#I hate living in Cornwall

[unluckyfee]

Hmm hmmmm why is it when I start getting a bit of breathing room with money that my landlord decides to be like ‘oh hey we’re bumping your rent up again’

Fuck’s sake guys!!! It’s already stupidly expensive!!

[superblysubpar]

<- part two | part four -> | series masterlist

chapter summary: You don’t like Steve Harrington.

the song: Hypotheticals by Lake Street Drive

also for your listening pleasure: Alone by Heart

3,349 words | please see masterlist for gen warnings / alcohol consumption & mentions / thunderstorm mentions / wearing steve’s clothing, but size isn’t mentioned | my blog is 18+

AN: sorry for the delay, and for another “cliff-hanger” type ending, but I promise this next chapter, chapter four is meaty, and long, and I hope makes up for it. Also, I’ll probably post two chapters this next Monday, since I was late with this one. Thanks for your continued support, comments, messages, reblogs. I had this story locked away since December and really doubted it, and I really can’t express how much finally sharing it and you all reading it means! Thanks for being here 💛

A house on Cornwallis Street - Monday

  Steve shifts against the leather seat, wet denim making a squeaking sound that’s loud enough to be heard over the rain pelting the windows and the faint piano intro that has you reaching towards the radio on impulse. 

  As the turn signal clicks rhythmically with the wipers, your hand stalls halfway to the dial when Steve looks over at you. 

  He nods his head towards the radio, relaxed as he makes the turn onto his street, though his fingers hold the steering wheel at a responsible ten and two. 

  “You can turn it up, doesn’t bother me. S’good song.”

  You hum some sort of agreement, nudging the dial a touch louder, so Heart’s ballad can be fully heard. 

  His head tilts, thumb tapping the leather of the steering wheel in perfect time with the beat of the song. 

  The lyrics aren’t lost on you, and instead of wondering if Steve also knows all the words, you turn to look out the window. 

  Right at the wrong moment. 

  The flinch of your shoulders is involuntary, and so is how the jerk of your head to face forward again makes the wrap of his fingers around the wheel tighter. Passing the house makes his stomach churn more than yours, especially when your whisper is almost lost to the wailing lead vocals of the chorus. 

  “Forgot you lived on the same street.”

  “Yeah.” 

  Steve bites his cheek, unsure of what else to say. Should he say he’s sorry, all these years later? Will that just make it worse? Should he make a joke? But would you think that means he doesn’t care?

  You’re lost in memories of a car not unlike this one. Of a humiliating night at a house on this street. Of a beer thrown in a face and a pair of heels left in a yard. 

  So when your name is spoken softly, quieter than he usually is, you’re shocked to see the car is in park in a driveway of a large house, off, and Steve’s lips are parting under eyes that are looking at you with the same pity he had that night.

  You quickly unsnap the seatbelt, and practically fling yourself out of the passenger door, squinting under the heavy drops of rain smacking your face as you run up the pavement towards a front door you never thought you’d be entering. 

  Steve is right behind you, breathing heavily as he shakes his hair out like a wet dog, rubbing a large palm down his face as he shoves a key in the lock. 

  Stepping inside the foyer of Steve Harrington’s house is surreal. 

  Not only because you’re standing in the home of the man you’ve sworn you hate, but it’s picture perfect. It’s one of those houses that feels like it belongs in a magazine or one of those books your parents used to keep on the coffee table. There’s sparse wall decorations and furniture, though all of it high end - rich woods and soft neutrals, abstract art. There’s a ton of natural lighting that you can see is casting his home in a soft blue glow even through the storm. 

  Steve flicks on the entryway lamp, warm light illuminating where he hangs his family video vest on a hook. He kicks off his Nike’s that squish and squelch as the toe knocks against the heel then the floor. 

  He starts to step out of the foyer, calling over his shoulder, “I don’t care, but my mom will most likely murder you if you leave your shoes on.”

  You’re not sure if he means he doesn’t care if you leave them on and it’s your choice whether to risk the wrath of Mrs. Harrington, or if he doesn’t care if she kills you.

  The thought of leaving your feet trapped inside wet leather boots for who knows how long makes you shudder, so you’re quick to unlace them and leave them next to Steve’s muddied sneakers. 

  Your vest is removed next, hung next to his with a frown as you watch it drip onto the hardwoods. When you glance up to ask if you should move them to somewhere less prone to water damage, Steve is gone. 

  “Harrington?” you call out, arms wrapping around yourself as you risk a step further into the house. 

  “In here!” he yells, past the staircase and around a corner.

  Venturing deeper, wet socks leave darker marks on cream carpet in a small den. A cozy and large green armchair and desk, and dark wood bookcases that sit mostly empty frame a wide set of sliding glass doors that look out at a pool. The bright and normally calm turquoise surface interrupted with the rain, ripples running across it to tiled edges. 

  Opening and closing of wood doors from behind you pulls you from your trance in front of the pool, spinning to see Steve standing in a kitchen that’s just as nice as this room. White tiled floors contrast with a green walls and warm wood cabinets. He’s pulling a bag of pretzels from a cupboard, a jar of peanut butter, and Oreos. He drops the snacks in a heap on the large center island before he looks up at you. 

  “Figured we might need some snacks while we wait it out. Want something to drink too?”

  Before you can respond, he’s already spinning towards the other end of the room, speaking with his hands about how peanut butter always makes him thirsty. 

  You drip on the tiles of the Harrington’s kitchen, shivering as Steve speaks into the fridge.

  “Do you want…shit, um, I have beer? Or water? A thing that I think is a tomato? Which isn’t really a drink so I don’t know why I’m still talking about it…”

  His shoulders flex under the damp light blue cotton of his shirt, his hand runs through his hair before he reaches in to grab something. 

  When you remain silent, he looks over his shoulder, and you’re sure he’s caught you staring at the sliver of his stomach that became revealed when he stretched for the beers now in his hands. 

  But then he quickly stands up straight, fridge door swinging shut behind him as he carelessly lets the two cans slide onto the counter top. 

  “Shit, I didn’t even…I’m freezing so you must…and I’m sorry, I-“

  A crack of thunder that seems to come from inside the house makes you both jump, bringing forth two sudden realizations to your mind. 

  The first, found out from the way Steve’s hands shake again, and the way his gaze darts out the windows showing inky clouds against an eerie, almost green tinted sky. 

  Steve Harrington is nervous. 

  The second realization comes from your step towards him. Maybe you were on your way to comfort him, maybe it was to punch his shoulder and taunt him. Either way, the step reminds you that you’re dripping water and making a nice puddle all over Mrs. Harrington’s pristine tiles. 

  Which just so happen to be the same lovely shade as your shirt.

  And maybe both the white cotton and the pink lace that sits beneath it leave little to the imagination when frigid AC and damp clothing combine against sensitive skin. 

  Your arms slowly cross over your chest, hugging yourself as you finally manage to let out a breathy exhale and the words, “I love beer.”

  Steve’s lips twitch, lifting on the left in a lopsided smile, a far away look as he stares at you from the other side of the kitchen and quietly asks, “Yeah?”

  Despite what your nipples would like to convey, his stare heats you from the inside out, convincing you that lightening has struck the house and you’re on fire. So you don’t really think you’re lying when you say, “And I’m not cold.”

  Steve’s cheeks are pink as he gestures to the counter top, “Okay, sure. Well I’m hard,” he squeezes his eyes shut and quickly corrects, “Cold! I’m cold, and I’m, um, if you wanna carry that stuff, I’m gonna grab clothes and we can go down to the basement.” 

  He quickly shuffles around the island, making sure he leaves the three feet of counter between you till he slips out of the room with cheeks darkening to the color of your bra. He goes so fast he misses the way you bite your lip and hide a smile. 

  But as his feet pound on the stairs, you stand up straighter and slap your hands to your cheeks. 

  No.

  Nope.

  Not. Happening. 

  You don’t like him. 

  Settling the beers and snacks against your chest and in your arms, you head back the way you came, slowing as you see photos on the shelves.

The typical posed family portrait, hands on his shoulders, Steve stiff in a white button down shirt and tie at various ages. But there’s one that catches your eye - tucked behind a larger frame. It rests behind the dusty glass off center, at an angle, edges worn. 

  A much younger Steve faces the camera, one eye squinted shut, holding up an ice cream cone proudly, with chocolate smeared across his lips and cheeks. And then you see the building behind him, the little girl leaving the frame, the back of her hand just visible - showing off a painted and sparkly tiger that matched her green nail polish. 

  You don’t like him. 

  “Hey,” he calls from the hallway, pulling you away from spiraling thoughts. Steve stands in the doorway, holding clothes in his arms, his eyes look at the picture, then back at you. He nods his head towards the door behind him and swallows, “It’s getting pretty dark and spooky out there, think we should get down to the basement?”

  Without the thoughts of a hot summer night and a cute boy who offered to share his ice cream with you, and that same boy who ruined everything that same night clouding your vision, you now see the sky has gone almost black, the pool water calm and undisturbed. 

  You can’t look away, wanting to sit and watch the storm continue to roll in, to see what it destroys. Like an accident, you can’t help it. Thunder rumbles, lightening flashes, and Steve says your name softly, pleading, and it snaps you out of it. 

  His arms that hold the clothes flex, blue cotton tightening on his shoulders as they hunch when the crack of the thunder makes you jump and him clear his throat. 

  He opens a door opposite the room, flicking on the light before turning to make sure you’re following him. Once you close the door behind you, you continue down the creaky stairs, until Steve stops abruptly and spins, his face level with your chest as he looks up at you with a winced, “Before you yell at me, there’s something you should know.”

  “What,” you laugh, shifting awkwardly on the dimly lit staircase, “The thunderstorm isn’t real, all lab created and fake movie effects done by the little twerps that follow you around because you promised them free rides for life if you helped seal this bet’s fate?”

  Steve groans, hanging his head backwards before he faces you again with a smile. “Shit. Why did I not think of that?”

  “Because you’re an idiot,” you whisper, ignoring the way your hand itches to touch the three freckles that crinkle next to his eye when he smiles. 

  “Right,” Steve nods, “As we established during fake-tits-gate. But no,” he laughs, turning back around, “I have a bunch of stolen rentals down here that Keith and you have been asking about for like two months.”

  You don’t know if you want to smack him for saying the word tits, or laugh and sort of turn into a gooey puddle because of it, or yell at him for the clear work violation. 

  So you settle on none of it, only admitting a small sigh and then mumbling, “What am I gonna do with you?”

  “Fuck me? Sure would help me out with this whole bet thing.” He spins with a grin and you narrow your eyes. But he persists, raising a right hand, “I swear, it’ll be great for you. I’ll do all the work. Scout’s honor.”

  “You were never a boy scout,” you accuse, ignoring the way your heartbeat seems to sound a little louder down here. How it’s definitely colder and that’s why your nipples are hard again. 

  Steve hums, dropping the pile of clothes on a worn coffee table. His fingers flip through the stack, glancing up at you as he asks, “Oh? And how do you know? Keeping tabs on me, babe?”

  When you don’t respond, he looks up again, finding you frowning with shoulders hunched. 

  “Shit,” he whispers, “I was doing so good too. You really don’t like me calling you that, huh?”

  You roll your eyes, blinking profusely as you busy yourself with setting the snacks and beer on the coffee table. He almost misses it when you murmur, “It’s just cause he called me that. Before…Brendan…” 

  Not caring to finish the sentence attached to the memories swirling around inside your head, you move towards the opposite wall where a small box TV and stack of tapes sit. “So, what terrible taste in movies do I have to endure?”

  “Hey.”

  “It’s fine, Harrington, real-“

  He says your name, interrupting you and when you look up at him, he knows this is his chance to say what he should have said a long time ago.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Steve says the words with so much sincerity, a wrinkle between his brows making something inside your stomach tug, like your body has a visceral reaction of needing to go over and smooth it away. He stands across the room from you, next to a ratty brown couch, holding sweats, dripping water as he shakes his head, looking the most genuine he ever has. 

  “I’ll never call you that again, I promise.”

  This time, you’re absolutely sure you are on fire. Warmth flows from the top of your head down to your socks and all you can do is mumble a measly, “Okay.”

  It feels like an entire hour and no time at all passes while you stare at each other, opposite sides of the room, but for once, there’s a common ground between you, an unspoken wave of flags, a line drawn in the sand being kicked and smoothed out. Neither of you knowing what’s supposed to come next. 

  So naturally, Steve ruins the moment. 

  “So, like,” he blows out his breath, tilting his head, “Honey, baby, sweetie okay? I just wanna make sure. You know, for when we’re having sex.”

  His smile tells you that he’s kidding, he’s making a joke to lighten whatever mood you’ve both trapped yourselves in. So you avoid his gaze and push a tape into the player, not even reading the name as you wave a dismissive hand. “Go change already, you smell like a wet dog.”

  Steve backs away, towards a small bathroom and hums, “Seems like you’re just trying to get me out of my clothes faster.” He nods towards the coffee table as you approach it, “Oh, and I did bring some clothes down for you too, if you want them. I know you said you weren’t cold but…”

He flips the light on in the bathroom, facing you, the glow behind him creating a halo on top of his caramel highlights as he grins in a way that’s the opposite of angelic. 

  “Your boobs have been telling a very different story.”

  The throw pillow you chuck at the door with a scoff misses him, smacking the wood that manages to close just in time, not doing much to hide his pleased laughter. 

  “I hate you!” you call out, arms crossing over your chest as you look at the clothes. 

  “Really?” he calls, “Cause your boobs have been-“

  “No! No more! Or I steal your car and drive home!” you can’t help but laugh around the threat, so you know he knows you’re not serious, but he remains quiet. 

  Despite it being easy for you to become irritated with him, you’d much rather this Steve than the quiet or nervous Steve. Or now, sincere, Steve, who you have no idea how to act around. This is all normal territory, the water you both know how to tread. This is able to be navigated. 

  Or so you thought. 

  You hate to give him the satisfaction of being right, but you are cold. So you grumble to yourself about taking your clothes off in Steve Harrington’s basement. Your jeans stick to your legs as you kick them off, making a pile with your white shirt. A laugh huffs out of your nose as you slip on plaid pajama bottoms, wondering how to make some sort of joke about them, when you’re halfway through pulling a sweatshirt on.  Your arms and head pause inside the gray material, and you inhale. 

  Your knees are replaced with jello. 

  You’re in the woods, mint toothpaste, cotton laundry, and something so undeniably Steve Harrington, you can’t help but take another large inhale. 

  In your scent frenzy that’s not unlike a cat with catnip, you don’t hear the bathroom door open or Steve’s sharp breath in. 

  He swallows, seeing you standing in his clothes, arms raised and halfway through his sweatshirt, your bare lower back, pink lace band of your bra shown off. 

  His knees are replaced with jello. 

  Steve clears his throat, and you quickly pull the sweatshirt down, neither of you admitting your moment of indulgence, and neither of you daring to ask if the other caught it. 

  You sit next to each other on the couch, Steve hands you a beer, and neither of you speak.  All you can think about is how to actively stop yourself from ducking your nose into the collar of the sweatshirt and taking another large inhale, and all he can think of is a curious thought that tugs and tugs and begs to know if your underwear matches your bra. 

  It isn’t until the lights flicker, and thunder growls that either of you moves or says anything. 

  Steve flinches, wiping a palm on his thigh that sits too close to yours and you go for a joke, trying to return once more to already mapped out communication points. 

  “I had no idea the king of Hawkins was afraid of a little rain.”

  When you pop open the beer and Steve only grimaces, flinching again when thunder claps overhead, you’re brought back to another night, sitting next to the same boy, with the roles reversed. 

  Sweaty fingers had smudged your tiger, but it was worth it, to have someone to hold while your heart rate returned to normal. So you look at Steve now, who’s eyes watch the TV screen but aren’t really seeing it, who’s shoulders tense, who’s been far quieter and genuine tonight than you’d yet to see from him ever, and make a decision. 

  “Wanna squeeze my hand till it’s over?” 

  Steve exhales, lacing his fingers with yours as he laughs nervously, “Jesus christ, I thought you’d never ask.”

  “Sorry,” you murmur, adjusting your arm against his and shifting into the couch deeper, ignoring the way his thumb swipes once over yours and what it does to your stomach. “Thought you were nervous because of me. You know,” you laugh, taking a sip of your beer before continuing, “Seeing nipples for the first time is a lot for a guy. You did good.”

  “Ha-ha,” he says dryly, squeezing your hand on the next rumble. “Seriously, don’t tell anyone?”

  “That you haven’t seen a woman’s nipples before? Because I will absolutely be telling anyone who will listen.”

  Steve doesn’t say anything, just turns his head, cheek resting against the scratchy brown couch, taking in your smiling profile. 

  You don’t dare to look at him as you sigh, squeezing his hand back. 

  “Secret’s safe with me, Harrington.”

  You don’t like him. 

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[mandoalorian]

save a horse, ride a cowboy

pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

masterlist

warnings: EXPLICIT, no minors. m!masturbation, exhibitionism, voyeurism to some extent, riding, unprotected p in v. both so so touch starved. joel has a lot to teach the reader.

notes: 1000 notes on my last post— thank you. I haven’t written in a long time and get quite anxious to post new fics, but when the response is that great, how could I not? You make me feel way more confident with my writing and encourage me to post more often. I hope to soon get to a place where I can start accepting requests again and writing what you want me to.

Joel didn’t like you— that much was clear. He hadn’t spoken a word to you since daybreak, when he left Tess at the QZ to deal with ‘unfinished business’ and promised her to deliver you to the outskirts of Boston without Fedra knowing. It was a difficult journey with the soldiers scouting the area on every corner, but after around six hours of travelling on foot, you and Joel had reached the border of Cornwall, Canada, which is exactly where you needed to be.

Unbeknownst to Joel, you wanted to be in Canada because that’s where your parents were. Or so, where you last heard they were. You’d do anything to reunite with them and make sure they were safe but you weren’t exactly good with a gun and you weren’t a particularly fast runner either. You needed someone like Joel to smuggle you out of the Quarantine Zone. He was your protector.

“You haven’t said a word to me all day,” you acknowledged when you couldn’t sleep that night. You lay next to Joel in your own sleeping bag, framed by a roaring fire and underneath tall, forested shelter. “Why?”

Joel huffed out a sigh and rolled over onto his back, now looking up at the starry night sky.

He didn’t reply.

You gave him a few minutes and tried to gather your thoughts, hoping he’d eventually cave and tell you why he’d hated you all this time. Had you done something wrong? You didn’t think so. Hell, you’d only met him earlier in the day. You’d hardly had enough of an influence on him to hate you. You liked to think of yourself as big and strong and apathetic in regards to people’s opinion of you. In the world that you lived in, you couldn’t afford to give a damn. And yet, you did. You couldn’t help it, it was just who you were. You got anxious about it if you thought about it too long and so you would desperately try and find a distraction or think of something else to focus on. The trees— the stars— the fire— Joel.

He was the epitome of ‘grumpy old man’. You briefly wondered if he was this grumpy before the apocalypse. Why was he so highly strung? Sure, life wasn’t exactly good or easy for him— but it wasn’t good or easy for anyone.

“I didn’t tell you why I wanted to go to Canada,” you said slowly, figuring that if you could open up to the man, then maybe he could at least offer you a few words back. “My parents are there. I think they are anyway. My father sent a letter over to the QZ months ago but I only just got it on Tuesday. I don’t know if they’re still there but I need to check. My mom is sick and I just… need to be with them… and I couldn’t go alone. I wouldn’t last two seconds out there with infected. So I guess, what I’m trying to say is, tha—“

“Okay.” Joel cut you off abruptly. He didn’t want your ‘thank you’s’ or your tokens of gratitude. He was doing a job and he was only here to get paid.

“Where are you from?” you asked him quietly. He shuffled but didn’t reply, and so you were prompted to follow on further. “You got an accent. Southern, there’s no doubting that. Tennessee…—?”

“Texas.” Joel corrected and you smiled to yourself. He may have been a man of few words but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let you think he was from Tennessee.

“Texas huh?” you beamed brightly. Joel didn’t move his head, but he looked over to you and noticed your grin. “So you’re like, a cowboy.”

You giggled playfully and nudged his arm, but he only grunted and closed his eyes.

“You ever ride a horse?” you asked him.

“You’re annoying,” Joel sighed, rubbing his temples, but he supposed that— if he had to be honest with himself— he was somewhat amused by your plentiful questions. “But yeah. I’ve rode a horse.”

“I always wanted to ride a horse, but I don’t think I’d be any good at it,” you admitted sheepishly. “No co-ordination.”

“It’s all in the hips.” Joel explained and his interest in horses took you by surprise. This was the most he talked all day.

You pursed your lips together fighting back another smile. There was no denying the rush of blood that flushed to your cheeks as you felt them heat up over the thought of the Cowboy riding his horse. But then you remembered how he’d also just expressed his irritation with you and your abundance of pointless questions and you felt your heart drop in your chest slightly. A pang of guilt.

You told yourself that it was okay— no big deal— and it didn’t matter if he found you annoying. No, it didn’t matter that the extremely attractive Texan man who hadn’t uttered a single word to you all day, found you annoying.

You’d been so lonely recently. So lonely. You’d kill for a friend. A partner. Someone. And perhaps it was your fault for getting your hopes up when you met Joel. You figured that maybe you could finally have someone in your life who liked you back for you, and didn’t want to use you or hurt you in some kind of unexpected way.

“I— I don’t mean to be annoying, y’know. I just— I’m sorry,” you murmured, rolling over onto your side and facing the other way from Joel. “Uhm— good night.”

Joel wasn’t a heartless monster. He wasn’t as cold and calculating as he let off to be, but he sure as hell wasn’t innocent and pure-of-heart either. He was a broken shell of a man simply trying to get by, and the way he saw it, he couldn’t afford the time or effort to make friendships or have partners or even anything more than an acquaintance. It just wasn’t on his radar.

And although he was certainly taken aback with how beautiful you were, he just couldn’t bring himself to do anything he wouldn’t do with any other piece of cargo. This was a delivery, after all. A smuggle run. And he had to be professional about it.

But you were so— so beautiful. During the hours of hiking you and Joel did through the fields and forests, he often lagged behind you and consciously allowed you to take the lead when he thought it was safe to do so. Really though, he just liked to take a few seconds to admire you when you weren’t looking. You were funny and smart and although you couldn’t aim a gun to save your life, you might’ve been able to charm a Clicker away from you if you tried hard enough.

Joel enjoyed listening to you babble on, despite displaying no signs or signals to show that he had any interest in you. He couldn’t do that because he didn’t want to lead you on or give you the wrong impression. He really did like you, but if he dared to open his mouth, Joel was certain he’d slip up and say the wrong thing or embarrass himself. And so to him, it was better to not say anything at all. However, his heart would warm when you would get bored along the way and start humming— and eventually singing. You were in no way melidous, but still, you weren’t trying to be. Joel wondered what it would be like in another universe where your lives weren’t constantly at stake. Maybe then he’d grow the courage to actually have a decent conversation with you.

But this wasn’t another universe. This was reality and Joel had lost all hope in humankind a long time ago. Joel allowed himself to get lost in his own thoughts for a long time and by the time he’d snapped out of it, you were already fast asleep next to him, emitting light snores. He watched you, watched as your chest rose and fell with every breath. You looked so peaceful.

Truth was, Joel wasn’t entirely sure he could fall asleep here next to you. There was no way of telling if this forest was safe. Certainly he found it difficult to imagine there’d be signs of infected around but people? That was certainly plausible. Making sure his rifle was close enough to grab in case of an emergency, Joel took another glance towards you.

So goddamn pretty.

Joel didn’t know when, but at some point in the night, he’d gotten hard. Probably because he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off you all night. He felt like such a creep for watching you sleep, but even under the pearly white stars and the sunset orange embers bouncing from the campfire, you were still the most beautiful thing he’d ever saw. And he wanted you.

Now, Joel probably wasn’t as touch-starved as you were, but still, it had been a helluva long time since he last got laid. Without drawing his gaze away from you, he reached his hand down into his sleeping bag and dipped it into his boxer shorts began to pump at his already throbbing manhood. His eyes snapped shut at the shock of the thrill which raced through his body. There was something so erotic about doing this outside, with you laying next to him, unbeknownst to it all. Stifling a groan, with his free hand Joel gathered the material of his sleeping bag and squeezed it with pleasure.

The coarseness, roughness, of his hands was never ideal, but he had no trouble imagining the softness of yours. Your hands were a lot smaller than his, and your fingers were a lot thinner, and as he stroked his cock, his toes curled at the thought of you in between his legs, playing with him.

He hissed your name through his teeth as he begin to feel a knot tie in his lower stomach, indicating that he was close. God, he’d only been at himself for a few minutes and he was going crazy for you. You stirred slightly at the mention of your name but Joel wasn’t paying attention anymore. Now his eyes were shut and his entire body was tensed up as his hand movements became faster. He guessed it wouldn’t be so bad if he finished quick because the longer he touched himself, the more chance you’d wake up and discover him.

But for some reason, that only stirred Joel on even more. Of course, he wasn’t trying to wake you up, but there came a point where he was so enveloped in his own lustfilled thoughts, he didn’t even notice you whisper his name softly through the night.

“Joel?”

Briefly, Joel registered the sound of your voice but he thought nothing of it. So deep in thought— he was close. He moaned your name back.

You stilled, your eyes widening when your gaze dropped to his crotch and you noticed the movements of his hands underneath the thin material of the sleeping bag.

“Oh… Joel.” you mumbled, feeling your pussy clench around nothing as you nimbly slipped out of your sleeping bag and quietly crawled over to him.

He still hadn’t noticed you, but between the tinnitus in his right ear and being so lost in his own thoughts, you couldn’t blame him. On your knees and by his side, you placed the palm of your hand on his chest and fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, alerting him immediately.

His movements stopped and his eyes snapped open in horror, only to be met by your wide smirk.

“Hey cowboy,” you teased, unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt.

“Shit.” Joel cursed, looking away from you. “I— you shouldn’t have saw me— I’m—“

You hushed him by placing a soft, chase kiss upon his lips. Joel froze and softened under you, completely feeling at ease under your touch. It has been years since he had been kissed. You hovered over him, finding his gaze in the dark before pressing a harder, more intimate kiss to his lips. Joel moaned underneath you and brought out his hand from under the sleeping bag, releasing his cock and bringing it to cradle the back of your head.

“Let’s get you out of here,” you giggled, unzipping Joel’s sleeping bag and bringing yours next to his, giving you both some kind of barrier between the grassy ground.

Joel’s belt was already undone and the zipper of his jeans pulled down.

Still beaming, you straddled Joel, positioning yourself over his lap and continued unbuttoning his shirt before before peeling it off his torso and discarding it into the corner.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Joel asked softly and his tone of voice took you by surprise.

“If I didn’t want to be doing this, I wouldn’t be grinding on you already, cowboy,” you giggled, thrusting your hips over the material of his jeans and getting a feel for his bulge.

Joel swallowed and nodded his head in agreement. Hastily, he brought his hands to your waist and guided you over his hips. You tossed back your head and let out a moan.

“Oh, I need you.” you whimpered, bringing Joel’s hands to your breasts and letting him feel the hard pebbles of your nipples under your t-shirt.

Growing impatient, Joel tugged on your shirt and you let him pull it off your body. He then smoothly unclipped your bra and let it fall off, before using his large, rough hands to cup and fondle your breasts.

“Joel,” you gasped, pushing back onto his legs and taking the hem off his jeans in your grip. “I need you,” you repeated. “Need you inside of me.”

Joel choked out a wanton groan at your words and nodded his head again. You took his signal as confirmation that he wanted this too, and tugged down his denim along with his underwear.

You removed your own pants and then sunk down ontop of him, sighing an air of relief when you felt the skin on skin contact. Joel adjusted himself and gave you a questioning look.

“I’m ready.” you whispered and leaned down, pressing your chest against Joel’s. Joel pushed himself inside of you and you tensed up, digging your nails into his shoulders as you adjusted to him. He was so big and thick, and yet he felt like he fit inside you perfectly. Like he was made for you.

Joel slowly thrusted upwards and into you, stretching you out. When you felt comfortable enough, you sat upright and rested your hands on his tummy.

“Show me how to ride, cowboy,” You urged. “You said earlier, it’s all in the hips? Show me.”

Joel looked up at you with wide eyes and extended his arms around you. He held onto you, and you felt like putty under his grip.

“Show me what you got, girl.” The handsome man demanded, his voice having dropped an octave.

You began to roll your hips over him, and Joel squeezed his eyes shut. “That feel good for you?” you taunted, letting a giggle escape your lips. Joel wordlessly nodded.

“Try— try circle your hips.” Joel requested, and immediately you changed your movements. You’d do anything to please him. You felt yourself get increasingly wet, making it easier and more comfortable to move freely. “That’s good.” he praised under his breaths.

“This is how you ride?” you enquired, raising an eyebrow as you continued to circle your hips.

“This is how you learn,” Joel corrected. “It’s all a process, baby girl. You go straight into the ridin’, you’ll get hurt.”

Joel leaned forward and pressed himself into you, the curve of his cock hitting you in just the right spot, You held onto him, gripping onto the broad of his back and this time, Joel kissed you. He yearned for your lips— for your affection. He dragged his tongue along your collarbone and planted sloppy kisses up your neck, along your jaw, and finally to your mouth. He slid his tongue along your lower lip, begging for entry, which you quickly granted him, and started to make out with you.

“Joel,” you whispered against his lips, and he pulled off you, allowing you to speak. “I need more.”

“Think you’re ready for your next lesson?” he quizzed, pressing his nose against yours.

“Mhm.” you replied. “Teach me.”

Joel leaned back again and brought his hands down to your hips. “I want you to bounce on my cock sweet girl, show me what you can do.”

You grinned with excitement and began to move yourself up and down, grinding on his cock so you could feel every ridge and vein against your walls.

You felt yourself clench around him, indicating that you were close.

“Shit, like this I won’t last long.” Joel admitted bashfully, his cheeks flushing pink.

“Me neither,” you replied, and began to speed up your movements. “Joel— please. Please cum inside of me.”

Joel panted, bringing his hands up to massage your tits. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes, oh— please.” you begged him. “Please cowboy.”

With those two words, Joel spurted ropes of his warm seed inside of you, painting your walls a milky white. Feeling him fill you, you clenched one last time around his cock and let a blinding hot light envelope you as you rode out your own high.

You rolled off the man and laid next to him, catching your breath. “How was that? Did I pass the test?” you nudged him playfully.

Joel let out a laugh and you felt your heart flutter at the sound of him displaying genuine happiness. “You passed the test,” he chuckled. “But— there’s still plenty more for you to learn.”

“Well,” you shrugged. “You do make a pretty good teacher.”

Joel wrapped his arm around you and pulled you into his chest. “Sun will rise in a few hours, you should go back to sleep.” he hummed into your hair, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You closed your eyes, still in sheer bliss, and smiled.

You couldn’t believe that just a few hours earlier, you were so sure that Joel hated you.

You’d never been so wrong.

——— Taglist: ———

(I’m working on rebuilding a brand new taglist ever since returning to Tumblr. Let me know if you want to be added!)

@pedrosprincess

[6ebe]

You can literally make the exact same name feminine by spelling it the feminine way with a wen ending. Alwen or Aelwen are right there

Just saw an North American (probably Canadian based on their pfp and username) fic writer name their female “welsh” OC ‘alwyn’ which is a masculine name. As are all welsh names ending in -wyn

can north Americans pls stop taking the piss with Celtic names like we’re tired ????? How hard is it ??

[femsolid]

Last month, the Daily Mail reported on the shocking case of 15-year-old Olivia Maunder, who was told by Frimley Park Hospital to try a mindfulness app to deal with her ‘indescribable agony’. It turned out she had a tumour in her pelvis. On one of the many occasions she was taken to A&E, she was told to ‘calm down’. On another, she was told that she was just ‘mirroring [her] mum’s pain as she had had back problems’. She and her mum were told it was all down to stress. By the time the tumour was discovered, it was so extensive that surgery was no longer an option. Olivia now has a few months to live. I had a personal experience of this some years ago, when a friend lost the use of her legs and was offered mindfulness classes rather than a mobility scooter. No doubt she was expected to use the power of her mind to teleport. I wonder if men are told to go away and be mindful as much as women are? I very much doubt it. We didn’t need the arrival of terms like ‘cervix-havers’ and ‘menstruators’ – but never ‘prostate-havers’ and ‘ejaculators’ – to know that the medical profession has always treated women differently. Women are 50 per cent less likely to be diagnosed after having a heart attack, are given less CPR than men, and are more likely to be given sedatives – rather than painkillers – for pain than men. While the NHS has been busy erasing such hate-speech terms as ‘mother’ and ‘breastfeeding’ from their public-information bulletins, NHS maternity negligence claims have doubled in the past decade. Last year, it was revealed that more than 200 babies and nine mothers had died due to bad care at the Shrewsbury and Telford NHS Trust alone. Sadistic doctors no longer perform lobotomies on women as a cure for promiscuity, or diagnose any female behaviour unpleasing to men as ‘hysteria’, but as Caroline Criado-Perez’s 2019 book, Invisible Women, pointed out, the medical system is ‘from root to tip, systematically discriminating against women, leaving them chronically misunderstood, mistreated and misdiagnosed’. Women are still being told that extreme illnesses are all in their minds. Nicolette Baker, a woman from Cornwall, shrunk to three stone because her doctors insisted that she was anorexic, repeatedly sectioning her. She is dying of Superior Mesenteric Artery Syndrome. Kirsty Maxwell, from Perthshire, was repeatedly told she had an eating disorder and was given everything from Gaviscon to antidepressants. She had terminal cancer. Doctors certainly seem to know what a woman is when it suits them – someone you tell to ‘calm down, dear’. This is the most lethal kind of gaslighting. It needs to be tackled, not zhuzhed up with twaddle like mindfulness. It’s thought to be worth around $4 billion, taking in everything from meditation apps to the 60,000 books on Amazon including the word ‘mindfulness’ in their titles, including Mindful Finance, Mindful Leadership and Mindful Dog Owners. This is all despite the increasing evidence that too much navel-gazing can increase depression and decrease your ability to withstand pain – even though dealing with pain is precisely what mindfulness is often prescribed for.

[harry-sussex]

The media has branded Harry and Meghan a “flop” - there’s no coming back from that reputation.

That WSJ article just made my stomach drop. I have no idea how it’s possible that things have gotten this bad. The worst part is that there’s no way up from here - only further down. Rock bottom is a challenge at this point, and it feels like they’re shooting for it every single day.

This is what they wanted? This is better? They’re happy? No fucking way, man. No fucking way. If I know anything about Harry at all - and at this point, we all know Harry a bit too well - he must be outright miserable. There’s no way this whole thing has been worth it. None whatsoever. To someone like me, this is nauseating. I hate it. I hate this. I have always hated this, I always knew that they weren’t going to live the life they thought they would after they left, I’ve been saying for three years until I’m blue in the face - and the reception I’ve gotten from Sussex fans around the world has been horrific (you guys should see some of the shit that’s come through my inbox courtesy of the squad - so much for mental health, Harry and Meghan would be ashamed of them, but I digress).

If you give even a sliver of a shit about Harry, you’ll be able to get your head out of the sand and recognize that leaving was the absolute worst thing he could have done for himself. Look at him! Directionless! Lost! Misguided! Unproductive! Not to mention paranoid, tired, isolated, and he fact that he always looks miserable.

I will say it again and again and again - it. did. not. have. to. be. this. way. 3 years in - what do they have to show for it?:

A successful commercial venture? Nope - almost nothing has come out of Archetypes or anything else, as in the article. Bill Simmons called them “fucking grifters!” If he’s willing to say it loud and proud for the media to pounce on, how many are saying it behind closed doors?

More money? Their income hinges upon content they haven’t created yet. Clearly, these companies have no trouble pulling the plug on their deals and therefore cutting off the income. (Not for nothing - the more this happens, the less money they’ll be able to say they grossed by leaving the royal family. Since this looks like a trend, at what point do they stop and say ‘I probably would have more money at my disposal if I just stuck with the Duchy of Cornwall?’)

More exposure? Yeah, I guess, but look how shitty it is all the time. This is not the kind of exposure they were looking for.

More privacy? Totally goes against everything above, but they’ve never been more vulnerable to intrusive speculation. They invite it! Encourage it! Hand their personal lives over to the media and the public on a silver platter! The only thing keeping them ‘private’ is living in a gated community - imagine how private their personal life would be if they were in a palace instead?

Better treatment from the press? The American media are vultures too. The world media has made a fortune off of their bullshit. Even the gently critical ones that tell the hard truth - like the WSJ - show that the media does not care who you are if you deserve the criticism or if your bullshit is so completely out of this world that the story writes itself. Nothing is sacred, and it’s even worse now that there’s nothing standing in between them and the press.

The opportunity to provide universal service? What the hell have they done? One single Invictus Games? The occasional event? The occasional donation? They spend more time accepting awards for doing something rather than actually doing something!

Being happier? Bullshit, man. Look at Prince Harry. He hasn’t had a genuine smile on his face in public since 2021. I could go down a rabbit hole here, but you’re blinded by adoration if you can’t recognize he’s outright miserable and a complete shell of the person he used to be. That spark is completely gone.

I could go on, but these articles are starting to pop up in legitimate news sources. We’re not talking about the National Enquirer here - this is the Wall Street Journal. A legitimate news source is reporting on the way they’re failing to meet their own standards and the standards of those who control the purse strings - and how they’re nothing without their titles. If the money is the bottom line, then they need the star power behind their HRHs to make it. They don’t have anything else worth marketing. That star power is dwindling more and more as they get closer and closer to rock bottom and as they continue to bite the hand that has always fed them. Look at this from Vanity Fair:

So much for “service is universal.” They don’t get traction for any of their charity work because they spend so much time BITCHING. The world can’t focus on their service and help support those causes because they spend so much FUCKING TIME milking their only cash cow that nobody has any idea what kinds of causes they support! In fact - I’d bet that the only causes recognized by the general public are those they SUPPORTED BY WORKING FOR THE FAMILY. This isn’t about service - it’s about clout, star power, mystique, and the aura associated with the blurred lines between royal and celebrity. The service hasn’t been part of it for a long time. They’ve wronged their ship and there’s no way to right it anymore. That ship, for lack of better term, has sailed. The world doesn’t see them as charitable - the way they were seen when they were working for the family. The world sees them as washed up crybabies who don’t have anything to offer. It’s not just a “hater” thing anymore. They’ve lost their allure and that was the only thing they had going for them. Without that allure, they’re nothing compared to the Hollywood lights.

They’ve completely fucked up. I know it, you know it, Hollywood knows it, the Royal Family knows it. Harry and Meghan are the only people on earth who haven’t figured it out. They haven’t done a single thing they planned since leaving. They’re not happier, they don’t live a more private life, they don’t have more bandwidth to do charity work, they’re not making money hand over fist, they’re not successful in their new endeavors… they’ve completely fucked up.

Harry, in particular, has completely fucked up. He gave up a life of structure, service, wealth, luxury, success, protection, guidance, family, friendship for… this? And he’s pretending that it was the best decision he ever made? Please. He fucked up, and it will continue to come back to bite him day in and day out until he learns to sit down, shut up, get some help, and hire some competent people to make shit happen for him, because clearly he cannot direct the ship on his own.

This is not how it was supposed to be - not for us as fans, nor for them after leaving. It did not have to be this way. I’d bet anything that the part of Harry who wanted this is dwindling more and more each day. Someday, he’s going to regret the whole thing. The more I see him and hear him, the more I think he’s already there. He fucked up, and I think he’s finally on his way to realizing that they have to do something to make the world interested in them beyond their association with the family. That will diminish, and then they’ll really be shit out of luck.

What a complete and utter disaster, Henry. What a mess. With all due respect, Your Royal Highness - you fucked up.

[j-eryewrites]

The Great Game (II)

Part 20 of The Arbitrary Lives of the Occupants of 221 B Baker Street

Previous | Next

SERIES MASTER LIST | MAIN MASTER LIST

Word Count: 5.7k

Author's Note: Agh! Finally. It has been so long since I have been able to write for Sherlock, John, and Y/N. Man, am I glad to be back? The chapter is not as long as I hoped it would be, but I am proud of it nonetheless. I hope I haven't made you all wait too long for this chapter.

Warnings: Crime scenes, gore, mentions of violence, canon typical violence, Sherlock is Sherlock (Let me know if I missed anything)

There was something weird. Greg couldn’t grasp it as he sat across Sherlock, John, and Y/N. John was fine if Greg excluded the serial bomber/killer case that they had on their hands. No, John wasn’t the problem. It was Y/N and Sherlock.

Greg’s eyes narrowed on the two of them. Sherlock bore his ever-expressionless face, but Greg was a cop, which meant he could read people, even if it weren’t up to Sherlock’s standard. It was the eyes that gave the consulting detective away as they subtly glanced over at Y/N. Greg stifled a snicker. Sherlock, no matter how hard he tried, could never be subtle. The man’s nature was to be bold and straightforward, something that became even more apparent in areas outside his expertise, such as love.

“She lives in Cornwall,” Lestrade began upon realizing he’d been staring at them for a few minutes. “Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park, and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house. Told her to phone you. She had to read out from this pager.” Greg placed the small pager on the desk in front of them.

Sherlock immediately snatched it away like an overzealous toddler. “And if she deviated by one word, the sniper would set her off,” Sherlock finished.

“Or if you hadn't solved the case,” John added. He crossed his arms and looked down. The lines marking John’s face began to deepen just as they did during his time in the war.

“Oh… Elegant!” Sherlock smirked.

Greg, Y/N, and John collectively raised their brows. “Elegant?” Y/N questioned. Sherlock didn’t answer her.

“But what was the point? Why would anyone do this?” Lestrade asked, sensing something more behind Sherlock’s words.

“Oh, I can't be the only person in the world who gets bored,” Sherlock said, and an unwavering worry filled Y/N’s eyes.

“Sherlock, what do you mean by that?” Y/N wondered.

However, the pink phone buzzed before Sherlock could send her another glance. “You have one new message,” it chimed before beeping four times. The group froze.

“Four pips,” John noted.

“First test passed, it would seem” Sherlock pulled out the phone, and a new image displayed on the screen. “Here's the second.” They all leaned close to get a good look at the pixelated photo. “It's abandoned, wouldn't you say?” Sherlock questioned.

The image displayed was a car. Blood covered the seats and stained the inner lining of the vehicle. From the image alone, they all knew there was a murder. It was another puzzle Sherlock would need to solve.

“I'll see if it's been reported,” Lestrade said before turning his laptop to scan the incident reports filed by the station.

A new noise entered the fray as Greg clacked away at the keyboard. It was a knock on the door. The air soured as John, Sherlock, and Y/N looked to her, who stood there, Donovan.

Distaste marked her face as she scowled at Sherlock. She raised a phone. “Freak, it's for you.”

Y/n tensed upon hearing those words. No matter how often she came to Sherlock’s defense, that name always floated around. It was inescapable. She hated how a brilliant mind like his was hated and feared. Watching Sherlock calmly retrieve the phone from Donovan’s hand made Y/N’s heart clench. She knew he wasn’t okay with the name that haunted him. Maybe one day, she’d be able to get them to stop. Maybe Y/N could make Sherlock no longer hurt. She’d save him.

“Hello?” Sherlock lifted the phone to his ear.

A hesitant breath echoed over the phone. It was as if whoever was on the other end was terrified of breathing incorrectly. “It's okay that you've gone to the police,” the voice spoke. It was a young man based on intonation and pitch.

“Who is this?” Sherlock questioned. His phone gripped the phone tighter. “Is this you again?”

The voice ignored Sherlock’s questions and continued reading the message the true villain had written. “But don't rely on them. Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers. I never liked him.” The sound of traffic blared through the phone, and Sherlock’s breath hitched. The voice was somewhere crowded. “Carl laughed at me and her, so I stopped him laughing.”

Sherlock’s ears perked up. The killer had slipped up. A small smile crept onto his face, and his blue eyes peered over at Y/N, who was watching him. “Her?” Sherlock repeated. The voice over the phone was silent. An answer was not coming, so instead, Sherlock changed his approach. “And you've stolen another voice, I presume.”

“This is about you and me,” the voice said.

“Who are you? What's that noise?”

“The sounds of life, Sherlock. But don't worry…I can soon fix that,” The voice shuddered as a sob broke through. “You solved my last puzzle in nine hours. This time, you have eight.”

Withdrawing the phone from his ear, Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Whatever this criminal would throw at him, he’d solve it. He’d do anything to keep everyone safe.

“Okay… Great. We've found it!” Lestrade beamed. John and Y/N sat up, eager to hear what was in store. “The car was hired yesterday morning by Ian Monkford. Banker of some kind, City boy. Paid in cash. He told his wife he was going on a business trip but never arrived.”

Sherlock nodded his head. There was a momentary pause and a consensus agreement. All at once, Greg, Y/N, John, and Sherlock turned to leave the station and head to the crime scene. Sherlock led the way, and John and Lestrade trailed close behind. Y/N’s pace was slower than the others, and as she attempted to catch up to them, a head of dark curly hair stopped her.

Donovan held out her hand to Y/N’s chest, stopping her movement. She looked Y/N up and down before opening her mouth to speak. “You're still hanging around him.”

Y/N’s jaw clenched. “Yeah, well…”

“Opposites attract, I suppose,” Donovan interrupted.

Y/N’s eyes widened, and before her silence could turn into a confession, she exclaimed, “Sherlock and I aren’t–”

Donovan couldn't care less as she spoke over Y/N once more. “You should get yourself a hobby – stamps, maybe. Cosmetics. Safer.”

Scoffing, Y/N brushed Donovan’s hand away. “If anyone needs to get a hobby, it’s you. After all, you like sticking your nose into people’s business and marriages.” Y/N didn’t stay to see Donovan’s stunned face. After all, the woman wasn’t worth it.

_____

A deep sigh escaped Lestrade's mouth as he placed his hands on his hips, watching Sherlock dive his head into the abandoned car. "Before you ask," Lestrade began watching as Sherlock's mouth instinctively closed. "Yes, it's Monkford's blood. The DNA checks out."

John and Y/N frowned as they peered into the car. Policemen and women were hard at work scouring the crime scene for anything that could be evidence. Forgotten buildings between destruction and construction made it hard to determine what was part of the crime and what was just there. The noise of everything around them was deafening, drowning out the puzzle pieces of the crime scene. Blood was everywhere in the vehicle, and…

"No body," Sherlock stated, placing a small slip of paper into his pocket. Y/N's eyes narrowed as the sheet of white disappeared into his coat. She couldn't help but smile softly at herself.

"Not yet," Donovan corrected as they walked past, dropping off a new bag of potential evidence.

"Get a sample sent to the lab," Sherlock instructed before moving on to his next target: the distraught woman standing at the edge of the crime scene. "Mrs Monkford?" Sherlock asked.

The woman looked up at Sherlock, tears in her eyes and trails of mascara running down her face. "Yes." She looked Sherlock up and down, raising her head to meet his gaze. "Sorry, but I've already spoken with two policemen," Mrs. Monkford explained.

"No," John corrected. "We're not from the police, we're…" His eyes glanced over to Y/N, who gave him an uncertain shrug. They were from the police, but not the police. They solved crimes and cases, but it was more of a personal business consultation.

Suddenly, a sharp sniffle escaped Sherlock's mouth. With stunned faces, John and Y/N whirled around to see Sherlock's eyes pink and tears rolling out. The shock soon faded to reveal confusion. What the hell was Sherlock doing? It was the collective thought between the two friends.

"Sherlock Holmes," he tearfully introduced. "A very old friend of your husband's. We, um…we grew up together."

Y/N was the first to catch on to Sherlock's bluff. She had to admit it was compelling. Each pause and somber glance at Mrs. Monkford seemed to grow in sincerity.

"I'm sorry, who?" Mrs. Monkford took Sherlock's hand and shook it. "I don't think he ever mentioned you."

"Oh," Sherlock said, "he must have done. This is… this is horrible, isn't it?" He looked to John and Y/N, who did not waste time nodding solemnly to Sherlock's act. "I mean, I just can't believe it. I only saw him the other day. Same old Ian – not a care in the world."

The saddened look in Mrs. Monkford's eyes hardened upon hearing Sherlock's words. "Sorry, but my husband has been depressed for months." She stood up straighter to get a better look at Sherlock. "Who are you?" She asked once again.

If Y/N weren't looking, she wouldn't caught the slight smirk that flashed across Sherlock's face. Soon, the sadness in Sherlock's voice was replaced by his calculated nature. "Really strange that he hired a car. Why would he do that? It's a bit suspicious, isn't it?"

Shaking her head, Mrs. Monkford refuted Sherlock's question. "No, it isn't. He forgot to renew the tax on the car, that's all."

Instantly, the mask was back on and amped up the act a hundred times stronger. "Oh, well, that was Ian! That was Ian all over!" Sherlock exclaimed, earning looks from the policemen and women working the crime scene.

"No, it wasn't," Mrs. Monkford snapped.

"Wasn't it?" Any trace of deception was gone. Sherlock was back. "Interesting," he muttered before turning on the ball of his foot out of the crime scene.

Y/N and John darted after Sherlock; their lungs heaved when they reached him. John silently cursed Sherlock's long legs. "Why did you lie to her?" John wondered.

"People don't like telling you things," Sherlock explained smugly, "but they love to contradict you. Past tense, did you notice?"

"Sorry, what?" Y/N asked, trying to match her pace to Sherlock's.

"I referred to her husband in the past tense," Sherlock noted. "She joined in. Bit premature – they've only just found the car."

"You think she murdered her husband?" John questioned, quickly glancing over his shoulder at Mrs. Monkford, whose figure kept growing smaller and smaller with each step he took.

"Definitely not," Sherlock stated. "That's not a mistake a murderer would make."

"I see," John nodded. Y/N peeked out in front of Sherlock's body to look at John and raised her brows, asking for a clue. In response, he shrugged and shook his head, " Never mind, no, I don't. What am I seeing?"

"Where are we going now?" Y/N interjected as Sherlock led them to a cab waiting on the side of the road. Hoping in, he patted the seat next to him.

"Janus Cars," Y/N and John trickled into the leather seats. Once the doors closed, Sherlock pulled out the tiny card he had collected from the rental car. "Just found this in the glove compartment." He passed it over to John and Y/N, who took turns observing the paper. JANUS CARS was in all caps in the center of the business card.

"A bit bold for my taste," Y/N muttered, earning a few smiles from her companions.

______

It was a typical car garage. Mechanics scribbled on their clipboards as they diagnosed the issue with the cars in the shop. Y/N stood at the office window, watching them work so as not to acknowledge the overzealous man sitting behind the desk.

She had glanced at the man in his freshly pressed suit, sharp tan lines, and overly gelled hair. Working with Sherlock had its ups and downs, and one such down was running into men like Mr. Ewert, who believed they deserved the world just for existing.

"Can't see how I can help you, gentlemen," Mr. Ewert said. Y/N cleared her throat and continued to look out the window with a careful ear listening in. "And lady."

"Mr. Monkford hired the car from you yesterday," John read from Lestrade's notes.

Ewert nodded and slumped back into his office chair. His hands came to rest on top of the walnut-colored desk. "Yeah. Lovely motor," Ewert said. "Mazda RX-8. Wouldn't mind one of them myself!"

He flashed a smile and glanced around the room, looking for validation for the comment about the car.

Sherlock allowed the urge to roll his eyes to overcome him. He glanced over to Y/N. His eyes dissected every part of her as his heart pounded in her chest. Quickly shaking his head, he tore his focus off Y/N and onto the car, visible through the window. "Is that one?" He asked.

"No," Ewert shook his head. "They're all Jags." He peered at Sherlock and chuckled, "Yeah, I can see you're not a car man, eh?"

Sherlock frowned, unsure of what Ewert was insinuating. "But, er, surely you can afford one – a Mazda, I mean?"

Ewert sank even deeper into his chair and grinned. "Yeah, it's a fair point. But you know how it is." He looked to John, who sat in front of him. "It's like working in a sweetshop. Once you start picking at the licorice allsorts, when does it all stop, eh?"

"But you didn't know Mr. Monkford?" John asked, ignoring Ewert's attempts at relation.

"No," Ewert shook his head. "He was just a client. Came in here and hired one of my cars. No idea what happened to him. Poor sod!"

At this, Y/N peered over her shoulder and frowned. Her eyes caught sight of Sherlock's, who honed in on hers. His blue eyes flickered with the same realization. They had only come asking about Mr. Monkford and the car he hired—nothing about anything happening to the man.

"Nice holiday, Mr. Ewert?" Sherlock inquired, sending Y/N a brief smile before returning to his questioning subject.

"Eh?" Ewert frowned.

"You've been away, haven't you?" Sherlock clarified.

"Oh, the-the…" Ewert's relaxed expression faltered under Sherlock's harsh gaze. "No, it's, er, sunbeds, I'm afraid, yeah. Too busy to get away. My wife would love it, though – a bit of sun."

"Have you got any change for the cigarette machine?" Sherlock blurted.

"What?" Ewert asked.

"Well," Sherlock sighed. "I noticed one on the way in and I haven't got any change." He took out a bill and showed it to Ewert.

Y/N bit her lip, hiding her frown. Her and Mrs. Hudson's mission was to get Sherlock to stop. Mrs Hudson stated that Sherlock needed to pay her for all the damages in his flat, but Y/N knew it was because she genuinely cared. They both did, and with each day, Y/N cared more and more. Maybe she cared too much for her own good.

"I'm gasping," Sherlock pleaded.

Pulling out his wallet and flicking through the colorful bills, Ewert shook his head. "Um, well…No, sorry."

"Oh well," Sherlock said before strolling to the door. "Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Ewert. You've been very helpful." Noticing John and Y/N still stood in their places, Sherlock called out to them. "Come on, John and Y/N."

John hurriedly shut his book full of notes and pocketed them before pulling out his wallet. Meanwhile, Y/N pulled her attention away from the cars. It was honestly like watching some paint dry.

John opened the wallet and pulled out some change. "I-I've got change if you still want to, uh…" he motioned to the cigarette machine before catching sight of Y/N's eyes. Ashamed, he looked down and hid his wallet away.

"Nicotine patches," Sherlock proudly announced. "Remember? I'm doing well."

"I told you to cut back on those, Sherlock," Y/N hissed. She'd swore she'd gotten everything out of the flat the other day. However, Sherlock's elusiveness always got the best of her.

"I need them to think," Sherlock defended.

"Well, that doesn’t sound very healthy to me," she retorted. Sherlock huffed and peered down at the woman.

Sensing a brewing argument, John stepped in and took charge. "So what was that all about?"

"I needed to look inside his wallet," Sherlock stated.

"Why?" John wondered.

"Cause he's a liar/Mr. Ewert's a liar." Y/N and Sherlock said at the same time.

Sherlock gazed down at Y/N in awe. A proud smile adorned his face as he hopped in the cab awaiting them. As John and Y/N made their way into the car, they found their path stopped by Sherlock.

"What are you doing?" John asked as he was pushed out of the cab and onto the curb with Y/N.

"Going to the lab," Sherlock announced. John and Y/N frowned. "I need silence."

"He means he doesn't want us going with him."

"An astute observation, Y/N." Sherlock sat back in the seat. "We need beans and milk."

With that, the cab door closed, and Sherlock was gone. Y/N groaned into her hand as John cursed, hailing another cab.

It was a couple of moments before another cab came around, and the two of them scrambled inside. Once the door was closed and on their way back to Baker Street, Y/n turned to John.

"Tea at mine?"

John nodded. "How's Bjørn? Haven't seen him for a while."

"He's good." Y/N chuckled. I'm starting to think Bjørn's in the right with his dislike of Sherlock.

John snickered, "the animals always know."

"That they do."

A wave of giggles filled the back seat of the cab. Y/N smiled. She was glad she had a friend in John. It was safe to say John felt the same way.

______

The lab was quiet—just as Sherlock liked it—had. It was too quiet now. His thoughts thundered and screamed at him—thoughts of Y/N, the cases, who M may be, and most of all, thoughts of Y/N.

The shoes that started this all were found in her flat. It was a message not just about the shoes but also about her. M knew. M knew Sherlock held sentiment towards her. That Sherlock loved her. Sherlock shook his head. Sherlock had to protect her from M, and so to protect her, he'd make himself stop loving her. He had to, even if he knew it was an impossible task. Sherlock had to make himself stop, even if he knew he never could. He loved her. So, deciding the next best thing was to make her stop caring for him. Sherlock was good at that; that task itself was not impossible; just figuring out how was the next step.

While his mind configured a plan, Sherlock narrowed his eyes and peered into the telescope before him. He pulled back and frowned. Just then, the pink phone on the countertop beside him rang.

"Hello?" Sherlock answered.

"The clue's in the name," the voice announced. "Janus Cars."

Sherlock furrowed his brows. "Why would you be giving me a clue?"

"Why does anyone do anything?" The voice spoke. "Because I'm bored. We were made for each other, Sherlock." The man reading the message sobbed.

"Then talk to me in your own voice," Sherlock demanded.

"Patience," the man said, and the call ended. Sherlock sighed and glanced around the room. It was empty except for him, and he grew to hate the loneliness he felt. He missed Y/N and John's presence. He missed his friends. He missed her. Groaning, Sherlock began to realize how difficult his plan would be, and for the first time in his life, he was not sure he had the strength to see it through. But for now, a case needed to be solved. Solving the case was the best way to keep those he loved safe until he could figure something else out.

_______

"How much blood was on that seat, would you say?" Sherlock asked Lestrade.

"How much? About a pint," Lestrade replied, shoving his hands in his coat to conceal his shivers. The garage where the police had stored the car from the scene only seemed to amplify the freezing temperatures outside. It appeared that even John and Y/N were inflicted by the cold. All except Sherlock. Lestrade peered at Sherlock and the coat he wore. Now that he thought of it, Lestrade wondered if he'd ever seen Sherlock shiver. Maybe he needed to ask Sherlock where he purchased his coat.

"Not 'about," Sherlock corrected. "Exactly a pint. That was their first mistake. The blood's definitely Ian Monkford's, but it's been frozen."

"Frozen?" Greg repeated.

"There are clear signs," Sherlock noted, and Y/N sighed, recalling the frozen and boiling blood experiment Sherlock had conducted in his flat not too long ago. "I think Ian Monkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago, and that's what they spread on the seats."

"Who did?" John wondered.

"Janus Cars," Sherlock answered, murmuring under his breath, "The clue's in the name."

"The god with two faces," Y/N blurted, missing Sherlock's proud smile. "Sorry, I was really interested in mythology as a kid. "

"Exactly," Sherlock beamed.

"Mmm," John hummed, looking at how Sherlock gazed at Y/N. Upon hearing John's gaze, Sherlock tore his eyes away and strolled to the car.

"They provide a very special service," Sherlock began. "If you've got any kind of a problem – money troubles, bad marriage, whatever – Janus Cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was up to his eyes in some kind of trouble – financial, at a guess; he's a banker. Couldn't see a way out. But if he were to vanish if the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the driver's seat…"

"So where is he?" John asked.

"Colombia," Sherlock replied.

"Colombia?!" Lestrade gasped with his eyes growing wide. Dealing with police affairs in London was hard enough as it was, but to add a case involving another country? He certainly was not paid enough for that.

"Mr. Ewert of Janus Cars had a twenty thousand Colombian peso note in his wallet…" Sherlock glanced at John and Y/N, hoping they'd connect.

"That's why you asked for change," Y/N said.

Sherlock nodded. "…Quite a bit of change, too. He told us he hadn't been abroad recently, but when I asked him about the cars, I could see his tan line clearly. No one wears a shirt on a sunbed. That, plus his arm."

"His arm?" Lestrade asked, confused by all the inside knowledge shared between John, Y/N, and Sherlock.

"Kept scratching it," Sherlock explained. "Obviously irritating him and bleeding."

John opened his mouth to say something when Sherlock cut him off, anticipating his question. "Why? Because he'd recently had a booster jab. Hep-B, probably. It is difficult to tell at that distance. Conclusion: he'd just returned from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Columbia. Mrs Monkford cashes in the life insurance, and she splits it with Janus Cars."

"M-Mrs Monkford?" John questioned.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Oh yes. She's in on it, too." Lestrade felt his head growing dizzy from all the back-and-forth. The calling of his name snapped him out of the daze. Looking to who called him, Lestrade found Sherlock, who was ready to relay his next instruction.

"Now go and arrest them, Inspector. That's what you do best. We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved. I am on fire!" Sherlock's cheer and a particular pink phone ringing echoed throughout the garage.

Sherlock answered, placing the phone on speaker. Lestrade, John, and Y/N grew silent as they listened. "He says you can come and fetch me. Help. Help me, please."

______

It wasn't until they had stopped at Speedy's to recuperate that Y/N realized her exhaustion. Her head hung heavy as it rested against the table. Once full of eggs, toast, and some sausage, her plate was now licked clean. John was in a similar state. However, he chose to lean back in the chair rather than collapse on the table. Sherlock, however, sat tall. His spine was as straight as a needle, and his blue eyes were observed in his companion's sluggish behavior.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock uttered.

"Mmm," John groaned. "You realize we've hardly stopped for breath since this thing started? Has it occurred to you…?"

"Probably," Sherlock answered.

John shook his head as Y/N tilted hers to look up at him and Sherlock. "No, " John continued. "Has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into Y/N’s flat, the dead kid's shoes – it's all meant for you."

At the mention of all the cases, the shoes, the break-in. The group grew quiet. Y/N gulped and suddenly wished she hadn't stuffed her face with food a few minutes prior.

"…Yes, I know." Sherlock was the first to break the silence.

"Is it him, then? Moriarty?" John asked.

Y/N's ears perked up. There was something about that name—Moriarty. Yes, it was part of the case. "M" equaled Moriarty, but that didn't interest her. Something long and forgotten called to her via the name. Although a part of her desired to understand, another feared what would happen if it was discovered.

"Perhaps," Sherlock muttered. The pink phone on the table buzzed before chiming three times. The three of them peered at the photo that appeared on the screen. While Sherlock's face was confused, John and Y/N's eyes widened with recognition. The bleached blonde hair in a choppy bob, well-defined side part, dark purple eye shadow, red lips, and big, bold, shiny earrings could only be one person.

"That could be anybody," Sherlock grumbled.

"Well, it could be, yeah." John shrugged. "Lucky for you, Y/N and I have too much time on our hands."

"How d'you mean?" Sherlock asked, glancing between the two of them.

"Lucky for you, Mrs. Hudson, Y/N, and I watch far too much telly," John clarified. Turning over his shoulder, John pointed to the television in the cafe's corner.

The woman from the photo appeared on the screen. She said With a bright, cheery smile, "Thank you, Tyra! Doesn't she look lovely, everybody, now?"

Suddenly, the pink phone rang, pulling the group's attention away from the telly.

"Anyway, speaking of silk purses and sows' ears…," the television continued.

"Hello?" Sherlock answered.

"This one… is a bit… defective. Sorry. She's blind," the voice cracked. Y/N's eyes widened, and she quickly covered her mouth to silence any leaking noise. "This is… a funny one. I'll give you… twelve hours."

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asked.

"I like… to watch you… dance," the woman gasped, and the phone call ended.

Y/N paled as she looked at Sherlock. She always called it 'dancing' when Sherlock solved his cases. That's the only way she could explain it to others. With each puzzle, the fear in Y/N's stomach pooled. Yes, this was for Sherlock, but she began questioning her role in it all. Not everything could be a coincidence: her flat, the familiarity of Moriarty, now the dancing. It all leads to her being a target, too.

The telly seemed to deafen Y/N's anxious thoughts,"…continuing into the sudden death of the popular TV personality, Connie Prince. Miss Prince, famous for her make-over programs, was found dead two days ago by her brother in the house they shared in Hampstead…"

As they watched the television, Y/N made a silent prayer. A prayer that they'd solve these cases, catch whoever Moriarty was, and, most of all, have everyone make it out in the end. Peering over at Sherlock, she prayed that he'd solve it in time and, if her worst fears were confirmed, save her.

______

Y/N only needed one glance at the body before she was confident she was going to be sick. She'd seen bodies before. It was all a part of the job, but after the dancing men case, seeing the dead only made things harder. Y/N blamed it on her empathy. She cared too much about people. It didn't matter if they were people she knew, watched on the television, or just everyday folks whom she passed by on the street. People were people, and no one deserved to die in a manner like this. No one deserved to be killed.

"Connie Prince," Lestrade stated as he looked down at the body on the slab. Sherlock circled around the table, scanning every aspect of the deceased woman. "Fifty-four. She had one of those make-over shows on the telly. Did you see it?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head as Y/N and John nodded.

Lestrade took note of John and Y/N's reaction and turned to the conversation with them, allowing Sherlock the space to work his magic. "Very popular. She was going places," Lestrade said.

Before John could concur, Sherlock interjected, "Not anymore."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the group, and Y/N felt the contents of her stomach stir. She swore there was a bathroom somewhere down the hall.

"So," Sherlock continued, unaffected by the silence he created. "Dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound," he noted, looking at the cut along the palm of her hand. "Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream. Good night, Vienna."

"I suppose," John murmured.

Sherlock stopped prowling around the body and frowned. "Something's wrong with this picture," he said.

"Eh?" Lestrade raised a brow.

"Can't be as simple as it seems," Sherlock explained. "Otherwise, the bomber wouldn't be directing us towards it. Something's wrong. John?"

"Mmm?" John hummed, looking away from the body.

"The cut on her hand: it's deep; would have bled a lot, right?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded, "Yeah." Then he began to walk around the body just as Sherlock had, hoping to uncover the fault in the picture. However, no matter how much he scrunched his face, he could find anything.

"But the wound's clean – very clean and fresh. How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?" Sherlock questioned.

"Eight, ten days," John answered. Immediately, his eyes widened. "The cut was made later."

"After she was dead?" Greg asked in clarification, stepping to the body to look at the cut.

"Must have been. The only question is," Sherlock wondered, "how did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system?" Sherlock whirled around to John and Y/N. "You two want to help, right?"

"Of course," John replied. Y/N nodded, trying to keep her food down.

"Connie Prince's background – family history, everything. Give me data," Sherlock instructed.

"Right," John said, making haste to leave the room. He flashed Y/N a look of concern as the two of them left the room, who whispered she was fine.

"There's something else that we haven't thought of," said Lestrade once Y/N and John were gone.

"Is there?" Sherlock pondered.

"Yes. Why is he doing this," Lestrade began, "the bomber? If this woman's death was suspicious, why point it out?"

"Good Samaritan," Sherlock jokingly stated.

"…who press-gangs suicide bombers?" questioned Lestrade.

Sherlock frowned. "Bad Samaritan."

"I'm – I'm serious, Sherlock." Lestrade pulled Sherlock to face him, staring him deep in the eye. "Listen, I'm cutting you slack here; I'm trusting you, and so is John and Y/N – but out there somewhere, some poor bastard's covered in Semtex and is just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So just tell me - what are we dealing with?"

"Something new," Sherlock said with an unconscious smile growing on his face. "Come with me, Gary."

"Where are we going?" Greg asked as Sherlock hastily left the room without answering him. "…and it's Greg."

It was not long before Greg discovered their destination, 221 B Baker Street. However, he was still unsure why Sherlock had him come along. His dark eyes watched as Sherlock paced and twirled around the room, muttering to himself. Sometimes, Lestrade questioned whether or not this was all a show. Sherlock seemed to enjoy impressing an audience, not that Greg doubted Sherlock's abilities. The consulting detective was a genius; that knowledge was a certainty. It was the performance, the pauses, eye rolls, and smirks as he deducted each crime scene. It was almost as if Sherlock was excessively enjoying this all.

"Connection, connection, connection," Sherlock mumbled. "There must be a connection. Carl Powers was killed twenty years ago. The bomber knew him; admitted that he knew him." Lestrade nodded, trying to follow along." The bomber's iPhone was in stationery from the Czech Republic. First hostage from Cornwall; the second from London; the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent." Sherlock stopped and looked at his makeshift mural on the living room wall with pictures of evidence from each puzzle. "What's he doing – working his way round the world? Showing off?"

"Sound like someone I know," Lestrade wanted to say, but the pink phone rang before he could.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" the old woman repeated to Sherlock. "Joining the… dots. Three hours. Boom… boom," she sobbed before the phone was cut off.

Sherlock lowered the phone. The game had begun long ago, and now it was nearing its end. He could feel it deep within him and was determined to win.

_____

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_____

[gatheringfiki]

The following ficlet was written by @lazysaturdayonthebeach based on this photoset.

DarkHawk, T

You might also be able to read this story on AO3.

If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a comment either in replies or on AO3.

I Will Always Choose You

—

Cornwallis surrendered and the war was over.  But that wasn’t good enough for George Warleggan, who lost several ships to the guns of the American Navy.  He wanted personal revenge and looked for it by constantly questioning the motives of Ross Poldark’s frequent American visitor.

“I was born and raised in Bristol,”  Jim replied when George started harassing him about his relationship with Ross one evening during a fete at Trenwith.  “My mother still owns an inn there.  I lived in South Carolina but I was an Englishman, like most Americans.  What are you suggesting?  You don’t agree with the King’s decisions?”

The bully was defeated for the evening and hated Jim and Ross all the more for it.  No one could explain his constant anger with Ross.  He had been at it since school and Ross was bored with his ill manners, but refused to engage.

Jim, on the other hand, was exceedingly annoyed and not afraid to point out George’s flaws.

One night, the reason became obvious.  An unusually drunken George accosted Ross in a water closet and tried to kiss him.  Ross just pushed him off and called a servant to take care of George.

A few hours later, George was slightly more sober but tried the same thing with Jim.  Unfortunately, Ross spotted him following Jim.  He yanked George off and threw him across the room.  Only Jim’s quick reaction saved the Warleggan fool from a potentially fatal tumble down the stairs.  Everyone saw and George was humiliated.

In revenge, he began suggesting that Ross’ relationship with the sailor was inappropriate.  Despite several men of rank pointing out that George himself had several men that visited more often and more regularly, he would not let it go.  

George’s Uncle Cary had the gall to mention it to Jim several months later on his next visit.

Jim had had enough.  During his next voyage, he made arrangements to spirit Ross away to America where Warleggan had no influence.  Jim might have only built his company back to three ships, but those ships provided him ample income and good standing in his community.  Ross would be safe with him.

When word came from Trenwith that Ross had threatened George and the Warleggans were pushing for charges, Jim was in Bristol securing contacts.  He left everything in the capable hands of his senior captain and raced to Nampara on a borrowed horse.

Ross was drunk.  Jim stormed in and started packing for him.  He plied Ross with kisses and more drink until he was completely willing to do as he was asked.  Jim threw the bags over Seamus’ back and pulled Ross up behind him on the borrowed horse.  They were sailing for America on the tide, Seamus included.

They fought most of the voyage.  More than once, Jim threatened to have Ross keelhauled if he didn’t sober up and think straight.  He never would, but the arguments were ugly.  Jim was mad at himself, which did not help, sure that they should have left long ago.

Anchored off Barbados for deliveries, trading, and shore leave, the Eagle rocked gently.  Jim napped in a hammock in the rigging.  They had fought again the night before and he was avoiding Ross.

“I’m sober and I made coffee,” Jim heard shouted from the deck, “Please come down and talk to me.”

Well, that was a change, and an improvement.

Jim slid down a nearby rope and stood, arms crossed, staring at the infuriating love of his life.  “What?”

Ross held out the coffee cup and waited.

Jim took a deep drink and sighed, happily satisfied.  “This is good.  Did you make it?  Cook’s coffee isn’t this good.”

Ross smiled, relieved, “I did.  And I may have bribed Jonah to bring fresh eggs, bread, and ham so I could make your favorite breakfast.”

Jim smiled too.  He was so tired of arguing.  All he wanted was to keep Ross alive and safe.  Maybe he didn’t do the best job, but here they were, far from England, and no more Warleggan threat.

“I’m sorry,” Ross said quietly, “I can’t imagine how panicked you must have been.”  He put a tentative arm around Jim and was accepted.  “Can we go eat and talk?”

Talking lasted hours.  Cook left dinner outside their door, knocked, and disappeared.  Jim brought it in, wrapped in only a blanket.  Ross lay across the bed, barely covered, exhausted, and utterly satisfied.  Jim plopped the tray on the bed and stroked Ross’ sweaty curls off his forehead.

Ross smiled up at him, rousing to the smell of stew and biscuits.  “Why are you here?  I mean, I’ve been such an idiot.  Why are you still here?”

Sighing softly, Jim replied, “To save souls.  I thought you understood.”

A tear slipped down Ross’ cheek, “Will you save mine?  I thought you doubted my feelings.”

Another deep sigh, Jim did that a lot since leaving Bristol, “That remains to be seen.  I’m trying.  And I did doubt, but that didn’t change how I feel.”

The journey from Barbados up through Eastern Caribbean islands, required more layers each day.  They had smooth sailing, good weather, excellent trading, and not a single sighting of English colors, but the cool fall weather made itself felt.  By the time the moored in Charleston, an unusually early snow dusted the ground and Christmas was only weeks away.  Ross watched proudly as Jim made sure each crewman was well paid and given time to spend the holidays with their families.

Taking his own advice, Jim took his family, Ross and Jonah, to celebrate Ross’ first Christmas in America at Jim’s farm near Camden.  The fields were bare after harvest, covered by a layer of white, but the farm was far from barren and quiet.  Jonah’s children, and the children of several retired sailors, ran around laughing and making snow angels.   

Ross laughed too, jumping down from Seamus and grabbing snow.  He quickly formed a snowball and targeted Jim.  Soon, they were barricaded behind a trough and a fence and joined by the children in a massive snowball fight.  Adults stopped their work and came out to watch the chaos.  Life was always interesting when Jim was home.

They spent Christmas surrounded by people who loved them and festive celebration.  Ross thought it was his best Christmas ever and he hoped for many more together.  After a huge meal of roast turkey, something Ross had never eaten before but loved, mashed potatoes, corn, carrots, and fresh baked bread, he slipped into a stupor of fullness and contentment in Jim’s favorite overstuffed chair.  Jim locked the door to his study and squeezed himself in next to Ross.

Several hours later, Jim awoke to a nervous Ross kneeling beside the chair.  He held a small velvet bag in his hand and puffed his cheeks on a few exhales.  Jim reached out and stroked his cheek.  “You okay?”

“Uhh…” Ross began, “I got you something.”  He puffed again, clearly nervous.  He opened the bag and took out a ring that matched his own, except that it was engraved with an H instead of a P on the signet.  “I can’t marry you.  I wish I could.  I’m not even sure I can express exactly how I feel…”

Jim closed both his hands around Ross’ clenched fingers.

“It’s made with a nugget of Wheal Grace copper that I’ve carried around in honor of my parents and for luck.”

“You gave that up for me?”

“I gave up everything for you.  At least, that’s how I felt.  That’s why I was so angry and distraught.  I didn’t feel like it was my decision.”

Jim dropped his hands and sat back.

“But it was.  I was just slow to understand.”  Ross reached out and took Jim’s hand.  “I could have left at any port and gotten a letter of credit and passage back to England.”  He paused and took a deep breath.  “But I didn’t because I chose you.  I chose you over everyone and everything I’ve ever known.”

Jim leaned back into Ross’ space.

“Remember when we talked about you saving my soul?  You saved it.  You saved me.  I haven’t had a nightmare about the war, or the Warleggans, or even worried about my family since before Barbados.”  He leaned even closer and touched his forehead to Jim’s hand.

Jim used his other hand to nudge Ross under the chin until they were looking in each other’s eyes again.  “I will always choose you.  Always.”

Ross slipped the ring on Jim and kissed him.

That was the best, but not last, present that Christmas.  On Boxing Day, a messenger arrived from Jim’s lawyer in Charleston.  He carried news of the tin strike at Wheal Leisure, along with a substantial letter of credit for the first year’s profits.  They purchased a whole side of beef from the butcher in the town and had another feast the next day.  Later, they purchased interests in several new railway companies with the mining profits, with the intent to expand Jim’s, their, shipping company.

They could have spent the rest of their lives as gentlemen of leisure, but a former British Army Captain and a former cabin boy turned ship owner weren’t ready to be idle.  So they spent summers sailing and winters riding the rails to see the expanding American frontier.  But they always returned to the farm for Christmas.

[royal-scoop-submit]

A pro-Camill gossip blog?!

Me: Follows immediately!

Some surprisingly popular takes I have if you don’t mind me sharing:

I’m glad Camilla has her rightful title of Her Majesty The Queen. She should have been styled as Princess of Wales too as was her right but I can let that go for her place in history as Queen.

I used to love Will and Cathy but their thirsty antics in the run up to the Coronation (while still being lazy) turned me right off and they’ve only gotten worse. William having his team brief the media that his father has never done anything impactful but was just a basic ribbon cutter is unforgivable.

KP and William’s leadership has been exposed as a dumpster fire now that he’s left to his own devices and doesn’t report up to His Majesty THE KING.

It was always Will and Harry’s plan to make themselves defacto “half in half out” on The King’s accession. But Harry jumped the gun when he met Meghan…and ironically their bad behaviour have now allowed W&C to basically operate as half in half out royals but be praised for it while H&M are vilified.

I wonder if the Wales fandom who are in such a rush for KC to die or abdicate actually think through (1) who is actually going to do the work or being King and (2) who would be the new media punching bag when C&C are no longer there because Fleet Street will always need one. Are they ready for it to be Willy or one of the kids?

I am also extremely glad Camilla got her rightful title of Queen. I agree she should have been styled as Princess of Wales but I'm actually glad she wasn't. Diana fans would have pitched a fit, and although I know their opinions don't matter, I think for Camilla's sake the Duchess of Cornwall title was better. I don't think she wanted to be associated with Diana at all, and I don't blame her. Besides, "Princess of Wales" could refer to Diana or Kate or Mary of Teck or Queen Alexandra. But "Duchess of Cornwall" is unique to Camilla. (Yes, I know it's a subsidiary title of PoW. That's why it's unique- everyone in the past simply went by PoW.)

As for the Waleses. I don't hate them, but I am so disappointed in them. I'm starting to realize that they don't care about the monarchy. William didn't just have his team brief the media about his father never doing anything impactful, he literally said it. He said he wanted to be the first royal to actually do something. Here is the quote: "That’s what I’m trying to find my way in, is I care about so many things, and previously the family have been very much spotlighting brilliantly and going round and highlighting lots—I want to go a step further—I want to actually bring change and I want to bring people to the table who can do the change if I can’t do it." (Source)

This is actually the first thing that really put me off with William. Downplaying Charles's work with the Prince's Trust and his environmentalism as "spotlighting brilliantly" and "highlighting lots"? Downplaying Camilla's work with victims of domestic abuse? The King and Queen have both ACTUALLY BROUGHT CHANGE. The Prince's Trust has helped so many disadvantaged young people, all of whom would, I'm sure, say that their lives were indeed changed. Camilla spearheaded an initiative to create wash bags for victims of DV at SafeLives. She's also helped people independently, like the wounded soldier Harry Parker who she inspired to go to art school.

Even besides that, William made it sound like raising awareness for causes isn't helping change come about. He's wrong. Just by supporting their charities, the King and Queen have made a difference.

I have more sympathy for Kate than William. I understand why in the past her engagement numbers have been low- raising three kids is an insanely difficult job, and I know she always wanted to be a mother. I also understand Kate needing time to recover from chemotherapy, because it is really hard. But here's the thing. I assumed that when Charles became king, she'd step it up and begin to do way more public engagements. So I was baffled when I read the articles about how she may "never go back to work like before." First of all, she never worked very much in the first place. Second, SHE'S SUPPOSED TO BECOME QUEEN ONE DAY. Now that her kids are school-aged, she needs to work more, not less. I'm starting to think she's just running out of excuses. If Kate actually cares about the monarchy, she needs to make a timeline for when she'll start working again and follow it.

I don't understand them. Last year I was saying they should fire their PR team. Now I realize that they just won't cooperate with their PR team. They're the problem.

Interesting theory about the half-in half-out thing. I think if Charles had become king earlier, he might have been more reasonable than QEII and considered letting H&M be half-in half-out, for the sake of keeping the family firm strong. He always wanted a slimmed-down monarchy, and for that to work Harry and Meghan would have needed to at least be there sometimes. Losing them was too risky. I don't think he would have allowed W&K to do the same, though, since William is the heir.

Charles loves his sons too much for his own good. Losing his relationship with Harry was a huge blow and I think the reason he isn't putting his foot down and telling William to step up is because he's afraid of damaging that relationship too. Plus, he has cancer, so I think he's focusing more on his health and his duties than what William's doing right now.

When King Charles dies there's a good chance the monarchy will be finished. Done. William's popularity will plummet and I honestly don't think he'll care if the whole institution is abolished. And that is what I'm worried about.

[gawrkin]

Do you consider Mark, the Arthurian king of Cornwall, and Conomor, the historical king who turns up in several Saints' Lives, to be the same figure? If they are, does this mean Iseult was only one of a series of women unhappily married to King Mark and dying directly or indirectly because of his actions, with the final wife being Tryphine?

For Mark, his killers in legend range from Tristan and Iseult's son to the grandson of a brother he murdered. For Conomor the Cursed, his killer is the son he tried to kill, Tremeur. It seems then Mark was a guy hated by even his own kinsmen.

Semi-leaning into that, I suppose.

The primary evidence for the connection between Mark and Conomor, is that "Drustanus Stone"

Which has hilarious, conincidental and sobering implications if true.

[sulleeu]

MY OC, pt. 2

not my usual post, but I had to introduce my OC to you guys. i might include her in a future story perhaps :p pic credits @goreyirl !!

➽─────────────────────❥

Jordan Hatchett, formerly Smith, was born into a wealthy family in the UK. Her father was often away on business trips in America, and she missed him dearly. Jordan was raised by her nanny and grew into a beautiful, upper-class woman. By the age of fifteen, she and her mother moved to America to live with her father. Jordan was a curious child and read many books, which led her to beg her father to take her along on his business trips.

One day, he was called to sign a contract with Cornwall Kerosene & Tar in New Hanover. After some sweet talking, Jordan convinced her father to take her with him. They stayed in a hotel in Valentine for nearly a month. Her father was out of town frequently, and she quickly grew bored of staying inside. She would take long walks alone around the town and through the forests, admiring nature. It inspired her to write. Jordan would often sit by the river on a rock, where she could be alone, until one day she was caught off guard by a man sneaking around with a bow, paying her no attention. He appeared to be hunting. She watched as he aimed his bow at a deer and missed his shot. He cursed under his breath, and she laughed, which piqued his interest.

That was how Jordan met Sebastian Hatchett. She soon learned that he was only a few years older than her and a member of a small outlaw gang. He began visiting her hotel room every day when her father was out, and they would talk for hours, both sitting on the bed. By the end of the month, as she was preparing to leave Valentine, Sebastian confessed his love for her. She promised to return one day, and they both agreed not to get involved with anyone else until they met again.

Three years later, after her mother passed away, Jordan decided to return to Valentine on her own, hoping to see Sebastian again. She stayed in the same hotel room and visited the same spot by the river where they had first met. Luckily for her, Sebastian still visited that spot at least once a week when he had the time. They reunited, and after a week of catching up, Sebastian proposed. She accepted, and they were soon married.

Sebastian introduced her to his gang, and she began living with them in his tent. He taught her how to ride a horse, handle a gun, and take care of herself. Jordan lived with them for eight years, enjoying the adventurous life of an outlaw. But one day, the gang was attacked by a rival gang, and many members were killed, including Sebastian. She was the only one who survived, thanks to Sebastian's sacrifice. The law quickly arrived, and she was arrested and locked in a cell.

Jordan was transferred to Sisika and charged with murder and theft, sentenced to death. Fortunately, she managed to escape. With no money or clothes, she found work on a ranch, keeping a low profile while trying to rebuild her life. She mourned her husband deeply.

At the ranch, she grew fond of a mare named Maya. The ranch owner, being kind, allowed her to keep the horse, and the two quickly formed a strong bond. After a year, Jordan had saved enough money to get back on her feet. With her earnings, she bought guns, some new clothes, and became determined to seek revenge for her husband's death.

— some facts about Jordan:

she likes to keep her hair in a plait

she hates being dirty and messy

she hates being taken care of, but loves taking care of her loved ones

she's perfect for undercover jobs when it comes to blending in the upper-class due to her education back in The UK

she slowly began losing her accent over the years and started picking up on the american one

she hates overcrowded places and prefers to be alone

her previous horse's name was Isleen, but she got sold for horse racing after Jordan's capture

she's hot-headed and stubborn, when going through something, she tends to completely shut down and doesn't like to talk about it

she likes to read and write about romance

she has no contact with her father, doesn't know his whereabouts, she had a strong bond with him despite his absence most of her life

her mother was very strict and often yelled at her, which caused Jordan to hate noise

her mother died due to a mental illness which may be a hereditary disease, she lives in fear of ending up like her mother

she loves flowers and sitting by the river

her favourite color is blue

hates when people lie to her, and doesn't trust anyone after Sebastian

she's claustrophobic

her favourite town is Strawberry, because it reminds her of Sebastian (they used to visit that town a lot, and stayed in the hotel there)

she loves cats, but is scared of dogs, beacuse when she was 8, she got attacked by a stray which left a scar on her face

her representative animal is a fox

she wears Sebastian's hat

[rysingsun]

Hypothetical Quest for Camelot sequel

I know Quest for Camelot isn’t the most well-known movie, but it’s a nostalgic favorite of my childhood.

I’d love to see a sequel one day. Would be great if blind people and conjoined twins were writers or at least significantly consulted. I’ve read and watched a few reviews on the disability rep in it over the last couple years, revisiting after each rewatch. Here are two I revisited after today’s rewatch of the movie here and here. What I’ve gathered is while the rep is not the best ever, it’s not the worst ever either. Some lines could have been left out or changed and the movie would’ve been better for it (“Frankly we’re the reason cousins shouldn’t marry,” about the conjoined twins. “I wish you could see it,” proceeds to not bother to describe the view to the blind man).

As I said, I am very nostalgic for the movie. Though I better understand some of the movie’s flaws now than I did as a child, I would like to keep this conversation as a “Yes, and” sequel to the original film rather than a reboot of the original movie.

(my thoughts below)

Things I would NOT want to see:

- a new romance storyline (please god no not every movie needs one they’re always rushed at best, plus the first movie already had a decent one, we’re good). If the two leads are married in this movie, that’s fine. If it builds to them getting married, sure. Unless they’re expanding on the Garett and Kayley relationship (they did NOT marry at the end of the first, they were knighted), I would prefer the focus is kept on platonic relationships.

- A “i hate my spouse” or “stupid marital misunderstanding” storyline (narrows eyes at Mulan and Frozen sequels).

- Trying to force Kayley into a feminine or maternal role she doesn’t want only to prove to everyone that it’s okay if she’s different and doesn’t wear dresses. This wasn’t an issue in the first movie. It doesn’t need to be a whole thing in the sequel. She’s a knight, it’s already feminist. She doesn’t need to “prove herself” or call attention to how feminine or tomboy she is in that way. I just don’t want the sequel to be dedicated to any of these characters needing to justify their identity/existence. The first movie already established they were “outcasts” and the ending symbolizes acceptance and community and all that jazz. Don’t retread this ground.

Things I would like to see:

- Another blind character or maybe multiple. One review I read pointed out that although it made sense given the setting and his backstory that he didn’t, Garrett would have benefitted from knowing other blind people. I’d love to see that in a sequel. Maybe Garrett has become the mentor to a blind child, as Kayley’s dad was for him (not caused by an accident— that was done last movie). Or maybe now that Camelot has become more accepting he’s gotten to know other low-vision and blind people in the city and countryside. Maybe they all meet up regularly, would be great to see since he was so isolated in the first movie. He may not be a social butterfly but we introverts do still like to have friends haha.

- Let the brothers thrive! I wanna see Devon and Cornwall living their best lives (or at least trying to). Now that they can actually pursue their dreams, maybe there’re scheduling conflicts or they otherwise are trying to juggle both of their wants. Not as antagonistically as in the first movie, but I would think they can still be frustrated siblings sometimes. Devon can actually join a theatre troupe now. Cornwall can… do whatever it is he wanted to do. All I really saw in rereading the song lyrics of their “I Want” song was that he wanted to be a cool/powerful dragon. How would that translate? Join the knights? A frat group? Be homesick for Dragon Country? Devon clearly knows who he is and wants to be but maybe Corny’s still on that journey. I want them to be a decently strong B-plot of the movie. They deserve to be more than just a constant butt of jokes. I want to see what they do now that the dream is attainable and not in some far off land.

- What’s the griffin up to? Even if it’s just a cameo I’d be curious what he’s doing after Ruber’s death.

- Musical. Apparently some people don’t jive with the musical aspect. I loved it about the first movie though and think it’d be fitting for the sequel to also have a solid repertoire of original songs. Hell, maybe Merlin will be more relevant and have a song. I dunno. Spitballing.

—

I’m pretty sure a sequel isn’t planned on happening. But what would you guys like to see if one did happen?

[celticcrossanon]

Hi Celta,

Re your reading on Camilla and her dislike of Australia. I’m no phycologist, but it’s clear to me that this is about her arch nemesis Diana. I’m surprised the Queen of Cups or The Chariot didn’t show up. When Diana visited Oz with baby Prince William, it was peak Lady Di, Princess of Wales. Headline news worldwide, I was living abroad, and it was absolutely everywhere. The love that was poured out for this young woman and her baby, it was beautiful and it was hopeful. There was such optimism. You can’t fake that.

I believe this was when Charles and Diana were at their happiest, until he began to snipe that she was stealing focus from him. That visit was what probably convinced Camilla to fight harder to acquire Charles. Not that he needed much convincing. At the root of it all, I believe she secretly hates the monarchy, much like Harry does.

So for her to visit Oz, it’s like returning to the scene of the crime, a land of ghosts, both alive (Charles) and dead (Diana and the late Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip). Not to mention the Commonwealth that hangs in the balance through the traitorous actions of Harry, Chatles’ second son. Like I said in my previous ask, actions have consequences, even dangerous ones that are unforeseen until decades later.

We all must wrestle with our conscience and make peace with our actions before the end.

PS: Apparently Camilla and her entourage flew out earlier and stayed in Singapore for a few days, probably at some posh resort or a rich billionaire friend, rendezvousing with Charles to fly in together to Oz. I saw that on Tumblr from Twitter somewhere. Very much like Harry, Camilla loves her perks too. It’s good to be Queen.

Hi AnonymousRetired,

I saw that about Singapore too, and it surprised me, because didn't the Queen have a break earlier this year after filling in for The King for a few weeks? She was so exhausted she went on a holiday to India to recover or something like that. From memory she took her family with her as well, although I could be putting that it from another trip.

I think this could very well be about Princess Diana and memories of past behaviour. It could also be that she just dislikes the country, of course, and if so fair enough - we are not to everyone's taste. As long as she plays her part as Queen (polite, interested, pays attention etc) then I really don't care what her private thoughts are - they are interesting to know, but they don't concern me in that I'm not offended by them or anything.

Camilla has visited here quite a few times as the Duchess of Cornwall, so I would hope that whatever issues she had re Princess Diana would have been laid by her before now. If not, then it is up to her to deal with them, hopefully in a healthy way.

[beardedmrbean]

A British court ruled Wednesday that police can seize more than 2.6 million pounds ($3.3 million) to cover years of unpaid taxes from influencer Andrew Tate and his brother Tristan.

The Devon and Cornwall Police force went to court to claim the money, held in seven frozen bank accounts, from the Tates and a woman identified only as J.

At Westminster Magistrates’ Court, Chief Magistrate Paul Goldspring ruled that financial transactions by the brothers, including transferring almost $12 million into an account in the name of J, were a “straightforward cheat” of the tax authorities.

A lawyer for the force said that the Tates were “serial” tax evaders who failed to pay any tax on 21 million pounds in revenue from their online businesses, including War Room, Hustlers’ University, Cobra Tate, and OnlyFans, between 2014 and 2022.

Andrew Tate, 38, accused the government of “outright theft” for freezing his accounts and seizing ��everything they could.”

“This is not justice; it’s a coordinated attack on anyone who dares to challenge the system,” Tate said in a statement. “This raises serious questions about the lengths authorities will go to silence dissent.”

At a hearing in July, attorney Sarah Clarke quoted from a video posted online by Andrew Tate, in which he said: “When I lived in England I refused to pay tax.”

She said J — who can’t be named because of a court order — wasn’t involved with the brothers’ businesses.

A lawyer for the brothers, Martin Evans, argued that the bank transfers were “entirely orthodox” for people who run online businesses. He said the siblings spent money on a number of “exotic motor cars,” but did nothing illegal.

The proceedings are civil, which carries a lower standard of proof than criminal cases. Goldspring had to decide on the balance of probabilities whether the Tates had evaded tax.

Court documents show an estimated total of about $3.4 million is held in the seven accounts police can now seize.

Andrew Tate is a former kickboxer and dual British-U.S. citizen who has amassed more than 10 million followers on X.

He has been banned from TikTok, YouTube, and Facebook after the platforms accused him of posting hate speech and misogynistic comments.

He and Tristan Tate, 36, face criminal allegations in Romania, including human trafficking and forming a criminal gang to exploit women.

They are set to be extradited to the U.K. once those proceedings are over to face further allegations of rape and human trafficking.

The Tates deny all the allegations.

[okapiandpaste]

[Begin transcript:

Holmes: Poldhu Bay? Hah, you're not content with dragging me to Cornwall. It has to be the furthest possible extremity!

Watson: Ah, come on. Confess it. It's the holiday you hate, not the place.

Holmes: Hm. Perhaps.

Watson: (Laughs) Thought so. You like it here just as much as I do. And with good reason. It's magnificent.

(Pause, seabirds cawing)

Holmes: Have you noticed how quickly the wind turns?

Watson: Hm?

Holmes: Yes, one minute the water's sheltered and safe, the next it's treacherous. This whole bay is a death trap.

Watson: That's a gloomy sort of observation.

Holmes: Well, look inland. A whole race of people lived here and now they've vanished completely. All that's left is a few burial grounds and stone monuments. Heh, the place encourages gloom.

Watson: Eh, I wouldn't call it gloomy. Romantic, yes. It has mystery. If there are ghosts, this is the place for them. I think it's inspiring.

Holmes: You're not the only one to think so...

Watson: Huh?

Holmes: So starben wir, um ungetrennt. Ewig einig, ohne End'. Ohn' Erwachen, ohn' Erbangen. Namenlos, in Lieb' umfangen.

Watson: That's beautiful.

Holmes: It's by Wagner. Tristan and Isolde. Act two. It's set here, on the Cornish coast.

Watson: What do the words mean?

Holmes: They're a hymn. To love.

Watson: Huh. Eh, you see? Romantic.

Holmes: And to death.

(Pause, instrumental of "So Starben Wir" begins)

Holmes: So let us die and never part. Together, for the rest of time. No more waking, no more fearing. Nameless, endless, loving, sharing. Existing only in each other. Wrapped in love and death and darkness.

(Instrumental continues on without him, and then fades out)

End transcript.]

[autisticdelinquent]

I'm sure this is a weird concept for people who haven't pondered it before but how is there not more non-European white people out there feeling soul crushing emptiness not knowing what it will ever feel like to know the physical land or the culture/people of the places their ancestors come from? I'm mixed Native and Caucasian with maybe a few stray Asian and Polynesian lines further in my ancestry. I am mostly white but am integrating with the local Native tribal community and have since I was a child. I'm currently in the adoption process. I am profoundly grateful to know them and to at least live on the ancestral territory of my Native side. I can't help but feel so lonely and alienated on a soul level though because I will likely never be able to patch that side of my family in the same way for my European ancestry. I recognize how much more important it is to focus on the culture more at risk of going extinct, I just wish I could explore them both with the same ease. I grew up without and still don't really have any friends but online I'd always find myself being most at home feeling when talking to Scandinavians but more so with English and even more than that with Irish and Scottish people specifically. Obviously I got along with tribal relations fine but I mean as far as relationships go like in school or otherwise white dominated areas. I am 21, never been kissed, and most of my relationships have been online/LDR. The best one ever actually was with a Scottish person and we were together for years but he dumped me out of nowhere one day without even a fight and he's never been back in contact with me since to my worst dismay. I truly feel like if my white ancestors never left hundreds of years ago I may honestly have had a better childhood with more of a chance of having a social life. Even if I didn't I would've at least had sacred wells and hills and ancient monuments to explore and meditate in to connect to my ancestors. I love my Native ancestry and by all means I agree with their values and relate harder to their culture on every level because of how close I was to it growing up, but I can't help but feel people who are completely white with absolutely no historical connection to their current lands should have at least a little feeling of unease never knowing where they come from? I understand if I was only white that I wouldn't be me and genetically I'd be a whole different person but I mean hypothetically if I were to be the same personality/consciousness I'd probably be a lot more well off socially and emotionally if I'd at least grown up in a more Celtic setting. I really hate when I see Americans trying to be all in people's faces when exploring Celtic and honestly European culture in general for "ancestry" reasons because I am fully aware of how objectifying and detached that comes off and I really don't want this to sound like something from one of those Americans. The feelings in my head and heart are just too big for my autistic ADHD brain to even begin to process in a way that words can do justice to. At the risk of sounding like a loser- I crave a deeper connection to the Earth around me and with people who are familiar with my ancestral cultures. I'm not saying they actually have to be from them, reincarnation exists in Celtic belief so just because you're not from that place in this life doesn't mean you weren't connected to it before. Idk. I'm rambling at this point. If you're a druid or otherwise passionate about Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Celtic Britain, Aisle of Man, Cornwall, Brittany, etc please DM me I'm begging. I've recently enrolled in the OBOD so I'm really hoping to find people to learn/talk about bards with and just general friendship ;-;