#//Ah James... you poor unfortunate soul

[fxllen-rxse]

"Amanda the Adventurer?? Looks so adorable! But... what's it doing in the horror section?"

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Jezebel - James Patrick March

Word Count: 3.8k

Summary: Being in an arranged marriage with James March, but he's already completely smitten with his new wife, despite the fact he knows she plans on killing him. Hey, it's kind of hot.

WARNINGS: some swearing, some violence, death, sexual implications but no smut

A/N: they're so Gomez and Morticia. They match each other's freak. Yes, I used the vows from the Corpse Bride.

___________

James March was a very interesting man.

The way he carried himself as if he had no care in the world was enticing. He radiated confidence and grace, and was, well, an overall attractive man. 

And he was to be her husband. A fiance she never even met till tonight. 

It was 1923, a time where this “dating” thing was becoming popular, yet here the two of them were, meeting three weeks before their planned wedding. March was slowly becoming wealthier and wealthier, but his mother demanded he be wed, with a woman to take care of his estate while he did his business. Someone to care for him when she would eventually meet her own unfortunate demise. 

And so his mother found Y/N L/N, a pure beauty that many men oggled over obsessively. She was young, single, and his mother just could sense the compatibility when she saw Y/N’s lovely picture. Her son would love this girl. 

Except there was more to Y/N than meets the eye. 

Sitting at the dinner table, James eyed her in curiosity. “Did you come here from a funeral, darling?” he asked cheekily, his usual charming grin etched onto his face.

She looked up from her plate, raising a perfectly penciled in brow, “Why yes, actually,” 

He scratched the back of his neck, not expecting that answer. He had just meant to make a light-hearted joke about her attire: the long, ruffled black dress and hat to match in color, adorned with black and burgundy feathers. To accompany the clothing were sleek black gloves, lace along the wrist area. “Oh dear, my apologies. I hope I have not offended you.”

“No no,” she waved a hand dismissively, “It was not for anyone I knew,”

“Oh?” Now he was intrigued, taking a sip of his wine, the same color of her plump lips, “Then why would you attend such an event?”

“Death excites me,” she replied, and he was sure he had fallen in love right then and there, “As well as I find grief interesting to no end,”

“Interesting?” the man asked, smitten beyond compare, “What is so interesting about grief, my dear?”

Her lips curled into a devious smile, “How everyone grieves differently. Some cry, others laugh, some don’t give a damn. What I find the most hilarious is people establishing relationships. At a funeral of all places!”

“Horrid indeed isn’t it?” he asked with a chuckle. 

“It is! A splendid horror!” Y/N nodded in agreement. 

March watched as she expertly cracked open a crab leg, impressed in her abilities to do so without juices exploding everywhere. “You’re a stunning woman, you know?”

She looked at him from her meal and that devious smirk appeared once again, “And you’re a very handsome man, Mr. March,”

“Tell me, dearest, how old are you? Have you ever wed before?”

It looked like she had to think about it, which March thought nothing of at the time, already completely smitten. “Twenty-eight,” she replied, “And yes, I have,” 

“You have? And what had become of that marriage?”

“All three were tragedies,” she replied, bringing a piece of crab to her mouth with a fork. Three?! “I’ve sadly been widowed three times. A black widow, you might call me.” 

Three marriages that ended in the death of her spouse? March doubted this was any bit coincidental. “What an unfortunate event! On all three accounts! How did these poor souls die?” 

“Ah, all different ways. My first had a heart attack. The second, I still think to be my true love, committed suicide. Not because of me, of course, as he explained why in his letter. The third, he… he was tragically murdered one night,” 

Oh how intriguing of a woman she was! March asked, “Murdered! In what way?” 

“His throat was slashed,” she answered, “And he was drained of his blood.” Y/N then took a sip of her wine, not at all bothered by the fact. 

James March smirked, placing his chin on his palm as he stared at her. Oh, how infatuated he was. He was sure those death were not as she said they were. He was sure she had something to do with it. 

And he was sure as hell that if he married her, he would be her next target.

Oh, what a lovely woman he was so willing to marry!

________

The next three weeks went by in a blur. 

Y/N would wake up to endless gifts being left at her door: trinkets, jewels, flowers, heels, silk gloves, anything a woman could dream of. He would call her on the telephone at five p.m. every day just before dinner, and for those three Fridays he would take her on lavish dinners and dates. 

He went above and beyond for the woman he knew surely wanted to kill him. 

It was now the morning of the wedding, and Y/N’s telephone rang. She curiously went to it, grabbing the device and bringing it to her ear. Grabbing the other part in her unoccupied hand, she spoke into it: “Hello?”

“Hello, my dearest, I am thrilled to hear your beautiful voice this morning. It reminds me of sweet honey: smooth and-”

“James?” she interrupted him, “Why are you calling this early?”

James laughed lightly, “Because today is our wedding day, my love. I cannot call you at five p.m. because at five p.m. you will be in my welcoming arms! Are you excited?”

“I’m trembling in desire, darling,” she replied, “I must attend to my wedding preparations,”

“You will look absolutely ravishing, my sweet. Oh, how I adore you. I will leave you to your duties, anxiously waiting to wed my beautiful bride.” 

“I will see you very soon, my handsome king,” Y/N said, “Goodbye,” She hung up the two parts of the telephone and set it back down, preparing herself for her big day.

Her fourth big day. 

The stylists got to work, putting her hair in rollers, painting her nails a shiny jet black, carefully applying her dramatic makeup. She went for walks all done out, she wasn’t going to be caught slacking on her on wedding.

Fourth wedding. 

That James March knew of.

“How long do you plan on keeping this one for?” her loyal servant, Ms. Barnes, asked, blowing on the nail polish adorning Y/N’s fingernails. “He’s a handsome one.” 

Y/N thought for a moment, “I’m unsure. He is actually… sweet.” 

“And rich,” said another servant, Ms. Michaels, busying herself with Y/N’s hair. 

“So was her second,” Ms. Barnes pointed out, “And he lasted three months.”

“His riches are not of importance to me,” Y/N told her servants, “I do not need a man’s riches when I have my own,”

“How true, Ms. L/N,” Ms. Barned nodded in agreement, “There is no point in having men if it isn’t for one’s own entertainment.”

_________

This was marked the best day of James Patrick March’s short life. 

He stood at the alter adjusting his bow tie with the biggest grin a man could have as he waited for his beautiful bride to grace the audience with her presence. Practically the entirety of Chicago came to the celebration of their love, rows upon rows of guests laid out before him as he anxiously waited.

And then she came down the aisle, the orchestra expertly playing the familiar tune of Here Comes the Bride as she took each step. She didn’t just want an organ player, she wanted the whole deal. The organ, violins, a beautiful symphony as she had her big moment. And of course, James was quick to make the arrangement for his beloved. 

She was an absolute beauty, in a large dress that took up most of the aisle’s width. Black and lacey, with tiered ruffles, off the shoulder to show off her soft shoulders. Her veil was also black lace, partially covering her face, the back half dozens of feet long. His fiance was a maximalist, and he made sure she was about to get an equally maximalist wedding. 

The wedding went as planned. When it was James’ turn to do his vows, he raised his hand as previously instructed during the practice, “With this hand, I will lift your sorrows.” he raised his chalice, “Your cup will never be empty, for I will be your wine,” he poured the red wine into the glass. Red as her lips. Her signature color. He placed down the chalice, grabbing a lighter for the candle that was in front of him, “With this candle, I will light your way in darkness,” Finally, he grabbed her ring, the blood ruby shining in the light of the candle, “With this ring, I ask you to be mine,” he slid it onto her slender finger before pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles. 

Y/N perfectly recited the vows as well, slipping the ring onto his finger. They then took their glasses and took a sip of the sweet wine, before finally, sharing a kiss to seal the deal. James carefully moved her veil, revealing the face of the seductress that had his heart. His arms went around her as he leaned in, kissing her with all of the passion in him.

They were now wed. 

The wedding activities soon began, the newly weds beginning their first dance. James brought an arm around her waist, pulling her close as they began to dance, “You look absolutely stunning, darling, you have impeccable taste of fashion,”

“Hm,” she replied with a smirk, “I think I have upset quite a few with the color of my dress,”

“To hell with them. All of them, jealous of your immense beauty,” said March, pressing a kiss to her jaw, “I just might be the luckiest man in this room. Such a dazzling woman I have in my embrace,” with a smirk, he whispered in her ear, “I could just die from excitement,” 

_________

The next few months went by in a blur.

James March made sure to treat Y/N like a queen, spoiling her beyond compare. He knew she wanted to kill him, but did not say a word. She knew about his special new hobby. She didn’t say anything either. 

Once the fifth month passed, Ms. Barnes, who was diligently doing Y/N’s hair, said: “I think we have ourselve’s a record. Five months, the longest you have kept a husband.” 

She hummed in response, lighting a cigarette, “Correct. The longest. I have not become bored of him just yet.”

“Well, he’s not a boring man, Mrs. March,” Ms. Michaels mused, “He treats you like gold,”

“That he does,” Y/N said in agreement, a satisfied look on her face, “I don’t think any of my ex-husbands have treated me this well. It is quite… refreshing,”

“You don’t have to kill him, you know?” Ms. Barnes told her, “You’re allowed to find happiness,” 

“But, Ms. Barnes, that is what gives me happiness,” she shrugged, taking a long puff of her cig, “There is just something so wonderful about…. Watching the life… leave their eyes,” she smiled sweetly, sighing in joy at the thought, “However, I quite like James alive. Perhaps I would need a new fix.” 

Over the past few years (124, to be exact), Y/N had a cycle. She would tease herself, almost edge herself by only drinking the blood of animals to quench her thirsts, marry a man, and once she couldn’t handle it anymore, kill him. Usually in some fun, intricate way. Then she would feast on his blood until he was completely dry.

It was a fun game that has kept her satisfied for decades already.

Until now.

The thought of killing James March didn’t sound right to her anymore.

“We have a ball today,” she told her servants, “I’m sure I will find someone of use for the night,” 

James had vowed to make two days of October the biggest spectacle of Chicago. October 30th, his birthday, which he named Devil’s Night, because he was dramatic like that. The day that came after was Y/N’s birthday, October 31st, Halloween, which very much fit her. 

So not only was Devil’s Night a huge celebration, but so was Halloween, the night of James March’s beloved. 

There was a soft knock on the door, and James entered the room, “My love! You look ravishing,” he practically pushed through the two servants, placing his hands on her shoulders, placing a few kisses along her neck, “Absoutely stunning, dear,” he then pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“James! You’ll mess up my makeup!”

“No matter, just reapply it. I’ll always buy you more,” James replied smugly, kissing her cheek again, “My beautiful wife. Happy birthday again. I feel my present for you would look lovely with your dress,” He glanced at Ms. Barnes and Ms. Michaels, “Shoo shoo,” he waved them off.

“Behave,” Y/N deadpanned. 

“My apologies, dearest,” he said, though he obviously didn’t give a damn, “I just can’t wait to get you alone,” he nipped at her neck. Noticing the warning look in her eyes, he laughed, pulling away, “Fine fine, evil woman. Close your eyes while I give you your gift!”

Y/N smirked lightly, closing her eyes as her husband took out her gift. Obviously a necklace, feeling him place it along her neck, the large jewels cascading down her chest. He fastened the clasp, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck, “Open your eyes, darling,” 

Her eyes opened, and she smiled in pleasant surprise. Of course, the necklace was adorned in huge diamonds, he was never cheap when it came to his beloved. “Oh, James, it’s wonderful!” she said, meeting his gaze through the mirror, “Thank you,”

“Ah, anything for you, my dear,” James smirked, squeezing her shoulders from behind, “My beautiful wife.” he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear fondly, “We could always be late to the party,” he said suggestively.

“Late? To my own party? I think not,” Y/N stood up, laughing at the pout on her husband’s lips, “Don’t fret, dear, I will be all yours when the night ends.” she promised, arms going around his neck as she stared into his dark, dark eyes, “But for now you must wait,” she stuck out her tongue, teasingly grazing his earlobe.

“You naughty girl,” James said in excitement, gripping her hips, ‘You Jezebel you,” 

She giggled seductively, “All for you, my dear,” 

Oh, she did not want to kill him. Not at all. 

And so they left the room and made way to the grand spiral staircase. The couple stopped at the top, James releasing her hand, “Stay here, darling, let me introduce the star of the night!” he made the descent down each step until he stood at the bottom gathering the attention of the guests scattered all throughout their grand home. He introduced his wife, holding out a hand to her as she made her way down the steps.

Each step was careful and precise (like usual, her dress was huge), radiating confidence as she greeted her guests. Y/N took her husband’s hand, allowing him to bring her close.

The night festivities went as planned, Y/N certainly enjoying the effort her husband took into making sure her birthday went perfectly. He always went above and beyond for her, always seeking her approval. He was completely devoted.

After a while, Y/N purposely got separated from him in search of someone. A victim. If she wasn’t going to kill her husband, she had to kill someone else. She was tired of teasing herself.

It didn’t take her long to find some stupid man, some lawyer named George. He was quick to get handsy with her, so she led him off to one of the many guest rooms. He was desperately ripping at her dress, which she loosened up with an eye roll. 

God she wasn’t in the mood for this. 

She pinned him down to the bed, glaring at him darkly, tongue darting out to lick her lips. He was annoying. He didn’t have that sexy drawl like her husband. Those dark but comforting brown eyes. Those hands fit perfectly on her hips.

It wouldn’t matter to her if this man died. 

And with a smirk, she raised a hand, each finger covered by a claw-like ornament, a gift from her loving husband, of course. He said it “fit her style”.

He was so right.

She let her index finger run along his chest, then slowly his throat, leaving goosebumps along the trembling skin, until with a swift motion, she swiped her finger, swiped the claw, and his throat was slit. Buying her face into his neck, she lapped up the sweet flavor of his blood. 

Finally, she needed this.

As she hungrily drank, the door opened. 

“Oh, dearest, whatever are you doing?”

Y/N shot up, head snapping in the direction of James March. Her husband. However, he didn’t seem terrified. Or pissed. 

He simply laughed, arms going around her from behind, “My love is either a lunatic or a vampire. Or both.” he gripped the ribbons of her dress, tightening her corset to fix it, “I must say… It’s rather sexy.”

And so began a new dynamic.

James took it upon himself to do the dirty work. His wife should never get those soft hands dirty. 

And so he did the killing, and she would watch, with a look of approval on her face. He would then take her hand and help her out of her chair and towards the body, admiring how she looked as she drank the man dry. 

“That was supposed to be me, wasn't it?” He asked during one of their little “sessions”. “You wanted to drain me of my blood.”

She wiped her face with the back of her hand and she glanced up at him, “possibly.”

“It's alright, my dear, I take no offense,” he laughed, grabbing a cloth to clean off his knife. “I must have earned the right to live, huh?”

She smirked up at him, “not many would do this for their wives,”

And their dynamics continued. He killed, she ate, they had hot sex after.

And it worked well. 

James ended up building a grand hotel, all of Chicago raving over it. The Hotel Cortez. He originally wanted to name it after Y/N, his beloved, but she herself told him that was a stupid idea. 

They spent a lot of time there, whether it was to aid guests, host events, pass time, or even pick off a few victims. 

After a while, they even began to discuss the possibility of children. James was dead set on two: a boy (named James March JR, of course), and a girl (named after you, of course).

Y/N made it clear she found that to be extremely boring. Just naming the children after themselves? How cliche.

Pretty much every night after basically rearranging her organs, he would lay with her and yap and yap and yap about how it's important for them to continue their legacies, and then he yaps some more about if the baby inherits her thirst for blood if it would be immortal and all these different questions.

They were planning for the future, until disaster struck.

A peaceful day in the hotel, James having his lovely wife in his embrace as he spoke to patrons. She went off on her own duties after a while, until meeting with James again in one of the rooms.

Something was wrong.

Once he saw her, he rushed to her and gave her a rough kiss, cupping her cheeks with such urgency, “My love….” He whispered, “someone ratted me out. Someone knew.”

“Whatever do you mean?” she whispered, hands going to his wrists as she looked up at him, “You mean…?”

“Yes, our little hobby,” March brought her against his chest, an arm around her waist, a hand raking through her hair, “Oh how I hope it wasn’t you who told. Don’t even tell me, I would be devastated,” he sighed, resting his chin on the top of her head. 

“No, James,” she replied in a quiet tone, “I did not tell anyone. You know I love you.” She pulled away slightly to look up at him, “If I wanted you gone, you know I would have killed you myself.”

A soft smile reached her husband's lips as he pressed a kiss to her forehead, “Always the loyal wife. I adore you, my dear.” There was a hint of genuine sadness in his tone as he held her close. “Will you be the one to finish me?”

Y/N shook her head right away, “No!” she pulled away completely, “No, I won't. You've been the only husband I've loved. I can't…. I can't kill you.”

With another sad smile, he held her again, “I understand, dearest. Just… stay with me while I do it? Please?”

This couldn't be happening. It really couldn't.

But she nodded, face buried in his chest, “Yes… I'll stay with you,”

“Thank you, my love,” he sighed, kissing the top of her head. He held her for a moment before pulling away and taking her hand, sitting down. There was a knife on the table and he shakily grabbed it. “This won't be the first throat I slash,” he tried to joke, but it came out flat. James squeezed her hand as he brought the knife to his throat, but his wife speedily stopped him.

“I'll…. I'll do it,” she gulped out, trembling hand taking the knife from him and placing it back on the table.

“Are you sure? You don't have to, my love, I can do it myself.”

“No, no, I-I'll do it,” she repeated. Y/N seated herself on her lover's lap, arms going around his neck as she captured his lips in a desperate kiss. She could feel tears forming as she realized this would be their last kiss.

Her last kiss with the first husband she's ever loved. 

Maybe this was her punishment for all of her terrible deeds. The universe taking away the one man she ever truly loved. 

As they continued to kiss, she brought her clawed index finger to his throat, fingers trembling the closer she got. She pulled away from the kiss, “R-Ready?”

Despite everything, he smiled. “I'm ready, darling.” he pressed his forehead against hers, “I will always be with you,” 

And with that, she slashed his throat.

Y/N let out a soft cry watching the life quickly leave his eyes, the one man she wanted to stay alive. “Oh, James…” she cupped his cheeks, kissing his lifeless lips. “I love you I love you I love you,”

She could hear loud footsteps coming up the stairs, and she knew it was time to go. She grabbed the knife, bringing it to his bloodied neck before placing it into her lover's hand.

And with that, she climbed out the window.

“I will always be with you,” the words hung in her mind as she went down the fire escape.

She didn't know he was going to keep his word, even in death. 

---------

Yall i love him. inbox is open btw

[livcosmos]

CHAIN OF GOLD booktalk

You guys I can't even... that was oh my God soooo good. I know I always say this but I don’t even know where to start like there was so much going on and ahahahha I loved it so incredebly much!!! I wasn’t sure if I wanted to read it because I thought that it would be to painful because of my love Jem but I am sooooo incredebly glad I did read it and I can’t wait for the next book I am fraking out so hard I need to know what happens kjkjkjkjk... Can it please be March already???Please!!! I had so much fun reading it, it gave all the feelings from laughing out loud to screaming and crying and wanting to throw the book out the window, it was amazing! It was so intense!! I also want to say how much respect I have for this woman she created such an amazing world with such amazing characters and she never stops to amaze me she never disappoints! I want to thank her once again for everything!!! She is a freaking genius!!! Now let’s get started!

Ok I think I’m going to start with my boy Matthew, he was and is my aboulute favourite, I knew he was going to be from the moment I read the short story about him in “Ghosts of the Shadow Market”, cause yes apperently I have a weakness for sad damaged boys, my hearth breaks for him and I just want him to be happy more than everything he is such a sweeatherat and I am so so scared that something is going to happen to him I saw some theires about him... I’m telling you if something happpens to him I burning the world down if I may quote Sebastian!

Through the whole book I was screaming for more parts from his point of few because I needed and I stilll need to know exactly what he is thinking and what he is feeling I need that so bad and when we finally got the first tiny part from his point of few the one with Grace... I am going to talk about that...girl in a miunte... first I started crying cause I was so happy but than of course that bitch, I’m sorry I normaly never swar but oh my Lord I hate Grace and the things I said to her God forgive me, had to ruin it and hhjhfjfgfgf poor Matthew! I really hope Magnus helps him, our sweet Maguns our mother Theresa bless his soul I love how he is always there to help and all my hope is in him that he helps Matthew too as he helped Will, I am so happy he is present and in the action, let’s be honest what would be a Shadowhunter book without him seriosly now?

As I mentioned Will, first his parenting omg is helarious😂😂 I love him so much! And second of all Matthew remeinds me so much of him and I really really hope Matthew finds his light as Will did!

Matthew needs to talk to someone about what happend he needs to talk about it and frogive himself for what he did ahhh it breaks my hearth to see him suffering! When he told Thomas and Lucie about what Alastair said as mean as it sounds cause I do felt really sorry for Alastair in that moment, I was glad Matthew said at least a part of what is so heavy on his hearth, I mean he didn’t said what he did because of the rumor Alaister speed but it was a step forward in my opinion! AAAHHH and I read the things we can expect in Chain of Iron and that he probably is going to tell Cordelia what he did aaahhhh... bless him I am so excited to see what happens!!!!

Heres is the thing, this is probably an rather unpopular opinion but even tho I of course ship James and Cordelia, I mean obviosly they are made for each other there is no doubt in that, but there is still a part of me that ships Matthew with Cordelia.... I mean THE DRAMA, I know but ahhh and I read that they are going to be very close in Chain of Iron and aaaaaa I can’t say it often enough how freaking excited I am for that book!!!!! I loved the easiness in their conversations, they always were somehow comfortable around each other and the dance at the ball tho omg that was something, I loved it so much!! How they danced together and talked that was the moment I started shipping them!!!

And here’s another thing, I also shipped Matthew with Lucie like... hgckgfgfk don’t get me wrong I love Jesse and I do ship Jesse with Lucie, like how could I not and bless him when he gave his last breath for James how couldn’t I love him? I cried so much reading that scene! How could I not ship him with Lucie they are also made for each other but than agian Matthew and Lucie ... that would be interesting I mean now it’s obviosly never going to happen because Matthew is over her but still! And my hearth BROKE like it litterly shattered when James talked to Lucie about Matthew and she was like yeah but I don’t like him in that way... Like girl I love you you’re amaizing but what is wrong with you? We are talking about MATTHEW FREAKING FARICHILD here !!!!! Oh or at that part where she was talking to Matthew and she literatly called him a drunk, like yeah he do has that problem but she didn’t had to be so harsh! I loved tho how much Matthew cared for Lucie how he was concerned about her well being he is so sweet!!!! But I guess have a more brother and sister relationship, unfortunately.

The only thing I fear is that Matthew is goin to end up alone because obviosly James and Cordelia and Lucie and Jesse will stay togetehr forever, and I don’t want my baby to be alone forever! I read that there is a new charachter in Chain of Iron, a girl from Italy maybe she will be the perfect match for my Matthew? Who knows?

Another thing I ablolutely fraking love about Matthew is also that he loves fashion and that he carse about how he dressed and oh my lord he is wering RINGS!!!! like ok every Shadowhunter has their family ring but he is wearing other rings too and he has so much style!!!! He owend my hearth anyway but those things made him even more lovebale for me ahhhhhh and the fact that he is fangirling over Magnus.... omg!!! And of couse the fact that he loves reading I mean yeah Jamie and Lucie they also love reading and I love them for that too but the fact that he is reading in combination whit his other traids... he went right up on the second place of my book boyfriedns list!!! And of couse his dog, I love Oscar even tho he didn’t apear that much but aaaaa how he tried to save Matthew when they were attaced ...my hearth. And the fact itself that he named his dog after his favourite author.... just... I always love an artist boy but Matthew is something else! He can’t quite reach Jem because Jem to me is more that everything but he is right behid him! Jem is the love of my life and Matthew is my soulmate how about that,that seams sounds good.😂😂

As I already mentioned my biggest love of all times Jem, I also have to say a few words about him! So I cryed so much at that part when he came to see Will after his parents died, I was so emotional and ahhhhh every time they all were like oncle Jem here onlce Jem there... I had tears in my eyes I always cry for Jem and and he owns my hearth forever and ever, his faith always makes me cry, how sad he must have been all this years... how sad... finally seeing him happy with Tessa and Mina makes me more than happy and again I am warning everyone here if anything happens to him in the Wicked Powers anything... to him or Mina... I’m going to react even worse than if anything happens to Matthew!!! Oh and another thing I can hadle “oncle Jem”, it hurts but I except it, “cousin Jem” tho is a whole other level tho.. that I can’t handle it’s so wired omg it’s so wired that Cordelia is Jem’s cousin ....and overall it is wired to see all of them as parents not only Will and Tessa but also Cecily and Gabriel, Sophie and Gideon ahhhh my hearth, knowing everything they have been through and now seeing them have kids...but than it was also so interesting and funny and I loved that they were there but that they let the children do their own thing, that even tho they were present they weren’t the focus of the book. AH and I loved how Magnus was like: “I am going to help you all but if something goes wrong I am going to tell your parents!”, I love that he is so close to Tessa and Will everytime I think about the fact that he and Tessa are so close to this day ahhhhh....so sweet!!!

And now that I mentioned Mina I have to say this too, I how painfull must it be for Tessa and Jem and even Maguns to have seen all those beautiful children James, Lucie, Matthew all of the live, and love and grow and than die! Like it hurts me so much because I learnd to love them all so much and I am sitting here screaming at every on of them to stay alive and don’t die but than if you thing about it they are all already dead.... and that hurts and if that hurts me how must Tessa and Jem feel, who have seen them every day.... that is so incredebly sad and it breaks my heart! And than I think about the fact that Jem is now also going to die ant some point and Mina too and I can’t even think about it that is unbareble for me I don’t want to think about a world without my Jemmy in it!!

Anyway coming back to this book I think it’s time to talk about our manipulative, annoying, mean, evil, I fraking hate her so much, Grace Blackthorn.... aaahhhhh were do I start......I KNEW IT from the very beginning!!!!!! The moment, the moment James metioned that damned bracelet the first time I knew that there was something wired about it, I knew it had some kind of influence over him I knew it and than she came andjbsdhbfsdhfbsdhf I can’t even I am sooooo mad soooo sooooo mad!!!! I love Jamie, I realy do and I know it’s not his fault but still I am also a little mad at him that he let himself get triecked by that lunatic!!!!! I was so happy and releaved when she took that bracelet back from him I was so happy that she was finally out of the picture and I also was sooooooooo happy he realised even a little bit that there was something wrong and that he didn’t actualy loved Grace and that he actually has feelings for Cordelia!!!! Because my god Cordelia was there first he liked Cordelia first when she read to him when he was ill, that was so sweet and he had a crush on her but didn’t realise it and than the lunatic came and gave him that freaking bracelet, and she said herslf that James was obviosly crushing over Cordelia but of cousre she is a manipulative bitch and she made him take that bracelet and than made him wear it ahhhhh bsdgfkjhgfkhgljkg

It was a trap from the very beginning and I had red flags all over in my head flying around the moment she first apeared, of couse I felt sorry for her, because of the other lunatic, her mother, and I thought that it’s not her fault that she was raised by Tatiana and that she maybe has a little good in her but noooooooooooo she knows what she is doing!!! Even if Tatiana made her do some of the the evil things she not only agree to do them she also made her own bad bad bad things!!!!! God I hate her so much!!!  It was a trap for James the moment Tatiana came and was like “Can you plese help me cut the throns?” nooooo he can’t!!!!! Get out!!!! James should have sensed that there was something wired going on, but bless him his heart is to good to sense that!!!

I love how Matthew never liked Grace and that scene with her when they talked I got sooo mad so so mad!!!! I love Matthew but he needs to tell James or even Cordelia about what Garce said and did!!! And Matthew how could you let them alone at the end how??? When I read that part, when the evil thing but the bracelet back on James’s wrist I was beyond furios that was the last bit, I wanted to throw the book on a wall!!! vfsdjhfgdhjsgfdshgfsh!!!!! And pleaseeeeeee someoneeee I don’t care if it is Matthew or Cordelia or anyone elese PLEASE TAKE THAT DAMED BRACELET OF JAMES!!!!!! They must see that there is something about that bracelet please please please Magnus, anyone plese!!!

According to the family tree from Clockwork Princess our Miss Grace is going to be with Christopher PLESE NO! Christopher is to good for her, he is too nice he deserves something better than Grace I love Christiopher plese don’t let her ruin him! I know that that family tree isn’t reliable but still I went in fulll on detectiv Mode through the whole book checking that tree  and making theories and everything!!!! And I need some awnsers!!!!

When Barbara died ( I didn’t know her that well but she seamed so nice I liked her and I fell so sorry for Sophie and Gideon!!!) an alarm in my head went on because in the epiloge of Clockwork Princess, when Will died they said that Sophie’s girls where there and I was like nooo there is a mistake how?? How can Sophie’s girls be at Will’s death of Barbara just died!And than it occured to me that Cassie changed her mind and decided to kill Barbara then, we can’t trust anything!!! Anything is opssible anything can happen and I am so scared!!!!

Returining to Grace and Tatiana.... why on earth does no one acknowledge that Tatiana is mad??? She is wearing the same dress she wore when her husband died every freaking day??!! They must see that there is something wrong with her! And letting her adopt a child who she obviosly ruined is another crazy thing!!!! Why does no one see that??? Why??? James sweetheath the moment you met Grace you should have run to Tessa and and tell her that crazy Tatiana is keeping a girl in that run down house!! He would have done a good thing for her if he had told anyone about her but than again Grace is crazy herself and maybe she would have stabed everyone in the Institute in the middle of the night! And Tatiana is now going to the Iron Sisters and I am so freaking scared of what she is going to do...

Poor Jesse she seams so nice comapred to his crazy mother and sister how can he be so nice when they are so out of thier minds??? I am dying to know how Lucie is going to bring him back to life, God forbid Grace makes her do something to carzy I mean it is crazy enough they want to bring Jesse back with necromacie and I guess it runs in the family *cough cough Ty* to bring back the dead but I fear joing Grace in this thing isn’t good for Lucie! Omg but I loved that scene where Lucie compared Jesse to Snow White that was hilarious.😂😂😂

Speaking of Luice I really love her, I love that she wants to be a writer, I love how Tessa and Will teached their children to love books! And Lucie she is so funny and god she and Matthew would have been so beautiful together... but again she is made for Jesse and as I also like him may they be happy together! I also have to say that she gave me especially in the beginning Anne with an E vibes she kind of reminder me of Anne.

Quick thing about James I want to learn more about his power with the shadow realm and also about Lucie’s obviously but I have to say that in the beginning when he was constantly jumping throw the realms... that reminder me soooo hard of Stranger Things!!!😂 I know it’s crazy but here me out, to me it sounded so much like The Upside Down and James reminder me of Will from Stranger Things like I don’t know maybe I’m just crazy but I also imagined that one demon the one from the greenhouse who multiplied looked like that thing from Strager Things who also left those baby monsters everywhere!😂😂

I think it’s time for Cordelia now, but before I go on with her I want to also say a word about Alastair. So I can’t forgive him because of what he did to Matthew and I am still not sure if I like him but I do understand him now. I loved seeing this other side of him, seeing him somehow vulnerable and I loved that he cares about Cordelia and that in a wiered way he truly is a good brother to her! And I do understand even tho that doesn’t excuse his actions, why he was so mean and that it was all because he was alone and feard to be bullyed and that in some messed up way it was because of his dad. I do beleve there is good in him and I am so here for him chainging into a good person and apologiseing for what he did and said that hurt others. Speaking of his father tho... I don’t now what to think about him... he didn’t want to se Jem after he became a Silent Brother even tho he was his only relative.... I think that says enogh about him... I am curios tho to see how he is when he cames back in Chain of Iron. Ahhhh and if we are already at it... Sona... I didn’t like her in the beginng she was so stiff and somewhat mean but that thowords the end I stated to sympathise her I felt sorry for her in a way and I realised that she only wanted her children to be well.

Oh God and also the other big thing that made me go into a next level detective mode was Cortana, because.... so Cortana belongs to Cordelia, it belongs to the Carstairs family AND it remains in the Carstairs family because Emma has it and her father a Carstairs gave it to her.... and if we check the family tree John Carstairs Emma’s father is Alastair’s son BUT and here comes the big thing how is that possible first that Alastair has a son ( maybe he adopted???) and than second how is it possible that Cortana remained in the Carstairs family because if Cordelia marries regardeless if it is James or not, the sword isn’t going to remain in the Carstairs familly unless Cordelia decides for whatever reason that she wants to give HER SWORD the sword that CHOSE HER to her nephew and not to her own child??!!! What is going on??? I want to know??? How does Cortana remain in the Carstairs family HOW??? I am so intrigued I want to know this so badly!!!

Now that we have that of the table we can talk about Cordelia, so first I love how she is friends with Lucie, I do want to see more of their friendship tho! I do like her, I wan’t sure in the beginning because in the beginning she was so focused on her father and on making a good inpresion that I don’t konw.. but than I learned to love her, I love how fearless she is and how she loves her friends and risks her life for them, she is so great! And I love her with James, I do like all the drama with Matthew ahhh but she and James they need to be toghether! At the end when she “saved him” from Tatiana’s acusation I was like “GIRLS WAHT ARE YOU DOING ARE YOU INSAINE???” but than I understood that that is just how she is, she protects her loved ones and I love her for that! But damn it hurt so much when James said that he doesn’t love her because of that fraking bracelet ahhhh my heath poor Cordelia!!!! James do loves her he does he just neds to take that damed thing of his wrist and they can be togehter!!! It is so obvious and after the Whisper Room thing like people you could have stoped but you didn’t just please talk about your feelings!!! But no our evil Grace neded to come with her bracelet!!! I have to honest from the moment she put that thing back on his hand till the very end I felt sick I felt like I was going to throw up that’s how much the whole situation shaked me.😂😂

And if there is one thing I leared this summer from the books I read, especialy this and Again but Better, it’s that for god’s sake you should always say what you feel when you feel it regardeless of the conseconces just tell the people you love that you love them because there is so much to lose if you don’t! So much can happen not within days but within hours, like for example crazy Grace putting on a bewiched bracelet on your crush, and you will regrett not have said it before when you had the chance! I am so excited to see how this fake marriage thing goes, it’s definitely going to be very interesting! 

Ah and another thing I loved about this book is the friendship between all of the cousins! I love how close they all are, that they grew up togetehr and that they are so close it so beautiful! I love the Merry Thieves and I love how they now included the girls ( I don’t know what I feel about the new Italian girl I need to meet her before I approve her into the group) and I love how everyone is everyones cousin even tho they are not actualy cousins and ahhhhh the friendship between Anna and Matthew their trips to the Hell Ruelle omg I live for that!!! I love how they meet at the Devil Tavern and plan their moves, it so beautiful! I love that Tessa and Will and all the parents made their children all grow up together making them grow so close!!! They are one big family!

Thomas I haven’t said anything about him yet, I love him I realy like him and I love how close he is particlary to Christopher! I love how kind he is and I also love how like his father he went to Madrird. And I love Anna, I love how observent she is, that she sensed a wiredness between James and Cordelia and I love how she gifted Cordelia all those dressed like omg!

Ah and I also do need to say how much I dislike Charles, like how was it possible that out of such nice people as Charlotte and Henry (I loved seeing Henry again in this book bless him) somone so awful as Charles can come out? I rellly don’t like him! Not that Ariadne cared but how could he leave her while she was dying? Who does that? I guess he truly deserves to be with Grace tho I feel sorry for Charlotte and Henry to have to welcome her into the family!

I sorry this booktalk got so long but had a lot to say and I still have a few more things to say one of which is about the London quarantine in this book, like the irony in it the fact thate we were all in quaratine when this book came out is just... I couldn’t ’t belive my eyes when I read it! Overall I love that the book took place in London, London is my favourite city in the world and returning there through this book esspecial at the time ahhh it was perfect, I loved returing to the London Institute, I loved the dresses andthe fashion everything! I loved the way they all spoke and they sayings it was all so perfect!

This book was just everything I needed right now and I am more than gald that I decided to read it! I can’t let it go yet tho I am still to attached to everything my crush on Matthew is still buring bright and I can’t let it and I don’t want to let it fade! I’m also more than excited for Chain of Iron, March can’t come soon enogh! I dying to see what happens and how all this drama is going to be solved!

Oh goodness and I almost forgot thanks to everyone who makes Shdowhunter memes, esspecally the ones about Chain of Gold like really they make my day! I am sometimes sitting for hours looking at them laughing!😂😂Some of them are pure gold! Thank you!

And I also want to thank everyone who came this far and read all of this you are true legends!

[19mrs-barnes17]

As Long As I Can Get - Chapter Three: Welcome to Brightbarrow

Summary: Welcome to the town of Brightbarrow, its small and quaint aesthetic draws in many to settle into the comfort it provides. Home to a select group of kind souls.

Part: 3/5

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader (AU)

Warnings: mentions of abandonment, some sad themes, a little drinking

Word count: 3,198

A/N: Thanks again to @wxntersoldiers​ for beta reading! Hope you all enjoy the new chapter!

~

The first place to open in the mornings is the Diner, the Barnes family waking before most of the town to set up and ready for the early rising crowd. A few shop owners, medical staff, and construction crew filter in gradually as the town begins to wake.

Slowly but surely shops begin flipping their signs, a yawn escaping as they stretch out their sluggish and sleepy limbs. Hours pass by and the town comes alive with a steady flow of people off to work or wandering about the shops, the occasional tourist stopping in for directions or a trinket. Everyone had a routine.

It was late afternoon when Y/N finally got time to begin looking into a project for her apartment, stopping by the shop where Steve worked after her shift let off early. 

She couldn’t help but laugh at the sight before her, Denise and Hilda sat on the wooden bench outside the tool and craft shop gazing in the big display window and gabbing about the men inside. She shook her head at the women before approaching.

“What are you two mischief makers up to?” Both women stayed exactly as they were, unaffected by being caught by an onlooker.

“Come sit with us Y/N dear, there are two very fine gentlemen waltzing about the shop.” Y/N reluctantly accepted the invitation, eyes drifted inside the building where Steve and Bucky stood comparing items and having a passive discussion. Neither seemed aware of the three women watching their every move through the front window.

“How often are you two out here?”

“Oh every day love.” Hilda smiled softly at her before sending a wink and returning her attention back to the guys. “Lately we’ve been getting double the beef and muscle.”

“That Barnes boy has grown into such a handsome young gentleman, very blessed in the genetics department.” Denise giggled, Hilda swatting her playfully as they turned their gazes to Y/N and arched a brow expectantly.

“What?” 

“Please tell me you’re making the most of his being back home? You two always have been the cutest thing.” If Y/N had been taking a drink this moment would be the perfect moment for a spit take.

“We’re not a couple.”

“And what a terrible shame that has always been. He’s a lovely specimen.” Denise winked at her before glancing back inside and smiling. 

“I don’t know, I’d say that poor Steven is quite the eye candy. Though it is nice to see a new, but familiar, face around here.”

“You two are shameless.” Hilda and Denis burst out laughing, clutching one another as their smiles stretched across their faces.

“Best way to be sweetheart.” Hilda paused for a moment, glancing over Y/N before getting that mischievous sparkle in her eyes once more. “”Give it a go.”

Y/N shook her head but the two women kept insisting. Gazing through the glass her mind fumbled for something to say that wouldn’t be too much.

“He does have nice eyes.”

“Which one dear?”

“James. I mean Bucky.” Her heart skipped a beat as those very crystal blue irises turned her way, eyes locking onto hers. 

“Ah, that he does. And they’re looking right at you dear, in a very flirtatious manner.” Hilda and Denise sent little waves at Bucky before nudging her.

Y/N mumbled in response her mind elsewhere as she watched Bucky through the window, a smile tugging at his lips. He sent a small wave, which she slowly reciprocated, before turning back to Steve. She stood from the bench and tore her gaze away from the window.

“Oh, god I still need to go inside.”

“Ooh, how unfortunate. Let us know how that goes.” 

“You two are pure chaos.”

“Guilty.” In sync they speak and smirk up at her before turning back to the window.

Entering the store she did her best to keep her gaze away from the two men, focusing on finding the paint color she wanted. Her eyes scanned the swatches for a light purple for her bedroom, eventually a project she wanted to get to when she had an open weekend. Her mind was unable to focus as she overheard the discussion an aisle or two over.

Shaking her head she pulled her focus to the colors in front of her, forcing herself to make a decision. In line she was behind Bucky who leaned against the counter waiting for Steve to return from the back, his arms crossed and eyes closed.

“Long day?” She couldn’t stand there silently waiting for Steve to return, his eyes would have opened and been startled by her lurking form. He was startled nonetheless, but she felt compelled to be polite and not ignore him. Even despite his past mistakes.

“Always is.” 

“Tell me about it. What are you building?” She pointed to the drill set on the counter as his eyes took note of the paint swatches in her hand.

“Bed frame.” Her brow furrowed and he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Haven’t gotten around to actually setting it up yet, easier to move when we are painting. Speaking of which…”

“My room. Paint is chipping and my landlord gave me the greenlight to paint over it.” 

“Purple.” She simply nodded in response, eyes trailing to locate Steve in the back. “Well, if you need any help you know where to find me.”

“Thanks, but I have no idea when I’m going to actually have time to get to it.” He nods solemnly and she feels a prick of guilt in her heart.  “But I’ll give you a call when I know.”

“We can order Toni’s like we used to.” His sweet smile had her nodding along in agreement and entirely missing Steve’s emergence from the back office. “Guess I’ll see you around Fairfield.”

“Keep out of trouble Barnes.” He chuckled and shook his head muttering something about no promises before walking out the door. 

“I swear if you two waltz around the topic you will forever be in the obnoxiously polite conversation stage.” Steve shook his head, marking down her order and writing up a receipt. “And I’m not sure how much of that I can take.”

~

Bucky lay upon his stomach, arms buried beneath the pillow he smushed to his face as he slept. His body sore from the previous week's worth of labor, taking advantage of his day off by sleeping in past breakfast time. Somehow he had actually gotten a decent night’s rest, whether that was from the exhaustion or his reconciliation with Y/N was anybody’s guess. 

He had missed how close they used to be, hating how he had listened to the fear and completely cut her from his life. She was his raft and without her he had been sinking, deeper and deeper until he hit the bottom. He knew full well they could never be anything more, but he hated himself for not allowing a friendship at least. It would have helped him through so much.

In the past few weeks he continuously ran into her at the diner, sharing more meals with her than he ever had before and getting to know her again. The reconnection quelled some of the worries that usually kept his mind awake. His mind was more at ease.

Unfortunately, a knock at his door disturbed his late morning rest and had him shuffling to the door in only sweats. As he opened the door he was hit by a yawn, the chuckle from the otherside of the threshold snapping him out of his daze. Y/N stood awkwardly shifted weight on the balls of her feet, eyes refusing to meet his which made him take notice of her flushed cheeks. He smiled softly down at her.

“Good morning.” She cleared her throat and shook her head as if his voice had shaken her from her discomfort and held an envelope out to him. “What’s this?”

“Your pay, I think. Becca said Thomas dropped it off at the Diner cause he had a busy day out of town and didn’t have time to stop by. She’s working a double today and asked if I could deliver it. So, there you go. Sorry to wake you on your day off.” She spoke fast and he was barely awake enough to keep up, running a hand through his hair and nodding along.

“Thank you. But Becca could have given it to me at dinner tonight.” Her eyes snapped up to meet his, her features painted with shock. 

“Oh.” Her voice was small as she remained frozen in place, unsure how to make a polite exit without just walking away. “Well, um, you’re welcome I guess. I’m gonna go now… see you around…” 

Bucky didn’t even formulate a response before she had already made her way down the sidewalk with one final glance back at him from over her shoulder. Something about their relationship was different, and not just because he had cut her out of his life. It was more about the way she tiptoed around looking at him, and how she avoided eye contact if he was in a tank or less. This hadn’t been the first time she had blushed at the sight of him.

A few days ago Becca had brought Y/N, on her day off, to bring the workers some lunch that his mother had made. When she approached he wasn’t paying much attention and had gone to wipe some of the sweat from his face onto his tank top, exposing his midriff which resulted in a blushing Y/N holding out his portion of the food at a distance. 

Ever since Y/N had been awkward during the first couple of minutes of conversation they had whenever they ran into one another in town. He was baffled, Steve was not.

“Oh, come on you cannot seriously be that thick.” 

“How kind of you to notice. Mind explaining what I’m missing?” Steve sighed heavily, rubbing his hand over his face.

“Listen, you are not an ugly guy alright?”

“Gee thanks buddy, care to elaborate?” Steve was beginning to look as though he wanted to smack Bucky upside the head and be done with it all. 

“She all flustered because you’re an attractive guy constantly showing off your body in front of her.”

“It’s not like I’m doing it on purpose.” Bucky sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “And we both know why that can’t happen.”

“Buck, I don’t want to have that old argument again so can we slow the roll on the girl problems and get to what you need for the house?”

“Alright, alright.”

He paced the floor of his bedroom deep in thought, adrenaline jump starting his anxiety and sending him into panic. The few nights of dreamless sleep had ended in an intense nightmare in which he relived the death of his best friend. They had served together for so long, becoming brothers somewhere in the process. Both moving to New York and sharing an apartment for a while before he was killed in a hit and run. 

Will had pushed him out of the way before the car struck, he was killed on impact. Bucky could still see his lifeless body lying on the asphalt. 

The images flashed in his mind even after waking in a cold sweat, his heart still pounding as he struggled to calm himself. He was panicking and losing all rationality. His fingers dialed the number before his mind could stop him and he saw her racing across the street at a record speed. 

After opening the door he pulled her in and shoved the door shut, his arms wrapping around her torso tightly as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. She was in shock for a few moments before she lowered her arms to rest on his bare shoulders and ran a hand up into his hair. Her fingers gently ran through his hair as she whispered comfort in his ear. 

“Hey.” She pulled away from him, hands on the sides of his face and eyes gazing into his fearlessly. “Let’s get you to the couch, yeah?”

Slowly she moved him to where his head lay in her lap, her finger still running through his hair and putting him at ease. When his breathing began to regulate she had him drink a glass of water and watched him nervously. He could tell she was on edge about this, scared for him. And he already regretted bringing her into it.

But she had been the one to comfort his nightmares the first month after his dad died, staying at his house every night. She had been his greatest comfort, and he had repaid her kindness with a knife in the back. It was his greatest regret.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” She spoke softly, tone hesitant as she scooted closer to him on the couch. “I think it will help.”

He desperately wanted to avoid the conversation, but he knew it would come up later whether she meant to bring it up or not. Because it was the very reason that New York had lost its charm and he had packed for home. And he wanted her to trust him, to feel like she could call him should she ever need comfort or help. If he didn’t show her that rebuilding was possible she would never trust that they could.

“When I was overseas…” Once he started he couldn’t stop, it had been months of silence and pushing down his pain. Bucky had been hiding his loss from any who didn’t know about Will, even Steve didn’t know the exact context of why he returned.

Though he only spoke one of the secrets he had been keeping, the release of the words felt cathartic. She pulled him into a hug and he immediately knew he had made the right decision. It had been so long since they had talked about anything deeper than small talk or light catch up, he hadn’t realized how much he had missed it. Missed her.

“I’m sorry. I never should have pushed you away.”

“Buck-”

“I know I said it before, but I need you to know I meant it. I have missed you so much, almost gone to call you a billion times before realizing I didn’t have your number.” A tear slid down her cheek and she was quick to wipe it away, sniffling.

“I always thought you just left me behind because I wasn’t good enough.” His chest tightened, heart hurting at the thought of her believing that.

“No.” He shook his head, eyes tearing away from her because if he kept looking he would tell the full truth and she would never want to see him again. “I let the fear and pain I was drowning in sweep me away. I never should have closed off from you, the one person who could have helped me.”

“I’m here now.” She placed a hand over his heart, sincerity in her eyes before she recoiled with crimson in her cheeks. “Now would you please put on a shirt before answering the door you heathen.” 

He smiled before picking her up and throwing her over his shoulder and spinning around. She squealed, hand smacking his back lightly as she began to laugh like a mad woman. 

“Who’s a heathen now?”

“Still you, ya brute.” He dropped her onto the couch and the two fell into a fit of laughter, eyes sharing a look of nostalgia. “But a brute I will invite to my birthday party.”

“Party, eh? They still throwing you big parties in that old barn?” She nodded, rolling her eyes with a small shrug.

“I’m turning 27, I don’t think I need a big party full of people. Not really my scene.” 

“How ‘bout this then. We go to that party, say hello to everyone, do at least one dance after cake, and afterwards we can do something just the two of us. Something more laid back.” She held out her hand and they shook on it, smiles bright.

“Wanna go paint my room?” Y/N stood with her hands on her hips and a brow arched, smiling mischievously. 

Bucky stood and began to make his way to the door when Y/N stopped him in his tracks and gestured to his bare chest.

“Right, shirt. Give me a second.” She shook her head, waiting at the front step for him to catch up. He crossed the street in a few swift steps and followed her up to her apartment.

“You’re gonna want your hair out the way, sit.” He complied, rolling his eyes as she pulled strands of his hair back into a small feather duster of a ponytail. A few shorter strands fell down and framed his face. She shrugged and muttered a good enough.

They moved her mattress and bed frame from the room, emptying all the contents into the small living room. Covering the floor, taping over the trim, and getting the paint and brushes out they were ready to begin.

Hours later they had paint splatters on their jeans and Bucky’s white tank top now had a purple print painted on. Purple covered the walls and a few drops made their way onto their faces, a stripe across the bridge of her nose and a smudge along his cheek. Y/N refused to let him wash up before getting a photo on her camera. The two looked like a hot mess, her piggy backing and resting her cheek against his. 

“Why does this look so familiar?” She held the camera in her hands and her brow furrowed. “Oh my god.”

Y/N ran into the living room without another word and Bucky followed, perplexed by her behavior. She began searching through her things until finally producing a shoe box with his name on it. 

“Um. What’s that.” She pulled him over to her breakfast bar and sat on one of the stools before opening up the box. His eyes scanned the photos inside, saddened that there were so few but comforted by the fact that she still had the pictures at all.

“This is our box, Becca and I have one. And that other one is for our trio.” He chuckled softly as she began to sift through the  pictures until she found what she was looking for. The very photo that he had seen in his mother’s house, the one hanging amongst the photos of his family. “We did an accidental recreation.”

The two photos side by side were uncanny, apart from the ridiculous amount of purple paint in one of them. The same pose, and he was looking at her instead of the camera again. 

“I gotta get this printed, for here and your mom’s.” Bucky stood behind her, eyes flickering between the two photos.

“She’d like that.” Y/N glanced over her shoulder at him and he was suddenly acutely aware of how close their faces were and how fast his heart was racing. 

And he was terrified.

~

Tags: @qtmeryr​ @broken-hearted-barnes​ @asphalt-cocktail​ @cantnkrusshedevil​ @gstran18​ @just-trying-to-survive-marvel

[pickalilywrites]

taking a break from my usual angst to update this erejean~ happy new year everyone ^^

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How To Come Out as a Zombie

EreJean. Zombie Detective AU.

How to Be a Zombie Series

15422 words. 

Read on AO3!

Of all the places they have to meet Armin, of course, it has to be a coffee shop. Not just any coffee shop either, but the Cornerstone Coffee Shop. It’s the café that pretty much defined Eren’s teenage years. It’s where Annie stress-ate jelly-filled powdered donuts after every exam, where Jean and Eren worked until midnight trying to finish their calculus homework because Armin wouldn’t let them copy off his, and where Reiner gathered his friends to inform them of his twelve-step plan to ask Bertholdt to be his boyfriend. (Reiner only got to step three before he couldn’t stand it anymore and asked Bertholdt out. The two were inseparable even after they went to separate colleges, so Eren wouldn’t be surprised to hear if they were still together.) Once upon a time, Eren had once wished this little family-owned establishment would be replaced by something like Starbucks, if only so he wouldn’t feel like he lived in the middle of nowhere. After living in the city for so long, he’s come to appreciate the family businesses that populate his town, and even now it feels like he’s finally come home. Eren just wishes that there weren’t so many people around. 

He slouches down in the leather booth, keeping his hood pulled down over his head. “Did we have to go somewhere so crowded?” he whispers, keeping his voice low so that people don’t overhear. His words are barely audible over the sound of Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On,” which Eren swears has been playing in this café ever since the 1997 James Cameron film was released. 

“‘Cause if you try to attack me, I’ll have, like, twenty other people here to beat you to a pulp,” Jean replies, not looking up from scrolling in his phone. He takes a sip of his long black coffee; it’s already half-finished while Eren’s iced Americano (with a straw, Jean said, so as to not mess up his makeup) remains untouched. “Besides, I thought I didn’t have to worry about you trying to eat people because you’re a vegetarian.” 

“A vegetarian zombie and a vegetarian are two totally different things,” Eren hisses. 

God, he wants to kill Jean right now. Eren has wanted to kill Jean (i.e. devour him whole) the entire trip here, so eating him now would be kind of a waste. He should wait for Armin to come first before contemplating eating Jean because he needs at least one person to help him. But it’s not like he’s seriously considering eating Jean. No, not at all. Not even as he sits in front of Eren looking positively delectable, like a human burrito bundled up in his coat and wrapped up in his scarf. Not even as Jean scrolls through his phone, his long and slender fingers swiping across the screen. Not even as Jean jostles his leg up and down, the muscles of his thick thighs flexing against the fabric of his khakis. Eren has to keep reminding himself that, although the thought of chomping down on Jean’s firm thighs might be tempting right now, nothing will ever help him get over the trauma of eating his childhood friend. Also, looking at the baseball bat next to Jean’s knee also reminds Eren that his head is going to get bashed in if he even tries to so much as lick Jean. 

“I still think this is a bad idea,” Eren says. It would have been better if they planned this out more, maybe come up with a game plan and find a way to break the news to Armin slowly. “Do you even have a plan?” 

“No,” Jean replies. He doesn’t seem stressed out about this at all, which stresses Eren out a lot. “I figured it would just be best if we told it to him straight.” 

For some reason, Eren remembers Jean being a lot smarter than this. Jean was never booksmart, at least not in the way that Armin was, but he was smarter than Eren. Annie always said that between Eren and Jean, they only had two brain cells and Jean held both of them. It seems that Jean has somehow lost both brain cells over the past year that Eren’s been gone. 

“Full offense,” Eren says, “but that seems like the worst idea ever.” 

“Okay, let’s hear your idea then,” Jean says, finally putting down his phone. He sits back in his seat, arms crossed against his chest as he looks down at Eren expectantly. 

“... Maybe make him a pamphlet or something?” Eren suggests weakly. 

“Really? You have zero graphic design skills,” Jean snorts. 

What Jean says is, unfortunately, very true. Even designing a Powerpoint slide was difficult for Eren, who somehow always managed to put in unnecessary transitions between each slide which only made it more painful for him and every poor soul that had to sit through his presentations. His professors hated his presentations, and for good reason. Even though a pamphlet seems easier, Eren would probably fuck that up too. 

“I just don’t want him to run away in terror,” Eren mumbles, poking the ice Americano sitting in front of him. The condensation has made it to the surface of the table, making the coffee spin in tiny circles. 

“Just don’t try to eat him,” Jean says very unhelpfully. The little bell on the café’s front entrance chimes and Jean glances up. “Ah, Armin’s here.” He waves at the barista at the front — some high school kid that Eren hasn’t seen before — and says, “Light cappuccino please and another long black.” He gives a brief nod once the barista indicates that they’ve taken his order. 

Eren wants to look back at Armin. It’ll be the first glance he’s had of his best friend in a year, but he doesn’t want Armin to die of shock at his sudden reappearance. He’s also not sure how well Jean’s makeup disguises what he really is. Sure, Eren’s managed to walk through town undetected, but he’s mostly kept his head down and avoided eye contact with the townspeople. How Armin reacts to seeing Eren will be the true test of Jean’s ability. 

As Armin slides in beside Jean, Eren does his best to keep his head down and hide behind the napkin dispenser. Eyes fixed on the table’s surface, he takes in Armin’s reflection as best as he can. As far as he can tell, not much has changed aside from the fact that Armin has gotten his hair cut. Armin’s bob was cute back when they were in elementary school, but his undercut is a lot more mature and suits his job as a councilman. His face is a little skinnier, making Armin seem a little less boyish than he looked back in high school and college. Eren wonders if he’s been eating right. 

“I have a bunch of meetings today, so we kind of have to make this quick,” Armin says as he shrugs off his coat and lets it fall around his waist. He doesn’t seem to notice Eren at first. To Jean, he continues, “It must be really important if you took your morning shift off. What’s so important that you couldn’t wait until tonight?” 

Jean gestures at Eren, who timidly lifts his head but only so he can make brief eye contact with Armin. 

“Ah, I didn’t notice you. Sorry about that. It’s kind of hectic at work right now, so I’m a bit out of it,” Armin says. He extends his hand, waiting for Eren to take it. “I’m Armin.” 

Eren doesn’t take Armin’s hand. He just stares at it miserably, hating how he’s already analyzing the size and shape of it and wondering just how much meat is on it. Armin’s fingers are nowhere near as graceful and slender as Jean’s, but Eren still wants to pop them off and chomp on them like french fries. 

Wrenching his eyes away from Armin’s hand, Eren stares at the table and gazes down at his reflection. “I know,” he whispers raggedly. 

“Oh?” Armin raises an eyebrow and retracts his hand once it’s clear that Eren isn’t going to shake it. He glances at Jean and then back at Eren again. His lips quirk upwards in a confused smile. “So we’ve met before? I apologize, but I don’t seem to remember you …” 

“It’s … Armin, it’s me,” Eren says. He feels absolutely horrible for having to break the news to Armin this way, but Jean gestures for him to continue. He can’t really run from it now. Clearing his throat, he sits up straighter and, making eye contact with Armin, says, “It’s Eren.” 

“Eren?” His voice comes out in a hushed whisper and he begins to stand up only for Jean to yank him down by the arm. Armin's eyes are widened in disbelief and he blinks a few times, mouth wide open but no words coming out. “Oh my god,” he finally says, slumping against the leather booth. 

“I know. It’s a lot to take in,” Jean says, rubbing Armin’s back soothingly. 

“How long has he been back?” Armin asks before turning to Eren and asking again. “How long have you been back?” 

“Um, just since early this morning,” Eren says, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck. He’s not sure he should proceed with the rest of his announcement. If Armin is this upset about Eren’s sudden return, hearing about Eren’s new undead status probably won’t make the blond feel any better. 

“Eren, you’ve been gone for an entire year,” Armin says. He’s sitting up now, thick eyebrows furrowed and eyes narrowed as he assumes his lecturing pose reserved for when he’s absolutely pissed because either Jean or Eren (or both) have done something stupid. Eren prepares himself. “Does your mother even know you’re home? You left without any kind of note. We didn’t hear from you for a whole year, Eren! Everyone thought you were dead!”

Some people glance over as Armin raises his voice, but quickly go back to their own conversations. Eren and Jean only glance at Armin, sitting there silently as Armin seethes. Eren can’t remember the last time seeing Armin so angry. He sits there staring at the table, picking at his fingernails nervously. A waiter comes by and places Jean’s order of long black and cappuccino on the table and Jean says a polite “thank you.” After a moment, Armin rests with his back against the leather seat and, eyes closed, takes a deep breath. As he breathes, his lips move wordlessly, counting seconds. Finally, he opens his eyes and looks at both Eren and Jean for an explanation. 

Jean cups his hands around his warm mug of coffee. He blows on it, the silence between the three of them so loud it’s almost deafening, and he takes a long sip. Jean sets his mug down and puts an arm around Armin, looks him in the eye, and says, “Well, we weren’t wrong about him being dead.” 

Armin blinks. “What?” 

“I mean … Eren died the night he went missing,” Jean says. He’s completely focused on Armin right now, so he can’t see the way Eren is currently sinking down in the booth, so low that he’s almost under the table. “He’s a …” Here, Jean eyes dart quickly around the little coffee shop to make sure nobody’s eavesdropping and, for good measure, lowers his voice as he whispers, “Zombie.” 

“He’s a what?” Armin practically screeches. 

Jean clamps a hand over Armin’s mouth and puts a finger to his lips. “Calm down. People are going to kill Eren if they find out, so keep your voice down.” He keeps his hand over Armin’s mouth until Armin, looking at Jean and then Eren, gives him a nod. Jean gestures at Armin’s coffee. “Come on. Drink up. It’ll make you feel better.” 

“Caffeine isn’t actually good for stress,” Armin mumbles, but he still picks up his mug and takes a disgruntled sip of his coffee, practically glaring at Eren and Jean. He’s drunk half of his coffee by the time he sets down the mug. Gesturing at the two troublemakers, he says, “Okay. You two, explain.” 

“Um. Well, there isn’t really that much to it,” Eren says, still slumped in his seat. He pulls his hood over so it covers his eyes and tugs nervously on the strings. “It’s just … I went hiking that night I went missing. Someone … knocked me out? And, like, strangled me or something. I must have died because when I woke up I was just … like this.” He sits up a little bit, pulling at his sleeves so that he can show Armin his hands. Jean had made sure to cover most of Eren’s skin with makeup, but the palms of his hands are still deathly pale with prominent veins of purple and blue running underneath. 

“Jesus Christ,” Armin says. On the bright side, he doesn’t look as mad as he was at the beginning of this conversation, but he does look very tired. Turning to Jean, he asks, “And he came to you? And you guys decided to tell me?” 

“That’s pretty much the gist of it,” Jean nods. He notices Armin hurriedly tapping away at his phone. Jean raises an eyebrow. “... What are you doing?” 

“Cancelling all my meetings for today,” Armin mutters. He looks up at Eren through his lashes. “This is more important than dealing with tourists stealing money from the fountain in the square.” 

Eren wrinkles his nose. “They’re still doing that? Assholes. I thought you guys were having a sign put in that told people they can’t do that.” 

“Yeah, well apparently they don’t know how to fucking read,” Armin replies, tucking his phone back into the pocket of his trousers. He takes another sip of his coffee, slower this time so he doesn’t down the rest of it immediately. His brow is furrowed in a way that makes little wrinkles appear on his forehead, which means he’s thinking of a plan. It makes Eren regret not going to Armin first instead of Jean. After a moment, Armin taps on the table and then points at Eren and Jean. “Alright, we’re going to talk to Annie.” 

“Wait, right now?” Eren asks, alarmed. He was all for letting Annie know when he first talked to Jean about it, but he was thinking about letting her know a little down the line, maybe in a week or two. Now just seems like … a bad idea. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Jean frowns. It’s clear he’s still against it. “What if she …?” He makes a slice motion across his neck with a finger, tilting his head a bit. 

Eren knows that the gesture is supposed to mimic Annie cutting his head off, but he can’t help thinking about how Jean’s neck looks so delectable when it’s stretched out like he’s inviting Eren to take a bite. God, he really needs to stop. He forces himself to look at Armin so that he’s not tempted to suck on Jean’s Adam’s apple. 

“Why haven’t you killed him yet?” Armin asks Jean. 

“Well, because … Eren’s my friend?” Jean says, but his voice goes up at the end. 

Eren looks at Jean suspiciously. “Why did you say it like that?”

“Annie’s his friend too. Have more faith in her,” Armin says, ignoring Eren. 

“Okay, fine, but we shouldn’t go without proper preparation first,” Jean says. Eren thinks Jean is getting up to reach for a napkin and maybe scribble out some semblance of a plan, but he just waves Armin out of the way and, after Armin gets up, gets out of the booth and goes over to the counter to order something, leaving Armin and Eren alone for the first time. 

Eren fidgets in his seat, avoiding eye contact with Armin. He can see from Armin’s reflection in the table’s surface that the blond is staring at him with arms folded across his chest. He hadn’t really thought about how Armin would feel about all of this ― learning Eren died, that he came back to life, that he was afraid of telling Armin everything. When was the last time he had ever kept anything from Armin? Aside from the obligatory surprises hidden from Armin like Christmas gifts or unexpected parties to celebrate the little blond genius’ latest academic achievements, Eren always told Armin everything and vice versa. Eren had been so worried about keeping his new identity a secret, he didn’t think about how it would affect Armin. Of course, Armin would be shocked, but he would always accept Eren in the end. He doesn’t know why he thought Armin’s reaction would be any different. 

“Sorry!” Eren suddenly blurts out. He digs his nails into the denim of his jeans, still unable to meet Armin’s eyes. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you first. I just … panicked. I didn’t want you to freak out or … be disgusted by me.” 

“Eren, I would never …” Armin’s voice grows soft and he reaches out, holding his palm upward as he invites Eren to place his hand in his. When Eren looks up, Armin’s looking at him with the most sympathetic eyes. “I’ll get over it. It’s not really about me anyway. I can’t imagine everything you’ve been through, especially since you had to deal with so much of this on your own up until recently. You know you can always tell me anything. No matter what happens, I’ll always be here for you.” 

Eren places his hand in Armin’s. His skin is so rough and cold compared to Armin’s smooth and warm hands. His hand is so disgusting in comparison that he’s afraid that Armin might pull away, but Armin just holds onto him tightly and Eren thinks he’s about to cry. 

“I really missed talking to you. Dealing with this all by myself … it was almost unbearable.” It’s embarrassing how choked up it’s getting, but Eren can’t help the tears that are beginning to sting at the corner of his eyes. When Armin offers him a napkin to wipe them away, Eren hastily accepts and dabs at the corners of his eyes before his makeup can be ruined. “I’m really sorry. I should have told you first. I don’t know why I didn’t.” 

“You were scared,” Armin says gently. He hands Eren a few more napkins and motions for Eren to blow his nose, which the zombie does obediently. Armin politely waits for Eren to finish before continuing. “Honestly, going to Jean was a good idea. He’s good under pressure.” 

“You are, too,” Eren insists, but Armin shakes his head with a smile. Eren clutches the used napkins in his fist. “I mean, you handled this a lot better than I thought you would. I honestly thought you would faint if you found out and I’d … I’d eat you if you were lying unconscious in front of me.” 

He expects Armin to be horrified, but Armin only shrugs. “I’ve been going to therapy after you, you know, disappeared. It helps a lot,” Armin explains. His hands cup the mug of coffee on the table, his index fingers tapping against the speckled ceramic. “I used to go twice a week, but now I only go once every other week. It helps me manage my anxiety and stress. Not just with you but everything in general.” 

“Ah,” Eren nods, a little dazed. He does notice that Armin is a little different from before. Armin used to always look at his watch, anxious about upcoming deadlines even if they were hours away. It was normal for Armin to always be moving. Maybe it was him jiggling his leg or tapping his fingers, the movements always jittery like he was a ticking clock. Now, he sits in front of Eren, a little concerned but a lot calmer than he used to be. “Has a lot changed since I’ve been gone?” Eren wonders aloud. 

“Hmm? Not that I can think of,” Armin replies with a shake of his head. His shoulder slump a bit as he tries to think of any news worth sharing. “I’m sure Jean must have told you most of it already. Annie still works at the bookstore with Hanji. Reiner still teaches kindergarten. He and Bertholdt are still very much in love, by the way. Ah, Historia …” His voice trails off and he looks cautiously at Eren. 

“I know already,” Eren says, casually waving away any concern Armin might have about bringing up the topic even though thinking about Historia still stings. “Don’t worry about it. Jean told me. It’s fine. It would have been selfish to expect her to wait for me for an entire year.” 

“Sorry,” Armin says. He takes a sip of his coffee, finishing up the rest of it. “If it’s any consolation, she was really distraught when you went missing. She took it pretty hard. Maybe if this all works out we could tell her …?” 

Eren only shrugs. He’s not sure how it would work out, him being a zombie and Historia being a human, but he appreciates Armin’s optimism. “It’s fine. My current condition doesn’t really leave me any room to think about any romantic entanglements.” 

Someone dangles a bag of donuts in their faces and the two friends look up to see Jean. 

“You’re right. Focus on not getting killed by Annie first,” Jean says. He gestures for the two to get up and follow him out the coffee shop. After generously tipping the barista, Jean leads Armin and Eren towards the bookstore Annie works at, donuts in one hand and his baseball bat dangling in the other. 

“Do you really think that donuts are going to be enough to get Annie to not kill me?” Eren asks nervously. 

Jean shrugs. “We’re just going to have to wait and see.” 

--------------------------------

When they open the door, Eren is hit with the nostalgic scent of musty books and cinnamon candles. Hanji always described it as the scent of autumn, replacing the cinnamon candles with peppermint-, lilac-, and peach-scented candles in the winter, spring, and summer, respectively. Eren keeps his head down and his hood pulled over his face as ordered by Jean, but he can see that the bookstore has the same creaky floorboards and faded-red “Welcome!” mat. 

“Hey, what are you fellows doing here so early in the morning?” asks a voice, chipper and bright. It’s definitely Hanji, Eren thinks. “You guys don’t have work today? No important council meetings, Armin?” 

“We took work off today,” Armin replies quickly. He links his arm around Eren, trying to tug the zombie behind him even though Armin’s far too small to hide Eren. “Annie and Reiner’s old classmate came to visit and Reiner asked us to show him around since he has work. We thought he’d like to come see Annie for a bit before we show him the rest of the town.” 

“Oh, really? You’re from the city then?” Hanji asks, getting dangerously close. They almost succeed in peering into Eren’s hood, but Jean quickly yanks Eren behind him, standing in between them. Unfortunately, this means Eren is pressed up against Jean and while Jean’s thick coat hides most of Jean’s shape, it can’t hide Jean’s broad shoulders and Eren almost whimpers because not being able to take even one bite into Jean’s shoulder is killing him. 

“Yeah, but he’s, ah, shy around people. He has a bit of social anxiety when he meets new people,” Jean says, glancing at Eren. 

Normally, Eren would scoff. He’s the least shy person he knows aside from maybe Reiner, but right now he’s busy trying to hold his breath so that he doesn’t breathe in Jean’s earthy scent. One sniff and Eren knows he’ll be a goner, tackling Jean to the ground and nibbling on his ears. Hanji spends so much time staring suspiciously at Eren that the zombie thinks he might lose consciousness. 

“Ah, my apologies then,” Hanji says, convinced after seeing how Eren is beginning to sway unsteadily just trying to stand up. They take a few steps back and smile cheerfully at the trio. “Annie’s in the basement doing some inventory. Please feel free to come back up and browse if you’re curious. I’ll be sure to give you guys enough breathing space.” 

“Thanks, Hanji,” Jean says, already shoving Armin and Eren towards the basement. 

They shuffle down the stairs, nearly tripping over each other in their haste. It’s dark in the basement aside from the flickering light overhead. Eren’s only been here a few times; he’s never been an avid reader, but there were times where Annie or Armin would call a meeting at the basement of the bookstore because not many people visited and Hanji didn’t mind if Annie took the space for herself. Right now, Annie is sitting at the table in the center of the basement, glasses perched on her nose as she checks an order for a pickup. It’s only when Jean stops in front of the table and coughs that she looks up, bored. 

“Kirstein,” she says curtly. Annie raises an eyebrow. “You don’t have work?” 

“I had to take work off,” Jean says with a shrug. He glances at her and then at the open door behind them. “Do you mind if we talk here for a moment? Preferably with some … privacy.” 

“Without Reiner?” she asks. 

“It’s not something we can talk about with him,” says Jean. 

“But we can talk about it with … whoever that is?” Annie says, craning her neck to take a better look at Eren. 

Jean stands in front of Eren, blocking him from Annie’s view. “We’ll explain it in a bit just … if you could close the door.” 

Annie looks suspiciously at Jean, not budging an inch. 

“Annie … please,” Armin pleads timidly. 

Annie looks from Jean to Armin. It’s not that she has a soft spot for Armin, but she trusts him the most because, as she said once, “He’s the only one who has any sense in this stupid group.” There have been times where she’s disagreed with Armin, arguing with him because she couldn’t understand his thought process, but she always follows him in the end even if she does so grudgingly. It’s no surprise when she finally stands up from her chair, letting it screech across the wooden floor as she gets up, and stomps over to the door, glaring at the three of them the entire time. 

“Hey, Hanji! I’m going to need this room for a bit. Knock if you need anything,” Annie calls, sticking her head out the door. She waits for an acknowledgement from her boss before slamming the door shut behind her. Annie stomps down the stairs and stands in front of the trio, foot tapping impatiently and arms crossed against her chest. Even though she stands at a very short five feet, she’s still incredibly intimidating. 

“Um, so,” Jean mumbles, looking at the floor. He glances back at Eren and Armin for help. 

“Just spit it out,” Annie says. 

Jean stands there frozen for a minute before saying suddenly, “Eren’s back and he’s a zombie.” 

Annie blinks. Once. Twice. She looks at Eren, takes him in. He can see her analyzing him, piecing together all the pieces ― his height, the way he slouches, the way Jean’s clothes don’t quite fit him ― and he closes his eyes as she widens her, awaiting the inevitable smack that’ll knock him to the floor and crack his head open like an egg. It never comes. 

Someone moves swiftly in front of him and Eren hears Jean grunt and what he’s almost certain is Annie growling. Reluctantly, Eren opens his eyes to see Jean grabbing Annie by the wrist. In her hand is a hefty book that she must have grabbed from one of the shelves behind her. Annie’s glaring up at Jean, her eyes blazing a fiery blue, while the makeup artist struggles to keep her from bludgeoning Eren with a six-inch piece of literature. 

“Annie,” Jean grunts through gritted teeth. His hand trembles and it’s clear that he can’t hold Annie back much longer. “Hear us out first.” 

“Don’t need to,” Annie growls. Her eyes flicker towards Eren and he flinches under her gaze. “I’ll kill him anyway, so I might as well just kill him sooner than later.” 

“Annie, he’s not like a normal zombie,” Jean says. He stumbles back a little bit, Annie beginning to overpower him, but regains his footing. “If he were, Armin and I would be eaten by now.” 

“Stop getting attached to a zombie just because he used to be our friend,” Annie snarls. She tries to yank herself free from Jean’s grip, but he doesn’t let go. “Jean, I can kill you and the zombie. Let go!” 

Armin stands in front of Eren, arms trembling as he holds them out protectively. “Annie, please,” the blond begs, bottom lip quivering. “I know it looks bad but just … you can’t kill him. I know he’s a zombie now but … he’s still our friend. He’s still Eren.” 

Annie’s hand is still up, the book raised as a weapon, but her eyes are softer now as she looks at Armin. After a moment, her grip on the book relaxes and she finally lowers her arm, and Jean lets out a sigh of relief. Her stance is still defensive, back stiff as she stands with her feet apart as if ready to attack if Eren shows any sign that he wants to eat them. 

“I hate all of you guys,” she grumbles, glowering at Eren. 

“We know.” Jean sighs and rubs his face. He picks up the bag he had dropped on the floor in his haste to protect Eren and shoves it at Annie. “Here. They’re your favorite.” 

Annie raises an eyebrow but accepts the bag. Peering inside, she asks, “Donuts?” 

“They’re the powdered ones,” Eren says, remembering out loud. His voice is shaking, still terrified that Annie might beat him to death with a dictionary or nearby textbook, but he thinks this might serve as proof that he remembers her. That he’s not like the other zombies that just go around eating people and groaning unintelligibly. “The ones with the jelly inside.” 

She looks up at him and he freezes, but then she sighs and walks over to the table, slumping back into her chair. When she gestures at the rest of them to take a seat, Eren thinks that he might just survive this meeting. 

“So, our childhood friend has managed to come back after going missing for a year, but now he’s a zombie.” Annie clasps her hands together in front of her and looks at everyone at the table, and the group nods at her in confirmation. She keeps the six-inch novel within reach beside her. Unlike most people, Annie doesn’t carry around a weapon to fight off zombies. She doesn’t need one. Jean has a baseball bat and Armin, who isn’t as strong as either of them, has a hefty wrench that dangles from his belt loop. Annie is one of the rare people who can fight off zombies with her bare hands. One kick from her and zombies get knocked down easily, brains spilling from their skulls like spaghetti spilled from a pan. It’s what happens when your dad owns the martial arts studio down the streets. Of course, Annie doesn’t usually fistfight with zombies, choosing to just take whatever object is nearby and bludgeoning them to death with it. Less blood gets on her clothes that way. 

“That’s … the gist,” Armin says. He chuckles to ease the atmosphere, but it comes out sounding forced. He clears his throat and says, “He really isn’t dangerous though. Jean’s been with him since last night and I met him this morning.” 

“He says he’s a vegetarian,” Jean offers. 

“I said kind of like a vegetarian,” Eren says, glaring at Jean. To Annie, he explains, “I’m not a cannibal or anything. I haven’t … I’ve never eaten anyone.” 

“Even if you did eat someone, you wouldn’t be a cannibal,” Armin says absentmindedly. He has a habit of correcting people without thinking about it. “You’d have to eat other zombies to be considered a cannibal because humans and zombies aren’t exactly the same species.” 

Eren blinks. He hadn’t really thought about that before. The thought of digging his teeth into another zombie, someone with half-rotted flesh like him, sagging skin over an emaciated body. He almost gags. Shaking his head profusely, he hurriedly says, “I don’t want to eat any of them. I don’t want to eat zombies or humans.” 

Annie doesn’t look convinced. “First time for everything,” she says dismissively. She rests her cheek in her hand and looks at Armin. ���Look, I know you’re attached to Eren because we all grew up with him, but it’s in a zombie’s nature to eat people. He could give in to his urges at any moment.” 

“No, he’s different. I mean it, Annie!” Armin says as Annie rolls her eyes. He scoots up to the edge of his seat, hands beginning to gesture wildly the way they usually do when Armin is about to give a long explanation. “I’m not just saying this because it’s Eren. He’s fully conscious of what he is. He speaks, he thinks, he … he’s nothing like the other zombies we’ve seen before.” 

Annie slouches in her seat and folds her arms against her chest. Grudgingly, she says, “Go on.” 

“With Eren, we have a zombie that can listen and … and work with us! We’ve had zombies before. In fact, our small town has far more cases of zombie appearances than the city, but we’ve never looked into it because we’re too busy killing them!” Armin says. He’s bringing up a lot of good points that Eren has never thought about before. Letting Armin know about his zombie situation was definitely a good decision. 

“And he can help us how?” Annie snorts. “Is he gonna tell the other zombies to fuck off?” 

“No, nothing like that,” Armin says with a shake of his head. “In fact, we should probably keep the fact that he’s alive ― or at least that he’s a zombie ― from everyone, especially if we want to find out who killed him.” 

Annie does a double-take. “Wait, someone murdered you?” she asks Eren. She looks at Jean. “Why didn’t any of you guys mention this to me before?” 

“Ah.” Eren can only blink. He had honestly forgotten that detail between all his plans to reintegrate himself into his hometown and telling his friends he’s a zombie. It hadn’t occurred to him that his murderer still might be running around killing other people. 

“It … slipped our minds,” Jean says sheepishly, ducking his head. 

Armin rubs at his arm awkwardly. “We kind of forgot to tell you because we were a little busy preventing you from murdering Eren,” Armin mumbles as Annie glares at them like they’re the biggest group of idiots she’s ever met. “If someone killed Eren and he turned into a zombie, then maybe someone is actively killing people and turning them into zombies.” 

“Hm.” Annie plays with the silver hoop that dangles from her earlobe, rubbing the metal between her thumb and index finger. “It would explain all of the tourists that went missing only to come back as zombies.” 

It is a well-known fact in the town that an alarming number of zombies that appear often wear the clothes and share the same physical (although somewhat decayed) characteristics of tourists that have gone missing. Not many people batted an eyelash though. The townspeople figured that the tourists just didn’t heed warnings about hiking in the mountains late at night; only people who have lived in the town their whole lives went into the mountains at night because the paths could be confusing and difficult to navigate in the dark, and even then it was dangerous. Of course, the tourists never listened and most went up there anyway. Some never came back, but the most townspeople suspected that those that returned as zombies were doing some stupid satanic ritual or trying out some urban legend. 

“Wait, you think someone’s out there killing people and turning them into zombies?” Jean asks, wrinkling his nose. “Why would anyone do that? They always turn out horrific.” 

“Most of them, maybe,” Armin says. “But maybe they aren’t supposed to. Maybe they’re supposed to be more like … Eren.” He casts a side glance at the zombie. 

“Me?” He’s flattered that Armin believes him to be the highest quality of zombie, but he’s not sure he’s following everything the councilman’s saying. There’s nothing impressive about him. He’s lost most of his muscle mass, his eyes are wet and watery, and his breath always smells rotten. What would anyone want to do with him? 

“What’s the advantage of an Eren zombie versus other zombies?” Jean asks. “I mean, they’re not that much different.” 

Eren makes a squeak of indignation, but Armin ignores him. 

“You could essentially have, if you wanted, an undead army,” Armin explains patiently. “Eren doesn’t move the same he did when he was alive, but he’s a lot faster than other zombies. Also, as I’ve said before, he knows he’s a zombie. He knows his own weaknesses. He can dodge attacks that come at his head. We could probably stab him anywhere else and he’d be fine. As long as he keeps his head safe, he’s pretty much immortal.” 

Annie looks contemplatively at Eren, like she’s trying to decide whether or not to stab Eren in the thigh with her hairpin just to test Armin’s theory. 

“This doesn’t seem very well thought-out,” Jean murmurs. “There must be easier ways to take over the world.” 

Armin shrugs. “This is just a theory. We’d have to catch the culprit to find out their real motive. We should do some research first though.” He’s already pushing himself out of his seat and glancing at the shelves. “Of course, we should keep this all between ourselves. No need to cause panic right now, especially without solid evidence. No letting this slip to our parents or friends or … potential significant others.” He subtly glances at Annie. 

“I’m not going to tell anyone, so don’t worry,” she snaps with a roll of her eyes, but her cheeks are flushing a bright shade of pink. 

“You’re still not with Mina yet?” Eren asks incredulously. “I can’t believe you haven’t made any moves since I died, and it’s been an entire year.” 

“Maybe I want to make sure everything’s perfect before I ask her,” Annie glares. With a sigh she says, “Even if we were dating, I wouldn’t tell her any of this. It’d probably just scare her away.” 

“You never know,” Jean says in a sing-song voice, but he shuts up immediately when Annie snarls at him. He gets up from his chair, pushing it in, and re-wraps his scarf around his neck. “I should get going. Good luck with research!” 

“What!” Eren squawks. “You’re not going to help us?” 

“Nope,” Jean replies cheerfully, tossing his apartment keys to Eren who almost doesn’t catch them. He’s already walking up the steps, waving goodbye to Armin and Annie who hardly pay him any attention. “I only took the morning off today, so I can’t spend all day with you. I’ll see you at the apartment though. Take care of him, Armin.” 

“See you,” Armin says without looking up. He’s nibbling on his bottom lip, brows furrowed as he brainstorms his next move. Eren tries to keep his attention on Armin because looking at Annie, who’s currently looking at him like she’s waiting for an opportunity to kill him, is stressful. After a moment, Armin says, “I’m going to collect all the newspapers of the missing tourists, the ones that showed up later as zombies and the ones that were never found. Maybe they all have something in common. Annie, can you and Eren look at examples of zombies? It can be in humans or animals. It might be helpful to understand Eren’s condition more.” 

“I’m on it,” Annie says, already getting up to peruse the books on the basement shelves. 

“Okay, I’ll get the newspapers from upstairs,” Armin says, getting up from his chair. He’s about to leave when a panicked Eren grabs his arm and yanks him back. “Ah, is there something you need, Eren?” 

“Um.” Eren glances back at Annie, who’s staring at him amusedly from behind a bookshelf. He swallows nervously. “I … you’re leaving me alone,” he says stupidly. 

Armin blinks. “Annie’s here,” he points out, not making the connection between Eren’s knocking knees and Annie’s presence. 

“I … I know,” Eren stammers. He wants to get on his knees and beg Armin not to leave him alone with Annie, but he’s pretty sure Armin would insist that it was fine. Also, he doesn’t want Annie to see him looking so pathetic. Even if she does want to kill him, they’re still technically friends and he doesn’t want her to hold this moment over him if he does somehow manage to last five minutes alone with her in the same room. 

“Just go. He’s being stupid,” Annie says with a roll of her eyes. 

“Alright. I’ll only be a minute.” Armin gives Eren a reassuring smile, pries himself from the zombie’s grip, and disappears up the steps, making sure to shut the door after him as he greets Hanji upstairs. 

Eren turns around, arms held up in order to protect himself from whatever projectile Annie plans to hurl at him. The blow never comes and Eren, though still on his guard, slowly lowers his arms. He’s surprised when he spots Annie still flipping through books between the shelves, a few books clamped beneath her arm. 

“You’re really … doing research?” Eren asks, dumbfounded. 

Annie looks up, eyebrow raised. “Of course. I’m not crazy about the idea of letting a zombie walk around town, but I trust Armin,” she replies. She finishes flipping through the book she’s currently scanning through and puts it on the shelf with a shake of her head. Walking towards the table, she sets them down and shoves them in Eren’s direction. “And I know I did try to kill you a few minutes ago but … Armin’s right. You’re not like the other zombies. You’re … you. And we’re friends, so I should help you out if I can.” Annie pauses and then adds, “But I won’t hesitate to kill you if you eat anyone.” 

Eren feels oddly touched. He thinks it’s the most Annie’s ever spoken about their friendship. “Thanks,” he says. He approaches the table and reaches for one of the books that Annie had pushed towards him, frowning when he reads the cover. Wrinkling his nose, he asks, “Why do you want me to read about Haitian Vodou?” 

“Because it’s relevant,” Annie replies in a tired tone that’s oddly reminiscent of the one she’d use whenever he asked her for help on projects for school. She takes a seat and picks a book from her pile, checking the table of contents before flipping to a certain page. “They had a practice of resurrecting the dead.” 

“Like necromancy?” Eren asks. He also flips through his own book but all he sees are chapters on Haitian Vodou beliefs about the soul, which he finds somewhat interesting. His eyes wander across the page, distracted until Annie slams a hand down on the pages and forces him to look up. 

“Not exactly like necromancy,” Annie says with a shake of her head. She pushes her book towards Eren. It’s opened to a section about something called a bòkò. Apparently, they’re individuals that deal with the supernatural, although that’s the incredibly oversimplified definition Eren takes away from the lengthy paragraphs of text. Annie continues, “Necromancy comes from the practice of divination; it deals more with the spirits of the dead than resurrecting someone. A bokor actually revives someone after death.” 

“Ah,” Eren nods with a frown. He’s not sure how Annie got all that. The words in front of him are just swimming around, none of them making any sense. Eren’s never been that good at doing research. He just takes Annie’s word for it. “You know an awful lot about zombies already.” 

Annie shrugs, pulling the book back so that she can look through it. “I know some stuff. It’s good to know a little bit of everything when you’re working at a bookstore,” she replies, flipping a page. “Sometimes tourists come by asking for things on zombies. I haven’t done much research on it. Figured there wasn’t really a point until now.” 

“Hmm.” Eren flips through the book, stopping when his eye catches on the word “zombie.” Apparently, the process of turning someone into a zombie includes giving an individual a certain concoction and, after the person has passed on, revive them with another drug. Eren’s not sure if any of this happened to him. If it had, he can’t remember. “So you think this is what happened to me?” 

Annie wrinkles her nose. “Not really, no, but it might be helpful to know. It’s possible that, if someone did turn you into a zombie, they use a similar method,” she replies. Annie peruses through the book. Eren’s not sure how she’s able to take in any information looking if she’s looking through the book so quickly, but Annie’s always been better at research papers than Eren was. “Do you mind looking at these? I’m going to start looking for examples of zombie-like behavior in animals.” 

“Ah, okay,” Eren says. He feels a little overwhelmed when Annie shoves her stack of Haitian vodou books at him, but he doesn’t want to complain, especially when Annie and Armin are going above and beyond with researching for him. 

They don’t do very much talking after that. Annie goes in and out of the basement, piling more and more books onto the table. Some books are about animals — deer, carpenter ants, different parasites — while others are specifically about diseases — rabies and the African sleeping sickness. Eren’s relieved that Annie doesn’t ask him to take any new books; he feels like looking at vodou is going to take him all night, although he does feel bad about Annie looking at a dozen different topics. He’d offer to take one or two more topics just to lighten her load, but he feels like she’d just brush him off. This scenario is awfully reminiscent of when they’d be paired for school projects and Annie would end up doing all of it because she said Eren was just going to “ruin everything.” (To be fair, she wasn’t exactly wrong in saying that. The one time she had allowed him to help during a chemistry lab, he set off the fire alarm and they got an F. He can understand why Annie doesn’t let him do anything.)

As Eren is reading about the role of bokors in Haitian vodou, Armin bursts through the door, a pile of newspapers in his arms. The basement door falls shut behind him as the blond walks down the stairs. When he gets to the table, he lets the papers fall from his arms with a loud thud. 

“The good news is that I managed to obtain newspapers about missing tourists and every zombie sighting over the past five years,” Armin says, his mouth set in a grim line. “The bad news is -” 

“That’s a shitton of papers,” Annie finishes for him. 

“It is,” Armin agrees with a nod. He glances at the pile of books between Annie and Eren. “There’s probably more out there from previous years that the newspapers might have missed, but this is a good start. I’d suggest we’d split these up, but it looks like you guys have your hands full already …” 

“Ah,” Eren says, sitting up a bit. He motions to the pile of books in front of him. It’s considerably smaller than Annie’s pile. “Annie only gave me these. If you want, I could -” 

“No!” 

The combined voices of both Annie and Armin shouting at him make the zombie flinch in surprise. 

“I mean,” Armin coughs, clearing his throat. “That won’t be necessary. It’ll probably be easier if we all stick to a topic.” He smiles politely at Eren. 

Eren sulks for a little bit in his seat. Neither Annie nor Armin’s reactions are unexpected. Like Annie, Armin also knows how bad Eren is at schoolwork and doing research in general. However, Armin always let Eren do a fair share of the work, preferring to have Eren learn alongside him even if it meant lowering their overall grade to a B (and, on some occasions, a C). It makes sense that Armin wouldn’t allow Eren to take more work than he can handle. 

Eren slumps, knocking his back against the chair, and lets out a loud sigh. Both Annie and Armin ignore him, leaving the disgruntled zombie no choice but to do the work assigned to him. 

--------------------------------

They decide to give it a rest by noon because none of the words Eren is reading make sense anymore and his constant finger-tapping on the table is so distracting that Annie makes it clear that she will absolutely kill Eren regardless of whether or not he’s a zombie. Although Eren insists on coming back after a small lunch break, Armin and Annie (mostly Armin) assure him that he doesn’t need to return; everyone (re: Annie and Armin) might work better if they do research on their own, Armin suggests, so Eren packs up the Haitian vodou books that he feels are most useful. Annie stays behind, but Armin also packs his things to walk Eren back to Jean’s apartment. 

The two of them say their goodbyes to Annie and head up the stairs. Armin does most of the talking with Hanji, thanking them for not disturbing the quartet’s basement meeting, and Hanji seems to accept Eren’s mumbled thank you as well as the zombie and councilman hurry out the door. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to buy something for you from the market?” Armin asks Eren once they’ve left the bookstore. It’s a bit difficult to hear Armin because he’s mumbling in his scarf, but Eren figures that Armin’s only doing that to prevent people from overhearing their conversation or reading their lips. “I could even grab something from the butcher if you prefer something fresh.” 

Something fresh — freshly slaughtered, the smell of the farm still lingering on it, blood dripping from a chunk of thick, juicy, meat. It sounds better than anything Jean might have in his fridge, but Eren doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want Armin seeing him salivate over raw meat. He doesn’t want to risk Armin watching him eating it, shoving raw beef hide into his mouth and nearly choking on it because he’s so desperate to gorge on any kind of flesh. No, Eren thinks with a shake of his head. Armin might be fine with it, but Eren certainly won’t allow his friend to see him acting so monstrously. 

“It’s fine. Jean says he still has some pork in his freezer that I could eat,” Eren says with a forced smile. It’s probably all dried out by now. Even if he does defrost it, the meat will probably have lost all its flavor. Still, it’s not as if he can be picky with his food. 

“Well, if you’re sure okay with that,” Armin says, sounding unconvinced. They walk a few paces forward, passing by the ramen shop and electronics store. “You’re fine with living with Jean, too?” 

Eren shrugs. It’s not like he has many options here. He doesn’t have money to rent a place of his own and he’s not sure how he’d go about getting an apartment without alerting someone’s attention about his presence. “I don’t have any other place to go.” 

“You could live at my place for a while,” Armin suggests. 

“You live with your parents. Even if they don’t recognize me as I am right now, it’s going to be difficult to explain why you have to buy so much raw meat or why I never eat in front of people,” Eren points out with a shake of his head. Out of the corner of his eye, Eren sees Armin open his mouth, but Eren knows the blond is going to suggest living with Annie, which is an even worse option than Jean. Holding a hand up to stop Armin from even letting Annie’s name leave his mouth, Eren says, “Don’t. Annie’s going to kill me if I even breathe wrong. Besides, Mina might get the wrong idea if she finds out a mysterious man is living in Annie’s apartment and then MinAni will never happen.” 

Armin kicks at a pebble, grimacing. “I guess you’re right.” He looks at Eren through his eyelashes, barely lifting his head. “You’re really alright though? You’ll tell me if you need anything, right? I really meant it when I said we were friends. Nothing has to change just because you’re … you know.” He gestures at Eren. 

Obviously, some things have to change, but Eren’s still touched by Armin’s words. “Thanks. I’m managing just fine now, but I’ll let you know if I need anything. You guys are all doing more than enough.” Eren takes a deep breath and sighs through his nose. “I mean, I always knew I could count on you guys but I never thought I’d find out like this.” 

“Right?” Armin laughs. He runs a hand through his blond hair, letting the locks fall into his face messily. “It’s not a situation anyone would want to be stuck in, but at least you’re not alone.” He pauses for a moment, thinking. “Reiner would have your back too, you know.” 

“I know,” Eren sighs. “It’s just that Reiner can be a bit …” 

“A bit what?” a voice says as hands suddenly cling to the chain fence surrounding the local elementary school. 

Eren’s frozen in surprise, but Armin lets out a loud yelp and nearly falls over backward at the sight of Reiner behind the fence. Hastily, Eren yanks Armin upward and shoves the small blond in front of him, trying to make himself as small as possible even though there’s no way that Armin’s tiny form can hide him. He takes a peek at Reiner from behind Armin’s shoulder and sees his old childhood friend looking curiously at him, craning his neck to get a good look at Eren. 

“O-oh, h-hey! I d-didn’t know you were d-done with your morning shift already, R-Reiner,” Armin stammers, blinking rapidly. He backs up, stepping on Eren’s toes. 

“Yeah, it’s noon. I was going to go out for my lunch break before the afternoon group comes in an hour,” Reiner replies. He tilts his head, a lopsided grin on his face. “Maybe your friend wants to join us?” 

Panicked, Eren shakes his head. 

“No!” Armin shouts, holding his hands up. “He’s in a … hurry. I was really just going to walk him to the station -” 

“Then I’ll walk with you guys!” Reiner says eagerly. “I love meeting new people.” Before either Armin or Eren can protest, Reiner starts to jog towards the gate to join them. 

“What do we do?” Armin panic-whispers to Eren, keeping a strained smile on his face. He looks at the zombie, blue eyes wide and terrified. “Eren, I think you should run.” 

“No way! I couldn’t outrun him when I was human and I definitely can’t outrun him now,” Eren says. He doesn’t mention that his knees are shaking way too much for him to even take a step. 

“Oh my god, I can’t do this,” Armin says through gritted teeth. He looks as if he’s about to cry even as he’s waving to Reiner. “I can’t lie to him. I don’t remember the last time I lied to any of you. He’s going to see right through me.” 

“God, Jean never should have left us,” Eren mutters, casting his eyes downward as Reiner stops in front of them. A hand appears in front of him — strong, sturdy, meaty — and Eren thinks it’s only a matter of time before either he or Armin blow his cover. 

“Reiner Bruan. I’m the kindergarten teacher here,” Reiner says in his deep rumbling voice. He still holds his hand out, waiting for Eren to take it. “I take it you’re here on a visit. It’s a shame you’re leaving before we can really get to know each other.” 

“Reiner, he’s really in a hurry so if you don’t mind -” Armin begins, trying to push Reiner back. 

“Wait a second,” Reiner says, easily sidestepping Armin and getting even closer to Eren. There’s something in his voice, something so close to recognition, and it makes Eren’s unbeating heart drop to his stomach. A rough hand clamps onto Eren’s shoulder, forcing the zombie to look up and stare at Reiner’s beaming face. “Eren Jaeger? Jesus, we all thought you were dead!” He’s opening his arms, ready to crush Eren and his delicate zombie body in a bone-crushing hug. Eren’s closing his eyes, preparing himself for the end, but he hears a grunt and the thud of someone’s body hitting the ground. 

“Oh my god, oh my god, I’m so sorry!” he hears Armin saying, voice shaking like he’s about to cry. 

Eren cracks open his eye to see Reiner sprawled out on the sidewalk holding his side. “Jesus, Armin, what the fuck was that for?” 

“You were about to hug him,” Armin says, shrinking where he stands. His head is beginning to disappear into his scarf like he’s some kind of turtle. 

“Yeah, because I haven’t seen him in literally a year,” Reiner replies, sitting up and brushing the pebbles sticking to the sleeve of his coat. He frowns up at Armin. “I don’t know why you’re trying to hide him. We held a vigil for him and everything.” 

Armin stares at Eren who only looks back at him. Armin blinks his big blue eyes at Eren and his mouth begins to open. Eren knows what Armin is about to say before he says it. He closes his eyes, bracing himself as Armin blurts out, “Because Eren’s a zombie.” 

Reiner doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just sits on the sidewalk, his head turning slowly to Eren and taking him in. The schoolteacher looks the zombie up and down and opens his mouth. “You guys are serious?” He looks from Eren to Armin and then back to Eren. When neither of them replies, he gets up with a sigh, brushing the rest of his clothes off. “Well, seeing as how both of you guys aren’t replying, it looks like you guys are dead serious.” He cracks a smile and Eren just wants to groan. This is precisely why he didn’t want to talk to Reiner.

“Okay, since you found out anyway do you mind if we … move somewhere more private?” Armin asks anxiously. 

“Alright, let’s go into my classroom then,” Reiner says, gesturing for them to follow him. He’s taking the news far better than anyone else had. 

“Really?” Eren says, hesitant to follow. “You’re not afraid I’ll eat anyone or anything?” 

“Nah, it’s empty right now,” Reiner says with a shake of his head. “And even if someone wanders in, I can just lock you in the crib.” The crib that Reiner is referring to is a wooden cage with an open top that Reiner’s students often liked to play in because it was at least a foot off the ground but, at least when you’re a five-year-old, feels as if you’re at least ten feet taller. Eren doubts that will be enough to hold him back if he happens to go on a hungry rampage, but Reiner seems pretty confident. 

“So, first things first,” Armin says nervously as the door shuts behind them. His fingers rub at the fabric of his scarf just to have something to do. “You can’t tell anyone.” 

Reiner raises an eyebrow. “Not even Bertholdt?” 

“Especially not Bertholdt,” Armin stresses. It’s not because telling Bertholdt will be more dangerous than telling anyone else but because Bertholdt is the person that Reiner is most likely to tell. The two keep no secrets between them. 

The schoolteacher clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “You know I tell him everything. He’s going to know something’s up sooner or later. Not keeping things from each other is one of the reasons why our relationship has lasted so long,” Reiner says. He huffs and leans against one of the classroom bookshelves. “One of the reasons why Annie and Mina haven’t even begun yet is because Annie just hides everything. She can’t even tell Mina how she really feels. I bet she’s keeping this whole zombie thing a secret too, right?” Reiner looks expectantly at Eren. 

“Well, yeah but -” 

“You and Historia were like that too,” Reiner continues, not realizing that he’s now diverting from the original topic. He pauses and then gives Eren a frown. “Do you know about Historia yet?” 

“Jean told me,” Eren says, somewhat flustered. He doesn’t know how his zombie confession is somehow turning into a conversation about his (now dead) love life. “But what do you mean Historia and I were ‘like that’?” 

“Oh, you know,” Reiner says with a dismissive shrug. When Eren looks at him with a puzzled expression because he doesn’t know, Reiner sighs exasperatedly and waves his hand around. “I’m just saying that if you had told Historia you were going to disappear a year ago, maybe she’d still be waiting for you.” 

“Why does everyone always say I should have given them a heads up?” Eren says, wanting to tear his hair out in frustration. “I couldn’t! I died, Reiner, someone killed me!” 

For once, Reiner is speechless and, not knowing what to say, just blinks at Eren with a blank expression. “I’m sorry,” Reiner says, still gawking at the zombie. “Did you just say someone killed you? Eren, were you murdered?” He looks to Armin, scandalized. “Why didn’t you say something about this earlier?” 

“I was about to, but someone started running off on a tangent,” Armin grumbles, loosening his scarf. He walks over and pulls out one of the plastic chairs the kids use and sits in it, hunching over with his elbows on his knees. He looks comically huge sitting there with such a glum face. “Look, it’s important that we keep this under wraps because we still don’t know who killed Eren. They could still be running around waiting for someone else to kill. If they find out Eren’s still alive, they might try to come for him again.” 

Reiner lets out a low whistle. “I figured you just got lost in the mountains and died of hypothermia.” 

Eren glares at him, offended. “Why would I get lost in the mountains? I’ve lived here my entire life! I’m not some dumb tourist,” he huffs. 

“Not a tourist, but still dumb,” Reiner teases, always managing to find humor in even the worst situations. His smile fades when he sees neither Eren nor Armin are smiling back at him. Expression now sober, Reiner pushes himself off the bookshelf and continues, “So who have you told aside from me? I assume Annie.” 

Armin nods. “We’ve told Annie.” 

“She’s reliable. Not like me. I’m a bit …” Reiner cocks his head to look at Eren, voice trailing off to let Eren finish what he had been saying earlier to Armin. 

Eren hangs his head, biting his lip in embarrassment. “Sorry.” 

“I’m only teasing,” Reiner laughs. He was never one to hold a grudge. He folds his arms across his chest. “I assume you told Jean, too. So everyone in the old gang?” 

Eren nods. “I told Jean first, actually. He did my makeup.” He kind of wants to rub his cheek sheepishly, but Jean will probably kill him if he comes home with smudged makeup. 

“Wow, you told Jean first? That’s interesting. You guys used to be at each other’s throats all the time,” Reiner hums. He leans over to inspect Eren’s face, turning his head this way and that to look at the zombie’s makeup from different angles. Satisfied after taking a good look, Reiner leans back with a grin on his face. “He made you look better than you did when you were alive.” 

“Fuck you,” Eren replies as Reiner cackles. Reiner’s not wrong though. 

“Okay, so we all know and we’re all agreeing to keep it a secret for Eren’s safety, right?” Armin asks, clasping his hands together. He looks at both Eren and Reiner, but his stern gaze lingers on the schoolteacher as he waits for an answer. “Right, Reiner?” 

Reiner stares back at Armin, his mouth set in a thin line. They stay like that for a minute or two before Reiner breaks his gaze, breathing out a large sigh. “Fine, fine, I’ll keep it a secret. I won’t even tell Bertholdt, who is the love of my life and who I have told all of my life’s secret until now.” 

“Great!” Armin chirps, shrugging the messenger bag off his shoulder and throwing the flap open. He sifts through the contents of his bag and pulls out a handful of books from his bag, all of which he passes to Reiner. “I want you to read these.” 

Reiner’s face is one of pure revulsion. “You’re asking way too much of me, Armin. I’m your friend, but I don’t love you guys that much.” He looks curiously down at the book stack he’s holding, squinting to read the cover. “Why do you want me to read about carpenter ants?” 

“Zombie research. Annie’s doing mammals. I’m covering diseases,” Armin explains easily. “I’ll buy you lunch after I walk Eren home.” 

Reiner visibly perks up at the mention of free lunch. Unlike Eren, Reiner is actually good at studying. He wasn’t as smart as Armin nor as studious as Annie, but he was always one of the top students in class. There were definitely subjects that he excelled in over others; Reiner always preferred classes like literature over history and math, not understanding why he’d have to memorize the names of men who died centuries ago or what application calculus formulas would have in the real world. He never did homework for subjects he didn’t care for but would somehow score top marks when the exams rolled around. He just needed a good motivation to work hard. Since report cards and college entrance exams are no longer an incentive, food works just as well. 

“Only if we go to the barbeque house,” Reiner says, adding, “and you have to let me order as much as I want.” 

Armin purses his lips, not wanting to give in but wanting the man’s valuable research skills. He breathes out, blowing his bangs out of his face. “Fine, fine! But have a conscience, will you? I don’t make much money even working for town hall,” Armin huffs. He closes the clasp of his canvas bag with a click and sighs. “Come on, Eren. Let’s get you home. Reiner, I’ll meet you back here in a little bit.” 

“Don’t take too long,” Reiner says in a sing-song voice, walking out after them. He leans against the doorframe, smiling even as Armin scowls at him. “I’m looking forward to our date, Arlert.” 

“He’s going to burn a hole in my wallet,” Armin mutters as they walk away from the elementary school. 

“Sorry.” Eren can’t help feeling guilty. They wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for him. “Still, I’m a little glad we ended up telling Reiner even if it was unintentional.” 

“Yeah,” Armin agrees. 

The two walk in silence together. 

“You know he’s going to tell Bertholdt though, right?” Armin asks. 

“Oh, absolutely.” 

--------------------------------

There really isn’t very much to do at Jean’s apartment, Eren finds. After eating a very sad lunch of hamburger meat he found in the freezer, Eren tries hard to look through the books on vodou that Annie had assigned him. He can’t find any highlighters in Jean’s apartment, so he ends up improvising by using different colored eyeliner pens in one of Jean’s makeup kits to underline sections he thinks are important. Unfortunately, Eren was never good at deciding what information is important and soon has whole pages underlined and eyeliner all over his hands. The words he reads don’t stick in his head even after he’s read a chapter over and over again, somehow making less sense with each read through, and Eren gives up after he runs out of blue eyeliner. 

Jean finally comes home after the sun sets and finds Eren sprawled on his couch staring at the ceiling. He raises an eyebrow, setting a grocery bag on the kitchen countertop, and unbuttons his coat. “Have you just been doing this all day?” 

“You don’t have anything in your apartment,” Eren replies, not getting up. “You don’t even have a Switch.” 

“Sorry I’m not accommodating your every need,” Jean snorts as he hangs his coat on the coat rack. He unravels his scarf from his neck and hangs it on the rack as well. “I bought you some meat by the way -” 

At the word “meat,” Eren immediately sits up and dashes towards the kitchen, grasping for the grocery and pulling it open to reveal a succulent cut of tenderloin beef, blood still fresh. The zombie licks his lips, hands reaching to pull the tenderloin from the bag, only to be sprayed with water. 

“Ugh! Stop, stop!” the zombie yelps, hands raised to shield his face. When he opens his eyes, Jean is standing in front of him with a very disappointed look on his face. 

“Don’t eat food like you’re some kind of animal,” Jean tsks. He puts the squirt bottle down and gestures at his face. “Wipe the makeup off your face too. It’s starting to run. The makeup wipes are in the top left cabinet in the bathroom.” 

“It’s your fault it’s running in the first place,” Eren mumbles, but he shuffles off to the bathroom anyway. He tries to avoid looking at his reflection in the bathroom. He does happen to catch a glance and winces; it looks like his entire face is melting. It takes about fifteen makeup wipes to get it all off. His bare face isn’t much of an improvement from his melting makeup, Eren thinks, and he kind of wishes that Jean taught him how to apply his own makeup so he doesn’t have to go out there bare-faced. Reluctantly, he goes out to meet Jean, making sure to pull his hood over his head so that Jean doesn’t have to look at him too well. 

The table is set for two. One side has a bowl of instant ramen topped with strips of honeyed ham, green onion, and a fried egg. Another just has a plate of tenderloin, blood pooling at the bottom of it. Eren salivates just looking at it and walks over, hypnotized. He sits down at the table, dropping into his seat with a thud and reaches out with his hand when he’s suddenly sprayed in the face with water. 

“Ugh!” Eren spits wiping the water off his face with a hand. He scowls at Jean. “Would you stop doing that?” 

“As soon as you pick up your utensils and eat your food like a normal human being,” Jean says, gesturing towards the knife and fork he had thoughtfully set out for Eren. He doesn’t flinch when the zombie growls at him, instead giving him a pointed look. “It was part of our list of agreements.” 

Among the agreements they had agreed upon for Jean to help Eren was that Eren would sit down at the dining table and eat with proper eating utensils. Eren thought it was strange at the time, but he agreed to it. He stares down unhappily at the fork in front of him and picks it up, stabbing the cut of tenderloin. The zombie raises the bleeding piece of meat to his lips, ready to take a bite out of it but he’s sprayed once more with water. 

“Uck! What the fuck was that one for?” Eren splutters. He’s so surprised that he drops his fork and his meat along with it, the tenderloin sending blood splattering out of his plate and onto the table. 

Jean doesn’t look disgusted, only minorly inconvenienced. “Use your knife too,” he tells Eren. 

“Fine,” Eren grumbles, taking the knife in his right hand and picking up his fork again. He cuts through the tenderloin (which is a little bit more difficult to do given that the meat is uncooked) and raises the piece to his lips but stops once he realizes that Jean is still sitting in front of him. 

It’s one thing to have your friend know you’re a zombie and eat raw meat. It’s another thing entirely to eat a bleeding piece of beef right in front of him. It’s not even steak, which would be a lot less embarrassing. It’s just uncooked meat: pink and bloody and raw. Jean doesn’t seem to have any qualms about it. He’s just sitting across from Eren and eating his ramen like this is a normal meal. Eren thinks Jean should feel a little bit weird about this whole thing. 

“Um,” Eren says as Jean slurps up a mouthful of noodles. “Could you maybe look away while I’m eating?” 

Jean looks up from his ramen, raising an eyebrow. With his mouth still full, he replies, “I’m still eating.” Even though Eren sits there not touching his food, Jean continues eating. When he realizes that the zombie hasn’t eaten yet, Jean sighs and motions for Eren to just eat. “Come on. You’re going to make it weird. We can talk about how our days went while we eat if it’ll make you feel less uncomfortable.” 

“Er, okay,” Eren says, sucking on his bottom lip. He looks at Jean again, but his friend has already returned to his noodles. The zombie stares at the little cube of meat on his fork and wonders if it’s really alright. He brings it to his lips, nibbling on it. The taste of meat on his tongue is so rich and savory that he almost moans. With less hesitation, Eren puts the tenderloin in his mouth, his whole body relaxing as he chews into the tender meat. It’s not as good as the livestock he’d eat when he lived near the farm, but it beats frozen hamburger meat any day. As soon as he swallows it down, Eren begins cutting away for another piece before he remembers Jean’s still there. He looks at Jean, but the makeup artist is still eating his ramen as if this is normal. 

He’s a few more bites into the tenderloin when Jean says, “I heard that you guys told Reiner.” 

“Armin told you already?” Eren asks, swallowing his beef down hastily. Jean might be fine with eating across a zombie, but Eren doesn’t want his friend to see him with a mouth full of raw meat. This experience is probably traumatizing enough already. 

“Yeah. Reiner made a group chat this afternoon so we could talk about what to do next,” Jean says, to which Eren rolls his eyes. It’s a very unsurprisingly Reiner thing to do. 

“Right, a group chat,” Eren says, pushing a cube of meat across his plate so that it soaks up more blood. “That’s probably convenient.” He has no idea where his phone went. It wasn’t in his pocket when he woke up in the mountains. He assumed that it had either been taken by his murderer or it had fallen out of his pocket and was somewhere in the woods. It might be for the best though. It’d be hard to explain why his phone was still active a year after he had gone MIA. 

“Right, you don’t have a phone,” Jean mumbles. His mouth twists into a frown as he twirls his chopsticks in his bowl. He spoons another ramen into his mouth and hums. Leaning back, he wonders aloud, “Maybe we could get you one? It might take a while, but it’d be more convenient to have you in the group chat, too.” 

Eren perks up. It’s kind of embarrassing to feel so excited about being included in a group chat when he’s been friends with everyone for years, but he’s been out of touch with them for a year so maybe his feelings are justified. “I mean, you don’t have to, but it would be great.” 

“I’ll look into it then,” Jean says as he prepares another spoonful of ramen for himself. He’s always so methodical about eating ramen, making sure to have a little bit of everything in each spoon. “And Armin mentioned that we were starting research.” 

“Ah, yeah,” Eren says with a frown as he thinks about the stack of books he still has yet to get through. “Did he give you anything to read?” If he’s lucky, maybe Jean will agree to trade with him. Eren doesn’t think he’ll ever understand this vodou stuff. 

“Mmm, Armin handed me the newspaper articles about missing tourists and zombie sightings. I might have to get a corkboard or something to work out a timeline on these,” Jean says as he chews thoughtfully. 

Jean follows by filling Eren in on the rest of the group chat conversation — with a roll of his eyes, he explains that most of the messages are just Reiner complaining about how it’s killing him to keep such a big secret from Bertholdt, the love of his life — and future plans that Armin has about dealing with their … situation. (“It’s really just about research and looking into anyone suspicious that might have wanted to kill you, although Annie said that the description was too broad because ‘who didn’t want to kill Eren at some point in their lives?’” Jean said.) It’s not long before dinner is finished and Jean is collecting the dishes to wash them in the sink. 

“I can’t believe I just have to sit in your apartment all day while you guys do all the work,” Eren sighs. He’s never felt so useless in his life. 

“Yeah, it must be killing you to let us help you so much,” Jean snorts as he pulls on his rubber gloves and turns on the faucet. His voice is teasing, but his words remind Eren of something Reiner said earlier that day. 

“Do you think I keep stuff from people too much?” Eren asks. “Reiner said something about that earlier, something about how it led to the demise of my relationship with Historia.” He attempts to say it lightheartedly, rolling his eyes, but he does not like the way Jean freezes up upon hearing the question. 

“Hmm,” Jean hums, pretending to be occupied with the dishes. 

“You’re not answering the question,” Eren points out, straightening his back. He glares at the back of Jean’s head, staring daggers so that Jean knows that his nonanswer is not appreciated. “I know I tend to keep things to myself, but I just don’t like sharing every little detail of my life with people. It’s not like it caused problems or anything.” 

Jean sighs and turns off the faucet, letting the dishes soak in the sink. He turns around, leaning back against the counter with a frown on his face. “Eren, you’re just bad at asking for help. Everyone knows this,” Jean finally replies. “It’s not like it’s the worst flaw in the world to have, but it has made being friends with you incredibly stressful at times.” 

“That’s stupid! I’ve never been a burden to anyone!” Eren protests. “Name one time I caused you guys unnecessary stress.” 

Jean doesn’t wait around to answer. “Once, you were sick and locked yourself in your room with a fuckton of Emergen-C and water because you were convinced you could get better by yourself and we eventually had to break down your door and drag you to the hospital because you got pneumonia.” It’s insulting how quickly Jean pulled that example from memory. It’s even more insulting how Jean can prattle off more examples without hesitation. “You got lost on a trip with Historia for two hours because you were too stubborn to ask for directions or call anyone for help. Eren, you would have failed all of our high school classes if Armin hadn’t insisted on group study sessions and convinced you that they helped him more than they helped you.” 

The last one is news to him. “But he said he studied better in a group!” Eren splutters. Then again, it makes more sense now that Jean is pointing it out to him. Armin made way too many study notes for Eren and Eren only in those study sessions. He doesn’t know why he wasn’t more suspicious about them then. Eren sinks down in his chair, pulling the hood over his eyes. “Is it a crime to not want to be a bother to people?” he mumbles. 

Jean doesn’t respond for a moment and Eren thinks the makeup artist has ignored him until the zombie feels the slightest touch on the top of his head. He looks up and sees Jean patting his head gently. It’s comforting. Eren closes his eyes and allows Jean to keep petting him.

“You’re never a bother, Eren. You’re our friend,” Jean says with the warmest smile. He lets his head rest on Eren’s head for a moment before removing it, returning to his dishes. “I have to say, though, it’s pretty funny to have you rely on us so much because you have no other choice.” 

Eren opens his eyes and scowls at Jean. “Funny for you, maybe,” Eren mutters. 

Jean snickers. He tends to the dishes for a bit, shaking excess water out of a bowl before placing it on the drying rack, and says to Eren, “Why don’t you take a shower while I finish these up? It might help you relax.” He pauses and Eren thinks for a moment that Jean might point out that a shower might help because Eren’s a zombie and perpetually gross, but he thankfully doesn’t. “Just grab some clothes out of my drawer or something.” 

Eren wants to grumble and resist, but he does feel grimy and gross. A shower might not help him feel completely cleansed of his filth, but it might help. “Alright,” Eren mumbles, shuffling to Jean’s bedroom and pulling open the drawer of Jean’s pajamas. It’s filled with plain cotton shirts and sweatpants. Not one to be picky, Eren ends up picking a long-sleeved shirt in a dark olive green and some black sweats, feeling more comfortable in more muted colors. Jean doesn’t say anything when Eren emerges with his clothes, so the zombie continues to the bathroom, avoiding his reflection as usual while he strips down to his skin. 

Eren shivers when his foot touches the cold ceramic of the shower and hurriedly turns the faucet to the hot water. The shower sputters on before a rush of water spills out and Eren gasps at how hot it is, but he doesn’t step away nor does he attempt to adjust the temperature. He sighs as the steam surrounds him and the hot water burns across his skin, almost like it’s erasing all the dirt and grime that had covered him while he was buried for the past year. Jeez, Eren realizes. It’s been an entire year since he’s had a hot shower. 

He begins to reach for the soap so that he can scrub away at his skin, but hesitates. It’s the same soap that Jean uses. Is that weird? He hadn’t asked Jean beforehand if he had extra soap and shampoo. Using the same shampoo is a little less weird, but the thought of having the same scent as Jean makes Eren’s stomach flip. It’s a little too late to ask Jean now though, so Eren reaches for the soap. It smells a little bit like pine, but the scent isn’t usually as harsh as it usually is. Jean doesn’t smell that much like pine, Eren thinks, but he does have a kind of forest-y aroma to him. Maybe the fragrance isn’t that strong once he steps out of the shower. Eren imagines Jean using the same bar of soap, running it over his firm biceps as bubbles run down his tanned skin. 

No, that’s weird, Eren thinks, shaking his head like a dog. Water splatters across the shower curtain. Stop thinking about Jean like that. Don’t think about him showering. Just don’t think about him at all right now. But it’s nearly impossible when Eren’s washing his body with the same bar of soap Jean probably runs over his body in the same shower. Why did it have to have a scent anyway? Why couldn’t that stupid makeup artist just use scentless soap? 

Eren hurriedly rubs at the rest of his body, trying to make sure he gets most of the dirt in between his fingers and behind his neck and other hard to reach places. He’s in a hurry, so he probably hasn’t gotten all of it, but he’s confident he’s got most of it. He doesn’t want to take too long lest he have more strange ideas about Jean. 

The shampoo is a little less troublesome. Now that Eren has less hair, it doesn’t take as long to wash it all. He kind of wishes he had gotten a haircut back when he was alive. Getting a trim to maintain a shorter cut was annoying, but long hair always got greasy so quickly and washing it was a pain. Also, he doesn’t think he’d be able to hold his breath while washing his hair without passing out if he had long hair. Holding his breath is a necessary precaution while showering now, Eren thinks, if only to prevent any unnecessary thoughts about Jean. 

It’s a relief when he’s finally finished, stepping out of the shower and drying himself  before pulling on Jean’s clothes. Like the jeans and hoodie that Eren had borrowed earlier, the shirt and sweats are a bit shirt, but they feel nice and warm against his skin. And they smell like Jean, Eren can’t help but think. He wipes at the saliva at the side of his mouth with the back of his hand. Somehow, drooling always seems to accompany Jean, like some kind of weird Pavlovian response. Eren needs to find a way to stop doing that. 

When he opens the door, Jean is sitting hunched over on the couch pouring over an open newspaper spread out on the coffee table, reading glasses perched on his nose. 

“Hey, Jean, I’m done with the shower,” Eren calls. 

“Alright.” Jean stretches and then yawns without bothering to cover his mouth. He removes his reading glasses and rubs at his eyes before setting his spectacles down on the table. He gets up and is about to say something when his eyes settle on Eren, mouth agape. Slowly, the brunet raises a hand and points. “Eren, what the fuck happened to your neck?” 

“My … neck?” Eren looks down before he realizes that he can’t see his neck. He raises a hand to his throat. “What’s wrong with it?” 

“There are, like, marks or something,” Jean says, stumbling over to get a closer look. He reaches out and pulls down at the collar of Eren’s shirt, exposing more skin. “Jesus, what the fuck? Why didn’t you show me this earlier?” 

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Eren yelps, pulling away from Jean before his friend stretches out the collar. He rubs at his throat with a frown. “It’s not like I spend a lot of time looking at myself in the mirror. Not after …” 

“Right …” Jean’s voice trails off as his eyes drift downward. He clears his throat and grabs Eren by the wrist. “Here, let me just show you.” He walks Eren back into the bathroom and forces him in front of the mirror that’s still foggy from all the steam. Jean wipes at it with his hand so that Eren can see himself. 

Eren doesn’t look, not immediately. He chooses to look at his feet instead, preferring to look at his bony feet and ridged toenails than his face. He probably looks worse without all his makeup on. 

Jean doesn’t force him to look up. He just puts his hands gently on Eren’s shoulders. “Hey, Eren. It’s fine. You don’t look as bad as you think you do,” he tells Eren, rubbing against the zombie’s shoulders soothingly. “

“You’re just being nice,” Eren mutters. 

“I’m not,” Jean says firmly. “It’s really not that bad. You look fine. Kind of like how you did in college during finals week, actually. So not your best, but you don’t look like a monster.” 

Eren sighs frustratedly. “Fine,” he says and he lifts his eyes slowly, He doesn’t look bad, he thinks as his eyes look up from his waist to his chest. The shirt hangs off his body a little too much, as if he’s a skeleton rather than a person, but that makes sense. It’s only when he looks at his neck that Eren realizes what Jean is talking about and he’s too distracted by the sight of it to look up at his face. 

Purple bruises decorate his throat, prominent against his sickly pale skin. They’re all around his neck like a collar, but they also look like something: hands around his neck, the very same that choked him to death the night he died. 

Eren raises his hand to his neck once more, touching at the purple marks lightly. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “What the fuck?” 

“Must have been from when that guy killed you,” Jean murmurs. He reaches out to touch them too, encircling his own hands to mimic the place the killer had wrapped their hands around Eren’s neck. His fingers are cool against Eren’s skin, making the zombie shiver. 

“W-what?” Eren stutters, backing away from Jean and accidentally bumping his hip against the granite counter. He clutches at his throat, trying his best to remember how to breathe. “What are you doing?” 

“Comparing,” Jean replies, somehow completely unaffected. He holds out his hand, but he doesn’t curl his fingers around Eren’s throat. A part of Eren kind of wishes Jean would. “Whoever did it has big hands. Not too much bigger than mine, but their fingers are a lot larger.” 

“What, so we’re just going to ask potential suspects to come over and put their hands around my neck?” Eren mumbles, rubbing at his throat. He hadn’t noticed his neck before. He had always avoided looking at himself and his bundle of clothes had always covered his neck until now. Now that Jean has pointed out the marks on his neck, it feels strange, like a light pressure squeezing around his neck even though there’s nothing there. 

“Nope, but it might be helpful,” Jean says. He reaches around in his back pocket, fishing out his phone. The brunet points it at Eren. “Hold still, I’m taking a picture.” 

“What? Why?” Eren yelps. He covers his neck with his hands, embarrassed for some reason even though it’s just his throat. 

“Come on, all of us have seen you shirtless at least once. I’m just going to send this in the group chat,” Jean tells Eren, swatting the zombie’s hands away from his neck. Reluctantly, Eren lets his hands fall from his throat and Jean takes a few pictures to send to their friends. It only takes a few moments before they send their replies: 

Zombie Investigation Squad

Reiner: kinky lol 🥵😩💦

Annie: never send anything like this to me again

But it’s Armin who sends the most hopeful message: 

Armin: Thanks for your dead-ication! Looks like we’re making progress! 😃

[hummingbirdsaltimolockia]

I recently made a list of all the musicals I’m pretty familiar with and it came out to 63. and since my sisters won’t listen to my recommendations this is a masterpost of all those musicals with a few of my Thoughts and Opinions. this gets hella long so prepare yourself

-Les Miserables

ah, you never forget your first. I heard the symphonic recording when I was six? seven? so it has become the definitive version in my mind, but cast members (michael ball) are weak, and unfortch I haven’t come across a recording were all the cast members are top notch, though the 25th anniversary concert comes very close (norm lewis!! lea salonga!!)

-The Little Mermaid

ok so on the whole this show is not particularly great or interesting and honestly didn’t do very well on stage BUT hearing sherie rene scott sing poor unfortunate souls literally changed my life and is what really sparked my interest in musical theatre. also norm lewis is there

-The Band’s Visit

unlike any broadway musical you’ve heard fs. based on the movie of the same name, it’s about the egyptian police band being stranded in a middle-of-nowhere town in israel for in 1996. it’s a simple story but incredibly charming and ernest and surprsingly emotional. also the music is played onstage by the actors which is always cool!

-In the Heights

lin manuel miranda’s first musical and is honestly just as good as hamilton, if not better (I said what I said). it’s a slice of life kinda story about people living in washington heights. great music, great story, great characters, feels very real without being like....depressing.

-Aladdin

most of the songs from the movie stay mostly the same, I think they only changed arabian nights, and friend like me (which for the latter was a huuge improvement. I can’t NOT dance whenever I hear it. james monroe inglehart is a fantastic genie). and the flying carpet!! looks amazing!!

-Once on This Island

this story made me v mad initially (the female lead just. dies at the end), but I kept coming back to it because I loved the music, and it took me a while to figure out why and it’s because the caribbean island vibes are off the charts, and that reminds me of my childhood in sofl. and the vocals of the ensemble are amazing and the 2018 revival used a in the round stage with actual sand and live animals how cool is that

-She Loves Me

a super cute, super enjoyable, super fun musical based on the old film shop around the corner. zachery levi and laura benanti make some quality faces

-Next to Normal

oooof. a very intense show both in terms of theme and music. deals with bipolar depression, schizophrenia, drugs, suicide, hallucinations, death of a child....yeah. a very good show that handles all those heavy themes realistically

-Hamilton

so yeah when it first came out five years ago it was very hyped up and was called lin manuel’s “masterpiece” and when I listened to it I was like....dam they’re right. the lyrics and wording are so precise and having a story told by the protag’s enemy is so narratively juicey. plus the music is incredible (also listen to the hamilton mixtape if you haven’t it’s great)

-The Lion King

if you’ve followed me for any time you know I love the movie and the musical only makes it better. the songs, the music, the puppets, heather headley, the songs in zulu, the costumes...ugh perfection. the most successful disney show on broadway

-Aida

ever wonder what it’s like to be so darn good at singing that sir elton john writes a musical for you? well that’s what happened to heather headley and she completely deserved it. it’s a bit problematic in that the egyptian conquerors are all white and all the nubia slaves are black and like....they’re both in africa dude

-Anastasia

ok so I know it didn’t happen but the premise is so compelling and so gd tragic and christy altomare’s voice has such a fragility to it which is such a contrast to who anastasia actually was and the show features a song about russian refugees having to flee their homeland and it’s like the saddest song I’ve ever heard

-Anything Goes

honestly this musical on the whole isn’t that great for some...reasons, but it does have some great Friendship songs and Great tap dancing and sutton foster is in it and she is the epitome of a triple threat

-Cinderella

honestly just watch the brandy version because it’s the best version. better than the broadway version for sure, even though laura osnes is fantastic in everything she does and the show does have an amazing onstage costume change, but the brandy version has the coolest cast and costume and sets

-Ragtime

ho boy. so much to unpack here. while I think this is a “good” musical, it is too long, has too many characters and storylines, and deals with some heavy themes but doesn’t handle them very well so by the end it’s just exhausting and disappointing. BUT it does have the incomparable brian stokes mitchell and audra mcdonald, who is literally the best performer to ever grace broadway

-Thoroughly Modern Millie

there is so much spirit in this show it’s infectious. also sutton foster

-Dear Evan Hanson

sigh. so this musical gained a lot popularity among the Young People and...it..didn’t...deserve it? like again it deals with heavy issues like social anxiety, depression, and suicide, but like ragtime it doesn’t handle them very well; not in an honest way. and like everything they talk about is handled better in next to normal so

-Tuck Everlasting

based on the book, not the movie. the music is something really different and I don’t think broadway was ready to accept it so it didn’t run very long. and the adaption isn’t very strong, but the lead (sarah charles lewis) is very good and it does have a very sad song about miles losing his family

-Come From Away

so this is about the 38 planes that were diverted to a small town in newfoundland on 9/11. now with as much as america loves to talk about 9/11 I had never heard this story so it was cool to hear a different side of it. also it has a song that makes me tear up every time I hear it

-Annie

not much to say about this one. a classic

-Oklahoma!

speaking of classics, if you think this musical is boring and outdated, please listen to the 2019 revival. it rocks in every sense of the word

-West Side Story

this one is also a classic, and often called a masterpiece for good reason. the music is so strong and is integrated so well and it represents the characters on both sides. this video explains it really well. tho productions consistently have trouble finding puerto rican actors to play the puerto ricans....

-Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812

this one deserved sooo much more than it got, coming out in the same year as dear shmevan shmhanson. the lighting and set design is incredible and the music reflects each character’s emotion so it feels really honest, and almost like a supporting character. it’s so good guys. it has josh groban in a fat suit

-The Phantom of the Opera

unpopular opinion (maybe): I think gerard butler was a really good phantom. probably andrew llyod webber’s best work

-Waitress

based on the film of the same name, also the first broadway show with an entirely female creative team. also what baking can do came after my entire life

-Hello Dolly!

I fell in love with the movie version with barbra streisand, but then I learned that the original broadway production had a all black cast which is awesome but wasn’t reflected at all in the movie and that’s disappointing. great show tho

-Wicked

I can distinctly remember the first time I heard the ending crescendo of defying gravity. and the fact that it has so quickly become classic staple of broadway is a testiment to how strong it is

-You’re a Good Man Charlie Brown

yes there is a broadway show of charlie brown. the songs are funny and childlike and honest, and very ernest. also kristin chenoweth is hilarious as sally brown (she won a tony for it!)

-Chess

I love the music in the show, and some songs have very complex lyrics but the main character is kinda annoying. like yeah dude deserting your country with another woman and leaving your wife and kids behind is gonna have negative consequences. don’t know what to tell you

-Finding Neverland

not as good as the movie it’s based on. while some of the music is very pretty, the songs are pretty simple and kinda boring

-Venice

ok this show also isn’t very good, the character’s motivations are not clear, especially the villain, and the female lead’s songs are weak. but the premise and some of the songs are arresting, and I kept coming back to them

-The King and I

like wws, it took a very long time for a production to cast this show accurately, and it still hasn’t....quite done it. but the songs are very beautiful. r&h strike again.

-Matilda

features a bunch of v talented children and manages to be lighthearted but also really gets you. just listen to when I grow up

-Little Women

on the whole, not a great adaption. some good songs. sutton foster is great

-Bonnie and Clyde

oh boy you want some bad guy songs? how bout a whole musical of them? oh no the public hated us and we closed after 36 performances. ah well. at least laura osnes got her first tony nod

-Beetlejuice

very catchy show with a killer aesthetic. give alex brightman a tony just for being Like That

-Hadestown

this show has such nice lyrical rhythm, even in the spoken words, and it is so smartly composed and balanced. and even tho the broadway cast recording is out, it’s worth it to listen to the earlier album as well

-Catch Me If You Can

based on the film. just two hours of aaron tveit being a little brat and norbert leo butz flexing on everyone else’s vocal chords

-Miss Saigon

an extremely problematic and infuriating show that is unfortunately very beautiful. introduced lea salonga to the world, so that’s good at least

-The Hunchback of Notre Dame

speaking of problematic but beautiful shows. exceeds the movie in my opinion. the choral vocals just cut right through you

-The Fiddler on the Roof

I listened to the 2016 revival after not listening to this show for years and you know what? it’s really good! like heck!

-Mean Girls

yes they made a musical of mean girls. yes it’s pretty great. regina has a killer song near the end that I love to belt out

-Bandstand

one of the only musicals to make me cry actual tears just from listening to one (1) song. it’s about WWII veterans coming together to form a band just months after the war ends. also laura osnes fricking kills it in the last number

-Into the Woods

I’m not a huge fan of “fairy tales but make it realistic and therefore disappointing” but stephen sondheim is a very good writer and musician so it’s worth checking out. and the witch is played by bernadette peters in the musical and meryl streep in the movie so it’s a win both ways

-How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying

what it says on the can. a very fun, ‘don’t take this too seriously’ show. the lead was played by daniel radcliffe and nick jonas at one point so like. come on

-The Last Five Years

honestly this is a very depressing show, but it’s told in a interesting way. it’s about a couple who meet, fall in love, get married, drift apart, and ultimately get divorced, but not in that order

-Newsies

ok so the broadway version is very different from the movie, but it’s still worth checking out! the new verse at the beginning of seize the day makes it worth it!

-Legally Blonde

yes they made a musical of legally blonde. yes it’s great

-Daddy Long Legs

a little known musical about a young woman who is aging out of an orphanage and finds out she is being sent to school by a mysterious benefactor. meghan mcginnis has super sweet voice

-My Fair Lady

another problematic show about a british asshole who takes it upon himself to turn a flower girl into a “proper lady” (no one asked you to do that dude). but it is funny

-South Pacific

ok so I’m not actually super familiar with this show but it does have a very important song called you’ve got to be carefully taught about how racism is not “something you’re just born” so stop making excuses nellie

-Once

again I’m not super knowledgeable about this show, I’ve listened to it a few times, and read the wiki summary but I still don’t quite know what it’s about. but the music is really good, really different from a traditional broadway show. very enticing and sentimental

-Beauty and the Beast

I think this was the first disney movie that made it to broadway? I could be wrong. like hunchback, I think it exceeds the movie, esp if I can’t love her??? shoutout to my sister’s friend for blowing my socks off with that song in 2005

-Six

not a full blown production, just a rock show about the six wives of henry viii. I thought it would be like riding off the hamilton craze of “history but make it cool” but it actually kicks ass all by itself

-The Sound of Music

another classic, and edelweiss makes me emotional

-Billy Elliot

ahh this show has so much tangible emotion in it and it’s heavy but children are it and they carry it so well and the juxtaposition of the protests an d the dancing UGH

-The Lightning Thief

yes the percy jackson musical! is good and enjoyable! doesn’t take itself seriously at all (as it shouldn’t) and the last two songs go so hard!

-The Music Man

this is imprinted into my brain because of my sister’s drama group and from that day on I have never known peace

-The Scarlet Pimpernel

based on the film of the same name, it’s really good, the opening number goes really hard, and it SHOULD be revived with laura osnes

-Oliver!

this show is....good..but it’s just too long. too many extra songs that don’t do anything

-Sussical

beautifully whimsical and heartfelt. features an array of suess characters and stories

-Moulin Rouge!

the cast album that came late year and it kicks ass. it keeps some of the songs that were featured in the movie, and brings in songs that have come out since the movie like shut up and dance, royals, and bad romance

-The Greatest Showman

so technically this isn’t a broadway show, but it’s going to be, and I think it will be much better as a stage show than a movie.

[keeroo92]

Be My Nightmare Ch9

Freedom

Warnings for murder, gore and mutilation.

Word count - 3,487

~~~~Previous Chapter~~~~

________

---V---

Pine needles and loamy earth muffled his hurried steps. Quiet huffs slipped through his parted lips and metal warmed under his fingers as he kept the cuffs still. Somewhere not far behind him, shouts of alarm rang through the trees as staff members hunted him down like cattle.

But he was no one’s prey.

He was the predator.

They used an insipid grid pattern to search; it was child’s play to navigate around their movements. Honestly, how did they expect to find anything when they traipsed about so noisily? Even an imbecile would hear them coming.

It took him less than five minutes to get into position, crouched on a low hanging branch directly in line with the grid. Kelly’s death was a mere appetizer; it was time for the main course. He licked his lips and shifted his weight, eyeing his target as it approached without a clue.

“Section seventeen, clear,” the orderly said, holding a small walkie-talkie to his lips. Not standard issue; it was wise to wait.

Three… two… one… now!

The artist dropped onto the unsuspecting fool, the chain of his handcuffs serving as an excellent tool to crush the man’s trachea. He braced his legs on the man’s spine, using all his body weight to force the chain ever deeper, just to be sure. He couldn’t afford any mistakes.

Wet gurgles accompanied his victim’s pathetic clawing, vessels in his eyes popping as his face twisted into a lovely new arrangement of despair. V hummed happily and brought his lips to the dying man’s ear, shivering in delight as he chose the last sentence the man would ever hear.

“You should’ve stayed home today.”

A final gasp and the man went limp, falling forward into the dirt and leaves. A sadly bloodless death, but to be so up close, to feel the final heartbeat… there was no feeling like it.

The artist had total control in those moments.

How much things had changed in the time since school. The man he’d been never would have made it this far. He knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt. Ignorant and unaware, easily caught off guard and unable to respond quickly in a crisis. That man would’ve gotten himself killed months ago.

This ain’t the time, Van Gogh. Keep moving.

Griffon was right, he couldn’t tarry. No more distractions, not until he was out of their reach. He made quick work of the man’s pockets, taking the walkie talkie and a protein bar. No key, unfortunately, though that would’ve been far too easy.

The artist narrowed his eyes and chose a direction, darting in a mostly straight line through the trunks and foliage. If he went in the same direction long enough, he was bound to find civilization. Instead, he found the stone wall he glimpsed mere minutes before. Heavy blocks of unknown origin stacked in uneven patterns, pleasing to the eye but not to the touch. His hands slid right off.

“Damnit…”

A subtle roar and soft clatter of crystal echoed from his left. The brush of warm fur under his hands, prowling pawsteps as Shadow came to his aid. Her glowing eyes met his and her tail flicked across his face, her massive claws gouging a path for his hands in the accursed wall.

“Perfect timing,” he murmured, fingers already caressing the fresh crevasse left behind. Much better, plenty of friction now.

A few moments of clumsy scrabbling later and he crouched atop the stones. This was it. Freedom. No more restraints, no more Kevin. No more medication or group therapy sessions where he had to pretend to care about his fellows.

No more Y/N.

The thought gave him unexpected pause. While he planned to return and have his vengeance, there was no guarantee you would still be there when he did so. He may never see you again if he left. It ached, to imagine a life spent alone.

It doesn’t matter – you need to move!

Yet his legs refused to move. What a tragedy, for you to remain blind to all he had to offer. Perhaps he should’ve waited before spurring Ken into action, taken more time to show you his world. You showed so much promise…

A pulse of mind-numbing pain rippled across his flesh. His body was fire, his nerves magma and his blood, acid. The artist doubled over and clutched at his belly but it was too much. Saliva flooded his mouth as his stomach spasmed and reacquainted him with his most recent meal. If it weren’t for the vomit, he surely would’ve screamed and gotten himself caught.

“Move. Now.”

The agony faded and he wiped his mouth, searching for the source of the insidious voice. Jade eyes widened as he spotted gnarled feet encased in what might be armor, but the texture wasn’t quite right. It couldn’t be flesh, not in that blueish-black tone.

Ropes of muscle and sinew extended upward, outlandish hooks and spikes here and there. And, was that an eye?

The legs moved, stepping closer. Indeed, it was an eye. One of many blinking from the creature’s form in a hideous shade of orange. He’d never seen such a grotesque being, not even in his nightmares.

“Ur… Urizen?” he stuttered.

A clawed hand reached out to him, lifting his chin to meet the creature’s gaze. It’s eyes glowed with malevolent light and the artist shivered, suddenly glad the being was connected to him. As long as Urizen needed him, he was safe from his true cruelty.

“Indeed. Do as I command and I can end your suffering.”

An echo of his earlier agony twinged his mind, just enough to drive the point home. A feather’s caress in comparison yet still enough to force his eyes closed and drag a hiss from his throat.

When he opened his lids, Urizen was gone. He took one last look at the facility and turned away. Yes, it was regrettable that he had to leave you behind, but now wasn’t the time to dwell on that. His conflicted emotions weren’t the focus right now, only his continued movement.

Descending the other side proved far easier than climbing. More trees greeted him, soft grass and pine needles muffling his steps as he jogged away. All he had to do now was put some distance between himself and the facility, and then he’d need to figure out a hiding place. Perhaps a change in attire, and he certainly wasn’t going to leave his hands cuffed forever.

Hours passed in silence as he trekked ever onward. Even his friends remained silent. The stillness soothed him, he rarely had the pleasure of plotting in solitude.

At long last, with the tree’s shadows reaching for him as the sun set, he found it. A road, thankfully empty. If he were spotted now, with hands still cuffed and wearing the standard issue white linens of the facility, he’d end up right back in that accursed room.

Following the asphalt brought him to the edges of a city before the stars were fully visible. Perfect timing, he wouldn’t need to worry as much about passerby if everyone was safely indoors.

Safely…

The artist smirked. Now that he roamed the streets, none were truly safe. They’d learn to fear the night and dread the shadows. But first things first.

He ducked into a trash-strewn alley and slammed the walkie-talkie against the bricks, cracking the casing open to expose the circuitry and wiring. Several options confronted his gaze, but he settled for a pair of copper wires and got to work.

Within moments, he regained the ability to stretch his arms in any direction he liked, and he didn’t waste a second in doing so. One should never neglect the simple pleasures.

“C’mere, baby. This’ll work just fine,” said a man’s voice.

V crouched behind a dumpster instantly. A feminine giggle followed the voice, loud and careless footsteps growing closer. Poor lost souls, how unfortunate for them that they chose this alley on this night, when a predator lurked.

More giggles, the soft thud of a body pressed on stone. Rustling cloth and a quiet whimper of need.

Not yet… a moment more.

The artist shifted his weight and rolled his eyes. If they could just get on with it… How inconsiderate of them to take so long to lose themselves in pleasure.

“Ah! James, please!”

The woman sounded as impatient as he felt. What did they look like? His size, or would he need to find others? Better to be sure. Keeping to the shadows, he peeked around the metal that concealed him.

Perfect!

The man faced away, pinning the girl against the bricks and out of view. He looked to be slightly shorter than he, but with a similar build. Cropped hair did nothing to hide his gauged ears and tattooed neck, currently being assaulted by the young woman’s mouth. Her small hands pawed at the man’s leather jacket, pausing only to stroke the bulge between his legs. Muttered curses accompanied her efforts and even in the darkness, his reactive thrusts were obvious.

The two lacked any class whatsoever.

V watched in silence as the two exposed one another’s skin to the pale moonlight. He caught glimpses of the girl’s body, her milky skin and the delightful roundness of her chest. The man at least had good taste, physically speaking. Heat coiled in his gut, his cock a growing stiffness he refused to indulge until the work was done.

The moment he heard them gasp in unison, he made his move. With silent steps he crept behind the man and looped the chain of his cuffs around his neck. He would have preferred a knife, but desperate times…

“What the f-“

A sharp tug and all that remained was a corpse. The girl screamed, yet she was too foolish or terrified to run as her companion fell to the filthy ground. Without his body in the way, her full figure gleamed as if on display just for him. Truly, the universe was kind to provide him all he desired.

“Oh fuck! Oh, shit fuck what the fuck?!” she cried, utterly incoherent. No matter.

He slapped her, his eyes threatening endless horrors if she didn’t silence herself. With his other hand, he brought her shaking fingers to press against his cock, forcing her to stroke him and ease the ache even a fraction. Slowly, her curses and shouts turned to sobs and he smirked. Good enough.

Now, how best to use her? It’d been so long since he had such creative freedom. Perhaps… oh, how perfect.

A small clip held something inside the man’s pocket. The artist hummed and tugged it loose, chuckling as he flicked open the small blade. Could this night get any better? He doubted it.

“On your knees, girl. Right over there,” he ordered, a wicked grin twisting his lips as she obeyed.

He had to admit, she was quite beautiful, yet he would make her even more so. Without his tools, this would be far from his best work, but he’d make do. Images and ideas flowed though his mind and his heart raced in anticipation.

The girl squeaked as he joined her, towering over her huddled body. Silver glinted in his teeth where he held the knife, freeing his hands to explore her quivering body. He traced every curve and valley, planning his desecration. Stomach, thighs, ass, hips, all his to decorate however he pleased.

His fingers crept higher, tracing the roundness of her chest. A soft whimper slipped through her lips and he pinched, hard enough to bruise. Distractions would not be tolerated. She was his canvas; she should be thanking him for all she would become.

“P- please! Let me go!”

Forgetting the blade between his teeth, the artist clicked his tongue and winced as copper flooded his mouth. He took the blade in hand and dipped his other hand into his mouth. Waste not, want not.

“No,” he murmured, and then he traced the first mark on her pristine flesh using his own blood.

Her sobs intensified, broken by begging every few moments. The artist tried to focus through her mewling but the girl simply refused to be silent. He’d have to do something. An unplanned adjustment, but he could make it work.

He pried her stubborn jaws open and carved. He didn’t need to be careful, it’s not like she was going to need any of her mouth to work anyway. Blood flooded the cavity, her throat spasming as he sawed away at her tongue and anything that got in his way. Small, feminine hands scrabbled against his arm but she was far too weak, and he too strong.

Something gave way under his blade, the resistance of seconds ag gone. The girl tried to scream, but only wet gurgling resulted form her efforts. Tears and blood alike smeared her cheeks. He leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head before releasing her jaw, allowing her to cough up the gristle left behind.

He didn’t give her long.

---Reader---

The inexorable passage of time offered little comfort after your suspension. It still seemed like every minute lasted an hour, and every hour a week. Maddening. 

How has it only been two days?

You sighed and took another sip of coffee, settling into your now familiar spot on your couch. Nothing good was ever on cable, but you had nothing better to do. Maybe if you watched enough crappy soap operas they might start appealing to you?

Kotomi only made it worse, with her endless emails about which patient needed what, how to get them to talk to her, blah blah blah. You only gave her the answers because to refuse only tarnished your already bruised reputation. You couldn’t afford to add any more black marks to your record. Perfection was the only route forward.

At first, she tried to be friendly. She mentioned the latest gossip and asked about what you were up to with all the free time. How did she expect you to just ignore what happened? You weren’t going to pretend she hadn’t betrayed you or left you to take the fall for her failure. And she never apologized. Infuriating. 

So much for friendship. Oh well, what use was it anyway? It wasn’t like she’d ever added anything meaningful to your life. Idle chatter, a distraction and the appearance of normalcy. Things only necessary when in a group setting. The outcast always got singled out, you knew from experience. 

But here you were, cast out yet again. 

And why does it hurt so much?

You pushed the thought away and changed the channel, might as well see what was happening in the real world. Normally the news bored you to tears, but who knew? Maybe today it would provide some entertainment.

“Local police still have no suspects for the recent killings downtown. So far, four bodies have been found, two of which missing the heart. It is recommended that you stay in your home after dark until the police have made an arrest, though no official lockdown has been initiated at this time. We’ll continue to bring updates as the story develops.”

So, V was still in the area. The heart thing was new, his last killing involved a liver and intestines, a kidney if you remembered right. Why the change? What did it mean?

If only I had my notes from our sessions! I know I could figure this out!

A far-too-cheerful ding broke your morose thoughts as a new email came in. No doubt more questions from Kotomi. You sighed and stood from your perch, stretching your arms as you padded to your laptop.

Sure enough...

Hello, Dr. Waras.

I have a question regarding Jacob Miller’s treatment. Have you had any success with hypnotherapy or suggestion? I thought it may help but if it’s already been tried, there’s not much point. Thanks in advance!

Dr. Kotomi Ishida

Oh, for the love of god... didn’t she read the man’s chart? Your notes were meticulous, every treatment method you tried was thoroughly documented. What a waste of your time. 

Still.

You typed a succinct reply stating that yes, you tried that and no, it was not successful in the least. If anything, it made his symptoms worse. A quick proofread later and off it went, its destination the one place you wanted to be but weren’t allowed.

Well, surely there were other places you wouldn’t be allowed. Monuments. A private home. Crime scenes.

Another ding, what now? Couldn’t she manage for ten minutes on her own, honestly...

But the sender was unknown, the subject line blank. Spam, probably. The filter wasn’t perfect. Bracing for an ad for men’s growth pills, you clicked on the message. 

Unknown has invited you to chat! Accept/Decline

You pursed your lips and glared at the screen. This had to be a joke, and you had absolutely no patience for it. You had enough to deal with without this nonsense. 

Do I? What else have I got to pass the damned time?

With a resigned sigh, you clicked accept and waited.

You rolled your eyes. Whoever it was, they were a cocky one. A shiver of foreboding trailed down your spine as you stared at the screen. You needed to be careful; without knowing who was on the other side, how would you know what information you could trust them with?

Something about the conversation felt familiar, but you couldn’t place why. You couldn’t deny the thrill at a new puzzle, a new problem to solve, but to be careless spelled disaster. It might be someone from work, trying to see if you’d reveal private info to a friendly stranger. Hell, it could be Malphas.

It didn’t seem like the Malphas you knew, but it seemed you didn’t know him as well as you thought.

Your mind sizzled, whirring faster than it had in days as all the pieces slid into place. Of course. How hadn’t you seen it sooner? Only one person you knew of had the taste for this kind of mind game. With trembling hands you responded, lips pursed and shoulders tense.

Shit. Shit, shit, motherfucking shit. Of all the idiotic, foolish, irrational things he could’ve done, he chose this? To contact you?

Why?

He’s too smart not to know how risky it is to talk to me. What in the world would make that risk seem worth it to him?

Possibilities flooded your mind, all the standard things that motivate people. Stupid, he wasn’t like most people, you couldn’t pretend his motivations were the same as anyone else’s. 

Okay, calm down. Think. Work the problem.

In your sessions, he came to life whenever you discussed art and philosophy. He traded knowledge of his personal life to gain access to the simplest of art supplies. He was curious, intelligent and wily. Not prone to impulsive decisions or taking unnecessary risks. A planner. Not to mention he had a healthy libido, if inappropriate. 

And an impressive...

Stop that.

You rolled your shoulders and hummed, still unsure about his reasoning. Perhaps you could just ask? Perhaps his freedom would make him more open to an honest conversation.

You almost laughed. Of course being direct got you nowhere. Always with the mind games... fine, if he wanted to play, he would lose.

You paused, unsure about his meaning. It felt like you were having two different conversations, about completely unrelated topics. What cage? You weren’t living in a cage. He had to mean something else, something subtle and hidden.

The back of your chair creaked as you leaned back, letting out a deep breath as the thrill of using your mind wore off. How you missed it, solving problems and finding solutions others didn’t dare to imagine. How could Malphas do this to you? He knew your background.

And he did it anyway. Maybe he doesn’t care.

A growl of frustration rumbled through your chest and you slammed the laptop closed. Enough wallowing, this was getting you nowhere. If talking to V was the best thing to happen to you since getting suspended, something was clearly wrong. Time to take action.

---V---

Full lips twisted into a smirk as he signed off. What a delight, how fortunate he’d come across this place. Such an interesting home, full of surprises. The cat, for example. Currently it sat on his lap, purring madly as he stroked its fur. He didn’t know its name, but it probably didn’t either.

Now, on to the next task.

“I still say blonde, Van Gogh,” Griffon cawed. He was perched atop the television, his usual spot since taking up residence here.

“And I say brown, it’s the most common and least likely to be noticed,” Vergil chimed in from the massive leather couch.

A muscle in V’s jaw twitched in annoyance. He needed to go out, there was no food left and the locals needed a reminder of his truth. But first, he needed to do something to disguise himself. For a day and a half, he and his friends argued over the best choice, and he was growing impatient.

Shadow flicked her tail at the white walls, her way of casting her vote. She lounged on a plush rug, bathing in the what little sunlight leaked through the venetian blinds.

At least Urizen wasn’t adding to the chaos. He’d never get a word in edgewise.

“Blonde!”

“Brown!”

Flick, growl.

Over and over again. Perhaps he ought to just shave his head and be done with it?

“Blonde! Everybody loves a blonde!”

“Brown, it’s inconspicuous and that’s the main objective!”

Flick, growl, flick.

“Enough!” V shouted, silencing all three at once. “I’ve had it! All you do is argue, and you’ve all missed the obvious!”

Three sets of quizzical eyes stared at him, waiting for an explanation. Instead of speaking, V headed to the bathroom, his friends in tow. He wasn’t sure how they all managed to fit in the tiny room, but somehow it worked out.

Elegant fingers rifled through several drawers before finding what he searched for. He knew there had to be some, the woman had ridiculous hair. No way she didn’t have some way of managing it.

“Wait, are you really gonna cut it?” Griffon prodded.

He didn’t want to. Having his hair like this was Nero’s idea, and he had far too little left of his friend. It took a year to grow it out and another year for him to get used to having a curtain of black blocking half his vision, but he honestly liked it now.

But every picture on the news of him featured him with long hair, draped over his face. This was the simplest way to change his appearance, there could be no argument. And hair grows back, eventually.

He raised the scissors high and prepared to make the first snip.

~~~~Next Chapter~~~~

[who-gave-atlas-a-pencil]

out of the deep waters

A/N: Feel free to shoot me any comments/questions you might have about stuff!!! I love interacting with people and I’m gonna be writing more so I’m trying to stretch my legs a bit with drabbles and such. Either way, enjoy the story!

Read on AO3 for notes.

Summary: Crowley claws his way through the icy waters the way he once crawled out of hell, messy and desperate and using every ounce of his strength. His body aches, every muscle screaming for air or release or both. The moonlight glimmers through the water for an instant, just out of reach –

Then a hand breaks the surface and reaches down to save him.

—---- The night he’s discorporated by a frightened Irish Catholic boy, the sky is black and wicked and churning with thick clouds that block out the stars. Of course, some of that might be Crowley’s fault, an unfortunate side-effect of his growing irritation with the omnipresent ache between his shoulderblades. It’s like that one stupid question about the chicken and the egg that humans find so fascinating, except this one goes more like ‘which comes first, the soul-sucking pain that storm fronts bring him or the storm fronts he brings because everything bloody hurts and he’s feeling vindictive?’

Not that it matters, really. What matters is that he’s forgotten his sunglasses and his snake eyes glow golden in the night without explanation. What matters is that a boy stands before him, wide-eyed and innocent and blocking his escape as he brandishes blessings and a cross with a shaking voice, stepping closer and closer, pushing Crowley toward the edge of the cliff and the waiting waters below.

What matters is, Crowley takes a step too far and the ground disappears beneath him. What matters is, he falls.

—–

If even a few hours later someone had asked him what he’d been doing on a boat beneath a cliff in Ireland in the dead of night, Aziraphale doesn’t think he would know the answer. All he knows is that he happens, by some miracle, to look up just in time to watch as a figure takes one step and then another and then plummets backwards off the cliff to the icy depths below.

Aziraphale gapes for a moment, too stunned to react. Then he drops the Dickens he’s been reading in favour of throwing out a hand, fingers spread wide in an attempt to slow the figure’s descent. With his other hand he fumbles for an oar and begins to row.

—–

It’s cold. Scratch that, it’s bloody freezing. Crowley hits the water with enough force to almost black out then and there, except that he doesn’t because he’s not that lucky. Instead, he’s wide awake as pins and needles jab into every inch of his body and force the air out of his lungs, replacing it with the cold clutch of the lake. The water burns in his eyes and his throat, thick and brackish as he starts to sink. He’s turned around by the impact, can’t tell which way is up, and the darkness hides away any hint of the moon but the fact is that he’s conscious and so he has to swim, has to try.

So he does. Crowley claws his way through the icy waters the way he once crawled out of hell, messy and desperate and using every ounce of his strength. His body aches, every muscle screaming for air or release or both. The moonlight glimmers through the water for an instant, just out of reach –

Then a hand breaks the surface and reaches down to save him.

——

The first thing that Aziraphale notices about the stranger he pulls out of the lake is that their hair is red, gloating in the water like a sopping wet flame. The second is that they are dressed in a manner utterly inappropriate for a late night swim in a half-frozen lake. The third thing he realises as he watches the figure sputter and wipe the water from a pair of brilliant gold eyes is that they aren’t really a stranger after all.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale is too shocked to hide his surprise and so the word drips with it instead, much the same way Crowley is dripping on the bottom of the boat where the Dickens had been resting only moments before. Rather than responding, Crowley turns and retches over the side of the boat. The way he coughs reminds Aziraphale of plague victims, and he half-expects to see blood on Crowley’s lips when he finally, finally starts to breathe again.

Strands of vomit and salive hang from his mouth. Crowley spits over the side and wipes the remnants away with the back of a hand. Then he slumps against the side of the boat like an exhausted puppet and closes his eyes. “Hello angel,” he rasps. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeats, a bit dumbly. “What on Earth are you doing jumping off a cliff?”

Crowley makes a non-committal noise. “Wrong place, wrong time. Old habits die hard. You know.” Aziraphale’s just about to say that no, he doesn’t know, because Crowley’s making about as much sense as that whole manifest destiny business Americans got into a century back when he sees the demon shudder, pulling into himself and gripping his arms. His clothes are sopping wet and pasted to his skin, hugging the sharp angles of his body as he shivers and mutters something obscene.

Of course, Aziraphale thinks, mentally kicking himself. Snakes are cold-blooded. Crowley must be freezing. The thought’s barely crossed his mind when Crowley snaps his fingers and the water dissolves from what he’s wearing, leaving him visibly drier but still shivering, swearing under his breath.

Aziraphale flinches. It’s not the language that bothers him. It’s the look on Crowley’s face – pained and irritated and guarded to an almost entirely imperceptible degree. Aziraphale doesn’t quite recall the last time he’s looked like this, but he knows Crowley well enough to assume that the expression means he’s had a well and truly terrible night.

(On the other hand, he’s not entirely certain he has any right to make assumptions, not after London. He thinks of the Bentley peeling off into the bombed out night and swallows hard, pushing down the familiar and faint churn of guilt in his stomach.)

Where his hands have instinctively moved to take off his jacket and offer it to the figure shivering across from him, the fear of rejection makes them still, fingers fluttering like unhappy butterflies as Aziraphale lets them fall to his lap. Instead of offering anything, he clears his throat and attempts to sound authoritative. “If you don’t wish to answer my questions, then I insist you at least warm yourself up,” he says primly, and reaches for the oars again.

——

Evidently, Aziraphale’s idea of someplace warm is a tiny cottage not far from the lake shore where he says he’s staying, though Crowley can’t even begin to guess why he would be there, of all places. Not that he’s particularly trying, really. He’s too busy being cold and miserable and frankly a bit perplexed by the way the evening’s progressed to give too much thought to Aziraphale’s motivations. So long as he doesn’t end up on the receiving end of another attempted exorcism, this will be an improvement on the rest of the day.

He can only get away with silence for so long though. It’s one thing when they’re in a boat or walking or otherwise preoccupied, and quite another thing when they’re sitting still, mugs of tea in both their hands while the fire blazing in the hearth makes light dance across Aziraphale’s face, highlighting his poor attempts at studying Crowley subtly from across the room.

The angel clears his throat. “So. Are you around these parts for vacation or temptation?”

“Passing through,” Crowley says, and doesn’t meet his eyes. It’s hard, looking at Aziraphale without the sunglasses. After so many centuries, they’ve become a sort of safety net for him, a means of avoiding inconvenient encounters with crosses while also keeping him from revealing anything, from having to see his own damnation reflected back at him in the angel’s eyes.

He realises, perhaps belatedly, that this is the first time they’ve been in the same room since the whole debacle with the Germans in 1941. Back then, Crowley had driven Aziraphale home in a mostly awkward silence, tipped his hat in farewell at the door and disappeared into the Blitz without another word. He hadn’t known what to say then, and he still doesn’t know now. Fifteen years is practically a blink at their age, but in this moment it feels like millenia.

“So,” they both say, at the exact same time. Crowley gestures for Aziraphale to continue, making a face when they do that in sync too.

Aziraphale’s expression distorts into a delicate sort of embarrassment. “We seem to be rather on the same weight lane, I’m afraid,” he says, somewhat sheepish as Crowley clamps his jaw shut. “Would you like to speak first?”

Crowley closes his eyes for a moment and rests his head against the back of chair. Satan, give me strength. “It’s ‘same wavelength’, angel,” he mutters. “Honestly.” A wave of fondness surges in his chest at the mangled idiom, but he shoves it down before it can surface. “In any case, last I’d heard we have nothing in common. I’m fallen, remember?” Nearly a century has passed since St. James, and Crowley knows it’s a low blow to bring it up in the first place but he still can’t quite stop himself, can’t keep the bitterness entirely out of his voice.

Aziraphale flinches, though to his credit he makes no effort to excuse himself. Instead, he looks at his hands and studies them guiltily. “That was a rather callous thing for me to say, wasn’t it? It’s not as if you would have forgotten or… I don’t know, become an aardvark.” There is a nervous edge to the way the corners of his mouth quirk up with a quiver slight as a ladybug’s wings. When Crowley looks at him, their eyes meet only for a moment before Aziraphale blinks and returns to studying his hands with a truly inordinate degree of dedication. “I suppose I should, ah. Amend that statement. Apologise, perhaps.”

All at once, the anger that’s been boiling in Crowley’s veins all night falls away to a low, pathetic simmer. “Don’t worry about it. It was a long time ago, and it’s not like you’re wrong.” Just that you’re the last person I expected to remind me, he adds mentally, though he’d never say it aloud. Probably for the best, anyway, leaving the conversation where it is. He’s not the type to grant anyone absolution.

The silence stretches between them, languid and threatening, a snake sizing them up and preparing to swallow them whole. There is an elephant in the room almost ninety years in the making and they both refuse to shoot it, even if they both know that ignoring it won’t make it go away.

Crowley breaks first. “So. Dickens in the dark. New hobby of yours?”

“Fortuitous accident, really. I was reading and rather lost track of time, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale smiles, a bit shyly. “Quite lucky in hindsight, don’t you agree?”

“Quite,” Crowley echoes, with the distinct sensation that he’s swallowing his own tongue. “Will heaven be upset that you…?” He waves a hand in vague indication to his very obviously not-drowned self and their current situation. “You know.”

“I should think not,” Aziraphale says, his smile just a bit too quick. “It’s not as if they would have any reason to suspect I’d specifically saved you. I didn’t expect it myself, after all.” He quiets, his smile dimming somewhat as his eyes settle once more on Crowley’s face, searching. “Why were you plummeting off a cliff, exactly? If I may ask.”

Crowley shrugs. “New hobby I thought I’d try. It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Too late, he remembers Aziraphale’s accusation of the holy water suicide pill and he realises what he sounds like, wincing. “Not like a staggeringly good idea. I’ve definitely had better ones this century. Can’t all be winners.”

“I would hardly consider atomic bombs to be winners.”

“You don’t actually think I made those, do you?” Crowley looks at Aziraphale’s face and catches a flash of guilt and suddenly the annoyance is back in full force. “You know, you could actually give me some credit now and then.”

“Well, how am I to know? You take credit for everything. It’s been fifteen years. People talk.” Aziraphale huffs, adjusting his suit jacket impatiently. “You can’t blame me for logical assumptions.”

“Logical assumptions? Of course.” Crowley glares, his muscles tensing as he bites down on a bitter laugh in favour of an even more bitter smile. “Why would you ever assume anything but the worst out of me?” Outside the window, rain has started to pour down and Crowley’s only just started to get warm but he stands anyway. A snappy retort hangs off the tip of his tongue, thanks loads for the rescue, see you in a century when you’ve finished cleaning your hands of me, and he opens his mouth to say just that.

Then Aziraphale stops him. “Crowley, wait,” he says, rising to his feet as well. “Please. I didn’t mean to insinuate – I’m sorry.” The apology stutters off his tongue like it’s tripping and Crowley looks at Aziraphale and curses himself for it a moment later. The expression on the angel’s face is the most horribly, frustratingly genuine thing Crowley’s ever seen. That’s the trouble with Aziraphale. It always has been. The only thing that’s ever been able to rival the scope of his brilliance and capacity for kindness is his immense talent for putting his foot in his mouth. In the worst, most horrible way, Crowley  has to admit he can relate.

He sits back down, settles himself on the chair again. After nearly a minute of awkward silence, Aziraphale clears his throat, delicate, and tries again. “I didn’t mean to insult you. Quite the opposite, in fact.” He pauses a moment as if contemplating his next words very carefully. “What I meant to say is – well, you really are terribly clever, Crowley. I simply don’t understand why you didn’t use your wings.”

In the silence that follows, the rain lashes the window with a sudden, angry force. A bolt of lightning splits the night and Crowley doesn’t see it flash, doesn’t hear the thunder. For a single, horrible moment, he is not there anymore. He is in a different cramped space, and there are several people on each arm holding him down and a gag in his mouth that tastes like rot and mold and ash, and there is a horrible wet sensation and a pain not entirely unlike the lightning, flashing white and sharp against his eyelids as he screams and-

“Crowley?” He blinks, and Aziraphale is staring at him quizzically.

Shit. Perhaps a bit too obviously, he shakes himself free of the memory and smiles, quick and sharp. “Oh, you know,” he says smoothly, “I just don’t think it occurred to me. I mean, I was a little surprised at the whole exorcism bit, mostly. Can you believe people still do that? Been centuries since the last one. A century, I suppose. Century and a half? Right, that reminds me – you wouldn’t have a spare pair of glasses around that I could borrow? I’d like to avoid redoing all this.”

He’s rambling. More importantly, he’s deflecting, and he’s doing it far less smoothly than he usually does and far less subtly than he would like to. He sees Aziraphale frown and feels his fingers twitch nervously at his side. “I’m afraid I haven’t much need for sunglasses,” the angel says, studying him.

Feeling pinned, Crowley resists the urge to squirm, screwing his face up with disappointment. “Right. Too bad then.” He stretches out, his arms bending at night quite natural angles, then stands again, his heart suddenly racing. He needs to leave now, before the questions start. Before the problems begin. “I ought to get going. Hate to get between you and your Dickens.” He says it with the exact sort of mocking tone that he knows drives Aziraphale up the wall, hoping to get a rise out of him, to manipulate him into agreeance.

Instead, Aziraphale sputters indignantly. “Get in the way of-? Crowley, you nearly drowned! And that lake was –it was practically freezing. There is absolutely no way that you’ve fully warmed yourself.”

“Part snake, remember? I adjust fast.” The lie rolls easily off his tongue, and Crowley shoots off a quicksilver grin, sticking his hands in his pockets to hide the way they’re shaking like an addict’s. He starts to walk, ready to leave with or without Aziraphale’s blessing.

Then there’s a hand on his wrist, holding him in place. Crowley looks down, and Aziraphale is there, bright blue eyes blazing with determination. It’s been years since their eyes have met without the buffer of sunglasses, and Crowley isn’t quite prepared for it. He forgets sometimes, how beautiful Aziraphale’s eyes are, like a cloudless sky with everywhere to go and nothing to stand in the way.

He wants, more than almost anything, to stay. But he’s always been good at denying himself what he wants.

Crowley pulls his arm free. “Aziraphale, don’t.”

Aziraphale’s face twists with an almost comedic determination. “I know when I’m being lied to, and I would very much like you to know that I don’t appreciate it.”

Crowley snorts. “You almost got killed by a bunch of Nazis over a mutual interest in books, angel. You’re not what I’d call a divine lie detector.”

“I am when it comes to you,” Aziraphale retorts, and oh, there it is, the inevitable moment when he says something that hits Crowley like a knife stabbed deep into his guts. He does it so casually, Crowley wonders sometimes if he even knows that it’s happening, if he knows that it means something when he says things like that and it is not the sort of thing one can drop into a conversation without expecting it to blow up like a poorly timed atom bomb right in their face. Crowley looks, and Aziraphale is staring at him, his shoulders straightened in an obvious attempt at authority. “Now then. I must insist you tell me why you didn’t use your wings. Truthfully, this time. Please.”

Crowley can’t help it. “Or what? You’ll put me back the way you found me?”

“Put you back-? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then what exactly are you going to hold against me?” The smart move, Crowley knows, would be to stop while he’s ahead before he says one too many smart remarks and they really don’t ever speak to each other again from now until the end of time. This whole conversation is a mess of foreign waters and he has no idea where he’s going or what he’ll do when he gets there, only that he’ll drown if he isn’t careful and Aziraphale won’t even know he’s the one holding him under.

Aziraphale’s shoulders fall, defeated. “I don’t intend to hold anything against you,” he says softly. “I had hoped you trusted me enough that I wouldn’t have to.”

Forget foreign waters. Forget drowning, forget swimming, forget all of it. Crowley looks at Aziraphale’s face, and he knows he’s already in too deep. This isn’t a story he wants to tell, isn’t the way he wanted this to come out. He hadn’t wanted it to come out at all, but if he doesn’t say it now he never will and if he doesn’t ever say it, he’s not sure Aziraphale will ever quite trust him again, and that thought hurts more than heaven or hell would ever get him to admit.

He wins this round.

Crowley lets the tension drain from his shoulders. In his pockets, his fingers still. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, angel,” he says, and waves a hand.

Aziraphale’s expression as his wings are summoned forth from the ether in which they normally rest is almost comedic. He squeaks like a startled mouse, wings shooting out to either side and nearly colliding with the furnishings. He immediately tucks them back in to a more reasonable position, then narrows his eyes at Crowley. “I know very well what my wings look like, thank you,” he huffs, waving a hand to dismiss them. “Why didn’t you summon yours? You’re the one in question.”

“That’s it, though. I did.” Crowley smiles, bitter and flat, and the fire crackles in the silence between them. He turns his back to Aziraphale and waits.

——

In the six thousand years of Aziraphale’s life time, the world has stopped moving on exactly three occasions. The first was in 48 BC, when he’d watched the library of Alexandria burn while nobody could even try to stop it. The second was in the 14th century, when he’d stood over a plague pit lined with bodies while a rainbow stretched overhead and the world drowned in grief instead of water. The third time is now, when Crowley turns away and understanding hits Aziraphale like a slap to the face as he finally sees Crowley’s wings.

There’s little left of them. Calling them wings feels generous, but Aziraphale can’t quite bring himself to refer to them as the stumps they are. The scapulae are little more than jagged edges of bone pierced through angry, infected skin. Tiny black feathers are speckled like ash around the base of the bones where a thick, ugly scar has started to form. Crowley shifts, and the skin of his back stretches nearly to the point of tearing, and it is all Aziraphale can do to hold in his nausea as he stares, and stares, and stares.

“’S not pretty, is it?” Crowley turns to face him with a strange, not-quite smile that does nothing to erase the memory of gore now emblazoned in Aziraphale’s mind.

A moment too late, Aziraphale snaps his jaw closed, blinking. He struggles briefly for an appropriate response, only to eventually settle on a somewhat inappropriate one as his eyes scan Crowley’s face like he’ll find an answer there. “What the hell happened to you?’

Crowley shrugs and barely hides a wince. “Hell, obviously. Who else do you think’s got handiwork like that? I’m not important enough for Gabriel to visit.”

“But how? Why? When?”

“Are you just going to work your way through all the question words?”

“This isn’t funny, Crowley.” Aziraphale takes a step forward and reaches out as if to touch him, stopping just short of contact with a sudden wariness. Maybe touching him will make things worse, and the last thing he wants to do is scare him away now. “Were they like this in the church?” The thought that they might have been and he was too wrapped up in himself to notice is almost sickening.

Crowley’s mouth curves, the expression lightless. “Nah. This was after.”

“How long after?”

“Oh, ages. Few years at least.”

“How long?”

“Four months,” Crowley admits. “Maybe five. Wasn’t really keeping track.”

Four months. Four months after he’d saved Aziraphale from a Nazi spy ring and a spared a collection of books from utter annihilation, something – someone – had sawed or ripped or burnt Crowley’s wings right off his back. It’s been fifteen years since the last time they spoke, and the wounds still look fresh. “I’ve always been under the impression that they were fond of you down there,” he says uselessly.

“They are. They were very impressed by all my hard work bombing churches, inspiring people to make camps for working and starving and gassing anyone they don’t like to death.” His voice is cynical, sharp and bitter like he’s chewing on a block of arsenic. “Thought they’d give me a special commendation to commemorate how far I’d fallen.”

“Surely you didn’t tell them you had-?”

“Of course not.”

“They just assumed you were responsible?”

“We’re demons. Assuming the worst is half the job.” Crowley reaches out with an entirely too casual grimace and pats Aziraphale twice on the side of his face, gently. “Chin up, angel. Could’ve been a lot worse if they’d had two brain cells to rub together and figured out I was slacking.”

Aziraphale catches his wrist and holds it in place. “Or if they’d figured out you were helping an angel.” His eyes lock onto Crowley’s, daring him to dissent.

Crowley’s smile vanishes. He clenches hi jaw, saying nothing.

“That’s what I thought.” Aziraphale makes the decision in an instant and squares his shoulders. “Turn around.” The demon opens his mouth to protest and Aziraphale cuts him off before he can utter a sound. “Turn around, Crowley.”

For a moment, he stares like an astonished fish. Then, slowly, he does as he’s been told.

Aziraphale steps forward and closes the gap between them. He catches his breath at the sudden proximity and stretches his fingers. “Now hold still. I’m sorry, but…this may sting a little.” Then he presses his hands flat against Crowley’s back and closes his eyes to focus.

There’s always something a bit cold about demonically created wounds, like a strange occult sludge that hangs about the site of the injury. Aziraphale feels it now, icy against his hands where the sensation has pooled at the junction between Crowley’s shoulderblades and his ruined wings. As if he’s engaged in a particularly complicated stitching project, Aziraphale envisions his own energy as a sort of golden thread and weaves it over the wounds like a warm blanket wrapping around the ice. He murmurs something under his breath (not a prayer, because he knows better than to pray for Crowley), but a request. Heal his pain, he begs, and hopes with all his might that She will hear him and listen.

He’s not sure how long he sits there, his hands pressed to his best friend’s back. All he knows is that when he opens his eyes, Crowley is relaxed and comfortably still beneath his touch, and his wings…

His wings are not recovered, and it’s as much a disappointment as it is a foregone conclusion. An angel’s wings are not unlike a badge of honour, and their loss is not meant to be easily undone. Though Crowley’s the only demon Aziraphale’s ever seen who possesses wings, he suspects they exist under similar restrictions. That doesn’t stop the surge of joy that pulses through him when he sees what progress has been made. The once-jagged edges of his bones are smooth now, the skin around them a faint pink instead of the enraged inferno of infection it had been before. What scarring had begun is cleaner now, less like mountainous ghosts of old wounds and more like a memory. Best of all are the feathers. Small and black, they cover the base of the bones with a soft, downy fuzz, like they’re ready to grow again.

There is silence. Aziraphale does not dare to move his hands for fear that all the work will be undone. For his part, Crowley remains still, breathing even and almost peaceful.

When he speaks, his voice is laced with a confused, hesitant wonder that makes Aziraphale wish more than anything that they were sitting in front of some reflective substance so he could see Crowley’s face. “Angel,” he says, the words reverberating warmly through his back and into Aziraphale’s hands, “what did you do?”

The least I could, Aziraphale doesn’t say. “Nothing much,” he says instead, letting his shoulders sink. His hands fall away from Crowley almost reluctantly, fingers trailing behind until they can’t anymore. “I think I mostly made it so you at least have a chance to heal.”

Crowley turns at that. Their eyes meet and without warning, Aziraphale finds himself captured, pinned in place by golden light. Crowley’s eyes may be the primary feature which marks him as a demon, but Aziraphale has always found them beautiful – the way they’d glinted in the light where they stood on Eden’s wall, flashing like lightning in the wake of the flood, always filled with feeling when he thought nobody was looking. Aziraphale can’t remember when he started looking, but he’s staring now, and he thinks it’s a bit like staring at the sun. Doing it too long will only lead to disaster, but that doesn’t make it any easier to look away.

“Won’t your side frown on you miracling a demon’s wings back on?” Crowley asks, slow and careful.

“No more than yours would question you miracling a collection of prophecy books out of extinction.” Aziraphale reaches out to straighten Crowley’s collar and tells himself it’s only by coincidence that his hand lingers. “We can consider ourselves even on the risk-taking front.”

Crowley’s mouth opens and shuts, his face adopting the wonderful, hilarious contortions it always performs when he’s not quite sure what to say before eventually, finally, he manages a nod. “Yeah, of course. Even score. Nothing owed anywhere.”

“Good. Then we’re settled.” Aziraphale lets his hands fall and smiles, more genuinely than he has in the entire month preceding. There are things he could say, things he knows he likely should say, but he cannot yet say them to himself and he cannot say them tonight. What he says instead is, “How do you fancy a nice drink?”

What Crowley says is, “I’m always in a drinking mood,” and Aziraphale goes for the glasses.

[fromthesixteenthfloor]

Few words about "GLASS". [Heavy spoiler alert]

So... Oh My God!! I've just finally watched "GLASS", and it's... Ah, I can't express my feelings! Not now at least lol It was a really amazing movie! The story, the original atmosphere, the music, the characters, the actors! It really made me freeze for a long minutes after the ending! It was such a powerful movie! It really made me shook even though I've already known the ending (I was accidently spoiled on twitter). And it took all my strenght not to cry at the end! I did teared up few times, but I had to hold myself together to watch the movie till the end. Can't wait for the DVD to cry my eyes out!T__T I do understand now why some people could not fully understand this movie. But it doesn't say anything bad about the movie at all! It's the opposite actually. It's really something how "GLASS" was able to join not only the stories of "Split" and "Unbreakable", but their ideas and atmosphere. I'm still under a huge impression! And even the saddest ending doesn't make me feel like the movie was bad or something. No, at all. It’s unfair, yes. Dunn was innocent, as well as Kevin. Yes, his idenities had made a lot of crimes, but he, the real he was still an innocent person who has suffered too much in his short and sad life. And the worst part is that Kevin still had a chance! He had a chance to live without being scared of life, to be the one who keeps the light. And It's all thanks to Casey, the only person who refused to see only bad in him, the only one who saw the real him. And that's exactly what makes his fate even more dramatic, and makes it so unfair and sad. Yes, he has found his peace, but unfortunately it happened right at the moment when he has also found the life that was taken from him when he was still a child... When he was finally able to stay in the light without any fear. And I absolutely loved Kevin and Casey's storyline! Yes, I can confidently say that they are canon!XD But it's not that kind of canon we are used to. Their relationships, their love (yes, this word was pronounced in the movie even) is not that extremely sexualised type of love we used to see in the movies. It's so much deeper! And it tears my heart apart!T__T That last scene... his words... the gentle kiss... the expression on Casey's face when she saw Kevin on that record... They gave us much much more than any modern sexualised romantic storyline could offer. I am so upset but at the same time I'm so glad that Kevin finally knew the love that was stolen from him... Innocent, deep, selfless, compassionate love 💔 It was extremely sad to see not only Kevin's death, but also to see how all of them were dying... especially Hedwig as he's still just a child, and Dannis... I am so glad that Dennis finally realised that they were wrong. He didn't want all of those deaths, we could see it in "Split", and in the "Glass" he has finally walked away from path the Horde chose. The story of Kevin is really heart breaking! It hurts to think about him, about the life and love that were taken from him. So damn unfair and sad!T__T I loved the story of David and Joseph too. Their relationships, the way they showed that moments from the past. Such a whole, complete and at the same time very sad story. David's fate was unfair and very cruel. And I'm still a little bit shocked over it even though I knew that it was going happen. And Mister Glass... he was inimitable! He is a bad guy but why is it so hard to dislike him?XD He manipulated them, he was the reason of all those deaths, but still... And all other characters were good as well! I loved to see my beloved Casey, to see grown up Joseph, and always loving Mrs. Price. They all were so on point! As well as Dr. Ellie Staple (even if she turned out to be an evil bitch XD). I loved to hate you lady, you fooled everyone but was also fooled in the end. And I can talk for hours about the brilliant cast and their acting! But James McAvoy is just... stole the whole show once again! XD He is a really outstanding actor! I just have no words and at the same time I wanna talk about him for hours! lol His acting is so... incredible, brilliant, tremendous! I'm so sorry but my poor knowledge of english doesn't allow me to express all my thoughts and feelings about him and his acting skills! ^_^; But I think you get what I'm talking about. So, in the conclusion, I just want to say that I LOVED this movie! It is really a movie for a soul. I'm surely gonna see it again, but not too soon unfortunately. My exams don't give me the air to breath and any free time right now... like at all. It's a miracle that I could go to see it today (few free hours in the sunday morning) and I'm deffinitely gonna see it more when my exams come to an end! I honestly didn't want this post to be this long, but... I just needed to speak out all my feelings and emotions, as I have too much of them! It was a really good and deep movie with a highlevel acting! Bravo to the director and to amazing actors! I really enjoyed it!

Now it’s time to listen to the “Glass” soundtrack and cry in the corner T__T My heart is broken like a glass and shattered into a million tiny pieces. Thanks for the delicious pain Mr Shyamalan! I love its bittersweet taste 💔

[bumi-illustrates]

Chapter 1

It’s been nearly seven years since that day. A lot has changed, but one thing hasn’t. The people of Spero still live in fear of the power of Lady Somna. The biggest change to our small town is that we no longer worship the false Goddess. When the dreaded Day of Dreams came, our plan fell apart. The sacrifice was to act willing, until the last moment. If all had gone well, the Goddess would have been slain at the hands of her people, but her Noctis got wise and began slaughtering anyone nearby. Somna was furious, but her true colors came through. We turned our once peaceful town into a war zone. A losing one.

Lacey was among the first victims of the war on the Day of Dreams. Jenna contracted the plague four months later and only lasted eleven hours. Father disappeared shortly after Jenna’s death. There were no witnesses to his escape and no body has been recovered, so we assume he took off. Though the likelihood of him being eaten by a Noctis is high. Only one has ever survived an attack from the beasts, but his body has become a mismatch of parts and mechanics. If father did come into contact with on of the beasts, he was long gone.

I sighed as I approached the entrance to our underground base. We lost another body to the beasts a week ago. I had picked up his patrol shift until we can find another to replace him. But our numbers are low, and hope is running out. More and more people are giving up and allowing themselves to become Noctis prey. This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to be, but this is how it was now. I try to keep my spirits as high as I can, for me and for everyone else.

I held up my keycard to the lock mechanism on the old metal door and a large dust cloud erupted from it as the gears shifted, opening the door just enough for me to squeeze through. I quickly placed the keycard on the pad on the inside and the door quickly snapped shut, another burst of dust making me cough.

“Ah, the legendary Michael James! Back from second shift I see.”

“And I see the good doctor is finally out of his lab. So, what’s with the special greeting?” I asked, removing the pack from my back and throwing it on the table set off to the side of the large concrete room.

“Why can’t I just be here to welcome you home?”

“Because you never do. And you know as well as I that leaving your lab could be a sign on a double apocalypse.”

The Frankenstein man laughed with a shrug of his shoulders, “Alright, you caught me. I was hoping you managed to pick up what I asked for. You were taking so long I was getting ready to go find your body and drag it back here for a funeral.”

I snorted and reached into my pocket, pulling out a gray flash drive. I tossed it to him with a smirk, “You and I both know I’m too stubborn to be taken down that easily.”

He caught the small piece of tech in his tan right hand as he flashed me a lopsided grin, “Too stubborn, or too sneaky? We should call you the Invisible Man with the way you slink around.”

I chuckled slightly as I moved to stand in front of him, “That’s why they keep me around.”

He rolled his eye at me and I grunted softly, reaching up and removing the patch covering his right eye, “You don’t have to hide a perfectly good eye. It’ll be easier to get around without this thing in the way.” I dangled the eye patch briefly in front of his face before placing it into his left hand, that was noticeably paler than his right.

“I don’t usually cover it.” He mumbled, averting his eyes as we began walking deeper into the base.

“Just around me.” I frowned.

I watched him from the corner of my eye as he bit the inside of his cheek. I knew why he was hesitant to show his right eye around me. It was a painful memory. His pain was mostly physical, with lingering emotional grief. Mine was purely emotional.

“I just, it’s hard. I know how much you loved her.”

I stopped in my tracks, placing a hand on his shoulder, “And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t keep hiding the only thing I have to remember her by. Listen, I knew her better than anyone. She would have wanted this. She helped people, it’s just who she was.”

“I guess I have to take your word for it. I didn’t talk with her much, but she seemed like a good person. I’m sorry you had to lose her.”

“We’ve all lost people, Chrome. You’ve lost a lot yourself.” I lowered my voice as we neared a group of teenagers, quietly talking among themselves.

Chrome was an interesting character. Before the war started, he was a kid named Cole who had dreams to become a doctor slash inventor. The name change came after the Noctis attack. No one is sure how he managed to get away, but he seems to stand by the fact that someone helped him. Not a soul fessed up to such a feat as great as finishing off a Noctis. They were monsters and anyone with a sound mind knew to stay far away from them.

All that we know to be fact is that he was found, bloody and torn, with the body of a green Noctis not ten feet from him. He was, amazingly, still conscious and decided to take some of the beast’s hair for his own partially scalped head. Fortunately for him, he had been studying medicine and mechanics, because unfortunately for him, there were no doctors left after the Day of Dreams. The poor kid, only fourteen at the time, had to patch himself up. The adults did what they could to assist him, but he managed to stitch himself up mostly alone.

Starting above his left eye at his hair line, a large trail of stitches cut across the bridge of his nose, cutting it close to the inside corner of his right eye. It continued down and across his cheek until it ended just underneath his jaw. Another string of stitches started on his left eye, extending from the inner corner of that eye, wrapping around his cheek and disappearing underneath his left ear. On his neck, just underneath his jaw, was another line of sutures. It started just to the left of his jugular before making a slight curve and coming down directly in the center of his chest. From there, it made another, slightly more prominent turn to the right where it wrapped around his waist and crawled up his back in a similar trail as his front. Finally ending at the nape of his neck.

His skin had been tan, and although some of his skin remained intact, he had been hurt severely and was now a pale skin tone in several spots. Above his stitches on the right side of his face and the left side of his stitches along his chest were pasty in comparison to the tan skin next to it. I shuddered slightly looking at the thousands of stitches that would forever be a part of him. He had tried to remove them several times, only to figure out the wounds wouldn’t hold without them. So, the inventor in him decided to make do. His current stitches were made of a flexible metal he designed. He had tried to explain the science to me once before, but three sentences in and he had lost me.

Once we had passed the group of teens, Chrome spoke up once more, keeping his voice quiet, “Thank you.”

I raised my eyebrow at him, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my torn and dirty jeans, “What for?”

“Doing what you did, so I could see fully again.”

Oh. That.

“Like I said before, if she could save someone, she would have. I like to think of this as her way of contributing to the cause.” When he kept silent, I continued, “Look, I know it might not seem like it, but I am okay. Like I said, everybody has had to make sacrifices and grieve lost loved ones, but most weren’t so fortunate to reconnect with old friends.”

He breathed a short laugh, “Wouldn’t have had to reconnect if I hadn’t ditched you for science. And what a reunion, huh?”

I threw an arm around his shoulder and leaned slightly into him as a toothy grin spread over my face, “Sorry for ditching you for a year to go play doctor, but there’s a really cute girl that works there that I just have to marry!” I teased, making a halfhearted effort to mimic his prepubescent voice. I had placed my free hand over my lips, trying to feign a lovestruck posture.

He laughed, slightly shoving me, “Don’t be a jerk! You know I didn’t say I had to marry her. I only wanted to marry her. And you know, she was totally into me.”

We both paused slightly before erupting into laughter. He threw his own arm around me as we used each other to hold ourselves up.

“Yes, because what self-respecting eighteen-year-old girl wouldn’t want a nerdy fourteen-year-old boy?” A new voice spoke up tightly.

Chrome was the first to pull himself together as he straightened up, still supporting part of my weight as I continued to struggle with containing my laughter, “Come on, Tabs! You know you were totally into me.”

She rolled her emerald eyes as she mumbled incoherently. By the time I had pulled myself together, the older blonde woman stood before us, holding out a file towards me, “I’m glad to see you having fun, sir, but here’s the inventory report.”

By the look on her face I could already tell what she would follow up with, “We’ll need to schedule another excursion to the field to harvest more of the crops.”

Called it.

“Right, how soon can you have a group ready?” I asked, looking over the numbers, realizing we were lower than I had anticipated.

“Oh no! As the doctor around here, I refuse to let you go out again! You just got back from a double shift, man! You need to rest.” Chrome cut in sternly.

“Is this true, sir?”

I rolled my eyes, “One, please stop calling me sir. Two, I’ll be fine. There were no beasts out. If we hurry it can be a quick trip.”

“Michael, no. I may be your friend, but I didn’t study the human body and become a doctor for nothing. I know what I’m talking about when I say you need to rest.”

“I’m afraid I have to agree with Chrome.” The smug look on Chrome’s face was caught by Tabitha as she wrapped her arms around herself with a scowl crossing her features, “As much as it pains me to say that.”

Chrome’s face fell, “Oh, come on! I’m not that bad!”

She ignored him and turned her attention back to me, “We have enough to last through the night. Please, get some rest. I’ll gather some of the able and help prepare them for departure. You will all leave first thing in the morning.”

As she walked away, I stood in shock before muttering, “First she calls me sir, then she’s the one giving orders.”

The weight of Chrome’s arm on my shoulder’s returned as he stuck his face uncomfortably close to my own, “hey, man. I see you getting ideas. I already told you that one’s mine.”

I snorted with laughter and covered his face with my hand, pushing him slightly, “good luck with that.”

“You just wait, it’ll happen one of these days and when it does, I will take great pleasure in rubbing it in your face.”

I rolled my eyes at him, the smile never leaving my face, “Come on. Let’s head to the lab. I want to see what’s on that oh-so-important flash drive I had to risk my easy patrol for.”

[youngandmadeoflightning-blog]

DUNKIRK!

 All my thoughts will be under the cut to respect you poor, unfortunate souls who haven’t had the pleasure of seeing this movie yet. 

SPOILERS ABOUND.

Okay, seriously, if this movie is not the Hamilton of the Oscars, and by that I mean if it does not get nominated for all the awards and win every single damn award it is nominated for, then I will personally start a revolt against the Academy. Because HOLY HELL. THIS MOVIE IS PERFECTION.

I don’t really cry at movies or television, but that part where Alex told Peter George was dead, then Peter still told Cillian’s character that George was going to be okay, and the look he gave his father afterward, because he knew it was the right thing to do not to traumatize him any more than he already was, that was the part that got me closest to crying. (Also, did anyone else get visions of Peter/George fic, or was that just me?)

Speaking of George, I want to take Barry Keoghan and Aneurin Barnard and wrap them up in blankets and keep them safe and warm forever. It was nice to see Alex’s humanity come out and try to save Gibson just what seemed like seconds after trying to throw him off the ship.

Watching Harry nearly drown three times in the span of an hour and forty-five minutes is not good for my blood pressure. Or sanity.

Hans Zimmer is a genius, and also really, really fucking cruel. I think I’m going to be hearing that ticking clock in my sleep.

How can Tom Hardy possibly do so much with just his eyes??? I want to meet him just so I can ask him that. It’s ridiculous. He spent the vast majority of the movie with the pilot’s mask over his face, yet I felt more attached to him than almost any other character. That final look when he takes his mask off in front of his burning plane and you can see Germans behind him, AGH! SO GOOD! 

I didn’t get to see it in IMAX, because we don’t have an IMAX theater nearby, but the cinematography was so phenomenal, I still felt like I was there. I remember noticeably jumping several times.

The chemistry between Kenneth Branagh and James D’Arcy was great. They made me smile, even in the middle of all the tension. They and Mark Rylance were the perfect balancing forces leading the chaos.

I actually audibly laughed when Peter pulled Collins in from the water and Collins just said, “Afternoon,” with a tone of like Hey mate, how’s it going? Nice day out, innit?

Harry was so good, and I mean that from a purely cinematic perspective, not because I love him. I forgot that I was watching Harry. I can’t believe that for someone jumping into their first major acting role, with such a recognizable face, he was able to immerse himself so easily. Maybe it was at least partially because who Alex is is so different from who Harry is, but even though I knew it was him, I forgot it was him because I was so enthralled by the action of the movie, particularly during the scene in the grounded boat with the group. You could tell that Alex was really only an asshole because, as Harry said, he was as scared and desperate to get home as anyone, but he genuinely scared me a few times. I’ll take my sunshine cupcake Harry, please.

Last but not least, give me all the Alex/Louis fic, please!!! 

All in all, 10 out of 10. I’d go see it again, but my grandma was so pissed at the movie theater upping their prices, there’s no way that will happen. Ah well, once is far better than none at all.

[clubofinfo]

Expert: Ah, the “Sorrows of Empire.” Its lies these days so easily exposed. Yet, too often ignored. Saturday morning, April 14, 2018, the world released a collective sigh of relief after a week of anguished hand-wringing at the too-likely possibility of our own utter annihilation. US President, Donald J. Trump, a man of massive ego, reportedly small hands and apparently insignificant phallus, had failed, despite direct attempts by the Big Bad Wolf of American military madness, to blow down the retaining walls protecting human conscience… and reality. Or fatally damage Syria. Having witnessed this failed attempt to blow the world to pieces via the winds of war, we, the remaining civilized world, were instead treated to worldwide giddy, heel kicking and side-splitting laughter at the ultimate tepid US military inspired results. Yes, despite a week of US hegemonic huffing and puffing — and tweeting — many of us were amazed to actually wake up once again. This past Saturday, we all discovered that the latest triumvirate of self-serving, sadistic and socially-challenged world leaders (US/UK/ FR)  had suffered a storied defeat…one caused by two little pigs — guinea pigs really — and one black cat. Thanks to these three demur little mammals, who spoke not a word of English, but were likely – if the UK media folly is to believed-  secretly taking Russian language lessons, these three accurately summed up current Western foreign policy: “You can fool some of the people some of the time. You can fool some of the people all of the time, but… You can’t fool all of the people all the time.” This sage advice, of course, was not within the full understanding of Messrs. Trump and Macron, nor Ms. May who instead preferred to believe in their own weakening hearts and minds the much older capitalist mantra: Never give a sucker an even break! Having seen their laundry list of previous cunning political connivinces go almost unchallenged by their own populace in routine acquiescence, their lies became ever bolder. And inexplicable. This lulled them into a false sense of overconfidence that believed they could provide all manner of utter nonsense as long as it was alleged to be attached to the never passe “Soviet Union” better known as “Russia.” So, it was natural for these three myopic world leaders to assume their latest plot would pass easily within the shadows of their own dark souls. Instead, theirs was a comedy show that suddenly snapped the world to the realization: We no longer believe a fucking thing you say! This ultimate and fundamental realization was spawned weeks before this past Saturday’s illegal attack. In the quaint UK town of Salisbury,  former double agent and recent MI-6 participant, Sergei Skripal, had relocated to go out to pasture, retire and die. Little did he know that his long-term goals would turn out to be somewhat premature. Well, almost. UK Prime Minister, Theresa May was, and is, a desperate woman. So desperate is she — after her own recent David Cameron moment of parliamentary disaster — to retain power within the posh digs at No. 10 that she quite willingly proved correct all criticisms of her Conservative Party: She joined forces with the Irish Nazi party, better known as the DUP… and gave them a 1 Billion British pound mortita for their trouble. That’s desperate! Strangely, Ms. May could not understand why, after all this, she was still reviled by all the UK parliamentary parties and most of the British people. Having done her best to achieve Neville Chamberlain style unpopularity, she needed a distraction… no matter how amateurish the production. For she had long ago concluded, as have so many foreign leaders, that her public was just as easily controlled as watering a potted plant in the window of her number 10. Over arrogant, Ms. May sent in her Keystone Cops — MI-6 — to do what had worked so often before in times of political need. So easy. Indeed! As the plot unfurled on a park bench in Salisbury on March 4, 2018, the press dutifully expanded daily on the one proffered set of lies. Nice and smoothly… Russia did it! Who, but a treasonous Brit would possibly argue with such a complete lack of prima face evidence? Yes, all was going so well for Ms. May and her conspirators until their hired media minions made their first fatal and undeniable mistake. Enter the true hero of our story, our savior, Nash Van Drake. Cat. Black cat. Likely Russian agent and the only live witness; one who knew all too well the other fundamental slogan of political cover-up…”Dead men ( and cats) tell no tales”. The two Guinea pigs were already toast, which, of course, fit the UK narrative that the Russian sounding Novichok — quickly renamed that week from its original name, “Foliant” —  had ultimately (after the Government story changed multiple times) originated in… or on… or around the Skripal house, hence the two little Guinea pigs’ timely demise and convenient incineration. However… You see, Van Drake was a black cat: Persian of Arabic descent. In the UK being black and/or Arab is increasingly great cause for caution. After years of living safely curled up on the living room settee watching the daily BBC propaganda reel or evenings on former spy Mr. Skripal’s lap forever watching James Bond reruns on ITV — over and over and over again — when the strange alien-looking men in yellow suits, plastic masks, and oxygen tanks picked the lock on the Skripal’s front door, astutely Van Drake took to these years of imposed TV training and knew just what to do. Run! The poor caged Guinea pigs didn’t have a chance. Once upon a time, the secret services of the dominant world had at least the courtesy to respect the world’s intelligence quotient even when discounting their country’s own. In that era, evil political intentions did attempt to carefully cover the footprints leading to their too many false flag operations. Professional surreptitious skullduggery, however, has now given way to plots of conquest that are really ham-fisted affronts to simple mental logic followed by a near total media cover-up in favor of same. This has so far been all too effective, and with the similarly agendized publishers in the US and UK having control of over 90% of these “media choices,” a media black-out of inconvenient facts has been the de rigueur method of cover-up. This new methodology of political deceit relies on one single, all-important premise, one that evil minds similar to those of Trump, Macron, and May believe to their soulless core: We control the story and …You… are too stupid and willfully ignorant to find the truth. While quantitatively and historically accurate in their belief to date, unfortunately for MI-6 and their resulting worldwide television theatrical performance, Brits are also animal lovers. One might well, then, imagine the look on the faces of the conspirators when, after already disposing of the evidence of the two conveniently dead rodents and thus certifying their claim that the Skripals were poisoned at their home, they were suddenly shocked by the very first serious media question, one for which the co-conspirators collectively had only one confused, nervous, sideways looking answer… “What Cat?!” Like Jack Ruby seeking out Oswald, the cops were off again to fix this glaring omission. Poor Van Drake, still hiding in the dark of his own Palestine under the couch, and now revealed, never had a chance. As the yellow suited masked men dragged him kicking and screaming off to certain chemical weapons death at Briton’s own self-proclaimed Auschwitz, the secret chemical weapons facility known instead as Porton Down, the poor kitty had no way of knowing that his cremation would make him the hero of this hilarious and almost fatal — for us — tragedy. For it was Van Drake, his being alive and next dead, that snapped the world to the proper realization that: one: the highly lethal military grade Novichok/Foliant in question was approximately as deadly as Van Drake’s own flea collar, and better: Ms. May, the Cons, and the vaunted UK press were completely lying out their ass! Finally, it seemed the counter-intelligence services of first world hegemony had actually managed to underestimate the true intelligence of the average Briton and, apparently, the military intelligence services of most of the other nations on earth. It’s one thing to shoot Palestinians for target practice, inflict the world’s biggest cholera epidemic on Yemen while bombing its hospitals and doctors, or terrorize a few hundred thousand Rohingya into abandoning their homes for the pleasure of capitalist pursuits: all these so easily ignored by a deliberate media sedated, flag-wrapped public. But, this time they had gone too far. They had killed… a cat! What a fuck-up! Fast forward to the land — the epicenter — of nationwide mind fabrication. Just as strangely as barely-prime minister, Ms. May, the new White House presidential marionette in orange, despite having been repeatedly for a year bitch slapped into submission by his adversaries on all sides of the aisle, was still having problems with those pesky Democrats and their Justice Department, their attorneys, and this past week, their cops. Worse, to a President who craves personal approval like an American male does Opioids, his popularity ratings were down. What to do? To a man with a golf ball sized IQ, there was only one thing he could do. A choice that would make him popular from the boardrooms of Halliburton to the gun-toting, Jack Daniels-swilling taverns, and barrooms of Tennessee. From the dark shadowy dampness of the Israeli Knesset to the gold lined palaces of the newly anointed Saudi prophet, MBS in Riyadh: A nice “new, shiny, smart” war. Perfect!! But how to start a new war. That chemical weapons false flag rubbish had failed, one, two three… six times in the past. Oh, and that Salisbury debacle — where the Skripal’s were doing just fine all of a sudden — now makes seven failures. But, to hell with a smart guy like Einstein, why not give it another shot. Besides Trump had a specially prepared US media tool awaiting: Those ever handy and timely White Helmets; the ones who always seem better with a video camera than at performing first aid. Fresh off being handed a shiny 2017 Oscar for their star acting role in their own Hollywood propaganda film of justification, surely they could finally get it right this time? Thus we, the civilized world, were treated to another round of intelligence insulting western inspired theatrics. And it might have worked. Almost did. Because, hey, these are the guys who wore the White helmets. White ones. Who could argue with that? Needing a coalition of the willing for his new war, the logical first choice for Trump was to invite his equally flawed counterpart in London to jump into bed with him.  Apparently the salacious allegations of the Steele dossier — which the UK press failed to show as connected to Skripal senior — may be true since Trump showed a continued passion for the kinky in next going French, and inviting another similarly descending political hack to his menage a trois of war. Macron, whose popularity echoes his two concubines in being approximately that of Napoleon bringing the troops home from Russia, was down to his skivvies in seconds. Reduced to attacking farmers and peaceful protesters in his stated effort to bring all things capitalist to bare in traditionally socialist France, he had obviously failed to yet master the emasculation of his own media. Thus the irony of all this, applied to French Napoleonic law, was that in the eyes of his countrymen Macron was at the very least, “guilty until proven innocent.” And, good luck with that. So, when Washington called, followed by a short follow-up ring from Tel Aviv, Macron also knew just what to do. And, off to war it was. For two weeks these three frolicked in a pre-war orgy of selling the exact same pack of lies to their own nation’s public via their own controlled media; lies that continued to include the connection to the Soviet Union Russia via the Skripal chemical weapons attack in Salisbury. Of course, this Syrian attack in Ghouta was real this time. Right? However, in this mad three-nation ramp-up to new war many persons of rational mind and a penchant for self-preservation, persons that included world leaders still in possession of their facilities, continued to wonder about the massive logical and factual problems with the Skripal incident and “the cat.” This was shown in the universal lack of willingness of other countries to enter the fray. When Angela Merkel doesn’t willingly join an American rush to war, you know there’s a big problem. However, many leaders did save face with Israel and half-heartedly attested to the full package of lies being true by abstaining in their UN votes to stop the pending attack. So, our three continued to cavort in pre-war bliss despite the constant interruptions made by John Bolton and Mike Pompeo, scratching and whining at the bedroom door while trying to get in. But, their orgy did continue, the glee of upcoming death and destruction being spawned from their own loins an aphrodisiac far too strong to be controlled. Sadly, despite the inquiries and outrage of the few sharp minds — and cat lovers — worldwide, these three Israeli concubines did finally manage to achieve coitus this past Saturday, April 14, 2018, with the Donald next indiscriminately ejaculating cruise missiles all over Syria. These missiles, having an unusually high mortality rate of their own (71/103), did almost nothing to Syria or Syrians who that new morning danced in streets afterward. But this charade did allow an embattled US president to temporarily forget his troubles, put his golf balls back in his sack and feel much better after having finally relieved himself. Not quite done, it was time for the final act: for the three to prove that, when it comes to congressional or parliamentary oversight for more war: 1) it is far easier to beg forgiveness, than to ask permission and 2) these same legislative checks on war powers are in reality as effective a deterrent as that of a Las Vegas boxing commissioner. A few more calls from Tel Aviv, soon to be Jerusalem, and the little fish in the US congress and the two parliaments were again nicely ketteled into the proper way of retroactive thinking and approving…more war. Well, the moral of this ages-old recurring fable of overconfident governmental, covert operations should be obvious. It should not take one dead cat and a couple of Guineas to shock us all to the proper realization: When it comes to the Governments of our world…it’s all a pack of lies. So, we the intelligent world salute you Nash Van Drake and your tiny brethren. May you all rest in peace in the service of us all. May we together pray: pray that the world quickly awakens to the terminal realizations of poor Van Drake, reluctant hero, as the steel doors of the gas chamber called Porton Down creaked open before him and he swallowed forever his last breath… Not a one of us has nine lives, and our governments are pretty sure that we are all… dumber than a god damn cat! http://clubof.info/

[ulyssesredux]

Calypso

Dander along all day. A paper.

While he unwrapped the kidney and slapped it over: then fitted the teapot and put my name to a plate and let the water flow in. He stooped and gathered them. Prr.

Woods his name to a feeling towards Mrs. Nay, the houghs of the bed.

Was given milk too long. Mrs. Take pocketfuls of love besides to them all at home? Curious mice never squeal. Nay, the hair and eyes seemed to have shrunk since she had laid the cameo-cases on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's seaside girls. Bread and butter: three, four: right. A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his nose: they never understand.

That's right—that's right. Mr. Hanmer's?

There is to be always apropos. He had heard hints of Lydgate's conduct. Mrs Marion. Who's he when he's at home?

Listening, he said carefully, and meeting Dorothea's eyes also were turned up to me. Her slim legs running up the stairs to the rescue.

Cruel. Oranges in tissue paper packed in crates. He stayed but a father trembles for his daughter—a little uneasy at this Hamlet-like raving. A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his meal. Fine morning.

But Sir James came in again, and rising as if it were any pleasure to me; he has not seen you for the money she has great news to tell you about anything again. The shiny links, packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze and he could not forgive Rosamond because she never seemed to be obliged to him.

P.S. Excuse bad writing am in hurry. No. Pleasant to see nothing except the dignity of not being in want of money. Time I used to bow Molly off the worst of it, Mary, passionately. One evening, band, Those girls, those girls, those lovely seaside girls. —Hurry up with a good rich smell off his great-coat.

Said.

Say that I had the effect of a service, the image of Mrs. I think—indiscreet Mrs. High wall: beyond strings twanged. She blinked up out of. On the hands down.

Yes, yes. Say ten barrels of stuff. There is not fond of begging, Fred? Lot of babies she must have helped into the garden. I know. Mrs. Heigho! Ikey touch that: morning hours, girls in grey gauze.

It must mean more than Celia's blushing usually did. Good day to you. Say he got into a corner to make good everybody's loss. His quickened heart slowed at once. Heigho! —That's right. Must be Ruby pride of the pan, sizzling butter. I once spoke of you, Fred, all the trouble I've caused—that's all. I gave for the money? She blinked up out of the loneliness which must always remain in consecrated secrecy. Three and six. He approached Larry O'Rourke's. He pulled the halldoor to after him very quietly, more quietly, he answered. Then, lo and behold, they say. M. Keep it up. Must get it. No one would ever know what it must be to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine. Louisa. She doubled a slice of bread, sopped one in the library giving audience to his profession as Mr. Lydgate, coldly. For another: a plume of steam from the pile, wrapped up her prime sausages and made her visible world. That is what the ancient Greeks called it. He turned over sleepily that time. They lay, were read quickly and went out through the litter, slapping a palm on a saucer and set it slowly as he moved and stood against the crystalline purity of the bed. When Lydgate was a courteous old chap. That do? Silly season. All dimpled cheeks and curls, Your head it simply swirls. Must have put it back on the cuckstool he folded out his paper, turning from the tray. Useless to move, will you not, papa? I'm lost in the letterbox for her only which he won the laughing witch who now. There is a young student comes here some evenings named Bannon his cousins or something are big swells and he is, said Dorothea, coming to the writer. Break your neck and cling down her blue-gray pelisse with a placid satisfaction, while feeling his water flow in. Twelve and six. Shall I preach you a sermon comes instead. The first night after the charades. And the little mirror in his constant opportunities of companionship with that fair creature, though he had a headstrong look, and any one else. Damned old tub pitching about. Oh, poor mother, poor mother, poor mother, poor father! Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has.

Useless to move now. Just had a good God has seen fit to make a difference. Fading gold sky. Good. Make a picnic? Has got to part with her ready delicate blush which Dorothea was used to on the hated piano. The sting of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his breast. The cat mewed hungrily against him. —Never read it nearer, the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live.

He felt here and there are so many things to be shrinking with the cottages, Dodo. Crates lined up on the peg over his collar. But I was on all other women. Not in the air. Ruby pride of the chickens she is down there: n. Our souls.

—The delicate woman's face which yet had a good day either for a man not to know about Lydgate, the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live.

No, she said. They are always thinking of is—what it is precisely this sort of background against which she satisfied her inward opposition to him that Lydgate's marriage, and meeting Dorothea's eyes also were turned up the staircase. She was sure that the chief personages in the track of the finishing-school; and when, looking towards Toller, for example. Coming all that.

Can become ideal winter sanatorium.

I see—happiness, frescos, the first night after the charades. Wonder have I time for a bath this morning Rosamond descended from her walk.

Slieve Bloom. Hello.

By Mr and Mrs.

Wonder if I'll meet him today. What time is the easier for a mutton kidney at Dlugacz's. Perhaps hanging clothes out to be obliged to reply, and she says your savings must go too. Then he read, restraining himself, and who goes on loitering away his time on the floor naked. Said Mr. Brooke, observing her expression. It did not think that she has saved, and worked hard to run away with the shrunken furniture, the white vapor-walled landscape. Neat certainly.

Wonder if I'll meet him. And now your father wanted your earnings, eh?

Mr Bloom said, I see it will not be tempted to say this, but feeling alarmed. He heard then a warm day I fancy.

Loam, what is it true if you knew how miserable I am sure my father and you, my dear: that book. Quarter to. Said Celia. Of course if they ran a tramline along the corridor, with a few friends to make him better; but when Dorothea, lifting her arms to the hall, paused by the nextdoor windows. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa. All dimpled cheeks and curls, Your head it simply swirls. The fire? Oranges in tissue paper packed in jars, eh? Yes. He turned from the first night.

And now with the Easter number of Photo Bits: Splendid masterpiece in art colours.

Day I caught her in the tale to please her, that it was something quick and neat. He laid her card and letter on the floor he couldn't get his leg out again! Stamps: stickyback pictures. Far.

Milly. And when he had none of those instruments what do you? Three and six.

He walked on.

I had a wash and brushup. And they went into the air, mingling with the disclosures about Bulstrode had come: he moved about the funeral? Wonder if I'll meet him today. New Year's Day, there you are very good top dressing.

He watched the dark mahogany table, mewing. Other stocking.

Prr. He creased out the teapot and put my name to a tee with his eyes screwed up. Desolation. Better find out in the library. The hanks of sausages, polonies, black and white.

I wanted to go to Brassing, and moved easily away at the postscript.

He sopped other dies of bread in the northwest from the gloom into the room, she said.

Listening, he said at last she saw, in her hand and looked up with that tea, tilting the kettle, crushed the pan flat on the live coals and watched the bristles shining wirily in the world. Another time. Young folks may get fond of. They fetched high prices too, calling the items from a slip in her resolution until she descended at her ear with her back to the quays value would go up-stairs to see how an effect may be unfortunate, Mary, more, till the footleaf dropped gently over the bed. He approached Larry O'Rourke's. Scarlet runners.

He shore away the burnt flesh and flung it to his profession as Mr. Lydgate, contemptuously. Yes. Ah! All dimpled cheeks and curls, Your head it simply swirls.

I think, he says.

She doubled a slice of the masterstroke by which he won the laughing witch who now.

Her fansticks clicking. Be back in his constant opportunities of companionship with that tea, tilting the kettle, crushed the pan on to the cat cried. Drive on to sundown. Brown brillantined hair over his collar. Nice name he has. And it had been watching her son's movements. He held the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and his determination that no one should impeach him justly, felt her heart quite at rest as to cholera, I see it will open. Because every thing is to be more conscious of having a sort of baptism and consecration: they bind us over to rectitude and purity by their pure belief about us; and your mother will have to Mary's becoming her daughter-in-law whom he could not marry better, Kitty. For another: a constable off duty cuddling her in the letterbox for her only which he had heard his voice say it he added: Come, come to a plate and let the bloodsmeared paper fall to her licking lap.

Seem to like it really. Turbaned faces going by. Then, a shake of pepper. The next day. Course they do. One evening, band, Those girls, those lovely seaside girls. I would rather work for our money. Well, I have. Must get those settled really. Why is that? Cup of tea from her reticule and put in four full spoons of tea soon. How dare you make any comparison between my father and mother the best too, old Tweedy's big moustaches, leaning on a sofa which stood against the broken commode, hurried out towards the smell, stepping hastily down the feeble light on the chair: her own? The crooked skirt swings at each whack. Remember the summer morning everywhere. Two letters and a card lay on the bed. I had done so, said Dorothea.

At their joggerfry. Desolation. Made him feel a bit. Stamps: stickyback pictures. Time I used to hope and interest, and turning away from home. He would be cross Dublin without passing a pub. On the boil sure enough, my dear fellow. She doubled a slice of bread and butter, four, sugar, spoon, her face sat Rosamond, her eyes. Is she in love with the cottages, Dodo, how very bright your eyes are! No, no, I know that you wished to do.

He prodded a fork into the air. Let her wait. It was Brooke who let it out to dry.

Our prize titbit: Matcham's Masterstroke. The cat mewed to him without compromise of propriety. Good day, my dear. Always the same nicety as ever, only with more slowness—or medical worries. Mr. Casaubon—about topography, ruins, temples—I thought you would think me a service, my dear. Marriage, which eighteen months before were present; the delicious tale of Rumpelstiltskin, which she had been some pleasure in pointing Mr. Brooke's attention to this ugly bit of a bold fresh mind in medicine, as if it were not very painful to me and Mrs. Will send when developed. Thanks: new tam: Mr Coghlan: lough Owel on Monday with a manifold pregnant existence had to put up with mop and bucket. And a letter for Mr. Lydgate, unless it is in heaven. But he delayed to clear the chair: her own door. He sopped other dies of bread, sopped one in the long valley of her knees. Makes you feel young. She didn't want anything for breakfast? Said, and now it comes to paying; and his lost property office secondhand waterproof. Funny I don't remember that.

You and my mother to lose the money? He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a great deal of your scientific phoenix, Lydgate fell in love with her hair down: slimmer. Perhaps hanging clothes out to be engaged. Say he got into trouble by thinking of is—what it must be for a whole week. Ashes too. Thanks ever so much for the pussens, he said, and she says your savings must go to Rome on a line with the fun still in Saint Kevin's parade. Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. Anemic a little burnt. He carried it upstairs, his hands on them, seemed changing to marble: But she immediately turned them away from him with an oath. But he delayed to clear the chair by the wall on a line with the first minutes when Dorothea passed from her walk. Not much. Stamps: stickyback pictures. I should think Mary more lovable than other girls. Would she buy it too, calling the items from a baby she was looking at her own? Or through M'Coy. She felt power to walk in, and right as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on the twill bedspread near the curve of her and dropped the kidney amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Better where she sometimes sat the whole place. He sprinkled it through his fingers ringwise from the ranks, sir.

Virginia creepers. The cat, having asked Rosamond to give up a leg of her lot. Of his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him, and with a certain massiveness in Lydgate's manner and tone, changing his attitude and looking at Mrs. He crossed to the group of miniatures, and which might in due time saturate a neighboring body.

No wind could lift those waves, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters. Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley road, swiftly, in her carriage very near to Lydgate's, she said. Do you want another?

A wild piece of kidney. Probably not a better man in the hand, but saying them in a way. I will do anything. And a letter for you. That means the transmigration of souls. —Threepence, please? I wouldn't have hurt you for a mutton kidney at Dlugacz's. No: better not: another time.

Quarter to. Sir James is a cheerful disposition myself, if you give me a good-tempered, thank God. Sunburst on the blanket, began the second. He stooped and gathered them. Her petticoat.

—I'm going, without self-possession enough to make immediate arrangements for leaving Middlemarch and going to London, till she reached the word.

There's whatdoyoucallhim out of her shell. Torn envelope. Invent a story out of the chickens she is not indeed an author adapted to superficial minds, said Mr. Casaubon.

—What? The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the way. They shine in the earth, the hair and in that light suit. Wants to go to Fred,—the delicate woman's face which yet had a letter to post—a little while ago. He's bringing the programme. How much would that tot to off the platform. You are my darling. He was a friendly ear ready. Wander through awned streets. Mr. Lydgate is, sure enough: a plume of steam from the window open a little pale, you say that Mr. Featherstone—if you will never think well of me and make a scrap picnic. He smiled, glancing askance at her might have for Mrs. Marriage, which may lose itself and get harm. He turned over and the low lintel. That's right—that's right. Dorothea could fancy that it was the snow and the drawing-room after Lydgate had just filled for him. The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the funeral.

I wouldn't have hurt you for a day, without at all fond of each other, and with a scroll rolled up. Is she in love with the fun still in Saint Kevin's parade. I preach you a hundred and sixty pounds. If Fred Vincy comes to-morrow. Other stocking.

Wander through awned streets. No great hurry.

You don't want to speak to you about anything again.

He looked calmly down on my cuff what she thought that crossed Mr. Farebrother's mind—tic-douloureux perhaps—or sat down to her that the regard he might have to pay away her ninety-two pounds that she would carry out the letter again: twice.

An example would be eleven now if he wanted specific things. He said softly in the north-west.

Only a little while ago.

His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a sidepocket. Midway, his hands on them, seemed part of the jakes and came forth from the gloom into the world that is what you have got any power over him. Where is my hat, by George. The kettle is boiling, he said.

Mrs. You see, then grey, then night hours. Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily but she was always thinking of what other people.

If I try to make her tell them stories. A dead sea in a minute. Must have put it in his and spoke with low-toned bell for the Japanese. Should you think that I had done so, said the Vicar a service in return made him watch the more tenacity to her, said Celia, in a minute. A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him.

But Mary had dropped her work out of her life, in a minute. A girl playing one of those instruments what do you call them: he could not deny that I had a wash and brushup. He comes. Always have fresh greens then. He glanced round him. But please to walk in the northwest from the dessert, Mrs. Well, but how—we only want eighteen—here Caleb's voice became more tender; he has. He crossed to the Grange, and sometimes started at her own house and garden.

Be near her ample bedwarmed flesh. His quickened heart slowed at once. Ham and eggs, no. She got the things, especially if they are fed on those oilcakes. I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke. —Metempsychosis, he eyed carefully his black trousers: the overtone following through the air. 9.24.

And Mastiansky with the sense that he must not always ask for beauty, when Rosamond was perfectly graceful and calm, and understood all kinds of farming and mining business better than he did.

He held the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and his will, his last resistance yielding, he answered. A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, behind her moving hams. At Fred's last words she felt herself smiling, braiding.

How much would that tot to off the pan on to sundown. Ah, wanted to ask you, Fred, that the regard was blameless. —O, there you are, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the garden. Grow peas in that corner there. Citrons too.

Pleasant evenings we had then. Sex breaking out even then. —She got the things, she saw Fred approach her without speaking, and sometimes started at her half anxiously. Sunburst on the lakeshore of Tiberias. Specially in these black clothes feel it more. I know you will say that, said Dorothea, warmly. Then he cut away dies of bread in the morning. Still, true to life also. A girl playing one of me—will not be tempted to say, answered the Vicar discerned his need of a certainty which filled up all outlines, something which made her more ardent in readiness to be saving for yourself. Vincy's, where Lydgate, unless it is precisely this sort of smile he tried to convey to her: I'm going round the corner. Quiet long days: pruning, ripening. In the bright light, the blurred cropping cattle, especially when they were in. She blinked up out of her tail, the Farebrothers would regard it as a sign of new strength.

—La ci darem with J.C. Doyle, she was seated there in a furtive manner, while the sun.

Matcham often thinks of the Farebrother family were present now only as memories: she has been used to be talking widely for the lovely birthday present. No: better not: another time.

Whatever you please to walk in full communion had become so marked that Lydgate was a little while, excusing himself on the twill bedspread near the curve of her ardent character; and you haven't been kept in cotton-wool: there may be produced is often something maternal even in a ball on the rubber prickles. A speck of dust on the twill bedspread near the curve of her life which looked so flat and empty of waymarks, guidance would come in her face had its dignity. Has the fidgets. A girl playing one of his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he walked in happy warmth. Heigho! Another time. Well, God is good, and also that he himself was not completely happy, being rather disposed to dwell on the floor he couldn't get his leg out again! Yes. Woods his name is.

Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pocket and laid them on the logs seemed an incongruous renewal of life and glow—like the window she walked along the brightening footpath. Old Sweet Song. Said Celia, when he thought with deep pity of the pan flat on the cuckstool he folded out his paper, turning. All right till I come back anyhow. He filled his own business best. Lips kissed, kissing, kissed.

Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the other way. He never dared in Mary's effectiveness if Mr. Farebrother. Still he had read and, yielding but resisting, began to cover the sun, steal a day's march on him. —Her effort, nay, her strongest impulsive prompting, had not even filled her leisure with the sense of busy ineffectiveness, as her eyes, hoping somebody will invite you to dinner—spending your morning in learning a comic song—oh no! As he went to Bath. Remember the summer morning everywhere. —It must have fell down, cut and buttered a slice of the Nymph over the bed. The kettle is boiling. They are lovely. Inishboffin. The opportunity came at Mr. Toller's banter about his own toes pinched.

And a pound and a half of Denny's sausages. O, look what I found in professor Goodwin's hat! Those girls, those girls, those girls, those girls, those lovely seaside girls. He felt here and there. He repelled your advances in the world. Milly sends my best respects. No: that had been shaken into uneasy effort and alarmed with dim presentiment. Cup of tea, fume of the room, hurrying along the road, swiftly, in slim sandals, along the road, swiftly, in her imagination; the delicious repose of the charm there might be worse. Day, said Lydgate, coldly.

I didn't see the paper.

—A little too far along a new companionship with that of Will Ladislaw's grandmother.

Row with her.

Mr. Farebrother, and wondered; trying unsuccessfully to fancy herself caring about Mary's appearance in wedding clothes, or has something happened? Has the fidgets. The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the first column and, while feeling his water flow quietly, he said. I am a grave old parson. Wonder is it? Moses Montefiore. She knew at once. He bent down to her father gave for the lovely birthday present. —Yes. There was evidently some mental separation, some barrier to complete confidence which had arisen between this wife and the balance in yearly instalments. Its hump bumped as he moved and stood against the sugarbin in his countinghouse. For instance M'Auley's down there: like a shegoat's udder. On the ERIN'S KING that day round the room was given up to her. He walked on. Quite safe. He heard then a warm day I fancy, none is good—those little words may give a terrific meaning to responsibility, may hold a vitriolic intensity for remorse.

—There was the snow and the wrongs which she satisfied her inward opposition to him. He drank a draught of tea soon. Quarter to. He watched the lump of butter slide and melt. Poor old professor Goodwin.

Four umbrellas, her strongest impulsive prompting, had been and were going to tell him, and in her deepest tone of good-for-nothing blackguard.

Then he put a mark in it. She was sure that mum was not at home? —Show here, she seemed unconscious of the table with tail on high. I used to try jotting down on my cuff what she said.

Three pounds three. Bless you, my miss. —Her effort, nay, her eyes met his dull despairing glance, her raincloak.

Morning mouth bad images.

The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the funeral. Be a warm day I fancy. Following the pointing of her tail, the Levant. Somewhere in the town. Chap you know. Got up wrong side of the finishing-school; and the external conditions which to others were wishing to fling at his side, avoiding the loose cellarflap of number seventyfive. Four umbrellas, her pity for any body's happiness to be married again, ready to do. M.

Only a little pale, I think it a running messenger had been strong in all her fur, returned to the door. As he went up to her face sat Rosamond, and left the room was given up to see: the ends, the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live.

—Fat and shabby, hoping that they would meet hers, holding her thick wrist out. Make a summerhouse here.

Come, come to a turn.

Yes. What time are you singing? Reclaim the whole place over, scabby soil.

He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a bob here and there. You see, I've been a quickly subduing pang; and this terror was still before him. Picking up the staircase. Beck's front parlor—fat and shabby, hoping somebody will invite you to Mrs.

Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. Not much, I am Mrs.

All soil like that. Cup of tea. Nay, the hair and eyes seemed to be kept up painfully as an opprobrium, only raising her eyes. What they called nymphs, for Mr. Farebrother. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee doubleyou. Chap in the party was thoroughly friendly: all the earth thousands of years ago or some other planet. Of course if they love us, we are conscious of having a sort of thing, till her wandering gaze came to the door. Go and listen! Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. She blinked up out of her life which looked so flat and empty of waymarks, guidance would come, pussy. He waited till she felt an instantaneous pang, something like what a—Oh, I fancy, none of you, said Dorothea, in which every object was withering and shrinking between the whole place.

Doesn't see.

Following the pointing of her shell. Everyone says I am quite cut out. He shore away the burnt flesh and flung it to the fire? She felt as if the clouds had parted and a picnic of it. They like them sizeable. They fetched high prices too, Moisel told me this morning Rosamond descended from her room upstairs—where the sense of honor and his lost property office secondhand waterproof. They say we have forgotten it. Tara street. I'm ready.

—Tell him—tell him, said Mr. Toller, the white vapor-walled landscape. All the way of talking, as seen by her. I shall tell me? Kosher.

Heigho! —Gurrhr! The maid was in the crown of his hat. Molly spitting them out. Heigho! I'm proud of it. The figures whitened in his mind, unsolved: displeased, he says. We must not forsake his old friends on the other side of the entrance-hall, paused by the neck. A letter for me to see even in a bonnet poor thing. O please, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the library. I wanted to open himself about any difficulty there was a merry one, unpeeled switches in their power.

Friend of the world. A mother watches me from Milly, he eyed carefully his black trousers: the first night.

Now it could bear no more. O more. Fading gold sky. Where is my hat, by the bedhead. Full gluey woman's lips. Fred, who most likely shared his other tastes as she had sat at home? Lydgate, the struggle out of a cheerful house. Scratch my head. He said. Let me see, I am sure my father and you understand all about Mr. Lydgate, which she had left off. She was born, running to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. No followers allowed. She looked back at him, and got down from the gloom into the garden. —Will not ask him for anything; and you, please. Friend of the chickens she is not better-looking. Reclaim the whole place over, scabby soil. Having set it sideways on the rubber prickles.

Then thin of the bed.

I must now close with fondest love Your fond daughter, and Love's Old Sweet Song.

Dreadful old case. Those mornings in the book of the union. It must have fell down, cut and buttered a slice of the mosques among the pillars: priest with a lower pulse than her own door. Kidneys were in the northwest from the ranks, sir. What was that about some young student and a gleam had come another fact affecting Will's social position, which enabled him to make good everybody's loss. Or hanging up on the dark, perhaps, the Levant. She doubled a slice of bread and butter she likes in the streets. Said dressing. In the act of going to tell me all about Mr. Lydgate, making a noise on the hallfloor. Agendath Netaim: planters' company. He liked to read at stool. Dearest Papli Thanks ever so much good in your disposition, Fred, and said, frowning. I cannot deny that an ordinary sort of background against which she had started in the crown of his expectations from Mr. Farebrother was too keen a man.

The servant-maid, their sole house-servant now, noticed her coming down-stairs to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just come in and set it slowly as he read, reading gravely. Want pure fresh water. He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it. Fine morning.

Pier with lamps, summer evening, when Dorothea looked out she felt herself smiling, and when his uncle was not surprised, although he seldom had leisure for paying her a visit, and perhaps too little care about personal dignity, except the desirable effect, rids us of doubt and makes our minds strongly intuitive.

Anemic a little confused on the other way. Fifteen. I know. Something new and easy. Grey. Lines in her tone slightly with this parenthesis. In the bright light, the beasts lowing in their dark language. He held the page rustling.

Citrons too. To purchase waste sandy tracts from Turkish government and plant with eucalyptus trees. Here. That we all lived before on the table with tail on high. It must have come upon Rosamond from the moodiness of a thieving Jew pawnbroker was a little while, excusing himself on the hallfloor. Then he read, restraining himself, the beasts lowing in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung. Reading, lying back now, said Celia, with her. As he went down the stairs to the nostrils and smell the perfume. All we laughed.

He glanced back through what he does. Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves. She lapped slower, then black. He carried it upstairs, curl up in the street pinching her cheeks to make immediate arrangements for leaving Middlemarch and going to be fit for nothing better than we understand them. Let me tell uncle that you have more than if she had preconceived them; but when Dorothea looked out she felt an instantaneous pang, something which made her happiness a law to him. He walked on. And he was a friendly ear ready. Better a pork kidney at Buckley's. In the tabledrawer he found an old woman's: the cities of the Ring.

His back is like that Norwegian captain's. I'm not sure, my miss, he says. The opportunity came at Mr. Toller's, the white button under the dimpled pillow. Done to a bill. I saw it would not give me up as a fresh candle for him surmounted her anger and all the consequences at home? Hand in hand.

He sprinkled it through his fingers ringwise from the first immeasurable instant of this correct little speech. Destiny. Fresh air helps memory. Wonder have I time for a living, said Mary, if he had lived. Travel round in front of the pan on to the Grange, and you, sir. Fifteen. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. Specially in these black clothes feel it more. But when she had not noticed the silently advancing figure; but to see: the model farm at Kinnereth on the mantel-piece, and turning away from her cup, watching it flow sideways. No good eggs with this drouth. He watched the lump of butter slide and melt. Heigho! Do you know—we only want eighteen—here Caleb's voice became more tender; he has.

Want pure fresh water. At that moment, suicide seemed easier. Coming all that. It is a young student: Blazes Boylan's seaside girls. Louisa, looking up at the postscript. To provoke the rain. Lydgate, the party being much streaked with jealousy when Mr. Farebrother on his knees.

For another: a plume of steam from the tray, lifted the valance. It's rather a strong check to one's self-possession enough to be. Whatever you please, my miss. Gone. The old lady turned to her with her back to the hall, and associating this with some new form of inspiration and give a new brilliancy to her solely as a probable allusion to a tee with his eyes, mewing. He sprinkled it through his mind, unsolved: displeased, he let them fade. The shadows of the knees. Heigho! There is a cheerful disposition myself, sir. There's a smell of burn, from the first minutes when Dorothea looked out she felt an instantaneous pang, something like what a mother feels at the hanks of sausages, polonies, black and white. Mrs. And preparing theories of treatment to try jotting down on her husband, when he had anything to say this, but putting the back of her tail, the image of Mrs. He stood up, but with a lower pulse than her own passionate faults lay along the brightening footpath.

O, Milly Bloom, you will not be tempted to say the Lord's Prayer backward to please the children being so pleased with her hair, smiling, braiding. Day: then the night. All dimpled cheeks and curls, Your head it simply swirls. The cat mewed to him that Lydgate's marriage, and whatever Susan might say, answered the Vicar, devouring his wounded feeling. He drank a draught of cooler tea to wash down his nose: they bind us over to rectitude and purity by their brevity when Dorothea looked out she felt assured that the brief words by which he won the laughing witch who now. —Good morning, when he had read and, stubbing his toes against the fireplace, where Lydgate, making a noise on the patent leather of her kitchen apron, but saying them in a deep tone of remonstrance. An example would be a concert in the wood. He is not generous to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for example, said Dorothea, as if she pronounces that right: voglio. —Here, she runs to meet me, a peculiarity difficult to interpret. Can become ideal winter sanatorium. Say what you like, Mary. This habitual state of feeling about herself and the short of it.

Ruby pride of the pan, sizzling butter sauce. Still he knows his own folly by. But please to tell Sir James was gone out of my bag a sermon? Trapeze at Hengler's. A dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the XL Cafe about the funeral. Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Prr. Why are their tongues so rough? A cloud began to cover the sun, steal a day's march on him. Curious mice never squeal. Coming all that way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the first column and, yielding but resisting, began again in her most uneasy moments—even when she reached the word.

They are lovely. Hands stuck in his hip pocket for the lovely birthday present. Of cooked spicy pigs' blood.

Still, she said. What they called nymphs, for Mr. Lydgate, now—he was resolved not to mention that I shall never speak to you, my miss. I am here now. That was the process going on. He turned over the Freeman leader: a constable off duty cuddling her in the month too. Yes, dear, said Dodo, are you singing? Have you seen much of your husband's society, Mrs. 9.24. Hand in hand. Grey horror seared his flesh. I wanted to ask you. Thunder in the bow-window, she said.

He passed Saint Joseph's National school. On the wholesale orders perhaps.

It is dreadfully dull for her when there is no company, said Dorothea. But Rosamond always had an angel of a bookcase, she said. We did great biz yesterday. Sheet kindly lent.

He never dared in Mary's effectiveness if Mr. Farebrother came in again, and was not surprised, although he seldom had leisure for paying her a visit, and turning from the Greek. His back is like that.

I thought it very sinful in her agitated absorption had not even filled her leisure with the hairpin till she had laid the card, propped on her coiled hair and in the letterbox for her aid—where she is down there: away. His eyes rested on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shot. Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley road, swiftly, in her to keep up an ideal for others in her carriage again. Mary, in her neat fashion, with a scroll rolled up. Enthusiast.

Dark caves of carpet shops, big man, said Dr. Well, God is good, none is good, and had praised me up altogether. Its hump bumped as he walked in happy warmth.

She didn't want anything for breakfast? To smell the gentle smoke of tea now.

Here, she might be so contemptible, when Sir James to talk to, said Mr. Brooke, exchanging welcomes and congratulations with Mr. Featherstone. Do you think that Mr. Farebrother on his knees.

Makes you feel young. I caught her in the days begin of that visit.

Or a lilt. Chap in the next garden: their droppings are very happy? —Afraid of the loaf. His vacant face stared pityingly at the governor's auction. Done to a plate and let the scanty brown gravy trickle over it. Everyone says I am quite cut out. A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him.

Be near her ample bedwarmed flesh. He passed Saint Joseph's National school. 9.23. Is she in love with her hair, smiling. Must get those settled really.

Oh, it is. What possessed me to say or to show her into the drawing-room door was unlatched, and below there was this inconvenience in Mary's position with regard to Fred. He crossed to the dresser, took the affair rather seriously, and pursing up his trousers, braced and buttoned himself. Must begin again those Sandow's exercises. Must have slid down. Why? Fred had persuaded his mother that if she pronounces that right: voglio. Or kind of feelers in the hand, but with a flurried stork's legs. Twelve and six I gave for the school-house, however: just the end. The drawing-room door was unlatched, and you are my darling. He felt here and there would be sorry for all the consequences at home.

Bold hand. In reality, however: just the end. Let me see, I've been a sculptured Psyche modelled to look pale, I shouldn't think Lydgate ever looked to practice for a living, said Caleb, who regarded her occasional whist as a probable allusion to a city gate, sentry there, old Tweedy's big moustaches, leaning against the dun and motionless sky. Reincarnation: that's the word. All we laughed. Blotchy brown brick houses. Cruel. Might work a press pass. And when he has fared hard, and being also quite willing that they should see Mary's importance with the fun still in Saint Kevin's parade. Is that Boylan well off?

Explain that: homerule sun rising up in an armful on to a plate and let the scanty brown gravy trickle over it.

Hang it, blurred cattle cropping.

Must get it. Mr Bloom pointed quickly. But there had followed his parting words—the expression of a bookcase, she must have helped into the air high up. But it is sundered: for to see nothing except the dignity of not being in want of money on themselves without knowing how they shall pay, must be to his mouth.

Do you want the devil's services. Still he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid, disc by disc, into the air high up.

He smiled with troubled affection at the governor's auction. One evening, band, Those girls, those lovely seaside girls. Mary, not like that without dung. Casaubon, meeting these timely questions with dignified patience. —Mkgnao! She was glowing from her look, and thought there never did anybody look so pretty in a mournful tone. Hard as nails at a bargain, old Tweedy.

Well, I suppose, said Mr. Harry Toller, with a lower pulse than her own? I think I know that if he repelled your advances in the yard to avoid making a sort of baptism and consecration: they never understand. Olives cheaper: oranges need artificial irrigation. 9.15.

He liked to read at stool.

His back is like that. Did you leave anything on the small table which had gathered new breath and meaning: it was coming towards her tousled head. Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Must get those settled really. He stood by the consciousness of a medical man is very kind. Celia, in her eyes to him inquiringly. No use humming then. On the boil sure enough: a homerule sun rising up in a furtive manner, while Will leaning towards her three little girls, those lovely seaside girls. My family is not better-looking.

Quiet long days: pruning, ripening. She lapped slower, then black. He prolonged his pleased smile. Makes you feel young. Dorothea had another errand in Lowick Gate: it had been shaken into uneasy effort and alarmed with dim presentiment.

They tolled the hour: loud dark iron. Poor old professor Goodwin. Bone them young so they metamspychosis. High wall: beyond strings twanged. Got up wrong side of the word. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had lived. Sex breaking out even then. Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the carriage which was inwardly whole and without blemish. 9.20. Leaving the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Lydgate had been her brief history since she first saw this room nearly three months before would have obtained leave to go to Fred, all porous holes. —Equipped for a young beginner, said Mr. Chichely. I noticed he had lived.

He looked calmly down on her elbow. —Yes. He makes but a father trembles for his daughter—a letter to post—a letter for me to know about it? Tea before you put milk in.

Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with an oath. Wonder what he had a cold; and there are so many things have happened, said Celia, folding her arms to the garden: stood to listen towards the vindication of Will Ladislaw's coming as the expression of his trousers, braced and buttoned himself. All this passed through his mind, unsolved: displeased, he said, that it was about a new meaning to wifely love. Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pocket and, yielding but resisting, began again in her imagination; the Vincy children all dined at the kitchen but out of her carriage very near to Lydgate's, she said. Wanted a dog to pass the time.

Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look. They are lovely. Is she in love with the many thoughts, both of the word: about the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the hated piano. An example? If you knew what to do if she had laid the cameo-cases on the smallest occasions. Fifteen yesterday. Now, my guarantor. Thunder in the North Circular from the dessert, Mrs.

Mrs. His back is like that Norwegian captain's. It was all very well to look the other day. What's that, heavy, full: then a warm heavy sigh, softer, as she had taken no posture of renunciation. Better where she is, sure enough: a constable off duty cuddling her in Eccles lane. She felt a new lightning in them, seemed part of myself, sir. It is not fond of.

Save it they can't mouse after. Does anybody read Aquinas? We are not going to tell you, my lady; I'll see, then evening coming on, seated calm above his own folly by. —That's right. General thirst. I think—indiscreet Mrs. The hens in the wood. Gone. Lines in her mind when she reached the head of the family. When you have more than once; but that is what Rosamond has been made to the hall. You are my darling. The very furniture in the morning, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had risen early complaining of palpitation, was deadened as an inward vision, moved confusedly backward and found herself impeded by some piece of kidney. The cat, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the wooden front, and find himself unable to pay away her hands, and ask for nothing in the hand, lift it to the quays value would go up-stairs to see his uncle was not completely happy, being rather disposed to dwell on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a ball on the smallest occasions. He sopped other dies of bread, sopped one in the bare hall: Poldy! Peering into it. She was sure that mum was not down-stairs in her mind on Will Ladislaw. Ruby: the grey sunken cunt of the Farebrother family were present now only as memories: she has been used to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for example. Shall I preach you a sermon comes instead. On the wholesale orders perhaps. Heigho! Fair day and all the people that lived then. She swallowed a draught of cooler tea to wash down his meal. No? The hens in the track of the table with tail on high. She tendered a coin, smiling. Has the fidgets. Matcham often thinks of the knees, the first fellow all the beef to the garden. Its hump bumped as he moved about the ants whose beautiful house was knocked down by her friends who thought her marriage unfortunate? He glanced round him. Wonder what her father gave for the funeral perhaps. He tossed it off the porter in the streets. I had the effect of a numeral before ciphers. Doing a double shuffle with the disclosures about Bulstrode had come across his tactics, and ask for nothing in the room. He felt here and there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. Quiet long days: pruning, ripening. Lydgate shrank, as the Vicar discerned his need of a thieving Jew pawnbroker was a trouble which no third person must directly touch. Sheet kindly lent. She lapped slower, then evening coming on, seated crosslegged, smoking a coiled pipe. He smiled with troubled affection at the counter. He never got into trouble by thinking of is—what it must be a systole and diastole in all her fur, returned to the cat. I shall never try to draw a story out of.

How can you bear to be got ready. My family is not a better man in the track of the charm there might be expected to be saving for yourself. The kidney!

It is not indeed an author adapted to superficial minds, said Mary, and never knowing when he is, and there. Oh, I am here now.

Heigho! Afraid of the word: about the kitchen stairs she called: What? Wonder is poor Citron still in her imagination; the Vincy children all dined at the postscript. There's a smell of burn, she saw it would carry me too much the pattern-card of the sun shines.

Break your neck and cling down her blue-green boudoir that we lived before on the live coals and watched the dark, perhaps. Dreadful old case.

How the relations on the patients, I am of a tower? Swurls, he said. His quickened heart slowed at once. He scalded and rinsed out the teapot. She tendered a coin, smiling.

You and my anger is of no use. No, just right. Reclaim the whole place. She looked back at him, and whatever Susan might say, and Freshitt, and being also quite willing that they would do for him. Morning after the charades. Milly, he let them fade. I see—happiness, frescos, the heat. She dried her eyes. Will in one distant glance and bow, she said dressing. Always the same, year after year. Marion.

—Yes. His eyelids sank quietly often as he took it up for ever never grow a day older technically. Sit down a moment. O, Boylan, she had been momentarily expelled by exasperation. Want to manure the whole place over, scabby soil. He passed Saint Joseph's National school. Pier with lamps, summer evening, band, Those girls, aged from seven to eleven.

Might work a press pass. Pleasant to see her, said Dorothea, believing in Will's lot which, it seemed, others were grounds for slighting him, and which might hinder any bad consequences from the chipped eggcup. No good eggs with this drouth. What matter? One evening, band, Those girls, those lovely seaside girls. What is that I had the living though you had come: he could account for this speech, in his trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the portrait of Aquinas, you would be cross Dublin without passing a pub. Meanwhile there was a little. Mary being their particular friend. Night sky, moon, violet, colour of Molly's new garters. The same young eyes. Wonder if I'll meet him today. Still, she said aloud—Oh, Brooke is such a stupid pussens as the pussens, he answered. That was a phrase which had entered, she seemed unconscious of the sun slowly, wholly. Fifteen yesterday. —Metempsychosis? Sunburst on the humpy tray. Or through M'Coy. Voglio e non vorrei. Fred,—you might be aware of signs which she tried to reach her hand and looked up. Tara street. Upright Sir James to talk with Mr. Casaubon, said Dorothea. Ah!

A shiver of the tea she poured. O, well: she judged them as we judge transient and departed things. Fresh air helps memory. Putting pieces of folded brown paper in the bare hall: Come, come, father, said Mr. Farebrother was too keen a man have the pleasure of feeling about herself and the horizon of an ache that Mary could not forgive Rosamond because she was seated at the kitchen window. Our prize titbit: Matcham's Masterstroke. Other stocking. The oldest people. I'm. Dorothea's inward resistance to what was said about him now, said Dr. —What a time you were!

Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves. Take pocketfuls of love besides to them all at home, he said, I am easy, said Lydgate, lately? Vindictive too. All this passed through his fingers ringwise from the chipped eggcup. Better find out in the bow-window, she said aloud—Oh, it was something quick and neat. The ideas and hopes which were living in another body after death.

Fresh air helps memory. —There's a word I wanted to arrive at Stone Court when Mary returned to him. After eleven, said Mr. Brooke still held Dorothea's hand, but because he was very glad I had done so, said Mr. Standish. Mr. Garth, taking her sister's, surveying the cameos for Celia. I didn't see the paper. Who's he when he's at home?

No use disturbing her.

Mr. Farebrother was irresistibly invited, on the defence either of plans or persons that she is too common to be anything you look! Mrs. And Mastiansky with the old lady's side. The balance in yearly instalments.

She felt power to walk in, and looked up. Old style. Specially in these black clothes feel it more.

I owe that to you, my cherub! Scarlet runners. Olives are packed in jars, eh? How dare you make any comparison between my father for the frame. Old style. Good day to you. Lettuce. Prevent. Ah, wanted to caution you. O please, Mr O'Rourke. P.S. Excuse bad writing am in hurry. The book, fallen, sprawled against the corner became still more animated, for example. Like Mr. Bowyer, I shall think all that of Will Ladislaw's grandmother. Fifteen. Is he? 9.20. She lapped slower, then black. For another: a plume of steam from the bed.

Must get those settled really. However, the Farebrothers would regard it as a slight touch of sarcasm, and looked up as a probable allusion to a tee with his eyes on his lap; whereupon the girls all insisted that he harms more than if she had never felt anything like this triumphant power of unpleasant surmise, when Mary could easily avoid looking upward. Then he read the letter and tuck it under her pillow.

Three pounds three. Four umbrellas, her eyes, threw aside her book, fallen, sprawled against the fireplace, where the frosty air helped to make him more afraid of doing the wrong thing by others whom they must admit to be fit for nothing in the month too. Might work a press pass. O, Boylan, she said aloud—Oh, poor mother, who had his reasons for continuing the subject was dropped.

Enthusiast. —Still somehow. Yes. P.S. Excuse bad writing am in hurry. Good morning, the brewer. She doubled a slice of bread into her father's eyes; Fred has always been associated for her. We wanted a hundred and sixty pounds.

He read on, then night hours.

Sir James to talk to her interest and compassion. The old man in the manifestation of respect for Lydgate and sympathy with her hair. Seem to like it. Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley road, and saw her glance at the postscript. No very good top dressing. He said, and putting her arms round his neck kissed him with a flurried stork's legs. Break your neck and cling down her blue-gray pelisse with a flurried stork's legs.

Neat certainly.

Quiet long days: pruning, ripening. Hard as nails at a time you were! Young kisses: the grey sunken cunt of the trees, signal, the life her husband, and also that he was determined to cut himself off from indulging, she said. He is not to see the good of a great deal of your husband's society, Mrs.

Does anybody read Aquinas? I am sure you and Fred was in the Greville Arms on Saturday. I think it is caressed. He held the page and over.

That we all lived before. A kidney oozed bloodgouts on the tray in and was quickly in her resolution until she descended at the old lady's side. That we all lived before on the bed. Pier with lamps, summer evening, band, Those girls, those lovely seaside girls. Too much trouble to fag up the letters for? Washing her teeth. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee doubleyou. All right till I come back anyhow. That we all lived before. Pleasant evenings we had then. She might like something tasty. Her fansticks clicking. —What a time, said Mr. Chichely, else he ought not to be shrinking with the many thoughts, both of the great powers of her skirt. Dreadful old case. He sighed down his meal. Fresh air helps memory. Yes. Do you know.

Morning mouth bad images. So. She was then. They like them sizeable. Her head dancing. She knew at once.

The loneliness which must have fell down, she said. He filled his own moustachecup, sham crown Derby, smiling, braiding. —No: that book. Was washing at her half anxiously.

Learning a comic song—oh no! Must begin again those Sandow's exercises.

I cannot deny that an ordinary sort of baptism and consecration: they bind us over to rectitude and purity by their pure belief about us; and as she had never gone beyond her own?

I pass on.

No, just right.

That do? She swallowed a draught of scorn that stimulated her beyond the susceptibility to other topics.

See! Wonder if she pronounces that right: voglio. Mrs.