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#pennine way
dopescissorscashwagon · 7 months
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Penyghent on the Pennine Way
📸 by Maureen Platts
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chiefyteethies · 10 months
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The start of the Pennine Way
📍Old Nag's Head, Edale
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bingwallpaper · 1 year
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Edale Valley, Peak District, UK
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A quiet and secluded village, Edale is a walker's paradise. This picturesque hamlet, located in England’s Peak District National Park, is surrounded by hills on all sides. The current spelling of the village was recorded in 1732; before this it was spelled Aidele, Eydale, Eydal, and Edall in different periods. It is the starting point of Pennine Way, a tough National Trail that reaches all the way to Scotland. Acorn-shaped markers dot the 17 National Trails in England and Wales, so if you find yourself wandering the area and see one of these signs, follow the path and you’re sure to go on a scenic journey.
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homosekularnost · 27 days
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i hope alexander j. newall enjoyed the pennine tower restaurant by simon kurt unsworth (from the anthology Hauntings ed. Ellen Datlow)
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warblingandwriting · 8 months
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idk what's wrong with me but I feel like I have the opposite reaction to most people of horror when whatever's going on isn't explained or the monster is never shown it scares me less because I just have questions.
I read a short story recently that I have seen a a bunch of people hail as one of the scariest ever and I understand why it's liked and revered because it had a really interesting story structure, but the story itself left me totally cold going 'well what was that?' in the end. Perhaps I'm just not capable of imagining certain amounts of darkness, but all I could think at the end was why. I wasn't spooked at all because there no explanation of why the spooky thing was the way it was and that made it feel.. less real to me I guess. I like ambiguous endings, and ambiguity in other types of stories but with horror it often doesn't work on me
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themaynard · 3 months
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Discover the enchanting Peak District, England's serene retreat with picturesque hills, villages, and moorlands. Explore nature, hiking, rich culture, adventure, and local cuisine. Ideal for all travelers. Book your stay at The Maynard for a unique experience.
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runningquill-art · 1 year
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“The Floo hearth was just across the foyer, crackling cheerfully at them as they exited the lift. Granger’s stride lengthened. “We can finally put this surreal day behind us–” Then she stopped, and grasped Draco’s arm in her pinchy grasp, and whipped him towards her. “What–” “Shush,” said Granger, flattening herself against the wall and manoeuvering Draco to stand in front of her. “Stand there.” “What are we–” “Be big. Why are you always large and in the way, except when I need you to be?” asked Granger in a peevish whisper. “Shield me.” “From who?” asked Draco, dearly wishing to turn around and assess the Secret Assassin, and perhaps murder him in cold blood. “Cormac.” “McLaggen?” “How many other bloody Cormacs do you know?” asked Granger. She raised her hands to Draco’s robes and pulled up his collar, as though the flaps would afford her more privacy. “What’s he done?” “Oh, he’s only been infatuated with me for years. Tenacious kind of man. Sticky. Viscous, really. Stay there, his group is about to go into the dining rooms. No – wait – they’re still talking. I’m going to cast a Notice-Me-Not. Oh no – Derrick’s just spotted you, I think. It’s your stupid hair. Like a beacon across the bloody Pennines. No. They’re coming this way. I was never here. Goodbye.”” - Draco Malfoy and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being in Love, Chapter 16: The Seneca, by isthisselfcare  
DMATMOOBIL art 4/?
[IG @runningquill_art]
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seaglassandeelgrass · 7 months
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The Industrial Revolution in song.
Cover image is from an 1835 print in the History of the Cotton Manufacture in Great Britain, held by the British Library.
The Weaver & the Factory Maid- Steeleye Span
The Hand-Loom Versus the Power-Loom- Harry Boardman
The Drift From the Land- The Young'uns
Four Loom Weaver- Maddy Prior & June Tabor
The Dalesman's Litany- Tim Hart & Maddy Prior
Poverty Knock- Chumbawamba
The Hand-Loom Weaver's Lament- Harry Boardman
Song on the Times- Windborne
General Ludd's Triumph- Roy Harris
Foster's Mill- The Short Sisters
Cropper Lads- Maddy Prior & the Girls
Pilgrim on the Pennine Way- Jon Boden
Factory Girl- Rhiannon Giddens
13 tracks; 46 mins. [Spotify]
[my other playlists]
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Endlessly refreshing the Barkley Marathons updates to see if my girl Jasmin Paris makes it onto loop 5. About 8 hours ago she was on track to be the first woman ever to finish the race.
You might remember her from previous ultra running achievements like "fastest woman to complete a Barkley Fun Run (3 loops, 60 miles)" and "overall winner and record-smasher of the Pennine Way Spine Race while expressing milk for her baby at aid stations".
For the uninitiated, Barkley is the most straight-up insane race that exists:
Limited to 35-40 attendees
5 loops totalling 100+ miles
Entrance requirements are...unclear, but include an essay section and a scavenger-hunt-type item
Course is unmarked and very mountainous; GPS navigation not permitted
Invented to mock James Earl Ray, who managed a measly 12 miles in the area during his prison escape
Most people don't finish the race, or even the Fun Run (only 10 people were left running as of last night, and that was a record high)
"Checkpoints" come in the form of finding a book that's been hidden on the course and tearing out the page matching your race number
Start time is whenever the organiser lights his cigarette
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assortedseaglass · 11 months
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The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Sixteen
Tom Bennett x OFC
[Masterlist]
Warnings: Strong Language, Smut, World on Fire spoilers
Word Count: 9.3K
Notes: Hiya pals.
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“Welcome home, Mr Bennett.”
Tom looked behind the suited man and his clipboard. Beyond the small dockyard pier, he could make out the beginnings of a town still sleeping. Mist, or was it rain, was rolling in from the horizon of hills. In just a few hours, the train would take him through those valleys, along the Pennine Way and to Manchester.
“Not quite home,” Tom said to the man, who smiled in turn. “But almost.”
The boat from Gibraltar to Scotland had taken five days and, after his journey through central Spain, Tom was glad to be back at sea. In England, summer would have been making way for autumn but the heat still lingered in Spain. Days of walking, being bundled between cars, and of weeks waiting in Gibraltar for any news of his departure left Tom agitated. The heat had not helped. The days at sea had given him plenty of time for reflection. Stood on the stern of the boat, gazing as mainland Europe disappeared, he watched the surface of the water for disturbance. After the Battle of River Plate, he couldn’t shake the fear that U-boats were lurking beneath the waves, waiting to strike. Fighting for attention alongside these fears were thoughts of Bess. She had told him, before he left, that the Navy could be the making of him. In a way, she was right, for faced with the open ocean and endless sky, Tom felt freer than he ever had on land.
Home was so close now; he could almost smell it as the gentleman on the dock led him and a few other evaders towards a waiting vehicle. Roast dinners, grease from the dockyard, rain on the cobbles, perfume at the Palais and buttered chestnuts at Belle Vue. The dusty picture house, clean linen, Bess’ hair. Tom had tried to think of what he would do when he saw her, for seeing her was inevitable. For a while he thought of going to the Infirmary; she couldn’t scream at him while in her uniform. Or else, he could climb into the window of her flat like old times, but he didn’t know which was hers and hadn’t she said that the boarding matron had a strict rule of no gentlemen? Perhaps Tom could charm the woman. He wasn’t a gentleman, after all. He settled on seeking her in Longsight. Neutral ground. What he’d say he didn’t know, but that was one part of the plan he could account for; no more performing.
By evening, Tom and the other evaders that had made the crossing were trundling southwards, through Scotland and towards England. It was a supply train, and they had been given bunks by the men that worked to deliver steel, food and other resources across Britain. Tom watched as the sun set below the Pennines, knowing that in the morning he would awake in Manchester. He looked at the photograph of Bess. Almost nine months since he had laid eyes on her at the train station. Maybe tomorrow, he would see the real thing.
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Bess removed the blackouts to be dazzled by sunlight. She stood at her window a while; autumn was coming and soon all warmth would disappear from the sun. God she hated Manchester in winter. She scanned the city skyline. At least, what was left. As if in some perverse game of dominos, a few buildings that had been there last night were gone, dark smoke billowing in their stead. She had heard the first loud crashes. The air raid sirens hadn’t noticed this attack, and after the first distant explosion came banging doors as the girls of Carver Mills, dressed in nightgowns and curlers, hurried to the shelter at the end of the road.
Despite the terror of the night past, Bess found herself in unusually high spirits. The months had not been kind to her, and she could count on one hand the few times she had been truly happy since new year. Most of those times had been the first promising two weeks of 1940, sharing stolen kisses and glances with Tom. But this morning, with the sun shining through the horror, Bess felt perhaps if she couldn’t conquer the world, she could at least conquer the day.
She sat at the small vanity. She had been dancing at the Palais over the weekend and her rollered curls lingered. If she draped them just right at the base of the neck, she could hide them from Sister Stern under her nurses cap. Bess surveyed her reflection. It was a day that called for rouge. Rolling the lipstick from its tube, Bess swiped the colour across her lips and thought of the men at the hospital. She’d certainly brighten their day. The last thing to do was grab the photo from her nightstand. The paper was worn at the edges but despite this, and the black and white hue of the paper, Bess could feel Tom’s blue eyes gleaming at her. She tucked him into the pocket of her apron and donned her coat before glancing round the flat. It wasn’t much, but in the early autumn light, it felt like home. Perhaps she’d have Joan and Helen over that evening for supper and wine, if they could find some.  
The bus was just pulling away from the stop when Bess reached it, and she ran to join it. Douglas appeared at the open door and held out his hand to haul her onto the moving vehicle.
“Thank you,” she half whispered, half panted. Douglas touched his cap. A little awkwardness still coated the air after she had kissed him then revealed her feelings for his son; the month since had left little time for her to visit but she made a point to every time she was in Longsight. She valued Douglas’ friendship too much to allow her moment of insecurity and fear get in the way.
“Your father’s down the front,” he said as Bess moved to find a seat. “Looking a bit worse for wear.” Bess nodded and found her father slumped against the window behind the driver. His hair was unkempt and a little stubble was starting to show.
“Dadda,” Bess nudged him as she sat down. “Dadda!” He woke with a start and looked at her. A sleepy smile spread across his face and he took her hand in his own, patting it gently.
“I was going to pop into the hospital on my way home, to see if you were okay.”
“We’re all fine,” Bess squeezed his hand in reassurance. The Blitz was taking its toll on Fergal. More frequent air raids on the city meant that after his shifts at the dockyard he was straight into his warden’s uniform and on patrol, helping put out fires or guiding civilians to safety. Since Albie’s death, he was rarely home, his time taken up with helping the war effort and avoiding his grief. Bess laid her head on her father’s shoulder and they sat in amicable silence.
“Heavy night last night, they got Oxford Street. Palace Theatre got hit.”
“Many dead?”
“A fare few my girl, a fare few.” When they arrived at the Royal Infirmary, Fergal spoke again. “I do worry about you Bess. It’s only a matter of time before they get the hospital-”
“We’ve got a shelter in the basement, Dadda, we’ll be fine.” She kissed his cheek. “Tell you what, I’ll come by at the weekend for dinner. Stay over?”
“I’d like that, you take care.”
She waved off her father and Douglas from the stop as the bus made its way to Longsight, then hurried in to begin her shift. Sister Stern said nothing about her hair and lipstick, though from the twitch of her eye, Bess knew she wanted to. She was right too, the men loved it. She, Joan and Helen were the most popular nurses at the Infirmary with their beauty, charm and care. With every flirtatious comment, smile to her friends and patient helped, Bess felt her heart lighten. Uncertain the cause of this newfound contentedness, Bess was desperate to cling onto it regardless, and set about making plans for the evening with Helen and Joan.  
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On any other day, the walk from Manchester London Road to the Bennett house would take an hour. But as Tom strolled the streets that had coloured his childhood, his buoyance at being home turned to horror. The pub in which he snuck into for his first pint was no more than a pile of rubble. Houses of friends gone, skeletons of their childhoods all that remained. Even his secondary school, once an imposing building, had been brought down to a singular wall and the scaffold of the gymnasium. He felt sick. The war had at last come home. What if he arrived in Longsight to find it no longer existed? Walking through smoke and the rising dust of devastated buildings, he saw lines of people watching on as wardens and firemen attempted to put out the still simmering flames of the night before. At Victoria Park, a woman was trying to calm her young children, some of whom sat atop the rubble, as men scavenged what they could from the bombed-out street. A football lay abandoned in the road and Tom, taking pity on the woman, offered to kick the ball about with her sons while she rested.
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By the time he had arrived in Longsight, any thoughts of happy reunions had vanished, replaced by the anxious dread that had followed him since his final days on the Exeter. The fear that around every corner, no matter how safe or familiar, life could be upended as easily as the spinning of a top. Keen not to feed his fear, Tom walked along the ginnel, avoiding the sight of the street and what it may hold. He reached the gate to the yard of his home as paused, taking a deep breath. The handle was cool in his hand, and it clicked gently as he opened it. Washing was strung across the line, mostly his dad’s shirts and a few of Lois’ small things. Instinctively, Tom took the sleeve of one of Douglas’ jumpers and brought it to his face, inhaling the smell of familiar laundry detergent. It fluttered from his hand in the breeze, and for a moment, Tom felt he could cry. It was that exact sound that stopped him. High and coarse, a wailing cry came from within the house, and Tom’s heart somersaulted.
Tentatively, he opened the door to the kitchen and stepped inside the house. A dull light streamed through the net curtains. Nothing had changed. The piano sat unused, the chairs the same, exactly where the family liked to sit. Douglas at the table, Lois by the window and Tom at the hearth. The only difference was the baby that lay swaddled and crying in its basket, set on the kitchen table. Slowly, ever so slowly, Tom inched towards the little creature. Its red face contorted as it kicked its covered legs and balled its tiny fists. He didn’t know who it belonged to, but Tom knew that somehow, he loved the little babe. Steps thundered on the landing upstairs. Tom just managed to tear his eyes away from the child when a pair of feet appeared on the stairs.
“I’m coming, I’m coming-” Lois slipped down the last few steps in her haste, buttoning the blouse she wore. “Come here then, you little bugger.” There was a moment when Tom thought he was a ghost, had died at Dunkirk and drifted home, for Lois looked straight through him with unseeing eyes. Her steps faltered as she made towards the Moses basket, looking at the space Tom occupied. She stopped and the wailing continued. The two siblings stared at each other, neither moving, as though scared they would startle. It was when Tom smiled at his older sister, dimples appearing in his cheeks, that Lois knew he was real. With a shriek she leapt at him, arms tight around his neck as she burst into sobs.
“Hiya,” he whispered with a laugh. She pulled back to look at him, taking his face in her hands and assessing him, making sure he was there. Deciding it was true, her brother was really home, she took a step back and smacked his arm, hard.
“You bloody bastard,” she laughed through her tears. “We’ve been so worried.”
“And busy,” Tom nodded his chin in the direction of the baby. Lois wiped her face with a watery smile and scooped the baby into her arms.
“Give over,” Lois huffed, unbuttoning her blouse and sitting in the rocking chair by the hearth. Tom watched as the baby’s cries turned to snuffles of contentment.
“Christ. Everything’s so different,” Tom whispered. Manchester, the war, a baby. The home he had longed for was irrevocably changed. And yet, looking at his sister cradling that little baby in her arms, Tom felt that somehow everything would be ok in the end. Lois watched Tom watching the baby and another small sob left her. “Don’t be soft,” Tom laughed, though he held out his hand and Lois took it.
“I’ve missed you,” she wiped her eyes again. “Needed you here.”
“Did you know? Before I left?” Lois nodded. “You should have told me.”
“I was scared. I’m sorry,”
Tom shrugged his shoulders, and Lois gazed back down at the baby. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” He said with a chuckle. The baby had finished feeding, and Lois held the little creature up.
“Sit down then,” she said, indicating the armchair opposite the rocking chair.
“You what?” Tom tried to sound light, but a spike of terror caused his ears to turn pink.
“Just sit down!” Tom did as he was told, and Lois lowered the baby into his arms. She laughed at her little brother, whose eyes were wide in shock. “You can relax, Tom. Lean back in the chair and I’ll put a cushion under your arm. Just take her head, that’s it-” Everything in Tom’s body stilled. His breath became deep, his racing thoughts quietened and any sound beyond the house disappeared. The baby in his arms licked its little pink lips, still milk-drunk, and looked up at him with shining eyes. “This, Tom, is your niece.”
“Fuck,” he whispered.
“Language.” Lois teased. “And this, little one, is your uncle Tom.” Knowing she was in tender care, the little girl gargling in his arms took hold of the finger that had reached out to brush her cheek.
“Fuck,” Tom said again, and wiped a tear of his own from his eye. With Tom missing, Harry married and facing a world of raising a child on her own, Lois had lost all expectations for the future she once dreamed of. A little piece of hope she thought missing slotted back into the space of her heart, as she watched her brother embracing her daughter. She ran hand through Tom’s hair tenderly and he leant into the touch, reminded of their mother. After minutes of contented silence passed Tom, never looking away from his niece, spoke.
“Is she Harry’s?”
“Yes. Though what he’ll have to do with her, I don’t know.”
“Bastard.”
“Quite.”
When he spoke again, it was to his niece. “Doesn’t matter thought, does it? You’re perfect.” Lois smiled and kissed his cheek.
“Are you alright with her there? I’ve got some folding to do,” Tom waved his hand; he’d sit there forever. “Not sure what to call her yet, I thought it’d be nice to name her after mum?” Tom nodded and Lois’ heart burst with pride. Her little family would be ok.
They talked for hours. Tom told Lois about his travels around the south of Europe, and about Dunkirk. How he ended up in Paris and his escape. About Claudette and the others he met along the journey. Lois told him of ENSA, Harry’s betrayal and of adoring Vernon. Of the baby and the birth; she spared him the detail, all but one fact. “Bess helped me deliver her.”
“Oh right,” Tom’s voiced croaked and Lois smiled to herself.
“You’d better go over and see the Vaughns later. They’ll be so happy to see you.” She came back to sit next to Tom and her daughter, now sleeping in her uncle’s arms. “I don’t suppose you’ll have heard that either, God, there’s so much to tell you-”
Tom didn’t get the chance to find out what Lois had to tell him, for the front door clicked open. Douglas walked in, shucking off his shoes and coat. “Where’s my granddaughter then?” He was happier than Tom had heard him in a long time and his stomach sank a little. Was it wrong, to have hoped to find his father devasted? Maybe he was right after all, maybe things were easier if he wasn’t here.
“Dad,” Lois’ voice was soft.
“Yes, love?” Douglas turned from hanging up his coat and glanced at his daughter, before his eyes flickered to the man sat beside her, cradling his granddaughter. Tom stood and Lois hastily took the baby from his arms. Douglas looked between his daughter and son, mouth a little ajar, and swayed on the spot.
“Hi dad.”
The words were barely out of Tom’s mouth before Douglas clapped a hand to his own and laughed. He bent double, laughing, and at this Lois began crying again. It was when his father stood straight that Tom saw the tears rolling down his face. “Dad,” Tom stepped forward but hesitated. For the second time in his life, he froze. The first was when Bess fled from this very house in tears, the second was now. Luckily for Tom, he didn’t have to wait long, for Douglas staggered forwards and gripped him in a desperate hug.
“My boy,” Douglas laughed through his tears. “My boy,”
“Hi dad,” Tom said again, weakly. Douglas, as Lois had done, cupped Tom’s face to look at him.
“My brave, brave boy.” Tom laughed awkwardly, but his heart soared with happiness. At long last, he was home.
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The afternoon was reaching for evening when the Bennetts finally grew tired of chatting. Baby Bennett was sleeping on her grandfather’s shoulder, who was watching his two children with adoring pride. Tom had taken the picture of Marie down from the wall and placed her at the table, the way the Vaughns did with their mother. Sipping the last of their tea, they sat in gentle silence and simple enjoyment of the fact that their family was together again. And not just together, but growing.
“What are your plans, Tom?” Douglas asked as he placed the babe back in her basket.
“Well, I imagine it won’t be long until I’m called back.” He hurried on at the darkness that befell Douglas’ face. “But it won’t be for a while. I’m not sure how much paperwork it takes to resurrect the dead. In the meantime, it’ll be a few good meals and see as much of home as I can.”
“Speaking of which,” Lois said. “You best get over the road. They need some good news and I think you’re just the thing.”
“Must have been devastating when I left, all the good-looking fellas gone-” Lois smacked his arm again.
“Be off with you!” Tom kissed her cheek and patted his father’s shoulder.
“Save some tea for me, Lois. I’ve been dreaming of your roast dinners.” Dressing in an old jumper and clean slacks, he made for the door and the Vaughns. The air was still warm from summer though an autumnal breeze was gathering through the street. A few little girls playing in the street shrieked when it lifted their petticoats around their woollen tights. Tom laughed. That’ll be the little one someday. Crossing the road, something else fluttering in the wind caused him to stop dead. A black ribbon, tied around the knocker of the Vaughn’s front door. His blood ran cold. Surely, Lois would have told him if it was one of the girls. If it was Bess. The sensitivity of the day’s emotion caught at the back of his throat and he swallowed. Hadn’t Lois tried to tell him something before his dad arrived home? Tom watched with quiet fear as the ribbon teased him, before stepping to the door and knocking. He straightened his jumper and ran a hand through his hair. God damn it, he should have looked in a mirror before he left. Or at least washed. Tom was just shaking out his shoulders when the door opened and he snapped to attention.  
“Co-” The words died in his throat as the eldest Vaughn sister jumped at him.
“Oh my God!” Cora withdrew to look at him, then crashed into him once more. “Oh my God! Dot. DOT! Come down here right now!” She dragged him over the threshold. As yet, Cora had said nothing to Tom, and no words were exchanged further when Dot came hurtling from the back room and screamed at the sight of him. Running across the kitchen, she jumped into his arms and bounced up and down.
“You’re alive, oh thank God,” Dot turned back to her sister. “Some good news at last!”
Cora didn’t take her eyes off Tom. “Bess will be thrilled,” Tom could have sworn he saw Cora smirk.
Bess. Tom remembered the front door. “Cora. What’s happened? The ribbon on the door,” Dot stopped her giddiness, still holding on to Tom’s hand.
“Oh Tom,” Cora shuffled around the table to hold her sister. “It’s our Albie. The Siege of Calais-” Her voice died away and Dot hiccoughed. Tom looked between the sisters.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, hating how feeble the words were and how they sounded in his mouth. Dot looked up and tried to smile through her watery eyes.
“But at least we have you back. And like Cora said, Bess will be thrilled.”
“I’m going over there to Manchester soon actually, Tom, taking some food round for Bess. If you want to come?”
Cora looked to Dot, who still had hold of Tom’s hand. She began to swing it, looking up at him mischievously. “Um,” he coughed. “Yes, will do.” Christ.
The journey back into the centre of town was easy. One of Douglas’ friends from the bus service gave he and Cora two free tickets on account of him returning home, and the bus detoured around the bombed buildings. Tom thanked God; he didn’t know if he could stomach it. Not when his mind was so occupied on seeing Bess within the hour. Next to him, Cora chatted away about Roger and how well he was doing with the RAF, about the memorial mass for Albie, and at that Tom tried to listen. But through imagined glimpses of the Vaughns’ grief, all he could see were flashes of Bess running alongside the train. It wasn’t until he and Cora departed the bus and arrived at an old mill building that he noticed he hadn’t been paying attention at all to the route they had taken. All he knew was that this was the old cotton trade quarter of the city. Tom looked up at the tall chimneys, smog-stained red brick and the shadow the old mill cast. Half of him thought that facing the Germans would be less terrifying than stepping in here and he laughed. Cora smiled lightly.
“Are you excited to see her?”
“Pardon?” Tom’s reaction was quick, so quick that when he whipped his head around from gazing up at the mill, he heard it crack.
“Give over Tom, I’m not stupid. I know all about you and Bess. She told me, after I caught you both kissing in the window.”
Tom grinned mischievously and rubbed the back of his neck. “I always get caught, in the end.”
“At least this time it isn’t trouble. Though I’ll tell you know, Tom Bennett. I adore you, but if you break her heart, I’ll kill you myself.”
“I think Dot’d kill me first.”
Cora laughed. “That she would. Now,” she put her hand on the door knocker. “Mrs Russo, the boarding mistress, doesn’t like gentlemen visitors so we’ll just tell her you’re waiting outside. Then we’ll sneak you in when she isn’t looking.”
“Aye, aye!” Tom saluted and with a laugh, Cora knocked. Once. Twice. Three times. There was a little noise behind the door and the two heard a pair of footsteps growing louder. It opened to reveal Mrs Russo, broom in hand and beaming, her bonny face shiny with exertion of cleaning.
“Cora, love, hello!” She pointed at the basket of food in her hand. “Got any for me?”
“Just deliveries for Bess I’m afraid,” the two women laughed and Tom sensed this was an ongoing occurrence. Mrs Russo then turned her eyes to him appraisingly and did not hide that she clearly approved.
“And who is this handsome lad?”
“Mrs Russo, this is Tom.” Cora lightly touched his shoulder. “A childhood friend. He’s just returned home this morning.”
“Ah, the missing fella!” Mrs Russo clapped her hands. “Bess has told us all about you, of course.” Tom felt a blush rise up his cheeks and Cora smirked. “Now, I don’t allow young men in the house, even ones as good looking as yourself, but would you take a cup of tea while you wait for Cora? I can open up the courtyard for you.”
“Only if you join me, Mrs Russo.” Tom winked.
“Oh, he is a charmer! I can see why you girls are so fond of him. I best get back to my cleaning but if you follow the building round, I’ll open the gate to the courtyard. Coming, Cora love?”
Tom began to walk along the red brick wall as Cora whispered, “I’ll come and get you when the coast is clear!”, and followed the lady inside. Mrs Russo had already opened the courtyard gate and hurried back to her chores when Tom reached it. Washing, bedsheets and nurse’s uniforms, hung between every window and at the centre of the small patio was a table and two chairs, a steaming cup of tea already awaiting him. No sooner had Tom sat down and taken his first sip was Cora hissing at him from a side door.
“Psst! Tom!” Tom hastily threw the tea into a plant pot and strode towards Cora. “Bess is still at work but I can let you in. You’re alright waiting for her, aren’t you?” Tom nodded his assent and felt his heart rate double. The two wound their way quietly up a few flights of stairs before Cora stopped to fumble with a set of keys. “Here we are, Bess’ humble abode.” She entered the flat first and Tom followed. It was as if he was trespassing on the room of someone recently deceased; it was so full of life yet the occupant was nowhere to be found. He half expected Bess to jump out at them.
The kitchen was miniscule. A cup and plate had been left by the sink, and Cora set about washing them for her little sister and putting away her parcel of food. On top of a rickety table was a vase, the dried flowers losing their leaves and scattering around two picture frames. One of Bess and her family, one of Etta. Tom smiled and moved to the window. Despite the missing buildings and the faint smoke rising from the air raids, Manchester looked magnificent in the late summer light. The sun was low on the horizon, piercing through chimneys, spires and mills. A little way off, Tom could make out the cranes of the dockyard. Beside him was an old armchair, its fabric faded and patched in places. Over the top lay some clothes, haphazardly draped, and a book of Nursing Practice. A little to his right, the bedroom door was askew, and Tom just caught a glimpse of the bed when Cora spoke. She was halfway out the door.
“I know what happened, Tom, before you went away. Bess has a steely mind and a sensitive soul, but she needs the truth.”
She didn’t allow Tom to add anything more before shutting the door. He was left alone.  
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“Got a bottle of wine from one of the lads,” Joan said, placing dirtied bedding into the wash bin. Helen was smoking discreetly out of a store cupboard window, carefully avoiding Sister Stern.
“How on earth did you manage that?”
“Said I’d give him a kiss,” Joan said sweetly and Bess laughed.
“Honestly,” Helen pretended to chastise her friend, but still smiled as she exhaled a plume of smoke. “What time shall we come up to yours Bess?”
“Eight o’clock, I’d say.” Bess was helping Joan to tidy away the linens before heading home to pick up some sewing work. “Gives me a chance to finish the clothes.”
“I wonder if there’ll be another air raid?” Helen worried the skin of her lip as she flicked her cigarette away.
“If there is,” Joan straightened and stretched her back from the day’s labour. “I’m glad I’ll be with you girls.” Bess squeezed her hand and waved her goodbyes.
The five o’clock sun set the city ablaze, and when Bess stepped onto the street, the glare the sun cast from the windows caused her to walk straight into somebody.
“I’m so sorry,” she held out her hands to steady herself against the person.
“Bess,”
Bess looked up, and into the sullen and scarred face of the man before her.
“James!” Bess took an instinctive step back. “How are you? The scarring is healing well, glad to see my stitching was neat.”
“Yes, I uh-” James looked nervously at her and shuffled on his feet. “I’m here to see one of the doctors about my sight. If he thinks I’m healed, it’ll be back to the front for me.”
Neither spoke for a moment, then Bess reached out to hold his arm. “The offer still stands, James. If you want someone to write to, you know where to find me.” She gestured to the building behind her. “Good luck.” She began to walk away when the calling of her name stopped her.
“Bess, if I do go back, would you come for dinner with me before I go?”
“James-”
“Please, just one last time.”
Despite his height, the soldier seemed to slouch under Bess’ gaze. His messy hair blew in the breeze and the coat he wore hung loosely around his shoulders. He looked completely lost.
“James, I’m sorry. I’m taking care of my heart at the moment, I don’t think I can handle any more heartbreak.” The man she spoke to straightened at this, seemingly buoyed by the fact that in some life somewhere, he could have the capacity to break this magnificent woman’s heart. The reality was entirely different, and Bess’ mind drew images of blue eyes and thin lips before her. Still, this little offering seemed to ease the soldier’s spirit and she smiled. “Good luck, James,” she said again, before heading for the bus stop.
Mrs Russo was exiting Carver Mills when Bess arrived home a while later. The little woman was buttoning her coat over a blue skirt Bess had mended for her when she spotted her tenant.
“How was work love?”
“Exhausting.”
“Well, you’ll be glad to know that Cora popped round a little while ago with a very handsome man and a food basket for you.” Bess smiled, imagining the fuss Mrs Russo surely made over Roger. He really was taking his time with that proposal.
“Perfect. Helen and Joan are coming up for supper later if you’d like to join us?”
“Oh heavens no!” Mrs Russo smiled. “I’m off to see my daughter, and besides, you girls don’t want an old biddy like me hanging around. No, you have your fun.”
“And you,” Bess passed Mrs Russo in the doorway and dragged herself up the stairs towards the flat. Despite her weariness, and run in with James, Bess still felt in her heart the lightness that had settled there that morning. For the first time, she smiled as she thought of Albie. Bess had never been particularly faithful, unlike her mother and father, but she wondered if this happiness and warmth came from her brother watching over her. Perhaps he was annoyed at her moping and was sending her a gift from the heavens. He always got annoyed when she was miserable, the likely cause being their twin moods. Or maybe it was because she had finally settled into her life in Manchester, away from her family. It was true, she missed them, and missed the piano, but this newfound sense of freedom gave her something she hadn’t known since she worked at the atelier. Only three miles away from where she was born, yet somehow this little world felt like hers entirely. The only thing that could dampen her happiness was Tom. She heard Albie’s reassuring and logical voice in her head. “Missing, not dead.” She reached the door to her flat, a little out of breath and pulled her keys from her bag.
“Missing, not dead.” She said aloud to the stairwell, placed her key in the door and began humming Mack the Knife. The sun painted her kitchen a brilliant gold, and Bess stood in the open doorway letting the last of the day’s warmth touch her face. She turned back to the door, still humming and locked it before removing her coat and shoes. Reaching up under her dress, she unhooked her itchy tights and pulled them off also, the cool tiles of the floor sending shivers up her legs. It was as she was retrieving the contents of her bag that the sudden and harsh scraping of a chair across the kitchen floor caused her to gasp and spin around.
A man was stood at the table. Wisps of his blond hair were haloed in the golden sunset, his broad shoulders squared, and Bess could just make out the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. Electricity hummed in her fingers tips. If I reach out and touch him, she thought, I might spark. At this surge of power, of energy, warmth welled in her bosom and her chest burned, as though taking her first gasping breaths of oxygen. Bess’ body, far before her mind, reached out to the figure, lit like a beacon in the autumnal light. She stepped forward, yet the figure didn’t move. He didn’t need to.
Bess would have known it was him had she been blind. If he’d not been a man, but a perfect ray of sun or a bird perched on her window or the chime of bells on Sunday, she’d have known. She would have known it as the air stilled around them. If he hadn’t come back until she was an old maid, and he an old man. She would have known it was him, just like she knew he was the reason for the day’s high spirits. Bess raised her hand and, shielding her eyes from the light, she saw him. The depths of those grey eyes, the sweep of hair. The strong neck that led to that stone jaw. The slope of his nose, pink at the tip and those lips, curved and oh so tempting. She edged ever closer, her hands instinctively reaching out to him.
Tom had been prepared for stony silence, a confrontation, or an affectionate kiss on the cheek and a “welcome home”. But when Bess looked at him as though he were the only man on earth, Tom Bennett could do nothing but watch. Watch, as she stood bathed in the sunlight. Watch, as she took in every feature of him. Watch, as her shock turned into recognition, and watch as she advanced on him, her dark eyes set and certain.
“Bess, I-” his voice was barely above a whisper, and the hopeful need he heard in his own was matched in the stormy eyes of the woman before him. Months of despair and self-hatred, years of waiting and wanting all came undone at the sound of his voice. Taken over by carnal desire that only he could ignite, Bess rounded the tiny kitchen table and collided with him.
“Tom,” her voice was shrouded in desperation, and no sooner had his name left her lips were they on his, warm, wanting and needy. Tom sighed, letting Bess devour him in a frenzy of lips, teeth and tongue, and in an instant his hands were at her back, pressing her body flush against his chest. Bess pushed Tom into the wall and pawed at his chest, desperate to touch any part of him she could. Pulling away from his lips, she tugged at the jumper he wore. She dropped it to the floor and pressed her body against his, wanting nothing more than to melt into his touch. Bess untangled her hands from Tom’s hair and frantically began undoing the buttons of his shirt. Her nimble fingers made quick work of the offending garment and Tom watched with proud awe as she ripped it away from his body and ran her eyes over his hard chest. When a small gasp left her parted lips his pride turned to fear however, until Bess ran gentle fingers under the skin his left shoulder. There, above his heart and below his collarbone, the puncture of scar tissue darkened his alabaster skin.
Seeing horror flash across her eyes, Tom placed a hand on hers and held it over his scar. “They shot me,” he said simply with a sad smile.
“And that’s why you didn’t come home,” it was a statement more than a question, and Tom nodded. Slowly, Bess removed her hand from the scar and placed a tender kiss to the mottled skin. Tom’s wayward heart drummed in his chest as something akin to hope anchored there.
“I’m sorry,” Bess whispered, peppering kisses across his chest, always returning to kiss the gunshot. “I’m so sorry,” her voice quavered and when Tom moved away from her she whined. Tears were forming in her eyes, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She reached out to Tom but he batted her hand away and instead took her face in his hands.
“Why are you apologising?”
“I didn’t say goodbye to you,” Bess took a shuddering breath. “What if you hadn’t come back? It’s, it’s-” Her voiced raised in pitch. “It’s so close to your heart, Tom.” She had barely finished the words before prolonged grief racked her body. She tried to hide her face but Tom didn’t let her. Instead, he ran a thumb over her cheek and committed this moment to memory. In the streaming, yellow light, and filled with tears, her brown eyes looked gold. She must have been wearing lipstick during the day, for the faded pigment lingered at the centre of her full lips, now wet with his kisses and slightly parted. A flush covered her cheeks and nose, and her eyebrows were knitted with anguish. Tom grinned with tenderness for her. Once more running a finger over her cheek, he wiped away a tear and spoke softly.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he kissed her slowly, savouring the taste of her salty tears and the warmth of her tongue. “I’m here, Bess. I’m home.” At this, Bess whimpered through his kisses and clutched at his shirt. The sound sent tremors straight to Tom’s cock and he inhaled harshly, attempting to restrain his desire to take Bess where they stood. Urgent for closeness, Bess wound her hand through Tom’s sandy hair and gripped hard at the nape of his neck. When he moaned aloud, she ran her tongue along his lips before moving to nip at his jaw, down his neck and his bare torso. His head fell back and hit the wall as she ran her tongue up the length of body, skirted her hands over his chest and wound them around his neck. She bit him there once again and Tom laughed.
“I missed you so much, love.” Tom whispered, the ghost of a smirk on his handsome face.
“Tom,” Bess ran her tongue along the column of his neck and bit the pulse point there. The action caused Tom to buck his hips and Bess giggled. She did it again and this time, Tom growled. “Fuck, Tom,” once more her hands found his hair and she tugged him down in a fiery kiss, their tongues fighting to gain dominance. One of Tom’s large hands gripped Bess’ waist and pulled her towards his groin, where she felt the growing hardness beneath his trousers. Head spinning, and whining at the friction through his trousers and her layers of uniform, Bess broke the kiss and licked her lips seductively. Tom pulled forward. She pulled away.
“I dream of this every night, Tom Bennett.”
That was it. That was all it took for Tom Bennett to snap. Months, if not years of wanting Bess Vaughn burst from him as he roughly took hold of her face and crashed his lips onto hers. No longer were his kisses soft and loving, but hard and wanton. Bess mewled at his display of ownership over her and began unbuckling his belt.
“Fuck,” he tore his mouth away from hers to suckle at her neck; hot, wet kisses as she fought to free him from his trousers. When the belt was undone, still dominating her mouth with his tongue, he gripped her hips with his hands and forced her backwards until her legs hit the wood of the kitchen table. With both hands under her backside, he hoisted her onto its surface and she grabbed him for another devouring kiss. Without coaxing, she spread her legs and Tom groaned as he stood between them, grinding against her layers of skirt.
“Tom,” Bess’ head tipped backwards and he ground into her. He reached behind her back and pulled the ties of the nurse’s apron and threw it to the ground. With her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms about his shoulders, Bess clung to Tom as he fought with the buttons and zip of her bodice. Cold air and Tom’s long fingers traced the skin there when he managed to undo it, and no sooner had Bess moaned is name was Tom pulling her free of the arms and bodice of her uniform. He huffed at the sight of her brassiere, and with no warning or hesitation, ripped its satin straps so that Bess’ chest was entirely bare to him. Instantly, her pink nipples puckered with cold and Tom’s eyes blew wide. He dipped his head to kiss at the full flesh there, and Bess’ hold around his waist tightened.
“Please, Tom.” His name was all she could say. Tom was all she could comprehend. Still teasing her breasts, Tom reached beneath her skirt and roughly pulled down her knickers. She moaned with need as Tom ran a finger through the treasure he found there.
“Fuck,”
Bess bucked her hips.
“Fuck,” he said again, bringing his lips back to hers and moaning into her mouth. “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined doing this to you.”
Bess laughed with the pleasure and power those last words brought her. “Yes I do,”
“Confident,” Tom smirked as he continued to kiss her and run his long fingers through her now dripping folds.
“’I’d have fucked you with my mouth, my fingers, my cock. Watched you take me.’” Bess quoted, and Tom stilled. Through lust-hazy eyes, he looked down at her. His fingers stopped their work and Bess whined.
“What did you say?”
“’I don’t want to imagine anymore what those nimble fingers of your can do.’” Bess quoted again, and she watched as his pupils dilated further and his Adam’s apple bobbed with nerves. He huffed a laugh and Bess bit her lip.
“How do you know that?”
Bess tried to drive her hips upwards, frantically trying to feel his fingers against her but he moved them away. “What do you mean?”
“I-I didn’t send that letter,” Tom whispered, his mouth close to hers. Bess frowned a little, confused but eager for their reunion to continue.
“Well, you have a guardian angel because not only did they send you back, but they sent that letter too. And I’ve read it every night and every morning since it arrived. I’m tired of using my hand and pretending it’s your mouth around me.” Bess kissed him quickly, chastely.“I could say exactly the same.”
Tom regarded her with admiring shock then, with a harsh thrust as quick as lightening, brought his fingers to dip inside her. Bess cried out but was silenced by Tom’s hot mouth on hers. Who was more wanton, neither could say, for no sooner had he touched her was Bess bucking her hips onto his hand. Faster and faster, Tom fucked her sex with his fingers. First one, then two. When he added a third he felt Bess clench hard around him and he buried his head in her chest.
“Please,” she whimpered, curling an arm around his neck for purchase. “Please, I need you Tom.” At the sincerity of her words, a singular sob rent its way from Tom’s tense body. He looked down at her, at his Bess, spread before him on the table, half dressed and flushed with lust. It was true that Tom had thought of this moment, though his dreams could never equal the excitement, terror and elation that he felt roaring through his veins. But his obsession with Bess was so much more than lust. These nine months he had carried her in his pocket, through battles and enemy-occupied states. If he did have a guardian angel, surely it was she. Surely, it had always been her. On the Exeter, wasn’t it her hair he saw in the flames? When entangled with another woman he didn’t know the name of, wasn’t it her lips he’d imagined? It was memories of her, teaching him piano, nights at Belle Vue or the Palais, the momentous occasions he had made her belly laugh, or quiet evenings sharing a cigarette that had got him through those lonely, fearful nights at sea. It was the certainty that when he got home Bess would be there, waiting for him or not, that dragged his tired and war-battered body across Europe to safety. He needed her, completely and entirely.
With a swift kiss, Tom removed his fingers from her arousal and fumbled hastily with his slacks. Bess bolted upright and her hands found his. Together, with smiles and desperation, they wrestled with his slacks and briefs until the growing hardness that had strained so uncomfortably against the hard fabric was freed. Bess’ mouth watered at the sight and she kissed Tom with a renewed hunger. Looking back to his hard erection pressed against the soft flesh of her thigh, she whimpered. A few pearlescent beads of precum were gathered at its pink and swollen tip, and the veins that travelled along the shaft to its base in the thicket of blond curls throbbed. Without hesitation, Bess gripped his wide length and Tom hissed as she pumped his arousal before lining it up with her centre. Bracing his hands on the table either side of her lips, Tom’s head fell forward against Bess’ and she ran the tip of his cock along the entrance of her dripping sex. She inched closer to the edge of the table, mouth falling open in a silent moan as the tip of Tom’s painfully hard cock pressed against her entrance. He was panting with need, and the effort to not slam his hips forward and fully seat himself inside her. Already, their kisses were sloppy. The small kitchen was alite with the heat of the sun and their bodies. Bess’ hands gripped his broad shoulders and Tom took himself in hand, but when her legs wrapped around his slight waist, he faltered.
“I-I-Christ,” he was cunt-drunk before he’d even fucked her. “I don’t have a sheath.”
Bess ran a hand through his flaxen hair. She had waited years for this man, known since the war began that it was Tom Bennett or no-one. Any consequences of loving him wholly be damned. “I want all of you, Tom,” she whispered. “Please.”  
And Tom, with a shuddering breath, inched himself slowly into the welcoming heat of Bess’ body. Simultaneously they groaned, as Tom bottomed out in the warmth of Bess’ cunt. Her head tipped backwards and exposed the column of her elegant neck. Not moving within her, Tom leant forward to kiss the delicate skin there, the act pushing him forwards so that the tip of his cock brushed that sensitive spot within Bess’s pussy.
“Fuck,” her cry sounded pained, and Tom would have withdrawn from her were it not for the piercing of her nails in his shoulders, or the plump flesh of her thighs holding him ever closer. Slowly, so tantalisingly and cruelly slowly, Tom edged out of her heat, causing Bess’ eyes to flutter shut. He paused to watch the heaving of her breasts as she raggedly gasped for air, and at his stillness she looked at him through half-lidded eyes. “Please-” Whatever she was to say next died in her throat, for Tom slammed his hips so forcefully into hers that she saw stars. Over and over, Tom thrust his aching cock into her heat as she mewled and clawed at any part of him she could reach. With every snap of his hips Bess’ body came alive for him, from the quivering of her walls around his cock to the babbled gasps of “more”, “Tom”, and “harder”.
For Tom, the tight heat of Bess around him, the image of her coming undone at his touch and the desperation with which he had always wanted her reached a feverish pitch in which the overwhelming cacophony of feeling rendered his mind utterly blank. All he knew was Bess, the sound of her pleading voice, the harsh rasps of their hot breath on each other’s bodies and the obscene sounds of their love making. Harder and faster he pounded into her, all thought of gentleness gone from both their minds, bodily need and years of craving each other taking over.
The banging of the table legs against the floorboards of the old flat was barely audible over Bess’ moans and Tom’s muttered adorations, and neither noticed nor cared. Tom was too caught up in the waves of pleasure washing over Bess, and when her body fell back against the table and revealed her parted sex taking his cock so perfectly, he reached down to circle a thumb over her needy clit. Bess gripped his wrist and Tom felt her cunt clench around him.
“Don’t stop,” she gasped, and at her demand Tom felt he could continue no longer. Eager to satisfy her, he ground his jaw and with a hand at her hip and the over rubbing perfect circles over her sex, he watched as a flush of red bloomed across Bess’ cheeks and chest. Her body tensed and began to quake, and Tom knew he had never seen anything so beautiful; he promised himself he would bring Bess to pleasure as often as he was able. The shockwaves of her orgasm pulsed through her body, hard and untameable, and at the feeling of her climax Tom came undone, growling lowly as he came within her. Bess’ body went limp and he brought her against his chest, cradling her in his arms. In turn, Bess kissed the side of his forehead and laughed. When he looked at her through his loving and fucked-out gaze, he saw the surely uncomfortable position she was in; legs spread wide around his waist, leant slightly against the hard table and half dressed. Slowly, Tom pulled out of her still quivering sex and Bess gasped. The sound made Tom grin with smug satisfaction and Bess laughed. He kissed her smiling lips and pulled her to her feet.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered with a chuckle. Bess stood and, as she did so, the skirt of her uniform slid from her hips and pooled on the floor. Completely naked in front of him, Tom reached out a hand and caressed he full hips.
“Now you’re the one apologising!” Bess stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing his perfect lips and feeling his cock grow hard once more at the touch of her bare body. He laughed.
“I had grand plans for when I came back to you, and fucking you on the kitchen table wasn’t one of them. I’m sorry-”
“I don’t know,” Bess cut him off with a languid kiss. “It seems appropriate to me, the course of our lives seems to have occurred in the kitchen.”
“Not anymore, love.” Bess raised a quizzical brow but her question went unanswered, for Tom bent low and flung Bess over his shoulder. She squealed and held his waist, Tom’s own hands firm on the plump roundness of her bottom. Bess could sense the shit-eating grin her wore and she smacked his arse.
“Cheeky,” Tom walked her to her bedroom, kicking open the door and dropping her on the bed. His eyes were hungry and she expected him to ravish her. Instead, he crawled atop her and rested his head against her soft stomach and curled his hand around her hips. It was then that Bess realised that hunger and lust for another person were not the same, and her heart beat with a fresh wave of love for the man clutching at her body.
“I missed you,” he said again, running his hands up her sides. She shuffled beneath him, rolling onto her side and Tom was forced to look up. Bess was reaching for the drawer of her bedside table.
“I want to show you something,” her voice was strained as she stretched awkwardly to retrieve something amongst the pile of makeup, magazines and fabric samples. Sitting up, naked and vulnerable, Bess handed Tom a bundle of paper. It was only when he looked closer that he realised they were letters. Each dated, with his name in the centre. He looked from them to Bess with wide eyes, doubting that anyone, including his father or Lois, had ever loved him this much.
“I never stopped writing, after you went missing,” she wiped her eyes and a glimmer of the old Bess, defiant and hardy, appeared before Tom. He wrapped a hand in the copper hair at the base of her neck and kissed her deeply.
“You’re some woman, Bess Vaughn.” And with dexterous fingers, he opened the first letter and began to read.
Notes: I’m sorry this took so long, hen dos and Eurovision and mega work deadlines and illness got in the way. Forgive me. Expect communication and long, sexy, heart-felt smuttiness in the next chapter! See you soon (I promise!)
EDIT: If you've read Come Back To Me, you may have noticed that in my illness-addled mind I called Bess the wrong name. All sorted now.
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cod-dump · 11 months
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John MacTavish once thought he had good friends. But one incident left them all in shambles. One of them died and they all turned on each other. John wanted to preserve their friendship, so he organized a hike through the Pennine Way. Something they all wanted to do and John believed it would bring them back together.
But it didn’t. Instead… something started hunting them.
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scotianostra · 6 months
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On October 14th  1322 a Scottish army led by King Robert I  defeated Edward II of England at the Battle of Old Byland.
Many people are unaware that The Bannockburn did not end The Wars of Scottish Independence, they were to run intermittently for years to come. Seen as possibly the most important of those encounters was the Battle of Old Byland in Yorkshire on this day in 1322 when the Scots once again faced their English foes – but this time on English soil.
Robert the Bruce now took his army of 20,000 mosstroopers ( marauders who operated in the mosses, or bogs, of the border between the two countries)and clansmen through the west marches and laid waste to the areas round Carlisle, Lancaster and Preston before marching across the Pennines through Swaledale and Wensleydale where he could and should have been ambushed and stopped in his tracks by any competent defender of the easily defensible passes. Bruce joined forces with The Good Sir James Douglas at Northallerton and received the news that Edward II was staying at Rievaulx Abbey, about 20 miles away.  Bruce conferred with his generals, Douglas, Sir Walter Stewart, and Sir Thomas Randolph and discussed the possibility of capturing King Edward and bringing this long drawn out war to an end.
An audacious task was given to Sir Walter Stewart the hereditary High Steward of Scotland, who with 300 mosstroopers was to break through to Rievaulx Abbey as soon as the English line on the lip of Roulston Scar was broken by the Scottish Army. Bruce ordered Sir James Douglas to light more fires and increase the amount of smoke to conceal his movements from the English commander the Earl of Richmond.  Bruce concealed two thirds of his army in clumps of trees below a gully which led round the rear of Roulston Scar.
Edward thought they were safe from attack, his armies having taken up a defensive position atop Roulston Scar, the plateau. The vantage point offered unrestricted views of approaching enemies, with the seemingly impenetrable sheer cliffs giving them the confidence to think they would be able to ward off any approaches.  Bruce though,  concealed two thirds of his army in clumps of trees below a gully which led round the rear of Roulston Scar.  The Scottish King sent a group of Highlanders to scale the more lightly defended cliffs to the south, a medieval track still known as Scotch Corner
Back in Rievaulx Abbey, King Edward and his close cronies the Le DeSpensers were sitting down to a meal in the quarters of Abbot John of Rievaulx. I say meal, but such was Edwards confidence he was safe it sounds like more of a feast as accoring to The Lanercost chronicles 'two swanis roastit, divers fowls, Salmonys and other fishis with divers pies of meat and fruitis and sweetmeats. A Tun of Claret wine and a keg of burgundy wine with the best abbey ale.' They were fated never to finish that meal, that pleasure would fall to Sir Walter Stewart's men.
Bruce with his infantry light cavalry made their way largely unseen, onto Shaws Moor and there in front of them lay, unprotected, the encampments of the English Army.  Bruce formed his men into three arrowhead divisions and with the trumpeters blasting out the charge he led his men in an all out thundering gallop, his Lion Rampant Banner flying bravely in the hands of Scrymgeour his standard bearer and with a great cry of ' A Bruce! A Bruce!' they came galloping out of the smoke and smashed through the English lines causing widespread panic and destruction.
Even a tightly disciplined army would have found it difficult to withstand such a charge. The demoralised English mostly deserted their posts and ran for their lives but some salvaged what honour there was for England that day by standing their ground even though their stand was useless. What casualties Bruce's army suffered that day came from the arrows of the few English archers who bravely stood their ground before being hacked down.
Bruce's Standard bearer Scrymgeour took an arrow in his arm which did no real  damage due to the chain mail suit. Backwards and forwards, Bruce's force charged scattering the surviving English troops. No quarter was given and the English casualties were horrendously heavy. Finally only the dead and the victorious Scots remained in command of the battlefield.
King Robert then led his horsemen to the edge of Roulston Scarn and ordered his trumpeters to sound the Rally.  Down below in the Gully the English and the Scots turned their heads towards the clamour of the trumpets, to see Bruce's host on the escarpment and with a roar of triumph, Douglas' men surged forward and the English army dispersed , some in flight, most in surrender when Sir James Douglas ordered that, with victory secured the Scots gave quarter.
Those captured included many English Knights including  The Earl of Richmond who it’s said surrendered his sword to Sir James Douglas, who presented the prisoners to the Bruce,  gave him a tongue lashing by for his treatment of the Scottish Queen and her fellow female prisoners while she was an English prisoner. Bruce had Richmond hustled away under close guard as a valuable Hostage, it would be the start of 2 years of confinement for the English Knight, he remained in captivity until 1324, when he was released for a ransom of 14,000 marks.
So what of Sir Walter Stewart? His men were first heard and then seen by Edward's personal guard as they thundered towards the Abbey at breakneck speed. Edward was hustled from the Abbots House, mounted on his grey charger and with a close guard of twenty men galloped away from the scene of his humiliation to try and take ship at Bridlington. Leaving over  100 of his bodyguard to sell their lives in buying him some time to escape. This they did do and delayed the Scots sufficiently to allow their King to slip away. 
He was pursued by Stewart and fifty of his men for many miles but in the darkness they lost Edward as the day drew on and darkness fell.  Edwards horse became lame and He was forced to seek a fresh mount at Pickering Castle where a day later his grey charger became a prize of War and was presented to King Robert.  Edward eventually arrived at Bridlington and requested the keeper of the castle to provide him with a ship to take him to London.
There would be no easy escape for King Edward, he must have been dismayed when next day he looked out to sea and spotted  three long sleek Scottish galleys, this was no marauding Scots army content on a raid into England, this was a well thought out campaign, which must have taken some planning to have arrived with naval support.
Escape by sea was impossible, no trading galliot could outrun these greyhounds of the sea.  Information was then received that the Scots were approaching the outskirts of Bridlington, and without further ado Edward and his guards then high tailed it to York narrowly escaping capture twice, but losing his shield in the process.  The reputation of the fortified city at York meant the Scots did not attack it, and Edward was never captured, he and his party made their way to the safety of Burstwick in Holderness and from thence to London.
Bruce later returned this shield to Edward as an unspoken challenge, Fight or Negotiate peace! Edward did not rise to the challenge and this later was one of the reasons he was later deposed.
The numbers involved in the Scottish invasion are open to question, I’ve stuck at 20,000 as a reasonable number for a planned “excursion”  Bruce’s biographer, John Barbour, known to exaggerate at times, put the figure at, in my opinion a ridiculous 80,000.
It would be another six years before any lasting peace between Scotland and England was reached with The Treaty of Edinburgh–Northampton, it brought an end to First War of Scottish Independence, which had begun with the English invasion of Scotland over 30 years before. 
The Battlefields Trust has more about the battle on their web page, use the links on the left for all the info, some may differ from a wee bit mine, but the gist of it is the same. 
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pvffinsdaisies · 24 days
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Northumbria Headcanon Masterpost
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The artwork used was created by @ladybrainrot
Continuing on with my master posts for my portrayals of different characters, I’ve decided the next one would be for my OC portrayal of Northumbria. Since I did one of these for Scotland, I’ve been wanting to create another one, but I’ve not known which character to choose. Bria just happens to be my brainrot atm, though she’s not as developed as I thought.
Northumbria is an old kingdom that consisted of modern day northern England, and southern Scotland, through the 600s-900s. In my eyes, Northumbria stayed alive and in modern day represents the north of England- the cultural and the class difference. With that in mind, and also noting that I am not a big history fan, please do be weary that many choices made take into account modern day northern England, rather than the former kingdom of Northumbria itself. This is also just my take, as someone from the north of England. I am also aware that she is not 100% accurate- Bria originally started out as a 2p nyo England over four years ago, but as I grew up, I decided to revamp her a little, and she became my oc portrayal of Northumbria. Keep in mind, had I originally set out to make a northern England oc, not a 2p nyo England, she would probably be quite different than she is today.
PHYSICAL
Northumbria’s hair is a mousy brown colour, and it lies somewhere between blonde and brunette. This was done intentionally to show her similarities to both Scotland and to England, and how she’s the awkward space in between the two of them.
When left down, her hair reaches down to her mid back, but it’s frequently worn up to keep it out of her face.
Bushy eyebrows runs in the family, and she didn’t manage to escape this gene either.
Northumbria has softer, though not rounded, features. She has droopy/downturned eyes, a heart face shape, and a button nose.
She has dimples in her cheeks, which represent the Yorkshire Dales, and a few freckles which represent the Lake District
She is one of the shortest of her siblings, standing at 5’3 or about 160cm
Bria is chubby, with a pear body shape. A lot of her weight is in her stomach and waist, and she has a smaller top half.
Northumbria’s breasts represent the Pennines, a mountain range which runs through the centre of Northern England. The mountains are, objectively, not that big.
Northumbria has very bad hay fever, and she takes tablets every spring and summer, but they don’t do much for help. She loves the outside, though, and thinks a runny nose and itchy eyes are worth it to be out in the countryside.
She has problems with her lungs from spending so many years of her life working as a coal miner, she uses an inhaler to help her.
She doesn’t wear make up very often, only if she’s going out or if attending a formal event- and she’s not very good at it! Mostly, she just hasn’t had much practice, and finds most days she can’t be bothered with it.
Despite this, Northumbria is incredibly skilled with plaits and buns! Her hair is most often seen in just a simple three strand plait for simplicity, but she can do some beautiful techniques if she wants to.
She has a pink rose necklace which she wears all the time. It represents the red rose of Lancashire and the white rose of Yorkshire. Normally, these two rose come together to create the “Tudor Rose”, but for a little necklace, a pink rose will do fine.
Speaking of roses, she likes to smell like them! She always buys rose scented perfumes. It’s fair to say, these flowers mean a lot to her.
As well as her rose necklace, you will almost always see Northumbria wearing a flat cap. She owns a dark green one, but also a brown one. She takes a lot of pride in these hats.
PERSONALITY
Out of her and Arthur, Northumbria is definitely the friendlier, more extroverted one. If she sees someone she knows on the street, she will stop and say hi, have a little chat to them, before heading off on her way. Moments like this brighten her day.
Even if you are not yet friends, she prides herself as being someone you can stop and talk to, if you need it. She’s also not shy to striking up a conversation with someone new. She will talk to you like you know one another, even during small talk.
She takes the position of the mum friend, and she can be extremely comforting for when you’re upset. Guaranteed, if knock on the door and ask to talk, she’ll hurry you inside, make you some tea, and if you’re lucky, she’ll make you her favourite comfort food. She’ll always be sure to provide a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear, words of encouragement, and some advice once you’re feeling better.
Bria is a very loyal person, especially to those she considers herself closest with. She will stay by the side of those she loves through no matter what. This is one of the reasons she has never seriously considered trying to gain independence.
However, she can also be very indecisive, she can change her mind and stance pretty frequently. This meeting her loyal nature can be conflicting sometimes. She finds constantly switching between being more loyal to England, and being more loyal to Scotland (who she’s (debatably) closer to.)
Northumbria is incredibly passionate, but her passion can come out quite aggressive. You can notice a significant flip from her usual calmer, motherly personality, to her yelling and shouting curse words. It can be quite intimidating if you’re not used to it.
Selfishness is probably Bria’s worst trait. She will always think about herself and her own situation first, and sometimes might never even consider someone else’s perspective on things. This can and has lead to her stabbing people in the back to try and better herself if she gets desperate enough (sorry Wales.)
She regularly feels ignored and overlooked, mainly by England, but she hasn’t figured out how to make herself be taken seriously by others, so no matter how much she shouts, nothing much will change.
Because of this, she has an intense desire to prove herself. She had a tendency to be vocal and brag about anything important or anyone successful who comes from the north of England. It can seem like she believes she’s superior to Arthur, but it’s more a desire to prove herself to be an equal. That, and just a good amount of pride and patriotism.
Northumbria has a hard time letting go of the past. She struggles to move on, now matter how far away it was. She still clings to her old coal mining job especially to define her identity. She won’t stop there. She’ll go back as far as the Viking age if she has to.
She’s incredibly humble and modest, which means she sometimes dismisses the bad things that have happened to her in the past, choosing to focus on the positives. This can give her a tainted view of her own history, and she looks back on many things with a far more positive outlook, her nostalgia can blind her to the hardships she faced in the past.
Northumbria likes to credit herself as being a realist, and being fairly down to earth. She is not blinded to current situations from nostalgia. And, whilst she finds some fantastical stuff appealing, she is not blinded to the reality of the world and the position she’s in.
She can be a bit of a hopeless romantic, but not in the sense that she has an unrealistic expectation of love. She’s more just looking for someone to see her, understand her, and settle down with her as her partner. She loves the idea of love, but she’s also aware of what it does and doesn’t actually look like.
Bria heavily values politeness and manners. A simple please and thank you never cost anyone anything, she finds it very rude and demanding to not use them, and she will remind her family if they forget!
She holds a lot of respect for people who are honest and who speak their mind. She doesn’t like when she feels people try and hide how they feel about something. She may be a bit shocked sometimes at bluntness, but eventually she’ll come round and admire the honesty. She makes sure to tell people who are like this that she appreciates it.
HOBBIES & INTERESTS
Northumbria loves to go out on walk around the countryside, however, given her lungs she has to really pace herself and try not to go too fast. She also avoids hikes that are going to be too challenging for her. But still, nothing will stop her from getting outside.
She enjoys cycling too, but again, has to pace herself and try not to do anything that exceeds her limits.
Whilst she doesn’t play, rugby is her favourite sport by a mile! She is extremely passionate about it, and she gets far too into the games. She also insists that league is the better, and rougher version. Her entire family disagrees.
Something she and her family can agree on, is a strong love for music. Bria’s preferred taste is pop music, she especially loves boy bands and girl groups. She is the world’s biggest Take That fan.
She actually used to play an instrument herself! The Northumbrian pipes, a smaller (and quieter) variant of bagpipes that come from the north of England. She and Scotland used to play together, but she gave it up in the 19th century, and hasn’t picked them back up since.
Whilst Northumbria is no top-quality chef, she’s actually very good at warm, comforting foods to fill you up. Her favourite to make is mince and dumplings- which also happens to be her comfort food- but she also makes a good shepherd’s pie or cottage pie. She also makes a brilliant yorkshire pudding.
She is a savoury girl all the way! Too much sweet stuff can make her feel ill. She is a devout fan of greggs.
She is not much of a baker herself, however, she does love to treat herself to a baked pastry or pasty. She especially loves Cornish pastries, and when her old sister, Cornwall, bakes them herself, she will never be able to resist them.
Whilst she no longer works as a farmer, she did used to, and she found a love for gardening from it. She grows vegetables and flowers, and gifts any spares that she had no need for to one of her siblings. Her garden is not large by any means, but it is very pretty.
Much like the rest of her siblings, Northumbria enjoys a night out on the town, venturing into pubs. She has a bias towards Irish bars especially, due to the surplus of them in Liverpool thanks to mass Irish immigration.
She loves reading, and she has a massive passion for Beatrix Potter and her novels. She has original copies of all of them on her shelf, as well as other pieces of merchandise like fridge magnets or garden ornaments.
Northumbria has a knack for poetry, especially nature themed poetry. Influenced by the amount of poets that come from or moved to the Lake District.
She attends the Viking Festival that takes place in York every year.
She enjoys watching soap operas, her favourites being Emmerdale and Coronation Street- which she keeps up with regularly. She gets overly invested in the storylines sometimes. Though, she’s aware they’re not the best quality.
Northumbria has some skill regarding sewing. She can fix a button or a zip on a dress, but she’s not skilled enough to be making her own clothes. She just repairs old ones.
However, she is very skilled at knitting. From the 1980s-2005, the world’s fastest knitter was a woman from the north of England. Northumbria herself is pretty fast!
LIFESTYLE
Northumbria uses the human name Ivory Ailith Kirkland, with Ivy or Ives as her nickname. I would’ve used a Cumbrian name, but alas with the language being extinct, there’s no websites online.
She has two pet hedgehogs who run around her house and her garden, they’re called Charlotte and Peach.
Ivory currently resides in Newcastle Upon Tyne, and she has the thickest geordie accent you’ll ever hear, although for many years of her life she lived in York. The city is still one of her favourites, and it’s very special to her, but she now only visits once a year.
Despite this, she considers the Lakes the place where her heart lives. She tries to visit at least once or twice a year.
Thick as her accent is, it’s really flexible. It changes quickly, if she talks to someone from a different area for even an hour she accidentally starts to mimic their speech. If she spends a week somewhere, she could probably pass as a native.
Northumbria speaks English, British Sign Language, French and Scots. She used to speak Cumbrian, Latin and old Norse. The latter two are long gone and forgotten, but she’s still convinced if someone spoke Cumbrian to her, it would come flooding back. Despite her flexible accent, she’s never been the great at studying new languages. They fly right over her head! She is, however, extremely prone to picking up new slang words upon meeting someone, even if she’s never heard said words before.
Since Ivory is not recognised as a country, nor is she self-reliant, she doesn’t actually have much nation work to do- if any at all! She travels down to Manchester if there is anything in the north she is needed for, and sometimes she will step in as England for Arthur is needed. Generally though, she has a lot of time to herself to explore the north.
She technically lives in a shared house in london, too, with the rest of her siblings (besides Ireland), but she doesn’t like it down there and isn’t needed there often at all.
Ivory’s wardrobe is simple, but still pretty. She prefers more earthy tones like greens and browns, but she’s never shy to a floral detail. Her clothes are comfortable and easy to move around in- generally. She’s a big fan of pinafores, simple tops and t-shirts, and cardigans. You’ll rarely ever find her in anything slim fitting.
Deep down, Ivory longs simply for a life of comfort. And, even though she’s a morning person, and she loves her morning walks, her favourite part of the day is sitting down on the sofa with a cup of tea in the evenings.
However, due to her longing for comfort, she’s developed a fear of the unknown. She doesn’t like stepping outside of her comfort zone if she doesn’t absolutely have to, and even then she may try and ignore it as much as she can.
She has a complicated relationship with the subject of potential independence. Her fear of the unknown prevents her from taking the idea seriously, even if she’s not comfortable with the current situation- and is constantly complaining about how ignored she feels and how she wants better. She identifies as northern before she does as English, and she is always making a point that she has way more in common with Scotland than with the south, but to her, complete independence is something she is too afraid to take seriously. It’s easier to joke about, which she has no problems doing.
Whilst Bria is pretty well-off now, she’s had some very low points financially in the past, and has gotten used to being poorer one out of her and Arthur. As a result, she is extremely money conscious. She is constant scouting for discounts, trying to get things at the lowest possible price, and checking her bank account after every single thing she buys. She gets nervous whenever she has to buy something that’s a bit more expensive than she’d like. She might miss out on fun opportunities with other people if she feels the cost will be too high.
This means that even through the winter, she’ll try her best to save as much money on heating and on electricity as possible. If it’s cold, you don’t turn on the heating, you put a blanket over you. If it’s dark, you can turn on some smaller lights, but by no means can you turn on the big one!
Due to her budgeting, she can get extremely defensive about her choice to always go cheap. If someone try tell her that she doesn’t need to be counting every penny anymore, that she can let loose a bit and can now afford nicer things, they can expect a whole lecture from her about how money doesn’t grow on trees, and it’s always good to have a bit of extra cash on you.
Ive is a surprise visitor, and is always dropping in on her family members unannounced, even though they all live hours away from her. It really can annoy her siblings, and you’ll find them complaining, “I wish she’d just let me know first.”
She is a heavy meat eater, and she will pour thick & heavy gravy over every meal she has until it’s swimming in it. Despite her fondness for gardening, she does not eat nearly enough vegetables.
Out of all of her siblings, she is the most non-religious, and at this point her relationship with her faith is very weak. She is the only sibling who doesn’t have a mythical creature who resides with her, and she feels she doesn’t see them as often as she used to do when she’s out and about. She still sees her brothers’ friends, like flying mint bunny for example, when visiting them, but outside of that they don’t really cross her mind much at all.
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ukrfeminism · 10 days
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Though British farming is arguably at the most precarious point in its long history – thanks to changes caused by Brexit and food industry subsidies, lack of clear food production policies and increased concern over environmental issues – more women than ever are choosing a career in agriculture and, more importantly, moving into leadership roles.
Back in the 1970s, Holly Collins was studying for her A-levels in Sussex. While her friends sent off their university applications, she wrote to the Royal Agricultural College asking for an entry form, hoping to follow her dream of becoming a farmer.
“They wrote back with the following answer: ‘Dear Miss Collins, we do not admit women.’”
Undeterred, she worked on a farm the following summer: “A lot of the tasks then were manual labour, so I’d just turn up at the farm gate and ask for a job. I was paid much less than the male students I worked with because I was female. The farmer’s father told him that, because I was the hardest worker, he should pay me the same as them – but he didn’t.”
Things, says the 64-year-old who now has her own upland farm, Hollin Bank, at the head of Coniston Water in the Lake District, have improved a lot for women in agriculture since then.
Though British farming is arguably at the most precarious point in its long history – thanks to changes caused by Brexit and food industry subsidies, lack of clear food production policies and increased concern over environmental issues – more women than ever are choosing a career in agriculture and, more importantly, moving into leadership roles.
Minette Batters, the first ever female president of the National Farmers’ Union of England and Wales (NFU), may have stepped down this spring after six years in office, but women are still well represented in the union, with Rachel Hallos, a South Pennines farmer, installed as NFU vice-president and Abi Reader as deputy president for NFU Cymru. The Great Yorkshire Show has just got its first female show director in its 186-year history – dairy farmer Rachel Coates takes over after this year’s show in July. In the field of specialist skills, the UK has also just appointed its first female wool grader. Amy-Jo Barton, 22, is based at British Wool (formerly the British Wool Marketing Board) in Bradford where she sorts wool by hand based on style and characteristics; a job she finds “very therapeutic”.
While women comprised 17% of farmers in 2019, data from the Office for National Statistics for 2023 shows that of the 104,700 registered farmers, 22% are female. In the broader category of managers in agricultural services, women make up 32% of the workforce. According to recent figures from the Higher Education Statistics Agency, 64% of agricultural students are women. For an industry that historically relies on father-to-son succession to pass on land and which used to exclude women from many of its educational establishments, farming has come a long way.
Coates, incoming director of the Great Yorkshire Show, says: “Women have always been the backbone of a farm. Now they’re no longer in the kitchen tied to the Aga, they’re at the forefront of the industry. It’s good to see this take-up of leadership roles.”
Louisa Dines, principal lecturer in agronomy at Harper Adams University in Shropshire, thinks farming has lagged behind in terms of gender diversity but is finally catching up with other industries.
“Farmers’ wives and daughters were always important – farms are typically family businesses and intertwined with home life – but women used to operate below the radar,” she says. “Historically local meetings were in the pub or village hall. Wives often weren’t invited or had to look after the children. Even if they did go, it can be intimidating walking into a room full of men, but new communication platforms – such as social media and video conferencing – have made it easier for women to take part.”
There are more than 14,000 members of the Facebook group Ladies Who Lamb and farmers such as the Yorkshire Shepherdess and the Red Shepherdess have huge followings on TikTok and Instagram. Dines says she recently attended an agritech conference to promote links between women in farming in Poland, Ukraine and England. Previously these women had worked in isolation but not had a sense of community. “It was so interesting to see how far we’ve come.”
Traditions need to change more, though. The average age of a British farmer is 59 and the business is still typically passed down the male side of the family. A 2022 survey in Northern Ireland found that inheritance was the second biggest challenge faced by women in farming. The biggest was male dominance.
Molly Lewis, whose family have farmed sheep on 250 acres of pasture in Powys, Wales, for 350 years, says this attitude is starting to shift. The 20-year-old plans to take over when her father and his brother retire. She splits her time between working in the family business and the local agricultural market.
“In the past, sometimes men felt pressured to take on the farm even if their heart wasn’t in it, but now it goes to whoever is interested. I’ve noticed a lot more women happily getting involved. It feels natural, especially here. We have an open hill farm in the Elan Valley, and do a lot of community work with all our neighbours. You see women and girls on the hills doing the same jobs as the men and no one thinks anything of it.”
Lewis also talks of the community’s fury at the Welsh government’s sustainable farming scheme – the post-Brexit plan for funding the industry which includes ensuring 10% of farmland is under tree cover.
Collins’s farm has low densities of mixed livestock and a nice sideline in educational courses teaching traditional farming skills such as dry stone walling and coppicing. It’s currently host to two masters students researching finance and birdlife. She brought in two women – Megan Jones and Katherine Andrews – to manage Hollin Bank alongside her.
She says she has had difficulties with “a lack of respect” from male farmers. “But I am learning at a late age and from the wonderful young women who work with me that you don’t have to instil fear in others to succeed in this very male world. We try to be warm and encouraging of anyone who is interested. I’m not sure this is a ‘female’ attitude to farming but I suspect it might be.”
None of the three at Hollin Bank grew up in agricultural families, bucking the tradition of succession. While Collins had a “striking ambition” to farm her whole life, her colleagues originally worked in conservation and nature restoration.
“As 70% of the UK is farmland, I wanted to understand how conservation and agriculture intertwine,” says Andrews. “I also believe we need to localise the food economy to save food miles, create jobs and deepen our connection to the land.”
If farming is in crisis it may be this new generation who look to change the status quo who will be able to find a resolution. All of them seem keen to evolve. Coates’s big ambition for the Yorkshire Agricultural Society is to engage young people because “we need to make farming relevant – there are going to be changes in agriculture over the next few years and we need to adapt”.
Dines points to the increased importance of marketing and communication – from farm shops and crafts to environmentally friendly farming practice – “all the public-facing activities at which women excel”.
Jones, who worked in restoration before joining Hollin Bank two years ago, also points to the need for communication within the indusry as well as with the public.
“We need to strengthen food systems that value farmers’ extensive knowledge of the landscapes they work in,” she says. “I think we need to listen to farmers and figure out what works financially and ecologically. How can we build resilient ecosystems?”
The reason so many more women have moved into farming is perhaps best explained when Jones talks about what she enjoys most about her work.
“My favourite thing about working on a farm is the daily and seasonal rhythms. Each day you adapt and respond to the environment and the animals. Days when we move the sheep or cows are always good days, walking with them is like a moving meditation. For someone who spent very little time doing practical work growing up, I find working with my hands very rewarding and empowering – especially as a woman.”
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notasapleasure · 3 months
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The world turning at his pace
aka that time in the back of the van
Cassian Andor/Brasso (Andor TV series), Explicit, modern AU, friends with benefits, idiots in love, plot what plot/porn without plot. i.e. the same fic I write every time, Pinky. Title inspired by lyrics from Elbow - An Audience with the Pope. 6,988 words. *julia dreyfus haha what the fuck.gif* CW a smidge of setting typical homophobia, but don't worry there's also gratuitous insulting of Rupert Murdoch.
I was tired from van driving and demanding Brassian smut, or prompts for it, and @distressednoise obliged in the most ingenious way. THANK YOU FOR ENABLING ME, FRIEND.
Not on ao3 yet, this is a special treat(??) for my tumblr sickos until I can be bothered uploading it properly.
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It should have been a simple job. Brasso picked up the van - full - and drove it to all the addresses on the list he was given until it was no longer full. Then, in the darkness, he turned back towards the depot, which lay a straightforward few hundred miles down the motorway, and anticipated being back in his own bed by dawn.
He was somewhere around Penrith when a ringtone interrupted the Shipping Forecast on the van radio. He'd forgotten his damned mobile phone was still charged; no matter how long he left it in the depths of his jacket pocket it never seemed to die. And when it rang, it was only ever one person calling - the same person who had set the ringtone to a tinny electronic version of Auld Lang Syne in honour of Brasso's rum-fuelled rendition last December.
With the phone beeping incessantly, Brasso cursing, and the ubiquitous Border rain lashing down on the windscreen, the van pulled into the hard shoulder of the M6 with its hazards flashing. For a moment, Brasso sighed at the percussive beat of the wipers and the indicators, then the ringtone started up again, grinding out its stately rendition of the Scottish ballad with the kind of patience - the kind of necessity - that didn't hang up early.
After a swift rummage in the hi-vis jacket lying on the passenger seat, Brasso raised the little device to his ear. "Yes? What's up?"
A lorry steamed past in the outside lane and Brasso felt his teeth rattle as the road shook beneath it.
On the other end of the line a familiar voice smirked directly into his ear: sweet, sharp and vicious as tequila with all the chasers. "Heard you were on a job up north?"
"How did you hear that?" Brasso shook his head, figuring Cassian would pick up the gesture well enough by his tone.
"Word travels," came the cryptic answer.
"What word? I only left this - yesterday morning."
"And you've been busy, lots to deliver, I know..."
"What is it you want, Cass...?"
"I thought if you were in the area..."
"What area?"
"If you were in the area I could really use a lift. I'm out of cash and I've got to get back to London..."
"What area, Cassian?"
The answer, sheepish, was mumbled so Brasso had to think hard to work it out.
"Stockton? On Tees? What the fuck, Cassian..."
"I mean, I'm near there. Trying to get a lift to - " as another lorry rumbled past Brasso's van he heard a horn honk down the line and Cassian unleashed a barrage of colourful curses in English and Spanish. "Yeah well fuck you too! I'm already in the ditch! Hello? Yeah, Brasso, I'm heading to Darlington. On the main road. How long will you be?"
Brasso mentally totted up the extra miles, the slow roads over the Pennines to the other side of the country. At least there'd be fewer rude freight vehicles that way, he supposed, as another one buzzed him with an indignant honk of its own.
"An hour and a half?"
"An hour?! I thought you were in the area!"
"Cass, 'the North' is a pretty big area. I'll come as quick as I can."
"Well do," Cassian pouted down the line. "It's wet, my socks are soaked already. You should break the speed limit or I might die of hypothermia."
Brasso let out a sigh. "If you get there first, wait at the petrol station on the bypass, ok?"
"If I'm not killed in a hit and run before then..."
"All right, Cass. See you soon."
"Yeah. Yeah, fine. Thanks..." there was warmth and genuine gratitude in that last word, at least.
Brasso flung the phone aside and rubbed his face. It never did to ask why with Cassian - it was best just to pick up the pieces and see what could be salvaged afterwards. He flicked the dial of the radio along until some sort of cheesy commercial station replaced the sober tones of the BBC. Penrith to Darlington, in a storm, as fast as he could go - this required power ballads.
Humming along to the closing bars of Total Eclipse of the Heart, he switched off the hazards and pulled out into the dark, momentarily quiet lane of the motorway. He cycled through the van's gears with ruthless efficiency until the engine sounded like a Formula One racer and the chassis began to rattle. Empty, the van sure could move, but the faster he went the more he expected to take off at the slightest bump.
Ten songs and one cursory news bulletin later, with the same handful of adverts repeated time and again between them, and Brasso was bringing the van in a loop around Darlington's centre, slipping beneath the sulphur-orange street lights as the fuel light glowed sadly up at him. He was running on fumes, but he'd said to meet at a garage, and his employers had given him a cash bonus to cover the cost of fuel.
There was no sign of Cassian there, however, and Brasso worried Cass had found a completely different place to wait. He checked the time again and filled the tank. He bought an assortment of foodstuffs and drinks from the kiosk when paying for the fuel and looked around as though all it would take to summon Cassian was a tube of Pringles, an energy drink, and a packet of gummy sweets.
Under normal circumstances, Brasso wasn't convinced it wouldn't have worked, but Cassian evidently hadn't reached the garage yet and remained stubbornly absent. Brasso got back in the van, peered into the drizzly night, and slowly continued onwards towards Stockton.
Trust Cassian to be walking along a duel carriageway on a night heavy with fog and rain. Would he be wearing hi-vis? Would he hell. Brasso switched the radio off and leaned over the steering wheel to stare at the edge of the road. He slowed to a speed that would really annoy his fellow road-users, only there were so few about at this hour of the morning.
He was starting to wonder if he'd missed Cass in all the spray and the spume when something caught his eye on the other side of the road - a bedraggled scarecrow loitering at a bin in a layby. Frowning, Brasso pulled into the inside lane to try to get a better look - and got undertaken by a furious white Audi for his troubles.
He took the next exit and followed the convoluted directions that would lead him back onto the road going in the other direction, and was soon approaching the layby.
Cassian fell upon the door to the passenger seat and was inside, dripping on all Brasso's stuff, before the van had even stopped.
"Jesus what took you so long?"
"What were you doing over here?!"
"What?"
"I was coming from the west, why were you on this side of the road?"
"I told you, I was trying to get a lift!"
"But you knew I was coming, and I'd be on the other side!"
Cassian was rummaging in the glove compartment and finally found what he'd been looking for: Brasso's tobacco, papers and filters. "Oh my god, I need this..."
The instant turbulence inside the cabin when Cass arrived meant Brasso hadn't noticed the van's grumpy beeping until they were up to 80, heading back towards the dull orange glow of Darlington and its corona of light pollution. "Cass - seat belt."
Cassian made a sound - acknowledgement, oral eye roll, impatient sigh all rolled up together - and fidgeted, speedily rolled fag hanging from his lips as he sought the end of the seat belt.
Brasso swore he could hear Cass's clothes squelch. That long trenchcoat hadn't been waterproof since before Cass inherited it from his foster-father. It was like Cass thought that even repairing or properly maintaining it would cause it to lose its connection with Clem.
He settled, though, and the windows started to mist with condensation as the van's heating warmed him up.
By the time they were back at the junction for the A1 some unfortunate HGV driver had aquaplaned themselves into a horizontal position across both lanes, which were closed until the lorry could be moved. Thwarted, Brasso tried to give a good-natured nod to the police officer redirecting them - as Cassian kept his head down and his collar up - and speculated on a new route through the countryside, meandering a way over to the A19.
It was gone 3am by the time they passed Thirsk; Cassian's teeth were chattering though the heating was all the way up and the van cabin smelled of burning dust and hot plastic. The air was tropical with the moisture still steaming off him, but the heat was making Brasso sleepy as hell, and between them he and Cassian had already finished the bag of gummies and the energy drinks. Cassian hadn't told Brasso what he'd been doing in the North East and Brasso hadn't asked.
"Back in London tonight?" Brasso stifled a yawn against the back of his hand as they drove past a picnic spot, thinking wistfully that he could pull over there and sleep in the cabin if he didn't have a soggy passenger in the other seat.
Cassian made an ambivalent noise. His arms were wrapped tight around his torso, his elbows gripped in his hands. "No...just before tomorrow." Noticing Brasso's incredulous look, he added "I mean, this afternoon? He won't be looking for me until then."
Best not to ask - always best not to ask. But Brasso gave Cassian another sideways look that said he was very much tempted to ask.
"Shall we stop?" Cass released an elbow so he could chew on the fingernails of the hand that had been holding it.
"What?"
"That's why you're asking, right? You've been driving for hours. We should probably stop."
Brasso had been trying very hard not to think about stopping or sleeping, lest the very idea of either be so tempting he'd just succumb then and there. "No B&B's gonna be open at this time of night, Cass."
"We can sleep in the back of the van!"
The suggestion was so immediate Brasso guessed Cassian had been considering it for some time already.
"Have you seen back there? It's filthy. Last job was a bunch of reclaimed garden gnomes, they came with half the bloody garden!"
"I guess the other option is you drive till you pass out and then we get beds in A&E," Cassian hissed as Brasso had to blink and swerve when someone in the other lane sped past without dimming their headlights.
With a curse, Brasso assented. He told Cassian to keep an eye out for laybys, though now they were back on the motorway he figured they'd just have to wait for a truck stop that wasn't already full. They were past Wetherby and had finished the Pringles too by the time they found one, and made a dash from the cabin to the rear of the van through rain that was thinner but no less persistent than it had been further north.
Cassian hopped into the back as Brasso was still hoisting himself up and trying not to hit his head on the roof. He wrinkled his nose and crouched to rummage through the crumpled pile of packing sheets, looking for something dry, clean and comfortable to lie on.
Nothing met all three criteria, but a combination of loosely folded sheets made a sort of pillow and a cover for the cold metal base of the van. Everything smelled of mud and oil and antifreeze, but that was soon disguised by the smoke of the cigarettes Brasso rolled for them while Cassian wriggled out of his wet trousers. In the dark of the van he didn't bother hiding the fact he was watching Cassian, and Cassian didn't pretend not to notice. An ember-lit outline of sharp limbs, his eyes glittering and fathomless, Cassian sat there in his boxers and t-shirt, smirking around his fag at Brasso as he waited on the simply arranged square of bedding, his knees drawn up and his arms draped loosely around them.
Taking his time, Brasso dragged his eyes away from Cass and unlaced his boots. He left his socks on, but in an unspoken concession to Cass's continued shivering, to the goose-bumps on his legs and the way his body hair stuck out from each one, he pulled off his trousers and unbuttoned his shirt.
The cold air made his own hair stand on end and his nipples harden, but the light of their cigarettes was almost as warm as the looks they each cast across the cramped space.
"Budge up then," Brasso muttered, stubbing out his fag end against the metal roof and chucking the butt aside.
Cassian stubbed his own cigarette out and plunged them into darkness as Brasso shuffled in close beside him. He pulled his hi-vis over the both of them, though it left his legs cold, and tucked himself around Cass's back - bare chest against the still-damp fabric of his t-shirt, knees to the back of Cass's knees, and Cass's round little arse perched neatly against Brasso's crotch. Brasso dutifully buried his cheek against Cass's neck and closed his eyes - though it was so dark inside that he couldn't tell the difference if he opened them again.
The rain outside continued its dance on the flat metal roof, not thunderingly heavy, but in loud, fat drops that always seemed to come and jolt Brasso's eyes open just as he thought he was finally relaxing into sleep.
Then again, he didn't feel tired anymore. The nictotine buzz was coursing through him, and Cassian had warmed up in his arms - mostly, though ice-cold toes sometimes curled round to prod at Brasso's shins. It was obvious by his breathing that he wasn't asleep either, and with a contrived cough to clear his throat he pushed back against Brasso in a way that compelled Brasso to bite his lip.
It was always going to come to this from the minute his phone rang, Brasso knew. It happened off and on, the way Cassian came and went in and out of the lives of those around him. It had been happening off and on for some years now, actually. If Cass needed a favour, Brasso obliged when no one else would be soft or daft enough to do so; Cassian, perpetually broke and perennially aware of the effect his big brown eyes had on people, paid Brasso back in love bites and nail marks. It would have made Brasso feel like just another of Cass's lovelorn, disposable conquests -only with him, Cass did one thing he never did with the others - he kept coming back when he needed Brasso. By now they had both become quite good at knowing the steps that would ensure things continued this way and Cass would keep on coming back as long as Brasso kept on releasing him so he'd return again. It was a simple sort of dance with very little discussion involved and a lot of implicit assumptions - it needed to be, given the darkness of the back of the van.
Once more, Cassian wriggled against Brasso until he forced a grunt of acknowledgement from Brasso's lips. Brasso fidgeted in turn, trying to make sure nothing essential was trapped under Cass's bodyweight.
Cass twisted his head around, his messy hair catching in Brasso's nose and mouth. "You still awake?"
"Yes I'm still awake, you won't stay still for five seconds!"
Inevitably, with the pressure of Cass's arse against him, Brasso had already felt the first stirrings of heat in his groin. When Cass detected it too, he shuffled back against Brasso's twitching cock, ensuring it would harden between his arse cheeks. Again, Brasso bit his bottom lip and turned his face towards Cassian's neck. His arm tightened around Cass's body and he breathed in the smell at the nape of his neck - sweat and rain and cheap laundromat detergent, cigarette smoke and ground spice and something astringent: counterfeit ink? Cleaning fluid? Machine oil? Probably a palimpsest of all three.
Cass gripped onto the arm round him with one hand and reached behind him with the other, fingers questing for Brasso's arse to give it a squeeze and pull him closer.
Finally, Brasso let himself open his mouth against the back of Cass's neck and scrape his teeth over clammy skin, placing a kiss on each protruding vertebra he could reach, nuzzling his way down the back of Cass's t-shirt until he felt the vibration of a whine in Cass's chest beneath his arm.
When Cass moved with the kind of urgency that followed no force on earth could hold him - he shuffled his hips round and his arms snaked across Brasso's side and under his neck as Cass pressed close to him in the dark, his nose bumping against Brasso's cheek and his lips seeking out Brasso's lips. Salty flavouring from the crisps they'd shared and a hint of sugar from the energy drink coated his tongue as he thrust it into Brasso's mouth, kissing him hard and hungrily.
Brasso let himself be turned half onto his back by the attention, Cass pushing aggressively down on him, his hands clamping Brasso's jaw to hold him just how he wanted, before one restless set of fingers trailed down the open front of his shirt, raking through chest hair, carelessly catching at the ticklish curls on his belly and then plunging into the waistband of Brasso's boxers.
Brasso's hips bucked into the touch, but he could feel a rivet on the floor of the van's uneven surface digging into his shoulder blade, and it wasn't quite the juxtaposition of pleasure and pain that did it for him.
Cass didn't understand that from the sound Brasso made in his mouth though and redoubled his efforts down Brasso's underwear, fingers crooking deep under his balls and palm rubbing down on his cock. For a moment it did actually balance the pain in his shoulder quite well, and then Brasso managed to break free of the kisses, a hand gripping the back of Cassian's hair like he was dragging an overenthusiastic dog away from last night's takeaway on the street floor.
Cass bared his teeth in a similar way to a dog, too - Brasso knew because they dragged on his lip as he pried Cass away and shoved him over onto his back with a grunt.
Cass released his cock and dug fingernails into Brasso's chest instead, tangling in the thick dark hairs there and tugging so Brasso's skin prickled with sore heat.
Swearing as he kissed the squirming, sharp-toothed thing beneath him, Brasso fumbled for Cass's face in the dark, raking his own fingers through Cass's beard and hair. He dropped his hips heavily against Cass's and was in no doubt that the noise Cass made was a sign of appreciation at the rough handling. Brasso moved his grip from Cass's face to his hips and ground his body down against Cass's, groaning at the friction between his boner and the two layers of thin cloth separating it from Cass's equally hard cock.
It made Cass release another sound, and he didn't bother disentangling his fingers from Brasso's chest hair before ripping one hand away to yank the back of Brasso's boxers down and land an open-palmed slap on the arse cheek he exposed.
"Fuck!" Brasso muttered in surprise as the stinging sensation lingered while Cass's restless hand worked at pulling his boxers further down.
It just gave Cass another opportunity to clamp down on his lower lip and suck until it felt bruised, so Brasso relented and freed a hand to assist in the removal of his underwear.
The boxers were barely off his arse cheeks when Cass started wriggling away anew, slipping down beneath him towards the doors at the back of the van.
"What're you - ? Cass, where are you going?" Brasso had to hold still and listen to the hollow banging of Cassian's shoulders and arse squirming against the floor of the van as he shuffled beneath him.
The first indication he had of where Cass had ended up was the hair tickling his navel, then a breathy giggle against his stomach, followed by lips, teeth, lips, and a hand between his legs as Cass tried to manoeuvre the two of them so he could get Brasso's cock in his mouth.
It wasn't easy to prop himself up how Cass wanted without hitting his head on the roof of the van in the dark, and Brasso was only partially successful in the endeavour, but he wasn't going to spend long contemplating the bruise on the back of his head when Cass was insistently whining "Come on Brasso, fuck my mouth, I'm right here!" between swallowing as much as he could of Brasso's cock and tugging on his arse, trying to get a rhythm going.
Scrabbling in the pitch black for a hand hold, Brasso eventually found one of the straps for securing cargo and got his weight on his knees so he could thrust down into the darkness and the invisible, wet warmth of Cass's mouth. Without being able to see what was happening he could only concentrate on the sensation of tongue and pressure, sucking and - more often than he meant to cause it - gagging. Cass's fingers would tighten on his arse and he'd try to hold Brasso close even as he spluttered and choked. Brasso could feel the back of Cass's throat pulse defensively against the pressure of his cock and always slowed down afterwards, tried more measured movements, but Cass would crane his neck and bear down on him until he could dictate the angle of Brasso's hips - with just the softest threat of teeth as he did. The third time Brasso had to listen to him retching in the dark he pulled back and sat down heavily on what turned out to be his hi-vis jacket.
"Where'd you go?" Cassian said sulkily, but Brasso was already rummaging by touch for the pockets of the jacket. He found the lube and condoms first, then his lighter.
"Here," he flicked his thumb over the spark wheel and held the plate down, squinting past the little blue flame to meet Cassian's eyes.
His cheeks were flushed deep red and his lips were shining with spit. His hair was a wreck and his beard was tousled against its natural growth, his t-shirt was half shucked up and his boxers were peaked like a circus tent.
Brasso stifled a sigh at the sight of him, but Cassian didn't hide the flash of lust in his own eyes at whatever the light had revealed of Brasso himself. He ran his tongue over his lower lip and moved like he was about to pounce.
"Wait! Wait wait wait!" Brasso held a hand up with a condom held between his fingers and offered Cass the lighter.
He pulled a face and took the condom instead, raising the corner of the foil to his mouth.
"Don't you fucking rip it," Brasso held the lighter steady and glared at him, eyebrows raised in warning.
Cassian's own eyes widened - as if! - and he daintily tore the corner before opening the packet with his fingers. "Can't believe you don't trust I'm clean," he muttered around a smirk as he leaned forwards to fit the condom on top of Brasso's prominent boner.
"Like I even want to know where you've been," he answered, feeling his throat tighten with longing as he watched Cassian's fingers move nimbly down his cock, rolling the sheath over it. "Besides, you never even ask where I might have been."
Cassian looked up at him quickly, sharply, his lips hidden by his moustache and his eyes cast into uncanny darkness by the side-lighting of the little flame. He seemed so alien to Brasso when he looked like that, like a creature from another world entirely. "I can only imagine," Cassian purred, lavishing Brasso's cock with a series of firm strokes.
He leaned over then and blew out the flame of the lighter, which Brasso didn't bother holding onto and chucked aside into some hollow corner of the van.
His eyes were confused by the afterglow of the flame, but he knew where Cassian's pants were anyway and dived for them with both hands, pulling them away as Cass flailed his legs to speed up the process. It didn't really achieve the desired effect, just earned Brasso a fat lip from the knee he took to the chin, but with a crack of stitches stretching the offending item of clothing was removed and Brasso fell upon Cass guided by smell alone, following salt and sweat and musky warmth. He pushed his tongue into the base of Cass's cock and worked it against his balls, sucking the loose skin on them and then running his mouth up the taut underside of his cock.
Cass whined and squirmed and grasped at Brasso's hair, his shoulder, his arm, seeking the hand with the lube in it so he could take the bottle and open it. He poured it - mostly - on Brasso's fingers, though some dropped onto the skin of his hip and he wriggled and flinched as it trickled a cold track over his body.
Brasso felt his way between Cass's arse cheeks as he mouthed Cass's cock, probing the darkness for the place that gave way to him, eager and accommodating to the first finger, tighter around the second.
Cassian made a desperate sound and bucked his hips up into Brasso's touches. "Come on, come on..." he complained, then sucked in a sharp breath as Brasso pushed the pair of fingers deep inside him. Cass moaned, and the sound made Brasso feel like he'd been kicked in the solar plexus by a velvet boot. He made his own grunt of pleasure against Cass's nutsack and lowered his hips to the van floor, his knees bent and feet kicking absurdly in the air because he was too close to the door to lie down flat. The van floor was cold and hard under his cock and he squirmed his hips again and pushed his fingers inside Cass to help prop himself up.
Cass's body clenched round him and Cass let out a hoarse cry - "Oh, fuck, do that again!"
Brasso tried, but the pressure wasn't as great now he was stable, so he pulled his fingers out and slapped his hand on Cass's hip. "Lube - where is it?"
"Oh, do you have to? Just fuck me..." Cass's knees knocked against his sides and he tried to draw him closer with legs tangling around his torso.
"I think some would be a good idea, Cass."
"There was some on your fingers already. I threw it over by the lighter. It's not worth going looking, just come here," he got his ankles crossed behind Brasso and tugged him forwards until their stiff cocks were trapped together between them and Brasso's tongue was somewhere halfway down Cass's throat again.
He made the most of it while he was there, rolling his hips and rubbing against Cass until the sounds Cass was making in his mouth grew desperate and high-pitched.
Abruptly, ruthlessly, Brasso pulled away from him and grasped for the inside of his thighs, squeezing soft, sparsely haired flesh aside and pushing forwards with his cock. He released one of Cass's legs so he could guide his head up to Cass's hole and test the resistance of his body.
He was tight, but still keen, insisting he wanted Brasso to fuck him hard even as Brasso began to ease inside him.
He shuffled forwards on his knees as best he could, realising there was no packing sheet beneath him, wherever they'd ended up. His head and shoulders were bowed so he didn't knock the roof with his head again, and he braced himself with one hand against the roof and the other on Cass's hip, holding him steady as he pushed deeper in a careful, slow way that brought guttural sounds of impatience from the darkness where Cassian lay.
Once he was all the way in he heard Cass release a shaky breath and felt him bring his hips up towards Brasso's carefully.
"You good?" Brasso moved his body in a small pulse against Cassian's just to make sure he got a genuine response, feeling him clench and force himself to relax.
Cass whimpered, but it was lust more than discomfort that made his voice shake when he replied "Yes, fucking come on!"
Brasso grunted acknowledgement, like it made no odds to him, but he thrust carefully, in measured movements that would feel hard to Cass but kept much of Brasso's power in reserve for now. He got in as close as he could, his knees splayed to either side of Cass's body and Cass's cock held gently but firmly in his hand as he bucked his hips against him.
Bit by bit, Brasso let his hips and hand speed up and put more power into the cycle of his thrusts, and he felt Cass's body rock and slide beneath him, his attempts at getting purchase somewhere on his surroundings failing as Brasso's body pounded solidly against his. Cass's legs floundered at Brasso's sides, his knees knocking against his ribcage, and he struggled to assert any control over the pace or rhythm from where he was, caught and held by the movement of Brasso's body.
He was getting louder with each moment too, helpless sounds and the back of his throat turning to hoarse, choked repetitions of "Ah!" that got louder the harder Brasso managed to thrust inside him, the more in time he could make the pumping of his hips and of his hand on Cass's cock.
Brasso's eyes fell shut in the darkness as he focussed on the rhythm and the feeling of Cassian's insides, hot and tight, yielding yet strong around him. Behind closed eyes, Brasso imagined what he couldn't see in the dark: Cass's open mouth and his eyelids falling heavily over a heated gaze; his chest rising and falling intermittently as he gasped for breath, but jerking with each coming together of their bodies; his nipples showing hard through the threadbare fabric of his t-shirt and the hair on his belly starting to gleam with sweat where it appeared at the hemline.
Brasso's eyes were still closed when Cass came hot and gushing, spilling over Brasso's hand and spattering his belly and navel. The feeling of it - a surprise in the dark, no matter how inevitable it had been - made Brasso himself come, heat digging deep in the pit of his body and rolling up like a riptide, dragging him away from himself, rushing him into some abyss where he forgot, for a moment, that the back of the van was dark, and thought he'd gone blind with ecstasy.
He let himself lie against Cass for a while afterwards, and Cass held him tight too, his legs tangled around Brasso's and his fingers holding the back of Brasso's head like, Brasso imagined, he'd hold a man beneath water until he drowned.
Sleepily, Brasso mouthed kisses along Cassian's neck, and Cass ran fingers over Brasso's skull. Brasso fidgeted and wrung out the last remnants of pleasure from his hips with little movements that didn't do much more than allow his soft cock to slip out of Cass's arse. Cass moved his head to nose and chin Brasso's face aside until he could be kissed, now with less use of teeth, with more sweat in Cass's moustache, with even more left unsaid than went unsaid during foreplay. Brasso imagined it was the kind of kiss the heroes of cheap romance novels got at the end of the story, and, like them, he prepared for the closing of this little fantasy they shared - until the next time Cass needed him. For now they'd sleep well, wrapped round each other like weeds, and when they woke they'd finish the drive, maybe get breakfast somewhere and bitch about the morning headlines like nothing had happened, and Brasso would drop Cassian off, and they wouldn't meet again for weeks or months, and then they'd do it all over as and when they needed to.
This had been a particularly good encounter though, Brasso admitted to himself as he pulled the condom off and knotted it before slinging it away into the darkness. Probably meant it would be a while before they did this again, each one nervous of what it meant that the most satisfying fuck they knew was someone they'd never publicly acknowledge as more than a well-worn old friend. Really, Brasso thought with a degree of relief as he nuzzled his face into Cass's shoulder, it was a good job they didn't talk about this. He'd only go and say something stupid, after all, like telling Cass he'd leave the rest of the world to rot and serve no one but him if the self-sabotaging little bastard ever cared to ask.
He didn't need to though - that was the point. He already knew - didn't he?
Too sleepy to worry overly about this, Brasso fumbled around for the hi-vis again and swept it over their shoulders, shuffling until they lay brow to brow, shoulder to shoulder, their lower legs twisted one on top of the other. Cass's breath tickled his face, and Cass's wrists sandwiched the arm Brasso lay on protectively between them.
He didn't remember lying awake or agonising about a thing - next he knew there was a cool, silvery dawn light in his eyes and a cold breeze on his feet. The van's doors were open and voices sparred tetchily outside.
Brasso sat up and cast about for his boxers, pulling them on as he tried to pick up the words being spoken outside. His back and shoulders ached from sleeping on the hard, uneven bed of the van, and he longed for coffee and a cigarette to clear the fog in his mind and his mouth.
"I said come over here, you little poof! I've got a sausage bap right here for you!"
Brasso sighed at the sound of a trucker yelling across the layby and quickened his work as he pulled his boot laces tight. Peace had been nice while it lasted.
He didn't catch Cassian's reply to the provocation, but he did step out of the van in time to see him turn, quick as a snake, and, with a little hop for extra height, smash his forehead into the taller man's nose.
The first thing Brasso noticed was how filthy the back of Cassian's t-shirt was where he'd been pressed against the van floor last night. Then he admired the shape of Cass's arse in his thigh-hugging boxers and the expanse of wiry, muscled leg leading down to his bare ankles and loosely pulled on Docs, muddied yellow laces trailing. Then, belatedly, he caught himself and sauntered over to pull Cass back from the trucker by a fistful of that grotty t-shirt.
The other man wasn't about to come for more though - if Cass's Glasgow kiss hadn't dissuaded him the sight of Brasso would have done. He cupped his bleeding nose and looked at the pair of them incredulously. "Pervs," he snarled, stepping back.
"What did you do?" Brasso couldn't help but ask as Cassian turned back towards the van, chewing on the cuticle of a finger with no nail left to gnaw on.
"I was just having a pee behind the bin! I asked where to get breakfast round here," he huffed, grabbing after Brasso's hi-vis and looting the pockets for baccy and papers.
"There'll be somewhere at the next services," Brasso told him, sweeping up the discarded fag ends, used condom and some of the other detritus from the van and taking it to the overflowing bin in his cupped hands.
On reviewing the state of the van and of Cassian, he saw they'd missed the messy pile of packing sheets entirely, and Cass's t-shirt had rubbed a section of the floor nearly clean. The streaky patch of grot made it look like they'd dragged a corpse out of the back, and Brasso wondered whether his employers would prefer to hear that excuse rather than learn their van had been repurposed as a '70s style shagmobile.
He retrieved his lighter and his lube and chucked the hi-vis at Cassian. "For your dignity."
Cassian pulled a face but nestled himself inside the large jacket. Inside the cabin he arranged his socks and trousers across the over-worked air vents so they'd have a better hope of drying and sat in the passenger seat - all fluorescent orange and bare legs - smoking his way through Brasso's tobacco.
They agreed to skip the first few service stations they passed - there was a chain of diners further south that Brasso knew would feed them well enough to compensate for the lack of sleep. They probably wouldn't even ask Cass to put his trousers on either.
As it turned out, his trousers were dry enough to pull on by the time they stopped to eat, and Brasso watched Cass fall upon an obscenely stacked breakfast burger from over his vat of coffee, wondering where Cassian was putting the mountains of hash browns and black pudding that he guzzled down. It was for the best that they were both reasonably decent as the morning crowd included holidaying families, but Cass didn't modify his language when he flipped through a copy of the Sun someone had left on the table.
"Mum, what's 'scrote-faced misery pornographer'?" a young girl asked in the next booth after a particularly forceful outburst, so Brasso kicked Cassian's shins under the table.
"Can it! No one here cares what you think of the editorial."
Cass rolled his eyes and pointed again to the story that was vexing him - increased police powers, a change the paper wholeheartedly supported - and launched into a defence of his outburst, as if Brasso needed convincing of the argument against giving the pigs a free rein to stop and search at taser-point. He was thinking instead of how accurate his prediction for the morning had been, and how this was simultaneously reassuring and a little unnerving. It was like he'd already cut himself off from this time with Cass, and was just counting down until their next run in, however many weeks or days in the future it would be.
"Want me to drive?" Cassian asked him as they walked back to the van, the wind whipping his unkempt hair across his face and his smirk half-hidden by his moustache.
"You're not insured," Brasso rolled his eyes. He hadn't recovered from the last time he'd been in a vehicle with Cass at the wheel - the van was not made for the kind of ruthless speed Cass specialised in.
In any case, ten minutes down the road Cass was asleep in the passenger seat, head back against the seat and snoring lightly in a way that raised a fond smile to Brasso's lips. When he noticed himself smiling he rubbed his face and gave his cheek a tap or two, telling himself to snap out of it.
He drove straight to Sal's - it had probably been someone at the yard who had told Cassian he was up north on deliveries anyway.
Brasso drank too-hot instant coffee from a polystyrene cup in Sal's office and listened to the next itinerary. Sal wasn't mad, or surprised, that Brasso had turned up late with an extra passenger - Cassian was now rummaging through Sal's wares while Bix kept a close eye on him, making sure nothing pocketable got pocketed.
When he had his new list of addresses and orders, Brasso went out to hand it over to Bix for loading. "You want a lift somewhere?" he asked Cassian.
"First delivery of the day," Bix raised an eyebrow.
"I like to get the awkward ones out of the way first."
Cassian gazed coolly at the two of them, waiting for them to finish. "Apparently the Swede isn't pleased with the last job I did for him."
"He did not sound happy this morning," Bix confirmed, folding her arms and glancing at the perspex windows of Sal's office. "We could hear him bawling at Sal all the way at the far end of the yard."
"Guess I could stay at Maarva's storage unit for a bit," Cassian tore another strip of cuticle off between his teeth.
"Why don't you take him with you?" Bix looked over at Brasso, mischief in her dark eyes. Like Cassian, she could smirk without moving her lips at all.
"So when this pissed off Swedish guy goes looking for him, I get found too?"
Bix shrugged. "How will he know Cass is with you? Besides, you'll have a navigator and a hand with unloading."
Brasso eyed Cass and Cass eyed Brasso. Brasso wondered if Cassian was thinking the same thing as him - what if the time apart was necessary to the functioning of their benefit-heavy friendship?
But Bix punctured the seriousness of Brasso's considerations with a casual addition: "Maybe the whole of Sal's van will be clean by the time it's safe to come back."
Brasso looked at her in surprise, Cass looked casually at the inside of the van, and Bix shrugged.
With that secret not, apparently, a secret, maybe it was best to skip town for a while, Brasso conceded.
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guerrerense · 4 months
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pennine moors express por midcheshireman Por Flickr: 46100 royal scot gets under way at winsford , having waited on the slow line for a delayed pendolino
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