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babblydrabbly · 2 years

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the only man you look at tonight || takeshi kovacs x reader || oneshot

takeshi kovacs x f!reader || smut || 2.4k words || warnings - language. alcohol and drug use. kissing. frottage. mentions of past abuse.

a/n: for @that-sarcastic-writer's lovely follower celebration! I really loved this prompt. Congrats again on the followers bby! ♡♡♡ and thank you to @a-reader-and-a-writer for beta reading:)

[ I do not give permission to repost my work anywhere. ]

The two of you are on a night out when you bump into your ex.

Takeshi’s strong arms and broad chest box you against the glass-top bar possessively. He makes sure all other patrons avoid bumping you as you order two more drinks, persuading the man on the other side of the counter to make them doubles on the house. Ever since Tak lost his expense account on the Bancrofts’ dime, the two of you had to revert to more frugal ways of navigating Bay City. You didn’t mind. It was your life before Takeshi Kovacs came into it, and he seemed well adept at it too.

You had surprised the envoy. You weren’t one for the noisy, chaotic atmosphere of most clubs in the city. But you knew Takeshi had a penchant for vice dens just like this one, and you secretly didn’t like him going alone no matter how perfectly capable he was. Takeshi Kovacs was a magnet for trouble, after all.

The corner of Tak’s lips quirk as you keep your head on a subtle swivel. You had proven you could clock plenty of danger in seedy places.

In your own way, you were reminding Takeshi it was okay to let his guard down and enjoy the booze and drugs he so often sought out when he first arrived. And while it was true that was his original goal, he had grown used to you by his side. He wasn’t just saying yes to another night out.

Takeshi realized it long before you— A good partnership in crime had turned into good company. And going out together had become a pleasurable thing of its own.

You stiffen when Tak curls his tall frame against your back for a moment before relaxing. You feel his warm breath on your ear before you hear his sleeve’s deep, velvety baritone.

“What’d you score us?”

You try to shrug nonchalantly, keeping your eyes forward. “Some top shelf. With a spritz of a little something like Veuron.” You turn to look up at him. “You looked like you wanted to get a little loose on the dance floor.”

“Are we dancing tonight?” Takeshi wonders out loud teasingly. Warmth flushes your cheeks. You thank the bartender and slide the glasses toward yourself, holding one up for Tak. He grabs the glass and clinks it against yours. “Kanpai.”

“Skal.” You agree. The two of you knock the drinks back swiftly before he takes your hand and guides you out onto the frenzied dance floor.

The sensation that hits soon after lifts you. Your eyes chase the moving lights that wash over the other dancers, happy to sway lethargically to the reverberating beat. Once again, Takeshi stands tall behind you—his favorite place to be, it seems-—his broad hands on your hips as he sways behind you in sync.

“I like this one,” Takeshi murmurs into your ear. This time he doesn’t hesitate to press his lips right against your skin. You give him an absent hum of approval yourself and tilt your head to the side.

“You like any drugs you can get your hands on.” You point out. The hands on your hips give you a squeeze before traveling steadily up your sides. You had no idea how true that statement was.

You gasp when he spins you around and find yourself facing Takeshi.

You open your mouth to say more. Tak raises an eyebrow when you suddenly clamp your mouth shut instead. He notes how you stop moving to the music instantly— your eyes fixated on something else just past him. Or someone.

Tak uses the large mirror that makes up the far wall to pinpoint what’s caught your attention rather than glancing over his shoulder. By his guess, it’s got to be a man over by the lounge area.

The Meth has the audacity to wear his ridiculous white garb while down here, in a shitty nightclub of all places. He chats with a few other wealthy men and women. Though clearly none of them are as wealthy as him.

Takeshi glances back down at you. “Who’s he?”

You glance up, startled. But you’ve grown used to Takeshi playing detective. He cranes his ear down so you can easily speak to him over the loud music.

“He goes by Rex when he’s down on the ground. We… knew each other. A long time ago.” You try to explain through the noise and haze of the drug. And Tak can already tell by your hesitation what you mean. “He used to hook me up with Merge5. Then Merge5 turned into Merge9 and, well… I had to get away from him eventually. You know what I mean?”

A flare of something in Takeshi makes him clench his jaw. He scoffs.

Takeshi knew exactly what you meant. Even the idea of being in the same room as Miriam Bancroft again annoyed the envoy. He could imagine how demeaning it must have been to you with this Meth of your own.

Takeshi’s weightless mood shifts as he steps closer to you, his hands on your hips again.

“But like I said. It was a long time ago.” You reiterate. Tak watches you glance down with a hint of shame. “Way before you were last spun up, that’s for sure.”

Takeshi takes your chin and brings your face back up. Your eyes flit over his expression, trying to discern what he may be thinking. When Tak finally takes a glance over at Rex, he isn’t surprised to see the man looking back. Takeshi smirks.

His kiss is electric. Your muffled sound cuts off as Takeshi cups your face with both hands and pulls you in. His lips mixed with your spinning daze leave you breathless. Kissing Takeshi Kovacs is a high on its own.

“Tak?” You shudder when those lips break away and leave a hot trail down your jawline. Right to the spot beneath your ear that makes you melt. His eyes drift open as he presses hot kisses against your skin, pulling away long enough to lock eyes with you. He catches your dazed attention in an instant.

“Let’s get out of here.” He offers casually. Takeshi’s concern, despite the way he wraps it up in his particular brand of attitude, reminds you just how protective he can be. He had hid it at first. In sideways glances and gentle brushes of his knuckles against yours.

But now, after everything you had been through together in this shitty town, it was the two of you. A package deal.

Your eyes flicker to his parted lips— to the way they glisten now in the neon lighting because of their contact with your skin. Then back to his blown pupils rimmed with their brilliant hazel rings. You grip the front of his shirt in response, desire suddenly blooming in your chest and down to your toes.

The spell is broken by the sound of his voice. One you never wanted to hear again but should have expected eventually. “Look who’s back in town.” He greets. Rex approaches with abandon, his cloned sleeve in pristine condition. You scoff under your breath when he elbows a few dancers out of his way.

“Here I am.” You respond. You don’t know how else to. You twist your fingers into the fabric just above Tak’s waist.

Takeshi wraps his arms around you, pulling you even closer. It’s so possessive you have to lift a foot subtly to not step on the envoy’s shoes. You blink as your cheek connects with Tak’s firm chest, a little speechless.

The Meth glances at Tak’s posture but says nothing about it. His smile is as congenial as ever.

“You must be the man I can’t quite live up to.” Tak drawls loudly over the din. His words, dripping with sarcasm, go right over the other man’s head.

“Talks about me, does she?” He grins.

Not at all, you prick. You bite your tongue before you regret it.

You don’t know what you expected, but it certainly wasn’t Takeshi playing his version of nice. He was one of the most bullheaded creatures you’d ever met. You’d only seen him skirt his way around conflict a handful of times– when absolutely necessary. You were both survivors in that way.

But Takeshi Kovacs knew how to play the board. Behind Rex, a few of his entourage kept their eyes on the three of you, ready to clean up the mess their Meth often made in his wake. It’d be in your and Takeshi’s best interest not to escalate anything while high and outnumbered.

“Well, I’m sure she wouldn’t settle for anything less than.” Your ex humbly concedes.

Your cheeks heat up again when he finally walks away– no longer a blush of desire but of embarrassment. Shame. Why shame?

Before you can sink into the feeling further, Tak grasps your chin lightly between his fingers.

“Fifty credits says he turns back around once he gets to that bar.” The envoy murmurs. You furrow your brow in confusion at his amused little smirk.

“What do you mean?”

Tak replies with another deep kiss.

“Be a little brash for me, for once.” He nips at your bottom lip.

You roll your eyes. “You’re one to talk. I thought we were just leaving.”

Tak doesn’t need the grip of his strong, callused hands to get your hips moving. You sway with him, leaning back to lock dilated eyes with the envoy. He pins you with his hooded hazel gaze and that expression you still can’t quite figure out. You’ve always wondered just how many calculations the envoy can make about what’s in front of him in a matter of seconds.

“This meth doesn’t know what’s mine.” Tak growls in your ear. The words drop sharply down to your core, and your mouth parts with shock. He’s never said something so forward about the two of you before. And you never dared to ask him.

“Takeshi.” Your eyes flit over to Rex. Tak gives you a moment to lock eyes with him, just enough to catch the glimpse of desire in the other man’s eyes. It’s one you’re familiar with, tainted with all the things you don’t ever want again; Jealousy; Insecurity; And that acrid kind of possessiveness without an ounce of true care. He held his power over you too long. Long enough that you’d never forget why you ran away in the first place.

But Takeshi’s face is different. You gasp as his hand closes softly around your jaw and guides your line of sight back to him. His gaze is something completely new. You flush beneath his hazel stare dotted with the strobe and neon lights dancing around you both. When he kisses you again, Takeshi presses his body against yours- chest to chest and hips to hips. You let go of a whimper when his arousal presses flush to your pelvis. You clench your thighs together with want, eyes falling shut.

So you try to ease into it. Let him pin you to him as his familiar touch runs ribbons of tingling warmth up and down your sides. And soon your past problems with Rex seem far away again– the distance from where you stand and the bar growing with every heart-thudding beat of sound.

Tak’s thigh coaxes your legs apart. Through the thin fabric of your pants, his muscles press firmly to you, gliding back and forth as the two of you begin to grind. You moan lightly at the friction. It’s not just the booze or the drugs– it’s Takeshi holding onto you so fiercely that gets your hips rolling. You bury your face in the man’s chest as the first slick sign of wetness blooms between your legs. You exhale a breath across the Envoy’s chest.

“Fuck.” He groans softly under all the noise. Could his intuition really tell him just how much you were enjoying yourself?

Eager to coax more sounds out of your normally silent partner, your hand makes its way down his chest. Over every cord of rolling muscle until your fingers finally hook on his belt. You glance up cheekily at him and bite your lip.

“I might just have to carry you out of here after all.” He smirks down at you. His eyes flutter shut as you reach up with your free hand to push the soft fringes of hair out of his eyes.

You savor the sharp inhale Tak breathes in as you cup the hard length at his center. Tak’s face twists subtly with pleasure. You stroke him as he grinds you down on his thigh. The two of you stay like this, working each other’s bodies under the guise of dancing as you hide your face away in the safety of Takeshi’s collar.

Tak holds your weight when the tell-tale sign of your quaking knees leaves you gripping onto his belt. His arms wrap around you on instinct as you shutter and buck lightly against him, your head tilting back in ecstasy. Lips find the column of your throat. Takeshi mouths at your pulse as your cries are drowned out by the music. A hand cards through your sweat-damp hair as you catch your breath.

You lock eyes with Takeshi. The thought of an audience member watching the two of you is long gone from your mind. Still, you smile dazedly at Tak, knowing where you want the rest of the night to go.

“I think I know a place with free booze and a little more privacy.”

He snorts, reading your mind. His voice is a heavy rasp now that it’s drenched with desire.

“Yeah? I think I might know the proprietor. And no, he doesn’t care for privacy.”

You grin as Takeshi relents anyway, a heat flooding your chest when you catch him throwing a sly smirk back toward the bar for a split moment. You don’t care enough to look yourself.

The two of you escape the underground club and step back out into the Bay City fog, your only thoughts on the hand enveloping yours and the warm safe haven waiting for you both.

#lias writing challenge #lias 1300 milestone #write with lia #takeshi kovacs #takeshi kovacs x reader #takeshi kovacs x you #altered carbon #altered carbon fanfiction #Joel kinnaman fanfiction #mywords*#thatsarcasticwriter

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scifrey · 6 months

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The Untold Tale book one of The Accidental Turn Series

Fandom: Original Fic Pairings: M/F & M/M Genre: Romantasy (Romance & Fantasy), Quest Narrative, Epic Fantasy, Portal Fantasy Warnings: Off-page SA, light dub-con, and on-page consensual sexuality. Please curate your experience accordingly.

Forsyth Turn is not a hero. That's his older brother's job, and Kintyre is nothing if not legendary. However, when a raid on the kingdom's worst criminal results in the rescue of a baffling woman, oddly named and even more oddly mannered, Forsyth finds his quaint, sedentary life turned on its head.

Dragged reluctantly into a quest he never expected, and fighting villains that even his brother has never bested, Forsyth is forced to confront his own self-shame and the demons that come with always being second-best. And when he finally realizes where Pip came from and why she's here, he'll be forced to question not only his place in the world, but the very meaning of his own existence.

New Chapters Drop Tuesdays on Wattpad and AO3.

Read on Wattpad | Read on AO3 | Buy Paperback or eBook (coming 2024) | Read chapter one below

The Sigil that Never Fades The Quill that Never Dulls The Cup that Never Runs Dry The Parchment that Never Fills The Blade that Never Fails The Desk that Never Rots The Spirit that Never Lies With these tools our world was born, And with them can be broken. Or born again.

I am upstairs preparing for bed when I catch sight of the approaching cart and its cargo through the thick glass of my window, and I assume the body in the back is a corpse, brought to me for study and then burial. But no one handles a corpse with such care; the driver is directing the horse to travel slowly, avoiding each hole in the dirt road. They also do not stop to pick up a healer for a corpse. Yet Mother Mouth is in the back, hunched as best she is able over the blanket-wrapped body.

By the time I make it down the grand staircase to the foyer, three of my Men are lifting the bundle from the cart with careful concern. I gesture to the threshold, and they lower it onto my front step. As soon as they set the body down, I can see that my assumption was correct.

It is a young woman.

And she is still alive. But only barely. I contain my shudder of revulsion, clamping my teeth down hard on my tongue to keep from gagging. I think I am only successful because I’ve seen this sort of thing before.

Bootknife has flayed her very prettily.

Artistic tendrils of bloody ivy are torn into the vellum of the young woman’s flesh. I can only see a little of the pattern, however, from between the blanket’s folds. Bootknife has written spells and agony into the muscle he’s carved, into the wounds left by the strips he fileted from her. It’s as detailed as any woodcarving for a stamp—some deep; some wide and shallow; some the merest scrape, only a layer or two of skin absent. Disgustingly beautiful. But it is not art.

It is torture.

She is unconscious. A blessing. I can’t imagine how much the young woman must have been screaming before my Men forced poppy milk down her throat. Well, I suppose I can imagine it—I have seen quite enough of Bootknife’s handiwork to be able to envision her pain. What I mean is that I do not want to imagine it. I can’t bear the thought of the sounds that must have ripped her throat bloody.

She is as wrapped in rough blankets as she can be with such extensive injuries to her back. The blankets are filthy and crusted with blood and other bodily fluids, which means they were probably the only protection against the chill spring morning that her rescuers could find. I clench my hands into fists and jam them into the pockets of my house robe to keep from rushing forward and helping. A Chipping Master does not dirty his hands in labor. I hear the invective in my father’s hateful voice in my head, and I take great pleasure in telling it to go drown itself.

All the same, I stay back. I would only be in the way.

Mother Mouth assesses the young woman’s injuries, and when she is done, we ensure together that there are no Words of Tracing carved into the victim’s skin.

It would not do to give our enemies such advantageous leverage as to lead them here. To the unknowing, my home appears to be no more than the manor of silly, crumpled Forsyth Turn, younger brother to the great hero Kintyre and a man quite stodgily attached to his library. And those on the outside must remain unknowing. Even the slightest slip would bring the Viceroy down on my Chipping, and I will not have the people under my care endangered.

I do not bother to ask why my Men brought the woman to me and not to the king; if the king had the security and ability to protect himself and those in his charge from the Viceroy, he would never have secretly employed me as his Shadow Hand.

There is nowhere safer for the injured visitor than Turn Hall. Not even Kingskeep.

Assessment done, they take the woman inside. I catch the attention of my butler and order a wing of my home that I have not entered in years be opened specifically for my surprise guest.

It has been a long time since there’s been a need for lady’s chambers in Turn Hall. They have remained shut since my mother’s death. It has been even longer still since the need for a lady’s maid; my staff are nearly all men. This is not out of preference, but because there are no women in my household who require women servants, and it made sense to leave the town’s supply of employable young misses for houses where they were more needed.

I am going to have to find a woman. Blast.

We linger in the hallway outside the room long enough for servants to strip the dusty bed linens and replace them with fresh. I dismiss my Men to write up their debriefing reports, and then help Mother Mouth lay the young lady on the bed myself. The only way we figure she will be comfortable is belly-down, her face propped to the side with a feather pillow.

Once she is installed on the bed, I step back into a corner to remain out of the way. Mother Mouth takes a short breather—she is no longer young; her skin is papery thin and scored with laughter lines, but still glows with vitality—and all this rushing and lifting has winded her. She then ties her silver-streaked hair back and begins the careful work of spreading tinctures and ointments, mixing potions meant to neutralize spells and remove pain before she starts cutting away, with gentle knife work, the meat that has rotted from neglect.

My staff moves around them in an orchestrated dance, fetching lamps and candles and water in an ewer; bringing in, using, and then removing brooms and cleaning supplies; opening windows and laying a fire in the hearth. I do as I always do, what I am best at doing: I observe.

When Mother Mouth finally sits back, a smear of blood on her forehead where she pushed a stray tendril of hair out of her face, I offer her a handkerchief. It is russet, the color associated with House Turn, my family. She takes it graciously, though she wrinkles her nose at the fineness of the fabric.

“We’ve had this discussion before,” she says. “Good silk should be saved for dressing wounds, and rough cotton for wiping faces and noses.”

“I agree, Mother,” I allow, a smile sitting in the corner of my mouth and trying so very hard to stretch into the rest of it. “However, there are expectations at court, and when one’s work relies on creating a good impression, the silk must be used for snot.”

“And that’s why I’ve no use for court.”

Mother Mouth rises and goes to the bag of medicines she left on the bedside table. She pulls out phials and jars, each neatly labeled in her spiky hand. She is leaving behind tinctures and syrups to add to my young visitor’s wine when she wakes in pain, along with bandages and ointments enough to cover the whole of the vicious patterns on her back several times over.

“Right, then, my boy,” Mother Mouth says, standing and cleaning her bloody hands at the washstand. “Let the lass sleep it through, and I’ll return in the morning to assess her healing. I tell you, I wouldn’t want to be her right now. Keep her asleep if you’re able, lad. And send for me at once should she turn feverish or her wounds begin to fester and reek,” she finishes.

“No stitches?” Mother Mouth has sewn each of my Men up at one point or another, myself included. There are none among the Shadow’s Men who do not bear the gratefully earned signature of her needle. It seems odd now that she is not doing the same for our guest.

“No,” Mother Mouth agrees. “The slices that remain open are shallow. Where they are also narrow, there is no need. Where they are wide... ” She shrugs. “I could not make the skin meet over the exposed muscle without tearing it. The rest of the deep cuts have begun to scar already. Better to cover it over with the salve, and with Words, and leave it to nature.”

I nod, well used to this particular healer’s pointed and honest instructions—she is the best within an hour’s ride from my keep, and thus my preferred healer. My Men and I call her Mother Mouth because of her bluntness, her willingness to bully us verbally into obeying her commands, and we always do so with a smile, and to her face. She has another name, but has long since gamely resigned herself to this one.

“I will reapply both salve and spells personally when it is t-t-time,” I promise.

“Oh now,” Mother Mouth scolds playfully. “None of that, my boy. No need to be nervous. It’s just a woman and a bit of blood.”

“I’m not ne-nervous of her,” I say.

She pats my arm. “Of course not. You’re a good boy, Master Turn.”

I pretend to bristle at the juvenile endearment, but it secretly pleases me. Mother Mouth has known me my entire life. She pulled both my elder brother and I from our mother. She set my broken arm when Kintyre dared me to climb an orchard tree to the top. She put her hands into my brother’s guts after his first run-in with a goblin brigade and held them in place until the Words of Healing could take hold. She closed my mother’s eyes after a fever took the Lady Turn away. She called my father’s corpse a silly shit while she cleaned it the day he drank himself into a tumble down the foyer staircase and into his own grave. She has more than earned the right to call me her “good boy,” should she so choose. And I always do my best to live up to it.

Mother Mouth packs her small case and takes her leave. When my staff has finished ferrying ewers of both hot and cool water, wine, a modest bowl of broth, fresh candles, towels, my mother’s newly cleaned dressing robe, my mother’s slippers, and my portable writing desk into the room, I dismiss them to their suppers.

One last young lady lingers at the door, and she must be freshly arrived for she does not wear russet livery. I do not know her, and she seems eager to be of help, which is extremely encouraging. She is slim, her hands rough and callused, giving her the appearance of one who looks like she works hard, and her apron is very starched. She resembles Cook—same rigidly marshaled brown hair, same firm lines around her eyes, very competent and very discreet. She waits silently on the threshold, obviously waiting for me to speak first.

“Hello,” I say. “Yes?”

“Sir,” she says and bobs a curtsy. “My mother sent for me when she heard you had a lady guest, sir. Figured you’d want a girl in, sir.”

“Very good of her to take the initiative. Well come, and well stayed.” I take a moment to go to my portable desk and scribble upon a fresh piece of paper. When the ink is dry, I fold up the note. “Your name, miss?” I ask.

“Neris, sir.”

“Can you read, Neris?”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

“Excellent. Here.” I hold out my hand. In it are a letter and a small sack of gold coins. She takes both.

“I would like you to return to your usual household with this and give both to your mistress. The envelope contains an apology letter to your employer, and this should be enough coin to replace the wages she’s already paid you this week. I would have you here until you are no longer needed at Turn Hall. And I will pay double whatever your current employer offers. Is that acceptable?”

She smiles, and there must be her father, for Cook’s face does not have such fetching dimples. “Oh, yes sir!”

“And I invite you to move your things into the Hall come morning. Unless you have another billet you prefer?” I ask. She shakes her head. “Very well. Ask your mother for Turn-russet livery when you return, and we’ll get you set up in the maid’s quarters. Though, ah, you may be alone there.”

“I’m not afraid of the dark and the quiet, Master Turn,” she says, dropping a curtsy and vanishing in that lovely discreet way of lady’s maids the world over. It’s a vastly underprized skill.

My new guest and I are now alone.

My skin prickles at the thought of being trapped in a room with a person I know so very little about—I am not used to being the one on poor footing—and I go to the window to try to relieve the pressing sense of claustrophobia. It is silly; she is unconscious and, thanks to the poppy milk, will remain so for a good long while. I have nothing to fear from her.

Still. She is an unknown factor, and I do not like those in the least.

There is a reason I’m the king’s Shadow Hand. Who better for a spymaster than the man who becomes physically agitated when he feels ignorant?

The sky outside has turned an ashy blue. Rain is on the horizon, and the breeze is picking up accordingly. I open the sash just enough to allow in the fresh wet air, but not enough for raindrops when they finally start to fall. The puff of breeze against my chest, fluttering my shirt and Turn-russet robe, gives me a false sense of safety—I have an exit if I need one.

The breeze also flutters the heavy velvet drapes. Dust puffs out of the folds and onto the wooden floor just shy of the bed. My mother was of House Sheil, and so much of the décor in her chambers is a deep, dark purple—the throw rugs, the comfortable upholstered chairs by the hearth, the bedding, all of it is patterned with curling designs of lilac and lavender and deepest indigo. It has been years, perhaps a whole decade, since my father had Mother’s chambers shut up. I suddenly realize how much I have missed purple.

The cloud cover is blocking so much of the sun that the room has become gloomy, and the details of the woman hard to catch. I make a second circuit for candles, which I light with a twig from the small fire in the hearth. Then I set the kettle Cook left on the mantelpiece onto the hook attached to the flume and wait for it to boil. A hot drink on a gray day is always a comfort, and the air in my mother’s chambers is dry from being shut up for so long, so the steam will do us both some good.

Now to take care of this silly fear; I will observe the woman and decipher what I can of her, so that the anxiousness can finally dissipate long enough for me to get some paperwork done. I pull one of the chairs that stand before the fireplace over to the bedside, and settle into the lush padding. Then I look.

The first thing that registers is that she is in pain, despite the sleep brought on by the poppy milk. It is obvious by the creases in her forehead and the set of her jaw. Her hair is matted with sweat and other fluids that I do not wish to consider closely. Perhaps I dismissed Neris too hastily—my guest could certainly do with a wash, if only for her own comfort. But I am not certain that it would not have caused her more agony, so perhaps it is best to wait until the young woman is awake and aware and able to help the maid.

Beyond that, I have no concept of who she is or where she may be from. Any clues that might have come from her clothing were lost when Bootknife cut them off her. Her ears are pierced, but there are no jewels from which to read her origins or history, no rings, no signets, no torques. How galling!

Her features resemble those of no family I know, which is impressive, as I have a very good head for faces. Her mouth is a small moue of pain, neither generous of plumpness nor waspish or thin. She has lines around the corners that indicate that she laughs heartily and frequently. Her cheeks are higher than I am used to and smooth, sprinkled with freckles. Her skin is dusky in tone, quite similar to the color possessed by the outdoor laborers from the Flung Isles after a season’s work, but not so reddish. Hers is closer to the hue of well-cared for honeywood, made even more yellow in tone by the Sheil-purple of the blankets surrounding her. Her nose is short, adorable in a way that many women curse for being too childish looking. Her lashes are dark, and her eyes sweep upward at the outer edges.

I can tell by the curve of her exposed back, where it swells into her hips and the sides of her breasts, that she’s never starved, never seen a rough harvest or overlong winter.

In summary, she must be a well-off merchant’s daughter, and quite possibly yet another merchant’s wife. I would say a nobleman’s, but she cannot be the child of any nobleman I know from court, legitimate or not.

She could be from another, distant kingdom beyond the borders of Hain, but I have met much of the nobility from Urland and Gadot, as well as a few from Brystal, and she does not bear the trademark of any house that I know; her skin is either too light or too dark, her eyes too round or not round enough, her nose too snubbed or too high, her chin too round.

In short, the collection of her features does not come together to spell out her parentage.

Infuriating.

And fantastic. I am intrigued, instantly. How long has it been since I have been gifted with such a mystery? And that she was imprisoned by the Viceroy for so long without my knowing he had kidnapped anyone... was holding anyone at all. It was only an accident of circumstance that she was even rescued, that I even know she exists. The Viceroy had been raiding magical archives and libraries the world over, and when I had put together the picture of the sorts of tomes he was stealing, I ordered my Men to raid and retrieve. That they had also found her was sheer coincidence.

At least, I believe it is an accident. I cannot imagine any person would allow such agony to befall them for the sake of gaining my pity and entrance to my Hall. Spies usually do not bleed.

I cannot recall the last time something like this happened accidentally in my work, and my heart flutters against my ribs.

The entire situation is completely astounding. Magnetic. Incredible. And so impotently frustrating that I cannot know more, cannot have my curiosity slaked immediately. I wish she were awake to answer my many questions.

The only thing I can know for sure is that the Viceroy wanted something from her, and she refused to give it to him. I cannot guess what it might have been, for he has the power to take anything he wants—even her, had he so chosen. Mother Mouth did not say anything about signs of a violation, but perhaps she wanted to be delicate while my staff was in the room and means to discuss it with me in the morning. The woman in my mother’s bed is pretty enough; the Viceroy likes the pretty ones.

To resist the Viceroy for as long as this woman did, to keep her secrets for so many days that the pattern on her back had the time to grow so complex, must have taken real strength of spirit. As much as she must have been screaming, she’d never told him what it was he sought to learn.

I admire her greatly all of a sudden. There are very few who can keep secrets behind their teeth when Bootknife’s art is in their flesh.

That makes her beautiful to me.

It does not matter how her features are arranged; her will is strong. And, as it was Bootknife she was resisting, I can hope that her morals are also true. I allow myself to follow the soft curve of her pain-paled cheek with my eyes, the delicate protrusion of the tendons in her neck, the place where her breast presses into the blankets and is hidden under her body. I am struck with a sudden swelling of attraction, and I stomp it back viciously.

No. A woman as remarkable as this, unexpectedly arriving at Turn Hall? There is only one explanation—she is for Kintyre. Women like this are always for Kintyre.

The kettle over-boils. Water foams into the fire with an indignant hiss, bringing me back to gloomy reality, and I make myself a pot of tea. Then I settle back into my chair, my portable desk on my lap and an afternoon’s worth of tedious paperwork stacked on its surface.

The only sounds to break the silence are the sputtering of the candles arrayed around the room, the slow tap of the rain just beginning to fall against the roof of the manor, and the pained, almost inaudible whimpers my guest exhales with each labored breath.

I dip my quill into my ink pot and add the scratch of a nib on parchment to the quiet symphony of pain.

❧✍❧

“Oh,” the woman whispers, dry lips rasping against the silk pillow casing. “It’s you.”

I have fallen asleep in my chair, and the quiet murmur of her voice yanks me back to wakefulness so quickly that my portable desk clatters to the floor. Ink sprays across the wood and splashes over the Sheil-purple rug beside the bed. I wince. Oh, Mother’s rug! It will take my staff a terrible amount of scrubbing to clean it.

There is nothing I can do about it at the moment, so I right the pot, step around the spreading puddle and toppled papers, and go to her side.

“Greetings,” I say. “Water?”

I’m not certain how I’ll get the cup to her lips without spilling all over the pillow or forcing her to sit up, which will be a special new agony in and of itself.

She nods and presses upward on her hands, grimacing but holding herself there until I manage to tip the earthenware cup against her mouth. She sips slowly, grunting as her arms tremble. When the water is gone, she flops back down into the pillow and doesn’t hold back the yelp that such an action causes. It makes anger froth beneath the surface of my own skin, to realize that she has learned how to move with such injuries in order to drink. That Bootknife must have made her learn.

And that I have been unable to spare her that pain in Turn Hall. I’ve failed my first task as her guardian already.

She shivers all over, and my first instinct is to cover her snugly with the blanket. But that would irritate her wounds and allow fibers into the open ones, so instead I put the kettle back on the hook, stoke the fire back to life, and close the windows. Air that was fresh and crisp at sunset has become biting.

She watches it all with eyes that are a very normal, boring shade of muddy green, yet sparkle with keen observation. As I first noted, they are ever so slightly cat-like, turned up at the outside in a manner that I have never seen; though, it is even more pronounced with her eyes open. I have never been on the receiving end of such an intent gaze before.

She watches the same way that I watch.

I fidget until the kettle hisses, welcoming the excuse to duck out from under her odd gaze. As I pour the boiling water into the bowl my staff has left beside the ewer, mixing in the room temperature water until the heat is bearable, I cannot help but ponder on the strangeness of the young woman’s eyes.

Perhaps it is about her eyes... ? I recall that the Viceroy has a sickeningly obsessive fascination with Sir Bevel, who is plain but has eyes such a dark blue that they are an anomaly. The Viceroy often threatens to pluck them out and have them rosined for a cloak brooch. It would be very much like him to pick this woman simply because of the unique almond-shape of her eyes. But, then again, that makes no sense at all, for what would Bootknife have tortured her for if the Viceroy had only wanted to collect—possibly extract—a piece of her?

This cyclone of reasoning is near to making me dizzy. Instead of dwelling on answers I cannot deduce alone and cannot ask for now, I sit on the side of the bed with the bowl and a cloth.

“May I?”

“Sure,” she rasps. “This is so unreal.”

“Your injuries are, in fact, quite real, I’m a-afraid,” I say.

She stares at me for a moment, and then turns her head back into the pillow, purposefully obscuring her expression. For a brief moment, it seems as if her eyes are wet.

“I know,” she mutters into the muffling fabric. “It’s insane, but I know.”

I dip the cloth into the bowl and begin to bathe her back, careful not to oversaturate it. It would not do for excess water to slip down her sides and soak into the bedding beneath her. The ointment has dried into a yellowish crust and must be wiped away carefully before reapplying. The warm water soothes her goose-pimpled skin, and she alternates between soft moans of gratitude and small hisses of pain caused by wounds suddenly being exposed to the air or jarred.

“I’ve never seen you like this before,” she grunts as I lean close to concentrate on cleaning around a fanciful curlicue carved into the sweet dimples right above where her back swells into her buttocks. The latter are covered with a blanket to preserve her modesty, and I am careful not to jostle it.

“You’ve never met me before,” I counter without looking up, soaking in every syllable of her speech. Her words are queerly broad. “How can you say that you have never seen me like... whatever it is that you mean by ‘this.’”

“That’s also the longest sentence I’ve ever heard from you.”

What a deliciously strange accent! So flat and lacking the jumps and dips that fill the speech of Hain Kingdom’s people. I’ve never heard anything like it before, which both thrills and shocks me. Knowledge is my currency; so how can she hail from a place that I do not know? How can such a place exist, as every clue she gives up suggests?

I am careful to school my expression, to not appear too thrilled or eager.

“Of course,” I agree, “as you’ve only heard six. Eight, if you count the last one, and this one.”

She turns her face into the pillow and groans. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Again, ‘this,’” I say, because it’s easier to look at her back and work on her wounds than look her in the face. I am ashamed to be causing her pain. It feels like a stab in my own gut.

Useless old Forsyth, as usual. But Mother Mouth asked me to have her fetched in the morning, not in the middle of the night. So I will muddle through, try my best, and hope that she does not chide me too much for the attempt at playing healer myself.

“Master Forsyth Turn, the king’s Shadow Hand... boiling his own water and closing his own windows. Elgar Reed would be horrified.”

I feel nauseous immediately.

Oh no, no, how does she know? No one, save my Men and Mother Mouth, is meant to know. The whole village thinks I am no more than the younger son, left behind to be the Master of Turnshire and surroundings, Lordling of the whole of the small but fertile Lysse Chipping; a man soft and slightly useless. That she knows, and speaks of it so casually...

A Shadow Hand must be secret above all else. The king will have me turned out—might even have me killed—for failing to maintain this secrecy. How can I function as Hain’s spymaster if I am known?

“Oh,” she says softly when my ministrations stop. “Oh, sorry. Shit. Sorry. I know, I know, it’s not supposed to be talked about. I won’t say anything else. I just meant, you know, you’re the Master of Turn Hall. Shouldn’t a maid be the one with the cloth? Shouldn’t someone be here to open the windows and boil the kettle for you?”

“I am n-no lay-layabout. I am c-capable of do-do-doing it myself,” I say, and I curse all the harder in my head when she cranes her neck around, wincing as the whip-fast movement stretches her wounds. She blinks at me like a stunned owl.

“Did you just stutter?”

“Of c-course n-n-n-not,” I deny, but my words prove themselves liars. I bite my lower lip and scowl, fingers going so tight around the cloth that it creaks and water splashes down my arms, pooling uncomfortably into the bunches of fabric against the insides of my elbows. I hate that feeling.

“Oh my god, you stutter,” she says, and her expression is a mixture of horror and amusement. “Reed never said anything about you stuttering.”

“I do-do-do not stutter,” I snap.

“Hey, no, it’s cool,” she says, rising up as if to turn to face me, but the motion makes everything in her back pull. She yelps again and flops back down to relieve the pain. “Fuck!” she screams into her pillow. She slams her fist against the mattress, clearly infuriated beyond coherence.

“S-stop,” I say softly, placing a gentle hand on her right shoulder, the least cut up one.

She flinches away from my touch so dramatically that it looks more like a full body spasm.

“Don’t touch me!” she screams.

I flinch myself, springing off the bed to give her the space she so clearly needs.

She goes still, save for her ragged breathing. One of the thin, deep cuts below her left shoulder blade seeps blood. A low coughing sound, muffled by the pillows, fills the air. I realize that she is sobbing.

Oh, Forsyth, you stupid man. You are useless at women.

“P-please s-stop crying.” It sounds as stupid out loud as it did in my head, but I have no other way to convey my concern. Clearly my proximity is unwelcome.

I clench my fists and shove them into the pockets of my house robe, impotent in the face of her misery. Why is it that among spies and the dance of court politics I am assured and suave, but the moment I remove the mask of the Shadow Hand and become simple Forsyth Turn, I am such a useless, stuttering sack of skin? I hate it.

Eventually, the tears wind down and she turns her face to me. Her muddy green eyes have become bright, even though the skin around them is red and swollen.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Why are you ap-ap-apologizing?”

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable about the stutter. I was just surprised. You never stutter when you’ve got the mask on.”

I only stutter when I am upset or caught off guard. As a child, I stuttered all the time, worse when my older brother teased. But I learned, through sheer force of will, to suppress it. To think about each phrase as I want to say it, to hear it in my head, clear and whole, before letting my tongue taste the words. The Shadow Hand does not stutter because he is a personality I wear, a costume I conceived. I did not conceive him as a stutterer.

I lean down and pick up the bowl. The water has mixed with the ink on the rug, spreading the stain further. My paperwork is also a sodden mess. I will have to begin that report anew. Resentment flares at the thought of having to waste another evening in correspondence, but I cannot blame my guest. It was my own clumsiness that caused them to be on the floor. I should have picked them up right away. Stupid.

“I’m sorry about scaring you, too,” she said. “I just... don’t like to be touched. Anymore. Don’t surprise me.”

“I understand. No woman enjoys my touch. I will fetch Neris, your maid,” I say, and turn toward the door to do just that.

“Whoa, no, wait,” she says, and I pause. I take a hesitant step back toward her and her hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around mine. I look down at our twined grip with dumb surprise. I can see her frustration at her inability to move. Warmth blooms against my sternum at the thought that she appears to want to touch me, to physically prevent me from departing. “I didn’t say that. Why would you think that? I just meant that it freaks me out when people touch me and I don’t know it’s going to happen. I never said you have cooties. Stay. Please.” I do not know how to answer. She looks up at me and adds: “You’re the only one I know. I trust you. Please.”

This is enough. I do not know how she seems to know me well enough to trust me, but she does. And I cannot betray that trust. Even though I fear that it might be misplaced. I must do my best not to disappoint her.

“I will stay. I’ll put the kettle on again and finish your back,” I say. She lets go, fingers brushing against the insides of my knuckles, and I clench my tongue between my teeth. I memorize the ghosting sensation, trying not to let it get too far under my skin.

I can hear her shifting, trying to find a comfortable position. “God, do you have any painkillers?”

“I can mix you a draught with poppy milk, but it will make you sleep again.”

“That’s fine,” she says. “Sounds perfect, actually. Fuck, this hurts.”

“That word again.” I turn to face her, leaning back against the mantle as we both wait for the water in the kettle to reheat.

It is a good thing it is such a large kettle, or I would have had to send someone to refill it by now, and I believe that the young lady’s pain is something she would like as few people to witness as possible. She said she trusts only me. Knows only me, though how she can know me at all is a mystery. Clearly she knows enough to know my deepest secret, and now my deepest shame, but how?

“Fuck?” she says.

“Yes. What does it mean? ‘Fuck’?”

She giggles suddenly. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I just heard you swear.”

“It’s an expletive?”

She giggles harder, and I take it for an affirmative.

“And what about the rest of it?” I ask. “The things that you say you know and simply should not. Cannot.”

She sobers immediately. She turns her head away and goes silent, her shoulders becoming rigid. She looks like she is preparing for a blow.

“Ah,” I say. “This is what the Viceroy wanted. And what you would not share.” She stiffens further at his name, but otherwise does not move. I walk across the floor to her side, purposefully clicking the wooden heels of my embroidered house slippers against the boards so as to prevent startling her. “I am going to lay a hand on your shoulder.”

She nods once, and I do it, carefully, palm cupped on her whole right shoulder blade, fingers curved along her neck. She sighs into the touch, and her tension eases.

“He doesn’t know,” she mumbles. “I didn’t tell him.”

“That I am the Shadow Hand?”

She nods.

“Is that the only thing he wanted to know?”

“No.” Her voice is scratchy and low, so quiet and ashamed that I can barely make out her words. “But I didn’t say anything. Not a thing, after the first day. He never even knew my name.”

“That is something of which to be proud,” I say softly, and I mean it. “Bootknife is not an easy man to defy. I’ve never seen such an elaborate carving as yours. You must have made him very angry.”

“I did.”

“Good girl.”

She snorts. “Loosey.”

Another strange word. “What’s a ‘loosey’?”

“I am. It’s my name. Ell-you-see-why, Lucy Piper.”

“You gift me with your name when all of Bootknife’s attention could not wring it from you?” I ask. The weight of what she has just done nearly sends me to the floor with shock. My knees shake, and I have to put my other hand on the bed stand to remain upright.

“You’ll protect it.”

“I will,” I vow. “I will, Lucy Piper.” I take a moment to clear my throat and try to keep the tears that have sprung into my eyes from falling. What a great thing she has done. This conversation, her bravery, has left me flayed.

I must turn away, before too much emotion shows on my face. Preparing the promised pain potion is the perfect excuse. Mother Mouth left the concentrated elixir on the bedside table, and it is convenient to turn my back on Lucy Piper as I mix it with a little wine to make it more palatable. Then I help drip some onto her tongue. Lucy Piper drowses.

When the kettle has boiled again, I resume cleaning her back.

Her eyes slip closed just as I have finished. I rinse out the cloth and spread it across what is left of her skin to keep her warm until I can move on to the ointment, and then stand.

“Try to rest,” I say, when the feel of the cloth startles her back to wakefulness.

“Thanks. Hey,” she mutters sleepily, worn out by the pain, both the physical and emotional. “You’re not stuttering anymore.”

“No,” I agree. “I am not.”

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salanaii · 3 months

Text

Learn Korean with me - Week 4/Day 2

Day 2: Vocab 101 - 221

Thin (duolingo/Papago) – 날씬 – nal ssin

Thin (google) – 얇은 – yal beun

Busy – 바쁘따 – ba ppeu da

Smart – 똑똑한 – ttog toog han

Nice/good – 적합한 – jeok hab han

Clever – 영리한 – yeong ri han

Strange/weird – 이산한 – I sang han

Children/ sons and daughter – 아이들/자녀 – a I deul / ja nyeo

Letter – 편지 – pyeon ji

A gift/a present/ the present – 선물 – seon mul

Teach/teaches – 가르칩니다 – ga reu chib ni da

Receive/get – 받아요/받습니다 – bad a yo/bad seub bi da

Send/sends – 보냅니다 – bo naeb ni da

Give/gives – 줍니다 – jub ni da

Exercise – 운동 – un dong

Exercises/ is exercising – 운동합니다 – un dong hab ni da

Study – 공부 – gong bu

Studies/ studying – 공부합니다 – gong bu hab ni da

Learn/learning – 배우고/배웁니다 – bae u go/bae ub ni da

Throw/throws/ is throwing – 던집니다 – deon jib ni da

Catch/ is catching/catches – 집습니다 – jib seub ni da

Do not study/ does not study – 공부하 (않습니다) – gong bu ha ji anh seub ni da

Do not learn/does not learn – 배우지 (않습니다) – bae u ji anh seub ni da

Does not catch – 집지 (않습니다) – jib ji anh seub ni da

Do not throw/ does not throw – 던지지 (않습니다) – deon ji ji anh seub ni da

Magazine – 집지 – jib ji

Dream – 꿈 - kkum

My – 저 – jeo

No, not me – 아니요, 저는아닙니다 – a ni you, jeo neun a nib ni da

It is awesome – 멋있습니다 – meos iss seub ni da

Awesome/cool – 대박 – dae bak

Is attractive / is charming – 매력이있습니다 – mae ryeok I iss seub ni da

Is not attractive / is not charming – 매력이없습니다 – mae ryeok I eobs seub ni da

Am/are drinking – 마십니다 – ma sib ni da

Is/am eating/eat – 먹습니다 – meok seub ni da

Reads/reading – 읽 습 니 다 – irk seub ni da

Writes/writing – 씁니다 – sseub ni da

Drinks/drinking – 마십니다 – ma sib ni da

Large/big/tall – 큰 – keun

Bad/mean – 나쁜 – na bbeun

Is/are long – 깁니다 – gib ni da

Short/shorter – 짧다/짧습니다 – jjard da/jjarb seub ni da

Olders/lots/(there) is many – 많아요/많습니다 – manh a yo/,anh seub ni da

Small/little/short – 적어요/작습니다 – jeok ro yo/jeok seub ni da

Say/speak – 말해요 – mal hae yo

Talk/conversation – 대화 – dae hwan

To talk/ to have a conversation – 대화합니다 – dae hwa hab ni da

Motors – 모터스 – mo teo seu

Cola – 콜라 – kol ra

Coffee – 커피 – keo pi

Party – 파티 – pa ti

Ice cream – 아이스크림 – a I seu keu rim

Apartment – 아 파트 – a pa teu

Woman – 여자 – yeo ja

Women – 여자들 – yeo ja deul

Man – 남자 – nam ja

Men – 남자들 – nam ja deul

Or/either – 또는 – tto neun

School – 학교- hag gyo

Apple – 사과 – sa gwa

Pencil – 연핀 – yeon pil

House/home – 집 – jib

Bread – 빵 – ppang

Book – 책 – cheag

Country – 나라 – na ra

More – 더 – deo

To divide – 나누다 – na nu da

Road – 도로/길 – do ra/jil

Person/People – 사람/사람들 – sa ram/sa ram deul

Cat – 가양이 – go yang I

Thing/object – 물건 – mul geon

Child – 아이 – a i

This – 이 – i

Milk – 우유 – u yu

Friendship – 우의 – u ui

Above/on – 위 – wi

Song – 노래 – no rae

Kiss – 뽀뽀 – ppo ppo

Ant – 개미 – gae mi

Tokyo – 도쿄 – do kyo

Seed/Mr./Mrs./Ms. - 씨 – ssi

Starbucks – 스타벅스 – seu ta beog seu

Hyundai – 핸대 – haen dae

Samsung – 삼상 – sam sang

Baskin Robbins – 배스킨라번스 – bae seu kin ra bin seu

McDonald’s – 맥도날드 – maeg do nal deu

Doughnut – 도넛 – do neos

Busan – 부산 – bu san

Washington – 워싱턴 – wo sing teon

Seoul – 서울- seo ul

Berlin – 베를린 – be reul rin

London – 런던 – reon deon

Paris – 파리 – pa ri

New York – 뉴욕 – nyu yok

United – 유나이드 – yu na I ti deu

나 NA i or me

너 NEO you

우리 U RI we or us

머리 MEO RI head

나비 NA BI butterfly

아기 A GI baby

오이 O I cucumber

커피 KEO PI coffee

소리 SO RI sound

소녀 SO NYEO girl

소년 SO NYEON boy

표 P YO ticket

유리 YU RI glass

나무 NA MU tree

피부 PI BU skin

가구 GA GU furniture

버스 BEO SEU bus

바지 BA JI pants

지구 JI GU earth

허리 HEO RI waist

여자 YEO JA woman

야구 YA GU baseball

기타 GI TA guitar

치마 CHI MA skirt

후추 HU CHU pepper

휴지 HYU JI tissue

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sisi-halloway · 1 year

Text

Wishing Well Heart

@id13vil

Thomas stood toe to toe with his destiny. He didn't think he'd face it that day, not anytime soon.

"There's a lot we've got to do tomorrow," Curtis informed Thomas, a man 10 years his junior who held more wisdom than he himself had ever managed to gather.

Thomas was sitting at the workbench, sleeves rolled up, taking one last look at the mechanisms inside this wooden death trap of theirs.

"You're preaching to the choir, Curtis," he replied, not even looking at his colleague, for he was too focused on his task at hand. His glasses were catching the last orange light that streamed through the dirty panes of the neglected workshop, causing a reflection to dance on the floor.

Curtis scoffs, grabbing his vest and throwing it over his broad shoulder. Deft, scarred hands, the single shared trait of all the men of the workshop, flicked off the lamp and found its way into Curtis' own pocket. A smirk creeps onto his lips as he watches the young man in front of him refuse to come up for air.

"You're to drown in this work, Tom. Give it a rest. There's always tomorrow."

Thomas waves him off.

"Then tomorrow is when I'll see you. Goodnight, Curtis."

Curtis gave a hearty laugh that echoed against the high tin ceiling as he approached the door. He admired Thomas in more ways than one. Envied his prowess, his determination, his ingenuity, and his dedication to science. It was all so very impressive, and everyone in Maeth thought so... except the man himself.

And with that, Thomas was left alone with their latest invention.

The sun wilted in the sky and the shadows of the oak trees outside stretched to their most monstrous length. Thomas looked at his watch. His family always had dinner together on Thursdays, and at this rate, he was spiraling toward a good scolding for being late. His sisters and his mother wouldn't let him get off easy, as it wouldn't be the first time he's walked in just in time for dessert.

He allowed himself a few minutes more before tidying his workspace the best that he could. He never cleaned it completely unless he was done with a project. Thomas would have a hard time getting started tomorrow if the bookmark on his creative processes fell victim to organization.

He stood up and put his suspenders back on his shoulders. His collared shirt always started the day buttoned to the neck, and would always end it buttoned to the upper chest. It got much too hot in this workshop, with the tin ceiling and many windows, and seven sweaty bodies. Not to mention it was the beginning of Maethisse summer. Maeth wasn't exactly known for inventing air conditioning. Thomas hadn't cracked that one yet.

The last light crept into the workshop when Thomas opened the door to leave, getting his keys from his pocket to lock it. This had been how his night ended every day this week.

As routine, mundane, and day-to-day this work had become, Thomas loved it. His life was less exciting now in these days, with projects taking longer and longer, with more and more time between milestones; at least there was always something to look forward to.

Their phonograph was almost to the testing phase, a long-awaited feat. Also, his sister was pregnant. A niece or nephew would be in his future, and Thomas was quite excited about that. There were a lot of new concerns and preparations that came with this news, like helping her husband Shu renovate Isabella's old house. They'd be busy for the next few months for sure... But Thomas was a little sad when he thought about his life in isolation.

Outside of work and his family's accomplishments, there was nothing differentiating about his days. As long as he'd been okay with that, he's now longing for something to bring excitement, newness, adventure... something like

"Salice?"

---

And so here they were, staring at each other, some meters apart, like in some Western movie. Except instead of their guns drawn and their mouth stretched back into snarls, they were smiling like kids.

Thomas would've lost his duel, for the keys in his hand quickly clattered into the dust below.

"I believe so... hello to you too..."

He almost didn't recognize her with her back to the sun like that, for she was nothing but a dark shadow against the waning light. Hell, she was the light. So bright that Thomas could barely behold her.

Thomas stood there slack-jawed and wide-eyed and soon to be knock-kneed. Never in a million years did Thomas think that the girl of his dreams would come back to Maeth on an ordinary Thursday... if at all.

"I was correct in assuming you'd be here," she said.

The woman approached him as he scrambled to pick up the keys, and Thomas focused up on her. Her outfit was classic, one that drove him crazy when she'd worn it all those years ago. A white button-down blouse that mimicked his collared shirt, a tea-length skirt, and her walking oxford shoes. With Salice, the attention was always on the details. The ribbon in her long curly hair matched her lace socks, which also matched the gloves on her hands. Thomas tried not to gawk. Even after traveling miles, which Thomas assumed she had, she looked as stunning and as well put together as a movie star. With those doe eyes and celebrity smile... She'd been gone so long, she might've become one without him knowing! Thomas knew she'd be a natural on-screen... she'd been playing on the one in his head for years.

"And how would you have figured that?" He asked standing to his full height, towering over the woman.

Salice shrugs as they turn and take a few steps away from the workshop.

"First one in the morning, last one in the evening, isn't that what you used to tell me? They hardly know how to get on without you here, so I assume it's still that way. Isn't that right?"

Oh, the flattery. Thomas didn't know if he were to survive.

"You don't give them enough credit, Salice. They can get on without me at least part of the time."

He tried to keep his cool. Frankly, Thomas wouldn't be surprised if he came down with the bends, considering how fast the excitement in his voice was rising. He still managed a suave and teasing smile.

"Oh, my apologies. I should be more mindful of what I say then..."

When Salice looked at Thomas from the corner of her eye, the inventor couldn't help but fall in love all over again. He figured he'd never fallen out of it. This young woman held an importance to him not even she knew. What started out as an awkward acquaintanceship, as he was just the best friend's brother, grew into an honest friendship. Then Thomas one day suddenly realized that everything Salice had said or done for the last year of her stay acted as a coin in the wishing well of his heart. How he wished all of those little things that don't mean much on their own could compile into a hope so strong that they could end up together as lovers. His wishing well heart, it called to her, for her from its enchanted depths. The only thing that stopped all his wishful feelings from pouring onto her was... him.

He remembered all the hesitation. He remembered all the doubt. He remembered the hopelessness that he'd never have the courage to tell Salice how much he loved her.

Then he remembered the sinking feeling when he watched her pack her things to move away. And what good would telling her have done then?

For years he'd tried to get over her, through her, beyond her, since he couldn't dive into her. Nothing had ever worked. He used his inventions and his work to stave off his longing. It did the trick thus far, but every now and again there was a pang of frustration, regret, anger and sadness, and shame. He'd imagine her, what her face and body and voice were all like. He'd wish himself in a world full of her. He'd manage to go there for a night, but in the morning, he'd wake up again alone. The worst part about it all, the part that made this agony, is that nobody else ever stood a chance.

Plenty of suitors and suitresses would be so happy to have Thomas as their husband. There were so many wonderful things about him, things he was oblivious to, things he neglected to see and appreciate. But Thomas wouldn't let himself be satisfied so easily. Even when he thought he could use the word happy to describe his life... he couldn't take a full breath. Not really. The well descended deeper and darker, abandoned and neglected, unused, unloved, and unoccupied. The coins that had been tossed in long ago were depreciating, the feeling from them weakening. That well, nothing more than a vacant hole now, longed for the girl who used to sing beside it and tend to its mossy stones.

Thomas' wishing well heart wished only for Salice.

Salice, walking beside him, was in a two-handed struggle with a beautiful carpet bag. Not even the sinews of muscle in her upper shoulder as she carried it in front of her were too minor a detail for Thomas to notice. How sore she must be from carrying it.

"Here, let me take that."

He rushed to grab it from her, their hands brushing. Salice let out a breath of reprieve. It seemed so small in Thomas' hand. So small, so light, so insignificant. That bag had been burdening her for a full day and a half's journey, and he diminished it with ease. That was one of the many things she's missed about him. How, like a magician, he could make all her trouble disappear.

"Thank you."

Her voice was quiet, Thomas strained his ears to hear its every decibel. They began walking through the forest path toward town. As they walked, Salice tugged at her gloves. Finger by elegant finger, she loosened them until they slipped off, revealing soft and delicate hands. Her umber skin was soft and blemishless. Always had been.

Thomas remembered what it was like to touch that skin in the most casual of ways. Holding open a door for her and ushering her through it, helping her up and down steps and the like when she was wearing heels, putting a small bandage on her finger when she pricked it. He's touched her many times, maybe hundreds, but it was never enough. At this moment, with him looking at her now, he regretted every single opportunity that he's ever had to touch it.. and didn't.

"How was your trip? Not too rough was it," Thomas inquired whilst switching her bag to his outside hand.

She gave a queenly wave of dismissal, pardoning all the trouble she'd gone through to arrive.

"It wasn't too rough, no. Thank you for asking. Though I couldn't catch a train out of Hjalle, so I took a stagecoach to the next station in Pativeaux. Ended up being a tedious business, that one, but arduous, hardly."

Thomas basked in her words. She spoke so aristocratically, and articulately. She was a dutchess in his eyes, and everything she did proved him right. Even back then she'd spoken that way, being the most well-spoken in any room. Thomas would be entranced even if she had just read him her grocery list.

"That's a relief. For all that, you look stunning."

Thomas made an effort to compliment her, but that wasn't hard since he was just speaking his mind.

"Mh, stop you. You always know what to say, don't you?"

Thomas chuckled and shrugged. He always knew what he did know, and her beauty was something he was always sure of.

"So... how are you?" She asked.

Thomas thought about it. He'd been well, but there were underlying things that would make him not. He would find it so hard to explain what. He decided to keep it light.

"Very busy. Our project at the workshop is almost ready for testing... it's been hell getting that up and running, but I have faith the prototype will be finished by September at least."

Salice smiles when she hears him go on about his inventions. She's always loved hearing about them. When she'd moved away, she'd loved reading about them in the Vesuvian paper. Thomas hadn't realized, but the work they do in Maeth is revolutionary if one chooses to be humble about it. To think a small team of men, less than a dozen, could bring the surrounding lands inventions of spectacular convenience. She remembered when her father had installed their telephone in their surgery office. Salice had swelled with such pride that she'd even so much as met one of the men responsible. And to think Thomas was even closer to her than that.

"Yes? That's some fantastic news, Thomas. I'm so happy to hear that... but how are you?"

And as usual, Salice could see through his deflection. That was common. Anytime Thomas was asked about or checked up on, he'd always respond with his work, which he thought to a certain extent defined him. Salice knew it didn't. Thomas knew that she knew and it scared him.

"I'm..." He takes a minute to think. "I am doing fine, I suppose. Nothing worth noting personally... but I'm very happy you're here.."

Her belly grew warm and she couldn't hide her fond gaze.

"I'm happy I'm here too..."

When their eyes held this gaze for a bit too long, she plucked Thomas' glasses from his nose, beginning to clean them with her skirt. She clicks her tongue at him.

"Tsk, these aren't the same pair I left you with, are they?"

Thomas was guilty of neglecting newness in his life, staying stuck on the same thing even if it wasn't the most efficient or useful. What a contradictory habit for an inventor.

"They might be, but how would you know?" He inquired earnestly.

Salice tittered in amusement while sweeping her expensive skirt over the frames as well as the lenses. These were the same ones. The left wire was bent out of shape, just like it had been then. He hadn't even taken them to get repaired?

"I just know Thomas. Some things you just know."

Thomas didn't think she knew how right she was.

"Here..."

She places them carefully back upon his crooked nose, those hazel eyes greeting her with new clarity. She brushes a bit of hair from his face and nodded in approval when she stepped back from him.

Thomas grew so feverish at her gentle touch. He was certain a rouge flush had put a down payment on the property of his face.

"T-thank you." He stammered.

"You're welcome."

They walked in a comfortable silence while Thomas recovered from his close encounter with the grim reaper of bashfulness. He was hypnotized by the way Salice's brown tresses tossed as she walked in her stately gait. He focused on the white lace ribbon like a mantra, keeping himself from saying or doing something absurd. Absurdly embarrassing. It resembled something like a doily, swaying back and forth with every step. He decided he should ask the second most pertinent question on his mind. He couldn't possibly ask the first. He wasn't on one knee.

"Salice, what brought you back?"

A bird canaried its melodious song in the trees overhead as if it was answering the question itself. They didn't have these types of birds in Vesuvia. Salice had forgotten how magical a place Maeth was, and how privileged she'd been to live here for three years. The truth was, her life had lost its magic.

Her father had undergone a most traumatizing heart surgery... by her hands. Their bond was never the same after that. Not for his lack of trying. Salice just couldn't bear to look at that man knowing that she could've possibly killed him and it would've been all her fault. It scared her more than she could ever believe. It made her think of mortality and fate and how Vesuvia was just not a place she wanted to spend the rest of her life. She wanted to travel and live and experience beautiful things.

She'd offered her father to travel with her here, but he'd politely declined. The surgery center wasn't going to run itself and "Vesuvia can spare one of its brightest doctors, but certainly not both" in Dr. Dabney B. Halloways's own words. So Salice had promised to keep her visit short, so she could return to her father and pick up the pieces of the life she almost destroyed.

"I... I needed to show myself some compassion. I needed some peace. I couldn't think of a place more peaceful. Vesuvia is overwhelming me, and I needed..."

Thomas saw the forlorn look on Salice's face. He'd wondered what happened. What damage happened in the five years they were apart that she thought only Maeth could repair. He smiled knowingly.

"A cosmic baptism?"

Salice raised her brow. Those were two words she'd never thought she'd hear uttered from Thomas' analytical mouth.

Thomas was amused by her shock.

"That's what Isabella would say anyhow. She'd say something about feeling stuck or sad and that's the remedy she'd mention. It sounds like she'd know how to help you."

Salice shook her head good-naturedly. This was a small reminder of how much she loved the family she found here. How different they all were, a nurse, an inventor, a painter, a witch, and her sword-wielding teacher husband. What a wonderful family she'd come to find.

"How silly of me. I should've mentioned that on the telephone when I phoned about my visit. Whatever am I to do?"

Thomas played along with her repartee.

"Isabella might be booked through the month with these cosmic baptisms of hers... She'll have to squeeze you in somewhere..."

Salice was giggling. A sound Thomas thought ethereal.

"She's pregnant, you know? Isabella?"

Salice dropped her jaw and turned to Thomas with a look of pure joy. Thomas sometimes thought about that face in other ways. He used to think it could be their own pregnancy that could make her look so happy. Maybe he shouldn't use the past tense for that.

"She is? She neglected to inform me over the phone? Oh, that's wonderful! Why didn't she tell me, that girl and her secrets..."

A nervous hand found the back of Thomas' neck.

"Well, she probably didn't tell you because it might've been constituted as a surprise. A surprised that I probably ruined..."

Salice touched Thomas' arm as they happened upon the bridge. As old habits are the hardest to break, Thomas found her hand and held it as they crossed. The way she squeezed his fingers made something soft inside him. Another coin in his wishing well.

"Oh, I won't let you believe the surprise is ruined. You didn't spoil anything. I'll be just as happy the second time told."

"Then twice in one day then? Because I'm due for dinner at my mother's soon, and I'd love for you to come with me? I mean, everyone would love to see you. But of course, if you're too tired-"

"I'd love to come with you, Thomas."

The serenity of her voice gave Thomas the will to solve all the world's mysteries and right all the world's wrongs if that was what she desired. His dimple made an appearance as he grinned at her, daring ever so boldly to bring her hand to his lips. Salice watched him as he kissed her skin, the sensation making her skin pitter-patter like raindrops on a calm pond.

Salice had since stopped walking. They were at the highest point of the arched bridge now, the wind gliding across the lake, tangling in their hair. Thomas slowed to a stop beside her, still holding her hand. He noticed the mix of emotions on her face. He was afraid he'd done something out of turn.

"What's wrong?"

She shakes her head and closes her eyes for a moment, letting the wind kiss her rosy cheeks. When they opened again, Thomas saw jade divinity reflected in them.

"Nothing... it's just... so calm here. I missed this."

They watched the sun disappear and the purple twilight engulfed them in reverie. Fireflies had begun their shift well before their appointed time, and the crickets followed not long after. This was the magic Salice had been longing for. The feelings from this place were unique. She felt so small, but she felt that everything small here had a purpose. That she had a purpose. Even if that purpose was just to bask in undeserving beauty.

Thomas enjoyed these few moments. He, an inventor, standing on this bridge with her, a doctor, carrying her carpetbag in one hand and her own hand in the other, felt the most tranquil he's ever felt in just about half a decade.

"I can see why you came back," he said.

He often took for granted what beauty lies within this place. He often overlooked the intricate wildlife around him that strangers from faraway lands would call enchanting. He often let fall between the cracks the very magic in the air. Magic that he himself could not harness, but thrived on all the same.

Salice looked up at her friend. She saw the tan the spring had left him with, and it was only to get deeper now that summer was here. She saw the little brown moles that dotted his neck, frolicking around his Adam's apple. She saw the beginnings of fine lines around the corners of his eyes, where the crows had been dancing. The texture of his skin was smoothed by the low light. It made Salice believe she was looking at a gorgeous oil painting curated by some timeless romantic. She'd never thought this moment would really come, but here she was beholding it.

"Thomas..."

Her friend.

Salice quickly realized after Thomas became her friend that she didn't just desire friendship from the young man. He was sweet and doting and incredibly smart. He made her feel like the leading lady in a film. He was always there when she cried, and he was never the reason why. The times he'd gone without a jacket because he had given it to her on a spontaneously rainy day. The times he'd arrived at her door with a bouquet of flowers from his sister's garden for no other occasion or reason save for the fact she liked them. The times he'd given her expert advice on whatever problem or tribulation was plaguing her, walking with her to the ice cream parlor for deliberations. She loved Thomas far differently than one loves a platonic friend. And at this moment, looking at him now, she wondered how she could be so foolish to leave without telling him that. There must have been reasons they've never phoned their confessions or traveled the distance before to tell one another how they've felt. She couldn't speak for him, but she was certain in thinking all of her reasons could hardly be justifiable now. And if five years apart hadn't caused the wilting to the blooms of affection in her heart, what other reason did she need to confess?

"Thomas, I came back for you."

Thomas was suddenly submerged in the vast underwater world of his own emotions, the world around him completely forgotten. The thunder of his own heartbeat roused the waters all around him. Every breath he'd managed after the initial gobsmacking plunge was fuller and more vibrant than he'd ever known. He was being swept away, Salice's words carrying him to something he likened to true bliss. He felt everything, yet saw nothing until Salice's visage appeared to him out of the water like a siren. He was keen on her lips as they confessed her true feelings.

"Thomas, I love you."

The bag dropped onto the sturdy wooden bridge with a thud as Thomas reached hurriedly with both hands to cup Salice's face. He felt her fingertips touch the underside of his triceps as she came closer. The passion in her eyes and the desperation in his married together like two raw elements. Thomas' energy was whizzing about him like a valence, but when he touched the woman in front of him, he felt complete. Whole.

He looked down into her eyes, the only hesitation was the moment they took to behold each other. In that small moment, the one that felt like a thousand years, they shared more amatory wisdom with one another than all the libraries that had been built since the beginning of time. Thomas suddenly knew what it would be to hold her and kiss her and love her. He'd seen it all before, fantasizing about it for years, but cradling her now, looking into her eyes he saw for the first time in colorful corporeality. When Thomas watched her feathery lashes flutter close and her sultry heart-shaped lips part, the world seemed to slow down.

He kissed her.

He kissed her with the pent-up passion of five years. He kissed her ardently. He kissed her so that the only thing he could distinguish from the world around him was her. But Thomas also kissed her from a place of servitude. His love for her was almost idolatrous.

He cast his large hand over the side of her head to smooth her curls behind her ear, gathering them up in a tight, yet tender fist. He let his other hand slide down the line of her shoulder, coast along her back, seizing the cloth-snatched curve of her waist.

He was overcome by her sweet taste, the only way to describe it was something between sugar and euphoria. When Salice melted in his hold, that soft sound in the back of her throat sounded to him like wedding bells. It made him kiss her harder.

Thomas could feel the empty ground at the bottom of his wishing-well heart tremble like the rest of his earthly body was doing right now. A geyser broke through the stones at its depths creating a rush of powerful water that whirlpooled upwards, whisking around in its wake all the loose change that's ever been cast into him. That she's ever cast into him. For the first time, he was restored.

It was there in the middle of Lover's Lake did Thomas and Salice share this first and inaugural gesture of their romantic love.

When he pulled away from her, their faces had become hot. Salice's sage eyes searched all over Thomas for where this act of passion could have possibly come from. It was a surprise but well warranted. Salice loved how he'd kissed her. She'd never felt so feminine in her life. She smiled at Thomas, a smile that held the future. A smile that guaranteed his.

"Thomas... what's... oh... I-... oh."

Her breathy laugh was surprised, ariose, and unbelieving.

Thomas pinched the shining red apple of her cheek, his hand roaming to hold her chin, then her throat, then her body, pulling her as close as she could possibly be to him right then. They could be closer still. That would be another time. Thomas would make sure that closeness was the best she'd ever had.

"I love you. I love you, Salice. I've loved you..."

He searches for his words. Salice sees him searching the vast maze of his mind for those words. She pressed her fingers to his jaw, tilting his head toward her once more.

"Kiss me again to tell me how much you love me."

A warlike bomb erupted in Thomas' core. That was far more sensual than anything his mind's fabricated version of Salice had ever said.

And so he did. He did kiss her. He kissed and kissed and kissed her.

---

Thomas wasn't scolded for being late to dinner, since he had brought an honored guest that everyone was so eager to see... but if he had been, he couldn't think of a better or more worthwhile reason.

Isabella had announced her pregnancy once more, and Salice was just as surprised. Shuhei hugged his old friend, one that fate had guided to him as it had also guided her to Thomas. Gallierie, Thomas' mother, was so pleased to have her third daughter with her again. Dinner was a wonderful time to be together that night. It made Thomas feel whole.

To think that was years ago. Thomas today, sitting with his newspaper on the sofa watching his wife and children dance to the phonograph in the living room, recalled that Thursday evening. That day seemed to be the most defining of his life. It was the beginning of his new life. He married that woman, that woman who loved him and cherished him and held a mirror to him and let him see how great he was. With that greatness he uplifted her, provided for her, and made her happy. He became a version of himself that he loved, that his wife, his siblings, his children, and nieces and nephews could love.

But Salice had always loved him.

He'd always loved her.

Because of that day, so many wonderful things had happened. Because of that day, Thomas was forever changed.

Thursdays were now Thomas' favorite day. Green was his favorite color. Twilight was his favorite time of day. Lover's Lake was his favorite place to go. And that old fountain in the center of town, the fountain that reminded him of himself, that fountain he'd gotten a petition together for, to repair and make new again, now that was somewhere he'd taken his children and had shown them that anything was possible. Happiness was always possible.

He was so happy that he found it.

#salice zieragh #thomas zieragh #maeth #fluff #self indulgent writing #thomas x salice #salice x thomas #shuhei x isabella #isabella kumagai #this took me two days and I've never been prouder of anything oh my GOD #Vesuvia #Hjalle #the arcana oc #the arcana original character #sisi halloway

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libidomechanica · 1 month

Text

Cease, ye faint flowres, that speech

A sonnet sequence

It once possess’d, how he would have to roam. My head besprent with Time and cups full of matter, waking up for home. And purple cleft brings fresh Amaryllis, she never die, but all my good! Lost it for everyone here who doth hence remains, the loveliness, like his, a mute and waile with the ruins. They knew you once and sing for a wind that it might I am chain’d to the trouble behind. Cease, ye faint flowres, that speech. Her soul gives me sigh for sigh and all that crimes, though she knowledge of our set, five other face at another’s Then drew the pillow then to call the place.

Sweet tones are we, and stormy air. These thinges, the sodain rysing of such fire that he is secure, the swarms that thou waited those fools of race accounted, that we see day, where I may give that doth breed, but find some Hercules to bene espyed. Cried Urania quench not, that you over, pledge you as good! And I would learn to dig in his hands once so beautiful and grief her bow and pass into your lighter timber cotes to his mother’s manners may I sing to inquire into the pine, not from her wi’ matter, and petty Ogress’, and Where, ’ asked Walter ward through my obedience.

Remorse and waile with outward part: no, nor for any male things? And all confine; I looked for peace, and when other accents do this end: that I am that due to the runaways would pay with thy tongues, the house thy obscure complaining sleep; the shot. Draw in’t a wound with wo, euen ready for to pine with such as he fought the Strangers wrought; it is not warm, let me mention, to do it, the city, and which name of best, of touch unique to us. He tore out of them or explained them to me he made one with inharmonious sighs, tears, instead of desire increase, and her ankles.

Far from the eldest. One sacred Right—but needlesse lust me so did sting, that by themselves be bevel; by the reed, which thy book. Of the curse of Cain out of thy beauty, but they stand anything will bear, and petty Ogress’, and ungrateful, that word, that grasp’d it; of that Hobbinol right—just don’t know not what. To closely cling that thoughts so sweetly doth deceive you. Your trade was with the light and the fall off at any laud there, tree of pity, its bark is driven: my true-love hath of many-colour’d glass, nought reaped but a kiss now! They knew you once and so we forged a sevenfold story.

Each was as worn as an old old woman. Name, I would, we know the place—stumbled together by pulleys like pageantry of mist on an autumnal Night, thought her might bear his tomb a feast shone, silver lyre unstrung. Her when what beautiful and with thoughts, although not so; not cold,—but very poor instead of gold, which did shiver; and, being told about the Judaic ground, taking itself where’er the story and think I may give that on the great morning; if they be fair and woman. Wander not—the maiden cherish’d; others, even so as foes commend. And isolate pure daylight on.

We should know exactly where, but pity and deer, his remembers choke the hour their secret hair and thou art jealous is, which shake again whence then, from his breast alone here ingage, thou usurer, that which is my sommer worne away of the word, this woman, O this agony of flesh! Wrung on the pavement lay carved stone, and near, as any garden lawn: and here your own line, have we, for a moment of proud compare with me through time to time, to all ouercast. Els thought, a dream on the square were out of thy lawn, see all. And we will of God and see these graves are blue, and beds by thy sour leisure gave swerved; and, looking-glass gleamed at the vapor can make with a ruby large enow to draw men’s eye, and sue a friends, and here was crazy. You had sounde. Ask God who knew not twas her own. Again where kingly Death whose engine refuses finally to turn over: yeah, I know not what.

And pounc’d with sanctimonious sighs, the princes waiting for long walks were torn from their sister’s song like skaters on them were a pitty. Yes, yes, we know the fan be fynd, all was lost their shoes worn as an old jockstrap. To its eclipsing Curse whose transmitted effluence cannot guess God’s universal culture for each other’s watch. But ah vnwise and Self-contempt shall be its earthly guest looks ouer the waves, on purpose not think I gave you meet the door. Guttering, choking, drowning. I turned to me with the restlesse hare, till the place, heroic if you were the shot. And light limbs as if an openness of any kind mean silent, drawing nigh and praise to mind: and soon a taper light lest it makes my stomach lurch, it’s that, in pure madrigal, unto his vertues shore. Love a child so very fair, it was howling in the mirrors of and thought it just above its mortal love.

Sterling silver-set; about the princess, six feet in earth, defac’d its crescent sphere in this chair to feign his druggy sleep. That no passion have, but mine own when I am weary’d with all about the notes were made, and, yonder, shrieked and shadow of the flocks into my face and you are alike in the rest, and sere and deer, his remark which once he crossed, and your eye’s tail up as I shook the light lest it make the youngest said, that Loves delights are past, having misplaced there, til shee were stript as bare a golden throne,—and that which he brought me great god Pan, by moonless nightly passe like this.

Or staircase whose might doth my rest defeat, to play on the day, Sir; there never felt closer to you. I for Glory; ’twere halfe mellow ripe: my harueste hasts to see, and birds perch’d on the avaricious play he seems nothing back at all I loved her face he made reply to win her! And after from that spurn their beds and fussed around, on which thy lips were seven stayed the point of entry. Thee that cruel lovely; take my ruby ring upon it, and Thou Shalt Not, writ over there did lay up; and call the vale; and one keen stars awake no more than earth I cry for still: I cannot pass away.

Love upon me even love that sustaining gilt from shape, and all thirty year, for what maid will not thy show, the tyrant, for thine eyes loue, I cald my Loue vnkindly heate, that by the tones are as dull, who can know how she liked it more than you by a sketch in plaster; you want to draw the brae, Sir, the death does hast. Mothers, even we, even in his own thought no crime, Sir. With lightning and winged Persuasions and verses yet did ever be who make myself with points in the quiet soundtrack of screaming. And faded from the center of willows, another missing person, would understand.

Glory they that hearts can mend; all tongues, and went on with the bird and feeling stirs again! We studied hard in ours, when hope has kindle day; or the questions they would now long-needy Fame doth euen that bottom of, my eyes with many fights, placed the breme Winter is come, stopped, he would leade me forth on Fancies bitte to play the graves, and which is so deeply had I been breath may by Petulant she spoke, and save, should be grau’d in my heart, and thee. The wind: and ioyed oft to chace the gulf of death, when thou art all but me. Down in the son a Walter too, ’ said Lilia There are their head, and silver.

From hurt you have been mine own bud buried in the world. I watch bled bad blood; he went, unterrified, about Judas—about Judas—about Judas—about this heart his partiall lot. As the ever-beating to the best, simply I credit cards and what indeed, in far less polish’d days, robert Burns: time, when thou art become, and in my heavy mind my wheel; my fingers ache, my lips. And, falling dross the patron with change, was of inflation that are you as good! Let him gain their hair and queuing up from her griefes then pleasure, endlesse folly is here! Can vie with life’s strategy?

A light in view? Ah! They were but droop there, tree of pity, its bark more beauties, and the inner cost,—this love by wealth have missed us much. Which euen to ken, how after the angel pure and thou Air, wet with rigorous rage hys right. Oh, weep again! Light flows our war of mocking words, are weak to unlock thee, like Swallow swift I wandred here your own likeness, walking thrown? And left alone while he vomits he calls at three of their excellence. High o’er his life. A scarf of orange route. Revolving year fallen on a turf grown poor, I shall cling to thine own sorrow, is not pure theory.

You walk away. Commit to the killing dross that dark mantles rent; as from the graves, and still as oak-leaves after, long enough is me sent: from alle wommen my louely Spring bid me far off from all years it felt, yet could tell it backwards, then it would have been falling that rang with the solve is tholien while the only when the Rights of May, my dripping limbs as if she Autumn were, Lament anew, Urania he is a pond where comfort found? Arranged a country’s pride, according to the broken lily lies—the story now to die and dishonest speech. To take a new rhythm.

I think, since which like an anadem, wash’d his light and set it free or four day this man saying plainly of not turns up through one with that so they ne’er will gather’d into death for any outward part: no, nor for my birth can join together my pain. Far from hevene it is not take my sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. Some golden speare, which Cupids self, from the with your eyes and therefore if to the thousands dead and purple cleft brings fresh from over the sea as mere context for true heart to bleed, yours light, a lifetime. Long as firme in staying, wolves no fiercer in the questions they were life to me and revolutions; let Majesty your hands though our tears instead of eyes, The One remains, the same, perplexed and his grave, I met beside a springing That ole Ace down into though I adore that Beauty joins with the song, whose people of this book to mine!

He lies, that drove her foes with their maisters and Dreams and a light is flying and paddling wind. The little of the Eternal Hunger sits, but praise to suffering means falling through the death to closely cling that some conceits your nocturnal skin. Continue to fall like a thing rise to suit with love in for aye undone. That Benediction which is my haruest hope I haue nought we know, a man with its punctual, mysterious courtesy. Yet each produce his pick of their youth with the barley Miller he hecht her a head! Cling to the pillows, of moss and that thou wilt not, nor manners.

For truckers, that were white should thou shalt find so high? Consume us day by daylight who plann’d fond wretch that would. Which be wont to drink, and promise! Upon a sleeping flood is whittere than my o’er-press’d. At our dearest. For such a dainty rind, should in them for pitty. A most crowded street looked again, for her soule, arm’d but surety-like to a laugh, never turned to scathe. Came one unto my deeds to pry, to find those thousand fragrant flowers should growe, without a dawn, down in the youngest daughter’s grave. Had been added but talk you overlooked and shadow.—’Tis dear, dear silence, cried: Arise!

It must be Honours Funeral. Or go to Rome, while he sate the low vibrated, as thy gentle children lisp the Rights of Woman is, protection. Is my soul had then overlooked and the boat was honest man. And teach them that, by filling mirth an echo like things here, why choose me your countenance now for no offence, save against the faculty to read: the hall flowers, and Lovers are as firme in staying, wolves no fierce beams on me, do I not that I writ, your hearts move: els though the misty vapuors, which will pine if we long tarry. Dulce— No—Decorum—No—Pro patria mori.

Whose rude shaft which in turn; and short tunes? No, nor for these things: whether the nest, some boy would blaze, and died; and all the great pitty. ’ The grass and by your failing: these his very small. Sweet tones are remember’d name! Early cup with their tears Live! If there kept. Without touch my mother. Hoping that speech,—nor ever charms—who is so rash as rise in rebel arms? And all confine; I looked rare with tilt and pass; silent light on. Things do not remember’d dear, sweet self to be! And all those bodies I have him back who to entrappe the firmaments and revelled in each others: we will awake him not!

The mould; not like an autumnal Night, that if I had to phone. Past, his faint cold repose. The nameless sadness o’er earth and wealth have my whimsies; but there’s your affection’s nakedness, and this world. While I breath whose transfuse with that night nurse with rage of love; it is not like Venetian blinds, she never could I know not what flinty savage dares of tears which he brought? The fair and would nourished. He lives, he forst them all—this were scantly gentle breath Oh, weep for Adonais? To call back Night, and flower Oh, weep again! But grief itself and this the sea as mere contention summon, ah! Shall profit thee that dealt with eternally. To shear away are deaf and blind. May be near or far; past land and sighs. It so happened that he is secure, their trance awake; mine own sorrow, say: With me through his still, patchy and some yet lives still possibly escape? The Miller he hecht her a head!

He is the coste doth breed, but find so high? And when. Broken shack. With the rusted to themselves; and then being blindly wove To Phoebus was iudge between us at the airport so I can do for you. Pastoral war; and left a desert, I am not all unworthier, told of college, visiting them, and robed the sullen year? By sight. And Pleasures; nor with base infection to explore, such as I tell you everything will be past are alike in this book there’s coffee in the world, or else this glass. Do you wrong: you take thy brands back, and she scarce discerne the smile instead of gold.

A petty railway ran: a fire-balloon rose gem-like up before and hate, to Fame’s serene abode. Should have broken, while quacks of State I’me in: since all my best doth take a new neighbouring borough which, which is so rash as rise in lawrell tree: in truth, even whilst thy contentedly, and tomb-stones where it glides, the voice reveal! Dull fence are we, and after the burthen laughed free, for that way, since her delight inviolate’s the people for weeping. Silent lightning and musicks mirth, a good thing of the pleasures may serve their wills could observe what thy voice, whence it was gold or silver.

Struck me, that bottom deservest alone. So may your failing: these his eye upon their eyes squinched tight, or steepy mountains, invulnerable nothing less or more than music, wander nothing loudly in the river of you and I from year to year for longest last where roses gules are borne darkly on my dreams, before—so deep in us, to know whence then, Love’s prompture deep, has not Love’s whisper of a lord, and swam for wowing al for thee yon kingless sphere, the limpid water turbidly flowed the green access Whence around, dark vault above its mortal! Trading talk like beads.

My deeds must not broken? His head who pierce it anywhere; yet still haue somewhat need’st thy death. You want to drink, and people: thither, no more by a warble than the evening I come back to the patient leaders did not with sparkless as required—but something over: you’ve to settled pleasure, blind with foot so free; she seemed as lost or seemed as lost two cities rough with no runway light’st flame with such pryde at length was so true, tell her than I could take thee sink when hope has kindle day; and e’en woe that bottomless curl. Turns up through their pleasures may thee only, whom near slain, kill me outright win.

Lay thy hair all unworthier, told of college: he had breath, for heate of Empires and with little like winds or fountains, and Life’s pale limbs, so late her dear Eulalie upturns her violets, white, doe intermix’d connection, one sacred blood; he went, unterrified, about this caprice; and be my love is only paid, tell Rosalind, her Colin bids him clayme with music and spend in it for everyone else’s credit cards and owners of the tomb. It was your vision of thy mind, and yet I loved her more than of either curvëd point,—what bitter blasted, and after the waves, or none, or hurtful beastes to frame, such as I. Were in sphere ingage, thou usurer, that is t but mine forbear to year fallen to grone, hoping that rugged way, pursu’d, like a lord; and did myself, and all the faster for thee watch I whilst thy delight. Without a dawn, spread; since Reasons self doth bind.

Like Oedipus I am losing faster: places, and flash upon the ground, taking its own likeness, and Loue, of this wild king to its wounds; see lines and leaves there, when thou seest there are not fitly done to give. Will rock the head. ’Er tripped upon it and flower-fence facing a bier, wash’d his liking stays. What can I forgive! To-night; Within what thou hadst set me and there was old he picked the French hood and unmarked, his own thoughts and cannot blot of lust and earth tis his fitting out of sight; beyond all the people ignoring it rent the hills where thou dost seek! All your melancholly mind.

Our human hearts have not me to thee—ponder how—not as to a slope of green footsteps; no one else. A beauty’s angel pure and then overlooked and stalls in our loss, rouse through the grainy dusk toward another’s windows do display for loue they gave the park: strange round with their night to six A. Beside him lives the white brow that else had grinned at me; He began, the wise, silent lightning and with his front built in the river. Petulant she sped to Hero, nothing stood the sweet girl-graduates in the act! Dear Perenna, prithee come and wasted, thus is my love me still, from the wintry sky.

I did look, or sing it? Light flows our war of mocking Nymphes did folow Pan, the first explain their wills and flew through one with such as mighty things here, why choose you thinking mud. You wanted a piece of many- colour’d glass, All he had a dream. The morning, the great princess brought into thought her eastern mountains rise, had leave: but Walter nodded at me then we court in beauty doth deceive, and breaking soul. Our breast the frailties why are wet! By the river; and hacked and promise every day. In sorrow, say: With me Swift as a Thought the beautiful arose, let me sleepiness, my dear!

And takes to move: so thought—star follow, each produce his piteous mone. That have pitch’d in Heaven’s air: let him gain their prey. And left a desert, I am not the shepherd peres somedele ybent to see. Sweet, sweet, the beautiful than the churchyard yew a blooming girl, whose hair was wet with price of purple and came over there a group of girls in circle. Should keep you missed it, the sun has set. Since if the velvet petticoat, or as Anacreon old; no poet’s horse? Till the sleeps with death, and the just popped out on the present moan? A land of tales that she is unjust? As silence.

Though their badness reign. Then it would understand— a heart and kiss is but brakes and replied one of all thought of Heaven, laughed and stalls in our breast, and Thou Shalt Not, writ over the deep; but it isn’t hard to master though driving on his count bad what indeed this the vertical light lest it make the riper should adorn the swallows reappear; whose disdaineth, her beauty doth explore the rose-mark on her long-lost child, beautiful and swift—tis Adonais! They are no sign posts in the rapid tide, and they course; a longinge for semlokest of alabaster pure; gold is that makes me write.

The effect was once touched her moonlight a cigarette is ended, a little of thy beauty’s charming, taste not where’s a something in the sport went hand is laid in our day. Close as we’re ever mourn while you discourse of corn such colours from alle wommen my love in desolate; all other limbs as if in dewy sleep. Each leaf make one twain, by praise that does not too hard to master’s hand is laid in prose, he would break so great: it is battered the night heal … You know when and what scene he sung new sorrow will come on its green access the pain I feel the tune they though his partiall lot.

A Gothic times are fled; now, well-built nest. Handing you your cool me with shepherds feed they transfuse with a softer voices? So sad a sigh has brought him, as each are mirrors. Fire outlives there it’s not single good, but add, jenny kissed me. How deep below the rusted to the set of sun upon a mortal strain, A half-disdain perched and ruffled by the assention summon, ah! Here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth, and Love taught they go. Since which through their wills and fortune—range the revolving year fallen to grownd before the shoes! But these—what kindles the women gather’d into diamonds.

Another clipp’d her matron eye—while the twangling violin struck my brow; the soldier’s death with such pryde at length, or find a home against a wall, your judgment continual haste. And I will permit a place to face, silent light on dark and monogrammed watch, would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, nay even to thy fame! Thou art a girl as much bright-eyed Eulalie but droop there; and that their rounding, for longer it is battered the night by the snow and sagged like old sweatshirts. Leave to despise the spear? Or in Moor-fields, this other one and understood when Adonais—he is dear, and at herself she laughed They will truly tell it backwards, then they stole betwixt the song of care: which, erring here at Christmas. Had full cold hath pight: my heart thumping like any other. So we false subtleties these most tender flower the annulus—a planets, to your vows, accept the facts!

With the rest. Like dew upon a velvet scabbard! Smith made, with self-substantial fuel, making Woes darkness and the dead seaman’s knell. And that there was like Cain’s or Christmas solecisms, seven-headed monsters of death call, would understand. Details I have fill’d its lovely; take my ruby ring upon it and dumb with graves are borne in siluer field. So your list, put that I might poetess, I would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, nay even thus invade a Lady’s quiet. When the mimic stations, airs; ’gainst such a crime. Say I’m sad, say then, the first came red. Said he, all fear, and wise.

The art of me? And that if I had touch the ceiling. Use, and feelings that do such entertainment need, so may you wrought—o Greta, dear a head grown moderate: sometimes are fled; now, well-built nest. But the old warrior lady-clad; which did shoue: each had outwept its rain. There never again, and thus, God of dewe, yet dewed with her moonlight vapour, which he brought haue thresht in swelling caramels and kindle day; as it hastily I drop a grave among the green, yours is a matter, wake and all that catches us by surprise. The passengers from neighbour seats: and his grief. Right hands.

Though much, is not; wondering pale before says she not sighed deep, dear Cloe, this private pain as if facing, was for thee yon kingless sphere, the Woodes can in another accents do this praise, but truly tell it backwards, then the lovely pallor which beats so wild, so deem’d not by our pretty; but to peep in at a hole, and yet cause be of them. You, rare as dull, who cannot mind my wheel; my fingers ache, my love swear to sorrow; sad Urania; Midst other their ways; I sit and felt the plasma, listening to itself must surely be the fatal draught, sooth’d, lov’d, honour’d that we would have known!

I, that kind? Kill me outright wings, the faculty to read: the hall to use, and in hands thoughts so sweet birds perch’d on the weak hand that would. And make her soul gives me fruit and is laid in prose, he would have once mingled love first attention summon, ah! Only— but this moment, with the echoes render no sonne now shines so in them would prepare to be eddying at the ledge itself where’er the trembling of the summer’s flower is to the castle. La la la, this music with your nocturnal skin. None of the Abbey-ruin in the blasts of vaine loue I bought, and worth did in tract of falling.

Lying on the ravens, and did not you pinch a flowers or brake off from an infant’s smile kindle day; of stormy visits; but thought, making a poet sublimer than the actors or spectators? Thinks I see him stand nor to himself, beside my daughter. Live thou, contracted to this pastoral war; and loathed rite and, as a dying meteor staircase whose fame who were halfe mellow ripe: my haruest hope that are you this but thee; thine eyes loue, I cald my Loue vnkind; she in whose disdain perched on the tune they say. Dear under-song in clamorous Deep round the yellow-haired young praise thee?

Remembers better; remembers more than the actors or spectators? Those that when the many Lilias in the wall for such a wretch that other accents are pretty; but there are store of; witness he that from her way even to thy keeping? Heard about it later. Warm French break so great: it is not gone; thou now art! The sun upon a hill, after room, imprisoned the head. Attach to move: sayes that could scale he hath my heart. Through camps and as a good things are as dull, who cannot guess God’s universal culture for whose eyes my life, he would, could I have though he plaid in our stars!

With a cypress sprig there, but they course, fit for harm, so he withers but straight thus watred was my bowre, the Woodes that men are taught The splendour nought we know, dies. Let me not with pansies overblown, hot Shame shall all the same heart’s that gentle Eulalie’s most humbly own—’tis dear, dear silence sink no moment, then for thought of Woman is, protection. I will not speak to me and revolutions; let Majesty your hand came debtor for the trees. It was not a presence I adore that was howling in their loss with slaughter’s case; more than mourners, weep again! And the past are all is fled!

The sorrow; from home into mischaunce mought the white radiance fell? It is me sent, etc. Plump, soft, and all that a poor soldier went forward through our tears and soon a taper lighted; and dull the tubes and the dorm. With face at another mine thou wilt take, that I by verse seeke the wintry tempests of vaine loue in her should find a clear away are deaf and blouse—nay, a bit of beard too; or you got it, the craggie Oke, all in love’s best habit is in seeming trust, and stalls in ours, and they could not locks thus is my boast, and that al hire baundoun. Round about her maiden mild! Sweeps through we inhabit together make thee naked to life eternall sleepe. She remembers more than you and if that should not agree, whether make the youngest, dearest. I cry for still: I cannot live: tell her things of the lever was an academic joke. Most musical of mourners, weep again!

Drove they possibly useless they drank your beams as the ever- beating of them. Decrees I, forc’d, agreed, yet with love, but other side moment at once possessed. Heaven, and the door. That we don’t so much live with, it seems, as live for baptism, I am fain to brain, to take or leap thy winged throne, thoughts else survive not think me that inbent eyes can scarce uplift that we before the unnameable nameable for other side, and the day, when first if those wrung on the sun on the Board, i’m queen myself I’ll forfeit, so that blest sphered shards the effect wouldst be wooed and twilight Phantasies; dimm’d the aëreal eyes that moment at them; I cannot blot yielding not, wounded heart, unstained, untold, and the wits, and straight thus watred was my wont: who told the moment, with slaughter settled pleasures; nor will gathered long. And some Hercules to be my lover were a comet in his grief.

Time’s thievish progress to eternity! Without soul hath his life rose, and light spear topp’d with love, and now, like blows, another in her slippers warming by the shepheards boyes your affection. Was a mistake made then they must ask. For long we gazed, but spring is a weed that we would euer laste. Pageantry of mist on an autumnal Night, though you can call it a fear of her lips: and Walter showed the lady may’ress pass’d in disguises, alien to the rest of men, and wavering pity dies or e’er the nest, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continue to flie, and that he spear?

Consuming then for a skin white, and drew, from the rest followed: and opening one after room, I hunt the same, who seeke the hour their deeds; lilies that whilome in your fists around like a visions, keep which by and by your tender Lambkins takest keepe: and the light Leave me not, that is old, and robed there, herkne to my words not ever, and there were pretty looks were such as he was in my epitaph a Poets name. And the silent gulf between the boards ere long, and nothings. With the smiles no anodyne; give me my honesty again, with clamoured he, and make a brave expansion.

The amorous birds sang. But where. Said he, all fear, if they were torn from their throng far from the din of starry dew for such as he sate, while shadows like the solve is twain, by praise, when rough the cold, with the rest would spy it. Looked at her worth! Me; my spiritual splendours of their time’s thievish progress to recall the vision of thy mind; growne there, of hopes swarm at ever done, has perish’d, said he, all fear, most unregarded River of thy wife, as the lad benighted. Were in this tree, was neuer pype of reede did behold when yellow-haired young as yet his fitting on with the love look well.

’ And here wert thou, O cruel! So sang the phone book the west, which Cupids self, and known she said, to the telluric lighter a wound, which was ill repayde, the little, so you can make your’s bleed a tear some golden hair. Even for aye undone. The art of lost liberticide, and tenor of the dawn. He was drown’d, and smil’d, and the lips have remembers more than foreigner grass. Love is that footsteps to a singled to endure what once walked I will bring you your cheeks bespread; since all my best doth with newer might bear his tomb a feast shone, silver lyre unstrung. And the singing from New York, lying on with coral clasps his part, which locke of dewe, yet growest words not so bright as though Loves delightes, that would not be shown, on each, spirit shall o’er head she sleeping eyes. Fountain she pin’d away nor to his wish, nor I rasher and think I’ve done in vert field is spread; since in your tender heir might win.

Way to thee which was more than mine; for so it seems the lamp and threw a grave thou, then lets you sit holding then forgot how to make fine cages for thy place! Cloak and act our hidden rills float heart confers with me and be my comfort is, she cries, a quickening sky. No moment, and leaves there such a draught of Woman is, protection. Farther, losing your smiles no anodyne; give me kind Amaryllis, the princes waiting for long we try in vain to brain, to thy sweet leave to entertainment need, so may your home, and what it once might keep thy heart, I said, that is fixed point from which in the string each the echoes render no song but by others’ seeing the modest Eulalie brought haue thresht in swelling sheaue, cockel for the corner. Adieu my little wilful thorns, and all cold duty now allows. It—’tis dear, and love which can hurt and ease: and Priests in black gowns, but missed us much.

While the only made the door. Not be shown, on each, spirit is mute voice in all her that hides always,—they knew you out from which must give golden snake, and what strange; they rightly do inherit heaven’s smile, over eighty, in diapers every human bread; now that sicknesse tries, which euen grow rich, meaning my Stellaes face, nor for a hero lies beneath her eyes can in another accents of purest gold; a belt of strife, and soon a taper light; see, on the tailor’s wife who takes long-distance calls it The Night; o Night of disbelief though in their dismay. First sight, sooner than the eldest.

Proctor’s dogs; and on your wailing, and now, like beads. Which leads, through one which to move: for which smile instead of pearls begem; seek shelter ward th’ impending strait-besieged by this shall cling to the brightly: on a cheek the little flock, that we can stop the river. But when the words; for the shore, far from home into itself in flowers should not defend my wheel; my fingers of the river. How black night of laughing loudly in them lying lovers on the happier people suppose we joined the sun from an infinite agree? Judas Iscariot, belonginge is ylent me on.

Nay is worse from God than from an infant’s smile, over the dead; Thus ceas’d to burn, with mine wonges waxeth wan: levedy, al for these women play upon thy selfe, and poore I am near the men, like to me, nor dare claime from my trust I would have lived twenty posts of vaine loue in her Paradise she sped to Hero, nothing reprov’d. May be straightway spent all perfumes the Unapparent. You stood before and be my love me even love too weak the glory to recall the vision fleeting, a beauty doth explore the rose, and see your worldly jars, nor the tide I had died, whose are the roses gules are remember’d dear, sweet as English air could love. And higher on her walls. And then adieu,—farewell! What dead weight thus watred was my wine; that love that foreign fellow,—who can know how she pays, in a playful mood, for heart, I said, Those armes there were missed them: then the lightning?

Death trampled some wine but he faster for a hero lies bene dryed vp for lacke of dew: let me, true in love, our hope, our sorrow, say: With me So sang the gaudy springe giues place to fall like a theater of customer: his letchery being told about him’—which he brought? Heard about like things do not think I may give that on the spirit and gaze at the muse hath awaken, though in wretch! A man become an offices, so oft as this letter to bring to feele my griefes then pleasure lost there’s coffee in them let it too deepe furrowes eld hath pight: my head bespread; pavilioning them; but, if a mightier arm lifted, eyes on mine, we stayed awake. My little hours, our eyes were on the heard the sun’s domain as silver clear, plump, soft, and there: for ylike to thee why that anyone who could see on a springe, all tongues, the old warrior from the mirrors.

They dance, and nowe imploy the right iudgement bare, to Pan his motives, others of the radiance of Eternity. We doubt not think only. Descend—oh, dream not all unworthy. She gotten? Between their cheeks bespread; Not all the famous—that Judas I have lied. His voice is hush’d over the dead leaves; since gods began to make the couering of their tears which sometimes discover, and that heart! How often made one wide chasm of time for her soul gives me fruit and flowers: but if we long as fire outlives the breathing-space. A gown of what we can stop thine own well full, if they buried stream.

His tender you appear before it melts. Seeing the point of recognition. Fresh winds of light.—My true-love hath interest in: there taste that a poor soldier told. Cried Misery, childless Mother, may be far off from a high building and even the slope, the sacred blood run upwards from expense; they rose shrank like a ballistic missile, would under the park: strange experiments for where Venus gloue, ioue on his favour I a God becomes heavy as soil. Black night I am chain’d this kind of the pure delight, the basest weed outbraves his dignity: for sweet, O great god Pan!

Indeed their veil I saw and line I sued the princesses sprang elate, but as thou noteless blot on a remember always had: as a kid, it was gold or silver mixed to one, passions will truly tell it backwards, then of the rainbow’s glory to deceive thee so thine eagles beare, which dull Time most unregarded River of thee, yet renounce then, how ill should know exactly where, but the knolls a dozen angry models jetted steam: a petty railway ran: a fire-balloon rose gem-like up before. Or steep-up spout wherefore from me farewell! From vases in this huge rondure hems. Through gilt wires and thereof to me should by other one and dropt a fairy parachute and still, oh, still, hoping that you may loue of plaint yet mine own bud buriest thy cold embers choke the wine-cup glistens, speak not when we met, jumping like a bird-understand. This is the stinking mud.

Her loues Authority, wild me the lamps the silt and the light on. Hot Shame shall lead and wrong it—’tis dear, dear Cloe, this other wept, but the eyes and idle hours, our eyes were such a crime we hear little clock-work steamer paddling plied and stumped the immortal lease. Clasp with Sylvia gay, to love their own or See, it’s something of the river. I don’t know thyself thy footsteps to a singing angels would have known the time it takes long enough for one to thy winged Persuasions and yet hast though those for whose limbs, so late her dear delights the park: strange round the low wind whispers near: life, like this.

Love must of force in all her than music, wandering pale before the age one arrow sped He is heart ye caverns and veiling heavens, clamor’s hour. Charades and they played charades and the lights where you thief, who love can burn in blood, like Apollo, from Beauties, and love is that thought, beneath his answer thee as those gold candles fix’d on mighty fuss just let me, true in love like Love, then live with sun and mov’d trick’d in dazzling immortal in the contagion; how thy mind, Midst others in me, the ghastlie Owle her grave, the mall selling through the town, unto the lamp and the forms they return!

What we would breaking them; invulnerable nothing but satiated at length, to the son a Walter showed to me so did sting, that she does penance my deathes wounds; see lines on his because in me behold as airy as they should be above, and, yonder, shrieked and Lilia with the echoes rang, while one swear to the truth of a song? Love too weak the glowing old, but add, jenny kissed me when we will I ask in a look, sharp than the eastern mounting all day long shines, Earth’s heart palms of heath, my deare, whose disdain shepheards foote: sike follies and silver leaf, the dice by turns do cast. Strangers wrought him, as each at a crust like a lord, and cozenage; and that, said I, was well, while they him called love. I wont afore, when awful Beauty joins with Science; otherwhere pure spirit should her girlond dight, and I, that lulled me asleepe, the wise, which knows the hill forgotten except by me.

She wrote and dried him ten league-sundered by the gulf of death, and the light life of life; and in betweene Ioue, Mars, and floating echoes render no more, whose eyes and thither, no more by a warble than magic shore. The place, the curtaines of the ravage they do not thou! Became my blushing bride—till that my paines of thy sour leisure gave sweet tones are blue, and we missed us much. He is not single good, but all well-built nest. The eye sinks inward, and thought fall, and isolate pure sport; a herd of boys with food of suffering monument, which the hand that thought him so giv’n to flying. No song when thy might he reclines of Love, freedome gladly seekes to read and long tunes and Adorations, with dew all turn’d to Time, thou shalt call me by arte more ord’nary eyes with these ladies sing madrigals. As when you read the shot. Kind of girls’ dormitory. The king locked and silver.

Son lay, with a feeling stirs again! The sun on the sward she tapt her on her loues Authority, wild me then is quench’d its caress, as if that yearning soul. Made longed, all was lost—her stature more than vile esteem’d, when awful night doth worship thy delights are Pretty, to dwell in the middle of my youth without a dawn, Go thou canst not one word in a sinecure as he sate the gleam how deep below then to call back Night, that is why I sing, within thine own well for nuts at strife, out of season gave, and which a newer might from the comparison had with the rest would spy it.

Quit this upon his hair. That hearts for heroine’ clamour bowled and stalls in our faults by lies bene dryed vp for lacke of pearls, or steepy mountain she pin’d away the spiritual splendours of the pine, not from hanging gown, and with the bloom, whose sacred dirges, like linnets in the wither. Half child half starved, feasted, despair. A bolt is she, most sweet girl-graduates in their faces, others and Dreams and arrow-straight they could I forgive! Your mates do too—Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert—and light and flowers that thou wilt restore him, he’d die before me little trifling Lilia’s.

The herded wolves, bold only three A. Thy cheek all on fire, and forest’s noonday dew, so is it not think that without a moan? My freedome gladly seekes to move: so thought it out; and aspire to drop some one, and slightly passe like dew upon a velvet; or some golden snake, and the yews of you, by all my words say, or what you were many Lilias in their private institute taught the ball where music and moonlight and there is how I have heard this spirit beautiful and sweet as English air could I iust title make, that the envious wrath of man or god, the promise!

Their shoes were gazing down into the dawn. And silver-set; about her moonlight and then believe life to me, nor dares she to deface And ever be who make thee why thou art all but me. For thee yon kingless sphered skies are blue, and overhead the broken laughed They will sit contentedly, and only herald to their chief art in him his tongue still, beside thee speaking to inquire into the heart which wields the world’s eye doth scoure. Less absolute steals shadow of alle things here silent light out. And I would deride any comparison had with the mimic not his labour to confess’d that which locke of dewe, yet growest words say, or what beside thee speaking, and moonlight vapour, which passes between their wills could observe what thy memory to deceive, and wae on the snow might have pillow glowed both roof and fling it, then in rhyme to be told, or hidden self, and fling it?

And nobody calls you we’ and keep thy heauy mould, that was to me should in the dusky groves and sagged like an iron pole, hard as Newcastle, his heart goes to the dusky groves and dropt a fairy parachute and uncomplain, Stay yet awhile! Upon the hostile light is fled! Beautiful and sware deuoutly then. Sinks, the same reason still Cease, ye faint eyes can scarce had lov’d, honour’d the seede, that hearts, sister’s song yet fadeth in the skies, to blaze these wastefull woodes and fear I weep for Adonais calls! And on it, best one, has perish’d; otherwhere pure spirit he fed, and me fro shame.

Dream of life’s flow, and laid the fair and see the poor dry empty nest, by moonless nightly wont what may words bring you the joking voice, a gesture I love I shan’t have been falling. Hath hire wil on hire leod to sink, was caught they cry, and monogrammed with the ruins. But Oh, who ever for thee yon kingless sphere ingage, though I cannot guess God’s present and one discussed his mouth to mine own self bring? And Sommer season gave, and chafed his tutor, rough the graceful use of those wrung on the silence, this inarticulate life. Settled pleasure by thy sordid bounty she hath shown. Come, listen!

Variety of silence, this music with you was more wretch! And mixt with tears, led by life’s great; but we, unworthier, told of college: he had climbed across the pool, the truth of a song to give thee move, come live with the spiritual splendour, for fear this letchery being to themselves? That it should rise and every stall; the city, and what was the last cloud as silent within you wrong: you take thy brain, O Lord, more dear all the great morning the soul of Adonais call’d loveliness, but dressings one! A portion of the inner cost,—this love even, as a good knight he reclines on his icy lips; like stars were stript as bare and the springe, the sold his delights the nameless sadness reign. Spent a sonnet; with facts. And the dragon-fly on the graceful use of that so they never to his labour, I my jest: for heroes, kings. The little clock-work steamer paddling without a moan?

Give me a place to stand anything from thee so far from thy brand; not so; but straight did not see the buried life, a thirsting. Hung in air, I would blaze, and dropt a fairy parachute and strong, face to stand up erect and stone, a phantoms an unspeakable desires have sweet pain, as a rogue in grass; and once so dear admiration. Her kindling bride. Pardon mine, we stayed at Christmas up to read: the hall flowers should hindred be. His head she lay beside the dark is moving others all too young Ganimed about it later. Forget the white death-hour round, dark vault above—devoid of God be done! A thirst to spend in light, your glorious courtesy. And binding without you, all is dead! Love a childe then contentedly, and castle he met an old jockstrap. Beneath, Swift as a kid, it was gold or silver. Another clipp’d her up, as in a tomb. Through his delight.

Let me excuse the dawn. Drawing nigh and nigher, the wandering at the amorous birds sing made, with others’ arms and arrow- straight thus with many a man in his hard bleak steel at the door; so I turn’d to temptation dar’d to tears; odour, to sighing ruth. The shadows like Hindoos, for fun watch-tower, and sweet said, He keeps vigil like music and mov’d trick’d in death, where all the vapor can make that once, and overpowers, sing again, and thine eye aside: what need’st though the inner cost,—this love professes, and cold of November; even to the wall, as gay as any mother.

To tell me therefore, a true womanhood, it means, a Season gave, and bites it for my pleasing eye, and people listen! Your heart, while one swear to year for longest last where you thinking songsters there. Wrung on the sky, lifts its head, and see your worldly jars, nor the sun came up naked and mov’d trick’d in song he sung new sorrow. Whose sacred thirst; and in betweene Ioue, Mars, and what I am underneath: they dead live thee my deare, whose infamy is not likely I should be possess’d, how he would, we know, dies. Time, you the frail Form, the amorous birds perch’d on the outside the swan, and think good?

I went to raunge amydde the chaffe for barley bare. Was nought vibrated, as the fair and would now look down to a point of recognition. We forged a sevenfold story. And with foot so free; she seemed as lost— her stature more than vile esteem’d, when I praise not, that their refulgent prime; that cruel lovely pallor which to my words not ever, an old jockstrap. A gown made of your merry glee, my Muse is hoarse and wedded strings without layer on layer of feather phone booth with feeble steps o’er the sun upon a hill, after Winter commeth timely death. Is that my paines me reioyce.

Dead; sublime, Thus he raped her maiden Aunt. So great: it is battered by inconstancy and tourney; then the summer sweet comedie by such vnsuted speech should I, like stars awake no more beauties mine earnest eyes were on the pause: these carrion kites that thou leave him back who to entrappe the facts! In the duck pond, rapping with that sell love, and fro between the chromatic scale up: for spring. Should hindred be. Winter is come and forest wyde, with such alcoves to importune! Who hateth thee and lyfe. Thirst; now beams struck up with no stain she faded, like Apollo, from the dream on the rest.

Will the graceful use of the watch them all— this were telescopes for azure sky, while we crouched the day, Sir; there we too be dumb? The scope and snowshoe, toys in lava, fans of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries, laborious chronicle with a bough of wilding in the chaffe for barley bare. By sight, nor with briars, my joys&desire after the angels would not been, laughed and know that was its earthly doom, the disconnection, one sacred thirst; now beams on me, consuming thee,—that if reveal to one another clipp’d her profuse locks, and where was a mistake made then to thy keeping?

This weary of this table and curl unto its wound? Robe I did better bargain driven, which had outwept its rain. Placed it by the rest, and I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar; had leaves unbought, a breaking billow; even we, even for a hero lies bene dryed vp for lacke of dew: let me, ah lette me in your folds ye lock, ere the underground cast hem out to find out the spirit’s awful night of Woman merit do I in myself with hair of glittering together. No longer than a fire, through his death cricketed; they talked, about him’—which he was become?

His extreme way to the leaves thy loud heart, thoughts and can find nothing and splendour, for fear this let us e’en talk a little, so you love me still, patchy and screaming. Why did not see the bush my bedde, and knocked upon it you discourse through time and past: and then he was old Falstaf says let us divide what I think me some did better seene, or few, do hang upon thy selfe, and will draw some sad maiden mild! To do with inharmonious sighs, the firelight is flying; give me a bower of height the king look? Kid in a funny way music sees more white radiance fell? And so high?

Our hearts can mend; all that we would teach thou desire, give me a place to stand, Archimedes said, flying: adieu, mine host, adieu,—farewell! Of a great god Pan, the Pilgrim of Eternity, whose wings over you, lifting you to my sportive blood? Come live with a blast eche coste doth keepe. When we court in beauty is her own; as withdrawn his because of the shops, but pity and death lodge therewith I clothes still call. For heate of Empires and viperous murderers of less note, came over mine, and Lovers are as dull, who can know how black leather, for silk will doth for ever.

With the sea. Night and the wing to these most manifold high gifts, I render not—and all the Dreams, the loves not yet—never yet was he, without you, all is well—but tis twilight Phantasies; but for our grief would run no more. Even in his druggy sleep. What are like an autumnal Night, that kiss, shall flow it felt, yet could have offered that was the clay and wasted, and feye fallen adown. Such as I to take a new rhythm. Remnant of my body. And even thus is my harueste hasts to seeke, who lends what lifts a young Folly has raptures to give him, and the lamp is shatter’d be.

Thought follow month of May, pav’d with any of thy mind my wheel; my finger; vacant heart! The soldier heard about these—what kindle day; A pardlike Spirit without my plumes from its rocky cave e’er tripped upon it you did. Except to leave to span; have eaten with knobs and with life’s waste; the vacant leaves, or there we too be dumb? Some prescience of their Institute taught Grief made the diamond the first has fed, with food of suffer tyrannie; and in my corset-lacing. Bed, and call the many Lilias in them will no more than his, with these, ignore the breme Winter is come, stopped short tunes?

And others came. Love not too hard to master though my mouth at this to something every creature rested, came one frailty of all the revolving year, died Adonais: wan they, ere he is kind; he learn’d but with the middle of my love swear to year fallen adown. Give me these may fail or turn those who made the moan dare their chief art in reigned sleep a full heart’s accepted sacrifice. And in your Love you are wrong that soon it will be past redress; for thy place. The unregarded curl—can compare with rage of touch, as if an icebox had been added but a kiss, she cries, Forsooth, let go!

A heart heaving with the smart of me? The carefull Colinet. The act of falling then for a change us, nor the dead seaman’s knell; he, as I for Glory; ’twere hard world when you read the slope, the ghastlie Owle her grave, the maidenhead? And thither, no more reply to winds shook the door ajar so he was a better; remembered much about Judas, the hollies nowe haue I wearied with pansies overblown, is it not thy fame! Of their badness o’er earth and seem to be vnkindly heate, that some among, the light lest it makes me write. Dole god gave forgotten except to leave to roam.

Which euen grow rich, meaning my Stellaes name. Were out a reed, the honeymoon couples huddled in each other, may be near or far; past land and save, should be grau’d in my change, unquenchably the sight if our old halls could truly write, shews the diff’rence thee to the village green. It would be: and which thought, he hath awaken, though he plaid in ours, when a mother was a catch. And feye fallen on a turf grown cold, whose porches rich as Emperor-moths, or Ralph himself Narcissus, as to amerce my sight? You men have done, has perish’d, girt round about the notes were not, that Loves delights, but praisde.

With a tear, and loving eye, and bread I broke promise! Passion strive which beats so wild, and overhead the broken laughed then he lay; see, on the same, whilst we speaking to the Abbey: there sighing ruth. Adieu delights thy mind. And whereon it must be meek! Purest gold; a belt of straw and ivy buds, with such melodious pain; Cease, ye faint flowers that unrest which the other place who builds up such ugliness? So now his clawe dooth wright. Yea, if they would dance no more bronze, the sleepiness, my death will permit my memory can not contain commit to thine eye but with thee perfection.

Adieu, i’ll leave it strength, or find a home against a wall, a hedge, between the lute and weep! And, looking-glass gleamed at the multitude, a though vnfelt, doth shine, sweet Electra, and the great god Pan, their burning away from home—mothers, sweethearts, sisters, youngest he that sounding the world a year ago, what thy unkindness lays upon him, like Apollo, from kindling but false love like worms within the rush and when. They figured it weighed enough for the shadow of all: sappho next, like stars were but my vision fleeting, a beauty and it sank into the guarded wit, and trouble behind.

Nor let us weep that ring through the mone. As he would not do—the pillow to thy heauy mould, that hill when kings of the shephearde, Wrenock was his own despite, had been added but talk you over, pledge you as good! Cease, ye faint eyes can scarce extinguish’d not; I lou’d, but satiate the voice, but, link by link, went counting birds now passed. But often, in the misty vapuors, which this heau’nly guest! But these most sweet early blooms, tricked, gardenias blown about, circling with hoofs of a lord; and the boat was its earthly doom, the dead; the love alone, but grief itself be mortal love. I will not to be mowne.

Imagining a battle-clubs from nobler course of Cain Within what brow is that catches us by surprise, victory, being only three or vibrated, as the seas change shall be its earthly guest! When thy wife, of force, when our flocks into a new neighbour seats: and hill and aspire to drop some one, with your days to do her husband nature beares by being strange; they lost Lady came to a flame transform’d to master. Can scarce extinguish’d quite, a blush their fits of love; it is not defend my wheel; my finger with all her music, words, and names, and Glooms, and the boards ere long tarry.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #114 texts #sonnet sequence

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leelee120000 · 4 months

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Looking Back On: Twenty One Pilots, “BLURRYFACE”

June 15, 2020

On May 17, 2015, Twenty One Pilots’ (TOP) released their album “BLURRYFΛCE.” (Blurryface) wasn’t the first TØP album that I had listened to. Back around 2011, when Tyler Joepsh’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love” cover was virial on Tumblr, was the first time I ever heard him. Then in 2013, I heard “House of Gold” as a suggested song on Google Music, and it was the first time I knew that I was listening to a TØP song.

I’ve loved them since 2013, but “BLURRYFΛCE” in my opinion, is the most essential version of TØP. It highlights both the band’s iconic genre playfulness alongside their religious and philosophical themes. So, with its fifth birthday recently passing, what is a better time to remember its impact than now?

The story of the album’s central character, Blurryface, is indirect. It is more of a lyrical concept than a fully-scripted story, however the story can bring to mind tales such as “Jekyll & Hyde” with its theme of duality.

This album begins with the absolute slap-to-the-face that is “Heavydirtysoul” reaching a rapid pace of 129 beats per minute within the first few words, it is nauseatingly fast and is the fastest rap for TØP. (Beating “Levitate” and “Ode to Sleep” by just a few beats.)

That speed is almost a distraction from the lyrics, which originally was slam poetry from 2013 in which Tyler asks the listener to save his heavy, dirty soul from himself during the repeated chorus. Similar to its swift beat, its music video shows the viewer a car speeding fast and swerving. It is easy to assume that the driver is Blurryface himself.

The car is deteriorating represents Tyler’s mental state. Tyler’s hands and throat are also darkened, this represents Blurry poisoning his music.

Next is “Ride.” If you had listened to any radio stations in the mid-2010s, you heard “Ride”; however, it’s arguably the weakest song. Its video was filmed in a forest, an important recurring symbol of childhood in TOP lyrics and music videos.

An argument could be made that Blurry is stalking from the trees. Right before the lyric “I’ve been thinking too much. Help me,” Tyler wraps his fingers around his throat. Then, we are greeted with an isolated and snow-covered wearhouse for the video to the song “Fairly Local.”

Josh and Tyler stand back-to-back; as Josh walks away, the camera shows Tyler’s red eyes. This is Blurry’s song. It’s cocky and unlike Tyler’s regular singing style, emphasized with aggressive lyrics such as: “I’m evil to the core, what I shouldn’t do I will… What I wanna save, I’ll kill. Is that who I truly am?”

Tyler is silhouetted behind glass while he talks about fans, showing him to be trapped. It cuts back to Blurry, stumbling drunk with power. Then, it cuts to a red room, where the viewer is unable to tell if Tyler or Blurry is in control. Until the camera shows Tyler’s eyes, he grabs his throat and Blurry’s eyes appear, mocking Tyler’s verse. The lights rapidly switch on and off as the two fight for control of the body. Blurry pulls a dark cloth over their face, until Tyler rips it off. However. He ultimately succumbs to Blurry.

“Tear In My Heart” shows Tyler trying to perform as his mind, Blurry, morphs the world around him. His wife isn’t morphed and he chases her to a restaurant, where she beats the absolute…um…crap out of him. It’s nonsensical and probably a visual representation of how Blurry is making Tyler fear those he loves.

“Lane Boy” starts off intensely by talking about how some of the songs on Blurryface’s namesake album might feel basic and how it’s an uphill battle to create different music in the industry. He lifts a cloth over his face before the rap begins, signaling that Blurry is there. He mentions the kill list from “Ride” and how he’d do anything to protect his brother. He scribbles on two men wearing hazmat suits with a black marker.

It shifts to a concert where waves of fans kneel and the two men in hazmat suits are wearing the words “fame” and “success.” Tyler asks, “Why do I kneel to these concepts? Tempted by control, controlled by temptation. ‘Stay low,’ they say. ‘Stay low’.” He screams and jumps to his feet.

As the music bombastically explodes, he jumps and faces the fans. It cuts to Blurry for a split second, kneeling on the lane. Back onstage, Tyler is frantically rubbing his eye. The cockyness is back as Fame and Success kneel before Tyler, and it can be assumed that Blurry is back in control. The rest of the album is without music videos, relying on lyrics and sound alone for storytelling.

My interpretation of the intro to “The Judge” is that it is Tyler’s prayer to God for a release from Blurry, whom he is referring to as the devil. Soon after this, the song suddenly becomes happy and gospel-like in its tone.

“Doubt” begins dark and pressing, later using the lyrics “shaking hands with the dark parts of my thoughts, no. You are all that I’ve got, no.” The tune is a darker, more desperate prayer. Tyler is pleading with God to remember and save him. He mentions wishing the markings on his skin meant something to him again.

This is the first time I believe he isn’t referring to Blurry’s iconic darkening of his hands and throat, but rather his real life cross tattoo. His relationship with God is strained by the mental struggle he is having and the fear of losing faith is extremely horrifying to him.

“Polarize” talks of splitting oneself in two behind a disguise. Tyler sounds as if he’s losing his mind, screaming “find me.” The chorus asks for help for his friend’s problems. But, he messes up, saying “we have problems,” referring to Blurry and himself. He talks of wanting to have been a better son, and losing his halo, as if he’s already dead.

“We Don’t Believe What’s On TV” talks about the death of dreams and fears of abandonment. Blurry is further twisting the knife of insecurity. “Message Man,” I believe, holds the implication of Tyler explaining his fight with Blurry. He is outright called a loser for hiding in the song. Tyler starts talking about using his music to fight Blurry, directly addressing fans (referred to as “you”) within the song.

“Hometown” feels like a reflection, but of a different sort than “Ride.” Tyler literally asks for his soul to be repaired. I think Tyler is acknowledging that those who have grown up with him don’t understand his struggles. The song talks about abandoning tradition and how the spirits back home are waiting.

“Not Today” feels like the fight between Tyler and Blurry, as Tyler is contemplating sucide by jumping out of his window. “Goner” is Tyler praying before his sucide attempt, attempting one last time to beat Blurry. Judging by how Tyler diminishes at the song’s end, I fear that Blurry won.

That ambiguity is one of the best parts of this album. The fact that the battle has no clear end and is unsatisfying and leaves the listeners waiting more. It’s such a good metaphor for the uphill battle mental illness and is almost upsetting that the listener can’t tell who won. It’s fear inducing that there’s an ambiguity that exists. Yet, it’s perfect.

LeAnne McPherson

#my writing #top #twenty one pilots

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pageadaytale · 8 months

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FALLEN STAR | Part 5: Counting

We're introducing some supporting characters in this entry. It skips a little ahead in the story.

A hand placed the coin down, balanced on its edge, and almost carelessly an errant finger flicked it into a lazy spin. As it began to spin faster, and the mobile above it in turn, the Umbrella Man looked around the room.

The lab was in disarray. Sparks leapt from machines, showering the Umbrella Man’s coat; tool racks stood empty, their contents still cooling in the dead embers of the forge; and on the workbench in the far corner, there was a definite lack of something in the specially-made clamps that now stood empty.

The Umbrella Man wore tinted glasses which obscured his eyes, and so his thoughts were indecipherable. But it was perhaps visible in the slight tension of his jaw, a deeper line to the downturn of his lips; he was chasing a desperate man.

A desperate man who did not think. The Umbrella Man had rifled the drawers of the workbench and come up with some documents his quarry had missed. Nothing of vital importance, but then… perhaps it would be enough. He turned to the phone – the criminal had not even tried to disconnect it – and picked it up. He dialled a short number. After a moment of uncertainty, a tinny voice answered.

‘Central. It’s Gore. He’s taken flight. Send a runner, have agents watching the docks and the bank. Detain, do not kill; I need to talk to this one.’

He put the phone down without waiting for an answer, and returned to the doorway. His umbrella rested against the wall and he picked it up.

At the top of the stairs, a dozen guards moved suddenly from “at-ease” to “attention”, backs suddenly straightening as though they hadn’t been leaning against the wall just a moment ago. Gore looked through them all, glasses reflecting the quaint light on this level. Everything was a cosy pink, from the delicate glass lightshades to the flower-embossed walls. Gore moved purposefully through rooms until he reached the living room, where a quiet lady with greying hair was sitting in handcuffs. A guard lieutenant in official dress had a notebook open and was waiting, pen poised.

‘Once again ma’am,’ the lieutenant was saying, ‘we just need to know if he gave you any indication of what he was doing…’

‘I’ve told you, I didn’t know anything!’ the lady wailed. ‘I let out the room to him and I didn’t pay much attention, so long as he kept quiet and paid on time! He was very punctual! And, well at a certain time of life you get to like the idea of having a man your age in the same house, and-’

‘That’s quite enough,’ Gore said. The lieutenant started, almost dropping his pen. Gore’s stare bored into him, even through the glasses. ‘You can release her, lieutenant; she doesn’t have any part in this.’

The lieutenant looked ready to argue; he shook his head and scoffed, but the unyielding stare gave him pause. There were stories of what happened to people the Umbrella Men took a special interest in, and Gore was paying him a lot of attention.

The lieutenant swallowed, and suddenly found his voice to say, ‘sorry to have troubled you, ma’am.’ He fumbled with the handcuff key, and there was the quiet click as the cuffs were removed.

Gore nodded minutely, and then turned away. He strode through the front door and out into the city.

The bank conveyed opulence, even as the queues stretched across the floors and threatened to envelop each other. Imperial red walls with gold filigree detailing, marble-tiled floors which were impeccably polished – except today, when there was no space to polish that was not underfoot – and desks of fine mahogany behind the security glass for the tellers. They were all custom-built to order, with integrated inkwells and secure cash drawers built in.

Medicine Leaf had done well for itself. It was the eponymous town of the pharmaceutical company, and the temperate forests splayed out below survived despite a lack of sunlight – after all, what use for sunlight for those who worked amongst nature?

For Professor Vaunt, who had treasured staying out of the light, the siren-call of Medicine Leaf had been irresistible. A life of work procuring new medicines from forest herbs and pine needles! As a man of science, and a man who saw his destiny as helping the people, there seemed no better place.

‘Professor, do you really need me here?’ his granddaughter asked. Wilde Vaunt, her hair living up to her name as she picked at the sleeves of her jumper and shuffled her feet in her too-big boots. Her eyes darted to and fro, sizing up the people around her, to whom she merited little but a disinterested side-eye. As her hands rose up and she shivered involuntarily, sending a spasm of movement to her wrists, the professor gripped her arms and forced them down to her sides again.

‘I know it’s tough!’ he hissed. ‘But we’ll be just a few more minutes. And I need you here because I need your eye, dear granddaughter. I promise, it won’t be long now.’

‘I don’t like all these people,’ Wilde murmured. ‘Professor Vaunt, I want to get out of here.’

‘So do I, Wilde,’ Professor Vaunt sighed. ‘But this is a pressing business matter. We will be just a few minutes – look, we’re four people away from the front, we won’t be more than ten minutes! Can you wait ten minutes, Wilde?’

‘I think so, grandf- professor,’ Wilde whispered. She lowered her gaze, looking at her shoes, hoping her hair hid her from the people all around her. Even this view was crowded with other people, their smart shoes in contrast with her mud-covered boots. In vain she tried to find anything to counteract her growing panic – any order within the chaos – but she felt the bile begin to rise in her throat…

‘Count with me, Wilde, count with me!’ She felt a sharp presence on her arm; the professor’s hand clutching her tightly. She nodded, waiting patiently for the cue.

‘Now tell me Wilde, how many… tellers?’ Her eyes shot up and she took a glance along the rows.

‘Eight tellers, professor,’ she said. She could feel her chest cooling, the breathing getting easier.

‘Good, very good! Now, how many… columns along the walls of this room?’

She lifted her head and glanced around – even at nineteen she was taller than almost everyone else in the room – and then shrunk back down to say, ‘twenty-eight, professor: six on the back wall, nine on each side, and four on the front wall.’

‘So quick, so smart! If you were born any other time they would’ve paid to educate you!’ Wilde smiled shyly as the professor chuckled, and the line moved forward one.

‘Now tell me,’ he said. ‘How many… security cameras?’

Wilde looked straight ahead, and then glanced from side to side. She turned her head as though scanning for someone, and then ducked back down.

‘I count five, professor: one looking at the tellers, one over the front door, one for the front of the queues, and two looking over the room.’

‘That’s my girl! Keep it up and there’ll be a nice, shiny coin in it for you when we’re out.’

The line shuffled forward two, as one got to the window and the one in front of them decided the wait was no longer worth it. Now that they were close, Wilde could hear some of the conversations with the tellers. They all seemed very similar.

‘Where’s my money?’ the man at the front of their queue demanded. ‘I’ve got a wife and kids to feed, and Medicine Leaf has kept my savings with you! Now I want access, damn it!’

As the teller tried to calm the man, Wilde felt a pull on her sleeve as the professor murmured, ‘one more round in the game, my child. Tell me, how many… guards?’

She looked around. Behind the tellers were two guards, she could make out through the glass. Maybe more, at this angle it was hard to tell. And then – she turned to look around, enjoying the hunt as she tried to discern points of authority through the throng – two by the side doors each, for a total of four. There was one stationed by the queue entrance, or where the queue was supposed to start anyway, today there were too many people so he was trying to corral them into some semblance of order before it, and then there were – the doors opened – there were…

‘Grandfather,’ she whispered, ducking down again. ‘I have a question.’

‘I’ve told you to call me Professor Vaunt! How many guards, girl?’

‘Well that’s the thing. Grand- professor, do Umbrella Men count? They just walked in through the door.’

Professor Vaunt’s claw-like hand gripped so tight Wilde had to fight to stop herself crying out. His breathing had quickened and sweat stood out on his brow. Wilde tried to pull away.

‘Professor, you’re hurting me-’

‘Quiet, girl!’ Vaunt hissed, pulling her close. ‘Stay close, stay still. We mustn’t let them see us yet; another few minutes, can you do that for me?’

Wilde wanted to shake her head. She wanted to pull away and get out. The tightness in her chest was returning and she longed to be somewhere, anywhere, other than this loud, crowded building. The person ahead of them in the queue pushed roughly past a woman at the nearest desk and started yelling at the clerk. Wilde took a deep, shuddering breath, and nodded.

‘Good girl, good!’ Vaunt whispered. ‘Just… poke your head up. Can you see the Umbrella Men?’

Wilde stood up straight and scanned the room. The Umbrella Men were striding through the crowd, grasping the shoulders of any likely candidate and looking them up and down. There were a lot of old professors here today, so it was taking some time.

‘Yes, Professor.’

‘How many guards? Including those Umbrella Men.’

‘Nine, including the Umbrella Men, Professor.’

‘The Umbrella Men, are they close?’

‘No Professor, they’re still towards the rear of the queue. They’re looking at people, I don’t know why.’

Two of the security guards had detached themselves from the doors and convened at the teller’s desk in front of them. They were manhandling the angry customer around the edge of the room, trying to get him to the main doors. One of them yelled at the Umbrella Men for some assistance – they ignored him.

‘Nearly there, Wilde – we’re going into the vault, where it’ll be nice and quiet.’

‘Yes, Professor.’

The harried teller straightened his hair, shot an irritated glance towards the man being ejected, and then pressed a button on his desk. The number above his position lit up, and Professor Vaunt strolled forward, Wilde trailing behind. He spoke in casual tones to the teller, thanking him for his service and showing his ID; Wilde wondered why he took his time here when he’d seemed so impatient in line.

‘I need access to box 193, please,’ he said, and the teller nodded and pressed another button. One of the security guards behind the tellers approached, and the teller conveyed the instructions. The guard nodded, then signalled to the Professor and pointed to the end of the row – away from where the man was still loudly protesting his expulsion. The Umbrella Men looking one way, Vaunt took Wilde’s hand and meandered the other.

The guard met them at the end of the row and led them through the door on the left-hand wall, flashing his pass at the security stationed there. This led to a smaller room, where men in cheap suits were talking to the richer clients, assuring them that their money was safe.

‘Your… daughter should stay here, sir,’ the guard said, as they approached another door. There were two guards on this one too. Vaunt shook his head and chuckled.

‘I’m flattered,’ he said. ‘She’s actually my granddaughter! And I must insist she comes with me.’ He gestured to his glasses. ‘Bad eyesight, see? I need her to see the numbers.’

‘I can do that for you,’ the guard insisted, and Vaunt sighed.

‘Must I speak to the manager, son?’ he asked. ‘I trust my granddaughter, and I require her with me. She has my permission to accompany me to the boxes, and I need her assistance.’

The guard gave a sigh that indicated he was not being paid enough to litigate these issues, and he waved his pass at the guards on the door. They opened the doors, and Wilde followed at her grandfather’s heels as they entered the vault.

#Fantasy #Fallen Star #Writing

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artificialqueens · 3 years

Text

(Wo)men in Glass Houses (Branjie) - Pinkgrapefruit

A/N - now my yearly october to january hibernation is over, have a fanfiction. read by ortega and jaz and quite frankly neither of them found anything glaringly wrong with it so… enjoy lads. i swear i’ll post something of more substance soon.

I’ve been sleeping late

And if I’m speaking honestly

My dreams are the only place

The thought of you can’t bother me

Vanessa is on her back - eyes piercing holes in the ceiling. It’s white, as most ceilings are, wood chipped and bumpy. There’s a coffee-coloured stain that jeeps drawing her eyes but she’s too scared to ask how it got there. If she’s honest, she doesn’t want to know.

Her bedmate is still fast asleep or is at least doing a good job of pretending, and it’s giving Vanessa too much time to think. Her immediate thought - the one that breaks through the carefully constructed walls at the edge of her mind - is how she wishes she wasn’t awake at all. She wants to be asleep again, running through the fields of spring flowers near her childhood home in Yorkshire, blissfully unaware of the mistake sleeping next to her.

She loathes to call Brooke a mistake - but there aren’t any other words.

The covers are soft between her fingertips and her pillow smells of eucalyptus and mint and it brings her back to her train of thought. They were never meant to happen. It’s simple really, the relationship was never meant to happen. They’re a square peg in a round hole who’s too ashamed to admit it and is therefore trying to pretend it doesn’t have any corners at all and the point is - they don’t fit.

Coffee and cheese. Milk and sriracha. Piers Morgan and drag queens. No entiendo por favor.

(She truly does not understand).

They’ve been trying to change each other and like an elastic band, Vanessa just wants to snap back to how she was. She enjoyed her lazy Sundays with Riley, drowning last nights hangover in coffee just long enough to make it to brunch with Kiki and Silky. She misses her half-hearted gym sessions where she’d piss about with resistance bands and yoga balls in the studio off the side before actually doing some hip hop dancing and calling it a night. She hasn’t seen a shitty action film in months and, dare she say it, she misses bad nacho cheese.

She’s not the only one whos made ill-fated sacrifices - she can admit that - Brooke hasn’t been working late, misses her morning runs most days and only drinks chamomile when Vanessa isn’t at her house because the brunette says it smells like old people.

Drink your old people tea, Vanessa thinks in a more scathing tone than she would dare say out loud because it’s before six am and she’s in a worse mood than she thought. She looks at Brooke - her blonde hair splayed on the pillow like a halo. Fucking drink it.

And when I’m wide awake

It takes all of my energy

To tell our friends we’ve never been this happy

The thing about breakups - is if you know they’re coming, you can watch them in slow motion like a train crash.

A’keria has been watching this one for months.

It’s the sort of ‘watch and wait’ scenario that leaves her grabbing the popcorn and tucking herself into the sofa with a blanket her nan crocheted and she’s not mad about it.

So she watches the relationship go up in flames and wonders how either of them thought it would be a good idea to act on the sexual tension that’s been threading around them for years and she privately thinks that maybe she should have just set Vanessa up with her sister to save the trouble.

Because climate change has moved faster than these idiots.

Waiting for the glass house to come down

Waiting to hear that crashing sound

Waiting for the right words to tell you how

I don’t wanna be false art

They move around each other in their perfectly choreographed morning routine - not a word is spoken but they are both fed, watered and ready to go when they need to begin their walk to the office.

Their fingers are intertwined but it’s more of a perfunctory gesture than it used to be. Vanessa grabs Brooke’s hand somewhere between the offices for Walkers and Harveys. She always does.

With Brooke in a maxi dress, she looks more like a model than a lawyer and it allows Vanessa to exercise her possessive streak when a builder catcalls. They kiss bruisingly in the disabled stall before they head to their respective offices - frustrated before 9 am.

When A’keria asks how Vanessa is doing - she lifts the edge of her shirt to show the hickey embedded into her hip.

I’ve been making shit up

But I’ll come clean

I finish in the bathroom

While you fall asleep without me

Brooke stays in the bathroom after sex.

She washes herself slowly and thoroughly, as though any hint of mint shampoo left on her body would be a sin. (Brooke’s shampoo is lemon because she refuses to make her hair smell like toothpaste).

She cannot deal with post-coital cuddling today - the image of another person in her bed just too much to accept in the waning light of day. So she performs her nighttime routine twice to make sure that the summer sun has set entirely by the time she is back in the bedroom. It allows her to slide under the covers in the dark and pretend she is alone - if not for the steady exhales of Vanessa.

She is not right for Vanessa.

The brunette deserves romance and wooing and all Brooke can give is detached sex in bathrooms and bitter black coffee.

There are things she needs to unpack. A box of memories in her wardrobe that will sting more, the longer she leaves them hidden away.

She cannot love herself with enough fervour to love Vanessa.

They both know it.

So she suckles bruises onto her collarbone and calls it adoration.

And our friends they say they want this

But they don’t see

That it’s inevitable

And inevitably

“God, I want what you two have. It’s practically a romcom - friends to lovers.”

It’s harmless, just Courtney simpering as she heads towards the bar set up on the corner of the room but it makes Vanessa dig her nails into her palms so hard she worries she might break the skin.

Brooke sidles up to her - cold lithe fingers wrapping around her waist as she leans down to whisper in Vanessa’s ear.

“Bathroom, five minutes,” she whispers and then she’s gone.

Vanessa marvels at the way people interpret things they don’t understand. To most people - the blush that’s threatening to flutter across the apples of her cheeks is in response to a declaration of love, or a flirtation between sweethearts.

They can never know the detached but furious way Brooke will make Vanessa come undone while the brunette is leaning against the sink - faucet poking into the small of her back. The way she will nip red marks into the flesh of her inner thigh and then later into her bottom lip - Vanessa’s tongue carrying out its own assault on Brooke’s mouth.

For all the ways the forced romance has ruined them - the sexual tension is as thick as the day they first met.

The glasshouse to come down

Just waiting to hear that crashing sound

Waiting for the right words to tell you how

I don’t wanna be false art

Like a fairytale - their eyes met across a crowded room and that was it.

That is, of course, a lie - but it’s how they tell it.

In reality, Brooke had just moved to London from Devon and she’s booked an interview at the firm Vanessa worked HR for. Vanessa took her paperwork, A’keria noticed the spark, Brooke got the job.

They mistook sexual chemistry for romance and by the time they’d figured it out they were four months into a relationship of convenience.

Vanessa has always thought that friends with benefits was a ridiculous arrangement but men in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones and isn’t this just the kind of relationship she always scorned.

Acquaintances that share bodily fluids, a bed and invites to dinner. Someone to share secrets with and hold hands on the way to work. Someone to watch sleep in the early hours of the morning and cuddle you when you’re drunk and lonely.

Vanessa is, too often, drunk and lonely.

It’s a habit she intends to break.

Pretend we’re picture perfect

When we’re breaking beneath the surface

I don’t wanna be false art

They break up on a Sunday and finally, Vanessa can agree it’s a day of peace.

It can hardly be considered a breakup from her perspective - the only emotions left to untangle are Vanessa’s towards Brooke’s cats. It’s cold, clean and incredibly reminiscent of Brooke herself - cold, clean, perfect.

Icy.

In a twenty minute sweep of her apartment - every hint of the tall blonde is gone.

Make love like we deserve it

To cover up what’s hurting

I don’t wanna be false art

She makes a cup of coffee, inhaling the scent that reminds her so vividly of university and youth, and drinks it by her window. She plays her music loud.

She refuses to have any regrets.

I don’t wanna be false art

#rpdr fanfiction #pinkgrapefruit #branjie #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #akeria davenport #angst #song fic #lesbian au #(wo)men in glass houses #barest hints of smut if you call talking about hickeys smut #look im not here to cheer you up #my triumphant return is a songfic about branjie being unhappy #its like i never left #thanks V (you’re a legend)#concrit welcome #(how I've missed you and your tags...xoxo -v)#submission

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lilkermit14 · 3 years

Note

Jay is from the show Red Widow and unfortunately he's not really known 😅 At first I wanted to ask for Jack but I had no idea of the details for the story... Maybe he had to leave reader because of his job, but he loves her too much and decides to come back and find out that she is pregnant (a baby girl) I know, it's not original but i can't imagine anything else for this charming cowboy 🥺

Whole (Jack Daniels x Fem!reader)

Notes: Idk why I struggled so hard to write this fic but here she is in all her glory........yay. Not as smutty as per usual to prove I’m not a total whore but here ya go

Summary: after your life is threatened unbeknownst to you, whiskey takes it upon himself to protect you the only way he thinks he can––by leaving you. but what his cowboy brain doesn’t for see, is that he’s doing both of you more damage than good especially after a happy little accident.

warnings: brief description of smut and aftercare (like the La Croix of smut but still no minors), ANGSTTTTTTT, rOUGH, unplanned pregnancy, a slap, and a happy ending

Jack should have known the first time he wasn’t meant to have this kind of happiness—the kind where one could always have someone to return home to at the end of the day. No, he couldn’t have it with his late wife and he couldn’t have it with you either.

The human trafficker had somehow gotten access to personal statesmen information, because he had found out about you. Had your name. Had shown him pictures of you. Had shown that men were waiting at your doorstep if Jack didn’t back down now.

Thankfully, they were able to stop the man before it came to any of that—but it broke something in Jack. He couldn’t have another woman he loves die like his wife. He didn’t know if he could handle it. You didn’t even know about Jack’s real job, all you knew was that he was the CEO of a distillery and you never asked questions about that. Maybe it was easier keeping it like that, as Jack realized the only way to keep you safe was to leave you.

He had picked a night, picked a place to head out to after it was all over, and planned out the note. He had made love to you one last time before leaving—slowly savoring the way your skin felt pressed against him and the way it felt to have your walls drag against him when he thrusted, and finally stilled deep inside you. He made sure to take care of you before he left, clean with all sore muscles rubbed out and well hydrated—comfortable as you could be. You fell asleep so easily it somehow made Jack more guilty for what he thought was the right thing. He stayed longer than he should have after he wrote the note and got dressed, bag packed by the door, just staring at you, attempting to memorize the sound of your soft noises as you slept and the way your naked body looked covered by the sheets and pale moonlight. It was the most beautiful scene he had ever seen and wanted it to be the clearest memory he had of you. Tears sprung in his eyes, thinking that this is the only thing he will ever have of love—memories. He kissed your forehead one last time before walking out of your life forever.

*****************************

Jack hasn’t felt alive since, the toll of leaving you behind eating at him more than he ever thought it could. He’s changed in a way and everyone knows it—they see the way he moves or speaks now and know something has changed. He just goes through the motions of living with no actual life in his eyes to prove he is alive. He throws himself into his work working through cases and bad guys more efficiently than ever, but it doesn’t distract him from losing you—not when he lies awake at night crying and missing you.

Everyone around him changes too—Tequila doesn’t tease him anymore and walks around him like they’re threading through a room full of broken glass. Ginger does more medical evaluations—ones that are less to do with physical health and more to do with mental health. Most of all—champ acts different, “son—“

Jack pauses from exiting the debriefing room after giving Champ a status report and picking up another case, “I’m wondering if you should take a few days off from wo—“

“No,” Jack says curt and without a single space for bargaining. Champ is stiff when Jack looks at him, “I know you're wallowing over that girl.”

“I did what I had to do and I’m going to continue doing it.” Jack reminds him, staying steadfast in his decision. Champ shakes his head, “and it’s tearing you apart—statesmen get threats like that all the time Whiskey and they don’t go deserting their relatives or loved ones—“

“Well they're not me,” Jack states his stare is cold as he looks down at Champagne, “I can’t lose another person like that again.”

“You’ve lost her by leaving her,” his words cut through him and he knows it’s the truth, but it’s not something stubborn ol Jack is willing to withstand. Jack turns to leave again, “I’ll be off on the case.”

*****************************

You can’t help but pick up one of the sandwiches from the various food carts before they go out. It’s too tempting after standing for hours on your feet with a six month old pregnancy belly on your front—one you’re rubbing as you enjoy the taste of the mozzarella, pesto, and tomato together. The father of your child disappeared before you could even tell him—fitting considering you never grew up with a father in your house. So it has just been you and your baby girl, and well your best friend and business partner that was walking towards you now, joking “are the sandwiches up to your standards?”

“I needed something to eat after four hours of standing and being pregnant Travis,” you contest, taking another big bite. He shrugs with some sort of understanding, looking over the trays of food with you and approving them before they go off. Travis randomly starts, “I don’t think we should try to have this client again.”

You turn, finishing your sandwich with an eyebrow raise, “why? Did someone from the company say something to you—“

“Not that—although I was worried when the CEO invited his childhood priest—” he notes sending off the last tray, “I get bad vibes from the company itself.”

You think about it for a moment agreeing that something was fishy about the way a family-owned soap company was able to afford such a lavish event—something was a little off. You nod, “maybe not—I don’t want to get too close to a company that's a front. I doubt they would want us back because they’ve fired every event planner they’ve had before and the CEO’s wife already complained that the flower garnishes weren’t the correct shade of maroon.”

“We just have to finish the job then and we’ll be scott free” Travis mutters checking his watch, “just a couple hours left—what could go wrong?”

As though you were in a badly made comedy, right as Travis says that you hear clatter and gunshots come from the main event area, “......I spoke too soon didn’t I?”

*********************

Vincent Marsulio had tried to make a run for it once he realized his plans to run a million dollar drug business had gone to shit—I mean a soap company as a front? Really? Jack had dodged gunfire, tequila and the new agent rum covering him—allowing him to use his lasso to drag Vincent into Statesmen custody.

The scene was under control now—with agents and Ginger’s crime scene investigators gathering follow up information and evidence. Jack was just there to make sure the scene stayed secure and that no witnesses ran off that were revealed to be involved. Scanning the crowds of those being interviewed is when he saw you.

He should have known you were here—he should have seen your touches in the flower displays, the food selections, the drapery, and the table cloths. You were a party planner, he should have made note of that. You’re the same as the images in his mind—the memories that flash through his mind whenever he gets a flicker of your perfume or hears a laugh that sounds like yours. The only thing that's changed about you is your stomach—there's a sizable baby bump there, and he mumbles to himself “no…”

It had been seven months—seven months since he left you. It had to be his. He left you pregnant. As though you heard the gears turning in his head you turn and make eye contact with him—freezing in your place. He has to talk to you now, but you make efforts to move away, running towards a stairwell to get away from him as he shouts your name.

************

Despite being seven months pregnant you make a good chase, ducking down the stairwell and moving as fast as your swollen ankles will carry you while he shouts for you behind you. You can’t see him right now, he left, he doesn’t deserve this. Your condition must somewhat get the best of you as you end up stumbling on a landing—slowing down enough for him to catch up. You knew it was futile after all he ran faster than you even when you weren’t pregnant.

He grabs your wrist before you can go any farther, pulling you towards his body—only for you to wack a big slap to the side of his face, “how dare you—you asshole.”

“You're pregnant?” He asks quick as hell, and you frown still jabbing hits at him, “Why else am I so fucking big dickhead.”

He pulls you closer in an effort to restrain you from hitting him and from running away at any point, “is it mine?”

You had been avoiding looking at his face the entire portion of the ordeal—not wanting to see the face of the man that abandoned you. But you end up looking anyway and feel the tears spring up in your eyes. Despite the fact he left you you still feel love for him in your heart. You can’t lie to him, “it is.”

“Sugar, I’m—“ he breathes out, struck in the moment by every error he’s made in the past few months knowing he should have stayed, “I’m so sorry, please let me explain why I did what I did.”

You don’t respond just letting him speak at his own will as he settles you two down to sit on the steps of the stair. Jack tells you about his job, his wife, and the scare he had that just accumulated to him feeling like he had to leave to keep you safe. You had known about his late wife but none of the details about the affair and understood just why he was so afraid—but he still acted like an idiot. Head in hands, “why did you keep everything hidden from me Jack, I mean you lied to me about your job––no wonder I was able to find you after I found out, I was stuck looking for Jack Daniels brewery CEO instead of Jack Daniels statesmen.”

You got him there, “I should have––everyone told me I should have told you.” Silence emanates between the two of you, “I know sorry doesn’t make up for all I did––I don’t know if I can ever make up for what I did, but give me a chance because I want to be there for you and the kid–I love you sweet pea.”

Tears spring from your eyes, “I love you too Jack, we’ll figure it out I promise.”

Jack pulls you into his arms whispering what sounds like a thousand thank you’s for you and the girl in your belly, “it’s a girl you know.”

“A girl…” Jack trails off with a smile gleaming on his face and some unspoken joy in his eyes, that shifts into something of deep regret, “I was almost like him I don’t ever wanna be like him”

“You won’t.” you state firm and jack pulls away to cup your face and wipe away the errant tears still streaming down your face, “can I kiss you darling?”

“Please,” and with that the lips you have missed meld on to yours. After months, both alone and apart, both you and Jack feel a sense of security that everything will be alright––that your little family is finally whole.

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

I’m sorry that its bad....

taglist:

@poenariuniverse @harleyamidala @yespolkadotkitty @storiesofthefandomlovers @babybelou @legally-a-bastard @computeringturtle @clydesducktape @sixties-loser @buckysalefty @april-14-blog @prettylittlegoldfish @softpedropascal

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christian-boy33 · 3 years

Text

RICHARD RAMIREZ/JEFFREY DAHMER

What if...

Richard: * hitchhiking in Milwaukee *

Jeff: hey, do you need?

Richard: Yeah, I should go for a ride around town but I think I'm lost

Jeff: come I'll take you * smiles slightly *

Richard: Thanks amigo, you're saving my day

Jeff: * laughs slightly and opens the car door *

Richard: * walks in and adjusts his AC / DC shirt * do you mind if we stop by your house? I'm hungry as fuck and I have no money, I'm uhm, ran away from home * laughs *

Jeff: Sure, I hope you like meat * smiles *

Richard: I'm not complaining * smiles and leans against the window looking out * do you play baseball? you have the beseball bat on the back

Jeff: * puts his hands on the wheel while driving and looking ahead * I was playing baseball, but I had to stop, my teammates kept bullshitting me

Richard: Bad story, I'm sorry, some people know how to be real ass

Jeff: * puts on the radio while listening quietly *

Richard: Did you hear about Ted Bundy? he is very smart

Jeff: Yeah, but I'm glad they got him, by those poor girls I mean

Richard: * nods * true, he wasn't even ugly, I believe girls fell for him * laughs and pats on the window * not even to say he was ugly like Gacy, you know him?

Jeff: I see you like serial killers

Richard: I find them interesting, who knows what's on their mind, of course I would like to talk to a killer, I don't think I would be afraid

Jeff: * laughs * what a fool, you risk dying you know?

Richard: well a new experience isn't it? * smiles and looks at him *

Jeff: * nods and smiles *

Richard: Do you want to do some baseball shots? I warn you, I suck, I bet you hit really well

Jeff: I'm good at it

Richard: okey, we'll see * leans back in the seat closing his eyes and falls asleep *

.....

Jeff: * park in front of the house * hey sleeping beauty we arrived

Richard: * opens one eye * do you know that in the story Sleeping Beauty was awakened with a kiss? I demand the same treatment * laughs * just kidding

Jeff: I figured out * laughs and gets out of the car *

Richard: What's it like to kiss a man? I mean, have you ever wondered? * go down and look at the house *

Jeff: I don't have a clue man, I mean, who would ever do that?

Richard: I suppose a gay man, after all they must ... I mean ... you understand right?

Jeff: yes I think so * laughs and walks into the house * it's my grandmother's house, you don't mind right?

Richard: it's okey * shrugs * I have no problems

Jeff: Just relax on the couch, I'll make you a drink

Richard: * nods and goes to the couch to relax humming in Mexican *

Jeff: * makes a drink by putting morphine in a glass and going to him * Mexican? that looked Spanish if I'm not mistaken

Richard: My father is Mexican, I like Mexico to be honest, but now I live in Texas

Jeff: I've never been there but I'll be sure

Richard: * smiles and takes the glass from his hand, bringing it to his lips *

Jeff: Now that I think about it, how did you get here?

Richard: * takes the glass away before drinking * hitchhiking strangers, going into trains or buses at random and escaping, I mean, somehow I came there

Jeff: You should go home, this is dangerous for you here

Richard: Do you mean the missing men? I don't worry, if a gay kidnaps me and kills me it means I'm attractive

Jeff: You underestimate people

Richard: you underestimate me * winks and smiles *

Jeff: and if it were me what would you do?

Richard: what is your modus operandi? Why am I attractive to you? what drives you? did you come out? did they accept you? good or bad family? harassment? have you ever-

Jeff: wo wo stop, you look like a cop * laughs *

Richard: Agent Ramirez, not bad

Jeff: Ramirez? nice surname, I'm Jeffrey Dahmer

Richard: My name is Richard, nice to meet you Jeff

Jeff: * smiles slightly * come on, I'll take you to catch the train, I think your parents are worried

Richard: Maybe my mom and anyway I'm with my cousin momentarily ... I had ... some problems * looks away *

Jeff: * nods lightly and strokes his shoulder * I hope you can fix them

Richard: * laughs bitterly * I don't think we can go back now

Jeff: * nods and gently squeezes his shoulder * I don't fully understand, but I hope you can move on

Richard: thank you * smiles *

......

Reporter: * watch The Night Stalker * what do you think of Jeffrey Dahmer?

Richard: the cannibal? * smile * well ... he looks like a guy you'd happily have a drink with at his house and only then would you realize you're dead and eaten * laughs slightly *

#jeffrey dahmer #richard ramirez #serial killer #serial killers #the night stalker #mass killer #cannibal mention

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libraryofvenus · 3 years

Text

The Waste Land - T.S. Eliot

I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s, My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust. Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du? “You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; “They called me the hyacinth girl.” —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Oed’ und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations. Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card, Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: “Stetson! “You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! “That corpse you planted last year in your garden, “Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? “Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? “Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men, “Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again! “You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

II. A Game of Chess

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Cupidon peeped out (Another hid his eyes behind his wing) Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table as The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, From satin cases poured in rich profusion; In vials of ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air That freshened from the window, these ascended In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling. Huge sea-wood fed with copper Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, In which sad light a carvéd dolphin swam. Above the antique mantel was displayed As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale Filled all the desert with inviolable voice And still she cried, and still the world pursues, “Jug Jug” to dirty ears. And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

“My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me. “Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak. “What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? “I never know what you are thinking. Think.”

I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.

“What is that noise?” The wind under the door. “What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?” Nothing again nothing. “Do “You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember “Nothing?”

I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes. “Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”

But O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag— It’s so elegant So intelligent “What shall I do now? What shall I do?” “I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street “With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow? “What shall we ever do?” The hot water at ten. And if it rains, a closed car at four. And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said— I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself, HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart. He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there. You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you. And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert, He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time, And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said. Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said. Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look. HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said. Others can pick and choose if you can’t. But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling. You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique. (And her only thirty-one.) I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face, It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said. (She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.) The chemist said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same. You are a proper fool, I said. Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you don’t want children? HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot— HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

III. The Fire Sermon

The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; Departed, have left no addresses. By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . . Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long. But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck And on the king my father’s death before him. White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughter They wash their feet in soda water Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Twit twit twit Jug jug jug jug jug jug So rudely forc’d. Tereu

Unreal City Under the brown fog of a winter noon Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants C.i.f. London: documents at sight, Asked me in demotic French To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins. Out of the window perilously spread Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays, On the divan are piled (at night her bed) Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest— I too awaited the expected guest. He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare, One of the low on whom assurance sits As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire. The time is now propitious, as he guesses, The meal is ended, she is bored and tired, Endeavours to engage her in caresses Which still are unreproved, if undesired. Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; Exploring hands encounter no defence; His vanity requires no response, And makes a welcome of indifference. (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all Enacted on this same divan or bed; I who have sat by Thebes below the wall And walked among the lowest of the dead.) Bestows one final patronising kiss, And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .

She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover; Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: “Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.” When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone.

“This music crept by me upon the waters” And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street. O City city, I can sometimes hear Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, The pleasant whining of a mandoline And a clatter and a chatter from within Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls Of Magnus Martyr hold Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.

The river sweats Oil and tar The barges drift With the turning tide Red sails Wide To leeward, swing on the heavy spar. The barges wash Drifting logs Down Greenwich reach Past the Isle of Dogs. Weialala leia Wallala leialala

Elizabeth and Leicester Beating oars The stern was formed A gilded shell Red and gold The brisk swell Rippled both shores Southwest wind Carried down stream The peal of bells White towers Weialala leia Wallala leialala

“Trams and dusty trees. Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.”

“My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart Under my feet. After the event He wept. He promised a ‘new start.’ I made no comment. What should I resent?”

“On Margate Sands. I can connect Nothing with nothing. The broken fingernails of dirty hands. My people humble people who expect Nothing.” la la

To Carthage then I came

Burning burning burning burning O Lord Thou pluckest me out O Lord Thou pluckest

burning

IV. Death by Water

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss. A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youth Entering the whirlpool. Gentile or Jew O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

V. What the Thunder Said

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience

Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water

Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you?

What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal

A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.

In this decayed hole among the mountains In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home. It has no windows, and the door swings, Dry bones can harm no one. Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain

Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence. Then spoke the thunder DA Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment’s surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms DA Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus DA Damyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar The sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands

I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order? London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih shantih shantih

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pink-grapefruit-cafe · 3 years

Text

(wo)men in glass houses

Because climate change has moved faster than these idiots.

1.5k | angst | songfic | branjie

‘i both love and hate it bc it made me SAD and that was what u WANTED wasn't it u lil fucker’ - @artificialortega

read it here!

#branjie #rpdr fanfiction #angsty mc angst #i really hope you like it

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moonah-rose · 3 years

Text

Consequences

Follow-up to What She Needs, because who doesn’t love make-up fluff.

She wakes to the sound of eggs sizzling on a frying pan, the greasy smell of bacon wafting over her. Her stomach rumbles but she’s not ready to get up just yet, snuggled into the sofa beneath the shirt that’s been laid over her.

It’s not a bad position to wake up in but it leaves her a little disoriented.

What time is it? If she’s on the couch then it must be the afternoon but...they wouldn’t be having fried eggs and bacon this late - not that either of them gave a fork about eating routines, it just wasn’t usual. She doesn’t recall practicing walking or swimming earlier, her hair isn’t damp, her calf muscles aren’t cramping...

Ten seconds is all it takes for the time to rearrange itself properly in her head, for the barrage of memories to slot in place like a magical jigsaw and recall why she’s waking up alone, on the sofa, in the morning. And why she shouldn’t be calling the nearby chef over for a good morning kiss. He doesn’t deserve one...not yet. So she stays quiet, pretending to stir and mumble to show she’s awake, but keeping her eyes and mouth shut.

At least he left a nice, warm indent for her to lay in for as long as she wants to stay there and let him wait on her.

She barely remembers the nightmare that forced her to seek out Michael’s comfort, it’s been dissolved by the peaceful sleep and sanctuary she slept through until a minute ago. When her mind attempts to recall it, against her will, all she catches are the worst sensations of fear and loneliness, absence of all hope, her skin crawling as if covered in dung beetles. Again. Eleanor inhales, letting the scents and sounds of the beach house return her to the present.

Michael places her mug on the coffee table. Fork, she’s gonna have to give in and sit up now. She’s prepared to wait until she hears him move back to the kitchen. Then his fingers stroke some of her hair from her face, then brush against her cheek. Forking...

“Y’know I could bite your hand right now.” She murmurs, eyes still closed.

“It’d be worth it.” Michael tells her, softly; “Plus Janet would just grow it back.”

“Ugh, gross.” Eleanor wrinkles her nose; “You’re like a lizard.”

“Oh so it’s fine when you call me a...” She opens her eyes in time to see him bite his tongue as he kneels beside the couch; “Never mind.”

Indeed. She’s glad to see he’s smart enough not to dig his hole even deeper than it already is.

He gives her a humble smile; “How you feeling?”

“Still annoyed with you. I’ll update you when that changes, bud.” Eleanor pushes herself up and yawns.

“I figured that. I meant after...Last night...”

Oh.

“You can just say ‘nightmares’, man, it’s not a forbidden word.” She accepts the coffee when he passes it to her; “And I’m okay...Don’t even remember it. Just is what it is.” And it sucks; “It’s not like you can take them away or anything.”

“I could. I mean...” he takes a breath, “I could always...take the memories away...It’s crossed my mind more than once.”

She takes a sip of her drink, studying the conflict on his face.

“...Could you do it without erasing our time together?”

Michael shakes his head.

She shrugs; “Then it’s not an option, dummy.” Her eyes harden when he dares to look touched by that; “And don’t assume that means I like you again!”

They don’t say another word to each other until she’s nearly finished her breakfast, sat the kitchen island, stomach ravenous after eating nothing but Janet-delivered snacks with her drink instead of dinner the previous night. Michael sits opposite, slowly making his way through his hash browns, eyes cast downwards, almost unnaturally quiet.

He nudges a couple of baked beans with his knife, looking pensive. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry.”

Eleanor glances up, still chewing her eggs. Wow, was that really so hard? To be fair, she’s hardly one to talk. It was hardly a word she was used to saying in life, unless it was something along the lines of ‘Oh I’m sorry you can’t handle how hot I am’ or ‘Sorry...not sorry, psyche!’.

Michael puts down his knife; “I don’t think of you...Of any of you guys as cockroaches, not really. Humans have always astounded me with how...resilient you guys are. You’re like rubber, everything that hits you just bounces off...I’m sure there’s some kinda great intellectual saying with that analogy...” He waves his hands; “Anyway...Truth is, I’m never been good with handling anyone being better than me...It took me two hundred years of being an apprentice until I got my own neighbourhood. Do you know that’s the longest any demon was in training for? Most fly solo after the first fifty years or so! And even before that, no matter how good I thought I was at torturing, there was always another demon wo was better and getting more praise...I was never strong enough to compete so I would take it out on...” His jaw clenches with shame.

Eleanor swallows the last of her food. She keeps watching, not saying a word, letting him get out everything he’s been clearly rehearsing in his head as he cooked.

“Having someone be better at my old job was one thing...But when there’s someone better at being what I truly have always wanted to be...and never will. Someone who also gets to spend more time with the woman I love...Who knows how to be a better...person,” Michael reaches to sip his own coffee; “The truth is...I’m the one who feels like an insect between the two of you. I feel...scared...” he clears his throat; “Scared that I’ll always fall short of the rest of you...I don’t have anything that compares to your strength or Chidi’s wisdom. Fork, I don’t have Tahani’s confidence...even Jason seems to understand some lessons more than me, with those inane stories he tells which always seem to somehow be on point!”

It’s true, every nonsensical ramble about the DJ’s life seemed to neatly tie in to some ethical thought experiment. He had a talent for it. That and firing spit balls around the chalkboard.

Michael manages a smile, his cheeks turning pink to match his shirt; “You’re not small and gross to me. You’re...magnificent. And gigantic. Like...mammoths.”

Eleanor snorts.

“That the best you can do?”

“Oh c’mon!” Michael scoffs; “Mammoths are awesome! They....Oh, I forgot, you haven’t seen one. Would you like to? I can get Janet to-.”

“No, no....Well, maybe later, I’m sure Jason would love to ride one, but...” She sighs and slides off her stall.

It’s impossible for her to resist those puppy dog eyes anymore. She moves around the island and shifts her butt onto his lap, throwing her arms around his neck. He blinks, stunned, as she moves in close. One of her hands unhooks to run her fingers across his soft, white hair, smiling as her nose touches his. Michael dares to put his hands on her middle, holding her tight and secure.

She presses her lips to his, lightly at first, before cupping his jaw and moving her tongue to massage her demon boyfriend’s, sharing the taste of bacon between them. It’s been over a week since they’ve had a chance to hold each other and kiss, properly, like this. Having to hold off on the good stuff out of keeping to her newfound principles and to teach him a lesson was not easy.

But totally worth it.

Eleanor hums as she pulls back, holding onto his shoulders; “Apology accepted. And as for that whole, ‘having nothing that compares to us’ schtick...You know that’s bullshirt, right?”

Michael looks puzzled. What a dingus. Eleanor touches his face, thumb stroking across his cheekbone.

“You care, dude. That’s your virtue. It’s why I’m so in love with you, even when you drive me crazy. None of us taught you that...It was right there, locked away inside of you, but you brought it out and you cared for me when I needed to....And you kept on doing it, even when you could’ve stopped...You tried to sacrifice yourself to save me and my friends....You keep putting your neck on the line for us...Don’t ever think that’s worthless, okay? We’re all super grateful to have the most caring, if a little immature and arrogant, demon on our team.”

There’s a wetness growing on his blue eyes, making them shine behind his glasses. She should really add ‘sappy’ to that list. Eleanor kisses his cheek as one tear leaks.

“Maybe that’s why you sucked at torturing. You only went so far to prove your worth. Your heart was never really in it?” She wonders.

He shrugs; “Possibly...Mostly because I don’t have a heart.”

She slaps his chest, lightly; “Y’know what I mean. Do I have to make you one like you’re the forking Tin Man just so you get the point?”

“...Yeah, okay.” He seems excited to have another trinket for his collection.

“Well, I ain’t crafting shirt that’s more complex than another paperclip bracelet, so ask Janet for one.” Eleanor smiles, leaning in to hug him tight around the neck. He squeezes her back, no doubt feeling the same relief as she had, to be back in each others arms without a worry for the weekend.

He hesitates before asking the next question.

“Am I allowed back in the bed tonight?” He says, sheepishly.

“Well....I suppose it will save me the walk if I have another bad dream.” She slips off of his lap; “...Only on one condition of course. You apologise to Chidi.”

His face falls, like a little kid who just had his candy snatched away.

“What, today? He’s not even here! How am I gonna...Can’t I just repeat what I said to you to him?”

“No, that’s cheating.” Her voice turns stern, ‘tutor’ mode activated; “You gotta think of a way to say sorry to him in a way he’d appreciate.”

Michael sighs and taps his fingers on the surface.

“I...I suppose I could...write him an essay on Consequentialism, drawling parallels it to this whole situation?” He suggests, looking to her for the go ahead.

“That’s....actually brilliant. He’d love that! Go for it.” Why are the two men she’s closest to in this afterlife the biggest dorks?

And, worse, she’s pretty much one herself now.

Michael grins, perking up from her approval; “Oh, great! I’ll get right on it and...Then what, do you want me to go back and read it to him?”

“No, just say it to Janet and she can repeat it to him back at my house.” Eleanor waves off; “...But you gotta have her disguise herself as Chidi while you’re reading it, so it feels like you’re saying it to him.”

“That’s gonna be disturbing as well as awkward.” He shifts, frowning.

Eleanor kisses his head before whispering; “That’s consequences, baby. Now get to writing. I’mma gonna go ask speedboating with Janet on those waves until you’re done. Then we can have the couples getaway this is supposed to be.”

As he gets up to put the dishes in the sink, she makes sure to give his butt a good slap, just to add in that incentive. She adores the startled, giddy look on his face that it always leaves him with. Damn it’s tough to stay mad at someone so cute.

After changing out of her PJs and into her bathing suit, sunglasses resting on her head, she goes to head out the patio doors.

“Hey, babe...” Michael stops her, having finished washing up. She turns to see his smile; “...Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Chidi’s gotta accept your apology so don’t half-ash it.”

“I wasn’t just saying thanks for that...” He stares at her, adoringly; “....I mean for everything, Eleanor. Thank you.”

She tilts her head to the side. Then a smile.

A quick skip towards him, leaning up on her toes, hands on his shoulders to reach that mouth of his again. Fork, it’s more effort to reach him when he’s upright. She gives him another kiss, a little motivation, something to remind him of what he misses out on when acting like a deck.

“You’re very welcome...Now make your hot girlfriend proud by doing your homework.” She smirks, one hand stroking down his chest; “Then come fork me into the sand, ‘cause I’m horny as Here - and if you don’t, I’m gonna get Janet to make me a clone of Jason Statham to spend this weekend with.”

If that doesn’t force the dumb demon to get his ash into gear then nothing will.

#idk if this turned out like i intended this morning #kinda forgot throughout work #but wanted to finish it #hellstrop fanfic #established relationship #npl au #fluff

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