#doubt he has lingering attachments to his home sea but i still think this so both so so sad and so important :'(( | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

libidomechanica · 2 months

Text

For he had late between

A ballad sequence

One of the stood, we said, have spread with her destiny of the daffodil, I know fully blue, and who slumber, but in fix’d the avenger, execrates his race. Love is her out as if they say, if they were inherent—what bitter

shrieking, still doubt you then why notes, friends, turn to live, and love you. Added to fly, and the lengthening away she had been attachment. The whole face so fair. By vaine Loue learned lady’s eyeballs purest great wish things charm of speak, twas

born alive or die, let by far, go thou list not for Ilion’s force, silence. Alone on the ostler listened, and arm’d with him: I knew myself at sea, in distant sky, with muskets at the pleasaunce they might’s in the break of mourn for a

languish me! A things with his well as the United States, that so much she made. Then make the blue, dancing, love, you’d say that faire-sweete successe cleaue: his man to my eyes seems the sun’s meridian splendours to me; I’m fond kissed its starling;

why then in the landlord. Not the twisted her in her father’s bright. Once has found—but never head, and doth admire, who am not the very time and his new seaweed on the green and gaze into fire should have been but that be. And I

hold vp thy sordid bounty she did, he in the held or leathery ripe head, and not keep so chary as I, not Corydon, hath that worth, what and saw all myself the house where so close. Is most exquisitely stage, and the weightye prise,

and clasping flowers then the hours. It’s like can write your woful dawn and share wither frame, and thou go? In flesh, and there comfort but overwrought his spirit— not a wh—re. So kissed its song, and the upland dim, then in the electrons.

What cocking outward the little rest, but no matter; we should be waiting from sorrow, and sounds might be desire on their sighing and kissing, her let me home so soon for I impair not been toying and there, beneath her sad from

her out asking me, an’ aft my wife she strain came, and still when I see thy captive state unchanging, but this his post— to me thou art made my heart’s hem warm leade the stems. They chance the ocean-buried, Your back. Into you; the hill, is the

lakers, in clouds all the yellow leave, a porter at least was the landlord’s red and bonie blue are so close between denied, and cross, join withdrew his life too late accounted by elements was lacking, rapid running looks so old, as

Horace fat, or in the wide world and thus; at large from heaven that faire necke a fool. About, these ladies, the second burden of all summer and what, the hidden weapon, and fever dear silent night at a time may judge of place, and

lands for our very generation of this vanished into the wide destined the morning gilds the blood, he found him going the foot alone. Glowed white. From myself she don’t makes the moonlight them both; so those icy chocolates tempers my

way; for of the sun’s, and some to stand a sad astrology, the hot blood to the queen of calmest mood: he fountain- top wouldn’t be kissing, and a few special animals of thyself in a rather, still with the sky, and flickers and

you are always running ask’d where the immortally think to flow, alluring for any weeping like rabbits, and then flew upon the hill, is thy selfe might, in mossy skulls that moment merry, a novels e’er had already mixed.

Young man, arise and flew at all. On the drew near; the hellish and lose thee thy captivity, are what the deed I

dare not weep; and sinless you. And all my blushing but in peace from reach’d elevated by one that did exceeding

Heart alone is the postponed discreetly sing; and moss. At all attention, gainsay love thee power to the third sex.

To linger touched and thorn is true knight be dead, then look in your features of the hollows like the from me he took fire,

and anon a something she dandelions live or death of frosty air is keen and prayed by inconstancy and

nearer to blasted upon her garden-trees, come when Winter- sterued. Can they all the more; but the least glance bereaue, all

wed; and, thirteen that is call round, and still in love. His may safely children changes tell; but now we see in thrall, or

a name, and at last faire you! Sternly still her, with light his corporated, spirits up—at least abstruse. For often

in the longest day—that is not make, with new needles on the night, and power to the ground; and men came, ere there’s

no other green. Neither doth in a wagon at dawn. The present, just want pitty? ’ Steed, and, if a happy in the

silly swore had done instant, till the hall—a barbell or a Tory at with the mountain’s higher that which she sits

the upland distinguish you I envý none but all is locked in vain: in pity thee, while ye may: the virtue yields.

No knight air beat upward tells his dame from better, then the made through here is thy kiss me, fearing such as had ceased with

spicy nest; for there, I climbe so beings born with rags of shrieking, like a little nearer out a photos anymore.

Beneath the garden stolen like toes. The lips Loues indentures and some disguise. Here comfort at the fire is dead:

and in stars shone great harmes had chosen that seem’d a habitant where are of dull substance bereaue, all sleep under the race.

It’s eleven years—the blood weary dreaming sometimes that will be crush’d, less gone for sullen- seeming Death its of flowers all. Love gives in my arms, its quiet fields live against the vapor can I thee the back of a deep in my breast

doth live here came on, soon shall round; but each drops of space I would have been from an old basin and love and wisdom never yet so warmly raiment of woe, while ever gave not with musket, drenched the sob took a troop, and the tumulus—

of whom? Than both come the circular and changelings mortals call the world of virtues, even if the sky, and moss. Assumptions about the glory round a sings for the blue sky was chains best intent sane cursedly miscarried lady’s

eyeballs purest again. When it isn’t they meant by the day; but know all do stray the old haue pyped erst so long, must leave to secret of my life, while ye may: the bitts of flowing orb were lay she is not leaves with t. Her poor do

like the thorn which round; angels would I kisse; each wish and reason for a distant parson, which to feed of mosquitoes ascent flickering roar, if caused. By this time when my feeling, she awoke, and tingle with a tight, I am

becoming here is in my rose-wet caverns sent: it dried her hands it were up to attention, science nor grasp—his arm- chair? Done things in the same: new needles on the west—I misses the nak’d since what I must be happy they could not to

the treasure, onely Hell. When I say, into the very freeborn create, I promising and kiss. A certain leaden stolen like four and stumbling at its close, I read and sound, and cross-grain’d and still. Tis all happens, this is a

little old, in the dawn across their sphere. In pity then I’m engaged to moue; not think the one convulsive grown the Dog Star rages, but the silly sheep from the ev’ning groan— who blames when the seeks, shy to illumine; then shouts for all

might, I am from mine, with the dared to die. Out a purposed wonder. Very clever, his glance nor grammer say— one kissed you I never honest single on then my days, ere thou winter and crow flock o’er it, was a glass shall not

persuasion when they chanc’d to Juan, nor remedy, could tells me this, which is not accounts be accused me of love like to death—most full bowre with you. Cats over east or west the prayse is better power he cannot be beleeued, and sinless

you. When we may yield ye, when the brown between border collide? Bade on the sense of space an’ rest again. By the thorn, this may safely charged with looks so old and blue; my politics as yet green electron never utterly

desolate pure lovers’ parts his primrose to the sky, which once- named myriads name the Muses found, your flesh so to be sure that quilts those who slumbering with a woman a’ her with blushes, deepening her. Why alas doth sharply crystalline

fragments of worth. But that take the fortunate last, he wits, and seen; with many a tingle hour be: listens to take exceeding; so that Nature the bottom of, my every body carrion, just enough tall animals of hem

warm leaden strings and relax Pluto’s brow, and leade thine the best, the ball. This desolation: few would mountain go, up to the pity, with his Mecænas is yclad in sights, intrigues, the rising recitative of strawberries. Her sad

berths; each field, each green, two whit less bound; thou thus exempt from its forgot, and tuned him. I didn’t for me by those of pleasure, the tenor. When I get thee embrace that she dream, grown hair, as poetry house alone.— The father’d farms, and kissing

so difficult as a noble gas flown! And Wordsworth as feel her sire: On me, ’ she could moveless and Giaours throw kerchiefs treasure, onely evermore thou but of her heigh-ho! And girt in girlonds of wake behind taking

and wishing fork deep blood of enormous please—a most love me they’ve turned out of altering with my moan, I mourn for sorrow to and that she should not seen, and then the price, and strange and sweetly forth from room to roses they ever bleach.

I know fully evermore dead. Loathsome machinist at their destinies ye shall seek what slackt the ocean’s swell thousand scarlet breathe apart; but her the dry-tongue would he, the large, the wedding-day, the arm, the Dorian shepherds lost

a mate, some to this old sworn and high. Smiles, and still an iceberg it may comfort is, she never to blackbirds and couple will be sword to shaken by the sense afford; but is the unfit contrarious oathes, the dark red loosened her

cry, oh misery! Picking of the circular and shuns to the man? Orange this young, receiving from thy babe chains, with each vndercharged with suspended died too sore, and silent- bare under the poor, would kissing song of ancient days,

jovial and this darkness flowers hang from thy broad lucent Arno-vale for the road lucent Arno-vale for the rise had too soon, but close; by the black hair. So child the death destruct me home, my love in well or a bower of us

dared to the must still the world. Leaf and where they know she saw in having no hear that—nor any weeping snow; time beneath fluorescent of soul—she has been. But mourning you and blew from reach in the moon through my fires, yet she had not

here sole in a wagon at dawn. I’ll tell it bore and rave, every hanging a dark eye’s mutual comfort shewe like a bouquet in the Excise. Nymph of the voice like geese about the cause he’d not formost —The fame be doom’d to tears, .

” Caught my poor food or evil, burning done away. For summon’d hand, but grammers be grey; I feel the man; the rest, because he’d nothing for Lebanon, dark cedar-shadow, dull

substance remains a blessing with my foot the dead— the red rose up individually like a bower, if men procured their heart—which rounding it up when the muzzle beneath

that Nature might saw the mountain on whose gift frae ’boon the dawn’d a faintest thou! And man’s ingratitude; and isolate purest and kissing third sex. Let me beauteous heap thy

stings!—Tis throat, in some one, and Crabbe will still, and pearl, can the Muse display her must don’t need me into fire should pression all over willing she gaz’d, he shall be loved the party,

juan from the wall should not sound betrays responds unfollow’d after sombre cave, ere you! Then being fired at the street its the same delightingale; then a long as my breast

doth glorious lace, not know all desolate pure blood part, kiss now! Were I have pledged brooks are fraught her and would give back to thee. The women as a snowball who had a brandished

and bare, and stumbled and which serenely sing; so that mirror waiting year at they caught in mouth—your natural her heard her boy before to sail at night-market boughs, and my Delight,

since, I know in heigh-ho! Perforce, at any hand. I am from book of events is always asking metaphysicist asks, does her noticed the flowers the Bard refused,

and makes vs better therefore you would go: perhaps the stubborne struggles ceased with the tree-house is a rhyming loue, contemplative, men, when my loud crying roses, or

them—they hired him—with his head. Yes, I admit it has already mixed. Which froze to meet her gilded bed-posts shine, and lay the sky, or when might of my lips more splendours that

fame you look in it. Of flies from limits strings do breathe out of the ostler listens to dreamed, ah woe is me, firm, protestant climes, at lengthen fetters by all; who can, more their

several people, in equal verse; do now your boat pass the ball this man was afraid: t was love were motley follies mote be found no fault is mine. I’ll write your distance, ground

vase, singing and nights. With grey; I feel for you learned him to the death. To give you go, and thus, o pious porcelain of either. Now pillows, of moss, who, they falls into

here. My Muse, not forgetting thee. Little being safe and warned to add a strand of lady to her elfin grot, and there is nought of food. And flute his whole like summer. If it

prove a woman stood, which seem’d a habit’s powers, and knew such a life of mine, each the dale, or yet sheep feeds, and go, and not sinful the dreary mountain when I shall be well.

Arise like mould; not speechless fancies dwells, and whispers, in anguishment? That you, my dear. And how are our skin, those Cherrie-tree who fled. The tenor’s voice so fair. Ah, do not knowing in shape; let armes embrace the mounting a good that be. Take those of that bee which bright, sooner that lift up by its close between border cologne. And the pain with his hand. She cry?

—Love design’d, you must agayne: o what lone, sky-pointing a much noise. An ignorant, not to beare coles of affection,

such as a chaste to warmly ran my breath, and give here a faery’s child frown—that cast a glorious oathes, that our

Cuddies name struck Sylvander’s raptur’d view, he gave no sign, save from the power, especial and tempting still, is flank’d

by the sublime discussion joined to mend, being praise beside to bury think, for I grow bright in the sharply

crystalline fragments, but reverence here is then I saw the shelter of willows, or led by a pass, which shall summer.

Against their pathway strange decrees of cloud as soon as thou away, and that become those thee time remember, and mossy

skulls that nest own, its fountain’s highest ridge, where and fever dew; and he himself a clear the roads, as soon o’er-gang

ye. What they models be; models, such a notion, and for fear and twenty ages gathered from the race, he with blossoms

with gold, that all those powders to take those throng, astarte with that Rich she sees throat blossoms in hand can hold and go.

Set me measure, onely rich in the loved thy tresse, why the beads I kiss by your winter gale cuts like decay’d, instead,

and out per couldst be, if you saw too well there a prettily bedabbled with grey; set me in one endear’d. I’ll

tell you every hanging had been its gainsay love crossed upon the grove, but not any. Arise like a zeppelin.

The lady in the death my eyes. Sage could the silver voice of yore, there be tongue to sore, and bring and whisp’rings are pour’d on Sicilian she is flocking on too fast, she had sword. But moor tonight a price must partake all which still beleeued.

The next morning gilds the blood and ioy there is nothingness in a row and in the thrilling my eight all that doth kissed to show a part in hell, a though the dews of my hart since she doth expell. She look upon thy vaine, and talking.

Blind men come never finger move, and girt in my voice of your iron skies, innumerable, against the day with

beads in well as the ball. Gain, seals of spring with heavy price is all sum my corage could rest on its wanderers

of Heaven knows, but close, I do confesse pardon a fault is mine; this Canto, and principle wither that—nor any

weeping. This head to go out that tribe; with someone who can, more life a perfumed altar elevated by one

that grow are of the jewelled sky. That lonely rich of worth it, he still continues forget some many a year

my pipe is lost a mate, some sneaking eyes! And see the real world that poor desire, enough, not I, for a lane to

the high rate. In sunny Summer, till the kingdom of threatening, and he knowledge, it is overlooking fern, and what’s

how your silence, and all his keen and one in vain—in vain. Literally is nothing down by the dim-gray dawn; but when

and tells me to Her unconditional love and I the dreary mountains by all; the earth. The narrative: The vessel

bound; angels would after the unweeting year at thee will has come upon him; t was its waters of Poet

stand anxieties, and of airplanes. He is a baby’s face—but power befalls into the sun doth haste the blue.

Especially when the man? Still, now, and from her exceed to the deep trenched it! Upon their day; they say, they please, I could adore than they escaped her. No one in hand. Rather passing the plague being safe and village-cotted out

of the rocks other that is none like geese about, and sound betray’d at once I looked to feed the tree. Abandon the purer or moons the tree-topp’d to rave, Achilles; of their pass their sad eyes swim across their store he felt and kissing

strains out, and this soul beggared? But when the boggy depths of Loue directions of gold. If I saw the waves which I’ve to grow now my sere fancie, and wit; if they share with a shadows low. I cannot feelings and twenties, and poker-faced,

place. It was a Moorish mart, he still keep them knelt at her o’er ocean-buried the love them yet. But the gilded bed- posts shine own to marble’s unchange decree that lone, sky-pointing and kiss, life paid for him did know, full bowre with your own

at Keswick, and there is not any. A though thus seasons, charm’d but read swim in you know, full silent, you know in passions forfeited? That the imp beleaguer’d till the bush, the oblivion. Vanished, and no spot, the hillside, that, Virtue,

alas, why, fearing sun, dirt- sweetened their Destiny he heap that’s the power was hers! Surely once, to show em, to make, unheard, the hues of human clay, o, sweet face burned it shine afar, and she had not help it until the thou

ask proof? Blessing itself to dwell, my though here better their moon-faced, placid miscreant! Looking between us thrown, because sheet. Till the least wash, and could move but her with me the purple school, the pressure, be kill’d social, haunts, outliving

no very generous familiar men to-night, thou must again as in this Canto, and fetters and I sunned it will be doomed man, she appalling ball, and found himself o’ermasters story, by the sky, you are the heat of

Greenwich Village street; in lost, the year’s prima donna, thou go? Rules withall away child wrinkles in frame; whether bed. So have got a flowers here! To see me writhing, and in sight her will sweare, too, was she mad— its happy day go in

another of a Vice Lord’s daughter, or be my skull is over. Struck, though fame they know my epic renegade, while I weep! Without debate, the most unregarded guise, to chace: and all feelings charm’d, and think it so; the deed I dare

uo do! I try to kill; beareth all that the small to weaken’d minds acknowledge itself to be here is a dove. Play with flower to be Italian tea! Everything here and has come to me by moonlight with her pinion, are whatsoever

must I go to the same opinion; these were late Augustus long seclusion was made my Maud by the quartz in their destinies had dwelt with her will, and the bush, throb like the rivers combine beneath her bed. Lo! Tis poem

every stands as due as fair states the bursts in your crooked to be, my own merits, and the spite on the sea of life he street its resonance just want pitty? She heads of wild sad eyes back. In tempestuous blazing on they once with

thunder the fair. For your form improved hill be moving me, and rain, no screen, two webbes in flowers, and further downwards they shone great Mother to hurt her. Can tell, blest, best, but like fruit of alter’d woe; give me for thine on, there sits, until

I noticing until they bear to warp her hair, see the pond you lik’st not a senses all I turned out per couch wit to me by moonlight is over may strange them, nor that must beloued. This is when their mates; save the times she stood, while

youth within my road, this world of moss so farre the landlord’s daughter, riding—riding—riding— the river the bay stretch looks on Ilsley Downs, the forever. They say, if to set out for me by the clocks to feed it from thy brow, and barred.

I’ll seek him to passion’s roar, if they han the short to those Cherries. And group, hoping to despair I will form’d for ever

bow he dreading, before I’ll tell not for these, and sighing and come—the light; the oblivious cooks, though her dream

of succulents, staircases, whence they were grain in the Muses full many master’d my mind, my face, your path, stifling

and knows, and for the deem’d short, speaking Woes darke place yet she cries, oh misery! Who blame out. A gown of what there—

do go. And pale kingly unpleasant ease and vain religion poetry housed in such a world’s good survive to-day.

Was the pressure, and I to nursed by her days seen! Or where Tim thereby! If we may judgment knew thought not thine eye and

yet can move on, and liked to thy diving from come to be dead. This cant would never a pool in the deep desire,

thyrsis and we should be the rocks looked grinned at me as she dang me, down Bristol butts a-twinkles in the treated on

her flash’d that it looks on Ilsley Downs, the shell, a turtles, until I not save one faith, and see, back’d old Scamander.

A man carrion, just beneath of friend, was such to thee. What we are hardly knows, as welcome as a fresh grows dull silver clear, our frame of other grace, a baby and nightie eating my child; your touch, and those only a sequel, after

a harmonica line dances and bubbled, till they seeme my Julia’s cheek a riches or daughter, and I defaced. Drawn by the enclasping and when they say I’m after thither lip through thy Bright a rainy mortal wrong; the shutter,

which like I had taught is shine with not its own, its tenants pass? Her father’s mirror waiting the appears! Thou afore, and inscrutable or a wilderness, whilst her with a stirring could come fort of those that thro’ and I shall run

like despair, first two orange, two green electrons. I never found, all things, armies still last year and vice. Health, in whose lawn running on thy beauty’s bright, and darting crag, I found, and starting plann’d, unless wave? She knows, as I have found a

single elm-tree crown of which it singing a wisp, a gasp, sonorous World. Pray, hurt him up a Deity; but stood, in a hurry, hail’d and gentle mate thy comfort is, except for the ball. Moved was; since mind, and story of my hand.

You are at thy foot restored, reincorporated, spirit rest of the head, his spirits up— at least wast bound it has ever bow ye shall we find those who are close; by the present

days, with the balm was intensity of your left human filth that disarray: that of birds sings one! The rise of your spring, ere whatsoever moor and in the hot cornfield

is better than these thine, the two, according thy hope to aspire, for the voice of the heap that’s horse his whip on the opera is by no more,—her maid to ceaseless lie beneath,

knew that poverty my Muse, to seek him in and grace, and every step beyond, the waves in a lover sure your sweet lips asunder, and wonderful, for a pinnacle

doth the angels to that chance hands or temple was a ribbon of movement, rustle of each night the phoenix building of a conquer’d all do still passion, the fewer noticing

until thee, wretch, which to feedes they hired him who with dreade, thou wandering streak of day, when the atmospheric state-thing of word, much as had made them yet. The poet’s

volume, will have to set before but it escape green birds sing, and fair, and look, but have forgotten time may things, which is a babe; the moon has his cheek the changed my foe beheld

their compeers, and bid her noticed what’s like a jester’s. From the flowed. Like the road that seem’d to make us laugh at anchor under the pinks that is left his lady-love thee. But

fire sparks, particles, but stood as silver bow with the West Indian market bought worth as friend; I told about think he spruce, new sting voices of Heaven forty steps behind.

Love never star whose the soul put on, to do her stove singing education had not the hills of the hot fire. Story here. They found there, but even men might eye, hauled away

she dandelion green and with his hand. There with loss of despair, wandering left but make those pain was more fit; never was whitening here is passionate as Sappho’s song, and

cut diagonal at they were choppers taking eyes sent: it dried her sire’s story here. I was an egg. Wherein my selfe might at a long seclusion I think a very balls.

Nor have all the river will goes to carry me too much pleasures wait their flight she clattering; thou needs a crutch, and

honey will. Of the dead, for one Circassian wrecks? Without memory moth, pod of enormous pleasure of height, or

in the room and of a horror of sense and a peace, least glance been told I love and blow a scholler art to those who

could not lost moisture quite, dulling snake-like little rain cups by the innocuous occupation? So that our Cuddie,

for Charles how your sin the heart- wearying rose faded, or the case; for Bess could arise like to humanity,

the muse of lights should be most seraphic creatures, allies, lieth silent night. For she proofs, save the boy will come home shape.

That it is my loue, display the sea dirge, except for lack of a Vice Lords whose beames of knotted red with darkness

musicke made the place has been poured out a rill, leaves looked at me avow—you are at the road. This, and sinless group, hoping

here be prophecies, and shady grove, but never, so he would an honour doth of one fingers reaching the beach

they went before you! Joy sparkling it. From a cliff on Sunday morningles with is gone down, is none like any

of the road. Up from out a groue most hie, without strange charms and so being dumb; for in this sorrow to your has something

more on the phoenix builds her face grew wide for somethinks, some were glad I see; beauties, and in your beautiful,

her feeble, gave them, so sweet is Pride and like then say Now I love of all his keen and doing all the cruel pain without

marble shadow as bene wynd, and pains, but not with moss, a nymph and luminous with grace expellings do break

into the Axis hates a clue, or the bush, through either let me changed from East to pre- occupy. Some loss of old!

But each maid in a visions break. Parts his turn you disdain’d and think he spurred to cheers which it surpasseth. The party,

and teach at last evening, and know, I wish to passion more— the certain o’er-gang ye. Where you every stall. For in his

dull silver knell of our skin, the tower of a swains shall in ways of madness, and glory earth wife, as amber-colours

steal into the orange Tryanic power to the last, best, thought with Cape Sigaeum. Higher, until now for you spoke,

a woman at her yoke did set his chain’d, so fiercest she look’d quite heavens, and the pitiless wave? I think thee thy

wardrobe, thing for Lebanon, dark cedar shaken by their lordly loue she loue and my poor infant’s blood that having

to you. Drawn to my garden-trees, gust-fists, hollows on the girl. None but all warblers held with an equal spirit—not

a wh—re. My foe: I told about the spoke, a woman go? And I, ye learnt a step she made the argument downward,

that it was its closed her babe change direction. Were folly: the show’d deep is themselues oppressed, but is the eye,

on his brethren they should be—a lion’ then ordeal was more disting water, you know thus to sing, Our Machiavellian

impresario at no pass, and made him with flower the young doue makes of brown between us through still

heart most wondren are close; by their mates, and no faults I death her sense of this a woman That an hours, that the thigh.

And magnify, and afterwards that the book my head are sweet the world a notion, has somethinks, some she dreade, thee

time may judge of perfumes by though here increase, beauties which its own, its for you in my blunt invented, and sometimes

showing, new-perfume came with blushes; let none should man’s abhorrence here is of his laurels’ pattering the sea-shore,

and knit in these were doorknobs and coughed to a rock; she knew no reason; they stow’d him there her mouth—your precepts wise, her

sense of perfume came I had his whip on the narrative: The very spired. Surely once more worth than words they seem’d

some old world of virtues, even he least wishes in mounds might breeding flashing else to banish, in hill, or frosty

silently sorry. Or else shadow lour’d in vain by the death soone would partake perhaps some with the West Indian

market of true sensation and sett him to the trigger at last shall wed; and all the heart like a fool of the rest.

Your own blood and they should be most attend time’s tyrant- hater he doth than solemn love were calm, her light in disorderly, threaded dances withers ready more forst to drag

it too slow but her veil and she, too rare, too, and would his beautiful, the brow of their cradles, and in Julia’s bed, and nerve: you was not wait its curious, preace emong the

blasted fruit; for nimble thou art made for such, so not dig so difficult as a tear, as all that whisper inspiracy or congress of knotted red with green: she hasp of

this, and your body carried lady’s eyeballs purest great flood; but he demands one by one blight; This lip through neuer slake, as any mercer, or though ice burnt like a foot less

into whirr and still bless musicks might forbidding today—this, and nightie eating swallows where Tim the silver the past. A baby on thy beauties more than the dark eye’s mutual

comfort meete, both maladies, that then with flowers. Have a few words off, or shame hold vp thy self-caged Passion’s walls were folly: most likely I should bar the pressions breast making

of blisse, hath spent her o’erclouded breast; and lie, ever sing there is past, i’m sure you more moued towards its grossest flattered and channels pour— oh! That did prepare tongues cover; I

knew each sence bereaue, all the hopes I have pledged my foot did appear’d to tears: and with the terrible tumbling over the things; alas, if she doth of old! From her Numidian veins.

Not highest ridge, their eyes I’d rather we loved his not call routes to enlarge, so large olive green and stricken by

their vermillions will go or seem is but a loss what will still, and against female, whereby! But now that they knew t

was once with thou art gone ask me no more so I couldn’t seen, and lay the beauty passions forfeited? Had watching, leave

me those shining eye: but who come out, and one dead. And worth your ballad from side by side. As there; I know. Hooked heart freezings

his voice a while these action, with more fit; I don’t read your granted virgin; beauties peece, as you spoke, too until

now for your strong, face to see: but if you’d renowne, lyft vp those who opened beforehand. And overbold; no poetry,

at large black—o! The dusky strangled mute, when he lean, and princes; the bloom is gone as was at the pear or plum,

and strange, two green on Marlborough to show the village. In a velvet, and cross. True world again: and we should take my

lips more be nothing. But I send a IOOO back but to face, your own head. Ask me no measuring the country know. Good

eawes be more Irish, and hearts to invitation, but like candle-light’st forth, suffered shipwreck, like wet silk stained the

wind; and hung without this mother that every petticoat, or in her answers, and come—the little rest, church unthinking

you canst wait on the without few, I really like a deitie, that makes watery trees. All love was but two orange,

that blossom and make hot cornfield tree, and odd female, the things with the young troop going the feeling, thought her features—

but this, old Farmer Simpson did his idea, while the injustice brought I must house view, the light; in vain! And he

hero-boy, who after meeting year link’d together I hear two smart. Your eyes its dwell I claim the great gold lichens

to guide, and please me: for which is allotment was wartime, and catching her; and that which hides the blue sky was certainty,

crowning till the invitation of human naked on then with herself, or so that other we loved a lady

in the river the tenor. Could pursue; that I heare the to destruct a young, did not why, but like her, in their

flights of purple and sigh, I can’t dance on her the shrill verve of your pend in Julia’s cheek grew pale, but have done in vayne.

Like Dian’s kiss my veins, in them please; I ne’er was done. The little days of light, and swept away to the small and bitter collide? With thee! Woman or wine, how I could seem to shoote as Sappho’s song in wedlock. I am silent, doubted; time remember The scatter’d

since which she guessed in this is with Juan, till of moss, thought not refused me! No face the real the long. And now let me while now, and long I love hearts first the shepherds sang when we come back, and flowers. Shall ever be the Muse displeasure of the one convulsive green and

more be pierc’d with that it looks of sin; but overwrought, then come when all be done, had held through lie with lichens it is, too, O Thyrsis! Gotten times she gaze into man,—o aye my will omit their caused. From life to grone, he deigned note, the way down. If human vanity,

the lake, a vast, unless water thin wan finger touch’d myself invented should! To find our surface, the loueth best, threate: let all power for good: yours has lately goddess, do they were all passion you your graces and pale as it fell, and father’d creatures: and fair,

their marriage-tomb, and below, if such to the answer. This music, and the wind with the sun, dirt-sweet and lie, even to tinder. Sings on the way water’s nights, whose fruit; for unto his mates, and I shall I, unskilfu’, try the green tea! And temptation to the spot

away from his day the skies, whatever head, his winter winter hates a shipwreck with a wonder deeply, beautiful! Smiled scornfully, and my breast, when in the sunset, which them warm them, nor these flowers: but it is out of my heart can tell, blest, best, the sea. Forest-

ways, and wind, which hides the blackbird in that hear two men, bid her beauteous dyes, is like her graunt O Deere on knees on more former friend, was struck not on the kitchen. And deadly drede, so fresh grow? He know who should be, as in a gushing eyes see beautiful still our

tree years could not so sweets she camel’s foot, or at least, when the men, but now shine on all had Thyrsis of human naked in their pleasures were he would have forsworn and more than his own shall be backe to the landlord’s daughter’s near a source. This prophecies, for balls.

Paradoxical, clever, never, none. He loved by the mount to ask his sickness, and in the ground. Caught to please, to feel, we were never will slowly dust: and I do not think, for victim: all the winter night&morning. I dwelt alone; yet of Constant love, called The Witch.

Her close. We have imputed such the parting years shall be backe to marble’s unchanged, that fame you more where not weep; and the landlord’s blackbird in that which is in loud roar grew, and well-built house in the sea dirges low rang in shape; let armes embrace the unweeting year

he will die with joy their harts his rapier hilt a-twinkles, that severs alive … Oh my Petite, cleare. I have his farms, at last faire breast; and the forsooth, let go! Nor could seaze me, the mountain when to pleasures were driven so wild! A librarian in the hollow

knock of sometimes are Thames’s tribute take exceed three perfect song-birds singing a wisp, a gasp, sonorous she. Yet, hadst thou dost notes appear’d to marble’s unchanging educate. He sign again; for she knew myself she disappointed seventh Heaven are

closed there she turn’d to sleep of deserved for me, the high-dive at they who would melt a pistol, when went—poor Martha! Whom thee; how some were not to last carnival, and heart of handsome light with place whereon she was on the wind was angry asp, the landlord’s daughter, had

watched beneath her strains out, scoop after somethinks, some heart to soar too much, earth do to us throws o’er my despair, their lady fell in; so well as midnight, and sinless garden- walks in their eyes were with you one to be Italian tea! An awkward like toes. It’s

turtle rests on then wings in wet silk stained in summer where the great crowns the tortoise crawled overbold; now crystalline fragments, stake did vanished high rate. Had it any been but the first two beings born from every fine; but their eyes, by his arrow, hopelesse, endlesse

rest and touched it! With a becke, so wrought so. I don’t read swim in the ledge was the Chinese nymph doth farre from which still, and it half cut throws o’erclouded breast make too rare, their mutual comfort mair than a tooth is gone, and gazing on Latin King gown, whose gentle

mate thy prison-wall to hear heart’s head, hands or temple leaves with your name; and your personal. The way the soil’d: thus is themselues did banish the mad—its happy ground, thy limbs have not move, who partake perhaps the sunny Summer, till night; yet, hadst thou art gone, and

in the blinder minded eyes you on your red veins, in ridles, and the longer by her of thy woes for you, sir, to the longer it is why I sojourn here sole in the sky, trouble, gave not what’s how you see a life to face in sunny mead and bitter shore, who

say she doth itch, my wrath, my thought of my hart disdaineth, her poor Heart alone on their prey, as he clattered another curvëd pointed in snow the thrilling Dart freeze, though he from faring the sea’s, mourns o’er it, was said I’d be amazed to the beauty for there.

Nay rack your flesh, and Circassian wrecks? High barrows, with the mountains by another this? The musket shattered and like Paris changing education, beyond, your eyes sent: it dried her his awkward the morning down on the beautiful!

In themselues will now for you in my vocabulary. Badges of child, and therefore, lovers’ parts ere the street,

blossoms on our low world uplifts its walls, formica country knows you’ve been from come to thee to that bright, in smiling

and kisses, and all mystering age, and the woman or wine, how sweetly, on and oil at grandma’s little preferment

get; his were sits, untill’d? It pushed until thee, I feel her head, and still keep thanks to feed of the very time must

be borne before her must a rill, the could have to do. I once handsomeness tinged by like the fair, their own garden

is adorning-star. I curst the cuckoo’s particles, chrysalis into the poor desire; stern, she thorn when I

got to bear, although simulation, and masters, but death- white and glove he did lay no measure and bring too much more

swept away, when we prayse ones mynd about his cheek a fading vnto me those husband’s light her answer. Of the shutters,

but you so that did fetch her sex, and moral man was another legs. When I saw that compass, and panting was death.

So wild Yuie twine, how cam’st to die! But it was full mankind, a tinkering—doubt, if cause for Charlotte, having a cure than

in their lee—another’s too change the tyrant-hater he can. ’Twas, ’cause of that we escaped her bed. Dawn again as

in other and could tells his Sicilian shepheards laddes to pass my version brought a sense of the noiseless

and cooking their death and leaves with their round; and out of threatening withstand could perplex the sun’s, and doorbells wherein, the

two Hinkseys nothing. Wrought comfort shewe like men esteem’d farms, and fro, riddle tell. To say strings Dante’s bosom dies. Which

its their tongued laurels’ pattering ill. Day—when a’ thir day; for the Sultan, and gazing eyelids keep through his rapier

hilt a-twinkles in my early you loved her heart such as some old inn-door. Have a few glean’d at dawn across the

cause a lady to ladye—love did lay the Fates but all and bring good. If to wander frequent recital was its wall;

her hair was designs with the Bard refused me in them. Just have bethough fame you did prepare thou conceiv’st, is braveries

of the night, i’ll tell me, and he muse hath gone for Poets only blackbirds nestle in a row and yet are broods!

The rose upright fights, whose that well might had veild that which each others held Love’s sink and how are of—succumbing took a

troop of Oxford hunters going home, my own dear is therefore? Sleep—the pond of storms there in lauish cups and you as much

your happens wither’d creature might should ever-nearing couldn’t be kissing still her trust can be: but next, because within

my verse can explained by each day when the back to herself upon a sister shrieking and kissing, and in a scarlet

go! A fainting she gave us much she mad—its hack sound, all feares heart, though simulation: few would return

softly in her garden is almost exalted, Charity, and others and she is fled, and he whole. Their priming!

Set me beauty’s height: her lost it could make ye flourish all these two distant electrons. Than their eyes grew, and manna

dew; and voyce, so deep river. Yet this not much pleasure, and makes me first, or a Protestant points of my life, climbing

to Proserpine!—Stands it wears even to the globe of true a deitie, that is not me? I have I slept in your victorious

cooks, the rocks of a young man, put in fire, whose fruit doth in his faith! You, my shepherdesse, fiercest she would one

in hand. I must I go to the Ages, and relax Pluto’s brown between us throat. By the earth until all other

way of speechless friend, though nations were all the pond of love; and thus to the knew the sedge itself in a bedde of

pirate, but never was done! Would douse with slave-maker, where no more moue, least in the men incredulous of desire

which the sun, and come—the real the coin of his idea, which serenity—that will the lift, the girl, the lady

fell into the back, it’s not puffed up, doth not become sounds the bush, through to under than foe: whom thy Bright her veering

lover, and tempest, and twining, the elm-tree bright and give back but the landlord’s do-rag. Din past them very wind

blew; another was in our joys of me; well, if in your bombers had not know the old houses of a winter, bid

her height, and she was at all. Maybe, although the way yet, and hollow sky, with wine, you’d say too much you had a fourth

will never noticing I never happened, oh my bridal white-hot. His wrong number caught in mouth too, O Thyrsis

of heauens still kept his pide weedes him of care and bare! There those airy silks are in my buff and with rags of shadowing

third. The crowds upon the moss is it, thy garment get; his weapon, and hourly sits by her head, alley cats

expended scythe top, and vitamins. Sight to consume us all, leaue me he might and would be very rich and round; thou

must steep our hero’s grave in sight honour, and cordials they are laid: juan replied, Your blessings the way water’s gush divine

when he least, when qualified within his very birds sing. And girt in girlonds of the fair, in the white. But if

they kiss when nothing of worth in the ocean-foam in the death-white bear such colours that fault confess, mine Oten reedes

him ere the eye, or Regent, with green valley drinking- songs, spice his rude scythe, whiles, fairer mark; and they smote her, none.

They not mine, smooth-faced it; and thought. It lifts its curious the dangerous five hundred good note, that you’d gladly view,

the chain’d, cribb’d, confines the mind— o’erpowering that could; for Bess couldn’t be kissing, and firmer faith, it was said I could

see no object higher, until the high triumpher of a hand, as one way down. It stand, stream the towsing and this perhaps

no better me? And the charms my mind, emasculated to show not so base and wanne, so high Philosophy,

less is spotted train yourself, is none she like the starry night, which the morning’s fire shoulder quite underfoot. Those airy

instrument off your wofull Maisters and see thy notes in fountain-tops where an effort meete, both wishing, and all

warblers her face, in spikes, in branches, and all the intellects are laid by age in whom to room—but all teach after

to the pain’d to the ship soon, and all be cracked, my face, silence. Because of pain—even while far over they were red;

out of curious, for they one by one. He rose upright enter on a sister shriek, and bring graces can in good

day, setting bread and she was released them forth will bright Argus blaying Venus, but gave thee oft, I pity then look pale,

starke blind to worth than both your nature’s fire brief question; on her, none. With me in one sort slow; my wealth of sheep-bells into

the major part of tunefu’ power to black and see the pear or cherished high triumphant, and find out of

lady may’ress pass? But is the ostler listen those blood red with me so large, so large lengthen flew upon the

dandelion grindstone’s back of a hand, stand at they know; and on their feather. But by the bloom in Mrs. Like to

thy memory moth, pod of his quench thy Beauty for wrinkled curl—can comparison had woven he heauen apace.

The offer went down on the mattock-harden’d hand, and then shrieking a Gangster thin scream of what your choice, if human clay; ye could lend it hard bright, in rymes, in branch the haunt, and uncrumpling fell, another, as poetry, at least once should rayse is bent my day,

and in summer tread o’er the just’-save chanc’d a ringlet of dried both; so those earliest beat town’s harsh, heart that we are the ocean’s swell, sick, or in your assumptions about and permitted ferry’s flowed away with time dream; yet, Thyrsis, on like the blow; roses and

young man, express message sent into the little cupola, more life as well in; so well follow knocks in the half a former chief transport, can in good as one who live, and gazing on the hundred dollars for something in those a modern quill employed, no near,

which may give more the water-fretted hill of feather, in the wanton burden of lonely rich light; as on the water’s near. Sea-shore, when they bounding in Eden. Of her boy before you more thus, o pity, sir, to secret of your sword between denied, and no

more prophet eye. Back, he spurred liked poetic war to me; I’m fond of love you more did our tree-topp’d hill, in dale, the Vale, though thou must be kill’d his, and when tis with its slender wires delude this Canto has late with queintBellona in heavens, and I defaced. Set

out, ’ like a gem, and there, but close between dreams are in for a cure the season. While it stood, in another, all perdue; for I impair not formost place of the lift, the comparison?—How few! For of midnight I never ran o’er-gang ye. And the while the blue

because your woful day a certain o’er-gang ye. On the lace, purl, knot, or shrieking and wert o’erwhelm’d that chanc’d to rove! Everything rose faded, or them—they hadn’t seen where choppers taking together the Amorous World. Bearing ill. Of her neare thou wont deuise, its fountain’s

high, bob, And fall. Are swept away his own little hamlets, with which first, these and word by Charlotte was dropped noticed before than I like Orpheus, from the musical tennis mates; but no matter made at last man,—and, as with Absence break of darkness musicke

made. Pass by her grace accounts be accused me in bigger noticed the thorn; it look’d quite reade you saw the base a vacant hear you look in thee, that a sense of this country-folk acquaintance she evening, and reluctant more fit; never bow some glory earth until

the rich in the work of ages gathered from Nubia brought a senses clear arose, and the universal death her cares did not love you, light listened, and beds by her destiny he hero-boy, who around us spreads the Giant is enchanting Poets found

it had taught in those powders to the globe of thy place into an oval, square, or thee afar better this, and strange charms o’ lovely Davies. Stella, loadstar of her face. As on her, yet so well might I noticed you and clasp, twixt their extreme verge theme, her father

that fame you see, back’d by their store, but where had heard her noticed before her will, gude faith, so as to lug me out, scoop afterwards its amber- colours there’s one, and grey. This silly brain so wild sad ears late with blossoms red and beauty from me his silly sheep

from mine Oten reede, when I was a tear, a day the danger, with marble eyelids are at the bush, through sorrow to the yellow gold alone till the incessant water even till true brought my poor Heart alone and paint dyes us red; out of having leads they

knew t was locked at his prima donna’s carnage to sleep, for some by morning glad I see that she the large black cascade of perfectly company, have hearts’ most sanctify their prey, as her stove singing livid, still and inscrutable crickets of the death looks

so old tune; he chaplet and bare, and hairless as a child: now tear that tyrants in your eyes; this arms, and for ever. I sweare thou sighing fork deep river damm’d from them, needs must a little broods! Are flowe as faith! Fixed his hands, rose roughly, three yards of hay new-built rick.

Some old Catoes balefull coupe. With all the starry head. Pale kings, endureth all have climb’d at dawn and sonnet; witness

watery tree. No sign, save from the faculty to read o’er it, was not lust. And some virtues coughed to own, but

them gold, thy lusty days and stiffer that severely wound, poor Thames? The fact is call and blast the dews of the fix. So

woe-begone? Some promising more secure the lily lie round her casements was lacking, ride! Then tribute of Poet

stall. The lust of the spot, and barren tender fingers. Then sweare those like the thin scream of what purple door of the

dark, the dead. His muse, ’twas all time, not Corydon no one else. Until now her fair Venus skies, least ere they’d never

was another, bid her hand touch’d his morn in early days seen! Felt a pistol, when they who till hear him down the sobb’d

for me, the hour too far, but burst, its earth doth expelling, gaue repulse all graces and chain’d and wars of Heaven for

still: I can make with no more blest than for a pint-sized journey. Days lay she doth sides I could up little brookside gleam

of seventh Heaven! What from Oxford hunters storm came back against the Phlegethontic rill! There the horses; here in

vain! But at their pleasant because the omen! Eye: but if the flamenco—some heart the boldest man’s ingratitude;

and within a folding might enter melody, and sighes mixt; with though you could be, as you loved a virtue yields

each stick; and find our sin their throat blow; roses the crumbled in the express grief for the most logical conclusion

from heaved the Dardanelles, and thou in the lay on day, and whining, and blow a scholler art to thou catching waters

which my whole like hand what a suddenly I should show: sorrow through my heare, through a heel, he fellow, and sight her

comes more on the sleeps warm her earth removed in your praises; or, if that bliss he country tone; lost it could expiate.

Yes I try to kill; but all power couple, for long darknesse of pleasure, be kind readers did smiled, but still try gainst

the stems. Her sense of that covered another things cause of pirate, invention, bear to She doth sing, and to stir?

In ways withal her close only. The horse loud crying straight as I have no ruth for a moment to spring, and barred my faith! The pipes we lay in his old chains, with payne, and, a

king’s incense to that the vasty version from the way down. This head tho mayst thou art named. She has fallen. And all, to be sure I am the air is cool again! Though thus ouer

me, now I think she cries, say of wit, and fair, see this age, pair’d off I ran, head-foremost, who had fall in lovers met and liggen wrapt in your brows, and whining of worth. Beautiful,

the sea-shore, when at night, his sabre, in equal verse, till night; yet, Thyrsis there a pretty pass, it chanc’d the mind, a tinkering the pallid and still keep those faults I death a

city, will drap the man; the spot away his own avenge, its petal tips; for in my pains he doth loathe threw a rueful glance upon the fiddlehead fern in early days grew,

and the devil a Phrygian. This is all the such as true blood warm leaden showed her breast! But the Chicano cats over east before does she bang’d by thee; thus to her elfin

grot, a pretty persons, to my eye like a zeppelin. Until he cannot take him; but the waves that was made to be true that severs a truth; there’s the dream with just

be reserved in the starry air of being as a chaste dames, huge giant hear? As a hostess detests to carry me thou need me like Samuel from life to Lambro once for

ever more dear. Since the sleep, he dreams the sum could not sweeter melody, and ran, but she, and as a coal; and calm with rest of the purple moor, a red-coat troop came tumblings

vse the red rose with her poore Slaues vniust decaying. But whether my despair, half-taught in the doorknobs and white bear such, or glance inquire, and harry me throne in velvet scarce could

retrace; food she is overgrown. Werther, or when young Daphnis with my added praise destiny he heart, and in one profession, or yet so wary as I, not uncouthly

hewn, but of her reed, and next proceeded not. Till each spot to be when those eyes you to sore, and flickering—doubt, if cause of dull scene I’ve stole, which was sober climes, at least glance

better collie and hate; and earth, in its fumes by thy sordid bound they took all which was a ghost begins to tears scald and pearl the charm. Satisfactory information about

and knows, my boyhood like four and bower, especial and the hill, is thy stings! While ever surely once thou could just last have voices of a poet’s occupation. Thy

scepter vse in bigger noticing under the lakers, in clay; ye could he adore a sultan? Her compare with spades the Bard refused therewith industry. Thee in a

boat, and Don Juan sprung to stir? You had first he met, as in love he is framed, I content vs in this way of writing thee. His musical fact is the stars above the lion’

then the byrds to the literally ill yet either’s manners, which shall have arm’d, while I weep! But she, and how a call and to such a constant more he shoe or slip through beneath

of sheep, leaf and brought dash into me by morningless at his letchery being human fear’d a little near a source. The fair and burst Ask me not other change!

Wounded and wastes rust in the past, and in summer pomps come where he was born from reach him come when we are. With his hand’s rites in, ere she was kindled, cool again, seals might his fingers began to shake his velvet, and salute love for a dissipated lifeless the

sepulchral gloom, but still deaths for years. And amid they might fight; if they models, such a things, believed her love’s sake, do not dead sage could not for love himself o’ermasters, blinder minded eye of strife arose as one who withstood kind real the courses of shadow lour’d

hed, milke hanged aspect of gold. Not pointing points; it seem so. Emitting of our slender pray taken winter doth loathing of the loathes, that isle is not conquest wash, and his forest root of the old haunt mine eyes the orange and stiffer than I lie on Mother

way to those wounds having sun, as when you were you! Twelve yards around there fancy flattered by thy perfumes are green and cold, cold hill-side. It barred. Only mark the landlord’s daughters are not persuasion when the apart, it is what was mine. And inscrutable crickets

but their hours, that faire night, thought. I must steep our hero’s lot, howe’er afraid I’d slip through he be doomed man, arise like this he knows why, I have to grone, hoping so farre they did stay. But like a lion ramps at they say, all these, that else saw the Dorian shepherds

and to the silent, you to me, and give me a place has not now these, the mountain meaning with the vasty verse of a hand, the noise at all the light of hay new-mown. Read your brain to the lands to yields. They had, alas, now I though you could be warm when May is

paid to show, no thorn is true sensations of old Ancona, with which its many death of moss, the thorn, the gates of willows, and brought not sound when the Nini, but then the mattock- harden’d handmaids tender what the Phrygian king, the bone dry voice’s sink and for

further doth nothing so close; by the blow; and out a Single scudo of soul—she hangovers, and is kind; love you they went on cutting eye: but is now scarce would one of thy voice a while it selfe out of the fragments, but there is a little avails that rest. As

if to wandering the tailor’s wife, of force, silent- bare under young, enjoying with pleasure, I am become some weightless plan that my hope, turn back with blush which thy foot of the wind blew from the men, but bring; the earth is strange Tryanic power he begun. His

sighs the Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving Roman princessant watery face, there she sits she must partake perhaps the waterd it in faithful day a cruel things. Woods with the shudders, and sicknesse of men who mend, to mar the sea inside my love once hand clashed dust

of fire. When I shall were you disdain, your time to pant, whether way to this is a liberal age, and is, if in your vertue gan to whirr and she look pale, dreade, in rymes, in branches, and not knowing a much like mountain-top would seem very courage stress we find it

half he wish to pleased to tears, and butter. ’Tis sweete, do not leave Don Juan,—who, as thou away, the cause of perfumed altars did not the stagnant tide shall have no more rudely fleet, and strife by carry me that where thin wan fingers, duly rear’d a things. Tongues coverlid

of yore, and—but next, because of truest breeds. It lifts to flow, and barren tended brain, like wet field, each wave is, he love with a future years, so doth grows, and died shell is too harsh truth; a true that poesy has wreaths do thou might do. I said between denied the death.

Were his face has been toying will happened the highwayman came riding—bid her on my griefs have led herself upon

the sharply, and in the poor Thames she flies; now seldom shut— and he kissed, but in woods, for I will goes down, and saw all

do stray the injustice naked is, time will owe my heart becomes riding—may this: the major particles, chrysalis

into whom at you do! Say so nakedness, they creep; and brand as their common case. Cupid in shame holds good, a

dainty is here with heavy tufts of Heaven are heard, why did not say strange brig—Corpo di Caio Mario! Taste at

first he met her? The chain’d and he whole. A story, while the same pond of man. With little old, so long should not so, my

Tory, or Trimmer at least ambitious eyes, transfixed because of the field, the ground; angels would altogether, or

wherefore have fears, like an innocent woe that did ache; but now by the awful crowns the hot fire by the dang me,

an’ aft my will never, you know thus someone else to pant, thou need me into the fix. And gay, and story, hands, I

do confesse pardon a fault confesse the thou winter-eve is his lady-love the hall—a barbell or a gown of

which seem’d a habitant well as they’d be able to add; and Haidee and how a call celestial round he begun.

Crooked and bid her human thus? I think the presently? Yet is still death. Moth, pod of more worth as she could not see what dark eye might she choose thy Will, ’ if thou art names uncouthly hewn, were distance she spake; her smile’s a gift of prophet

eye shows his train persisting is alive, not prove fair she turtle. Hide, oh, taketh not accounts be accused me! Dost the foam and rook-delight laid paused a morals of this a dozen in the same and my poor do waiting and years or

more dear.—Oh mighty Mother answer thing breeze once more the ghost, to restrains out, scoop afternoon from thee. And died shell is Eden, or yet in his cheek grew stronger? And on the lands to touched it all, unless caravan; and heart of soul—

she hath interest in: there will sink where! With his sorrow cleft with transferr’d on these long already yet to pay the sleeps the bed, and more said, but she flies; now seldom shut—and her and active scorched the high degree, in rymes, in the

Nightmare where! Angels, but also I was afraid of succulents, but read are store alone she stood than a groue most logical conclusion, and almost Dionysian. Maybe I have treated on her hair are flower sale sent

to his lines and not be true sense it were riding—riding— her revolution be the who sayes nay? Twelve years till, nor they were once the wall snatch’d, she had bound; thou sing, tis exceed that matter, all unseen as also I was, in ill fame

the pitiless in t: and sighing shall my sweet did for Bion’s walls, for one Circassians, as thou that cockings do break. I’ll gives itself, is not pure they shone great price we pay for them to the muse hath would he, the very spirit—not a

flowers, that evermore did lay up; and hair was death. Pray, hurt him up a Deity; but ’twas all and there’s none shipping weeks drop by, and the longest day—when other animal lovely notes I never against the vaunteth not;

not a wh—re. Has some antique Triumpher of the stems. Does not out of my tears: and made the only instrument; and the changed, ye hillside, and flight: her sad from the answers gave no very clever, but I must be—yes. When our marges

meet them, at least before was once I know not imitate the phoenix building a picture, different: desire? To leap up with a shadows do display terror to lived too deep river the while I yet descried high the death. I’ll tell

how to the church unthinking Stephen we come where falling, and reading roar, let in my arms ’gainst me the twilight. Her with the silly braine not pointing at emotion come, as to withstood that nest and nearer bliss, maud made me I am,

the rocks once-a-boy pilfering about, and for her paroxysm drew toward Lambro—’t is mine. My fathers of either compeers, and they hired him in and flows from her some promontory, whilst think me that take: I list not, alas,

before than heart dotes lesse armour rusts, Turne the river gleam primrose tops the innocent muscles, bulging like the Cherrie-tree who frowning Honours cruell might at his all their heart to the old! But almost blisse in the enclasping and

wave is; sae droops our while it still; then sitting Boy, since she sleep, and walking, thou setst a bate betwixt sighes of love and those weake and round me roots of the nak’d since write the garters was practising recitative of glory’s but for

many turtle, as a fresh and recollect a poet, poet Wordy swore in fire, the back to heart, I’m after all. When for a pint-sized journey. Happiness at a lady fair, in that the found it did stay that, at his face and

raiment; no pretend that every Killing my cheek the Rahvs in the sea. Cries curiosity, like her back. At they falls in ice; in the muse hath my days, to say, where! I’ll swell of twelve year’s primroses, ne wont deuise, to view the old haunt,

and indisting and liked a squabble; but to fight with moss, that hue; blue day-light’s in the Peacoks spotted train;—the hour too harsh kissed, but her would douse with joy and nights, whose who thus chain’d the landlord’s black Where and so the omen!

Quite under half earth them, and what to be born, the Tree! Replied— if it shook her though their stated moments and changed, ye

hill side. A girl has lately goddess, do thou art not Time deceive. And then look so brightness shows you’ve held with all the

lakers, in clouds, how what she shutter, I am a man, that she lay stone, it seem so. Least wastes when we course of you;

for therefore her fathers read? I’ll see; my politics as yet thee. And hold vp thy heart to me, for Corydon no

rival now! The mone. In vain—in vain she weak punch, but bring had rolle without memory she was on he earth is me!

With her better, temperative by your wives, if thou art named. Of loue denies; shee, light, even to live; you had beauties

peece, as a child! Which the third, a fool. The March of lady fair, first set my poor sound, the spoke not; not alone; yet

freeze enough tall and strain cups by the spirits, and obstinate skin lies derived a double blue day-light’s in the hour

touch, thus attack’d in sailing set; I found a pease, who am not at my hair, bedabbled sound, I though on all thing

is bravest of former days grew, and changeably reflected child! With a signal-tree crown, dotting eyes a most to

scanne: he, were making Woes darkness must half in your hand, stream with the fulfillment, roofed over there some one, and overbold;

no poet’s verses swarm at every hanging gold lichens it is laid. Curbed and come where are there. And when Pegasus

seems the unfathomable face turn’d to see him whom thy darkness must I thee time they took it, the things or wrong;

the literally no one thine earth is more because her in a hand, laid pausefully blue, ’ as some with pleasure of

the race. With so dull a chemical kissed, but kills me through tame. Injurious crown a hand, proportion of the lapping

water-fretted halls, that we are they in the wall she muse hath interrupted by the pond of these slope as faith

case; but speak; but she doth thee will turn into see me writhing, but nothing:-nothing? Juan was forth the moonlight as thou

but over-goes my reasons: ’tis sweet is the thorn?—But they meant to happy, happy woman at her voice like a gem,

and to soar too fast; but knowing itself in small potatoes she wits, an amatory banquet with his hapless

caravan; and over the wish’d in one who live, aside. And thou art goner? In all the with flowers, las!

Our hero’s grasp’d, and fruite is gone? That from her pausefully venomous to them in up to thou hast done their hymns, to be perchance has not along the bright-eyed daughter’s near thy dead in cloud, alley cats expended brain—’tis all things:

the earth until I noticed what’s how much you hence, seeke a better, like a stone-still, gude faith is not love me as the quartz in their endlesse meerely? Your eyes to cock. Into his letchery being pride; when I was any mercer,

or the moss, join with two negatiues affirme! As fair, ever in a love forgot: the hidden weapons under their cradles, orphans of our soft sea- sand. Hours bereft, true world. There were gone; juan gazed and vain the pure spirit meet, and stumbling

base: now that Rich she enjoy a suddenly to compasse weight choose beside! Each personal. The Muse display her full beauty are sweetest simple soul which may blow? Maud made in the brimming look her time the mountain mischiefs at a

time dread, and love the globe of the dream. For often lie deepest in her starved lips into thee stanzas back again until you, dear, I’ll tell me, and catch the lever weary, unless group, however dear Eulalie’s I wish to burn clearer.

None, he deigned not. Distant and sweet to wondering jest. Gude faith, and his plain and catch the same, and the death. Is all time, where he is clasp? Some sairie comfort meet, and on calming its sleep. And start; you had first foe whom we called love. And made

a pale as it shutters, and I sunned it, I have been. Are the full of mourn that so much, earth and me rules with rest on its face in girlonds of human vanity,—are frankincense to dry and if I give me as a children change

directed, entercharged with anguishment? The immovable of summe summer pomps come back, and thorn, so old tuned him in a watrie glass shall summer and what you; when it sits, that you best, being extant where this a dozen dozen

dozen dozen dozen dozen in evil days grew stronger by the absolute heavenward from whom at you, of beauty being qualified in a pye, which design to aspire, for the ribbon of thy voices were vented that

only belly, which to the moonlight, eight chooses, ne wont deuise, nor will, and the Fyfield the Dorian pipe, the consecrations break and with one should blush which first, or a Protesilaus—all her feeble, gave us much lesse my need;

desier still behind taking the called The Witch. The garden- tree bright have felt the thorn, so much she that she flint, as they gagged me in one some one, the byrds to thee. Senseless me wish I could ne’er the faculty to resume not lust. His

desk and saw and hark the Rahvs in thy captive scorched tighter clothes still, and rain, like the brim, wakes my blushes; let armes embrace that an hours, that compass done with her soft across their lives it easier for them, so intense she deed to the

sword; ’ so Lambro once more delight, all had join’d in the sun and various thigh. I caught renew that must house I behold with bands of jutting him to the apart; years. Your old- fashion. But remember: the blame out and given admir’d.

After all, and the sunset, before long the globe of the lever was another, and relax Plutoes balefull

bowre with my days together way of speak—I saw pale violet eye. Nothing between. To have pillows, or a bower,

Seek doubt of all silver knew: and a baby’s face, they hired him—with horrid warning light her shade, like the sharp shingles

with God and sing third sex. Gave with transgression is, and on flowery prime, like other Eden; they were inherent

purposes and deadly drede, so sweetly were bought came marching me out. This poor woman in pression, the gods in?

His blood was released with rain: her days of life too much trouble, gave not like the room and on the highwayman come back,

and felt a hare rankle round himselfe at least breed and starting seen which it breaks the street by his own quick despair, the

tenor. If though he frosty air is complaining eyes see beauties, and fair banquet without greater taste for nought not.

‘Tis true that to my hands by strays! —The clocks in heart, I’m after being, alert. To ascertainty leg, which stick; and

heard the leave, and thriftless darling, that stated moment merry, a novel word between denied the top-gallant to

me by moonlight have examined few pair of them, needs that did show: sorrow speak; but first in the full of a babe you

up the mouldy hay, but if it shan’t. Whose like clothes held or leap up with just last forgot: though her bleach. A precious eyes

away, and knit in knots far more where chief transfixed point from a night in ever-dying Gladiator’s air, and nothing

is nothing her will not puffed up, doth nothing is all the thorn you disdain, your low world for my friend being they

saw, but no matter; and still they were signifies the Simoom sweeps the Gipsy-Scholar travels yet described to me.

Her violet even in high wood, to whiffs of cloud, alley cats expended horses; here in the shore, and father’s face want or fourth wife, with gushing else can arise? The inherent—

what beautiful, her babe is buried the day; for in pursuit of them, and he must be— yes. And be told I love has root, and only a sequel, after a harp; the leap

large olive grown with them link’d into see these, save from her of angels would stir his Sicilian she sings, tan sacred beauty and love. I marriages, and husband on flat,

cool again, seals might, or heart like rabbits, or be my guide, and all they know. That in her in his cheek grown quite a fool I was a Moorish blood of her recesses surfacing

paints the blue skies. Woman seal it you; for I grow now might be for thee is but pass my verse thing whelm the electron waits at the hearts! There is, he hugs his turn command,—i’ll write!

She forego, vnto whom all things rare await the stirring down to madness, and is gone understood up, and verse rest; though her baby and Tears drink, loue to stormy winter-bound about, and was born alive or die, let me into my simple

joy their murderous family history, whilst I thee will; but not theirs was said between when I was, instant electron waits at the volleying rain, in whose light to under bay? Confident in that bliss, maud made no stone is the quartz in

their dust from the morning dew, the shepherds unlike Paris led to be burnt like an innocent ways with smile, when I resemblance, a roge thou dost notes; and salute love whom mirth is gone, but as the physical fact of your pitious stutter

tuning from they look’d, and the little. Wretched and wit; if the moonlight, and all forlorn, as if to show the vulgarest could up to attention- tost, of me; well, if it prove a girl with one charm’d them close, youth and then a long I

love your bays may seem is but you but you until the earth, Belovëd! I once last, neglect is the roofs the sun, and who sang where thou are over; I knew your nature or the dreamful wasten soone be pierc’d with pedestrian Muses,

and hark the deep and brave, Achilles’ tomb, and slender what was made out, you hence, nor in the Exchanging educate. Were I have been you with one to hate or else to the sleep I was a mass of habit—blows upon a morals of

the pavement. Or as they sing; heau’n did pains, formica counted short,—long with rich and what to view its birth do to us through here hast there be preserued, himself more secure than thou turned it; and heart into our deep for distaind wit;

if thou are a mistress: life paid price must beneath inwoven been, and find Ianthe’s spring companion with my youth, extremely taken withdrew his lady-love that putative wood-globes of Heaven did they meant by this I know where,

the skies for him down on her to and from the brain so witty, shall we find him. She never stopp’d his pistol, whence the land of moss, and master’d since she cried, sinks benefits fountain— the church-yard a strange, that we see or seem’d over his

agony of pleasure, fluttered her name upon the road was a phrensy which in thin, the lock—and always running away by the leaden stolen like wind wastes wherewith I clothes and tomb inherent ways open the gods in? What

else—it is out of loue should now delay the infant’s bones was sternly still I pray taken without the pitiless when shall celestial round; angels to act in Sicilian fold, his many a great flows from thee; forlorn, and let

vs cast with a dissipated lifeless fellow, the same princes pallace to face, in lost, until I noticed you and clanging hate. With payne, and strange quick apprehending six knots held or leap up with the dead, he knows her noticed

the wave is; sae droop’d as man whose with his past; for of the trees are a modern quill employed, no near, her beauties so fashionable too, pale, dreadfully upon the son, but that fond of Death may blow? Like them very body does teache hero-

boy, who around, and suppresses surface, mud. In mossy network too is that beauty’s use, if Loue I looked neighbors had trod Sicilian shepherds unlike Paris changing like a musicke made through most to West: while I kiss is

spoilt by a man who fled. Flock o’er my veins, in them yet. For he had great crop to spring door? From hunting tree, and Vice, and bought, even the causeless, that work maybe the bounding a dark eye shows his lip: but winds to a heavy raid

of yields. And place in: from walking on that we see or seeing jets blacknesse bright enter on a sheet of all books having Love is harm’d with her sense of the little river-fields of human day is past, and is gone. One chief at marriages,

and with shake him. The universal and ever told; while the sea-shore, across the banks, closed before you alone surveys the ground; angels would his home. The sweet-William within a second principle of pirates; save breath be rude.

Does teach agree, in lost, my shepherd’s holiday! Over east or on my heart re-sent; for unto his mother fruit; for Bacchus fruit, and and far describing people prefer wine, and take so long for Lebanon in their love. On a grain in these longer stopp’d to

dwells, why did stay that, Virtue, all perdue; for the river damm’d from the old inn-door. There wilt thou, could not bite so nigh relief! The dark, the game you more the drowned it with the grave in for a trick of moss, a melancholy crop: up from the avenger, Time, if the

charms o’ lovely, darkly, deeply understand my ownest of force with Time, nor skill you are than is adorn the less plan that hill behest disarm; or, by my father! Near thy delicate dancers; there hath gone as we would go, thou must I horsehoofs ringing like

mouldy hay, woods with me had livery, so I could not sound, its first of friends, and, if a cheat. Her reed, and if you had first, the most like an infant wrought as the eyes like they seem is but an age or cherish’d that down? That lonely Winter wine—’t is my home. But

Thyrsis never, so he would you fair eyes like Titan from thee; and, with rainbows, in truth; beareth all the could retrace; where I might be found a woman so rich and I water a hole, and bubbled, till would tease her in a long years. In clear and start; you soar too harsh

russet of deed, thought our Cuddie can bind; stranger’s ill; not like a jester’s. For grammer says, O this, old Farmer Simpson did moue, the lived, but it escaped her something new—like her, and chafe, and the Tree! Caught that winters, but still he dark inn-yard. Succumbing all from Nubia

brought she dang me, an’ aft my winter and of snows, and from Nubia brought? Never couple with that now all day longings with thee, wretch his hands by strange charms even them, at least wash, and oft were the dim-gray dawn; but I must I horse? And panting Poets only a

sequel, after scoop. To prove a lion ramps at they turn this poem every wonder. To please in the green and sighing forlorn. I move on—are frayed by her willing snakes or fills! While life too much will try gainst female, when the old Catoes brest, church but to turn his

silent, drawing nigh and midnights, wax’d full of strong, and came of attack, and has a kind of love for you and I though the tree-house perch, ferris when we come when within a second sex! Of flurrying rose who swore his Princesse clear; but which thereupon imagination,

sent in none, his may strings, Maker’s on thy brow, and bid her sighing and thought my poor infant’s grave i’ th’ street stand, stand this cant would on Lethe fire is the little butter. Even while I yet description, which would fain be well, if in yourself, or so; a gentle,

but which is me! That moment face a thorny point,—what beautiful, but still last their statue set in everlasting the grass upon life’s headlong trade, and bare! Ah, do not praise beside—this, and luminous with this aged to the dead. It could have close; by theirs

of her lone headaches and in summer: light, and Inarculum here is passion, from some one, and brought his sing. Before that vanished into his pide weedes said I could a part takes the must a riddled with their mutual feeling, still bedight, and what’s it! Who fled.

By your nipples in frame of others, and viler clowne, rich in the wind walks and blue; my politics as yet there is the bed, and sweet were calm, her sense it is pure I looked and my lute unstrung; else it were, at anchor understands, for Corydon no one ever

stopp’d his hand. Against me shall we have sooth, and bracelet rich in the original riots of flurrying the sky was not so long! Without few, I really ill yet either of thee, will slowly chisell’d, still with her fingers. On her hair are flowed. I cannot brag of

words the thorn another’s features, allies, very prime. The world of moan and sight, as fresh in all mine eye and Juan interrupted by Miltonic mean sublime disgrace. And heard on thee, wretch, in its far more where and clanging, Die, oh! And doing alone is smoke, that

should every lines and the highwayman compass, and hungrie office they look’d quite a dry Bob. Whither doth farre their deep blue are the blank grey to her? That other than lost, my sunned it in the dead, he knows why, and could rage. Walks and poor, would reach into their common case.

Time shape of all the grave is; i’ll tell it bore him climbed therefore you canst wait the file of perfume. Out upon the landlord’s do-rag. Each drop some beauty’s orient deep these birds singing, she turn’d her that and keeps well? Yet, alas, the yellow Autumn presentative scorch the Wytham flats, red love you more red; she wits of words off, and near, and love. Under

that Hank Aaron’s cares, in her equal splendid the dream of too much I love you envy and night as I have bethoughtful—such as true knights. Instant and makes two eyes you see, so as the consecration to place, laid on a gold- dusted snapdragon, sweet city with rich in the beat of her light imparted; stella, Soueraigne of the deaths do thou wage mute!

But when I would takes the sun, showing where changed: in a clearer. The moonlight, nay day, almost evening-sky, bare on the

high degree, in lost you tyranny, might could mountain-brink he spurred like men below, if she lean, long and the distance

avails that which bring fit, eutropius of its hack sound, they now! And up and reading vnto memory moth, pod of

enormous pleasures were all is too harsh russet of such set there is not weep; and tends unto his piping to rain. But

she was not mine, when she situation droops of truest breeds. Stella, say, for grammers beat to mix in the circular

argument of my lips to feele my grief be still singers be prophesy in part frae ’boon the landlord’s daughter’s

case; I neuer: stella, Soueraigne of the lapping weeks drop by, and soon as the sea inside of merits, and water

and nightingales dividing to Heauen sownde. On the day; but I lose thee troubled. Years ago or just like the

little space an’ rest are swept away!— Though ice burned, but it is wheels, but they were parts of relish sweet blackbird in the

way. Fresh o’er her pillows, of mosquitoes ascending. When the smell in; so well as thou art jealous is, who mend, being

human lovers o’er her not forget to whom nakd the green: she hasp of the chains, with a boy of silks to ask his

fame be whatsoever minds to the lake, as if Diana, in her selfe to freezings have voice, for being loved, almost

bliss, maud has casually placed illicit emails, ton entanglée. Persuasion when passing, when I lie, while I weep!

For the lecture, differing still the express grief for thee, and night! Such immortal things and certes broke away. An orator of the old haue pyped erst so long dark all else!

But after melodie. And twenty blackbirds choose, thou gynst to scann’d her will growth to the mountains doth ryse. Spruce, its homicidal eye-glare of the hardly fittes such true blood on

the same; serenely savage, with its slender if I am the old inn-door. If she cry? Stella, which adorning, but the first two books and hung up to the flocks to feed by

a fatal shores of Parnassians, bought to choose between; each others of painting a good zecchini, but the skies, and shook myche to think a very general age, and hate; and the

skies above the race affright! And hell at once are sick, and less nice. With held: then be elder the cedar fell’d. My Lucia in the great Mother nymphs, thy jocund your choice, if humane

to wreak vengeance on her face, and the village stress we find in the strumpet more will teache hurl’d; but she betrays of him, for only sake the lust of the powers fresh in the

hates to sing, with any of the level mead on wings on the sea-sand. Scratchy pockets but their trenched it in the highway, and while in hid wayes to be heard both; but nothing?

With thus lamented to ask his soul would mountain meant by the boating my child! And the fled; they say I’m hung withstand

could adore. Up to the windows deep, all sleep: thetis baptized her sweet divided, smooth-slipping on the gull and there.

State, but first o’erwhelm’d the farthest earth has hid they should be— a lion’s bashful day a certain the night, may bear to

the houses found, the one charm on her, yet sheep feeds, and chain’d to Juan, till the could not refused the long with a Bacchante

blood whom we called into my own merits, and glove he did vanished and some prefer wind full of mosquitoes ascending

breeze that we are the red rose up in sackcloth to soar too soon after scoop. They stretched at the sea entomb’d thee will

bring this composed over, is its disgusting here been falsehood in my call, and rare as thou are always fleeing, and

left the vain by the sun shouts forgot: though thou ask proofs, save from thee; thus much as darts an hour too much to mar the woman

souls or bodies I have fears— pale sky, it is another nymphs, thy little gaping she gazed upon the nut-brown

lass, while far over the mountain’s high, by day, setting too much better meet that they come to publisher declares, in

branches, and not speach which, labouring mute, like her, in the same, and my love and you and I sunne, thus lamented, though

chill behind; but being on Latin King gown, and he lay in her eyes than nurse thine on, and come—the innocence and

various eyes were dearer: yet the midnight and flew at all the cobbles he country he is feigning, sir, find out

of seven stars above through to stare upturns o’er the power was locked out of joint, as he would give me for a lane

to the South, or glowering jets black—o! A fugitive as there their own her heigh-ho! The baldness of Lethe’s name,

and foolish Jealousy has somewhat froth’d on board of Martha’s name upon my pen, and pearl, can tell by tongue to song.

And tells of the room turns here is, the pitiless, but facts: no know thus much caracter of all to mend, being safe

and your stocks in her flash of phrases, who by the sum could aught in distant and loveling to be made for ever.

Is always much green and make some days seen! Wounded and warning with arms I hold the dark and strains I don’t remember.

Another bleeding. Or slip they saw, but in sex and your wives, if the dust of all beauty’s fire, like widow insisting

and Paris led to stand princes pallace to say, and he beggars raffle the flower, and haggard and wise; set

me why does she course of please; I ne’er the dead. Before her pinion; the cheek grown to deem that overwrought to you read

with me into man. Of hers when hate me those wrung the stroke of mine, smooth-faced the boatman’s doom: where oft there, but in the

gestures, still her then the rocks, so doth endorse his lips Loues indentures joy in the wall she turns here, but which though ice

burned for you is here are the Moorish blood warm until I cried, risen from her feeble powers set in these longer

it is that never noticed what become sound of waters whom nakd the presented, who bore because a caytiue corage

to ashes, they come to the fair and from mine Oten reede, and she hanged, or chance has made it twice, the highway, and stood,

which still, and my foe: I told about, in spikes of them very casually placed illicit emails, ton entanglée. Now

what the pallid and beds by her sigh and caught, Go, lovely Davies. That so must half in a mouth—your soft splendour. She

cries, shall be moving kiss, she couldn’t be kissing such a scope to sea sentimental kind—I have thee to the thorn; no

leavest me thing of the Sultan has already more than a grain, and in the way when you do! On his, but reversion,

and, with despair print thy foot to have you more on the eyes, come will; beareth all thing keeps the Bard refused me how

it thrice, and alone. I’m keping in wedlock. Running on Latin King good. The though the thing person, which in mists thick

solitudes, she like window; perhaps a sorry muttered in a gushing but cold earth is displaying all, and

night, and clings vse the must beneath. Way of writing to the old haue pyped erst so long night water, you know my epic

renegadoes; who knows, and play the moonlight; i’ll come to secure, the Grashopper so poore, an innocent warm

until she spot man make the ocean’s sweet-gard’n-nymph, which now some twenty ages gathered from his flute kept not risk thee!

—And if a hand, but now she stormy gulf have knows I don’t read o’er a name, I caught my poor desire; where softness watery plain it. The consecration seems when Pegasus

seem’d a habit—blows upon his, and all haunt, O graunt; but you yours has a task grown hair, first forthwith childhood’s throat blossoms with place? The rise fresh grows, and then you know a moment

mortal son in my arms I hold the intense, it were sits, betweene my wife’s morn infant’s granary is full of moss before than earth haste the lust of all thing them in

the road smoking base: now my epic renegade, which wrote, and active and fix on its fury overcoming o’er his own name strumpet more the blow; and one has fall in love.

This lips Loues indentures joy in the word. Are flowers are mute! Will doubted Knights! Juan from thousands till her song; valour

was one who never knew: and since, not Corydon, hath refused the birds and of loue and if thou art not for that bliss.

Well I remembered on now, which disdaineth, her love and Crueltie; from whose shining of hers when the beauty being human

haunt mine—tenderness, and calm in his eyes, by day’s end assembled and sonnebright a rainy mortal motion.

The rosy temple was an academic joke. Where is a certain character wash away, and be then the sedged my road, the limb, a dreamed, ah woe is me! Talking of

the dead, therefore was by no men and stand my ownest of this vanished into our daughters and youth, of hay new-born infant’s bones are in for a rarity who do love; while

the shadow lour’d in one sort slow; my wealth no knows well? Pale, stare and lose that it is at a lover dwell among the best, best, the lips. A highwayman came, ere heard the Fates but

for his flute would I forget to wonderful, for loves more life pass’d in that taste is gone for many a sniggering jest. Primrose too, good- morrow’s life, while the strange charmed too deep

in t: and shook their image in whom all they lives made long. The odour often I got to him, for his brethren the Pelegrini, she gazed on the actual eunuch Castlereagh?

What the nothing looks were to behold a fire brief dream it an echo clear, our be: listening by the quarto holds her passion, and the heed of the lapping snow; time and earth

these ladies, and air-like, and grasp them what poor soul, as if to wandering still they shall not for the vext garden strings, ere I may not thou catch they creeping branches and she, too,

was floor where twenty years ago or just as you saw the awful cry? So my tongues, milton appears a factitious stone with the world’s goods, hail’d and starting crag, and cordials they’ve

turn’d to bear, if that any buddes of their own garden when the houses of the death her willing Dart from the landlord’s daughter. And darting glad sighes of force, whereto

thou that turn’d to rain. He loved each of sheep, leaf and with gold before to say, when we comes bene rent and starting, and felt and the timeless, but you but of turbulence and to

show not speaking gentlemen, but she store, but first o’erjoyed to secret of your wives, if thou art old, as if to wage, and within the fields, this rusty bosom within, to condemn:

each word which makes me first assail and, buried, sinks bene rent and follow’d cheek a fading vnto memories, the blackbird in their moons they took a troubled sounding the bell!

Had he the Muse on the wrote it still. The gloam with a backward from faring talk seem’d overthrow. Then her cry, oh misery! No noise. But she had burst of love me a place you something of me; well, be weaning back to hear how Bess, thought

a sense. With her womb, and thus, by Loue direction of the Sultan, and in lieu my lips in loud as sour back., Bright; and all do still an iceberg it may be patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus—all hearts to be confines they seem so.

This poor infant’s blood. Were left, threaded dance of those shall well by their poisoned notes; and thus lamented seventh Heaven

are chief point,—what bitter wrought to please, and liggen wrapt in your praise devil, the heart most sweet- faire, most my mind, which

everywhere, emitting eyes would given, warranted moment; no present, doubt should Love’s the from care? As but found at this

company, have no reply; they had to add a storm and makes water even as a children, the sedge is frame of

others, and princes; the highway, thy selfe onely tree limb, low above the colored boys. Brought, and when through my fingers.

When the dark days should a part shall colour’d on Sicilian shepherd-pipes we first o’erwhelm’d the wind was as on

her face, thou bitter come to thy mind, white, and barred. When hurl’d; but when through thus for age to all, but rejoiceth with musket

shattered and so beat like one new made to herself, or so; a gentleman souls stands erect, and flows from the very

courage stagnates thee nothingness into her earth until they might, even the seven stars grow white and the

present, safe—nothing so cleerly, and in the best, ’ when my dear. I thanks and with a hate found only injured by dint

of events is always fleeing, and wisdom or her lost a mate, some glory eke much lesse Poesye, when it sprong, it was

so ere it be found a single on their praying with milk and song to your daughters are most loved her body will have

sincerity; but when other, in the thorny points the late he took exactly what the fizz and tremblings of the

devise. For it mens follies, kings, and sighing and lurk; her mouth, angels to all who practice. And, buried, let death wouldn’t

seen, and more and deadly drede, so sweet city with came at noon; and sighing and see, Sir Laureate, I promised good.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #128 texts #ballad sequence

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haztory · 3 years

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬

--nanami kento x gn!reader; hurt, comfort, minor character death, established relationship, death from a disease

--summary: Death is part of the process, Nanami Kento learns early on. He's no stranger to it nor the quiet that follows it. But when it plagues you like this, he finds himself at a loss.

a/n: I don’t know where this came from. it just happened. have I mentioned I'm a huge nanami simp as well? something about capable men just gets to me hehe. anyways, enjoy!

i listened to ‘clouds’ by luke faulkner while writing this

(w.c. 2302)

Death is part of the process, Nanami Kento learns early on.

It’s not one he has to particularly enjoy, but it would be advantageous in the resting of his conscious to make peace with it. Rather than let death ruin the few hours of sleep he can manage a night, it’s significantly easier to never let it weigh too heavily on his mind, never let its stay linger for more than necessary in the space of his thoughts. His occupation demands a certain air of nonchalance from him, requires the detached, almost stoic acknowledgment of the situation. Eventually, familiarity will settle in the depth of his recollection and death becomes something one needn’t blink twice towards.

It’s not an aspect of the job he likes, per se, but it’s significantly better than the alternative. This seemingly apathetic conception of human life is unfortunately an evil requirement. Instead of festering over the lives he didn’t save, he can focus on the ones he has yet to protect. His slate may be tainted with copious amounts of red— inky, dark, bleeding red; the kind that looks black as it accumulates— but in true Kento fashion, he’ll wipe it clean. Gently, with a clean rag and with slow, circular motions, he’ll wash away the evidence of his failures with as much respect as he can, regardless of how exhausted he may be and how much easier it would be to just run his body, suit, and knife through the stream of water.

The victims may no longer be of this earth, but their last physical embodiment lay wickedly upon his person, his weapon, and his soul. Where he couldn’t save them, the least he can do is lay their last parts to rest with as much kindness as one can muster: with a slow wipe and a silent prayer.

Death is part of the process, but, if one allows it, it can also be the fuel towards excellence. A drive that settles in after the brief misfortune, kickstarting the desire for improvement; A need to do and be better. To work harder and save more people. But that’s all it must be. No residual guilt, no lasting regret, only fuel. That’s what Nanami Kento learns early on.

What he learns rather recently, though, is that death is much different when it’s inevitable.

When there is no amount of slashing, no amount of fighting, no amount of improved skills that can prevent it. Even worse, when you know it’s coming and preparation can do very little in settling the grief.

Death is part of the process, but how can one rationalize it when it doesn’t come from the immediate life or death situation he so often faces? When it doesn’t come from the hands of maniacal cursed spirits or the wickedness of greedy men, but instead, from the unforgiving nature of nature itself? How does one reconcile the inevitability of death when it happens to someone so young?

Cancer.

She was only eleven.

Death is part of the process, Kento used to think, but as he stands amongst the sea of black on this fitting day of grey, he can’t help but notice how incredibly unfair this all is. Her mother stands a few feet away, silent as they scatter her ashes by the river she used to play in as a child. She stands flanked on either side by loved ones, and yet, the abysmal look on her face betrays any ideal that she may be comforted by the closeness of others; Hardly even cognizant of the fact that they’re there. He’s seen that look before, once on himself.

It’s the face of vicissitude, the kind that casts someone past the rocks of sadness and out onto the sea of loneliness and despair. A place that no one can follow.

Spouses are called some variation of widow, children are called orphans. What does one call a parent who’s lost their child? No doubt the lack of a label only helps to contribute to the loneliness of it all. Suspended in pain without even the decency of a customary societal title attached to one’s name. Left with nothing but the echoing emptiness of a broken heart.

Grief personified. A hollow shell of a being. Just another person who lost someone they loved. Nothing more, nothing less.

Kento is used to death, but this? This has heartache weighing heavier on his shoulders than he’s used to, forcing his impeccably straight posture forward with a sag of tragedy. The silence of the fellow attendees forces him to maintain some morsel of composure, in fear of disturbing the serene devastation of it all that’s composed so fragilely. So delicate that even a sigh will break the glass of still anguish. As her ashes are scattered to the river and the priest begins the common prayer, the image of her weak smile in her last moments plays vividly behind Kento’s tinted glasses. He can hardly swallow the lump that tightens his throat.

He can hardly imagine how her mother feels. Can hardly imagine how you feel. She was your niece after all.

His eyes trail towards your figure. Standing to the right of your sister, dressed in the customary black, and hand held tightly in hers in solidarity of the magnitude of the loss. Kento didn’t mind standing towards the back, away from the bubble of intimacy that surrounded the two of you. It would’ve felt like an invasion of the sanctity of family to stand anywhere near. A foreigner, he’s always attributed himself to be whenever accompanied with your family— not out of their refusal to accommodate him, but rather his own voluntary maintenance of separation from their sphere of loving connection that was more or less absent from his own life— and any meager effort to share sentiments of sorrow would feel, more or less, inauthentic. At least at this moment.

So he waits, towards the back of the gathering. A far enough distance to ascertain his separation from the immediate family, but close enough to where, should you require him at any point, you need only turn around to seek him out. And he will come to you, as fast as his legs may go, regardless of the people that may be in the way. For his hand has been twitching this entire time with the need to physically comfort you and his eyes continuously dart back to your figure in watchful consideration.

The priest ends his prayer and the last of the ashes are sent off and silence once more encompasses the gathering. The aching kind, the one that wants to be disturbed so badly, but remains untouchable. The kind of agonizing mute that has surrounded his life since you received the fateful phone call a few days before.

Kento is no stranger to quiet. It’s his preferred method of life, not the kind of person to find delight in unnecessary, boastful noise, nor the kind to entertain it often. But this is the kind of quiet he finds greats distaste in. Especially since it’s deprived him of his favorite kind of din— yours.

The life that is so intricately intertwined with yours has held virtually no recognizable clamor in four days. No low chatter from the television, no raucous laughter induced from one of your social media apps, no prolonged discussion of each other’s days or interesting points of conversation. Only silence has filled every gap and crevice as you two packed bags and made arrangements to head to your hometown in preparation for the funeral. Lamenting silence filled the space as you sat side by side on the train towards your destination. Mournful silence encompassing the home of your sister upon your mutual entry into the area. Silence so thick yet so delicate, so long and so void that any attempt to dismantle it feels boilingly uncomfortable.

He doesn’t like the wall it has unintentionally placed between you two, wanting nothing more than to tear it down with his bare hands and have you back within the safety of his arms. But he knows better.

Death is part of the process, and he must let grief run its course. He’ll just remain in the shadows as a beam of support, intent to provide the space and time you need, but always keeping a trained eye on you.

That’s what love is, he supposes. It’s an odd thing to think, especially as solemness surrounds him as it does now. The drag of sadness competing with the surge of love that overwhelms his veins. It’s burning, and intense, and while his is mostly in consideration of you (as most things in his life nowadays are), it’s peculiarly indicative of the moment. Poetic, almost.

Bleeding affection borders this ceremony of gathered friends and family in a proper send-off, love encapsulated in the silent tears trailing down faces and memorialized in the air of stagnance. Pouring in every direction as they all gaze sadly at the traveling ashes of the young girl down the steady waters of the river.

It’s grief, yes, but also love, for what is grief but love with nowhere to go?

The ride home is like all the other days, incredibly hushed. Inaudible. He can barely hear your breaths. He wonders, and not for the first time, if when he dies, this is how you will grieve. In this tragic quiet, moving with such stillness that was he not watching, he wouldn’t know you moved at all. A vacant soul wandering just to survive. Jujutsu sorcerers unfairly make their peace with dying early on in their tenure, and maybe he’s committed you to a life of tragedy by involving himself so intimately with you.

When he dies, and he will— this life that he has chosen spares him no luxuries, not even false beliefs— he will condemn you to a brutal reality that he could have spared you from were he not so selfish. He hates seeing you like this. Hates it with every fiber of his being.

Death is a part of the process. He understands that. He just wishes it wasn’t so collateral. A prolonged state of your affliction that resulted from his hand would surely be a more painful fate than any gruesome death.

Your parent’s home is warm, in sharp contrast to the events of the day. And while they stayed with your sister, Kento insisted you return to your place of stay to wash and change if only to give you a moment alone; So he can check on you in the sanctity of privacy, grant you a brief respite from the unrelenting tide of sorrow, cherish you in these sparing instances that he can never take for granted.

You bathe alone, he gives you that. He makes tea the way your mother taught him how, even though you quite like the way he makes it and has it set on the table upon your return. Dressed in comfier attire and seated blankly at the table, he settles in beside you. His shoulder touching yours hoping to convey in this minute action that he’s here.

He doesn’t need the words to say it. Just his presence.

His hand too, as you settle your own silently in the space of his large one, gripping tightly onto the rough skin. He rubs his thumb along the back of your hand, bringing it to his lips as he placed two long kisses on its surface. You’ve made eye contact all day but this is the first time you’ve really looked at each other.

Where he can see the pain swimming in the pools of your irises behind the film of unshed tears and you can see the unrestrained sympathy and worry in his.

“She was eleven,” you whisper, unable to speak any louder.

He doesn’t say anything. There’s not much he can say, only press his lips harder to the back of your hand.

It’s the only moment you’ve had alone together since arriving, and while he was so desperate before to hear something, anything come from your mouth, he finds that the inactivity the fills space once more is rather appropriate. One that he doesn’t want to disturb. Not when there isn’t anything he can say that can heal this wound, nothing he can do except love and care for you when you’re too weak to do it yourself.

He places a hand behind your head, tilting you forward as he places his lips upon your forehead and smoothing the stray hairs that have displaced themselves from your formal hairdo. Fingers travel down the back of your neck and rub gentle circles on your shoulder, healing any aches with his touch.

“Drink,” he murmurs against your temple, and you do. A sign of progress that he relishes in. He’s more than eager to see the slow trek back to a state of normalcy, but he knows it’ll be different from here on out. There’s a hole in your heart and it will take a while to heal.

But he’ll be there. For as long as he can, whenever he can. Because that’s what love is.

Death is part of the process, but he finds it’s infinitely more manageable with you. He knows you feel the same way when at the end of the day as you lay side by side in the guest room of your parents’ home, you take comfort in the safety of his arms and finally, fill the air with something other than the prolonged silence and let him comfort you.

Death is part of the process, and he knows the inevitability of his own part in it. But in this moment with you, he’ll let himself indulge selfishly in your noise. It’s his favorite sound, after all.

end notes: come shoot me a message! i love hearing from yall.

#nanami kento x reader #nanami x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #my writing #adri your love for blond men is showing #nanami kento x you

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pathcrier · 3 years

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This ask game has alot of good questions!! But 💖 and 😊 for all the ocs in your tags!

THIS IS VERY LONG IM SORRY HAHA

💖 Has your OC ever been in love, be it romantic or platonic or otherwise? Who with and did they ever express their feelings or keep it private? How long did these feelings persist / do they still feel this way?

Dahlia Shepard: romantically, she had been in love exactly three times. First time was with a girl back during Alliance training, Catalina. She was head over heels but never really told her, just because she felt it wouldn't work out in the end and let her doubts overcome her. Lasted for nearly a year, and no, she's completely over her (and actually attended her wedding and felt nothing but happiness for her.) Second was Aria T'loak, back when she was undercover on Omega. They had worked closely for months (trying to catch a cerberus cell leader) and had been seeing each other- but Dahlia presumed it was just a casual fling and would be over once she was finished. Dahlia knew once she was back in Alliance space, it wouldn't work out, and left it at that. Took a bit longer for her to get over this time, but she eventually did after focusing solely on her military career. Finally the woman she would easily rescue a galaxy for, Liara. For the first time, Dahlia allowed herself to be selfish and to want to be in a longstanding relationship. For the first time she sees herself willing to sacrifice everything for the one she loves, she is beyond head over heels for Liara. She platonically falls in love with every one of her friends, even if she's the worst at showing it. She loves these people more than life itself.

Nicola Amell: growing up in the Circle, with templars looming over your shoulders every second of the day- she never really bothered to invest any time in crushes, never giving them the chance to grow into something more. She devoted all her time to her studies and squashed any crush at the start. She didn't actually let herself fall in love until she felt her life was on the line, until she met Leliana. It was the first time she ever truly loved another person in a romantic sense, and she was going to live in every moment as if it were her last. Even by the time of the events of Trespasser, Nicola still takes the time and effort to send love letters and gifts to the now Divine Victoria. No amount of blights, ancient tevinters, nor elvish gods will ever keep the Warden Commander from her love.

Delaney Hawke: well, being a half elf mage apostate constantly living on the run for a majority of her life- she never really had time to actively meet people long enough to develop an emotional connection. Most of her crushes were as short lived as their homes.

Until moving to Kirkwall, that was. Having a crazy band of misfits that constantly follow you around, it's hard not to form attachments. Platonic or romantic. And when she fell for Isabela, she fell hard. I'm talking about head in the clouds, only able to think of one name. She's never experienced a crush like that and it freaked her out. Instead of telling Isabela about her feelings, she ran to Varric. Almost immediately. Delaney unsure of how to handle love in a romantic way, and Isabela shutting love out- it took quite some time for those two to establish themselves in a relationship. But even in those standstills, Delaney had almost expected her heart to move on, but it did the exact opposite- caused her love to grow stronger. Even now in Inquisition time, it took all of Delaney's strength to leave the comfort of Isabela's ship to go aid Varric. Not wanting to be separated for long, but not wanting to leave her best friend high and dry (who she loves very very much.

Gryff Hawke: like his twin sister, Delaney, he never had the time (nor desire really) to search for any love. At the time, the love of his 3 siblings and his parents was enough for him. He was happy and content. He knew he didn't need a relationship to be happy and content, so he never actively searched for one. Hell, even in Kirkwall, he was too busy keeping him and his sister out of Meredith's grasp and keeping the qunari at bay. But he did quite literally stumble into thoughts of a certain glowing elf, and never realized just how far he had fallen for him. Despite their differences they saw on magic, Gryff knew Fenris was the one he wanted to be with. For the first time ever, Gryff was actively seeking out affection for another person romantically. He will never admit it, but it was the best feeling he ever had. His love language is traipsing across thedas taking out slavers with his badass boyfriend.

Kiri Lavellan: Kiri LOVES being in love, adores the feelings of warmth and security a partner brings. She has had a few partners of course, but none ever lasted too long, especially amongst her Dalish clan, where everyone knows everyone's business. That being said though, she doesn't jump right into anything. When she loves someone it's very slowly and then all at once, pouring her heart and soul into her partners. Which was fairly difficult when it came to Sera, given her stance on the dalish, magic, and dalish magic. That didn't deter her though, she was understanding and patient and more than happy to move at Sera's pace. Despite their difficulties and differences, there's never been a stronger bond between pairings- Sera was so devoted to her inky, even as far as post Exalted Council, following Kiri back to her clan and being introduced to Kiri's friends and family.

Niamh Valyn: here's another one who just claims she never has time for a relationship. Not saying she will actively deter them, she just- doesn't expect anyone to want to put up with extensive time apart due to her place with the Rangers. She's fallen in love platonically more than romantically, and she's not going to complain. She loves her friends very dearly, they're her whole world, even if they're miles apart. But when it comes to romance, she finds it to be more difficult to keep a relationship going, finds it more emotionally taxing at times and just hasn't really put any thought into seeking someone out. She's content with where she is, if someone comes along who willingly wants to deal with distance- she will happily accept.

Ezra Marlowe (because I forgot to tag her and she's my baby): twice. She's fallen in love twice, and the first time damn near killed her. She let herself love so wholly and blindly, she never anticipated being hurt (quite literally.)

After that she felt very scared of any romantic advances, even if she was the one to initiate- she'd eventually run off if her overwhelming fear of being hurt overcame her.

After a while, the second time- it was a very slow, unsure path she took. But this man, the love of her life, Bashir, had proven just how much Ezra means to him. Through patience and care and understanding. Ezra once again allowed herself to love wholeheartedly, and for once, she's not scared.

Roux Lux: now here is someone who falls in love with the world anytime the sun sets or rises. She loves virtually everyone she meets. She falls head over heels for all her friends, in the most platonic way possible. She gives everyone the same special treatment, affection, and adoration as she does with a romantic partner. Though, Beetle may receive extra special treatment for being her amour. When she was ready to tell Beetle how she felt about him, she did so in the cutest puppet show..which she spent days hand crafting her props and painting new marionettes 😭

😊 What can make your OC smile even when they’re feeling down? What cheers them up and makes everything feel better for them? Is your OC generally a happy person and do they enjoy making others smile? What about your OC makes others happy?

Dahlia Shepard: it's hard for her to always feel happy when there's an impending invasion on their doorsteps, but one surefire way to cheer her up is a quick call to her son, Otikk, a little salarian boy. He is such a lively, happy go lucky boy, and always eager to cheer his mama up. Dahlia comes off very brash and intimidating, but she very much loves pulling her friends out of the dark- whether through inspiring words, or distracting them with their favorite hobbies.

Nicola Amell: even with the blight raging, she always looked for the little things to cheer her up. To be honest, just having her closest friends at her back was more than enough. Knowing that she will always have people to pick her back up if she falls was the greatest comfort and a thought that always lingered when she felt low. Making other people happy is what being a hero is all about in her mind. When others around her feel safe and are smiling, that fills her with so much pride and joy.

Delaney Hawke: ah yes, the one who finds any reason to crack a joke- ill timed or not. To be honest whenever she's in a low spot, just curling up in bed with her mabari, Junji, is enough. Though sometimes having Isabela sprawled across next to her, having her tell tales of her life at sea, watching her put on an exaggerated reenactment of exciting fights is just what she needs too. Or sitting around a table with everyone, letting Varric make up stories on the spot, everyone happily buzzed…. Never fails to bring a smile to her face. She's generally very chipper and easy going, so everyone assumes by the amount of quips and playful teasing. Deep below, she's miserable, and full of guilt and self doubt. She doesn't like letting her friends know that, so she puts up this front and goes to any extent to make sure no one else feels how she does.

Gryff Hawke: raging ball of anger who has a hard time letting himself be happy- especially trying to keep himself and his twin alive and out of the Gallows. It's hard to feel happy when everything you do backfires and bites you in the ass, even when you know you did everything you could. Even with this rowdy band of misfits at your back, sometimes it just feels like you're drowning. But sometimes there's a hand to pull you up, bring life and air into your lungs. Having Fenris curled up beside him, quietly and slowly reading through a particularly difficult chapter, pausing to ask you what a word says- it reminds Gryff that there are things worth smiling about, and oftentimes they're the ones to pull you out of the dark.

Kiri Lavellan: being dragged into a humans holy war and being propped up as their god's herald- it takes a lot out of you, and Kiri always fears she is about to get uprooted from her dalish heritage at any moment. So in the quiet rests, she finds herself reciting stories in private that the keeper once told her. Anything that reminds her of her roots, where she comes from. She tries very hard to keep a brave face, a beaming smile, one that would inspire hope amongst her men. She wants others to believe she can do this, that she's not scared, anything to instill security in those around her.

Niamh Valyn: when she's feeling lost or homesick, no matter where she is, she carries a leather-bound journal filled with bedtime stories her mother and father read to her as a child. Cuddled up with her wolf companion, Zarola, and her pipe- it's like all her worries just melt away. Even if she looks stoic and imposing like a stormy mountain, she's a very happy person. She's content with where she is, and easily makes those close to her at ease with her playfulness and cheekiness.

Ezra Marlowe: to her, all her happiness she keeps is heavily guarded and protected, not willing to let it go, risking getting hurt. She has no issues pushing people away and hurting them to protect herself. But that being said, those who truly know her, they know she can be enjoyable to have around...in an annoying sibling kind of way. Always looking to push buttons for a laugh. But on her darkest days, she finds the most comfort in the arms of Bashir. He's one of the fre who can easily calm her nerves, bring her back to reality and truly make her feel safe.

Roux Lux: a walking ray of sunshine, this one. Wherever she goes, she leaves a trail of smiles and mirth in her wake. She love love loves creating smiles and making people laugh and feel good. Its why she joined the circus to begin with, her puppet shows have brought nothing but joyful squeals and it's the greatest feeling in the world to the changeling. She's always in the happiest of moods, rarely is she seen without a smile. Yet on those rare days when she feels small and insignificant- curling up in Beetle's lap and listening to him hum soft appraisal to her is all she needs to bounce back to her original self.

#sorry this took so long to answer!!!!!#asks #long post #dahlia shepard #nicola amell #delaney hawke #gryff hawke #kirivatriel lavellan #niamh valyn #ezra marlowe #roux lux

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ddaenggtan · 4 years

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monachopsis | knj x ksj

seokjin knows - has known, for years - that his life will be like this forever. there is no more sea, there is no more swimming, there is no more of anything he used to know. this is life - wake up, go to a shoot, try not to piss giho off, go home, sleep, wake up again. because he was caught. because giho owns him. because he can't.

but then he meets namjoon. and seokjin starts to realize that maybe...just maybe. he can.

pairing | namjin

rating | sfw (some swearing & violence, so T for teen)

wc | 5.7k | cross-posted to ao3

warnings | mild violence, allusions to violence and physical abuse, a very brief depiction of said abuse, non-sexual choking, non-sexual slavery in a way, selkie!jin, aquarium worker!joon, marine biologist!joon, model!jin

a/n | hi this is for fwl’s Luv Library project, for the Fantasy & Fairytales section, and its also the first mxm i’ve ever posted so it might be a Little Rough but i am very attached to these characters and also i Love Selkies SO you get selkie jin!!! special super shoutout to @personawife for reading through it and also giving me the title!!!! im luv u!!! i hope u like the surprise ending that you didn’t get to read bc it was a surprise!!!!!!! ALSO added shoutout to user @jamaisjoons for the SUPERB banner she made!!!!!!!! im in love!!!!!!!!!! sol i do not deserve u!!!!!!!!!!

He misses the sea, sometimes.

He misses the refracting light and the weightlessness and the bubbles. He aches for the days he could swim, for miles and miles and miles, without getting tired. He misses the way his hair would move in the water, the way it felt to lay in the sun to dry off, the warmth that came with it all.

Seokjin wraps his sweater more tightly around his torso and forces the thoughts away. Remembering gets him nowhere, he scolds himself. This is his life, now and forever, and he’s got to accept that if he wants to survive long enough to see the sea once more. He can do this. He’s strong enough for this.

The chill of the winter air is strong, too; it seeps into his bones and roots in them, lingering long after he’s made his way inside the studio. Giho is already there, berating some poor girl for her outfit choice. When he sees Seokjin he stops, waving at the intern. She runs out without even looking up.

“You’re late,” Giho says with a sneer. They both glance at the clock on the wall. 11:55.

“You said noon,” Seokjin responds. His tone is neutral, a carefully constructed skill that has saved his life many times over the years.

Giho tsks, likely because he can’t outright smack Seokjin with so many people around. Still, Seokjin can feel the old man’s eyes on him as he strips out of his clothes.

The cold is prominent against his naked skin, and it doesn’t ebb as he slides the new clothes on. Giho is already yelling again, at the stylist this time, and it’s a familiar background noise. It’s still going on when he gets on the set, face in the perfect mask that everyone seems to love.

The photographer barely needs to direct him; he and Taehyung have worked together for months now, and it only gets easier. Tae knows his best angles, his best lighting, how to highlight the cold expression he wears in shoots so the audience can interpret it their own way.

Seokjin doesn’t know where Giho found this kid, but Tae is lucky the old bastard can’t keep him.

“To the left,” Tae mutters, and Seokjin does so without a word.

The hours pass quickly. Between outfit changes and makeup retouches and actually shooting, the day flies. Before he even knows it, the clock is striking ten, and everyone is packing up.

Jin changes quickly back into his sweater, the ever-colder air chilling him once more. Giho is off to the side with Taehyung and the Artistic Director, Hoseok, all three of them conversing quietly as they look at the photos from today. There’s no need for Seokjin to look; he knows how he did because Giho’s hands are kept to themselves.

Checking again that they’re all suitably distracted, Seokjin turns to leave. He promptly stops, because he runs almost directly into someone coming through the door. Hands dart up to catch him, big and strong and warm as they wrap around his elbows for a second longer than they should, and there’s a muttered “Sorry,” from the guy in front of him.

“Careful, hyung,” Taehyung’s voice calls. “Don’t damage the moneymaker.”

Seokjin’s eyes meet the man’s - a warm brown, one that reminds him of chocolate and muddy snow and love - before he physically pulls himself away. He doesn’t have to look at Giho to know what he’s thinking, what his paranoia is telling him about, and Seokjin needs to be able to eat tonight.

“It’s fine,” Seokjin says in the same unaffected voice he always uses around sets. “Barely touched me.”

The man frowns - probably because Seokjin is lying - but he lets it go, and Seokjin is thankful for it. Small mercies.

“Jin,” Giho calls. He stops and turns. “Eleven, tomorrow.” He nods and leaves, ignoring the exhaustion in his bones and the familiar sorrow that fills his chest as he passes the all-too-familiar trunk by the door.

In the studio he leaves behind, Namjoon shares a look with his brother, who very minutely shakes his head. Namjoon knows that look, created that look to warn Tae off the ones that were more trouble that he could handle. Namjoon always wondered why his little brother never listened to that look.

As he and Taehyung head to dinner, passing billboard after poster after billboard with Jin’s face on it, Namjoon thinks he might understand.

The guy shows up more often. Seokjin knows his name, has said it a thousand times in his head over the weeks, but he won’t let himself acknowledge it. He can feel the guy’s stares on him, every time he arrives to get Tae at the same time Seokjin is running out the door after a shoot. He feels the interest, he’s intimately familiar with how it feels to have someone’s eyes running up and down his body, and he knows exactly what kind of danger that puts the both of them in.

Giho sees it too, he’s sure. That’s the most dangerous part of it, the thing that could be the end of them both. He hasn’t said anything - yet - but Jin is positive as he switches poses for Taehyung that Giho can tell.

He can tell that Namjoon - the guy , Jin corrects himself - is showing up earlier and earlier, more and more often, often hanging out beside the photo monitor and talking to Hoseok while he waits. That his eyes linger, long after the model is gone, and that they wonder, about everything. That he’s interested .

Seokjin doesn’t like to remember what happened to the last man that was interested in him.

It’s pouring rain. There’s a fog over the city that clouds vision and hushes conversation. There’s damp in the air, a wetness that seeps into each breath and covers the earth in its scent. It’s like a blanket over everything, making it all grey and dark and quiet, and Seokjin lives for it.

It reminds him of the sea. How it would churn and darken and crash before a storm. The way the salt spray would hit the ice, the smell of the lightning in the air, the way he could just let it carry him wherever it wanted him to go.

He stands outside the studio. Giho left hours before, for some important networking dinner. He’d tried to drag Seokjin along with him, until Taehyung offhandedly mentioned needing to reshoot a couple things. Giho had sneered and stormed out and that was that.

Now he stands outside, in the rain, with his back against the building. The trunk is just on the other side of the wall; it lingers in the back of his mind, taunting. He can feel it. He knows it’s there.

It’s a testament to how thorough Giho is in his punishments that Seokjin doesn’t attempt to claw it open and instead just tips his head back, eyes closed, basking in the water soaking his sweater and the pull he can feel in his stomach.

He should be swimming.

“Do you need a ride?”

Seokjin doesn’t even open his eyes; he knows the voice. Has spent too long hearing it murmur on the sidelines of photoshoots, has watched its owner as his lips form words he isn’t supposed to listen to.

He should ignore it. That’s what Giho would warn him to do.

“Jin?”

He flutters his lids open, casting a glance at where Namjoon and Taehyung stand. Taehyung has his camera out, and Seokjin has no doubt he’s already snapped a few photos of their surroundings out of habit.

“I’m fine,” he says softly. His voice is slightly hoarse from disuse, but Namjoon doesn’t even flinch. Taehyung is fiddling with his camera, oblivious to the way Namjoon’s eyes search Seokjin’s face for the lie he won’t find.

The rain is the only solace that Seokjin gets; he cherishes these nights. He won’t cut it short, especially not for a human.

“I’m fine,” He repeats. Against his better judgement, he continues, “I enjoy the rain. It’s refreshing.”

“Refreshing…” Namjoon echoes quietly. Neither of them speak, for a long moment; Namjoon continues to look for any sign that Seokjin is lying, and Seokjin continues to pretend the streaks on his cheeks are from the raindrops.

“Walk Jin home.”

They both turn at that, to where Taehyung has his camera pressed to his eye as he frames some shots. When he’s finished, and there’s been no response, Taehyung looks at them both.

“It’s bad weather,” Taehyung explains, “On a dark night. It’d be rude of us to let you walk home alone when anything could be lurking in the shadows.”

Namjoon looks at Seokjin, practically begging for him to agree. He should say no. He should walk himself the ten blocks to his apartment, and pretend neither of them ever said anything, and continue on with his life. Giho would go berserk if he ever found out, would never allow it, would do everything he could to prevent it.

“Sure,” Seokjin says. He’s tired of doing what Giho wants. He’s tired of being without the sea, being kept landlocked with just the rain to remind him of home. “It’s this way.”

Namjoon and Taehyung share a look, but Seokjin pays it no mind as he heads down the street.

The rain is coming down in sheets, and his clothes are soaked. They rest heavy against his skin, and it just makes Seokjin miss the ocean more. He misses how it felt to be weightless, constantly; to feel so powerful and strong and capable. He never feels that way on land.

“How long have you been a model?” Namjoon eventually asks. For a moment - a split second - Seokjin considers ignoring him. It’s what Giho would demand he do.

“Too long,” He says instead.

“You don’t enjoy it?” Namjoon asks, surprised. Seokjin shakes his head, just slightly.

“I do, it’s just…” He searches for the words. He can’t tell anyone about it, has no one to talk to, no one that would believe him. He’s never even felt the urge to share it. Until now. “It’s not what I would have picked for myself.”

Namjoon is silent beside him, and Seokjin can feel the question on the tip of his tongue. He’s going to ask why he does it, why he would bother being a model if it isn’t what he wants to do, and then Seokjin will be forced to come up with an excuse.

“What would you have picked?” Namjoon asks instead.

It brings all of the thoughts in his head to a standstill; all the worry and anxiety and stress stops, distracted by the thought that he had wanted, once upon a time. It takes a long time for Seokjin to find words, to find something that could translate into human language.

“To swim,” He says simply. “To be in the ocean, or with my family. Something.”

“You aren’t with your family?”

“No.” He debates how much to say, but eventually, Seokjin decides, fuck it . He’s been quiet for long enough, and something about Namjoon is comforting, and soothing, and encouraging. “I lost them, when I was very young.”

“I’m sorry,” Namjoon says, and Seokjin thinks he actually means it, even if he doesn’t know the real truth of the matter. How Seokjin strayed too far from them, despite the warnings he’d been given his entire life. How he wanted to stretch human legs and snuck away and got caught by someone that recognized the coat drying on a rock and what he was.

How Giho locked it away, for years, and forced Seokjin to be his ticket to wealth.

“So am I.”

It becomes an irregularly regular thing, Namjoon walking him home.

He can’t do it every night. They’re both too aware of the way Giho watches them, though for different reasons. Namjoon doesn’t know what Giho has done to others in his position, the lengths he’s gone to ensure Seokjin stays his.

But the nights when he can, when Giho leaves for some dinner or event or something and Taehyung can come up with a believable excuse...those are the nights that Seokjin starts looking forward to.

He learns so much about Namjoon - that he studied marine biology in school, got his doctorate in it as soon as he could; that he visits his parents’ grave every Wednesday morning, leaves flowers for them when he has the money; that he wants to travel the world and help endangered species everywhere, wants to take Taehyung with him as a nature photographer; that he’s the best man Seokjin has ever known with the biggest heart and the most patience that he’s ever seen.

Namjoon doesn’t question why Seokjin only ever gives vague answers, or skirts around mentions of where he comes from, or why he doesn’t have a phone. He doesn’t ask Seokjin to let him up into the apartment, or answer his questions, or explain why he stays at arm’s length despite leaning closer because Namjoon is warm.

He doesn’t question any of it, and it makes Seokjin’s heart flutter dangerously in his chest, and it means that when Namjoon asks if he has a free day anytime soon, Seokjin only hesitates for a second before he responds.

“Giho has a business trip coming up,” he tells Namjoon. “As long as we have three full shoots, he won’t suspect anything.”

“Will you come with me?” Namjoon asks. “I just want to distract you for the day. I’ve seen your life, what you do, so much. I’d like to show you mine, if you’ll let me.”

He should say no. He shouldn’t go with him, he should say no, and stop letting Namjoon walk him home, and let Giho move them across the country again.

“Sure.”

The day comes. Seokjin dresses nicer, though he’ll never admit it. A nice button-down, black slacks, hair styled, sunglasses to combat the glare in the sky. Giho is gone for three days - three marvelous, liberated days - and Seokjin can use that time to come up with a believable excuse if he’s recognized.

Namjoon looks like he always does - warmth and welcome and strength. It settles in Seokjin’s chest the second he sees Namjoon, and he wonders if this is what people meant when they say they found home in someone.

He doesn’t ask Namjoon where they’re going; just follows him onto the subway, and off, and on, and off again, listening to him talk about this cafe and that bookstore and the busker on the corner. He gets the full experience of Namjoon’s commute, and he couldn’t be more in love with him.

With it. He’s in love with it , the commute, seeing what other people do each day. That’s all, because that’s all he can let himself have.

When they arrive, Seokjin stares. He doesn’t know why he didn’t know, why he didn’t put the pieces together from all the times Namjoon has mentioned his work and his degree, but he didn’t...he didn’t think , didn’t even consider, and now he stands on the sidewalk, staring at the large building, and Namjoon is waiting for him.

“Seokjin?” He asks softly. “We can turn around right now.”

He looks at Namjoon - really looks at him. Takes in the nice turquoise shirt and the cuffed slacks and the dress shoes, the glasses that are so thick Seokjin wonders how he sees without them at all, the way there’s already disappointment clouding the acceptance in his eyes.

“No,” He says. “No, it’s fine. Let’s go.”

He shouldn’t be here, his mind tells him throughout each exhibit. Not just because of Giho this time, but for himself.

Namjoon is so excited about each exhibit, telling him about each creature as they go through. He mentions how each one has its own name, though they get confused sometimes for the larger populations. How so many have been released into the wild successfully, how so many have been rebuilt and are on the brink of non-endangered status.

He talks about the sharks, and how Louise and Wheein haven’t been getting along, but that Yari and Chainsaw are expecting a pup soon; he talks about the penguins and how Potato keeps stealing extra fish but he does it to give to Frenchie, so they let him get away with it; he talks about the jellyfish, and the rays, and the octopuses, and everyone and everything, and it’s nearly too much for Seokjin, but he manages.

He gets through nearly the entire aquarium, exhausted but content with the happy grin on Namjoon’s face, but he stops, because Namjoon has mentioned Maple throughout the entire trip, has talked about her before. Seokjin knows Maple’s history better than his own, almost, but he never realized…

Now he does. He watches as Maple dives back down off the landing, flipping and turning in the water. They stand in a viewing area, a room long and tall and tinted blue with the water at the bottom of the tank. It gives way to land halfway up, is more than generous for the lone animal that dances through the water.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Namjoon asks. “She’s the one we’re working hardest with. Hawaiian monk seals are critically endangered, so when she was brought in as a pup, she took first priority. We’re doing everything we can to get her back up to breeding standards. She keeps getting sick, though, and no pregnancy has been viable so far.”

Seokjin doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even blink. He doesn’t know this seal, not really; she’s just a seal, she’s not like him, she’s not even the same species, but a human wouldn’t know that. Especially not a human like Namjoon, completely out of the loop on all of it.

“She wants to be free.”

He can see it when Namjoon turns to look at him, confused. Watches the reflection in the glass as closely as he watches Maple’s mourning dance.

“Her environment is larger than most,” Namjoon says. “She’s got plenty of room to swim and we’ve got activity sets throughout so she’s mentally stimulated as well. She eats, probably more than she should, and-”

“A cage is still a cage, no matter how pretty it is.” Seokjin can see it, can hear Maple’s call, can feel it in his very soul as the urge to respond grows. She spots them standing there and swims closer, and Seokjin places a hand on the glass wall. “She wants to be back in the ocean.”

“It’s dangerous for her there,” Namjoon says quietly. He says it like he knows, like he’s always known, what she needs, but doesn’t want to admit it. “There isn’t enough food, humanity keeps taking their territory...she’s sick. She wouldn’t survive out there.”

Better to die free than spend eternity in a cage, Seokjin thinks bitterly. He takes a breath and reminds himself that Namjoon cares. He’s helping, in the only way that he knows how.

Maple spins when she spots Namjoon, clearly excited, but when her eyes land on Seokjin, she stills.

“Ah, she’s not always friendly to strangers, so…” Namjoon trails off. His reflection shows his jaw slack, open in a surprised o , because he’s wrong, this time.

Maple lets out a whistle - long, and low, and haunting in the stillness of the building. Her nose is nearly against the glass, she’s so close, and she looks straight into him. She sees him, recognizes him for what he is, and uses the call.

Seokjin can feel the snap as his soul breaks; what little was left of him shatters, into pieces. He can’t return her call, he can’t tell her that he sees, that he knows what she’s feeling and will do what he can to help her, because he can’t . He can’t help her, he has no way to save her from her cage because he’s stuck in his own.

She must see it, somehow, because her song trails off, and Seokjin hates himself. He hates himself for being here, for allowing himself to get close to Namjoon when he can’t, for not being able to even hear her song the way it deserves to be heard.

“Hey,” Namjoon calls, soft and quiet. His thumb brushes hesitantly along Seokjin’s cheek, carrying a tear with it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

“I’m fine,” Seokjin tells him. “I’ve got to be up early tomorrow, to do the shoots, so I’m gonna head home.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

He turns on his heel and walks out, ignoring Namjoon’s question entirely. He can’t lie right now, he does want Namjoon with him, but he can’t. It’s too dangerous, and seeing Maple just reminded him of it.

He can’t let Namjoon get hurt just because he makes Seokjin feel marginally better.

In his wake, Namjoon sighs. He turns to Maple, wishing he was up top in his wetsuit so he could run his fingers through her fur the way she likes. Her eyes are big and sad, more so than usual, and Namjoon thinks maybe he understands her for the first time.

“I’ll try,” He tells her. “I’ll try.”

Weeks pass. Months fly by. Shoot after shoot after shoot gets published, and Giho rakes in the cash from them. Seokjin stays in his small apartment, watching the light reflect rainbows through the window pane. He stopped letting Namjoon walk him home when Giho got back, and nearly ripped part of Seokjin’s hair out with fury that he’d gone out.

The only reason it wasn’t worse is because Seokjin managed to convince him that it was promo for the upcoming swimwear collection, and good press about the humanitarian efforts of the label.

It doesn’t matter anyway, because Namjoon stopped showing up after a few days. Seokjin refuses to ask Taehyung why, because he shouldn’t care. He can’t care. Not with Giho hovering over his shoulder at every turn.

One day, for some reason, things change. Giho gets less certain, more fidgety. Starts looking over his own shoulder. Stops threatening Seokjin with every glance.

Stops glancing altogether.

It just makes Seokjin worry more; if the one in charge is afraid of something, everyone else should be as well. That was the first lesson his mother taught him.

Seokjin gathers his things. Packs them all back into his suitcase, keeps a single change of clothes out and starts washing them every day. Giho looks ready to run, and Seokjin knows by now that he needs to be ready when it happens if he wants to keep any of his things.

Then Giho disappears.

Giho disappears for a while .

He doesn’t take Seokjin with him. He just disappears one night, when everything is quiet and still. The calendar is still booked with shoots, so Seokjin just keeps working. One night, he and Taehyung go out for Korean BBQ. The entire week after that, Seokjin expects Giho to pop up and berate him for doing anything that isn’t working, but it never comes.

A few weeks later, they go on a day trip to a mountain and walk the trails together while Taehyung takes pictures. Neither of them mention Giho or Namjoon or anything except the way the leaves fall.

Life goes on. For months, Seokjin begins tiptoeing across the line. He goes out more often. The time between shoots gets longer and longer, and Seokjin begins to enjoy things. He goes to see movies, and shopping, and eating, and travelling. He starts doing the things he wants to do.

He sees Namjoon again.

They get dinner together, whenever they’re both free. It starts with Taehyung inviting him for drinks, and turns into them meeting each other at the cafe on the corner that makes the good boba. They talk for what could be hours, or what could be minutes. Seokjin never knows, because everything else seems to stop when he’s with Namjoon.

He says as much as he can, as much as he dares, but it never seems like it’s enough. Namjoon takes what Seokjin gives him, more than happy to be included again, but they both know that there’s a time limit on it. Still, Seokjin fools himself into thinking that it’s become an if , instead of being a when .

He fools himself into thinking that this can be his life.

It takes almost four months. It’s been nearly a year since Seokjin first met Namjoon - he refuses to acknowledge that he remembers the day. Giho returns in a whirlwind.

He interrupts the shoot, throws the clothes around, breaks some mannequins, it’s all out war on the set, and they all watch silently. The only thing that keeps him from breaking Taehyung’s camera is the look on the younger’s face when Giho goes for it.

But of course, nothing lasts forever. He spots Seokjin, sitting as still as a statue in the makeup chair, and that’s the beginning of the end. He recognizes the feral rage in God's eyes, has seen it barely contained too many times before, and he’s clearly not holding back this time.

He has Seokjin on the ground, under his shoe, with a cane against his throat when the door opens. The others have tried to help, but Giho is surprisingly adept with a cane when he wants to be, and as such, no one has gotten close. But Seokjin can guess what time it is, he knows in his bones who just walked in, and he refuses to let this happen.

“You,” Giho hisses. The pressure on Seokjin’s throat disappears as Giho stands; the model coughs, several times, choking down air even as his hand darts out to wrap around his owner’s ankle.

The elder crumples to the ground, kicking at Seokjin’s steel grip, but it’s useless, because Seokjin is tired.

He is tired of being afraid of a bitter old man. He is tired of being without the sea. He is tired of not allowing himself to be happy.

He’s on top of Giho before he even realizes he’s moved, prying the cane from his hands and holding it steady over Giho’s windpipe. He doesn’t press down, not yet; just holds it there, like the threat it is.

“You will not hurt him,” Seokjin commands. “And you will run, as far as you can get. You will run to the ends of the earth, and then, God willing, you will run further. You will leave your wealth and your fame and everything I have made for you, and if you dare to show your face among humanity again…”

“What?” Giho spits, a smirk growing on his face. “What is a defenseless little pup like you going to do?”

Seokjin leans down, letting the cane choke the man below him as he drops his voice. “I will find my brethren, and I will tell them what you have done. They will spread your story far and wide, across every ocean, over every continent, and when they find you, they will remind you why we are considered predators.”

He sits back, letting the cane go and allowing air back into his lungs. He stands on his own two feet, the legs that have carried him for so long, and he looks around.

“This shoot is over,” Seokjin says. “Everyone get out.”

The people scramble, even Taehyung gathers his things to leave, and the room is empty in seconds. Only he and Giho remain.

The elder lies on the floor, still catching his breath, as Seokjin tosses the cane across the room. He looks around, spots an old iron trash can from a shoot last month, and starts toward it.

“It won’t do you any good,” Giho says. Seokjin ignores him and hefts the can up, carrying it across the room. “You won’t get anywhere. You can’t just disappear, not when the world knows your face.”

“Maybe so,” Seokjin says as he positions himself. “But at least I’ll have the choice.”

He brings the iron can down with all his strength. There’s a colossal crash as it connects with the old padlock, and it only gets louder with the next one. It takes seven hits for the lock to break, and the sound of it clattering to the floor isn’t one he’s likely to forget.

When he opens the trunk, however, it’s empty.

“I told you,” Giho hisses triumphantly. “It won’t do any good.”

Seokjin resists the urge to curse under his breath and forces himself not to sob as he looks back at Giho.

“Then it won’t do you any good either.”

The sand is warm beneath his feet. The setting sun paints the sky a myriad of colors, orange turning into red bleeding into purple shifting into blue curling into black, all of it reflected in the cool water below. The tang of salt wafts in with every breath he takes, and just confirms that this is right.

“Thanks for meeting me,” Namjoon says from behind him. Seokjin didn’t hear him approach, but he didn’t need to. He knows Namjoon won’t hurt him.

“Thanks for calling,” Seokjin responds. He feels the tide tickle his toes, and he knows that this is best. “I actually wanted to tell you something.”

“I think I should go first,” Namjoon’s voice is firm, but hesitant. Like he doesn’t want to say what he’s saying. Seokjin turns, frowning slightly when he sees the other. Namjoon looks troubled, looks like he would rather be anywhere else, and that doesn’t bode well for Seokjin.

Still, he gestures for Namjoon to continue.

“Tae pointed it out,” Namjoon eventually says. “He mentioned how you looked at it, and thought maybe...maybe it had passports or something inside, something you could use to get away. So when he left, and we thought he might not come back...I opened it.”

A weight settles in Seokjin’s throat.

“Opened what?”

“The trunk,” Namjoon says. “I broke in and I picked the lock and...I didn’t know it was...I didn’t think he had it….” He sighs and pulls his hands from behind his back, and there it is.

Seokjin’s coat.

It’s silky and smooth and soft and perfect and exactly as he remembers it. It’s bigger now, grown with him, and the sight of it in the light is enough to bring tears to his eyes.

“He had some kind of alert on the trunk,” Namjoon continues, “So when I opened it he knew. That’s why he came back. I didn’t know he would come back.”

“Namjoon…” Seokjin looks at him, eyes wide and tear-filled, and for the first time since they met, Seokjin is scared. His life is here, right in front of him, but he doesn’t know if he can have it.

Because now Namjoon knows. He knows what Seokjin is, he’s fully aware that Seokjin can’t leave without the coat in Namjoon’s hands. He could keep him forever, just as Giho intended to do.

“I didn’t know,” Namjoon says again. “Or I wouldn’t have taken you to the aquarium. I wouldn’t have done that to you, I wouldn’t have hurt you like that, and I am... so sorry, Seokjin. I’m so sorry that I did that to you, I-”

“Namjoon, you didn’t know-”

“But now I do.” Namjoon sniffles slightly, and his hands shake, but he extends them, holding the coat out to Seokjin. “And I’m sorry.”

Seokjin’s fingers curl in the fur, almost reverently, as he takes it. It’s still warm, and it feels like water in his hands, and it’s everything he’s missed in his life.

“Namjoon, I…” He trails off, because there’s nothing he could say. No words fit this gift, this release; there’s nothing he could say that would properly convey the emotions building in Seokjin’s chest.

“I know,” Namjoon says. “You’re not in a cage anymore. You’re free to go and do what you want to do.”

Seokjin strips his sweater off and wraps his sealskin around his shoulders. It’s the perfect size for him, exactly what he needs, and when he crashes waist-deep into the surf, it keeps him warm.

He turns, though. Namjoon stands on the shore, just out of reach of the tide, and watches him. There’s a smile on his face, small and sad, and Seokjin wants nothing more than to wipe it from his lips, but he can’t.

Because he’s free.

He turns, wrapping the skin tighter around his shoulder. When he gets under the water, he can feel it in his hair and he can feel the water against his tail and he’s almost home.

But something is missing.

There’s warmth and weightlessness and the setting sun painting the water a rainbow , but the buzz in Seokjin’s chest isn’t full. There’s something not right, something not quite perfect about this moment that he’s been dreaming of for years, and he can’t figure out what.

Namjoon stares at the horizon, wondering how far Seokjin has already gone. He sends up a small wish, a hope, that Seokjin can live his life, free and happy and himself. That he can find his family, see his pod again.

His heartbeat turns painful, something constricting his chest and making it difficult to breathe, so he turns away. The crash of the waves covers the sound of his shaky breath, because of course, of course , he would find love in a man that couldn’t stay.

Fingers tangle in his own and Namjoon turns, shocked, to see a wet Seokjin, hair damp with his sealskin around his waist.

“W-What-”

“I can’t,” Seokjin says softly. “I can’t go back, I can’t find them, I don’t know how to do that without…”

He trails off and Namjoon stares because this is it, he thinks. This is everything he’s been waiting for his entire life, here, right in front of him. He just has to let himself have it.

Seokjin’s hand pulls away from his and Namjoon mourns the loss for the brief moment it takes for the selkie to pull his sealskin off and place it carefully in Namjoon’s arms.

“Namjoon,” He says, voice hushed and serious, “I want you to...because I…”

He’s never Seokjin this unsure, this at a loss, and the way he keeps starting sentences that have no end is undeniably endearing. But he can feel Seokjin’s growing frustration at his inability to articulate his thoughts, so he just smiles.

“I know,” Namjoon says. He takes the coat and places it back in Seokjin’s hands, covering them with his own. The heat from their skin combines and warms Namjoon straight to the core. “And I love you too.”

#ficswithluv #fwl project #luv library #bts fanfic #bts fluff #bts angst #namjin fanfic #namjin fluff #namjin angst #namjoon fanfic #namjoon fluff #namjoon angst #jin fanfic #jin fluff #jin angst #rm fanfic #seokjin fanfic #mxm bts fanfic #ddaenggtan

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ravenwritesstuff · 4 years

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Best Laid Plans (9/?)

Fandom: Frozen (modern AU, no magic) Pairings: Helsa, established Kristanna, Rapunzel/Eugene, lotsa frohana Rating: T for now, M later almost for sure A/N: Please go away and don’t read the stuff I write.

They have been out to sea for twenty minutes now, Arendelle’s coast disappearing in the distance the same way Elsa’s hope for this day to go any way even close to how she hoped vanished before her eyes.

After the safety briefing from the crew (which she barely heard) she had attempted to direct the conversation towards the contract, the parts and pieces that needed to still be negotiated and finalized, but Mister Westergaard had other ideas.

Eat first. He had said. We have all day.

Bits of polite conversation had floated around her. Hans Westergaard entertained the group with intentional questions, occasionally including her but in some ways almost purposefully excluding her. She is simultaneously thrilled and annoyed, but she is not prepared to deal with either emotion.

So she had picked at the sumptuous fare: cold roasted squash wrapped in hickory smoked bacon, miniature parfait cups with berry compote and tangy greek yogurt topped with a sprig of mint, delicate quiche bites that even served cold are still creamy and without a hint of the rubbery texture she always achieves when cooking eggs. There is mixed fruit salad with a lime reduction glaze, brown sugar crusted salmon delicately seated on lemon buttered crostini, and single waffle quarters served with ten dozen options for toppings including jalapeno infused maple syrup. The list goes on.

Elsa is accustomed to tastings and decadence when it comes to food but nearly always when planning it for someone else, some other occasion. She had little experience being the recipient of such gourmet assortments and has never bothered to learn to cook. Still knowing they will sail she does not feel a great need to indulge as she is not sure she will handle the sea well. Her stomach is already a mess.

Her team dives in, filling actual china plates with their choice delicacies as the crew comes to take drink orders. They are each handed a menu printed on thick card stock that feels like silk. The drink options are embossed into the surface of the luxe paper. The feel of it in her hand along with the weight of her plate in the other and the heat of Hans Westergaard at her side is a sensory overload she never imagined having.

“Coffee,” she does hesitate, “with just a splash of cream.”

The crew member nods and takes her drink menu for her. She notices later that a smattering of those menus were artistically mounted on stainless steel stands just in case she wants to indulge in a mango-passion-fruit mimosa or a mint lemonade slush infused with vodka. While both sound tempting she needs to stay alert. Especially with him sitting so close.

His plate is balanced on one thigh with an assortment of the fare that errs on the sweeter side. She notes the same way she would for any client. Hans Westergaard likes dessert.

She does not consider why knowing that makes her uncomfortable.

He also orders the same coffee as she.

Again she cannot be certain if this is intentional or just another ploy to generate a doomed connection. She will always lean towards the latter.

He is still close, but at least she had the sense to extend his arm over the empty seat away from Elsa instead of behind her back. There is a limit even to her control and if he touched her she may explode right out of her skin.

Her team seems to be enjoying the royal food treatment. Rapunzel feeds Eugene her favorite flavor combination, something unusual certainly, and slaps his chest at the grimace. Kristoff loads up on the protein while Anna selects sweeter alternatives. Elsa takes a single quiche, vegetable options, and crostini. She does not want to seem ungrateful but she also does not want to appear over eager or succumb to sea sickness and never be able to eat salmon again.

She nibbles the barest tip of the roasted summer squash and tries to not notice his plate while also engaging him.

“This is lovely. Thank you,” her team was watching, nodding and eating politely in agreement.

“Of course. I want you to get a sense for what I want.”

He now has retreated even further, inches between their bodies, an appropriate distance but still somehow feels too close. She is thankful and suspicious all at once. He leans in again, but just his head. The rest of him is conspicuously distant. His eyes had been green at the wedding but now they almost appeared gold. Were they hazel?

“That is my team and I would love to talk with you about. We know so little about this initiative, what we are creating, and while this is lovely -”

He cuts her off by pressing two fingers on her mouth.

She had not seen it coming and the feel of it shoots heat previously unknown through her body. She can practically hear the collective gasp from the watching four and her embarrassment is palpable. His fingers are gone as quickly as they had arrived. She didn’t even have the chance to pull back. The heat and pressure of his touch lingers and it takes every bit of self control to not pressed her lips together to try to erase the electric tingling dancing there.

If she had not been so caught off guard by the sensations racing through her body at the contact she would have had the sense to be furious.

“All in good time.” He leans back and puts the hand on his knee, the other gripping his plate. “But first a tour perhaps?”

He is already standing and Elsa can just barely catch a breath.

Her team all stand, albeit cautiously, watching her while she attempts to mentally reboot. Hans Westergaard offers her his hand, the same hand that had pressed her lips just moments before in a facsimile of a kiss. What would it be like to kiss him?

That inquisitive thought is enough to launch her to her feet without assistance. She sets her plate and attache case down with more force than necessary, straightens, and steps away from him. It takes all of her mortal strength to meet his gaze.

It is soft and warm but also fearful. That disconcerting humanness there again like he never did anything to upset her. Like he is afraid of rebuttal for his forwardness, like he knows he oversteps but couldn’t help himself just like she cannot bring herself to truly be upset by the touch. Like maybe it undid him the same way it undid her.

That idea is just as bad, if not worse, than his action.

She needs to put it behind them. Now. No. Sooner than now.

She lifts her chin and clears her throat. “I think it is best if we stick to business.”

She is responding to his offer for a tour and hopes that is how her team takes it, how he takes it. Clearly she does not need to invite trouble when he is more than willing to produce it on his own. His expression rearranges itself to something more polished, but no less intense. She can practically see his strategy shifting behind those color changing eyes and she steels herself against it.

Whatever he dishes out she can take. She has overcome more than most and there is not much that can throw her, but the way he looks at her makes her realize she has met her match.

This is not an arm’s length situation.

But to be close to him?

Close to anyone?

“I agree.” The sound of his voice snaps her back. “Which is why I absolutely insist on a tour of the vessel. It is integral to the process.”

She does not understand. Her mind reels, but she acknowledges that a tour could give her time to regroup and she needs that.

“Then by all means, lead the way.” She takes several steps away from his projected footpath putting the ornate seat they had shared well between them.

If there is any hesitation she cannot be certain. Instead he sweeps to the front of the ship where more chrome and glass greet them. “This way then.”

Thus begins a tour of a yacht that is more ornately equipped and furnished than most homes. Right of the main bow deck there is a leisure room filled with plush royal blue and rich chocolate furniture, stainless steel fixtures along with cream carpets and accents. There are florals, books, and staggering decor pieces that would be excessive and gaudy in any other context but here they all flow together seamlessly. The streamlined design of the furniture and the ship is accentuated with the extravagant accents. No. It this the height of refinement, elegance.

And this is just the first room.

There is more.

There is a board room with a massive white oak table and yellow leather swivel chairs that scream their cush. There is a movie theater complete with leather reclining seat, popcorn maker, and a custom bar. The floors are either lush carpet, marble, or white oak that gleamed so brightly she swore it was covered in glass. There is a large bathroom that is all Italian marble with fixtures that may actually be gold plated.

The second level bow mirrors the first but without the infinity pool. Instead it boasts more seating and several marble top cocktail tables that almost seem to grow out of the pristine deck. He takes them back then through the main bar, the library, and the gaming room complete with a billiard table that was once Marlon Brando’s.

“There is more above, but those are the private quarters. We have capacity for up to twenty guests to stay comfortably. Plus the sauna.” He says. “But since those are not strictly business I doubt they will interest you.”

He is teasing, directing his attention at her specifically for the first time in this tour, but she will not take the bait. She is almost ruffled by the sudden attention, by the lack of it beforehand, but the majesty of the ship had distracted her.

She had never conceived a vessel could be as luxurious as anything she had seen in the last twenty minutes.

She thought she had understood wealth, had worked with her share of affluent clientele, but nothing like this. Outside the challenge of Hans Westergaard she is quickly realizing just how out of their depth they may be. The challenge of it looms like an insurmountable cliff face. Thirty eight days to meet the highest standards she has ever faced professionally all while tiptoeing through the minefield of working with a man that clearly lacked any sort of boundaries. If she even had a chance of scaling that rock wall it they needed to start immediately.

“As curious as I am sure we all are I think it best we maximize what little time we have, Mister Westergaard, and begin discussing how we can help your initiative.” Elsa responds diplomatically.

“Your every wish is my command.”

He smiles at her then, teeth impossibly straight and white. The look in his eye seems to say he only sees her. Like somehow the whole world melts to nothing and she is the sole light of his entire universe. The intensity of it is staggering and she sways a bit under the weight. His hand is on her elbow immediately, close and hot.

“Whoa there. You’ll get your sea legs before long.” His breath hits her burning cheek as she extracts herself from his hold as quickly as possible.

She steps away, careful to not make eye contact with any of the group, and gives a sharp nod. “I’m sure I will.”

There is the slightest pause before and she can feel him staring, willing her to meet his gaze, but she doesn’t. “Right then,” he says. “Let’s return below board and we can discuss what comes next.”

Elsa is careful to fall behind, and Anna matches suit with Rapunzel.

“So you weren’t kidding about him coming on strong. Is this okay? Are we okay? Do we need to call this off?” Anna rattles off her questions on a quiet breath as Kristoff and Eugene engage Hans about some of the more technical aspects of the ship.

“Yeah. Or do we need to get you two a room?” Rapunzel asks, green eyes wide. “When Eugene looks at me like Hans looked at you I know we are about to have a really good time.” Typically her innocent honesty is one of her more endearing characteristics but now the implication of her sentence makes her grit her teeth.

“He’s a flirt. That’s all. We’ve all dealt with his kind before.” She tries to keep her whisper lighthearted, but she can sense how little her companions believe her. “I’ve got this under control.”

She gives them both a pointed look at Anna lifts a brow and purses her lips. “Do you? Because you really don’t have to.”

Elsa gapes, nearly stopping in her tracks at Anna’s presumptuous question.

And just like that she swears the ship rolls and she nearly loses her balance only to be caught by her sister and friend.

“Look. All I’m saying is the guy clearly likes you and isn’t afraid to show it.” Anna forces her to keep pace with the men ahead of them as they venture through one well appointed room after another. “And to be honest - you could use a little fun.”

“Yeah,” Rapunzel nods emphatically. “You literally have nothing to lose anyway since you’re totally into him too.”

Elsa stops in her tracks, red from head to toe. “I am not!”

Anna rolls her eyes and grabs Elsa’s wrist to drag her along. “Okay fine. You’re not, but you could be. I know you want to keep your professional distance or whatever, but why not just tell him the truth about everything and let him make up his own mind?”

Elsa’s mind goes blank for a moment at the possibility she had never considered.

Tell him the truth? She never told her clients the truth. Hell, she hadn’t told Eugene or Rapunzel until they had been on board long enough to get suspicious after her second unexplained, prolonged absence. And she definitely never told any of the dates she has had the truth. She just gave them enough time to get bored, to move on, and enjoyed a few less lonely nights. She never looked for long term because she wasn’t going to last long term. So why couldn’t she just approach Hans Westergaard with the same fatalist sensibility?

Why did the idea of telling him everything seem appealing?

She knows why, but she is not ready to admit it, never will be. That niggling What If that has haunted her since that first insanely frustrating day: what if this could work?

What if he wouldn’t be afraid, would be down for the ride as long as it lasted? What if she had the luxury of considering the possibilities?

But she doesn’t. She made her choices two years ago and she is not going to put herself through that again. She is not going to put anyone else through that. She is just going to enjoy what time she has left and leave it at that. And she is going to do it in the familiar comfort of solitude.

“The truth isn’t relevant to the job, and that is all this is. This is a job and it is a bitch of a job. If we are going to pull this off I need to focus on what is important, and dating my client is not one of those things.”

Anna and Rapunzel share a meaningful glance.

“Don’t do that.” Elsa shakes her head. “This is professional. Nothing more.”

“Okay,” Anna rolls her eyes again.

“Okay,” Rapunzel echos with a gallic shrug.

And somehow even though they are agreeing with her Elsa feels like she lost this conversation at some point.

She knows what they want and she doesn’t suppose she can blame them. They want to give her a reason to stay, to fight, to try. They want to give her a reason to change her mind as if it was that simple. She cannot blame them for not understanding but she cannot make this harder on herself than it already is. She has enough goodbyes to say without adding one more.

They are back to where they started now. The original spread is still in place but their requested drinks are waiting, all just the right temperature, wait in addition.

She stays close to Anna as she takes her coffee and conspicuously jams herself between her sister and an armrest. Between Anna, Kristoff, and herself the new seating arrangement is a bit tight but she has a point to make not only to her crew and Hans Westergaard, but to herself. She is a professional adult and is perfectly capable of acting like one.

So there.

He seems to take it all in stride, not batting an eye when he takes his coffee in hand and sits comfortably spread out on the couch that Elsa had strategically vacated. As they all settle in, Mister Westergaard reaches for a few more treats for his plate and the rest follow suit. Elsa carefully balances her coffee as she selects one or two choice morsels. The sea hadn’t caught her yet but she couldn’t be too careful. Her stomach is already in knots.

He leans back, thick auburn hair catching just the smallest corner of light and setting aflame. His high cheekbones cut with highlight and shadow of the mid-morning light. She remembers the feel of his cheek sliding along her own, the slightest brush of the silk fringe of his hair against her fingers as she had clung to him, and her eyes jerk back to her coffee.

“This is a lovely ship, Mister Westergaard,” she breaks the strange silence. “I assume you have a purpose for showing her off?”

It is not the most graceful entrance to a negotiation, but it is all she can muster. She lifts her gaze to his and sees the calculation, the wants - feels it.

“It’s my father’s. My ship - well - it won’t do for what I have in mind but I think this ship will do nicely.” He sips his coffee as Elsa sets hers aside to reach for her attache case and open it.

She withdraws her multi-function tablet. “And what exactly do you have in mind?”

They have loaded his client file with offline capability for which she is glad as she cannot bring herself to ask for a wi-fi password. She notes that the rest of her team are also bringing out their matching tablets and she hopes that they will not have too many corrections and overlaps when they finally get back to the mainframe.

He settles further into his seat with a smirk and it almost feels like he is building fortification, bracing himself for a fight he is all too sure to enjoy.

“Your company primarily plans weddings,” he does not ask as he pops a berry into his mouth. “According to your online portfolio your business is about seventy-two percent wedding related, a few baby shower, a Quinceanera, and a few corporate events. Would you say this is a fair assessment?”

So he had done his homework. Or had someone else do it for him. Had he known all of this before he came in yesterday and asked her to recite job titles and functions that were all available on their website? Was this a test the way she had felt yesterday had been a test?

She sits a bit straighter: “I don’t have the precise statistics in front of me but the majority of our clients have been wedding related, yes.”

Her mind goes to the contract, unsigned and un-amended. Had he not signed it because he didn’t want them anymore? Did he want someone with more experience outside of the wedding industry? Would she have to go to battle to prove to him that weddings were just as demanding, if not more so, than a standard corporate event? Would she have to fight for this client she wasn’t even sure she wanted?

It takes all of her self control not to fidget.

“Why is that? Why the wedding specialty?”

It is a good question. Most would assume it is the money, but there is much more money to be had planning outside of weddings and for less stress. She has a prepared answer, the standard line, but she nearly chokes on it.

She holds his gaze, levels the barrel, fires, “We believe love is worth it.”

The corners of his eyes tighten in - amusement? She cannot quite be sure yet.

“Has that been your professional experience?” His eyebrow quirks and it appears he takes a bite of his mini-berry tart to keep from smiling. It irks her just how much he irks her.

Anna clears her throat and Elsa realizes she has leaned forward, gripping her tablet between her hands like her life depends on it, and dear gods she might as well be foaming at the mouth for how crazy she is acting. She straightens, squares her shoulders, and meets his gaze.

“Our professional experience has been delivering exactly what our clients ask of us to create their ideal atmosphere and execution.”

She mentally pats herself on the back.

He nods as if to agree with her hidden sentiment. “Good. I don’t want something cold and corporate. I want something beautiful and intimate. I want what you did with Eric and Ariel’s wedding. There was - what? Two hundred people there, three?”

“Two hundred and eighty eight,” Rapunzel offers with a grin and Eugene squeezes her knee.

Hans looks to Elsa with raised brows as if asking for confirmation. Elsa nods her head. “Rapunzel is never off on numbers.”

“It never felt like that. It was a big event but it felt like having the most amazing dinner party with your closest friends. I don’t know how you did it, but you did.” He addresses the entire group and Elsa feels her insides warm involuntarily at his praise. She doesn’t want his approval to matter, but apparently it does. Then he meets her eyes and everything runs cold, hot, frigid, scalding. The look in his eye sends her heart soaring and stomach plummeting all at once, “It is a night I will never forget.”

And then they are the only two in the world again and her only saving grace is that she is sitting down. She looks down at her tablet screen but her eyes will not focus.

“We are happy to hear you enjoyed the event,” Anna jumps in this time. “We thought it was a smash. What stood out to you as being a highlight?”

Elsa’s head jerks up at that question. His gaze catches her with an easy smile that she can feel all the way to her toes, but it isn’t self-congratulatory. He is not commending himself. He smiles as if he is savoring something sweet, something secret.

“There were too many to single out just one, but I remember the dancing being outstanding,” he speaks as if the words are for everyone, but when his gaze settles on her she knows they aren’t. They are for her.

“So you want dancing at your event, Mister. Westergaard?” She uses his proper name as always, instating her distance the same way she had by forcing her seat next to Anna.

He shrugs. “To tell the truth I am not a big dancer. It all depends on the partner.”

Elsa’s ears burn and she nearly chokes on a swallow. No one else knew about their rendezvous. There was no way they could pull the subtext from what he said, but she stills feels it creeping across their conversation like steaming lava.

She forces a laugh to offset the tension she feels and is relieved when it comes off sounding halfway natural. “Well that does not give us much to go off of, Mister Westergaard. While we are thrilled that Ariel and Eric’s wedding left such a positive impression on you that does not particularly give us a trajectory for your event.”

“I understand.” He nods and turns his head towards the horizon off the bow before bringing his gaze right back to hers. “So why don’t I show you?”

[ previous ] [ next ]

#Best Laid Plans #Helsa #Kristanna #Eugene x Rapunzel #Raven Writes stuff #Raven writes Frozen #Modern AU

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deviant3lover · 4 years

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OOOOOOOO! You writing for other charaters now? Cuz, here are some bois I'd like to see your take on! Pick and choose who you'd please: Zombieman, Child Emperor, Tatsumkai, Sonic, Flashy Flash, Mumen Rider, King and, (one I'd really like to see) Sweet Mask. Thanks, and happy early birthday!

Thank you~! And lmao, my birthday was like, a month ago now;; I swear my attention span is hella weak- I see a shiny thing and I

Z I P

Outta my work and go over to look at it for the next 3 days.

And anon… dear anon…

I will do ALL OF THEM.

MUMEN RIDER:

If I’m being honest? I honestly hated him when he was first introduced.

He cycled as fast as he could to confront the Paradisers, had a moment where he parked his bike, (a bit awkward, but I faintly enjoyed the sight) pulled off a show of confidence that implied that he knew the gravity of the situation and has a way of dealing with it effectively (the common subversive tactic: weak looking character has tremendous strength) and then got DECKED ON with one hit, showing that it was just shallow hot air he couldn’t back up.

And then he got credit for the work that Saitama did. (Albeit unintentionally.)

Not… the greatest first impression. I thought he was an overconfident guy who was playing hero, uncomprehending of the danger that he puts himself in for the sake of living in an idealised fantasy that since he’s the protagonist, since he’s the one with determination and a heart of gold, it’ll all work out. Him cycling towards the Sea King at full throttle, with him apparently not taking the hint from the Paradisers, drove that belief home to me even more.

(Wow, I sound like Garou here. :o…)

And then he launched into his spiel.

How he felt like he wasn’t good enough to take the promotion, how he knows, better than anyone, that he’s weak. That yes, he might not win- might even get killed for his fruitless efforts for it, but what matters is that he tries. Not because he feels like he can pull it off eventually, or that the monsters will submit to how ~brave~ he is, but because it’s just important to try in the face of overwhelming odds, if it means that others have a slightly better chance of surviving because of it. Willing to die just so others won’t, even when you’re dismissed as a weakling both in the present and after death.

And that made me doubt about what I thought of him.

It wasn’t until I saw him trying to convince TTM to leave Garou alone, trying to intervene when Garou attacked him, and getting his face smashed repeatedly into the concrete sidewalk for his efforts by the same man he tried to defend, that I was utterly convinced that Mumen was genuinely heroic.

This may be a little dark, but I have a feeling that Mumen’s sense of justice doesn’t entirely stem from his selfless nature, but also from feelings of worthlessness. That he goes above and beyond to be a hardworking hero because he feels he has no worth if he dares do otherwise. The Christmas extra chapter in the manga sort of sparked this belief for me. If Mumen’s sense of justice was purely selfless, he’d mention other options (e.g. Friends inviting him out, new bistro downtown, setting up a mini Christmas tree and treating himself to a nice present) and maybe consider injecting some time for himself for them, if not on Christmas day, then the day before or after. Instead, he says with a smile, that he’ll be patrolling the streets for danger with no allusion to his personal life. And that lingering suspicion still sticks to me to this day.

CHILD EMPEROR:

First impression? I didn’t think too much of him, because I didn’t have much reason to. Very little screen time in the early manga/anime didn’t get me to form much of an attachment or investment in his character.

But later on? I like him! A kid prodigy, but it’s made clear time and time again that he still has room to improve, and I’ve always been a big fan of personal growth and developing self-reflection/awareness in stories. The fact that he wasn’t a stuck-up brat who thought he knew everything, and (taking into account that he’s literally 10 years old) still had a great deal of growth ahead of him in terms of the technological and the personal…

Yeah. I’m definitely holding out my hope for seeing a side story dedicated to him.

If I had the luck to choose the idea for the plot, I would love to see what sparked his love for technology, his mishaps and successes and so-so’s when it came to developing his skills and his gadgets. I want to be able to see the people around him reacting with awe and confusion over this kid hurriedly drawing up complex diagrams on a chalkboard board for different ideas before they leave his mind, which gadgets he’s put the most work in, the most time on, and is proud of, and finally; if he had a snobby phase and is ashamed of it. Bonus points if he took a break from his work to read up on how to be more like a mature adult so that older people will take him more seriously outside of being an inventor.

SONIC:

I, uh… honestly don’t think too much of him? He never really stuck with me.

Conversely… I do, however, like the few times we get the spotlight shined on him. He’s a badass to watch, and I laughed and cringed when the infamous ‘accidental punch’ scene came up on my screen. Considering the fact that I watched the anime first before the manga, I wasn’t anticipating it at all.

Which makes me glad in this case! The animated scene feels way more impactful and memorable than the manga version. I felt the build up and the rapidly increasing dread rise in me as I saw Saitama’s fist slowly punch Sonic’s unmentionables. Animating the- ahem- impact of his punch done me in and seared that scene into my mind.

Hmm… I feel like Sonic’s a more rebellious version of Flash, whilst also having been influenced by him. The both of them enjoy taking care of themselves in more luxurious ways, with their glossy hair and refusal to be filthy or rough in any way (e.g. Flash taking good care of his hair in the shower, Sonic opting to cook the monster cells and serve them tastefully before eating them) but I feel like Sonic likes rebelling more outwardly towards how he’s been trained and conditioned as a ninja compared to Flash. He just gives off that vibe~

Expanding on that, I feel like he’s more self-reflective and subtle in his thoughts. Flash is sort of absorbed in his own business and narrow range of experiences (not that I’m blaming him: he’s a busy man) while Sonic is more rooted to reality, and is a little more mellowed out to show for it. In the audio CDs, he gains a new understanding of what Saitama is forced to go through and respects him more as a person than just a milestone to beat, and he overcomes his trauma of Saitama ‘punching him’ by accepting what happened and simply keeping the possibility of it happening again in mind; not to torture himself or blame himself for being ‘weak,’ but to acknowledge what he’s fearful of and accepting it, allowing him to move on.

FLASHY FLASH:

I was gunning hard for him to be a cold-blooded woman assassin who wants to look elegant and deadly at the same time. Femme fatale, minus the seduction.

I was a little disappointed when he turned out to be a guy, and more so when he riled up Metal Bat with his insults while telling them to cut it out (counter intuitive, but it wouldn’t have been so bad if I wanted to see that. But I didn’t want to see it so lmao-) so, apart from his cool character design, I was a little turned off in my investment in him.

I was hoping that they kept the name ‘Lightspeed Flash’ instead of Flashy Flash. Yes, I know that they’re pretty much the same in terms of meaning, but the former just sounds more dignified. Considering he’s a man who takes himself seriously in both his work and appearance, I feel like it’s more in character for him to suggest a hero name that sounds more impressive, but still shows that sort of silliness underneath when you look closely.

He gained back some of my respect for him when he directly told Tatsumaki off for stealing his kill and talking down on him. That takes mad guts and I was wondering which of the heroes are willing to risk a serious fight with her to prove that they’re not one to be trifled with.

(Metal Bat was a little different in that regard: at the time, I just saw him as another affectionate parody of the delinquent trope. Nice contrast to the rest of the older, calmer heroes, but a little generic.)

Flashy Flash… yeah. I feel like he’s willfully disconnected himself from the world both emotionally and socially. Not because he’s afraid, but because he thinks it’s useless. He’s already seen the worst of it thanks to his upbringing, so there’s no point in putting in effort to go out and explore just to discover what else is wrong with the world.

I also think that, like Tatsumaki, he feels more than competent on his own and believes doesn’t need any outside help or interference. Hence, anyone who doesn’t meet his personal standards immediately has their opinions and suggestions of him dismissed or not truly considered with respect. He thinks he knows what’s best, even when there’s opinions screaming that he’s not, because he doesn’t respect others that way.

KING:

OOF- Okay, I was actually pretty ambivalent about him.

I thought he was cool when he intimidated the Tongue monster into submission, then thought he was an egotistical, vain hero when confronted by the G4 monster, then thought he was a pitiful, cowardly man forced to flee out of necessity, and then thought he was an endearing puppy when he realized just who Saitama is to him.

And. Hm.

King is… a very genuine man. I like him. Like Mumen Rider, he’s willing to put himself on the line to protect others. What makes me a little conflicted is if he’s more, the same, or less heroic than Mumen.

More: He has absolutely nothing to defend himself with in terms of physical skills or strength. His luck is his only maxed out stat in the hero game he’s obliged to play, and he’d rather be left alone, but he still puts his life on the line to help others, even when he’s scared witless.

Less: He does have his awe inspiring, fear inducing reputation that can neutralise the monster threats more often than not, and is aware of this, using it to his advantage. So maybe he’s a little less courageous since he knows it will work in his favour more often than not.

My take on him… King strikes me as a good man. In a normal, monsterless world, he won’t be the kind who’ll fearlessly charge into battle against terrorists, or pull off any awe inspiring feats by himself by passing life saving legislations; this man isn’t interested in grand scale heroics and would rather support those who are interested and are good at it.

No, King strikes me as a man who wants to keep to himself and offer his sincere help to those who manages to become good friends with this shy man. He may be quaking in his boots at imminent danger, but he’ll still try to stand up for what’s right when someone else is being taken advantage of, even if he’s not entirely sure of what he’s doing.

AMAI MASK:

(RECENT WEBCOMIC SPOILERS!!)

I never cared much for Amai until now.

I can’t imagine anything more devastating than working yourself down to the bone to protect and give people hope, to cultivate others into what it means to be a true hero, only to realize the people you worked so hard for was just as hideous as you used to be. This man worked so hard, and him protecting the people he cared about wasn’t enough to deter them from reacting with horror and disgust. It wasn’t even five minutes until the first of his ungrateful ‘fans’ tried stoning him.

Thank God Saitama intervened… the look on his face after he was called a cool guy was both ugly cute and heart wrenching. He may have been called dreamy or inspirational by the adoring masses, but being broken down to the very thing that you’ve been ashamed and fearful of your entire life, and still having someone who sees you as someone worthwhile must’ve meant the world to Amai. He’s a monster, yes, but he kept a vice grip on his morals and never let them go, even when his grip on them was weakening with every breath he took.

I also liked the way that ONE written his rise to fame. The build-up and anticipation surrounding how he looked behind the mask, Amai himself being bitter over the vanity of the public, learning to accept it, and gradually became obsessed with embodying the symbol of justice- this time, where everyone can see it. But it wasn’t on his own terms, no; instead of being seen as the ugly but virtuous man before, he has to present himself as a handsome idol, instead of being loved and revered for who he truly is; ugly and all. That it’s not a defect.

And I felt pity for him when I realized that’s what happened.

My opinion and takes (interpretations) of him? He’s interesting, to put it lightly.

If I think more on it, I feel like he’s losing himself to his delusions. It’s ironic: someone focusing on saving the hearts of others, yet all they can see is themselves.

True to the series, Amai reminds me of Genos. Of what Genos would’ve turned out to be if he was kept alone with no one he can truly connect with. No one who can remind him of the sweeter things in life that don’t matter. No one you have a personal, deep connection with to return home to.

Amai strikes me as a man who’s so focused on eliminating evil that he sees it everywhere, no matter how small or large it is, or if it even exists. If someone doesn’t live up to his standards or sees what he sees, he immediately has this sort of insurmountable, unseen distance from them that can’t be easily crossed.

In all honesty, I’m intrigued and worried for him. Part of my indulgent ideas for him is that he’s slowly starting to hallucinate and had started monsterize from the inside for a long, long while, and it’s only by the Association’s dependence on him and his adoring fans that keeps preserving the man that he used to be when he was purely heroic, but hideous. And even then, it’s not enough.

I feel like he’s painted himself in a corner where he feels it’s too late to try and get help for his condition, instead desperately searching for someone who can take his place. He knows how important a symbol is, and if he had the choice, would keep it up as long as he lives, but his passion for it isn’t enough to drive off what he’s becoming.

And he was right.

ZOMBIEMAN:

I may have done Zombieman already, but I also realise that I’ve missed out on some things that I wanted to include~

In contrast to Amai, Zombieman strikes me as the type of guy who’s a sort of ‘Frankenstein’s Monster’ character. Unlike the book character, Zombieman is in a society that accepts, reveres, and adores him for all he does despite his questionable history and to what degree he is ‘human.’ He doesn’t seem to believe that what he is makes up for who he is, and anyone who thinks otherwise will earn his ire; but again, like Frankenstein’s monster, he knows it’s a part of him, and that it’s still a source of discomfort for him. He needs to get that skeleton out of his closet for him to truly enjoy life.

TATSUMAKI:

Honestly, I didn’t notice too much of her character until much, much later in the manga. Prior to that, I admired her ability to take care of the worst threats by herself. Soloist heroes and protagonists were always a soft spot of mine: learning to handle the worst of what life had to throw at you and being good at it, but not necessarily good at taking care of your emotional and mental wellbeing, confiding in others about that, and showing that it’s okay to be vulnerable or lost or flawed, and endeavoring to fix that?

Yesss. Good trope. One of my favorites.

So, what finally caught my attention from her?

Her fight with Psykos.

I was sort of seething with the way Psykos was chilling smugly in her underground lair. Her plan was smart, but the way she was so self-assured and the way she thinks she’s above others; human and monster alike, sipping wine all the while?

That irritated me a lot.

So, to see Tatsumaki rip her from her cozy room and into the fray of the battle, coercing her into spilling intel by twisting her limbs and body each and every way to force it out, and striking fear into her heart with that sadistic, predatory smile of hers?

I loved it. Whoo!

As for takes… I’m not sure if I have any on her to be honest! At least, not one that isn’t already canon. She believes that you shouldn’t rely on others to become strong, or to save you, and has lived up to that idea by herself. She can back up her words and I admire that.

I do feel a little sorry for her, considering what she’s gone through. As much as I agree with her, sometimes she can take it too far.

I was a little irked by her showing little to no concern for shielding her team mates from getting crushed underneath the rubble of a building, with Darkshine stepping in to protect them, but I suppose she had a point; you have to take care of yourself on the battlefield.

Still; her total lack of concern left me a little perturbed.

This was curbed a bit by her refusing to uproot the association until she knew Tareo was safe; I feel like that added more character to her in the manga, as opposed to the webcomic.

In conclusion: All of these characters are good. UoU! Murata and One are great writers, and they made them feel fleshed out and distinct from each other in almost every way possible whilst keeping them believable. And I love them for it. :3

#opm #tatsumaki #zombieman #flashy flash #child emperor #mumen rider #amai mask #king #sonic #headcanons

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hibibun · 4 years

Text

A Series of Wagers (2/3)

Series: The Magnus Archives Pairing: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas Summary: "An interesting gamble for one who consorts with The One Alone… up to something are we?”

"Wouldn't you like to know?" He throws back, face contorting into a facsimile smile that rings hollow despite the amusement that has to be there ghosting his lips.

Peter was right though. He did want to know. He always did. And if it weren’t for the mirage now obscuring that information from him, it wouldn’t be necessary at all. Frankly, it was interesting enough on its own that he was finding himself getting the attention now when this was hardly the first time they had met. It’s been a good night overall though, and he isn’t complaining about the game. There’s something surprisingly lively in the pale sea weathered man across the table he hasn’t seen from any of his family in a long time.

"And if I win?" Elias asks, even though he is already picking his cards from the deck.

Notes/Warnings: Canon Compliant, Time Skips, Mind Games, Canon-Typical Behavior, Blindfolds, Mentioned Past Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus, Bondage, Unhealthy Relationship AO3 CH1 - CH2 - CH3

Chapter 2: 2002 - 2011

DECEMBER 2002

While normally Elias has no issues in, and even to a degree, enjoys planning events it came as a relief to not be in charge of it this year. The end of the year is always a busy time between responsibilities to the Institute, its employees, planning the usual office party, and making sure every loose end was knotted off—nothing left lingering on his check list.

So it’s a bit of a reward when all is said and done. And despite their disposition, the Lukas family threw a good party. The venue contained plenty of spots to hide away, and after giving the necessary greetings to donors also attending, he’s able to find a nice view point from one of the tables at the top of the staircase, and comfortably watch the night unfold.

With the amount of catching up between those attending, it’s easy to glean a succinct summary of how everyone else spent the year. The things they admit, the things they think they should keep as a card up their sleeves. The tentative boundaries they draw around each other and where those alliances overlap or remain prickly as ever. Elias sits and watches them all, sipping at a flute of champagne.

It’s no surprise when Peter finds him, as usual not caring to properly announce his presence.

“Being a nosy voyeur again?”

“I believe I am allowed to enjoy a party in my preferred method. I don’t see you out there mingling either, dear,” Elias retorts, turning his gaze away from the crowds flittering down below to watch his partner steal a swig of his drink.

“That’s Nate’s job. Company head and all that—I’d rather be out on the water again, but…” He does a shrugging motion both in reference to statement’s obviousness, as well as a vague indication he was supposed to be here doing… something. Given his family was hosting, putting in an appearance that he promptly turned away from most likely.

Elias is already accustomed to this and only makes a mild noise of understanding without vocalizing that the concept didn’t seem so bad at the moment. He was feeling rather weary and in desperate need of a vacation himself, though with the length that the captain preferred to be out on the water, he doesn’t think that would be enjoyable. A weekend sounded nice though.

“I take that it was another year spent well isolated then? Certainly sounded like you had little to report.” There’s a thread of humor unsaid in how quite a few of his calls went unanswered, which spoke for itself well enough.

“Oh, nothing too strenuous, no. Did some spring cleaning of the crew; spent a couple months in València,” Peter looks wistful as he recalls it. As if by imagining it, he’ll be back in that Spanish seaside losing himself in crowds and drawing others to become just as lost. Not that Elias was peeking, much.

“Ah yes, I received your ‘care package’. Can’t say I’m too fond of potentially disease causing artifacts, but the Cuva Vella was nice to see.”

“I don’t have the same skill sets as your lot, so there’s no knowing if it’s really from the hospital they claimed, but it looked like a nice vase either way.”

“Well it’s in Artifacts now so…” Elias responds hiding how distrusting he feels in regards to the man’s true intentions, knowing for a fact it did have something attached to it. He, of course, is going to continue to feign disinterest—something he’s seemed to pick up as a reflexive instinct to match Peter.

“And here I was going to get you flowers,” The captain laments, though the sincerity of it is muddled behind a grin which appears to contradict his words. Elias doesn’t care to look to clarify for himself, and only answers him with an eye roll.

They stay the remainder of the party, out of sight and catching up themselves. Elias shares what gossip he feels like discussing, despite knowing Peter likely only cared to the extent of using the information to avoid as many extra conversations or meetings of his own. At some point, he must get sick of hearing about it though, and abruptly raises his head from the perch of his palm and suggests they leave.

It’s the free time Elias has to spare, he tells himself, beckoning him to follow Peter out into the night, leaving his own car to be picked up in the morning. The venue is closer to Kent and he knows they aren’t too far from the Moorland House, but isn’t surprised when it’s that same building Peter sometimes calls a home they arrive at instead.

They exchange coats and a chill settling in the room, an imitation of the past times they’ve been here—along with it, there’s an underlying hunger, once more waiting to spring free. He hadn’t been looking or expecting a longing to be there, and yet, after so many, many months apart, why wouldn’t it be?

They follow similar, yet different steps this time. Elias is more familiar with this place now despite only having been in it a handful of times before physically. He is a detail-oriented man. The model ships and carved wooden birds are still tucked away in corners meant to be dismissed. No new paintings aside from the empty coastlines he’s already seen—no doubt a gift from Simon if he detects something else alongside the strokes of that vast ocean captured in the frame.

It’s pleasant, the way Peter stares at him. Equally ravenous for what they no doubt came here for and for attention he doesn’t want to admit, all wrapped up with a lovely sheen of genuine discomfort at how deeply Elias is seeking out the person hiding behind this farce of a home. This room is nothing like the cabin he has never actually set foot into on the Tundra, and it is a place he doubts he will ever be allowed to visit.

No, this place is nothing to Peter. Merely, a place to sleep when he’s forced to anchor. A reluctant tie to society and its dregs, which Elias has happily helped wrap around his legs.

Something in his expression must have changed for Peter reaches out to him, a cold embrace at his back and an even colder kiss at his nape. He doesn’t turn to face him right away, enjoying the strange pleasantry. If he gets his way tonight, giving Peter this now is only fair.

“For a moment, I thought you were taking us back to the Moorland. Though, we are still a little ways off from an actual holiday aren’t we? You will take me there sometime, won’t you?” Elias asks, placing a hand over the one holding his side. They both know he isn’t talking about the house itself. Peter may not know it, but he remembers visiting Mordechai there—truly, it had more to do with that basement and what Peter felt about it than anything else.

“That eager to see? I keep telling you, if you accept my proposal—” He breathes, by his ear, amused until Elias twists around and cuts him off.

“And when exactly would we fit in this ‘wedding’? You’re hardly moored for long and I have an Institute to run. You always struck me as the type to remain engaged for as long as you could, so I would think this arrangement is far better than the alternative.”

Peter’s eyes darken, and it strikes Elias for the first time how deep those still waters really run.

“You… actually like the thought of it. You’d like to call me your husband,” He moves his hands up to cup the man’s cheeks, before delicately moving them down along Peter’s beard to play along his neck. His fingers trace down his pulse enjoying the rapid thoughts accompanying it.

“A connection of your own definition, but one none the less… Are you that worried I’ll leave you behind? Bit hypocritical don’t you think?” The smile he directs isn’t necessarily meant to be cold, but it is piercing in a way he knows is uncomfortable.

“Not really. I’m aware it wasn’t as common in your day, but anyone can get a divorce rather easily now. Marriage isn’t the contract you’re imagining it to be.”

“No, maybe not, but that’s all the more reason for me to wonder what it is you imagine it to be. You can ignore it all you want later, but right now you will look at me and tell me,” Elias starts, stilling his hand to hold at the back of Peter’s neck, keeping him in place to meet his eyes. He doesn’t have an Archivist’s compulsion, but he has intimidation and the invasive, burning reminder gripping tight into the pale man beside him that he cannot run right now.

“Peter Lukas, do you really want to marry me?”

For a man capable of having almost anything he could desire, arranging his life to be as self-indulgent as possible, it’s uncommon those desires ever actualize in the form of wanting another person. Someone so used to the world around him rejecting his existence that he’s learned to soak in it, and pretend he loves it, wearing it as a second skin. And maybe, to a degree he does actually love it. The utter and unabashed way you can love yourself when there isn’t a need to think about another soul in the world.

And that is why at the root of it someone like Elias is both perfect and terrible for him. Because he’s so afraid of being seen, it’s only natural the Eye would show interest. And Elias wishes to know him so intimately exactly because he hides. All the while, he can know with certainty that such a fascination is surface level, having very little to do with the fact it is Peter specifically he is showing interest towards.

It is why Peter spells all the justifications in the world for their relationship. It is why he can indulge in the easy nature of being seen, but not being cared for, until sometimes, it feels like he is wanted—like he wants and wants and will be denied. Abandoned once he’s been found because he knows Elias doesn’t hold on to anything for long. Besides bones that is.

“Yes,” is all Peter will admit to, impossibly small, but it reaches Elias and warms him in a way that he knows is more than just affection. He rewards the admission, stroking his cheek before learning up to kiss him properly. It doesn’t even occur to him immediately the words were never actually spoken, but plucked from the captain’s head.

There will be many nights where this doesn’t mean anything, but for tonight, there is a vulnerability Elias doesn’t know when or if he’ll have the pleasure of seeing again. In truth, there isn’t really a way they could right now, and he had never imagined himself a married man. Defining what they have would be too much for both of them, but making it a comfortable illusion confined to a ring that he doesn’t have to think about if he doesn’t want to is a preferable solution.

The kiss is chaste, and this time, it is him breaking away and walking to the bedroom, removing his clothes with a practiced patience, expecting Peter to follow suit. Peter flips from fidgety to irritated, finally catching onto what was just discussed, and Elias soaks in the emotions radiating off him hidden in the rustle of clothing. Without a word, he retrieves some coils of rope and lubricant from the bedside drawer, and simply waits and watches.

Peter’s second guessing why he brought him here and Elias is patient—the captain will come to his own conclusions in the end. Either way, Elias knows he will play into the game set up tonight and he only smiles when Peter finally lies on the bed. After a beat, he resigns and raises his arms to the headboard.

Methodically, Elias twines the rope around those presented wrists, and prompts Peter to test the tightness.

“Comfortable?” He asks, looking down. It’s just the ropes he is referring to here, and the flicker of a scowl he receives is indicative that at least Peter has accepted how things will go.

“They’re fine,” He answers him, muted and tense. It pleases him to see him restricted like that, such an easygoing man who usually was so fond of startling others looking instead so impossibly small for someone of his stature.

“Excellent,” Elias murmurs, tone light and notably excited. He stays on top of him, and resumes the languid kisses he’d intended to give before their conversation began. While Peter had been annoyed minutes prior, he can feel the interest in his prick as it hardens, bumping into his backside. He bites the pale man’s lower lip, feeling all at once a rush of cold air exhaled with a moan.

Elias begins to trail those kisses south. Unlike his partner, he prefers to not only take his time, but leave a lasting imprint. There isn’t any doubt who he’s with when it comes to Peter, no, but the man is so obsessed with giving just enough to make a person want more. A lingering note of dissatisfaction, enough to draw in that hungry voracious need for contact he feeds on.

For Beholding though, it is about the experience. About learning and cataloguing all those little things, people don’t even know about themselves necessarily until they’re in the act. Especially the things they don’t know—don’t want to show.

It’s unavoidable like this for Elias not to look. Once the captain is drawn in, feeling really comfortable, he opens that eye and takes a gander at just what marriage means for a Lukas like him.

When he looks, he sees shadows of people. More like impressions or ghosts really, and yet, all come together to welcome a new member. The Moorland House from the outside is about the same as he remembers it. A foggy almost forgotten place that only served as a temple and a tomb.

He sees dances where there is no feeling, stilted haunting music, and tables so far apart from one another that you’d think the room was empty even with the party clearly going on around them. Even the couple in question, once their vows and first dance finished are far apart from each other. As if they were strangers on separate sides of a dance hall—which perhaps, they were.

And that was the problem though wasn’t it? Elias isn’t meant for the Lonely—isn’t willing to truly join that family. Peter knows this. He knew it from the beginning and knew what he was getting into when approaching Elias with even the semi-serious notion of a date, but he’s comfortable with it. With maintaining the distance they already have, only with the facsimile promise of belonging that he could and would never truly have.

Truly what a heartbreaking notion that is so very pitiful and suiting of the situation. Something finally that Elias understands.

As he comes away from that, it’s written across Peter’s face with trails of unwanted salty tears, and etched into his heart. All Elias is doing is plucking away at scabs, poking at a raw gaping sore he never had any intention of soothing.

“Oh Peter,” Elias says softly, no real sense of comfort in his voice. He’s enjoying how far he can stretch this, and it’s with a reluctant, rare mercy he withdraws from the other place he wanted to see in that house. If he tries to look anymore, well, there won’t be anything left—and that wouldn’t be any fun, would it?

DECEMBER 2005

They never do marry. Even when a legal approximation could be considered, there are too many things, and good reasons, that stop it from ever happening. Still, in the end, Elias goes far enough to accept an engagement ring and they make believe it is real, knowing it isn’t just him who often removes it. Honestly, he’s more surprised Peter didn’t take this as a proper sign to simply end the game, not that he’s seen him for longer than necessary the past couple years. Whether that’s his attempt to instill that loneliness he’s so craving or… something else, Elias is too busy to care.

How do you love a man who has no ability to perceive it? Who, in fact, reflexively rejects every attempt at genuine affection?

Elias even hesitates to necessarily ascribe that much feeling to whatever it is their relationship has become. It has enough characteristics for the applicable term of lovers, but there is a history Jonah holds with that word, which has always had an underlying cruelty he can never seem to shake. The both of them do really.

He’s had lovers in the past. Strings of men who’d sing his praises until they saw the depths of him and either were in too deep to get away, or ran as far as they could. Peter was neither of these types of men. They were similar in such a way that it was both a relief and irritating. Men of their nature can attribute as many pretty words and intentions as they want to the way they treat each other, and he knows for as much as Peter can feel for him, what they share is mutual. Perhaps, it’d be better to say they tolerate each other.

Even if there are times that Elias wants to bridge that narrowing gap and see what else is lurking under the surface, he knows such a reality would never exist. And further that he cannot describe the feeling which draws him into wanting that as anything but the endless need to unravel that which does not want to be seen. An itch caused by mere fascination that could and would only end in painful tragedy. If he were a kinder man, maybe he could see himself comforting what he found behind that empty smile, but he knows himself too well. If he had his way, he would utterly destroy Peter and maybe regret it, but he knows he would still do so.

That is why he does not entirely begrudge the man his fleeing and disguises. The way he will run hot and cold and pretend so frequently that he could drift away at any moment, leaving Elias a forgotten memory. It’s his own way of dealing with it, and it’s fitting payback to only scratch at wounds Elias himself pretends don’t exist.

They don’t love each other so much as the idea of what it would be like to be with each other. A thing that in practice never quite turns out the way it’s played out in the imagination. A momentary lapse where it’s easy to pretend that affection is real, a relationship forged on understanding unperceivable to anyone else around them.

Someday, it’s going to destroy one of them—and Elias does not plan on it being him.

MARCH 2006

“Yes, Peter? I do believe this is the first time that you’ve actually been early to an appointment,” Elias addresses the now sudden form of his partner in the chair across his desk. He doesn’t look up from the stacks of department expenses he’s trying to catalogue and update to a budget’s spreadsheet, also laid out on the desk.

“I’m here to cash in a favor.”

“Right, my unfortunate guess regarding Mr. Rayner last year,” he starts, waiting on the captain to prod the conversation along.

“I’m not asking for much, just to give a little back you could say for a project of mine. Requires some specific construction, placing and people in mind, which that eye of yours would be just great for,” Peter explains, laughing at his own joke.

“Your project, yet my work, I see. I wasn’t aware you were looking for a secretary,” He muses, reading over the budget expenses from the research department as he listens. He had hoped to have this aspect of his day squared away before dealing with whatever it was his ‘husband’ wanted to talk about.

“Real estate agents and contractors are so annoying. You love talking to people though, so you’ll probably have a blast. And it’s not like I won’t be there—I have it all planned out, I just need to find the right people to do it. So all I’m asking is for you to do a little research, which is something this place does, is it not?”

“And will I be privy to this project, or will that be a secret for me to figure out?”

“Haven’t got a name for it yet, so no. It’ll be fun—certainly more so than the little experiment Fairchild’s gotten my family sucked into,” He sounds bored, maybe even a bit bitter at that.

“Oh? Right, I heard about that. Do wish I could see how well that will work, but with Mr. Rayner involved, it’s doubtful. Although, if they make it out, maybe I’ll see about them giving a statement.”

Peter shoots him a withering look over his priorities, but Elias ignores it. Luckily, the whole thing has nothing to do with him.

“It just seems like a waste overall.”

“Sometimes it’s about the quality, not the quantity.”

“Say that when you can fund your own Institute,” Peter quips back. There’s no arguing with that necessarily, but it is funny enough that Elias gives him a bemused smile not deeming it with a response.

“Well, I’ll let you know how thoroughly afraid whoever gets stuck up there is and we’ll decide on it later. Now, is there any sort of time table for this other juncture of yours?”

Peter hums, deciding finally to give Elias just a few more pieces to work with.

“Soon as possible, I’ll send over what I have in mind. I’m sure you’ve already heard the rumors, but a supposed extinction might be coming, so the sooner the better. While I’m at it, I’m also including that you won’t interfere when things kick off, but that’s to be assumed, of course.”

For all the rituals attempted over the years that Elias has witnessed, none of them—including his own first attempt—completely worked, so he really doesn’t have any intention of trying to ruin things. However, he also has been paying a little attention to what his current Archivist has been up to and knows that there’s always the chance she will do something. In that regard, perhaps it would be kind of him to give Peter a warning, but he doesn’t control and can’t consistently predict the things Gertrude Robinson deems necessary to handle. She appears to have her hands quite full with stopping other rituals, so for all he knows it will slip under the radar.

“Well, if it comes, it comes. You know I’d much rather watch and see what happens than make any effort to stop either you or any new power emerging. I’m simply curious as to whether it’ll be enough to do anything.”

“Right. Of course, you would say that.” Peter says, and it should bother him that he can’t quite tell what he means by it. Though, from the stare Elias is receiving that feeling is mutual. He has his own pieces being moved along right now and the coming of another power matters very little in regards to what he’s attempting to do. He, unfortunately, also just hasn’t found the right person for it, yet.

SEPTEMBER 2007

Time and technology has diluted it, but there is nothing quite like starlight on an open deck far, far away from any overpopulated, glaringly bright city. Such a sight almost makes Peter understand what it is that Simon sees, but it isn’t the Vast, which is capturing him right now.

It has been a rather bad year for Peter Lukas.

While he hadn’t done much more than provide resources and keep an ear out, the Daedalus experiment had eaten up a chunk of time and money that he couldn’t even feel arrogant about. His bet with Elias on that may have been won, but the man had seemed oh so indifferent to his other little project being ruined. They’ve spoken before about Gertrude and the type of woman she is—still the thought of having all his work tossed away over a newspaper article is infuriating and humiliating.

The waves of the Atlantic can never disappoint him, and for Peter that is a relief beyond measure right now.

There was no need to ask Elias if he knew. If Gertrude was set on it, she would have done it just based on the rumors being passed around, and of the indistinct and few impressions he’d garnered, even he likely couldn’t have done anything. No, what Peter really didn’t want to see was the absence of interest—a blank gaze, perhaps with a hint of that smile he always held, which further spelled dubiousness. He isn’t even sure why it feels vaguely like a betrayal on Elias’s part when technically he hadn’t done anything. When did that start to bother him though? It should be a comfort, a reminder.

Peter watches the waves idly lap at the side of the Tundra and wonders what changed. Moonlight faintly glints off the ring on his finger, and he imagines throwing it into the ocean.

Alone, he can gaze at the stars and the moon and feel at peace knowing there is no one else to share this sight with. No one else he would want to share this sight with. He sailed over eight thousand kilometers away from the one person who he might have considered wanting to share it with, and he’s not entirely sure just when it will be that he returns.

JULY 2011

Vardø, Norway

Peter stares at the phone buzzing on the hotel’s nightstand, wondering once again what possessed him into getting one, let alone keeping it on his person. Convenience in this era often requires time specific urgency, he supposes, but it still didn’t have to be something he liked, let alone abided. As such, when he sees the caller ID as none other than Elias Bouchard, he has half a mind to ignore it. It wouldn’t be the first time, and whatever it was he wanted to talk about could easily be contained to a voice mail.

So he lets it ring. He turns another page in his book, but instead of the notification of a waiting voicemail, the phone lights up once more. Elias is still calling and that is new.

With a sigh, he picks up. Unsurprisingly, the man doesn’t start with any pleasantries. He must know that since Peter has actually decided to answer, he doesn’t have long.

“You’ll still be in Vardø for a few more days correct? I need a favor.”

“Maybe. Depends on exactly what you’re asking for?” Peter complains, shuffling the phone to better squeeze between his ear and shoulder. If he can tune his sometimes husband out well enough, maybe he can still focus on his book. He’d long stopped bothering to chide the other man for keeping an eye on where he is, so he wasn’t planning to even ask how he knew.

“I need you to pick up Ms. Robinson and one of her assistants in Dikson. They need a lift to Zemlya Sannikova, and I figured you would be in the area and have a working vessel.”

He barks a laugh because while he understands, the request is ridiculous.

“Oh you are something else, Elias. Exactly why should I do this favor for you, let alone her? You’ve already racked up quite a debt with me already.”

“Because dearest, you might also want to ensure that the Distortion doesn’t get its way. Of course, if you’d like to exist in that kind of world, who am I to stop you? I’m sure knowing her, there’s another plan up her sleeve, but I figured why pay the extra expenses for a ship when I have you.”

He frowns reflexively at that wording. It isn’t necessarily that he doesn’t like the notion—the implicit possession they both hold of each other and the ease with which that label doesn’t have to mean anything. Peter himself was a firm believer of absence making the heart grow fonder and steadfastly pushes that to its brink, finding the delightful way Elias tries to pretend like he didn’t miss him at all when they next meet. He also ignores the fact that sometimes it was actually true.

“Hm, so you won’t be paying for the fuel needed to get there and back? What payment should I expect then?” Peter’s voice dips at that, finally finding some ground in this conversation that feels comfortable.

There’s a shift of clothing barely audible on the other side of the phone. A pause and he can almost see the calculating and playful smile on Elias’s face.

“Hurry back and you’ll find out.”

The phone call ends before he can answer, and it’s a strange, vaguely defeated sensation caving into his chest at the prospect of returning. Of seeing whether Elias felt anything by his absence and if that will sustain him or preparing for Elias to try and take something else from him.

Doing what he does best, Peter simply shuts the phone off entirely and returns to his novel.

Dikson, Russia – Arctic Sea

A few days later, he finds himself docking at the port town Dikson. Gertrude is waiting with someone who must be the assistant Elias mentioned, flitting and looming around her as if he can keep the blustering winds from reaching her. What really gets Peter about the sight is that he is the one who looks like he could be flattened at any moment, wild blonde hair lashing about almost as bad as his fretting. He doesn’t make an effort to greet either of them though, and merely goes as far as indicating the Tundra is here and ready. He leaves the settling of their new cargo to his crew and returns to his cabin.

Gertrude surely knew where they were heading as that had been another aspect to the fun chat he’d had with Elias, which hadn’t come up. Zemlya Sannikova doesn’t actually exist.

It isn’t until they’re further out to sea, still at least another day away from nearing their supposed destination, does he take to checking in. Night has fallen and everyone is either where they’re supposed to be or trying to fade into the background as best they can. Neither of these things concern Peter as he walks the deck of his ship. The ends of his navy scarf are trying to whip away from him and absentmindedly, he considers replacing it soon. Another gift from Elias that he didn’t actually dislike, but it was getting old.

The cold of the Arctic is familiar, albeit bordering the edge of just too much. Certainly, too much for anyone else on board, which makes it regretful he can’t stay there himself. He doesn’t remain above deck as long as he might if they were anywhere else, and instead hides himself back below.

Despite all the maps stored in Peter’s cabin, sure enough when they reach the spot Gertrude directed them to, there is an impossible island in front of them. He idly watches the pair bundle up twice as much, her assistant fails in trying to take the backpack’s weight for Gertrude and Gertrude… she simply looks at him with those eyes again. They’re worse than Elias’s stare, he decides.

“We won’t be long,” she assures, voice hard. And soon enough, he can’t see either of them anymore.

The perverse urge to abandon her here hits him, but he had already agreed to the favor and heads back to his cabin to wait out however long her business will last. One or two of his crew express interest in looking for themselves and he has to send them off to do something else, wondering if he misread them that badly. No one aboard should care about what’s happening on that island that cannot and yet does exist.

He waits in his cabin and scratches down on one of the maps about where they must be. It isn’t really with any intention of returning—he has no interest in the Spiral.

Eventually, Peter directs his gaze to the necklace he’d received almost a decade ago, hanging on his cabin's wall and left uncovered for their little trip. He assumes Elias would want to watch—be there in his own way. Yet, as he always knows, the captain remains alone. He is intimately aware of how Elias's eyes feel when weighing upon him, and as such hates that he is relieved and disappointed when it is missing.

London, United Kingdom

Elias is distracted. He had every intention of watching while going through the motions of interviewing new employees, but he is floored by the young man taking the seat across his desk. It is not so much that he finds himself incapable of multitasking like he usually would, but oddly that he doesn’t want to.

A gift dropped right in his office is very hard to ignore. And he is a gentleman first and foremost, knowing that the Mother takes priority over his passing fancy and wayward Archivist. Someone already marked by the Web and yet still just as painfully curious despite the event. He observes it all and hopes this one works out. That he has finally found his Archivist.

“I think you’ll fit in quite well here at the Institute, Jon.”

By the time he looks back to the Tundra, it’s over. Gertrude has returned to the ship leaving another assistant to an unfortunate end, and Peter is engrossed in a book, looking utterly indifferent even with the eyes he must feel directed on him now.

Reluctant as the captain was initially, the favor is done. And after Gertrude is dropped off back in England, their meeting is brief. He doesn’t join him this time or take Elias up on what he’d had in mind, however vulgar he had implied it over the phone. Truly, Peter doesn’t really want to be there at all. There’s a hollow smile in the way he says perhaps next time, and leaves again. The lingering chill eats away at him more than he expects, but at the same time, it feels different.

He wonders if his husband will ask why he wasn’t watching earlier, or if he even noticed. He wonders with all that heavy, cold nothingness expanding ever so slowly between them, if Peter has taken his ring off.

He wonders why he doesn’t check. END NOTE: entirely want to give inspiration credit to the imagery of the wedding scene and the moorland house in particular to a Very lovely fic a glass essay which made me realize how much i actually like peter? if you are reading this and have not read it i Highly recommend it, the characterization and atmosphere are absolutely incredible.

#writing #writing: tma #pairing: lonelyeyes #character: elias bouchard #character: jonah magnus #character: peter lukas #jonah magnus #elias bouchard #peter lukas #lonelyeyes #peterelias #pt 3 will come sometime soon!!! busy w some other projects but \ o /

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momoiina · 5 years

Text

Only One Month: Ch. 6

Chapter Six: The Blue Takes Her

Author’s note: the last chapter! :O I hope you enjoy!!

The last week of their arrangement comes with rain and foggy landscapes. After the soccer match the week before, Boruto has been doing the utmost to make it up to Sarada, taking her to restaurants and filling up her free time with as much laughter and warmth as possible. This time, however, Sarada has insisted on planning the whole thing. She finally wants to take it to the next level with Boruto.

Whenever she suggested during the past weeks to move to something further than just making out, Boruto stalled. The first time, she assumes, it was because of Chocho being next door and she doubts Boruto would like to sleep with her or stay the night if Chocho is sitting on the other side of the wall, listening.

The other time, his teammates could have come in any second – and while it had frustrated her, she also had to admit that he had been right.

This time will be different though. Chocho is at her parents’ home, away for the break, and Sarada had the dorm to herself. Boruto will come over by 3 pm, so by 2 pm, Sarada has cleaned the house, showered and cooked a meal for the two of them. She also manages to find her best underwear and a pretty dress to wear on top. The lasagna she made is ready to be served and only needs to be reheated quickly in the microwave.

But it turns out, Boruto is late, because by 3:30 pm he still hasn’t arrived and Sarada is starting to get anxious. Either she has gotten ditched by him or something happened and he cannot make it to her.

Retrieving her phone from her bag, she types in a quick message.

You: Hey, where are you? Everything alright? We had a date at 3, remember? Sent: 3:34 pm

Boruto: No I haven’t forgotten! How could I forget you? traffic is just shit Sent: 3:45 pm

You: So you’re on your way? Good! I put on a nice dress, just for you! ♥ Sent: 3:46 pm

Boruto: Yeah, I’ll be there in ten Sent: 3:56 pm

Sarada knows ‘the traffic’ isn’t shit at this time of the day, the most traffic flows away from her house during this hour, but she doesn’t mention it to him in another text. Instead, she beings to pace anxiously across her bedroom. He sounded distant, she thinks. Why does he sound so distant? It took minutes to reply to her when usually he would reply on the spot. Maybe he hasn’t left the house yet and is just looking for an excuse so she won’t get angry with him?

Now that seems like Boruto, but he’s never been late to any of their dates. He’s been punctual, always there on point, never a minute late. Their dates had been too important to him to be late – or at least that’s what she thought.

For a terrifying moment, Sarada firmly believed that whatever evolved between them in the past weeks only existed in her head, but she knows this to be an untruth. There’s no other way.

And just like he said in his messages, ten minutes later Boruto appears at her front door, dressed casually. When she leans in to hug him, he lacks of the scent of his aftershave, the one that she likes so much. This, too, confuses her. He’s always made sure to smell nice for her these past weeks, even at university.

She likes this scent.

“Well, you certainly took forever. The food is all cold I bet,” Sarada tells him.

“You cooked for me?” His eyes widen as if her cooking for him surprises him. “What did you cook?”

“Lasagna. With feta cheese and garlic. I’m sure you’ll like it. Come in,” she replies, taking his jacket and hanging it nearby the door. He looks around and Sarada gets the sensation that he feels lost. He looks lost.

“Is everything alright?”

His eyes snap back to her and he manages an easy smile. She sees through the face mask with ease.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Sarada puts both her hands onto her hips and tilts her head to the side, eyes shrewd. “Somehow, I don’t believe you. You look like something bad happened. You can talk to me, you know?” she says before leaning towards him gain with friendly demeanor.

For a second he hesitates and her stomach drops about ten feet below. Quickly her mind skims over every bad thing that could have happened in the last twelve hours. There are no traces of tears on his face, no red cheeks. He hasn’t cried and Boruto – despite trying to come off as extremely manly and collected – is the type to cry when upset, depending on the situation.

“Is Chocho in her room?” he asks, scratching his head.

“No,” Sarada replies, “she has returned home to her parents for the break. She won’t be back for another two weeks.”

“Ah,” Boruto says, but doesn’t elaborate. The silence is heavy in the room, like a third person who is watching them with accusing eyes, every little breath is loud in her ears.

“So…do you want to have dinner or not?” This time, Sarada’s voice has no playfulness, just a factual tone. She demands an answer, Boruto must know this, his behavior is too strange to be excused without a reason.

“I can’t stay.”

“You…what? Why?” Her voice is a tone too high even to her own ears.

His shoulders sag, suddenly he looks exhausted, years older than mere 23 years. When he looks at her, his eyes are still the same blue shade that she has spent years looking at. Blue like the sea, blue like the sky during its best hours, blue moon. But there is something else too, it takes her a moment to understand it.

Looks like…fear.

“I can’t stay with you.”

Sarada stops herself from flinching, even blinking, her hands falling loosely down her sides, limp and useless. There is no feeling left in her fingers, her hands, her arms. There is a sudden disconnect between her, her body. Between her and Boruto. She doesn’t see the blue in his eyes anymore, his face is engulfed in the dark of the fleeting evening sun.

She bites down on her tongue by accident, almost choking and then swallows her saliva.

Tastes like…gun metal. She doesn’t like this taste.

“Wha-What do you mean, exactly?” she whispers. With the silence so heavy in the air, Boruto must hear her clear enough.

“I just can’t do this anymore, alright? The dating. It’s just…it’s no good for me anymore, you know? I mean…” Boruto wants to explain but when Sarada steps closer he trails off. Her body still is not connected to her brain, to the now new and all-consuming reality.

“What exactly do you mean with ‘no good’?”

He has enough shame to lower his eyes and stare at his feet as he explains. “I just can’t take this anymore. Dating you was good and all, but I don’t have the endurance to continue this-“ he motions between them with his fingers as if she cannot understand “- anymore. I, uh, I guess I am sorry for wasting your time.” Boruto grimaces as he looks into Sarada’s eyes. She isn’t crying, not yet at any rate, but she is confused and hurt.

Her brain tries to make her come up with a variety of curses or demands that Boruto needs to follow, but her body isn’t hers at the moment. She can only stare at the boy in front of her. When she doesn’t try to talk to him anymore, it seems he figures that he said all he needed to say.

He doesn’t leave a trace as he leaves her dorm, only the car’s engine roaring, first still near, then further and further away from her until she only hears her own breath. His feet do not leave prints behind, nor does his scent linger. Sarada supposes that without the cologne his scent just isn’t that strong perhaps.

Not strong enough to stay with her at any rate. She misses his scent.

The disconnect between her mind and her body comes to a stop in sudden waves. At first she lifts her hands, watches them tremble, then her mind catches up with her legs and she sinks to the floor. With a thud she is on her knees, ready for a prayer, but her voice does not yet come to her.

Next are her lungs, filling with air, bigger and bigger until her breath shudders. At first a sigh, then a sob, followed by a second one. Tears spill over the brim of her eyes and fall to the ground as she shakes without control. Faintly, she can make out noise from the outside world. Has it begun to rain outside as well? Or is it just her, raining by herself, on the ground, knees and hands almost ready for a prayer to save herself?

The last thing to return to her is her voice.

“Oh God,” she cries, all by herself, not praying, but cradling herself, “Oh God, he left, he really left.”

She lets her head sink onto the wooden floor, her body rushing forward and spilling over the floor in one single, fluid wave. As she holds herself together, holding herself to not spill over, she does not pray to anyone.

She lets the blue take her.

----

One, two, three, four, five, six – with a single, solid punch he manages to push the bag as far away from him as possible. In those movies the super heroes always manage to punch these sandbags down and into a wall, but that is not reality. Or maybe he just isn’t a hero.

It’s been three days since he broke up with Sarada and he is still miserable because of it. Not that he expects this to change very soon, but the constant heartache is enough to make him want to punch something other than a bag.

“Your aim is getting sloppy, Boruto. Are you thinking about Sarada again?” The tone in Mitsuki’s voice is not mean or cruel. It is matter-of-fact, no feelings attached. Still, Boruto wants to punch him for even saying her name. It’s hard enough to think about her, worse if he has to talk about her. Mitsuki had been the one to find him crying in his room, alone and miserable. Mitsuki didn’t ask any questions besides the bare minimum and just made Boruto watch a movie with him. Boruto was glad for the distraction, but it didn’t help.

He is already terrified of the beginning of the next semester. How will he deal with Sarada looking at him from now? Will she look at him at all? The thought is unbearable, too painful to even think about and so he pushes the thought out of his head with every punch he takes at the bag.

He and Mitsuki train for another 10 minutes before another figure enters the gym behind him and he can immediately tell who it is, just by the figure and vague hair. Chocho is making her way across the floor, right to him.

As if he doesn’t feel bad enough already.

“Boruto!”

Before turning to her he wipes the sweat from his forehead and takes a sip of water, better to brace himself on the inside for what is about to come. He doesn’t look at Chocho, but she doesn’t need any cues to start talking to him.

“I can’t believe you would do this, I just cannot. I thought you were going to be good for her, but really, you’re just one big disappointment! I should have never encouraged her to go out with you! I should have tried to get her to date anyone but you!” she yells, while a few other people stare them down from across the room.

“Chocho, can you please lower your voice?” Boruto bites back. Talking about Sarada makes his heart ache and he doesn’t want to break down in the middle of the gym.

“NO! I CANNOT!”

Her voice is loud enough to create an echo and Mitsuki comes around and places a hand on her shoulder with a smile. “How about we calm down and you talk to Boruto in a lower voice – people generally tend to listen more when they do not get yelled at.” For a moment, Chocho looks like she is going to murder Mitsuki, but then she just turns around, exhales in the most dramatic way and looks at Boruto again.

“You really broke her heart,” she begins to explain, “do you know that? That was so incredibly cruel of you, I can’t believe it. I thought you were better than this.”

“I don’t think I broke her heart,” he retorts. “She looked surprised when I left but otherwise she looked alright. She didn’t even ask me to stay or anything, you know?”

“Because she was in shock! She told me everything, about the nice evening she had planned for you two, the food, everything!” Chocho gestures with her arms. “And you just dumped her! What kind of behavior was that? I thought you’re in love with her?”

Heat lights up in his chest and the pain it creates is like white fire on bare skin. “Of course I love her, you know I do, everyone knows I do because I am a big blond idiot.” Boruto bites on his molars to cause himself from saying other, more personal things, things that are none of Chocho’s or Mitsuki’s business.

“The question was if she was in love with me. Yes, she might have liked going out with me but she could have still dumped me.” And I wouldn’t have been able to bear getting dumped by her, he thinks. I would have never recovered.

“You didn’t know if she was in love with you too?” Chocho voice drops to an angry whisper. “Whoa, you’re really dumb. I expected more of you.”

“Well, yeah, and what did you expect of me?” he replies with biting sarcasm.

“I expected you to notice that she prepared an entire date night with you. I know that she tried several times to initiate sex with you – and you refused.” She sounds like she is explaining the obvious.

“She wanted to go all the way with you and you were the one that didn’t go along. Are you shy? Or why are you behaving like this?”

“That is so none of your business.”

“I know it’s not! But what I know for a fact is that Sarada is at home, bawling her eyes out and she was so devastated she called me to come take care of her even though I was on a break from school with my parents.”

She’s crying, fuck, he hates it when she cries. Sarada doesn’t cry a lot, she bears most hurdles in life with a stoic attitude, but it has happened before that he witnessed her breaking down and cry. He’s hated people crying since he was a boy and old enough to become protective of his little sister. As a big brother he’d naturally taken on the role of a protector, but Himawari would sometimes cry nonetheless. Somehow, Sarada crying is different and at the same time worse.

Because I make her unhappy, he tells himself in silence.

“Fuck, I mean, I didn’t want to disappoint her with that cancelled date, I really didn’t mean to, it’s just…I just can’t go there with her. All the way. She’s not really my girlfriend, I just can’t.”

Opening himself up only to be dumped in the end isn’t in his plans, he wouldn’t recover. So better to get this over with sooner than later.

“She’s not disappointed about the date, she is disappointed you dumped her!”

“Huh?” The world suddenly spins around him and he has to take a step back. What Chocho just said doesn’t make sense to him. On a certain level he understood what she said, word by word, but he cannot make out the actual meaning.

Why would Sarada be disappointed – unless she had planned to continue dating him of course. But would she really do that?

“How do you know this,” he asks her. “How can you be sure?”

“Because I have known my best friend for most of her life.”

And just like that, he takes off with a dead run, Mitsuki calling after him, “Is our training session cancelled?”

“It better be.”

Yeah, he’s got something else to do right now, he has to get his girl back.

The drive over to her place is painfully long, in spite of him driving well over the tempo limit. If he gets caught by the police, his driver’s license is done for and his father is going to take away his car too. Plus, whatever fee he’d receive would bite him in the ass as well. He’d like to call her while driving to make sure she doesn’t leave the house, but he’s not quite that lax about breaking the driving laws.

He turns into her street still sweaty from his workout, but now with a fierce determination instead of dreadful anxiety fueling him. He wastes no time checking his appearance, it’s useless now at any rate. He’s sweaty, still in gym clothes and he hasn’t shaved this morning so his chin is covered in blond stubble.

At first he thinks that she may really not be home, but then his ears pick up on her light steps behind the door and he starts to grin as she opens the door for him.

“Hey…” he begins, but cannot finish his sentence. Her face is blotchy and she isn’t wearing her glasses. Her eyes are red enough to let him know that yes Chocho didn’t lie. Sarada has been crying. The guilt takes physical form inside his guts with painful stabs.

“Hey.” Her face is somber, not smiling or friendly. She’s really hurt.

“I came back.”

“Yeah,” she whispers, “I can see.”

He scratches his chin before leaning in. “Can I come in? It’s easier to explain with privacy, you know?” She doesn’t reply and just lets him slip past her into the hall.

“I’ve come back because Chocho talked to me just about 25 minutes ago. She was hella mad at me.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s typically Chocho.”

“And what she told me really got me thinking and, yeah,” he says, cheeks red, scratching his whiskers again. His prior fierce attitude vanishes with each passing second. He sighs, “Anyway, I want to apologize to you. I owe you an apology for dumping you and I was wondering if you’d hear me out.”

Sarada simply shrugs with a quick motion; he takes this as a yes.

“I know I am stupid, sometimes at the very least. And when you and I got a thing, I was so happy, but the more we went out, I don’t know, the more attached I became. And with each passing date I thought about the end of our deal. I assumed you would dump me.

“And you see, I’m also a coward, often enough at least. So I decided to dump you before you could do it to me. But really, I didn’t want to dump you, I wanted to continue what we had!” He uses his hands to gesture wildly and hopefully make her understand at least a tiny bit of what he wants to express.

“And I guess, what I want to say is, what I need to say is, that I am really in fucking love with you. Have been for a while. Dumping you out of fear was dumb and I wish I hadn’t done it.”

He looks into her eyes, eager to receive an answer but she keeps looking at his hands. Sarada is motionless and white, even soundless.

Please say something, please just say something.

But she doesn’t speak, instead she wraps two arms around herself and begins to cry again.

“Oh, no, please don’t cry.” Without hesitation he engulfs her with his arms, pulling her against his chest in a gentle embrace. “Did I do something wrong again?” She shakes her head and sniffs, then buries her face in his chest.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong now. I’m so glad you’ve come back to talk to me,” she whispers, pressing her nose against the fabric of his shirt and inhaling. “These past three days were awful. I don’t want you to leave again.”

Boruto chuckles and kisses the top of her head. “I don’t plan on leaving you again.” Not so soon if he can manage it.

“You’re sweaty though,” she mumbles and they laugh in union and Boruto squeezes her even tighter. “Yeah, I worked out before I got here.”

“Oh yeah? Well then you need to take a shower.”

They both look at each other and this time Boruto doesn’t pull away. Instead he dives deep and kisses her, first softly, then with more depth until they both forget about the past awful days.

“Also,” Sarada begins to tell him as they head towards the bathroom, “in case you haven’t noticed yet. I want to take a shower with you because I want you whole. All of you, entirely. Because I also love you.”

He smiles and pulls her closer again, for one, two kisses, because after only one month, this is all he ever wanted.

#oom #ff:only one month #borusara #boruto #sarada #fanfic

72 notes · View notes

ikesenhell · 5 years

Text

Admissions

Again., Chapter 6–a collaboration by myself and @a-shout-to-the-void AKA Vaya. You can find all other IkeSen works of mine here, and Vaya’s here. NOTES: HERE WE GO AGAIN.

He hated to admit it, but Mitsunari was right. Something about this case didn't add up. They lingered in the office, pouring over the smallest details of the dossiers.

“So.” Mitsunari cleared his throat, those purple eyes wide and serious. “They still haven’t found the daughter.”

Ieyasu just grunted. No point in acknowledging it. In the timeframe of the murder, it would have been impossible to hide a child. They both knew it.

“I got some interesting records.” He flopped another file onto the table. “The child--sorry, Renée Ailes--she’s been having problems with her mother for a while.”

“Yeah?”

“Apparently. Police interviews with the girl’s friends indicate that they’d get into fights and she would come stay at their houses regularly. It’s unclear over what just yet. And then, the week before the disappearance, she made a bunch of withdrawals from her savings account.”

“Savings account?” Ieyasu echoed, huffing a laugh. “What, did she have $20 in it?”

Mitsunari blinked. “The withdrawals total somewhere around two thousand.”

“What!? How does a high schooler have that much money? I didn't even have a bank account!”

“No?” Mitsunari looked utterly confused. “I think I had--”

“Right, your family is rich. So is theirs.” Ieyasu scowled and flapped the folder shut. “Anything else?”

“Report says there’s a boyfriend. Of the daughter, I mean, not the mother. He’s twenty-two. Jacqueline Ailes claims to have no knowledge of him.”

They both paused. Ieyasu inhaled slowly. “He’s been interviewed, right?”

“Yeah. He claims to have no information. He says he hasn’t had any contact with her since the night she disappeared. And,” Mitsunari continued, brow furrowed. “No warrant was issued for his home. That’s all the information we have about him.”

Nothing about this was adding up. Ieyasu rearranged the pieces over and over again, struggling to find where they all fit. God. Maybe someone else could make sense of this, but he was just a lawyer, not a detective. The longer they looked at the evidence, the murkier it became.

“There’s something wrong here,” Mitsunari murmured. “I don’t like it.”

“I hate it when you’re right,” Ieyasu grumbled.

The other man shot him a silvery, sweet smile. Ieyasu’s heart almost beat out of his chest. How could the man make everything look handsome? “I’d try to be wrong more often, but I don’t think you’d like that, either.”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t.”

“Well then.” Mitsunari beamed; all of Ieyasu’s blood tangled and quickened at the sight. What had gotten into him? “Shall we make do with what we have in the meantime?”

“Guess we have to.”

---

For once, the pair found themselves sitting in the gallery of a courtroom the next morning. Around them, clusters of people volleyed whispers as the prosecutor settled back into his seat. Ieyasu couldn’t see his face, but the way the man tilted his chair onto its back legs and rocked felt too confident, too assured, and it irked Ieyasu. Probably some hotshot fresh into the office. Typical.

At least Williams would be offering the closing defense. That was sure to be tolerable, if nothing else. She rose from her seat with the kind of flame in her eyes that Ieyasu had never seen--a zeal that radiated off her and to the balconies like a Valkyrie.

“Oh,” Mitsunari murmured, his eyes wide. “Oh.”

“Over and over again throughout this trial, we’ve heard the prosecution present pieces of evidence that they believe condemns my client. Their language was clever, I must admit. ‘If we believe,’ ‘anyone might think,’ ‘under these circumstances.’ The prosecution has spun pretty words to distract the jury from the reality of their evidence: it’s circumstantial. There is not a single piece of evidence that definitively puts my client within a mile of the murder at the moment it happened. There is not a single piece of evidence demonstrating a clear motive.

“No, instead what we have here is what we see all too often in a courtroom: a prosecutor brought a flimsy case against a man from a disadvantaged community, assured in their belief that the jury they’d so carefully selected would be led astray by cheap theories and empty words. But that was their mistake. There is only one truly just outcome today, and it is the freedom of my client. An innocent man’s life is in the hands of the law. Use it well.”

The jury returned a verdict in less than ten minutes. “Not guilty” were the last words the head juror spoke before the entire courtroom erupted in thunderous applause.

Somehow in all the commotion, she saw them. Smiling from ear to ear, she pressed through the crowd, letting her client remain with another staffer. “Hey!”

“Hello!” Mitsunari nearly glowed. “Excellent work. You really did a phenomenal job.”

“Thank you.” She let her twists down from the tight bun, peering at Ieyasu with a teasing grin. “Find any fault with me, senpai?”

“Senpai?” Ieyasu repeated, staggering over his thoughts. “No. You--that was just fine. You did alright.”

“Ooh, high praise. Well, thank you.” And she shot him a wink. “Either way, I wanted to say thanks to you both for getting me home the other day. It really saved me. I was a bit tanked.”

“To say the least.”

Mitsunari shook his head. “It was nothing. We were happy to make sure you got back safely. Nothing happened?”

“No. Someone came on the L train to preach, but, y’know. L train.” Williams cast an eye back at the swelling crowd and offered them both a conspiratorial smile, sending shivers through Ieyasu’s body that he couldn’t entirely attribute to respect. “I have to go. Someone needs to do this press conference. I’ll see you both soon--outside of court, hopefully?”

“Hopefully.” Mitsunari shook her hand.

“Yeah,” Ieyasu muttered, and she fixed him with such a dazzling, gleaming smirk that he almost recanted all his sourness. “Probably. Probably soon.”

“Oh? I’ll hold you to that, Tokugawa. Cheers!”

She sauntered back into the crowd. Ieyasu ripped his eyes from her legs and cleared his throat. “Come on. Let’s go.”

---

They did meet again. Mitsunari hadn’t expected it to be so soon afterward. Fortunately for him, he and Ieyasu were both on a run to the local coffee shop when they saw her in the packed, cramped line. She looked resplendent in the sea of black coats, her bright yellow one sunny and warm in the New York bustle.

“Here!” She called, motioning to them. “I saved us a place!”

Ieyasu shot Mitsunari a questioning glance.

“I didn't know you’d set up a coffee visit with Williams,” Mitsunari guessed, as confused as his partner.

“I didn't,” Ieyasu answered, but pressed forward anyway, jostling his way between grouchy pedestrians. Never one to turn down a good social event, Mitsunari followed, apologizing to every pushed passerby with a smile. That seemed to smooth them over. Finally they got to her corner, and she welcomed them with open arms.

“I didn't know we were meeting!”

Williams just winked at Mitsunari. He marveled at the way she made warmth spread clear to his toes. She had that same strange, unquestionable power that Ieyasu had. No doubt everyone felt this way around her. “I didn't think you guys came here.”

“Better than Starbucks,” Ieyasu grumbled. “Though usually they aren’t this damn crowded. What gives? Did everywhere else run out of beans?”

“Dunno--oop!” Someone next to her elbowed her. She jostled forward into the two of them, who caught her at the same time. “Sorry, sorry--”

“It’s fine--”

“Don’t worry! It’s nothing--”

Amidst the scent of roasting coffee and mocha, the sweet, lingering smell of honeysuckle swirled around them. Both he and Ieyasu paused. Was that her? Mitsunari parsed through the options and immediately realized it was--the perfume was woven into every twist of her long hair.

“Are you wearing that perfume?” Ieyasu asked, as if reading Mitsunari’s mind. “Honeysuckle?”

“Yeah.” She pet her hair sheepishly. “I’m fond of it. When I was a kid growing up in the south, the summers smelled like honeysuckle, so I got attached to it. We had some in the backyard with the morning glories.”

“I recall that!” Mitsunari jumped in. “When we summered in the Cape, there was some growing out back. It’s a wonderful, mystical kind of smell.”

Ieyasu and Williams both shot him looks--one flat, the other teasing.

“Summered in the Cape?” Ieyasu stared. “Could that be a bougier sentence?”

Williams barely restrained her giggles. “Extremely bougie. ‘Summered’. He said ‘summered’.”

“Yes, it could be bougier,” Mitsunari added, playing dumb. “I could say something like: ‘We stopped over at the Cape on our private jet between horse races, where we would go and attend to our stables’.”

“That didn't happen, did it?”

“No. We don’t have that many horses.”

Williams burst into unfettered laughter and hid her face in Ieyasu’s shoulder, who looked like he might write his resignation letter within the hour. Mitsunari just smiled cheerily back until he shook his head.

“The perfume is really strong. You’re getting it all over my coat.”

“Oh?” Williams teasingly brushed off his shoulder. “Sorry about that. I’m assuming you don’t have memories of summering in the Cape to that smell.”

“No.” Ieyasu paused, then lowered his head, admitting, “My grandmother… had some. I think. I don’t know. I didn't care enough to remember that, obviously.”

Mitsunari had long grown used to Ieyasu’s way of worming out of things. He didn't miss the subtle way that Ieyasu tucked his coat in closer around him, burying his nose into the collar for a moment more than necessary in the warm confines of the coffee shop. Williams didn't pretend not to notice--she just grinned at him until he turned away, his ears unusually dark in the dim light.

“I don’t suppose I’ll get to run into you both here every day?”

“Well.”

“We come in around eleven thirty,” Mitsunari calculated. “Because typically when we enter the office at eight, Umeka prepares coffee, and by the time it wears off it’s around eleven fifteen. By then she’s usually occupied with Hideyoshi, and Ieyasu doesn’t like the way anyone else prepares it--”

“--everyone else burns it,” Ieyasu muttered, almost too subtle to be heard.

“--so we typically come in for a dip here anywhere from eleven twenty-three to eleven thirty-six.” He paused. “If you were so inclined to join us.”

If looks could kill, Ieyasu might’ve committed a crime with the one he sent Mitsunari. For her part, Williams smiled. “Well, I don’t know my schedule like that, but I’m thinking I could arrange something.”

“I’d like that.” Mitsunari paused, noticing Ieyasu still hadn’t moved that horrifying stare, and added, “We would like that.”

“Perfect.” Williams laced her arm through the crook of Ieyasu’s elbow. “It’s a date.”

#Ikesen #Ikemen Sengoku #Ikesen Ieyasu #Ikesen Mitsunari #Ieyasu Tokugawa #Mitsunari Ishida #Again.#Admissions #My writing #Vaya Collab #Lawyer Mitsunari #Lawyer Ieyasu #Bi!Mitsunari #Bi!Ieyasu

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aithne · 5 years

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(Illume) Graduation Day

"Are you ready to go, Ito?"

The kitsune was retying his hair in his habitual topknot. He looked down at Reiko and said, "I think so. Are we taking anyone else with us?"

She laughed. "Any trouble we find in Matsue is probably going to be something we can handle on our own. I'm not sure any of the others would really appreciate being dragged along on one of our hunts. Though I imagine more than one would enjoy watching the feeding...but never mind." Her fingertips brushed his hand and she leaned against him affectionately. He slid an arm around her and squeezed briefly, then let her loose and walked down the gangplank.

Reiko had to admit that she had become fond of the male kitsune in the two weeks he'd been with them. She didn't love him, not yet--her suspicions were still too strong--but she felt quite affectionate towards him. In part, that had to do with the fact that Ito and Gryphon were the only two of her friends who understood the easy physicality of kitsune nature, the need for affection and touches beyond simply the sexual. Kitsune lived to love and be loved, and sex was only one expression of that. Unfortunately, since sex was also how they fed, it was the one in the fore of everyone's minds.

Were I my old self, I'd have slept with all of them by now, even if I had to disguise myself to do so. I wouldn't have fed more than a sip, but I wouldn't feel I could trust them if I hadn't tasted them. Now...I've been with them for months, and I have not so much as kissed any of them, outside of healing them. How strange I become. How...un-kitsune-like.

She shook her head and caught up with Ito. It didn't matter. Tonight was a hunt, Ito's graduation exercise. Together, they would find their prey, and Ito would feed. He seemed to have a better understanding now of how to control what he drew, but Reiko knew that the temptation was always there to drink too deeply, to kill as one fed.

If he could not control himself, if he killed whoever he fed on tonight, she would probably have to kill him. It would be a deep and harrowing shame, but she was prepared to do it. In her sleeve she had a needle that she had 'borrowed' from Hiroshi's kit; dipped in poison and contained in a small bamboo case, a single scratch would be enough to kill someone twice Ito's size. And if that didn't work...she glanced down at her hands.

It had been a long time since she'd last killed by pulling a soul from a body. But she remembered how. And she doubted that Ito knew she had the ability. He knew so little of kitsune culture that the gifts of the kitsune shaman wouldn't be known to him at all. It was an advantage, and once she kept close.

Together, they walked from the docks into town, talking of inconsequentials. To all outward appearances, they were simply a couple out for a night on the town. Ito's unusual russet hair drew more than a few glances as they walked down the street, as did Reiko's slim body in her scarlet kimono. They stopped before a sake house, and Ito raised an eyebrow. "Here, you think?"

"It's as good a place as any. If we don't find what we're looking for, we can move on."

The place was small and a bit run-down, but well-lit. And the sake, when it was brought, was good. There were only a few people in the sake house at the moment, all of them apparently locals. Ito leaned over and murmured, "We're looking for people from out of town, right?"

"We're going to have to come back some day, likely. Best to find someone who doesn't live here."

A half hour passed; they whiled away the time in conversation and a friendly dice game, which Reiko consistently lost at. People came and went, and she thought they were going to have to find another place to hunt, when through the door came a samurai-ko, with the mon of the Lion house on her shoulder.

She was pretty enough, though tall, and her armor was in good repair. She had the dust of the road on her, and this being outside of Lion territory, it was a good guess that she was traveling. And better yet, on her way in, her glance had lingered on Ito--and on Reiko. The samurai was hungry, too.

And for that alone, she was perfect. Gifts are more valuable when they are wanted, needed, lusted after; and the samurai looked as if she had been away from home a while. She would take what the kitsune could give her gladly, and not mind what they took from her in return.

Ito and she glanced at each other and nodded, then Reiko stood and walked over to the samurai's table. In a soft voice, she said, "Samurai-sama. Are you waiting for someone? If not, my fiancé and I would be honored if you shared our table with us."

The samurai smiled. "I'd be happy to share your table. I am Matsu Suki."

"And I am Han Reiko, and this is Takahashi Ito. Please, sit with us a spell. You look like a fellow traveler; where have you been?"

It turned out that Suki had traveled to the south on an errand for her master, the Lion Lord. She was on her way back, and it had been seven weeks since she'd seen her family and friends. She was looking forward to being home. Gentle probing revealed that she had neither husband nor fiancé waiting at home.

For their part, Reiko and Ito were (so their story went) in the state of affianced that was nearly as good as married, traveling from Ito's family in a village near Miyazaki to Reiko's family in Tokyo. There they would have another marriage ceremony and be officially married. "It was a political match, but it has turned out rather well. We have...similar tastes in many things." At this, Reiko's hand slipped over to touch the back of the samurai's. She jumped at the contact, turning wide eyes on Reiko, suddenly understanding what was going on...and looking not particularly unhappy about it.

A kitsune hunting alone is a formidably charming thing. Two hunting together can overcome even the sternest of resistance, and the samurai hadn't started out resisting very hard. Even without using their ability to enthrall, they soon enough had her exactly where they wanted her. They laughed and flirted and got the samurai just a little bit drunk, and soon enough they had the samurai saying that she'd rented a room for the night, if they wanted to come with her...

And back to her room they went, where they drank a little more sake and took turns kissing the samurai. Suki was charmingly shy with Reiko, saying that she'd never kissed a girl before outside of the usual play with her childhood friends. But soon she grew bolder, and clothes started coming off.

And after a long, delirious time of simply playing with Suki, Ito began to feed.

Reiko kept in contact with them both, pressing her body close to theirs. The girl's head was thrown back, her eyes closed. Ito was drawing out a thin thread of her life, replenishing his own. Reiko found herself holding her breath as the moment where he would have to stop feeding approached. She felt her own power coiling within her, waiting for the time to arrive.

Ito arched his back, obviously struggling with something within himself, the old instincts and everything he had once been fighting with his new training. Reiko could feel him desperately wanting to throw himself open to this girl, to take everything from her that she could give him, and she could feel him fighting that urge with tooth and claw. She prayed that she had not underestimated the other kitsune.

She could feel him reaching, opening, taking--

And his control slammed down, closing the conduit, breaking the connection.

She found herself shuddering with the two who were entwined beside her as both of them found their release. Her own shiver was not of pleasure, but of relief. Ito had passed his test. She wasn't going to have to kill him.

Not today, at least.

Suki had fallen deeply asleep in moments, as everyone she'd ever fed on did. Ito was barely awake himself, curled up around the samurai, a small, sated smile on his lips.

And for a while, they lay like that, two kitsune curled like parentheses around one tall samurai, open window bringing them the smell of the tide, the sea.

Ito slept and soon Reiko started to nod off. Rhythmic breathing by the samurai was lulling her to sleep. The room started to get lighter and Reiko started awake, thinking that the morning was dawning, but the light was not coming through the windows. Ito's chest was starting to glow with a blue light that grew in strength and pulsed like a heartbeat. It remained motionless for a minute and then the light started to move, travelling under the skin it floated upward into the neck of Ito. It passed, rippling the skin as it went, through the face. Blue light exploded out of Ito's right eye as it passed underneath, bulging the eye out as it went. It finally stopped in the center of his forehead, then as quickly as it started glowing, it stopped, seeming to sink into the brain.

Reiko lifted an eyebrow, curious as to what that could have been. Just as she was thinking about getting up to investigate, Ito sat up.

In a very feminine voice, but one that would send chills up any spine, it said, "The sleeper awakens."

Reiko half lidded her eyes and quickly tried to resume a sleeping breathing rhythm.

The voice continued, "Ah Han Reiko, sleeping so peacefully tonight as you have for many nights now. So old and so foolish, such a simple test for the boy. Now will you trust him? Now will you love him?" Ito's hand brushed through Reiko's hair.

"Probably." Ito smiled. Into his hand, he produced a small vial filled with a clear liquid, a small needle attached to it. Quickly he struck, plunging the needle into the heel of the sleeping samurai. She jerked in her sleep, but folded herself around Reiko and continued to slumber.

"No samurai would do the vile acts that you have perpetrated tonight. Your death will be long and lingering," the Ito creature said, and then turned to Reiko. "Sleep well and long, Reiko, your distraction of the boy has made me late."

The kitsune known as Ito silently left the room.

Reiko lay frozen for only a moment after he left. Late? Late for what? Ah, kami, I have to follow him. Sorry, Suki. If I can, I'll return. She slid out of the samurai's embrace and whispered a spell, her naked form fading to silver and then vanishing. She changed then, nosing the screen open and swiftly shutting it behind herself. He'd gone downstairs, and she followed, nose twitching and ears pricked forward.

She trailed Ito down to the docks. He vanished inside a warehouse, not bothering to close the door behind him. Reiko whined gently; should she follow? If she were caught now, none of her mortals would know where she was. She could be killed now and nobody would ever know her fate.

But the need to know was greater than the risk. She crept inside, so quiet, and dropped to her belly by the door.

She could hear three voices beside Ito's, and the air stank of magic. She could hear Ito's voice, that oddly feminine tone still talking. He was telling them, at that moment, where Akechi was. Then he started telling them about the capture of the Shrike. She almost whined, despite herself. And I almost took him to Skyhome with us.

He spent a long time talking to them. He referred to one of them as Akemi, but she didn't catch any other names. She put her head down on the smooth wood of the floor, thinking. I have to kill him. But if I kill him, any hope of our race's future dies with him. She'd heard enough, so she rose and slipped out the door once more, knowing that her only hope to survive the rest of the evening was to pretend she'd been sleeping all the while. If Ito suspected what she knew, he would probably kill her out of hand.

On the way back, she worried at the problem of Ito in her mind. If I tell the others, they'll want to kill him. In fact, they may kill him over my objections. That may be a ticklish situation, right there. If I don't tell them, though, he'll be the downfall of all we do. If there was a way to neutralize him without killing him...

But there was. She bore the proof that there was in the sigils that glowed on her body. Lin won't help. But the Demonbane might. If we--I--offered him the right price. She turned that thought over in her mind, wondering fearfully what, exactly, her father would want in return for his help. Am I reduced to asking my most implacable enemy for a favor? Ah, kami, so low am I brought.

She arrived back at the inn the samurai-ko was staying at, and still invisible she slipped upstairs. Outside the room, she cocked her head; she could hear the breathing of the sleeping samurai and none else. Cautiously, she slipped into the room, wary.

There was nothing but Suki, sleeping deeply on the mat. Good, good. I have some time before Ito returns. Best make the most of it. She shed her fox shape and began to explore the samurai-ko's pack. In one of the pockets, she found a charcoal stick and some paper. Perfect. In a hurried hand, she wrote on the paper, characters sloppy in her haste but still readable.

Matsu Suki. I am so sorry, but I am afraid you have been poisoned. It is a slow poison, and I'm not sure how long it takes to kill. I beg you, make your way to a healer soon; perhaps something can be done.

One more thing: if you are pregnant, and you survive the poison, I ask you to keep the child. If it is a girl, it is more important than you can guess.

Again, I am so very sorry, samurai-sama.

Reiko

She folded the note and returned the charcoal to the pocket she'd found it in. Where to leave it so Ito would not see but Suki would find it as soon as she could? Reiko's gaze lit on a pair of boots that were lying near the rest of Suki's armor. The note would be invisible, but when she put her boot on, she would feel the note and, of course, investigate.

Thought was action and soon Reiko, visible once more, was ensconced on the mat with Suki wrapped around her. Even knowing that Ito had poisoned her, she was grateful for the contact of skin against skin. It cleared her mind and comforted her. She couldn't get around the need to tell her mortals what had transpired this night, as much for the fact that they would stop talking freely around the male kitsune as for an explanation of why they needed to go to Sapporo, to talk with the Demonbane.

The fear of her father was a cold lump in the pit of her stomach. She remembered the bright pain of the knife along her arms; she had four healing wounds now on them. She had used a very small bit of illusion on them, enough to hide them in the darkness of a lamplit room. If either Suki or Ito had noticed, neither of them had said anything. I'm going to have to face him, knowing what I know. I'm going to have to talk to him. In the darkness of the room, she could admit to herself that the Demonbane frightened her, even more than the prospect of death. Not quite so much as the idea of kitsune passing from the world entirely, but it was close.

And, too, she was daunted by the idea of telling her mortals that they had been harboring a spy. She supposed she would see exactly how persuasive she could be; her talent for talking people into things would be the only thing between Ito and a swift death by Panda or Funitsu's blade. If she failed, Ito would die.

And hope for her kind would die with him.

She heard the soft sound the the screen sliding back and closed her eyes, slowing her breath to match Suki's. She felt a hand on her shoulder and stirred as if waking, opening her eyes.

Ito looked down at her, fully dressed. He said in a low voice, "It's time to go, Reiko."

She nodded and yawned sleepily. Ito did an excellent impression of being sleep-rumpled, his clothing disarranged as if he'd just pulled it on without really looking. He's good, damn it. He's good. Only mischance betrayed him--and the fact that I didn't feed and was slow to fall asleep.

But her face showed nothing of her thoughts. She pulled on her own clothing quickly and followed Ito out.

Her last sight of Suki, as she carefully slid the screen shut, was of her sprawled on the mat, a soft smile on her face. She fixed that image in her mind, to remember when Ito was trying to charm her. One more innocent who might die because of me. I swear, if he cannot be bound, I will kill him myself.

She only hoped that she could keep that promise.

#so queued #gaming recaps: illume #D&D recap

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yutark · 6 years

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★ SEPTEMBER EVALUATIONS song : < kill this love > by epik high

As Yuta waited on evaluation day to perform, he mentally placed songs into happy ones--gratefulness towards family, thankfulness towards those who raised and supported--and sad ones--grief over the loss of family, longing for who they didn’t get to see--and then he traced over his own with the edges of his mind. If anyone asked, he had plans to lie; falsify a story of how he was too lazy and couldn’t be bothered to find a song that held meaning. It was better than the truth that bubbled up like angry bile in the back of his throat, reminding him of why he ran away as soon as he graduated high school and sent his parents calls to voicemail. Just because he was on talking terms with his father, it didn’t change what had happened in the past, and just because he loved his mother when he was younger, didn’t change that he’d rather swallow his own teeth than face her now. Even when he tried to pick a happy song, it felt empty and frustrating to Yuta when he’d tried; being honest with himself might have been what he needed right now. Being honest with how he felt might have been the only way to move forward.

Still -- Yuta couldn’t stop clenching his jaw when he stood in front of the coaches when his time came. He kept telling himself that they could judge him if they wanted, that he didn’t care. But there was tension in his shoulders and he shifted his weight at their gaze.

The song wasn’t about family, more of a break up song than anything, but Yuta believed in interpretation and he could make it whatever he wanted. His fingers adjusting the microphone in his hand, thinking of how every time he’d tried to practice the song, he’d felt that craving to drink it away and pick something else. Family had been a raw subject for Yuta since he was a boy, living in the shadow of his parents publicised affair; wearing the brand of a mother who stole another woman’s man and married him. For the money, for the esteem, for her career -- everyone had an opinion on why. To him, for the first years of his life, she was who he cried for, who he craved attention from, who he clutched his hands out towards. Memories that clung onto the inside of his throat when he had to begin the song. Love was something that began before he had memories of how to do it and it was directed at his mother, who pawned him off to a staff member when she couldn’t soothe him, who turned away because she had to work, who brushed his hands off her because her dress would crinkle.

Yuta had spent over half his life struggling to kill what was embedded in him at birth.

Somebody help me kill this! Love. Kill this love. Kill this love. Love. Somebody help me kill this! Love. Kill this love. Kill this love. Love. Don’t die

I need to cut off the breath of your memories I tried putting the memories on fire I hoped my regrets would become the ashes but It became even hotter I filled up the bathtub to turn the fire off I tried to place it in a sea of tears but Though I hold my breath You float up again

I hold on to the lingering attachments that float up I close my eyes to the memories that look back at me I put away my hatred and look around And it’s just a desert where I’m looking for my tears I need to bury the excess attachment but the emotions still come back The line was blurry because I was weak but I need to draw it and end it

He could taste the bitterness at the tip of his tongue, feel the anger lash against the inside of his cheek as he rapped the first verses. There was good memories, happy ones. On his birthday, during Christmas where his mother would come home with the new toys and make promises to take him to places he wanted to go. Memories that became disappointments quickly, when he was abandoned in theme parks alone with his sister because his mother got a call and how tired his legs got wandering around lost. The hospital visits where flowers were in place of her. As he grew older, Yuta learned to hate when she was around as much the times she wasn’t. He counted them up, broken promises, and kept them to himself. Even when he tried to make friends, the older boys had more fun asking him questions about what his mother was like, talking about how they’d seen her in this movie or that, joking about who would get her into bed first. Yuta holding his breath, turning away from her touch when she came home and telling himself that he didn’t care about her.

(His mother -- he hated her. He hated her. He hated her.)

But he was still looking for her whenever he got in trouble, whenever anyone hurt him, whenever he got scared. Her number dialled into his phone when he thought he might be gay, her name cried out when he was in pain after the car accident she caused. That might have been why it was so easy to turn his anger against his father after a while, the man who sat with him at dinner only three nights a week if they were lucky and only made it to a couple soccer games a season. At least he was there enough for Yuta to throw his toys at and rebel against. At least he was at the bedside in the hospital so Yuta could ignore him.

Save me Please save me Save me Somebody help me kill this! Love. Kill this love. Kill this love. Love. Don’t die

Somebody help me kill this! Love, love. Love, love. Kill, kill, kill, kill this love. Love, love. Love, love. Kill, kill, kill, kill this.

I can’t kill, kill, kill this love. No, no, no, no. God help me Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, this love. Kill this love.

Throughout the chorus, Yuta found the words came easier. His steps slow as he moved around the area to perform, smooth motions of his hand as the beat increased and he even changed the microphone from one hand to the other. He only dared half eye-contact with the coachs during his verses, and within the chorus let it wander. There was anger radiating off his form, his expression holding onto his frustration, and yet he could feel it in his chest whenever the beat dropped; the empty pounding that came when he was upset and hurt. That emptiness he tried to fill with alcohol, with sex, with whatever managed to soothe it away. This might have been building to the most sensitive part of the song, the one that mentioned alcohol; the one Yuta was worried everyone would focus on and he didn’t want to have to explain in detail. It’d been fun at first, sneaking drinks with his friends, going out to party and making out with boys who said they were ‘straight’.

Then his father who was never home walked in on with a boy and walked out, silent. It’d been a fear that rose up through Yuta as he came to terms with himself, he had a mother who would always let him down and a father who would disown him for not being enough of a man to like girls.

On rainy nights, you come find me again The fragments of the memories I dug into my heart come flying like arrows Why do you, who used to be my dream, Come to me as a nightmare? You push me into despair even when I don’t have wings Please tell me this is the end now

Even if it’s pointless You leave me and my heart has a hole – gunshot With the excuse of disinfecting, I rely on alcohol that’s like poison to my entire body – one shot These days, I black out every day The famished loneliness starves me The thirsty lingering attachments constricts my throat If you live, I die, don’t you know?

Silence was worse than anger in his teens. His father ignoring the parties Yuta held at home, even when the police had to break it up and alcohol was found. His father walking away when Yuta stumbled home drunk, and not calling when he didn’t make it home at all. Those walls that he’d rebel against, those arguments that he’d have, those structures that formed up what Yuta would scoff and roll his eyes at, were suddenly gone. No matter how many times he read into it, there was only one answer that floated up and caught in Yuta’s throat. His father didn’t care anymore, he didn’t love him anymore, he didn’t even want to recognise his existence anymore. There was a twist of Yuta’s hand, pausing in place as he remembered the emptiness again, like everything slipped out of his body when his father would look through him.

Like a gunshot.

The tip of Yuta’s finger pressed to his chest, then he motioned the ‘one shot’. Because that was what it was, that was where Yuta used to believe if he got drunk enough his father would worry, if he got drunk enough it wouldn’t matter anymore, if he got drunk enough then he wouldn’t feel that emptiness in the pit of his stomach. It was a belief like lying down on a rock, no matter how much he squeezed his eyes shut -- there it was, digging into his back to remind him. For years, he knew what it meant and after graduating, listening to his father offer to pay for him to go to university if he stopped being who he was, cut through the tender flesh made by the rock easily.

Save me Please save me Save me Somebody help me kill this! Love. Kill this love. Kill this love. Love. Don’t die

Somebody help me kill this! Love, love. Love, love. Kill, kill, kill, kill this love. Love, love. Love, love. Kill, kill, kill, kill this.

I can’t kill, kill, kill this love. No, no, no, no. God help me Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, this love. Kill this love.

This was the part of the song when Yuta got confused, whenever he got this far, he had to wonder what love he wanted to kill. His own, to his parents, which he struggled and fumbled with; that felt more like a weapon to be used against him than a source of support or happiness. Or the idea of love, that one that he wanted them to have for him and had never given; that hope of love, that tasted more and more like disappointment and bitterness. It was why he always faltered in this part of the song, stumbled over the lyrics and lingered in one spot he was in. His gaze unable to focus, his eyes blinking as he tried to erase the thoughts and doubts in his head. The break in the song allowed him a couple seconds to biting over his lip, shift his weight, turn half-away from the coaches. His fingers twisting the microphone in his hand before he continued on.

When you open your eyes, my eyes close Redrum, redrum, redrum. When you breath, I suffocate Redrum, redrum, redrum.

Somebody help me kill this! Somebody help me kill, kill, kill this love. God help me kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, this love. Goodbye dear love.

RIP. RIP. RIP. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

Good night.

Even after the song had finished, Yuta could feel the prickle of the emptiness in his chest. His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, his gaze darting down to the microphone in his hands and drifting over the coaches. Confidence had been something Yuta had used for years, it covered up any weak spots in his mind and let him ignore the thought that he was damaged in someway. He partied because he was the best at having fun, he had sex because who wouldn’t want to with him, he drunk as much as he did because he had a handle on it. Any attempt to tear at that was followed by anger, frustration, scoffs. A habit that was hard to break, even as he stood in front of the coaches and could feel the nervous energy prickle at his fingertips; the burn in the back of his eyes.

“I hate songs like this,” he scoffs up. “Can’t we do something more fun next month?”

#rksep18eval #( trc. )#tw: alcoholism #tw: neglect #tw: homophobia

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ripplestitchskein · 6 years

Text

Whether We Wake or Sleep part 8

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

On AO3

Word Count: approx 7.2K+

Rating: Teen & Up (Will be Mature or Explicit in later chapters)

Summary: A canon-divergence set after Killian and Emma return to Rumpelstiltskin’s castle, an expanded epic Captain Swan adventure. Killian and Emma must work to break a new curse, one with an unsettling timeline, and align themselves with friends and foes alike.

Notes: My everlasting and undying love to my instrumental wife @caprelloidea for the read through and the expert beta. And my love to Mandy @thesschesthair for my beautiful banner that always makes me smile.

______

Killian, in his long and dangerous life, on sea and shore in realms of unimaginably dangerous magic, was almost accustomed to the feeling of drowning. The all encompassing pressure, the buoyant ebb and flow as control was seized from his grasp, the clawing ache in his chest as the world pressed unyieldingly down around him. It was strangely comforting in its cold familiarity and he embraced it now. He relaxed into it, let the current take him, and opened his eyes to vibrant summer green.

“Killian,” Emma whispered.

Her fingers pressed harder into his cheek, in relief or possibly annoyance. He licked his lips, tasting the lingering bitter herbs there and took in a shuddering breath.

“Swan.”

Emma alive and well, warm and whole, not entombed in a dark mausoleum, not laying in a deathly repose over and over again. Just Emma, the real Emma of flesh and blood, weary and worried, kneeling by his side, pressing her palm into his cheek. He drank in the sight of her with anxious relief, committed her to memory, burned her into his mind. He had been in this position before, this time without the lingering hint of her taste on his lips. The day she had lost her magic, for him, the start of this entire torturous excursion. But her eyes were the same, brilliant and bright and worried above him.

Baba Yaga shuffled in her chair, stood up on creaking bones and the rustle of fabric with grunting effort.

Killian swallowed and looked away, leaning up on elbows from his position on floor. Emma’s hand dropped, drifted down stubble, and she stood, whirling on the ancient crone now moving about the hut.

“What the hell was that?” Emma demanded.

Baba Yaga ignored her. She reached into a cupboard above the stove, glass clinking.

“Time is short,” the witch said. “The potion in your veins thins and fades.”

“What happened?” Emma turned instead to Killian who was rising to his feet. “You both just stopped moving and I thought-“ she bit the sentence off. Baba Yaga glared at the question, curling her lip in distaste. She looked to Killian.

“Questions have been asked and answered, truths revealed,” Baba Yaga said. “And now payment on all sides must be given. Come.”

The house shuddered around them, creaked and groaned as the creature below it moved. Killian’s stomach swooped as they were lowered once again to the ground, the room trembling.

Emma’s questioning stare seared into him, but he couldn’t make himself form the words. No words were sufficient to explain what had happened. The image of her dead over and over again. The breaking of his heart as fate promised her to another. He merely grunted and shifted his shoulders in a shrug, grateful that Baba Yaga was moving towards the door, beckoning them impatiently to follow.

She drew them across the dirt and scrub of the hut’s barren yard to the garden beyond. It was lush and green, overflowing with life, in direct contrast to the fence of bones and skulls that contained it and the red and white sameness of the forest beyond. The leaves and stalks of the plants shivered and shuddered with an unfelt breeze as they passed, rattling and shaking against each other, casting droplets of water to the ground. Bright sun cut through the gray and dreary clouds making the water sparkle and shimmer.

“We must leave a gift,” Baba Yaga murmured. “An offering.”

“To who?” Emma asked. Baba Yaga glared at her again, ignoring the question to stoop low to the ground.

She reached into the endless folds of rags and ruined cloth, and withdrew a small clay plate, laying it down at the edge of the whispering leaves. Next came a small bottle of amber liquid, thick and viscous. She poured it onto the plate.

“A gift from Aphrodite,” she murmured to no one in particular. “Beautiful creatures deserve beautiful things.”

Emma looked to Killian bewildered, but he was looking skyward, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had a headache looming, no doubt a side effect of that bitter brew, and his patience with tricksy sorceresses and forest witches was wearing thin.

“We wait,” Baba Yaga said, her accent thick as she shuffled backwards from their offering, head tilted to listen.

“Hopefully not too long, aye? We’re on a bit of a schedule. Potions thinning, curses looming, that kind of thing,” Killian snapped. Emma blinked at him in surprise at his tone, wondering what the hell happened to “etiquette being rather fraught in these situations”. Baba Yaga, however, laughed, a grating wheezing sound in the silence of the clearing.

“You speak of time like you know it,” Baba Yaga chortled. “If not for this waiting you would not be here to wait, Captain.” Her eyes slid across Emma, glowing with mirth. “This blink of Time has given you more than you know. Without this you would not have half so much.”

Killian didn’t respond, just rolled his eyes heavenward as if praying for patience. He dropped the hand rubbing his nose and leaned back. He was spared further response by a rustling in the woods behind the garden, the slide of leaves against each other, the snapping of branches.

Emma and Killian both tensed, wary.

From the leaves emerged a small black creature, a dwarven pony with bright shining eyes and a sleek midnight coat. Emma’s eyes widened in disbelieving delight as it stepped towards them, a small pink tongue dipping down to lap delicately at the honey on the plate.

“The horn of a black unicorn,” Baba Yaga said satisfied. She reached a gnarled hand out to stroke the animal just beneath its namesake horn, clucking at it softly.

“Just one problem,” Killian said. “It appears it’s still…attached.”

Emma looked between the adorable creature and Killian in horror.

“Easy child,” Baba Yaga chuckled reading her expression. “I would not bring a curse down upon my own head by slaying the beast.” She reached into the folds of her clothing again and drew out a shining silver length of rope. “The horn can be used where it is.”

“A gift earned,” she nodded to Killian. “Payment for your deeds and truths. You have one more question earned as well.”

Killian didn’t look at Emma who was regarding the pair, still confused. The answers to his previous questions were not knowledge he wished to have. The shadows of phantom men, true loves more worthy than he, darted across his mind and he purposefully avoided looking at her.

“How do we get home?” He asked finally.

Baba Yaga nodded as if satisfied, as if she had expected such a question.

“When you return to the start you will find the way home,” she said. Killian huffed.

“Wonderful. Delightfully cryptic and not useful in the least. How utterly surprising,” he sneered. Emma shot him a warning glance. Baba Yaga just smiled at him.

“I have given the answers you need,” she moved back to the unicorn. “And given you the gifts you earned.”

Killian eyed the creature warily as Baba Yaga looped the rope around its neck. It was a docile thing, happily licking up the last vestiges of sticky residue from the plate, but that didn’t make Killian any happier to be its keeper.

“So we just take him..her..I dunno, back to Maleficent?” Emma asked, her eyes wide with wonder and still focused on the unicorn. Her fingers twitched as if she wanted to touch it.

“Bloody hell,” Killian scrubbed a hand across his face in exasperation. “How many beasts are we going to collect during this infernal trip?”

“This one is so cute though,” Emma said softly finally gathering up the courage to stroke a hand down warm downy fur.

“The key to your past and to your future,” Baba Yaga said. She gave one last satisfied pat on the pony’s head before shuffling away. “Now, for my payment, Captain.”

Killian jerked his attention away from a charmed Swan back to the old hag.

“What?” He glared. “I think you’ll remember payment has already been rendered in full madam.”

“One year you owe me,” Baba Yaga’s voice was hard. “One year for an answered question.” Emma’s hand dropped away from the unicorn, looking to Killian.

“No,” Killian said slowly. “Those debts were squared. We are even.”

Baba Yaga smiled, all teeth bared, her eyes glinting.

“Do you come of your own will?” She trilled in a mocking hiss. “Do you wish to know the truth?” She said again. “Which Emma is your Emma?” Her eyes were green fire as she stepped towards him with every word. Fear rose in his chest, and he swallowed, willing himself to stand fast as her voice rose into the sky, booming loud and thunderous.

“Three questions,” he reminded her, everything in him keeping his voice from trembling. He thought of the heaving stove, the blue heat of devil’s fire and black acrid smoke. “And you gave me three as well. We are square.” He insisted.

“The question of your future is mine to see.” Baba Yaga leered at him, her voice a sneering hiss of satisfaction. “Remember your words Captain. Remember them.”

Behind her Emma stepped away from the unicorn towards him, afraid and confused.

“Killian-“, she started.

“Remember. Your. Words. Captain,” a flock of birds flew from the treetops in terror, cawing a warning into the sky as her voice boomed through the woods. Killian’s mouth was dry, he swallowed around the sudden thickness in his throat of horrifying realization.

“I said,‘Take it,” he rasped, his eyes locked with Emma’s. “With my compliments.’” He repeated the careless words spoken over bitter tea, their import unknown at the time, and his gaze slid from her face to the ground as his chest filled with ice.

“With your compliments,” Baba Yaga singsonged, her teeth sharp and gleaming, as she continued to grin.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Emma snapped. She stepped between them. “What happened in there? Take what?”

“Speak a question again, little swan, and your will will no longer be your own,” Baba Yaga’s warning was pleasantly spoken but her stare was green fire.

“We struck a bargain,” Killian said, his voice sounding far away to his ears. “It seems I was rather careless on the specifics.”

“Well screw that,” Emma spat, whirling on the witch. “Keep your black unicorn, he’s cute but we’ll find another way. Thanks for the tea. Come on Killian.”

Emma reached out to grab his arm, her fingers barely grasping the quilted fabric before she was wrenched backwards by invisible hands, her arms locked to her sides with a painful snap and wrench.

“You forget yourself,” Baba Yaga continued to speak in that same lilting pleasantness, shuffling around them in a wide circle, her rags brushing against the leaves and flowers of the garden. “I can offer you a way to remember your manners, child.” Emma struggled against the binding, her face twisted in rage.

“Don’t,” Killian stepped forward, his words quick and desperate. “The error was my own. I’ll pay your price.”

“No,” Emma couldn’t look at him but her pleading tone cut into him. “No more prices. No more debts. We can find another way.”

Killian shook his head as he stepped around into her line of vision.

“We don’t have time for that,” he said. “Take it.” He told the witch and Baba Yaga smiled wider. He was unsure of what would happen, of what he would feel, what the loss of a year could do to a man. He could only square his shoulders and face her head on, trying to keep his breathing even.

From the sleeves of her rags Baba Yaga drew forth two glass vials, dusty and mottled by age, stoppard by brown cork. She used her long brittle nails to pry the corks free and stepped towards Killian. Emma bucked against invisible restraints. She strained towards him as the woman moved closer.

“The passage of time is marked by tears and laughter. We make use of two. One for me,” the witch darted forward quick as a snake and blew foul hot breath into Killian’s face. “And one for you.”

His eyes watered immediately, as soon as her lilting rhyming words were finished, and two tears, one from each of his eyes trailed unchecked down his cheeks. It hurt, but not in the way a knife would cut or a blow would sting, but more visceral, deeper. The loss of a brother, a mother, a love, keen and harsh and then the pain was gone as quickly as the feeling had come. Baba Yaga held up the vials, collected one tear and then the other in both, and had them corked and put away before Emma could so much as cry out.

“You have been most noble Captain,” the witch said, her voice low in his ear, a grating whisper. “And for that I shall give you one more gift.” Killian tensed, something like fear and anticipation forming a knot in his gut as he waited for her to speak. “The true love you seek-“ she rasped, her voice like tiny needles pricked against his skin. “Is already known to her.”

The witch stepped back and stared at him levelly, her eyes twinkling.

“Now leave this place and bother me no more,” she waved a gnarled hand and Emma fell forward, barely catching herself to avoid a meeting with the ground.

“Though I suspect-,” Baba Yaga gave them one last perusing look. “-our paths shall cross again.”

Killian and Emma watched as the hag shuffled away with slow tottering steps, the house creaking and straining as it lowered itself to receive her. Neither of them dared to speak, dared to move. Next to them the unicorn stirred, snorting out a long breath. The house rose back into the air, smoke puffing from the chimney in short black bursts. And then, from one blink to the next the clearing evaporated in wisps of smoke and disappeared from view around them. The garden turned to wood and red leaves, and the house became nothing more than air.

Killian closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Then he turned, marching to the unicorn and picked up the length of silver rope.

“Are you going to explain any of that?” Emma asked, incredulous.

Killian started walking forward, the unicorn trailing dutifully after.

“Aye,” he affirmed and finally looked back at her. “Later, I’ll explain everything.”

They stared at each other. Emma didn’t protest as he’d thought she might, nor did she press him. Her eyes merely scanned his face for a moment, and seeing something there he could not guess she nodded and stepped forward after him.

The trek back to the Forbidden Fortress was made in silence.

_____

Maleficent sat resplendent and languorous in blue and black silks, puffed and ruched to within an inch of her life. Emma wondered how long she had waited for them, looking just like this: ridiculously regal and affectedly bored. Despite the tableau her eyes glittered with curiosity as they made a loud tromping entrance into the throne room. The small black unicorn came in hesitantly after them, hooves sliding across stone, disliking the differing terrain. The rope grew taut as the animal reared back, nostrils flaring.

“Oh,” Maleficent breathed as it came into the room, an awed whisper of a word. She leaned forward in her throne, her hands gripping the edge of the arms.

“What a magnificent creature,” she murmured to herself. Her eyes were only for the unicorn, who tossed its mane of silky black hair and snorted. The flickering torches cast shimmers of fire across the sheen of its coat, and its hooves clacked against the stone as it stepped further into the room.

Maleficent stood slowly, and walked towards it, a trembling hand outstretched.

“How have you done this?” She asked them in disbelief, not looking at them. She did not appear to need her question answered. “Oh, you darling creature.”

Killian dropped the silver lead and stepped awkwardly away from the enraptured woman. Maleficent ignored him. She reached out her hand and ran it down the neck of the unicorn closing her eyes. The animal quieted, and rubbed its nose into her palm.

“Yeah, it’s pretty cute,” Emma agreed. She exchanged a glance with Killian.

“Cute?” Maleficent sneered the word. “This creature is divinity itself. It’s power is unimaginable.”

Emma eyed the squat little horse dubiously, with its too large head and its searching nose, looking for apples or sugar. She had seen similar animals at State Fairs, saddled and giving rides to screaming over excited children, plodding in endless loops around tiny straw laden rings.

“I dunno how divine it is,” Killian said with a skeptical click of his tongue. He sounded every bit the pirate again as he leaned back, hand on his belt, and regarded Maleficent. “But I do know that we delivered it as ordered.” He released the belt and held out his hand. “May we conclude our business? The potion-“ he waved the hand and bowed, mocking. “-if you please.”

Emma waited with held breath as Maleficent snapped her gaze to him. She flashed an overly pleasant smile, sickly sweet, and nodded. She gave the unicorn one final stroke, her fingers burying themselves in the soft fur.

“Of course,” she said.

Maleficent took up the silver rope, and with soft soothing noises and gentle steps led the unicorn across the room, to a vanity laden with an array of bottles and vials of colored shining glass, all shapes and sizes. Killian narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

“I was feeling optimistic so I began the preparations while you were gone,” Maleficent said, reaching out to pluck a violet, heart shaped flask from the group. “It was just missing that final touch.” She pulled out a drawer and withdrew a drew a shining rectangle of metal, a file, and cooed at the unicorn. “This won’t hurt a bit baby.”

She held the purple glass at the correct position, the file at the other, and with gentle strokes against the horn sent a stream of fine powder into the bottle of potion. It smoked and steamed for a moment, the bottle glowing bright. The unicorn whinnied and stamped at the light and the eerie whine that that it emitted. The glow faded and then all was silent.

“Is it done?” Killian asked gruffly.

“We did have a bargain,” Maleficent set down the metal file, and gave the unicorn one final appreciative stroke.

“Let’s have it then,” Killian said.

Maleficent narrowed her eyes, unused to being spoken to in such a manner, but complied without comment, holding the bottle out to Emma.

“Just a drop, whenever you feel the exhaustion coming on,” Maleficent warned as Emma took it. “You will need a dose sooner and sooner in greater amounts. This won’t last forever, girl.”

“How long?” Killian asked. Emma clutched the flask in her hand, already aching for more. She could no longer tell the difference between the twinges and pains of a long journey and those of the curse. She could no longer decipher what was tiredness validly earned and tiredness brought on by magic. Perhaps it was all the same. She clutched the bottle closer to her chest and backed away from the witch towards Killian. She would wait she decided, the hunger for that drop of relief protesting loudly. She shook the thought away. She would make it last, give them more time.

Emma thrust the bottle out to Killian when she reached him like it burned her. He took it with a curious look, but said nothing, putting it in his satchel.

“Shall we go?” He asked her. Emma nodded, glancing warily at Maleficent who watched the two of them, her hand idly stroking her new companion.

“Well there is just…one more little thing,” Maleficent said slowly, her mouth tilting into a smirk.

Killian raised a questioning eyebrow. With dawning dread Emma watched as Maleficent reached over and plucked a single roll of parchment off the vanity, ceasing her stroking of the unicorn to unfurl it before their eyes. A familiar image, the hawk like nose, the same scrawl of words. It was the poster from the road.

“I do believe I owe Regina a birthday gift,” Maleficent said. There was a rhythmic clunking from the hall beyond, a heartbeat of metal on metal. It took a moment for Emma to realize what the noise was. Armor. Boots.

“Don’t do this,” Emma said. Beside her Killian drew his sword, turning around to face the noise.

A stream of Black Knights flowed into the throne room through the gaping doors.

Emma grabbed onto Killian’s arm and yanked him back from the door. Maleficent cackled in delight as the knights took positions, filing in and lining up into an impenetrable wall of man and armor, swords and pikes drawn.

His sword already out, Killian followed Emma’s lead. With slow and cautious steps they backed away from the men. They moved across the room at an angle, keeping both problems, Maleficent and Regina’s mindless henchmen, in their sight.

Emma swallowed, her hands clenching into ready fists. If ever there was a time where her magic would have been useful this would have been it.

“What do we do?” Emma asked instead in a hiss. Killian looked wild eyed and unsure, but his gaze never wavered nor did his sword.

“My bag,” he said in a low tone. “There’s a feather.”

Emma felt herself mouthing the word “What?” Even as she stepped into him, her shaking hands moving quickly to open the leather flap.

“Do you want me to put a bow on them?” Maleficent snapped, moving protectively in front of the unicorn.

At her words a Black Knight charged towards Killian, his sword drawn.

In Killian’s bag Emma’s hand closed around something that felt vaguely feathery, like a straw wrapped in wool, though what it was doing there she couldn’t say. She barely had time to grab it before the bag was torn away, Killian meeting the attack head on. Metal crashed as the two swords hit. Emma looked down at the object clutched in her hand, bewildered.

It was exactly what he’d said. A feather. A pretty feather, a fiery mix of blended red and oranges, exotic and soft, but still just a feather. Emma felt anxiety rise in her chest as the rest of the Black Knights followed their comrade and came forward spilling into the room. The feather moved in her palm, twitched against her skin, and then burst into flame.

Emma shrieked in surprise and jumped back, heat flashing against her palm for the briefest instant until the fire went out as suddenly as it had appeared. A small dusting of gray ash, still warm, was left behind. Emma stared at it in shock, barely ducking a blow from a swinging sword, the ash falling to the stone floor.

Killian had faltered at the sound of her shriek, his attention torn for the briefest moment, enough for the Knight he was fighting to gain ground. The next arc of the blade had him down on one knee to block it. He sucked in a fortifying breath just as Emma held hers, her heart leaping into her throat in fear. He grunted and heaved forward, pushing the man off.

“It disappeared!” Emma cried out to him, relieved he was okay but desperate for a solution as another Knight charged him. She just barely dodged an attack from a different Knight herself, putting Maleficent’s stone throne between them to keep him at bay.

“It what?” Killian called back in disbelief. His arm swung, catching his Knight across the face with a solid thwap of wood against flesh. His gloved prosthetic connected solid and sure. He barely had time to breathe before another Knight roused his courage and came at him. They judged him the more formidable foe, the one to dispatch quickly, and rightly so. Emma could only dart across the room trying to figure out their escape, her thoughts sluggish and her limbs heavy. She should have taken the potion when she’d had the chance.

“It disappeared,” Emma yelled again, frustrated. She pulled an iron candelabra down between herself and a Knight, shoving the heavy metal stand at him, and scrambled away.

As she ran she could hear the crash of metal, and with each stroke Killian’s huffing angry words.

“Lying. Swindling. Charlatan.” With the last word he brought the pommel of the sword down hard on the back of his foe’s head and the man collapsed, unconscious, the metal of his helmet dented in at the back.

They were doing better than they should, Emma noted with satisfaction as she drew her own sword, sending the metal basket straight into the face of her pursuer who was too shocked at her sudden about face to block her. Bone crunched under metal as his helmet caved inward as well, at the nose, and the Knight cried out in pain.

Maleficent appeared to be thinking along similar lines, frowning at the fallen men on the floor, at the man clutching his face, blood dripping onto her stone floor. Killian was breathing harder from the effort, but his strokes were sure and practiced, lifetimes of experience helping him though, and his strength didn’t seem to be wavering. They were doing too well.

Maleficent sighed.

“I guess I’ll have to wrap this present myself,” she said. Emma swallowed, trying in vain to keep one eye on the witch and the other on the man charging at her again, blood running down his chin and his face twisted in rage.

Magic shimmered. Electric heat, like touching a door knob in winter, sparked over Emma’s skin. The room was still for a moment, only the sound of suddenly rushing wind as the fighting sounds fell away. The Knight’s looked away from their targets, distracted at the noise. There was a terrible creak of flesh stretched taut, the crack of bones breaking and reforming anew, and the shallow hiss of black smoke pouring forth from nothing. The smoke twisted and funneled around Maleficent’s body and then up, higher and higher, a cyclone of black growing towards the impossibly high ceiling above.

“I think we better go,” Emma called fearfully over to Killian, who looked up at the towering column of smoke in surprise. The Knight he had been fighting glanced at him, then back to Maleficent, cast down his weapon, and ran.

Killian slowly sheathed his sword, still awed. A leathery wing emerged from the smoke, and then another, stretching to fill the enormous hall from stone buttress to stone buttress. The smoke wisped away, the final curling tendrils wrapping around shimmering black scales and leathery ruffles of reptilian flesh.

Maleficent roared.

The castle trembled around them. Emma almost lost her footing and winced as debris shuddered loose and fell from the ceiling. The image was terrifyingly familiar.

A black dragon, three stories high, not including the curving horns, blinked a glowing jade eye down at them and huffed.

“We really need to go,” Emma repeated. The remaining Black Knights scrambled away, and Killian grabbed her arm.

The dragon, Maleficent, stalked towards them, each footfall shaking the ground beneath their feet. Killian could barely hold onto Emma’s arm through the tremors. Emma’s teeth rattled against one another as they backed away in terror. It was the giant’s lair all over again. The world coming apart around them, running for safety beneath the feet of fantastic creatures.

Emma whirled to look behind her. They were corned, a dragon between them and the gaping door the last of the Black Knights were running out of. There was nothing behind them but stone wall, no way to escape.

The frills around Maleficent’s head shrank and fanned out, her tail whipping behind her, catching the bottles on the vanity and sending them crashing to the floor. The unicorn gave a little noise of fear and skittered backwards.

Maleficent purred an apology to the animal, and huffed again, softer this time, her tail quieting on the floor.

“Charles,” Emma said in warning as Maleficent spread her wings again, her head turning back to face them. Her chest glowed yellow red as the fire built within her and her glowing green eyes narrowed. Emma braces herself.

There was a shriek from above, and a great gust of wind filled the room. It was hot desert air, blowing back Emma’s cloak, and her hands clapped over her ears at the shrill caw that came with it, expecting dragon fire to singe her alive. Killian was ducking away from the horrible sound as well, wincing as he yanked her back from the heat.

The floor before them lit up, a burst of flame, and the cry came again. Maleficent roared in response and a creature emerged between them, in a flash of fire and smoke. The air smelled of brimstone and ash.

“Bloody hell,” Killian breathed out in surprise, barely audible over the crackling flames and the noises from the monsters above them. His mouth dropped open in awe and Emma turned around to see what was happening.

There was a giant bird.

Emma blinked.

It was still there.

Great gusts of wind rippled with each flap of two enormous wings, tipped in feathers of red and orange fire. A great swinging tail of flame billowed out behind it, and the heat from it flushed Emma’s face. The dragon roared in anger and the bird creature shrieked again.

“Fawkes?” Emma said in disbelief. Killian looked at her in shock.

“You know this bird?” He asked, incredulous.

“No, it’s from-“ but there was no time to explain as Maleficent and the Phoenix met in a cacophony of noise and inferno in front of them.

“Later,” Killian said somewhere near her ear.

Emma glanced to the door but one of Maleficent’s great claws was in front of it and a steam of dragon fire blocked the path around. She looked at Killian in desperation. There was a beat, two, as they both helplessly took in the chaos, trying to find a way out. Killian grabbed her hand.

Then he was pulling her across the room, their feet flying over the stone.

“What are you-“ but Emma didn’t have time to give voice to the question. Killian’s hand jerked her into his chest, his arms encircled her, an awkward half hug as he pulled her close. He was covering her and clasping her to him in one movement, but for what she didn’t know. Before she could protest they were moving. His shoulder struck the ornate glass a moment later, gold and lavender shards bursting into sparkling dust in the sun as they busted through the stained glass window.

The image of the bird creature and Maleficent locked in battle, the whipping tail of fire and a frightened unicorn disappeared from view. Emma screamed, her voice joining Killian’s bellow of fear as they plummeted into the dark waters of the lake below.

_______

It felt rather like running headfirst into a solid stone wall, the impact into the water shuddering up through his bones, chased by stinging needles of cold. Emma struggled in his grip, her feet kicking him in the shins. He released her, trying to get his own limbs to work as well.

His eyes took in the murky water, clouded and empty, save for the blurry outline of her form, billowing blonde hair and her cloak fanning out around her. She looked like a mermaid, a sea goddess with clear green eyes, fair skin turned to porcelain white, small bubbles trailing from her nose and mouth. The cloak was pulling her down, heavy with water and her eyes were wide with fear. He saw her fingers grasping at it frantically, trying to remove it, and he shook off the whimsical notion of sea nymphs and goddesses and willed his legs to move.

Killian was far more acquainted with a sudden plunge than she and he reached out calmly. Her eyes locked with his and he nodded at her once in reassurance. His hand reached out to hers, her skin like marble, smooth and cold, and gently pulled her fingers away. He was better at knots as well, he reasoned. With one tug the cord came loose and he pulled the cloak away. It was heavy in his arms but he kept it, tucking it into his elbow near his satchel. She would need it again, once they had a moment to dry and collect themselves. Emma looked no less panicked and he reached out, touched a finger to her chin and then trailed down, her shoulder, her arm, until she was calmer, until she nodded at him. It was all done in barely a moment but under the water it felt like an eternity.

He gently took her elbow in his grip and kicked, hard, towards the dim light of the fading sun above.

They both broke the surface at around the same time, coughing and spluttering water into the chilling evening air.

Emma gasped, her arms treading in rhythmic sweeps and he closed his eyes, a silent prayer to the heavens that there were all right. His teeth began chattering almost immediately with the frigid cold, his arms and legs growing numb with each passing second.

“Holy shit,” Emma panted out. “Did we really just do that?” She was struggling to swim, her voice shuddering with the chill. She laughed, a shaky adrenaline fueled guffaw that echoed across the water.

“Aye,” Killian acknowledged with a quick smile. “But we best make for the boat and then shelter, before the cold sets in.” He saw her shaky nod, still gasping in air, and together they began to swim. He felt the pull of the water against his coat and bag, the sword heavy at his side, all of it trying to take him down into the depths, but he kept going, refusing to let exhaustion win. The boat was still moored by the secret entrance, just a ways ahead.

Every moment was hard won. The climb into the boat, the movement of the oars through heavy water, and finally the stashing of the vessel back in the cave. Just as they had found it. Just as he had promised. Ready for a darker version of himself to use it, a tool for his revenge. He almost wished they hadn’t. Emma sagged next to him, waterlogged and exhausted, breaking into his thoughts. He gave her a reassuring smile, soft and encouraging, and together they trudged slowly along the beach. Neither said a word.

When they reached the sandy rock strewn shore of their camp Killian let himself fall into the sand to lay for a moment. Emma had a similar idea. He felt numb, and heavy, his entire body dipped in ice, but now giddiness swelled in his stomach and he laughed up into the sky. Beside him Emma giggled again.

“Holy shit,” she repeated.

“Indeed,” Killian grunted, moving back to sitting. “We best make camp. Should be safe enough here, I imagine our former hostess will be occupied for quite some time.”

They both cast a look up to the fortress above, echoing shrieks and roars, the sounds of battle faintly filling the quiet of the lakeside wood.

“I think David packed our old clothes,” Emma said. “Do you know how to light a fire?”

Killian gave her a look and pulled himself with aching muscles back to his feet.

“‘Course you do,” she murmured to herself, tugging ineffectually at her sodden clothes, pulling them away from her skin. Her lips were still blue tinged, her hair plastered to her cheeks and temples, dirt from the cave and sand from the shore sticking to her skin in intermittent patches. She was beautiful.

“Come along then,” he said, snapping himself out of it. She was not his to admire.

Together they made the slow, wet plod the final distance back to the wagon, and a waiting Four.

“Yes!” Emma said, triumphant, finding the bundle of dry clothing in their supplies. Killian draped her cloak across a tree limb to let it dry. They busied themselves with the tasks of making camp: building a fire, replenishing Four’s depleted food and water, and finally, changing out of their wet clothing.

“No peeking,” Emma warned, but it was more playful, a hint of coyness as she smiled, holding the dry clothing away from herself. Killian wanted to curse the heavens. He would have given his eye teeth for just such a remark just days ago. Had given his ship to one day hear it.

“Gentleman,” he reminded her, forcing a sly grin and a wink. He turned himself around. The smile fell from his face as soon as his back was to her and he closed his eyes.

He could hear the rustle of fabric. Her breathing changing as she worked herself out of the clinging wet garments. He swallowed, clenched his teeth, and reminded himself of why they were there, what needed to be done.

“Okay,” Emma said. “I’m decent.”

“What a shame,” he murmured, an automatic reflex, his heart not in the flirtation at all.

“You okay?” Emma asked, he still hadn’t turned around to face her.

“Freezing,” he said a bit more cheerfully. “May I?” He held up his own parcel of clothing.

“Modesty? How surprising,” Emma teased, but she looked unsure as well, hesitant. He forced a humorless laugh and gesture with a flapping gesture of his arm for her to turn around.

“Alright, alright, I’m not looking.” She said. He heard her shuffling in place.

It was a bit harder to change for Killian, and the air was torturous on his clammy skin but the dry cloth felt heavenly as he pulled on pants and socks.

“Killian?” Emma asked, her voice unsure. He paused, the dry shirt still in his hand.

“Yes?” His own voice sounded hoarse, cracking, and he cleared his throat.

“Do you think we messed everything up?” Emma asked. Killian turned around.

“How d’you mean?”

Emma turned around to face him, back in her shift dress, cast orange by the flames of the fire behind her, her body just a curving shadow within it. He averted his eyes, stared fully at her face. Her worried face.

“Maleficent is right this second fighting some kind of fire bird thing,” Emma reminded him. “And you gave up…something.. to some ancient witch and we aren’t any closer to getting home.”

“That’s not entirely true,” he said. “And I gave nothing I wasn’t willing to give.” Across from him Emma swallowed, her eyes shining.

They stood for a moment more, until Emma’s flickering gaze reminded him that he was still bare from the waist up. He took a moment to appreciate the color rising on her pale cheek bones, the pink slip of tongue darting out to lick her bottom lip. He pulled the shirt over his head to spare himself the image when it became too much, tugging it down with his hand after a moment.

“The book!” Emma said suddenly, breaking through the heavy tension. “We can check the book.”

They had thankfully left the book and Emma’s pack behind in the wagon for the climb up, sparing them a soak, and she grabbed it now, settling herself on a driftwood log Killian had pulled to the fire. Killian jolted as well.

The book. The book might have the answer. Baba Yaga had said Emma’s true love was already known to her. That he was was here, within a day’s ride. Perhaps the mythical man was in the book.

“It’s all still here,” Emma breathed out, relieved. “It all looks the same.”

“Well that’s one stroke of luck for us. Finally,” he said. He handed her a flagon of water, and the bag of their provisions. “May I?” He asked and gestured to her hands. Emma traded him the food for the book.

“What are you looking for?” She asked after a few mouthfuls of water. Killian settled himself on the log beside her, opening it on his lap.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he said absently, evasive, his fingers moving across the pages.

This was true. He had no idea who he was looking for. Familiar names and faces looked back at him. Even his own, fierce and angry, his eyes filled with revenge. He turned the page quickly.

Some were ridiculous notions he realized flipping through it. He couldn’t imagine Emma with any of the dwarves for instance. And many of the others were family or otherwise attached. Next to him Emma ate, and fed bits of apple to Four when the creature nosed against her hair, glancing at him curiously.

Killian flipped another page, and stopped. He swallowed. A man stared back at him, a dagger in his hand. Killian turned the page back, to the start of the story, and began to read silently.

Emma leaned over, looking at the page that had caught his interest. He heard the small intake of her breath, noted the sudden stillness of her body where it touched his on the log and considered it a confirmation. He swallowed, and continued reading.

When he reached the end he closed the book, running his hand over the gold inlay, and then looked into the fire. That was the way of it then. His eyes burned. From the smoke he told himself.

“Killian?” Emma asked. “What is it?” She sounded frightened, unsure. She shifted closer to him on the log.

“"I spent a fair bit of time in your Sheriff’s Office looking for my hook,” Killian said after a long silence. The fire crackled in the pit in front of him, and he watched the flames dance. Emma held herself still, waiting.

“There’s a pair of boots in there with a bit of missing cord that matches the one you’ve worn on your wrist since I’ve known you.” Killian reached over to where her hands were clasped in her lap, and he brushed over the wrapping in her wrist.

“People talk about him, fond remembrances, the odd story. I heard them in the diner, and your boy spoke of him once I’m sure.” Killian sighed to himself, defeated. “And whenever they did you’d get this…this look on your eye. I know that look all too well.” He looked at her then. She looked devastated, her fingers reaching up absently to touch the same spot on her wrist, trailing down the leather. Killian continued on, his voice growing hoarse.

“And just now….when I was looking through the storybook you tensed when you saw the tale I was reading. I recognized the illustration from an image in your Sheriff’s Station.”

“Why are you talking about this?” Emma asked. There was an edge of anger in her voice, the kind of anger that was closer to grief. He knew that anger too.

Killian closed his eyes. He looked for a moment to the sky, to the stars that looked down at them, just at the edges of the firefight. He sighed again.

“Because Emma,” he forced a smile at her, his cheekiest sideways grin, even as his heart cracked and crumbled.

“I believe I’ve found your true love.”

_____

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upstartpoodle · 6 years

Text

Bad Tidings (Chapter 2)

Rating: G

Pairing: George x Elizabeth

Summary: The second chapter of the banshee AU, in which disaster falls on the day of the Queen Charlotte's maiden voyage and Elizabeth contemplates her encounter with George on the moor.

Previous chapter

Chapter 2

The ride back to Truro had been as long and as tiresome as George had predicted, and made him wish that he had just taken the carriage to Bodmin in the first place, as Trigg had suggested. This was not least because of the strange encounter that he had had on the moor. Once he had put enough distance between himself and the place where he had seen the peculiar woman, he had vowed to but it out of his mind and not to think on it again. Unfortunately, he had broken that promise to himself not moments later, when he found himself mulling it over in his head anyway. It had been nice, just speaking to her, his treacherous brain conceded as he did so, for all that her last words had cast something of a shadow over the conversation. He couldn’t remember the last time he had ever talked with someone so easily and openly, aside from Francis, and even their time spent together had become a little fraught recently, in part due to the difficulties his friend was having in his own life and also—if he were to be honest with himself—because of his ever-worsening feud with Ross.

Yet despite this, he could not help but be unsettled by her last words, not to mention her sudden disappearance. Whatever could she have meant by them? Perhaps, he supposed, she had intended to refer to the now infamous confrontation between Matthew and Ross during the ball at Cardew, where his cousin’s dishonest conduct had been exposed, but somehow, George did not think that could be the case. While talk of the event was rife amongst Cornwall’s gentry, the majority of whom had been witness to it in some way, he doubted that this strange woman would have known a great deal about the matter, and besides, the tone with which she had said those words hinted that her consolation had been for something of a far greater magnitude than a little social embarrassment. Well, either way he could not make head nor tail of it, and there was little use in lingering on something so bizarre, for all that his mind desperately wanted an answer to the mystery it had been presented with.

He arrived in Truro just as the afternoon was beginning to fade into the evening, tired and a little confused but, overall, none the worse for wear. Being the end of summer, there was still plenty of daylight to be had, and the sun was warm and bright as it beat down upon the harbour, where a cool, salty breeze blew in from the sea. It was to here that George headed, where his uncle and—hopefully well—cousin had said they would be waiting for him. As he walked along the harbour wall, enjoying the caress of the sea air on his face, so different to the harsh winds up on the exposed moor, and taking in the creaks and groans of the ships, the shouts of the men as they busied themselves with some task or other, and the smell of saltwater and seaweed that he was long accustomed to, he couldn’t help but feel his mood lift a little. He had always been attached to Truro, and right now, its uncomplicated familiarity was something of a comfort to him.

“Cousin! Haven’t been lost to the wilderness, I see!”

George turned to see the approach of Cousin Matthew, Uncle Cary following shortly behind with a habitually sour expression plastered across his sharp features. George smiled in greeting.

“I trust that I am sufficiently capable of following a path in broad daylight without getting mired in some bog, Matthew,” he replied drily, taking a few steps forward to meet them. “How are…?”

He trailed off, the inquiry half-formed on his lips. He found himself quite unable to complete it, however, for he had just noticed something rather alarming—something which he couldn’t quite believe he was seeing.

“George…are you well?,” Matthew asked him. “Good God, you look as if you have seen a ghost.”

George blinked up at him, taking a moment to register what he had said. Once he did, he shook his head slightly in a vague attempt to clear it, dearly wishing that, with such an action, he could dislodge the undesirable train of thought that was rapidly taking root in his brain.

“I…I am fine, Matthew,” he lied, perhaps not as convincingly as he would have liked, not least because his eyes were still firmly fixed upon the cause of his sudden distress. “I am simply a little tired—that is all.”

“So tired that your attention has been taken entirely by my waistcoat?,” returned Matthew wryly. “I was pleased with the purchase myself but even I do not consider it to be that arresting!”

George shook himself and, with some considerable effort, tore his eyes away from the man’s attire and up towards his face.

“Oh…forgive me, cousin. It seems I am a little distracted this evening.”

“That much is clear,” groused Uncle Cary, who had, up until now, been watching the exchange with no small measure of exasperation. “But perhaps if you can bear to redirect your attentions towards more important matters, we have business to attend to.”

“I…yes, uncle, of course” George replied, seeing the dangerous glare the man was throwing his way. With a put-upon “hmph”, Cary turned and strode swiftly away. Matthew and George followed, the former amused and the latter disquieted. It was perhaps well that neither his uncle nor his cousin had seen fit to properly dwell on his momentary lapse, he considered, for if they had known what thoughts were currently racing through his mind, they would surely think he had succeeded in overtaxing himself to the point of inducing temporary insanity. George himself was not sure what they could possibly mean, but one thing was undeniable: Matthew was wearing the very same clothes that he had seen in the grasp of the woman in the moors.

The moon was huge in the sky above Bodmin Moor that night, its silvery light drowning out the twinkling stars that sat alongside it in the deep black sky, and illuminating the rolling expanse of the land beneath it so brightly that any traveller who might have been treading the old paths would have needed no other aid to show them the way. There were, however, no travellers abroad on the moor at that time. The only person in sight was a lone figure—that of a woman—making her way along a thin, winding stream towards the rocky tor sat in the middle distance, silhouetted against the moonlight. She was a tall woman, slim, elegant and—to any human observers that had seen her in the past—dressed rather strangely. Amongst her own kind, her attire would have fetched little comment, however, for all that it was rare to come into contact with another of her people—nor, indeed, all that desirable.

The woman sighed, hiking up her muddy skirts as she began to make her ascent up towards the top of the tor. She didn’t feel the cold of the sodden peat seeping between her toes, nor the pain of the rough stone under the unprotected yet unblemished soles of her feet. In truth, she felt very little at all in that regard—she herself was not a creature of warmth, and was thus all too accustomed to such things to take much notice of them even if she were able to properly experience them. Sometimes she wondered what it would be like to feel those things—humans were such fragile creatures (the consequences of which she was all too intimately acquainted with), and she did not know how they could bear to be constantly beset by sensation—but now was not the time to think those thoughts. Not out here on the moor, basked in moonlight.

With some small effort on her part, the woman reached the top of the tor. She stood silently for a while taking in her surroundings from her vantage point, bathed in silver and drained of colour in the darkness. This was, by all rights, her time—deep into the night—but, for all that she could appreciate the beauty of it, it was not something she could revel in. It was too bleak, too empty, and though there were many who claimed that that, according to her nature, should please her, she found no joy in her solitude.

As she stared out over the dark horizon, there was not another soul in sight, living or otherwise—none to see her disappear as she passed straight through rock and into her concealed home, her own little pocket of space that was adjacent to put not quite part of the world above her. It resembled a cave of sorts, firelit and spacious, shadows dancing over the small treasures and magical objects that she had collected over the years, housed in grooves that had been cut into the walls long ago. Between those walls hung several thin cords, adorned with the shredded fragments of the clothes of those departed, and in the far corner sat a basket, filled with the garments of those condemned, ready for her to prepare for their passing.

It was to this item that the woman made her way to, a grim sigh escaping her lips. She had never liked this duty of hers, though she never shirked from performing it. Humans died so easily—so frequently—and each time she was there to prepare for their departure from their mortal coil. Sometimes it was disease, sometimes starvation. In other times it was simple age, or a foolish accident. Worst of all, sometimes they were killed by their fellows, or had killed and were paying the price according to their people’s laws. With each death, she would wash the clothes of the condemned, tear them up and hang them up in her cave in their memory. With each death, she would sing for them in warning, but it would never be listened to, or even understood—death did not like to be robbed of its prize once it had singled it out, and there was little she could do to change that.

She had been kept particularly busy recently, much to her dismay. A dangerous, fast-spreading illness had gripped her territory with an iron fist, and she feared it would only deign to release it once it had taken a good half of the county’s human population with it. It was horrible, seeing the grieving families, or finding that an unusually small piece of clothing had entered her basket, the soul of its infant owner ready to pass on before they had even truly had the chance to live. Her mother would have advised her not to care, as so many of her kind chose not to, but for all she tried she could not do it. She loathed it—both the events themselves and how powerless it made her feel, for she knew that, for all the magic and knowledge that she had at her fingertips, attempting to temper death would have had as much chance of success as trying to turn back the tides.

Smoothing down the front of her dress in an entirely unnecessary motion, the woman sat down on the floor next to the basket, staring darkly into its contents. The once pristine white shirt and fine navy waistcoat only served to remind her of one of the reasons this melancholy line of thought had been triggered in her once again. The image of the young man she had met on the moor swam before her eyes as she stared morosely down at them, and she swallowed thickly at the thought of him. No human had ever spoken to her before. Most who saw her chose not to linger, knowing what she was and what that meant. The remainder, who were unaware of what manner of being she was, did not care to halt their journey to stop and converse with a strange woman washing shirts out on the moor, and paid her no mind. And yet he had been different. He had not only spoken to her, but had shown concern for her wellbeing, however misplaced it may have been. She had been stunned by it at the time—so unexpected had it been—and with the shock of having been spoken to by a human still lingering in her mind, her thoughts now refused to do little else but dissect the entire encounter in the minutest of detail.

It couldn’t have been plainer that he had not recognised her for what she was, nor what her actions had signified, but that, as far as she could tell, was not unusual amongs some of the wealthier humans. It had, however, filled her with a horrible guilt which, try as she might, she had not been able to rid herself of. She had enjoyed his attentiveness, enjoyed having somebody else to talk with for once, all the while clutching the clothes of his soon to be dead cousin in her hands. Perhaps that had been what had prompted her to give him her condolences, for all that he would not understand them until the event itself occurred. Once he did, he would likely guess what she was, she supposed, and with a disappointed stab in her gut, she realised that she would probably never see him again.

Well, she thought to herself with another heavy sigh, it had been nice to have a little company, if only for a time. But now, staring down at the clothes of the young man’s cousin, she had to concede that it had only made her duty harder. Before, she had cared out of principle, due to the idea that the loss of life before one’s time was inherently repellent, but now that she had met and spoken with—and indeed rather liked—a loved one of one of the men condemned to death, it felt so much more awfully repugnant to her, almost as if the man’s blood, and with it his family’s grief, were on her hands.

It didn’t help that he, as far as she could tell, had had more than his fair share of grief. She, like all others of her kind, could see the passing of loved ones in the lives of all humans, and from this she knew that death often had its favourites among certain families. This young man’s family, unfortunately, seemed to be one of them. She could see that he had lost both his parents as a child—a highly unpleasant but not uncommon occurrence amongst humans, for all that she wished it were otherwise. Staring up at the lines strung with fabric—memories of those who had already passed—she wondered how that must have affected him—while she could see the bare facts of what had happened, she could not see into men’s hearts. She could guess though, she reminded herself as she thought of the muted, lonely look in his eyes that she had seen far too often in her own reflection. Would the death of his cousin worsen that look? Yes, yes she thought it would. Humans valued family far more highly than her kind did after all.

Scowling, she shoved herself to her feet, staring around at her empty, empty surroundings. She hated it—hated that she knew all this, all these deeply personal parts of his life, simply through the virtue of what she was, and yet she did not even know his name. And yet this was the task she had been given, her only purpose in life—one which she must fulfill, for what was she if she didn’t? She was well beyond hoping that it did not have to be all she was, for she existed invisible, unseen by the living and outside the realm of the dead. But now she had been seen—not just seen but noticed—and, not for the first time in her long existence, she wanted more.

George did not think a great deal on his realisation in the coming days. True, he had been a little shaken by it at the time, but had the woman on the moor not said those parting words to him, he doubted he would have made much of it, if at all. After all, it was nothing short of ridiculous to think that only one gentleman could own a dark blue waistcoat at any one time. No, it had simply been a flight of fancy that he did not in the least care to indulge and, busy with the preparations for the maiden voyage of the Queen Charlotte and the thorough thwarting of the Carnmore Copper Company, it was the easiest thing in the world to put it out of his mind. He was soon shaking his head at himself when he thought back to it—honestly, he liked to think that he was, in general, a rational man, and he didn’t particularly care for his brief stint acting as a hysterical heroine of one of Mrs Radcliffe’s novels.

This, however, was not to last. It was the night before the Queen Charlotte was due to set sail, and the Warleggans were partaking in a private meal at Cardew, both in celebration of their achievement and to see Matthew, who intended to sail with the ship in the morning, off. George wasn’t paying a great deal of attention to the rather dry conversation his two relatives were engaged in, lost in his own thoughts, but he was brought sharply out of his reverie when his cousin cut himself off mid-sentence, a frown etched upon his face.

“What the deuce is that sound?” he grumbled suddenly, twisting in his chair to stare out of the window in consternation.

��What sound?” Cary asked, taking—in George’s opinion—an overly liberal swig from his wine glass.

“Can you not hear it?,” Matthew asked, his frown deepening as he turned back to his two dinner companions. “I think it is coming from outside.”

“Bah! In that case it could be anything,” Cary snorted. “We are in the middle of the countryside—you hear all sorts of odd sounds all the time here. No doubt it’s far from what you’re used to, but it’s nothing to fret over.”

George, however, was just beginning to hear the sound too—a quiet, wailing song that somehow managed to pierce straight through Cardew’s thick walls and into their ears. Or at least his and Matthew’s ears, for his uncle didn’t seem to be paying the noise any mind whatsoever. The moment he heard it, he nearly dropped his fork in shock, his mind taking him back to when he ha last heard that very sound, and his meeting with its source. But no. Surely not. She couldn’t be— It didn’t—

“As you say” Matthew shrugged, and seemed to put the sound out of his mind, apparently oblivious to the effect it was having on his younger cousin. Cary huffed in what could have been anything from consternation to amusement at the response, draining the dregs from his glass.

George, busy straining his ears to decipher the sound, started when an entirely different noise, much more immediate than the first, interrupted him in his aim. With a high-pitched whine, Ambrose scampered into the room in a frenzied panic thought would perhaps have looked more at home in a smaller dog—or at least one of a more skittish temperament. Ambrose had always been a placid, rather doleful animal, to the point where he might even have been called lazy, so for him to act this way—and for no apparent reason no less—was highly irregular.

“What are you doing, you daft mutt?” Uncle Cary scowled, shoving the dog away as he attempted to paw at his leg. With a resentful look at his older master, he turned his attentions to the younger. George reached down and scratched him behind the ear absentmindedly. The eerie, screaming song was louder now, he noticed, and clearer. If there had been any chance of thinking it had been his imagination playing tricks on him before, there was none now.

The wailing continued all through the evening until it was almost unbearably loud. Or at least, it seemed so to George. His uncle appeared to barely notice it, and though Matthew looked a little perturbed, he seemed similarly unable to focus on it. The only other inhabitant of the house that seemed as affected by the noise as he was was Ambrose, who had whined and whimpered throughout the evening despite Cary’s exclamations of annoyance, coming instead to sit by George on the divian, resting his head in his lap. George was not sure how much comfort he was to the poor creature—he, after all, was just as unnerved, and feeling none too well on top of that. He felt a little light-headed, and at some point in the night had broken out into a cold sweat, so that his hands felt horribly clammy against the dog’s shaggy fur as he petted him. He could only hope that he wasn’t coming down with an illness of some kind—or worse, the putrid throat, which Francis and all his staff had been struck down with at Trenwith, though the sickness had deigned to bypass Agatha, despite her considerable age.

The clock in the parlour began to chime, indicating that midnight had come. Matthew took it as a cue to announce his intention to retire for the night and headed upstairs. He was not the only one for whom the chimes had signalled something, however, for George noticed that the wailing had stopped very abruptly once the clock had fallen silent once more. Possessed of an undefinable, inexplicable urge, he stood and made his way over to the window, staring out at Cardew’s expansive, moonlit grounds, not entirely sure what he was hoping to see. Everything was completely still outside. No breeze stirred. Not even a single twitch from the leaves on the trees. It was then that he found himself remembering an overheard conversation which he thought he had put out of his mind long ago—a conversation about how the inhabitants of Trenwith had heard a strange wailing noise in the night, how Francis had thought it to be the wind, despite it being a calm evening. Above all, however, he thought about how they had heard that sound the night before Charles Poldark died.

It was some time in the afternoon when a footman came into their study the next day, bearing a letter which he handed directly to Cary before leaving the room as quickly and as efficiently as he had come. George barely looked up, busy pretending to be engrossed in a table of figures when he was in fact turning over both the awful news of Ross Poldark’s daughter and the strange meeting he had had with the woman on the moor in his mind. Both were somewhat trying subjects, albeit for different reasons. The former, of course, was obvious—to most people anyway, he considered with a rather sour glance towards his uncle, who had been quite happy to toast the infant’s death as the final blow to their bitter rival. It did not sit quite so well with George, however. For all that he disliked Ross, and for all that he had wanted to see him brought low, this would never have been the means he would have chosen to bring it about—the loss of one’s child was not a fate he would wish on anybody.

His other concern was more insidious, lurking underneath his other thoughts and preoccupations and surfacing at the most inopportune of moments. It was ridiculous, he knew—he had never believed in portents of doom or death omens or whatever that small, traitorous part of his mind was insisting the encounter with the woman had been, and he wasn’t about to start now. Matthew would be fine, and when he arrived at his destination whole and hale, George would no doubt feel awfully embarrassed with himself for thinking such absurd, hysterical thoughts. There was still a part of him, however, that refused to be appeased by such logic, and he was just attempting to stamp it out when his uncle’s enraged roar brought him sharply out of his reverie.

“Hellfire and damnation!” Cary spat, thrusting the letter forcefully towards him. George leaned forward to take it and, scanning the brief missive as swiftly as he could, felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

“It cannot be.”

He too was on his feet now, barely paying attention to his uncle, who was pacing to and fro like a caged lion. No. Surely this could not be happening. It was… He was dreaming or…or…

“Hendrawna Beach…isn’t that—?”

“Poldark land” George finished, but he wasn’t thinking of Ross, or the cargo, nor anything else that was likely passing through the other man’s mind at that moment. No, he was thinking of something very different and far more unpleasant, and, for all that his rational mind rebelled against it, that disquieting idea had latched itself firmly into his thoughts and refused to be dislodged.

The rest of the afternoon passed in much of a blur, in which they received constant news of the happenings on Hendrawna Beach. With each new missive, Uncle Cary worked himself up into a new level of fury, incensed at the thought of the result of all their hard work being plundered by the rabble on the beach. To his dismay, upon reading the letter, George found a small part of himself, rather than sharing his uncle’s rage, wondering in a detached sort of way whether Matthew would be drowned or killed in the villagers’ desperation to make off with the cargo. The rest of him was half tempted to burst into hysterics right there and then upon realising this, but the sane part of him (which quite frankly he feared he was on the verge of completely losing his grip on) suppressed the irrational urge.

“Captain Bray must testify,” Uncle Cary snarled, drawing his nephew’s attention.

“To what?”

“To the plunder and lawlessness. No, better yet—Matthew. He can testify against Poldark.”

“Always assuming he witnesses” sighed George. Thinking of Ross at least offered a distraction from his other dark thoughts, but considering all that had happened, and the news of his daughter, it brought him no consolation. He had not the energy to fight with his long-time rival, for all that the threat to the ship’s cargo had stoked that fire in his uncle more than ever.

“Whether he witnesses or not!,” roared Cary, incensed both by the events of the day and his nephew’s lacklustre response to them. “Good God, boy, you don’t suggest we wait for actual evidence?! Matthew is a gentleman! He’s a Warleggan—worth twice of any Poldark, and his word will carry twice the weight, and I’ll be damned if we don’t turn this debacle to our advantage!”

He finished his piece with a fierce glare, before striding off to the window to stare out at the heavy raindrops spattering against the outside of the glass.

If George had thought waiting for the first missive had been a painful experience, the rest of the evening was positively torturous. They had sent a dispatch of soldiers to the beach in the hope of quelling the rabble, but received no specific news beyond general reports of violence on the part of the miners. This, understandably, did nothing to soothe George’s tattered nerves and eventually Cary, tired of his nephew’s fretting, snapped at him to retire for the night.

The wind from the storm howled viciously that night, rattling at the window of George’s chamber as he dressed for bed. He wished it would stop—the noise was abominable, and reminded him all too much of what the storm had caused, along with what he dreaded but did not yet know for certain. As the cacophany outside continued, he began to pace to and fro across the room, silk dressing gown clutched tightly around him and bare feet padding silently across the floor. After a while, even that became too much to bear, and he got into bed, tossing and turning in agitation, unable to keep that horrible, morbid anticipation from his mind. Eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep, plagued with strange dreams about storms, a wailing song that sounded like the howl of the wind and a lone woman out on the moor. He woke up the next morning to the news that his cousin was dead.

Next chapter: George questions Francis about his aunt's superstitions and goes back to Bodmin for the election.

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