Welcome to TPP Bingo! If you do not know the positivity project, I am a submission-based blog in which members of the Life Series and adjacent fandoms can send in asks with kind words for other fandom members. While the project always has a steady stream of asks, this event is meant to help boost submissions in a fun and engaging way!
The goal of this event will be for participants to submit an appreciation ask for one fan creator per Life Series player! You should find a person who has created work related to each player and submit an ask about them, eventually filling out the entire card!
How to participate, rules, guidelines, deadline, and event tag below the cut!
How to participate:
To track your participation, save the board. When you submit someone, you write the name of the person you submitted on the square you submitted them for—if you submit "tumblruser" for Etho, write "tumblruser" under Etho's name in his square.
You win if you can complete the entire board. You may send your winning board to me and I will post it so we can congratulate you and take a moment to appreciate all the people you have collected.
If you cannot fill every square, do not worry! People can also submit their mostly completed boards if they get at least 10 squares filled for recommendations for how to fill the rest of the squares! Anyone who has submitted a mostly completed board may resubmit once the board is finished.
You can submit your completed board directly to me in an ask, or you can post it and tag @trafficblrpositivityproject !
There is no prize for winning, but I would like to post some small, lighthearted superlatives, like "quickest bingo completer" or "longest bingo ask" when the event deadline rolls around. I will also, of course, highlight everyone who submits a finished board!
Rules and guidelines:
Any type of creation is valid! Fics, AUs, cosplayers, artists, writers, analysts, web weavers, shitposters, crafters, editors, fanblogs, animators, and anything I may have missed... any type of content is valid, so long as it pertains to a specific character (GenAI is not allowed).
There is no threshold for how big of a fan someone must be to "count" for a square. The submitted fan could be someone who "mains" that particular person/character (ie, filling the Tango square with a Tango fanblog or a Tango-centric AU). It could also be someone whose work about the square's subject which the submitter enjoys (ie, filling the Pearl square by appreciating the Pearl design of an artist who mostly draws Jimmy).
Your ask must include both the username of the person you are submitting, and information as to why you are submitting them for the square you are. For example: "I am submitting tumblruser for his BigB analysis! He understands the character really well!"
Asks must follow other blog rules, such as no putting yourself or others down in an ask. Related, you cannot submit any Life Series CCs. For example, you cannot submit Martyn for Martyn day. This blog continues to be by and for fans.
There are no repeats! To try and spread positivity for as many users as possible and encourage you all to branch out, you cannot use the same person for multiple squares. For example, if you like a user's moonrot work, you will have to submit them for Cleo OR Pearl, but cannot count that user for both (though you can absolutely mention enjoying both members of the ship).
No repeats only goes for your own board. Your board can share names that are on another person's board. If someone else has submitted "tumblruser" for one square, you can still put the same user on your board.
If you submit a specific work, link it! This makes submissions a little easier for me, though if you forget the link, no problem. I will do my best to find it.
If you submit someone from off site, make sure you also comment your appreciation where they can see it! Leave a comment on youtube/tiktok videos or fics on AO3.
Every submission should have its own ask. This is not a hard rule, but a request to make my life a little easier: please try not to bulk submit five unrelated people at once for five different squares in one ask. This is to encourage people to be detailed and specific in their submissions, and to write longer asks.
Submit in any order you want! Squares are arranged in alphabetical order, but you can submit your asks however.
You do not need to mention the bingo game in your asks. You also do not need to sign them. Tracking what you have submitted will be entirely your own mission. That said, the event will have small superlatives at the end, so consider going off anon or signing your asks!
Deadline and tag:
The board will be the weekly theme from January 4th through January 17th, though asks may be submitted before and after that date!
Completed boards are due by January 31st.
I will also post silly superlatives on this date, possibly accompanying a scuffed trophy png, which I am sure is a great motivator.
I will continue accepting asks for bingo and completed boards after January 31st—if the board inspires you, it is always okay to use it!
The tag for these boards is #TPP bingo. I will use this on my posts related to the event (and other bingo boards), and you may use it if you decide to post your own board.
Summary: Modern day. Mercier is an historian obsessed with retracing his past lives and a woman appearing in all of them. He will get a little help from a sweater.
This is for @starlightkissedsmiles who asked “ Mercier x Betty and sweaters (because of course) for that bingo card? ❤”
The idea came from an ask by @thewolfsdoctor
Also, @timepetalsprompts for the autumn bingo
Ao3
Mercier’s hands shook as he slipped on a pair of white cotton gloves to handle the fragile artefact. He laid his palms down on the glass table top, each side of a journal. It belonged to Matthew MacEwan, a Scottish explorer, and dated back to the Seven Years’ War, in 1762. Between the leather covers, pages bulged, brown and wrinkled from water damage. The ink would be faded to the point of being unreadable, but he would know what it said anyway.
Mercier took a deep breath, readying himself for the onslaught of sensations. Even before opening the first page, he could feel it coming. The diary brimmed with energy, intensifying the closer he got to it, like the invisible pull of two magnets. To anyone else, it was another relic from the past, immobile, but to Mercier it was a ticking bomb.
He’d experienced it before.
With every manuscript, a tidal wave of vivid memories assaulted him. A hundred-- a thousand times stronger than a “déjà vu”. The smell of mud and excrement in the trenches, the burning metal of a gun, the bark of German dogs, the Russian cold, like icicles piercing his every pore. Stomach-gripping fear, intoxicating despair, and all-consuming devotion.
The first time he opened one such journal, he fainted. A professor assigned it to him during his first year studying history at the Sorbonne. It was from 1943, its author, Antoine Cadieu, was a member of the Résistance. And Mercier, then a 20 year-old, relived this man’s whole life in barely one minute. Not only relived it, but became him. Was him.
His academic work had not prepared him for the possibility of reincarnation.
He repressed the memory for three years until his internship at the Service Historique de la Défense in Cherbourg. He stumbled upon another journal, this one from 1915. It transported him into the mind of a soldier on the battlefield at Ypres.
Two years later, in an antique store in Vienna, he found a bundle of letters from the Napoleonic war in 1814. One touch and he remembered the scratch of his quill on paper, the messenger’s name, the scent of whale oil from the lamp he used to write.
Barely a month after, during a conference in Montreal, a colleague showed the result of a recent archeological dig. A single contract signed by a soldier in 1690 triggered another flow of memories.
Now, he actively looked for these testimonies of past lives, digging further and further into the past. He could only identify one such item by being in its presence, so every city he traveled to, he visited the local archive services and museums.
He approached the problem methodically, scientifically as he’d learned in university. He researched every one of his past selves in depth to find some connections or an explanation. So far, he had only conjectures and intuitions. It was maddeningly random.
Anna disapproved of his incessant trips to obscure archives and late nights at work, but he couldn’t tell her the real reason behind it: he refused to die like his past incarnations.
He didn’t fear physical pain. It’s not the soul leaving the body that hurt, but the dissatisfaction with one’s life. The incompleteness. Unfinished business. It haunted him now, day and night. And it was not always his own death he felt. Someone else’s too. Just as incomplete. His other half’s death. She was there, in every journal. A different name, a different face, but he knew it was the same person. The same soul. Important. Elusive.
In 1943, her home was a safe house for the Résistance. It got her killed before he reached her.
In 1915, she was married to another soldier in his troop. Even though he’d never met her, he was so jealous of his troopmate, he abandoned him to the enemies. His past self never saw the end of the war, guilt made him careless with his own life.
In 1814, in Austria, she was a young man who found him behind his father’s farm and nursed his wounds. After that, he deserted the army to find his Good Samaritan, thus losing his title and possessions. He never saw him again.
In october 1690, in New France, she was an Ursuline nun. He defended the monastery when it was besieged during the Battle of Quebec. She fought alongside the soldiers, showing more bravery than some men. They spent every night of the siege together, but remained chaste. She left the religious order for him, they ran away to a new colony, but didn’t survive the Canadian winter.
His academic work had not prepared him for the possibility of soulmates.
Who would she be in 1762?
He touched the journal. Electricity burst through the pads of his fingers, sizzled up his arms and thundered in his chest.
This one was different, he could tell right away. Quieter. His heart rate decreased. He’d been mistaken, this wasn’t the Seven Years’ war. Only daily, uneventful life.
Peace and silver snow as far as the eyes could see. Stillness, but for glaciers groaning in the distance like groggy giants. Icicles dripped by the entrance of his hut. The musk of reindeers wafted to his nose. In the pale sky, a great, wide bird drew lazy loops between the clouds.
Ice crunched under footsteps; Sámi men, red caps and blue coats, narrowed their eyes at him, the guossi, the stranger from another land.
Then a laugh, as sweet as spring water. And a woman with a rosy, plump face, frosted eyelashes, and a smile so radiant it could melt all the snow. Lottá. Frozen nose tip to his cheek, and delicate fingers slipping in his fur-lined mitten alongside his palm. The men disapproved, but he didn’t care. He’d found her, beyond the Arctic Circle. They kissed with fog on their breath.
And Mercier was conscious enough to hope. Be happy, just this once.
Lottá coughed, and drops, impossibly red, splattered the immaculate snow. His heart plummeted; he’d brought this disease with him.
Mercier returned to the present with a great gasp of breath, like emerging from the water after diving too deeply. His cheeks were wet.
He put the journal back in its place and left the West Yorkshire archive service.
Outside, he let the cool breeze wash over him. He focused on the air slipping between the stitches of his wool jumper. He stretched his arms above his head until joints popped. Reconnecting with reality, the present time, and with his own body.
He needed time to recuperate and process the experience. To grieve.
He bought a coffee from a street cart and followed Bruntcliff road to Dartmouth Park.
Despite the empirical evidence, his rational mind struggled with the notion of reincarnation. It rebelled against the apparent lack of control over his own destiny.
So far, all his past incarnations had been soldiers, then why had he become an historian? Granted, he’d specialized in military history. Was it so he could uncover all these journals and letters? To what end?
To find her, his heart whispered.
But how? Her appearance changed every time. Or was he supposed to keep faith their paths would cross eventually? He didn’t want to wait. Wait and find her too late and die. What a waste.
Mercier dug up a squashed cigarette pack from the depths of his messenger bag. He’d tried to stop but these experiences were too unnerving. He took a deep drag and let the nicotine operate.
Matthew MacEwan, whose memories he’d just experienced, had been fascinated by the North Pole from childhood. He’d enrolled and spent a decade in the Royal Scots Navy to learn the seamanship skills necessary for an expedition beyond the Arctic Circle. An expedition that killed eight of his men. All of this to reunite with Lottá and infect her?
A sigh puffed up Mercier’s cheeks. He sat down on a bench and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Granted, MacEwan’s expedition had also opened major trade routes between Britain and Scandinavia. He’d also dedicated the rest of his life to fighting the disease.
On a smaller scale, Mercier’s own obsession with his past lives had brought to light important characters forgotten by history.
His mobile phone rang: Anna. His thumb hovered from the green button to the red. He hesitated too long and her call went to voicemail. He loved her, but deep down he knew he stayed with her partly to defy destiny. He loathed being controlled.
Clouds floated away, revealing the golden glow of the autumnal sun. Mercier removed his sweater, closed his eyes and turned his face towards sunlight, and the warmth on his cheeks reminded him of Lottá’s smile.
*
On her way back from work at the downtown preschool, Betty cut through Dartmouth park. The beautiful afternoon sun had long been covered by dark clouds, and she quickened her steps so as not to get caught in the rain. Unfortunately, the first raindrop soon hit her nose. She held her jacket over her head and jogged.
Betty stopped dead in her tracks beside a bench. Someone had forgotten their jumper and it was getting soaked. For no reason she could explain, Betty took it and brought it home with her.
She hung the jumper on the drying rack and started cooking, but her gaze kept drifting back to it. It was a deep green, complex cable-knit pattern. The color was not uniform, as if the wool had been hand dyed.
Upon closer inspection, she found a tag, the kind sold in craft stores, it said: “Fait à la main avec amour par” (“handmade with love by” according to the online translator). Wash and wear had erased the name. It had to be special to its owner, good thing she’d saved it from the rain. Tomorrow, she would go back to the bench and wait.
Betty noticed a tear in the wool under the arm. She ended up spending an hour painstakingly mending every broken stitch in the sweater. She marveled at the softness of the wool, like a kitten’s fur, and couldn’t resist rubbing it against her cheek. A hint of cologne, something woodsy and rich, and smoke too. Once repaired, she hand-washed it with her homemade soap.
She couldn’t think of a good reason why she cared so much about that jumper.
The next day, Betty sat in the park, the sweater carefully folded beside her. She’d brought a book, but couldn’t focus on the page. Her palms were clammy, her stomach knotted. She blamed it on the tall pumpkin spice latte she’d drank. A gust of wind stirred a shower of yellow leaves over her. She waited one hour. Two. Three hours. No one came.
She thought she ought to leave it there, in case its owner returned later, or it could bring some homeless person a bit of warmth. She left it there and walked away.
Ten minutes later, she rushed back to the bench and took the sweater home.
Betty kept the jumper for three years. At the first chill in the air, she would put it on. Her friends and sister teased her about it, it was old and too large for her. She would reply it was soft and warm, but the truth was she couldn’t explain why she was so attached to it. She forgot it on the bus once, and it made her cry.
She brought the sweater with her to Ireland. A long weekend trip with her boyfriend, Donald.
“Please buy a new one,” he said as they entered a souvenir shop which, like most souvenir shops in Ireland, sold wool jumpers.
Betty perused the selection, but her heart wasn’t really into it, in fact she was much more interested in a poster advertising tours of the local castle.
“I want to go there.”
Ireland had an abundance of castles and mansions of all kinds, and this one was by no means in the top ten or twenty. Or fifty. A modest construction in the Grenville family since the 15th century. In the drawing room, the current Lady Grenville exposed her oil paintings alongside entries for a pumpkin decoration contest.
As they walked through the halls, a room enticed her. An attraction, a pull similar to the one from the jumper.
The room was closed off to the public, nevertheless, she opened the door.
“Betty? What are you doing?” Donald hissed.
It wasn’t like Betty to do something like that, she’d even insisted on taking a guided tour so as not to get lost in the castle.
Donald continued speaking but his words didn’t register. Betty was fixated on the pantry at the other end of the room. She followed her intuition, opened the pantry, then the trapdoor at the bottom of it.
“Hey! Stop! You’re not allowed in here!”
Betty ignored the tour guide, she lowered herself into the shallow cellar. She crawled across the damp clay floor to the wall and pulled out a stone. Behind it, she found a stack of letters. Ancient letters.
Her senses exploded with memories: earthy smoke from the peat fire, a rough linen robe scratching against her skin, tall grass flattened by the Atlantic winds and cushy under her bare feet. Waves crashing, eating at the cliffs. The urge to jump. A loneliness that tasted like rotten berries. Then a man with one blind, milky blue eye and skin the colour of basalt. The captain of her father’s guards. He made her feel safe. Cherished. In secret letters, he clumsily professed eternal devotion. Her ribs ached from holding in her love for him. Forbidden love. Chapped lips against hers. The clank of chainmail hitting the floor. A bear skin rug, soft under her naked back. A name she whispered: Drest. Then a spark of sunlight reflecting off a large blade.
When Betty returned to reality, she was out of the cellar, on a couch. Fingers on her wrist searched her pulse, a cool flannel dripped on her forehead. Donald and two members of staff stared at her.
“What happened?” Betty asked.
“You fainted.”
“No! To Augusta and Drest?”
The two employees exchanged a quizzical look.
“Augusta? That would be Geoffrey Grenville’s daughter, maybe.”
“She married Lord Fitzclarence. Died in childbirth, I think.”
A lump rose in her throat, and tears spilled from her eyes. The sadness and grief she felt were as strong as when her father died. Donald tried to comfort her, but she pushed him away, curling on herself and pulling the sweater up over her nose.
They said there might have been hallucinogenic fungus in the cellar.
The next month, Betty broke up with Donald.
She’d never been special, never had a greater purpose in life. But this experience, it might be nothing, but she was a hopeless romantic and believed it could be meaningful.
She read everything she could find on Augusta and Drest, which was little, and certainly nothing as personal as she’d witnessed. She bought dubious books on reincarnation and even consulted a psychic. She spent hours at the library perusing the history section.
She didn’t have a method to speak of, instead trusted her intuition to guide her. It’s how she ended up in France, a year later, in the town of Montpellier.
“This house here,” said the local historian in mispronounced English, “was a safe house for the Résistance. The woman who lived here, Sara Bergier, it is said she received warning of the Germans coming, but she stayed. She was waiting for someone. She did not want to leave. And she was killed.”
“D’you know who she was waiting for?”
“We are not sure. One historian believes she was waiting for a double agent called Antoine Cadieu.”
Betty felt a faint pull towards the house, but she couldn’t tell whether it was real or wishful thinking. Unfortunately, it was a private residence so she couldn’t go inside.
Betty followed the tour guide back to the city museum. She perused the exhibition absentmindedly. As she neared the back of the room, she felt an attraction towards a door: the archives room, for staff only. She glanced left and right, and when the path cleared, she dashed for the door. It was locked.
In uncertain French, she asked an employee if she could see the archives, but he refused.
“I only want to know more about Sara Bergier,” Betty said, her cheeks heated up; it wasn’t in her nature to insist.
“I can give you a copy of the article that the historian published on Antoine and Sara.”
Despite the autumn chill, Betty sat outside the café, facing Place de la Comédie and its neoclassical theater. Cozy in her old jumper, sipping a bitter hot chocolate, she read the article. Antoine and Sara had never met prior to the war, she only knew his codename and it’s unclear how she knew he was coming. But, according to the author, J-F Mercier, sources remember Sara shouting his name when the Nazis took her. He also argued that her getting caught saved his lives, otherwise these German soldiers would have been patrolling the area where Antoine was hiding.
“Antoine Cadieu,” she whispered to herself, and then, “Mercier.”
Under the author’s name was his professional email address, he worked at Les Invalides, the army museum, in Paris.
It took three days for Betty to work up the nerves to write to him.
It took five drafts before she was satisfied with her email.
And it took one second of fear to change her mind completely.
“I’ll do it in Leeds,” she told herself.
*
“It’s funny, a year ago, we’d never heard of anyone named Drest in our family’s history, and now you’re asking about him,” Mrs. Grenville said.
“I’m not certain he did live here,” Mercier said, “but there is a five-year gap in his memoirs.”
“Oh, he was here, he was. It’s the strangest thing, this young woman was visiting, and she found letters written by this Drest to Lady Augusta, my ancestor.”
“She found them?”
“In the cellar. I don’t know what she was doing there, it’s closed to the public.”
“Could I see those letters?” Mercier asked.
He’d found Drest’s handwritten memoir in Dublin, he wondered if touching those letters would make him experience something different from his life.
“Sure, you said you’re an historian, right?” Mrs. Grenville verified.
“Yes.” He showed her his professional card. “And could I trouble you for that woman’s name? If you have it.”
“Yeah, I’ve got it somewhere. It’s the most curious thing, she fainted when she found the letters, poor thing. I kept her contact info for our insurances, you know how these things are.”
Mercier swallowed thickly. Fainted? Like he had his first time. Could it be her? Lottá, Augusta, Sara.
His blood pulsed against his temples, his fingers became cold. His knees wobbled, and he had to sit down.
Mrs. Grenville returned and handed him a folded piece of paper. He opened it with shaking hands: “Mrs Salinger 0113 496 0350”.
He could call her today. Hear her voice, schedule a meeting.
He tried to keep his voice steady when he asked, “No first name?”
“Sorry, I’ve only got the name of the man who was with her, er, Donald. He handled the matter.”
Mercier exited the castle and followed a trail leading to the cliffs. Drest had first seen Augusta here, hair to the wind, too close to the edge. Tragically beautiful. They’d saved each other’s life, but the discovery of their affair also caused their ruin. Drest was exiled and Augusta’s father cut off her feet.
Mercier sat on the cracked-stone ground and pulled out his phone. 0113 496 0350, he already knew the number by heart.
Was contacting her a good idea? Mores had changed, these were not disease-ridden, barbaric times anymore. Why shouldn’t they get a happy ending?
Hoping for an answer, he stared out at the grey, stormy ocean. A salty mist whipped his cheeks. The violent waves did nothing to appease his dread.
He needed to know more about Mrs. Salinger first.
*
The train entered St. Pancras station, and Betty made sure her wool jumper was over her shoulder bag. She double-checked before walking off the train, and kept a hand on it as she navigated the crowd. Back from France, she had to catch a train to Leeds leaving from King’s Cross station, just a street away, in twenty minutes.
*
Mercier glanced at his watch and muttered curses at the British railway system. He cursed the Irish port authorities too while he was at it, they’d chosen this day, out of 365, to begin their strike. He couldn’t take the Dublin-Cherbourg ferry to go back to France and had to come all the way to London instead. They’d just pulled into King’s Cross station, and he had a ticket for the Paris train leaving in fifteen minutes from St. Pancras. He grabbed his luggage and rushed out as soon as the doors opened.
*
Betty ran up the stairs to exit the station. She slipped between people on the sidewalk to reach Pancras Road. She stopped abruptly on the edge and lost balance as a car zoomed past her. She grabbed a parking meter and steadied herself. That was a close one.
*
Mercier found an underground tunnel linking both train stations. He ran, even in the escalator. At the top, he stepped on something and lost his footing. Landed on his arse.
“Oh, putain.”
He’d stepped on a sweater. His sweater.
Forgetting his train, he stared, flabbergasted, at the familiar green knit. He turned it inside-out and found the “fait à la main avec amour” tag.
“C’est impossible.”
He’d bought the sweater years ago, when he was a penniless student shopping in thrift stores. Despite a bigger salary, he’d inexplicably never parted from it until he lost it. And now it was here. On the floor of a London train station.
A woman’s distressed voice pulled him back to reality.
“I-I can’t find it. I had it with me, I swear, right here. I don’t know-- I’m sorry. God, I’m so embarrassed.” she wiped her tears on her sleeve.
“Sorry, love, haven’t found any jumper,” the railway company clerk replied.
She turned around, and their eyes met across the crowd. Molecules shifted, tunnel vision, focused on her like looking through a telescope. Everyone else faded to grey. Deep into the marrow of his bones, Mercier felt the pull towards her. It was all his brain could process.
In a daze, they walked to each other.
“It’s me jumper,” she said
“Mine too.”
They both held it between them, laughing incredulously. Her big brown eyes shone with tears, Augusta’s eyes, he thought, and Lottá’s smile.
“Do you know me?” he asked.
She squinted at him, searching his face. “I… I feel like I do. As if we’ve met before.”
“Yes. My name is Jean-François Mercier.”
“I read your article! I’m Betty Salinger.”
“Betty. That’s lovely.” His cheeks hurt from smiling. “I have so many questions.”
“How is it possible?”
Their hands touched, still holding the sweater. His fingers tingled, the same way they did when he rubbed them by the fire after spending time out in the cold. Circulation revived, cells mending. He rubbed a thumb over her knuckles, and she giggled as if tickled. His heart grew ten folds.
“Can’t be that easy, can it?” she said.
“Who says it will be easy?”
For the first time, they stopped looking at each other to watch the hustle and bustle around them. Everyone going about their lives, unaware of the shadows leaking into this world. When their gaze met again, they were sober, serious.
“We will find answers,” he said, taking her hands fully, under the knit.
“We’ll get it right this time.”
Betty stepped closer to him, and he rested his forehead on hers. Unlike touching a journal, it didn’t trigger a dizzying wave of memories, but a gentle, suffusing flow. Each incarnation’s love slipped into his bloodstream like a drug. She sighed blissfully, feeling it too. High. Happy.
For all his rebellion against his destiny, he accepted it now. He understood.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked.
“I’ve been waiting three centuries.”
He brushed his nose down hers. Her breath teased his lips. His heart raced faster than for his first kiss.
Betty closed the gap between their mouths before he did. Soft lips parting and moving slowly. She clutched his hand harder and brought it to her chest. He wound his arm around her waist, holding her as close as possible as he deepened the kiss.
They might have embraced for a thousand years. Time was meaningless when the threads of their lives were weaved together.
Thank you to everyone who participated in the TPP Creator Bingo!!!
I wanted to thank everyone who submitted any asks, whether it be just one, a full board. I also appreciate everyone who liked or reblogged bingo posts, or who helped users stuck with incomplete boards. In the end, there were a total of 48 asks in my #bingo asks tag! I deeply appreciate everyone who participated in this event!
Now, a quick hall of fame for all of our participants:
💛 @firequeenofficial completed 18 squares for a full board!
💛 @ratkingdad completed 12 squares!
💛 @flamingspud completed 6 squares!
💛 Orange heart anon completed 4 squares!
💛 @hey-its-celeste + @ladychickadee + Tornado anon each completed one square!
💛 There were also 5 unsigned anon asks!
I appreciate every single one of you immensely. I hope everyone had fun with this event!
If you would be interested in another bingo event, please let me know. I want to encourage submissions in ways that are fun and interesting for you all!
As I posted a moment ago, my queue emptied out today. If you did not get a chance to finish your board, consider sending in asks for anyone you have left over!
Summary: An irresistible apple pie delivered to the wrong address leads to an equally irresistible first kiss.
For @fadewithfury who asked “ Hardy x Hannah and Pie from the bingo card please :)”
A/N: Also for @timepetalsprompts autumn bingo. Inspired by a Friends episode “the one with all the cheesecakes”
Words: 2500
→ Autumn prompts
→ Ao3
Hardy was halfway through slipping on a sweater, when someone knocked at his door. He glared at it, in confusion and annoyance. He slipped his other arm in the sweater, and, with his head still under wool, he opened the door. His head popped out of the collar, and he froze at the sight of his beautiful neighbour.
Hannah lived across the hall, and they seemed to share similar irregular schedules. He was acutely aware of being way out of her league, so most interactions with her had happened entirely within his mind. However, last week, her date had turned ugly, and he’d helped her get rid of a drunk, aggressive man. She was quite shaken afterwards and had asked him to stay for a while. They’d watched television as she blabbered nervously. She’d fallen asleep during Iron Man, and he’d covered her with a blanket before quietly leaving.
“Hey Alec! I think this is for you.” She placed a white box in his hands. “Sorry, I opened it, I thought it was for me.”
It was addressed to A. Harris.
“Right. But I’m not Harris, I’m Hardy.”
“Oh. Who’s Harris?”
He shrugged. “Bloke on the first floor maybe. Albert, is it?”
“Could be… It’s a pie.”
Out of curiosity, he opened the top. It wasn’t just any store-bought pie. This was a work of culinary art. Golden strips of dough sprinkled with powdered sugar, arranged in a lattice over thick filling full of real apple chunks. His mouth watered as a whiff of sugar and cinnamon reached his nose.
“It smells really good,” he said.
“Heavenly,” she leaned over the box, licking her lips.
“That crust must be made with real butter.”
“Mmmm yeah. And I think there’s salted caramel sauce in there with the apples.”
He peered closer, and he could almost taste it, the rich caramel and flaky crust melting on his tongue.
“I suppose we should take it to Albert,” he said, reluctantly.
“I suppose, yeah.” She didn’t take her eyes off the pie.
“That’d be the right thing to do…” His stomach growled. “Is that a fork in your hand?”
Hannah tucked her chin in her shoulder with a mischievous smile. “I was really hoping you wouldn’t be home.”
“You’d have eaten it?”
“Yeah.”
“But what about the person who ordered it?”
“I figured they’d just call the bakery and get a new one sent for free. And they’d verify his address so they’d get it right this time.”
“You’ve thought this through.”
“It smells really, really good.”
“Maybe…”
“Yeah?” Her eyes sparkled with anticipation.
“It’s the delivery man’s fault.”
“Yes! Exactly!”
“And as you said, Albert will get another one for free.”
“So, your place or mine?”
“Sorry?” he sputtered.
She walked past him into his flat and sat down at his table, fork in her fist and a grin on her face.
He’d barely placed the pie down that she dove in. Well, too late to bring this back to Albert now. He hesitated half a second before getting his own fork.
He hadn’t indulged in pastries in a long time because of his heart issues, but he firmly believed this pie was by far the best thing he had ever put in his mouth. Smooth, creamy caramel and tart pieces of apple, not overbake so they still crunched under his teeth.
They scarfed down the pie, with barely enough time for a breath in between bites, let alone for words. Crumbs fell into the cowl neck of Hannah’s sweater. Hardy scraped his fork along the bottom of the box to catch every drop of filling.
Hannah laughed.
“What?”
“You’re moaning,” she said.
“Oi! I’m not moaning.”
“Yes, you are.”
She nudged his leg under the table and the corners of his mouth twitched.
“It’s really good,” he protested.
“I know. God, I’m so full but I can’t stop eating it.”
She took another bite and rolled her eyes heavenward with a sigh. He distantly wondered what else could make her do that face again.
He brought the last bite to his lip and slouched down in his chair with a satisfied sigh. She rubbed her distended stomach.
“You’ll have to roll me out of here,” she said.
Or you could stay. “Cuppa? It’s good for, erm, digestion.”
“Sure.”
He stood up with a groan and turned the kettle on. As he placed two mugs down on the counter, he realized, he’d never had a visitor here, beside Daisy.
He suddenly felt self-conscious about his worn sweater, scruffy cheeks and the pile of unopened mail.
Hannah brought her feet up on the chair, holding the steaming cup over her knees. She scanned the flat as if only now realizing where she was.
“Just moved in?” she asked.
“Erm, no. Haven’t had time to…” He gestured vaguely at the blank walls.
“I’ll take it you’re single then.”
“Aye.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Have you lived in this building long?”
“About three years. I had a house before but I just wasn’t any good at maintaining it, you know, the lawn and the shindles and plumbing.” She grimaced.
“I had a house too. Hated that stuff too. Not very good with my hands.”
Her gaze dropped to his hands wrapped around the warm mug. She shifted on her chair, leaning towards him on the table. She ran her finger around the bottom of the pie box, picking up crumbs and bringing them to her mouth.
“You know, I never said thank you for the other night,” she said.
“Don’t mention it.”
“No, I’m sure most people would just shut themselves up in their flats if they heard shouts in the hall. I don’t know what I’d done if you hadn’t come to my rescue.” And there was something in the way she lingered on that word, fluttering her eyelashes, that could be mistaken for flirting. But Hardy knew better.
“You don’t strike me as a woman who needs rescuing,” he said, remembering all the times he’d seen her come and go in sharp suits, killer heels and a confident gait.
She picked up a few more crumbs with her index. Hardy leaned forward on the table too.
“Still,” she began with a sad smile, “it’s nice not having to deal with wankers all on my own every once in a while.” She shook her head and plastered on a cheery expression. “So, do you make a habit of eating your neighbour’s pie?”
Ok, now, definitely flirting. Heat grew in his cheeks as he grappled for an appropriate reply. Her mobile rang before he could think of anything witty.
“Sorry, gotta get this. Thanks for the cuppa. Catch you later.”
And just like that, Hannah was out of his flat, and he was certain they would never speak again.
*
Back from a long day at work, Hardy walked up the stairs to his flat. He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of a white bakery box in front of Hannah’s door. She came out at that moment, in a pea coat and knee-high boots, as if she’d been waiting to go out with him.
“There’s another one,” he said by way of greetings.
She gasped at the sight of the box. “They delivered it to the wrong address again?”
“Well, we just have to bring it to Albert this time,” Hardy said, mustering all his willpower.
“But…”
“What’s the problem?”
“I dreamt I was eating pie aaaaall night long,” she said as if it had been a dirty dream.
“Well, we can’t eat another one.”
“Can’t we?”
“For god’s sake, we ate an entire pie yesterday and you want more?”
“I always want more.”
Their eyes met, and he hesitated, remembering the buttery crust melting on his tongue and subtle mix of cinnamon and nutmeg. His mouth filled with saliva. Even from his place on the steps, he could smell its divine fragrance or was it just his imagination? But it wasn’t just about the pie, it was about Hannah in his flat, her sighs of delight and teasing tone. How was he supposed to say no to her?
“We’re just hungry. We haven’t had supper,” she reasoned, straightening her back.
“Yes, you’re right. It’s hunger.”
“D’you want to grab a bite with me?”
“Sure,” he replied. “Best take the pie downstairs, so we’re not tempted.”
“Good call.”
Hannah held the box at arm’s length, keeping the delicious scent at bay. They reluctantly placed it on Albert Harris’s doorstep. They didn’t knock for fear they’d have to explain what happened to the previous pie.
Outside their building, the street was busy with Londoners enjoying a rare warm autumn night. Not a cloud on the horizon, only golden rays of light streaming between trees and buildings. The scent of earth and of the first wood fires of the season lingered in the air. He thought of Daisy’s first day of school and of raking leaves with his grandfather who would recount embellished stories of his youth.
The weather was so inviting, they walked for a while without looking for a place to eat. They wandered around the streets of their neighbourhood. Hannah pointed out the finest coffee place, the best dry cleaner, her favourite music shop.
“And that shop on the corner there, if you have a sister— or girlfriend— and you never know what to get her as a present, this place will save your arse.”
“Noted… For my sister. Not girlfriend, I don’t…”
“Noted,” she replied with a smirk.
Her enthusiastic speech made him want to get out more. Since moving to London, he hadn’t really taken time to enjoy the city.
“And you’ve got to try The Other Henry.”
She pointed at a restaurant across the street. Hardy had spotted the place before, but wasn’t comfortable eating alone there.
“Let’s try it now,” he suggested.
Hardy opened the door for her, and she grazed him on the way in. It could have been an accident, but he didn’t miss that cheeky glance through her eyelashes.
It was a cozy bistro, high vaulted ceiling and low lights, red brick walls covered with vintage French advertising posters. Chat noir, Absinthe, Moët, Ricard and Chocolat. Around the bar, a group of young professionals flirted with girls while keeping an eye on the football game.
They slid into a booth, away from the crowd. Hannah removed her coat, revealing a low scoop neckline that slid off one shoulder. She tossed her curls over the other shoulder and smiled. In the candlelight, her eyes glowed golden, and nervousness gripped his stomach.
“What do you do?” Hardy asked lamely after they’d ordered.
“Erm, I’m in between stuff at the moment.”
“Between what kinds of stuff?”
She fiddled with the cutlery, running the butter knife along the checkered pattern of the table cloth. “Freelancing stuff.”
“That’s vague.”
“Yeah. Sorry.” She tucked her hands under her legs. “I’m a writer… slash client liaison.”
“What do you write?”
“Books. And I collaborate with some magazines and websites.”
“Like a journalist?”
“Sort of. And you, what do you do?”
“Detective inspector.”
“That explains the interrogation... and the rescuing.”
“Shit, sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. How about an original question? Hmm, let’s see: if you could travel back in time to relive any day of your life, which day would it be?”
They reminisced and talked and argued and laughed between bites of duck confit and tartare steak.
Hannah was really easy to talk to, always a witty quip on the tip of her tongue, she dodged awkwardness like a pro. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so comfortable with someone. She was this whole new person to discover. Not a colleague or a suspect. And, unlike on a date, there was no pressure to expose past relationships or reveal what he was looking for in a partner.
They ordered dessert, but unlike the rest of the meal, it was unsavory.
“Nothing will ever compare to the pie,” Hannah said, pushing away a barely-touched brownie. “Let’s get mulled wine instead.”
The sun set replaced by a moon, huge and bright orange. And they sipped hot, spiced wine in companionable silence, cocooned in the velvet upholstered booth, their legs brushing together under the table.
“I had a good time,” Hannah said as they walked back home.
“Really?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I mean, I did too.”
“Good.” She beamed. “It’d been a while since I just hung out with someone. Since I’ve… reoriented my career, there’s lots of people I don’t see anymore. Writing is kind of a lonely job. Just me and my laptop, you know.”
“Well, if— if your laptop ever feels lonely too I’ve got this computer.”
“Yeah, I think he’d like that.”
“But it’s kind of old, and rusty.”
“That’s okay, I-- my laptop knows better than to judge a computer by its appearance. As long as it has a good… hard drive?”
They laughed, and, amazingly, she looped her arm through his. They walked the rest of the way in silence. Too soon, they reached their building. He didn’t want to part from her already.
A few steps in, Hannah froze.
“Do you see what I see?”
The bakery box was still on Albert’s doorstep.
“It’s still there,” he said.
“Albert must be out.”
“He could be out of town. Away for days. Weeks.”
“Well, we can’t leave it out there,” Hannah said.
“It could go bad.”
“We don’t want him eating a bad pie.”
“No. That could make him sick.”
“And we don’t want him to be sick.”
“So, we’d be protecting him.”
Hannah dashed for the box, then grabbed his hand and they ran up the stairs. They reached their floor, laughing and gasping for air, still holding hands.
“We’re thieves,” he declared.
“I prefer the term ‘partners in crime’.”
She gave him a dazzling, toothy grin, and warmth flooded his veins. Partners. And there was a moment of wordless smiling, looking into each other’s eyes like a couple of dorks. He ran his thumb over her knuckles, and her gaze dipped to his lips. He swallowed thickly.
“There’s something else I’d like to steal,” Hardy said.
She tilted her head coyly. “Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“… A kiss?”
She chuckled.
“That bad?”
“No! It’s sweet. Smoooooth.”
“Urgh, forget—”
She cut him off, pushing up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his mouth. Craving quickly replaced his surprise. He chased her lips of honey and wine. Eager. Cradling her jaw in his palms. She responded in kind, opening her mouth. A small moan encouraged him. He pressed her against the door. It squashed the pie between their stomachs. Apple filling oozed out of the box.
“Shit.”
“Well, that’s one way to get rid of evidence.”
“I am so sorry. Your dress.”
“And your suit… I suppose we don’t have a choice but to take off our clothes now.”
He couldn’t resist kissing her again, smiling lips moving together as the pie fell to the floor.
Cider + bonfire night from the autumn bingo card? Nine x Rose please :)
1605
Rose sighs contentedly. They arrestedTroldhaugen—an alien disguised as a human named Guy Fawkes— King James I is alive andhistory is safe. Better yet, the people of London lit bonfires across town, andthe Doctor agreed to stay for the celebrations.
Rosepicks up two tin mugs of cider and, as she carries them back to their place bythe fire, she observes the Doctor. Leather jacket, armscrossed, feet firmly planted apart. The fire’s light accentuates the angles ofhis features and deepens the shadows. He looks like a work of art. An oilportrait. Brushes licking the canvas like the flames does the wood. Rose feelssomething coil in the pit of her stomach. Coil and flare all at once.
She joins the Doctor and hands him one ofthe mug. He takes a few sips, smacks his lips and exhales with satisfaction. Inbetween sips, he’s saying something about apple fermentation, but she’s notlistening. She’s mesmerized by the warm glow shifting over his skin, by themovements in his throat with every pull of cider, the blue of his eyes warmingup.
Alcohol laces with her blood. An idle sort of tipsiness.
As if in trance, she reaches for his face,cups his cheek, brushes her thumb over his skin, his jaw, his temple. It’s so much warmerthan usual. She thinks of clay softening under her fingers, of the suppleness of worn leather. She thinks she could make him melt.
“Rose?” he asks softly as if afraid tobreak the spell. There’s surprise in his voice.
She kisses the corner of his mouth.
“What is that for?”
She shrugs. How to explain that swellingbetween her ribs? The urge to ease the sharpness of him.
Without a word, he wraps his arms aroundher. Holds her quietly. And they stand there, cider forgotten, and heartsaflame.
For the autumn prompts: rustling leaves. Is Jenny from Spirit Trap x Tenth Doctor something that would work for you? (It's something that jumped into my head a while back and I'd love to see it.) If not I'm also happy with Hardy x Hannah or Doctor x Rose. :)
@lizziea2 said to lostinfic: Doctor/Rose Autumn foliage for the fic bingo ask.
Jenny & The Doctor ( NOT shippy); Ten x Rose implied.
Sometimes inspiration comes from the most unexpected prompts ;)
→ Autumn prompts
A message fromthe Great (parallel universe) Beyond
The weather was perfect, warm enough that Jenny didn’tneed a jacket, a hoodie sufficed, but cool enough that she had to wear a scarf.Perfect. Now that she’d discovered her psychic powers, she dreaded Halloween,but that didn’t stop her from enjoying the season. So, on her way back homefrom a psychic reading, she took a detour through the forest to fill her lungswith that crisp, earth-scented air.
She sighed contentedly. Nothing like the satisfaction of a job well-done: Mr.Richardson go to tell his deceased son he loved him one last time, and, whenshe left, he was smiling again.
She walked into the woods until she couldn’t heartraffic anymore. She paused to admire the fiery autumn colours and took a fewpics with her cell.
Suddenly, the wind picked up, rustling tree branches andraising dead leaves off the ground. Air and leaves swirled around her. Jennyhad had enough encounters with the occult lately to know this was nonatural phenomenon.
“Whorp, whorp, whorp.”
Jenny whirled around to see a blue police boxmaterializing in the clearing. A policeman’s ghost perhaps. She clutched theamulet around her neck and stepped back in the shadow of a tall oak. A skinnyman in a brown suit stepped out, looking very much alive.
“Why did you take me here?” he asked the police box.
Jenny chuckled, attracting his attention. The man’seyes widened and his jaw dropped.
“Rose?”
“What?”
“Rose, I— you’re not Rose.”
Hepulled a metal stick from his inner pocket and ran it up and down her body.
“Oi!”
“Whoare you?” the man asked.
“I’mJenny Ashcroft.”
Hepulled a face, indicating he didn’t care much for any Jenny.
“Andwho are you?”
“Oh, I’mthe Doctor. Sorry, you look exactly like… well, like this friend I had.”
“Had?”Perhaps this was why she’d been put on this mysterious man’s path.
“Yes,she’s gone. Anyway.” He pulled on his ear. “So, Jenny, Jennifer, Jen… where arewe?”
“London.”
“Uh.”He looked up at the sky. “Any zeppelin in this London?”
“Er, Idon’t think so.”
“Alright,then. That’s okay. Normal. Good old London.”
Hestared at his red Converse, and Jenny had the distinct impression he wasavoiding looking at her. She must remind him too much of his departed friend.
“Doctor,that friend of yours, what if I said I could help you contact her?”
“How?”
“Well,I’ve got this ability, kind of psychic.”
“Oh! Oh.No, no. That won’t be necessary.”
Jennyhadn’t been doing this long enough to build a carapace, every rejection and sneering hurt.
“I’mserious!” she said, hands on her hips. “It’s real, I can do it.”
“No,but the things is… unless… well, I suppose I haven’t got many more options.Okay, Jenny the psychic, let’s do this!” He grinned.
SinceJenny already had her material with her, it was only a matter of finding a suitablesurface to put down a candle, a bouquet of sage and a planchette. A flat rockdid the trick, and they both sat cross-legged beside it.
“Rose,was it?”
“Yes. Rose Tyler.”
“Do youhave anything of hers?”
TheDoctor rummaged, elbow-deep, around his pocket. He pulled out a hair clip. Noboyfriend had ever looked at Jenny the way this man looked at that hair clip.
“Istarted carrying them around for her after a particularly windy adventure,” heexplained.
Jennycarefully clasped the hair clip in one hand and the Doctor’s hand in the other.She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, focusing on the object and Rose’sname. It took longer than usual, but Jenny finally felt a tenuous connection.Rose Tyler was in another world, yes, but she didn’t feel dead. She felt… asleep?
“Doctor,you can talk to your friend now.”
*
In Pete’sworld, Rose Tyler dreamt of the Doctor calling her name and guiding her toNorway.
Holly cradles a paper cup between herhands, spiced steam rises to her nose, and she smiles. Will pays the cashier,and she frees one hand to hold his.
“Princes Street garden?” he offers.
“I thought you had work.”
“I can do it later.”
“Music to my ears.”
She offers her lips for a peck and theyleave the sharp smell of roasted coffee, trading it for crisp, cool hair. Edinburghis aflame with golden hues, and she’s wearing her favourite green scarf. Andthere are crinkles at the corners of Will’s eyes.
The garden is a strip of vegetation betweena commercial street and the castle. Half the town is there, a festive ambianceabout the crowd.
“I think autumn is my favourite season,”Holly declares,
“I thought it was summer.”
“Summer? No. What makes you think that?”
“Because you said so. Last June.”
“Did I?”
“When we found that little beach, near thecottage.”
Thelittle beach. The secluded little beach. Drunk on sunlight, her bikini top lostin the waves, kissing Will’s sunburnt shoulders. The longest day of the year, andthey stayed until nightfall. Warmth lingered in the starlight. Cricketschirping and tides lapping at the sand. Will’s hand resting on her stomach,splayed wide, grounding. “I love summer. It’s my favourite season.”
“I think you said the same thing about spring,”Will adds.
“No… When?”
“You said you could smell the leavesgrowing, and I said it was bullshit.”
“Ooh, right.”
She’dopened her windows for the first time that year, refused to close them evenwhen the wind picked up. She simply pulled the duvet higher up over theirbodies. It smelled green, it really did. Air swirled in, lighter somehow, carryingpromises of blooms. She insisted on reading Gerard Manley Hopkins to him, standingup on the bed, declaming: “Nothing is so beautiful as Spring— When weeds, in wheels, shoot longand lovely and lush…” He didn’t let her finish the poem. Tackled her down tothe mattress. Tickles and giggles. Book discarded beside a pile of court cases.Kisses as soft as dew, dropped down her spine. Legs entangled like vines. “Ilove spring. It’s my favourite season.”
“Are you going to tell me I said it aboutwinter too?”
Will scratches his chin. “I think you did.”
“On Christmas, I bet.”
“No. I remember the exact date.”
“You’re having me on.” She clapped his armplayfully.
“December 5.”
Theirfirst date. After weeks of timid glances and nervous small talk that turnedinto smiles and butterflies. She liked the flirting. She’d thought the datewould be the end. He’d be boring or conservative or married. She headed to therestaurant, mourning the thrill of anticipation. But he made her laugh. He made her shiver.And she couldn’t let him go. They ordered dessert twice. And when they came out,everything was covered in white. Blindingly so. Magically so. Snowflakes shimmeredunder lampposts. She liked the imprint of their footsteps, side by side. He warmed her frozen fingertips. The clouds onhis breath lingered like shadows of kisses to come. “I love winter. It’s my favourite season.”
“Maybe it’s not about the season,” shemuses.
She’d always thought of love– whether with a man or a woman– as this great,dramatic thing. That passion must stem from anger and conflict. That it wasn’tlove unless you had to climb mountains and brave obstacles. Hard-earned love, nothingshort of heart-wrenching would do. Maybe she’d read too much Brontë and Dickenstoo young. Maybe she had an innate flarefor the dramatic. And maybe she’d been wrong all along. Maybe it’s someone who remembers little things she’s said, indulges her whims and still gives her butterflies.
Will puts an arm around her shoulders, tugsher closer to kiss the top of her head. She presses her cheek to his chest,into the soft flannel of his shirt.
Not a submission, for the tpp bingo, do we have to submit it off-anon? no worries if we do it's just sometimes I like to surprise my friends with a lil anon ask and such.
Nope! I am leaving tracking your submissions on your board up to you. However, if you do not send them off anon or sign them, I may not be able to count them in the silly superlatives once the event deadline rolls around.
