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legends-of-time · 2 months

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The Journey of Living at Downton

Chapter 49: August 1925

Masterlist

TW: depictions and discussions of suicide. In no way am I an expert in this matter. I tried to write it the best I could.

——

Emma quietly hums as she rocks and pats the baby in her arms after the early morning feed. Her son gurgles up at Emma as she cradles him in her arms. Emma beams at him, unable to take her eyes off him, eager to watch every action of the month-old baby.

Thankfully Patrick Owen Branson's birth had gone smoothly. After recovering from the shock of labour starting, Tom had quickly snapped into action and called for help to assist Emma up the stairs from the servant area. Thomas had swiftly appeared and the two of them got Emma up the stairs and into the car that still sat outside. After that, the birth happened quickly with Emma having the urge to push soon after they arrived at the Hospital.

Sybbie had turned 5 just over a few weeks later and happily carried around her Auntie Emma and Uncle Tom's new baby with her father anxiously following her, worried about her dropping him. Ivy has taken the role of older sister very seriously when it comes to Patrick while Michael has very little interest in his little sibling as he can't play with him so he happily runs after Teo, Robert's new puppy from Violet.

Mary is still down after what had happened at the races and with Henry. Despite her insistence that she is fine, Emma can see that she has withdrawn slightly and is not laughing as much though holding baby Patrick does bring out warm smiles from her.

Edith is also feeling a mixture of emotions. She had quietly confessed to Emma that Bertie had proposed when they had been up in London but she has not said yes yet as she hasn't confessed to him who Marigold really is. Emma hopes she'll tell him soon as she really doesn't want another Mary and Matthew situation when Matthew proposed the first time.

Rosamund has also come to stay, apparently because of a cold though Emma has her suspicions that she's hear because of Edith. Not that Emma would complain, she likes Rosamund and Edith is quite close with her aunt so it only makes sense she would have her support.

Not everyone is down in the dumps. Mr Molesley had done well in his exam and has been offered a teaching position at the local School where he'll be doing a couple of lessons a week. Whereas Mrs Patmore's new house in Houghton-Le-Skerne, a little to the north of Downton, on the border with County Durham, has already received its first guests in its function as a bed and breakfast.

——

"A house of ill repute." Emma splutters, trying not to laugh but horrendously failing.

Mary sniggers. "That's what Anna said. Of course we all feel sorry for her."

The two look at each other, trying to keep a straight face before they both splutter with laughter again as they cross the Great Hall to enter the Drawing room.

Mary had told her what Anna had told her. Sargent Willis had come round (again) to inform Mrs Patmore that her first guest had not been as respectable as she first thought. A Mr Ian McKidd and a Mrs Dorris had decided to use Mrs Patmore's bed and breakfast as a little hideaway as they ran from Mrs Dorrit's husband who's suing Mr. McKidd for damages related to adultery leading to Mrs Patmore's bed and breakfast gaining the label of a site of a house of ill repute.

Emma sniggers out a laugh as she recalls Anna's hilarious description of a shocked Mrs Patmore. Oh dear, of all the people it should happen to, it had to be the naïve and innocent cook.

Emma stops Mary at the door to the Drawing room. "Now, I know you can't help yourself, but we need to be sombre for Edith's sake, alright?"

Bertie's cousin, Peter Pelham, 6th Marquess of Hexham, had died from malaria while travelling in Tangiers late last month. This only just puts another level of strain on Bertie's proposal to Edith no doubt.

Mary rolls her eyes and huffs, "Who cares? He probably won't have a job now, my romance might not be the only one to come to an untimely end."

"Exactly what I mean, keep your gleefulness to yourself." Emma retorts as they enter the room.

——

They all have assembled ahead of dinner with the addition of Isobel. The only one missing is Edith. The mood is rather subdued.

"Poor Mr Pelham. First that terrible day at the race track, and then to hear his cousin's died." Cora says.

"It does seem very hard." Isobel agrees.

Edith walks in. Robert and Billy rise to stand next to Tom who already stands next to the settee that Emma sits on along with Cora and Mary.

"Did you get hold of him?" Emma asks her, concerned.

"Yes. He's coming tomorrow, on the first leg of his trip to Tangiers. I've asked him here." Edith replies as she moves to stand in front of them all.

"Good." Cora agrees.

"How is he?" Billy asks, concerned.

"Sad." Edith sighs. "He loved his cousin, and it was all so quick. The trouble is they've already buried him. Bertie's not sure what to do."

"Well, that's ordinary in hot countries. It won't mean any disrespect." Isobel reassures her.

"No. But should they leave him there?"

"Surely that decision is down to the new Marquess, not to Bertie?" Mary asks, her tone isn't kind, more irritated.

"Well, that's the thing. He is the new Marquess. Bertie."

There's an astonished silence after Edith's announcement as they take in the news. Emma watches in concern as Mary's face morphs from smugness to annoyed disbelief.

"Bertie Pelham is now the Marquess of Hexham?" Robert asks in a tone of utter disbelief though not out of unkindness, more shock.

"Yes."

"Nonsense. He's having you on. He'd have told you if he was the heir." Mary remarks, almost ready to laugh at the whole situation.

But Edith remains serious and cool. "He did tell me. But his cousin was in his thirties, and they all knew the girl he was going to marry."

"But that's absurd! If Bertie's a marquess, then Edith–"

"Edith would outrank us all. Yes. That's right." Robert says, interrupting Mary and starting to laugh at the whole situation.

Rosamund and Isobel join in his laugh, but Cora and Mary, like Emma, don't, though she knows Cora's reasons are more like Emma's than Mary's.

"Was he a close relation?" Emma cuts in, still surprised as well as concerned. If Edith was unsure about accepting Bertie because of Marigold, what'll this do to the situation?

"Second cousin, once removed. Nobody thought it was possible he would ever inherit. Least of all Bertie." Edith replies.

"Well, he seemed like a nice young man to me." Isobel remarks.

"And getting nicer by the minute." Rosamund quips mischievously causing her and Isobel to let out another giggle. They're having such fun over this.

"With a real love of Brancaster." Tom adds.

"Golly gum drops! What a turn-up!" Robert says gleefully.

The door opens to emit Mr Carson.

Cora takes the cue. "That's dinner." She rises to her feet. "If we're not too distracted to eat."

Isobel, Rosamund, Billy, Robert and Edith walk out first. Cora, Emma, Tom and Mary hang back.

"So we'll all bow and curtsy to Edith. You'll enjoy that, Mary." Tom quips at the disgruntled sister.

"Hardly." Mary scoffs dismissively. "And if Bertie is Lord Hexham, which I still don't believe, he won't want to marry her now."

"Careful, or people will think you're jealous, dear. We don't want that." Cora says gravely as they all file out past Mr Carson.

Emma can't but feel this'll end badly.

——

They're at their after-dinner coffee in the drawing room. Only Robert has gone to bed early again. Cora, Rosamund, Isobel and Edith sit chatting together, laughing. Emma overhears mention of poor Mrs Patmore's situation but she is absorbed in her own private conversation with Tom, Billy and Mary.

"I had a call from Henry earlier." Tom remarks.

Mary looks startled but asks softly, "Henry? Why didn't you say?"

"He's saying it now." Emma says.

"How is he?" Mary asks anxiously.

"Mourning Charlie Rogers. Missing you." Tom answers.

"You're not to ask him to come here." Mary warns him sternly.

"Suppose he just turns up?" Billy remarks, trying and failing to be subtle about it. Emma narrows her eyes at her friend.

"Don't encourage him, Billy. None of you should. I mean it. We'd be wretched long term." Mary declares.

"And you're not wretched now?" Billy asks.

Mary sighs and moves away.

"She's right about one thing, you can't encourage him." Emma says to the two men next to her.

"But you see how sad she's been." Tom argues. "I think Henry needs to come."

"I don't know..."

"Oh, come on Emma." Billy scoffs. "She just needs to see him, to realise maybe she shouldn't have ended things with him."

Emma grimaces. "I just know it'll end badly."

"How?" Her husband questions.

"This is Mary we're talking about. She doesn't like her hand being forced and asking Henry to come will rile her up further than she is already with the Bertie situation." Emma explains her thinking. "She needs to come round to it in her own time."

"You don't know that." Billy says.

Emma rather thinks she does.

——

The next morning, Emma sits on one of the red settees across from Rosamund, who's flicking through a magazine, while Robert is writing at his desk, cradling Patrick in her arms as he has a quiet snooze.

They had received good news the day before, Daisy passed every paper she had taken with high marks. Emma remembers the little girl (one she had always found quite irritating) and is amazed to see her progress.

Cora comes in. "Where is everybody?"

"Mary and Tom are agenting, Billy's at work and Edith's gone to meet Bertie's train." Emma replies as Cora moves to sit next to her, reaching over to softly stroke Patrick's cheek. "I've just come back from being outside with the children. Apparently there was some important bug excavation needing to be done in the grounds."

This causes the adults to all chuckle.

Rosamund is the first to sober up. "Are we going to talk about it? Are we really going to sit by and let this young man's family and future be put at risk from a scandal we are hiding from him?"

"I don't think she has to tell everybody, but I agree. She must tell him. Then it's his choice." Cora answers.

"I agree." Emma declares. "This is the sort of thing you really should not keep secret from your spouse."

"Isn't it up to Edith?" Robert argues.

"From what I've learnt, we really shouldn't leave it up to your daughters." Emma retorts.

Robert looks affronted at this and goes to reply but Rosamund cuts him off, "Robert is scared of Edith loosing a marriage worthy of the name because after Tony Gillingham had gone, he thought none of his daughters would make a marriage worthy of the name. Now there's a chance of one, and he can't bring himself to give it up!"

"You haven't got children. You don't understand these things." Robert retorts dismissively.

"No. I haven't had children, Robert, as you so kindly remind me, but I hope I do have a sense of decency." Rosamund cries angrily.

"How long are you planning to stay? Your cold must have cleared by now." Robert counters. Christ, the two are like children.

"Don't fight. Nothing's going to get better by you two falling out." Cora says in a sharp whisper as the door to the Library opens emitting Edith and Bertie, who walk in through the Small Library. The others rise to greet them.

Cora approaches them first. "Hello, Mr Pelham. I mean..."

"I'm going to stay Mr Pelham until the service." Bertie says, saving her the embarrassment. "But I wish you'd call me Bertie, anyway."

"Of course, hello Bertie." Emma greets warmly. "I don't believe you've met Patrick?"

"Er no." He accepts the baby, rocking him slightly and looking softly down at Patrick, who's just woken, staring at the unknown person in wonder.

"What sort of service will it be?" Robert asks.

"Not a funeral. I've decided not to disturb him." Bertie says, sounding almost choked up. Emma smiles softly as her son reaches and clasps Bertie's finger in a tight grip as if to comfort him. "I'll fetch his things and settle his debts and have a service at home to say goodbye."

"That sounds like a very good plan." Cora says.

"I hope you'll allow me to come." Edith says.

"I want you to come." Bertie says simultaneously warm and desperate.

"You remember my sister?" Robert indicates to Rosamund.

Emma takes Patrick from him so he can greet Edith's aunt properly.

Bertie walks towards the woman. "Of course. Lady Rosamund."

"This must be a strange and unsettling time for you." Rosamund says sympathetically.

"I'll say. My mother's cock-a-hoop," Bertie remarks, "but she doesn't appreciate that I was devoted to Cousin Peter."

"I'm sure she does." Cora assures him.

"Not really. Most people didn't get the point of him. He was... so delicate. But he was as kind to me as any man has ever been."

"Then how pleased he'd be to know that you're his heir." Emma says softly.

"That's so nice of you." Bertie's voice cracks as he begins crying in earnest. Edith puts a comforting hand on his arm. "Goodness. I'm afraid you've made me blub."

"Let me take you upstairs to unpack. Luncheon's not for half an hour." Edith tells him. They walk past the others and out by the other door.

Rosamund, deeply moved, turns to Robert. "And that's the man you want to trick into marriage?"

Robert lets out a huff. "I'm going for a walk." He walks out the other way.

"I agree." Cora says. "But Robert thinks Edith's had so little luck in her life."

"He can't be serious!" Emma scoffs. "Doesn't he know that she'll never be happy with such a secret dangling over her?"

"Exactly. We all know she's making a mistake." Rosamund says.

——

Bertie is more together by the time they all sit down for luncheon, attended by Mr Carson, Thomas, Mr Molesley and Andy. Isobel has joined them and Mary and Tom have returned from their agenting while Billy is still at work though had called earlier to see how Bertie is to which Emma could only tell him that he's in a bad way over his cousin.

"What was it about Tangiers that your cousin enjoyed so much?" Isobel asks Bertie as he sits next to her.

"Who knows?" Bertie replies. "He used to talk of going down to the beach and watching the young fishermen bring in the nets. How the setting sun would make the scene magical until everything was suddenly plunged into darkness."

"Goodness. How... lyrical."

"He was lyrical. He was an artist. In his heart, anyway." Bertie says with a small soft smile.

Emma grins. "I like the sound of him."

"I don't think this family can boast much in the way of artists. Although we did have an aunt who was quite good at macramé." Robert quips. Everyone chuckles politely.

Mary, however, doesn't and speaks up, after having stared at Bertie the whole time with an odd look on her face that's been unnerving Emma, "So, are you here to settle things with Edith before you leave?"

This startles everyone. Everyone either gives shocked looks or frowns in Mary's direction for her being so indelicate. Emma is in the latter category.

"Mary, please." Cora reprimands, astonished.

This doesn't deter Bertie. "I hope so. I hope we can get things settled, but I mustn't jump the gun." He gives Edith a hopeful smile.

"So, Bertie, you mentioned your mother, but what other family do you have?" Emma asks, happy to deter the conversation.

"That's it. My father's dead, obviously, there are no siblings. It's just me and Mother." Bertie answers.

"You were joking when you said she was cock-a-hoop, but she must feel a certain pride." Cora says.

"I wasn't joking," Bertie dissuades, "but judge for yourselves when you meet her."

"You talk as if we should be scared of her." Tom remarks.

"She makes Mr Squeers look like Florence Nightingale." Bertie quips. Everyone chuckles a little awkwardly. Edith looks rather alarmed. Oh, dear.

——

Later in the day, they're all gathered in the Library for tea and a puppet show. Tom and Bertie sit behind the booth and operate the puppets, one of whom is a Punch character who is whacking another character, a policeman, with a slapstick. Billy, Mary, Emma and Edith as well as Ivy, Michael, Sybbie, George and Marigold sit lined up on low stools in front of the booth to watch the show. Nanny Jean is in the background while the other Nanny, Margaret, is in the Nursery with Patrick as he naps. Robert, Cora and Rosamund are watching from the red settees.

"Take that! And that!" Tom as Punch, in a weird, high-pitched voice cries.

"Ow!" Bertie cries as the Policeman.

"Punch is terribly fierce. I don't think he's a good model for marriage in later life." Mary remarks.

"Or relations with the law." Robert says with a chuckle.

"Take that! And that! And that!" Tom says as Punch, still dealing out blows.

"Ouch, you rascal!" Bertie's policeman retorts.

"And that's the way to do it!" Tom makes Punch bow, and the show is over. Everyone claps and laughs.

"Very good!" Billy compliments.

"Whoo, Daddy!" Ivy cheers.

Emma laughs. To think that she herself had watched a couple of Punch and Judy shows when she was a child, over 80 years in the future, and here her children are, in the past, watching a similar show. Funny how life works and things last.

Emma then hears Mr Carson clear his throat. "Er, Mr Talbot."

Wait what?

Emma turns around just as Mary does, both in surprise and alarm. There Henry Talbot is, trailing after the butler as they both come through the Small Library.

Cora rises to greet their guest. "Hello, Mr Talbot. Mary never told me you were coming."

"I didn't know he was." Comes Mary's reply.

Neither did Emma. She gives a sharp look to both Tom and Billy, who both avoid her gaze.

Henry stays near the exit, unsure of his welcome. Mary hasn't got up from her seat. "Well, the thing is, I was driving down from Durham and I suddenly realised I'd almost be passing the gates."

How convenient...

"What were you doing in Durham?" Rosamund asks, still seated and Robert walks up to Henry.

"Oh, I was doing various car things."

"We haven't seen you since that awful day at Brooklands. I hope you're coping with it all." Robert says.

"Well, one doesn't have much choice."

Mary approaches Tom and Billy with Emma trailing after her. "Did you two know about this?" She hisses in an accusing undertone.

"I might have said that if he was coming from Durham, then he'd be driving quite close." Tom says casually.

"Don't think I'm amused! I dislike my hand being forced." Mary retorts.

"Which is exactly what I told them." Emma quips.

"No one's forcing anything." Billy argues.

"Now you're here, I hope you'll stay the night at least." Cora says to Henry, drawing their attention back to the wider conversation.

"Mary?" Henry prompts hopefully.

"Perhaps Mr Talbot is in a hurry to get home?" Mary replies coolly.

"No, no I'm not."

"It's settled then. Carson, will you please tell Mrs Hughes? And ask someone to unpack for Mr Talbot." Cora instructs. Mr Carson sketches a bow and leaves.

Emma in the meantime helps Billy and Edith as they direct the children to Nanny. It's clearly best that they evacuate the area.

"I'm afraid you've missed tea." Robert says.

"Oh, don't worry about that." Henry dismisses.

"I won't." Mary retorts, forcing a cold smile. Mary sits down on one of the red settees, pretending to be interested in a magazine.

While Henry approaches Bertie, Emma turns to Tom. "Pretty sure you and Billy have allowed Henry to make a bad miscalculation." She says as she watches how Mary is still pretending to read her magazine, but she's so nervous and upset that she opens and closes her hands convulsively, which is something they rarely see.

"Don't say that." Tom murmurs.

——

Mary comes walking up the staircase, followed by Tom and Emma.

"This is so precisely not the way to win me over!" Mary snaps.

"Mary, will you just get off your high horse?" Tom retorts as they come to a stop on the landing.

Emma winces that. She'd made the executive decision not to say anything, not wanting Mary's anger to be misplaced towards her, Emma who hadn't done anything.

Mary turns back to him angrily. "Why are you interfering?"

"Because I love you and I want you to be happy."

"Well, you've got a bloody odd way of showing it!" Mary hisses.

"Well, I take it this is me you're fighting about?" Emma turns to see Henry catching up with them.

"Yes, it is. And you can dig yourself out. Because I've had enough." Emma huffs. "With all of you."

Mary scoffs as Emma and Tom walk away, leaving her and Henry alone.

"I told you this wouldn't work." Emma murmurs to her husband.

"You're not helping!" Tom huffs.

——

Robert stands chatting to Bertie near the fireplace in the Drawing room after dinner. "How are you getting to Tangiers? Is there a boat that sails direct?"

"Actually, I'm flying. For the first bit, anyway." Bertie tells him.

Emma perks up in interest at that from where she sits in one of the chairs next to them.

"What?" Robert exclaims incredulously.

Bertie chuckles. "I know. It does seem rather daring."

"And impressive." Emma grins. She knows travel by air in this time is still rather new compared to her time.

"I do not envy you." Rosamund comments from where she sits in an armchair opposite.

"I don't know. Now the commercial airlines are starting to operate, I dare say we'll all be flying hither and thither before too long." Robert remarks.

"I rather doubt that." Rosamund says with a laugh.

Emma watches this all amusedly. "Well, I do. It's quicker and more efficient. People will want that."

On the other side of the room, Billy and Mary are having a conversation of their own. It clearly doesn't end well as Mary's then marching to the door in a huff. Henry walks out after her. Emma watches after them, worried.

——

Emma is giving Patrick the morning feed in the Nursery the next morning. The children are out with the Nannies so Emma has the room to herself for a short while.

Emma is just burping him when the quiet is disrupted by Tom angrily storming in. "I can't believe her!"

Emma helps Patrick do one last belch before pleasing him back in his cot and turns to her husband, "Tom? What's happened?"

"It's Mary. She forced Edith to tell Bertie about Marigold and now he's stormed off." Tom explains, trying to calm down but still breathing heavily out of anger.

Emma's jaw drops. "What?! Why?!"

"Henry's gone. It's all my fault, I should've stopped them from announcing it."

"Announcing what?"

"Edith has said yes to Bertie." Tom explains.

Well, that explains it all.

Emma sighs, coming over to stroke his upper arms. "It's not your fault. This is Mary we're talking about. Edith is happy, she isn't, so she's decided to be horrible."

"I know but I knew, I knew she was suspicious of Marigold. And I invited Henry over. I should've handled it better." Tom grumbles.

Emma presses her lips together, knowing any comments right now will not be helpful.

——

It's gotten worse, Bertie has now asked to be taken to the station. At the front door, a car stands ready with Andy in attendance. Emma stands with Robert and Tom as they wait for Bertie to get in, but he's walked a little way off into the park with Edith.

Tom checks his wristwatch and sighs. "He'll miss his train."

"Let him miss it. He can catch the next one." Robert remarks. "What happened?"

"Apparently, Mary forced Edith to tell him about Marigold." Emma tells him.

"I wouldn't say forced." Tom argues.

Emma rolls her eyes. "It sounds like it to me."

"How did Mary find out?" Robert questions.

"Mary is not stupid." Tom replies.

"No. And she's not always kind, either. Was it really a mistake?"

"What difference does it make?"

They carry on watching Edith and Bertie. Emma wishes it was the opposite but she doesn't blame Bertie for being upset for not being told about Marigold. It isn't long before Bertie touches his hat and moves away, leaving Edith behind.

——

Mary sits in the Estate Agent's office, waiting for Tom to start their day's work. Emma walks in with a face like a thundercloud.

Mary frowns when she sees her. "Where's Tom?"

"Trying to clean up the mess you made, but don't worry, he's failed. Bertie has left for the train, and now Edith won't be the next Marchioness of Hexham." Emma replies hotly.

Mary shrugs calmly. "Well, that's not what I wanted."

Emma narrows her eyes and scoffs. "Isn't it?"

"I still can't believe she'd never told him. How was I to know that?" Mary responds, cool as a cucumber.

"Don't play the innocent with me." Emma warns her. "You should know better."

"I didn't mean it—"

"Don't lie!" Emma shouts at her. "Not to me! You can't stop ruining things! For Edith, for yourself! God, you're a literal child who sees their sibling has a shiny new toy. You'd pull in the sky if you could! Anything to make you feel less frightened and alone!"

"You saw Henry when he was here, high-handed, bullying, unapologetic. Am I expected to lower myself to his level and be grateful I'm allowed to do so? Tom and Billy brought him here. Why are you not yelling at them?" Mary retorts, no longer acting cool and working herself up into quite a passion now.

"Trust me, they've already had a telling off but only because they really should've known what you're like. I mean, just listen to yourself. 'Lower yourself to his level'. You're not a princess in The Prisoner of Zenda!" Emma cries in disbelief.

"I thought you of all people would understand me but you're just like the rest of them." Mary snaps.

"The amount of times I've stood by you, defended you but you've taken it too far!" Emma yells again. "You ruined Edith's life today! How many lives are you going to wreck just to smother your own misery?"

"I refuse to listen!" Mary says furiously, getting up from her chair.

She tries to leave but Emma doesn't move out of her way. Instead, she stares directly into Mary's eyes and calmly states, "You're a coward, Mary. Like all bullies, you're a coward." She marches out having hopefully given Mary a lot to think about.

——

"Christ, I can't– she– urggghhh!" Emma cries, unable to form proper sentences with how angry and frustrated she is. She paces her and Tom's room while her husband sits on the bench at the end of their bed.

"I'm glad you talked to her. I might've throttled her." Tom remarks.

"Don't put yourself down, I was quite close to it myself." Emma huffs. "What are we going to do?"

"I know a way we can sort this. At least partly." Tom tells her.

"How?"

"Violet."

Emma frowns. "Tom, she's somewhere in France. We have no way of contacting her."

"Well, actually. I do." Tom admits.

"Heh?"

He goes to the tallboy in the corner of their room, opens a drawer and pulls out a letter. "She wrote to me. I received it shortly after she'd gone."

He hands it to Emma and she takes it, reading it to see Violet genuinely had written to Tom, detailing where to contact her if need be. Emma grins.

"Why you're smiling?" Tom questions, slightly amused.

"It's funny. She clearly trusts you and to think how to her you were this odd foreigner to her once." Emma remarks.

"'Suppose. But we need to do this quickly." Tom says.

"The nannies usually take the children outside soon. What if we abscond ours and have a trip to the Village. What do you say Mr Branson?" Emma smirks at him.

Tom returns her smirk. "Why Mrs Branson, how clever you are."

——

Emma and Tom are walking through the Village, Emma walks next to Tom as he pushes along Patrick's pram with a letter in hand to drop off at the Post Office. Ivy and Michael are running about just ahead when Miss Baxter, who was rushing past, comes to a sudden stop.

The lady's maid is panting heavily with wide panicked eyes. "Mrs Branson, Emma, you need to come quickly."

"What's happened?" Emma questions, worried for the woman. Ivy and Michael have stopped up ahead, watching them curiously.

"It's Thomas."

That's all Emma needs to hear before her stomach drops to the centre of the Earth.

She looks to Tom, who nods. "Go."

Emma flashes him a thankful smile before turning and beginning to run back to the house with Miss Baxter.

"Mama?" She hears Ivy call.

Not wanting her daughter to panic, Emma smiles calmly over her shoulder, slowing slightly. "Mama just forgotten something sweetheart."

Ivy accepts this and begins tugging Michael along with her to carry on playing.

——

(A/N: This is the suicide part.)

Emma and Miss Baxter hurry through the empty downstairs passage, looking for Thomas. They look in the Servants' Hall, the Boot room – empty. Emma ignores all the odd looks they're getting from the other servants as she has only one thing in mind.

They move on to the stairs, barging past a surprised maid, Lucy, and enter the men's corridor. Andy is just exiting his room, pulling on his tailcoat, when they turn the corner.

"Does Mrs Hughes know you're on the men's side?" He says rather sternly to Miss Baxter before startling when seeing Emma. "Er, Mrs Branson—"

"Where is he?" Emma demands.

"Wha—"

"Mr Barrow. Where is he?"

"Er, he was going in for a bath."

Emma sees all colour leave Miss Baxter's face and she knows that her face has done the same thing.

"Oh, my God." Miss Baxter gasps. "Come with us!"

They rush past him, around a corner and to the door of the bathroom. Andy follows, alarmed.

"Hello!" Emma bangs on the door, Miss Baxter joins her. "Thomas! Are you in there?!" She tries the door handle, but the door is locked or bolted. She rattles it desperately. "Will you open this door?!"

"Get back!" Andy instructs.

Emma and Miss Baxter move back, the former has her hands in her hair, pulling in distress while the latter has her hands clapped to her mouth.

Andy aims a kick at the door, then another one. The second kick tears the bolt off the door frame, and the door bursts open. They rush in.

In the red-tiled room, Thomas has filled the bathtub with water and got into it, still wearing his undershirt and trousers. He's lying in it with his eyes closed, pale and lifeless. The water has a reddish tinge, and there's blood spatter on the sides of the tub, on his arms and on his chest.

"Oh, my God!" Andy gasps, horrified.

Emma goes into nursing mode, running towards him and surveying the damage before she starts tearing her underskirt into ribbons for makeshift bandages.

Miss Baxter turns to Andy. "Fetch Mrs Hughes. Send Anna for the doctor, but tell no one else what you've seen."

Andy runs out and Miss Baxter joins Emma by the bath.

——

Emma and Miss Baxter have lifted Thomas' arms out of the bathtub and bandaged his wrists as best they can with the materials they have and are now cleaning him up, softly dabbing his face and arms with wet towels. In the meantime, Thomas had moved his head slightly but very weakly, which is a relief to see.

Both of them look up in alarm when footsteps are heard and the door opens. But relax when they realise it's only Andy and Mrs Hughes.

Mrs Hughes stands in the doorway for a moment, shocked at the sight, but then recovers quickly, closing the door for privacy. "Anna's gone for Doctor Clarkson."

"Good, we've bandaged his arms for now but we need help in getting him out, changing him out of his wet clothes and get him into bed." Emma tells them.

"I hope he won't mind if we undress him." Miss Baxter says.

"He's past minding if we put him in a shy and threw coconuts." Mrs Hughes remarks. "Now, you two take his feet and Andy and I will take an arm each."

They move to do as she said. Mrs Hughes and Andy each take Thomas under one arm while Emma and Miss Baxter move to the end of the tub.

"Has anyone told Lord Grantham?" Emma asks.

"Mr Carson's seeing to that."

"Right. Here goes." Andy says.

They start pulling Thomas out of the tub. He opens his eyes a fraction and groans. Emma winces at that, her nurse façade falling slightly.

They pause before having a go again.

——

Thomas groans awake.

"Thomas? Thomas?" Emma calls worriedly. They'd been able to get Thomas into his room and change him before Dr Clarkson's arrival. The doctor had been able to treat him without needing to take him to Hospital.

Mr Carson had suggested the idea of telling everyone that Thomas is ill with influenza rather than what had happened. He doesn't want any more people than those who already do to know what happened. Emma agrees with it. As far as she is aware, suicide is a crime in England right now and will be until the latter half of the century. There's the worry that, because Thomas did not succeed, he risks being imprisoned or taken to the asylum. Though for Mr Carson, it's the additional huge scandal for the family.

Robert and Mr Carson have also oh so graciously allowed Thomas to stay for the time being, to take needing to find a job off his mind, which they should have done or something similar at least in the first place.

Emma watches from where she sits at the edge of the bed as Thomas slowly blinks his eyes open. He frowns when he sees Emma, looking slowly over Dr Clarkson, Miss Baxter and Mrs Hughes, who stand behind her before it dawns on him. He suddenly pales.

"I—" His mouth is dry so Emma brings water to his lips to which he takes a sip.

"Mr Barrow, I was able to stitch you up, though Mrs Branson provided superb aid prior to my arrival, so you will not need to go to Hospital." Dr Clarkson kindly but professionally tells him.

"Thank you, Dr Clarkson." Thomas mournfully replies, refusing to look up at anyone.

"And now you're awake and there's nothing else, I will leave you in the diligent care of Mrs Branson and your colleagues." Dr Clarkson adds.

"I'll take you to the door, Dr Clarkson." Mrs Hughes says. The two of them leave.

Miss Baxter lingers for a bit longer, flashing a small, pitying smile in Thomas' direction. "I glad to you're looking better." She says softly before leaving.

As soon as she's left, Thomas pulls a face. "I don't want her pity." Normally that would come out as a grumble but instead, he says it faintly almost like a ghost.

"She's cares for you so you're going to get it whether you like it or not." Emma quips softly.

"Why did you stop me?" He suddenly asks. He fiddles with his bandages to which Emma gently slaps his hands away.

"What? Other than the fact you're my friend and I don't want you to die?" Emma retorts, trying to keep it light.

"Well, you haven't been acting like my friend recently." Thomas retorts.

Emma's face drops. "Yeah, I know I haven't and I'm sorry but I'm my defence, you can be a real bastard sometimes."

"Yeah, I know." Thomas mumbles but this time there's a slight quirk at the corner of his mouth which isn't much but it's something.

(A/N: End of the main part of TW)

——

Emma continues to stay with him for the rest of the day before Miss Baxter takes over and Emma goes to join the others for dinner, at which she learns they'd also been informed of what had happened.

Edith isn't there and has actually gone up to London. After Emma had left Tom, Edith had asked him if he could drive with her to the Station so he could take the car back to Downton. Apparently, the kids had a lot of fun in the spontaneous car ride.

The next day is largely the same though Anna and Miss Baxter take turns in relieving Emma and helping to look after Thomas. At one point in the day, Mary brings both Ivy and George up to visit with oranges to make him feel better. He's still weak and pale but a tad better on what he was yesterday, physically anyway.

Come Friday, Emma sits in the Library with Tom on her break from looking after Thomas/just generally keeping him company. They're on their own as Rosamund, Cora and Robert are getting ready for their tea at Mrs Pamtore's B & B. Rosamund had suggested it, to make a little news story out of it to help with Mrs Patmore regaining the bookings she lost due to the place being deemed a 'house if ill repute'. Emma's glad that's being sorted at least.

Emma is startled out of her musings when Andy comes striding into the room.

Tom looks up from his newspaper. "Andy?"

"The Dowager called, sir. She's returned to the Dowager House and is now making her way to Downton." He hurriedly informs them, a tad out of breath.

Both Emma and Tom's heads snap towards each other at a speed that really should've snapped their heads off.

"That was quick." Emma remarks. "You should go go to the door, Andy. Don't want her in a mood if there's no footman to greet her."

Andy nods and darts out of the room.

Violet's car comes up the drive to the house and halts at the front door. Andy comes out to meet it and opens the rear door for Violet to get out. Tom and Emma come hurrying out of the house to greet her.

"I can't believe you came!" Tom remarks in greeting.

"You made it sound so urgent." Violet retorts.

"Even so, we really appreciate it. Thank you." Emma says. They start moving towards the entrance together. "Was everything all right when you got home?"

"Well no, not really. Spratt has gone away." Violet complains, pulling them to a stop.

Okay, odd.

"Did you tell him you were coming back?" Tom questions.

"A good butler should not need to be told." Emma almost laughs at that but decides not to interrupt Violet as she continues with, "Now, where are they? My broken-hearted granddaughters?"

"It's just Mary. Edith's gone up to London. We didn't know when we wrote." Emma tells her as they continue walking towards the house.

"All the better." Violet says. "Oh, and after that's been sorted, I would rather like to meet Patrick."

Emma smiles at that. "Of course."

——

Thankfully, Mary is not mad at Tom or Emma for summoning Violet though in doing so has appears to have worked as Mary is much happier, ready to make peace with Edith as well as having sent a telegram to Henry to come as soon as he can today. If Mary wants him then Emma's happy for her.

By the time of his arrival, Billy has arrived home from work and stands anxiously with Emma, Tom and Mary in the Library as Henry walks in through the Small Library. The atmosphere is not exactly pleasantly relaxed here. Mary is extremely nervous, Henry looks confused and reserved, Tom is cautiously optimistic but not overly optimistic while Billy is reserved but hopeful. To be honest, Emma just feels exhausted and is just wishing for the sweet release of this being over.

"Well. That's it. We'll leave you to it." Tom announces.

Emma and Billy begin to follow him just as Tom moves to leave, but Henry's voice stops them.

"You don't have to go."

"Believe me, we do." Emma remarks.

"Exactly. We've been part of this courtship for quite long enough. It's for you to manage from here." Billy adds.

And they walk out and close the door behind them. Billy and Tom begin walking towards the stairs, crossing the Great Hall but Emma doesn't, slowing down her steps.

Billy's the one who catches what she's doing first. "Emma?"

"Wouldn't be weird for me to impatiently wait outside the door until I find out whether there'll be a wedding or not?" Emma tries to say it conversationally but instead, it's awkward and she's cringing.

The two men share a grin and Tom turns to her and says, "Weird but we won't stop you." And they both leave, chuckling.

Emma rolls her eyes and plonks herself on the closest chair by the door.

A short time later Mr Carson emerges from the door that leads to the servants' quarters at the corner of the Hall and moves to the door leading to the Library. He startles but recovers quite efficiently when he spots Emma.

"Mrs Branson?"

"Er, don't mind me, Mr Carson. You just get on with your work." Emma says, trying to not act like she's just been caught red-handed spying. Well, not spying but something close to that.

The butler looks at her baffled but does just that. Emma doesn't see what happens but she can tell he's startled at what he sees and then very quietly and discreetly moves back out of the room and closes the door again.

"I take it by you're expression it's good news?" Emma asks, grinning at the almost scandalised look on the man's face. She lets out a few quiet sniggers.

Just then, Mr Molesley arrives with tea on a tray.

Mr Carson outs up a hand to stop the footman when he reaches them. "Uh, give it a moment, Mr Molesley. Better give it a moment."

He gives Mr Molesley a very significant look, which Mr Molesley answers with a soundless "Ooooh!" when the penny drops.

To be honest this sends Emma from quietly sniggering to full-out laughter.

——

"What is it with men Mary is marrying making both you and Billy their best men?" Emma remarks as Tom shrugs on his mourning coat while Emma does his tie.

It's Saturday 22nd of August 1925 and it's the day Lady Mary Crawley and Mr Henry Talbot get married. Apparently, the two aren't hanging about. The last time he was here, Henry had brought a marriage licence nod conveniently, his uncle is a bishop which means they're able to marry at the earliest convenience which is this Saturday.

They're a little late getting ready and are moving at double the speed than they would've done if they hadn't gotten, er um, busy this morning.

Tom laughs. "It is strange that both of us will have been the best man at both if her weddings."

"Funnier things have happened," Emma remarks as she steps away from him and turns to her dresser to slip on her earrings and pull on her gloves. "Did you know Mr Carson had Henry have breakfast in bed so that there would be no chance of either Henry or Mary catching a glimpse of one another?"

"This is Mr Carson we're talking about. He wouldn't take any chances with Mary's happiness." Tom chuckles, as he places the flowers in his lapel and Emma hands him his hat.

Emma steps back to look at him but not before stroking his lapels to make sure there are no creases. "There. You're all set and now you really must go."

Tom flashes her a grin and gives her a quick peck before he leaves the room to meet with Henry and Billy and make their way to the Church.

——

Emma had arrived in time to watch Anna do Mary's hair and put the finishing touches to Mary's wedding dress along with Cora and Rosamund. It's an altogether less romantic, more modern affair than at her wedding with Matthew, but still very elegant, because come on, it's Mary.

The door opens. Edith comes in, still in her travelling clothes. She looks unsure and reserved.

"What? I don't believe it! Why didn't you say to expect you?" Cora exclaims in surprise as she, Rosamund and Emma all rise from their seats.

"Because I wasn't sure until I got on the train." Edith replies.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Can you not ask me that for the rest of the day?"

Mary turns to Emma, Cora and Rosamund. "Could you leave us for a moment?"

"Of course." Her mother says.

Emma, Cora, Rosamund and Anna move towards the door. Anna opens it for the ladies. Cora pauses at Edith's side to stroke her arm encouragingly.

Emma gives her a warm smile. "I'll see to the children."

"We'll wait for you downstairs." Rosamund adds before they all finally leave. Hopefully, there'll be no blood to mop up or a body to hide.

——

Thankfully neither is true and they all arrive at the Church in one piece. The wedding goes swimmingly and they all soon find themselves emerging from the Church after the newly married Mr Henry Talbot and Lady Mary Talbot to applause and people showering the newly married couple with flower petals. They pause to kiss, to more cheering, then move on.

There's a horse-drawn carriage that Mary and Henry take their seat in before it moves off towards the Abbey.

"Better than ours do you think?" Tom asks after they finish waving it off.

"Nah, no wedding will beat ours, I'm certain." She flashes him a warm loving grin to which he kisses her. They pull apart and Emma adds, "Now, only one more Crawley sister to sought out."

Tom sighs. "Hopefully that won't take long."

Emma looks over to see Edith standing in the churchyard, watching Ivy, Marigold, Michael, Sybbie and George with a loving look on her face. The children are running and laughing and playing tag around Sybil's large stone tomb.

Emma rather thinks it'll all turn out fine in the end. With any luck.

——

A/N: Can't believe I started this story just over two years ago and now I'm here with only one more TV episode to go and then it'll be the movies!!! Where does the time go?

Some facts that I thought might be useful:

Tallboy = tall cabinet

'Punch and Judy' is a traditional British puppet show played from a booth, featuring Mr. Punch and his wife Judy as the main characters. Punch is a clownish creature, a jester and a trickster and most of the comedy comes from the other characters falling victim to Punch's slapstick. Punch speaks in a trademark squawky voice, which is traditionally achieved by the performer speaking through a squazzle, but with less discerning audiences like here, any silly voice alteration will do.

Although suicide itself is no longer a criminal act, under section 2 of the Suicide Act 1961 it remains a criminal offence for a third party to assist or encourage another to commit suicide.

Please leave comments on how you're enjoying this story and what you think.

#doctor who

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rubysunnday · 2 years

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the one that got away

Requested by anon: Hello Lottie, I’m so happy for you! You really deserve it because you’re one of the best people out there. Can i have a Colin or Benedict imagine with prompts #3 and #23? You can do whatever you want, but I’d like it to end with fluff! Thank you

Summary: Colin loved her. Yet, she was destined to be the one that got away... until the night of the Dartford ball.

"Colin, I can't afford to wait for you to grow up. I'm sorry."

"Does he treat you nicely?"

"He's one of the nicest men I have ever met. Which, doesn't make this easier, I know but -"

"No. But, as long as you are safe and... and happy."

The conversation had been echoing around Colin's head for months. He'd replayed the entire situation time and time again, trying to see if there could have been a different outcome. But each time, he ended where they had ended.

She'd been right. God, Y/N had always been right. He needed to grow up - to learn what life truly meant and to realise that he couldn't mess around with every woman he saw. It'd taken travelling almost the entire world and spending months away from London from him to grow up.

But he'd still lost her. He'd let her go - watched her marry another man and drive off in a carriage with him to the coast. He'd been an idiot. He'd been so, so foolish.

"Colin?"

Colin's head shot up and he stared at Anthony who was staring back at him - brown eyes concerned.

"Yes?"

"Have you read it?"

"Read what - oh."

Colin looked back down at the copy of Lady Whistledown in his hands - the one his brother had handed him minutes earlier. He glanced through it quickly, skimming the words without reading any of them.

"Why am I reading this?"

Anthony sighed. He reached over and unfolded the paper, pointing to a new paragraph halfway through the second page.

But, as we know, life is never certain. Which is why it is my solemn duty to report the death of the Duke of Norfolk. The duke, who has only recently married the lovely Miss Y/L/N, collapsed in the middle of the Blickling Ball and died later that night.

The newlywed couple had only been married a few months before the duke's untimely death. Their match had been the event of the previous season and was, most definitely, a love match.

This author would like to extend her condolences to Miss Y/L/N and the family of the duke.

Colin read the paragraph. And then again. And then a third time. He stared at it until he could see the grain of the paper - his eyes drying out.

"Brother, sit down before you keel over, I've already had to pick you up off the floor once this week," Anthony said, gently pushing Colin back to a chair.

Colin sat down with a thud, still staring at the newspaper.

"Is she back in London?"

"I've asked mother to keep an eye out and I have also mentioned it to El, see if she hears anything from Penelope."

"Is this true?"

Anthony leant back, leaning against his desk. He crossed his arms and nodded. "I received notification of his death this morning. Signed by his father."

Colin looked up. "I thought his father was dead - that's why he was the duke."

"His father stepped back due to ill health and handed it to his son until... well."

"So, Y/N..."

"I don't know. I don't know if her title as duchess still stands or if she'll hand it back to the family... I don't know, Colin."

Colin stood up and handed the Whistledown back to Anthony. "Thank you, for telling me."

"I didn't want you to read it at breakfast and choke on a peanut," Anthony quipped. "If there's anything I can do, brother..."

Colin nodded. He was a flurry of emotions and thoughts - everything was spinning around in his head. "If you find her, let me know?"

"Of course, I will. I'll see what I can do."

Flowers, it seemed, had many meanings and uses. They could win a woman over in seconds yet they could also express the condolences of almost a hundred people.

Y/N looked around the drawing-room at the copious amounts of bouquets and cards, her heart aching. It was clear how loved her husband had been in Norfolk.

"Another one, ma'am, where would you like it?"

Y/N turned as a maid bustled in holding a large bouquet of violets. "Over on the table, please, Irene."

Irene set the flowers down and plucked the card from amongst the petals, handing it to Y/N as she passed. Y/N opened it and her heart stopped as she stared at the familiar scrawl on the card.

To our dearest Y/N,

Our condolences on the loss of your husband. Should you need us, you know where to find us. We shall keep you in our thoughts.

~ Viscount Bridgerton & family

Despite it being signed by Anthony, Y/N knew he hadn't written it. She stared at the note, her eyes stinging as she tried to hold the tears back. Y/N clutched the tiny, ivory card to her chest and took a shaky breath in, closing her eyes.

The desire to leave Norfolk and return to London was overwhelming. She wanted to be surrounded by people she knew and who loved her. To smell the familiar scent of the summer air in Hyde Park and to attend the endless balls and parties of the social season. To be surrounded by people and to carry on.

The silence was the worst part. The silence and emptiness of the house. She was one of the only people there and the house wasn't even hers anymore.

She had no place in Norfolk, not now.

She was just Y/N again. No duchess, no money, no husband, no home.

"Ma'am."

Y/N turned. Irene was standing in the door, looking solemn.

"The duke and duchess are here, ma'am."

Y/N inhaled deeply, forcing her body to calm down. This was it. The end of her life as she knew it.

"Let them in."

The Dartford ball was, most likely, going to be the highlight of the social season. Lady Dartford had evidently spent a significant amount of money and time on decorating the ballroom and surrounding rooms for the occasion.

Colin was almost impressed.

Candles flickered in the night breeze and a gentle waltz was playing - a few couples dancing around the painted floor like flowers in varying shades of blue.

"Lady Abbot, may I introduce my sons - Anthony, Benedict, and Colin."

As if they were puppets, all three brothers bowed at the same time to Lady Abbot and greeted her with a smile. They were well-rehearsed, unfortunately. Colin was certain - as were his older brothers - that the balls and events of the social season would be far easier to endure if their mother didn't keep forcing women upon them.

"And this is my daughter, Margaret."

Bow, smile, greet.

"At least pretend to pay attention," Benedict muttered, turning his head to Colin's ear.

"This is the third one tonight," Colin said back, "forgive me if I'm not paying her my whole attention."

Colin turned back to the young woman, whose name he'd already forgotten, and plastered a smile on his face, pretending he was listening. He looked behind her as the echo of a cane hitting the floor reached his ears - Lady Danbury had arrived. He looked at the woman next to him and his entire soul dropped.

She was here.

She was here and dressed in purest white, a gentle smile on her face.

Y/N looked up and her eyes found his from across the room and Colin instantly felt as if everything was alright with the world.

Colin made to approach her but stopped as she was swamped by the queen and her endless entourage. He tried not to show his disappointment but it must've been noticeable because Benedict put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. Colin gave his brother a grateful nod and pretended to be engrossed in the young lady in front of him again.

She'd spotted him as soon as she'd walked in. It was hard not to - the three Bridgertons were lined up in a row - A through to C - with their mother over eagerly presenting them to a young lady.

Colin's eyes found hers from across the room and Y/N instantly felt as if everything was alright again.

But then Colin was blocked from view by the queen as she approached - her dress and wig blocking Y/N's entire view of the third Bridgerton.

"Miss Y/L/N, my condolences," the queen said, coming to a sudden halt in front of her.

Y/N curtsied, bowing her head. "Thank you, your majesty."

"As sad as I am about your husband's death... it is nice to see you amongst the ton again. Your presence has been missed."

The queen swept away and Y/N stared after her, surprise evident on her face.

"That is the nicest she has ever been to me," Y/n said, smiling.

"Hmmph, don't get used to it," Lady Danbury grumbled. She slammed her cane into the ground twice and everyone turned to look. "Stopping staring - if you have something to say come say it."

Y/N had never been so grateful for Lady Danbury's abruptness as she was in that moment. The eyes of the room shifted and those bold enough began walking forward whilst those too shy to speak their mind turned away.

The Cowper's were the first to reach her. Mother and daughter dressed in matching shades of blue with their hair braided up high.

"Miss Y/L/N, my condolences," Lady Cowper said, almost pouting in an attempt to look sad. "Your husband was a wonderful man."

"Indeed, he shall be missed," Cressida added, reaching over and putting a hand on YN's arm in what was evidently forced sympathy.

Cressida leant in closer to Y/N as Lady Cowper and Lady Danbury began muttering to one another. Y/N braced herself for whatever insulting comment Cressida was about to say.

"Such a shame you are now a widow, dearest Y/N. I highly doubt any eligible bachelor in the ton will want you..."

There it was.

And as much as it stung - there was a truth to it. Y/N knew that - it had been on her mind from the moment her husband had died.

Cressida moved away and was replaced with Lady Featherington in all her neon glory. Y/N was instantly overwhelmed by the scent of her perfume and forced a smile to her face as Lady Featherington talked at her.

As she stood there, the orchestra began to play music once again, the numerous couples around the room moving to the centre of the floor. Y/N felt her entire body freeze as the music began.

It was the same music from that night.

It was the music he'd died to.

It was the music she'd listened to as her husband died in her lap.

"Excuse me a moment," Y/N muttered, moving away from the crowd of people.

Colin had been stuck talking to the same woman for twenty minutes. Thank god Anthony and Benedict had picked up the conversation when his interest had vanished.

His attention was solely focused on Y/N - a woman who had, up until the orchestra started playing, been taking the entire evening in her stride. But as the music played, Y/N visibly changed, her entire attitude and posture switching from calm to panicked. She made her excuses and suddenly vanished into the back of the room.

"My apologies, ladies, you must excuse me," Colin said, bowing.

"Is everything alright, dearest?" Violet asked, looking at Colin suspiciously.

"Everything is fine, mother, I will not be long," Colin replied, patting his mother's hand.

Colin followed the route Y/N had taken, weaving through the crowds and dodging the mamas and daughters with expert ease.

The gardens called his presence and Colin walked out into them, the cold night air a drastic change from the hot, stuffy heat of the ballroom. He pulled his collar away from his neck, letting the cold air hit his sweaty skin.

Colin looked around the terrace, trying to find Y/N. He couldn't see her - there was no one else out there other than himself.

But then he heard crying. And he saw the hint of something sparkling behind a bush and he knew. Colin just knew.

Y/N heard a twig snap and stood up abruptly, forcing herself to look composed. She wiped the tears from her face and brushed the hair back from her face.

"It's me."

She spun around. Colin stood in the gap between the bushes, his eyes concerned. Y/N looked at him, her brain racing, her emotions bubbling and turning over and over.

Every move in her life so far had been carefully calculated. She couldn't lean into her heart because her heart so often misled her. But now, in the dark of the gardens, Y/N let her heart rule instead of her head.

She all but ran into Colin's arms, circling her arms around his waist tightly and clutching on to him for dear life as the tears began again and the pain hit.

Colin just held her. He didn't say anything, he just held her. As Y/n sobbed, he put a hand on the back of her head and cradled her in his arms, trying to shield her from life and the world.

If he could, he'd never let her be broken again. But he couldn't. So, all Colin could do was make sure he was there to fix her again.

Colin gently pushed Y/N back, tilting her chin up with his index finger. He brushed her tears away with his thumb, letting it slowly drift down and brush over her lips.

"Come with me," Colin whispered.

His fingers interlocked with hers and he gently tugged on her hand. Y/N followed, her grip on his hand tight, and together they walked further into the gardens. Colin led her down a gravel path and into a closed-off garden surrounded by hedges and trees.

"Here, sit," Colin said, leading her to a swing hanging from an oak tree.

Y/N sat down on the swing, her tear-stained face looking up at him with curiosity clear in her eyes.

"I just wanted to say..." Colin paused and took a deep breath in, forcing his emotions down. He had to say this before she vanished again. "I know you don't trust me, which is fine, I understand. But no one should be alone when they're reliving their worst traumas."

Colin sat down on the grass next to the swing and crossed his legs. He looked up at Y/N. "So, I'm going to sit here and whenever you are ready... I'll be there."

Y/N looked down at him as she swung gently back and forth. She gripped the rope holding the swing up and rested the side of her face against the coarse material.

"Why would you choose me?"

It was said so softly that if they'd been anywhere else, Colin would've missed it entirely. He looked at her, frowning as if her question was the stupidest he'd ever heard (an incredible feat considering he lived with seven siblings).

"Why wouldn't I choose you?" Colin replied, his brow deep with confusion. "I'd always choose you, my darling Y/N. Always and forever. I've grown up, now."

Despite everything, Y/N burst out laughing. She dropped her arm down and picked up Colin's hand, their fingers holding on to one another.

"I am sorry, for what I said. It was unnecessarily harsh -"

"But it was true, Y/N. And it was what I needed to hear. It may have taken travelling almost the entire world but I did eventually do some growing up."

Y/N giggled and Colin thought it was the most beautiful sound in the entire world. A sound that no trip abroad would ever be able to replace or capture. Colin had travelled the entire world almost in search of something. Because something was missing from his life.

Y/N. Y/N had been missing from his life.

Now, as they sat in the darkness, their fingers holding onto one another tightly, Colin realised he'd never felt so... content.

His urge to escape and run had vanished. All he needed, was on his left, holding his hand. All he could ever want was by his side. And that was more than enough.

#colin bridgerton #bridgerton #colin bridgerton x reader #colin bridgerton imagine #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton netflix

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iliveiloveiwrite · 3 years

Text

make me be true, make me be blue // Anthony Bridgerton

A/N: As much as I love Benedict, I also love Anthony. The last part of this is extremely inspired by a scene from The Crown - let’s see if you can guess which one! Title: Harry Connick jr - It Had To Be You

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Warnings: arguing, an argument, lots of love and fluff, caring, established relationship, married couple, suggestiveness, female pronouns, use of word ‘wife’.

Word count: 2.8k

As the season in London drew to a close, it could be seen on every face that they were tired of the dancing and the music and the lukewarm lemonade. It was never a comment on the talent of the musicians unless, perhaps, it was a Smythe-Smith musical. Their seasonal musical was never welcomed with much excitement, but very few could say no to the quartet of young women.

Nevertheless, whomever the artist may be, many were glad for the season to draw to a close. Sighing tiredly, you bid your goodbyes to the latest lady to draw you into conversation. Your lavender skirts swish gently under foot as you wander around the lavishly decorated ballroom, in search for your dear husband.

You spy his hair first; the dark brown hair standing a head taller than the rest of the men he currently spoke with. Repressing another tired sigh, you note that the elderly white-haired men Anthony was standing with were of large importance in society.

“The Revolution was over two decades ago, and it seems France traded in one monarch for another,” is what you hear as you sidle up to Anthony. He smiles down at you, hooking his arm through yours, before turning his attention back to the conversation.

Anthony nods along; his interest piqued but not to the point where he would happily contribute to the debate. Instead, he simply offers, “True, a king for an emperor.”

“Surely Napoleon is still in exile,” You comment lightly, eyebrows furrowing at the topic of conversation between the men. They would never see a day of war between them; having enough money between them meaning they would not have dress in a uniform. As such, there was no need for the conversation.

“Dear girl, Napoleon left Elba and landed back in Paris last week. Do you read the papers?” Lord Hugo states, a dismissive look on his face as if questioning your very presence in the conversation. He frowns at your comfortable stance next to your husband, wondering why you aren’t socialising with the other wives.

A flush heats your body; rising anger. Turning to Anthony, you squeeze the hand that rests on his forearm, a silent plea for help but your husband remains silent.

Ducking your head, you state through clenched teeth, “Pardon me, Lord Hugo. I must be making a round of the room; I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was neglecting my womanly duties.”

“As you should,” The Lord replies as you turn your back to him. You bristle from the comment, back straightening despite the corset designed to do such an action. It wouldn’t be long now until Anthony wrapped up the conversation; seeking you out through the crowd. For you however, the ball was over – nothing left to be said.

------------

Stalking through the large house, you ignore the increasing calls of your husband. Having left the carriage in a hurry of skirts, silks and ribbons, Anthony had begun immediately calling your name – wanting you to stop and wait, to stop and listen.

Even the Butler remains silent as he catches a glimpse of your face and the thunderous expression it currently holds. Silently, the Butler offers a prayer for the wellbeing of Viscount Anthony Bridgerton.

“You’re really going to remain silent?” Anthony calls from the bottom of the staircase, one foot poised on the bottom step, ready to launch himself upstairs at a moment’s call.

Pausing in your retreat, you throw a glare at your husband. A look that definitely shows you were not up for talking on the stairs.

Anthony nods, seemingly understanding this. “So it’s the silent treatment until we’re in our room,” He pauses, beginning the ascent to the bedroom he has shared with you since the first night of your marriage, “Understandable.”

You roll your eyes, walking away from the man that had managed to vex you so thoroughly.

Shoving open the door to your shared bedroom does little to siphon off some of the anger you feel. In fact, it only increases when you try to work the laces of your dress free by yourself, frustrated tears brewing in the corner of your eyes as you manoeuvre yourself into every position possible to try and free yourself.

Slumping at your dressing table, you come to realise that it was more humiliation that you felt.

Your husband was a marvellous man; intelligent, funny, respectful and incredibly handsome. Yet, he had moments where he could so fantastically obtuse.

The moment played in your mind on a constant loop; the words of disdain from the Lord, Anthony’s silence. A constant loop in your mind; it would be a while before your mind rested enough to let you have some peace.

Brushing your hands through your hair, you loosen the pins that keep in place, beginning the painstaking process of removing them. All the while thinking that if the night had gone better, Anthony would be the one removing them, offering you a kiss for each pin removed.

--------

Anthony had taken his time walking to the bedroom, running through the events of the evening, thinking where he might have gone wrong – said the wrong thing, done the wrong thing. He found the moment; realised what he had said or rather, what he hadn’t said, and how it had come across. Lord Hugo was an incredibly influential man, and whilst Anthony outranked him in his peerage, his youth made him all but an inexperienced whelp in Hugo’s eyes.

Hindsight was truly an excellent gift to possess. He should have said something; Hugo’s influence be damned. He should have spoken up; should have defended you.

Gently, he rests his forehead against the closed door of the bedroom. He takes a deep breath and places a hand on the wooden panel; desperate to reach through to you, but he knows that there is far more on your mind than comfort at this point.

Anthony enters the bedroom slowly, closing the door softly behind him. “Are you ready to talk me now, darling?” Anthony asks, voice soft but tone wary as he takes in your defeated state.

“You humiliated me in front of that odious man by staying silent.”

His eyes widen; truly unaware of such a misdeed taking place. “I didn’t know, truly.”

“That’s what hurts most, Anthony. This is not a marriage of equals, darling. I know you love me as much as I love you, but I have brought nothing to this marriage. I did not get the pleasure to go to university despite doing so well in my studies. I cannot travel freely, and I cannot speak my mind whenever I damn well please. There are going to be some topics that I am not going to be an expert on, but you can try your best not to defend me when I get things wrong.”

“Darling, I didn’t mean any harm.”

You sniffle, wiping away the few tears that have dared to fall. “I know you didn’t, yet it still happened.”

Anthony opens and closes his mouth, searching for something – anything – to say that could make this better, but nothing comes to mind, so nothing leaves his mouth.

A pained noise leaves your lips as you turn away from your husband, reaching for your face cream, your hairbrush – anything to keep your hands busy and the tears at bay.

Finally, a sigh is all you hear, and you figure that the conversation is done for the evening. A lingering kiss is placed to the top of your head before Anthony leaves the bedroom, presumably retiring to his study.

Once free of the confines your dress, you dress for bed, crawling under the covers. Running a hand down your face, you couldn’t help but hope Anthony would join you soon. Despite the anger you felt at the man, you couldn’t fall asleep without him next to you.

---------

You wake alone. Anthony’s side of the bed is ruffled; he had joined you an hour after you had slide under the covers. He hadn’t said anything; he had simply gathered you in his arms, holding you tightly, pressing apologetic kiss after apologetic kiss to whatever piece of bare skin he could reach.

Stretching a hand to his side of the bed, the sheets are cold. Reaching for his pillow, you hold it to your face, inhaling the spiciness of whatever cologne he used last night. Keeping the pillow close, you turn onto your back, thinking over the events of last night.

You had every right to be annoyed; you had every right to feel the way you did. If this was a different society, you would not rely on Anthony to defend you – you would have spoken your mind to Lord Hugo. But this was not a different society, and its trappings were stifling. For the hope of future generations, you couldn’t help but pray things would soon change.

------------

The day moves slowly. Tea with Anthony’s mother and sisters followed by a visit to the modiste. No sign of Anthony with every visit home and your mood drops with every shake of the Butler’s head.

Eventually, you find refuge in the library, searching through the books and the papers there. It had been so long since you had read something that was not a romance. Pride and Prejudice had been published just two years ago and you had read it countless times; enjoying the author’s way with words and her creation of Mr. Darcy. However, instead of picking up the latest romance, you chose to return to the books you had so adored in your education – historical accounts of past monarchs and their reigns, accounts of wars.

It was not for the sake of Lord Hugo who sneered at you with such derision; it was for your benefit. Knowledge was free and you owned the library through marriage, why shouldn’t you take a look?

-----------

The Butler clearing his throat is what brings your attention back to the present. Having lost yourself so freely in an account of the witch hunts that had plagued the north of England; the book had caught your eye, tucked away and gathering dust. The subject had immediately caught your interest, and you soon found yourself searching for all the books you could on the subject.

Smiling sheepishly at the Butler, you ask, “Have some guests arrived? I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

He shakes his head, smiling fondly at you, “I thought you would like to know that the Viscount has returned home. He is currently in his study.”

Standing from your chair, you deposit your book on a table before thanking the Butler and rushing up the stairs to Anthony’s study. You pause just outside the door, gathering yourself, tidying your appearance and slowing your breathing to an acceptable rate.

Knocking on the door, your heart begins to pound in your chest as you hear his warm voice giving you permission to enter.

Anthony freezes in his chair when he sees you enter his study. Your eyes are bright and there’s a faint flush to your skin that has Anthony’s eyes raking over your body, curious to know what’s caused such a reaction in you.

“Darling,” He greets, voice kind and warm.

“Darling,” You reply, watching the smile grow across his face when he hears the fondness in your voice.

“How has your day been?” Anthony asks, drawing out the inevitable conversation.

You smile widely, “I spent most of it in the library, reading.”

“A new romance novel?”

You shake your head, smoothing down the skirts of your sage green dress, “The trials of the Berwick and Pendle witches.”

Anthony’s eyes widen almost comically. “I didn’t even know we had books on the topic.”

“Neither did I, but I’ve been reading through the accounts all day. It truly is fascinating. Did you know History was my strongest subject when I was in education?”

Again, Anthony shakes his head. He didn’t know; he hadn’t asked. You shrug, “Arithmetic, Geography, Latin… They never grasped me as much as History did. I would read for hours about whatever I could find: the Tudors, the Saxons, military strategy…” At the further widening of Anthony’s eyes, you continue, “I suppose as I grew older and I was then out as a debutante, I lost the habit.”

“Perhaps,” Anthony murmurs before saying, “You can always find the habit again.”

You smile widely; the grin brightening your face as it stretches to your eyes. “I was hoping you’d say that darling,” You begin, “I want to be more involved, Anthony. I don’t want to be a silent partner; I want to be there; I want to comment. I want to know what is happening with foreign affairs whether it is Napoleon or the price of tea. I want to know because I want to be on a more equal footing with you. I refuse to be humiliated that way again; it was awful, to be dismissed in that manner by that loathsome man.”

You stand before your husband, chest heaving in your restrictive dress. The words lay loud in the room; your plea for Anthony to speak up for you, your demand for further equality in your marriage.

“I called on Lord Hugo this afternoon,” Anthony states rather plainly after you fall silent, as if the meeting had been in his date book for months.

“You did?” You frown at him; wondering whether he had heard a single word that you had flung into the great expanse.

He nods. “He was rather surprised to see me. I’ll admit I didn’t plan on calling on him, but I kept thinking of last night and how destroyed you looked. I don’t ever want to see that look on your face again for as long as I shall live. So,” He shrugs, “I paid the Lord a visit.”

“How did it go?”

Anthony holds his right up and it is then that you see the dark purple now beginning to bruise his knuckles. “I may have lost my temper when I remembered how he spoke to you and how you felt afterwards,” Anthony pauses and then laughs loudly, “And I may have punched him in the face.”

“Anthony!” You berate, repressing the urge to roll your eyes at your ever vexing husband. “Is anything broken?”

He shakes his head, smiling widely, “Only Hugo’s nose.”

“My hero,” You drawl, heart racing as you take in the man that you married. The smart, brilliant and hot-headed man that you promised your forever to who had defended your honour against the man who had rudely spoken to you last night. He grins cheekily at your words, wiggling his fingers to show you that there was nothing broken – he was fine.

“You can read whatever you’d like,” He states firmly, “You can study whatever you like. Humiliate the man if there’s a next time.”

“Thank you,” You reply, holding your head high as you smile gratefully at the love of your life.

Anthony stands from his chair, having now recovered from the shock of your speech and the ease of which he can accept your demands. He had never been the easiest man to get along with; stubborn and set in his ways long before he ought to have been, but you had taken him in your stride, loving him just as fiercely as he loved you.

He rounds the desk. All the while his gaze does not leave yours. A sensual smile spreads across his face as he watches you wring your hands together – a nervous tic if there ever was any.

Leaning against the desk, Anthony crosses his ankles, resting hands upon the lip of his desk. He remains happy in the knowledge that even after the honeymoon period of your marriage was over, you would still track his every move. Your eyes dancing over his figure as he rests his weight upon the desk.

“There’s something different about you,” He finally says, breaking the silence of the room.

“Oh?” You whisper, your shoulders rolling back as you try to think about what could have changed – a new dress? A new attitude?

“You’re surer of yourself. It makes you look taller.”

“I don’t particularly think I’ve gained any height.”

“Perhaps not,” Anthony allows; a seductive smile on his face as he tilts his head to one side, regarding you. “But it presents me with two options.”

“And they are?”

“Well,” He begins, running a hand through his thick hair, “I could go and find a ladder to reach the new height of my tall wife or…”

Anthony trails off, leaving you in suspense as you find yourself taking those first few steps closer to him. Desperate to be in his arms, to be touched by the man you love - body and soul.

“Or…” You breathe; voice raspy with growing need.

“Or” Anthony beams, “She can get on her knees.”

***********

Bridgerton taglist: @heloisedaphnebrightmore @dreaming-about-fanfictions @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown @janelongxox @aspiringsloth20 @wallwriterstuff

#anthony bridgerton #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony x reader #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #anthony bridgerton fanfic #anthony bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton imagines

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ravenadottir · 3 years

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Hear me out: headcannons about Bobby growing old with mc🥺 (I needed some fluff T-T)

no no no no no, you can’t just come in here and do this to me!! that’s so wholesome! i think i’m gonna have to divide this in decade marks, and maybe stop at the 30 year mark? i can do a part II later. 🤔

‘10 year mark’

the ‘mckenzie’ brand has expanded to restaurants, bars and bakeries all over the uk

the bars are considered a hot spots in the big cities. pictures of young ‘paisley cuddle’ are scattered on the walls, along with the pics from the villa’s parties, to set the theme

the restaurants have bobby and his experiences with famous chefs, like jake ‘sweetcheeks’ wilson, mary berry, gordon ramsey, wolfgang puck.

the bakeries however have the pictures from the time bobby went on the bake off show and won.

there’s small town models of the bakeries/restaurants that are seen as ‘family diners’

you and bobby already have two kids, 4 years apart from each other. in my head bobby is the type to have them earlier so they can live their best life together, have fun in the kitchen or in the backyard playing ball.

he loves throwing birthday parties every year, and of course, baking the cake. to which year is a different theme. “babe, you take care of the decorations and the details i’m definitely gonna forget, and me?” he puffs his chest holding a whisk. “i’m the cake guy.”

bobby is the reason why the kids love the parties so much. he’s the type of parent that goes on the slider with the kids, jumps with them in the bounce house, starts the water balloon wars…

the parents are so thankful for him since he’s pretty much the one who keeps an eye on them at all times.

usually, he’s waking up early every day because it became a habit since his hospital times. he never really shook that habit. so he prepared breakfast, takes the dog out, while you wake the kids up to eat and rush them to school

the dad that takes two different cameras and a phone to film and take pictures during his kids’ public presentations, games, recitals and science fairs “dad, one phone is enough” “yeah, but your dad needs backup! i’m from the 90′s darling. i can’t be any different” he says, shrugging with a grin.

you guys have a small house on the outskirts of glasgow or london, depending on who won the bet you had when you got married.

you’re pregnant again. entirely unplanned and now bobby can’t stop crying,. he always wanted three kids.

‘15 year mark’

a third child came three years ago, which made you consider a much more peaceful place to buy a house. and a bigger one for that matter.

bigger bakyeard means more people and their kids playing around the lawn, as bobby and gary grill sausages, making stupid jokes about it, and you and the girls have drinks shaking your heads.

you and bobby are gary’s kids’ godparents

ibrahim can’t come, he’s to busy making mad money on brand deals. noah is calming the kids down, by reading something in the living room, while bobby shakes a cocktail for the tired parents.

gary gives you a new couple of puppies, because the dog you had has unfortunately passed away. (sorry!)

your first kid is just turning 13 and being a little pain in the ass. but they like their uncles and aunties so they will actually raise their heads from *inser new device that will replace phones*

you guys travel in your car, to spend a week in cabins, fishing, playing ball, having picnics close to the lake

bobby always throws at least one of the kids in the water, before jumping in and splashing everyone. “bet you can’t do better than that, babe…” he says to you, raising his brows suggestively. “watch me, mckenzie.”

summer time and the lake became a tradition since it was the first place you and him spent a holiday alone

the employees that attend to you in hotels refer to you as “the mckenzie’s”

in the city, you have a trustworthy babysitter that will spend the night so you and bobby can have some time alone

he surprises you with dates and flowers out of nowhere

early nights are made for you and bobby to help the kids with homework

at this point, bobby is invited to be a special guest in cooking/baking competitions in the uk

and to have a “masterclass” of hiw own, where he mostly credits you for the idea of expanding, the execution of the administrative plans and how to actually expand a business. “i only do the cooking. she’s the genius behind the money.” he laughs while crossing his legs during his online course.

‘20 year mark’

kids’ sad times. graduations are happening. the youngest is entering third grade, the other one is in uni, far from home. “did you have to choose something so far from your old man?” “dad… of course! how else would i have a ‘paisley cuddle’ phase?” they respond, laughing. “i should’ve never told you thats story! now you’re having ideas!” “relax dad. everything is gonna be fine!” the middle one is entering high school and their rebellious phase.

bobby follows through with his part of the deal when you got married, by wearing something ridiculous to embarrass your kid at their graduation. “dad, you look like a hawaiian drug dealer.” “ i know,” “oh, so it wasn’t dark when you got dressed? mom!” “what can i say, your dad doesn’t care for blacks and blues.” “yeah, right…”

professionaly, bobby has a renowned signature dish, plenty of new ideas for the future, like school and courses.

the house is the same you bought five years ago, but now, it’s mostly parents getting together for barbecues, cocktails, movies and game nights

the younger children stay in the tv room upstairs

‘25 year mark’

your second child didn’t go to uni, and decided to help out on the family business. they always felt like this was the life for them and couldn’t wait to finish school to start.

bobby wanted them to go to school to learn everything they could “but dad, you didn’t, and you know so much.” “oof, they got you there, babe.”

you have a second wedding ceremony and a second honeymoon

bobby has a few grey hairs popping through his dreads

he’s still wearing colorful shirts and girls on social media call him ‘daddy’

he’s been invited to cook for the queen (yes, she’s still alive)

you see your friends a few times more a year now.

your third child is going to uni, to follow a career path you never imagined they would, but you’re proud of them

you decided to sell the house, that’s so big now, and find a smaller one that still has an extra bedroom for when your oldest comes to stay with their partner

bobby cracks dad jokes now, and according to gary, he picked them up from him “sure, gary, ‘cause you’re the only man on the planet who tells dad jokes” “stop bickering! you’re like an old married couple.” you say, slapping their arms playfully

‘30 year mark’

your first child just had their first child

“you’re a grandpa, bobs!” gary slaps him on the back, picking up a box of cigars that they will share with noah and ibrahim.

“can’t believe i’m this old.” “if you’re old, what am i?” you ask him, folding your arms on your chest. “beautiful?” he responds with a clear guilty expression.

‘things that would happen at all times during this entire journey’

bobby would sing to the kids every night

you would read them bedtime stories, taking turns to do the voices

it’s a tradition to cook together on special occasions, no matter what happens. the three kids, you and bobby would always spend the day listening to music, talking about life, slicing, sauteeing, mixing, measuring. it’s a tradition that will never die

when your grandkids come around, they will be the the ones resposible for measuring

drawings that your kids do in school akways have extra colors on bobby’s outfits. his name also has more than three colored letters

bobby has taught your kids how to play the guitar

rainy afternoons were known as “dad’s baking afternoons”

you and bobby had a hard time to find a compromise between being friends and parents.

open conversations with your kids, about everything. they knew what to expect in the world.

bobby’s parents would visit, to spend a whole weekend and share stories of his childhood, as yours would too

family vacation always had a ‘car trip and singing along to the radio’ type of tradition as well

your oldest now takes their child for family vacation in the same spot you and bobby used to

twice a year you guys rent a place for the family to have some bonding, even after they get married (or not)

“your dad is the finest pillow fort architect in the uk”

camping in the backyard when you had to cancel a trip

you’re in charge of coaching and playing sports in the back of the house while bobby relaxes under the sunlight “i was never very athletic”. he’s the empire

*these are the ones on the top of my head. i must’ve left dozens behind :/

#litg #love island the game #love island the game season 2 #litg s2 #litg season 2 #fusebox #fusebox games #bobby mckenzie #queue #submission #litg bobby

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sevsnapeposts · 3 years

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Snapetober Day 1: Autumn.

hi everyone! today finally starts the snapetober, are you excited? i sure am. so i decided to write for it, but will eventually (once october is done) do art for every day. today we start with a recollection of memories throughout the years from Prue's POV. you can read it over in ao3 if you'd like, and also if you'd be kind enough, go give me some kudos over there. thanks, hope you enjoy~.

Day 1 - Autumn.

---

1993.

Prue was on the Hogwarts Express, heading to London, where she would meet the Malfoys to spend the holidays with them. Usually her mood would be pessimistic and she would find herself terrified to imagine what was going to get into her room on any of those nights, but honestly, the girl couldn't think of anything other than her Potions professor.

If she closed her eyes, she couldn't help but sigh, remembering each second intensely, her heart racing as she imagined his face shocked at her, at the actions she had taken. Her pulse reached its peak when she recalled everything she saw then, as if time had stopped to give her the opportunity to perfectly memorize the details, even the smallest of them: Black hair surrounding the pale face, agitated by the staggering and the autumn air that little by little became more wintry with the passing of the days; confused, puzzled, and a tinge of scared,black eyes, unsure what the hell was going on, and also (and Prue blushed just thinking about it) expectant, hopeful; pale skin gently reddened at certain points, such as the cheekbones and the tip of the nose, due to the cold and, she dared to suspect, due to her, to her closeness to him; and finally, the area where her attention had focused the most: His lips, thin and pale, slightly parted, perhaps because they were ready to say "what the bloody hell is wrong with you, Pennyworth?"sentence that was never heard.

The girl had wondered many times, over the last few weeks, what it would be like to feel those lips on hers. Were they as cold as the words that his owner spoke with them? Or would they be warm and kind like his hands that day that he accompanied her in her solitude?

She smiled widely, for the second time in her life, thinking that she finally knew the answers to her questions.

1994.

If there was one thing she never thought could happen to her, it was having a boyfriend. She knew she was complicated and difficult, and she wouldn't have been surprised to spend the rest of her life not romantically intimate with anyone… But it had happened, much to her surprise.

And, even to her greatest surprise, something happened that had seemed even more unlikely: she was the one who ended the relationship. He didn’t throw her away, he didn’t abandon her as practically everyone else, he didn’t leave her. Even when the relationship ended, he didn’t do any of that, because he was still with her, as her friend, perfectly understanding that one does not rule in love.

It happens that she wasn’t able to bear someone else's heart, not when she knew that hers was beating strongly for that man with eyes as dark as his robes. Prue understood now, sitting under one of the huge trees that marked the beginning of the Forbidden Forest, surrounded by brown and orange and yellow and green leaves, that it wasn’t that she would never find someone for her, but rather, that she didn’t want someone other than him.

1995.

Prue was hating badly that year. Not even the cookie-scented breeze provided any consolation for how gross it was to have that damn pink toad (ruining her favorite color, by the way) shutting down basically everything good at Hogwarts.

What did serve as comfort, however, was the fact that Severus sympathized with her at her annoyance for that woman. One day, she had even managed to make him laugh — Severus bloody Snape, laughing openly in front of her. Prue had never seen anything so cute, something that could completely melt her cold heart. Her powerful memory perfectly captured that moment, treasuring it alongside the memory of two years ago. Those were things that she would never forget, things that would forever be in her heart, and things that were reproduced in her imagination while the pink toad taught her.

1996.

The echo of the rain traveled all the way down from the surface of the Dark Lake, the air up there being so wild that it dragged a lot of the fallen leaves and twigs into the water, making everyone thankful to be inside the castle, warm from the fire in the chimneys, eating pumpkin and butter biscuits.

Prue wasn't eating any biscuits however, but she didn’t mind. From the huge window she could clearly see how the Lake was disturbed by the storm, even though she was several feet below the surface. Beside her lay her teacher, fast asleep and more than likely exhausted. She took advantage of that moment to admire his features, so relaxed and soft, doing justice to the kind of person he was, to the feelings that were in him, and in her, and between them. She wanted to touch him, and caress him, and wander over his skin again, every part of his skin, with her lips.

Her memory was prodigious, and she knew every part of him.

But her body wasn't, and she was determined to tattoo her skin with his.

1997.

It wasn't going to be easy, she knew, even though they'd only been in school for a couple of months. Voldemort wasn't there, personally, but all the bloody putrefaction in him was. It was flooding London, and Diagon Alley, and Hogsmeade, and Hogwarts, and Severus. He looked worse every day, as if his own death was drawing closer and closer, and Prue knew it was a very likely possibility.

Not only was he at risk. Less, true, but she was also in danger, Voldemort's gaze was on her, very interested in her performance and with a clear desire to recruit her. She was powerful, young, gifted in Dark Arts and from a pure-blood family: Everything Voldemort valued.

And Prue was terrified, even though her expression was as blank as ever. For her to a lesser extent, for him mainly, and for whatever was in store for the Magical World.

But she would be strong, for the same reasons that terrified her, and one way or another, she would see Severus laugh again.

1998.

It had been several months since things were finally over, as far as Prue was concerned. The school year had started a bit late, but Hogwarts had finally reopened its doors to students. Minerva McGonagall was the headmistress, and Severus went back to the Potions, and she went back to him.

It was the first Saturday of the year. Severus was sitting next to her, both hiding in one of Hogwarts' secret gardens, where no one could find them except, perhaps, McGonagall, but the woman liked Severus (and Prue) enough to not interrupt their intimate time together.

‘Intimate’ as in holding hands, her head resting on his shoulder, whilst silently watching the sky, as so many years ago they had done. In the center of the garden was a tree, with leaves that were turning more and more yellow and orange. INot a single one had fallen yet, and Prue, for some reason, really wanted to witness the event.

The young girl, almost a woman now, turned her piercing green eyes from it to her companion. He was looking back at her now, black eyes with a different glow, one that brought life to his entire face and made her heart race like a restless child in summer. Without saying anything, because there was no need, the young woman approached him, closing her eyes, soon feeling the soft contact of his lips for the first time in a long time.

When Prue pulled away from Severus, out of the corner of her eye she noticed movement, and she turned just in time to see an orange and red-hued leaf hit the ground after gliding gently in the wind. She smiled like she only did when she was with him. Before giving him time to ask, because she knew that he had noticed her smile and felt the joy that basically radiated from her, the young woman spoke:

"I would like to spend the rest of my autumns with you”.

Severus didn't reply, but his smile said more than enough.

#snapetober #snapetober 2021 #pro snape #snape x oc #severus x oc #severus snape #snapedom #harry potter original character #original character #oc #harry potter fanfiction #fanfic #day 1

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padfootagain · 3 years

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The King And You (XII)

Part 12 : Heaven Sometimes

Hi everyone! I'm back with a new chapter for this fic of mine! I know it's been forever since I updated it (and any fic for that matter) but my mental health is not great rn, so I'm struggling a little to write. Now, that being said, here is a new chapter and I hope you will enjoy it :)

Only fluff for this one! Tooth-rooting fluff all over the place! Enjoy ;)

Pairing: Caspian x Reader

Word Count: 2534

The light was perfect. One of the reasons why you loved your flat was the view from your window, down onto the busy streets and, in the distance, the skyscrapers tickling the sky. And this afternoon more than ever before the light that came in from your window was perfect. Yellowish and yet bright. Charged in dust just enough to create rays falling onto glistening rooftops. The sky still blue was starting to turn orange around the edges, a line along the horizon that became golden.

You let out a satisfied sigh as you mixed the pigments and the oil with a brush, studying the painting you had started a couple of hours before. You still had some work to do, but the shapes were beginning to change into what you wanted to represent, the buildings now for the most part recognizable by anyone who would look by your window.

A record was playing in your living room, an old hippie music filled with soft guitar ballads that breathed of sunshine and spoke of love. Soft, calm, sunny. The music felt like the light bathing the city that afternoon. And from time to time, the soft rhythms were disturbed by shuffling sounds coming from the couch behind you.

Caspian was sitting on your sofa, he was reading one of your books he had picked up from your shelf. But he didn't seem very interested in the story, as he spent most of his afternoon watching you.

The way you moved your pencil across the canvas, and the little frown that settled upon your brow as you focused on your task, the hues staining your fingers and your old t-shirt as you made a mess, the way the light danced across your features and changed the colour of your eyes as time ran by… Yes, his view from the sofa was much more interesting to him than the piece of fiction he had selected from your collection. A dreamy smile brightened his features as he studied you, as if he were in a museum admiring an ancient statue. Not only through your beauty was he reminded of the feeling, but by the peaceful feeling that settled across his chest too. This soft and quiet peace of mind and heart that creeps through anyone who looks at a piece of art and can't look away, wondering whose hands had carved the stone to create them, or bathed the brushes in the right hues. There is a ceremonial, almost holy feeling that hovers over art pieces of that kind, a sort of respect that both draws you in and pushes you away from their world. Caspian felt exactly this way as he stared at you, like he had found the piece that moved him to his bones and yet that was unreachable, a kind of beauty he longed for and echoed through his soul, and yet he would never deserve.

You knew he was staring at you, and had it been anyone else, you would have felt extremely uncomfortable if subjected to such scrutiny, but coming from Caspian, it merely brought warmth to your cheeks.

None of you were talking, hadn't uttered a word since lunch over four hours ago, but none of you were bothered by the silence that filled the room. It was a soft kind of silence, the comfortable one that could only appear in a room filled with people in love. Affection sometimes makes even nothingness beautiful.

A few days had passed since your confession in the park, and a few more remained before you would both travel to London, but the journey ahead of you was for now out of your thoughts. For now, all that mattered to both of you was to spend as much time as you could together. To the excitement and happiness that came along a new relationship slowly coming into blossom was added the knowledge that, no matter how happy the two of you were and how right being together felt, Caspian would soon be gone. Your days together being counted, you didn't want to waste away the time you had left together by worrying. Instead, you chose to live your love for him day by day, you would take whatever the wind would blow your way in the end. For now though, you painted the street you had drawn a thousand times before with a new softness showing in every shade you chose and every stroke of the brush that you applied. Love has a way of making art better, after all.

Caspian seemed to have chosen the same path as you, and had not mentioned again the trip to London, nor what would happen there. You were both locked in a bubble that you knew would explode soon, but protected you for now.

Eventually though, Caspian stood up and walked over to your spot in the room, wrapping his arms around your frame to press your back to his chest. He kissed gently the top of your head, before resting his cheek right above your ear. His gesture made you chuckle, a grin appearing across your lips.

"Do you need something? Or are you just being clingy?" you asked with a playful giggle.

"I guess I am clingy," Caspian admitted with a chuckle of his own that made his chest vibrate against you.

"You're a hopeless romantic, that's not surprising," you teased.

"Maybe I am. Or maybe you are turning me into one. Although, I should point out that so far, you have not protested against this part of me in the slightest, and have rather encouraged it, in fact."

"What are you insinuating? That I'm as sappy as you?"

"I'm afraid so, my love."

You hummed contently, forgetting about the subject of the conversation completely as you settled more comfortably into his embrace.

"I like it when you call me like that."

"My love?"

"Hmmm… yeah, I love it."

Caspian chuckled, kissing your temple.

"Who is being a hopeless romantic now, huh?"

"Oh, shut up!"

Caspian tried to fake outrage, but could only smile instead.

You checked your watch, for the first time in this afternoon, realizing at last that time had been flying by faster than you had realized. You heaved a sigh, but put down your brush.

"I'm gonna prepare dinner, what would you like?" you asked Caspian, who tightened his hold on you as a response.

"Wait for a little longer."

"Aren't you hungry? It's quite late."

"Yes, I am. But… If you move away, it will mean that the afternoon is over and… this moment is too nice to end just yet."

You rested your hand on his over your shoulder, intertwining your fingers with his and drawing silly patterns of stars and circles over his knuckles with your thumb.

"You're right. Five more minutes, then."

You closed your eyes, and were quite certain that you had fallen asleep when Caspian moved away from you, although not without placing one last chaste and tender kiss on the side of your head. He walked over to your shelves filled with books, and seemed to be bruising across your collection. You guessed that the one he had picked earlier really wasn't to his taste, and the thought made you chuckle as you shook tenderly your head at him. You left him to his search for a better story to get lost into in favour of preparing a meal, your stomach now painful with hunger. You were almost done when Caspian came to join you in the kitchen, helping you to set up the table.

"Did you find an interesting book?" you asked as you brought the pasta dish you had prepared to your tiny table.

A mischievous and yet saddened smile appeared on Caspian's lips.

"You can say that," he elusively answered.

He was standing by the table, and by now you were used to having him not sit down before you. Some kind of extra-politeness, you guessed. He pulled the chair for you when you walked to your side of the table, and you thanked him with an amused smile while he was sitting down himself.

"Why so mysterious?" you insisted. "What book did you get?"

"Oh… huh… something about… robots? It's some kind of… machine, that… lives? Very strange but… interesting."

You shook your head at him, surprised that he would be curious about something so different from the world he knew. But then, he kept on surprising you a little more every day.

Caspian glanced at the clock up on your yellow wall, that seemed to glimmer in gold as the sun was setting, ending its course beyond the tall buildings of New York City. He heaved a sigh before speaking again.

"I should go back to Agatha's after diner, it will be quite late already by then."

"Oh… you want to go back there?"

Even if you had spent most of your time together for the past few days, Caspian had always spent the night at Agatha's, and you were fine with that. After all, it had been but a few days since your kiss in Central Park, and a few weeks since the two of you had met. And despite your time together being limited, you didn't want to rush into things either. You wanted to take things slow, wanted to simply enjoy the moments you had with him.

And maybe, despite how abundantly clear Caspian had been, there was a little part of you that still held to the hope that maybe all of this was just a misunderstanding, that perhaps Narnia, despite the odds, wasn't real at all. And then, if that was the case, Caspian wouldn't have to leave.

So you wanted to take things slow, but still, things were going so well with him, and there wasn't any denying that your new boyfriend was extremely attractive. And maybe you were ready to do a little bit more than hugging him and talking with him for hours.

Meanwhile, Caspian stared at you with a puzzled expression.

"Well… I hardly have any other place to stay."

"You… you could… stay here," you hesitantly stuttered.

Caspian considered your offer for a moment. He did want to spend more time with you, but your sofa was really too uncomfortable, and he knew he wouldn't be able to get any sleep if he had to settle there for the night. And that was even without mentioning that the knowledge of having you sleeping down the hall would make it impossible for his mind to calm down enough to succumb to slumber.

He offered you a warm smile, a little teasing, with one end of his mouth turned upright and an amused glimmer shining in his brown, almost black eyes.

"Thank you for your offer. I do have to admit that it is tempting, we would spend more time together this way. But – and I hope you don't take this remark badly – your sofa is way too uncomfortable for me to stay there all night."

He was expecting you to laugh, maybe to shyly get a gulp of your water to hide this divine smile of yours. But you didn't. Instead, you were frowning at him, as if you didn't understand what he meant.

"The sofa? Why would you spend the night on the sofa?"

It was his turn to look at you with puzzled eyes.

"Well… where else would I sleep?"

"I meant… I meant to ask you if you wanted to stay the night… with me…"

It's only by the look in your eyes that he finally understood what you truly meant. And his reaction was to fiercely blush, all the way up to the tip of his ears.

"Oh… I… I…"

"It's okay if you don't want to or… if you're not attracted to me or…"

You let your sentence suspended in mid-air to hover over the room. You were all shy now, closing yourself from him, and Caspian could recognize the signs of your uneasiness. Maybe he wasn't reacting to this the way he should…

"I… I can't…"

He took a deep breath, remembering that you were from another world. And so, he adopted a different attitude.

"Is it normal in your world? To… be this… intimate before… marriage?"

You frowned at him again, but seemed to make the same realization too that, despite the two of you getting along so well and understanding each other to such a degree, you were not from the same world, and your two societies worked differently.

"Yeah, it is… not… for you?" you asked back.

"No. No, it isn't."

"Oh…"

"It… it would be… disrespectful if I…"

"I understand. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable."

"It's okay. I… I just… I don't know…"

"Caspian, you don't have to justify yourself. I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable."

You seemed to be the one who was uncomfortable then though, and you stood up to clean your plate even if you hadn't finished your dish. Caspian followed suit though, not allowing you to simply drop the subject and flee so easily.

"Y/N… I…"

"It's okay, Caspian. I promise you, it's okay. I just… I guess I feel a little stupid to have offered to take a… a new step when it's not something your people does."

You seemed fragile then, your confidence quite shaken. Caspian heaved a sigh, forcing you to stop cleaning your plate as he took your wet hands in his.

"It is not our way. But I… I want you to know that… I… you are beautiful, Y/N. This is not the problem, here. But I was raised with the idea that being this intimate with a woman one is not married to is disrespectful. And disrespecting you is the last thing I want to do."

You nodded, notably relaxing, and when you looked at him again, there was a spark of mischief shining in your gaze.

"I understand. And I would never want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable or disrespectful to you. But… please, tell me your people don't condemn cuddling, because I love your hugs too much to give up on them."

Caspian let out a laugh, although he was blushing fiercely once more. He pulled you closer to him, capturing you in this brown stare of his you had quickly learnt to recognize like home.

"I cannot say that it would be… accepted without a few rumours and judging glances but… I will happily pay that price. To be honest, I could not resist holding you even if I wanted to."

You giggled in the most adorable of ways, hiding your face in his shoulder.

And as he breathed in the scent of your shampoo, sugary and delicate that reminded him of afternoons spent walking through the gardens, with the air filled with the fragrance of wildflowers, Caspian knew that he wouldn't have any rest tonight. How could he waste any minute he could spend with you?

His back would kill him the next day, but a few hours on your uncomfortable sofa were a small price to pay to have a chance to hold you close.

#Caspian #Caspian X #caspian x reader #king caspian #caspian x you #caspian imagine #caspian fanfiction #caspian fanfic #caspian series #narnia #narnia fanfiction #narnia fanfic #narnia imagine #imagine #series #fanfiction #fanfic #writing

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riversofmars · 3 years

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Answers at last! Well, I saw answers... :D

Chapter 7: So We Meet Again

The Library, 52nd Century

“Sorry, am I interrupting something?“ A male figure appeared in their midst. Dark hair and beard, stout frame, he took a twirl, looking around, delighted at the surprise and shock on everyone’s faces.

“It’s can’t be…“ River mumbled, trying to catch up with what was happening. How did he get in here? He was not part of the memory.

“It’s been a while, Professor Song.“ He turned to face her with a wide grin, baring his teeth.

“He’s not the Doctor, is he?“ Anita spoke slowly. She had learned enough about Time Lords during their extensive research to understand about regeneration and River had shown her pictures of all her husband’s faces. That man was not one of them and even on first impressions, he seemed in no way similar to the man she herself had met. He certainly didn’t look at River like someone would look at their wife, he looked at her like she was prey.

“The Doctor? Oh, don’t be ridiculous.“ He nearly burst out laughing as if it was the funniest thing he had heard all day. “Been there, done that, just wasn’t my cup of tea.“ His voice turned to a snarl, it seemed to change ever so slightly; he shushed himself.

“No, this is another Time Lord.“ River said, balling her hands to fists, trying to maintain her composure.

“Of course you get it, you’re clever like that.“ He mused, tilting his head. “I’m difficult to forget, didn’t we have he best of times.“ He interrupted himself, his voiced higher and more excitable. He smirked with a mad sort of glee in his eyes. “No, no, shut up, it’s my turn now!“ His voice turned normal as he snapped angrily. Anita and CAL exchanged confused and worried glances, fearing they might be dealing with a mad man. River, however, already knew for a fact that they were:

“You’re the Eleven.“ She circled around the room slowly, coming to stand protectively in front of CAL and Anita. She didn’t know whether he was really here or just a projection, but she couldn’t take the risk. She had to keep them safe. They had no idea who they were dealing with.

“The Thirteen, actually, but who’s counting.“ He retorted graciously and took a little bow.

“Must be getting pretty crowded in that head of yours.“ River hummed and in response, another personality emerged:

“Long time no see, Ms. Song.“ His face contorted into a grin.

“Hello again, Nine.“ River remained calm. She knew it was the best way to deal with them.

“I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure.“ His voice turned higher, almost feminine.

“Twelve?“ River could only guess, as it was the regeneration of his she hadn’t met before.

“Shut up, the lot of you.“ The Thirteen regained control of his personalities. “Sorry, this is not how I was going to introduce myself, best foot forward and all that, but they’re just so excited to see you again. The Six, in particular, is very eager but we’ll save that for later.“ He smiled apologetically.

“What are you doing here? How did you get in?“ River decided to ignore the games and cut right to the chase. She glanced to CAL, hoping she was paying attention. If they found out how he got in, they surely would be able to get rid of him as well. She would have to regain control of the computer.

“Seven hacked the system, child’s play really; and now I can see why.“ He smirked at CAL who took a fearful step back and Anita put a protective arm around her. “I’m not really here, of course, just a projection, but I liked the personal touch. Better than talking to a screen, you know?“ River felt a little better for knowing he wasn’t actually part of the artificial world of the Library core but hacking the system was just as bad. Who knew what else he was planning on doing?

“So you’re responsible for this?“ Anita concluded gesturing around to the woman and child that had stopped moving. She hadn’t really followed who exactly he was but it was was blatantly obvious that this scary vision was his doing.

“It’s from the Matrix.“ River stated and the Thirteen grinned:

“Indeed. I didn’t really have the means to play it. I needed a bigger computer, something able to convert it. And I needed someone who’d be able to interpret it.“

“So you used the Library, a computer big enough to handle Matrix data.“ River was beginning to understand. They weren’t her memories that had bled into the artificial reality. It was data the Thirteen had fed into the system. In turn it had helped her unlock her own memories of what she’d seen in the Matrix. “What is that memory? What’s the story behind it.“ She asked, drawing his attention back as he seemed momentarily distracted. Not by his other personalities, for once, but seemingly by something outside.

“A missing puzzle piece.“ He answered briefly and gave a dismissive wave with his hand. “Now we best get going.“

“What?“ Anita asked confused while River remained silent, her mind racing. What was he planning? She knew better than to underestimate the renegade Time Lord.

“The shadows will be back in a moment.“ He explained in an off-hand sort of way. “Get your coat, Professor Song. Oh wait, you haven’t got a body to put it on.“ He laughed, then disappeared.

“River…“ CAL reached out for River’s hand but she grasped into thin air, River was gone as well.

——

Glasgow, 2021

“So this is where you went once the Daleks were gone?“ Ryan asked Jack as they started walking further into the underground building.

“Had to go say hi to Gwen here and she filled me in on what’s been going on. I’ve been out in the universe too long it seems. Time to look after the home front.“ Jack explained with a determined nod and Kate smiled:

“We’re glad to have you, Captain.“

“How many people have you got here.“ Graham looked around, marvelling at the size of the place. It could have housed a hundred easily and there was an erie quality to it with how quiet and seemingly empty it was.

“Not as many as you’d hope. Friends of the Doctor’s it’s quite an exclusive club, but it’s not quantity, it’s quality.“ Kate answered leading the way.

“So how do you know the Doctor?“ Ryan asked Gwen who was walking alongside him.

“Only met him briefly, during one Dalek invasion or another. Honestly, it all blends together.“ She chuckled.

“Ms. Cooper is one of Torchwood’s finest.“ Kate interjected and Gwen sighed:

“And only remaining member…“

“Hey!“ Jack took offence and elbowed her.

“You don’t count, you’re off doing other stuff all the time.“ Gwen slapped his shoulder affectionately and carried on to explain: “I have been trying to rebuild the Torchwood Three hub as well, seeing as it’s closer to home, but it’s slow progress.“

“Torchwood, like UNIT, is like an agency, is it? To ward of aliens?“ Graham asked, trying to wrap his head around it.

“In a nutshell, yes.“ Kate nodded as she lead them down some stairs. “If you come through here, I will introduce you to the rest of the team.“ The steps opened up into a large room. “I know it’s late but they have been waiting up for you.“ They reached a big communal living and working area. There were several tables, desks, computers and such and amongst it all: four people.

“Mr. O’Brien, Mr. Sinclair, let me introduce Dr. Martha Jones and Mr. Mickey Smith, two of UNIT’s finest field agents and former travelling companions of the Doctor’s.“ Kate gesture towards a couple who were lounging on a sofa, currently devouring a Chinese take away with great enthusiasm.

“Nice to finally meet you.“ Martha smiled at them warmly and Mickey, his mouth full of food, couldn’t speak and just gave a wave with his chopsticks. They got up to shake hands as the group approached.

“Likewise, I guess.“ Graham managed an awkward smile as well. During their travels with the Doctor, they had never really stopped to think how many more people had taken trips in the TARDIS before them. It was strange to think that there were other people out there who would understand what it was like, experiencing the vastness of the universe like they had.

“And these are the Osgoods, the scientific hearts and minds of UNIT.“ Kate carried on and gestured to two women, apparently twins, who were sharing a work station. They simultaneously looked up and smiled in greeting.

“I’m Ryan, this is my granddad Graham.“ Ryan introduced them. “We don’t usually do, like, formal…“ He looked around the room awkwardly. This was a lot more official than he was used to. “Like if you don’t mind, first names are fine.“ Graham nodded in agreement.

“Petronella.“ One to the Osgoods smiled.

“Petronella.“ The other Osgood smiled.

“So… you two have the same name? How do we keep you apart?“ Graham asked, confused, wondering what their parents had possibly been thinking.

“You don’t.“ Kate answered in amusement. “That’s the whole point.“

“Right.“ Ryan decided it was best to just accept that. They had just been recruited into a secret organisation to fight of extraterrestrial threats and entered what looked like a very fancy underground bunker… identical twins with the same names really wasn’t top of the weird-list right now.

“Care for some Chinese?“ Mickey offered. They had ordered way too much as usual.

“Don’t mind if we do.“ Graham grinned since they hadn’t had time to eat before setting of on the long drive. He had been eyeing it up, hoping that was where the evening would be going.

“Ma’am, if we might have a word…“ One for the Osgoods demanded Kate’s attention as everyone else settled down to eat.

“What is it?“ The UNIT chief asked and walked around the desk to be able to look at their computer screens.

“We have found another two bodies.“ The other Osgood answered, pointing something out on the computer and Kate frowned:

“Same MO?“ She asked, leaning closer.

“We fine-tuned the algorithm, running through police data bases and found two matches.“ Osgood confirmed.

“Where?“

“Greater London.“ The other Osgood answered. “Pulled out of a lake. It was fortunate that a couple was walking nearby and spotted movement by the water. Otherwise they wouldn’t have been found for weeks probably.“

“Captain?“ Kate looked up to Jack who was currently recounting to Gwen, Martha and Mickey how he had met Ryan and Graham. “Two for pick up.“ She announced.

“On it, will be back in a flash.“ He gave a dazzling and apologetic smile to the others and came to join Kate and the Osgoods. “Just tell me which morgue they’re in and you’ll have them on your slab momentarily.“ He looked at the screen and skimmed the report.

“So… not just people disappearing from time, murders too?“ Graham asked, listening in.

“This is not your garden variety homicide, I’m afraid, Mr. O’Brian.“ Kate retorted thoughtfully. “You’ll see when the Captain returns with the bodies.“

Jack gave a nod and engaged his Vortex Manipulator.

——

Orbit around the Library, 52nd Century

“Here we go.“ Jenny slipped her hand into her wife’s. She had a bad feeling about this but it couldn’t be helped. They had come out of hyper speed a few minutes ago and had fallen into orbit around the Library.

“A whole planet full of books?“ Yaz couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer size of it. The idea of having every book ever written together in one place was overwhelming and beautiful.

“And shadows that can kill…“ Dorium couldn’t help but point out. The idea that a world so beautiful was forever lost made Yaz’s heart feel heavy. What a waste.

“Right, here’s what we’re going to do: your UV grenades, Strax: our best bet would be to send one down ahead of us.“ Vastra looked to her butler who grinned with excitement as he proudly presented the grenades. “We arm ourselves to the teeth with torches and such. We won’t have to stay long. Just contact the Professor, ask our questions, fill her in, and be on our way.“ Vastra gave her wife’s hand a reassuring squeeze and looked around the room into determined faces. “Strax, Jenny and I will go.“

“I want to come, too!“ Yaz insisted immediately, she thought herself just as capable as any of them and she didn’t want to be left behind.

“That’s not part of the plan.“ Vastra shook her head.

“I have been in tight spots with the Doctor as well, I can handle myself.“ Yaz retorted, frustrated.

“I don’t doubt that but someone needs to teleport us back. Mr. Maldovar sadly won’t be able to.“ Vastra pointed out. She had no doubts about Yaz’s ability to hold her own but they needed someone to stay behind. She refused to be split up from her wife and Strax was best placed to handle the weapons equipment. It was the logical solution. “We all have a job to do and we need you to keep us safe from up here.“ She carried on to explain.

“Fine.“ Yaz huffed after brief consideration. “Doesn’t mean I like it though.“ She could see her point but she still felt like she was being sidelined.

“We will be back in no time.“ Vastra assured her.

“Right, let’s get this over with… before I change my mind.“ Jenny sighed feeling anxious. She ran her hand along the hilt of her sword despite knowing it would be useless against shadows.

“Oh, well that’s a surprise.“ Dorium pipped up, drawing everyone’s attention.

“What is it?“ Vastra frowned, confused.

“There is an incoming transmission! Someone in that Library is trying to reach out.“ Dorium explained quickly. He closed his eyes, trying to focus with the help of the communications chip connected to him.

“How do they even know we’re here?“ Vastra asked, worried. That didn’t feel right.

“Beats going amongst the shadows, doesn’t it.“ Jenny pointed out and Strax huffed in disappointment:

“I have been looking forward to this for hours…“

“Put it on screen.“ Vastra ignored his complaint and turned to the large screen at the front of the ship. Yaz turned Dorium’s box around so he could see as well.

“River! River! Where are you!“ A small girl appeared on the screen, looking distraught. She couldn’t be older than ten years old, taking everyone by surprise. “Who are you?“ She demanded to know before any of them could get over their shock. Her eyes jumped between all of them. Her message clearly hadn’t been meant for them.

“I’m Madame Vastra, these are Jenny Flint, Strax, Yasmin Kahn and Dorium Maldovar. We mean you no harm.“ Vastra raised her hands appeasingly, trying to reassure her. What was a little girl doing in the Library? And why was she looking for River Song? “You were calling for River, I can only presume you mean Professor Song, we’re here to talk to her.“ Vastra carried on, hoping to explain and gain her trust. She seemed scared.

“You’re too late.“ The girl sobbed, getting more upset.

“What?“ Yaz asked, with a frown. They all exchanged confused glances.

“She just left, I was trying to reach her but it drains the power, so much energy…“ The screen flickered. There was a blip in the transmission, it wasn’t stable.

“Hang on, hang on, you’re in the computer?“ Vastra asked to clarify.

“I am the computer.“ The girl answered, taking a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She was not as little as she looked. “I’m CAL.“

“And Professor Song, she’s not with you anymore?“ Jenny deduced and her heart sank. This was the one eventuality they had not been prepared for.

“She was taken.“ CAL confirmed, nodding, wiping her tears away.

“By whom?“ Vastra gripped the back of the pilot’s chair and dug her claws into the fabric. Wherever they turned, it seemed as though they were one step behind.

“A Time Lord.“ CAL answered, after brief consideration, seemingly deciding to trust them.

“What did he look like? Did he give a name?“ Yaz asked quickly.

“He called himself the Thirteen.“ The girl said quickly, as the transmission stalled again. “I’m sorry, I can’t maintain this much longer. Why are you looking for River?“

“We’re friends of the Doctor’s. There are some terrible things going on out in the universe and we need to talk to her.“ Vastra rushed to explain.

“Please find her, he… “

The connection broke and for a moment, there was stunned silence.

“How is that possible?“ Yaz turned to the others, slowly finding her voice again. “You can’t just, like, download a consciousness onto a USB stick or something…“

“Don’t underestimate Time Lord technology…“ Vastra mused, mulling over what they had learned. This was far worse than facing the Vashta Nerada. They had fallen another step behind in a race in which the goal posts seemed to keep moving.

“We need to find her.“ Jenny said, shaking her head to herself. If only they had been a little earlier, they could have prevented this.

“Who’s the Thirteen?“ Yaz looked around the room, hoping for an explanation. Was this another of the Doctor’s enemies she didn’t know about?

“Doesn’t mean anything to me either, I was hopeful you might have come across them?“ Vastra retorted with a frown as they exchanged confused glances. They had each assumed the other would have the answers but the alias was familiar to any of them.

“Oh no…“ Dorium mumbled, drawing everyone’s attention.

“Can you shed some light on this, Mr. Maldovar?“ Vastra asked, turning his box around to face them again.

“I’ve heard of a Time Lord that goes my numerical designations… The Nine, the Ten, the Eleven… depending on which regeneration he is on…“ He answered slowly. The reluctance in his voice gave them all pause.

“Stands to reason this is a new regeneration then?“ Yaz nodded, relieved that they weren’t completely in the dark after all.

“Why change the name though with every regeneration? Must be quite… disorienting, mustn’t it?“ Jenny asked.

“He is a very unique case…“ Dorium hummed thoughtfully.

“How so?“ Vastra could already tell she wouldn’t like the answer but she asked anyway.

“From what I have heard, he suffers from a strange affliction… called regenerative dissonance. While the Doctor and other Time Lords retain a sense of self and just change their appearance, he becomes a new person every time and when he regenerates, the other selfs are still present.“ Dorium revealed. He had never actually met them but he had heard enough stories to make sure he never would.

“Like a schizophrenic?“ Yaz asked, unsettled. That didn't sound like the kind of person they wanted to be dealing with.

“Anything else you can tell us, Mr. Maldovar?“ Vastra asked and Dorium gave a wary smile:

“He is a thief, a killer and utterly mad.“

——

The TARDIS

“Do you always leave the door open like that? Anyone could wander in.“ The Doctor found the Master leaning against the console as she reached the control room. Dark hair and beard, stout frame, he hadn’t regenerated, just looked a little worse for wear.

“Master…“ Her voice was barely above a whisper. All sorts of emotions boiled up in her: Disbelief at finding him alive. Worry for having him inside her TARDIS. Hate for all the things he had put her through.

“Hello, Doctor.“ He smirked pushing off the console to step closer. “Nice of you to finally show up.“

“How are you not dead?“ It was the most prominent question on the Doctor’s mind.

“Dying is for other people, dear.“ The Master laughed at how ridiculous that notion was.

“How did you survive the death particle?“ She pressed through gritted teeth as they started circling each other slowly. She was assessing her option for subduing him.

“Did you really think the Cyberium would let its host die?“ The Master’s grin was patronising, as if the answer had been obvious.

“Is it still inside you?“ The Doctor hadn’t even thought about the Cybermen AI that resided inside the Master. She had assumed it dealt with, just like the Master themselves but she should have known they wouldn’t be that easily destroyed.

“Nah… Fizzled out.“ He gave a dismissive wave with his hand. “The effort of creating a force field to protect me was a bit much… Plus, I expelled it and electrocuted it until it stopped moving. I was getting fed up of sharing my memory space.“ He snickered and the Doctor couldn't help but feel a little relieved; one thing she didn’t have to deal with at least.

“You’ve been here this entire time?“ She questioned.

“Where was I gonna go? I destroyed everything! No TARDISes, no space ships left… I did start fixing up a TARDIS but turns out your death particle wiped out the organic components in there as well. I’d have to grow a new one but where to start when every living thing has been destroyed!“ He started rambling in a maniacal sort of way, snapping with increasing anger.

“How long has it been?“ The Doctor asked, hoping he had at least suffered in the meantime. She wasn’t proud of it but after everything he had done to her, she felt he deserved it.

“Oh… a few years, blink of an eye. Ten, twenty? Not sure. Anyway, nice of you to turn up.“ He smirked and his eyes flickered to her reaching for something on the console. “Oh no, you don’t!“ He snapped and pointed the Doctor’s own sonic at her. That’s when she remembered leaving her coat; what a stupid thing to do. And to leave the door unlocked… “So why are you here, Doctor?“ He asked as she raised her hands appeasingly.

“To see if you’re still alive.“ She answered slowly.

“Well I am. What difference does it make to you?“ He snarled.

“And you haven’t left Gallifrey?“ She carried on, hoping to at least get her answers.

“I already told you, are you going soft in the head?“ He snapped.

The Doctor remained silent, unsure how to respond. Should she believe him? Did he have reason to lie? But why would he be back here if he had managed to escape in the meantime?

“And what’s this, Doctor?“ The Master demanded her attention again and held out another item he had found in the pocket of her coat: the green prayer leaf.

“Give that back.“ The Doctor exclaimed, quick to anger. She tried to snatch it off him but he pulled away, putting the sonic between them again.

“Oh, is it personal by any chance?“ He hummed, delighted.

“Give it here.“ The Doctor’s voice turned low and threatening. In her mind, she ran through the possibilities of what the Master could do with her sonic in here. There was so much sensitive technology, a blast at the wrong thing and they could either be thrown into the vortex or explode.

“A prayer leaf from the Gamma Forests if I’m not mistaken… traditional gift for a child… tell me, Doctor, are congratulations in order?“ The Master was quick on his feet as always.

“That’s none of your business.“ The Doctor bit back.

“I take that as a yes. But where is the little devil? And where is the wife?“ He asked feigning surprise. “I presume it is the Professor’s child, isn’t it? Not a little bastard born out of wedlock?“

“Hand that over.“ The Doctor demanded again, holding her hand out.

“No, I think I’ll keep it for the time being. Return it to the little one myself… Like Maleficent taking a gift to little Aurora. Why don’t we go see them.“ He suggested circling around towards the console but the Doctor didn’t move away, instead she stepped right up to him. “Come on, Doctor, I know how much you like your Disney movies. That was funny.“

“Where is he?“ She demanded to know, ignoring his giggling.

“Who?“ The Master frowned.

“My son!“ The Doctor practically yelled, losing her temper at last.

“Ohhh so he is missing? Let me guess, someone took him while you weren’t looking?“ The Master grinned and the Doctor couldn’t tell whether he was pretending not to know anything or if he really didn’t. “Was he getting ice cream across the street and a stranger snatching him away?“

“Don’t play dumb with me, Dorium saw you, you have something to do with this!“ The Doctor wasn’t thinking now. Anger and pain were overshadowing her rational thoughts.

“Dorium? Doesn’t ring a bell…“ The Master shrugged, unimpressed.

“You told him about the Timeless Child, that’s how this whole thing started!“ The Doctor yelled and gave him a shove.

“The Timeless Child? Why would I tell anyone about that dirty secret? Give you all that power? Elevate you? I don’t think so, that secret died with the Time Lords and it’ll die with you.“ The Master spat, suddenly furious as well. They were done doing their dance and playing games.

“You and me are the only people who know about it and I sure as hell haven’t told anyone!“ The Doctor snarled stepping into his personal space again. She wasn’t scared of him anymore. He had no power over her.

“Why would I tell anyone?“ The Master seemed genuinely disbelieving of her accusations. “I killed everyone that could possibly have known about it. And I’m gonna kill you, too.“ He jabbed his finger at her.

“You just try.“ The Doctor pressed through gritted teeth. “Where is my son?!“ She shoved him again and he stumbled backward.

“I haven’t got the faintest idea.“ The Master laughed and the Doctor could tell he was speaking the truth. It threw her for a moment, until a more horrifying idea occurred to her: What if she was just enabling this whole series of events to start? What if she was the reason the Master managed to get off Gallifrey? What if this was how he found out about her child, about Dorium, about the whole thing?

So, just to clarify, the Thirteen (well their previous regenerations), plays a huge part in the Eighth Doctor's audios but you really don't have to know them to (hopefully) follow this story. I fully intend to write it like he's a new character and weave all the information necessary into the plot as everyone else, the Paternoster Gang in particular, learn about him. Originally, I intended to just use Time Lord OCs but as I thought about it, I realised how pointless that would be seeing as there are so many interesting Time Lords in the extended canon. So, if anything is difficult to follow, please let me know! <3

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ihearthes · 4 years

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Farmers’ Market

Author: @ihearthes Pairing: Harry x y/n Rating: Fluff Word Count: 2.8k

Summer Feeling Challenge sponsored by @helladirections

Vibrant yellows, pinks, greens, and red catch my eye as I take in the variety of fruits and veg in front of me. Wow. How is it possible to have this much beautiful fresh produce in one spot? Placing the essential ingredients for my favorite salad in a basket, I approach the counter. Having ridden a bicycle to the market, I’m fairly confident it will all fit in my knapsack for the return to my flat.

Hearing his voice causes my entire body to freeze. Well, not completely because my heart is like a wild animal trying to break free from captivity. Regular beats, steady, but louder than my friend Steph had been at his concert in Philly.

“Hi, I’m looking for some kale, and you don’t seem to have any,” His voice is as deep as the grooves in one of the gravel roads back home in Springfield, and the shiver that travels up my spine is a violent and silent storm.

Shit. Had I taken the last of the kale? Maybe I can surreptitiously put it back so he doesn’t notice? Wait just a doggone minute! Why the fuck should I give up my kale? Just because he’s my favorite musician in the whole world and he’s somehow standing at the very same green-grocer’s as I am? That makes zero sense.

A statue, I debate my options.

Buy my produce and leave before he notices me. But then he might realize that I’ve taken the last of the kale.

Put the kale back and choose spinach instead? My strawberry salad will taste lovely with spinach. But it truly is best with kale.

Wait until he leaves and hope he doesn’t spy the kale in my basket? Suddenly, I’ve got the urge to pee. What if he’s here for a long time?

Put on my sexy voice and offer to share my kale salad with him? This option causes me to smirk while my tummy resembles a popcorn popper with kernels scattering in every direction. Stepping to the counter, I quickly throw my items at the woman while he’s engaged in conversation with a different clerk.

“That’ll be £14.35,” the woman says, and I withdraw a £20 note, quickly passing it to her, holding my breath that I can escape before he approaches. Not daring to look backwards, I squeeze my change in my fist as I rush to fit in with the crowd strolling the Parliament Hill Farmers’ Market. It’s not until I’m at the end of the stalls and near my chained bicycle that I slow down, breathe, and risk a glance behind me.

“What did you think? He was going to chase you down and tackle you for the kale?” Steph screams at me through the phone. Naturally she had been my first call as soon as I arrived back at the flat my company had rented for the duration of this London business trip.

“I didn’t know, Steph! It’s like sixty degrees out there, and I’m sweating like I’ve just run a marathon in ninety-degree heat.” Removing the items from my knapsack, I wash them, laying them out to dry on a towel. Using my fingers, I pull my shirt away from my chest and shake it to allow air to flow better.

“You’re the only person I know who can meet Harry fucking Styles on her first trip to the farmers’ market! And you’re deffo the only one who would turn and run away! How did he look? What was he wearing?” Her words are BB pellets like my brothers used to shoot at cans back home.

My words are quiet and stutter as they emerge like a new butterfly from a cocoon. “I didn’t look.”

“WAIT JUST ONE GODDAMNED MINUTE! What do you mean? How could you not look?” Her volume has increased to the level that I might need to remove my Airpods so as to not damage my ears. Then her voice lowers. “What if it wasn’t him?”

Shit. I hadn’t considered that. “No. It was definitely him. Come on. How many times have I listened to his voice?”

“Maybe it was just the British accent.”

“Steph, I’m in London. Everyone has a British accent. I’m telling you. It was him.”

My best friend sighs. “Okay. I believe you. The fact that he was right there, though, and you didn’t say or do anything…”

“I got the hell out of there. What do you mean I didn’t do anything?”

“Maybe you’ll see him next week. Will you talk to him?”

A soft smile crosses my lips. “Nope. Come on, Steph. You and I have always had a pact that we wouldn’t bother him if we saw him in the wild, and I’m sticking with that.”

----------

“My boss and his wife are coming by tonight, so I want to put together a fruit and cheese plate.” I tell the vendor at Bath Soft Cheese. “Can you give me some suggestions?”

“Oh. I can!” A voice next to me says, and I’m a rigid piece of lumber. What are the fucking odds? Shit.

“Thanks, Harry,” the gentleman at the table says. “I’m going to help this couple.” With that, I’m left alone.

Carefully, I swivel my neck to make sure I’ve not lost my mind -- or the plot as my colleagues might say. But no. It’s him. Definitely him.

I drink him in. Wearing a hoodie with his own name over the heart and a pair of shorts that are more for walking than jogging, Harry (fucking Styles!) points towards one of the cheeses sitting on the bed of ice.

“This one is a vegetarian cheese, and it’s my sister’s favorite. Best paired with thin apple slices because they make the cheese with apple cider. So delicious.” He glances at me, and I feel faint from the deep green of his eyes. Fuck. Up close and in person, they’re brilliant. They shine (Shine! Step into the light! Shine! So bright sometimes!), and I have to blink so that I can nod.

“Awesome. Thanks,” I move to take the cheese.

“Oh, but this one,” he points to the next one over, “is their Bath Soft, and it’s best served with grapes.” Harry Styles, explaining cheeses like he’s an expert cheesemonger, makes me smile. “Personally, I wouldn’t serve a blue cheese to guests unless you know they like it. So many people take offense to blue cheese.”

“Right? I love blue cheese. Especially in a salad. It’s got that bite to it,” I blurt out, and then clamp my mouth shut as I realize I’ve started to relax in his presence. Which is downright stupid as I might inadvertantly disclose something incriminating. Like how many of his concerts I’ve witnessed live.

“Yes! I’ve got this great kale salad recipe with blue cheese and walnuts!” His excitement is the same as that of a puppy spotting a treat; tail practically wagging the whole backside.

From deep in my belly I feel the giggle build up, and I fasten both hands solidly over my mouth in a pathetic (and useless) attempt to contain it.

His joy is contagious, though, and I can’t help myself. “Does it have a balsamic vinegarette? Because I have one that’s so good I can eat it every night for a week. Oh. Never mind. That’s the recipe I have with candied pecans. Not walnuts.”

Holy shit. I’m actually standing in a farmers’ market in London discussing recipes with Harry Styles. Perhaps I’m going to pass out? Or maybe I’m hallucinating? Or dreaming?

“Candied pecans? Sounds yummy. There’s my friend. Gotta go! You can’t go wrong with those two cheeses I mentioned! And maybe treat yourself to some blue cheese too. Just for you.” He winks with his right eye and flashes the dimple my way before he disappears.

----------

My third week in London, and I climb onto my bicycle a full two hours before the usual time I had traveled to the farmers’ market the last two weeks. My license plate should read “Determined to Dodge” because it’s freaking me out a bit that I’ve seen Harry twice in the same place. And they say lightning doesn’t strike twice. Ha! I’m making sure it doesn’t strike thrice.

“I’ll take the plain goat’s cheese,” I instruct the vendor, and after money is exchanged, she hands it to me and I move to place it directly into my backpack. After nearly a month, I’ve got the hang of this farmers’ market shopping, it seems, and I’m pleased to have arrived with a set shopping list for the first time.

“Yum.” Harry’s voice comes over my shoulder, and I’m startled enough to nearly drop the damn cheese. HOW IS HE HERE? “What’s your plan for that?”

“Um,” I bite my lip. “Goat cheese, honey, and fruit crostini.” Feeling emboldened, my lips continue speaking as though this superstar and I are friends, “I’ve been debating the two beekeepers, but I don’t know which has the better honey.”

Today he’s wearing a pair of blue jeans that fit wide on his hips along with a peach button-down shirt and a newsboy cap. “Oh, then I think we should definitely go have a taste at each. My lady?” He holds out his crooked arm, ready for me to take it like we’re in a 1940’s movie.

What’s even crazier is that I follow his lead and add, “Lead the way, sir.” It’s ridiculously silly. And so much fun. His playful side makes me feel charmed, less like a fan and more like an acquaintance. At the first beekeeper, we each taste the regular blossom honey.

“Oh, that’s fantastic,” I whisper as I slide the wooden stick across my tongue.

“Hey, you can’t give in yet. We’ve not tried the other one. We’ll be back,” he says over his shoulder to the vendor as he escorts me away. “Maybe,” he adds once we’re out of hearing, drawing a giggle from me.

Holy shit. I’m relaxed around Harry Styles. What is happening to me? Boundaries! I need boundaries.

“Oh, my!” I breathe as we arrive at the Local Honey Man’s booth. “There’s too many options.”

Knowingly, Harry nods. “Indeed there are. So maybe we need to back up. You’re doing plain goat cheese on what kind of crostini?”

“You mean what bread am I using? Oh, I was thinking either a thinly sliced sourdough or a baguette.”

“Mmmm...excellent choice. I can recommend some bread next. What fruit are you planning to use?”

His question makes me laugh involuntarily. The great performer and entertainer Harry Styles is asking me what fruit I want on my crostini? Why?

“Well, I’m thinking it’s that time of year for peaches or nectarines. Either of which would be amazing.” Placing a finger to my chin, I survey him. Fuck. He looks so wonderful. Fresh. Friendly. Not at all like a celebrity. Just a normal Joe -- or Harry -- that one might meet at a farmers’ market on a Saturday morning. As I observe him, I feel myself starting to shed some of the barriers between us. He’s just like me, I think. A food connoisseur. Someone who enjoys the local atmosphere.

“Oh yes,” he pauses, smacking his lips. “I can taste that now. Okay, so with that combination, I would recommend either the lemon zest infused honey or the British Borage Honey. Personally, I think the cinnamon honey might overpower the flavor of the goat cheese.”

“You know what? I think you’re right. My goal is for all of the local flavors to come through, so perhaps going with a non-flavored honey is the best decision. Thanks, Harry.” And then I freeze again because I know I’ve let my tongue get away with a horrible slip by saying his name. Wanting to cry, I bite my lip and turn to the vendor. With tears in my throat, I ask, “I’ll take a jar of the British Borage please.”

The merchant wraps it quickly, handing it over in exchange for my money, and I nervously twist towards Harry, expecting his glare over my rudeness. It’s almost like he’s oblivious. As I place the jar of honey in my bag, he grabs my hand.

“Let’s check out breads!”

Running behind him, I’m puzzled by what had just occurred. Shouldn’t he be upset? Freaking out? Wondering if I’m a stalker?

“Here’s my recommendation,” he says as we stop at a stall with a sign reading ‘The Flour Station’. They’ve got a wonderfully tangy sourdough baguette. If you slice it thin, then layer on the goat cheese, honey, and finally the peaches, it will be a perfect meal.”

When I request the baguette, the owner nods and wraps it for me. As he hands it over, I turn to Harry and extend my hand. “Thank you for your help, kind sir. I’m confident this will be the most amazing meal.”

Staring at my hand suspiciously, he ignores it. “Nearly lunchtime,” he announces. “Any chance you’ll join me for some Indian food?” With his head, Harry gestures towards the Mumbai Mix stand.

As I consider the implications, my head starts to move from side to side. Never meet your idols. That’s what the voice in my head whispers.

“Please?” His eyes take on a look that is as close to begging as I’ve ever seen in any human. “Look. I’ll be honest. These days I don’t meet many fans who would go out of their way to avoid me like you do. Most want to move into my house immediately. It would be nice to extend our time a bit. After all, it’s just a meal in the middle of a crowded London farmers’ market. How scary can it be?”

Blinking, I carefully think about my response, but instead the words that escape are “You knew I was a fan? For how long? And how did you know I was avoiding you?”

“Fair questions. Place your order, and we can talk about the answers over lunch.”

Now my curiosity has been peaked. At the vendor, Harry requests the Dosa Wrap while I order the samosas, and we step to the side while they’re being prepared.

“That first time.”

“Last week you mean?”

“No, the first time. You remember. At the green-grocer’s.”

My face likely flames red. “You saw me? You noticed me? I didn’t even so much as look at you.”

His hearty laugh makes me tingle. “Noticed you? Of course. You’re gorgeous and golden and stunning. And your American accent grabbed my attention. Why did you run?”

The giggle starts at my toes and bursts forth like a bird flying from a cage. “Um...because I’d taken the last of the kale.”

Resting his hands on his knees, Harry chuckles loudly, drawing the attention of other patrons. As the restauranteur hands over our plates, Harry carries both to a nearby table.

“And last time? You jumped a mile when I suggested helping you with the cheeses.”

Burying my face in my hands, I groan. “Harrrrrrrryyyyy. Before I came to London for work, I made a promise to my best friend that if I saw you in the wild, I’d leave you alone. So it was quite awkward that you were the one who approached me. And holy hell! How did you know I would be here today at this time? I came early so I could shop before you arrived!”

He picks up his wrap and takes a bite, chewing carefully. Taking guidance from him, I gingerly grasp a samosa and tear into the dough, immediately savoring the potatoes and spices inside.

“Mmmmm,” I murmur, and my tongue flicks out to rescue a bit of flavor still on my lips.

“‘In the wild’?” he inquires, and I’m confident the blush now covers my entire body.

“You know. Like if I saw you at a show or a public event, it would be different. Then I could fangirl and ask for an autograph or a photo or whatever. But at the market, you’re not working. You’re just like everyone else -- shopping.”

Knowingly, he nods. “I appreciate that. Truly. Not everyone respects my private time. So thank you. But the truth is…” There’s a pause, and I nervously nibble at the samosa in my hand, worried about what he will say next. “...once I noticed you, I couldn’t ignore you.” Clearing his throat, he smiles in a friendly manner. “How did your boss enjoy the cheese and fruit plate?”

“Wonderfully,” I respond, “But not as much as I enjoyed my kale salad with blue cheese, blueberries, strawberries, and candied pecans.” A smile tilts my lips upwards, possibly exposing my own dimple.

“I’m sure,” he murmurs, “I’d love to taste it sometime. Care to make it for me?”

“Hmmm,” I playfully consider his request. “Are you confident you’d prefer that to goat cheese, honey, and fruit crostini on sourdough baguette? It’s all local.”

A/N: Thanks for reading. Please consider a reblog if you enjoyed this.

#harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fluff #harry styles meet cute #my writing #summer feeling challenge #sfc #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fan fic #harry styles fan fiction #harry fic #harry fan fiction #harry x y/n #harry styles x y/n #harry imagine #harry styles imagine #1d imagine #harry x reader #harry styles x reader #harry styles x yn

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thecrownnet · 4 years

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October 3, 2020

Series four of The Crown takes on Princess Diana: exclusive pictures and interviews Charles has found a wife, Andy’s got a racy new girlfriend and Thatcher’s coming for tea... Megan Agnew gets an exclusive tour behind the scenes of the most wild and lavish series yet

Lasers. That’s what helped Emma Corrin understand Princess Diana in the latest series of The Crown. When the cameras were rolling, she imagined that lasers were pointing at her, as if she were in a spy film or a bank heist drama. It was her way of imagining hundreds of people staring right at her. Lasers helped her with the iconic Diana head tilt. She pretended she was shying away from them.

Corrin could also draw on her own trajectory as a 24-year-old actress. Before landing her part in The Crown, she was an unknown. Suddenly “there’s a huge amount of pressure”, she says.

When I visit the set at Winchester Cathedral, which is pretending to be St Paul’s, the paparazzi arrive to catch Corrin pretending to be Diana. She’s dressed in a replica of the outfit they papped at the actual royal wedding rehearsal almost 40 years ago. Every time she moves between buildings and trailers, Corrin has to be shielded with umbrellas. Life imitates art imitates life.

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Almost every person Corrin has spoken to since getting the role has their own “Diana moment” — they might once have waved at her car in the street, been a pupil at a school she visited or knew someone who sat next to her at a dinner. Diana was one of the first celebrities to whom people laid claim. “Everyone has this ownership,” says Corrin. She was, and still is, the People’s Princess. But Corrin is trying not to think too much about it. Public expectation has been “overwhelming since the beginning”, she says. She wants to do Diana “proud”. “I know that’s strange and cheesy, but I feel like I know her.”

Emma Corrin as Princess Diana/ NETFLIX

The first television series of The Crown, which aired in 2016, was at the time the most expensive in history. Each series since has been estimated to have cost upwards of £50 million. The first two covered the first decade of Elizabeth II’s rule to wide acclaim, but series three — in which Her Majesty Claire Foy was succeeded by Olivia Colman — had mixed reviews. “The jewel in Netflix’s tiara has lost its shine,” said one. It was “okay”, said another.

Now, with series four’s reported £100 million budget eclipsing the Queen’s own sovereign grant last year of £82.2 million, The Crown is barrelling straight into the Eighties era of celebrity glamour and modern party politics grit. Peter Morgan, the show’s creator, is taking on two of the most controversial public figures of the past 50 years: Princess Diana and Margaret Thatcher. “The word ‘iconic’ is overused, but in the case of these two women quite justified,” Morgan says. Both have passionate fans and detractors. “Writing them was a bit of a high-wire act, but it was exhilarating.”

We meet Diana as a teenager, scampering around her huge family home in Northamptonshire. She is young and apologetic. The Prince of Wales, at that time dating her eldest sister, is rather distracted. A number of years later, Diana is leaving her relatively modest flat in Earls Court and her job as a nursery school assistant to move into Clarence House — but finds herself in solitude. Bored and lonely, 19-year-old Diana rollerskates down corridors to Duran Duran and sits all by herself in her chamber. One night, after finding out about Prince Charles’s affair with Camilla Parker Bowles, she gorges on puddings and makes herself vomit them back up.

Behind the scenes: the latest series of The Crown/ NETFLIX

*Spoilers*

It is a dark moment that Corrin wanted to get right. She listened to real-life accounts of people who had suffered from bulimia and talked with experts from the eating disorder charity Beat. Diana herself said that it was the most “discreet” way of harming herself: “Everyone in the family knew about the bulimia,” she said in recordings from the 1990s later made into a Channel 4 documentary.

“Drawing on my experience,” says Corrin, “not that I’ve experienced that kind of self-harm, but mental health in general, it can lead you down a very dark path when you’re struggling to cope, when things feel out of control. Diana very much doesn’t have the love and comfort and attention she needs from the man she loves or the family, who aren’t really acting as a family to her. There is a build-up of emotion she can’t deal with and making herself sick is a way of taking back control.”

When Josh O’Connor, who plays the Prince of Wales, first read the script for this series he thought: “Oh God, how can Charles be like that to Diana? But he feels wronged. He feels like she has an addiction to the spotlight,” he says. “I have to feel sympathy for him in that world. This is a family who have an intense inability to be emotional and he has inherited that awkwardness. In this series there’s an awful lot of Charles trying to explain himself and not being allowed to. He’s trying to say that if he can be with Camilla, then at least two of the three people can be happy. As it is, there’s three miserable people.”

The Crown works differently to other shows in that the “writers’ room” is not made up of writers but researchers, who constantly feed back to Morgan, the king of The Crown. It means that for each word eventually spoken on film, there are pages and pages of briefing notes. Annie Sulzberger, head of research, started this series by hiring a young team. “I wanted people who did not grow up believing one or the other [Diana and Thatcher],” she says. “You have to be curious enough and ignorant enough, I suppose, to write the kind of work we need.”

This series will span the Thatcher years — 1979 to 1990 — and will include the assassination of Charles’s great-uncle, Lord Mountbatten, by the IRA, Charles and Diana’s wedding, and the Falklands War. Once the team has laid out a timeline, Morgan picks out the events he wants to feature. The research team starts to hone in on each, getting increasingly “micro” in their investigations. In the making of this series, one of the team spent two weeks researching the label on a bottle of wine from which a character briefly swigs.

Dress rehearsal: Josh O’Connor and Emma Corrin act out Charles and Diana’s wedding run-through/ NETFLIX

As the show has progressed, the fact-checking work has multiplied, thanks to the tabloid journalism of the 1980s. “It’s not just about words being printed,” Sulzberger says, “but who wrote it. Diana will become very close with a journalist called Richard Kay and feed him information, and Charles’s team will do the same. So you need to start unpicking the biographies of all the writers in order to know that what you’re doing has some objectivity.”

Did the team speak to any of Diana’s family or friends? “No.” Do the producers give any material to the Palace to see beforehand? “No. We have no connection to them that would result in editorial shifts. These are real people, these are real stories and we are filling in the moments that aren’t recorded — private conversations, moments of reflection, philosophical moments.”

When I ask Morgan if it’s true that he meets high-ranking courtiers four times a year, he is keen to clear up that he doesn’t. “I have never had any discussions with anyone actively working at the Palace,” he says. “The two worlds, the royal household and The Crown, exist in a world of mutual deniability, which I’m sure is every bit as important to them as it is to us.”

Corrin, though, did speak to Patrick Jephson, Diana’s private secretary, who appears as a fictionalised character in this series. “I got a sense of her joy from him,” Corrin says. “He said she was so naturally happy. When she joined the royal family, she had come from living with flatmates in Earls Court and she was a very normal girl. Patrick said she was still full of that girlish silliness, very down to earth.”

The couple themselves at the real thing in 1981 MIKE LLOYD/SHUTTERSTOCK/REX

The executive producer Suzanne Mackie says that “particularly now” The Crown team feels a sense of responsibility “to living people, people’s children, people’s parents. Obviously what we don’t do is engage on a fact level with the royal family. We have a tacit understanding that they need distance from us and we need distance from them.”

It is a cold day in January and I am watching Charles and Diana’s wedding rehearsal in Winchester. About 75 per cent of the show is filmed on location around the world, over the course of seven months. The rest is filmed at the show’s base, Elstree Studios, just north of London.

Today in Winchester Cathedral there is a crew of 78 and a cast of almost 200. The sight is as epic as the show’s budget would suggest. Between takes, Corrin sits on the stone steps by the altar, scrolling on her iPhone with one hand and biting her fingernails on the other. Even before the clapperboard snaps shut, the resemblance between her and the princess is uncanny.

Sidonie Roberts, head buyer and assistant costume designer, has a timeline of photos of Diana covering the wall of her studio at Elstree. Roberts is devoted to the cause. She travels to Paris to buy buttons from the same shop the Queen’s dressmaker uses (it sells more than 30,000 types of button) and to Soho to rummage in basements for fabric. Last year she was in a Bangladeshi fabric shop in Brick Lane, east London, when she saw a roll of material right on the very top shelf. “It was still in its plastic, but I just knew — that’s Diana’s colour,” Roberts says. She got a ladder, climbed to the top, pulled down the fabric and bought it for £3.50 a metre. When Roberts got back to the studio at Elstree, she unrolled it and saw a stamp at the bottom: “The Lady Diana Collection, made in Japan.” Roberts did some research. It was real silk, from a collection made in the princess’s honour.

In the corner of the studio an assistant is gluing tiny pearls to Diana’s flat wedding shoes. She has been decorating them, exactly like the originals, for a day and a half. “We’ve had a long conversation about the size of those pearls,” says Roberts. David and Elizabeth Emanuel, who designed Diana’s original wedding dress, donated patterns to the show, which were used to make the new version. With its 25ft train, it took ten people to get Corrin into the dress. In the show it is seen in full, and only from behind, for no more than 15 seconds.

Paying their respects: Olivia Colman as the Queen and the rest of the royal family at the funeral of Lord Mountbatten/ NETFLIX

Corrin is masterful at inhabiting Diana’s coyness — hunching her shoulders towards her ears as she walks, the smirk, her intonation. Diana’s voice was the “polar opposite” of the royals’, says William Conacher, The Crown’s dialect coach. “She moved her jaw twice as much, so her voice was more forward, open, easier to access, and I don’t think it’s especially revelatory to suggest accessibility was her shtick,” he says. “She used a minor key that made her seem vulnerable. Despite the Queen’s and Prince Charles’s accents being ‘stiffer’ to listen to, I think it comes entirely naturally, whereas I find Diana’s voice more studied. I think she spoke to have an effect.”

What sort of research did Colman do for series four’s Queen? “Yeah, I don’t do research,” she says when we speak on the phone in the summer. “The research team on The Crown is a bit like the British Library. It’s extraordinary, and when they kick in, your computer can’t really cope with the amount of stuff they send you.” Was there something in particular that the team sent her that made things click? “No.” There is a longish silence. It seems Colman’s royal duty is waning. “They’ve got every image and film of the Queen ever made. I’ve also got three kids, so I can’t spend all my time going through all of it.”

As she wraps up a second series of The Crown — Imelda Staunton will take over for five and six — Colman knows that she would “really not like” to have the Queen’s job. “There are very few people who are forced into a job and have no choice about it,” she says. “She’s done it with dignity, for decades, bless her. It’s amazing.”

The funeral of Lord Mountbatten took place in 1979 BENTLEY ARCHIVE/POPPERFOTO/GETTY

If there were rumours of Elizabeth II being unhappy about the last series of The Crown, I can’t imagine she’ll be too chuffed about this one. Series four’s Queen is colder and more distant, and the effects of her duty on her children more obvious: Charles is heavy with melancholy, Anne feels unheard, Edward is portrayed as a spoilt bully and Andrew is dangerously arrogant.

Speaking of Andrew, there is a subtle nod towards recent events. At one point the prince discusses a young American actress he is dating. The actress had recently played a 17-year-old who must entertain several “old predators who seduce the vulnerable, helpless young Emily”. The real prince dated the actress Koo Stark in 1981, who had starred in The Awakening of Emily, which had a near-identical plot.

In series four, the pivotal relationship between the Queen and Margaret Thatcher begins well. They are respectful of one another as no-nonsense working mothers, but tensions arise — not least, over tea etiquette at Balmoral.

In preparation for her role as the Iron Lady, Gillian Anderson met Charles Moore, Thatcher’s biographer, as well as secretaries who worked with her. “The only way for me to go about sitting inside of her was to find the reason behind her actions — growing up, what she learnt from her father, how much she truly believed that she was the answer and as long as we all took the sour medicine now we’d be able to turn around this country, completely shutting her eyes to the people that she was turning out on the street.”

Anderson eventually “settled into” the body of Thatcher. “She walked very fast, always up ahead,” Anderson says. “She would power forward in front of presidents. With [Ronald] Reagan she would supposedly be alongside him, but was walking ahead. Always walking ahead of [husband] Denis, telling him to catch up.”

Thatcher’s barnet also features. In one scene she spends an asphyxiating four seconds hairspraying it in preparation for a showdown with the Queen. The hairdo took endless camera tests before Morgan was happy with it. “It essentially meant destroying it so it had an overprocessed ‘frothy’ quality,” says the hair and make-up designer Cate Hall. “To treat a wig so badly was against all of our instincts — they’re so expensive — but I’m grateful now that we went through the process with Peter, with him saying no, more, it’s not right, try again.”

Clash of the titans: Margaret Thatcher, played by Gillian Anderson, is filmed meeting the Queen, played by Olivia Colman, in a memorable scene from series four/ NETFLIX

Series five will have a whole new cast. Colman says she is “not the sort of person who keeps the shoes of a character they played 20 years ago”. But Helena Bonham Carter is going to miss Princess Margaret. “She does pop out [in everyday life],” she says. “The other day I was at some public event and there was the normal scramble of people and I just told them, ‘No, shut up.’ The finger came out, which is very her, and I said, ‘Shut up and wait. Don’t get hysterical.’ So I’ve got the bossy side of her.”

Originally Morgan said there would be two more series after this one. Then he changed his mind, describing series five as “the perfect time and place to stop”. Now there are two more again (“To do justice to the richness and complexity of the story,” he reneged). The show is creeping closer to the modern day. It is now said to be ending in the 2000s, spanning, perhaps, Charles and Diana’s divorce, the deaths of Diana, Margaret and the Queen Mother, the marriage of Charles and Camilla, and the teenage and twentysomething princes. “I want to end it close enough to present day to feel that we have completed a long journey and distant enough to feel historical,” says Morgan. “I have a specific incident in mind, but until I’ve actually written it and seen if it works, I can’t commit to discussing it.”

On set with Mackie, I mention Harry and Meghan. “Too often,” the couple posted on their Instagram page that month, “we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring.” Is it possible, I ask Mackie, for the royal family to humanise themselves while still justifying their existence as something mightier, more important, regal? “That’s where you go wrong, as a public figure, letting light in on the magic, especially as a monarch,” she replies. “You have to be an ideal. After years and years of that subjugation of self in order to put duty first, you, the essence of you, is buried somewhere. The Queen is a tiny little person inside many, many Russian dolls.”

Series four of The Crown is available on Netflix from November 15

#olivia colman #helena bonham carter #gillian anderson #the crown #the crown spoilers #tobias menzies #josh o'connor #emma corrin #princess diana #ben daniels #erin doherty #emerald fennell #charles dance #marion bailey #the crown netflix

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pochapal · 3 years

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I hate doctor 11 but ive never been able to explain why in like words lmao. He feels like such a mary sue character imo and like theres something about his characterisation that was always just really ineffective (like the stuff about fishfingers and custard or whatever it was). Imo i'd love to hear you give top 5 worst things about the 11 era because i rlly just love when it gets torn apart

i hold nothing but a seething contempt and loathing for that man. every time he appeared on screen i felt ready to snap like a riled up chimpanzee in my enclosure. i am frothing at the mouth and overcome with a desire to start flinging heavy objects. this might be incoherent and inconsistent but i started this rewatch in feb 2020 and only finished this week so i got through 11′s episodes last august/september time and i refuse to revisit it to jog my memory or fact check anything i’m saying here because this man does not deserve the space in my mind for that.

the first thing is i can’t fucking STAND the quirky whimsy timey wimey bit he has going on all of the time. i can’t even say this is because this is a kids show and i was a teen and then adult when i first properly watched him but actually!! when i was eleven years old i’d sleep over at a friend’s house most weekends and it always coincided with the airing of a new season 5 episode and i remember we watched the finale with the dumb time hopping to get out of the box prison that was never explained and didn’t make sense and i thought at the time “this is really stupid”. and before that my only other doctor who exposure was watching the david tennant christmas specials with another friend and throughout childhood my only opinion on doctor who was “this is a tv show that is not for me but is one that all the boys i am friends with like so i will put up with it to maintain our friendships” but at least those episodes were both suspenseful and engaging enough to keep me watching all the way through. like who the fuck does an end of the world sci fi plot and approaches it with an “oopsy woopsy i am a funny little alien man who is going to stop you all by making you do a hecking silly” like it’s unneeded and self-parodies an already cheesy show to the point where it becomes unwatchable and makes it impossible to ever take this man seriously.

next thing that downright sucks ass so badly is the stupid fucking overwritten constantly escalating plotlines. like everything from season 5 up until his regeneration at the end of season 7 is meant to be this grand interconnected cosmic plot about how...the doctor trying to bring back his planet will end the universe or something so all the top powers across all of reality tried again and again to stop him from doing that except he doesn’t know what’s going on so he keeps thwarting these people who supposedly mean good?? i mean i sure don’t fucking know what they were trying to say!! like for some reason we never get the doctor suddenly becomes this superdemon that threatens everything so these people (whoever they are) decide to, in sequence: suck him through a time rift to erase him from existence, trap him in a prison and remake a universe without him, take his companion’s baby and turn her into a perfectly trained doctor killer, form two(!!) secret societies to hunt him throughout history that are only stopped by his companion splintering herself across his personal timeline to protect him, and repeatedly cause reality collapsing events because it’s a kinder outcome for the universe than what he will do. this grand and terrible event turns out to be...he spends a few hundred years chilling by a rift that leads to his home planet and protects a few generations of children from monsters which convinces them to give him infinite regeneration power then fuck off back to their pocket universe. and it’s like!! what is the point of anything that happens in this man’s era when everything is always “the darkest moment” or whatever the fuck!! i don’t care!! we never get a compelling reason to believe this bumbling clown of a man could ever be a universal threat!! the whole thing is so dumb i hate it!!!

thing number three i hate is how the eleventh doctor is ALSO characterised as this abrasive egotistic male supergenius to the point where he becomes genuinely indistinguishable from bbc sherlock. genuinely who enjoyed seeing this guy constantly tell people their tiny human minds can’t comprehend what he’s doing and then basically just wave his magic wand to solve whatever problem each episode is facing. 2012 is the year of human sin because this fucking shitsmear character archetype somehow became both a redditor role model AND a tumblr sexyman and it’s like!! nobody is enjoying this stop making this seem cool! him saying timey wimey thing any time he does anything is frustrating and dumb and locks the viewer out of giving a fuck about anything that is happening! smartest man in the room syndrome is a disease and the eleventh doctor is terminal with it. like remember how they established river as an accomplished scientist (when she wasn’t being a child soldier or a time paradox or whatever the fuck) and every time that came up mr doctor eleven man was like “oh this thing is obvious because i’m a genius and you didn’t realise because your brain is tiny so get out of the way and let the grownups think” or that time it turned out amy had been replaced with a slime clone for half the season and the doctor chewed rory (audience surrogate) out for somehow not realising this fact we didn’t know right from the start and like. this served no purpose other than to draw into severe question why the doctor is also this super beloved magical figure implicitly trusted by all children everywhere like. mr steven moffat is totally allergic to writing and solving mysteries in his tv show and fuck you for wanting to figure things out as you go along based on the new evidence you uncover at strategic plot intervals just let this asshole man use magical thinking to reveal he knew the answer all along and you’re a fucking idiot for not also realising this thing which had no basis or precedent anywhere else in the show.

speaking of dumb things let us not forget the absolute shitshow that was minority representation in this era. i’m not even talking about the low hanging fruit of how genuinely unironically sexist amy and clara were written where each episode moffat either seemed to loathe them or was incredibly horny over them and they had no character growth or arc or fucking anything. i’m talking about how fucking shit terrible the incidental representation was. god remember how every single fucking gay person who appeared in this era was written as one incredibly fucking stupid joke and how the women were all either sexy dominatrix, feeble girl in love, or Mother (or all three in some really terrible cases) and i’m not qualified to talk about this but also how incredibly white this era was and how on two separate occasions we had monarchs reimagined as sexy girlbosses with a gun played by black women who the doctor leched over. nothing about any of this was good ESPECIALLY coming off the back of rtd who was surprisingly forward thinking for 2005 and did a really good job of positing travel with the doctor as queer allegory. in comparison moffat gave us THE MOST heterosexual shlock i’ve ever had to endure. amy and rory could have been interesting characters were they not hemmed into this domestic bickering young straight married couple bullshit that was in no way changed or altered by traveling with the doctor except for the quasi incestuous river song reveal that was dumb and bad and stupid.

the last major mega gripe i have with the series is moffat’s fucking jingoistic boner for british military aesthetics. this carried over throughout his entire tenure as showrunner but was super terrible vomit inducing in eleven’s era. the unironic admiration for ww2 britain and winston churchill is downright wretched. are you incapable of telling a second world war story outside of churchill’s london and plucky blitz fighters. shit gives me hives so badly. and then!!! that weird church owned army that features in the future that end up being bad not for the concept of what basically amounts to an imperialistic intergalactic rendition of the fucking crusades but because they’re part of the nonsense go nowhere puzzlebox narrative that says the doctor is a not good man who will do bad things to the universe :(. remember how rtd’s doctor was a freshly traumatised man hot off the war criminal press who time and time again vehemently refuses to engage in military violence, but who tragically inadvertently turns every one of his companions into soldiers in his own personal army, and he has this moment of complete horror at the realisation and it is this which causes the downward spiral that ends in 10′s regeneration. and then how there’s this cringe line about how there’s a force of people who are “the doctor’s army, always ready to fight his battles when he’s not around” or some shit and then it turns out this is actually massive literal military operation and we’re meant to celebrate this. fuck off.

bonus round because this needs to be said but i have never hated anything like i hated that fucking human tardis episode. everything about it induced violent anger in me from the sickening overindulgence of that softgoth dark whimsy helena bonham carter tim burton aesthetic to the bafflingly terrible evil carny stereotype of those junk scavengers to the overblown sudden tragic shipbait romance of human tardis and the doctor. every word out of her mouth was trite shit and the fact that the death of her body was presented as this super emotional dramatic scene despite there being no buy in or incentive to care and the fact that every single person on tumblr in 2012 ate that shit up like it was fucking gourmet. i loathe every single thing about that episode so much.

#Anonymous #hi bestie here's 1500 words of me getting mad about the worst television experience i had in my life #why the FUCK was this man tumblr's favourite back in the day. what the fuck did anyone see in any of this shit #i never want to think about dr whom ever again

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aliciameade · 4 years

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High-Speed Connection

Title: High-Speed Connection Author: aliciameade Rating: E for Every Lady Gets an Orgasm Pairing: Beca/Chloe...oops and Aubrey Summary: AND THEY WERE QUARANTINED. And Beca’s an exhibitionist. While Chloe’s Skyping Aubrey. Oops. (It was a prompt that I ran with.)

Also on AO3

“Beca is now obsessed with collegiate cheerleading.”

“She is not!”

At the sound of her name, Beca stops in the hall outside their office and then wanders in to find Chloe sitting at their desk using Beca’s massive iMac. “What about me?”

“She said you’re obsessed with collegiate cheerleading. But there’s no way!”

Beca smiles at the sound of Aubrey’s voice and crosses the room to put herself in-frame of the video chat a couple of feet behind Chloe. “It’s true, I am,” Beca says with a shrug. “It’s not my fault that Jerry deserves to be on mat.”

“He really does, though!” Aubrey says, eyes big and sad as she clutches at her heart. “I love him so much.”

“Obviously we’ve been binging Cheer,” Chloe says after agreeing with the sentiments. “What are you doing to pass the time?”

“BRB,” Beca says and then wrinkles her nose at actually saying ‘b-r-b’ as she leaves the video chat for a few seconds to grab another chair and swing it around to sit next to Chloe.

She listens to the two best friends talk and though they’re actively trying to not talk about the health crisis affecting the world, the conversation keeps drifting back to it and how Los Angeles is handling it compared to Mykonos. Beca lets her hand rest at the back of Chloe’s neck, a small bit of comfort in what are proving to be increasingly unpredictable times.

“What happened to that guy you were seeing?” Beca asks, hoping to find a topic that won’t be tainted by a stupid virus.

Admittedly, she isn’t super interested in Aubrey’s romantic life but it’s something to talk about and they have nothing better to do do with their time anyway.

She does kind of tune out, though. She’s been a little distracted all day. Her day had begun by waking up to Chloe’s fingers between her legs and despite the swift orgasm she’d been gifted, her body has been humming all day. Maybe it’s because Chloe had declined her offer to return the favor, citing that it was ‘just for [Beca]’ but she’s never quite satisfied if Chloe isn’t satisfied.

Maybe it’s because their sex life, which Beca would have already described as “more than sufficient” has gone off the charts in the last week. She never would have guessed that being forced to stay home with her girlfriend for days at a time would turn them into sex fiends, but in hindsight, she doesn’t know why she was so unassuming.

There’s something freeing about having no responsibilities but each other. Chloe isn’t exhausted from a long day at the clinic. Beca isn’t tired from flying back from New York or Paris or London. They aren’t stressed out about tomorrow’s schedule or bickering because they both want to spend more time with each other but their individual lives are making it difficult.

The most important task on their daily to-do list now is each other.

And man...they have really been completing those tasks.

Chloe shivering beneath her fingers gets her attention, pulling her out of her daydream of the way a strap-wearing Chloe had bent her over the dining table last night before dinner. She hadn’t realized her fingers had started wandering with her thoughts and her fingernails are drawing goosebumps to the surface of Chloe’s skin where she’s absently stroking her neck and shoulder.

Chloe glances over and kind of smiles but falls right into the conversation.

It’s the trip down memory lane that spurs it. She’s always been easily convinced to try risque scenarios when she’s turned on, and she’s maybe not proud of how willing she is to get caught by a stranger when Chloe has her within an inch of her sanity, but she’s accepted it’s just who she is.

She scoots her chair closer to Chloe’s under the guise of wanting to simply be close and lets her fingers travel up into her hair to scratch at her scalp, something she knows Chloe loves. She watches her eyelashes flutter and feels her lean back into it. Beca doesn’t know what the conversation is about anymore; she’s not listening. Her focus is on Chloe but she’s still acutely aware that they are on camera and their very good friend Aubrey is on the other end of the line.

Maybe that’s why she’s already so turned on. They have an audience. A known audience. Aubrey is no stranger. They’ve all seen each other naked, more than once. Hell, she even made out with Aubrey once at a college party on a dare. She also knows Chloe hooked up with her a few times in college, too. Nothing more than drunken fun, but enough fun that it happened more than once.

It’s a distracting thought and Beca lets her hand backtrack until she’s rubbing the back of Chloe’s neck in a gentle massage.

Aubrey’s words finally register in her brain. “You guys are so gross and adorable.”

“What can I say?” Beca says with a shrug and a smile at the camera. “I’m whipped.”

It makes everyone laugh and she uses the break in conversation to guide Chloe’s face to hers with a touch to her chin for a kiss that is better meant for the bedroom and not in the middle of a video chat.

“Get a room, you two,” breaks through after a few seconds of Beca trying her best to steal Chloe’s breath.

It works because Chloe’s breathing quickly when she pulls back, eyes wide in surprise at the unexpected enthusiasm.

“Sorry, Aubs,” Beca says with another smile at Chloe before turning to offer the same smile to Aubrey. “What were you just saying?”

It’s a legitimate question; Aubrey had been talking when she interrupted herself to comment on Beca’s physical affection and she has no idea what the conversation was about.

She doesn’t care, though. She just wants them talking again so Chloe remains distracted, but she can tell Chloe is already distracted, but not by Aubrey. It’s clear Chloe’s on edge with the way her jaw is firmly set, the muscle in it twitching now and then as Beca excuses her hand from where it’s been caressing Chloe’s neck and shoulders to move it decidedly lower.

She does check the screen to see how she and Chloe are framed first. The camera angle them cuts off around their chests which works for her intentions.

Her relocation is quick and masked by a routine shifting of the way she’s sitting. If Aubrey’s aware that her hand just moved between Chloe’s legs, she’s doing a good job of pretending she’s not.

There’s a quick, sharp inhale from Chloe followed by a cough, another action meant to conceal something. Which tells Beca that Chloe is okay with this.

If the cough didn’t, the way her knees tip further apart would have.

Chloe’s wearing thin cotton shorts and at the first touch of her fingers, Beca knows there’s nothing under them.

She can feel Chloe’s body through them distinctly, though she keeps her touch light. Nothing more than a slow graze up and down, not enough motion to be noticeable. It’s just her middle finger stroking back and forth and she smiles when Chloe’s hand moves to her knee. They always have a need to be touching, mutually. It’s not enough for Beca to touch Chloe; Chloe needs to be touching Beca, too.

Beca’s heart is racing and she hopes she’s not flushed. A glance at their small inset video preview tells her she’s not, but Chloe does look a bit feverish.

It only emboldens Beca to stop being so gentle and press two fingers against her firmly. She just holds them there for a few seconds because Chloe’s entire body twitched with it. Plus, she’s savoring the way she can feel wetness slowly soaking through the material.

Chloe’s blunt fingernails dig into Beca’s thigh, but Beca really doesn’t care. She’s too busy beginning to massage her fingertips into Chloe’s clit through her now-soaked shorts and watching her attempt to keep up a conversation.

It’s not as though they’ve never done something like this before, but it’s never been like this. They’ve definitely touched each other below tablecloths at restaurants with others present at the table. In movie theaters with people sitting in the same row. And the number of orgasms Beca has had on commercial airliners is quite literally illegal.

This feels much more intimate. There’s not the hustle and bustle of waiters and other patrons around them. There’s not a loud action movie muffling the sound of a chair squeaking as Beca’s hips push themselves up into Chloe’s fingers again and again or a dark plane, a blanket, and the drone of jet engines.

It’s startlingly quiet save for the conversation that, she can tell, is becoming more and more difficult for Chloe to maintain without stuttering or losing her train of thought.

“Chloe? Are you okay?”

Beca bites her lip to not laugh because Chloe’s flat-out failed to speak. She waits for her to notice and slows her fingers to give her a chance to catch up.

“I’m fine!” Chloe says with too much enthusiasm than is necessary.

“It’s not like you space out in the middle of a conversation,” Beca says brightly, fingers moving in slow, slow circles. She can feel Chloe trying to move against them. “I’ll go grab you something to drink. It’s important to stay hydrated,” she adds, directed at Aubrey.

She doesn’t know what’s gotten into her.

But it’s some evil sex monster, apparently.

She stands up and starts to walk away, earning a not-subtle whimper from Chloe at the loss of her touch.

But instead of leaving, as Chloe clearly thinks she is, Beca turns around and puts a finger to her lips to shush her. It happens to be one of the fingers she was just stroking Chloe with so she slips it into her mouth while she has Chloe’s attention, her taste faint but evident.

She kneels as she does it and Chloe has to fight to rip her eyes away from Beca who is definitely no longer in the room and return to her conversation while Beca crawls back over, out of frame, until Chloe’s lifting her left leg a bit so Beca can crawl under it and tuck herself into the space beneath the desk.

She gets herself comfortable, regretting a lack of kneepads on this hardwood floor (which they do own for possible needs like this) and smirks up at Chloe who keeps glancing down at her with nervous excitement.

Beca waits, though. She needs to know Chloe is okay with this, and if she’s not, she’ll sneak out and return with a glass of water as promised and wait patiently until the call is over for Chloe to give her what she’s asking for.

A minute or two passes and then with a particularly boisterous laugh, Chloe’s lifting her ass off her chair just enough for her to slip her own shorts off.

The way she spreads her legs and looks down at Beca is obscene in its own right.

Beca puts her hands around Chloe’s knees and pushes her open wider, more for the show of it than out of necessity. She wants to see Chloe up-close, see how aroused she’s become thanks to Beca’s little game. Wetness is already streaked high along her inner thighs and her clit is swollen and peeking out, but Beca already knew that. She could feel it. But it’s something else entirely to see it.

She’s not sure how much time they have, really. Aubrey might have something better to do and hang up, which in all honesty would be totally fine. Beca will see this through regardless. But the fun, the game, the challenge, the kink is to do this while Chloe is on a live video call.

She doesn’t wait or go through her usual teasing build-up of working her way closer and closer until Chloe’s begging.

She leans close and runs her tongue through Chloe, entrance to clit, and hears Chloe stop talking mid-word for a solid two seconds before she can continue.

Beca has to struggle not to moan herself. She’s outrageously turned on and tries to channel it into her attention to Chloe.

And she lavishes that attention.

Making love to Chloe is always an experience, but some are more heightened than others. Beca has no shame in the knowledge that she would happily sit and lick Chloe for hours and then ask for permission to do it for several more. She loves it. She loves it more than she loves most things in life. If she had to rank the things she loved, Chloe would be first and eating Chloe’s pussy would be second.

Everything else is after that.

It’s almost startling how wet Chloe’s getting. Beca feels it on her chin and cheeks and laps at Chloe like she can’t get enough (she can’t). Her tongue slips higher to stop avoiding the type of focused attention she knows Chloe needs and flicks it against her clit, now fully swollen and on display for Beca to worship. Which she does. Chloe keeps inching away from her as she struggles to stay still but Beca just follows, not letting her mouth leave Chloe for even a second.

Her tongue flicks and swirls and when she knows Chloe’s not expecting it, she lifts her hand and sinks two fingers into her to give her something to squeeze.

A moan gets her attention and she glances up to see Chloe’s head thrown back just as fingers slide into Beca’s hair to start guiding her.

The sight makes Beca moan, too, and whatever semblance of discretion they’d been exercising gets thrown out the window. She didn’t remember Chloe telling Aubrey goodbye or hearing the sound of the call disconnecting, but it’s hard to hear with Chloe’s thighs pressing against her ears every few seconds as she writhes in her seat.

She’s just starting to set a pace with her fingers when she hears another moan. Except, it’s definitely not her own, and it’s definitely not Chloe’s.

Her whole body freezes on reflex and Chloe’s head snaps up.

“Baby, don’t stop.”

“Yeah, keep going.”

Beca’s head whips around, hair pulling uncomfortably where it’s still tangled in Chloe’s fingers, to look up at the computer screen.

She was so focused she had no idea they’d migrated so far away from the desk or that what they were doing was in full-frame, right down to where it cut off just below Beca’s ass.

If that wasn’t enough of a surprise, the fact that Aubrey’s chair has rolled back enough for it to be obvious that she’s touching herself, hand down the front of her leggings, was definitely a shock.

But the screaming arousal shoves away the shock and the sight makes Beca groan. She hadn’t expected this; she’d expected to get Chloe off quickly while their friend was none the wiser. That was the game.

This was...a threesome?

“Holy fuck,” Beca says, watching Aubrey (who didn’t stop touching herself with Beca’s discovery) for a few seconds before turning back to Chloe following a sharp tug on her hair. “Holy fuck,” she says again before leaning back in to take Chloe’s clit between her lips and start sucking as her fingers start thrusting.

Her mind is reeling. Every time she glances up, Chloe’s eyes are either locked on her, locked on the screen, or her head is thrown back. She rearranges a little, no longer having to be discreet, and uses her free hand to lift Chloe’s leg over her shoulder. The other stays planted on the floor for leverage, Beca realizes, so Chloe can rock her hips up into Beca’s face.

She’s never heard Aubrey like this before. Her moans are loud and breathy and Beca can tell by the way they’re stilted that she’s touching herself hard and fast.

She does the same for Chloe, fingers starting to pound into her in fast, short strokes as she sucks harder and harder on her clit.

Chloe’s moan of, “Shit, I’m so close,” sends Beca’s hand down the front of her own shorts to thrust three fingers into herself and start riding her own hand.

It’s a move she didn’t think would have any effect on but herself but she hears Aubrey react, a moan of Beca’s name that almost sends Beca flying over the edge.

“I wanna watch you come together.” Aubrey’s breathing hard. “Make her come, Beca.”

“Oh, my God,” she groans into Chloe before she pulls hard on her clit with her lips and curls her fingers to grind into the spot inside Chloe that will make her see stars. Her own hips and other hand move fast; she’s so desperately horny that she doesn’t actually want to come. She just wants to maintain this level of arousal forever.

But Chloe’s moaning her name and swearing and she feels her cunt tightening around her fingers so she fucks herself— and Chloe— harder and harder until Chloe’s moans are so loud they’re creating feedback on the call.

She feels Chloe explode from within and lets go, too, both of them moaning and bucking, wetness dripping down both of Beca’s hands.

And then she hears it.

She hears Aubrey coming and she takes her mouth away from Chloe, still fucking with her fingers, so they can watch it happen together.

It’s really a sight to behold to see Aubrey in a state of pure ecstasy. No hang-ups or stress or worries, just pure and utter release.

“Shit,” Chloe whispers but it’s more than loud enough to reach Beca’s ears.

She doesn’t look away from the screen but she does slip her fingers out to move them to her clit to start rubbing because she knows Chloe always comes twice in a row. And she kind of really wants to watch Aubrey, still breathing hard and still clearly touching herself, watch her make Chloe come since she missed it last time.

It doesn’t take long.

And she gets way more bang for her buck than she expected; apparently Aubrey’s into being watched, too, and as soon as she notices Beca watching her and touching Chloe she’d fallen right back into the same rhythm she’s kept on herself, one that’s hard and fast and tells Beca that Aubrey’s as impossibly turned on as she knows Chloe is.

She doesn’t have to turn around to see that, though. She has ears and as much as she’s watching Aubrey, she’s watching herself and Chloe in the picture-in-picture display.

It doesn’t take long—it never does—for Chloe to be on the edge again. She falls quickly, no prolonged plateau with how overstimulated she is, and Beca watches Aubrey watch Chloe fall apart on screen until Aubrey’s falling apart again, too.

Beca turns back to Chloe once Aubrey’s moans have subsided to bury her face between her thighs. Not to make her come again, though she knows she could. Instead, she licks at her slowly, trying to clean her up (a futile effort) and prolong their intimacy.

Eventually, the bubble of sexual tension surrounding them pops and she feels Chloe stroking her hair and saying her name.

It pulls her out of her reverie and she hears Aubrey’s voice say something, but she doesn’t catch what it was. The reality of what just happened slams down on her and she leaps backward, slamming the back of her head on the desk before groaning it and ducking beneath it to hide.

“Oh, my God, baby, are you okay?” Chloe says, rolling herself forward to check on her.

Beca feels like she’s on fire, and not in a good way. Everything had been so hot in the moment but now she’s mortified. That was Aubrey. Aubrey whom they’ve known for so many years. Who they’ve lived with and cried with and would probably be Chloe’s doula whenever they finally got around to the whole having kids thing.

“What happened? Was that your head? Beca, are you okay?!”

Beca just groans again and lets her face fall into Chloe’s naked lap, though there’s no licking this time. “I cannot believe that just happened.”

She hears Chloe laugh and feels hands on her head feeling the throbbing spot on the back of it. “It’s not a big deal,” Chloe says soothingly.

“We literally just fucked in front of Aubrey.” Her voice is muffled and it must be amusing for Chloe because she giggles again.

“I don’t think she minded, babe.”

“I really didn’t. Will you come out from under there so I can see you?”

Beca sighs and lifts her head so Chloe, still nude from the waist down, can roll backward to let her out. She ends up sitting in Chloe’s lap even though her own empty chair is right there, but she has a desperate need to feel protected right now.

She glances at the screen and tries to ignore how flushed Aubrey’s face still is. How flushed all three of them are if she’s honest. “What?” she says flatly.

“Look, Beca. I can pretend this never happened if you need me to. Chalk it up to cabin fever.”

“I’m okay with everything that happened,” Chloe says with a squeeze of her arms around Beca’s waist.

“Of course, you are,” Beca sighs. “Well, I really only have myself to blame here, right?”

Chloe and Aubrey both make sounds of agreement.

“But just so you know,” she continues to Aubrey, “I really didn’t intend for things to...for things to go that far. You weren’t supposed to know.”

“It was pretty obvious the second you ‘left’”—she uses air quotes—“to get Chloe something to drink and she could barely string a sentence together ten seconds later. I’m not an idiot.”

“Well, it’s not my fault this one can’t keep her shit together for five minutes,” she jokes with a playful pinch to Chloe’s cheek that earns her a slap on her hip that would have been on her ass if the angle was different. “What?! It’s true!”

“Yeah, well,” is all Chloe argues, “what are ya gonna do?”

“Well, I’m going to say good night. This has been sufficiently...sufficient,” Aubrey says with a bit of a laugh.

“Sleep well, Bree,” Chloe says with a wave before the call ends and Aubrey disappears.

“Oh, my God!” Beca crows, covering her face while Chloe bursts into hysterics. “How long did you know she was watching?!”

“Oh, a long time,” Chloe says through her laugh. “Wait, are you mad?” she asks, suddenly sobering.

“No, I’m not mad,” Beca sighs. “I just cannot believe we fucked in front of Aubrey. On camera!”

“Would you have preferred it to not be on camera?”

The suggestion makes Beca’s brain short-circuit and her hesitation must be obvious because Chloe gasps and bounces her in her lap like she’s a damn child.

“Oh, my God, Beca do you want to have a threeway with Bree?”

“Stop it,” Beca says, shoving her finger in Chloe’s face only for it to be captured in a fist and pushed away.

“You do!”

“I—no! Look—this was—” she struggles for words. “This was an accident! It was just hot and everyone was turned on and it was...it was an accident,” she finishes weakly.

“Which is why you watched her get off the second time instead of me?”

“I was watching both of you!” she yells in defense and then immediately regrets it. Instead of claiming her easy victory, Chloe just grins at Beca until she crumbles with a groan. “Shut up.”

“It’s okay, baby; it’s hot,” Chloe says and Beca has no choice but to give in when Chloe guides her down and into a kiss that reminds Beca’s body she didn’t get to come a second time like Aubrey and Chloe did.

She whines into it, feeling every bit the pathetic person she is when she’s in this state and feels Chloe smile against her lips.

“Okay, okay, let’s relocate and I’ll take care of you.”

“Thank you,” Beca says before stealing another kiss and climbing off Chloe’s lap. “And we tell no one of this.”

“Scout’s honor,” Chloe says as she holds up three fingers that Beca knows are going to be buried in her in the next few minutes.

“But maybe we find out if Aubrey has plans tomorrow night,” she says. “Probably not, right? Who has plans anymore?” “We do,” Chloe says as she snags Beca around the waist to lead them to their bedroom.

The End

#triple treble #bechloe #beca mitchell #bechloe fic rec #aubrey posten #SIN #THIS IS SIN #and it was a prompt #fanfiction #pitch perfect

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epochofbelief · 4 years

Text

Breath Control, Chapter Thirteen

An A Court of Mist and Fury College Swim Team AU

All characters belong to SJ Maas!

Feysand and Elriel

Warnings: Mentions of terminal cancer, alcohol use

Author’s Note: I DID NOT THINK THIS WOULD HAPPEN TODAY BUT I DID IT. IT WAS WRITTEN IN A FRENZY.

MASTERLIST LINK

Please enjoy:)

THIRTEEN

~~~Feyre~~~

In order to keep things as comfortable as possible, Mor helped me move on the last day of Christmas training before I went home. Rhys had left a day earlier to visit his father in London. Student-athletes who were recruited from outside the country got a few extra days over Christmas break in order to travel the long distance home. The rest of us were forced to wait the full extra six days before we could go home, training for about five hours a day and sleeping the other nineteen.

Exhausted after an early Christmas training practice on the Tuesday before Christmas, we managed to move me out of my place and into hers in under four hours. A remarkable feat. I hugged Mor goodbye outside the house.

“It’s going to be weird living with Rhys. Is this stupid?”

Mor pulled away. “I’d prefer you here with my cousin and me than with those two assholes. You have a whole floor to yourself! Rhys and I on the top, you’re two whole floors away from him. But don’t think for a second that I won’t be traveling to ground level to visit you, like, all the time.”

I smiled. “Thanks Mor. For everything.” I meant for more than just letting me move in. Being my friend, looking out for me, being supportive even with all the drama between Rhys and me.

Her nod told me she understood.

She pulled me in for one last hug and then flounced into her car without a glance backward. I’d really lucked out with Mor.

As Mor pulled away, I shifted to face the house. My new house. Two new roommates, one of them my ex. If I wasn’t before, now I had to be verifiably out of my mind.

I shrugged even though there was no one around. Fuck it. Better than Tamlin, right?

Three and a half hours later, I had run out of music and podcasts to listen to. I couldn’t forget that the last time I’d driven home, he’d been with me. How had my love life gotten so screwed up? While my swimming had improved, and my major change was forthcoming, the romance area of my life was still an utter disaster.

Unfortunately, one of the classic rock songs Rhys had selected on our past drive chose that moment to click on. As the lyrics filled the car, instead of turning the volume down, I blasted it as loud as it could go. Rolled my windows down. And let myself wallow the rest of the way home.

It was already seven o’clock by the time I made it to my place. I burst through the front door, weighed down by my suitcase, bags of gifts, and swim bag (I’d be training with my old team while home for the break).

“Feyre!” Elain’s voice floated to me from the living area to my left. I dumped all my things right inside the door to hug her. What with finals and my Christmas training, I hadn’t seen her in a few weeks. While she hugged me, I glanced over my shoulder and had to force my mouth to remain shut.

Damn. I’d forgotten Azriel was coming for Christmas. I loved Azriel, and I was so glad Elain had him (I repeated to myself for the thousandth time) but he was just another painful reminder that I was alone, and that both of my past boyfriends had chosen other, hotter, crazier girls over me.

But I smiled and hugged Azriel tightly. Then Nesta, a little less tightly. And finally my father. Dad and I had spoken on the phone a couple of times since Thanksgiving. I think hearing about how upset I was over Rhys (I was sure Elain had told him a few things) made him worried over me, and he’d made a big effort to call this past month. I was genuinely happy to see him.

“We just finished eating half an hour ago. We made a plate for you. It’s in the microwave.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“I’ll come with you,” Elain said, leaving Azriel behind.

As I sat at the table eating my dinner, Elain chattered away about how glad she was that Azriel was here, about how her finals had all gone really well, about how she was already looking forward to next semester, about how Dad and Azriel got along really well. I’d never heard her speak so much about herself in one go. It brought me so much joy for her that I thought I’d burst. I’d worried she wouldn’t find someone else, wouldn’t find purpose in her passion for nursing, for a much longer time after what Greyson did to her.

Finally, she paused to draw breath. “I’m so sorry, I’ve been talking all about me for the past twenty minutes. How are you?” She probably didn’t notice, but her voice grew hushed when she asked how I was. Was this how Elain had felt after her breakup with Greyson? Everyone walking on eggshells around her, making sure they didn’t say anything to remind her too painfully of her ex?

I waved my hand, standing up to rinse my plate and place it in the dishwasher. “Oh, I’m fine. Four-point-oh again, and I just finished all my Gen Eds. Next semester I’ll start taking classes for whatever new major I choose.”

Elain frowned. “Okay, but you know I wasn’t asking about how school is going--even though I’m really proud of you for your grades and for having the courage to change your major. How was the move? Did you have to see him?”

I shook my head. “Move was fine. Mor was great. Haven’t spoken to Rhys since I ran into him at the Astrid Oaks leasing office.” I’d texted Elain the night that had occurred, including every detail of our encounter. Like Mor, Elain insisted there was an explanation for Rhys’s behavior. I maintained that I wouldn’t be the one begging to hear that explanation, if it even existed.

“Okay. You don’t want to talk about it. That’s fine. You know I just want you to be happy, though, right? Do whatever’s best for you?”

I nodded. “I know. Thanks Elain. And I expect to hear more about you and Azriel later.”

The grin that split her face was so bright it was blinding. “Later. Right now, I think everyone’s waiting for us to watch Star Wars or something with them.”

------

At eleven o’clock that night, I sat next to my window at the top of the house, watching the snow fall. It was the first snow of the year, just in time for Christmas. I’d been worried it wouldn’t snow at all this year.

It had been a nice rest of the evening with my family. We’d watched two Star Wars movies, pigging out on junk food the whole time. I’d had to almost crawl my way up all the staircases to my room when the end credits of our second movie had rolled. I’d merely shot Elain a suspicious look as she escorted Azriel very loudly into his separate bedroom. It was so painfully obvious, I was almost sure my father knew and was just letting us girls go to unnecessary great lengths to fruitlessly keep him out of the loop.

My phone buzzed. A text from Mor.

Mor: Feyre?

Me: Mor?

Mor: Do you trust me?

Me: Uh… yeah?

Mor: I need you to have an open mind for the next thirty minutes.

Me: Okay. Why?

Mor: Look out your window. Love ya

It took me a second to process Mor’s text, realize that she really did want me to look out the window I was sitting next to, and then slowly turn my head to gaze into the black, snowy night outside.

Only I couldn’t see the black, snowy night anymore.

What I did see had me scrambling backwards, falling off the window seat and backing up five feet before I realized that the man crouched outside the window was Rhys.

I stood slowly as he jerked his head at the window latch, one of his eyebrows cocked in question. Shaking my head, I inched forward and eased the window open.

“We’re three stories up!” I hissed as Rhys stumbled onto the blue cushion of the window seat, tracking in snow as he did so. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Rhys turned to close the window, then locked his gaze with mine. “I am out of my fucking mind, Feyre. Out of my mind for going this long without explaining why everything happened. Out of my mind for going this long without telling you I’m in love with you.”

Each of his words hit me like a blow. My first instinct was to speak. . . Say something, anything. But I held back. This was his rodeo. He was the one who needed to do the explaining.

He looked at me as though expecting me to speak.

I placed my hands on my hips, widening my stance as I stared back at him.

He took a deep breath and plunged on. “I’m out of my mind for not doing everything I could to be able to tell you why I couldn’t tell you why what happened even happened!”

“What?” I said.

He slumped onto the cushion. “Yeah, you’re right that didn’t make any fucking sense. Let me start at the beginning.”

“Okay.”

His head jerked up again, as though surprised I was acquiescing so easily. But I was nothing if not true to what I’d been telling myself for the past month. I wasn’t gonna come crawling. He could do that. And he had.

I led him over to the fireplace, tossing him a blanket so he could warm up. Settling myself into one of my plush armchairs, I waited.

“So, uh, the beginning. Right. Guess I’ll take the plunge.”

And he did.

“I liked you as soon as I met you on that recruiting trip two years ago. You were so confident, sure of yourself, even if you didn’t think you were. You had fun at that party the upperclassmen decided to take the recruits to without falling prey to a bunch of older, ‘cooler’, students. I just… Tamlin himself wanted to hook up with you at that party. And hooking up with recruits is obviously a big no-no. And you stared him down in front of everyone at that party and told him to hit the road.

“I’d just gotten out of a shitty relationship with… Amarantha… and had lost my sister,” his voice faltered for a moment and I had to restrain myself from reaching for him, “only a few months prior. Seeing how good you were, how strong, in an incredibly daunting situation. . . It blew my mind. My favorite girl in the world had just died, and my least favorite girl in the world was the only one I’d ever really dated. I’d lost all hope and there you were, right in front of me.

“You didn’t glance at me twice the whole night, but during the few conversations we had I knew you were intelligent, and well-rounded, and not an empty-headed athlete that some are.

“And so I spent the whole year forgetting about you. I didn’t date anyone my freshman year. Not because I was obsessive or anything--I’m not a creep, I swear--but because I had never met someone like you before. Someone so sure of their values. I couldn’t compare you to anyone… Amarantha especially. I couldn’t get the idea of you, a seventeen-year-old girl having the guts to party with a bunch of college kids and not bow down to peer pressure. You know I disapprove of a lot of the shit that goes on with the team during the season--especially all the sleeping around and not worrying about who it could hurt. I’m just not built to do things like that.

“And when you arrived a year later, you jumped straight into that relationship with Tamlin. I was so thrown off. I couldn’t understand why you could be with someone like that. I do now,” he added quickly, seeing my expression. “But I was nineteen! I was dumb--couldn’t figure it out. I know he was what you needed at the time.

“Anyways. Moving past that.

“It was when I saw you train from across the pool, never backing down, putting up with Tamlin and Ianthe’s shit, day after day… It was then that I started to love you.”

I couldn’t prevent the sharp intake of breath I took when he said that.

And when I realized I wanted to repeat those same words back to him. To Rhys, who’d loved me for so long without ever pushing himself on me, without trying to force me into anything I wasn’t ready for, who’d encouraged me through one of the darkest times of my life.

“And ever since the beginning of this year, when something shifted between you and your friends, I’ve been worried sick about you. Finally worked up the courage to talk to you at the Halloween party, offer to drive you home, get you the hell away from the cheating bastard.

“And then Amarantha happened.” His hands twisted in his lap. He was staring straight into the fire now.

“I’ve never told anyone this… At least, I hadn’t told anyone else this until about two hours ago. Remember how I said everyone thought I dated Amarantha to get through my sister’s cancer?” He glanced at me.

I nodded.

“I dated her because… because she knew something, and insisted I stay with her if I didn’t want anyone to find out.”

I glanced up sharply.

“I went on one date with Amarantha before I knew we weren’t compatible. One date. After that date, I was ready to tell her I wasn’t interested, kind of let it work itself out into nothing, you know?

“And then. . .” He trailed off.

“Rhys?”

“Right before I drove here, I told Mor everything I am about to tell you right now. I want you to know she gave me full consent to say all of this to you.”

Ah, so this explained her texts. I nodded. “Okay.”

“Mor’s gay, Feyre.”

I blinked.

“She’s not out, isn’t ready. She didn’t even know I knew until two hours ago. But back in high school, right before Amarantha and I started going out, Amarantha spied Mor making out with another girl in a car, at a mall twenty miles outside of town. Amarantha told me as much after I told her I didn’t things would work out between us.

“And I knew that if Mor hadn’t told me, she didn’t want anyone to know. No one at school knew. Her family didn’t know. ”

My vision blurred. I blinked rapidly.

“So when Amarantha insinuated that she’d spill Mor’s secret if I broke things off with her, I realized I had no choice.”

And now I could see that he was crying, too. His hands twisting faster and faster in his lap. He hadn’t looked at me for at least the past five minutes.

“I couldn’t let that happen to Mor. Mor, who was so happy, all the time, always lifting people up. The girl everyone thought was the height of confidence. That girl didn’t feel comfortable enough to share something that was such a big part of her identity. And that’s always her choice, of course, and I would never want her to come out before she was ready. And that’s why I stayed with Amarantha.

“I won’t go into detail about everything that happened,” he swiped at the smattering of tears he’d let fall. “Amarantha broke up with me the day after my sister died. And for some reason that didn’t even feel like a weight off my chest. It was supposed to, but coupled with burying my sister a few days after that… I’d never felt so alone. And Amarantha loved that by leaving me at the worst point in my life, she’d be ensuring the fact that I would feel so alone.”

“So when I arrived home at Thanksgiving, with you, both of us happy to be together, and Amarantha saw it. . . Her personality could not allow her to just let me be happy, let me be with another girl. So while we were at the club--she was sober, by the way, and I was definitely not, if that counts for anything--she brought it all back up. Told me she’d walk in there and tell all Mor’s friends the truth if I didn’t give it one more go with her.”

A few more tears slid down his face and I knelt on the carpet in front of him, placing one hand on his knee.

“And it’s not an excuse Feyre. But I had no idea what to do. I would never, ever cheat on you for my own sick kind of pleasure or something. And what I did was wrong. I was too intoxicated to think clearly, to find some sort of other solution. I didn’t want to ambush Mor and tell her I knew the truth. I didn’t think it would be fair. And apparently that was stupid of me, too, because when I told her tonight she bawled her eyes out and told me she would’ve come out to the whole high school over the intercom if she’d known what Amarantha was doing to me. So I’m just an idiot, but I’m an idiot who loves you, and if there’s anything I can do to convince you to believe me, to, gods forbid, to forgive me--”

Restraint was impossible now, and I flung myself at him, straddling his hips with my legs. And he went still as death as I kissed every one of his tears away.

When I finished doing that, I pressed a kiss to his forehead, my hands resting on his shoulders. His thumbs lightly, so lightly, slid just underneath my shirt to rest on the skin above the waistband of my pajama shorts. “I love you too, you idiot,” I whispered.

My words unleashed him. His touch went from light to firm, his hands gripping my waist and pulling me as close to him as possible. His mouth found mine and our tears mingled as his tongue swept across mine.

“You really--” He broke off as I covered his mouth with mine again, unwilling to be separated from him for a moment longer. He pulled back. “You believe me?”

I brought my hands up to cup his cheeks, slide them down his shoulders to his chest. “Of course I do.”

He stood up swiftly then, his mouth locking against mine, his hands gripping my ass. I could feel him hard against me as he strode for the bed, laying me softly on top of it. He stood there for a second, looking at me. Smiling.

“Let’s not waste time,” I hissed, grabbing the neck of his t-shirt and pulling him down on top of me.

And later, when he paused to ask me, “Are you sure?” as he hovered above me, both sets of our clothing in piles on the floor around the bed, I nodded. “Yes,” I breathed. “I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”

--------------------