#even on mr brown's newspaper

[shortcutohappiness]

good omens spoiler without context

[j-eryewrites]

The Great Game (III)

Part 21 of The Arbitrary Lives of the Occupants of 221B Baker Street

SERIES MASTER LIST | MAIN MASTER LIST

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Word Count: ~10.8k

Author's Note: Tensions rise, and the threat of M continues to loom over their heads. When pulled too tight, things are bound to break.

It's almost the end. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. I finished it around midnight, so forgive any typos and whatnot. Without further ado, I present the second-to-last chapter of Arbitrary Lives.

Warnings: Supreme angst, canon typical violence, Sherlock is Sherlock (but in the worst way), mentions of death, character death, mentions of gore, firearms, language, yandere relation themes, drugging (Let me know if I missed anything)

Case after case was how it seemed to go when Sherlock, John, and Y/N were racing against the mysterious M. Every time Sherlock would solve a puzzle given to him, the pink phone would ring moments later, presenting a new one. With each chime of the telephone, Y/N found herself getting more and more anxious. M was bigger than anything they'd ever seen; worst of all, they had no clue who they were. M seemed to operate from afar, offering their advice on cases of the illegal type, allowing M the anonymity to be anyone and be anywhere. For all Y/N knew, M could be some sick person stuck in their parent's basement on the other side of the world. Even so, M seemed one step ahead and knew every step they had taken. 

Sitting upon a plush, gray, white striped couch beneath her served more comfort than she'd like to admit. Sherlock had sent her and John on another goose chase after, yet again, another call from their tormentor. While Y/N was lost in thought, petting the hairless cat on her lap, John took the lead in questioning Kenny, the brother of Connie Prince. 

The two had done as much research as they could, which turned out to be a few newspaper articles, the bizarre gossip and facts they had gathered from Mrs. Hudson, and, of course, the Wikipedia pages on Connie. Once they put all their research together, they discovered they found a plethora of ways to tell which colors suited oneself and which ones brought out the sick in one's skin tone, but not much about Connie and her brother. 

A loud and content purr vibrated from the naked cat as Y/N's hands caressed its head and neck. Upon hearing the meow, John raised his brow, trying to hide his concern. The creature sitting on Y/N's lap was not a cat. John had seen Bjørn, and Bjørn was a cat. Y/N's pet had fur and a bush-brown tail. If anything, the Prince's cat was an abomination in his mind. 

"We're devastated," Kenny Prince sighed as he carefully placed his arm on the mantle behind him, leaning ever so slightly. As John withdrew his eyes from the fur-less animal, he found his brows pinching together as Kenny Price posed. "Of course we are." Kenny waved his hand and dramatically looked to the side with a somber expression. 

To say the least, John was confused. First, there was the cat. He didn't want to give that thing another thought. Secondly was Kenny's posing. Why was Kenny posing unless he was trying to...His finger brushed against something hard, and John scolded himself. The camera. They had brought a camera. Y/N had proposed they be reporters to gain an interview with Kenny. John would be the reporter and Y/N the photographer. Kenny was posing for candid photos for their article. 

"Can I get you anything, sir?" a voice spoke from behind John. It was Raoul, Kenny's staff member.

He whirled around and replied, shaking his head. "Er, no. No, thanks."

"And what about you, miss?" Raoul asked Y/N, who absently shook her head. Her fingers were still petting the cat. 

"Raoul is my rock," Kenny admitted, still holding his position. "I don't think I could have managed. We didn't always see eye to eye, but my sister was very dear to me."

A light pressure pushed down on John's thighs. Glancing down, he noticed the cat was no longer on Y/N's lap but his. A wave of disgust trembled through his body. With stiff fingers, he picked it up and dropped it on the other side of the couch where Y/N sat. The cat meowed in discontent, stepping back over to John. John shivered at the cat's relentless attempts and held out his arm as a barrier. 

"And–," John said, trying to continue Kenny's conversation and retain the purity of his own lap as it was reserved for Bjørn. "-and to the public, Mr. Prince."

"Oh, she was adored. I've seen her take girls who looked like the back end of Routemasters and turn them into princesses," Kenny continued. Meanwhile, his cat pounced over John's barrier and clung onto his lap. With a wince, John placed a hand on the cat's back. It happily purred.  "Still, it's a relief in a way to know that she's beyond this veil of tears."

"Absolutely," John muttered, hiding his grimace. He flashed Y/N a look, but she found gazing at Kenny Prince's coffee table intriguing. He frowned as concern for his friend bubbled to the surface. He could only imagine how exhausted she was. Not just physically from all the running around they have been doing lately but also as exhaustion of the emotional sort. John was not blind to Sherlock's actions, and it didn't take a fool to see that Sherlock was cold. His mind was solely occupied with M and the puzzles that he was given, which meant he didn't have much concern for others. It was not that he usually did, but with Y/N, it was different. She meant something to Sherlock.

John opened his mouth to whisper something to Y/N when he noticed Kenny's voice was absent. Right, John corrected himself. He was here about the case. The sooner he was done with this, the faster he could help both of his friends. 

"It's more common than people think," John began. "The tetanus is in the soil, people cut themselves on rose bushes, garden forks, that sort of thing. If left un...,"  Kenny Prince plopped down between Y/N and John. The sudden jolt of the couch awoke Y/N from her daze. Her shoulder was pressed tightly against Kenny's as he leaned into John, invading his space even more than hers. "...treated..." John finished, scooting as far away from Kenny as he could. 

"I don't know what I'm going to do now," Kenny confessed, leaning even closer to John. 

"Right," John said, biting the inside of his cheek. He peered over Kenny's shoulder and saw Y/N. They shared a look that screamed discomfort, but they could do nothing as Kenny pushed them into the sides of the sofa. As Kenny continued speaking, John and Y/N's eyes held a secret conversation, mainly curses and discontent with the situation. 

"I mean, she's left me this place, which is lovely....," Kenny's voice trailed off as his eyes never left John. "...but it's not the same without her." 

Before replying, John took a deep breath and stared down at his notes. "Th-that's why my paper wanted to get the, um, the full story straight from the horse's mouth. You sure it's not too soon?"

"No," Kenny said.  

"Right," John gulped. 

"You fire away," Kenny uttered. His longing gaze not once left John. The longer the conversation continued, the more uncomfortable Y/N felt; she could only imagine how John felt. Here was Kenny Prince, after his sister's death, flirting with John. Y/N observed Kenny staring at John, making her feel like a forgotten third wheel to a nonconsensual flirting session. She had to come to his rescue. She'd done it before with lots of her friends back home. It would be easy, so long as she could get off the couch, which's cushions were sucking her in deeper. 

Before John could ask any of his questions and Y/N could rescue him from unwanted attention, a buzzing echoed from her back pocket. Kenny turned over his shoulder to look at her as if she had interrupted a vital moment. She smiled awkwardly, shoved herself off the sofa, and answered her phone. 

"Y/N," Sherlock's voice rang over the phone.

"You know, one usually starts a call with hello," Y/N muttered. 

"Right, hello," Sherlock's voice oozed with sarcasm. 

Sherlock didn't speak for a moment. Y/N furrowed her brows. "Is there a reason you called Sherlock?"

On the other end, Sherlock struggled to find a response. He had practiced his excuse beforehand. Well, it wasn't much of an excuse, more of a warning. Even so, after hearing her voice, Sherlock had forgotten everything. He mentally reprimanded himself for falling back into his sentiment so quickly. Y/N needed to be safe, so he had to push her away. A task that only seemed to grow more impossible with each breath she took. 

John's eyes widened upon hearing Sherlock's name, and his escape was revealed to him. Shooting out of his seat, he snatched the phone from Y/N, quickly apologized, and began speaking to Sherlock. "Hi. Look, get over here quickly. I think I'm onto something," John breathed. Sherlock found himself missing Y/N's sweet voice. "You'll ne-" John was cut off by the loud footsteps barging into the room.  

Confusion plastered onto his face, and he hung up the phone. After all, there was no need to speak through a phone when Sherlock stood in the same room as him. 

"That'll be him," John said, pointing at Sherlock. Kenny Prince looked even more shaken than the consulting detective's friends were at his sudden appearance. However, the longer they pondered his arrival, the more John and Y/N realized this was normal for the great Sherlock Holmes. 

"What?" Kenny asked, looking at the unwelcome guest in his home. 

There was a calculated look on Sherlock's face before any trace of the consulting detective was washed away and replaced with a new persona. Y/N sighed as her legs lowered her body into an armchair nearby. 

"Ah, Mr. Prince, isn't it?" Sherlock took out his hand for Kenny to shake. 

"Yes," Kenny nodded, standing up to take Sherlock's hand. 

"Very good to meet you," Sherlock smiled. 

"Yes, thank you," Kenny said, still trying to figure out the situation.  

"So sorry to hear about...," Sherlock continued, but Kenny cut him off. 

Mr. Prince waved his hand, stopping Sherlock from offering false condolences about the situation. "Yes, yes, very kind."

"Shall we, er..." John cleared his throat, stepping over to Sherlock. He motioned for Sherlock to lean down before whispering in Sherlock's ear, "You were right. The bacteria got into her another way."

Sherlock couldn't help but notice the smirk that appeared on his face. "Oh yes?"

"Yes," John nodded. 

"Right. We all set?" Kenny asked, bringing his hands together. 

John, Sherlock, and Y/N frowned and watched as Kenny pointed to the camera on the sofa. Y/N grabbed it and removed the protective lens, turning it on. "Um, yes. Can you...?" she said, twirling her finger in the air, pretending to be a journalistic photographer. 

"Not too close," Kenny warned as he returned to his original stance by the mantle. "I'm raw from crying." Then he lifted his head and posed for the camera, letting Y/N take a few pictures. 

Beneath Sherlock's feet, Kenny's cat meowed. It butted its head against his dark trousers causing Sherlock to frown. He tilted his head as he peered at the cat. He wasn't sure if that's what he should call it. 

"Oh, who's this?" Sherlock wondered as he motioned to the feline. 

"Sekhmet," Kenny answered, finding a new pose for Y/N to capture. "Named after the Egyptian goddess."

"How nice! Was she Connie's?" Sherlock asked. 

"Yes," Kenny nodded, taking pride in his response. Little present from yours truly." Then John smelled it as Kenny picked up Sekhmet, and the ominous smell of disinfectant seeped from the hairless cat. John smiled as the piece clicked into place.

"Actually," John turned to Kenny, tapping Y/N on the shoulder. "I think we've got what we came for. Excuse us." 

"What?" Kenny gasped as saw Y/N place the camera strap over her shoulders and return the protective lens to its place. 

"Sherlock," John sternly stated, raising his brows to say he'd solved it. 

"What?" Sherlock frowned, trying to interpret John's signal.  

"We've got deadlines," John said, pushing his two closest friends out of Kenny Prince's living room. This left behind a puddle of confusion for Mr. Prince and his sister's cat. 

_____

Once Raoul had closed the door behind them, John erupted in cheers. Triumphantly, John raised his fist in the air and then brought it down, doing a little happy dance. Y/N smiled and giggled at the sight. 

“Yes! Ooh, yes!” John laughed. He turned to Sherlock and froze. 

One look from Sherlock swiftly ended John's parade. “You think it was the cat. It wasn't the cat,” Sherlock corrected. 

John shook his head in disbelief. “What? No, yes. Yeah, it is. It must be. It's how they got the tetanus into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant.” John whirled around to face Y/N, seeking backup, but found none. 

“Honestly, I have no clue what’s going on,” Y/N admitted. “I just took pictures.”

A knowing smirk crept onto Sherlock’s face. “Lovely idea, John.”

“No,” John adamantly said. “He coated it onto the paws of her cat. It's a new pet, bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn't have...”

“I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm,” Sherlock announced, “but it's too random and too clever for the brother.”

“He murdered his sister for her money,” John said as his smile was wiped from his face.

“Did he?” Sherlock raised a brow.

“Didn't he?” John wondered.

Sherlock shook his head. “No. It was revenge.”

“Wait,” Y/N interjected. “Revenge? Who wanted revenge? I know his sister wasn’t the nicest to him, but even so, Kenny seemed…genuine?” 

“Raoul, the houseboy,” Sherlock began explaining the case. He straightened his coat collar and stood taller, glancing down at his friends. “Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes, week in, week out, a virtual bullying campaign. Finally, he had enough and fell out with her badly. It's all on the website. She threatened to disinherit Kenny. Raoul had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, so...”

John shook his head, still in denial. “No, wait, wait. Wait a second. What about the disinfectant, then, on the cat's claws?”

“Raoul keeps a very clean house,” Sherlock noted. “You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor, scrubbed to within an inch of its life. You smell of disinfectant now. No, the cat doesn't come into it. Raoul's Internet records do, though. Hope we can get a cab from here.” 

Sherlock peered up and down the street. There wasn’t a cab in sight. 

“Well, we could always walk back to the station or hop on a bus-“ Y/N suggested. Then, as if by divine intervention, a cab pulled onto the street. The trio hastily hailed the cab and jumped inside.

It did not take them long to arrive at the station. Traffic was horrible on the streets, but with a hefty bribe to the cab driver, they were bursting through the door of Lestrade’s office faster than Mrs. Hudson could flick on the latest episode of her favorite soap opera. 

A wave of black trickled majestically after Sherlock as he entered the office. “Raoul de Santos is your killer. Kenny Prince's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince. It was botulinum toxin.” 

Lestrade sat up in his seat and sifted through the numerous papers on his desk. Finding the second autopsy report, his eyes scanned the results. His eyes widened. Sherlock was right.

“We've been here before. Carl Powers? Tut-tut. Our bomber's repeated himself,” Sherlock said.

“So how'd he do it?” Lestrade asked.

“Botox injection,” Sherlock answered.

“Botox?” Lestrade questioned, raising his brows. After all, it was not every day that someone was murdered with Botox.

“Botox is a diluted form of botulinum,” Sherlock explained. “Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul's Internet purchases. He's been bulk ordering Botox for months.” Sitting across Lestrade, Sherlock swiftly crossed his legs and dug his hand into his coat pocket. “Bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose.”

“You sure about this?” Lestrade asked in confirmation.

Instead of Sherlock’s voice answering, Y/N spoke up. “He is,” Sherlock peered up at her and felt his cheeks heat up. “Connie was an avid Botox user. It was all on the blogs and magazines. No one would bat an eye at the injection sights or if Botox turned up in the autopsies.” 

Lestrade nodded his head, “All right.”

“Sherlock,” John slowly said. “How long?”

“What?” Sherlock questioned as he snapped out of his daze. 

“How long have you known?” There was hurt evident in John’s voice. 

Y/N looked between the two of them. “Wait, you’re saying you sent John and I on a goose chase?” 

Sherlock shrugged, letting John and Y/N��s confusion and hurt fly over his head. “Well, this one was quite simple, actually, and like I said, the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake.”

“No, but Sherl... The hostage... the old woman,” John uttered. “She's been there all this time.”

“I knew I could save her,” Sherlock replied as he began to type on the small pink phone.

. “I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly; that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you see? We're one up on him!“ Sherlock cheered. 

Like clockwork, the phone rang, and Sherlock answered. “Hello?”

“Help me,” the old woman whispered.

“Tell us where you are. Address,” Sherlock looked over to Lestrade, who had his team on standby. 

“He was so... His voice...,” the woman began to describe.

Sherlock’s pale blue eyes widened, and he grew pale. “No, no, no, no,” Sherlock yelled. “Tell me nothing about him. Nothing.” There was a desperation in his voice that Y/N had only heard a few times. 

Sherlock was rarely desperate unless something dangerous was happening. She recalled the terror that trembled from his chest during the night in the museum-the night Sulin died. It was the very voice he had when he clung to her after Hilton Cubitt was killed. 

Panic coursed through Y/N’s body, constricting her lungs. Sherlock was scared, and so was she. 

“He sounded so... soft-“ the caller was cut off and the horrifying sound of the dial tone screeched in Sherlock’s ear. 

Lestrade furrowed his brow and approached the stunned consulting detective. “Sherlock?” he asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“What's happened?” John questioned. 

However, Sherlock couldn’t hear any of them. The pink phone was still glued to his ear, and his blue eyes began to fill with a salty ocean. Even in the blur, he found Y/N. She stood with her hands clutching her heart, her face in pain and shock. As he sought comfort in her presence, his fears were confirmed. 

This was a game for monsters and freaks. M had made that clear. The woman over the phone was human. She cared enough to speak up. In turn, she died. She was a chess piece in a game ruled by freaks like him. M had made his move. The botulinum that killed Connie Prince wasn’t a mistake. It was a threat. M was going to take his queen. His most important player. It wasn’t a mistake that Carl Powers' shoes were found in her flat. It wasn’t a mistake. He was also killed by botulinum. Through his cloudy eyes, Sherlock saw clearly now. 

Sherlock had to remove his queen from the chessboard before M could steal her from him forever.

______

Y/N should have found comfort in the worn leather of the sofa and the creaking of the floor beneath her feet. Steam rose from her cup as the cold air of Sherlock’s flat cooled her tea. 

Mrs. Hudson had made it for her, John, and Sherlock. The brown liquid swirled in her cup, with small herbs dancing around. Mrs. Hudson always made tea for them with the secret ingredient of love. Love was precisely what Y/N needed as the television echoed the horrific news. 

“The explosion,” the reporter announced, “which ripped through several floors, killing twelve people. It is said to have been caused by a faulty gas main. A spokesman from the utilities company...”

“He certainly gets about,” John sighed, stirring the tiny spoon in his tea. 

“Well,” Sherlock began. “Obviously, I lost that round.” 

Y/N bit her tongue. Twelve people had died, and Sherlock was still playing the game. She fought back tears as anger boiled to the surface. Sherlock had a heart, but the more he spoke, the more she thought she’d been wrong. 

“Although technically I did solve the case. He killed the old lady because she started to describe him,” Sherlock explained. “Just once, he put himself in the firing line.”

“What d'you mean?” John asked. 

“Well, usually, he must stay above it all,” Sherlock said, thinking back to all the cases M had given him so far. “He organizes these things, but no one ever has direct contact.”

“What... like the Connie Prince murder – he-he arranged that?” John’s voice wavered. “So people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up, like booking a holiday?”

“Novel,” Sherlock muttered.

Y/N scoffed. “Sounds like a demented version of what you do.” Sherlock cocked his brow. “I mean, you’re a consulting detective. People come to you wanting their cases solved. Maybe he’s a consulting criminal?”

Sherlock nodded, feigning interest. “Taking his time this time,” Sherlock said as he checked the pink phone.

John cleared his throat. “Anything on the Carl Powers case?”

Shaking his head, Sherlock replied. “Nothing. All the living classmates check out spotless. No connection.”

“ Have you checked outside of his class?“ Y/N proposed. John and Sherlock looked at her with confusion.

“I doubt anyone outside of Carl Powers’ class would-“ Sherlock replied.

“But what if he was a bully? I know that victims of bullying will sometimes fight back and m-“ Y/N explained.

“Bully?” John repeated.

“Yeah, I just…,” Y/N said. “I don’t want to leave any stone unturned. There was a reason Carl died, and M brought it to our attention.”  

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed before asking Lestrade to expand his search on Carl Powers' schoolmates.

“So why's he doing this, then –” John asked Sherlock. “Why is he playing this game with you? D'you think he wants to be caught?”

“I think he wants to be distracted,” Sherlock replied, shaking his head.

“I hope you'll be very happy together,” John murmured.

Sherlock frowned and stepped towards John. “Sorry, what?”

“What I think John is trying to say is that there are lives at stake, Sherlock – actual human lives...” Y/N softly spoke. “What if that was John. What if it was me?” 

Sherlock clenched his jaw and winced at her comment. He wasn’t going to let it be her. He didn’t care how many pawns he lost. So long as his queen was safe and away from the game, he’d be alright. 

“Just so I know,” John asked. “Do you care about that at all?”

“Will caring about them help save them?” Sherlock spat. 

“No, but…,” Y/N replied.

“Then I'll continue not to make that mistake,” his voice rose, startling Y/N, and his heart broke. He didn’t want to scare her off, but he had to. This was the first step: convincing her he had no heart.

“And you find that easy, do you?” John growled, stepping up to Sherlock. Their chests puffed as they glared at each other. 

“John, Sherlock,” Y/N pleaded. “Let’s not fight, please-“

“Yes, very,” Sherlock scowled. “Is that news to you?”

“No. No,” John shook his head and stepped back, pinching his brow.”

“I've disappointed you,” Sherlock observed.

“That's good,” John mumbled, “that's a good deduction, yeah.”

“Don't make people into heroes, John,” Sherlock coldly stated. “Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.” 

John sighed. All hope he had for Sherlock fled his mind. John scolded himself for thinking Sherlock had some semblance of empathy. He was sure his and Y/N’s presence had some sort of effect on the consulting detective. Sherlock had begun to care. He’d seen it with his eyes as he rescued them from the tunnel during the Blind Banker case. There was no mistaking it. Sherlock cared for them, but his game with M made John even more concerned. With each task M gave them, John drew more and more connections. Sherlock and M were too similar, and John feared losing his best friend to the monster. 

“Excellent!” Sherlock exclaimed the moment the pink phone buzzed with their newest case.  

Despite their flaming frustration with the detective, John and Y/N crowded around the phone, peering down at the photo.

“View of the Thames. South Bank – somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo,” Sherlock noted before turning to his friends. “You check the papers,” he instructed John. “I'll look online...”

“Oh, you're angry with me,” Sherlock paused, looking at John. “…so you won't help.” 

John only sighed. Of course, he was going to help. People's lives were on the line, and he was a doctor. There was no way John wouldn’t do his best to save anyone he could. Sitting on the sofa, he picked up a piece of paper and handed it to Y/N before taking a newsletter.

“Archway suicide,” Y/N read. 

Sherlock shrugged. “Ten a penny.” 

Y/N bit her lip at Sherlock’s nonchalance.

“Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington,” John repeated as he scanned the pages. “Ah. Man found on the train line, Andrew West.”

Sherlock shook his head, then slammed his computer shut. “Nothing,” he grumbled. 

Y/N and John jolted at the sound, and within an instant, Sherlock had retrieved his phone and dialed Greg’s number.

“Gary, It's me,” Sherlock announced. “Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?”

A smile crept onto Sherlock’s face upon hearing Lestrade’s words. John and Y/N needed no warning. They reluctantly got to their feet and reached for their coats. 

_____

“D'you reckon this is connected, then? The bomber?” Lestrade asked, staring down at the drenched body on the ground.

“Must be. Odd, though...” Sherlock pulled out the pink phone. “He hasn't been in touch.”

Lestrade frowned. “But we must assume that some poor bugger's primed to explode, yeah.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. He tried not to notice the way Y/N shivered under her coat. He was tempted to hand her his scarf. 

“Any ideas?” Lestrade wondered. 

Sherlock tilted his head and bit his lip, counting all the ideas. “Seven... so far.”

Lestrade’s eyes bulged out of his head. “Seven?!”

Standing up from his crouch on the ground by the body, John relayed the information he had gathered. “He's dead about twenty-four hours – maybe a bit longer. Did he drown?” He asked Lestrade.

Greg shrugged. “Apparently not. Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated.”

John nodded at Lestrade’s answer. “Yes, I'd agree.” Then, stepping over to Sherlock and Y/N, John continued. “There's quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth. More bruises here and here.”

Sherlock’s eyes followed where John had pointed out the injuries. Leaning down towards the body, he began to make his observations. “Fingertips,” Sherlock muttered quietly. Then Sherlock stood up and pulled out his phone. His feet swiftly began to trek away from the body. Greg, John, and Y/N followed along in confusion. 

“In his late thirties, I'd say, not in the best condition. He's been in the river a long while. The water's destroyed most of the data. But I'll tell you one thing: that lost Vermeer painting's a fake,” Sherlock stated. 

“What?” Lestrade asked. 

Sherlock turned towards Lestrade, with instructions readied. “We need to identify the corpse. Find out about his friends and associates...”

Lestrade shook his hands and head at the same time. Quickly, he jumped in front of Sherlock, interrupting his path to the cab awaiting them. “Wait-wait-wait-wait-wait. What painting? What are you – what are you on about?”

Blue eyes rolled in annoyance, and Sherlock pocketed his phone. “It's all over the place. Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago; now it's turned up. Worth thirty million pounds.”

“Okay,” Lestrade calmly said. His hands returned to his side. “So what has that got to do with the stiff?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as a grin flashed across his face. “Everything. Have you ever heard of the Golem?” He asked his companions.

“Golem?” Y/N repeated. “You mean the magical creature that-“

“No,” Sherlock said, shutting down her idea.

“It's a horror story, isn't it?” John guessed. Sherlock nodded. 

“A horror story?” Y/N wondered. “What are you saying?”

“Jewish folk story,” Sherlock explained. “A gigantic man made of clay.” 

“So I was right. Sort of…” Y/N interjected. 

“It's also the name of an assassin,” Sherlock continued. “Real name: Oskar Dzundza. One of the deadliest assassins in the world. That is his trademark style.”

“So this is a hit?” Lestrade questioned.

“Definitely,” Sherlock confidently said. “The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands.”

Lestrade grimaced. “But what has this gotta do with that painting? I don't see...”

“You do see,” Sherlock hissed. “You just don't observe.”

“All right, all right, girls, calm down,” John began, but Y/N shot him a look. “Sorry, Sherlock calm down,” John corrected. “Sherlock? D'you wanna take us through it?”

Y/N placed her hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and peered up at him. With a soft smile, she reassured him. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock began. “What do we know about this corpse?” He raised a brow and looked at the three of them. “The killer's not left us with much, just the shirt and the trousers. They're pretty formal; maybe he was going out for the night. The trousers are heavy duty. Polyester, nasty, same as the shirt, cheap. They're both too big for him. So, some kind of standard-issue uniform. Dressed for work, then. What kind of work? There's a hook on his belt... for a walkie-talkie.”

“Tube driver?” Lestrade guessed.

“Construction worker?” Y/N wondered.

“Security guard?” John said, throwing his guess into the air.

“More likely,” Sherlock agreed. “That'll be borne out by his backside.”

“Backside?!” Lestrade��s mouth gaped open.

“Flabby,” Sherlock noted. “You'd think that he'd led a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise. So, a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guard's looking good. And the watch helps, too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts.”

“Why regular?” Lestrade questioned. “Maybe he just set his alarm like that the night before he died?”

“No, no, no,” Sherlock shook his head. “The buttons are stiff, hardly touched. He set his alarm like that a long time ago. His routine never varied. But there's something else. The killer must have been interrupted; otherwise, he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off, suggesting the dead man worked somewhere recognizable, some kind of institution.” 

Sticking his hand into the man’s pant pocket, Sherlock pulled out a wad of small papers. “Found this inside his trouser pockets. Sodden by the river but still recognizably...” Sherlock’s voice trailed off, awaiting a response from anyone.

“Tickets?” Y/N said after glancing at the papers. 

“Ticket stubs. He worked in a museum or gallery. Did a quick check. The Hickman Gallery has reported one of its attendants as missing.” Sherlock pointed to the dead man on the ground. “Alex Woodbridge. Tonight, they unveil the re-discovered masterpiece. Now, why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference, the dead man knew something about it, something that would stop the owner getting paid thirty million pounds. The picture's a fake.”

“Fantastic,” John complimented.

“Meretricious,” Sherlock mused.

“And a Happy New Year!” Greg blurted. 

Y/N raised a brow as she looked between the three men, uncertain of what inside joke was going on between them. 

“Poor sod,” John muttered, looking down at the deceased.

“I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character,” Greg said as the group picked up their pace back to where the cab awaited.

“Pointless,” Sherlock warned Greg. “You'll never find him. But I know a man who can.”

“Who?” Greg asked.

Sherlock whirled around and extended his arms out. “Me,” he proudly said before gracefully disappearing into the back of the cab. “Why hasn't he phoned? He's broken his pattern. Why?” He muttered to himself. Once John and Y/N were safely seated, Sherlock instructed the cab driver on their next destination. “Waterloo Bridge.”

“Where now? The Gallery?” John wondered.

“In a bit,” Sherlock replied.

“The Hickman's contemporary art,” Y/N questioned. “Why have they got hold of an old master?” 

“Dunno,” Sherlock admitted. “Dangerous to jump to conclusions. Need data...” Sherlock’s eyes gazed out the window. The car had slowed underneath a bridge. Beside the car sat a homeless woman collecting change. “Stop!” Sherlock hollered. He leaned close to the driver's ear. “You wait here. I won't be a moment.”

“Sherlock?” John called after his friend, who walked up to the woman. They exchanged words, and Sherlock deposited a hefty sum into her cup.

“What are you doing?” John asked Sherlock once he got back into the cab. 

“Investing,” Sherlock mysteriously replied. “Now we go to the Gallery.” 

As luck would have it, the gallery was only a few minutes drive away from their detour. “Have you got any cash?” Sherlock asked John. 

John sighed and paid the driver before stepping out after Sherlock. However, Sherlock pushed John back into the car, toppling into Y/N’s lap. 

“No. I need you two to find out all you can about the gallery attendant. Lestrade will give you the address,” Sherlock said before closing the door in John’s face.

“Okay,” John grumbled. He quickly apologized to Y/N and then the two of them departed to Alex Woodbridge’s flat. 

______

It was surprisingly easy to get into Alex Woodbridge’s apartment compared to Kenny Prince’s home. There was no need for a camera and fake personas. 

Woodbridge’s apartment was a simplistic sight. The living space gave hardly any room for John, Y/N, and Julie, Alex’s roommate, to comfortably stand without brushing shoulders with one another. 

Julie appeared to be a sweet woman with her gentle expression. She wrapped her black and white flannel around her body and led them deeper into the flat. 

“We'd been sharing about a year,” Julie explained. She turned around to look back at John and Y/N. Her frizzy, short, brown hair stuck out oddly. “Just sharing.”

“Mmm,” John hummed to reassure Julie he didn’t assume otherwise. 

Stepping into Alex’s room, Y/N peered around, John close behind. In the left corner sat the bed, still unmade. Besides, a small table held a lamp, a few empty wrappers, and books. A cloaked object sat underneath a skylight on the far right side of the room. Y/N stepped closer, her brows knitting together as she guessed what it could be. 

“Is this a telescope?” Y/N asked, looking back at Julie, who nodded. 

John raised his brows, a bit impressed. It was not every day you came across someone who owned their own telescope. Gently pulling off the sheet, John felt a soft smile growing on his lips. His mind began to recall a time when he was a boy. He had learned about the solar system and was fascinated by it, so much so that he wrote to Santa to bring him a telescope for Christmas. It never happened, but still, it was a wish from childhood, and John couldn’t help but be fond. 

“May I?” He asked, motioning to the cloth covering the telescope.

“Yeah,” Julie nodded with a sadness in her voice. 

“Sorry,” John and Y/N consoled. 

“Stargazer, was he?” John questioned, and Julie’s face lit up with a caring light. 

“God, yeah. Mad about it. It's all he ever did in his spare time,” she chuckled. “He was a nice guy, Alex. I liked him. He was, er, never much of a one for hoovering.” Then Julie quickly looked away to conceal the tears that bubbled up to the surface. 

Y/N wanted to hug the woman but chose not to. Instead, she opted for her words: “Sorry for your loss.” Julie nodded in thanks. 

“What about art? Did he know anything about that?” John asked. 

“It was just a job,” Julie shrugged, “you know?” 

“Hmm. Has anyone else been around asking about Alex?” John pursed his lips in thought, bringing his hands behind his back to fiddle with his fingers. It was a habit that helped him think. 

Julie shook her head. “No…” Her voice trailed off as she realized something. “We had a break-in, though.”

“Hmm? When was that?” Y/N wondered as she peeked at the books on Alex’s bedside table. They were astronomy books of all sorts. 

“Last night. There was nothing taken,” Julie assured them. “Oh, there was a message left for Alex on the landline,” she said, trying to note anything of importance to the two of them. 

John raised his brows and strolled over to the phone beside Julie. “Who was it from?” 

“Well, I can play it for you if you like,” Julie said before turning around to enter the message box. She typed a few buttons and the phone began to whirr to life. 

Y/N and John stepped closer to hear. 

“Oh, should I speak now? Alex? Love, it's Professor Cairns. Listen, you were right. You were bloody right! Give us a call when…,” the message repeated.  

“Professor Cairns?” John mumbled, glancing up at Julie. 

Shaking her head, Julie replied. “No, no idea, sorry.”

“Mmm,” Y/N bit her lip. “Can we try and ring back?”

“Well, that's no good,” Julie replied. “I mean, I've had other calls since—sympathy ones, you know.”

John and Y/N nodded, remembering Julie’s roommate’s death. Turning to each other, they nodded. 

“Thanks again, Julie, for helping us,” Y/N thanked as the woman led John and her out of the flat. 

Julie sniffled before replying. “Anything I can do to help you catch Alex’s murderer.”

The two friends waved goodbye as the door shut. Once the click and lock of the door were heard, Y/N turned to John. 

“So,” she began. “Shall we go find Sherlock?” 

For some odd reason, John felt a slight twinge in the back of his head appear. His frustration with Sherlock was still fresh, and John was not looking to reopen the wound any time soon. Sighing, he responded, “I’m sure Sherlock will find us when he needs us.” 

Y/N chuckled in agreement. “Yeah, you’re not wrong about that. Should we go to the gallery then? Do some snooping of our own?” She wiggled her brows, which made John snicker. 

Before he could answer, the phone in his back pocket buzzed. Pulling it out, John frowned upon seeing the name, and his headache worsened. He bit back another sigh as the case Sherlock put on the back burner began to burn too hot. Mycroft was growing impatient and started to bother John about it. 

“Actually,” John said. “We’ve got another job we can work on.” 

Y/N’s face contorted with confusion. “What other-” she cut herself short. “Mycroft.” She linked her arm with John’s. “If Sherlock can have his little side-quests and detours, so can we.”

______

“He wouldn't. He just wouldn't.” The woman on the couch was inconsolable. It was not in the sense that her tears and sobs made questioning her difficult. In fact, she wasn’t crying at all. She solemnly sat on her sofa with her hands clenching tightly together. The tiny shard of sunlight peeked through her closed curtains, dimly lighting the room. While John and Y/N tried their best to sympathize and speak with her, Lucy refused to believe her boyfriend had anything to do with their case despite all the evidence against him. 

“Well, stranger things have happened,” John tried to say. 

“Westie wasn't a traitor. It's a horrible thing to say!” She glared at John as her hands turned white. 

“I'm sorry, but you must understand that's…” 

“That's what they think, isn't it, his bosses?” Lucy questioned. If someone else had watched the scene, they would have thought Lucy was interrogating John and Y/N. 

“He was a young man about to get married. He had debts…,” John softly listed off possible reasons, but Lucy was not having them. 

She defended, “Everyone's got debts, and Westie wouldn't want to clear them by selling out his country.” 

“John, can you, erm...?” Y/N sent him a look to let her give it a go. He raised his hands and let Y/N take the reins. “Lucy, we're not here to accuse Westie. We’re here for answers, and you have them. Can you tell me exactly what happened that night?”

Lucy nodded. Her shoulders relaxed, and the color returned to her hands. “We were having a night in. Just... watching a DVD. He normally falls asleep, you know, but he sat through this one. He was quiet. Out of the blue, he said he just had to go and see someone.”

“Do you know who?” Y/N asked. Lucy just shook her head and began to sob. Y/N peered over at John and whispered that it was time for them to leave. Any more questions and Y/N was afraid they’d leave Lucy in an even bigger puddle of tears and sorrow than she had been in before.

“I think it’s time we should go,” Y/N began to stand up. Lucy stood up and led John and Y/N back to the entrance. The cool light of the day momentarily blinded them, but their eyes quickly adjusted.   

“Oh, hi, Luce. You okay, love?” A man rolling in a bike asked. He stared at John and Y/N as they stepped out of his way. 

“Yeah,” Lucy nodded. 

“Who's this?” the biker asked. 

“John Watson. Hi,” John greeted. 

“Y/N L/N,” Y/N replied, taking the man’s hand. 

“This is my brother, Joe.” Lucy explained, “John and Y/N are trying to find out what happened to Westie, Joe.”

Joe raised his brows. “You two with the police?” 

“Uh…” John trailed off, looking over at Y/N, who hesitantly nodded. “...sort of, yeah.”

“Well,” Joe began, “tell 'em to get off their arses, will you? It's bloody ridiculous.”

John nodded. “I'll do my best. Well, er, thanks very much for your help. Again, I'm very, very sorry.”

“He didn't steal those things, Mr. Watson,” Lucy called out once John and Y/N stepped onto the street. “I knew Westie. He was a good man. He was my good man.”

Y/N waved goodbye before turning her back to Lucy. She shivered and whispered to John. “It’d be nice if she was right.”

“Yeah…” John absently agreed. “It would be.”

______

Sherlock’s scowl grew the longer he stood outside 221 B Baker Street. Soon, his left foot was tapping on the stone steps. He was growing impatient. John and Y/N sure seemed to be taking their time to arrive. 

Suddenly, a black cab rolled up to the street. It didn’t take a genius to spot the two figures inside. Sherlock jumped down the front steps and greeted the cab’s passengers. 

John stepped out first and then helped Y/N out afterward. “Alex Woodbridge didn't know anything special about art,” John told Sherlock. 

“And?” Sherlock questioned. John furrowed his brow in response.”Is that it? No habits, hobbies, personality?”

“Sherlock, breathe. Give us a second,” Y/N blurted. Sherlock’s wide blue eyes locked onto Y/N and he felt his heart stutter, giving John ample time to appropriately respond. 

“He was an amateur astronomer.”

A light went off in Sherlock’s mind. “Hold that cab,” he instructed them before running off to a homeless woman leaning against an iron fence. 

“Spare change, sir?” She asked Sherlock. 

“Don't mind if I do,” Sherlock stuck out his hand and retrieved the small slip of paper from the woman’s hands. 

Y/N watched the interaction with curiosity. Her eyes trailed after Sherlock as he hopped into the cab. Soon, the three of them were tucked in the back seat once again. 

It wasn’t long before they walked alongside industrial buildings and inside dark alleyways. Y/N found herself stepping closer to Sherlock as they passed from the light of the street lamps into the dark. Her hand brushed against his ever so softly. For a moment, her hand was all Sherlock could think about. 

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Sherlock whispered. His eyes trailing up to the twinkling stars above. 

Y/N’s eyes followed Sherlock’s. She paused before speaking. “I thought you didn’t care about stuff like that? Useless bits of information.”

Sherlock smirked, but his eyes moved down to hers, and his smile became a loving smile. “Doesn't mean I can't appreciate their beauty.” Time seemed to stand still as he gazed at Y/N under the starlight. His breath caught in his throat, and his eyes trickled to her lips.  

John spoke, breaking Sherlock’s trance. “Listen, Alex Woodbridge had a message on the answerphone at his flat. A Professor Cairns?”

“This way,” Sherlock said, leading John and Y/N deeper into the dark tunnels. 

“Nice! Nice part of town,” John sarcastically noted. “Er, any time you wanna explain.”

“Homeless network – really is indispensable,” Sherlock replied.

“Homeless network?” John questioned. 

“My eyes and ears all over the city,” Sherlock elaborated. 

“Ah, that's... clever. So you scratch their backs and...?” 

“Yes, then I disinfect myself,” Sherlock finished before taking out three lights for them and handing them out. 

“Flashlights?” Y/N wondered, turning hers on. 

John and Sherlock shared an odd expression. “What did you just call it?” John asked.

“A flashlight.”

John shook his head. “It’s a torch.”

Y/N fought back a sigh. “Yeah, torch, whatever. You know, sometimes I think you two forget I’m from America.”

Sherlock chuckled at the interaction. “Let’s go,” he said, flicking on his torch. 

The three of them entered the tunnel together. Small fires scattered between erected tents and cardboard boxes were the only light besides their own. As they whirled their lights around, Y/N stuck close to Sherlock. She felt as if she were more than three steps away from him; her lungs would constrict. 

“Sherlock! Y/N!” John’s voice hissed. The three of them spotted the tall shadow casting onto a nearby wall. 

Sherlock’s leather-gloved hand grasped Y/N’s arm.  “Come on!” Sherlock whispered as he quickly pulled her by his side, pushed her against the brick wall, and placed his hands beside her head. Sherlock leaned in close, using his body as a shield. Y/N’s nose was filled with his scent. She closed her eyes and bit her lip at the sudden intrusion in her personal space. 

“What's he doing sleeping rough?” John questioned. 

Y/N shuddered as Sherlock’s warm breath brushed against her cheeks. “Well, he has a very distinctive look. He has to hide somewhere where tongues won't wag – much.” Sherlock removed one of his hands from beside Y/N and reached into his pocket. 

“Oh shi…” John muttered to himself as he felt up his coat. “I wish I'd…” 

 Sherlock revealed John’s gun and handed it to him. John gratefully took the weapon and readied it. 

“Don't mention it,” Sherlock said, pushing off the wall to chase after the Golem. The three of them darted down the hallway after the giant man’s figure. By the time they reached the end, they caught sight of their killer entering a small black car. The door shut, and the car revved. Then Golem was gone. 

“ No! No! No! No!” Sherlock cried, waving his fist in the air. “It'll take us weeks to find him again.” 

Beside him, Y/N and John panted, looking at the exhaust the car had left behind. 

“Actually…” Y/N interjected. “I think I know where he’s going—or at least who he’s going after.” 

John’s eyes lit up with the same thought that occupied Y/N’s. “The Professor,” he muttered. 

“What?” Sherlock asked. 

“I told you: someone left Alex Woodbridge a message,” John recalled. “There can't be that many Professor Cairns in the book. Come on.”

______

A bright light crept out from underneath two large metal doors. Beyond the doors, Y/N could hear the voiceover of a film. She furrowed her brows and peered at her friends as they quietly and stealthily approached the doors. 

“Is that a–” Y/N began to ask when Sherlock cut her off. 

“Y/N, you’re staying out here.” 

Shock washed over Y/N’s face. “No, I am not staying behind.”

“No!” Sherlock hissed. “John and I will handle it. We’ll handle Golem, just stay here and-”

“And what? Look pretty? It’s just as dangerous staying out here in the dark than it is in the planetarium,” Y/N argued. She looked to John for assistance but was met with concerned eyes. “John?”

In an instant, Y/N was yanked away from the door. Sherlock’s firm hands grasped her shoulder and pulled her in close. “The Golem is dangerous and-” 

“Oh my God!” A shrill cry echoed from inside the planetarium. 

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and he removed his hands from Y/N. Motioning to John, he pushed open the door. “Stay here,” he commanded Y/N before the door slammed in her face. 

Muttering an array of curses under her breath, Y/N charged in after them. Immediately, her eyes burned from the flashing lights. In the flickers of light, Y/N saw John and Sherlock dance around for any sight of Golem. The longer Y/N looked, the dizzier she felt. Her feet stumbled, and she toppled off the stage. 

“Golem!”She heard Sherlock cry. 

Y/N groaned and came to a crouch position. In the distance, she spotted a woman lying on the ground. The lights continued to flash as she crawled over to who she believed to be Professor Cairns. Behind her, John and Sherlock struggled to spot Golem. 

“..many are actually long-dead, exploded into supernovas,” the film's narrator announced before the tape began to whir. 

“I can't see him. I'll go round. I'll go!” John yelled. 

Finger dug into the carpet as Y/N pulled herself closer to the professor. Her body was trembling, and her stomach began to churn. The light blared at her, and the volume of the film increased with each second. Y/N was sure that by the end, she’d come out blind and deaf. 

“Who are you working for this time, Dzundza?” She heard Sherlock taunt the assassin.

Finally, Y/N reached Professor Cairns. Suddenly, Y/N felt very cold. Sick climbed up her throat, and sweat clung to her forehead. Images of those dead, Hilton, the woman over the phone, and Soo Lin sparked in her mind. Feeling a sudden wave of determination, Y/N sat up and placed her hands on the professor’s chest. She wasn’t about to let someone else die, not if she could help it. Then she pushed down. Her shoulders pumped up and down, holding a steady pace. Up and down. Up and down. 

“Golem!” John hollered, followed by the sound of a gun cocking. “Let him go... or I will kill you.” 

Then, muffled grunts and cries reached Y/N’s ears. Her pace halted. Frightened eyes whirled around in a desperate search for John and Sherlock. The lights flickered on, and there they were. Under the spotlight, Sherlock swiftly twirled around Golem. The horror of a man towered over Sherlock, making him appear as miniscule as an ant. Nearby lay John, who struggled to get off the ground. 

“Sherlock!” Y/N screamed as Golem’s giant hand swung at Sherlock. The force of the blow dragged Sherlock to the floor. Instantly, Golem jumped on him, placing his hands over Sherlock’s nose and mouth. 

Jumping to her feet, Y/N ran as if it was the only thing she knew how to do. With each step, her mind went blank. She had to save Sherlock, but how? If Sherlock seemed tiny compared to the Golem, she was microscopic. Launching herself onto the stage, she slammed her body into the Golem. The sheer force momentarily knocked the Golem to the ground. However, he soon found himself back on his feet. A sickening grin inched onto Golem’s face as he stepped to Sherlock and Y/N. Y/N felt herself freeze over, unable to move, breathe, or blink. Golem stalked closer. Y/N shuddered before laying herself over Sherlock. She knew she didn’t stand a chance against a trained killer, but at the very least, she could give Sherlock time. 

Sherlock’s eyes blew wide as Y/N placed herself in front of him. “No, run away,” he wanted to croak but found his voice gone. It had been choked from him, instantly stunning him. With a breathless gaze, he gazed up at her. The stars and planets zoomed overhead in a taunting manner.

Clenching her eyes shut, Y/N braced herself for Golem’s hand, but it never came. John had pounced on him, locking the assassin in a chokehold. Golem struggled to pull John off, but when he did, he disappeared–jumping off the stage and running out the door. 

Y/N didn’t open her eyes until she felt Sherlock’s gentle touch on her cheek. It took her a moment to realize they were now sitting up. The film was playing overhead. With tears, she looked at him, and her voice was stolen. She wanted to say so many things but couldn’t find the words. Sherlock’s free arm wrapped around her body, pulling her close. Carefully, Y/N tucked her head into Sherlock’s neck. She breathed him in, feeling his heartbeat on her cheek. He was alive. She was alive. 

While Y/N clung to Sherlock, he found his mind in torment. He’d almost lost her. Sherlock tried so hard to keep her safe and close because, to him, Sherlock was the safest place around. However, it was a lie. Sherlock was dangerous, and being close to him was unsafe for her. 

He knew that now. If he hadn’t dragged her from case to case, she’d be safe in her flat with her cat. If he hadn’t brought her on, she wouldn’t have seen so much death. She would be safe. She would be free to live an everyday life away from Sherlock. But Sherlock was selfish. Her presence was more potent than any drug he’d ever taken. Her lips were sweeter than any victory had been. Sherlock was greedy and wanted her to stay, to be close, and never leave. Most of all, he wanted to love her. He did love her. Sherlock loved Y/N more than anything. 

A single tear fell from the pool in Sherlock’s eyes. He loved Y/N, so he had to keep safe, even if it meant he’d never see her again. She would be safe away from him, and so she had to go. Sherlock took one last moment to be selfish as they sat holding each other. His trembling lips met the crown of her head. His nose inhaled her scent one last time. His hands enveloped her body before tearing himself away. 

_____

Moriarty. The name was whispered in Sherlock’s mind as he and John opened the door to 221B Baker Street. A bittersweet triumph latched onto their shoulders, dragging them up the stairs. They had solved the case and saved that little boy, but now they had more questions. 

Warm light wrapped around Sherlock and John as they stepped into their flat. Their eyes fell onto Y/N’s sleeping figure. Sherlock had sent her home after their fight with Golem. Despite her protests, Sherlock and John’s insistence won. Both men’s eyes softened at the sight of Y/N.Her hair cascaded over her features, vaguely concealing the red skin around her eyes. 

Sherlock took a step further into the room. The floorboard creaked beneath his feet, alerting the woman from her sleep. She shot up but then relaxed at the sight. 

“You’re back,” she whispered. “What happened? Did you-”

“We solved the case,” Sherlock coldly said. He removed his coat and scarf and tossed them onto John’s armchair. 

“Sherlock,” Y/N gently muttered. “Are you alright?”

“Just stop!” Sherlock hissed. Y/N froze, and her eyes widened with shock as Sherlock appeared in front of her. “Don’t you see nothing you do helps? You’re a liability, Y/N. I’ve known it from the moment I laid eyes on you. From the moment I found you in that cab with a gun to your head, you’ve been a liability to me.” 

A new set of tears began to pour from Y/N’s eyes, too stunned to fight back.  

“If it weren’t for your emotions getting in the way—your caring…oh, your caring. You care too much.  Just as I said before, what good does caring do when people are going to die anyway? Soo Lin,  Hilton Cubitt: They all died despite your cares. Sentiment is a weakness found on the losing side. You, Y/N, are on the losing side. The only reason you haven’t realized it was because I was there. My mind free from the poison of it all,” Sherlock took in a shaky breath. His voice grew quiet. “...or so I thought.”

Stifling a sob, Y/N pleaded with Sherlock. “So why bother keeping me around?

“I had to,” he uttered. “You are my liability! Your sentiment is contagious, and its effects are leaking onto me. You make me weak. You make me lose my mind when I am not near you. And when I am, all concepts of cunning and intelligence evade me. I become human. I fear. I feel things I have never felt before. You…you have ruined me!”

Silence filled the air. John stood against the wall and clenched his fist in fury. He had never wanted to hit Sherlock more than he did now. However, Y/N’s saddened scoff drew his attention. It was her turn to say her piece. 

“I…” Y/N took in a quick breath to steady herself. “…I think I finally understand what’s going on in that mind. You say sentiment is on the losing side, that it’s weak, that I’m weak. Well, Sherlock, you’re wrong.” 

Y/N stepped closer to Sherlock—a determined gleam reflected in her eyes. “Yes, I care about others, maybe too much, but that makes me stronger. I have people to love and who love me back. Can you say the same?” 

Sherlock stared back at her, all thoughts and words fled in her presence. 

“I doubt you can,” Y/N continued. Her words commanded the room and Sherlock’s attention. He could not ignore her. “You push everyone away and blame it all on your intellectual mind. Your brother has to pay others to ensure you’re okay because he cares about you, and you couldn't care less. John buys you milk even when he knows it’ll disappear within a day due to your insane experiments, yet you never say thank you or offer to buy it yourself. Auntie M makes you tea and occasionally helps tidy up even though she’s just your landlady, and you shoot holes into her walls. Greg brings you cases and lets you get away with many things, yet you can never get his name right. Molly lets you take body parts from Bart’s, something that could cost her her job. However, you shred her apart every chance you get.  I stand up for you when others try to break you down, and here you are, breaking me. All because I care too much. Because I care too much for you. I get it. I’m just your neighbor and assistant. That’s all I’ll ever be, even though you kissed me that night. Even though I’ve wanted you to kiss me for so long.” 

“But your intelligence? That’s not the real reason you push everyone away.” Y/N’s grew low. “You treat the people around you like shit because you’re afraid they’ll leave just like everyone else and it’ll be easier to unattach yourself from them if they were never really there in the first place. So I quit. I quit being your assistant. I quit being your neighbor. You win Sherlock. You want me gone? I’ll leave. I’ll find the first flight out of London. I’ll go back home. I’ll leave, and you’ll never have to see me again because I understand now…”

A sob broke out from Y/N. John gasped, staring between his two friends. Wiping her tears away, Y/N raised her chin up high. Her feet trekked to the open door of John and Sherlock’s flat and paused before leaving. “Goodbye, John,” she said to her friend with melancholy eyes. “Goodbye…Sherlock.” It was barely a whisper, and by the time Sherlock realized what Y/N had said, she was gone. 

____

The sound of the lock on her front door was the consolation Y/N found once she entered her apartment. Tears poured from her eyes as she collapsed against the door. She couldn’t see anything and couldn’t hear anything past her sobs, so when a warm hand pressed against her shoulder, she jumped out of her skin. 

Following the hand to its owner, she saw Jim standing above her. His eyes were soft and gentle as he lifted her to her feet and hugged her. 

Mumbling into her boyfriend’s shoulder, she asked, “How’d you get here?”

“Your aunt let me in,” he replied. “But that’s not important. What’s wrong, love?”

Y/N was too caught up in her emotions to recall her aunt was out with a friend for the evening. Instead, she caved into her boyfriend's touch and sweet words. 

“I’d rather not talk about it,” she admitted, leaning deeper into his comfort. 

Jim nodded and raised his hand to rub circles on her back. “How ‘bout after tea? I find that tea always helps soothe the mind.” He pulled back and smiled at her. 

Y/N quickly agreed, and before she knew it, she’d drunk two cups of the steaming hot liquid. Upon noticing her cup was empty again, Jim poured her another cup and urged her to drink up. Y/N swallowed it down, finding the herbs to numb her senses. After a moment's silence, Y/N found her strength returning. 

Taking a deep breath, she peered over at her boyfriend, ready to speak. “It was Sherlock. He…” Tears bubbled back up to the surface. “He…he” Y/N furrowed her brow. Her tongue seemed to stop working, and her mind was growing blank. “Sherlock,” she whispered with much difficulty.

Jim groaned. “Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.” Each time he said the detective's name, a chilling animosity grew.

“Huh?” Y/N said through the fog of her mind. She knocked her hand against something hard. The teacup fell to the floor and shattered. The deafening sound provided Y/N with some momentary clarity. When Y/N tried to stand from her seat, she discovered her legs had failed her. Instead of standing upright, she was on the floor beside the shattered cup. A groan escaped her mouth. 

“I was wondering when it’d take effect,” Jim said. Y/N dragged her head to look up at him. Confusion covered her features as she saw the grin on her boyfriend’s face. As if he sensed her gaze, Jim’s eyes turned empty. “ Oh! I love that look on your face. Utter confusion. It’s adorable. I could just…muaw!” He placed a wet kiss on her lips. The force pushed her to the ground, and the hard surface welcomed her. She felt herself growing weaker. Her breath slowed, and her eyes grew heavy. 

“You made my job a whole lot easier, and I’m very grateful for that, my dear. But I’ll have to reward you later when you wake up. I’m going to take you far away from here—away from Sherlock, John…I’m taking you away from it all.” 

With the last of her strength, her mind screamed at her. Terror filled her veins as the walls caved in on her. She whimpered.

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” Jim said, crouching down. His fingers brushed through her hair, luring her to sleep. “Just rest. Everything will be alright. I promise.”

_____

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[vidavalor]

Side Tings

In the above scene, Nina is wearing a t-shirt that reads "Greetings from California!" but her lovely hair is intentionally styled to create a bit of visual wordplay by cutting off the first half of the word greetings. Nina's t-shirt spends the scene reading a whole, other word: "Tings!"

This is funny with relation to what she and Crowley are discussing in this scene because ting is a shortened form of thing and is part of the MLE phrase side tings. It's the equivalent to the more common side piece in the United States. Both side tings and side piece? They are variants on the English phrase that Crowley and Nina both use in the scene: bit on the side.

For a different and connected version of this-- one that is more literal and even more visual? When Crowley snaps Mr. Brown of Brown's World of Carpets back into line for coffee, our beloved Mr. Vacuum is physically intact... but his signature newspaper is not.

It has been bit on the sides.

It's about here that we can call attention to the fact that Mr. Carpet is returned when Crowley is out on Whickber Street escorting Maggie and Nina out of the shop for their safety. We see Mrs. Sandwich and other Whickbers waiting in line for Nina to open the coffee shop and, behind our professional seamstress, is Our Villain.

Our Villain remains silent but he is doing something kinda weird with his mouth. He appears to be chewing on food but he's never seen actually eating anything that we can see. In the midst of this, we see him staring weirdly at Crowley around the same time that Crowley brings back Mr. Carpet and Mr. Carpet's bit newspaper.

I do think that Crowley brought Mr. Vacuum back of his own accord but the scene is a bit interpretable. The way it's cut at least suggests a correlation between Our Villain weirdly snacking in line and Mr. Brown's half-eaten newspaper, especially since Mr. Carpet was last seen the prior night being taken by demons and tossed back through them as a presumptive gift for their master.

The chewing combined with Mr. Brown's chewed newspaper + the weirdly staring at Crowley = the first of a series of Clues to Our Villain being Satan. It's the particular attention being paid Crowley, though, that is unnerving, no matter who this is, but especially so if it's Satan. Crowley tells Nina that Aziraphale is not his bit on the side-- and that's objectively, emphatically true. To Satan, though, Crowley is a demon and Crowley is his. To Our Villain, Aziraphale is Crowley's bit on the side.

The one targeted by our weirdly chewing villain in The Final 15 is Aziraphale and, if you take the view that this is Satan, as many other Clues suggest, he's here to go after whom he sees as Crowley's bit on the side in revenge for Crowley and Aziraphale, as he sees it, turning his son against him and stopping Armageddon: Round One.

Because, think of Mr. Brown's bit on the side newspaper and then think of...

[elissanatok]

﹒•˒⟿⭒「𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐄 ❞」ʿʿ ⟿☼ 2

↳✉⭒˞˔˙ː❛ -ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑑𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑙𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡?✹⋮

◌༄۵ !𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗎 !

!𝚂.𝚁. //𝙱.𝙱.// 𝙿.𝙼. //𝙿.𝙿. !

𝖱𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖺 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍. 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗐𝗁𝗈, 𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗈, 𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖱𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍??? 𝖶𝖾𝗅𝗅 – 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖺 – 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅 – 𝗅𝖾𝗍'𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝖾.

a/n: this is complete fluff I guess

Peter Parker felt his fingers twitch for the thousand time this morning. He wished he could give the one cup of coffee he had that morning the fault for this, but he knew something was wrong. He knew his senses were even higher than usually and the strong grip on the strap of his backpack did nothing to release some tension.

He did send Mr. Stark a message telling him something was wrong, but the moment he told him his problem was finger twitching Tony stopped answering.

His brown locks were ruffled, and Ned's eyes widened when he met him in the halls. "Woah what happened to you man?", he asked, analyzing his friend from head to toe. "I – I don't know. Something is wrong." He started rubbing the itching art on his body. Usually, he loved it. The fine sketch of a woman who's reading a newspaper, keeping her legs crossed, was his favorite part about his body. Although it wasn't really about him. It would make his day - looking at his waist in the mirror and tracing the lines till they had burned themselves into his mind. God, he loved the idea of her feeling his touch. And even after he found his favorite part to be the favorite part to three other men, he still couldn't help but give himself butterflies every time he thought of her.

Her.

Snapping out of his trance, he looked at his friend who was raising an eyebrow at him. "Did you listen to me? Hey dude where is your mind. I just told you the best thing ever!", "Sorry.", Peter mumbled, biting his lip. "So there's this new girl, alright. I have math with her. She's hot. So hot bro. And- and- ", "Yeah she's cool I guess." Both guys snapped their neck towards MJ, who was slightly smirking as she stopped next to them. "Yeah- so- ", "What's her name?", Peter asked wanting to meet her now that his friends already got to know her. "Y/n. Cool right?", Ned said grinning. "Yeah -cool. Look – I should go.", "You alright Pete?", asked MJ, to which he nodded, before he speed walked to his next class, just to freeze in the door.

Her hair was beautiful. Braided in some kind of pretty bun which he had no clue about. Her nose was wrinkled as she looked down at the notebook, the pencil tightly held between her fingers and her lips in a pout. "Shit.", he whispered, looking at her lips. They were rosy, not red, not too big, but not too small. The perfect match to his.

Wrinkling her eyebrows Y/n slowly looked up, but came to the conclusion she must have imagined the feeling of someone starring at her, because no one was standing in the door. No- the boy who was leaning outside of the room, with a rapid beating heart and red cheeks couldn't look into her eyes.

Everything he imagined could come true now, but he wished oh so dearly for it to be Steve or Pietro who got to meet her first. Look- Peter was an awkward, shy boy most of the times and even tough he would be the one to spend some time with her alone before he had to tell the others, he was scared shitless.

She wouldn't laugh at him if he started to ramble or said something that sounded wrong. Right?

Peeping around the wall he took a deep breath. Her legs were crossed, the same way the lady from his soul mark did. Another deep breath followed, before he closed his eyes and- he opened them again and fell right into a deep pool of y/e/c.

Y/n’s head was tilted slightly as her mouth went dry. "H-Hi.", she whispered and started fumbling with the rings on her finger to prevent from falling around his neck immediately. "H—Hey", Peter coughed out, getting even redder cheeks when he took in her smell. "So- you're my soulmate huh?", she asked, trying to ease him and herself a little bit. "I guess."

"Is that bad?", she asked nervous. "I mean is- am I- "Her self-consciousness was interrupted by her teacher walking thru the door next to them. "Mmh." She didn't find the words she was searching for, so she pointed at the door and left in a hurry. Great. Just Great.

It did exactly go like he always imagined. Not really tho.

He sighed, as he rubbed a hand over his face. He didn't even know where to start from here. He didn't know if he should tell the others first or get to know her. He was going to have a heart attack at the age of seventeen and it would be her fault. Y/n St. Lorenz would be the death of him.

Slightly she took her eyes of her book, when the sound of the chair next to her being pulled backwards met her ears. Peter -again- took a deep breath. "It's – uhm- fantastic.", he smiled, and tried to memorize her face. "What?", she whispered, and looked in his eyes again. "I- uhm- you know- you are – it's not bad that you're my soulmate. It's perfect. You're perfect." A blush spread over both their faces. "Oh- You don't even know me.", "But I would love to."

"I guess that can be arranged.",

"Great. I'm Peter -Parker uhm- Peter Parker.",

"Nice to meet you, Peter Parker. I'm Y/n.",

"Perfect.",

"Yeah- Perfect."

[gardenschedule]

Perceptions of Paul as calculating & John's paranoia

“McCartney’s mistake, which he now admits, was to seem invulnerable. […] And yet, he says, the contrast between himself and Lennon, so assiduously cultivated by journalists, was a fabrication. “I wasn’t brilliant at school. I was trouble, just like John. I got caned practically every day, and the only exam I ever passed was Spanish. John and I weren’t black and white, although people took John, for all his aggression, to be the good guy, because he showed his warts. I’ve only just realized, after all this time, that people like to see warts. It makes them sympathetic. I’d always though that, in order to be liked, you had to be unwarty.””

Living with The Beatles’ legacy, the smears that Lennon left behind… and the battle to win my babies back, The Times Newspaper, Monday January 4, 1982.

Paul was the easiest to talk to. He had such energy and such keenness and, unlike John, enjoyed being liked, at least most of the time. I don't see this as a criticism; John himself could be very cruel about Paul's puppy dog eagerness to please. The irony was, and still is, that John's awfulness to people, his rudeness and cruelty, made people like him more, whereas Paul's genuine niceness made many people suspicious, accusing him of being calculating. Paul does look ahead, seeing what might happen, working out the effect of certain actions, but he often ends up tying himself in knots, not necessarily getting what he thought he wanted. I think there is some insecurity in Paul's nature, which makes him try so hard, work so hard. It also means he can be easily hurt by criticism, which was something that just washed over John.

Hunter Davies, Western Mail: The Beatles. (April 9th, 2004)

Even Paul’s immaculate manners could not thaw her. ‘Oh, yes, he was well-mannered–too well-mannered. He was what we call in Liverpool “talking posh” and I thought he was taking the mickey out of me. I thought “He’s a snake-charmer all right,” John’s little friend, Mr Charming. I wasn’t falling for it. After he’d gone, I said to John, “What are you doing with him? He’s younger than you… and he’s from Speke!”’ After that, when Paul appeared, she would always tell John sarcastically that his ‘little friend’ was here. ‘I used to tease John by saying “chalk and cheese”, meaning how different they were,’ she remembered, ‘and John would start hurling himself around the room like a wild dervish shouting “Chalkandcheese! Chalkandcheese!” with this stupid grin on his face.’

Philip Norman, Paul McCartney: The Life. (2016)

“He always suspected me. He accused me of scheming to buy over Northern Songs without telling him. I was thinking of something to invest in, and Peter Brown said what about Northern Songs, invest in yourself, so I bought a few shares, about 1,000 I think. John went mad, suspecting some plot. Then he bought some himself. He was always thinking I was cunning and devious. That’s my reputation, someone who’s charming, but a clever lad. “It happened the other day at Ringo’s wedding. I was saying to Cilia [Black] that I liked Bobby [her husband]. That’s all I said. Bobby’s a nice bloke. Ah, but what do you REALLY think Paul? You don’t mean that, do you, you’re getting at something? I was being absolutely straight. But she couldn’t believe it. No one ever does. They think I’m calculating all the time.

Paul and Hunter Davies, 1981

In the wake of his death you didn’t tour for most of the ‘80s. People suggested that you were scared to go on the road. Was that true? No. People speculate about anything. They always credit me with motives I haven’t even dreamed of. It’s interesting, the way they sort of perceive my life and analyse it for me. In that case, I never thought about touring much. People used to say, “Oh, it’s 10 years since you’ve toured.” I’d go, “Is it? Y’know, I’m not counting.” That’s all that was, really. I don’t know why. Maybe I didn’t fancy it.

The Q Interview, 2007

Astrid in Germany was always a bit suspicious of Paul at first, though his relationship with Stu was also bound up in this. 'It used to frighten me that someone could be so nice all the time. Which is silly. It's ridiculous to feel at home with nasty people, just because you feel that at least you know where you are with them. It's silly to be wary of nice people.'

The Beatles (Updated Edition) (Hunter Davies)

Paul is the easiest to get to know for an outsider, but in the end he is the hardest to get to know. There is a feeling that he is holding things back, that he is one jump ahead, aware of the impression he is giving. He is self-conscious, which the others are not. John doesn't care, either way, what people think. Ringo is too adult to think about such things, and George in many ways isn't conscious. He is above it all.

The Beatles (Updated Edition) (Hunter Davies)

Paul today is still the public Beatle, giving interviews at fairly regular intervals, being open and honest about himself and his past, his worries and his pleasures. Naturally, as ever, there are people who suspect his motives, putting him down for being too charming. Paul may be a bit of an actor, acting the part of Paul McCartney, the charming superstar, still loved by every mum, which can make him sound rather prissy at times, but I believe he does tell the truth about himself.

The Beatles (Updated Edition) (Hunter Davies)

“My problem is to me, I come over as this very together guy, always got his finger on top of everything: the man with no problems. School – a doddle, got all the exams. This is the sort of image of me. Actually, I had murder getting through exams, like I was saying about being on tour during my GCEs. I was like the kid who was getting the cane. Just like John was, but he [Phillip Norman] makes me the very shrewd, always-going-to-succeed guy, and John is the kind of cute, working-class hero. In actual fact though, John was just as shrewd and ambitious as I was. What does me in is he adds to this image I’ve got; I resent that, because I know I’m not that, and I know I’ve never been that.

Paul McCartney’s thoughts from 1983 on Phillip Norman’s ‘Shout!’

The funny thing is, when Apple [started], everything was laid out on the table, it’s like a Monopoly game. We saw who had what. I suddenly had more Northern Song shares than anybody, and it was like, oops, sorry. John was like, “You bastard, you’ve been buying behind my back.” John saw everything like a Harold Robbins movie, you know, which it was. He’s not incorrect. I couldn’t get over the fact that we were really involved in all this. I think to this day, he’ll not understand. I don’t think he would accept right now, my naïveté in it. I think he still suspects me of trying to take over Apple. He still suspects that when I offered the Eastmans as [managers] instead of Allen Klein, he naturally assumed that I would be taken care of better than the others, and that the Eastmans could never be moral enough to be equal in their judgment and do the Beatles’ thing rather than Paul’s thing. I think they still suspect to this day.

The point I was trying to illustrate is that it wasn’t so much John being a bastard as it was his being suspicious towards me, always being suspicious towards me. There was Northern Song shares. And I swear on any holy book you want, I know he won’t believe it, but I know for sure that I didn’t buy them with the view to— If I was really trying to do it, I could have bought an awful lot more. So it does hurt a little bit that there’s someone who still thinks, like, I’m out to get them, or that I always was. That’s one of the nice things about it— It’s a pity [I never said to John, “Fuck off, I’m not trying to do it”—and never was]. But he knows I was kind of— We were behind the scenes, and we did a few little [things] that we had to do, and our ambitions, and it was never a kind of terrifying skeletons in the closet. It was always just normal—but, uh, they …

All You Need Is Love – Peter Brown & Steven Gaines

SG: Were the other Beatles anti-Linda? PMcC: Uh, yeah. I should think so. Like we were anti-Yoko. But you know John and Yoko, you can see it now, the way to get their friendship is to do everything the way they require it. To do anything else is how to not get their friendship. This is still how it is with John and Yoko. I know that if I absolutely lie down on the ground and just do everything like they say and laugh at all their jokes and don’t expect my jokes to ever get laughed at, and don’t expect any of my opinions ever to carry any weight whatsoever, if I’m willing to do all that, then we can be friends. But if I have an opinion that differs from theirs, then I’m a sort of an enemy. And naturally, paint myself a villain with a big mustache on, because to the ends of the earth, that’s how they both see me. They’re very suspicious people [John and Yoko], and one of the things that hurt me out of the whole affair, was that we’d come all that way together, and out of either a fault in my character, or out of lack of understanding in their character, I’d still never managed to impress upon them that I wasn’t trying to screw them. I don’t think that I have to this day.

All You Need Is Love – Peter Brown & Steven Gaines

I was never out to screw him, never. He could be a maneuvering swine, which no one ever realized. Now since the death he’s became Martin Luther Lennon. But that really wasn’t him either. He wasn’t some sort of holy saint. He was still really a debunker. “For ten years together he took my songs apart. He was paranoiac about my songs. We have great screaming sessions about them.

Paul and Hunter Davies, 1981

SALEWICZ: Oh, he was presumably very paranoid. PAUL: I think so. I mean, he warned me off Yoko once. You know, “Look, this is my chick!” ’Cause he knew my reputation. I mean, we knew each other rather well. And um, I felt… I just said, “Yeah, no problem.” But I did sort of feel he ought to have known I wouldn’t, but. You know, he was going through “I’m just a jealous guy”. He was a paranoid guy. And he was into drugs. Heavy.

September, 1986 (MPL Communications, London)

Miles says, “I think Jane was always a bit irritated by John. Because he was so acerbic and difficult to get on with. And paranoid. He didn’t make life easy. I suppose it’s a sort of rapier wit, but it was usually just plain ordinary rudeness. There was nothing special about it.”

Paul McCartney profile for FAME Magazine (March 1990)

“They [Lennon & McCartney] saw each other again in 1977. The Lennons and McCartneys ate dinner together at Le Cirque, Paul’s favourite French restaurant in New York. John regretted going; it was a loathsome night. Paul and Linda blathered on and on about how perfect their lives were, how they had everything they’d ever wanted, and how they were as happy as they’d ever been. Something very paranoid suddenly occurred to John. Maybe Lorraine Boyle was spying on him for the McCartneys! He woke up the next morning still feeling disturbed; he consulted the Oracle. Swan assured him that Paul and Linda were frustrated and unsatisfied. Their marriage was in trouble, he said, predicting it would break up within the year. Lately Swan’s visions had been astonishingly accurate. Relieved, John began composing a song—a little ditty, really, that would never be released—in praise of the Oracle’s powers. But he still couldn’t understand why Paul and Linda had been together for as long as they had. There appeared to be a psychic connection between John and Paul. Every time McCartney was in town, John would hear Paul’s music in his head.”

Robert Rosen, Nowhere Man: The Final Days of John Lennon, (2000)

JOHN: […..] And he’s (Jagger) goin’ on about “he never calls. Do you think he ever calls? He never calls me. And he keeps changing his phone number all the time… And he’s hiding behind the kid.” I was hurt by it! You know… The fact that… A, I never call anybody. It’s not pride, it’s just that I never, ever have. REPORTER: Why? JOHN: I never call the other Beatles, I never call anybody. They always call me. REPORTER: Why? JOHN: Cos I’m self-involved! I’m paranoid, too. I don’t like phones… There’s nobody on this earth ever got a call from me that isn’t related, probably. Or a very old friend…

Sept 1980 – John

“Yoko was an extremist and was even more intense than John taking any idea or comment of his to the limit. If, for example, he complained about any of his fellow Beatles she would hint that that Beatle had always been an enemy implying that John should never deal with that person again. Her extreme positions fascinated John and help him take his mind off himself but when she became self-involved and paranoid herself -her paranoia usually dealt with her career, her fame and the fact that even though she had always been famous everyone conspired to keep her from getting even more famous- he had no place to turn. His insecurity about his solo career, his childhood, his relationships with the other Beatles, the way the public perceived Yoko overwhelmed him and he became more and more involved with drugs.”

May Pang, Loving John (1984)

John was lucky. He got all his hurt out. I’m a different sort of a personality. There’s still a lot inside me that’s trying to work it out. And that’s why it’s good to see that wedding-funeral bit, because I started to think, ‘Wait a minute, this is someone who’s going over the top. This is paranoia manifesting itself.’ And so my feeling is just like it was at the time, which is like, He’s my buddy, I don’t really want to do anything to hurt him, or his memory, or anything. I don’t want to hurt Yoko. But, at the same time, it doesn’t mean that I understand what went down.

Paul McCartney: An Innocent Man? (October, 1986)

Some three year later, during the making of Abbey Road, Lennon installed a twin bed in the studio so that Yoko, recuperating from a car crash, could survey proceedings and pass comment though a mike he had suspended over her. The other Beatles positioned themselves around the room as best they could. Yoko would later tell Paul that if, for any reason, he’d seemed to be standing too close to her, all hell would break loose when John got her home. Lennon, she said, was ‘very paranoid’ like that.

McCartney by Chris Sandford

But we were actually quite supportive. Not supportive enough, you know; it would have been nice to have been really supportive because then we could look back and say, “Weren’t we really terrific?” But looking back on it, I think we were okay. We were never really that mean to them. But I think a lot of the time John suspected meanness where it wasn’t really there.

Paul McCartney, interview w/ Chris Salewicz for Musician: Tug of war – Paul McCartney wants to lay his demons to rest. (October, 1986)

I just read about this thing that’s going on sale at Sotheby’s – this Apple booklet with John’s comments in the margins in his own handwriting. It is so bitter. Like, there’s a picture of Paul and Linda’s wedding – and John’s crossed out “wedding” and written in “funeral.” I think it starts to tell there. Another caption says, “Paul goes to Hollywood” – and then he’s apparently written in the margin, “To cut Yoko and John out of the film.” He often thought that we were tryin’ to cut Yoko out of things, to cut her out of Let It Be. I suppose we were, in some degree; because she wasn’t in the Beatles, and it was a Beatles film, and it wasn’t absolutely necessary to have long footage of her in there. She certainly was in there, but obviously they felt she should be in there a little more. I bent over backward trying to see John’s point of view. I still bend over backward trying to not malign him.”

Paul McCartney, Rolling Stone, September 11th, 1986

[mimisempai]

Dorks in love

Summary

Aziraphale is angry that Crowley has once again gone after Mr. Brown because he's jealous. But maybe it's not about jealousy.

Notes

Just them being two idiots in love

Prompt : "You're really cute when you're mad."

On Ao3

Rating G -  287 words

"Crowley! You did it again!"

The demon looked up from the newspaper he was reading to see the angel standing in front of him, hands on hips, looking absolutely pissed.

As he folded his newspaper, Crowley asked in a honeyed tone, "What did I do?"

"Cast a spell on Mr. Brown just because you're jealous."

"Oh, come on, Angel, that's funny, I just turned everything he wears from orange to green."

The demon chuckled before adding, "That includes his hair and mustache."

Aziraphale pointed a finger at his chest as he replied sharply, "That's not the point. You can't do this every time you think he's coming on to me. I thought you trusted me and-"

Crowley shook his head and sheepishly replied, "Actually, I have a confession to make. I'm not doing this because I'm jealous, but because yourereallycutewhenyouremad."

"What?"

Crowley, cheeks now slightly flushed, repeated, "You're really cute when you're mad."

Aziraphale, speechless at first, threw his head back and burst out laughing. It took him a while to calm down as Crowley buried his head in his hands.

Then, as the laughter subsided, the demon felt Aziraphale's hands grab his and pull them away from his face.

The angel crouched in front of him and shook his head before saying, "And I'm the cute one? You'll have to excuse me, but right now you're the cuter of us two."

"Not even close."

"Come on Crowley, you know I'm right."

"No, it's mmmph."

The demon was unable to answer because the angel had pressed his lips to his and silenced him in the most adorable way he knew how.

In the end, it didn't matter, they were both the most adorable dorks in the world.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Ineffable Growing Love - Series post S2

Part 1 Story 1-99

Part 2 Story 100-?

Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here

[bird-slayer-brainrot]

Who? - Ineffable Husband watch Doctor Who - crack, fluff

"Mr Bond, you're truly a hero." the blond, bespectacled women said to him. It had been quite a victory, that much was true. The girl clutched Bond's arm, blushing up at him. "Mr Bond, it was ever so brave of scramoush scaramoush will you do the fandango.......

"Crowley, is that you?"

Crowley groaned. Blinking into awareness, Crowley pressed the phone to his ear. He really should change his ringtone. Leave your phone in the Bentley once and it thinks it has the right. "Yes, yes, hello Aziraphale."

"Oh dear," the angel paused for a moment, and Crowley pulled himself out of his covers and sat up. "Were you asleep? I'm so sorry for interrupting you. I'll let you get back to it."

"No, no." Crowley cleared his throat. The angel, to his credit, sounded genuinely distressed by the prospect of accidentally waking Crowley from his sleep. Crowley grimaced. "I was just getting up. What's the matter?"

Aziraphale was silent for a moment. The static buzzing of a tea kettle, knowing him, transferring through his end was all that could be heard.

"I'm afraid it's rather silly." That got Crowley's attention. He performed a quick miracle and he was dressed. Black sweater, black sweatpants (even demon's had lazy days, and he planned on gardening) and combat boots (to make up for the sweatpants). Aziraphale made a noise over the phone. "It's really not important. There was just something I wanted to show you, if... if you're not busy."

Crowley, of course, had nothing on. But Aziraphale wanted to see him so he was obviously free. Even if he had something on, he'd try and get... okay, no, that line of inquiry is well worn. He just wanted to see Aziraphale. He was bored yada yada.

"I'll be there." Crowley said into the microphone.

"Oh, good." Aziraphale's sigh transmitted through, and Crowley really had no clue then what it was Aziraphale wanted to see him for, and the angel wasn't telling him. "I'll see you soon. Safe driving."

"Never," Crowley responded, as usual. Aziraphale hung up the phone and Crowley sprung up and grabbed his keys.

Aziraphale was pacing.

Perhaps he shouldn't have called Crowley. It was ridiculous, this whole thing. But he couldn't, in good conscious, not tell the demon. It would be simply unfair not to. And Aziraphale was an angel, so he should be the one to tell him.

The bell at the door chimed. Crowley stepped inside, miracling his clothing dry. Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief.

"Crowley," he approached his friend, smiling as the demon propped himself a bookshelf. "You look cozy. How was the drive?"

The demon tilted his head and put a hand on his hip. "Uhh, fine." he finally spoke. That was good. That was very good. "So do you mind telling me what's going on?"

"Ah, yes." Aziraphale shifted, adjusting his cardigan, "Well, I stumbled across something that might be rather interesting to you. On..." Aziraphale paused, but Crowley, who knew Aziraphale's mannerisms as well as his own, waited. "the television."

Crowley smiled.

"Aziraphale..."

"Crowley."

And the demon laughed as Aziraphale led him upstairs.

It was unexpected.

They were in the small sitting room in the flat at the top of Aziraphale's bookshop. Crowley had only been up here on occasion. The room was like the rest of the space. There was a small, brown couch with a blanket and several homemade cushions; an antique coffee table covered with books, a newspaper, two tea cups and a half finished plate of biscuits; and a slim and small TV on the bureau. The curtains were drawn.

"This is cozy." Crowley said as Aziraphale sat on the couch and reached for the remote. Crowley took that as invitation to join him. And waited.

The theme of Doctor Who began to play, and at this, Crowley looked over at the angel. Aziraphale was watching the screen, adjusting his cardigan again. Several names flashed across the screen, then, the title, The Christmas Invasion.

The episode started to play. Ten minutes in, Aziraphale paused it, and slowly turned his head to face Crowley. Crowley was already looking at Aziraphale.

"That." was all Crowley said.

"I know." Aziraphale flinched. "I was just as surprised as you."

"David Tennant?"

Aziraphale shifted. "I was meaning to catch up on the series, before it got too far away from me." he tried to explain. "And, well, there's this." he gestured towards the screen, where a still image of David Tennant's sleeping face. The resemblance to the demon at his right was uncanny.

"And you thought this was my doing?"

"Well," Aziraphale shrugged. "I didn't know what to think, but you seem just as surprised by this information."

Crowley leaned back into the couch, pondering this for a moment. Then he shrugged, and got up.

"Wait, where are you going? You can't hurt him!"

Crowley spun around on his feet. The expression on his face was incredulous.

"Aziraphale." he said in a measured tone. "That is a human man. You want to watch Doctor Who, and so do I. I'm grabbing wine." then he turned away again, and walked out of the room.

Several hours later...

Aziraphale turned the TV off. They stared at the black screen.

"That was..."

A noise broke through the silence. Aziraphale turned his head, and Crowley turned his away.

"Crowley." he said gently. "Are you... crying?"

Crowley sneered at this and turned back to face Aziraphale. His face was dry, miraculously, and Aziraphale felt a wave of tenderness wash through him.

"Well," Aziraphale's hand itched to reach out and comfort the demon. On the screen, the Doctor walked away from the wall dividing him and Rose. Well, the wall that was actually a gap in the void. The theme swelled, and Aziraphale's heart clenched. He paused the episode.

"Next one?" Crowley said gently, and Aziraphale obliged.

Later, Crowley would deny ever crying at that episode. It was not brought up again.

[coraline-jones353]

Hii is it okay if I request Ray Manchester x Single Mother reader?

A little more info on her is that she works as a CEO and people think shes intimidating and scary due to how strict she is but in reality she only wants whats best for her coworkers and child

The way she met Ray was either through junk n stuff or maybe Captain Man thinking she was evil

Feel free to skip this! No worries :)

Omg thank you so much for the details, there a life savior. Since this is a request it will get pushed to the top of my drafts so it should be done soon!

A Ceo's World

Summary: Y/n is a single mother of a lovely young lady, melody. She's a big CEO in Swellview. She needs a particular object that can only be found at Junk n stuff for her daughters 10th birthday, or so she thought.

Warnings: Cuss words, made up singer for this, scheming kids

Y'all idk about this one I think it's shitty 😭

While driving to Junk n stuff all I can think about is how stupid I'm about to look. I had to drive to this random store just for some shirts and pins. The lengths I go for this kid I swear. Me, a well respected woman is about to go get merch from this random kid creator.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I sigh as I walk into the store. I scan the room and find nothing. Great, I think to myself now I have to go ask someone for help.

I look around for an employee and see a man at the counter. He's charming. Beautiful dark brown hair and omg his muscles. He looks like he works out in his free time. And I don't see a ring on his finger.

Today Mr. Gooch was out sick and there was no major crime, only Jeff so Henry aka Kid Danger just went to handle that alone. That left Ray there alone to handle the store.

This is bullshit, Ray thought to himself, I should be out there fighting crime and kicking ass but instead I'm stuck behind a counter for a fake store. Ray dramatically grabs a newspaper from the stand outside and sits in his chair, putting his feet up and relaxing.

Just then a customer walks in. Ray looks up from his magazine to see the most beautiful woman he's ever seen, hell she's even hotter than Henry's mom. She looks serious and is in business attire, she's got to be important. But he swears he has seen her somewhere. Perhaps in a commercial? Or maybe on a billboard? He scrambles to his feet and rushes over to his customer. A little too quickly he realizes as he almost trips over his feet on his way over.

"Hi I'm Ray, Manchester, Ray Manchester." He says in a frantic way like his words are racing to leave his mouth before he can even take a breath. "Hello, I'm Y/n L/n. I'm looking for merch for my daughter. It's from this singer, uh I think her name is AppleCore?" I say looking around for the familiar green shirts with a red apple on them. AppleCore is a famous girly pop singer that is popular around now. Many girls will come in the store just to try to find any "vintage" merch of hers. They come in, singing all her songs and shopping for apple stuff.

"Oh yeah I know what you're talking about, but we don't sell that here." Ray says "Oh I could have sworn she said it was here." I say looking around again. Ray watches your eyes go back and forth, up and down, his store hoping to find what it is she wants even though he knows he doesn't have it.

"Well I'll just look up the shirt and find another store." I say shaking my head at my daughter's misinformation.

"Wait, wait.. Do you think I could have your number?" Ray says in a panic as you make a bee line for the door. "My- my number?" My eyes widden in shock at his sudden interest in me.

"Yes. You're very gorgeous and I'd like to get to know you more." Ray explains with a dazzling smile.

[izzywantscheesecake]

the gingerbread competition

Pairing: Hobie Brown x GN! Reader 🕸🕷🎸 Quick Synopsis: Hobie and Y/N compete with Miles and Gwen to see who can make the best gingerbread house. Tags: Use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, reader can be male/female or none, friends to lovers, Romantic tension between Hobie and Reader, Implied MilesxGwen, fluff, Christmas themed

Hobie Brown didn’t celebrate Christmas.

He didn’t hate Jesus or was part of a different religion, in fact, he preferred to keep himself unlabeled in terms of his religious ideology, but he just thought the meaning of Christmas had lost its definition in the past few decades.

Essentially, Christmas existed to celebrate the birth of Jesus by sharing thoughtful gifts and spending time with loved ones. 

But the ‘spending time with loved ones’ part had been erased and the holiday was dumbed down to seeing whoever could get another person the most expensive gift without any thought.

So he didn’t fully celebrate it.

Sure, he’d make his friends a handmade gift they were sure to like and he wouldn’t be rude and reject a gift, but he would never partake in the usual activities like hanging the mistletoe, buying a christmas tree, or building a..

“..Gingerbread house! Let’s make gingerbread houses! And it can be a competition, too,” You grinned.

It wasn’t actually Christmas day, it was two days before. But this was the only day all of you could hang out before attending to plans you actually had on ol' Christmastide.

It was just you, Hobie, Gwen, and Miles, sitting on Hobie’s couch at his flat in his dimension. He mainly resided in his boat, but it was too cold to stay there that month.

“I don’t know, Y/N. I mean, those gingerbread houses are usually super expensive to buy at the market,” Hobie said, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, they are. So we can just make them ourselves. I mean, you practically got everything we need in your pantry besides frosting and candy.. Okay, maybe we will have to go outside and get some supplies,” Gwen shrugged.

“Ugh, really? It’s mad brick out, don’t you see all that snow?” 

Miles pointed to the window, showing everyone the winter wonderland that once used to be the streets of Camden Town.

“We got coats, we’ll be fine. So, all in favor of making gingerbread houses, raise your hand!” You said, lifting up your hand immediately.

Gwen and Miles both raised their hands, albeit Miles more reluctantly. Hobie kept his arms crossed, scoffing.

“It’s three against one. We’re doing it.”

Hobie dropped the pose. “Fair, I guess. But I get to pick the movie we watch once we’re done.”

“You’re gonna pick Freaky Friday, and not even the Lindsay Lohan version,” Gwen sighed.

“Who?”

“Anyways, to save money and dishes, don’t you think we should be in teams of two?” Asked Miles.

The four of you decided on your team names. You and Hobie would be "The Barely Adults" vs Miles and Gwen with "Stuck in Algebra II."

There were many different stores along the main streets of the neighborhood, so your group and the other group spread out, agreeing to stay in the neighborhood.

You and Hobie stepped into a candy store a few blocks away from his flat, and were immediately greeted by the warm air of a fully heated establishment and the scent of various confectionaries and ice cream.

A happy looking woman sat by the front counter, reading the daily newspaper. She made eye contact with Hobie, and you watched as the wrinkles in her face became more prominent the bigger her smile got.

"Hobart? Is that you? My, my, you've gotten so tall!"

You snorted, noticing the slight embarrassment that had planted itself on Hobie's face. His expression quickly shifted into a smirk.

"Mrs. Winters.. You just saw me at the farmer's market a few weeks ago."

"I know, I know. But every time I see you, you get bigger. It feels as if just yesterday I was making you and your mates stay behind and sweep my store for stealing all the gobstoppers."

"Well, that's not surprising," You inquired out loud.

"Whatever. We were jobless, rambunctious kids."

Mrs. Winters turned her attention to you, still keeping that friendly smile she had on her face when you walked in.

"And who's this lovely person you've brought in with you today?"

Hobie slung his arm around you, crouching down slightly to meet your height. His face was dangerously close to your right cheek.

"They're my friend, Y/N."

Mrs. Winters stared at the two of you skeptically.

"Oh. Well, alright, dearie. It's a pleasure to meet you, Y/N."

"Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Winters, was it?"

"Mhm."

She turned to the giant selection of candy behind her. There was practically every sweet you could think of stored, from jellies, taffies, licorice, rock candies, chocolates, and even freezers full of whipped cream and frosting, which was convenient.

"So, what do you feel like buying today?"

"Anything that would make a gingerbread house taste good."

"We should get candy corn."

You stuck your tongue out in disgust. "The hell kind of suggestion is that? You eat gingerbread with candy corn?"

"Yes. I like to be unconventional."

Mrs. Winters snickered. "Well, if you guys are making a gingerbread house, I'd say just get the regular bunch, like gumdrops and whatnot."

You and Hobie walked out of the candy shop with a tub of frosting and random ziplog bags full of different candy. Some of them you were going to put on the house, and some were just gonna be sitting at Hobie's place in general.

When you got back to his flat, Miles and Gwen weren't anywhere to be found.

"Huh? Where are they? We just said to get candy and come back."

"They're kids in love. They're probably using this time to have a de-facto date."

"Well, that makes it easier for us to win. I guess you could say we're also having a de-facto date, right?" You joked.

Hobie turned to you with a sensual grin on his face before setting his boots to the side and walking towards the kitchen.

Before you left the store, Mrs. Winters had given you and Hobie a recipe for gingerbread houses, as none of you were going to buy the cheap ones that always tasted like plastic.

-

"Okay, preheat the oven to about 375 degrees fahrenheit." You said, reading off the sheet of paper.

"Celsius, please."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. Um, that'd be around.. 190? Yeah. That sounds about right. And keep it in there for three to four minutes."

"Mhm." He closed the oven door.

On the corner of Hobie's mouth was a small patch of frosting, it presumably got there when you two tried to open the package at first and it exploded.

"Hey, look at me. You've got something on your face."

You moved closer to him, using your thumb to wipe the frosting off. Once it was gone, you stopped cupping the side of his cheek, and now you were both looking at each other, face to face.

You stayed like that for a few seconds, watching how his eyes softened the longer you two stayed in that position.

Suddenly, the door kicked open.

"We're back!" Miles yelled. You heard the shuffle of multiple bags and quickly moved away from Hobie to see what was going on over the counter.

Gwen was holding a bag from a candy store on one arm, and on the other arm were bags definitely acquired from a boutique.

Miles also had a candy bag, but held a bag from a Nike outlet in the same hand.

"So I was right. You two did go on a side quest. Thought we agreed to stay in the 'hood."

"I mean.. Technically, we did stay in the neighborhood... The outskirts of it."

"Hey, did you guys already start without us?!"

"What else were we supposed to do? Sit and talk?"

You and Hobie laughed in unison, as Gwen and Miles scrambled to put everything they bought away.

-

After a few hours, both teams had finished their gingerbread houses. Miles and Gwen had opted for a cutesy, traditional design, while the architecture on your house was flimsy, and you ran out of gumdrops at some point.

Hobie also used black food dye to create makeshift graffiti on the walls.

"So, how are we gonna judge who won?"

"Shit.. I never thought of that."

"Wouldn't it be whichever one tastes better?"

"Then ours totally won!"

"You didn't even taste it yet.."

"Guys, guys. Let's all agree that the true winner here was the power of friendship."

"Bro.."

"I'm playing!"

In the end, unfortunately, Miles' joke had some truth to it. There was no winner, no prize, no anything. But everyone all had fun that day, just bonding over making a confectionary house.

After being forced to watch the 1976 Freaky Friday, Miles and Gwen pretty much were knocked out.

They laid down across from each other on air mattresses in Hobie's living room.

As for you, you decided to take up the couch.

You were in Hobie's bathroom, brushing your teeth, when you saw him standing behind you, leaning his lanky body on the doorframe.

"Hey."

You rinsed your mouth out, drying yourself with a paper towel, before turning to face him.

"Hi."

"Did you have fun today?"

"Yeah, of course I did. It's always fun doing Christmasy stuff. You get the hype now, huh?"

He smiled, a genuine smile. "Mhm. We should bake more together."

"We?"

"Yes, we."

You walked away from the sink and stood across from him in the doorframe.

"Look what we're standing under."

He looked up, surprise evident on his face.

"Did you put that there?"

"No, I think it was Gwen."

He sighed. "Well, I ain't even brush my teeth yet. I don't want to do that to you."

You felt your heart twinge slightly, though he was right.

"Oh, no no. It's fine."

He nodded.

As soon as Hobie closed the door, you were out. You got onto the couch as quickly and quietly as you could.

You were mortified as to what you tried to do.

You thought that it was the perfect timing and all your questions had been answered, but you guessed they weren't.

Without moving an inch, you listened to every little movement coming from the bathroom and faced your head away from the hallway when you heard the lights turn off and the door open.

However, instead of Hobie's footsteps turning to the left, closer to his room, you listened as he walked down the hallway towards the living room.

His footsteps got closer and closer, until eventually, you were able to recognize him standing right in front of you.

He leaned down slowly, placing a peck to your cheek.

"Night."

A/N: i'm gon be on life support for the next two days cause why did this take 7 hours for about 1759 words :sob:

[achillean-archives]

*Note: This post isn't about if this Ken in the Barbie movie is going to be queer but that he is inspired by a Ken doll that "accidently" became a queer icon. Ryan Gosling's Ken in Barbie(2023) is based on the famous best selling Ken doll, Earring Magic Ken, also know as Fey Ken or Gay Ken.

"Mattel had conducted a survey of girls asking if Ken should be retained as Barbie's boyfriend or whether a new doll should be introduced in that role. Survey results indicated that girls wanted Ken kept but wanted him to look "cooler". USA Today noted after the American International Toy Fair that the doll Soul Train Jamal was also wearing an earring that year. According to manager of marketing communications for Mattel, Lisa McKendall, "We tried to keep [Ken] as cool as possible." This generation of the Ken doll had blond highlights in his traditionally brown hair and was dressed in a lavender mesh shirt, purple pleather vest, a necklace with a circular charm and, as the name indicates, an earring in his left ear.

These clothing choices led to gay commentator Dan Savage joking that Mattel toy designers had "spent a weekend in LA or New York dashing from rave to rave, taking notes and Polaroids." He also suggested that little girls' idea of coolness was shaped by homoerotic MTV music videos, Madonna's dancers, and what ACT UP/Queer Nation members were wearing to demonstrations and parties. Donna Gibbs told the San Francisco Examiner in November 1993 that the team of (presumably straight) women who made the doll were surprised that gay men wanted him.

[...]

In July 1993, Dan Savage wrote an article on Earring Magic Ken titled, "Ken Comes Out." He noted in his article that, in addition to his outfit's perceived flamboyance, his necklace resembled chrome sex toys that queer people were wearing as charms at the time. Savage expressed feelings of ambivalence about Ken's new style, writing, "Queer Ken is the high water mark of, depending on your point of view, either queer infiltration of popular culture or the thoughtless appropriation of queer culture by heterosexuals [. . .] Queer imagery has so permeated our culture that from rock stars (Axl Rose and his leather chaps) to toy designers, mainstream America isn’t even aware when it’s adopting queer fashions and mores."

[...]

Kitsch-minded gay men responded to this press by buying the doll in record numbers, making Earring Magic Ken the best-selling Ken model in Mattel's history. The doll debuted in stores for around $11 (equivalent to $20.63 in 2021) and had completely sold out by the Christmas season, largely due to gay men buying the doll in droves. Due to high demand, Chicago's FAO Schwartz created a wait list, and, allegedly, some shops in San Francisco began to sell Earring Magic Ken for prices ranging between $17 (equivalent to $31.89 in 2021) to $24 (equivalent to $45.02 in 2021). (The latter claim was disputed in the Bay Area Reporter in October 1993 by the general manager of San Francisco FAO Schwartz. According to him, only a few gay men were coming into his store, and Earring Magic Ken was selling better in New York and Chicago than San Francisco.) Earring Magic Ken was also popular with gay men in the United Kingdom, and sold well at the toy shop Hamleys in 1993. Toy scalper Mr. Barger told the Wall Street Journal in 1996 that Earring Magic Ken was so popular that he was able to re-sell him to specialty shops at premium prices. Richard Roeper, writing for the Chicago Sun Times, referred to him as "The Cabbage Patch Doll of the summer of '93."

A major appeal of the doll for many gay men was that Mattel did not market it to them on purpose. Rick Garcia, director of Chicago's Catholic Advocates for Lesbian and Gay Rights, told People magazine in 1993 that the stereotypical dress was funny to him because he believed it was an accident, and that it would have offended him if it was purposeful. In 1993, many newspapers interviewed individual gay men in California to understand the phenomenon. San Francisco resident described Earring Magic Ken as, "a pariah setting foot in one of America's sanctuaries." Another California resident, Bill Harley, described Earring Magic Ken as, "A campy, funny thing to have." Laguna Beach resident Keith Clark-Epley had more reservations about the toy, saying that, "It's an uptight heterosexual male doll following gay fashion and who is still behind the times," and believed that calling the doll gay could potentially reinforce negative stereotypes about gay people." Source:

[daily-kotlc-sentence]

BOOK: Keeper of the Lost Cities

CHAPTER: One

(96/270)

They called her Curvebuster.

She finished her answer, and Mr. Sweeney grumbled something that sounded like “know-it-all” as he stalked off to the exhibit in the next room over. Sophie didn’t follow. The thin walls separating the two rooms didn’t block the noise, but they muffled it. She grabbed what little relief she could.

“Nice job, superfreak,” Garwin Chang—a boy wearing a T-shirt that said BACK OFF! I’M GONNA FART—sneered as he shoved past her to join their classmates. “Maybe they’ll write another article about you. ‘Child Prodigy Teaches Class About the Lame-o-saurus.’”

Garwin was still bitter Yale had offered her a full scholarship. His rejection letter had arrived a few weeks before.

Not that Sophie was allowed to go.

Her parents said it was too much attention, too much pressure, and she was too young. End of discussion.

So she’d be attending the much closer, much smaller San Diego City College next year—a fact some annoying reporter found newsworthy enough to post in the local paper the day before—CHILD PRODIGY CHOOSES CITY COLLEGE OVER IVY LEAGUE—complete with her senior photo. Her parents freaked when they found it. “Freaked” wasn’t even a strong enough word. More than half their rules were to help Sophie “avoid unnecessary attention.” Front-page articles were pretty much their worst nightmare. They’d even called the newspaper to complain.

The editor seemed as unhappy as they were. The story was run in place of an article on the arsonist terrorizing the city—and they were still trying to figure out how the mistake had happened. Bizarre fires with white-hot flames and smoke that smelled like burnt sugar took priority over everything. Especially a story about an unimportant little girl most people went out of their way to ignore.

Or, they used to.

Across the museum, Sophie caught sight of a tall, dark-haired boy reading yesterday’s newspaper with the embarrassing black-and-white photo of her on the front. Then he looked up and stared straight at her.

She’d never seen eyes that particular shade of blue before—teal, like the smooth pieces of sea glass she’d found on the beach—and they were so bright they glittered. Something flickered across his expression when he caught her gaze. Disappointment?

Before she could decide what to make of it, he shrugged off the display he’d been leaning against and closed the distance between them.

The smile he flashed belonged on a movie screen, and Sophie’s heart did a weird fluttery thing.

“Is this you?” he asked, pointing to the picture.

Sophie nodded, feeling tongue-tied. He was probably fifteen, and by far the cutest boy she’d ever seen. So why was he talking to her?

“I thought so.” He squinted at the picture, then back at her. “I didn’t realize your eyes were brown.”

“Uh . . . yeah,” she said, not sure what to say.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “No reason.”

Something felt off about the conversation, but she couldn’t figure out what it was. And she couldn’t place his accent. Kind of British, but different somehow. Crisper? Which bothered her—but she didn’t know why.

“Are you in this class?” she asked, wishing she could suck the words back as soon as they left her mouth. Of course he wasn’t in her class. She’d never seen him before. She wasn’t used to talking to boys—especially cute boys—and it made her brain a little mushy.

His perfect smile returned as he told her, “No.” Then he pointed to the hulking greenish figure they were standing in front of. An Albertosaurus, in all its giant, lizardesque glory. “Tell me something. Do you really think that’s what they looked like? It’s a little absurd, isn’t it?”

“Not really,” Sophie said, trying to see what he saw. It looked like a small T. rex: big mouth, sharp teeth, ridiculously short arms. Seemed fine to her. “Why? What do you think they looked like?”

He laughed. “Never mind. I’ll let you get back to your class. It was nice to meet you, Sophie.”

He turned to leave just as two classes of kindergartners barreled into the fossil exhibit. The crushing wave of screaming voices was enough to knock Sophie back a step. But their mental voices were a whole other realm of pain.

Kids’ thoughts were stinging, high-pitched needles—and so many at once was like an angry porcupine attacking her brain. Sophie closed her eyes as her hands darted to her head, rubbing her temples to ease the stabbings in her skull. Then she remembered she wasn’t alone.

She glanced around to see if anyone noticed her reaction and locked eyes with the boy. His hands were at his forehead, and his face wore the same pained expression she imagined she’d had only a few seconds before.

“Did you just . . . hear that?” he asked, his voice hushed.

She felt the blood drain from her face.

He couldn’t mean . . .

It had to be the screaming kids. They created plenty of racket on their own. Shrieks and squeals and giggles, plus sixty or so individual voices chattering away.

Voices.

She gasped and took another step back as her brain solved her earlier problem.

She could hear the thoughts of everyone in the room. But she couldn’t hear the boy’s distinct, accented voice unless he was speaking.

His mind was totally and completely silent.

She didn’t know that was possible.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

His eyes widened. “You did—didn’t you?” He moved closer, leaning in to whisper. “Are you a Telepath?”

She flinched. The word made her skin itch.

And her reaction gave her away.

“You are! I can’t believe it,” he whispered.

Sophie backed toward the exit. She wasn’t about to reveal her secret to a total stranger.

“It’s okay,” he said, holding out his hands as he moved closer, like she was some sort of wild animal he was trying to calm. “You don’t have to be afraid. I’m one too.”

Sophie froze.

“My name’s Fitz,” he added, stepping closer still.

Fitz? What kind of a name was Fitz?

She studied his face, searching for some sign that this was all part of a joke.

“I’m not joking,” he said, like he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Maybe he did.

She wobbled on her feet.

She’d spent the past seven years wishing she could find someone else like her—someone who could do what she could. Now that she’d found him, she felt like the world had tilted sideways.

He grabbed her arms to steady her. “It’s okay, Sophie. I’m here to help you. We’ve been looking for you for twelve years.”

Twelve years? And what did he mean by “we”?

Better question: What did he want with her?

The walls closed in and the room started to spin.

Air.

She needed air.

She jerked away and bolted through the door, stumbling as her shaky legs found their rhythm.

She sucked in giant breaths as she ran down the stairs in front of the museum. The smoke from the fires burned her lungs and white bits of ash flew in her face, but she ignored them. She wanted as much space between her and the strange boy as possible.

“Sophie, come back!” Fitz shouted behind her.

She picked up her pace as she raced through the courtyard at the base of the steps, past the wide fountain and over the grassy knolls to thesidewalk. No one got in her way—everyone was inside because of the poor air quality. But she could still hear his footsteps gaining on her.

“Wait,” Fitz called. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

She ignored him, pouring all her energy into her sprint and fighting the urge to glance over her shoulder to see how far back he was. She made it halfway through a crosswalk before the sound of screeching tires reminded her she hadn’t looked both ways.

Her head turned and she locked eyes with a terrified driver struggling to stop his car before it plowed right over her.

She was going to die.

[sonkitty]

The Sideburns Scheme Post #94

(For reference: The Sideburns Scheme)

Crowley, Good Omens 2, Episode 6, Every Day, pretend

...

Sideburns Check

The sideburns have shortened to a medium or medium-long length. They are longer than the intended shortness aimed for with driving and even what Crowley has shown in places like the park or the private room with Aziraphale.

...

Brighter Red Streak Check

The above image is brightened some to show the streak better.

The more saturated red streak of hair can be found.

...

Hairstyle Changes

The sideburns have shortened. The front top hair is more unified as a curl going up and back. The red streak has narrowed in width.

...

Earthly Objects

(For reference: Earthly Objects)

While many scenes start with an earthly object touch somewhere, this one does not.

Instead, we start off with finding Crowley wanting to be last on exit of the bookshop but first on crossing the threshold that is the edge of the sidewalk.

The dialogue includes the name, "God," and some questions.

Crowley does not cross over the next edge of the sidewalk with Maggie and Nina. Instead, they part ways.

Five beings are lined up outside the coffee shop with the Metatron among them. Of the five, four humans are holding an earthly object of some kind.

The Metatron, however, has his hands pocketed. He seems to glance in Crowley's direction. Much like we've seen Crowley do during this story, he has a self-mouth touch.

Immediately following such a cut, the scene goes back to Crowley. Crowley miracles Mr. Brown back into existence. That gives Crowley an earthly object touch for the overall scene.

Even Mr. Brown has an earthly object touch himself because of his damaged newspaper.

...

Time to pay attention to the pockets.

The Tied Hands retie. In fact, they might retie twice with the first instance being between the bookshop threshold and edge of the sidewalk. The second instance is the one that takes up more screen time while the group is in the road. Crowley's watch is ensured to be visible. He makes sure to have both index fingers extended at different points. He manages when his thumb joints align with or over the edges of his jacket.

There is something special about this possibly second retying instance. In most or all other retying instances, the strike on a lapel edge is not the last video frame of a given cut.

This one is.

That is probably related to the fact that the Metatron is about to be shown on screen with a corporal body for the first time, and that his Pocket Frame Touch Point later is the last video frame of a cut. The other Touch Points I've found are ensured to be sometime during a cut, and an audience player has to figure out when that moment is based on the clues.

There is one cut of Crowley again between this clasp strike and the audience finally seeing the Metatron with that body.

...

For Overhead Lights, Crowley might get one from the pub across the street he passes a pillar and then Maggie and Nina, for his switch in going from last to first.

Otherwise, they look mostly avoided until he resurrects Mr. Brown.

...

The Belt Head is visible during at least one cut of the two potential retying instances and not receiving Overhead Lights either time.

...

Crowley's movement ensures that Nina ends up pocketed between him and Maggie. That also pockets that same pub light described above between Maggie and Nina.

When the Metatron glances in Crowley's direction, he's understood to have his hands pocketed but not making actual pockets with his body and itself or the screen, as Crowley tends to do.

Meanwhile, in the following cut that shows Crowley deciding to resurrect Mr. Brown, Crowley temporarily has a pocket made with his chest, arm, and the bottom of the screen.

There are two lamps at Aziraphale's desk. They were off earlier when Crowley was in the bookshop. In this scene, they are on. Crowley's head is even briefly pocketed between these lamps as another thing that happens during Crowley's miracle to bring Mr. Brown back to life.

And for some reason, the last video frame of the cut has Crowley visually pocketed by paper that was his Pocket Chain reference in the most recent touch for The Pocket Trick. His next and last touch of The Pocket Trick is coming up soon.

...

Story Commentary

The Metatron finally appears as a being with a body in this story.

It's not really known what type of being he is since he has mainly been described as the voice of God who operates more like a presidential spokesperson.

Earlier in the episode, he was at least treated as an authority figure by the angels in the recordings Crowley watched.

With this first appearance with a body, the first thing that really stands out from the Metatron compared to other angels is that he is wearing a long dark brown coat.

The angels tend to wear much lighter colors. Darker colors are more often associated with demons.

Something else that's noticeable is that his coat is baggy compared to how both angels and demons dress themselves in their clothing.

Given my own play in Earthly Objects, a question arises for if the Metatron is human, demon, angel, or none of the above.

His look toward Crowley suggests the Metatron possibly sent a mental reminder to Crowley about Mr. Brown, and Crowley easily complied.

The look in itself did not have a miracle sound, and it doesn't look like the two made eye contact.

Theoretically, he is the opponent in the game that is Earthly Objects. He has been an outside force reading and occasionally editing the book that is the story we've been reading. Crowley's visit to Heaven effectively inverted the book, allowing the Metatron a way in and to get this body.

...

After Crowley parts ways with Maggie and Nina, he's seen going in a direction that is not back towards the bookshop and not toward his car either. This direction is indicated again after he resurrects Mr. Brown.

Where is he going and why? The only thing I know of with any relevance in that direction is Maggie's shop, and I don't think he would be allowed inside. Well, there is that plant right by the shop, but that's not much to go on.

...

That's it for this post. Sometimes I edit my posts, FYI.

...

Main post:

The Sideburns Scheme

[metatronhateblog]

Not to Be a Bearer of News pt 2 with some essence of Duck Duck what the Fuck

Something fowl is afoot. Between the newspapers and the ducks and the content of the newspapers. I have had the drafts for these posts sitting on my account for about a month or so now and was immediately screaming at the responses I was getting on the first part of this series of posts. So let's get further into this bit of a mind fuckery.

This one is gonna be a long one so just hang in there, I promise it's worth it. There's A LOT going on with this.

Back to the newspapers.

Last go 'round we talked about Mr. Brown (of Brown's world of carpets) and his very strange newspaper that is the cause of the opening sequence having an accordion duck in it, as well as some of the other appearances of ducks throughout the series.

This time, we're going to look more at the newspapers, with a touch of me screaming about my thoughts from the comments on part one of this mini-series of posts.

We already know Mr Brown (of Brown's world of carpets) holds a weird ass newspaper...

and how he practically waves it around like a billboard every time he's on screen, going so far as to even cover his face with it at some point.

Now I could go on about how the way time works in Soho seems practically non-existent, but we'll save that for a later day because we're talking about the newspapers. At least...the newspapers in season 2 specifically.

As we already know, thanks to the X-Rays on Amazon, Nina's coffee shop strangely holds the magazines that Adam read in season 1 (a very strange and deliberate choice to be making...) but those aren't newspapers so to speak.

(Screenshots for the people who didn't know)

So I'm gonna get started with the FIRST newspaper(s) we see in season 2.

And that would be a stack of them on the street right next to Aziraphale's bookshop.

Now unlike most of the other newspapers, you can't exactly see what these ones have to say, which is fine. I'm more intrigued by the fact that there just so happens to be (I assume that red thing is a newspaper thing because I'm from the US and that's not what those normally look like) a place to buy newspapers right outside the bookshop. The building itself says 'The News Agency' but I'm more intrigued by the little red cylindrical thing. How intriguing that so many characters wave their newspapers around for us to see and the News Paper building is literally right next to the bookshop.

Even more importantly this thing ALSO makes an appearance in the opening sequence. I know, I know, you're all probably tired of me screaming about the opening sequence at this point but seriously. Look.

And then this extra right here appears to be holding a stack of presumably newspapers, possibly making a delivery to The Dirty Donkey based off trajectory.

But I've also noticed we never really see anyone on the street holding newspapers, only in isolated locations where you can very clearly see the front page of their papers.

Which brings me to our second newspaper appearance (technically the first if you're going by readability)

Crowley (notice the ducks in the background, but kind of a given based on the location.)

We have three big 'headlines' on this one page we see right here.

"Maple Lane Post Box Becomes Home to Spider Species Not Seen in 45 Years."

"Norton Institute Reports its Highest Intake of Students Since Opening in 1888."

"Billions Still Owed to Millions."

Little weird. we have two things that are an increase in happenings since a certain time period...and a not so surprising 'billions owed to millions.'

Then we flip it around a bit (and ignore the...weird way he's holding his hand)

And we have the name of the newspaper. "TADFIELD ADVERTISER." With the main headline 'Is Tadfield the Best Village in England?' and no surprise that Crowley is keeping up to date and looking to see if anything else continues to happen with Adam.

The mini headline under the big bold one says 'According to voters of latest 'Best Village in England' poll Tadfield really is the loveliest place to live.' And in the tiny little blue box 'Entirely perfect weather AGAIN for Tadfield.'

So even after the end of season 1, it appears we still have some strange happenings in Tadfield. Right on.

By the by for those of you who didn't know, pretty sure every single page of Crowley's newspaper is the exact same.

But I think another important detail is, same as Mr Brown (of Brown's world of carpets) Crowley also seems to be holding the newspaper so you can very clearly see what's on it.

Next time something news related appears, we have our little red vessel appearing while Crowley loses his shit.

Now we don't actually see newspapers again until episode 2. This specific one is a doozy and had me and @lady-of-the-puddle screaming over it.

When Aziraphale is looking for clues over the Buddy Holly record, we see him pouring over some newspapers.

SO! Here we see Aziraphale reading a Scottish newspaper with an article titled "Everyday It's a gettin' closer" and we can see a couple more on the desk next to him. Now I've gone through and read the article (I'll post a screenshot so you can too if you want) and to sum it up it's basically the owner of The Resurrectionist discussing the records that keep changing to 'Everyday' by Buddy Holly and how he thinks it's a group of pranksters but never can catch them and the security measures he's tried to put up to prevent it from happening again.

Now the thing that's weird to me is actually the variety of newspaper articles Aziraphale seems to have...from different countries.

Now you might just kind of brush that off....but why on Earth would this news be important enough to make world news? Why would it be in news articles from different countries.

But most importantly...there's a typo.

Now. I don't speak German (so correct me if I'm wrong) but I do know how to use Google Translate.

This German article is titled 'Eden Tag nähert es sich... dem Wahnsinn des Wirts!'

And I don't speak German (though I'd love to) but I plugged this in to Google Translate and what I found was insane. Now when it translates you'll notice that the word Eden doesn't translate.

And there's a little suggestion underneath the German sentence, indicating you probably had a typo, and here's what you're probably looking for, which when you allow it to translate as such gives you...

Weird right? You'd assume the correct version of the news article would be where they're quoting the song they're talking about (unless it's a different dialect or slang of course.) But it's interesting that if I'm correct and that is a typo...it says 'Eden.' Now if you watched season 1 or have some Biblical knowledge of sorts, you might be on the same page as me...

Why Eden? Why create an article that translates to 'Eden Day' instead of 'Every day.' I wonder how many of the other news articles seemingly have a typo?

If this show has taught us anything, what do we know about typos? (Insert Markiplier voice here) DEMONS, JIM! So could that news article possibly have been written by a demon?

Anyways as we continue on, the next (and most frequent appearance of newspapers) is Mr Brown (of Brown's world of carpets.) And I won't add all the instances of that because if you read my last post, you already saw them.

But there he is, with his strange recurring article about accordion ducks.

But I actually want to focus on a different newspaper that appears in this scene. This gentleman right here.

Looks normal right? Except you can just barely make out the corner of something peaking out next to his leg. Well guess what? This is the same guy who was sitting at the table Aziraphale emptied.

In which his newspaper never comes 100% into focus, but it's right there on screen, flashing and saying 'HEY LOOK AT ME!'

in which he folds over his 'your travel' 'Milton Keynes' newspaper as such

to a completely new side of the newspaper and walks away. But wait there's more.

Check this out.

In which he turns to look at his newspaper AND ROTATES IT before going back to standing there looking like there's nothing in his hand. Look at these back to back shots though.

Would you look at that. Our newspaper is back. Guess what though. When we look away from him again and back, the newspaper is once again gone.

Mind you this whole time, when the newspaper appears, you see Aziraphale's eyes continuously flickering away from his conversation with Mr Brown (of Brown's world of carpets) and directly past him. Possibly to the newspaper? Maybe trying to direct your attention?

Here we have 'Thenewspaper' with articles

"Unearthed mysteries of sealed library basement."

and "Government approves funding for citywide [insert word here because i can't make it out thanks to his finger] stations."

Interesting....library basements and citywide funding. Huh.

Now as far as I'm aware, the only other times you see newspapers in the rest of the season, are Mr Brown (of Brown's world of carpets.) And even if there were more, I'd have to make a part 2 because I actually reached the image amount on this post.

That being said...there's a lot of weird shit going on with the newspapers, including our strange little accordion duck which has me absolutely bewildered. But I can't help but feel like the newspapers are important when everyone holding one seems to be holding it like a sign, just so that you can read it. Not to mention the freaking typo has me wide awake every night staring at my ceiling.

But for now, that's all I have. Stay tuned for another mental breakdown over something in this show that is preventing me from sleeping.

(Upon further examination I might be making yet another post about this.)

[rom-e-o]

"Amusing" (Orin/Constance - Sneak Peek)

Why is he like this?

November, 1830

5th Avenue

New York

The sitting room of the multi-story Spiegler townhome on 5th Avenue was drenched in firelight and smelled of cinnamon potpourri, but not an ounce of merriment or cheer could be distilled from its fragrant atmosphere. Instead, the manor’s Green Drawing-Room was engorged with a heavily pregnant silence, broken only by the sound of hissing firewood slowly burning away in the hearth.

The room had earned its affectionate yet telling moniker from its décor and choice of wallpaper – a green paper of an emerald sheen with a vertical pattern of coiling ivy vines. The furniture was also smocked in thick velvet, which was set primly along the sets and backs of all the room’s carved oak chairs. The drapes were a matching shade of lush green, as vibrant as the full leaves of an oleander. Even the hooked rug that was spread across the buttery walnut floor stole inspiration from the color. The pattern highlighted two adult swans afloat on a sea of white, both angelic creatures wreathed in pink roses and intertwined laurels.

One chair, which was completely upholstered and adorned with gold tassels for added comfort, was occupied. Its resident for the evening was Orin Spiegler, the master of the manor, who reclined back in the fabric’s rich confines. In one hand, his held open a folded edition of the evening paper. In the other, he lightly swirled a short glass of honey-brown scotch. With his dressing gown synched tightly about his waist and his white ruffled collar fluffing outward from between the lapels, he looked more like a peacock than the esteemed, Dutch-American investor and businessman the local newspapers now described. The man had made a name for himself with his Wall Street trading strategies, and his smart investments in cheap buildings on the outskirts of the New York city limits, mostly along the waning avenues beyond Albany. As the city grew, the properties quadrupled in value annually, or sometimes even monthly. He was a certified millionaire, and his coffers were expanding daily.

It was a good start, he thought, but not yet enough for comfort. Not for him.

Most recently, Mr. Spiegler had commanded his financial agents to also bring his investment opportunities for the multitude of bigger and better steamboats being developed for traveling the Hudson. Much had changed with designer Robert Fulton had said the inaugural vessel in 1807, and as New York continued its sprawl up and down the river, he intended to make sure he was one of the many investors that would reap a benefit from the new technology. Besides, not just New Yorkers benefited from the technology. Every traveler from Philadelphia, Greenwich or Vermont would be in his metaphorical debt. Hell, even Londoners and Danes were utilizing the vessels for visits to the quickly growing city.

On a settee just opposite the fireplace was another lonely individual. This woman, donned in a striking green dress with lace the color of American buttercream, was the lovely and copper-headed Mrs. Spiegler.

Unlike her husband, her focus was trained reading and rereading her own written words. Quill in hand, she carefully penned invitations on solid white paper, the corners of the expensive parchment adorned with a flourishing ‘OS’ in evergreen ink.

Orin glanced over to observe his wife at work, noting her upright rectitude with a satisfied arch of his brown. “And what, pray tell, has captured your focus so keenly?”

Starting slightly at his interruption, Constance turned to meet his gaze, then quickly recovered and smiled. “Oh. I was penning the invitations for that party we were discussing earlier. The one to showcase our new music room. You still wanted to host a gathering, didn’t you, dear?”

“Ah, yes,” he said, satisfied with her answer. “Who are you planning on inviting? I don’t believe we finalized any guest list.”

“We did not,” she admitted, moistening her lips, “But I believe you’ll be satisfied. I’m sending summons to the Van Rensselaers up river, as well as the Livingstons and the Schuylers, of course.”

“Very good.” The Van Rensselaers, Schuylers, and Livingstons were all prominent families of Dutch ancestry, and longstanding patroons with sprawling tenant farms along the Hudson River. The last Orin has heard, Rensselaerwyck had reached a million acres in size, and was home to at least 200 farmer families. Some farmers were German, others were Irish, and some were ‘Yankees’ of no other known pedigree. While there was slight variance between the farmers, they shared the collective burden of toiling the land of their master, paying monthly rent as a share of crops to the Lord of the Manor.

“I suspect we’ll have no trouble getting them to come to the city, Constance said. “The last time we hosted, they adored our home.”

“They were excited to escape their tenants for a night or two, I presume.”

The tenant farmers were becoming rambunctious, and there were murmurings of a rebellion on the horizon. Slavery has been officially abolished in New York in 1827, and now, eyes were turned to the patroons and their tenant farmers.

What had these patroons expected, he wondered? To carry on forever with locking families into generation of servitude while Yankees and abolitionists just conveniently ignored them? Orin had seen the writing on the wall for years, and as the Anti-Rent movement began to grow, he only felt vindication.

 The old money has-beens would be out the door in a few decades of new marriages. Perhaps some would even move out West, to a land of burgeoning opportunity.

In the meantime, he reasoned, it certainly didn’t hurt to rub elbows with his fellow countrymen. The task was made all the easier by how charming Constance was when it came to hosting and party-planning.

“Shall I … invite the Patersons, Orin?” Constance inquired with a tilt of the head.

He hummed in though, sipping his drink elegantly.

Stephen Van Rensselaer III was the current Lord of the Manor at Renssalaerwyck. He had previously married Margarita "Peggy" Schuyler, who had passed early in 1801. After the customary one year of morning for a gentleman, he married Cornelia Bell Paterson, child of statesman William Paterson. Orin knew little of the man and his legacy, other than he was a jurist and one of the men who had signed the United States Constitution.

He was also an Irishman turned American who mostly fancied New Jersey, so Orin mostly wrote him off.

“Invite Mr. and Mrs. Van Renssalaer, of course,” he said, “That’s all. Our manor isn’t so large that we can invite every admirer we have. Yet.”

“Yes.” She scrawled a note down.

The horrible complexity of the family trees was another reason he was glad to only know these sprawling families by association. He so loathed the idea of being tethered to large, overbearing legacies. Too much family was a curs eon one’s patience and time, he thought. Too many mouths to feed.

“I’m also extending an invitation to Mr. and Mrs. Van Cortlandt.”

Among the Van Cortlandt family tree were also members of the Van Rensselaer family, Schuyler family, and Livingston family. They also had ties to Philipse family, the De Peyster family, and the Irish-born and -bred Gage family.

Also spotted along their impressive family tree were relations to the Jay family. One of its many heirs, John Jay, had gone on to become the first Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, and one of the country’s ‘Founding Fathers.’

When holding a soiree, it was necessary to invite all the influential families, for to insult one was to insult all of them.

“Very good,” Orin said, pleased with his wife’s attention to detail. “You were correct, my dear. I am more than satisfied with your diligence.”

It was no surprise that Constance was so aware of New York’s finest political families. After all, she was a DoGoode. While only one generation deep, the family had set the bar for new money intrigue in New York. Arthur DoGoode, Constance’s father, had started life as a mute bookkeeper but had quickly risen through the ranks as a sensible businessman. His body was frail, but his intelligence was so keen that he didn’t need spoken words to seal deals. Like Orin, he was a property investor, but Orin would never admit that it was Arthur’s business strategies that inspired his own investment patterns. Theresea, Constance’s mother, had moved to New York from Marrakech.

In 1777, Morocco had been one of the first states to recognize the sovereignty of a newly independent United States. That independence from European pressures was something Theresea admired. She had seen France, Spain and Germany all encroach on her country, eyeing the land with salivating mouths and greedy eyes. So, with a heavy heart, she left the city of Marrakech for New York.

She and Arthur had met at a business convention in Albany, where the doorman had barred her from entering. Woman were not allowed in the hall, they’d said, unless accompanied by a proper chaperone. Theresea had debated the man into a state of near emotional breakdown when Arthur had spotted her.

He asked her to be his voice at the meetings – his ‘interpreter’, so to speak. Arthur penned the business strategies, and Theresea gave the pitches to rooms of investors, bankers, financial agents, and more.

The two were married a year later. It had been a union of love, not political gambit, for they were two nobodies in a sea of millions. That, however, changed quickly. New York was growing, and Arthur invested in fringe properties to develop safehouses for women and orphanages for children.

Later that same year, they even adopted a two-year-old child that has been left at the Albany orphanage the two were on the Board of Directors for. A little red-headed girl too taciturn and terrified to speak.

Now, that girl was a woman, and also his wife.

Constance penned a few more notes while they spoke. “Darling, but also had a mind to invite Martin, if you think he could spare the time. It’s been so long.”

“Ah, Martin!” Orin cried, laughing at the mention of the man’s name. “Why, that is a capital idea!” He snapped and pointed a commanding finger at her. “Write him at once. Set the party’s date for December 22 as well. That will give our guests time to travel, but with ample courtesy for any Christmastime plans.”

Martin Van Buren, another New Yorker of fine Dutch stock, was someone Orin knew by association. They’d attended a small myriad of soirees together in the past year as Orin’s infamy had earned him. There were rumblings that Andrew Jackson was planning to support him for the next presidential election.

If elected, the Dutch colonies of New York would surely endorse him and throw any and all support his way to guarantee victory. He imagined the gaiety that such an election result would cause, and wondered how the anti-renters would take such a victory.

Only time could tell, he supposed.

He polished the glass of scotch with a final swig, wiping his mouth and setting the glass aside on a marbled end table.

“I’m going to my study,” he said, gesturing to the hallway beyond the door.

“Oh. More work?” Constance asked, brows furrowing. Here eyes drifted from his face to the empty drinking glass.

“Not precisely.”

Orin’s study was located at the top of a turret that adorned the front of their townhome. The addition made their luxurious home stand out even more amidst the other rowhouses that lined the stylish thoroughfare through the city. It’s large windows also faced the street, providing him a clean visual of the street’s traffic, potential callers, etcetera.

As he rose and walked past her, he laid a large hand on her shoulder. The contact froze her thoughts, her quill stilling mod-word against the parchment.

“You’ve pleased me tonight,” he noted in a caramel-sweet tone. “I’ll leave you be for the rest of the evening.”

He then walked to the door, glimpsing at the grandfather clock as he did so. A quarter past ten, the hands read.

“I’ll slumber on my day bed in my study,” he said, voice returning to the cool formality she’d come to expect. “I depart for the Catskills at dawn. There is a new steamboat making its maiden voyage. The SS Juno. As one of the primary investors, it is expected that I be there. I wouldn’t wish to disturb you by stirring so early. Heaven knows you’re clumsy enough in the mornings when we have nowhere to go, and I wouldn’t wish to be late because of you prattling about.”

Still enthused by the fact that they wouldn’t be sharing a bed that night, his insults went unnoticed. Instead, she disguised her relief with a thankful smile. “I’ll see that coffee is ready for you.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Otherwise, you’re dismissed. Spend the rest of your night as you’d like. Just make sure those invitations are written and postmarked tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“Good woman.”

Just as he was about to pass through the door, he paused again. “A moment. Come here, please. And bring me one of the candles.”

Smoothing her skirts, she rose and drifted across the room to meet him.

She grabbed a chinoiserie candle holder containing one green, swirled tapered candle and lofted it to her eyes. She crossed the room and extended the holder carefully to him, being mindful of the flame. Orin accepted the offering, and before she could move away, reached out with his other hand to grab her wrist. He jerked her into a sudden kiss, smirking as he felt her heart roar to life beneath her heavy bosom.

Just as he felt her lean into him, seeking warmth or perhaps a passionate embrace, he nudged her back and away. As always, she obeyed.

“You’re relieved to not share a bed with me, but you still turn into a simpering little maiden with just one kiss? How amusing.”

He left her with a smirk, his dark eyes flashing with the swish of his head as he turned on his heel. “I’ll return in three days. Have the house ready in anticipation of my return. I’ll want to supper immediately.”

The heavy oak door shut before she had time to formulate a reply. She stood frozen, her lips still warmed from his kiss, her rouge slightly smeared from the sudden brush. Trembling fingers caressed the flesh before she sighed, hands falling heavy at her sides.

Even after years of marriage, she didn’t understand her husband at all. He’d never acted so unpredictable during their courtship. Why in the world did he conduct himself in such a way around her? Had she done something wrong?

Alone in the drawing room, she took it upon herself to close the curtains and set the shutters as best she could. It was work mostly suited for a strong footman, but she tried her best to make any work a little easier. Besides, the light work kept her hands and mind busy, and helped siphon out the anxious little ball of energy that had started buzzing in her chest at Orin’s words.

Had she … really been so apparent with her distaste? No wonder he was cross with her, the woman concluded. She’d offended him – her own husband. What a sorry excuse for a wife she was.

In her frustration, she grabbed the poker and stabbed it into the hearth. The fire-laden log crumbled with a hiss, and cinders as large as red flies flew into the air. She jumped back in surprise, dropping the poker and shrinking away from the flames. Her skirts knocked over a chair as she did so. The large piece of furniture lay on its side and cast a menacing shadow across the expanse of the room. It’s sharp angles and points flickered menacingly against the wallpaper with every dance of the flames.

Embarrassed at her incompetence, Constance rushed to the bellpull and gave it a brisk tug. Minutes later, she was greeted at the door by a young butler and young maid, both employed by the couple. The two were siblings – Mary and Micah. Two intelligent, quick-witted souls fresh off the boat from the Fenlands.

“We heard a crash!” the young maid said, breathless from how quickly she’d come running.

Micah looked the frazzled redhead up and down. His knowing eyes peered from beneath a shag of sandy hair. “Are you well, Mrs. Spiegler?”

His tone was practically conspiratorial.

“Please extinguish the fire,” Constance said, disregarding Mary’s question with a flustered wave of the hand. She then allowed her eyes to fall against her trembling calm as she gathered her wits. “A-And if you could check my work on fastening the windows, Micah, I would be most thankful. You are much stronger, and less clumsy, than I.”

The maid curtseyed and obeyed the lady’s commands, while the butler made a beeline for the windows. “Yes, your ladyship.”

Just as he went to straighten the toppled chair and retrieved the empty drinking glass, Constance left the room and made her way quickly up the stairs and to the main bedroom. She took the stairs quickly, her kid slippers soundless as they fell frantically against the plush rugs of the hall.

Mary hastily finished her work at the fireplace and trailed after her mistress, making sure to grab the abandoned letters on her way out.

I'm sure they'll work everything out.

[gamerbot-22]

The Girl from the Luofu Went Walking

Prompt: Singing

TW/CW: Angst, grief, no dialogue to be found, spoilers for the Xianzhou Luofu storyline, barely proofread and I appreciate spellchecks!

Word Count: 263

A/N: So it took me five days to get angsty. I feel like that’s a personal record for me lol. I also definitely was playing loose with the prompt, but like… I dunno. Tingyung’s passing—especially her funeral—felt very powerful to me when I first played the game. I wasn’t expecting her to actually be visibly grieved like she was, so I thought I’d… “play” a little more in that space, when you know the spirit has flown but the feeling is still there. (Also I still haven’t played New Venture on the Eighth Dawn so idk how Fugue would play into this leave me alone— /lh)

Likes and Reblogs appreciated and Requests are Open! Read this story on Ao3 here!

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The dividers in this post were made by @/gamerbot-22 (me!) ☆

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Tingyun was well known for many things. Before the Arbor Crisis, all of the vendors on Starwatcher Avenue knew to have her tea, her newspaper, and her breakfast hot and ready for her before she passed by on her way to her defacto office at the Sleepless Earl.

She always perched herself at the same table out front, taking a beat before the performance of her business dealings began. Passersby used to joke that Tingyun did a better job entertaining than Mr. Xiyan’s immersia or Back’n Forth’s crosstalk. There was just a rhythm to her voice that sounded almost like a song, accompanied by the chiming bell she carried at her hip that shook whenever she laughed or opened her fan. The song of her business became the theme to so many’s mornings on the Luofu.

But then, of course, things didn’t last forever. Even for the immortal and the long-lifespan people that called the Xianzhou home. Foxians didn’t live as long as the Vidyadhara or other natives, but still, no one expected Tingyun, with her brown hair and bright eyes, to suddenly stop her singing during the Arbor Crisis.

It took months for her teacup to be stowed, her newspaper to be handed off to another buyer, and her breakfast to go unprepared. It took a year for Mengming to be alright letting someone else sit at her table.

Somehow the bustling street felt empty without her. The warbling of starskiffs were only half of a full song. One that would go unsung forever with the death of Starwatcher Avenue’s beloved Tingyun.

[kentosdoll]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 𝑁𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑛 headcanons .ᐟ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ mr autism feat. his antics

content: sfw wc: 623

a/n: look, i know there is a small minority of us in the jjk fandom that believes nanami kento is autistic, so this post won't appeal to the masses. if you don't like this, nor agree with it, that's fine (that's why fanon and au's are cool). just don't be a dickhead and leave mean comments. also, this was co-written by my beloved sibling @lesbian-choso. go check out his blog; they make lovely traditional art.

banner credits:⠀@/dollienini + @/chilumitos

Flat affect — no explanation needed.

Stims: jiggling his watch, cracking his knuckles and other joints, pacing around.

This man cannot stand loud noises, though controlled loud sounds, like listening to his screamo playlist, is totally fine.

I firmly believe he sleeps like a dead person at an open-casket funeral. His bed sheet is in a straight line across his chest, with his arms lying flat on either side of his torso — Back Sleeper™️. Best believe he can't sleep unless his room is 18°C, with his bedsheets and duvet even on each side of the bed, and a fresh bottle of water on his bedside table (in case he wakes up and feels parched).

Whilst he isn't a fan of journals and diaries, Kento makes sure to regularly update his calendar on his phone, as well as the one attached to Outlook.

Spreadsheets and to-do lists, he thrives off of these. How else is he to keep up with life?

He is very aware of the fabrics and textures that make contact with his skin. This is why his wardrobe is predominantly made up of soft materials like cotton and cashmere. If he has to wear anything woollen, a lightweight layer of clothing goes underneath; he can't stand the itchiness.

Kento doesn't like mixing cold and warm food, and he tries his best to keep the food on his plate from touching each other (this doesn't apply to food like fried rice).

He irons his bedsheets and underwear — don’t ask. Kento also regularly washes his curtains and steams them once they’re dry (no creases, he hates them).

Exclusively purchases one type of deodorant; it has something to do with the smell and texture. He can’t stand aerosols because of the intensity of their smell (it gets into the back of his throat), and the gel deodorants feel uncomfortable on his underarms. Kento also isn’t a fan of perfume, though, there was one he liked that he stocked up on. Sadly, he hasn’t been able to find anything similar.

“Don’t come in the kitchen whilst I'm cooking.” — Kento to Satoru when he senses him about to step in. He can't share the space, it becomes claustrophobic.

Baking is his special interest; he has an absurd amount of information about this art form stored in his noggin. Dare I say he would own a bread encyclopaedia if it existed. Whilst bread is his favourite form of baked good, from time to time, he attempts to make confectionary, specifically those made of phyllo pastry. On the rare occasion, he might bake a pie or cake.

This man owns a lint roller because of his pet cats; he is not a first-time cat owner. Whilst his home is relatively clean, he can't help but feel the need to pick up those stray cat hairs. He doesn't want to accidentally get any in his mouth.

Speaking of his home, Kento's apartment is relatively minimalist, though the colour palette is warm and welcoming (lots of blues and browns). The only part of his home that is “messy” is one nook in his living room. The bookcase is overflowing with unread books, some sitting in neat stacks on the floor, whilst others are in cardboard boxes acting as surfaces for his potted plants. There are a few old newspapers and magazine recipes strewn on his desk, a cold cup of coffee, and two pen holders jam-packed with various dry markers and inkless pens. It's a sort of organised chaos.

He exclusively wears slippers and thongs/flip-flops indoors. He can’t stand walking around barefoot, it’s uncomfortable, and he doesn’t like his feet being cold or picking up any hair, lint, or crumbs that collect on the floor (despite his home being borderline sterile).

© 𝑘𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑜𝑠𝑑𝑜𝑙𝑙⠀ ─⠀ all rights reserved. seek inspiration, do not copy, translate, or redistribute my writing/content.⠀₊˚ෆ