I've gone off the deep end now...
What have I done?!
hoc_voluerunt, I blame you for this entirely. XD
I think this is possibly some sort of slash event horizon, fuelled by insomnia, sugar, and watching excessive amounts of Horrible Histories on BBC iPlayer and YouTube. The fact that I actually wrote it down is worrying. The fact that I posted it on the Internet is the final proof of my insanity.
Er... watch this and maybe it'll make sense. Maybe.
Title: Thanks, Old Bean!
Fandom: Horrible Histories (CBBC)
Pairing: Blenkinsop/Maltravers
Rating: We’ll say - I dunno - very mild PG.
Warnings: Excessive amounts of WHAT IS THIS I DON’T EVEN, and rather dubious historical accuracy. I’d warn for crack, but this is something even beyond crack.
Word count: 498
Disclaimer: I don’t own the Horrible Histories books or TV series. I think we can all agree that this is a very good thing!
Summary: They're just like Austria and Germany.
Comments: ... ... ... Nope. I got nothin’.
-
Blenkinsop really was a spiffing fellow. Maltravers had always thought so, since the days when they had been at Eton together, learning history and playing rugger and all that sort of thing. Not that they had ever been very good at either, to be perfectly honest, and in the case of rugger it did tend to get them biffed by the bigger chaps, Blenkinsop especially. Maltravers had always tried to stand up for him - after all, no one punched his best friend and got away with it - but that had just resulted in him being punched, too. But somehow he had never minded too much, not when afterwards Blenkinsop always smiled at him through his split lip and murmured, “Thanks, old bean!”
So it was no surprise, really, that they stayed best friends all the way through Oxford and even in the army, and even less of a surprise when they were put in charge of the same regiment, which, as it happened, was being sent to the Front immediately, what with this war business now afoot. Maltravers couldn’t help but feel a tad nervous about the whole thing: after all, it still seemed to him that this war didn’t have very much to do with him at all, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to get killed for something that didn’t have very much to do with him. Not only that, he wasn’t sure he wanted Blenkinsop to get killed, either.
“I say,” said Blenkinsop that evening, when they were alone in Maltravers’ quarters, “that meeting was rather confusing. I still don’t think I know what’s going on.”
“I’m still not sure what Britain has to do with any of it,” mumbled Maltravers, still rather put out by the whole thing.
“I’m sure it’ll all be fine,” said Blenkinsop. He clapped a friendly hand on Maltravers’ shoulder. “As long as we stick together, what?”
“Of course,” said Maltravers. “And I’ll make sure you don’t get shot to bits by Jerry.”
Blenkinsop smiled brightly. “Thanks, old bean!”
He didn’t know what it was, but something about Blenkinsop’s smile, and the way his big brown eyes were shining, suddenly had Maltravers blushing furiously, even more so when he realised that Blenkinsop was also blushing furiously. Then - neither of them really knew how (because that would require thinking, and neither of them were very good at that) - they were kissing. And suddenly Maltravers realised exactly why he’d always thought that Blenkinsop was a spiffing fellow. And even though he was fairly sure that a chap could get banged up in the clink for this sort of thing, he had to admit that this was more than spiffing - it was just absolutely topping!
So Blenkinsop might not know where Bosnia was, and Maltravers was still rather unsure what any of this had to do with Britain, and there was a good chance that they were all going to get blown up by Jerry anyway, but none of that mattered for now.
-
Right. Good. It's out of my system now. And now, if you don't mind, I'm away to cut off my fingers, before I can write Alexander the Great/Skinny Man slash, or Historical Fashion Guy/Drostan the Celtic warrior, or God knows what else...
PLEASE HELP ME.
hoc_voluerunt, I blame you for this entirely. XD
I think this is possibly some sort of slash event horizon, fuelled by insomnia, sugar, and watching excessive amounts of Horrible Histories on BBC iPlayer and YouTube. The fact that I actually wrote it down is worrying. The fact that I posted it on the Internet is the final proof of my insanity.
Er... watch this and maybe it'll make sense. Maybe.
Title: Thanks, Old Bean!
Fandom: Horrible Histories (CBBC)
Pairing: Blenkinsop/Maltravers
Rating: We’ll say - I dunno - very mild PG.
Warnings: Excessive amounts of WHAT IS THIS I DON’T EVEN, and rather dubious historical accuracy. I’d warn for crack, but this is something even beyond crack.
Word count: 498
Disclaimer: I don’t own the Horrible Histories books or TV series. I think we can all agree that this is a very good thing!
Summary: They're just like Austria and Germany.
Comments: ... ... ... Nope. I got nothin’.
-
Blenkinsop really was a spiffing fellow. Maltravers had always thought so, since the days when they had been at Eton together, learning history and playing rugger and all that sort of thing. Not that they had ever been very good at either, to be perfectly honest, and in the case of rugger it did tend to get them biffed by the bigger chaps, Blenkinsop especially. Maltravers had always tried to stand up for him - after all, no one punched his best friend and got away with it - but that had just resulted in him being punched, too. But somehow he had never minded too much, not when afterwards Blenkinsop always smiled at him through his split lip and murmured, “Thanks, old bean!”
So it was no surprise, really, that they stayed best friends all the way through Oxford and even in the army, and even less of a surprise when they were put in charge of the same regiment, which, as it happened, was being sent to the Front immediately, what with this war business now afoot. Maltravers couldn’t help but feel a tad nervous about the whole thing: after all, it still seemed to him that this war didn’t have very much to do with him at all, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to get killed for something that didn’t have very much to do with him. Not only that, he wasn’t sure he wanted Blenkinsop to get killed, either.
“I say,” said Blenkinsop that evening, when they were alone in Maltravers’ quarters, “that meeting was rather confusing. I still don’t think I know what’s going on.”
“I’m still not sure what Britain has to do with any of it,” mumbled Maltravers, still rather put out by the whole thing.
“I’m sure it’ll all be fine,” said Blenkinsop. He clapped a friendly hand on Maltravers’ shoulder. “As long as we stick together, what?”
“Of course,” said Maltravers. “And I’ll make sure you don’t get shot to bits by Jerry.”
Blenkinsop smiled brightly. “Thanks, old bean!”
He didn’t know what it was, but something about Blenkinsop’s smile, and the way his big brown eyes were shining, suddenly had Maltravers blushing furiously, even more so when he realised that Blenkinsop was also blushing furiously. Then - neither of them really knew how (because that would require thinking, and neither of them were very good at that) - they were kissing. And suddenly Maltravers realised exactly why he’d always thought that Blenkinsop was a spiffing fellow. And even though he was fairly sure that a chap could get banged up in the clink for this sort of thing, he had to admit that this was more than spiffing - it was just absolutely topping!
So Blenkinsop might not know where Bosnia was, and Maltravers was still rather unsure what any of this had to do with Britain, and there was a good chance that they were all going to get blown up by Jerry anyway, but none of that mattered for now.
-
Right. Good. It's out of my system now. And now, if you don't mind, I'm away to cut off my fingers, before I can write Alexander the Great/Skinny Man slash, or Historical Fashion Guy/Drostan the Celtic warrior, or God knows what else...
PLEASE HELP ME.