#Run London

[isbergillustration]

The Holiest Love

[kidovna]

happy pride to all the lesbians stuck in time in the subway and bisexual women destined to save them!

Bonus:

[laurapetrie]

If ever a girl looked as if she had been made of roses, that girl was her.

George Eliot, Adam Bede (1859)

[treasureplcnet]

inverness here they come!!!!

[overtake]

Non-driver Maxiel AU where Max lives in London and is forced into a run club by George.

Warning: mention of vomiting

The sun is obscenely low in sky when George raps at Max’s bedroom door. It’s soft at first, then graduates into louder and louder pounding that Max can’t ignore, even in this hungover haze. He drags his heavy limbs to the shaking bedroom door and flings it open, hoping his visible rage and pillow-creased face make George fuck right off.

“What do you want?” 

George is perky, that irritating fucking smile accompanying clear skin and bright under-eyes. There’s no signs of last night’s adventures left on his face. He’s also wearing the ugliest, most neon green workout set Max has ever laid eyes on. The shorts are obscenely short. Max isn’t wholly convinced George isn’t aspiring for the sex offender registry if he wears those in public.

“You promised you’d attend run club with me,” George says. He begins dropping into little side-to-side leg stretches, and Max has to avert his eyes to avoid being flashed. 

“Mate, I absolutely did not do that.” If a criminal was holding Max’s family hostage and said the only way to save them was running a 5K, he’d have to beg the guy for a chance to say goodbye.

“Yes, you did,” George protests. “It was after that guy you hit on turned out to be straight.”

As if Max needed to be reminded of that part, which does come back to him quite clearly, along with the many g&ts he downed after.

George, rather unwisely, keeps talking. “I said it was a great way to meet people, then Alex said you wouldn’t last a single kilometre in a run club, and then you bet him 10 quid you could finish the run and agreed to come today.” 

Max blinks at him dumbly. To be fair, it does sound like the kind of stupid, competitive bet he’d get into with George’s new boyfriend.

They all technically work for the same company, but Max is in IT and Alex was always tech-literate enough to never need Max's help. Ever since Alex all but moved into this flat — which George's mysteriously wealthy parents pay for, so Max shuts his mouth and deals — they have become well acquainted. George has effectively weaponized their innate need to antagonize each other into fights over who can dry dishes faster, sort out the recycling best, and hang framed photos the straightest.

This, however, is a whole new level.

“Absolutely fucking not,” Max says. He moves to slam the door in George’s face, but George swiftly kicks his foot in the gap.

“Fine, but I’m telling Alex you backed out,” he threatens. He’s serious, too. He’s been begging them to join this run club with him for ages, but it’s been a losing battle against two people who hate both early wakeups and exercise. 

Max thinks of Alex’s smug, delighted face when Max is forced to hand over the money — and he’ll make a whole show of it, probably in front of all their co-workers — and grits his teeth. “I’ll fucking go, but I’m moving out.” 

“That loses its effectiveness when you threaten it every other day,” George informs him, then drops into a lunge that exposes his matching neon green briefs. This is going to be the worst morning of Max’s life.

They roll up to the meeting spot five minutes late and both extremely grumpy: Max at the whole situation, and George at Max because he apparently dressed too slowly. He’d dragged him by his wrist the whole way there. 

George is instantly greeted and swept away into a crowd of runners who could be his fucking clones, short shorts and all. Max briefly wonders if he can escape without George noticing, but as he begins a shuffle toward the edges of the group, someone catches his eye and begins walking over.

“You’re new!” he says, just as eerily enthusiastic as the rest of this group, like it’s not literally six in the morning. Max is beginning to wonder if he’s starring in a horror movie.

The man flashes perfect teeth at Max. At least he’s extremely beautiful. The least this group could do is give Max something worth looking at if they’re planning to ritually sacrifice him at the end. 

“I’m Max. George made me come,” he says, sticking his thumb out at his evil, detestable flatmate. Max will be unleashing the cats into George’s locked office, where he keeps his priceless collection of vintage teapots on display.

“Oh, he’s always talked about bringing his boyfriend! I’m Carlos. I founded this group.” 

Max tries to resist gagging at more than just leftover gin sloshing around his stomach. Judging by Carlos’ amused expression, he does not succeed. “Flatmate. Definitely not his boyfriend,” he corrects. 

Carlos runs a tan hand through his beautiful, flowing hair, and Max doesn’t even bother to pretend he’s not watching the movement. “Welcome, George’s not-boyfriend. Let’s get you sorted into a pace group. What’s your usual time?” 

“I haven’t run since I played football in school. I will be walking behind the slowest group.” 

Carlos laughs as if Max just made a hilarious quip, which is vaguely concerning seeing as he could not be more serious. “Just run at whatever pace works for you. We believe in pace inclusivity here. You’ll have Daniel over there hanging behind the pack today so nobody gets separated, and we’re just doing 5K today. You’ll be fine.” 

“Just 5K,” Max repeats flatly, but Carlos is already gone. Fuck his life. He’s swearing off all bets with Alex for the rest of time. 

He tries to get a peek at the mysterious Daniel that he’ll seemingly be spending loads of time with, but all he can see is the back of a worn navy cap, long sleeves, and tight compression leggings under shorts. At least he’s not an exhibitionist like George’s little neon crew. 

Carlos stands on a nearby bench, gets everyones attention with a clap, and starts on some monologue about the beauty of morning runs. Max tunes him out and wonders if it might have been a good idea to stretch.

When Carlos gets the run started, Max doesn’t even try to move near George. He lets himself fall back with the only other person who looks vaguely close to struggling. The dude's in an ankle brace, but still, Max is able to keep pace with him for a solid two minutes.

Things start getting a bit shaky 1K in, but Max can still see some of the other runners. He knows the run club pace guy should be somewhere behind him, but he can't turn around to check. If he pauses for even a second, there’s no way he’s making it through.

He’s definitely wheezing quite loudly, and his legs are cramping in ways he never thought possible. Every new step aches. His four-year-old worn down shoes probably couldn’t survive another London rainstorm, let alone an actual run. He knows the wrinkly t-shirt he wore to bed is probably completely drenched in sweat, but he successfully gasps through another kilometre.

Only three to go before Alex has to pay up, and that thought is pushing Max through. He’s almost completely lost track of the group by now, and he can hear the slow tread of the poor guy stuck with him getting closer. The guy — Daniel, he thinks — calls out to him as he approaches. 

“Mate, if you don’t mind, I’m just going to run beside you so you don’t veer off-path.” 

If Max could hear anything over the sound of his own heavy breathing, he might have clocked the Australian accent and familiar cadence. Instead, he focuses so hard on not tripping over a now-unravelling shoelace that he instead misses a giant fucking stick in his way and eats shit straight onto the pavement. 

He sits with his back curled over his scraped-up knees, trying to remember a time when his chest and lungs didn’t physically ache with every short breath. He can feel last night’s drinks and 2 AM kebab churning around his stomach.  

“Are you okay?” a kind, concerned voice asks. There’s a hand lightly touching his back, and it’s making Max feel sickly over-warm in his already burning body. 

Max turns, looks into Daniel’s eyes, and promptly vomits onto his ex-fiancé's pristine white shoes. 

[jakeperalta]

@taylorswift

[vonlipvig]

in honor of 10 years of dashcon, we should all pay our respects by taking a little bit of time from our day to think about our favorite characters running/going to an absolutely dogshit convention. with a ball pit, of course.

[heybiji]

Roshan walks with the two Potts, gazing around at the fields and forests painted in warm colors by the setting sun. He remarks, "It is a lovely view from here."

Gazing outward, past the broken walls he had put up 20 years ago, Arthund nods and says, "Forgot. Forgot how... how pretty it all is."

I recently finished running an original oneshot for some friends, The Reaching Woods. It was a story about a little village surrounded by a big wall and the nearby forest's sudden overgrowth threatening to crush it all. It was also a story about blame and guilt.

Arthund Potts, when we met him, could barely speak at all. Too many years spent drinking and weeping. If he was even conscious he was all grunts and sloppy gestures. The scene above was at the end of the oneshot (okay, eighteenshot), once the party returned from the dark, evil woods.

[sepezzz]

merlin fanart?????? in 2023????????

more context for these in the tags

[szilverer]

hello flondon tumblr

i was giggling the whole time i drew this im ngl.

heres the version with the original photo bg too

[du-hjarta-skulblaka]

Got an itch to play Sunless Sea again and it's always such an odd experience because. Like.

I know this game. Any other game, the level if knowledge and research I have put into this would make me a confident fucking master. And yet.

I can be reading text I've read dozens of times before and i still feel...not clueless, but absolutely off the mark. It all feels so familiar and yet I've never seen a victory condition. I've at least started pretty much every storyline but I'll still see something new each time I sink some time into it. I have a fucking JOURNAL of TRADE ROUTES and REQUIRED ITEMS and somehow that's only mildly helpful

That and the fact Fallen London's lore is so fucking batshit and honestly kind of hard to research (thr wiki's are frustratingly structured for me and the browser game is just. A bit inaccessible for me) means I can have a pretty solid understanding of what's going on in each port and what each faction is about and still ZERO FUCKING GRASP ON LITERALLY ANY PLOT

[isagrimorie]

Criminal Minds Evolution 17x05 - Kingdom of the Blind

Prentiss and Rossi conspire to assassinate Voit.

[neathyingenue]

pov: you're the boatman

[asleepinawell]

fuckin obliterated

[kaleninya]

Listen, there’s a LOT of things to be said about the actual ending of Atlas Complex, but Callum Nova unequivocally served cunt and comedic gold right up to the last second.

[ingravinoveritas]

Just heard from one of my followers (and via someone on Twitter who is also there) that Michael is back in London and seeing Kiss Me, Kate on the West End tonight. I'm truly hoping he went to the show with David, and I can just picture them in the audience, waiting until the lights go down to hold hands. Leaning over periodically and whispering/giggling to each other in hushed tones as they try not to draw attention to themselves. Everyone around them knowing, but having the good grace not to say anything, and to leave them be on their date.

But yes. The Cardiff run of Nye ended a mere three days ago, and yet Michael has returned to London already to see his boyfriend. God, how you love to see it...