#and the absentminded kisses while he reads and walks please i can picture it

[imherongraystairstrash]

Find The Way Home (Part 2)

(Part 1)

~Later that night~

Thomas trudged into his house, letting the door click softly and locking it before hanging his boleadoras on the hook by the door—something he’d gotten so used to doing out of habit, it was practically a reflex—so that his parents knew whether he was home or not. He could feel his drowsiness deep in throat, threatening to become a yawn.

He hadn’t realized how tired he was, how little he’d slept these past weeks, until the adrenaline rush from the battle had suddenly come crashing down. Thomas walked past the drawing room and found his parents, laughing over something.

Both had taken off their gear and changed into something more comfortable. Sophie’s knees were bent over Gideon’s legs, their heads bent towards each other’s. Gideon seemed to have a photo album on his lap.

Shadowhunters didn’t take many pictures, because it wasn’t customary, so the book was rather small. Nevertheless, Thomas’ parents were flipping through slowly, stopping at every picture to point out the events of that year.

It would have seemed like an intimate moment, if Thomas didn’t know any better. His parents, no matter what, always wanted to spend time with their children. He knew his parents loved him and his sister so much that they would do anything to keep them safe. They always reminded him that they loved him, no matter what. He knew he could tell them he loved men, and that his parents would embrace that part of him, and tell him they loved him, but Thomas still had difficulties in telling them. There had been so many times that he had opened his mouth with full intentions of telling them, and then closing it again. His mouth couldn’t form the words, he couldn’t speak; it was as though his throat had become honey, and the words he wanted to say got stuck in it.

But now, he was too exhausted to even think about telling them anything. He was too exhausted to think. He leaned against the doorway and must have made a loud noise, because both Sophie and Gideon looked up.

Sophie smiled at him. “Your sister said she was off to bed, though I suspect she’s gone off to read or knit. I’m afraid she finds our company dull.”

“You’re not dull.” Thomas said, his words slurring together, unintentionally.

Sophie shook her head, shifting so that her feet rested on the floor. “You’re too kind. But, Thomas, darling, you look exhausted; you’re swaying on your feet. Come here before you fall.”

Normally, Thomas would have argued that he was fine, but tonight he was far too tired to do anything but trudge over to his parents and fall back onto the couch beside Sophie.

He rested his head on her shoulder. Sophie put an arm around him and kissed his head.

“He hasn’t slept well in a while, has he?” Gideon said.

“I’m afraid not.” Sophie said. “He might have to be carried off to bed.”

“I’m still awake, you know.” Thomas mumbled.

“Perhaps not for long,” Gideon said.

Thomas could feel Sophie snicker quietly. “We were just looking at the pictures we have of you and your sisters.”

“I remember that one.” Thomas said, pointing to one at the upper left hand corner. It was the three of them with their Lightwood cousins, Anna and Christopher. Barbara and Eugenia had twin toothy grins while Anna’s looked mischievous. Thomas and Kit were sitting on the ground in front of them, playing with the grass. Christopher had been moving, so he was a blur in the photograph. “Kit fell into the pond that day.”

Gideon burst out laughing. “How could I have forgotten about that?”

“And then Gabriel had to jump in after him because, naturally, Christopher couldn’t swim. And when he came back, dripping wet, Aunt took one look at him and said ‘it’s a bit late in summer to be going for a swim, is it not?’”

Sophie wiped her eyes from laughing too hard.

“Never a dull moment with your cousins.” Gideon said.

Thomas smiled and looked down at the photo album again.

“The day before this one, Eugenia was so angry that she threw Bab’s doll out the window and she cried for days.” Thomas felt his throat close a little bit at that one. The memory of his sister still made his throat close up.

“Those crazy girls.” Sophie said, rubbing circles into Thomas’ back. “Their shenanigans made me loose years of my life I will never get back.”

Suddenly, the telephone rang, which would have startled Thomas awake had he not been too tired for his body to react. Gideon got up. “I’ll get that.”

Thomas barely registered what Gideon said, now leaning heavily on Sophie’s shoulder. She slowly guided him to lay his head on her lap as she stroked his hair back.

“Was the mattress in The Sanctuary too small?” Sophie asked.

“It was fine.” Thomas said.

Sophie laughed. “You can tell me the truth. I won’t tell anybody.”

Thomas sighed and smiled sleepily. “It was a little bit too small.”

“A little bit too small by normal human standards or Tom standards?” Sophie said. Though his eyes were closed, he could hear the smile in her voice.

“My calves may have been on the floor.”

Sophie chuckled. “You’re too tall, darling.”

“I know.”

She bent down and kissed his cheek. Thomas liked his mother’s kisses. Her scar went from the tip of her mouth and stretched across her face. When she kept it at a neutral, her mouth was able to fully close, but when she pressed her lips forward to give a kiss, the corner pulled back slightly, which meant that Thomas could only really feel one side of her mouth. It was silly to describe, but it was distinct in a way that he could only associate it with his mother.

When he was younger, the boy his age would ask him what it was like to have a mother with such a hideous scar on her face. They always wanted to know if it ever scared him, which used to confuse Thomas. The scar was a part of his mother’s face; he never really thought much of it because it has always been there. He didn’t think it was hideous because he loved his mama and she won’t be his mother without her scar.

“Did you hit your head?” Sophie asked, feeling the small bump on his head, which was a little bit tender to the touch.

Thomas fought the urge to laugh. He had hit his head, but he didn’t want to tell his mother how. Even if she knew about Thomas and Alastair, he wouldn’t have wanted to tell her about about that, tell about. Things. Head. Alastair…

Thomas’ thoughts were turning into soup. He couldn’t concentrate on anything.

“Tom?”

“Hm,” he said softly.

He found it hard to remember where he was or what he had been doing as his eyes shut closed again, against his will.

“Sleep Thomas, darling.” Sophie said lightly. “I’ll make sure everything is alright.”

It’s like his body was waiting for permission to sleep because immediately after she said that, Thomas fell into a state of deep sleep.

He dreamt of nothing. Even his mind was too tired to conjure up a single thought. He just slept until he woke up again to hear his parent’s voices. His throat felt like honey, and he felt the urge to stretch his limbs, but he resisted it.

“Remind me again how we’ll kill the inquisitor?” Gideon was saying

“Slowly.” Sophie said calmly. Her calloused hands were still stroking Thomas’ hair and occasionally brushed his cheeks. They were so gentle he found it hard to believe that they were the same hands that fought off dozens of automatons at once. “And I’m sure we can get the rest of the family to join in as well.”

“There’s no doubt about that.” Gideon mumbled. “We can even get Henry to use his staff.”

“It’s been such a long time since I’d seen him fight. It brought me back to when I was younger. He and Charlotte would always patrol together.” Sophie said, sighing.

Thomas didn’t need to open his eyes to know she was resting her head on Gideon’s shoulder.

“Yes, I remember. Though I can’t say I heeded them much attention; I only remember scowling at my father. It’s strange how time goes by.”

Thomas never heard much about his Grandfather Benedict. Gideon didn’t like talking about his father, nor did Gabriel. Thomas was very familiar with the story of how they defeated him when he was a worm, but he knew little to nothing about Benedict when he was still human.

“Now that James is married, we have an extra family member.” Sophie said.

“We should get Alastair too, he fought well today. Like a part of the family.”

Thomas’ eyes flew open, which startled Sophie, causing her to jump in her seat.

“Goodness, Thomas. Did you have a nightmare?”

“No! I was just eager to wake up.”

Gideon and Sophie looked down at him with twin expressions of confusion and skepticism.

Thankfully, he was saved by the opening of the parlor. However, that relief was then masked with confusion when he was who came in.

“Aunt Cecily?” Thomas said, sitting up.

Gideon sat up, rigidly. “Is something wrong with Gabriel?”

“Oh, no. Heavens no.” Cecily said quickly.

Thomas swore he saw his father sigh in relief.

“I came here for something else.” Cecily looked a little bit breathless. “Lucie hasn’t stopped by here, by any chance, has she?”

“No,” Gideon said, standing up. “Why? What’s the matter, Cecy?”

“She’s gone.” Cecily said, pale.

Tagging (Sorry for the spam guys!): @tsccreatorsnet  @atla-lok143  @rinadragomir  @youngreckless  @autumnangel20  @julemmaes  @cupcakesandkittens  @no-scones-allowed  @fictionally-fantastic  @stxr-thxif  @writeforjordelia  @itsdaughterofthemoon  @jordeliasupremacy  @cordelia-cardale  @will-effing-herondale  @axoloteca  @heronstairs2014  @ilovemanicures @ti-bae-rius

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#Thomas lightwood #sophie lightwood #gideon lightwood #eugenia lightwood #barbara lightwood #the last hours #tlh fanfic #tsc fanfiction #tsc fanfic #thomas lightwood fanfic

[hockey-fics]

Do Better ~ Travis Konecny 

Summary: Your relationship with Travis was supposed to be over but seven months later neither of you has been able to find the willpower to stay away from each other.

Warnings: toxic relationship (jealousy, arguments, terrible communication), smut, language. 

Word Count: ~2,800

A/N: Didn’t want to put the effort into making a gif for this one because I’m not super happy with it but I just wanted to post so hopefully I’ll get back into posting more often.

‘Can I come over?’

Such a simple text message that carried so much more than those four words should ever hold. 

Travis. You had broken up with him 7 months ago. Broken up with him 7 months ago and yet the stream of text messages over that time would say otherwise. It was like a highlight reel of both of your lowest moments, clambering for each other in the moments of loneliness. 

‘come over’

‘I miss you y/n’

‘call me’

‘are you up?

‘I need you, trav’ 

‘send me pics please’

There were reasons you two broke up, more than just a couple. But as soon as you would start to feel lonely, wishing you had someone to be with in every sense of the word, those reasons seemed to vanish from your mind. 

They were the nights you would go out to the bar and Travis would get pouty and annoyed anytime a guy so much as looked at you a little too long. When he would find reasons to be suspicious about every male coworker or guy friend you were spending time with. And you weren’t much better. You would find yourself laying in bed while he was on the road, wondering if he was out at a bar flirting with other girls, buying them drinks with his NHL salary. 

Or days when he would come home and barely speak to you after bad games. When you would try your best to be a supportive girlfriend only to get brushed off, like you were simply an annoyance to him. But you could never take the high-road, could never let him have his time to cool off. You always needed to say something and something would always end in an argument. You two yelling at each other till you shut each other up with your lips on each other, clothes being scattered in whatever room the argument happened to be taking place in. And nothing ever got resolved, just a silent agreement to not bring the fight back up. 

You were just as bad though. When you weren’t getting the attention you wanted from him you would turn to other sources. You would act just a little too friendly towards his teammates the day after one of your fights. Or you would make more conversation than you needed to with the waiter at the restaurant, the barista at the coffee shop, anyone who would make Travis jealous. And later that day he would fuck you, hard and fast and make you whimper just who you belonged to. 

As your friends described it, your relationship had a toxic side. But perhaps the most toxic part of it all was that now that you were ex’s the only parts that remained in your connection with each other were the toxic parts. The good times were gone now. The fact that you would only go running to him when you wanted him, needed him, to fuck you like only he seemed to know how to. When he would leave you on read for days until you posted a picture with one of your guy friends and suddenly he was in your DMs faster than you realized he was even capable of typing. When you would go on a bad date and have the Uber take you to Travis’ apartment after it was over rather than your own, using him to deal with the disappointment of the terrible night. When he was on the road and would FaceTime you late at night, his intentions clear and your willpower not strong enough to resist taking your clothes off for him, following every little direction he would mutter to you over the phone in the dimly lit hotel room. When you would post pictures to your snap or insta stories when you wanted him to talk to you but didn’t want to be the one to reach out. 

And tonight was no exception. The Flyers had just won a game, one in which he had played incredibly well. You knew he was looking for a way to celebrate that win and you knew he was hoping it would be with your body. As much as you knew you should say no you simply couldn’t. 

‘yes’ 

An hour later Travis is in your apartment. He’s still wearing his dress shirt and pants, not even having the patience to go home to get changed first. You didn’t even need to let him in, you had never gotten the key you gave him a year into the relationship back. 

“You played well,” you tell him, sitting beside him on the couch as he scrolls through Netflix to pick a movie neither of you would watch for more than a couple minutes. 

“You still watch them all, hey?” Travis mutters, a teasing undertone to his voice. Because he knew you were still in love with you. You knew he was still in love with you too but it still made your blood boil whenever he would insinuate it. 

“I don’t watch them for you,” you state with feigned confidence.

“Oh?” Travis knows you’re lying but he goes along with it anyway. 

“Still think Carter is pretty hot,” you tell him, turning your body to the side to look at him. You had said it once during your relationship, at a bar. You had been sitting beside Travis when you saw Carter walk in, making an absentminded comment about him being hot. It wasn’t even meant to rile Travis up, just an observation. But it ended with Travis pulling you into the bathroom and bending you over the counter, forcing you to watch him fuck you from behind. 

A smirk grows on Travis’ face as he turns to look at you. “You really want me to fuck you like that again, baby girl?”

“Maybe I could get Carter to fuck me like that.”

“Stop,” Travis mutters, voice low, warning. It was different now. There was nothing Travis could really say when you made comments like that, you weren’t his anymore. 

“Make me.”

Travis tosses the remote to the side, giving up on picking a movie. His hands grab your hips, rough as he pulls you across his lap so you were straddling him. His lips are on yours, kissing you with a fiery passion that ignites every nerve in your body. You rock your hips down against him, his grip on your hips tightening as you do. Before you know it Travis is tugging your t-shirt up over your head, fingers grazing over your bare skin as his lips trail down your jaw and to your neck. By the time he gets to your chest he’s sucking and nipping your skin hard, leaving marks that you know will be there for the next few days. He’s making it more difficult for you to be with anyone else, little did he know you really had no interest in being with anyone else at this point. But you let him believe otherwise, because it was more fun for you. 

You start with the bottom buttons of his shirt as he continues to work over your chest, sucking your nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking over it lightly. Your hand cups beneath Travis’ jaw as you tip his head back when you get to the top buttons, moving your hands back to make quick work of the rest of his shirt. His skin is warm as you push his shirt off his shoulders and down his arms. While your movements are slow and deliberate Travis isn’t sharing the same patience. After tossing his shirt to the side his hands are on the waistband of your shorts, pushing them down your legs. And you’ve done this so many times before that you know exactly when and how to shift your legs to make the process easy. 

“Fuck,” Travis groans when he realizes you weren’t wearing underwear. 

You can’t stop the smirk that spreads on your lips, knowing how much control you had over him without even needing to do anything. But just as you were beginning to feel in control Travis runs his fingers along your folds and you’re falling apart at his touch. You lean forward further onto your knees, giving him more space between your bodies to work with. “So wet for me,” Travis mutters, fingers brushing against your entrance before sliding up to your clit. He circles around it till you’re whimpering, begging for more. “Please, Travis, please.”

Travis chuckles quietly and you know he’s fully aware of the power he has over you. But he doesn’t tease you for much longer, his thumb brushing gentle circles over your clit as his fingers find their way back towards your entrance. Your head is on his shoulder a minute later, soft moans filling the room as he presses one finger inside of you, then another. And he uses the rhythm he knows you like to easily work you through an orgasm. “Fuck, Travis, I’m going to-.”

“I know,” Travis mutters, working you through your orgasm with one hand, the other circled around your waist. You let out a string of loud moans, body writhing in pleasure, your legs shaking as they struggle to keep you from completely collapsing onto Travis. “I got you,” Travis mutters, slowly pulling his hand out from between you, his hands tug your legs closer to him, letting you drop your weight down onto his lap. “You’re so fucking hot,” Travis mutters, pushing himself forward on the couch as he grabs your legs and stands up, still holding onto you. 

“I can walk,” you tell him as Travis carries you towards your bedroom. 

“Are you sure about that?” Travis teases, making you giggle as you wrap your arms tighter around his shoulders. 

In the bedroom Travis drops you down onto the bed, pulling you to the edge of the mattress as he gets down onto his knees. He lifts your legs up over his shoulders, lips trailing up your inner thighs as you let out a heavy breath, flopping flat against the bed, head tipped back. When his lips get to your core you let out a shaky gasp, tongue flicking against your already sensitive clit and making your body jolt. His tongue works against your clit as he brings his fingers back to your entrance, gently circling it for a few minutes before sliding two fingers inside of you. Your back arches against the mattress as you clutch at the fabric of your comforter beneath you. “Please…fuck…I just, Trav, please,” you stutter out. 

“What do you need?” Travis asks, pulling back to look up at you. 

Quickly you shake your head, fingers curling into his hair. “No, please don’t stop,” you whine, watching him smirk before he goes back to what he was doing. 

And before you know if you’re being brought to your second orgasm of the night, grasping helplessly as the blankets as your body jolts through wave after wave of pleasure. When Travis finally makes his way back up to your lips, kissing you gently, you realize he still had yet to even take his own pants off. Sitting up you push Travis to his feet, fingers unbuckling his belt, unbuttoning his pants and slipping them down his legs. You run your fingers over his length through the fabric of his boxers, enjoying the sound of his throaty groan. You don’t make him wait too long before you’re pushing his boxers down as well and pulling Travis back on top of you. “I need you inside me,” you whisper and he doesn’t hesitate. He pushes into you, slowly and gently despite the fact that you were so wet and ready for him you didn’t need a second to adjust to the sensation. 

Your hands grasp at Travis’ back, legs wrapped around him as he thrusts his hips into you. After a few minutes he’s pulled back, hands on your hips as he flips you over. Before he even has the chance to say anything you’re on your knees, arms braced in front of you as he slides back inside you. You let out a quiet moan, as he uses one hand on your hip to brace his thrusts while the other wraps around you to brush against your clit. 

Loud whimpers and moans escape your lips, your pleasure getting to the point where it was almost too much. “Trav,” you whine, fingers curled into the blankets as you brace yourself from rocking forward with every thrust. “Travis, I…it’s too much.”

“Pluto?” Travis mutters, slowing down as he waits for your response. It was your safe word, the only way you could convince him to choke you or hold you down when you first brought up the idea of rougher sex at the very beginning of the relationship. 

“N-no,” you stammer, shaking your head. “Keep going.”

“Okay,” Travis mutters, but you can tell he’s being gentler, his hips not carrying as much power with each thrust, his fingers softer and slower on your clit. But you’re brought to another orgasm nonetheless, no longer able to stop yourself from rocking forward as your shaky arms can barely keep yourself off the mattress. 

“Fuck,” Travis mutters, his thrusts getting sloppy. He moves both hands to your hips now, holding you in place as he brings himself to his own high. You can feel him cum inside of you and he’s holding you almost completely still now, breathing heavily in the quiet stillness of the bedroom for a few moments before pulling out ever so slowly. Reaching over Travis grabs the box of Kleenex from your nightstand, easing you onto your back and cleaning you up. “I’ll be right back,” Travis tells you, leaning onto the bed to leave a gentle kiss on your forehead. 

Travis returns with a damp cloth, using it to fully clean you up, his touch soft and gentle. “You should go,” you suddenly blurt out when he pulls away, feeling a well of emotion in your chest. 

“What?” Travis’ voice is full of surprise, looking down at you with furrowed eyebrows. “Like, this second?”

All you can manage to do it nod, feeling the threat of tears. An ache in your throat, stinging in your eyes. 

But you’re not hiding it nearly as well as you think and Travis is pulling you into his chest, arms holding you tight to his body. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Did I…did I hurt you?”

“No, no,” you assure him quickly, a few tears slipping from your eyes. “I miss you, Travis. I love you. I don’t know, I don’t want you to go.”

“You just told me to go.”

Shoving at his chest you pull yourself away from his grasp. “Because it’s easier if you just go now instead of in the morning. I can’t…I can’t let you stay here and cuddle all night. It hurts.”

Travis reaches back over, taking your hands, trying desperately to maintain the physical contact you kept pushing away. “I don’t have to,” Travis tells you. “I don’t have to leave in the morning.”

“Stop,” you snap, pulling your hands away from him and climbing off your bed. Steadying your shaky legs you walk to your dresser, yanking on the first t-shirt you could find, which just so happened to be one of Travis’ that he left there so long ago you were sure he had forgotten about it. “We broke up, Travis. We’re done.”

“We don’t have to be,” Travis counters as he follows your lead, pulling on his boxers and taking tentative steps in your direction. 

“Yes, we do,” you yell. “We weren’t good for each other.”

“I’ll do better,” Travis pleads, stepping closer to you. “Let’s just try again.”

“It wasn’t just you, Travis. It was me too. You can’t just fix this on your own.”

“Then do better too,” Travis states and you stare up at him blankly, taken aback by him calling you out so directly. 

“I-,” you begin, having no defence for yourself. You couldn’t say that you couldn’t try that. You couldn’t say that you didn’t need to do better. He was right and you either had to accept that or accept that this relationship needed to end completely. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Travis repeats, nodding slowly. “Should we talk about it in the morning?”

“Probably,” you agree, knowing you needed to be more level headed than you were feeling now to have any type of serious discussion. 

“Do you want me to come back in the morning, or-.”

“Stay,” you whisper, reaching over and taking his hand. “Spend the night with me, please.”

Travis nods, letting you guide him back to your bed. The two of you curl up underneath the blankets, falling asleep in a tangled mess together with the promise of tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow you would figure it all out. But for now, now you were going to do what you always did. Pretend everything was okay. 

#for anyone who needs to hear this: please don't go back to your toxic ex #this is all fictional if you ended a toxic relationship please leave it in the past #travis konecny #travis konecny imagine #travis konecny fic #nhl imagines #nhl fic #hockey fic #hockey imagine #philadelphia flyers imagine #philadelphia flyers fic #philidelphia flyers imagine #nhl fanfic #nhl fanfiction #nhl one shot #Hockey Fanfiction #hockey fanfic #hockey one shot

[mymelodyheart]

Starting Over Chapter 2 ~Sassenach~

"Weel, weel if it isn't my favourite sportsman, James Fraser."

Christ! What now? 

He groaned inwardly and turned to find a petite blonde walking towards him. Jamie had just escaped a group of old family acquaintances, evaded some uncomfortable questions about his disappearance, and the last thing he needed now was some more awkward conversation with a person he vaguely recognised. Prior to that, he'd briefly spoken to his parents, Brian and Ellen and his brothers, William and Robert. Like Jenny, they hadn't mentioned anything about his long absence. Instead, they'd welcomed him with open arms as if he'd never ignored their calls during the past few weeks. Grateful for the breathing space and respite, he knew eventually he would have to talk.

The blonde girl waited for him to say something as she sipped her white wine. With so many things occupying his thoughts, he could only summon an absentminded nod in her direction.

She flipped her long hair back with a flick of a hand and laughed coquettishly. "Ye don't remember me, do ye?"

"Eh ...ye look sorta familiar," he replied without matching her smile, his gaze briefly drifting somewhere else. "Ye're at my nephew's party, so I guess ye're a friend of Jenny."

Her cool floundered for a split second, but she quickly recovered. "Our parents are friends, and we went to the same school together. Laoghaire ...Laoghaire MacKenzie. Our families sometimes attend the same parties. I'm here with my nephew."

"Ah, right," he said flatly. "That explains why."

There was an uncomfortable silence, but he made no effort to ease the strain. He was thinking about the girl with the crazy, big hair.  And the mindblowing kiss.

Undeterred, Laoghaire stayed put. She looked like she was waiting for him to make some sort of move. Shoving his hands into the pocket of his jeans, he dragged in an impatient breath. Here at Broch Mordha, the village was somewhat removed from the rest of the world. What happened outside its bubble only mattered when it indirectly affected its inhabitants. Looking at her expression, his image as a ladies' man had penetrated that bubble. It's true, he'd had a few casual affairs in the past, but nothing long term. He'd appreciated them for what it was, treated whoever he was with well and was always forthright about not wanting anything serious. His focus had always been on rugby and everything that entailed the sport. 

Unfortunately, the media had made him out to be an unrepentant philanderer, thanks to the reputation of his uncle Dougal MacKenzie, a retired rugby union great and a former mentor when he'd first started out.  Like Uncle, like nephew,  so they'd whispered behind his back. Dougal had been a notorious womaniser back in his days, and his antics were often featured in the sports column.  How many wives had he had?  Jamie had lost count. So much for promoting a public persona that had nothing to do with his passion for rugby!  Since when did hard work, glory and distinction in sports become synonymous with the shallow world of celebrities?  In Jamie's case, ever since the camera had panned a close-up of his face during a televised game and the social media had erupted into a frenzy.   Suddenly, Jamie's looks and his relation to his uncle had become as important as his rugby skills when it came to attracting the lucrative endorsements and sponsorship deals that made him wealthy. But at what cost? A reputation that refused to shift. Maybe there was a certain amount of truth to what was being said about him. After all, his uncle's womanising ways had soured the idea of him committing to a relationship.

"So, ye're back," the blonde girl continued, seemingly unfazed by his lack of interest. "Maybe we can meet up for coffee or maybe..." Face turning red, she squared her shoulders. "...ye'll probably need help refamiliarising yersel' with the village and surrounding area."

"Why? Has Broch Mordha changed much?" He knew he was behaving like a complete prick. Over a year ago, his charm would have turned on involuntary around people, especially with pretty girls like the one in front of him.  Good old Jamie, the golden boy of British sports, always up for a picture or two or lay with some female celebrity or fan.  Everyone had wanted a piece of him until he'd announced his retirement. Then his phone had stopped ringing. But his agent had wanted to milk whatever was left of his fame by suggesting to go on the popular British television dance contest for celebrities,  Strictly Come Dancing .  What the fuck did that have to do with rugby?  Nowadays the only newsworthy thing about his name was his love life or some rehashed stories of his past. But here's a girl showing genuine interest so why couldn't he muster an ounce of enthusiasm? "Look, I'm so sorry. I haven't seen my family for a long while and ..."

"Ach, nae bother. Think nothing more about it," she interrupted with a wave of her hand. "But if ye change yer mind, call me." She rummaged through her handbag and extracted a card, handing it to him. "I've a boutique shop in the square. Sew in Style. I usually take a break between one and two in the afternoon."

Jamie forced a smile, shoving the card in his pocket without looking at it. "Aye, if I ever need a perfect wee black dress, I'll let ye know."

She laughed out loud as if he just uttered the joke of the decade instead of a sarcastic comment. "And, by the way, I'm home tonight so, if ye fancy a glass of wine or two after yer nephew's party...my private number is at the back of the card."

His forced laughter was toneless. "A wine."

"Jamie! A moment please." A voice behind him called out.  Joe?    Ach, thank fuck!   

Jamie knew instantly his African-American friend was swooping in to save him from Laoghaire, and he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. They weren't close, but Joe was more than a professional acquaintance and team doctor. In and outside his training, it was their talks that had kept him grounded throughout his career. And it was he who had kept in touch with his family during his therapy. When the title Rookie of the Year had threatened to inflate his head, Joe had reminded him not to get too cocksure as rugby career tended to be very short. Quickly making an apologetic shrug at Laoghaire, Jamie turned to face Joe, this time a sincere smile, if not relieved, plastered on his face. "How are ye, mate? Good to see ye."

Realising she was being dismissed, Laoghaire's expression went flat; nevertheless, she smiled, and with a small nod, and a muttered, "see ye around," she turned and left. Part of him felt awful for being rude, but the other half felt good to not play the charming ladies' man as portrayed by the newspaper.

Joe let out a whistle. "Whoa! Who are you and what did you do to James Fraser?"

"He's still here somewhere." Jamie clapped him on the back as they made their way to the table where his brothers and brother-in-law were sat. The guests were already starting to leave, and his parents have retired to the house.

"Jenny said you might come. So I stopped by," Joe said, grabbing his drink from the table. 

Ian, Jenny's husband, stood up and offered Jamie a beer, but he shook his head and zeroed in on the whisky instead. "I sent Joe to get ye. Ye looked like ye were suffering from a bout of gout talking to Laoghaire," he chuckled.

Jamie smiled pensively, pouring himself a healthy measure in the tumbler, and taking a seat between Rabbie and Willie. Despite his moodiness, he was glad to be around his brothers. Willie, the oldest of the Fraser siblings at age thirty-four, had his own construction company,  W.Fraser  while the youngest, Robert, better known as Rabbie, age twenty-three was studying Biochemistry at the University of Edinburgh. But Rabbie's passion was more into the woodwork, and in his spare time, he helped Willie create masterpieces out of wood or restored antiques. And so that left the Fraser Distillery to Jamie. Although unspoken, Jamie knew he was expected to take over the family business now that his rugby career was over. "Just a lot to take in at the moment. I didn't realise there would be plenty of guests."

The men nodded sympathetically as they supped their drinks.

"Here, ye wanted this," Rabbie said, breaking the silence and sliding a business card on the table "Got it from Jenny. Ye planning a party or something? Mind, it's a children's party company."

Sassenach!  Jamie grabbed the colourful card, read it and flipped it twice between his fingers. Giggle Beans Children's Party Planner. "Geillis Duncan ...the name doesnae sound English to me," he said thoughtfully.

Joe took a swig of his beer and frowned. "Geillis Duncan? I know her. She's a good mate of mine. The party planning is a new business she just started."

"Aye? Brown-haired lass?"

"No. Geillis is ginger. Like you."

"Weel, I heard Jenny calling the entertainer Geillis. Maybe she dyed her hair?" Ian suggested. "I never saw her face. I thought it was bonkers she had that dog mask on the whole time in this heat. I guess she didnae want to disappoint the bairns."

"I can call her if you wish. Like what I said, she's a close friend," Joe offered, taking out his phone. "Is it for a party?"

"Ahh, no. I ..." Jamie didn't know what to say, so he took out his phone instead. "No. I'll call." Reading from the card, he tapped the number on his phone screen and glared at everyone in warning to shush. No answer. Just an answering machine. After a while, he placed his phone back on the table. "What kind of business that's just starting out takes a week off?"

"Ah! It's to do with the wedding," Joe explained. "Our friend is getting married this weekend. I'm the man of honour and Geillis is the bride's maid."

Everyone laughed, and Rabbie's eyebrow shot up. "Man of honour. Never heard of that before."

Jamie ignored his brother. "Mmm, doesn't she have the staff to answer phone calls? It would make perfect business sense if she wanted to succeed."

"Not yet, but she has a few close friends helping her out for now," Joe shrugged. "I have no idea which friends though. Want me to call Geillis' on her private number?"

Jamie shook his head. "No, it can wait."

"If it's not about children's party, what is it ye calling for?" Ian asked.

"Wait a minute," Willie interrupted as if something just dawned on him. "Has this something to do with wee Jamie telling me that ye snogged the dog? His words. Not mine."

"Fuck, he said that?" Jamie choked.

"Aye, my wee lad told me something along those lines," Ian piped in, suddenly perking up. "I thought he's making stories up."

"Ye snogged the children's entertainer? The one in Paw Patrol costume?" Rabbie asked. "How'd ye manage that?"

"Alright, Jamie. I'm all dog's ears. What happened?" Joe dead-panned.

Everyone at the table burst out laughing.

"Fuck off!" Jamie split a frustrated look between his friend, brothers and his brother-in-law over the rim of his whisky. His younger brother, Robert, looked like he had tons of follow-up questions which Jamie could really do without. 

"He definitely snogged the dog," Rabbie confirmed with a smirk and a wink.

"Jesus, Jamie. Ye come out from yer cave for the first time in a long time, and ye snogged wee Jamie's party entertainer? Ye definitely need yer head looking at," Willie quipped, shifting on his seat. "What the hell happened?"

Although Jamie promised his mother to cut down on his alcohol consumption, suddenly, he wanted to straddle his hangover with a fresher one in an attempt to forget the kiss with the fiery English lass and to veer the conversation to something else. Feeling cornered and left with no choice, he complied and told them the whole story.

When Jamie was done, everyone shook their head like he'd just been crowned idiot of the year. "Ye actually bribed her with 30 quid?" Rabbie asked, slapping his forehead in disbelief. "Man, she must be a student like me, forever hard-up for dough. She must think ye're a self-entitled prick for that. Does she even know who ye are?" 

"Aye, she does. She was actually nice. She's the first person since I retired from sports to mention the subject of rugby."

Actually, Jamie had liked her even before she had taken off the mask. She'd had this mixture of vulnerability and tenacity that had grabbed his attention the moment she'd started speaking. He could have talked to her all day and not been bored. And then she'd taken off the mask, and he'd known there, and then he was flummoxed.

He remembered her big amber eyes flecked with grey flashing in anger and thought of how her lips had felt moving with his. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned.

"So, tell me, how did she grab the hundred-pound note? With her furry paws?" 

Willie threw a beer bottle cap at the younger Fraser. "Leave it to Rabbie to ask the mechanics of every minute detail. Jamie had a snogging session with a dog, so let's just appreciate it for what it is."

Jamie took no notice of the jest. "It wasn't even a proper snog. It was more like  take-that, ye-prick  kinda snog."

"Oh, man. This is bad. Look at ye. Ye really have it bad, Jamie lad. Ye're paying for yer past mistakes. Aye, that's it! That's karma. That's what happens when ye leave a trail of broken hearts in yer wake. A taste of yer own medicine." Willie shook his head at his brother in mock sympathy.

"What do ye plan to do then if ye manage to get hold of her? Ask her out? Do ye even want to have a girlfriend? " Ian asked, seriously this time.

So what's the plan?  If for no other reason, he wanted to track the English lass down just to correct her misconception of him. And if he was downright honest with himself, he craved to kiss her again—a lot. "I have nae idea. Truly, nae idea. But one thing for sure, she and I aren't done," he muttered before downing the rest of his whisky.

..........

I can't do this. I have to get out of here.

The four walls of the room felt like they're closing in on her. Claire tried to regulate her breathing as panic slashed mercilessly at her guts. The bodice of her dress dug into her ribs, and the choker pearl necklace felt like a noose binding her. She started to hyperventilate, and she reached up and ripped off the pearl-encrusted lace veil. Bending at the waist, she placed her hands on her knees and gulped in air.

In fifteen minutes, she was getting married to Frank. She tried to picture him in his tuxedo, his chocolate brown hair neatly brushed back, flashing his perfect smile at their waiting guests, most of them his associates and friends. Earlier while she was getting dressed, a box of white orchids from her fiance arrived with a handwritten note. It read:  I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you.  Beautiful. So why did those mere words sent a shiver down her spine? Everything was perfect. Frank was perfect. So what was wrong?

She thought of the people in her life. There were not many of them. Sure, there were plenty of acquaintances and work colleagues at the hospital, and she was well-liked. But those she held dear and was closest to, she could count on the fingers of one hand. Orphaned at the age of five, she was raised by her only living relative, her father's brother, Quentin Lambert Beauchamp, also known as uncle Lamb. Having spent her childhood travelling the world with her guardian while working on archaeological sites, their nomadic lifestyle didn't allow much room for close friendships and ties. At least until she started her medical studies when her uncle finally settled down to teach history at the University of Edinburgh. Although a loner, she had bonded with Geillis Duncan and Joe Abernathy one night while watching a televised rugby game at the local pub. Scotland had just won. After hugging as strangers in celebration and debating about  the man of the match  over pints of Guinness, they became steadfast friends ever since.

And then Frank came along. He was a specialist surgeon at the time when they first met. He was her boss and her mentor when she started her internship. Their shared love for the intricacies of medical and surgical art of healing brought them closer together, first as friends and eventually as lovers. He was a patient teacher, and she was an eager student, lapping up his knowledge and experience. But that's where their common interest ended. Outside work, they had different interests and sets of friends. Claire loved sports, hanging out in a pub, reading books and night-ins watching movies. She was laidback whereas Frank loved attending formal charity events and socialising with the upper crust professionals of Edinburgh. More often than not, their differences made her feel she had to make a choice between him and her friends.

Claire closed her eyes and tried to calm her rioting nerves. Over the past year, almost every instant she attempted to meet up with Joe and Geillis, Frank gave her a difficult time. Her fiance pointed out how limited time they spent together with their hectic work schedules and her little get-togethers with her friends were causing a division in their relationship. Although Claire considered herself independent, gutsy and opinionated, her resolve turned into mush whenever Frank turned on his charm and wholehearted devotion in getting his point across. And so she'd started making excuses. She hated lying to her friends, but Frank soothed her guilt by being more attentive and generous with his gifts.

He doesn't like your friends. He wants to change you. 

The voice in her head got louder, and her breathing became more erratic.

Run now before it's too late.

Lightheadedness threatened, and she staggered to her feet, swaying a little. She needed air so badly. Maybe the wedding pressure was finally getting to her. With her demanding job and long hours at work, she was bone-tired from fretting about every final detail of their wedding. Frank was a perfectionist, and he disliked disorganisation and lack of care. Every aspect of their nuptials needed to be perfect. And with almost four hundred guests, including the local press and his high-society associates, it was an event too important to muck up. It was her job to make sure everything was flawless.

What matters more, Beauchamp? Pleasing a bunch of hoity-toity or your friends? Is this really the world you want to live in?

She knew Frank didn't approve of her friends.  "They're a bit rough around the edges, darling. I hope they will not embarrass me at the wedding,"  he had said casually. But Claire had stood her ground and defended them. Besides uncle Lamb, Joe and Geillis were like family to her. They were her people.

The sound of violin music and the drone of voices drifting into the room alerted her. She knew Geillis, Joe and uncle Lamb were waiting outside, and soon the door would open. They left earlier when she told them she needed a moment alone. Any time now, they would come and fetch her. Feeling sick, she lurched toward the stained glass window and jiggled the knob. It budged a few inches, allowing hot air to flow through.  Breathe!  Why was she having second thoughts? Together they would be a power couple saving lives, attending charity events and helping change the world. So, what was the matter? 

Nothing is the matter. I love Frank. He's great, and he makes me a better person.

Ya-dah, ya-dah. What do you know of love, Beauchamp? You kissed the Fraser lad. Maybe the hot Scot is not for you, but if you really love Frank, the kiss wouldn't have happened.

The hot weather and lack of sleep muddled my brains.

Yeah, right. Get a grip, Beauchamp.

What now?

Get the hell out of there and run!

Sunlight caught the sparkle of her diamond engagement ring, making her wince. Quickly, she took it off and placed it on the table. No time for weighing the consequences, the rights and wrongs, the cost. No time to draw up statistical or pie charts and mull over percentages.

Trust your gut, Beauchamp. It has never failed you on the operating table.

But I can't leave him waiting at the altar.

Listen, you fool. Once you walk down that aisle, it's over. So straighten those panties and worry about the consequences later.

Her head was spinning in a frenetic circle, making her dizzy. Claire looked at the closed door and swallowed hard. What she was about to do would change the course of her life and maybe, the career she had worked hard for. But there was no time.

Go, go, go, Beauchamp!

Bugger it!  Heart pounding, Claire yanked the window with all her might, and to her astonishment, it opened like a shot nearly knocking her backwards. She didn't have time to analyse if it was her physical strength or the adrenaline increasing the blood flow into her muscles that made the window budge. Ignoring the judging eyes of the Blessed Virgin Mary statue, she squeezed her body through the opening and wriggled her way to freedom.

..........

"Thank you, Jamie. Sorry again to call you on such short notice. I owe you big time, mate," Joe said, saluting him as he opened the passenger door.

"Nae worries, Joe. Happy to help. Now, go before you miss the wedding," Jamie replied. 

Joe smiled one last time and got out.

Jamie waited and watched his friend run and disappeared through the door of the church before easing his car from the curb. The church bell rang, letting him know the ceremony was about to commence. There were a few reporters with cameramen lingering outside and thought, whoever Joe's friend was marrying must be well-known and newsworthy.

Joe had called Jamie earlier after his car broke down. Apparently, the bride's uncle had forgotten to bring something important, and Geillis had sent him to retrieve it, by hook or by crook. Luckily for Joe, he caught him as he was about to leave for Lallybroch for the weekend. 

Jamie was just turning right at the junction when a cloud of white material hanging out of a window on the far side of the church caught his attention.  What the fuck?   Not stopping to think, he slammed his foot on the brake and got out of the car, leaving it stranded in the middle of the road. He started to jog across the grassy area and over the bed of flowers, keeping his eye on the wriggling figure coming out of the window.  Christ, is that the bride?

Then his heart stopped and faltered. The person in the white dress was falling. His perception of time became distorted, slowing everything down until there was nothing, only the figure in white that was about to hit the ground.  No! No! Please, God!  Pushing himself, he bolted like a sprinter at the start gun, covering the uneven ground with a precise speed of a disciplined athlete, knowing full well his thighs had enough power to make it in seconds, each of his strides at least worth two of an untrained person. Barely breaking a sweat, he made it in the nick of time and caught the body in his arms.

His heart knocking uncontrollably against his ribs, he let out a massive sigh of relief and looked down at the bride. Her porcelain skin was flushed, and her fancy hairdo lay lopsided to the side with pins sticking out, making the dark curls spring wildly around her face. His gaze briefly landed on her parted lips before settling on a pair of snapping amber eyes. He fought past his lack of speech and wondered if the weeks he'd spent in a drunken stupor was causing him to hallucinate. "Sassenach!?!"

#melodyheart #startingover #Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser #outlanderfanfic

[brilliantorinsane]

The Case of the Lady Beryl

As the name suggests, the closest canon analogue for this episode is The Case of the Beryl Cornet. As far as I can tell the similarities are pretty superficial, basically just consisting of the fact that both mysteries feature a suspect taking the fall for a crime they didn’t commit for the sake of a loved one. I didn’t notice anything particularly interesting in the episode’s use of the canon story, however, so I am going to set that aside and focus on Watson.

Introduction, Ep1 Pt1, Ep1 Pt2

This episode features Holmes at his best, but I was initially bothered by the fact that Watson spends the first half of the episode being rather stupider than normal. Now, characters needn’t be intelligent to be loved and lovable, and the fact that Holmes and Watson take their turns being played for fools is frankly one of the strengths of the series. But given the history of adaptations erasing Watson’s capabilities I get touchy when he is being underestimated, so when in the span of 10 minutes he has fallen for a transparent lie from Lestrade, mocked Holmes’s experiments, taken 24 seconds to process a perfectly straightforward sentence, and flat-out forgotten how bullets work, I start getting defensive.

Fortunately, fandom has taught me a great deal about the potential for audience interaction with texts to be transformative as well as analytical, so I’ve brought my stubbornness to bear and found an interpretation that (mostly) satisfies me. I do not know whether the reading I have to offer was in any way intended, but I do think it is consistent with what exists on the screen and adds depth to Watson’s characterization. That being said I don’t suppose I’ll ever entirely forgive them for implying that John Watson, a fricken doctor and soldier, is unable to differentiate between a bullet-wound and a bashed-in head.

The observation that prompted my re-evaluation of Watson’s behavior was realizing that in every instance his slowness is directly related to his following Lestrade’s lead or being more focused on Lestrade than Holmes. This is a curious thing, particularly since I think it would be far too simplistic to infer that Watson is simply looking for someone to follow and imitate. After all, even though Holmes has a deep effect on him, Watson frequently challenges Holmes’s conclusions and never adopts his manner. So of all people, why would Watson choose to imitate Lestrade, a man who is frequently the butt of the joke and at times seems to care about his own image more than the justice he has been given the authority and responsibility to protect?

My theory, counterintuitive though it may seem, is that Lestrade is the sort of man Watson believes he ought to be. I think there is evidence that this Watson, regardless of his actual personality and inclinations, thinks he ought to be a traditionally proper English gentleman. Throughout the show he continually protests Holmes’s eccentricities, and yet far from meaningfully attempting to abate or escape them, he not infrequently joins in wholeheartedly. To me, this seems indicative of a pattern: in this series Holmes and Watson are both eccentric madmen, but whereas Holmes is perfectly comfortable with the fact, Watson has put effort into appearing ‘normal’ and ‘correct’, and periodically struggles to maintain or reclaim that image—both in the eyes of others and himself.

And the funny thing about Lestrade is that, for all his buffoonery, in a very real way he represents the proper English gentleman. When Holmes isn’t busy destabilizing Lestrade’s self-image he is confident, assertive, and takes the lead. His manner (when he feels in control) is dignified and polite. He has the socially sanctioned “correct” opinions about gender and class and English superiority. And granted much of this is a facade which interferes with his accomplishing his job justly and well, but it has been sanctioned by the symbol of the police cap and the power of the Inspector. He has been chosen as the protector of a society whose cultural ideal he (superficially) embodies.

So, all things considered, Watson is very little like Lestrade, but Lestrade is very much like the sort of man Watson has been socially conditioned to aspire to.

(As a side note, part of the reason I enjoy this reading of Howard Watson is that it puts him in conversation with other Watson adaptations and the canon itself. Certainly it fits with my reading of the BBC Sherlock and Guy Ritchie Watsons. I haven’t decided the extent to which I read canon Watson in a similar manner, but the potential for such a reading is there in the way he paints himself as a deeply normal man while engaging in highly abnormal behavior. The Sign of Four, I suspect, provides especially good material for such an interpretation).

Perhaps the best part of this reading is that, if Lestrade leads Watson into performative normality, it is Holmes who releases him. Once Holmes is included in the investigation, a gradual shift occurs. At first Watson maintains his alliance with Lestrade, but for all that Lestrade has the advantage of social pressures pushing Watson towards him, this cannot last long once Holmes has re-entered the picture. By the time they are interviewing the primary suspect, he has returned to his usual intelligent and capable self.

Because that’s one of the many the beauties of their relationship: Holmes frees Watson from the endless task of conforming, and his genuine self is far better than any cheap imitation. And while I didn’t get into in this write-up, Watson returns the favor by loving Holmes as he is while curbing his more dangerous exterminates and keeping him grounded and present. Also in this episode he’s already 2-for-2 saving Holmes’s life and property and they’re just so good for each other and I love them.

  My Story:

I don’t have anything particular to add on this point aside from what I’ve already said, but here’s the link to chapter two of Hidden in the Moments:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/12795147/chapters/29238576#workskin

  Highlights:

Although Watson’s behavior around Lestrade isn’t his finest, I quite enjoy the fact that in the second episode Watson has already wheedled his way into cases on his own merit. Then his first move is to convince Lestrade to involve Holmes, which is adorable.

Also when he suggests they bring in Holmes his eyes get all soft and he has this warm little smile, like he’s so pleased and excited at the prospect of seeing Holmes at work again (3.20).

It’s also worth noting that the first thing that gets Watson on Lestrade’s side is Lestrade ranting about how Holmes deserves more credit. I’m pretty sure it’s insincere deflection on Lestrade’s part, but Watson believes him and is so endeared to Lestrade for defending Holmes and it’s honestly quite sweet.

Wilkins!!! Have I mentioned yet that I really love Wilkins? He’s smart without being showy, plays everything straight but is actually rather snarky, doesn't dismiss Holmes’s experiments like most people do and is maybe the only character who always enjoys Holmes’s intelligence without ever feeling threatened by it. I just find him really endearing.

So Wilkins walks into Baker Street when Holmes is doing an experiment, and Holmes immediately drags him into his experiment while absentmindedly offering him tea twice. And I love this scene because this Holmes is actually pretty social, it’s just on his own terms. He’s probably not going to do small-talk most days, but when he’s in the right mood he will serve you endless cups of probably-not-poisoned tea and ramble about his current fixation, which I honestly feel is very true to canon. Also I think he just genuinely likes Wilkins.

When trying to hurry Holmes off to a crime scene Lestrade calls his experiments ‘nonsense.’ Poor Holmes looks absolutely stricken, then passionately lectures Lestrade on the importance of Science and Progress all the way to the crime scene. Holmes is a nerd and I love him.

As they rush off to the crime scene Watson pauses to turn off the burner under Holmes’s experiments, and by Holmes’s estimation very likely saved Baker Street. It’s a lovely little example of how Watson’s somewhat more grounded personality works in tandem with Holmes’s absentminded hyperfocusing.

I quite like Lady Beryl. Granted her performance and circumstances are a bit melodramatic, but she has a quiet and calculating strength that draws me to her.

There’s a scene at 16:15 when Holmes is (rather unnecessarily) ribbing Lestrade and Lestrade begins to get worked up and defensive. Matters could have escalated from there, but Watson quietly leans forward and relays some pertinent facts about the crime scene to Holmes. It’s just a little moment of unpretentious conflict-resolution born of what Watson has already come to understand about these two men, and I really appreciate it.

24:27–24:32: “Brilliant Holmes, absolutely brilliant!”“Thank you Watson :)”

Watson again nabs the criminal efficiently and without posturing, while Holmes watches with all the attentiveness he offers a crime scene before offering one of his secret little smiles.

Holmes runs off in a panic upon realizing he left the burner on, and the episode ends before Watson can catch up and reassure him. And while I have my own (much longer) mental timeline of events, I must admit that what with our not being privy to it, the rush of gratitude and relief when Holmes realizes what Watson has done makes that unseen moment an excellent candidate for a first kiss.

@the-prince-of-professors @tremendousdetectivetheorist @devoursjohnlock@mafief @the-hopeless-existentialist@irishunic0rn @a-candle-for-sherlock@rfscommonplace @acdhw @artemisastarte

#it's 10:24 #which means its still jan 29th here #i mean it's not actually about their meeting #but it still is about them #and at any rate this gave me an arbitrary date to force myself to post it by #anyhow i've been struggling to get this one close to right and i'm currently half-asleep so i've no clue if it makes sense #enjoy! #howard holmes #sheldon reynolds #howard marion-crawford #ronald howard #howard holmes meta