Every Sunday in the winter months they ate a huge roast dinner and every Sunday in the summer was reserved for having a barbeque.
With a job like Y/N's, she didn't much get to see her family. She was always away at the grand prix or the city hosting them. Her family missed her, sure, but they knew she was living her dream. So, whenever she was home, Y/N made sure to visit them.
Y/N sat at the dining table, checking her phone. Nothing from Lando, nothing from Charles, nothing from Danny. Nothing from... Max.
That was the most upsetting thing. Y/N hadn't spoken to Max in so long. She didn't realise she'd miss him until he disappeared. There had been a couple of times where she'd text him, but he'd only read it, not respond. Y/N was getting desperate. Desperate to hear from him, but they weren't in a place where she could beg. Right?
"Dinner!" Y/N's mother shouted as she and her brother ran in the dishes. Chicken, potatoes, sprouts, carrots, parsnips and more. Y/N's mother always went above and beyond with roast dinner. It was a whole performance for her.
Y/N allowed her mother to plate up her food. It was something she loved doing whenever Y/N was home, her way to welcome her back. "Mum, do you think we can watch the free practice?" She asked as her mother placed a Yorkshire pudding onto her plate.
"What? No way!" Her brother suddenly shouted across the table. "If Y/N gets to watch formula one I get to watch football!"
"Neither of you are watching anything. Y/N is going to make the most of being here with us before she makes her way up to Silverstone, okay?"
Y/N's mother was not a scary woman, not by any means. But, when she commanded something, it happened. Y/N and her brother nodded as they tucked into their food.
Y/N checked her last messages to Lando and Max beneath the table. Lando hadn't yet seen her message, but Max hadn't responded. A small part of her wanted to throw her phone at the nearest wall, but she didn't. Instead, Y/N slipped her phone back into her pocket and tightened her hand in a fist, nails digging into her palm.
Her family could tell something was wrong. Normally it was non-stop chatter about the world of the paddock. But, aside from her request to watch the free practice, Y/N didn't talk about formula one at all. Even when her brother tried to ask, Y/N answered with single words.
That night, in her childhood bedroom, Y/N looked at the pictures of her and Lando. Them in school, them at Lydden Hill for Lando's Karting career. Silverstone when Lando was in F2, Lando when he first joined McLaren and that was it. The rest of the pictures were in Y/N's own apartment, a place she hardly saw the point in paying for when she rarely lived there.
Her phone began to ring. Picking it up, Y/N placed it to her ear. "Hey, Lan," she said to her best friend as soon as she answered.
"How's your mum? How's your brother? How's the cat?" He asked quickly.
The cat in question was currently sleeping on Y/N's bed. The moment she moved out, the cat began living in her room, sleeping on her bed or in the empty closet.
"Mum is good, brother is good, cat is good," she said, sitting beside the cat and stroking her fur. "How was free practice? I tried to watch on the television but Mum wouldn't let me."
Lando told her all about free practice and how his day at Silverstone had been. He told her about the media things she and Oscar had to do, the fun he and Carlos had been having and more.
When he fell silent, Y/N found herself asking a difficult question. "Lan, is Max okay?" She asked him. "Does he hate me or something?"
"No," Lando answered quickly. "Why would he hate you?"
"Can you tell him to answer my texts then please."
Lando didn't answer that. How could he, when he was the reason for Max's silence? But, he couldn't tell Y/N, either. He could tell her that he was the reason Max was refusing to speak to her. So, Lando took it in a different direction.
"What's going on with you and Max?" He asked. His tone was genuinely curious, leading Y/N away from his crime.
Y/N shook her head. "Lan, nothing. Nothing is going on with Max and I. He was just the only person who let me interview him in Monaco. He just happened to be the person who helped me out after the drunken quiz video. Why does that mean something has to be going on with us?"
Again, Lando didn't answer. Guilt ripped through him. He was selfish, a selfish little boy. He drove Max away from Y/N just because he didn't want to lose his best friend
Lando was quick to end the call. He said his goodbyes and left Y/N to it. Max liked Y/N, he knew that much. But did she like him? God, he felt like a child back in secondary school as he thought about it.
***
"Hey guys, welcome to the Silverstone weekend," Y/N said to the camera as she sat on her bed with her cat in her lap. "As you can see, we are not in a hotel room for once. We are actually in my childhood bedroom and we have a visitor." Y/N held the cat up to the camera and waved her paw.
"Today we're going to be going in with a Q and A video," she said, pulling up her phone. "I know a lot of you have a lot of questions around how and why I do what I do, and I'm going to answer them all."
She went into her twitter and pulled up her first question. "Right, question one. How did you meet Lando?" She read and put the phone down. "Oh, what a story this is," she said and let out a little laugh. "When Lando and I first met each other, we hated each other. We were eleven years old, both starting at secondary school. In maths we got sat beside each other, and it all kicked off from there.
"Lando was so loud! Seriously, he did not stop talking. And he spread his stuff to my side of the desk, which really pissed me me off. So, I told him to shut up and he told me to bleep off, and then we became best friends."
The cat in her lap was purring as Y/N stroked her. She grabbed her phone and checked for the next question. There had been a lot on there asked about the nature of her relationship with Charles and her relationship with Max. They were things she wouldn't get into, only because it would make the situation so much worse.
"Ah, what do you do when you're not travelling around?" She read and put the phone back down. "Well, I travel to the grand prix and then I explore the city the grand prix is held in with my friends. These bits I don't usually film, but I'm considering doing city vlogs. If you guys would like to see this, drop a comment."
Y/N went on and on, reading through the questions. There were many about hers and Lando's friendship, many that allowed her to grab pictures of little Lando from the wall.
"What is your favourite quote from anyone on the grid at the minute?" She read.
It made her grin. "Well, I've got one that I use all the time which is when Charles says 'Lando we can be world champions', but I'm a big fan of those noises Danny makes? You know, 'ki ki ki ra!'" She shouted.
There was a noise from downstairs, her mother shouting a complaint.
After getting through at least twenty of the questions, Y/N checked the time on her phone. "Oh my," she gasped when she saw how late it was. Or, rather, how early in the morning it was. "I guess that's the end of the video," she said to the camera. "Thank you guys for watching. Like, subscribe and I'll see you at Silverstone," she said and got up to switch off the camera.
Taglist (Open): @sticksdoesart @eviethetheatrefreak @eugene-emt-roe @glai1023-blog @mqcherie @itsjustkhaos @chonkybonky @arian-directioner @lazybot @lpab @princessria127 @fangirl125reader @honethatty12 @larastark3107 @urfavouritef1girly @cassiopeiia24 @callsign-scully @lexiecamposv @dl-yum @savagecelery @laneyspaulding19 @formulas-bitch @teenwolf01 @gayfrog29 @fictionalcomforts
#max verstappen#max verstappen imagine#max verstappen x reader#max verstappen smut#max verstappen x reader smut#max verstappen x you#max verstappen fluff#mv1#mv1 imagine#mv1 x reader#f1#f1 imagine#f1 x reader#formula one#formula one imagine#formula one x reader#formula 1#formula 1 imagine#formula 1 x reader#keep on rolling
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The Aspect of a Pleasant Day
"I used to think maybe you loved me now, baby, I'm sure! And I just can't wait 'til the day when you knock on my door! Now every time I go for the mailbox, gotta hold myself down! 'Cause I just can't wait 'til you write me you're coming around!"
You've just gotta love these bright, sunny days we have nowadays! Clear skies, cool wind, the warmth on your face as the sun beams down from on high! Not like the horrid weather we had before, let me tell you. You couldn't walk down the street without getting yourself swept up in some wild tornado, or accidentally stepping into a chasm that you swore wasn't there before. For example; last month, a good friend of mine, a very good friend, informed me over the phone that there wouldn't be any crazy weather planned for that month. He works with weather you see, very good at what he does, quite famous worldwide, so I, as a trustful pal, took his word for gold and went out for some tea.
Now, when you decide to go for an outing, you ought ta' make it a special occasion for yourself, especially if you've made so little time for personal leisure- and you can't ask a person with a bit of self-respect to spend that free time at a local Starbucks for a spot of tea. So I thought I'd take a trip to the United Kingdom to visit one of my favorite places in this world, and I know what you're thinking, aren't plane tickets in America expensive? You'd be absolutely right, not to mention how slow and unreliable they are. The last time I've taken one for the novelty of it, I fell asleep and woke up chest-deep in water! Sooo unreliable in my experience. But not to worry, for I had another friend who helped me in my little venture! You see! When I first met my friend, they invited me into their home, telling me their life story. They were a spiritualist and an aspiring gipsy, who wished to gleam into the secrets of the universe. So I, the generous guest I am, had helped them gather an impressive library of ancient lore, scrolls filled with "lost" languages, and tomes of forbidden secrets. Now they are one of the great names people whisper about! Quirky as they may be nowadays. But they have gained an impressive title!
The Seer of Void, Speaker of Stars.
Ah! I seem to have been caught rambling! Hahaha! My apologies, I'll try to keep it to a minimum.
As I was saying, The Seer owes me a number of favors after I helped them. I used a few, but I still have plenty more, so why not splurge a bit for a nice day! So! After a pleasant chat, my dear speaker sets me up with a small ritual. Ten minutes later, a bit of warping of time and space, and Bob's your uncle, I'm in the Helmsley Walled Garden!
Have you ever been there? It's quite a beautiful place! Fresh spring air, lovely scenery, a welcoming staff, and the part that made it one of my favorites, their Vinehouse Café just a short walk away! Honestly, if one did not have the other, I wouldn't paid this place any mind. So! After giving some of the gobsmacked people around my arrival a cheeky little wave, I made my way down to the little Café where I ordered a cuppa Yorkshire Tea and a bit of nosh to go with it. All in all, I was having a lovely evening when a snowball smashed my cuppa while I was taking a sip, scattering it onto the pavement below, and I was suddenly in the midst of a snowstorm.
As you may imagine, I was not chuffed. In fact, I was bloody mad that my weather-controlling friend told me such rubbish that there was "nothing planned that month."
I, of course, wanted to pay them a surprise visit since they obviously didn't know I was around, considering they were faffing around with the local hero, Earl Gray, when I arrived in their laboratory.
Now my friend, who looked Dodgy, noticed that I was cheesed off, so they tried to give me an earful, but I could tell that they were, if you'd excuse my language, speaking out of their arse, and I was having none of it.
Quieting my gobby bloke, I released Earl Gray, sent them on their way, and had a nice chinwag with the weather for a few days about word choice and how the wrong words can get people you liked hurt.
Truly, we had such terrible weather.
But it's all better now! It has been perfect weather worldwide for weeks, and I don't see that going away anytime soon! Summer just started, it was pleasantly warm instead of the usual blistering heat, the birds were singing a wondrous song and children were laughing in the distance. This could honestly not be a more perfect day! It was so perfect that you can't help but sing!
"Now I'm walking on sunshine, whoa-oh! I'm walking on sunshine, whoa-oh! I'm walking on sunshine, whoa-oh! And don't it feel good! Hey, all right now! And don't it feel good! Hey, yeah!"
Ah, but what I could use is a bit of company, it would be a shame to spend a day like this without a chum around. But I wonder who I should be with. Should it be The Seer? No, no, I've already troubled them enough, besides, they're swamped with work from the beyond. How about The Knight, they are usually free for me. Oh, wait, they are getting married soon with The Sylph this month, making The Sylph equally occupied. Hm! Now this is a conundrum! Perhaps... Oh! Who's that I see? It couldn't be!
"Why, isn't it the Kingdom's favored hero, Earl Gray! What brings you to the States?" I jubilantly asked as I crossed the street to meet them. Earl Gray seems to be dressed down for the occasion, dressed as they were. A finely pressed outfit free of wrinkles, a fine brooch above their left breast, and even a splash of white over their usual shades of gray. The fact that they are not in their working uniform tells me everything I need to know. They are on vacation and decided to go across the pond, as it were, to have a little visit, like I did not so long ago!
"I came to speak to you. I'm doing a casual bit of investigation with my sightseeing, and I noted that you could be helpful." Me? Well then, I was looking for a friend to spend time with, and got an acquaintance, I may as well make the most of it! We found a little café that was owned by a friend of mine, The Maid, so we got cheaper prices, since The Maid and I are such good friends! And, for a few hours, me and my acquaintance spoke on various topics, all skirting around the main topic they truly wanted to talk about, till they finally caved and asked directly "What exactly happened to The Mage of Breath, Boffin of Weather? You were the last person seen with them, were you not?"
"Hm? Oh them! Ah, yes, I've completely forgotten! It seems our little chat had... inspired them to retire, surrendering that title in the process. All their assets were dispersed along with them, so you have no need to worry about where they are." I say as a chuckle slips out. "Ahem. However, I suppose what does concern you is the knowledge that the title of Mage is now open again. Who knows what damage will occur if a completely unknown person gets their hands on it. But don't you worry! I'll do a bit of investigation of my own to make sure this person doesn't make the same mistakes as their predecessor."
"After all," I utter, looking Earl Gray in the eyes, witnessing trepidation under the steel. "I am The Lord of Aspects, Maker of Contracts. It's my job, I can't have people with that kind of power changing the world too much."
You’re a supervillain, but something about your choice of victims puts you low on heroes’ priority lists.
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This morning, I woke up a little before my alarm and did a little bit of journaling since I don’t like going on electronics first thing in the morning. It was nice to get some thoughts out. I’m thinking that when my Google home arrives, I’ll set it up to play some easy, gentle music in the morning. I also need to get a blindfold or something for my morning meditation because I get distracted too easily when I open my eyes but I always forget to keep them closed.
I think I want to try putting boba into the Yorkshire tea. I mean, it’s just milk tea. They just call it tea here, of course, but for me it’s milk tea. Charlotte told me that there was a good Asian food shop in York that she and her friends go to sometimes.
I need to ask Shannon if he wants to visit for Christmas. Mom said that she’d pay for his ticket if he did since Dad wouldn’t be obligated to at that point. I hope that he does decide to come since we did have a lot of fun when all of us went to England together the last time.
So, I’ve started writing my thoughts on paper during the day so that I don’t get distracted while I’m trying to work. I think I might also start doing a handwriting journal since, honestly, my handwriting could be better.
I need to start working on my GCSE shit. That’s the English version of the SATs but I need to figure out how they work and how to study for them. I was hoping that i’d be able to find some kind of remote option for school since that’s what I’m used to, but all of the remote options don’t work for me. First off, they’re expensive as hell and second, they never have any art courses. It makes sense that you have to do art in-person but my last school experience was so miserable that I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it. I’ve really been spoiled lately with my online learning i’ve been doing for the past year. I wear what I want, eat what I want, work when I want, and I can wear my headphones so that I don’t experience any sensory overload. I can’t do pretty much any of that shit at Selby which is just fantastic. I mean, it’s not like I’ve ever failed a class due to my literal disability. Oh, wait. I have. Multiple times. Of course, when I expressed my concerns to Mom, she did the thing where it’s illegal for me to be upset. Honestly, why do I tell her anything anymore? She does this every time. If I went back through my journal and looked, I’d probably find a thousand times she’s done this. I seriously need to remember not to say anything negative around her ever. She’s the only one who is allowed emotions. Who cares that I had a meltdown earlier today because Athena and Eris wouldn’t stop fighting? It’s not like it’s a big deal or anything. I’m just an angsty teenage pessimist who doesn’t have any real problems.
This house is really cold, but nobody wants to turn the heat on because of how expensive electricity is right now because of the Russia/Ukraine war. I can’t even step into the kitchen barefoot or my feet will literally freeze. Trust me, I tried it yesterday. Worst mistake of my life.
I’m really, really excited to start working. I turned in my resume today at Gingers, but I don’t really think I’ll get the job. For one, I didn’t have a UK phone number so I put Tony’s on my CV. And, since Angela wasn’t there, I didn’t have the opportunity to tell her that it was Tony’s number. It seems unprofessional to have your parents number on your CV, is it not? But, anyway, when I get my new number I’m going to apply at the list of places Tony gave me. Luckily, everything in Howden closes by 3 anyways. I want to save up money so I can perm my hair nicely and also get my workout clothes and duffle bag for the gym. I also would like to get a Squarespace subscription so I can get myself a professional website to host my work. And buy a not-shitty printer.
I went to the park. It was nice, although I did get lost on the way. I also got lost when turning in my CV. It makes things harder that everyone drives like a psycho here. Literally insane.
The lock on the door is still fucked up so Tony called locksmith so come fix it. In the meantime, I wanted to go to the gym so Paul drove me. I would have taken the bus, but much like in Fort Collins, they stop running really early. Also, they’re really expensive and all owned by private companies that don’t communicate with eachother. Thing is, I didn’t realize I’d have to get an induction as I’d never heard of that before. We call them orientations in America, but I’d never heard of that either. In fact, it seems I’m the only one whose never heard of that because everyone else knew what was going on. Anyway, I’ve set it up for 10:00am Saturday.
The gym is near these flats which are apparently very dangerous according to Tony and Paul. They say they’ve had the most bodies they’re from drugs and people jumpin’ out of windows. I forgot that Paul was also in the medical field.
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Fistiana by YesIsAWorld | nr | 1975 They met in the center of the ring and bumped their bare knuckles together.
sneak out the back door, we don't have to say goodbye by alexenglish | E | 4240 Mineola didn’t keep secrets, didn’t have surprises. It was routine, and simple, and Shawn was used to it immediately. Until Niall Horan came home for a visit.
Something Good (And I Don't Just Mean Your Chips) by sunsetmog | T | 9910 Nick's uncle's will left his seaside cottage, his fishing boat, and all the contents of both to Nick. Coming off the back of months of very poor life choices, a brand new start in a Yorkshire seaside village seems the last remaining option for Nick, but he hadn't bargained on the guy in the chip shop sneaking his way into Nick's life with a bit of bread and butter and a chip shop special.
Lose Myself in Time by QuickedWeen | E | 14480 When Harry is sixteen years old he works as an intern at his favorite theater in the world nestled up in the mountains of rural Vermont. He takes one look at the older, more mature, Assistant Master Electrician Louis Tomlinson and falls in love. From afar. Ten years later a terrible storm hits the village, and the theater asks for any and all former staff members to pitch in for the clean up. Harry takes some time off work and returns to help, only to find himself in the presence of his old crush once again.
Treat Mothman With Kindness by flowercrownfemme | T | 16021 “Does anyone else ever think mothman is... Kinda hot?” “No?” Zayn squinted, frowning. “Louis? The fuck?” In which Louis, Liam, Niall and Zayn are amateur cryptozoologists and Harry is the creature they find in the woods of a small north-western town. ft. lots of glitter and shrieking and a whole shed full of lesbian cats.
darling, you give love a bad name by snowcaplou | M | 28955 “Harry,” Louis says again. He’s swallowing down tears that have already pooled in his irises-- he’s cried enough today. He needs to get this off of his chest, he needs Harry to know what’s going on. Harry nods, encouraging him to speak, but Louis is sure that he would not be so calm if he knew what was coming. Nothing could accurately prepare him, though, for what leaves Louis’ lips next. “I’m pregnant.” OR Louis' has been best friends with Gemma all his life in this stupid little town he's grown to hate. What happens when, after one night together with his best friend's brother, he falls pregnant? Surrounded by small minds and conservative cultures, Louis has to deal with parents that demand they do the "right" thing. Get married before anybody finds out.
That's What I'm Here For by taggiecb | E | 46838 Louis Tomlinson is a dairy farmer on a tiny farm in eastern Canada. His wife of nearly thirty years has left him and his children are all grown up and out of the house. Louis needs help running his business but has no idea where to even start looking. Luckily for him his children know just the man for the job.
Crawling on Your Shores by juliusschmidt | E | 66631 "You're a mechanic?" Liam nods. Harry gives him another long, appraising look. This time it lingers on his hands. "Your nails are clean." The tips of Liam's fingers tingle. "Got laid off a month ago." "Sorry to hear that." Harry smiles, soft and small. ~ Liam is searching for direction, purpose, connection, and, ultimately, himself. Harry is searching for aliens.
I'll Fly Away by juliusschmidt | E | 122542 Harry and Louis grew up together in Lake County, Harry with his mom and stepdad in a tiny cottage on Edward’s Lake and Louis in his family’s farmhouse a few minutes down the road. But after high school, Louis stuck around and Harry did not; Harry went to Chicago where he found a boyfriend and couple of college degrees. Six years later, Harry ends up back in Edwardsville for the summer and he and Louis fall into old patterns and discover new ones. ft. One Direction, the local boyband; Horan’s Bar and Grill; families, most especially children and babies; Officer Liam Payne; many local festivals and fireworks displays; and Anne Cox, PFLAG President.
#small towns#fistiana#sneak out the back door we don’t have to say goodbye#Something Good (And I Don’t Just Mean Your Chips)#Lose Myself in Time#Treat Mothman With Kindness#darling you give love a bad name#That’s What I’m Here For#Crawling on Your Shores#I’ll Fly Away#juliusschmidt#taggiecb#snowcaplou#flowercrownfemme#QuickedWeen#sunsetmog#alexenglish#yesisaworld
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✦ pumpkin pie - Edmund Pevensie x Reader
summary: MODERN!AU secondary school starts, and your life is completely different from the pevensies’...would it be possible for them to connect in some point?
warnings: none
word count: 2k
a/n: present / past
the rain was pouring outside of the apartment on a sunday afternoon. even from your bed you could hear the soft sound of the bonfire in the fireplace burning out and smell the scent of the coffee you did a few minutes ago.
being in college wasn't easy, not just because of all the work and study you had to do, but also because it meant being apart of your family for a lot of time. you were lucky though, edmund was by your side.
you met at secondary school and hate each other right away. he was this bad boy wannabe with the perfect life and you were the girl who always wore a smile on her face, even in the darkest times.
there’s a saying that the adviser and helpful friend was the most hurt one, and in this case it was true. an empty home and a cold meal waited for you every day after school; you were the few people in school who didn't live there, you weren't a pupil because of the fact that you lived only five minutes away from school, so no one walked you to your house or make you company for a few streets. sometimes you thank that, because you knew no one would appear at the door to welcome you home and it embarrassed you a little.
at the age of eleven, you already had a key to your front door and you knew how to make a meal from scratch, your mother said it would help you in the future, but sometimes you just wished to watch your mom make dinner and help her with it, like all the other kids. but you were mature enough to know that, since your dad left you, your mom had to work double shifts to pay food and expenses.
a thing you liked to do when you ate at the kitchen counter alone, was to close your eyes and imagine the pevensies sitting beside you. a large table and exquisite food in it, everyone laughing and having a good time.
being an only child wasn't easy, so when you watched the two brothers and sisters being so close you usually felt jealousy, you were so alone and so scared to admit it. you had friends who never came to your house nor knew your situation. one of your friends was susan pevensie, although she was older, you two had made an incredible bond when a school assembly took place and you two ended up sitting beside one another.
for someone would be weird to hear that you hated edmund pevensie when you held such an admiration for the closeness of the family. but there was an encounter once that made you burn that feeling in your skin.
it was in the first week of school, you were still a little girl and he hurted you some much and edmund didn't even know. you remembered that it was lunchtime and you sat beside the first person in sight, no one was friends with anyone yet. that morning your mom had put you into a taxi cab and sent you to secondary school like a package, she put the ingredients of a sandwich in a lunch box and you put it together on the way to school.
if you think very hard, you could still feel the embarrassment you felt when you took your badly done sandwich.
“who made that foulness?! does your mother doesn't cook for you?” edmund was still a kid when he said that, so he didn't know that not everyone had a mother who cooked fancy meals every day. he was still a kid to notice how much you started hating him after that. in fact it took years for him to find out your dislike. he realized one day you greet peter, susan and lucy but not him; edmund didn't think too much of it, a lot of people didn't find him dearing.
“christmas eve is in two weeks! this few months passed in a rush” one of your classmates said, she had always been fond of any holiday celebration.
“what are you guys going to do?” every girl at the table started talking, the only thing that you could hear over all of the crashing voices was that katie was planning on visiting her grandparents at yorkshire.
“and you, y/n? you didn't say anything” of course susan would notice, you slapped yourself in your thought; it would have been more simple to say some nonsense while everyone was speaking. now the attention was on you and you only had a few minutes to think of a movie scene you had watched, and make it yours. what did blair waldorf do for christmas eve in season three?
“I think my grandma it's coming..” lie, she was dead ��she makes this amazing ginger cookies every year” lie, she sucked at cooking while alive.
everyone seemed convinced, you weren't an open book so that simple false details of your life left them satisfied. but again, not everyone. susan pevensie had stopped you by the stairs and invited you to her home for christmas eve’s lunch. you accepted right away, saying that your grandma had texted you saying she wasn't coming; you knew she didn't believe but she left you alone, so it was enough.
when the day came around, you stood in front of a mirror. your sixteen year old self adorned by a delicate dress, nothing special just an a-line dark purple dress. you opened the clutch bag on your hand and counted the pounds inside, it was enough for the train you just had to resist the urge to buy a snack from the trolley.
the pevenises’s house was thirty minutes away from yours, so before you stood in front of the principal door, you had time to rehearse what you would say or how you would act. the idea that susan may have told her family about your solitary christmas situation, put you more nervous. you decided to push the thought away, but when you saw her mom open the door with such a pity face, you realized you were right. you knew that the woman didn't do it with any bad intentions but you felt bad when she grabbed the pumpkin pie you had made and watched you with even more sorrow.
nevertheless, the night was pretty good. better of what you had experienced if you had stayed and ate spaghetti freshly thawed.
“we are really glad you made it, y/n” peter said while he served more potatoes on his plate.
“I'm actually the delighted one, this food is really appetizing” lucy smiled beside you, proud that she had helped her mom do all the food.
“what would have eaten at home? I know you are a great cook!” your friend susan said “she makes the best cinnamon cookies ever!”
“emm...probably i would have made some pigs in blankets and some brussel sprouts for my mom” it was the first time you talked sincerely with someone about what happened inside of your home.
“is your mom not such a great cook as you?” mister pevensie asked.
“she doesn't have the time to, so... i learned how to do it and now I’m better than her” while his family laughed, edmund realized why you hate him so much. it was years ago, but still to that day he wondered why the pretty and nice girl was softhearted to everyone but him. now he knew, edmund had hurt her feelings in first year and it seemed that she didn't forget.
the classes returned to normal, after the holidays, he tried his best to like you. edmund had tried carrying your books, helping you with chemistry when you struggled and even checking that you are not forgetting anything in the classroom when you went home. you kindly rejected his offers; a part of you still had resentment but the other one told you it was stupid to keep umbrage to something that happedns years ago.
it wasn't still a friday afternoon, it was raining and you hadn't brought a coat to school. it was the only evening they had free, and edmund decided to ask if you wanted him to walk you home, even if it meant wasting his entire afternoon.
for the first time you accepted.
the first two streets were a complete silence. in the third you talked.
“i know i already thank your sister, but...i just...i had a great time at your house before the holidays, so thanks...again” the freckled boy giggled at your adorable shyness, making you smile. you always knew he was a handsome young man, but..since when the school blue hat suited him so well?
that phrase started what would be a nonstoping conversation until you reached your house. turns out edmund liked your pumpkin pie a lot, and he wanted to ask you if you would do some for him but he didn have the courage; you told him he didn't have to be shy around you, but you were around him. your house wasn't as big as the pevensie’s, but it was big enough for three two people.
“thank you for coming with me, I know this cost you your free afternoon” no one was home, as always, so you had no rush for coming inside but you supposed that he wanted to go back already.
“it’s the least I can do after what I did…” you were facing each other, for the first time ever.
“we were children, edmund” you tried to pretend you didn't care.
“i didn't knew anything about you, that was why-”
“you don't have to pity me” you interrupted him, that's why anyone knew about your mom, because the first thing people did when they found out was to pity.
“I'm not, I'm admiring you” it was true, he thought he couldn't survive in your place; a scramble egg was science for him, imagine making a whole meal. you smiled at him while he did the same.
“goodbye, edmund pevensie” as you walked to your porch you heard him go:
“goodbye, y/n y/l”
the entire weekend your head concocted thousands of ideas of how to talk to him again, what would you be your excuse? after hours of thinking you got the perfect plan.
monday morning you entered the school gate with a little paper bag in your hands. you would be lying if you said that your hands didn't start shaking slightly, when you saw him go down the stairs with a sleepy face. he saw you immediately as your gaze was in the thing you were holding.
“hey edmund” he stepped in front of you, ready to go to the canteen and grab breakfast.
“hello, y/n” kids passed beside you, but neither of you were popular enough to catch the attention.
“I...emm, I cooked some pumpkin pie and… I did too much so I decided to bring you some” lie, you did it just for him, you just ate a bite to taste it. he grabbed the package from your hands with a smile.
“would you eat it with me?”
“hey honey!” edmund’s head appeared at your bedroom’s door “is there any pumpkin pie in the fridge?”
“ed, you are going to get sick of it if you keep eating it like a maniac” you left the book, that was in your hands, at your bedside table as you saw him get inside the room and head to you. he laid down gently on you, giving you a kiss.
“I won’t, I promise” his smell always gets to you, how he smelled so good all the time. you shared an apartment near your collage, and one of its good things was the scent that came out of the bathroom every time he showered.
“you have been eating the same dessert since we were sixteen, and now we are twenty-one, how did you not get tired of it?” that day had been a long one, full of study and stress. so when the night came and the rain started, the first thing you did was to make a nice dinner for you two. he was finishing his coffee and started starving pumpkin pie.
“that pie started everything between us, I can't get tired of it” he kissed your lips and you let his tongue go into your mouth. how was it possible that you ever hated him?
#edmund pevensie#edmund pevensie x reader#edmund pevensie fanfic#edmund pevensie x y/n#fanfic#fanfiction#one shots#y/n#the cronicles of narnia#prince caspian#modern!au#pevensiees
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Questionable Legality
"Nice flower."
The young man turned his head slightly at the nigh-Cockney voice, just enough to catch a glimpse of the speaker past his glasses arm. A man, bald and powerfully built, scowled at the railing next to him.
"Funny colour," added this man, giving it a second side-eye.
It didn't take much psychological deduction for the younger man to guess from his look, manner, and ignorance of flower pigmentation that he had no secret infatuation with gardening. The mental tendencies there, he thought, are likely toward violence more than violets.
"Thank you," said the young man coldly, still looking toward the sea view before him. "It's a rare genus. But the arrangements we're here to discuss aren't of the floral type, are they?"
"Depends. Are you Doctor Crane?"
"I am. And you are?"
"Here to bring you to the man you wanted to meet." When Crane turned and met his eyes for the first time, the bald man jerked his head behind him. "Follow me."
Without waiting for an answer, he spun on his heel and stalked off, knocking into one offended sightseer as he went. Not wasting any time, Crane thought colourlessly. Neither did he waste time in stealing after his guide.
They went down the deck until they took a corner and came to an abrupt stairwell, which they also took. Once below deck on the little pleasure boat, they walked the dim, though not dark, hallways in silence. No faces peeked out from the closed doors. They were away from the eyes and ears of tourists here. Away from eavesdroppers. Away from witnesses. If I were a man of lesser mind, I might tend toward fear, he self-observed. But such arrangements are to be expected.
The bald man came to a stop before one door with a tiny porthole in it. To keep an eye on the meeting from the outside, most likely. But before Crane could reach for the handle, the other pressed something small and hard to his side. "That's far enough, mate."
Crane glanced down. It appeared to be a handgun, small enough to have been hidden in his pocket. It urged him back into the hallway, step by step. Then he was grabbed roughly, and the man started by patting down his arms.
Ah. Thinks I would be foolish enough to carry my own firearm into this meeting. A usual precaution.
Once the man had frisked him, he looked him over once more and stepped toward the door. He turned the handle and opened it halfway, allowing him a clear path. Crane nodded once and entered. The door clicked shut behind him.
This room, at least, had some natural light, coming from a larger porthole, big enough for him to fit through. By this light he easily saw his contact. That man smiled.
"Ah, Doctor Crane!" he beamed in a slight Yorkshire accent.
"Mr. Carleton."
"Well, don't just stand at the door. Come in, take a seat." And he gestured over to the chair opposite him at the small table.
"If you insist." A little terse, perhaps, but Crane was unfazed by the friendly gesture—he'd encountered geniality tactics before in men like Falcone. Even so, he crossed to take the chair.
"I hope my, uh, associate wasn't too rough with you, doctor?" Carleton asked as Crane came across.
"Not at all. I've received worse treatment."
"Just a formality, you understand."
"Of course." And he sat down.
Wallis Carleton. He was taller than his bald friend, and had more hair, which was roughly blond. While the other had been criminally built from the first glance, this man had a more imposing presence, despite (or perhaps because of) his easy pleasantness. Crane had seen, if not quite the same, at least similar men. He was not taken off guard for a moment.
Carleton leaned back in his seat and smiled again. "So, Doctor Crane, enjoying Ireland?"
This annoyed Crane. He let out a breath and some fluttering blinks. "I take occasional trips to visit relatives here, and I used that as an excuse to leave Gotham to make this meeting, so if you please, I would like to get started."
Carleton lifted his eyebrows and nodded. "Man of business, I see."
Crane couldn't help but respond with a little cold pride. "I'm a man of the mind, Mr. Carleton. Distractions detract from the power of the mind, so I prefer to be straightforward in important business." He turned and narrowed his eyes slightly as he nodded. "You understand."
Carleton seemed to only be surprised for a second before nodding again. "Yes, I understand that. I know what man you are."
Carleton leaned forward and folded his hands. He paused a moment before continuing. "I like people with strange stories. Almost as much as I like a good profit. So when Doctor Jonathon Crane, an up-and-coming Gotham psychologist with his own asylum in the works, comes to a man like me, asking if I could arrange a retrieval, telling no details 'til now, in person, well..." He looked up with half a grin. "It makes me curious."
When Crane made no reply, Carleton gestured to him with both hands. "So tell me: what sort of a retrieval do you need? What's your story?"
Crane opened his mouth, and a second later, began with a question and ended with his pale eyes on the professional.
"Have you heard of the League of Shadows?"
Carleton's brow darkened. "Vaguely. I've heard whispers about them here and there—my friend out there even worked for them once, on a lower level."
"How much do you know about them?"
"Only that they're dangerous. Some say they're just a cult, but from what I understand or have heard from associates, even the more powerful amongst the criminal class are afraid of them."
"That's knowledge enough for the moment."
"You're one of them?"
"I'm involved with them. They've engaged me in a certain project which I'm not at liberty to discuss."
Carleton scoffed. "I can imagine so."
"The leader of the League of Shadows has sent me a shipment for use in our project. Something for me to tinker with, so to speak. However, yesterday morning, off the west coast of Africa, the cargo ship on which the shipment was being smuggled was hijacked."
"Mm, the powerful have powerful enemies, yes?"
"Not these. These were marked pirates, low-level sea scum. It's almost certain they had no idea what was on the ship."
Carleton leaned back. "So, you want me to take back the boat?"
"That won't be necessary. The shipment is a single crate," and he took out a small square of paper and handed it to Carleton, "marked with this symbol." As the other looked it over, Crane continued. "All that will be required is that you and your men get on the ship, retrieve the crate, and get out without rousing suspicion."
Silence fell as the story ended. Carleton seemed to consider it, as well as the paper in his hand, deeply, with only a "Hmm" to go with it. After a moment, he smiled at it, and set it down on the table.
"Well, I do like it to be interesting. But why didn't you go to the crime lords of your own city? I know Gotham, you've got more than enough of the... less than legal types there."
"At these early stages, I can't afford to be indebted to the wrong people. When these shipments begin to come in bulk, then we may involve Gothamites like Falcone. But only then. For now, I thought a freelancer like yourself would be preferable."
"Glad you did." After a pause, he sighed and continued, in a more practical tone, "Well, shall we talk price, then?"
"Thirty thousand."
Carleton made a slight face, tsked, and said, "Ooh, I don't know if that'll work out."
The still-pleasantness in the tone only added to the difficulty, and it grated on Crane. With the most reined-in exasperation, he replied, "What price did you have in mind?"
"Fifty."
"Thirty-five."
"Forty-five."
"Thirty-five is the highest number I can name."
He smiled again. "Well, that's a problem, then, isn't it? You see, expenses aside, this job's going to be dangerous." He nodded towards the door. "I might lose one of my men. That's a precious compensation for anyone to need." He tilted his head up. "Fifty."
Crane pointed his chin slightly. "Thirty-five is the highest number I can name," he repeated mechanically.
There was a moment of edged silence as the two men stared each other down. No American cowboys in any Western could have done it better. At last, Carleton side-nodded, with the appearance of giving in (yet, Crane could tell, only appearance).
"As you wish," he half-smiled, chuckling lightly. "I care not, as they used to say." He shrugged. "Suppose you don't really need that shipment."
"I cannot raise the amount, Mr. Carleton."
"Suppose you don't need that good name of yours, either," he added, ignoring the interjection, "put in the papers and the daily newscast." His expression did not change, but his eyes noticeably hardened. "You don't need the world to know that Jonathon Crane, respected Gotham psychologist, is smuggling in unknown substances or items from a dangerous cult."
"Neither does it need to know that Ian Howe," (the man froze at the name), "respected British entrepreneur, is known amongst lowlifes as heist-for-hire Wallis Carleton and indulges in operations of... shall we say, questionable legality?" Crane took off his glasses. When he looked up, his eyes narrowed, and he almost smiled as he leaned forward. "You see, when I enter into such negotiations, I like to do my research well."
"Well, you've done it a deal too well," Carleton (or Howe) replied, shaking his head very slowly, and pulling out a pistol from underneath the table. This he pointed between Crane's eyes.
Crane said nothing, but his near-smile disappeared.
"Now, we can do business without telling each other's secrets," Howe continued, the pistol-arm like a deadly statue, "and go our merry ways. But you threaten me—here, out on the water, far from your Shadowed associates, outgunned and outnumbered—you're asking to become an unsolved case."
"What makes you believe you can cover your tracks?" Crane asked, slowly, softly, and steadily.
"What makes you think we haven't had to before?" His voice dropped. "You've talked to no one on this boat. The captain is an acquaintance of mine. I could shoot you right here, and no one would see your body thrown out that window." Howe leaned forward. "Do you want to rethink that threat?"
Crane was motionless, his eyes still half-lidded. Despite the gun-barrel aimed at his head, he showed no signs of terror. He didn't even look worried. There was a long moment of inscrutable silence before he spoke up again at last, in a calm, cold voice.
"This flower," he said, glancing down at the blue in his buttonhole, "really is a good signifier for meetings. It's very rare. Not many are likely to have such a flower lying around. That's why I chose it as the signal to your man of who I was." He reached up with his left hand to pluck it, but the stone gun-hand twitched at the motion. "Oh, you have no need to worry. It conceals no guns, knives, or explosives, such as you or your associate might carry."
Howe nodded with the gun barrel, a gesture of permission. Crane took it and fingered it in front of him. "I first found the flower through an ex-associate of mine, a Miss Isley. She had interest in it as a rare plant, but had little curiosity about its... unusual properties."
"What properties?"
"But she was aware of them, of course," he went on, ignoring the question, "and so shared her research with me. When I asked to perform my own tests on the plants, however, her reaction was..." He considered his words carefully as he recalled the furious event. "...violent. She always did have a curious complex." I'll have to have her committed once Arkham is ready, he made a mental note to himself, so I can study it further.
"However," he continued, "I persuaded her to put me in touch with her supplier. Thus, I came in contact with the League of Shadows."
Howe seemed to be putting the pieces together. "So this shipment of yours is just... flowers, then? The League of Shadows is sending you flowers to tinker with? Why? What do they do?"
Crane nearly smiled again, tapping the flower's stem on the table. "As I said, this particular genus has very unique properties, most notably its effect on the mind. And while I've not perfected my compound, I have utilized these properties to create for the flower a rudimentary weaponized form."
Howe sat a little straighter. Good. He gets the idea. Crane paused before going on.
"You see, I have no necessity for such weapons as handguns. If need for defense arises, I can use what I have made. I call it a fear toxin."
Howe stared a moment, then shook his head, smiling (though not, Crane thought, without the slightest hint of nervousness). "Science doesn't frighten me. What makes you think your little toxin will have any effect on me?"
Ah, a bluff of confidence. Crane could not help a condescending smirk this time. "You have guns, you and your friend. You're powerfully built, far more so than am I. You could, no doubt, kill me quickly in a hand-to-hand fight." He held up the blue flower. "But if I release this toxin into the air, make no mistake, you will go to the floor screaming within your first breath. I have observed such effects, and worse, in far stronger men than even you."
Once more, there was a heavy stillness as two minds met and struggled while their bodies were frozen, watching for the first move, itching to make it. At last, though, Ian Howe eased back with a chuckle, genuine this time.
"Impressive." He smiled and set the gun down on his side of the table. "Very impressive, doctor. Even if you are bluffing. But I somehow doubt that." He sighed sharply. "Yes, I think we will do business together."
Crane remained still, scrutinizing the other. Howe laughed.
"I won't shoot you, Crane. You only want your flowers, I only want my pay. I see no reason we shouldn't cooperate. That way, we both get what we want."
"Do you accept the payment of thirty-five thousand?"
"Hm..." Howe glanced down, pondering, then shrugged. "Do you know, I think I do."
"Excellent," he replied leadenly.
Howe scoffed, smiling. "Not many people can talk down my price. I want my pay, right enough. But as I said, I like it to be interesting. And you've exceeded in that."
"We have an agreement?"
"That we have." He held out a hand, and once Crane had replaced the blue flower in his buttonhole, he returned the handshake.
The two made a few other arrangements—the tracked coordinates of the ship, delivery of the crate once procured, the place and time, so forth—before their meeting had concluded. Then, Jonathon Crane rose from his seat.
"If our business is concluded, Mr. Howe, I'll be on my way."
"Oh, here," he replied, also getting up, "I'll walk you to the door."
They came to the door of the little room (which was significantly greyer in light), and Howe knocked on it three quick times. The door opened, and they stepped out.
"I look forward to doing business with you, Crane."
"Not at all, Mr. Carleton. And now, if you'll excuse me, I believe we will soon be arriving."
Howe looked at the bald man and jerked his head toward Crane. "Go with him, see he doesn't get lost."
"I believe I can find my own way. Good evening, gentlemen." And Crane started off down the hall without waiting for an answer.
The bald man watched as he went. "Should I tail him?"
"No, Shaw, I don't think that'll be necessary."
"Not dangerous, you think?"
"Oh, he's certainly dangerous. But he doesn't want any trouble in this business. Neither do I. We deliver, he'll do the same."
"What price?"
"Not quite enough, but we can steal a few other things to sell while we're in there. I'll fill you in on the details. Come on."
Howe started for the door again, but stopped when he found his friend had not moved, and was in fact still staring after their client. "What is it?"
Shaw shook his head. "I don't like him, Ian. He's too calm. At least criminals have the worst of humanity. Not him. He's clinical. Acts like they left some things out when they made him."
"Yeah, I wouldn't doubt it, and several," said Ian Howe, thinking over the man as he watched him disappear around the corner. "In fact, I'll give you one of them now: that one's got no fear."
---
Author's Notes:
This was written as a birthday present for my sister, Abi, who within the past few months became that mysterious and slightly troubling creature called a teenager. She loves Sean Bean and National Treasure (and Lord of the Rings most of all). And she's recently gotten really into the Christopher Nolan Batman and Scarecrow and Cillian Murphy most of all. So when this crossover had its inception, I knew I had to write it up for her birthday!
I mean, come on, it's two of her favourite actors, two of her favourite characters, and two of her favourite movies (three if you count the Boromir reference), all rolled up into one. I couldn't NOT write it.
I would have posted it sooner, but I guess I just left it in the drafts so long I forgot about it. However, since today is smack dab in the middle between the day Jonathon Crane was canonically born and the day National Treasure was released, I figured now would be a good time to finally post it!
Well, I hope y'all enjoyed this... rather unexpected crossover, and again, though it's been months, happy birthday, Abi!
#writing#fanfiction#my fanfiction#the dark knight#christopher nolan batman#national treasure#crossover#Ian Howe#jonathon crane#I really hope nobody reads these tags first#because spoilers#salt and light
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do you have any fics of john flirting with sherlock over text? maybe sherlock being utterly clueless? thank you & and much luv ❤️
Hi Nonny!!!
Ahhhhhhhhhh AGES ago, I did an Epistolary / Texting / Letters fic rec list, back before I had A System™, so it’s a bit messy but it is there :) I don’t have a lot of new ones to add to it, BUT I decided I would pull all the Texting fics from that list since I now have neater organization with tags and Chapters, and then just add my NEW fics onto that one, how about that? Would that be okay? It wouldn’t be specifically just flirting, but I think that the list is long overdue anyway!! Hope you like something on this one, and I’ll TRY to tag the flirting fics WITH flirting so that you can pick them out :)
And as always, add your own fics, Lovelies!! <3
TEXTING AND SEXTING (JULY 2020)
See also:
Epistolary / Texting / Letters (My List, 2017)
First Meeting Via Internet / Phone / Letters (Mine)
Phone Sex & Texting (Alexx’s List)
Wrong Number Texting (Alexx’s List)
They Met Online or Texting (Alexx’s List)
Message Not Sent by Queerasil (K, 762 w., 1 Ch. || Angst, One-Sided Texting, Pining Sherlock) - Sherlock texts John after the fall and during the hiatus. The messages are sent, but never received. Sequel to WORDLOCKED, TSTM, and Wait, How Do You Play This Game Again?
Texts and Tea by JillianWatson1058 (K, 959 w., 1 Ch. || Friendship, Texting, Humour, Fluff, POV John, Cranky John) – A John who is woken up at 2:30 in the morning is not a happy John. Sherlock, frankly, doesn’t care. He just wants his tea.
Untouchable by greengrapegaze (T, 1,368 w., 1 Ch. || Pre-S3, UST/URT, Oblivious John, Lonely Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt / Comfort, Emotional Sherlock, POV Sherlock, Pining Sherlock) – “He never would. Petty, childish, immature-bitter. Jealous. She had all that he wanted. All he could never have.” Part 1 of Steps to a Bittersweet Symphony
Yorkshire Gold by Tammany Tiger (K, 1,467 w., 1 Ch. || Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Angst, Holmes Brothers, Open Ending, Grief, Implied Bondlock) – Mycroft may not mourn Sherlock's death-but even if he knows his brother lives, he's not without his own grief. It ain't easy being The British Government. But at least he's got good help. Set between the Fall and the Return.
Text Me When It's Over by immaculately-flawed (K+, 1,937 w., 1 Ch. || Friendship, Humour, Post-TRF, Texting, Sort-Of Pining Sherlock) – After the fall Sherlock starts writing texts to John. Of course, he never sends them... Until he does by accident. Post Reichenbach fic but not angsty.
Denial Isn’t Just a River in Egypt by satanatemycat (T, 2,107 w., 1 Ch. || Humour, Friendship, Texting, Bored/Cranky Sherlock) – In which John makes a bet with a co-worker. If he wins, she shuts up about him and Sherlock being a couple. If he loses… well, that doesn’t matter, because he won’t lose. Because he and Sherlock ARE NOT a couple. Right?
The Art Of Communication by StillWaters1 (T, 2,679 w., 1 Ch. || Friendship, H/C) – Lestrade was used to getting odd, non sequitur texts from Sherlock. But when "John went out for milk" was followed by a terse "two hours ago," Lestrade immediately understood three things: John was missing, Sherlock was quietly panicking, and this could all end very, very badly.
Unquantifiable by 221b_hound (M, 2,799 w. 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., Grumpy John, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Pet Names, Texting, Sweet Sherlock, Princess Bride References) – John remains a terrible and foul-tempered patient, but he does try to make up for it with pet names and text message silliness. In the meantime, Sally Donovan visits Baker Street for a hint about the Milverton case, and has to deal with a Sherlock Holmes who can't find words big enough to thank her for saving John's life at the warehouse. For afters, there's a viewing of The Princess Bride. Part 33 of the Unkissed series
The Sweetest Taste In The World by crossroads (G, 3,121 w., 1 Ch. || First Kiss, Jealous Sherlock, Fluff, Pining, Friends to Lovers) – The sweetest taste in the world is rarely ever the easiest to come by.
Entanglement by orphan_account (G, 3,218 w., 1 Ch. || Confessions, Physics, Metaphors, Texting, Pining, Christmas, Mind Palace, Sick Fic, Fluff, Humour, Praise Kink) - On Christmas Eve, snow covers London, John visits Harry, and Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson untangle some knots.
Come home. by hudders-and-hiddles (huddersandhiddles) (E, 3,763 w., 1 Ch. || Texting / Sexting, Lonely Sherlock, Nude Photos, Pining, Fluff & Smut) – When John leaves for a medical conference, Sherlock tries to entice him back home.
Happy anniversary by Salambo06 (E, 3,772 w., 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., Vulnerable Sherlock, Wedding Anniversary, Anal, Texting, Lingerie) – John inhaled deeply, feeling his cock pulse under the silk gown, and he let his eyes travel on the lean body in front of him. Sherlock was kneeling on the bed, their bed, and the picture had been taken so John could perfectly see his bare chest and pelvis. But what mattered most, what made John harden rather quickly, was the pair of panties Sherlock was wearing in the picture. Black, string over each hip and laces that outlined Sherlock’s erect cock barely hidden under the soft underwear.
Lingerie by Sexxica (E, 4,135 w., 1 Ch. || Valentine’s Day, Lingerie / Women’s Underwear, Mildly Public Masturbation, Picture Texting / Sexting, Bottomlock, Body Worship, Anal Sex / Fingering, Rimming, Orgasm Delay / Denial, Est. Rel.) – It's Valentines Day and Sherlock is taking John to Angelo's for dinner. Sherlock also happens to be wearing a garter belt, stockings and a rather small pair of women's underwear under his clothes. There's no dessert at Angelo's because John needs to get Sherlock home just as quickly as he can before they both lose their minds entirely.
If He Knows by shamelessmash (M, 4,513 w., 1 Ch. || TSo3 Fic, Pining Sherlock, Bed Sharing, Angst, First Person Sherlock POV, Texting, Internal Monologue, Blanket Forts) – I imagine mornings: John handing me a cup of tea, hair sticking out at odd angles. How he would bend down to kiss me, smiling fondly as he pulls away. The way his skin crinkles at the corner of his eyes, the way his skin looks in the morning light. The soft sigh as he sits in his chair with the morning paper, the way his toes curl in the carpet, the way he rolls his shoulders before sinking deeper into his seat. I watch him, how he is when he is content, as it should be. As he deserves. Happy. With me.
Tease You Till You Come by phoenix089 (E, 6,090 w., 1 Ch. || First Time, Clueless Sherlock, Sexting/Texting) – Initially, Sherlock was rather put out by John's lack of presence on the case. But then he starts to receive pictures, several of them, of an unexpected nature. The case is forgotten rather quickly after that.
What Did I Do Wrong? by Starlight05 (T, 7,880 w., 5 Ch. || Hurt Comfort, Angst, John Whump, Hospitalization, Worried Sherlock, Emotional Turmoil, Nightmares, Sherlock Being Dumb) - After John almost dies on a case, Sherlock disappears. So John is left to figure out what he can do to get his best friend back. Meanwhile Sherlock, guilt-ridden and willingly alone, is doing everything he can to stay away.
Bread and Wine and Curry Once a Week by cwb (E, 8,737 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Stroppy Sherlock, Love Letters, POV John) – Sherlock asks John for relationship advice. Little does he know that it’s him that Sherlock is in love with.
A Building of Bridges by Unique (K, 12,325 w., 3 Ch. || Drama, Alternate First Meeting, John’s PTSD / Flashbacks, Mute John, Dialogue-Heavy, Caring Sherlock, Friendship) – No one would ever send Sherlock in to diffuse a stand-off; but on one unlikely day, that's exactly what happened. "Congratulations, Lestrade," he called out sarcastically. "You're traumatizing a war veteran."
A Brand of Gold by aquabelacqua (M, 12,757 w., 1 Ch. || Mutual Pining, POV John, Phone Sex, Texting, Masturbation, Long Distance, Drunk Texting) – What am I doing? he wondered. The answer came back at once: Flirting. He let the vital, missing piece snap into place as surely and as cleanly as if it had always been there. He was flirting with Sherlock Holmes.
Traitor's Gate by roane (E, 17,714 w., 6 Ch. || Post-TRF, Case Fic, Mystery, Bets and Wagers, Undercover for a Case, BAMF John, Scientist Sherlock, Teasing, Established Relationship, Military Base, Sexting/Texting, Military/Uniform Kink, Frottage, Dirty Sex, Anal, Bottomlock) – John and Sherlock go undercover at a top secret government lab to find out who is selling research. John is back in uniform and Sherlock is back in a laboratory, but they have to pose as strangers. Sherlock thinks he'll have an easy time of it, but John has his doubts. It's up to them to find out who is responsible for putting a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands, and try to keep their hands off each other at the same time.
The Real Meaning of Idioms by feverishsea (T, 21,691 w., 13 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Texting, Humour, Post-TRF, Awkward Romance, Idiots in Love) - After two weeks away, John finally texts Sherlock. He doesn’t expect Sherlock to respond. He doesn’t expect Sherlock to keep texting him. And he really doesn’t expect things to spiral out of control so rapidly.
A Study In Auto-Signatures, Sniper Dolphins, and Sex Holidays by cwb (E, 32,689 w., 8 Ch. || Case Fic, Post S3, Evil Mary, Dev. Rel., Beach Holidays, Confused Sherlock, Friends to Lovers, Honeymoon, Epistolary, Bottomlock, First Kiss / Time, Fluff, Secret Agents, BAMF!John) – John and Mary go on their sex holiday, and Sherlock is grumpy and pining about it. Part 1 of HOT DOLPHIN SEX
A Week is Just Seven Days Isn't It? by scifigrl47 (T, 39,906 w., 4 Ch. || Humour, Friendship/Bromance, Stroppy/Bored Sherlock, Undercover/Army John, Texting, Pining-ish Sherlock, John Whump) – When John heads overseas for a week, Sherlock's forced to fend for himself. It goes about as well as anyone could have anticipated. Which is to say, very, very poorly. Don't worry, things'll be fine in just seven days.
Definitions by siennna (T, 101,528 w., 12 of ? Ch. || Dev. Rel., Pining, Fluff and Romance, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Fluff, Cuddles) – Sherlock’s journey in defining his flat mate and stumbling through the muddled world of emotion. {{This feels complete; the chapter count is listed as ? but I feel like it is done}}
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Interview
Olly Alexander on success, sanity and It's a Sin: 'All those hot guys. I loved it!'
Simon Hattenstone
The Years & Years frontman is starring in Russell T Davies’ new drama about the Aids crisis. He talks about bulimia, his ‘dark’ clubbing days – and how he learned to enjoy filming sex scenes
Mon 11 Jan 2021 06.00 GMT
Olly Alexander was so certain he was destined for success that he saw a therapist to help him prepare for his future fame. It was 2014 and his band Years & Years had just signed to Polydor when he visited the shrink.
“I said: ‘The album’s coming out and I really want it to be successful,’ and he said: ‘What happens if it isn’t?’ I said: ‘Well, that’s not an option because I have planned it in my diary since I was a teenager.’”
That diary was less about chronicling the present than a series of promises he made to himself. “I planned my life till I was 25. I would be a famous musician ’cos musicians were the coolest people in the world. The biggest thing in the list was buying my mum a house, and I did that. That was the coolest thing to be able to do with my money.” He smiles. “That was the coolest thing ever.”
Now Alexander might well benefit from another visit to the shrink because he’s about to become a lot more famous. He stars in It’s a Sin, the brilliant new TV drama by Russell T Davies, about a group of young gay men living and dying through the Aids epidemic in the 1980s. The five-part series is funny, vibrant, sexy and heartbreaking.
This is by no means the first time Alexander has acted – he has appeared in the TV series Skins, films such as Bright Star (about Keats), Gulliver’s Travels and Great Expectations, and on stage in the West End alongside Judi Dench and Ben Whishaw in Peter and Alice; a pretty impressive CV. But with It’s a Sin, he knows he has struck gold. “Some actors would wait their entire careers and not get such a good role,” Alexander says, and he’s right. Davies has made a habit of creating groundbreaking TV series (Queer As Folk, Bob and Rose, Torchwood), and this is his best yet.
Alexander’s character, Ritchie Tozer, is an aspiring actor/singer who has just moved to London from the Isle of Wight in search of fame, fortune and a good shagging. He embraces his new freedoms with promiscuous abandon, while also struggling with his sexuality. Ritchie is equally cocky and vulnerable, lovable and insufferable.
Although It’s a Sin takes place in a time before Alexander was born, he says there are so many ways he relates to Ritchie’s life. There is one crucial difference – whereas Ritchie is secretive, Alexander is an open book. If there’s anything to tell you, he’ll tell you, even if he is embarrassed a second later about his indiscretions. It’s an endearing quality, and one that makes him great company.
We meet in his agent’s east London office in December, when Tier 4 restrictions are yet to kick in. Alexander is a boyish 30 – half punk, half catwalk model, with orange hair, earrings, multiple rings, stylish khaki trousers and a handful of inky tattoos. He is garrulous and giggly with a huge toothy grin.
Like Ritchie, Alexander was a stranger to city life when he came to London. He was born in North Yorkshire, went to primary school in Blackpool and Gloucestershire, and a comprehensive in Monmouth, south Wales. He was a natural performer who wrote his first song at the age of 10. “I performed it in my year six assembly.” Can he remember it? He squirms. “Yeah!” Let’s hear it then? “No!” Oh go on! “OK, OK. ‘The leaves are falling outside my window. I’m lay here all alone,” he sings quietly, in that delicate falsetto. He giggles, blushes and continues. “And now I’m a knowin’, the way it’s goin’, we won’t last for ever, for ever my love.’”
Wow, those lyrics are pretty sophisticated – and melancholy. He giggles again. “Oh thanks. It’s about unrequited love. Doomed love. I was getting in early on my themes. I had a bit of help from my dad.” He wrote it after experiencing his first pangs – for a boy in his class.
At secondary school Alexander was a victim of homophobic bullying. He responded with elan. “I would still come to non-uniform day in eyeliner.” Did he fight back? “Sometimes I would scream. I was not a good fighter. We did rugby a lot at my school – a Welsh school. The one time I scored a try, on the way back to the changing room the two popular boys from the year put their arms around me and said: ‘Well done, Olly,” and I was like: ‘I can’t believe it, this is it!’” He pauses long enough for me to get a glowing feeling. “Then they tripped me up and pushed my face into the mud. That was hard to live down.” After that he never went to another games lesson.
When he was 13, his parents separated, and from then he was brought up by his mother, events organiser Vicki Thornton (his real surname – Alexander is his middle name). His father had been a talented but disappointed singer-songwriter who made a living marketing theme parks. Although he gave young Olly a lifelong passion for adventure rides, there were tensions between the two of them. After his parents split up, he broke off contact with his father. When Alexander became successful, his father tried to rekindle their relationship via Twitter. Alexander wasn’t impressed.
With the sod-you eyeliner and supreme belief that he would make it, he sounds incredibly robust. So what else was in that teenage diary? “Pppprrrr.” He blows his lips as if feeling a sudden chill. “It’s a bit dark. I used to write that I really wanted to be skinny.” He exhales deeply. “My mantra was always: I’m not going to eat this again, I’m not going to eat cake again. I’m never going to eat pasta.” He was barely into his teens when he became bulimic and started to list the things he wouldn’t eat. Actually, he says it was worse than that. “I was writing down: don’t eat, don’t eat, don’t eat. Did he have a weight problem? “I was a little chubby at primary school, but no.” What does he think it came from? “It was something I could control. I felt very out of control in the rest of my life. I was struggling with my sexuality, my parents were divorcing, and I wanted to punish myself.”
I want to give him a hug, but I’m not sure he would appreciate it, particularly in the pandemic. Why did he want to punish himself? “It was self-loathing. I didn’t want to be gay. I was convinced I was the reason my parents were splitting up.” He never considered that their divorce may have had nothing to do with him.
He started to cut himself, too. Has he still got the scars? He points to his upper arms and thighs, “because people can’t see there. I was deeply ashamed of doing it. I wanted to hide it.” Are there many scars? “No. A friend saw a plaster on my arm and jokingly asked if I’d been cutting myself. After that, I was so embarrassed that I mostly stopped doing it. Bulimia carried on well into my 2os, but it became less and less frequent. It’s really hard to hold down any kind of job if you’re throwing up food all the time, and ultimately you have to choose.” It becomes a full-time occupation? “Yes, it’s all you think about. And you’re doing so much damage to your organs. I got taken into hospital once with my mum because I had this irregular heartbeat, which can happen through constant purging, and that really scared me. I thought I’d done something irreparable to my body, and my mum was so distraught. She couldn’t understand why her son was throwing up all the food she was trying to give him. She found out because I hadn’t cleaned the toilet properly.”
After studying performing arts at Hereford College of Arts, he moved to London and was liberated. He had a heady time of it – more drugs, clubbing and sex than even he had hoped for, while also getting regular work as an actor. But there was a downside. He saw friends struggle, sacrifice themselves to excess, fall by the wayside. “Everything was about going out and connecting with people at the clubs. I had a great time, but it was also a dark time. A lot of people took too many drugs. A few friends attempted to take their lives and one succeeded. That was devastating. You can see how easy it is for a party lifestyle to turn into something negative.”
Alexander has a strong survival instinct. There was his destiny to fulfil, the house to buy for his mother. He still struggled with his mental health, so he cut down on the destructive stuff. Today, he says, his main drug of choice is the antidepressant sertraline. “I was worried about longterm use, and the doctor said: ‘Well, the latest research shows it can promote neurogenesis, and I was like that’s the coolest thing ever.” Neurogenesis is the process by which new neurons are formed in the brain. “She was basically saying antidepressants are giving you superpowers, and I was like: ‘Amazing, I’ll keep taking them for ever.’” He starts giggling, and he can’t stop. “Neurogenesis – ooh, I love that. I’m going to be neuro-supercharged.”
Years & Years formed in 2010. Founder member and synth/bass/keyboard player Mikey Goldsworthy heard Alexander singing in the shower and asked if he wanted to become lead singer. When Alexander joined, Years & Years were a five-piece band, before shrinking to an electropop trio (Alexander, Goldsworthy and fellow guitarist and keyboard guru Emre Türkmen). Alexander, the main songwriter, has an ear for great sweeping choruses (think Sam Smith meets Pet Shop Boys with a dash of New Order). Their first album, Communion, went to No 1 in the UK, while the song King topped the singles chart and its follow-up, Shine, reached No 2. Many of their songs are about yearning and doomed love – particularly on their second album, Palo Santo – just like the first one he wrote aged 10.
Alexander also became known as an LGBTQ campaigner. He made a documentary, Growing Up Gay, for the BBC in which he talked to his mother in a tear-filled exchange about coming out; he also interviewed people about struggles with their sexuality, the pressure to be promiscuous and take drugs, and addressed schoolchildren about homophobia and mental health problems. Does he think of himself as an activist? He shakes his head. “It does a disservice to actual activists. There’s a tendency to use that word for anyone in the public eye speaking up about any issue. Going into schools and talking about mental health isn’t activism. I like doing that. If I can be helpful, I want to help.”
The week before we meet he was named celebrity of the year at the British LGBT awards. He doesn’t know why – he says he didn’t do anything in 2020. “Maybe they heard about my upcoming role and got in there early!”
He says he has learned so much from making It’s a Sin – not least about acting, and how tough it can be. “Doing an acting job where you have to turn up every day is really challenging. I was so used to my musician lifestyle, which is usually: get up late, get in a car, get driven to an airport, get on a plane, fall asleep, arrive somewhere, get driven to the venue, roll out of the car and do the show. It was too much like hard work every day. I thought I’d got past this!”
We see a lot of Alexander in It’s a Sin – in every sense. He gets more than his share of sex scenes, and says it was fascinating being taught how to do them properly. So he enjoyed them? “All those hot guys. That aspect I loved! And going into it I thought, I’m going to have so much fun doing this, I’m a confident-ish guy, love having sex, it will be great.” That’s so refreshing, I say, to hear actors admit they enjoy sex scenes.
Ah, well, he says, it wasn’t quite that simple – he initially became self-conscious. “I broke down into hysterical tears, like ‘don’t fucking touch me’. I found it really hard.” Then the intimacy coordinators got to work on him. “They were a life-changing experience. Intimacy coordinators are there for safety ’cos there’s a lot of shit that can go wrong between what a director wants and what an actor wants, and boundaries being crossed. They’re there to rehearse everything beforehand with the director and the performers. You talk about animals you might imitate, the sounds you make.” He pays tribute to intimacy coordinator extraordinaire Ita O’Brien, who introduced the Intimacy on Set guidelines in 2017 and worked on Normal People as well as It’s a Sin. “Anything with sex in it, she’ll be involved. She’ll be on all fours at one point, saying: ‘Now I’m going to be like a cow and moo in ecstasy.’ She’s amazing, amazing, amazing.” And yes, he did start to enjoy the scenes.
Did he find them arousing? Now it’s my turn to blush and I apologise for the question. Did he start to enjoy it too much? “No, that’s what I want to know. What if someone gets a hard-on – how embarrassing would that be? Ita said: ‘It’s natural and normal for certain body parts to get excited and if you get an erection that’s absolutely fine, but it’s not appropriate for the workplace.’” He adds a caveat: “Depending on what kind of job you’re doing. And she said: ‘If that happens, you just take a time out. So you’re all there thinking, OK, how embarrassing – because you say time out and everybody knows it’s because you’ve got a hard-on. Hahahhaa!” Did he have to take a time out? “No!” Did anyone? “Not to my knowledge.”
Who did he have most fun with? “I’d say best kiss was the guy who plays Ash [newcomer Nathaniel Curtis]. Great kisser.” And the best shag? “Sexual simulation,” he corrects me. “Best sexual simulation was Roscoe [Omari Douglas, another relative newcomer].” Has he told them? “It’s all coming out in this article, Simon.” And I can sense him calibrating what he has just said. “It’s going to ruin my standing!” But a second later he changes his mind. “No, that’s a compliment right? I compliment them both. Hahahaha!” And he laughs giddily.
I ask about the future. You sense he’s not sure where to go from here, acting-wise – that it can’t get any better than It’s a Sin. Fortunately, he owes the band an album’s worth of songs. He had them done and dusted before the pandemic. “But all that time in my flat going insane made me realise I didn’t like any of the music, it didn’t feel relevant. I just wanted to start again, which is what I did. Now it’s almost ready – again.”
It will be only their third album in seven years. “I know,” he says. “It’s embarrassing. Ariana Grande has had about five out in the time we’ve done one.” In the meantime, he says, Türkmen has had one baby, with another on the way.
What about his own love life? “It’s pretty dire.” Sex? “I’m hopeful to have more sex … it’s very difficult in the age of Covid if you’re single. I actually tried to lock someone down who would be my ‘friends with benefits’ sex buddy, because I saw that Holland were advising people to do that. In the first lockdown I said: ‘Look, we can just have sex with each other. I trust you, you trust me, we’re not together, but this is an arrangement. I’ve not had sex in six months, what do you think?’ But he said no. I was quite upset. So yeah, not a lot of sex in 2020.” For a split-second, the puckish Alexander looks forlorn. Then he grins his toothiest grin yet. “But I’m hopeful that it will pick up in the new year!”
It’s a Sin is on Channel 4 on 22 January at 9pm
#olly alexander#years & years#years and years#yearsandyears#articles#guardian#interviews#itsasin#boys#acting#television
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5 tips for doing the Yorkshire Three Peaks challenge
Recently myself and three friends completed a long awaited adventure of climbing the Yorkshire three peaks of Ingleborough, Pen-y-Ghent and Whernside. The challenge covered 38.6k and close to 1600m of ascent.
It was the first such challenge for me and I have learnt many lessons along the way. Here I share with you my top tips for how to make it a success.
1. Do it as part of an organised event
We went with Three Peaks Challenge Ltd and I couldn’t recommend them enough. You can booked via their website and there are plenty of dates to choose from. For the price of £70 they provide experienced leaders and pit stops with water ( the last stop also had teas, coffees and cakes). There is support throughout the way should anything happen or you need to drop out, they will transport you back to the base. We made use of all of these elements. Our leaders were superb. We started off with Shaun and then moved up teams whilst on the first climb and joined Chris. Chris was excellent with my friend who started to suffer with heat exhaustion. Sadly eventually she had to drop out but that’s when the support came in again. She was very well looked after and transported back to the base. We also took advantage of the water available and never run out. Despite the heat we also had teas and coffee at the last stop.
2. Get your fuelling right
You have to bring your own fuel. We will need something with carbs, fat and salt as a minimum. Food like pasta, crisps, protein bars and energy gels would be great. It’s best to have something that you can nibble on along the way and avoid big meals that will weigh you down and your stomach will struggle to digest. In this situation your blood flow will be in your legs not your stomach so you need something with easily accessible energy for your body.
I would also recommend salt sticks. They will give you the electrolytes you need and will be losing through sweating. This was particularly important for us as it was 29 C and relentless sunshine out there.
Lastly you are going to need water and you’re going to need loads of it. The first water stop is 4km in after tackling the first mountain of Ingleborough and a long walk towards Pen-y-Ghent. Therefore you need to start off with your own water and about 2.5 - 3l of it. You will need that much for every climb. I would also recommend leaving a 1.5l - 2l of water and food (sandwiches, bananas) in the car. You will be thirsty and ravenous.
An important piece of advice here is to practise your fuelling prior to the event and to not try any untested foods on the day. Trust me, you will not welcome any tummy troubles and you won’t want that to spoil your day and potentially force you to drop out.
3. Dress for the occasion
When climbing in the heat, you want minimal clothing and anything you wear should be sweat wicking and light in colour. Personally I wore sports shorts and a light blue sports vest. You will need plenty of sun cream reapplied many time on the exposed skin. You also want to protect your head, face and eyes. I wore a visor which worked well for me as it allowed heat to escape through the crown of my head. Alternatively you may want a hat with a mesh top.
I haven’t yet address the shoes. You may feel very strongly about this but the organisers will insist that you wear ankle boots to ensure stability. If it’s a hot day, you will still be required to wear ankle boots, in which case you want to ensure they are breathable and you are wearing Merino wool socks with them. For after the climb, you may want to have a pair of slides waiting for you in the car. Also, think if you need to keep a change of clothing in the car.
You can find more on the required kit on the Three Peaks Challenge Ltd website
Similarly, you also want to make sure you test your kit before the day. You want to make sure it’s comfortable, your feet are used to these many hours wearing boots and that nothing is rubbing or otherwise irritating you.
4. Practice makes perfect
Depending on your current activity levels, you may want to put some serious training in. In the months leading up to the event you want to gradually up your mileage so that you can walk at least 30k. If you have some hills where you live, you want to practice hill climbs, too. I live in Norfolk so that was a no for me. Strength training is also a must. You want a strong muscular framework to support your body. Trust me you will feel it when your muscles start to fatigue and you are no longer maintaining form. At this point various aches and pain will start to creep in. You don’t need to do anything complicated but strengthening your core and legs will go a long way. Try things like squats, lunges, lunges and twist, step ups and mountain climbers.
5. Rest for success
If you don’t live locally, you want to make sure you give yourself plenty of time to get to the location. The challenge starts at 6.30am with registration at 6am. This is too early to travel in the morning from pretty much anywhere else. I would therefore recommend travelling the day before and getting enough rest overnight. We stayed about 20 mins from the start line.
The same after the event; you will be exhausted and should therefore not attempt any long travel. Again, I would recommend staying overnight and allowing your body to recover. It’s also not a good idea to spend hours in a sitting position like in a car. You want to rest but keep moving. Get a room, stretch out, pop your legs up a wall and drain away the fluid buildup as well as ice your legs to reduce inflammation. Your body will thank you for it. If you can, have a massage in the next few days, as well.
I hope you have found my tips informative and draw on them for this or any other challenge you want to do. If you have any of your own tips to add to this, I would love to hear from you. If you have enjoyed this blog, please give me a like and a share, and visit my Facebook and Instagram accounts.
Thank you for reading
Anna
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Jellylorum and/or Roxanne!
You know what, let’s do both! Starting with Jellylorum...
Headcanon A: what I think realistically
She used to have a human owner, a writer who moved to a suburb of London from Yorkshire, but the more time she spent in the Junkyard with the other cats, the more she realized she was needed there. So now she pretty much lives there full-time, but she still visits her writer whenever she has the time--she sits between the bushes in his rose garden and watch him through the window as he works. And she keeps the collar he gave her just in case she’s picked up by animal wranglers.
Headcanon B: what I think is fucking hilarious
Don’t ever play cards against her or Jenyanydots--you will lose spectacularly. Even Bombalurina, who’s something of a cardsharp herself, always loses to Jelly and is always trying to wheedle her secrets out of her.
Headcanon C: what is heart-crushing and awful but fun to inflict on friends
She was hit by a car when she was younger. Thankfully she survived, but it left her with a bad back right leg and a lot of scars on her lower back. Her leg doesn’t give her any trouble walking--at least most of the time--but it does make dancing difficult.
Headcanon D: what would never work with canon but the canon is shit so I believe it anyway
So what if Tabbygirl is barely in any productions anymore--that’s still Jelly’s baby sister, and Jelly comes to all of her dance performances and listens to all her stories and loves her to bits and pieces.
And now on to Roxanne...
Headcanon A: what I think realistically
After the Montfleury incident--the first one, where he blew her a kiss from the stage and caused the entire theater to turn around and stare at her--she stopped going to the theater. Private lectures with friends were always more her speed anyway. The only reason she went with de Guiche and Valvert was because they guilt-tripped her into it... and because she was hoping Cyrano would show up and put a stop to it.
Headcanon B: what I think is fucking hilarious
She used to have a cat named Jupiter, a little fluffy white tomcat who hated Cyrano. It was mostly his own fault, given how accidentally rough he used to play as a boy, but it always made Roxanne laugh how whenever Cyrano came to visit, Jupiter would immediately launch himself at his ankles. Most of the time Cyrano would either just stand there and take it or nudge Jupiter out of the way, but on a few occasions Roxanne had to pull the cat away and give him a few pets to calm him down.
Headcanon C: what is heart-crushing and awful but fun to inflict on friends
Her cell at the convent was full of drawings of things she wasn’t able to see anymore in person. Her preciuse friends, her Duenna, the gardens of her villa, the drawing room of her favorite salon in Paris, Ragueneau’s bakery before it closed... and lots of sketches of Christian. So she never forgot what they looked like.
Headcanon D: what would never work with canon but the canon is shit so I believe it anyway
You already know where I’m going with this--let the OT3 good times roll!
#asked and answered#ride-a-dromedary#cats the musical#jellylorum#cyrano de bergerac#roxanne madeleine robin#Roxanne mentions having a cat in the Crimp adaptation and that detail has never left me alone... XD#my headcanons
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London, July 1943: Excerpt from a work in progress
After nearly twenty minutes, Foyle decides that he might as well walk.
A cab pulls up at the entrance to the Victoria Coach Station every few minutes, but the drivers favour passengers in uniform. Difficult to resent that in wartime, but it quickly becomes clear that they’re really looking for the Americans – ready, willing and able to pay twice the normal fare. There are throngs of them in London: on leave, newly returned from North Africa, giddy with the success of the Sicily landings. Foyle keeps looking for familiar faces but sees none.
It’s barely a mile to Charles and Pamela’s place, if he recalls correctly, and it’s a fine day. After almost three hours cooped up in the coach it’ll do him good to stretch his legs. He hasn’t brought much with him and his suitcase is easy to lift. He picks it up and sets out.
Travel remains slow and uncomfortable, as it has been for the past few years. The discomfort is as much psychological as physical. Posters with such inscriptions as Must you travel? and Is your journey really necessary? are still displayed at every station, and Foyle had weathered a few cold stares from passers-by as he entered the coach stop at Hastings.
But it’s Charles and Pamela’s twentieth wedding anniversary on Saturday, and it had been kind of them to invite him. He really doesn’t feel the need for a change of scene, as they seem to feel he must, but he is curious to know what London looks and feels like with no official duties to discharge, even in the midst of the war.
And the war is everywhere he looks. Westminster has been spared neither bombing nor the depredations of the war effort. The railings have been removed from the familiar public garden he passes as he walks north along Buckingham Palace Road, and the garden has been cut up into allotments.
Buckingham Palace itself, he recalls as he makes his way past it, was hit repeatedly in 1940; it’s hardly a moldering ruin, but clearly only stopgap repairs have been carried out, the King and Queen waiting out the shortage of manpower and materials along with the rest of the country.
And as he walks across the Green Park he sees that it’s the public garden writ large: stripped of ironwork, much of the land being used to grow food.
At length – it’s a longer walk than he’d remembered, after all – he reaches Arlington Street and the drive in front of Arlington House. In 1936 Charles and Pamela had given up the fine Georgian house in Highgate that they’d taken before their son Alan was born and moved into a large flat in this mansion block, just completed at the time in the height of modern style. The move was a practical one, they had said: the place was and is an easy walk from the Admiralty, where Charles’ duties were demanding increasingly long days, and their daughter Averill’s school – now evacuated to Yorkshire – was also fairly close by.
Arlington House still stands, but it’s sandbagged and most of its metal ornament is gone. Some windows on the lower storeys, Foyle observes, have been blown out and boarded up.
‘My name is Christopher Foyle – I’m here to visit Commander and Mrs Howard,’ Foyle tells the elderly porter, who looks him up and down in an appraising way.
‘Yes, sir. They’re expecting someone by that name,’ the porter concedes, sounding a bit skeptical. At once he adds, ‘May I see your identity card, please?’
Foyle had suspected, and still suspects, that Pamela was privately relieved at the end of the Howards’ conventional existence in the suburbs. As he waits for the lift he reflects, not for the first time, that it’s hard to decide which seems more unlikely: her decision to leave her earlier life of vaguely Bohemian gentility for marriage to a Naval officer, or Charles’ choice of her as his wife.
Not that they aren’t well suited. They were both born into well-to-do families whose fortunes had been made during the previous century from the more refined aspects of trade: fine printing and engraving in the Howards’ case, textiles for the Fourniers. Pamela’s parents, though tolerant of their daughter’s artistic inclinations, had put the kibosh on her youthful ambition to become a ballet dancer.
Of age by the time the last war began, she had joined the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, driving an ambulance between Calais and a point that was often unnervingly close to the front. After the war she’d been one of the countless women to whom marriage had seemed an unlikely prospect, if only given the small number of surviving men. Although she had no real need to earn her own living she’d found a position at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, as a Deputy Company Manager, the first woman ever to fill that role.
And then, one evening in 1922, she’d somewhat reluctantly accompanied her father to a banquet at Drapers’ Hall. There she had been seated to the left of 1st Lt Charles Howard, R.N., a junior executive officer in attendance to represent the office that supplied Naval uniforms, still a bachelor at nearly thirty-two. (Foyle has never been entirely clear about how old Pamela is.) They were married nine months later. The wedding was a spectacular business in a Regency chapel of ease in St John’s Wood; Andrew, five years old and saucer-eyed throughout his first visit to London, had been a pageboy.
The brevity of their courtship had caused some talk, according to Rosalind. Still, it was a conventionally appropriate match – but also, Foyle knows, a very happy one. Pamela found Charles bright, witty and kind as well as quite handsome. His determination to remain in the Navy – in the teeth of his family’s expectation that, as the only surviving son, he would return to civilian life and enter the family business – had struck a chord with her, even as the novelty of life as a mildly rebellious bachelor girl with a toe in the demi-monde was beginning to wear off. Charles’ sense of duty was counterbalanced, and his own long-neglected aesthetic interests reawakened, by Pamela’s creative impulses and artistic connections.
It is Pamela herself who answers the door of the flat and laughs gently when her brother-in-law is unable to conceal his surprise.
‘Jill was called up,’ she explains, ‘and there’s really no hope of replacing her. They’ve all been called up! Not to worry, though — I haven’t yet taken over the kitchen. Mrs Ellis is still with us, bless her, so we won’t starve! It’s awfully good to see you, Christopher, and I’m very glad you’ve come. It means a great deal to Charles, as it does to me.’
Rosalind and Pamela had taken to each other at once, and became quite firm friends, Foyle recalls.
Mrs Ellis brings in tea, apologises for its meagerness and withdraws to the kitchen.
‘Would you care for something a bit stronger than mere tea?’ Pamela enquires. ‘I can imagine that you might need it, after travelling in this day and age. There’s no whiskey of any description, I’m afraid, but we do have a bottle of rather good Portuguese sherry.’
‘Well, um, perhaps a very small glass. Thank you.’
Sounding less facetious, she asks after Andrew.
‘He’s, um, he’s well,’ Christopher replies. ‘Not that it’s easy on him – not that I wouldn’t prefer to see him in some sort of nice, safe job at a desk – but he holds up all right on the whole. How’s Alan?’
‘Happy as the day is long — adores the Royal Naval College, talks constantly about the Painted Hall, and is quite convinced that we’ll win the day just as soon as he’s on active service!’
‘That’ll be, um, another two years, won’t it?’
‘Quite right,’ Pamela says dryly. ‘A bit long to wait, in my opinion. He has a chit for the week-end. He’s asked after you.’
‘It’ll be very good to see him. What about Averill?’
‘I’m afraid not — she won’t be here, I mean. Keighly’s a long way off, fifteen’s a bit young for such a long journey on one’s own — as I see it, at any rate — and they’re keeping those girls busy year ’round there. We haven’t seen her since Easter — and we went there. Quite a trek in these conditions! But there’s some good news on that score — the school’s coming back to London in September. I don’t know that I was meant to tell you that,’ she adds, ‘but there it is.’
‘Is that wise?’
‘Charles and I have had a few conversations about that, I can tell you! But Keighly’s not all that far from either Bradford or Leeds, and they’ve both been Blitzed. I suppose that the governors think that they may as well take their chances! In any case the decision’s been made — and it’ll be marvelous to have her home.’
‘Of course. I understand you have a new job,’ Christopher adds.
‘Yes. I’m afraid I wasn’t much good at making Sten guns — they showed me the door, Christopher, to be perfectly honest! — so I’ve joined CEMA as a sort of manager-at-large.’
Christopher frowns, puzzled.
‘Seema?’ he asks. ‘Oh, the Committee, um... ’
‘Or the Council, as it is now, for the Encouragement of Music and Arts.’
‘That part of the Government?’
‘No, not as such. It was run strictly on private funds at first, but Parliament has awarded us a hundred thousand pounds per annum — and Mr Bevin absolutely loathes us!’ Pamela adds with great glee. ‘Some of the people we’ve reached,’ she continues, sounding more serious now, ‘have never seen a live performance of anything before — they’ve simply never had the opportunity — unless it was the village amateur dramatic society, I suppose. It’s truly wonderful, Christopher — we’ve had letters from people who tell us that we’ve opened up whole new worlds for them! War does break down barriers — as dreadful as it is to think of it doing anything beneficial!’
‘I’ve often heard – um, the young woman who was my driver – I’ve often heard her say much the same thing.’
‘Would that be Miss Stewart?’
‘Oh – yes.’
‘We’ve heard some very encouraging things about her.’ Pamela smiles and sips her tea. ‘As it happens, CEMA is looking for a regional officer for the Hastings area. We have someone in Brighton, but she has her hands full with that region — and she’s expecting a baby in January.’
‘This a paying position?’
‘Oh, of course! Not lavishly, I’ll admit — two guineas per week to start with, plus travel expenses.’
‘That isn’t too bad,’ Christopher considers. ‘If I can think of a likely candidate I’ll let you know.’
‘I’d be quite grateful for that.’
Modern as the flat may be, it has a hearth and a mantel, with a clock sitting atop the latter that now strikes the hour.
‘Charles promised to come home at a reasonable time today,’ Pamela notes. ‘Christopher, I ought to tell you that he left here this morning in — I was about to say “in a foul mood,” but “in a highly unsettled state” might be a better way of describing it.’
‘What about?’ her brother-in-law asks, trying and failing to picture this.
‘I don’t know! I can tell you what brought it on, though — a letter that arrived in the morning post. But I didn’t see it — not the letter itself, I mean — and Charles didn’t tell me what was it said. All I know is that it seemed to agitate him a good deal. He took it away with him. Well, when I say that I didn’t see it, what I mean is that I didn’t read it,’ she goes on. ‘Of course I didn’t. But I did see that it was typed — on rather better paper than one is accustomed to seeing nowadays, and that the paper was marked.’
Christopher smiles dimly.
‘I’m no longer with the police, Pamela,’ he reminds her.
‘Well, no. I know that, of course. But isn’t it interesting, nonetheless?’
‘Depends on what’s in it.’
When the door to the flat opens a few minutes later; Pamela excuses herself and goes into the hall to greet her husband. Foyle hears both of them saying his name, and Charles using the words apologise and upset. After a few moments the Howards return to the sitting room.
‘Christopher! Wonderful to see you! Thank you so very much for joining us,’ Charles begins, shaking his brother-in-law’s hand. ‘How was your journey up? We’ve been hearing the most terrible stories,’ he goes on. On the surface he’s the same as ever, but something has changed behind his kind eyes. Something has rattled him.
‘Oh, can’t complain,’ Christopher replies.
Charles asks after Andrew and – with a vagueness that seems almost deliberate, as though the subject were slightly too indelicate to bring up – enquires as to whether Christopher is keeping himself satisfactorily occupied these days. These subjects having been discussed, there is a short silence during which he looks first pensive, then determined.
‘Pamela tells me that she’s put you in the picture about my... well, my loss of an even keel this morning.’
‘Well, um, she told me that it occurred,’ Christopher replies.
‘Mm. There was a letter in the morning post that gave me quite a shock. As the day went on, though, it dawned on me that it concerns both of you as well,’ Charles continues, glancing at Pamela and then back to Christopher. ‘Please correct me if I’m wrong, Christopher, but I don’t believe that you ever met my brother – and of course I know that you never did, Pamela.’
‘Knew him only by reputation,’ Christopher affirms. Captain Nicholas Howard, 4th Battalion, Royal Surrey Regiment, had been killed in action on the first day of the Battle of the Somme and was posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross.
‘Yes. Well. It seems that there was at least one thing about him that I didn’t know either.’ Charles falls silent again, looking perplexed. He reaches inside his jacket, brings out an envelope and removes its contents, which he offers to his wife and brother-in-law. ‘Perhaps it would be best if you both simply read this.’
He watches for a moment as Pamela and Christopher stand side by side, each holding an edge of the letter paper, taking in its contents. Then he looks out of a window.
#foyle's war fan works#works in progress#christopher foyle#charles howard#an original character#a new one#please bear in mind that this is a draft#wip wednesday
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WHAT TIME IS IT? SUMMER TIME! The polaroids are stuffed between the pages of her childhood diary, which she’ll take back to America as fodder for her eventual tell-all she’s planned with Faith over a bottle of red wine sometime or when the apocalypse hits (she can’t remember which date they decided on). The pictures feel more like a revisited past.
“We have summer students, your room isn't a storage facility. You're very lucky we didn't take these boxes straight to the dumpster.”
When Luce got back to Georgetown, she wasn’t able to enter her dorm room. She went to the porter’s office and was given her belongings, which consisted of five boxes worth of stuff, made heavy by her synths, pedals and guitar. She took her mail and promised that she’d come back for the boxes later. The porter was pissed off that she couldn’t take it now and Luce felt like a berated child. In her stack of mail she found out her credit rating had dropped to an R-2, with a notice of delinquency. She figured it was similar to when she got a warning for torrenting Game of Thrones, but never actually got fined.
“I was on Pluto. I wrote you a letter, but it was too cringy to send. Have you heard of The Magnetic Zeros? Let's listen to them for a bit.”
He always lets her talk first. Even after months of silence. Luce traipses around his high rise apartment and touches everything in sight ; the frames of pictures and the thin film of dust that has settled on the coffee table. Then she says sorry for an absence that wasn't her fault because she needs the money and feels immediately icky for acknowledging that her apology has a motive behind it. She can sense his disappointment radiating like underwater sonar pulses, dulled by the glass of whiskey empty on the side table. A year's tuition down the drain. It's not about the money. Need to go home. It's about the money. He kisses her cheek instead of her neck and writes her a cheque. Luce booked her flight that night.
“Oh Luce. My baby.”
Is what her Pa said over and over again, scooped in his arms at arrivals. She was already crying walking towards them, a visceral happiness so intense that the only other feeling it can be compared to is grief. Luce spends the first week as a tourist, waking up early and watching her parents do menial tasks: like making coffee and checking the weather report on their phones. She takes long walks, and when she doesn't, she waits for her parents to come home like a puppy eagerly waiting to hear the clink of an unlocked door. Family gatherings are planned for the weekends and she goes out with her parents whenever they do. In this time she drinks a lot of beer and no Four Lokos.
"No one uses Facebook anymore Lucie, relationship statuses are obsolete. Would you not have reached out if you knew?"
Weeks pass and waiting for her parents gets tiring. She walks around the house in her pyjama shirt and an old acoustic guitar with a fraying strap hanging across her. She drinks juice from the carton and eats cereal by the handful. She Facetime's everyone on her contact list and it's still not enough to bridge the space from 12-9. On a particularly boring Tuesday afternoon she messages her ex on Facebook and asks if he'd like to catch up and get drinks. He brings his girlfriend and their Yorkshire Terrier, Bozo. Like the clown. He says what he says in reply to a casual jest, it was her fault for saying it. "Always too cool too make it official." His girlfriend's several paces behind picking up Bozo's poop. When she doesn’t have an immediate reply to his retort back, he takes the few seconds of silence to his question as an answer, and his lips curl into a wry smirk. She looks away and takes a drag of her cigarette like she's a girl in a black and white French film.
"...Same old Lucie."
Jack calls her Lucie because he was there when the nickname was created and think it's degrading to call herself that. He thinks he's doing her an act of kindness when he calls her Lucie and thinks he's special for being allowed to do so. She goes home after the split pitcher is finished.
“Anything it is, anything. You can tell me.”
She spends her nights with her mam hanging upside down from the couch. This time though she's curled up like a cat in her lap, and mam's combing through her tangles with her fingers. Through trembling laughter she tries to explain, but it's a high roll on a game of Monopoly where she skips straight to the exact square instead of moving through them. Tells her she just really needs a job, has no money is all. Her mam gets her a job at the grocery store. She catches up with every familiar face to the sound of beeps and closed cash registers. She notices how whole lives are spent in this town, not a place to retire or spend your youth, the whole package. She misses America.
“Wa-sah!”
Scott visits the weekend she goes home to the States. It’s good because their flights are both on Sunday night, but bad because it’s her last weekend here, so her house is teeming with family. She introduces him as her good friend, but it doesn’t ease her parent’s enthusiasm, intent on giving him a proper welcome to Ireland, which for the Frear family includes an early afternoon pub crawl. He takes it like a champ, keeps up with the banter and doesn’t shake her nephew off his leg when he attacks it as soon as they enter the front door. When the night dies down she excuses themselves, wooden stairs creaking under their weight, silent until they’re sat next to each other on the edge of her childhood bed. Luce takes a picture with her phone, so close-up that his face doesn’t fit in the frame. A fit of giggles erupt looking at it, thankfully it doesn’t wake the little ones camped in the living room. She wants to thank him, or apologize, tell him it’s not usually like this and it’s a lot for anyone, but instead when her laughter trickles away she thumbs the hem of his shirt, tugging it upwards.
“Call us when you land, love you.”
Is what her parents say and is what Marlowe and Atty say too. They're going to be together forever. Scott is dropped off at his gate first, which she prefers because she wouldn’t have wanted him to see her weepy with her parents. She spends the last few weeks of summer in complete bliss, basking in the South Carolina sun. She sticks a magnet with a naked leprechaun on their fridge and tucks a bottle of Irish whiskey away for them. Marlowe can’t drink right now, and Atty doesn’t really drink to begin with, but the bottle is pretty and her folks wouldn’t let her go home without it. She spends her days listening to Marlowe play, streaming on Twitch with Atty and buying baby clothes whenever she goes shopping because they're significantly cheaper than adult clothes and can't resist the temptation. They eat a lot of Taco Bell. She burns through her month and a half wage at the grocery store in the span of days. Luce wonders how that's possible while listening to Greetings From Asbury Park, then gets up and puts the kettle on.
#luce on matty's air mattress [ jean ralphio vc ] technically im hoMeLeSs#consciously Efforteted to cut the introspection so it wldn't be long and Yet .#yes i am vibin with 2016 polaroid manip aesthetics *Shields Face*#gallagher:task#ft. / marlowe .#ft. / atty .#ft. / scott .
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Hidden Histories - Chapter 2 - Wait for it
The alternate happy ending to Hidden Histories - There Is No Future for Us as a Pair, the one where Katherine Howard and Catherine Parr meet during the early days of Anna’s marriage, they keep making plans and the king keeps messing them up.
Disclaimers/notes from the first chapter are even more valid for this one…heavily fictional, with one big change in 'history', obviously.
Being part of Mary’s household makes exchanging letters with the Queen if not easier, certainly quicker. Not only the physical distance to cover is less, but correspondence between royal households is common, frequent, and more efficient than anything private that Catherine had ever been able to arrange when she had been in Yorkshire. It is not unusual for Catherine to send a letter one day, receive Katherine’s reply the next one and send a new one the day after.
Catherine sees the flourishing in Katherine’s letters, both in penmanship and in content. Her missives almost unrecognizable from the first ones they had exchanged, where the efforts clearly put into them couldn’t fully make up for the dreadful handwriting and spelling. Their letters are a mix of mundane topics and more intellectual discussions. After Katherine remarks in one message that Henry appreciates Catherine taking the time to share her knowledge and education with Katherine and wishes to thank her for it, Catherine is glad that they had employed from the start a sort of coded language. Discussions about pastoral literature would have surely appeared less innocuous had Henry known that every mention of a desired bucolic life was meant to stand for Katherine’s desire for a life away from court and that discussing lives devoted to God, free from ‘earthly’ duties, was a way to talk about lives without husbands and wifely obligations. Still she knows that nobody would ever believe the Queen capable of such subterfuges. She seems to be the only one aware that Katherine is much more than the stupid vapid girl they believe her to be at court, apparently unable to see beyond her looks, as stunning as they are.
And then one letter arrives that makes Catherine’s blood run cold. Almost lost among descriptions of clothes and plans for a trip, a throwaway mention of Katherine revisiting a conversation they had in the past and asking Catherine’s opinion on what the character should have done when ‘the ghosts of the past came back to haunt him, demanding their tolls’.
‘I am not sure I understand your reference. Is it about the story we discussed that warm afternoon in the royal gardens while my dear sister Anne attended to the King’s beloved sister? If so, my opinion is that the protagonist should have chosen disgrace over death. It is possible to come back from ruin, especially with friendly help, but one cannot come back from death. A chance of redemption, no matter how small, is always preferable to the certainty of death.’
Catherine pens her response as quickly and as carefully as she can.
She hopes Katherine will understand.
She hopes it won’t come to it.
But of course, hoping never did Catherine Parr any good. It’s Mary who brings her the news that Katherine has been stripped of her title and is currently held waiting for the King’s decision after being questioned.
The court’s preconceptions about Katherine reveal themselves a blessing in disguise. Katherine plays the naïve girl, manipulated and caught up in games too big for a silly little girl and nobody doubts it for a second. She admits having been pre-contracted with Francis Dereham and the King gets to appear both as the victim of the situation and magnanimous, as he sends her away in disgrace but sparing her life.
For days Catherine is in turmoil, having no news about Katherine except that she has been banished. With the queen’s household having been disbanded, she is not surprised by her sister’s visit, as it is likely that she will join Mary’s household. What she doesn’t expect is Anne bringing her news about Katherine. Knowing of their close relationship and having a soft spot for the younger girl herself, she had directed the former queen to a family property in the north of the country.
Their epistolary exchanges resume, albeit at a slower rate and even more carefully than before. Catherine asks Mary to be dismissed from her service. She is friendly enough with her to disclose that her husband is not getting any better and that she knows she will be named her step-daughter’s guardian after Neville’s death and put in charge of his affairs until her majority. To manage his affairs, she’d have to return north…what she leaves out is that up north is where the disgraced former queen, and that she plans to finally bring Katherine to her.
She has already thought about everything. It will be far enough from court that most people won’t recognize Katherine, the lack of portraits of the former queen circulating helping with that. Katherine is a common name as long as she goes with Lady Katherine without mentioning the surname. And even if - when? - Katherine’s presence at her house were to be discovered and questioned, she will say that she took her in out of pity, in the name of their old friendship. And yes, she was sent away in disgrace, but a demotion from Queen of England to lady-in-waiting for a lesser house (barony, after all, is the lowest rank of the peerage) isn’t disgraceful in itself? And if His Majesty had seen in his immense benevolence to spare her life, shouldn’t Catherine follow his enlightening example by providing that lost soul a mean to support her life rather than seeing her squandering the gift His Majesty has so generously given her? Laying it on thick, she knows, but Catherine won’t let her pride getting in the way, not after everything they already went through and managed to overcome.
Catherine genuinely mourns Neville when he dies, but she can’t help herself: she is finally seeing her dreams on the verge of becoming reality. Twice widowed, guardian of a teenage girl, she should be allowed some respite, right? She just wants to live peacefully, taking care of her family and friends, and pursuing knowledge. She doesn’t ask much, does she?
But once again her plans are thwarted by the King, newly single and ready to make an unsuspecting woman his wife. Just her luck. So she has to write a letter to Katherine, once again ending things before they could even start.
Catherine had built a future in her mind with Katherine, but now the hope is gone. She doesn’t have a choice. She never had a choice. They never had a choice. If Henry says it’s you, then it’s you. Nobody knows that better than Katherine. And yes, if she could speak up, without holding back, she would tell him that there is no way she is giving up her girl, her work, her dreams for him. But of course, she can’t say that. Not to the king.
So she sends the letter to Katherine. Tells her goodbye. Marries the King.
And then finally. FINALLY. Henry dies. Not a minute too soon.
Catherine becomes the one who survived (as a wife, since both Anna and Katherine are still alive but not wives anymore), but she almost wasn’t.
She supposes that she had become too confident. She had published two books, the second one being the first to be published in English by a woman under her own name in England. The first one, though anonymous, had been published by the King’s printer. Henry knew of her interest in religious matters and as he had permitted her to publish, she thought he approved. Until she gets the news that an arrest warrant had been drawn up. She takes her own advice and a page out of Katherine’s book: she plays stupid and lies to save her skin. Of course she would never dare to think that she knows better than the King, she only debated with him to distract him from his pains and to learn from him. She is just a woman, after all. Humiliating but convincing enough that she becomes the last wife of Henry VIII instead of being added to the list of discarded consorts.
Among the good things coming from the King’s death, there is the fact that nobody expects a dowager queen to remarry again. In fact, she thinks it would actually be frowned upon. After Edward’s coronation she is more than happy to retire from court to a property left to her by Neville where Katherine is waiting for her.
When Catherine had married Henry, she had brought her stepdaughter with her since she was her guardian, but she still had been in charge of the properties left to her by her second husband. Nobody at court was surprised by the regular correspondence she entertained as they had quickly learned she was quite an hand-on person if allowed to be and they correctly assumed that she wanted to be informed and involved in the running of those places. And if the majority of the exchanges happened to be with one particular property...They had no way to know that the household there was headed by a most trusted woman and had been recently joined by a certain Lady Katherine…who didn’t take long to win the other woman over. It never takes long, for better or for worse. Catherine remembers receiving a letter praising how quickly Lady Katherine was learning how to properly lead a household and how she would make a very good wife for a lucky man. She had replied that no talks of marriage would be entertained, for any reason, ever, and that she was to make it clear to anyone approaching the topic. She doesn’t know whether she knew or suspected the reason, or even if she knew who Katherine was (which would have made it clear why she could never get married - again), but the topic was never brought up again and Catherine was content with that.
And even more content when finally, seven years after Catherine had first proposed the idea to Katherine, their dream of living together becomes reality.
Not many details are known about the last period of Catherine Parr’s life. The Dowager Queen maintained good relationships with all her stepchildren, raising Elizabeth and receiving visits from Mary and even Edward, despite the busy life of the young king. Despite various invitations, she never returned to court, choosing to live the rest of her life in quiet retirement in the same place where her tomb now rests, the only English queen to be buried in a private residence.
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I rambled a bit in the end notes on Ao3 if you are interested, but probably the only thing you might care about is the final question...would you like a fluff family reunion?
#parrward#six the musical#six the musical fanfiction#six the musical fic#six fanfiction#six cathy parr#six katherine howard#six fic#my six posts#six writing#mywork#my posts#six catherine parr#my ideas#howard x parr#parr x howard#six fanfic#six the musical fanfic#six au#six the musical au
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ON THE ROAD AGAIN
Characters: GERARD WAY x Reader
Link to chapter one : https://writingforyourpleasure.tumblr.com/post/190745024051/on-the-road-again
Author’s note: Enjoy !
2. “ 666 “
After they all introduce their self to you, they all went back to their conversation with Billy and Dex . You sat on the floor having nowhere else to sit .
You listened to their argument about which of Gotham villains was the best one, just when you finally wanted to take part into the conflict a loud bang on the door resounded and a voice, probably of the boys crew, maked itself heard calling the guy for make up and costumes. You were also told to hurry up on yours if you wanted to be on stage in 30 minutes. You actually started to stressed out at this point . You got your make up done and your stage clothes on in top record. Your make up was blue flames under your eyes made with your electric blue liner and red eyebrows with mate black lips. Your stage clothes was a XL Chaos T-shirt in vivid red completely destroyed in which you almost drowned because he was so large, your camo pants and rangers , easy and perfect for a lot of sweating. You took your drum sticks and headed to the stage.
A wave of screams maked itself heard at your arrival, fading as soon as you joined your kit and Dex his bass. You closed your eyes letting Dex start with their bass introduction to the first song soon matching them on their rhythm and the familiar passion eating you alive. No one existed , right now it was just like when you were sixteen. In your bedroom behind your drums and Dex facing you with his bass close to your bed , the door of your room open to let your parents listen to your music, they asked for it. And the most important public in the world , your dog Matcha. Yes, playing for an entire arena was just amazing, but right now you played for yourself , wanting to let yourself go . You always tried to give the best of yourself, you didn’t wanted to loose the magic of what this moment procured you.
Once you’re part was done , an interlude of 30 minutes took places .
“Dude you smell SO bad right now” You shoved your left elbow into his ribs for yelling it so loud to anyone who would listened .
“Shut your stupid mouth , you smell as bad as I do”
“Well Y/N I’ll loved to say you’re right … but you aren’t” This shitty Ames said coming up in front of you to leave for the scene to bring back in your truck your instruments . soon followed by Billy who shout you up a smile.
“I think you smell okay Y/N”
“Thank you , but no need for such big lies pretty boy” You winked at him , making pink appeared under his beard . You walked it off with a smug grin along with an amused chuckled .
Crossing paths with Ray , Gerard , Frank and Mikey along the way. Then you headed for your lodge to be the first one to shower as Dex stayed over to the scene to help Billy and Ames .
This was already three months ago. You were now on a break of one week , back to your parents house in the suburbia of Leeds, in the county of West Yorkshire in Northern England . Since you couldn’t afford the rent of your apartment in London, while not living in it for most part of the year, anymore. The positive point in all this was that you got to live with your dog Matcha the rare times where you weren’t on tour.
During those last three months a lot of things changed . You, Billy, Dex, Mikey, Frank, Gerard and Ray became friends pretty fast. Even through you gotta to admit the fact that Ray being a goddamn Greek god at the guitar, and also with his amazing hair, was a tiny bit intimidating. Ames and Max were friends with the guys too but less close to them than Billy, Dex and you were. Ames because he had a short temperament and had trouble trusting people he didn’t knew, and Max just because he was overwhelmed with work all the time, you seriously doubted he even took full nights of good sleep , a nap maybe but nothing more .
The shows were great too, the fans were shoving enthusiasm in your band and your music which was a good sign. Sometimes some of them even asked for autographs at the end of shows, you weren’t really used to it, but you guessed nobody ever was in the end. Ray was the closest you got to, he was very kind, smart and someone you just enjoyed spending time around, Frank, Mikey and Gerard too but a little less than Ray even if you would never say it out loud or you would never hear the end of it. You just were still a little bit intimidated by him where Ray seemed more approachable sometimes. Dex is pretty close to Mikey and Gerard from what you observed.
Dex, you and your new friends we’re often sharing the same bus , most of the time the one of the guys while Billy , max and Ames stayed on your sleep , unless for sleeping . But with the shows and the adrenaline that came with it, most of the time you didn’t made it to your bunks until early in the morning. The memory of it was all it took to put a small smile on your lips .
You were actually on the carpet floor of your bedroom playing guitar , just above a whisper coz’ your parents we’re asleep on the other side of the hallway . Matcha was watching you , her tongue out breathing loudly with a huge smile on her face, comfortably laying on her favorite xxl cushion by the side of your bed.
On your velux Window, the drops of rain created a gentle rhythm . It was 3 in the morning , you didn’t arrived to find sleep that easily at home since your bedtime on tour was much different. You’d came back two days ago, since then something seemed to be giving you anxiety . You couldn’t remember when you felt it for the first time . Was it on the plane home ? Before or after ? You didn’t know but you felt like something was wrong and couldn’t seem to shake the feeling.
You started to play some chords in a random order getting lost into your music . It remembered you those nights when Ray or Frank would mess around with their guitar while you were all talking to each other after a show. You always just stood there, staring more than participating in the conversation . You really admire the way they played and was listening quietly before someone would start talking to you as always. Sometimes , even if it was rarely , Gerard would play, in those moments you just stared completely bewitched by him. He didn’t play as well as Ray and Frank , but had his way around it. He looked so gentle each time he’d done it with an huge concentration, where Ray and Frank seemed more carefree. You stopped playing guitar lost in your thoughts, as you were remembering the scene.
His dark locks just falling before his eyes and you just sitting in front of him watching him more than the guitar. Then he locked his eyes with yours catching you staring like he did every time you looked at him playing . You didn’t know how every time he just felt your eyes on him and caught you before you could turn your gaze away, making you blush a little bit because you didn’t want to seem like a creep . But he would usually just have a smug smirk on his lips before sitting his guitar and joining the conversation with everyone. Just remembering it, made you blush .
When you woke up the next day with Matcha laying on your side as always . Today was no different than yesterday you still had this underlying anxiety on the back of your mind, you sigh . You really had hope it will go away today. You made a point to go out today, just to change that train of thoughts.
You usually just tried to avoid going out because here, people knew you , not from being in a band no, people knew you from high school and you knew them from it. So you didn’t had that much success with people finding you likeable here for some reasons. Well maybe it was coz’ back in high school you were full of cynicism and people had a hard time understanding your humor or lack of it . Being a nerd who played D&D on Sunday’s didn’t help either. Add the fact that you were one of the only people in your school who had crazy hair colors and who always talked back to shitheads .
But you kinda wanted to pay your friend Charlie a visit, it’s been a while since the two of you hang out . Charlie was one of your friends in high school who was in your D&D Sunday group, she is now on medical school, to be a doctor , which means you didn’t get a lot of news from her by text but tried to both do your best to keep each other updated on your lifes.
You got up unfortunately waking up Matcha along the way and made your way downstairs, soon followed by your golden retriever. Finding your box of cereals and making yourself a mug of coffee for breakfast. Before your mom entered the room already dressed , your dad worked from 8am to 6pm at the University of Leeds as a Philosophy teacher and your mom was working as an astronaut at the British Space Program and she was currently on break for several months before her next mission.
“Hello Y/N , you and I are going to the mall shopping for food in less than 15 minutes so go get dressed .
“Hi mom, can’t you go alone ? I’d planned on staying home this morning and going over to Charlie’s later .” You said pretty annoyed with your mother’s request.
“I could use the extra help , so got change yourself would you ?” She said before hurrying out of the kitchen not waiting for you to answer .
You finished your bowl of cereals and your coffee , quickly going upstairs to change.
You were waiting for your mom on your porch facing your street number. Younger the fact that you lived on the 666 of your street always made you laugh, it still does. You decided to take a quick picture of the number plate and put it on Instagram writing below it :”Never gets old” quickly pulling away your phone as you mom was locking up the front door and walked up to her car with you on her tracks.
Once inside your side of the Bentley on the left , while your mom was climbing on the driver seat on the right , your phone buzzed inside of your jeans . You pulled it out unlocking it , only to see the comment on your last post .
@Gerardway: “ seems perfect for a cult summoning!”
#gerard way imagine#gerard way x reader#gerard way fic#fanfict mcr#mcr imagine#mcr fic#mcr fanfiction#gerard way fanfic#gerard way fanfiction#frank iero imagine#frank iero x reader#mikey way imagine#mikey way x reader#my chemical romance fic#my chemical romance fanfict#my chemical romance imagine#my chemical romance fanfiction#ray toro imagine#ray toro x reader
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chapter 6 of promises to keep is here!
[kristanna / 18th c scotland au / love and angst and kiltstoff in equal measure / rated t / 4k words this chapter]
masterpost
“Is that what you want, then?” she demanded. “Want to throw away the gift you’ve been given and waste away?”
She watched from behind as his shoulders tensed, but still he wouldn’t turn and look at her. “Well, Kristoff? Is it?”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said at last, his voice so low she could barely hear it.
chapter 6: a new promise
They were still clinging to each other when Anna heard the door swing open and felt Kristoff stiffen in her arms. She rose back to her full height and turned, keeping a hand on Kristoff’s shoulder, to see her sister peering in, eyes wide, and what looked like half the town behind her.
“See, Miss Elsa?” little Addie said, triumphant and unaware of the tension in the air. “I told you there was a stranger.”
Anna squeezed Kristoff’s shoulder as she replied, “Not a stranger. This is…this is our friend Mr. Bjorgman. You were only a wee little bairn the last time he was here.”
Elsa came in then, extending a hand. “Kristoff, welcome home,” she said, faltering when he didn’t rise to meet her.
Anna felt him draw in a deep breath before he pulled away. Glancing over she saw he was reaching for a cane that she hadn’t noticed propped up against a table. He took it in hand and took two heavy steps towards Elsa, who smoothly switched hands in order to grasp his free one.
“It’s good to be back,” he said, his voice low.
Something in Anna’s chest was suddenly too tight, something behind her eyes too hot. It had been ridiculous, she realized now, to expect him to come home unharmed, to think it would all be alright, just as it once was, but to see the way his shoulders curled inwards, the way his head hung low, the way his knuckles whitened as he held onto the cane in his hand…
Her thoughts were interrupted by someone clearing their throat, and she looked to see Ross, who she supposed she ought to stop thinking of as just the carpenter’s boy now that he’d been doing the work on his own for two years. “Are there any others?” the boy– hardly a boy now, too, anyway, she realized– asked, the last embers of hope shining in his eyes.
Kristoff bowed his head; Anna hesitated for a moment before stepping forward to stand beside him, but he didn’t reach for her. “No,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”
—
That night his dreams were of Callum’s lifeless body beneath his horse and Lachlan with the rope around his neck and the rattling of chains, all of it watched over by the silent, sad-eyed chorus who had come to his door yesterday and been disappointed to see it was only him.
Anna would have stayed all night if he had let her, but once they had all dispersed and she had seen to it that he had supper, he had kissed her forehead and insisted that she go home and sleep in her own bed. “I don’t care about my reputation,” she’d said, keeping her arms wrapped tight around his waist. “They know how I’ve mourned you, anyway, and that we want to get married. They’ll not say anything.”
A lump had risen in his throat. Did she really still want that, after all this time? He had dreamed for so long of seeing her again, but he hadn’t dared to hope for what might come after, not since he had broken his promise to her to be home before the first snows fell. He was nearly two years late, and it made something in him ache to know that she had been left just as desolate and hollowed as he had by this godforsaken war that he knew would never truly end, not for him.
“Aye, they might not,” he’d conceded, “but you won’t be able to rest well here. And they rely on you now, don’t they?”
And she’d sighed and admitted it was so, and he would have offered to walk her home, but he had seen the devastation in her eyes when she realized he hadn’t even come home whole as she’d begged him to, and so to save her the sight of him hobbling beside her, he had waved her goodbye and watched from the window until she disappeared from sight.
He rose at sunrise the next morning, changed into the least moth-eaten of his shirts that were still folded, untouched, in the trunk at the end of his bed, and set off to give what little comfort he could.
Sometimes he could tell the truth– “aye, he was very brave, and it was over before he knew it was happening. We buried him with full honors on a hill by the loch.”
Other times, he lied, knowing that perhaps he was damning himself by doing so. It was worth it, though, to see the relief on a widow’s face when he said, “and he took down three redcoats with him, they’ll write songs about that one,” instead of “I held his hand and wept with him until the bitter end”.
Anna caught sight of him that first morning, but he shook his head slightly, letting her know this was a journey he needed to make on his own. It took nearly a week to visit them all, and each night when he returned home his leg ached and his heart weighed a little more. She came to him at night, still, bringing him food she’d made herself and telling him stories about her day as they held hands across the table.
On the sixth day, he stood in front of Bridget MacLeod’s door, his free hand raised to knock, and unbidden, the memory rose in him of the last time he’d seen Callum alive and well. “Do you think my son’ll recognize me?” he had asked as they refilled their packs the eve of the battle.
“Of course he will,” Kristoff had reassured him. “You’re his father still. Can’t forget a thing like that.”
He heard Bridget murmuring then through the opened window, what sounded like a lullaby, and he lowered his hand and walked away.
That night, when Anna reached for him across the table, he pulled his fingers back, and they spent the rest of the night in silence. The next morning, the sun rose, and he stayed in bed watching it, tracking its movement across the sky the whole day, rising only when Anna knocked on his door.
And that was how he spent the next day, and the next, and on and on until they all blurred together, punctuated only by Anna’s smiles that grew fewer and farther between.
—
She came in one day in late July and found him sitting in front of the dark hearth, staring hard as if by doing so he might will the ashes to life.
“Good afternoon,” she greeted him, and from across the room he sighed and bowed his head.
“I don’t think I can be a smith again, Anna,” his voice strained and full of stories he hadn’t yet told her.
She crossed to him, hesitating before daring to lean down and kiss his cheek. He didn’t react, too focused on whatever shadows only he could see. “That’s alright,” she reassured him, smiling faintly when he wrapped his arms around her and leaned against her. “We’ll find other work for you.”
Kristoff sighed and closed his eyes as her hand went to stroke through his hair, untangling the messy strands.
“It isn’t alright,” he said quietly. “None of it is. And I’m sorry, Anna, I– I can’t in good conscience marry you if I cannot even provide for you.“
“Oh,” she managed to say, feeling as if a wave had caught her off balance and flattened her against the sand as it swept over her, choking the air from her lungs. “I– I’ll still keep bringing you supper if you like, I…I’ll not have you starve.”
He looked like he wanted to say more, but after a moment he returned his gaze to the ashes. Anna blinked hard, willing the tears to stay locked away, as she pulled back from him. “I’ll…I’ll be back later then, I suppose".
No reply came, and so she turned to the door and left him to his ghosts.
—
The first time he had been able to tell Anna thank you in her own tongue, she had beamed and thrown her arms around his neck, and though he hadn’t understood the babble of words that had rolled off her lips, he had heard the joy in them and known it was because she was proud of him, and he had loved her ever since.
She had carried him through those frightening first weeks as an orphaned boy far from home who still woke up weeping and calling for his parents in a language no one else understood. When the kindly older couple who had taken him in had passed, too, she had been away from him for the first time, living with an aunt in Yorkshire to be trained in the ways of English ladyhood, and still she had sent him a letter full of her condolences and promising to come home right away if he’d needed her. Every grief he’d endured, from boyish heartache over lost marbles to the yawning ache of never truly belonging, she had shouldered alongside him, carrying his burdens without a second thought.
And he liked to think he had returned the favor in some small way, had shielded her from what sorrows he could and supported her through those he couldn’t, had laughed at her mischief and wiped away her tears, had cherished her in his own clumsy ways and had somehow miraculously won her heart.
In a way, he supposed, wedding vows would be redundant; had they not already been living them out all along?
But there was more to it than that; no matter how deeply he loved her it would not keep her clothed and fed. The war that had crippled him body and soul had only brought out her determination, her strength, and he could not bear the thought of being the iron chain that fettered her to suffering.
But he was still selfish enough not to turn her away when she came by each night with supper for him. He didn’t dare to talk besides telling her “thank you” and “good night”, but he would sneak glances at her as she set the table for him, as she ate in silence with him, as she made sure there was enough for him to break his fast in the morning.
It broke his heart afresh each evening to see the new ways sorrow etched itself over her features. He knew it was his own fault and still did not know how to comfort her, not without risking further harm. It grew harder each day to stomach the food she so carefully prepared for him, to even dare to look at her, and still she kept coming, kept doing all he would allow to care for him. It was a shadowed, empty reflection of the life they might have had together if he had never left, and it was all he had to cling to, and as much as he hated himself for it he could never bring himself to turn her away, even knowing how deeply it hurt her to see how he could no longer bring himself to look her in the eye.
In his dreams at night, though, he did look at her, and he held her as close as he could, kissed her over and over as he wished he dared to in daylight, and she would open her mouth and speak to him as freely as she used to, though the words were not her own; it was the language of his homeland, and he no longer recognized the words, only the shape of them, and knew somehow they meant he was loved.
And he woke up each morning in an empty bed with an aching leg and wished he hadn’t.
—
“Eat, Kristoff,” she said, with a new, frantic edge in her voice. “You’re going to starve yourself if you keep up like this.”
He didn’t even look at her. “Is that what you want, then?” she demanded. “Want to throw away the gift you’ve been given and waste away?”
She watched from behind as his shoulders tensed, but still he wouldn’t turn and look at her. “Well, Kristoff? Is it?”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said at last, his voice so low she could barely hear it.
“Why not?” she snapped, hands on her hips.
“You should have left. You should have thrown out the ring the moment I broke my first promise to you and found someone else, someone who would care for you like I can’t. You should be in a fine house in the city with a husband who– who relies on only his own two legs to stand, and–”
He trailed off, his shoulders sagging forward, and the fear that had been festering in her over the past weeks overspilled its bounds and came spilling out of her hot and bitter as bile. “Is that it, then? You think I’m some feeble little wretch who runs weeping at the first sign of hardship, and that’s why you’ve gone and cast me aside?”
“Anna…”
She moved to stand in front of him, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it. “I taught you your letters myself when I was but a wee bit of a girl, did I not? And I didn’t know it, but even then it was for the love of you, in the hopes that one day when I opened my heart to you you’d be able to understand!”
“I’m sorry, Anna, but I’m not the man–”
“Aye, I ken well enough that you’re hardly a man at all, are you? Certainly not the man I love.”
He reeled back as surely as if she’d slapped him in the face, but she went on, her fists clenched and trembling with fury. “I’m still waiting for that man to come back from Culloden, and I’ve a feeling I’ll be waiting for a while yet. But wait I shall, because he told me he’d come home to me, and I’ve never yet known that man to break his word, not to me nor to anyone else.”
He started to bow his head, but before he could she set her hand under his chin and raised it, forcing him to look her in the eye. “Don’t act like you’re the only one who’s gone through hell and back,” she said, her voice starting to shake. “I’ve lost you once. I’ll not do it again, not if there’s something I can do to stop it this time.”
“I’m sorry,” he said weakly, and something in her shattered at the sound of it.
“I love you, Kristoff,” she said, moving her hand up to rest against the side of his face. He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, and suddenly she was fighting back tears. “And I’ll go on loving you just as much even if you never find your way back to me.”
He nodded, just barely, and didn’t open his eyes. Anna leaned down and kissed his forehead, lingering there for a long moment. “I’ll leave you to your supper, then,” she said, hoping he would ask her to stay, but he only nodded again, opening his eyes to watch in silence as she walked away.
—
A knock came at the door the morning after. He didn’t stand; whoever it was, they were looking for a man who was no longer there.
The knock came once more, and the voice he had expected not to hear again in this world called, “Kristoff, I know you’re still angry with me, and you’ve every right to be.”
His brow furrowed. He was the one who had been wronged? No, Anna, he wanted to call back, it’s me who’s let you down, but before he could she went on.
“I’ve brought you a visitor. And lunch, too, if you’ll have it.”
For a moment he hesitated; if she were alone, then perhaps he would dare to crack the door, and then he heard a little laugh as Anna whispered something, and curiosity took hold of him.
He reached to where his cane rested against the table and rose to his feet, taking a deep breath to steady himself before crossing to the door. He swung it open and froze.
There she was, wearing the dress she’d worn to bid farewell to him those two years ago, and her hair spilled the color of warmth over her shoulders, and she was smiling free and easy at the child in her arms with eyes the same shining blue as hers and a shock of familiar dark hair.
Kristoff stood rooted to the spot, not even stepping aside to allow them to come in. She looked up at him expectantly, the only sign of her nervousness the way she worried her bottom lip with her teeth.
“Anna,” he said, his voice hoarse; though he suspected the answer, he still had to ask. “Who is he?”
Her smile softened then, tempered by the ache that still hadn’t faded. “This is Callum’s boy.”
“The one they called…”
“Lachlan, aye. After his grandfather.”
Kristoff had to clear his throat before he spoke again. “Well, I– I suppose the two of you would like to come inside.”
“Actually,” Anna said, sounding almost shy, “we were wondering if you’d like to go for a walk with us to the moor and take your lunch there.”
His fingers tightened around the cane; her eyes flickered towards the movement, and before he could speak again she said quietly, “It’s alright. Lachlan and me both like to take our time dawdling from place to place.”
“Are you sure? I…I don’t want to ruin your afternoon.”
She stepped closer then, the boy in her arms peering curiously up at the both of them, and when he didn’t pull away, she rose up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I want you there,” she said quietly. “Whether you feel like talking or smiling or anything else doesn’t matter. I just want to sit with you for awhile in the sun.”
The sun. He hadn’t even realized it was shining today. “Alright,” he heard himself say, “but let me carry your basket.”
The smile that bloomed over her face then was the most beautiful thing he had seen in his life. “I suppose we can allow that, Lachlan my darling, don’t you think?”
The boy, overcome by shyness, turned his face quickly away and hid it in her shoulder, and she laughed and set a hand gently on his back. “He’s a sweet little thing, really,” she explained, moving back to allow Kristoff to step outdoors. “Just doesn’t quite know what to do with strangers. He’ll warm up to you soon enough, though, I know it.”
As she spoke, her voice grew higher, breathier, as she watched him step outside for the first time in weeks. For a moment he thought he saw tears glistening in her eyes, but then she turned and set Lachlan on his feet, laughing when he toddled off straightaway in pursuit of a butterfly.
They followed after him, Anna guiding him when he wandered too far from the path that led up the hill, and to Kristoff’s relief she hadn’t exaggerated how slowly walking was when Lachlan led the way. Every flower, every animal, every little thing that caught his attention was studied and chased and cooed over, and before long Kristoff realized he was smiling, too.
When Anna caught sight of him, she fell back from Lachlan’s side for a moment and extended a hand. “Let me carry the basket.”
“I can carry it myself, it’s no trouble,” he said hurriedly.
“I know you can,” she replied, shyness creeping into her voice once more, “but that way we’ll each have a free hand.”
Understanding dawned on him then, and without another word he held out the basket, not lowering his hand again until she had taken it in one of her own. Her fingers slipped through his then, holding on tight, and his smile broadened when he felt the press of the iron ring she still wore.
He cleared his throat. “I never…” he began, losing track of what he meant to say when she looked up at him, eyes clouded with worry once more. “I…I’m sorry,” he said for what felt like the thousandth time.
She squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry, too,” she said, “for being so angry with you last night.”
“I was angry with myself,” he said softly. “For not being who you want. Or who you deserve.”
Anna looked at him with a surprising fierceness in her eyes. “You’re what I want, Kristoff. You’re who I ached for every hour of every day you were gone. I’ll not pretend it doesn’t pain me to see you come back hurting like you are, but you’re still you.”
He paused then, letting go of her hand so he could reach up and cup her cheek in his hand. “My Anna,” he said, his voice thick with unshed tears, “how can you show me such grace?”
She reached up and pressed her fingers over his, turning to kiss the palm of his hand. “I love you, that’s all.”
A shout came from the path ahead of them, and they turned to see Lachlan had succeeded in catching a frog. “Look, Aunt Anna!” he squealed, running over with raised hands to show off his prize.
“What a dear little creature,” Anna cooed. “But set him loose, now, so he can run home to his mother and have some supper.”
The boy knelt down and did so, waving goodbye until the frog hopped out of sight, and reached up with grubby hands in a silent request for Anna to carry him again. She handed the basket back to Kristoff before lifting the boy, who immediately wrapped his arms around her neck. “Is Mister Kris eating lunch with us?” he asked curiously, his blue eyes round as saucers as they began to move again.
“Aye. I think he’s earned it after carrying the basket for us all this way, don’t you think?”
Lachlan considered it for a moment. “Maybe. Can I still have a whole sandwich to myself?”
She laughed at that. “If you can manage to eat it all, yes.”
To Kristoff’s surprise, the little boy did manage it– well, most of it, at least; when a flock of birds landed nearby he leapt to his feet with a squeal and immediately began tossing crumbs towards them. When it was all gone, he came back, babbling all the way, and the moment he was sat on the blanket once more he yawned, and a moment later was asleep, curled up with his head pillowed on his hands.
“Callum was the same way,” Anna said fondly. “He’d drive you mad all day running around getting up to mischief, but then he’d just fall straight asleep before he had a chance to get in trouble for it.”
Kristoff swallowed hard. “Sounds like someone else I know,” he said, trying to tease, but she saw through him and turned to him, looking worried as she set her hand over his where it rested on the blanket.
He couldn’t bear to see her look so pained; he turned away, starting to apologize once more, but it seemed Anna had had enough of that these past weeks. “Look at me,” she said softly, and he obliged, drawing in a deep breath to steady himself.
Her eyes were solemn, and he loathed himself for it; before he had left, she had been all light and laughter and sweetness, and now he had stolen that away from her, had left her–
“Don’t,” she said, as if she could read his thoughts, and he winced as if she had struck him. “Don’t go down that road, Kristoff.”
It was tempting to close his eyes, to turn away, but he had broken her faith too many times already, and so he kept his gaze steady on hers, even as she leaned over, cradling his face between her palms, and his heart began to pound.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said; he opened his mouth to protest, but she silenced him with a quick shake of her head. “You did all you could, all anyone could have done.”
“I can’t make sense of it,” he said, the words that had been locked inside of him for so long suddenly pouring forth. “If there was nothing more that any of us could have done, if that was always what their lives had been leading to, then what’s the point of any of it? All of it, just gone in a moment, and– and all I could do was watch, Anna, I–”
A sob tore itself from his throat as he said her name, and at last he did give up and look away in shame. But still her hands were there, brushing lightly over his cheeks as she wiped away the tears that were finally set free. “It’s alright,” she whispered, over and over as kept close beside him, waiting with him until the storm of grief had passed again, at least for a little while.
“I’m sorry, Anna, I promise I–”
“No,” she said firmly, setting her fingers under his chin and tilting it upwards until his gaze met hers again. “You’ve made enough promises. Let me have a turn.”
His eyes widened as she leaned closer to him, pressing her forehead against his and reaching down to clasp his hand. “I promise to listen to you,” she began, “whenever you’re ready to tell me about what’s happened to you. And I promise to hold you whenever you need to know I’m still there, and I promise to let go when you need to be alone.”
“I love you, Anna, and I…I’ve wasted so much time already. I…I don’t want to be alone, not ever again,” he said earnestly, and she squeezed his hand a little tighter.
“You won’t be, I promise that too,” she reassured him. “I’ve spent too long already without you. There’s not a thing in heaven or earth that’ll come between us again.”
“I wish I’d never left you.”
“And if you hadn’t, then you’d be telling me now that you wished you had gone in case there was something you could have done.”
He went still suddenly, enough that she pulled back in concern. “I…you’re right, aren’t you?”
“Well, I certainly hope I am. Otherwise I’m not doing a very good job of comforting you.”
A laugh escaped him then, a creaky, rusty sort of sound, but a smile bloomed on Anna’s face all the same, so beautiful he couldn’t help but lean forward to kiss her, and out of practice though they both were he felt a sudden thrill in his heart; perhaps the rest of the world had fallen to pieces around him, but this, but them, at least, held steady even when nothing else could.
“I love you,” Anna murmured, settling her hands behind his neck to keep him close. “And I always will.”
“Is that another one of your promises?” he asked, surprising even himself with the teasing glint in his voice, and she grinned again.
“It is,” she said, kissing him again, “and I promise I’ll keep it.”
A/n: huge credit to
@gabiwnomagic
for her help writing a couple of lines!!
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