#newcastle jumpers

[3st3ll3]

#Teamwear Hoodies & Jumpers #newcastle jumpers #army jumpers

[kateally]

As this sector continues to flourish and transform, the significance of proper workwear cannot be understated. Workwear in Newcastle plays a pivotal role in boosting productivity while ensuring the safety and comfort of the workforce. In this article, we will explore the construction industry in Newcastle and delve into the various types of workwear that contribute significantly to enhancing productivity.

#Workwear in Newcastle #workwear #kids workwear #workwear overalls #workwear jumpers #workwear shirts #workwear pants #workwear shorts #safety workwear

[bearsintreesofficial]

hello tumblr. i hope this message finds you well.

our new single, we don't speak anymore, is out everywhere now. it is a song for your ex-tumblr mutual. for your ex-ride-or-die. for the imagined conversation you have with whoever falls in-between those two categories. it is one in the morning and you are sitting on a rooftop together. it is cold, and you forgot to bring a jumper. there is warmth in your conversation, but you can't stop yourself from shaking.

we are going on tour next week. as of this post, bristol is sold out. manchester and newcastle are close. i will be honest with you - i am anxious. i am nervous about being in front of a sea of people. i am worried about how i will react to people singing along to songs i did not think we would get to release, and worried about whether people will sing along at all. i pray that, when confronted with it all, i will stop myself from shaking.

this is the first time we have pressed vinyl completely independently. the songs etched into the polyvinyl chloride are ours and will be ours - now and forever. proud does not begin to cover it. i do not mind that it makes me feel shaky.

last week, we streamed for twelve hours straight and edited our bodies in real time. by the end of the day, over a thousand people had watched. it was partly to prove that we could and partly to prove that no matter how much permanent marker you scribble on iain's face, they'll still be able to shake it off by the next day.

tumblr, i hope we might see you on tour next week. if not, i know we will see you next friday, on the release date of our next studio album. currently, the weather forecast for the day is light rain showers and a gentle breeze.

if you find that you are cold, we will bring you a spare jumper.

we do not want you to shake.

[iinsertblognamee]

it wasn't meant to go like this

summary ― a split second and your world comes crashing down

pairing ― sam kerr x reader

warning/s ― fluff, angst?, injury

masterlist

The 2011/2012 Women’s A-League was a promising year, Caitlin and you put on the blue jersey again. The season went on, Sydney FC taking on win after win. 

Sam had come to watch your game in Newcastle, the weather was a little rough for this time of year but the game continued. The grass had soft patches throughout the whole field, rain from the night before not helping at all. 

It was one wrong move and you were down, the pain rippled through your ankle as you fell to the ground. You vividly hear the blowing of the whistle, and teammates surrounding you as you let out a groan. 

You knew long before the medics confirmed. You’d done it bad. The official report said you had a grade three lateral sprain in your ankle - a complete tear of the muscles. That was your season over. 

They carried you off the field, teammates clapping you off the field as the medics continued to work on your ankle. The pain was only getting worse, the shock wearing off as tears spilled. It doesn’t take long for you to be placed in the medical room, Sam joining soon after. 

She held your hand as they wrapped you up, explaining your rest period as well as getting you in contact with the team physio. They mentioned surgery but explained that they wanted to keep that as the last resort. 

Sam kept you grounded throughout it all. Rubbing her hands up and down your back to keep you relaxed, talking about anything and everything under the sun to get your attention off the pain - and it worked. She even managed to get a smile and some giggles. 

The following weeks were hard, you were constantly in pain. You weren’t sleeping well, your ankle wasn’t getting better as fast as you had hoped. Putting a damper on your recovery. Once the swelling had gone down you had been approved for air travel, taking the first plane back home to Perth. 

Like many times before your families were standing there with ‘Welcome Home’ posters and balloons. Sam rolled both your suitcases towards your families as you hobbled over with your crutches.  

Hugs and kisses were given all around, Sam’s sister taking the bags off her so she could help you through the airport and towards the cars. As much as you wanted to be able to do it all by yourself, you knew that extra support would be needed. 

Physio appointments were booked within the week, and your mum, Roxanne and Sam shared the load of getting you to and from. It got worse before it got better. You were so overly tired that you became snapping, Sam receiving the brunt of it. 

Fights were becoming a normal occurrence and on multiple occasions either you or Sam would stomp away. The fighting was pointless, arguments about who used the last bit of butter and where did you put my jumper? becoming a constant in your lives. It was pathetic but both of you were too stubborn to admit to being wrong. 

Your most recent fight had been about you taking your painkillers, you had been refusing to take them the past few days because you believed you didn’t need them anymore. You knew the faster you were off the painkillers the faster you were to recovering and getting back on the field. Sam, on the other hand, knew you were lying straight through your teeth. She saw the way you would wince every time you put a little bit of pressure on your ankle, she heard you crying at night trying not to wake her up. 

Sam had left with the front door slamming behind her, you watched through the front window as she walked across the street to her parent's house. You let out a scoff as you shook your head. If she wanted to throw a fit you’d much rather she do it in her own house, not yours. 

You stay seated on the couch, the TV playing in the background as you played on your phone, temple run your new favourite game (thanks to Caitlin). An hour went by, and your legs started to cramp from staying in one place for too long. You felt around from your crutches, your eyes moving around the room to see they were leaning up against the dining table. 

An annoyed groan leaves your lips, the distance way too far for you to make it. You turn your attention back to your phone, switching to another game to keep your mind off the cramps. 

It worked for twenty minutes, but the cramping was now a dull ache. You looked up at your crutches once again, your brain trying to work out how exactly you were going to get from here to there without injuring yourself further. 

Your best option was to get up and go as fast as you could, hoping that the speed would cancel out the fact that you would be using your ankle. Giving yourself a countdown, taking a deep breath before you pull yourself up from the couch. You take one step and then another, the shooting pain through your ankle winds you for a second but you’re determined. You take a second step, placing your bad ankle down once again. You think you have it, a cheer almost leaving your lips before you feel the muscle tighten before it snaps. 

The scream leaves your lips before you hit the ground, tears streaming down your face as you lay on the floor. You don’t attempt to move, the pain taking over any attempt to get yourself back up again. 

You don’t know how long you lay there, tears streaming down your face. You know you’ve done more damage. You can already hear the physio telling you we’re back to square one, you’re even further away from getting back on the pitch. 

Outcome after outcome rumbles in your mind, the thought that you might have fucked it up so bad that you can never play again grows and grows. 

You miss the sound of the front door opening again, as well as the bouquet of flowers Sam had bought as an apology hitting the ground as she lets out a scream. She runs towards you, her knees hitting the ground as she grabs your face making you look at her. 

“Sam?” you cry out, grabbing onto her arm. The tears don’t stop as she runs her hand over your hair attempting to calm you down. “Sam, I hurt it. I made it worse” 

You choked on more tears, closing your eyes as you brought your hands over your face. You can feel her checking over your body, you know her attention is purely focused on your ankle. 

She gets herself comfortable next to you, her hand never leaving your hair as she pulls out her phone, the ringing tone enough for you to fall away from your face. 

“Who are you calling” You hiccup out, watching Sam as she brings the phone to her ear. 

“Your physio, we need him to look over you to see if there’s more damage or not” She doesn’t sound angry as she explains it to you, she uses her hand on your hair to bring your hand to her lips, kissing each knuckle. 

“Hi, I’m Sam Kerr calling on behalf of Y/N L/N” 

The physio came within the hour, and with the help of Sam, they moved you to your bed, as he looked your ankle over. You hissed as he pressed in, your hand gripped with Sam’s. After his assessments, you wait for the bad news. You wait for the ‘I’m sorry but you’re never going to play again’ but instead he gives you a smile. 

“Everything seems okay, no further damage from what I can tell, but I’m more than happy to do another assessment in a few days once the swelling has come down again.” 

“Wait. It’s okay?” 

He lets out a small laugh as he nods his head “I think you scared yourself more than any damage you caused. It’s just a stress fracture from using it at such a high level after so long of not using it at all. Your foot just wasn’t ready for that much pressure quite yet. I reckon though in a week or two, with your exercises we might be able to take one of the crutches away” 

You cry again, Sam pulling you into a hug as she kisses your forehead. 

It was going to be okay. 

You get the all-clear to play in March. 

Your first goal since the injury equals Matilda's tie with New Zealand in a friendly match. 

#sam kerr x reader #sam kerr imagines #sam kerr imagine #woso imagine #woso imagines #woso x reader

[tom1bombadil]

In three days I depart on an adventure. I leave behind the streets of Newcastle, where I have spent the last 8 years of my existence. I’m packing light and haven’t made any plans other than flying into Hanoi on the 25th of April.

This a photo of me in my new MacPac jumper. I guess I’m happier than usual, I just forgot to smile.

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev || AO3 || My Website

It was significantly colder in Newcastle than it was in London, and Jon hadn’t prepared for it. The jumper was warm enough for the few blocks between Sloane Square and the Institute, or for exploring the tunnels—although they weren’t doing that so much anymore, not with the Not-Them trapped in their depths—but only helped a little on streets three degrees above freezing while the wind blew in odd little eddies that curled around buildings to catch them off-guard. He’d loosed his hair from the half-topknot he’d pulled it back in that morning in the hopes that it would make his neck warmer at least, but he still found himself trying not to shiver, or at least trying not to make it obvious he was shivering. He failed at both.

“Here.” Martin stepped closer to him and held his jacket open to one side. “You’re going to get pneumonia or something. I told you to bring a scarf.”

“You didn’t,” Jon grumbled, but he didn’t hesitate to tuck himself against Martin’s side.

“No, but I wore a jacket.” Martin let the side of the jacket fall and wrapped his arm around Jon as he pulled it closed, trapping him in the warmth. The scent of new leather—a Christmas gift from Gerry—mingled with the odor of lanolin from his jumper and the usual mint and cherry smell that always clung to Martin, and Jon felt a tension he hadn’t even known was knotting him up bleed away. “And I’m a Northerner by birth, remember? Just because I’ve lived in London since I was seven doesn’t mean I’ve completely forgotten.”

Jon sighed and leaned against Martin for a moment, as ill advised as that was while they were trying to walk. “Thank you. For coming with me. I’d have asked Melanie rather than come alone if you’d said no, but…I’m glad you came.”

“I’m glad I came, too. And not just because Melanie doesn’t have enough body fat to stand between you and hypothermia.”

“Also because Melanie and I are more likely to do something stupid?”

“Maybe a little.” Martin smiled down at Jon, that smile of his that always sent warmth flooding all the way to his toes. “Mostly because I’m enjoying spending time with you away from the Institute, even if it is work-related.”

Jon felt his cheeks heat up a little, and he ducked his head to avoid Martin’s gaze. “I like that, too,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t the first time since Jon’s return to the Institute that they’d spent time away from it together, of course, but it was definitely the furthest they’d ever gone. Aside from the previous week’s gathering at Cinnamon Rose Books, they’d spent two separate evenings at the small pub Martin and his siblings preferred (Nancy had taken to Jon at once, for a wonder, and the second night they’d stayed long enough for the singing to start, leaving Jon enchanted when Martin was persuaded to take the lead in a song). Jon had lost his flat during his weeks in hiding, not that he minded all that much, so he was still staying with Melanie until he found a place of his own, but he’d gone over to Martin’s a couple times for dinner. Both times he’d accidentally fallen asleep and woken up on Martin’s sofa with a blanket tucked around him and Martin sitting nearby humming softly.

It felt…easy, being with Martin. Right. Jon wanted to say that what they were doing was dating; it certainly felt like it. But since he hadn’t even admitted out loud that he was in love with Martin, and obviously Martin hadn’t said anything, he supposed they were simply…hanging out. Keeping company, as it were. Which was…fine. It was fine. Jon would take it, would take any excuse to be around Martin.

Which was why he’d made the suggestion to Martin that they head to Newcastle together after finding the reference in the latest statement from Elias. When Breekon and Hope had first come up, nearly two years ago now, Sasha had done some research into the company and found that the Nottingham depot mentioned in the statement had long ago been converted to luxury flats, but none of them had known there was also a depot in Newcastle. But the reference in the statement Elias had given him, to “help clarify his next move”, had given Jon a starting point. He still wasn’t sure how closely they were aligned with the Stranger, but there might be a clue in Newcastle. It was something, at least. So Jon had proposed to Martin that they make a day of it, and Martin had smiled and bought their train tickets.

“It should be just around here,” Martin murmured, looking back and forth as they came to an intersection. “Maybe six blocks that way.”

“Had you ever heard of them?” Jon asked, looking up at Martin for a moment and nearly stumbling over his feet before righting himself. It was only natural for him to slide his arm around Martin’s waist; it made it less awkward to walk tucked inside his jacket as he was. “Breekon and Hope, I mean. Before, before they turned up in the statements.”

Martin hummed in negation. “Them turning up to deliver the table was the first time I ever actually met anyone aligned with the Stranger.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I’m pretty well steeped in the Eye, Jon. Have been for a long time.” A sad note crept into Martin’s voice. “I was eight when I found my first Leitner, and, well, there was no going back for me after that. By the time I was old enough that…things started poking around me, I was at a point where the Stranger avoided me as much as possible. Didn’t even see my first Stranger-aligned Leitner until I was…thirteen, maybe?”

“That’s still so young,” Jon said, completely ignoring the fact that he, too, had been eight when he found his first Leitner, or when it had found him. He paused, then added, “Did…did you burn it?”

“No,” Martin said, a bit regretfully. “Not then. We didn’t start burning them until…God, almost ten years ago now? Mm, closer to nine. We burnt our first one just before Aunt Mary did her ritual.”

Jon shivered, and it had nothing to do with the cold. “Were those two facts connected?” he asked, mostly joking but not entirely.

Martin surprised him by answering absently, “Probably. Gerry was looking at ways to get away from her entirely, and maybe get me away from the Institute too, and burning the books was our first step at freedom. I think she sensed that and did what she had to in order to keep him controlled…oh, look, there it is.”

It took Jon a second to realize that Martin was talking about the depot and not…anything else they’d been discussing. Sure enough, a few meters away from them was a shipping depot with a faded sign that still said BREEKON & HOPE clear enough. “Right. Let’s go.”

As they approached, it became clear that the building was deserted. It was still intact, but the windows were caked with years of dust and grime, and weeds poked up through cracks in the driveway. Sat in the driveway was a delivery van; Jon didn’t know car models, but it seemed like the sorts of vans he used to see trundling about when he was a child. There was what might have been a field out back, which would probably be quite beautiful in the spring but was currently brown and barren.

Still. The depot was here. And it might have a clue that could help with their next move.

Jon—reluctantly—slipped out of the depths of Martin’s jacket and tested the door. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. He stepped back for a moment and studied the door, the windows surrounding it, and the building itself. “It seems a shame to break one of these.”

“No need.” Martin reached into an inner pocket and produced what looked like a canvas pencil case, or possibly an oversize wallet. “Say hello to my little friends.”

Jon blinked. “What—what are those?”

For an answer, Martin unzipped the case and opened it, displaying a number of odd metal bits that at first glance looked like the tools Jon was accustomed to seeing on the tray at the dentist’s office. He got down on one knee, the case propped on his outstretched leg, and peered at the lock. After a moment, he shook his head. “No good. This one’s a lever lock, I don’t have the right tools for that. Come on, let’s see if there’s another door round the back.”

“You can pick locks?” Jon asked, which was a ridiculously stupid question to be asking.

Martin got to his feet and gave him a crooked smirk. “Taught myself when I was fifteen or so.”

“Do I want to know why?”

“Probably not.” Martin started around the side of the building.

Jon hurried to catch up to him. “Martin.”

“You’ve been to the bookstore, Jon. How many ways in or out are there?” Martin studied the building as he spoke. “I figured I could jimmy open a window and sneak in to see Gerry without going through the store while Aunt Mary was in there, or without having to ring the bell. I did, too. And I’ve picked my fair share of locks trying to get at Leitners or get us out of jams…hmm, this looks promising.”

The window Martin had stopped at looked like every other window to Jon, but he was hardly an expert in the lock picking side of breaking and entering. “If you say so. What do you need me to do?”

“Keep watch. This shouldn’t take long.”

“Unless it’s alarmed.”

“Judging by the tires on that delivery van? Not bloody likely.” Martin studied the latch in the window, then opened his case again and selected two bits of metal. “The company went into liquidation, remember? Any other buildings got sold, which is why the one up in Nottingham got converted to luxury flats, but for some reason, this one escaped new ownership. Maybe no one wanted the property. But something like an alarm system would need to pay a monthly premium, and once that stopped getting paid, the company would shut it off pretty damn quick. Not to mention the fact that there’s probably no electricity coming in anymore…ha.”

While he had been talking, Martin had been manipulating the tools into the lock of the window’s latch, with some difficulty with his off hand, which was still bandaged and recovering from the burn inflicted by Jude Perry. Now he twisted it to one side, then replaced the tools before shoving the window upward. It protested, as windows unopened for several years were wont to do, but after a few moments it was open enough to allow them both access. Martin gave Jon an exaggerated bow. “After you.”

“Why, thank you, kind sir,” Jon drawled. He hoisted himself onto the sill, then swung his legs over to the inside and dropped to the floor.

Martin followed a moment later, with a bit more difficulty, then slid the window shut and relocked it. In response to Jon’s look, he shrugged. “I don’t really want someone following us in here if we can help it. We can go out the front door—we should be able to unlock it from the inside.”

“Good point,” Jon admitted. He let Martin pull him to his feet—then froze. “What’s that?”

Martin turned to follow his gaze. “It looks like a shoe. And judging from the angle, I’m guessing it’s not an empty one.”

“Someone sleeping? A homeless person?” Jon asked, without much hope.

“Since when has our luck ever been that good?” Martin made his way over to the desk and looked behind it. “Yep. Dead body. Or, well, what’s left of one.”

Jon shivered and started to come closer. “I…I assume it’s been here longer than Gertrude.”

Martin held up a hand to stop Jon from advancing. “Don’t. It’s not pretty…yeah, it’s been here at least a decade, maybe longer. There’s not much left of it. Big guy, older, I think. What’s left of a business suit. Looks like he’s been…chewed a bit. There’s, um, there’s what’s left of a box here, too. I think whatever killed him came out of it.”

Despite Martin’s words, Jon came over anyway. The body was exactly as Martin had described, but what interested Jon was the box. He hesitated, then bent down and picked it up. A standard cardboard box, rather ill-fitting and somewhat desiccated. The label on top had been heavily redacted; the only words visible were in a viciously precise handwriting: Return to Sender.

“What do you think this is? Or was?” he asked Martin.

Martin stared at the box, his eyes going slightly unfocused. There was a faint, a very faint, crackle of static that died almost instantly. “Whatever it was, it came from the Stranger.”

“I was afraid of that.” Jon sighed and gingerly set the box on the edge of the desk.

They spent a few minutes exploring the office. There wasn’t much of interest—certainly no book of plans for the Unknowing, or instructions on how to stop them—but one of the log books caught Jon’s attention. It looked a bit newer than the others, and when he pulled it off and flipped to the back, a frown crossed his face.

“Martin—look.” He showed Martin the book, finger pointing to the last entry.

“March 2013,” Martin murmured, a frown creasing his forehead. “That doesn’t make any sense, the company went into liquidation in 2009.” His frown deepened as he skimmed the entries on the spread before him. “At least half of these involve the Trophy Room. Big surprise.”

Jon shuddered at the mention of the taxidermy shop. “You think it—it has something to do with the Stranger.”

“I don’t think, Jon. I know. Daniel Rawlings was one of the Anglerfish’s victims. I knew Scaplethorpe’s statement was a Stranger one before we’d even started digging into it. It’s why I was so adamant that Tim not be the one to look into it.” Martin took the log book and began turning pages back slowly. “And you said Nikola Orsinov wanted you to find the gorilla skin—look, that’s the last thing that was actually delivered to the Trophy Room by Breekon and Hope: Gorilla skin (ancient). That place is bound up in the Stranger as tightly as the Institute is bound up in the Beholding.”

“Great,” Jon muttered. “Next question, then. Why was someone still logging deliveries four years after the company’s assets—save, apparently, this building and a single delivery van—were sold off?”

Martin turned back a few more pages. “It was Breekon and Hope.”

“I mean…yes? That is the name of the company…”

“No, the delivery drivers. I’m pretty sure they took their names from the company, not the other way around. And they definitely did…huh. Most of these entries?” Martin kept going, then stopped and pointed. “There, look. See those two entries?”

Jon looked where Martin indicated. One entry showed a delivery of two dozen bowls (clay) to a location in Glasgow. The other showed a deliver of one coffin (wooden, locked) to an address in Bournemouth. It had to be the delivery Joshua Gillespe had taken, so obviously had been their Breekon and Hope, but he honestly didn’t understand why Martin was pointing it out. “I see them,” he said.

Martin gave him that crooked smile again. “The handwriting’s off. Not much, not enough to be obvious. Just enough that whoever wrote the rest of these entries would think they maybe wrote them and just don’t remember it. Honestly, I think I can mostly see it just because it has the hint of the Stranger clinging to the edges.”

“Ah.” Jon peered at the handwriting a little more closely. Now that Martin had pointed it out, he could spot a couple of tiny, tiny imperfections, small inconsistencies that could easily be explained by the writer being tired or rushed or upset. “That seems more Spiral than Stranger to me.”

“Like I said, the damn things overlap.” Martin handed the log back to Jon. “Do you want to take it with you?”

Jon considered for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t think there’s anything useful in it. Unless you think where they made deliveries is helpful.”

“Might tell us where the Unknowing is. If they’ve been making a lot of…strange deliveries to the same place.”

“Good point.” Jon tucked the log under his arm. “Right. Let’s see what else is here.”

There wasn’t much. Some dry-rotted boxes, rolls of tape that had fused solid or lost all adhesive, shipping labels, a roll of postage stamps commemorating the Ruby Jubilee, and something Jon at first couldn’t identify but that Martin said was a postage scale. Not a lot to show for however long the place had been in business.

In the front of the building, where the door Martin hadn’t been able to pick was, they found a pile of mail two feet high that would have impeded their attempts to open it anyway. Lying on top, as though it had just been shoved through the mail slot, was a crisp brown envelope far newer than any other in the pile. The name typed, not printed, across the front was easy enough to read from where they stood: ARCHIVIST.

“Who…?” Jon began. He reached for the envelope, then hesitated. It could be a trap. His curiosity was burning, but…Martin was there. If he opened it and brought something horrific down on their heads…

Martin’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder, not restraining him, just letting him know he was there, and Jon leaned back into him. He heard that faint burst of static again, and then Martin sighed, sounding more exasperated than anything. “Elias.”

“You’re sure?” Jon asked, twisting his head to look up at Martin.

“Pretty sure. It’s got traces of the Eye on it, not much, but enough to tell me it’s from ‘our lot’, as Jude Perry put it.”

Jon stared at the envelope. “Do you think he followed us?”

Martin sighed. “No, but you did have me expense our tickets back to the Institute, so it’s not like he didn’t know we’d be up here.”

“Oh. Right.” Jon winced. “What’s in it?”

“Only one way to find out.” Martin stepped around Jon and picked up the envelope. He raised an eyebrow. “May I?”

“Please.”

Martin worked a finger under the flap of the envelope and pried it open. Two sheets of paper fell out, on official Institute stationery, and Jon instantly recognized them. “A statement. He’s sent us a statement.”

“Yep.” Martin skimmed it quickly, then sighed and sat on the counter next to the door. To Jon’s mild surprise, he reached into his pocket again and pulled out a tape recorder, which he clicked on without even looking at it. “Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, recording statement number 9961505, statement of Alfred Breekon, given fifteenth May 1996. Statement begins.”

Jon leaned against a shelf and listened to the rise and fall of Martin’s voice as he dictated the statement into the recorder. The statement confirmed several things—that Breekon and Hope were not the ersatz delivery men’s real names, he supposed, and that they were affiliated with the Stranger—but it didn’t seem to have all that much useful information in it, all things considered. If that was all they were getting out of it…well, it had at least been a pleasant excuse for a day out.

“Statement ends.” Martin lowered the statement but not the recorder. His eyes had taken on that vacant look again, but for all that they seemed…bright. Intense. “We found Mr. Breekon. The original one. It’s funny, for all he talks of worrying that what’s in the box will get him, all the bite marks seemed to be coming from the inside going out.”

Jon hadn’t made that connection, actually. He was about to say so when Martin continued. “I have to say I’m not thrilled about the parallels here. Sleeping in a cot in your office, afraid to go home in case something malevolent and dangerous follows you there, constantly threatened in your workplace without actually being harmed…seems the Corruption took a tip or two from the Stranger. There’s something there, but I can’t put my finger on it. Anyway, this statement does confirm Breekon and Hope didn’t own the company, not really, and that they’re connected to the Stranger. From the vague descriptions the original Mr. Breekon gave of some of the deliveries they took, and the statements we’ve had in the past—not to mention their delivery to the Institute—we know that Breekon and Hope will deliver for any of the Fears, not just the Stranger, but their connection to this person ‘dressed as a circus ringmaster’ ties them pretty thoroughly to the Stranger, as does the description of ‘hands where the skin feels wrong’ and that their so-called friends have faces that are hard to recall afterwards. Wherever Mr. Breekon is now, I hope he can take some comfort in knowing that he wasn’t targeted for a reason, or chosen because of anything he did; it was just his own rotten luck. The other useful thing we found here is one of the old log books, which lists deliveries for four years after the company technically ceased to exist. We’ll need to go over it in more detail, but…not here. This place is done with its story. We’ve found all that was left to find, and now it’s just…empty.”

Click! The recorder shut itself off, despite Martin’s finger not being near the button. He flinched and blinked hard, shaking his head slightly. “Um, sorry, that—that just…happened.”

Jon straightened up. He felt slightly off-balance, and slightly achy, like he’d just had a bad bout of the ‘flu, but for the most part, he was concentrating on getting them out of there. He nudged the heap of mail to one side with his foot, then threw back the bolt on the door before taking Martin’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

They didn’t speak on the walk back to the train station. Jon bought their tickets, and they managed to just catch the train before it pulled out of the station. Martin was the one to break the silence, right after they passed out of Newcastle. “I really am sorry, Jon. I didn’t mean to just…do the follow-up like that.”

“It’s…it’s fine.” It wasn’t, but not because of anything Martin had done per se; Jon just didn’t like that the Eye had seemingly given him all that information. He always worried for Martin when that happened. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Martin assured him. “That sort of thing’s honestly been happening for a while now.”

“You just…having information?”

“I was more referring to being able to do the summing up at the end of a statement without having to really think about it, but yeah, that too. But that’s been going on even longer.”

Jon sighed, a bit unhappily. That Martin was right didn’t make it any better. “I didn’t think about the parallels while you were reading, but now that you’ve pointed them out, I don’t like them either.”

Martin laughed. “Speaking of things about this situation I don’t like, it’s a weird coincidence, but this statement was given almost exactly halfway between when I met Gerry and when I met Neens.”

“Really?” Jon was intrigued. “I’ve been under the impression you and Melanie knew one another for ages before you met Gerry.”

“Nope, I met Gerry first. Mum had got wind of the Fourteen from somewhere and had a notion that it might help her get better, so she made an appointment at Pinhole Books and moved us to London after my dad left—I told you about that. My school hosted a support group for single parents, and Mum joined up. Roger started coming about six weeks later and that’s how we met Melanie.” Martin handed the envelope with the statement to Jon. “Here. Keep that with the log book. It’s all going in the same file, right?”

“Right. I suppose I’ll have to make a new one.” Jon carefully slid the envelope into the back of the book. “Elias probably destroyed the original one.” He looked up at Martin. “Can I ask you a question? K-kind of a personal one.”

“You can ask me anything, Jon. You know that.”

“If you and Melanie are siblings—even step-siblings—why do you keep calling her father ‘Roger’? A-and she calls your mother ‘Lily’, is that—why is that?”

“I mean…those are their names?”

“Right, but—you didn’t, um, you didn’t call him ‘Dad’? O-or Melanie call your mother ‘Mum’ or anything like that?”

“Oh.” Martin winced. “We used to, when we were younger, but we stopped when we got older.”

Jon studied Martin’s face. “Do you mind if I ask why?”

Martin bit his lip, just for a second. “Well…I mean, mostly it was because Roger had dementia. He usually remembered he cared about me, sort of, but he didn’t always remember me, and he got distressed and confused every time I called him ‘Dad’. So I stopped, so I wouldn’t upset him further. Then Melanie decided if I couldn’t call her dad ‘Dad,’ she’d stop calling my mum ‘Mum’. The habit just stuck.”

“That makes sense, I suppose. I just…wondered if it was something about loyalty to your birth parents.”

“No, I—I don’t really remember him well, but what I do remember, did back then, is that I called my birth father ‘Papa,’ not Dad. And Melanie called her mother ‘Mama.’ So using ‘Dad’ and ‘Mum’ wasn’t disloyal to their memories, I guess? It made sense to us.”

“I understand.” Jon had never had step-parents himself, but he imagined he’d have wanted to call them something to distinguish them from his birth parents if he had. “I wish I’d had the opportunity to meet Roger King. He seems…from what you and Melanie have said, he seems like a good man.”

“He was. He was always kind to me.” Martin paused, then added, “That’s what the K is for.”

“King?”

“Yes. I—I didn’t want to change my name. I like Blackwood, it…it fits me, I think. Roger understood, and even when he legally adopted me, he somehow convinced Mum to leave my last name as it was. Got some funny questions when I handed in my birth certificate at college, but it was easy enough to explain.”

“So instead your name is Martin King Blackwood.”

Martin laughed. “You want the truth, Jon? No. Legally, my name is just Martin Blackwood. The K is just…I just added it as an initial for my poetry and the like. I liked the sound of it, and like I said, it was a tribute to Roger. Plus it means Melanie and I have the same initials, just mixed up—M.K.B. and M.B.K. We thought it was funny.”

Jon laughed, too. “Dare I ask what the B stands for?”

“Beatrice.”

“Of course. After her great-aunt, no doubt.”

“That’s the one.” Martin studied Jon. “I never asked—do you have a middle name?”

“Gilbert,” Jon admitted. “It was my grandfather’s name, apparently, but I’m damned if I can tell you which one.”

“Jonathan Gilbert Sims,” Martin repeated. “It suits you.”

“Thanks.”

They didn’t speak much on the rest of the three hours it took to get back to London, but it wasn’t uncomfortable or awkward. Instead, Jon found himself resting his head against Martin’s shoulder. Martin wrapped an arm around him and began absently combing his fingers through his hair, humming softly. After a while, he began to sing, and Jon closed his eyes and let himself be soothed under the spell of the music. The next thing he knew, Martin was shaking him gently. “Jon. C’mon, wake up, we’re pulling into King’s Cross.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” Jon lied, sitting up straighter and blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Martin laughed at him with the utmost kindness and offered him a hand to stand up.

The South Kensington Underground stop was a bit farther from the Institute than Sloane Square, but both of them agreed they were rather tired of being on a train, and anyway it was a nice enough evening—nicer than in Newcastle, at any rate. It seemed the most natural thing in the world for Jon to take Martin’s hand as they walked.

“I’m sorry not to take your right hand,” he said presently. “But I—I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” Martin squeezed Jon’s hand gently. “I’m doing much better than I was. But this is fine, too. Anyway, I don’t expect we’re going to need to mark chalk arrows on the buildings as we walk.”

Jon laughed. “True. Still…”

“Still,” Martin agreed. “There will be time to hold hands the other way round later.”

“I like the sound of that.” Jon smiled up at Martin. Martin smiled back.

They were just turning onto the street where the Institute stood when Martin suddenly tensed. His hand tightened briefly around Jon’s, then eased back. In a low voice, he said, “Jon. Run. Get to the Archives.”

“What?” Jon blinked up at Martin in surprise.

“Run!” Martin gave Jon a light shove in the direction of the Institute just as a delivery van came around the corner towards them. Jon noticed its age—at least thirty years old, possibly more—then noticed the two hulking shadowy figures in the front seats, then registered that the paint scheme matched that of the van that had been parked in front of the Newcastle depot.

He didn’t wait to be warned a third time. He ran.

“Go, go, go!” Martin shouted from behind him, and Jon ran faster than he had in years, even faster than he’d run in the scrap yard after being stabbed. There was no doubt in his mind, the van that was almost certainly trying to find a way to reverse or turn around belonged to Breekon and Hope, here to collect him for Nikola Orsinov, and he did not want them to get their hands on him.

The Slaughter ghost would only have killed him. This, he was sure, would be worse.

He half-sprinted, half-stumbled across the courtyard and threw his entire body weight, slight as it was, at the door. It opened easily, thank God, and he burst through so fast he lost his balance and tumbled headlong down the short flight of stairs. Log book and statement went flying. The floor in that part of the Archives was stone, not wood, and it tore at his hands and knees, but he almost welcomed the pain. Pain meant he wasn’t dead.

“Jon!” The voice made Jon flinch before recognition filtered through. Tim. “Are you okay?”

Jon shook his head. No. No, he wasn’t remotely okay. He still shook head to toe with adrenaline, his chest ached with exertion, and fuck that had been a close call.

A pair of scuffed brown Doc Martens appeared under his nose; Jon looked up and accepted Melanie’s outstretched hand, letting her pull him to his feet. She took his other hand and turned them both over, studying the scraped palms with a critical eye. “You’ll live. What was chasing you? What—” She suddenly sucked in a sharp breath, and her hands tightened around his. “Where’s Martin?”

Jon’s veins flooded with ice water. He whirled around to stare up at the door, but it had shut firmly behind him. Panicked, he almost cleared all three steps in a single bound and yanked the door open, dashing out into the courtyard, only dimly aware of Melanie on his heels. Tires squealed away into the distance, but by the time he reached the street itself, it was deserted, save a pair of fresh black skid marks, a stain on the sidewalk, and something small and broken lying in the gutter.

He ran to the curb anyway, looking desperately, but there was nothing—no sign of anything. Melanie, who had come up alongside him, knelt down and picked up the object, then stared at it for a long minute. She looked up at Jon and didn’t say a word, just held it up for his inspection. It lit up as she raised it, displaying on its cracked, shattered surface a picture of the Archives crew holding one another up as they attempted to balance on ice skates before it flickered and died.

Martin’s phone.

Jon’s head swam as all the blood rushed out of his face in advance of reality crashing down on him. He knew he was about to faint, and he didn’t care. “Oh, God.”

#ollie writes fanfic #tma fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest) #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #breekon and hope #tim stoker #melanie king #unreality #abandoned places #breaking and entering #death #mutilation #misuse of Beholding powers #mention of memory loss #stalking #panic #minor injury #kidnapping

[morayc]

Wednesday very early morning

It’s 10.30pm at home, but it’s 1.30am here and we have a flight to board at 9.20am, so this will be short and sweet.

Today’s highlight for Raymond was getting a paper copy of the newspaper for the first time since Covid. Not a word was spoken during our wait in Newcastle airport as he absorbed all that he had missed for the last 4 years.

Today’s funny moment occurred when we arrived at Dubai airport and replayed a scene first performed at Athens airport in 1975. We arrived there in the evening when the temperature was a balmy 92°F (remember those days?). Raymond was wearing tweed trousers and a leather jacket! Liz and Ian will remember that. Well, on almost the 50th anniversary, we arrived in Dubai at midnight, to 32°C. Raymond was wearing his Barber and woolly jumper! He resisted my exhortations to remove at least one layer until he was a puddle by my side.

[kpopidolsinukproductclothing]

MCND Win in Newcastle Brown Ale jumper. Now on sale but still very expensive! Why not buy 50 bottles of Newkie Brown instead and end up next to Gazza, chicken, lager and a fishing rod after a killing spree?

#mcnd kpop newcastlebrownale

[sarah-aliterarylife]

Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen

When we experience something that changes our lives, many of us can recall every detail. We remember where we were at that precise moment, what we were wearing, exactly how we felt. We may remember small details, like what the weather was doing, or what we ate on that day. Many of my most prominent memories stand out to me because I remember every detail about them. I remember where I was the first time I heard Madonna’s Ray of Light album (sitting on the floor of my parent’s house, in my pyjamas). I remember what I was wearing on the night I first met my husband (a black jumper and jeans). I remember what I was doing and what time of day it was when I received the news that my Nan had died (getting ready for work at about 6:45 in the morning, on a dreary, cold day in December). I remember looking out of the window just after learning that my Uncle had passed away, and thinking how dark it suddenly seemed outside, as if all the lights had been switched off . I remember the feeling of lightness that came over me when I finally found the courage to leave a job that was so stressful it nearly ended my life. I remember the flash of terror that coursed through my body when I was called into a small room for the result of my first mammogram in 2020.

I also remember the first time I discovered Northanger Abbey.

It was an ordinary day, not long after I moved to Newcastle upon Tyne to study a degree in English Literature. An item was missing from the inventory of our newly rented flat, and the university authorities accused me of stealing it. I had spent much of the day defending myself against these allegations, since a) I am not a thief, and b) I had never seen the offending item, much less stolen it. So it is safe to say that I was not in a good mood. In the late afternoon, I decided to cheer myself up by studying the syllabus of my course. And there it was – a little book called Northanger Abbey.

I have delayed writing about Jane Austen until now. Austen is without a doubt my favourite writer of all time, and probably the writer who has had the biggest influence on my life. I wasn’t certain that I could do her justice, and in addition I was keen not to turn this series into another “I love Jane Austen” piece. I find it very difficult to articulate just how big an influence Jane Austen’s work has had on my life. As a teenager, I dabbled in Austen the way some teenagers dabble in cigarettes or weed (I could not have been less interested in either). The first time I read an Austen novel in full was shortly after that dreary Tyneside afternoon, studying my degree syllabus. It read like a run-through of the greatest works of literature ever published: Moll Flanders, Jane Eyre, TS Eliot’s The Waste Land, Beloved by Toni Morrison. And Northanger Abbey.

In all honesty, next to the likes of Beloved, Northanger Abbey didn’t sound like the most exciting read. A coming-of-age tale about a 17 year old girl away from home for the first time, Northanger Abbey follows the life and loves of Catherine Morland, who navigates the world through friendships, romance and her love of Gothic literature. A parody of the Gothic novels that were popular during Austen’s day, it sounded to me a bit Mills and Boon, a flimsy romance novel that I would probably read quickly and forget just as quickly.

What I failed to realise at 18 years old was that the text was included on the degree syllabus for a reason. It was inserted into my life with an almost comic deliberateness. At 18, I too was experiencing the world for the first time on my own terms. As it turns out, I identified with Catherine Morland in many ways. I knew very little about the world. I felt a sense of responsibility to make a success of my new life. And, like Catherine in the novel, I may have been very good at reading books, but when it came to reading people, I was distinctly inexperienced. I viewed the world through a very different lens to the one I use today. Like Catherine, I placed great importance on wanting to be liked, and wanting to be seen as a good person by those around me.

Of Jane Austen’s heroines, Catherine Morland is the youngest, and the most naïve. She experiences situations common to many young adults: peer pressure, to join her friends Isabella, James, and John on their carriage rides, and bullying, in the form of her odious suitor John Thorpe. She becomes sulky and irritable on returning home to her parents (understandable, since her mother really is the most dreadful nag). She wants to be liked by her friends (particularly the vivacious Isabella Thorpe) but is not keen to be seen as a flirt, or risk situations that may lead to her disgrace. She wants to be respected by her friend, the 26-year-old parson Henry Tilney, but on a visit to the Tilney’s family home (the Northanger Abbey of the title) her overactive imagination leads her to fear that something terrible may have happened there. She must ultimately learn to separate life from fiction, and live her life in the real world, not as in a Gothic novel.

Northanger Abbey was an important novel in my life because its themes subconsciously appealed to me, in terms of where I was at in my life. Having re-read it several times since, I can see that in many ways it is as relevant today as it would have been in 1817. It is essentially a novel about young adults, and the journey to adulthood. Young people and their feelings are a central theme of Northanger Abbey, as is the path from innocence to experience. This is something that absolutely took place for me, in the 3 and a half years I lived in Newcastle upon Tyne.

There is a certain school of thought that all of Jane Austen’s novels are the same. They explore similar themes, they are similarly paced and all follow a similar plot trajectory (the heroine desires love and acceptance, she meets a man who turns out to be unsuitable, and eventually marries the man whom she dislikes or who acts as a confidant throughout the novel). Her heroines are similar in tone and in terms of their relationships with others. There are no really villainous characters in Austen’s novels – there is no one like Heathcliff or Mr. Rochester (although Mr Darcy gives them a run for their money). Characters commit sins against decency and propriety, but rarely deliberately hurt others. The heroine does not fall passionately, violently in love. Love is a gradual feeling; courtships are polite and almost imperceptible to those outside of the relationship. The heroine ultimately marries a man who is essentially a friend or confidant first and a lover second.

Austen’s novels also have a reputation for being difficult to read. I personally don’t find this to be the case. I think about the first time I read Northanger Abbey and find similarities to when I fell in love with my husband. It was easy. It was effortless. The simplicity of it was quite disconcerting! I couldn’t help feeling that he, like Jane Austen, had been a part of my life forever.

It is worth noting that parts one and two of the novel are very different. Part One tells the story of Catherine’s time in Bath with Isabella Thorpe and their friends, and Part Two depicts her time at Northanger Abbey with Henry Tilney and his sister. I’ve heard Northanger Abbey described a long time ago as a “blast”, and that’s exactly what it is. It doesn’t try to be high-brow or ruminate too deeply on the issues of the time. Instead, it is fun. I was right there with Catherine as Northanger Abbey and its locked rooms, mysterious chests and secret history intrigued and frightened her in equal measure. I couldn’t help but wonder if the novel was heading towards a very different ending, as Catherine wonders if the elderly Mr Tilney was responsible for his wife’s death. I rooted for her and hoped that she would marry Henry Tilney at the end (spoiler alert – she does). I hoped that they would live a happy life together in his parsonage.  

Jane Austen is without a doubt the author of my life. We shall be exploring her other works in due course, including a modern biography. I have researched her to great extent, and paid many visits to Hampshire and Bath, which both have great significance to her life and novels. Her mysteriousness fascinates me. As other Austen fans may be aware, there is a lot we don’t know about Jane Austen. Her sister Cassandra sadly destroyed most of their correspondence, robbing the world of a valuable legacy and insight into their life together. I would loved to have met her. I would like to find out what made her tick, how she could write so beautifully about love and its complexities without ever having married or found love herself. Perhaps she did find love and lost it? Perhaps, like her heroines, she refused to marry a man she did not love? What would she have made of the impact her work has had on modern literature?

There is much more that I can say on Jane Austen – revealing my full thoughts and feelings, and a more detailed exploration of her influence on my life would probably lead to a much longer piece.

I will close by saying that if you have never read Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey is a good place to start. It lacks the gravitas and heavier themes of Pride and Prejudice, or the memorable characters of Emma, but it is light, (mostly) cheerful, and most importantly, it will make you laugh.

And that is as good a place to start as any.

#books and literature #classic novels #victorian literature #book blogs #literature #jane austen

[kateally]

As industries continue to flourish, so does the demand for appropriate workwear. In this comprehensive guide, we will delve into the world of workwear in Hunter, taking a closer look at the vibrant communities of Maitland and Newcastle, while also exploring the wide array of workwear options available for the local workforce.

#Workwear in Newcastle #workwear #workwear in Hunter #kids workwear #workwear overalls #workwear jumpers #workwear shirts #workwear pants #workwear shorts #safety workwear

[ivanreycristo]

X cierto..hablando de CAMPINGS o sitios BARATOS [aunque hoy se ha puesto todo bastante CARO mientras una ELITE del ENTRETENI_MIENTO y ESPECTA_CULO acumula más y más pues se han convertido en una DROGA CARA o el único sentido de VIVIR para muchos]..donde hospedarte..cuando estuve en AUSTRALIA puse mi carnet de los HOSTELS [Habitaciones donde he llegado a estar con 40 tipos en LITERAS de 4 plantas en LONDRES..Parecía una PUTA COLMENA de ABEJAS de lo q viene el nombre de STING=Aguijón xq empezó a tocar con una camiseta NEGRA Y AMARILLA : Sting performed jazz in the evenings, on weekends, and during breaks from college and teaching, playing with the Phoenix Jazzmen, Newcastle Big Band and Last Exit. He gained his nickname after his habit of wearing a black and yellow jumper with hooped stripes with the Phoenix Jazzmen. Bandleader Gordon Solomon thought he looked like a bee (or according to Sting himself, "they thought I looked like a wasp"), which prompted the name "Sting]..sobre el video SACRED LOVE de STING el cual dijo creer en ello

#Youtube

[em-ily-ew]

“Your memories are sceneries”

#aesthetic #indie #edgy #vintage #grunge #emo #doc martens #newcastle #castle #history #fairy lights #jumper #cosy #concert #art #the 1975

[sjamescentre]

Fluffbruary - Day 15 - Vintage John

Prompt was drink. I took it literally - a short history of John's drinking life. And bonus points for the pic. for @fluffbruary

It's also here:https://archiveofourown.org/works/37152175

Vintage John

John had his first beer when he twelve. Stolen from his grandfather's fridge on a dare, he carried the bottle to school the next day, wrapped in an old jumper and buried in his backpack beneath his maths homework. Hiding behind the garden shed after school, he and Tommy Leith passed the bottle back and forth between them, laughing and belching loudly. They buried the empty bottle under a rock when they were done. John pocketed the cap for luck and carried it in his back pocket all through secondary school.

The first time he got drunk, he was sixteen and had a crush on a girl who barely knew his name. He'd just finished reading a Hemingway novel in which every character drank to forget the pain of unrequited love. All he could find at the back of the pantry was a half-empty bottle of peach schnapps and a dusty bottle of Celteg elderberry wine. He grabbed both bottles, tucked them beneath his flannel jacket, and headed to the woods behind the house. He was a quarter way through the bottle of elderberry wine when the trees began to blur. He liked the feeling of a world less solid than the one he was used to. He liked how the wine filled that part of him that had always felt hollow. He was three quarters the way through the bottle when he threw up all over the library's copy of "The Sun also Rises." It was dark when stumbled home, singing "Anarchy in the UK" before vomiting, one last time, in his father's boots.

By his third year at uni, he drank every weekend at local pubs, listening to cover bands and playing it cool. He learned to love the burn of scotch against his throat, the slow fire it fueled in his gut. He liked how the music sounded when it was filtered through a haze of cigarettes and whisky. The first time he kissed a man – in the alley behind the Pig and Whistle in the middle of February – he was drunk on Highland Black Whisky and the dangerous feeling of his hard-on pressed up against another man's cock.

Home from Afghanistan, he drank every day. One shot because he was thirsty, two because it had been a bad day, three because that's how many it took to blur the jagged edges of his life. Six and he didn’t care anymore that his job, his flat, his life was complete shite. He knew it was becoming a problem when Harry told him she was worried about his drinking.

It was Sherlock who introduced him to good wine. He taught him about Pinot Noir and Beaujolais and Cabernet, about balance and nose and finish. How to identify the parts that made up the whole, like the notes of a sonata. Sherlock showed him that good wine wasn't always expensive, and expensive wine wasn't always good. That Chardonnay tasted better after sex. That bad wine was worse than no wine.

Later, Sherlock taught him that drinking never cured a broken heart.

Four years later, when he and Sherlock were finally finding their way back to each other, John kept a bottle of Glenlivet under the sink in the kitchen. He called it scotch tape – they only seemed to drink it when they needed help putting together the broken pieces of their lives.

It was only years later, after they made the move from London to Sussex, that John discovered that Newcastle Brown Ale, sucked out of the hollow of Sherlock's neck, was the only drink he ever needed.

#@fluffbruary #totallysilvergirl #discordantwords #swissmissing #sherlock fic rec #sherlock fanfic #7-percent #@totallysilvergirl

[noirrose21-blog]

STRANGE LASS

You accidentally travelled back in time from 2021 to the 1760’s, only to be encountered by a certain Irish pirate.

2021

Life was miserable. Putting up with sleazy defence attorneys representing people who did bad things or jackasses who truly believe their client is innocent despite their charges.

Losing your friendship because you think her boyfriend is a literal loser. You were raised old fashioned and certain beliefs were mixed into modern and embracing ideas. You believe that people of different races and sexuality had rights like anyone else, but you also believed that unless you had a decent job or appearance you were classified as a loser.

As the weather outside was harsh, with thunder and heavy rainfall, you were sitting in your apartment in Newcastle, drinking a glass of white wine after a trying day, watching TV. Oh great, you thought sarcastically. Another celebrity scandal.

‘How banal’ you thought, as you flicked through the channels. News reports of murders and assaults and terrorism. The future sucked.

All this talk of peace and there’s still evil in the world.

You stopped flicking through when you saw an episode of Law and Order SVU starting. You loved Olivia Benson, despite all the hell she endured in season 15, you found her brave and strong and inspiring. You wished you were as brave as her.

Then at a good part, the power cut out. Damn it!

You walked over to the TV to get it to work

‘Why couldn’t I have just watched it on my laptop?’ You thought as you figured the best thing to do was to switch it off at the power and wait until morning.

As you went to the switch to turn it off, you heard thunder and felt shockwaves rush through your body. Then everything went black…

1761

You woke up, aching all over.

“Electrocuted. Not how I wanted to go but…” you began when you noticed you were’t dead, but everything was all wrong.

There were no apartments or cars or electricity. The world you knew was a fantasy. What the hell was this?!

You stood up on your legs and wandered for hours when you saw a building. It was old, wood and stone made you assumed. The people looked at you funny. The women and men were dressed like they were reenacting a period drama set in the 1700’s.

The foul looks you got for your attire was evident, ugg boots denim jeans and a white jumper with a long grey cardigan weren’t the normal fashion.

Entering the building, you noticed the smell. Alcohol. This was a pub. Drunken behaviour. Definitely before prohibition laws were passed and if you remembered your history lessons right, the attire looked to be 1770’s or 60’s at best.

No! Time travelling was science fiction! A trope used to tell stories. There’s no way…

While you were looking around, you didn’t noticed that you bumped into a man. When you looked at the man, you were dumbfounded.

He was a tall, powerful frame and a barrel chest, his features coarsely handsome and his eyes pale green, incredibly tall, with a slightly crooked nose and a small scar by the corner of his mouth. The type of pirate that features the cover of erotic pirate books… and you remembered sneaking your mother’s copies and imagining the pirate having you in every way.

“Ye alright, lass?”

‘Ohhhh. Irish too! Pretty sure I’m in heaven and this is my reward.’

“Y-yeah. I… sorry, it’s just that…” you couldn’t speak. He was pretty to look at.

“Lass, what are ye wearing?” He asked.

“Jeans, boots, a jumper and a cardigan. Why?”

He smirked, his eyes undressing you. You didn’t know why, but you felt excited by it “A lady doesn’t wear trousers, or clothes that show her figure. Are ye a whore?”

You slapped his scarred cheek. How dare he ask if you’re a prostitute. “I am not a whore!” You shrieked.

The Irishman raised his hands “Alright, lass, calm down. Women don’t wear clothes like that here. Who are ye?”

“Y/N Y/L/N, solicitor/lawyer. Whichever you call it.” You introduced, extending your hand to shake his.

He chuckled “Yer a strange lass, aren’t ye? I’m Stephen Bonnet.”

“Stephen Bonnet. What are you, a pirate?” You joked, laughing at the idea.

Stephen smiled “I am, actually. Might ye be interested in travelling? I might need a lawyer should I find meself in trouble with the law.”

You thought about it long and hard. “Sure. Anything you disclose to me, Mr Bonnet, will be attorney client privilege, and no one can force me to tell your secrets.”

“As I said, yer a strange lass.” He grinned.

“Oh I know that.”

#outlander #stephen bonnet #stephen bonnet imagine #stephen bonnet x reader #outlander imagine #outlander x reader #strange lass

[ao3feed-janeausten]

Trains derailed and mistletoe in doorways

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3GXFVmR

by FrailYard (FrailYard0220)

The quintessential Christmas rom-com. When the train George and Emma are separately taking home for Christmas breaks down in Newcastle the two childhood enemies decide to rent a car and drive the 6 hours together to Highbury.

*

“Ahh,” he’d sighed, sitting down in the now empty window seat opposite her. George had opened a book and started reading it. There he still sat now, more than an hour later, in his hideous jumper, with that equally hideous smirk still playing on his lips. He was enjoying this, she knew, ruining her concentration.

*

“What?” she asked him.

“I got you to smile,” he said and tilted his head. “It’s a Christmas miracle!”

Emma shook her head and focused back on the road. “Dickhead.”

Words: 5639, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Emma - Jane Austen, Emma. (2020)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Relationships: George Knightley/Emma Woodhouse

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers, Christmas, This could be a Christmas movie, Road Trips, Driving, Their ages are 24 and 21, Getting Together, Banter

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3GXFVmR

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #Jane Austen

[footballxwrites]

Yes! You write for Harvey! Can I request one where he proposes to you in a really cute way?? Thnx love! ❤️❤️

A Holiday proposal

The sun began setting and an amber glow stretched far and wide, covering the sky completely on the Greek island and the air was filled with salt and warm sunlight. The cooling, gold sand was soothing to the touch, blowing gently in the breeze as the waves crashed against the surface creating the most relaxing sound you’ve heard in a while whilst the beach was silent, no one was about, no traffic could be heard, no seagulls were trying to nick your chips like they do back in England, it was just the two of you, sat listening to the waves, a glass of champagne in your hand, a picnic infront of you, your head resting on the shoulder of your boyfriend, it was just perfect. It was your fourth anniversary together, yes four whole years you had been together and you loved every minute of it as every day just got better, so you were taken away to the island of Santorini for a long overdue holiday as the football season had come to an end and you managed to get time off work. The two of you never really had time to just “take a break” with you both working full time, so to be able to just go away and not have to worry about what’s happening at work or think about everyone else for a week or two was heavenly.

April 2016, you were a Newcastle girl, born and bred, who was fresh out of Uni and he was a Burnley lad who happened to play for Leicester U23, who met in a club in Liverpool one weekend on a night out, you were with your friends, he was with his teammates and from that night onwards, your journey together began. June 2020, It was the fifth night of your trip away and your anniversary landed - June 3 - and Harvey had an idea to recreate your first ever date, a date where you sat for what felt forever (in a good way) rambling on about the most random things and getting to know each other, realising how much you had in common, whilst you shared a bag of chips that were coated in salt and vinegar, which you both agreed is the only way you’re supposed to eat chips✋🏼, under the setting sun in the east on a summer’s evening. That moment, that exact moment the two of you sat there watching and listening to the waves, was the moment you both knew, you were in love with each other. Yes he wanted to recreate that memory, however this time he wanted to take you to a nicer, more welcoming beach that had that humid, warm, Greek sun and the soft, fine sand and give you the surprise of a lifetime. The villa he booked gave you access to the private beach, which was perfect as he needed it to be just the two of you when he asked, probably the most important question he’s ever asked anyone in his life, hoping you’d give him the answer he wanted to hear.

Harvey knew how simple you preferred everything to be, like how you weren’t a girl who was all about the designer handbags or the posh clothing brands, I mean you wouldn’t say no to the offer of dressing all in Gucci or Louis Vuitton and you loved to get dressed up every now and then, but you were quite content wearing your thirty pound Boohoo jumper with your New look jeans paired with a Zara bag, and so he bought you a ring with a small, silver diamond (still quite bling, I mean it’s your engagement ring after all it had to be somewhat fancy), but it was something that wasn’t too over the top and quite plain, just the way you liked it.

“Well this is slightly better than the beaches back home” you giggled leaning in to kiss your boyfriend, “Yeah just a bit” he laughed as his lips collided with yours, going in for a deep and passionate kiss as you climbed on his lap, his hands gripping your waist as he flipped you over so you were laying down, your bare back sweaping the sand, as he hovered over you, pulling away from your lips, admiring your beauty, your little freckles that became visible in the sunlight, your plump, lips that were the perfect size, your rosy red cheeks and your deep, hazel eyes, he honestly couldn’t find one fault about you, you were the definition of perfection. “What’ve I done to deserve a kiss like that then” you smirked, sitting back up, all flustered from your make out session, “putting up with me for 4 years” he laughed as you joking nodded in agreement, “but seriously four years together, how the time’s flew by eh?” he said as you laughed, “I know, but I loved every moment of it, from just waking up next to you on a morning to when I come to your matches and non stop chant your name for 90 odd minutes as everyone around me just stares as if I’m mad” you said, staring straight into his eyes, as he took your hands in his, placing a kiss on them before clearing his throat and saying “right you have one crack at this you can’t mess it up” under his breath as he stood up and pulled out a red box as you stared, confused. You were about to speak as he got down on one knee and got there before you, “Y/N, I bloody love you, from the minute I set eyes on you, from the moment i took you on our first date, from the night I made you my girlfriend, to every day, coming home from training seeing you, always a smile on your face, and coming to all my games, no matter the time, date of weather, you’re always there and that’s my what I love about you, your humour, your kindness, your beauty...everything, so what do you say to becoming my wife, Mrs Barnes?” He spoke with a trembly voice, trying to not mess up his lines. You sat, a huge grin coming across your face as tears (happy ones) began pouring out your eyes before replying with a “Yes, yes I will become Mrs Barnes” and with that, he placed the finger, the perfect size ring, on your delicate hand before grabbing you by the waist and lifting you sky high and planting the most meaningful kiss on your lips.

And with that, he became your fiancé, he gave the most special ring and proposal you could ask for, a holiday proposal, under the sunset in the east ☀️

Tags: @kingkepaff @alexajanecollins @footballerimaginess @football-and-fanfics @footbxllwritxng @hazardybala @football-rambles

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