#fred fred

(Rivals) Freddie Jones x Lizzie Vereker

Suggestion by a sweet anon 🫶🏽 / After weeks, Freddie finally manages to get hold of Lizzie at the Rutshire annual ball…

18+ FANFIC / Just some super soft Fred-Fred & Lizzie 🥺 My first time doing something a bit different to my usual! Hopefully you enjoy 🩷

“You’re not wearing that, are you?” James Vereker questioned, staring at his wife’s gold iridescent wrap-around skirt and low cut charcoal black blouse. Lizzie was pinning up her copper curls in front of the mirror, and felt her lip wobble, anticipating her husband’s criticism. “Yes, why?” She asked, meeting his gaze only through his reflection in the mirror. She couldn’t bare to meet those adjudicating eyes face-to-face. “Jesus, Lizzie. You’re not 26 anymore.” He huffed, rolling his eyes and returning to choosing a shirt for tonight. Vomit green or piss yellow, Lizzie thought to herself. Freddie Jones would’ve told her that her outfit was fit, in that marvellous Cockney accent of his. But, unfortunately, she was stuck with James.

Beginning the drive to Rutshire Village Hall, James spoke only to ask whether his shirt was the right choice — he had chosen piss yellow — and to warn Lizzie to stay away from the buffet. “There will be lots of important directors there tonight, and Tony will be watching me like a hawk, of course. I don’t want him to see you stuffing your face with scotch eggs.” He hissed, fingers impatiently tapping the tune of Cotswold Round-Up against his steering wheel. Lizzie hummed in response, watching the willow trees create the most hilarious shadows against the night sky.

-

Once they had arrived, and exchanged usual pleasantries at the door, James had immediately separated from Lizzie, almost making an effort to schmooze with people at the other end of the hall to her. “Hello, darling. How are you?” Rupert Campbell-Black spoke, handing Lizzie a rather enormous whiskey, which she graciously accepted. “Okay. I’ve been warned against eating too much, speaking too much, doing too much.” She grunted, swallowing the amber liquid down without breathing, leaving only a small sip. “Oh, just tell him to fuck off,” Rupert snapped, paused for a moment and then sighed, “I’ve been here for bloody ages. I was waiting to see you before I could slope off. Freddie’s asked me three times if you were coming.” He winked, nudging a suggestive elbow into her side. Lizzie tried her best to disguise her grin, but Rupert could read her expressions with lightning speed.

“Oh, really? What did you say?” Lizzie feigned nonchalantness as she spoke, scratching behind her ear. “I said you’d be here soon, hot and ready.” He chuckled and handed her his glass of whiskey. “Right, darling. I’m off. Drink that, and many more. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Rupert gave her a soft kiss on her left cheek as he spoke and sauntered towards the door, shooting her an enthusiastic thumbs up before he left.

There was no sign of Freddie anywhere. Lizzie had already drank the equivalent of two large bottles of whiskey, and had already put back as many scotch eggs as one could muster. James was talking to Sarah Stratton in the far right corner, running his fingers through her golden hair and exchanging sultry whispers. “Hello, swee’art. I was wundrin’ when you’d arrive.” That familiar Cockney voice boomed from behind her, rounded belly straining against his crisp white shirt. Lizzie’s denim blue eyes ignited with exuberance as she spun around on her heels to be greeted by Freddie Jones, who was balancing a flimsy paper plate loaded with potato salad, sausage rolls and fairy cakes. “I ‘af to eat this as quick as possible, before Mousie catches me.” He grins and waves the plate under her nose, prompting her to pinch a sausage roll.

“I’m sorry about… You know.” Lizzie sulks, flakes of pastry snowing from her lips. Just over three weeks ago now, they had arranged to meet up at a hotel just outside of Cotchester — serene and away from prying eyes. But, Lizzie, ever faithful to Mr Vereker, hadn’t attended. “S’alright. I understand,” Freddie softly informed her, “I’ll wait for you.” The words made Lizzie’s heart sink. She had never been this besotted with anybody before, not even James in their very early days. On more than one occasion now, she had stood Freddie up without explanation but to him, it didn’t matter. Lizzie could take the rest of her life to muster the courage, and Freddie would be but a phone call away.

“Sharif don’t like it, rocking the Casbah, rock the Casbah…” The Clash began to wail from the speaker systems dotted around the lavish hall, provided by Freddie, of course. “Ah, I fackin’ love this one! Come on, Lizzie, dance wiv’ me.” He simpered, clamping onto Lizzie’s hand and dragging her onto the dance floor. Showcasing the least fashionable dance moves of the eighties, Lizzie and Freddie became an awkward jumble of limbs, her copper curls breaking free from the pin and soaring through the air like the wings of a freed Phoenix. The combination of her untamed dancing and numerous tumblers of whiskey had induced a soft rosy glow to Lizzie’s cheeks, that made Freddie stop dead in his tracks.

Grand Prix F1 France Historique 2017 - Magny Cours 

"Grand prix F1 France Historique 2017 - Magny cours"