#and the worst part is there's more that's not written just bull my brain came up with

[agendabymooner]

gorgeous ! max v. x ofc (hearth sister!ofc)

"i'm so furious at you for making me feel this way, but what can i say?"

summary: sylvie edson ford officially signed with red bull after making christian horner (her employer) own up to his mistakes at the spanish grand prix. max verstappen continued to prove his worth as a friend (or frenemy) by dropping off his 'office-warming' gifts, needless to say, she was slowly liking him even more. (1)(2)(3)

content warning: use of explicit language, mentions maltreatment in the workplace environment, sylvie disliking max's outfit

note: y'all thought i'm done for the day? wrong. shout out to tim hortons iced coffee, you really make my heart beat fast ✨✨ anyway, enjoy this part xx

masterlist

The worst that could happen would be that you would end up crying your heart out in the middle of the room and everyone would pity you. 

But Sylvie didn’t think that something worse than that could even happen on the same day she signed her contract with Red Bull.

The headquarters of Red Bull in Milton Keynes wasn’t that much different than the Mercedes AMG office in Brackley— she knew that; she frequented the place whenever Toto would work in the office just to pester him and his staff. 

The difference between the two, however, had something to do with the sense of comfort that she lacked as she stood in front of the Wall of Fame, her eyes staring directly at the images of Christian Klien and David Coulthard. Her figure felt so tense, anybody with a sharp object could cut her easily. 

Her sister, Tilly, had been an owner of this team for two years now, yet she felt like this place didn’t even belong to her family. Sylvie couldn’t even claim that she was proud of being a part of the Red Bull group— she didn’t even know jack shit inside this office. She knew how much she disliked Christian Horner, but that’s the only Red Bull headquarters related thing that remained in her brain. 

Then came her contract. She sat down next to Stevie and Tilly as she continued to skim through the terms and conditions of her contract. It was dead silent, and she disliked every single bit of it. Should she have an office in this place, she’d definitely blast some songs to get away from bullshit. 

Sylvie barely finished reading the last section when she heard Christian speak and clear his throat. She stared at him, hand still holding onto the papers as he stated, “I know that we’ve come across one another in a rather negative manner so I would like to personally apologize to you.” She raised a brow at him, telling herself that it was time for him to own up to what he did or rather what he didn’t do. 

The youngest in the room bit back quietly, “For what?” Stevie coughed next to her, obviously trying not to laugh at her sister’s sassiness as she knew what would happen after Sylvie slipped those two words out. The Hearth sisters knew a lot and one of them was that Sylvie would always make sure that the others would have hell to pay. She was self-aware of the things that she deserved - and she knew that equal respect and dignity were two of those things. 

Christian stared at her for a moment, confusion written all over his face. Sylvie leaned against the chair she sat in and crossed her arms, papers still on her hand as she said, “I don’t know what you are specifically apologizing for, so for what?” 

The Red Bull team principal sighed exasperatedly. Tilly looked over and gave Stevie a wag of her brows, liking the situation that was happening in front of them. 

“You sound like you don’t mean it, Horner,” Sylvie pointed out with a mutter. 

“I apologize for not finding a way to make you feel comfortable in your own working environment,” he spoke like he was a robot who was only coded to speak those words. “I could have done so much better and tried to help you adapt to that situation. But it was a busy weekend—“

“And so will the rest of the race weekends ahead of us,” Sylvie snarked. To say that she wasn’t scared of her future employer was an understatement; Christian just had his own ass handed back to him by making him admit to what he’s done wrong. Now she continued to test him as she said, “I am not saying that I won’t be working hard to continually improve the image of the team, but some support will be sufficient. I like the thought of fending for myself, but that would just mess up my performance as a team player.” 

She was still hurt about what happened a month ago, of course. Being left out like a lost puppy in her workplace environment gave her the anxiety that she never thought would ever come back. The boys from her past definitely made it worse. Being yelled at by Christian about her performance that weekend only put the cherry on top. She couldn’t really cooperate with the team if they left her out to figure shit out on her own. 

So it was only rightful of her to blast him with endless words that could hopefully make them realize that they needed to correct their mistakes as the seniors and veterans of the team. She didn’t care if it could tick him off; she didn’t deserve to be treated poorly on her first weekend. If that was how rookies were treated then she sure as hell would address that matter— nobody deserves to be treated like such.

“I acknowledge your frustration over what had happened in the span of a weekend. As I said, I could have done so much more than berate you in front of other people,” Christian told her calmly, “and as your superior, I’ll gladly work with you to figure out what could possibly work best as you delegate with your peers.” 

“You should have thought of that before,” Sylvie rolled her eyes, grabbing a pen laid out on his desk and signed the contract, not even looking at him in the eyes while she did it. 

She found herself looking around once more, now disappointed that her sisters had left after the meeting. She toured the headquarters with Daniel Haas— some communications officer who happened to be a year or two older than her— leading the way. She had seen the place before she even attended her meeting, so listening to him had no point as she continued to look at him and nod. 

Daniel stopped in front of a door that sat at the very end of the media and communications hall, waiting for her to turn at the door. 

“This is your office,” he told her with a grin before opening it with a key, handing it to her after he swung the door open and turned on the light. 

The office was quite decent, sure. The L-shaped desk took up a quarter of the space, then at the back were empty shelves. A couch sat right in front of the big desk and beside it was a small table with F1 related magazines. 

She could definitely do so much with this office. She wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to decorate her office— one that she would occupy should she have time away from the runway. 

Her phone was the best friend she had that day. She’d been scrolling through Twitter, thinking about her first task to follow. She wasn’t told what to do just yet. 

A knock interrupted her thoughts and a murmur of ‘come in’ slipped out of her mouth, her bright eyes peering up to see Max Verstappen enter her office with questions written all over his face. 

She hated to admit it, but Max looked handsome that day— no matter how much she hated seeing him in his white shirt and skinny jeans— and those running shoes. So fucking atrocious, his outfit was.

“You’d think that being a professional racer would help you afford nicer clothes,” Sylvie’s voice echoed in the office, making him scowl in confusion as she continued, “even Adam Sandler can get away with his basketball shorts.” The silence in the room went away as she chuckled humourlessly. Max only laughed quietly with a shake of his head. 

“My favourite fashion critique,” he huffed, “oh have I missed you.” 

“You need better habits,” she replied, “like dressing nicely. Otherwise I wouldn’t be handing your own ass back to you for looking so horrendous.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” He teased as he walked towards her desk. “I wouldn’t see the Wild Blue Mustang in her prime, otherwise. I got to make some sacrifices, you know?”

She watched him as he placed something on her desk, making her lean over. He stood there patiently, watching as she examined the stuff on her table. 

A box of a mini orange Cadillac figure sat on her desk and a framed picture of them as five year olds. Alongside that would be plaques to place in her door and on her desk. 

“Sylvie Edson Ford Hearth

Community Outreach and Public Relations Coordinator”

The Red Bull Racing logo was engraved on the gold plaque next to her name. Talk about official.

“Thanks,” she said quietly before looking up at him, “did Christian make you act like his personal messenger instead of having someone else pass these to me?”

“Nope,” he shook his head, beaming in happiness as he said, “I wanted to give the plaques myself.”

“And why do I have a toy Cadillac? I don’t recall Red Bull making a Cadillac.”

“This is your first office move-in day ever,” he shrugged nonchalantly, “I’d hate to not be a part of it. You’ve got an adult job now. I missed a couple of your achievements. So… yeah, I got you a Cadillac. Me.”

“You need to stop weaseling your way into the little stuff, Verstappen,” she sassed. “It’s unbecoming.”

“Never,” he cheekily smiled, “besides, it’s easier for me to barge into your life now. Your office is right here! And we work together, too. Talk about advantages.”

Sylvie sighed heavily, rubbing her temples before looking up at Max. “Don’t you have other people to annoy?”

“You’re my top one,” Max laughed heartily, “but I’ll go. I wanted to welcome you to Red Bull. Officially. That’s why I’m here. I’m going to go to my meeting with Christian. So— bye!” 

Hearing the door slam shut, she leaned back against her chair. She thought that the worst case scenario of today was that she could have cried in the middle of Horner’s office. Then she pondered what just happened, and decided that her nightmare had something to do with liking Max, one way or another. 

She really didn’t like it when her demons won and continued to gravitate towards him. She wanted to continue to despise his own being, but loathing could only do so much.

[ultimatetornshipper]

To bee or not to bee - a Jasonette fic

@moonlitceleste I almost let this die, I honestly really wanted it dead but alas it was clearly meant to bee 

(WARNING: contains puns, angst, crack and fluff. You have been warned)

If you don’t want to read my sarcastic/funny/fangirl commentary, skip the brackets

I have another bee movie au, i didn't plan it ("I don't claim to be proud. But my head won't be hung in shame. I didn't plan it. But the light turned red, and I ran it. And I'm still standing. It's not what I wanted, but now that it's right here. I understand it. A story written by my own hand" as quoted from Waitress), it just happened and i just couldn't resist. I'm not sorry

So what if instead of dying Joker turned Jason into a bee. Because Harley convinced him and told him that people were talking shit about him because he's named the Joker and they don't think he's funny. It surprisingly works. (Obviously Harley was the one who made the plan and did the magic I mean really what do u expect of Joker?)

Ok so now Jason’s a bee right? And he’s like 15 because .~:°*plot*°:~.

They look for him and Jason’s like flying around like, “Guys! Guys I’m right here!” Poor kid. (I mean I would make it funny but like angst)

Obviously they don’t understand him because he’s a fucking bee and Joker cackles madly and Harley laughs too but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes and it's kinda that laugh u do when ur supes overwhelmed and sound maniacal but like soft (I’m a simp for Harley being portrayed as the complex and beautiful character she id leave me be)

Jason is very sad. And also quite pissed

Not knowing what else to do he follows Batman home, he listens to them trying to find him, watches Dick freak out and Alfred wipe a tear the rest of the family doesn’t see.

Jason tries to approach Alfred, hoping he somehow recognizes what happened

He doesn’t, Alfred closes him in a glass and paper and takes him outside.

He sneaks back into the manor and sleeps in one of the flowers (it's a red tulip because aesthetic) next to his bed. He cries himself to sleep. (Can bees cry? Is this possible? Is this like a thing??? I don't need sleep i need answers)

The thing is even tho he's now a bee, he still has the durability of a human, so even stepping on him won’t crush him and he still has a human lifespan

Because Harley isn’t a monster and what Puddin didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. (Simping for Harley Quinn strike 2)

After a while at the manor and following them he decides he can’t stand it anymore. Alfred has thrown him out three times and Dick freaks out each time he sees him as he’s a tad allergic (read: he would die if stung)

Which is how Jason found out that getting hit with a newspaper wouldn’t kill him.

He leaves.

He’s a bee and it’s not like he knows about a way to reverse it.

But there was someone who might.

He goes to Arkham.

Luckily, Harley was still there. (YAY we get to see mah gurl)

He flies into her cell and she just watches him, then she seems to click. She gives him a small smile, “Hi birdie,” (she puns, honestly would make for a better clown of Gotham and I saw an idea for that once where she steals Joker’s title once and I’ve been yearning for it ever since)

She holds out a finger and he lands on it, she laughs but tears come to her eyes,” Hey at least you’re not dead. That was his original plan you know? To kill you with a crowbar. I convinced him this would be a cruller fate. I guess maybe it is, but at least this way... Ugh how the hell did I get here,” (Harley angst, honestly it’s all just self service at this point)

He simply stared at her as she cried, and he felt his heart clench. From here she looked so sad... not crazy, just broken.

She took a deep breath and looked at him seriously, “Look kid, there’s a way to get you back to normal, you just need to find someone, they’re called the Guardian of the Miraculous. They can help, I don’t know who or where they are, just follow your instincts. And come say hi when you get back, yeah? I could do with the... healthier company. And remember, I bee-lieve in you,” (Gasp what a shock, you mean to tell me Miraculous magic is gonna be involved in this Maribat au. Well I never what a shock. Also puns. Oh and she’s so nice to him. We love Harley in this house)

He sat there and studied her for a while more, there was more to her than it seemed. Than what he’d assumed.

But for now, he had his own problems to deal with.

She gave him a small wave as he left. (Adorable)

He left and started considering his options, as a bee, it would probably be safest to stay inside, away from birds and things that would view him as a snack.

Staying in Arkham seemed like his best option, as bad an option as it was.

Most of the prisoners wouldn’t have a second thought about trying to crush him.

A strong scent of flowers and plants suddenly came to his attention.

Of course! Poison Ivy. (Round 2 of me simping for beautiful, complex, badass women. Too bad Catwoman ain’t here.)

He followed the smell to her cell and saw her staring out of her small window. He was still taking a chance, but she loved plants and flowers and bees were important to those, weren’t they?

He flew to the window bars and sat on one. The moment she spotted him she smiled widely, in a soft way he hadn’t seen on her before. (Ahhhhh my darling plant redhead. I love writing the Sirens as soft badasses. Also has anyone noticed how rare brunettes are in superhero worlds? Like both in Marvel and DC but like irl brown is like a pretty damn common)

She held out her finger, “Hey there, little guy. A little far from home, aren’t we?”

She had no idea.

He landed on her fingertip and watched in awe as a flower and a few leaves formed on her hand. She let the flower grow itself around one of her window bars and held her finger next to one of the petals.

“There you go, it’s all I can manage with my power dampers. I haven’t had company in a while,” she said softly as he crawled into the flower. He made himself comfortable.

She laughed to herself and he saw her shaking her head, “Talking to a bee, well, I guess stranger things have happened,” (yeah ur crush is dating a green haired murderous psychopath and you get beat up by a billionaire in a batsuit on like a biweekly basis)

The flower was soft and warm and felt safer than he expected it to. He found that he could move between the petals but decided to curl up in the middle. (It's a pink rose this time because fuck yeah flowers)

He slept better than he had in days.

The next morning he took his leave, stopping only at the manor to say a mental goodbye.

Then he headed off.

Jason flew a lot the first few months, our boy was smart at least, travelling with a cruise ship on its way to Europe.

It was Spring in the Northern Hemisphere so he had until Autumn until it was in his best interest to head south to avoid the snow. He decided to head towards Africa when summer started coming to an end. (I have no reasoning for this, just that I want to)

His first spot would be the United Kingdom. Then he'd go through the rest of Europe following his instincts.

At least it was Spring.

Jason diligently searched through England, Scotland and Ireland but found nothing.

By the time he was done he realized it was time to start heading South. He’d decided to take another cruise to South-Africa, where it would be summer, he searched through the country until April. He would admit that he didn’t feel drawn to anything in any of their 9 provinces so his search wasn’t as diligent as in England. He didn’t feel anymore drawn to the neighbouring countries like Namibia or Botswana either.

(Once again no reasoning for why I picked these countries, I mean the French Hugonotes went there when they were fleeing from the French Catholics who wanted them dead so I guess I could make up some bullshit about Mari having an ancestor in common with someone there or maybe it was just the ship he could easiest get access I don’t know, you make something up)

Which was why he decided to go back to Europe as soon as April hit.

He hitched another ride on a cruise headed for France.

It’s been a year since he got turned into a damn bee.

He was sixteen now and while he’d seen some amazing things all through South-Africa (a place that proves that humans really do have a weirdly obvious way of naming things I mean the Amazon river and Chad Lake are just more examples really) as well as the United Kingdom, all he really wanted was to go back home, to be human again.

When he gets there he diligently makes his way through France, eventually arriving in Paris.

He lands on the tip top of the Eiffel Tower. As in the point of the antenna because why not.

During his year he realized that birds and other animals tended to avoid him, sensing his strangeness so that was at least one positive.

He stared out over the city. Well, the one good thing about this was definitely the views he’s been allowed to see.

That was until a massive explosion hit.

“What the fuck?” he said out loud, searching for the source. No one understood him, human or bee, but talking to himself reminded him of his humanity.

He found the source of the explosion but just as he started flying to its general direction, a blinding white light shone followed by a horde of ladybugs that were fixing everything that was wrong. (Imagine how scary this would lowkey be irl tho? Just a shit ton of Ladybugs descending on Paris my dude)

He decided that he needed a night’s sleep before he could even begin an attempt at deciphering what had just happened. He flew lower, finding a nice little balcony right above a bakery. And it had flowers. (I’ll give u five seconds to guess who this balcony belongs to)

He flew down, exploring.

He turned around when he heard a loud thump from behind him. What appeared to be a super heroine in red spandex with black spots had landed on the balcony.

She detransformed and started to talking to a floating bug- fairy thing. Strange. Though it wasn’t like he could judge, as an ex superhero sidekick who was thought to be dead but was actually a bee.

She disappeared down her trapdoor and he made himself comfortable in one of her flowers.

He slept soundly until somewhere during a night another thump woke him. He looked out of his sleeping spot to see a cat superhero stand on her balcony. He leaned down and knocked on her small trapdoor.

Ah, a teammate of hers, they were probably meeting about something, he thought as he heard her open up.

It didn’t take him long to realize that even though they were teammates, the cat, Chat Noir he later learned, was not aware of this fact.

Oh this was rich.

He couldn’t bee-lieve his eyes. (ok so Jason used self-referential puns but can you really blame him? It’s really just me and my pun problem so don’t blame the kid)

He was going on and on about his feelings for Ladybug, the girl’s hero form, that were clashing with his feelings for another girl he fenced with, while she listened, clearly fed up with it.

He also claimed that he thought that maybe they were one and the same. Which, to Jason, was hilarious as he was literally saying this to the actual Ladybug’s face.

Marinette- he learned from the Cat’s ongoing blabbering, he was a real blab-bee mouth, - was clearly tired, nodding half asleep, probably having heard it all before.

When he finally left Jason went to sleep again, incredibly amused and even more thankful that he was fluent in French. ( u think this is plot convenience? Just u wait mah dude iz about to get worse)

The next morning he decided to follow her to school. Which was how he learned of her huge crush on a boy named Adrien Agreste.

After learning the boy could fence thanks to Marinette’s obsession interest in him, he got suspicious.

Could it really bee? (not a typo)

After seeing the boy transform a month or two later for patrol he laughed like he hadn’t for over a year. It very much was. He'd spent the time staying on Marinette's balcony and decided to stay another week before moving on and continuing his search, after all, he couldn't stop now that he finally felt like he was getting close.

The next day she got home crying, claiming that Adrien had started dating someone else.

Kagami, she called the girl. Probably the fencer if he had to place a bet.

“I’m sorry, Marinette,” Tikki told the girl.

“That boy's an idiot,” he said, speaking his mind, another thing he’d gotten use to being allowed to do without consequence.

Marinette nearly jumped out of her skin, she looked around and he realized that she could hear him. He hadn’t really spoken too much before, at least not when she was around. He was usually content with watching her do whatever she was doing that day.

“Tikki, did you hear that?” she asked, Tikki nodded, her eyes landing on him.

“Oh,” the kwami said softly, flying over to him, “Oh, you poor thing, who did this to you?” (Tikki is the first ever mom friend and u can fight me on this)

He stared up at her, flying so that they were eye level.

Marinette gaped at them, heartbreak seemingly forgotten, “Tik- Tikki, are- who are you talking- are you talking to a – Tikki is that a bee?!” she finally spluttered out.

“No,” Tikki said, studying him, he felt his heart twist in hope and his stomach roll in surprise. Did she know?

“I mean yes, but no. He’s a boy whose been turned into a bee,” Tikki explained, turning back to Marinette.

“Oh,” Marinette said softly, turning to him. She held her hand out and after some hesitation he landed on her finger. She looked at him then back to Tikki.

How did they know? Would he really be that lucky? Was this real?

“Uhm, how?” she said, staring at him in disbelief. He tried shrugging but realized he couldn’t anymore- beecause of his- well if you haven’t caught on to the fact that he’s a bee by now you should really start from the beginning of this story.

“I don’t know, but Joker and Harley Quinn were involved,” he said.

Marinette stared at him in disbelief, blinking a few times. She sat in shock a few moments longer. (Our darling is an awkward lil bean, and while in media awkward is portrayed as cute, irl it isn’t, it’s just well… awkward. And we’re writing a serious and realistic fic about this sidekick of guy who wears a batsuit/billionaire's ward getting turned into a bee and falling in love with a magical girl fighting a butterfly man- none of this unrealistic nonsense)

Tikki flew over and sat on Marinette’s shoulder while her holder processed the information, the kwami stared at him sweetly, “What’s your name?”

He swallowed, he hadn’t said his name in ages, it stirred up something (emotion, it’s called emotion, Jason, you know? The thing Batman can’t process??) in him, “Jason Todd,”

Marinette seemed to finally snap out of her daze, “That sounds American. Are you American? Wait if Joker and Harley are involved then you’re probably from Gotham. Are you? Wait I’ve seen the name Jason Todd somewhere. Weren’t you some rich guy’s ward? It was all over the news last year, Alya wouldn’t stop talking about it for a month, she had a million theories. He was – you were announced dead two months after Robin was taken captive by Joker, everyone thought he was – you were killed. Joker made outrageous claims as they arrested him... saying that they’d never find Robin... that he’d all but disappeared in thin air... that he wouldn’t be the only one wearing stripes... I remember because he put a really weird emphasis on the words be and stripes and...,” her eyes widened and she gasped as she looked at him in what could only be described as pure shock. (Yes this happens, people can talk for this long and since I personally know headcannon that Marinette is ADHD this long ass paragraph is just another Tuesday bud)

He sat there, surprised that she figured it all out so quickly. (yeah bub it’s called plot convenience and it’s because of me, the writer, I don’t wanna focus on secret ID shenanigans, I got other plans for yall, also Mari is smart, don’t underestimate her)

“You’re Robin,” she breathed, “they turned you into a bee. Wait- How the hell did they turn you into a bee?!”

He chuckled, “Bee-lieve me I’ve been asking myself that question for more than a year,”

She bit her lip, seemingly contemplating his words and ignoring his pun, “Tikki do you know anything that could help? Do you think Miraculous magic-,”

He felt his heart stop, he flew up to her face, flying at eye level, “Wait, did you just say Miraculous? Harley said if I could find the Guardian of the miraculous, they could help me, do you know where they are? I’ve been looking for so long,” (‘°;~*.plot convenience.*~;°’)

Marinette blinked at him and Tikki's face dawned with realization.

“I’m the guardian of the miraculous,” Marinette said softly, “Tikki, that means I can help him, right?”

Tikki nodded and he had to dial down the hope in his heart because the look on her face told him there was a Kim Kardashian sized butt on the way.

“We can help him, but we’re gonna have to wait. (don’t look at me like that, do u want them to have time to bond or not?) You’re not trained enough to pull it off yet. If you were to do it now, all three of us would be out of commission for far too long, especially with Hawkmoth on the prowl,” Tikki said.

They must’ve been able to sense his sadness because they were staring at him with an incredible amount of pity. The amount was quite unsettling actually and he suddenly felt a primal like urge to pun. (An extract from my book: “My unhealthy coping mechanisms and how to use them,” specifically Chapter 8: “Humor hides the pain”)

Suddenly Tikki’s face lit up, the whiplash of her expression change throwing any notion of punning out the window.

“Well, there’s one thing we could do,” she said, excitedly, zipping buzzing around “If he wears a miraculous, he'll return back to human form while transformed,”

Marinette perked up at the idea, but confusion soon overtook her features, “But Tikki, most of the miraculous are bigger than he is,”

Tikki waved her away,” It’s fine it’ll work,”

“Ok,” Marinette said after a bit of thought. She stood and he followed while she started climbing down her skylight,” I’m thinking you can try each of them out for different patrols and then we’ll see which one matches you best. This could be fun, having some fun sized company while figuring out how to defeat Hawkmoth,”

He laughed, flying near her ear, “Fun sized, huh? I’ll have you know I’m considered tall in human form, unlike some of us,”

She laughed and rolled her still tear stained eyes, and so, the beginning of a bee-autiful friendship bloomed.

Marinette walked to her closet and Jason took in her room. It was very pink, but in a well-balanced way - it wasn’t completely overbearing. His eye caught on a few pictures of Adrien Agreste on her wall but figured now wouldn’t be a great time to bring it up. (Look he’s already more emotionally aware, #foreshadowing of character development)

She removed a big box from her closet. She opened it and it was filled with what appeared to be a bunch of scrap materials. At the bottom she removed a bigger bundle of black and red fabric and he flew closer.

She put it in her lap and Jason had to do a double take when he realized that her hands were glowing and what the actual fuck- it was a box now -fuck fuck fuck- why was it a box? How? What- Jason was pretty sure he did not sign up for this.

She put the box down in front of her and to his relief she opened her mouth to speak as she lifted the lid, so he’d understand everyth- and its jewellery.

The box contained jewellery. Animal themed jewellery by the looks of things.

He then realized that these were probably the other miraculous.

She looked over each artefact before handing him the yellow and black hairclip.

Out of all of them, she picked the bee miraculous.

“Hilarious,” he replied dryly, giving her a look, he realized too late she wouldn’t be able to register- on account of, well you know… (if u don’t know by now, you don’t get to find out anymore)

She gave him a grin and replied, “I certainly think it is,”

Her teasing expression turned into one of worry, “I mean we could switch it out if it makes you uncomfortable-,” (being a sassy people pleaser with no filters really do be like this tho)

He laughed, “Don’t worry, I’m only teasing. What do I do?”

Marinette opened her mouth to answer before obviously realizing that she didn’t have an answer. She turned to Tikki and the kwami had a fond smile on her face before turning to Jason. (Just Tikki casually mentor- moming Mari because Fu is useless)

“Just step on the miraculous, it’ll sense that you’re human,” the creature replied.

When he stepped onto the bee miraculous, its kwami appeared.

Pollen stared at him for a few seconds before she realized what was happening.

After an explanation about her power set and what exactly he could do in suit, he transformed.

He felt his human body appearing. He was taller and more built than he remembered being. His flying clearly had physical consequences then, not that he was complaining.

His suit included a pair of bee wings. His hair was longer than he remembered it being too.

He had a black leather jacket and combat boots. With it was a pair of practical black leggings and a yellow t-shirt with three thick black stripes. (The three stripes represent each one of his families, the Todds, the Waynes and The Dupain-Chengs, because I can) He also had a pair of black gloves. His boots had yellow laces. On his face was a black and yellow striped domino mask. The top sat on his hip. The bee miraculous sat on the middle of his chest in the form of a broach.

He all but sprinted to the mirror. He stared at his face, his blue eyes and his nose that never healed quite right after breaking it that one time. His black hair was messy and stuck up every which way, his cheekbones were as high as always, and he had a little bit of stubble and it was so familiar and so new all at once.

He touched his face, barely registering the tears flowing down his cheeks and laughed in relief. He was human again. This was real! He could- he was closer to normal than he ever thought he’d get to be.

He turned to Marinette who was staring up at him in shock. He picked her up and spun her around, laughing in joy. And after a moment she joined in. He put her down and put his hands on her shoulders, smiling widely, “Thank you. Thank you so much,”

She smiled up at him, a slightly sad look on her face, “I’m sorry, it’s not permanent,”

“Don’t be sorry. For the first time I have hope. It will be permanent eventually, and till then, I have you with me, right?” he squeezed her shoulder, still high on the feeling of hope and warmth and familiarity.

When he was overcome with the sudden urge to pull her into a hug, he didn’t resist.

He held her close, resting his chin on her head, “Damn, I missed this. Hugging, I mean. I haven’t... it’s been so long,” (not that he got all that many hugs from Bruce “emotionally constipated” Wayne)

She wrapped her arms around him, “I can imagine,”

They stood there a while before the time for patrol came along. She transformed and they made their way to the Eiffel tower, where they met Chat.

The cat themed hero rose his brow questioningly, “I thought we didn’t recruit new heroes unless it was an emergency?”

Ladybug smiled nonchalantly, “It’s Guardian business, he’s gonna be a permanent fixture in our team for at least a few months so we might as well get used to working as a team,”

Chat Noir eyed him wearily and he stepped forward, sticking his hand out, “Hi, I’m Blackback, nice to meet you,”

Chat Noir shook his hand and gave Ladybug a sceptical look, “An American? Really?”

“Please Chat, he's not American, it’s just the glamour hiding his actual accent,” she replied simply, shooting Jason a worried look.

He couldn’t give away his identity, but he was also technically a bee, he didn’t really have an identity to give away. So, her behaviour was strange. Unless she wanted to give him an identity somehow?

He couldn’t stop thinking about it for the rest of patrol.

When they got home Marinette revealed that she wanted to give him the fox miraculous. If they asked Trixx she would be able to design the costume in a way that allowed him to look like a normal civilian, without the mask.

Trixx's glamour was also stronger than the rest so his true identity as Jason Todd would be protected.

And she could help him fake an accent.

Since Marinette was a year younger than him he could just pick up where he left off school wise.

She convinced her parents that he was an exchange student in desperate need of a place to stay because the person he would’ve stayed with backed out last minute.

They agreed easily and Jason decided to not question it.

It was his third family. His second if you only counted non abusive ones. First if you wanted one with a healthy family dynamic.

They got him a fake birth certificate and name. He went with the alias Thomas Grayson. He thought it was kind of funny, and it paid homage to both Bruce and Dick. It gave him something from home to hold on to. (Jason isn’t really salty about not being avenged in this au, he didn’t die and Talia and the pit madness wasn’t there to egg on his anger. But maybe if I ever get back to this au we could do a thing with it… guess we’ll have to wait and see ;-) no promises tho)

He built himself another home with Marinette and her family. And before he knew it, he was happy again. He felt secure.

Through the weeks, he ingrained himself into Marinette's life. In a blink of an eye, they were best friends, and he couldn’t imagine life without her.

He loved living with her family as she trained to be strong enough to turn him back to normal.

He grew close to Marinette’s friends and was her shoulder to cry on about Adrien. He and Adrien got along pretty well, and he and Marc and Rose traded Literature jokes. Max would join in when it involved Shakespeare.

Then Lila happened. (She’s a staple in Maribat fiction. U can’t have Maribat without Lila. Or well u can but that’s usually a very specific au)

Her lies started out simple enough. Then she started manipulating everyone and he, Marinette, Chloe and Adrien were one scheme away from being ostracized. They sat in the back row.

They ignored her sneers and let her lie to her heart’s content. Then one day she said something that made both Marinette and Jason freeze.

“You know, I was childhood friends with Jason Todd (I know she usually gets the names wrong but like her knowing the name just makes this next bit better) You know, Bruce Wayne’s ward who died a while ago? It was just so sad. He grew up in a nice family but his parents both died in a car accident and Brucie took pity on him. He even let us keep in contact afterwards, since our parents were such good friends. We all miss them dearly of course. We were neighbours the year we lived in Gotham, you know? We'd play every day-,” she started fake crying, “Oh it just gets too much sometimes,”

But to Jason’s shock Alya didn’t move to console Lila, in fact, she was staring at the brunette in shock.

He turned his gaze to Marinette to see the girl wearing the biggest, coldest, most satisfied smirk. She rested her chin on her hands and grinned at Lila in a way that made shivers go down his spine.

He turned back, this ought to be good.

And it was.

Alya absolutely lost it.

She ripped Lila a new one and frankly? Jason was impressed. (Alya has a temper and she’s a fangirl, and we all know how we get when someone gets something wrong about one of our hyperfixations, even if it’s an old one so like yall can imagine how bad Lila had fucked up)

When an akuma flew in towards Lila, Alya grabbed it, staring the girl down with a fury he didn’t know she could possess, “Don’t you dare! Do you think I’m blind? I’ve seen how easily you get akumatized and this time I’m not letting it happen!”

Of course, Alya then got akumatized but hey it beat another version of Lila.

Everyone made up but they weren’t quite as close as before. Their group tended to consist mostly out of him, Marinette, Chloe, Adrien, Kagami and Luka.

Other than that incident and akuma attacks, life was pretty good.

In fact, it was great.

He and Marinette would spend nights on her balcony, laughing and slow dancing. They star gazed and went on patrols. He helped her when she got nightmares and she returned the favour. They went on long walks and spent the holidays together. They crammed for tests and he played model for her designs. They worked in the bakery and hung out with their friends both in and out of suit. They’d joke about his technical bee-ness and he and Chat drove her mad with puns. In retaliation she’d introduce him as her bee friend to people or only give him honey and bee themed things. (ok this sentence sounds weird but I mean like when she brings them sweets from the bakery to snack on while working and stuff.)

And one laugh, memory and fight at a time, he started to fall. (I just want good things for Jason, and really can you blame me?)

Through the months, he kept up to date on the news about Bruce Wayne and Marinette held his hand each time a new kid joined his brood. She reminded him that no child could be replaced and reassured him that of course Bruce would want him back when they figured everything out.

And if he didn’t, she’d kick his ass into space, and he’d stay with her family in Paris- a family she made sure he knew he was a part of.

He helped Sabine in the kitchen and was the only one who came closest to beating Marinette’s Ultimate Mega Strike 3 record. Tom taught him to shave and bake. He was integrated into their family and they treated him as part of the family.

But even if they were giving him everything they were, he missed Bruce. And Dick. And Alfred. And Barbara. And Gotham. He missed them all so much. He missed home.

So, 14 months later, when Marinette told him they had a meeting with the Justice League about the Hawkmoth situation, Jason felt his heart skip a beat.

“What?” he asked softly, his eyes brimming with tears (Marinette taught him how to emotion, you see. So Jason is emotionally stable-ish enough to cry without feeling embarrassed about it), “I get to see him again?”

Marinette nodded and hugged him from behind, “I’m planning on telling him what happened. Is there anything you can tell him to verify who you are?”

Memories from a million years ago entered his mind, “Yes,”

She took his hand and took a step back, “And I think I can fix you before we go, I’m strong enough. But I’d still like your help in the final battle, I mean I know you’re going home but...,”

He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and smiled, “Of course, Pixie. I’ll always be there for you when you need me,”

He pressed a kiss against her forehead, a movement so familiar it was practically a part of him. He pulled her close and cried into her hair.

“What if he doesn’t believe me?” he asked softly, after a while, resting his chin on top of her head.

“He will,” she replied, tightening her grip around his waist.

They both knew she had no guarantee of that. That she had no way of knowing for sure. Neither of them did.  And it scared him more than he wanted to admit.

The next day they do the magic turning back thing. It freaks him out quite a bit but not as much as her revealing the miraculous freaked him out the first time, you get kinda used to the magic shenaniganary. They’re both passed out for an hour afterwards and when they wake up, he holds her, crying, because he was finally, finally back to normal and this was real and permanent, and it was over.

She cried with him and held him, and they then went out and he wore a shirt she made for him, and they got ice cream the next day. They celebrated some more and went to the park with the squad and they had a picnic.

It was better than he ever could've imagined.

While the sun was setting, they stood back on her balcony, where they first spoke all those months ago, slow dancing. He pulled away and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled at her as the orange light of the sunset shone on them. (So aesthetic)

“Thank you, Marinette, for everything,” he says as he rubs his thumb across her cheek. His hand holding her face. She puts her hand over his and closes her eyes, savouring the moment.

She opened her eyes again and smiled, “I’d do it again and more, if it meant I’d get to be with you,”

He started leaning down, “If I lost you, I’d fly all over the world just to find you again,”

She raised to her tip toes, faces millimetres from one another, blue bells meeting ice, “So it was all worth it in the end?”

He moves closer, eyes searching hers. “Definitely,” he breathes.

She closes the distance, and he picks her up and spins her around. They break apart and their laughter fills the air.

(now that’s enough fluff, allow me to drown you in angst)

The next day they stood on the Eiffel tower. She took his hand, “Let’s recap. I go in, we have our Hawkmoth meeting, then I ask if I can speak to Batman and Nightwing alone. Then I tell them I found you, then I give them – are you sure it’s necessary for me to give them your blood, hair and a cheek swab? Isn’t that overkill?” (Batman is serious about his no kill rule, but he’s also serious about his there’s no such thing as overkill rule)

He shook his head and she sighed, “Okay. Then I give him means to contact me and I come back. Now remember they might take a while to process and they won’t necessarily call immediately-,”

“What if they never call?” he asked, gripping her hand tightly.

She ran her finger softly through his hair, “Then you have us to help you get through it,”

He nodded, she kissed his cheek and stepped through the portal with Queen Bee, Chat Noir and Viperion. He and Ryuuko stayed behind as backup, he wielded the Fox miraculous these days, but kept the name Blackback, always wearing a black leather jacket no matter the transformation.

He and Ryuko discussed fighting styles, she was kindly trying to distract him, and if it had been anything else he needed distracting from, it would’ve worked.

So passed the slowest forty-five minutes of his life. Chat Noir and Queen Bee exit a portal and so the wait for Marinette and Luka began.

She and Bruce were talking now. Bruce would know he was alive. This was make or break for him. Luka was nearby to act as back up worst-case scenario.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, followed by someone taking and rubbing circles on his back. He looked down to see Ryuuko on his one side and saw Chat Noir on his other.

“We’ve got you,” Chloe said standing in front of him, hand on his unoccupied shoulder.

He swallowed and nodded. She squeezed his upper arm and met his gaze, “Breathe, you’re safe, honey,”

So, 30 more minutes pass. They sit down and somewhere along the line Chat goes and grabs a dozen croissants from the bakery.

In another situation he might’ve laughed. He’d baked this morning’s batch and now he got to eat some of it for free, of course, technically he could get others for free too but-

The portal opened behind them and Ladybug and Viperion stepped out. He noted that she didn’t have the bag of his DNA with her anymore.

She smiled softly at him, “Now we wait,”

And wait they did.

They waited two weeks.

And then the burner phone that's number they'd given Bruce rang.

Jason froze, Marinette jumped up and ran to get it.

He couldn't move as she walked over and put the phone on speaker, she grabbed his hand and he held onto her for dear life.

"We can both hear you now, Nightwing," she said.

There was a beat of silence on the other side of the line, "Can he- If you're- can I speak to him? In- um- private?"

Marinette looked at him, and he nodded. She took the phone off speaker and handed it to him.

He held it up to his ear and squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on the circles Marinette were drawing on his hand with her thumb.

"He- hey Dick," he said. He heard his brother's breathing hitch, followed by a few seconds of silence.

"When did Batman find you?"

"25th May 2017,"

"Who's your favourite author?"

"Mary Shelley tied with Jane Austin,” he replied.

Dick stayed silent for too long and before he could stop himself the words fell from his mouth, desperation clinging to each syllable,” My favourite- my favourite playwright is Shakespeare, and my favourite school subject is English. If I could pick any day job it would be being a writer. My favourite colour is blue. Alfred has a secret fear of dolphins. You have had a ridiculously huge crush on Barbara for years and she had no idea, and I found a picture you drew under your old room's bedside table of you two getting married. I folded the picture up and hid it in a small box of memories I kept in the farthest corner of my closet under clothes I never wore. I have a round scar on the lower left side of my back where Willis Todd burned me with a cigarette when I was 5 that you don’t know I know you know about. My first Christmas at the manor you found me in the rose garden cutting a few off to take to my mother's grave and I was terrified that you would yell at me but instead you drove me to the graveyard and that was the day I decided to give you a real chance. I despise carrots but I eat them when Alfred makes them because I don't want to be a burden. And I-," he choked on a sob- when had he started crying?

He took a shuddering breath, and swallowed some of his tears, trying to make sure the words got out right, "I've missed you guys for every single second that I've been gone,"

His stomach tied itself up in a million knots as the silence stretched on. He could hear Dick moving the phone.

"Can I speak to Ladybug again please?" A female voice he didn't recognize said.

He handed the phone to Marinette and pressed his hand over his mouth to try to contain the sobs. He felt like a knife was twisting his stomach. He couldn't even hear what Marinette was saying. (I’m going through something irl and as a result u guys get to read angst by the bucketloads and I regret nothing)

Dick didn't want to talk to him. He should've just answered the question, he shouldn't have given all the extra information. Now they were never going to believe that it's really him and he would never see them again. Maybe they knew it was him and they just didn't want him-

"Jason, breathe with me," he heard Marinette's voice. His eyes latched onto hers like a lifeline, he became aware of her hands holding his.

She took his face in her hands and rested her forehead against his, in a motion so familiar that it came as easy as breathing. Well as easy as it usually was to breathe, right now excluded.

After he calmed down, she explained to him what they discussed. They would go to Gotham and meet and discuss things from there.

They wanted to meet him, but they still didn’t completely believe that it was him. He knew this for a fact because they had organized for M’gann to be there to confirm what he was saying. (Yassss M'gann my darling girl, I adore out lil Martian)

Marinette had suggested that they meet in the Batcave in an hour. Everyone had agreed. He assumed she had a plan as to why she wanted to wait. And he trusted her, so he waited for her to explain.

“I want to take the team, as backup. If you’re not comfortable with it, I want to at least take Luka. I would suggest just letting one of us wield is miraculous, but his Second Chance Timer limit is an hour so it would be most beneficial,” she said, gesturing with the hand that wasn’t holding his.

He nodded, sitting up straighter, but not releasing his grip on her hand, “We can bring the team, it’s smart to have backup. Besides if things go haywire, we have Luka to stop us.”

“Then let’s go get our team, love,”

(oh, I should probably mention that only he and LB knows everyone’s Identities. Or well rather no one knows like officially. Like everyone lowkey knows everyone's and a few of them have officially revealed themselves to each other, but not everyone is officially revealed to everyone and Mari and Jason are the only ones who aren’t officially revealed to anyone else, it’s kinda like the vibes of knowing your best friend is queer but not saying anything because they haven’t officially come out yet but like you know because they ain’t nearly as subtle as they think. Like that aesthetic.)

Anyway, 50 minutes later, they’re all gathered on the Eiffel Tower. Jason saw Marinette give Luka a nod to reset his timer. Suddenly he was enveloped in a light with a scratch that wasn’t there a few seconds before on his cheek, his expression quite annoyed.

Marinette immediately furrowed her brows, “How many times?”

Viperion shook his head, “Don’t worry, only one so far, but they try to restrain us. We’re gonna have to try plan b this time,” Everyone nodded, they waited two minutes before the agreed upon time and Mari opened a portal, but instead of appearing out in the opened, they hid in the shadowy parts of the cave.

Jason used his illusion to hide them from any observant eyes and they spread out a bit. He and Mari stayed together, Cloe flew to get a higher perspective and hide Viperion on one of the cave’s many ledges while Chat just moved a few feet away to have a slightly different hiding spot. Kagami dropped into her wind form and was flying above them to eavesdrop, she’d go to Luka if she heard anything of importance so he could go restart again.

They’d be one step ahead of the Bats no matter what they pulled, after all, they had all the time in the world.

They watched them all get into position as time neared. Jason didn’t know all the kids but recognized them from the news.

Dick, Bruce and M’gann stood near the bat computer with Barbara – who was in a wheelchair but that was a realization to deal with later- and Alfred.

The minute they were supposed to appear Jason cast another illusion to make it appear as though they had arrived. As expected, weapons and restraints immediately swarmed on them, each kid going for a different miraculous member. Too bad the images turned into orange dust as soon as they touched them.

The tiny one in the Robin uniform was red in the face and immediately started throwing a tantrum, “Father! They’ve tricked us-,”

Before he could get another word out, Chloe mass-venomed the horde of kids that we’re sent to attack them. He counted Black bat, Red Robin, Batgirl, Signal and Robin. They were all frozen in the middle of the room and before the others near the computer could move, Kagami trapped them in a (rather large) ring of fire. They had enough space to move around comfortably but if they tried approaching the edge the flames would grow larger.

Batman growled and his eyes searched through the cave, but he wouldn’t see them, no matter how hard he searched.

Jason stared at them. Dick was also searching the cave, but he seemed to look more hopeful than angry. Alfred seemed his usual calm self and Barbara was glancing around the cave more subtly. He didn’t bother looking at the rest of the batkids because M’gann was staring right at him, staying right where she was despite her ability to fly.

“Hi, Jason,” she softly spoke into his mind, he felt emotion overwhelm him, she’d known him before everything, and she knew it was him and it was a lot.

He knew she wasn’t probing around his brain for information like he was sure Bruce had asked her to, she didn’t have to, she knew it was him.

“Can you please tell me why we’re surrounded by fire?” she asked.

“We have a time traveller,” he replied.

“Ah, not a fan of Bruce’s restrain and question method, then? Can’t say I blame you, though I do think you’ve proven your point,”

“You really think it’s a good idea to release all of them?” he asked sceptically.

“… Good point. Maybe leave the brood in the middle in whatever frozen state they’re in and just let us in the fire out. They really just think it’s too good to be true… Jason, I won’t let them hurt you,”

“Okay,” he agreed softly. He turned to Marinette and gave her a slight nod. She returned with one of her own.

They walked over to Kagami’s ring of fire and he held their illusion until they were right in front of it. He held on to it for a bit to make sure everyone else would be able to stay in position. Chloe would keep the cavalry venomized and Chat and Viperion would stick to the shadows, unless necessary.

Jason dropped the illusion and watched four heads snap to him. M'gann simply gave him a soft smile and a nod of encouragement.

Kagami moved herself to stand next to Marinette and turned back into her human form, glaring at them with a silent warning.

Their attention was elsewhere, though. For a long time they just stood there and stared at one another in silence. They studied every part of one another they could see.

His eyes caught on Barbara’s wheelchair and he felt ready to destroy whatever put her there. She met his eyes and he held her gaze. She must’ve seen something there because she gave a small smile as she allowed a few tears to escape her eyes.

“Miss Martian?” Batman broke the silence like a cheap dinner plate, shattering it in a matter of seconds.

“It’s him,” M’gann answered without a hint of hesitation.

It was Alfred that moved first. He took a few hesitant steps towards him and before Jason knew it the man was in front of him. Alfred reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, desperately studying him for a moment before pulling him into a hug only Alfred could give.

It took Jason a moment to respond but when he did he returned it wholeheartedly.

After a few minutes they pulled apart and it took him a moment to realize that they’d both started crying. When he looked up Dick was only a few feet away. The moment Alfred stepped away Dick pulled him close.

“I thought you were dead, kid. I thought I’d never see you again, I thought I lost even more family. You were too young, too innocent. Fuck Jason,” Dick whispered, tightening his grip, “I’m so glad you’re alive,”

Jason held on to his brother and that night they cried about terrible endings and broken beginnings. They cried about lost time and found family.

It wasn’t the end yet, Hawkmoth was still terrorizing Paris and he had no idea what Bruce thought yet. There were all his other kids, his brothers and sisters. There were his teammates and the incredible story of how he’d been turned into a bee of all things.

They had a lot of catching up to do.

But just for a moment, a strand of a singular moment, he had his brother in his arms again and he was back home. His first real home.

Things weren’t perfect, as things rarely are but it didn’t matter. Because part of the beauty of life is how it builds and breaks us in a cycle of love and loss.

And that night they laughed with a lightness and joy none of them had fully been able to hold onto in years.

 I hope you guys enjoyed!

This is lowkey totally gonna be the au I go to when I don’t know what to write lol, maybe write a bit of what happens afterwards or a part of everything during the year he lived with Mari them or just y’know shenanigans

[rosella-writes]

writing tag game

Thank you so much for the tag @noire-pandora, @kittynomsdeplume, @melisusthewee and @emerald-amidst-gold <3

Whoooo boy, here we go.

How many works do you have on AO3?

17, but quite a few are just one-shots. I only have a couple long-fics, mostly because my poor ADHD brain is cruel to me.

What’s your total AO3 word count?

190,052, but if I hadn't orphaned my old (and embarrassing) Skyrim and Sherlock fanfics it'd probably be closer to 300,000.

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

honey just put your sweet lips on my lips - 579

i couldn't whisper when you needed it shouted - 56

a fuller feeling (a brighter burst) - 54

Eunoia - 40

i'd wanna be felled by you, held by you (fuel the pyre of your enemies) - 39

(And to be perfectly honest, my most popular fic is by far my worst. I spend so much more time carefully crafting for Eunoia than I do anything else, but the little following it's picked up has made it worth more to me than all the kudos and comments on "honey.")

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I do! I used to be terrible about it, mostly because the vast majority of comments I once got was hate (I wrote for a weirdly unpopular wlw pairing). Now I make it a point to respond to every single one when I can, even the short ones, to thank them for taking the time. It means so much.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

It was a drabble for the r/dragonage writing thread, actually! The premise was a font in the Black Emporium that would show your OC the outcome of a decision made differently. I wrote Eliana Lavellan from Eunoia discovering what would have happened if she'd fought with Solas in Crestwood until he told her the truth... and its outcome was worse than the timeline where he left her and kept his secret. You can read it here (it's about 1200 words, nice and short).

What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

My various Solavellan pairings don't get happy endings. Evelyn Lavellan was more of a narrative tool to explore Solas with, so her ending was cut short. Eliana doesn't have her ending yet, but it will be bitter and painful. My happiest ending was for my Bella/Rosalie pairing for Twilight - Bella became a vampire and lived happily ever after with her wife.

Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

I don't, unfortunately! Since my days on tumblr and FFNet, S*perWh*L*ck left a terrible taste in my mouth when it came to crossovers. I'd be open to it one day if I can find fandoms chill enough.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

As I previously mentioned, yes. In my Bella/Rosalie fic, I made it a point for Rosalie to love all the parts of Bella that weren't conventionally beautiful. My Bella is also a dark-skinned black woman, and the intersection of racism, colorism, and misogyny where it concerns attractiveness was something I thought worth including because I didn't see enough of it in fic. I wanted to highlight all the things that don't get enough attention or are actively reviled, like hyperpigmentation, stretch marks, natural hair, soft bellies, areolas and vulvas that aren't perfectly symmetrical or small, pubic hair and armpit hair and little hairs around nipples - things that I love about AFAB people! I got a lot of comments on my smut chapters calling Bella disgusting, or me nasty for choosing to include those traits. I deleted every single one.

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

So much. I love exploring pairings or power dynamics that people wouldn't necessarily consider, like a strong female warrior Lavellan domming Solas, or Solas topping Blackwall. I wanted to show a black woman in an interracial relationship with a white woman where she got to be soft and loved gently, where she got to be quiet, bookish, and looked after instead of expected to be the loud, strong stereotype that we pin black women into. I wanted to show the power of masculinity in an elven mage who loves a warrior woman (Solas/Cass), or the nurturing side of domming in a relationship between a pan giant and a bisexual elf (Iron Bull/Solas).

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of, tbh. I turn up to fandoms a decade late, so usually by the time I get any traction the fic-stealers have done their dirty work and leave me alone.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I haven't! I hope to one day write a fic in Greek for my best friend, though. They deserve to read about Solas in their mother-tongue.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Nope, but have done some plotting with aforesaid Greek friend.

What’s your all-time favorite ship?

Solavellan, absolutely. Any variation, honestly - I've loved m!Solavellan, f!Solavellan, as well as any variation including nonbinary, trans, or other interpretation of the relationship. Solas sees and loves the spirit, and I love the idea that its vessel doesn't matter so much to him. I headcanon him as a he/him agender bisexual, for what it's worth.

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

I've technically marked i couldn't whisper when you needed it shouted as complete, but it cuts off right before Adamant and was intended to be a full Solavellan story. However, I just didn't care for my rogue f!Lavellan OC very much, and didn't think she matched Solas well. I developed an OC that I enjoyed writing much better and rolled with it. So, I'm sorry Evelyn Lavellan, but your story is frozen with the two of you happy in bed. Solas will never break up with her so long as I don't write that part, right?

What are your writing strengths?

I love dialogue and crafting character voices! Getting a comment that I've managed to portray a favorite character so well that they can hear their voice in their head as they read? Priceless.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Exposition vs description. I want to show instead of tell, but developing the right environment for a scene can be tough for me. It's so much easier to write that the characters are cold and the ground is wet than to wax poetic about dripping leaves and frosty air. But I'm working on it.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I'm obsessed with it. I love little bits sprinkled through that make sense with context, and culturally speaking it would feel wrong not to sometimes! I'm also the type of person that's always been obsessed with languages, and instead of becoming fluent in one I've learned a smattering of a whole lot. So any opportunity to sneak in some French, Welsh, German when it makes sense? I'm taking it. And don't even get me started on Elvhen or Qunlat because I will sprinkle that shit like biodegradable glitter.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Okay I'm gonna flout this question and just write my fandoms in order:

Sherlock (circa 2010 - 2014)

Skyrim (2016)

Twilight (obsessed from 2005 - 2010 but didn't write for it until 2019 or 2020 when Midnight Sun released)

Dragon Age (March 2021 and easily the most fanfic I've ever written ever)

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

My favorite one to write was probably i'd wanna be felled by you, but my favorite to reread is Eunoia. It's most likely the most honest, least presumptuous thing I've ever written, and it's easily the longest thing I've ever attempted. I'm very proud of it.

As far as tagging goes, I've been very rude lately with it by tagging people late in the day, or tagging folks that I haven't tagged before, and am still refiguring out tumblr etiquette (since I haven't been here since the days of the skeleton war and the Mishapocalypse lmao), so presume if you see this you're tagged to participate. With no expectations nor pressure, though, I'll tag @dreadfutures, @varric-tethras-editor and @blarfkey if they'd like. <3

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

Winter Whumperland Day 3: Caught

Summary: Written for Winter Whumperland Day 3. Set in a Modern AU, follows up on Day 2 'Alone'. All alone in the middle of a forest covered by snow, Hiccup makes his escape during a trip. But what has lead up to this?

Rating: Mature

Characters: Hiccup, Viggo, Ryker

Pairing: Vigcup, past-Hiccstrid

Words: 4 376

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Prompt: “Escape in the Snow”

Whumpee: Hiccup

Author’s Notes: From this point on, it's going to be confusing as events will not be told in order just because of the order of the prompts. At least from Day 3 through 7. I've never done anything like this before either, so this was an interesting project to work on.

Anyway constructive criticism is appreciated!

Enjoy!

@amonthofwhump

Ao3

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The Grimborn Empire is a company that focuses mostly on export and import. They have centers where trucks load and unload their wares and they have ships and containers to bring those wares to other countries overseas. There are many, many employees working under the Grimborn name.

But the headquarters, so to speak, is a tall building that stands in the city of New New Berk and that is where Viggo works.

His office is on the top floor and overlooking the city. Though quite sparse, the interior is as fancy as one would imagine and screams CEO. At the desk Viggo usually sits, his back facing the large, thick windows that make up the wall behind him.

At the moment, however, he's facing one and stands there as a slow afternoon passes. Hands clasped behind him, he watches the traffic down below.

With no work needing to be done, he's waiting for a meeting that is supposed to start in another hour or so. He has a particular disdain for waiting and doing nothing, he's just wasting precious time that could be spent on something useful.

If it wasn't so short, he would've used it alright. He would've gone by the house and see how his little pet project is doing, but alas!

So instead he has to think smaller and ponder if he should tell his assistant to grab him a coffee. He would go down to the local coffee shop he used to frequent, but the one barista he liked in that establishment is no longer working there. So he doesn't see the point in going himself.

Turning away from the view, Viggo decides that's what he's going to do. He approaches his desk with the intention to press a button on his phone to call his assistant in. She should come stumbling in seconds later like a hen without her head, rightfully in a hurry if she wants to keep her job.

But it's as he leans forward, index finger hovering over the little button of doom that she so dreads to have him use, that something on his computer screen draws his attention.

An alert? Of what? And how long has that been there?

It's a little black popup on the bottom right and it's barely noticeable. It certainly hasn't drawn his attention.

With urgency does he pull his expensive leather desk chair back. Viggo takes a seat and rolls back in, taking the mouse and clicking on it.

It appears to him that someone is on his home computer. That in itself wouldn't necessarily send an alert to his device at work, but when someone enters a certain password to gain access to a place they aren't supposed to be in, well, then Viggo likes to know who.

There is no one in the office but him, so he feels safe enough to open up an app and a different window pops up. This one allows him to see who's using his home computer. It takes him a little while to find the right one, but he finds it.

When he sees it's Hiccup, he's somehow not surprised.

A deep scowl appears on his face and Viggo growls. This isn't the first time he's caught Hiccup breaking a rule behind his back, but this is one of the worst he could've broken. That boy never learns.

How long has he been searching through his stuff? He wishes that alert came with a timestamp or something to help him see it. He isn't a tech genius, that's for sure. And does Hiccup even know what he's looking at?

He looks much too focussed, eyes quickly moving across the screen with the speed you'd expect from someone with his brain. Viggo would've been enamored if he wasn't so alarmed.

But then he's torn out of his thoughts as he sees Hiccup visibly react to something he must've found. His reaction is terrible as he visibly reels from something Viggo cannot see.

He doesn't know what it is that Hiccup's found, the feed has no sound either, but Viggo can see him quickly unravel on screen and it's a joy to see.

The quick jerk of the chair backward, the disbelief, the tears in his eyes, the telltale shaking of his shoulders as he begins to sob, following by his hand covering his mouth and then his face he folds in on himself.

It's all on-screen and that means Viggo can see him sink further and further in his breakdown.

All he does is hum thoughtfully.

"I have to say, Hiccup, whatever you must be looking at, I think you deserve it."

However, this does present him with a big problem. Hiccup isn't a fool and Viggo won't be able to tell what he's found, what he's been looking at. He doesn't have a good view of how well Hiccup is with electronics either, though that he's made it this far is certainly telling.

This is troubling. And worse is, he'll have to tell Ryker and he'll be expected to make his final decision about the boy. Because it's been much too long already and Hiccup still hasn't learned his place.

Viggo sighs in agitation and leans back in his chair, gaze still on the screen.

"Well, well, well, you've been especially troublesome, my Dear Hiccup. But now you've really forced my hand."

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

"A trip?" Hiccup cautiously asks, looking up at Viggo from his seat at the table.

There's a brochure that's been shoved into his hands. It looks like it's somewhere far away from where they live now, far away from civilization as a whole. It's of a place in the mountains, somewhere snowy. Clearly the perfect place to go when someone has a stump for a leg.

With how isolated it is, he'll still be stuck with just Viggo and Ryker. They might be counting on his leg to keep him inside and that Hiccup will know better than to wander through the woods in the freezing cold.

"Yes, a trip. It's the 20th, that means the holidays are fast approaching and I desire a break from work." Viggo tells him and Hiccup almost dares to raise an eyebrow.

Viggo? A break from work? Yeah, when pigs fly.

This just makes this whole sudden trip all the more suspicious, however. Here's the thing, this brochure isn't promoting some lodge or a resort or anything one would go to for a holiday getaway. It's one made of a fishing town by the name of Newport, using its beautiful sights as a way to lure people in.

This isn't the kind of place most people would go to when they think "vacation" and certainly not Viggo Grimborn. So what is the true purpose of this?

Maybe he should ask something first.

"So what'll happen to me?" Hiccup asks, assuming that he won't be left behind to starve.

He could order takeout, though. Make a quick getaway with the pizza courier, but that's the kind of stuff that will only happen in comedy movies. He wishes he can watch one again someday.

Hiccup wants to chuckle, but he chokes his amusement.

"You'll come along, of course. I realize you haven't been outside much," At that Hiccup can't help but give Viggo a glare. It's one that says 'you mean not at all?' But when he returns it just as strong in warning, Hiccup has to do his part and avert his gaze.

His jaw is still blue from the other day and his hand still painful and blistered from the boiling water that ended up spilling in that confrontation.

"What I was trying to tell you is that we both need new surroundings and this way I can spend more time with you." Viggo continues and Hiccup feels like what he's spouting is bull. Ryker is rolling his eyes in the background so loudly they can almost hear it.

Whenever Viggo is home, Hiccup is either one of two things; Completely neglected or clung to constantly, like he has a needy child that won't leave him alone. There is no in-between and it was particularly bad in the beginning three months of his stay.

"What happens to..." Hiccup hesitates, trying to find the right word to use. "The family cat?"

He hopes his choice of words will bring the cat in question some favor. The cat is a two-month-old kitten, one Viggo bought him as a gift when she was a month old.

Well, as a gift and as leverage.

"She'll go someplace where they can take care of her, don't worry," Viggo answers before he downs his drink. If he didn't know any better, Hiccup wouldn't have worried when he told him not to.

Hiccup looks back down at the brochure, brows knitting together in worry.

There is not one part of this that isn't suspicious and he fears what he may find on this "trip".

No, wait. Maybe this isn't as bad as he thinks.

"I... look forward to it." Hiccup tells him without a smile or anything that could possibly be mistaken for enthusiasm. He couldn't fake it even if he tried.

Viggo is displeased with this, but at least he doesn't see this as an excuse to 'discipline' him.

"We're leaving tomorrow morning. Get started on dinner and pack after." He orders him and leaves, walking away from the table.

Hiccup watches him go before his eyes move to the text on the brochure.

This trip might not be such a bad thing. Because even though he'll be spending even more time with his abusers, leaving the premise means the invisible fences keeping him in will be down. The plan he's been working on to get help from the outside is going to be ruined, but maybe that's not so bad. Maybe it's not even necessary and he can finally see an opportunity to escape.

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If you're as rich as Viggo Grimborn, chances are that you don't take any of the conventional means of travel.

Why take a public flight if you can use your personal boat to make the trip there? And unlike with a car, you don't need to stop at a restroom for gas, food, drinks, or a restroom.

And since the brothers are aware of his mother's dragon sanctuary and his affinity for dragons, the last thing they want is to energize him by putting him on a plane and bringing him the closest to flying that he's been since they picked him off the street that faithful night.

The joke's on them, however. The breeze blowing along the shore is enough to give him that high.

That's the thing with keeping someone like him confined to the house. The smallest gust of wind will invigorate him, the feeling the Grimborn Brothers wanted to suppress most.

Hiccup is leaning over the side of the boat, knees on some leather seats, trying to catch as much of the wind as he can. It combing through his hair feels like heaven to him and it's like it's telling him that it's missed him.

Viggo scowls deeply at the display.

"You know, if you want him to stop enjoying himself so much, you should tell him why we're really here," Ryker advises his younger brother from the steering wheel.

Viggo would tell him to keep his eye on where they're headed, but instead, he looks thoughtful.

They've already left, Hiccup can do no harm here. What's the worst he can do? Throw himself overboard and make things easier for them?

Besides, he doesn't have the heart to hurt someone, the cat has proven how soft he is. While packing, Viggo had to resort to smacking him just to quieten his endless questions about the place they were sending her to while they were away.

Frighteningly enough, a yet unbroken spirit caused Hiccup to glare back at him, Viggo remembers the look well. If it could kill, he'd be dead.

After everything that's been done to him, that will to fight that he's been carefully ripping out of him piece by piece is still there. The boy bounces back quickly, a concerning thing.

But cracks have formed, cracks that made him not lash back out after that smack.

They're almost there, they've almost broken him. That's why this getaway is so important.

So Viggo approaches.

"Henry." Hiccup is torn out of his thoughts of his Bud by a name that isn't his and he tenses up immensely.

It's a cover name because unusual names like his tend to be more memorable than one as simple and common as that.

For as much trouble as his birth name has given him growing up, he prefers it greatly over whatever name Viggo has given him.

Plus, he knows it's just another method. He's changed his clothing, his eating habits, everything down to what brand he brushes his teeth and washes his hair with. So what is a name change?

"... Yes?" Still Hiccup responds, not feeling like getting hit again. The bruise on his jaw is still far from fading and there are many more beneath his clothes. His ribs hurt when he breathes too deeply. Just bruised, most likely.

But he must've not responded in the correct tone, with the correct face, or maybe he just took too long. Because he's smacked on the back of his head for whatever he's done this time. He'd flinched before it came and anger is what remains. All he knows is anger and fear and shame.

He can't remember what joy feels like.

All those negative emotions swirl inside and he has to swallow them, lest he be hurt worse and mysteriously break his wrist again. He flexes his hand on memory.

Look a certain way, sound a certain way, move a certain way, do this, do that, what Viggo wants is an obedient robot. A robot with very specific qualities and functions.

"Sit down." Viggo orders him and Hiccup listens, taking his knees off the seat and sitting down. He smooths his expression as best as he can while the older man comes down next to him.

He wants to take his hand, intertwine their fingers, but Hiccup draws his hand back. Viggo insists, taking hold and squeezing tight enough to hurt.

If he had a wish for pain, he would've squeezed back. He knows it's a game he sometimes used to do with Astrid.

And Snotlout, but that was more arm wrestling, he loves doing those. Hiccup is usually victorious in those and Snotlout is usually left with the bad taste of defeat.

Once in a while, however, he'd let him win. It always felt so good to see him smile, hear him holler in joy, watch him throw his fists in the air. That was always followed up by gloating and the flexing of his muscles, which consistently almost made Hiccup regret letting him win.

Gods, he almost forgot he used to do that. Sometimes he almost forgets he had friends at all.

Sometimes it feels good not to remember what you used to have.

"Henry!" Viggo calls him out his pleasant memories, the occasional reprieve, and tightens his grip some more.

It hurts because he's holding his left hand, which is the one covered in bandages. He can feel the burning pressure in those blisters grow.

So Hiccup quickly figures this isn't something he can win and submits quickly, loosening his hold and looking down.

In return, Viggo's hold on his hand lightens, too.

"So, Henry, you've been troublesome."

"Have I?" It's a genuine question, but it must've come out too sarcastic for Viggo's taste. A third strike and he'll be looking at another punishment.

The only reason he's so lenient now is that someone might catch them.

When he first arrived, a mere painful squeeze wasn't all it took to shut him up.

Maybe he's wrong. Maybe there was a bit of a Viking in him, too. Was, because he's very aware of how obedient he's been. He barely meets Viggo's eyes as of late, certainly not when he doesn't have permission. He hates that he can't.

"You've been troublesome." He repeats and watches for a reaction.

There isn't one, Hiccup's gaze is still downcast and that pleases him.

What he can't tell is the way his brows have furrowed. Is it anger again? Pain? Perhaps it's a mix of both. Let's just throw another pinch of shame in there as well.

"We've tried many things to make you fall in line," By trying to abuse the disobedience out of him, but Hiccup can't say that. "But you remain too stubborn. That is why we're going on this trip. This is meant as a way to finally persuade you."

"And you thought a nice trip up the mountains after everything you two have done would miraculously make me fall head over heels in love with you?" Hiccup mutters quietly under his breath, hoping he isn't heard too much.

"I'm warning you, Henry, this is your last chance." There is that name for the third time, but all Hiccup can focus on is the choice of wording.

His eyes are widened with alarm.

"Wait, what do you mean by 'last chance'? Last chance before what?" He asks. Nothing is ever just an accident with this man, that has to be on purpose and Hiccup wants to know why.

There's a beat of silence before Viggo answers, apparently wanting Hiccup to wallow in it.

"I know you've been messing with my computer. You believed I wouldn't find out, but the cameras on my property aren't just on the outside." Viggo explains and Hiccup stares at him with growing realization, caught redhanded.

"The bookcase you pick books from without permission, the bathroom while you shower, the living room where you watch your documentaries and tasteless movies, there are hidden cameras all over the house. Including on my personal computer." He continues to add and panic is about to erupt with Hiccup.

So he's been keeping watch on him from work all this time? But Viggo never punished him for breaking the rules when he wasn't home.

No leaving the house, which he never could anyway. No unauthorized snacking or drinking, not that there is anything to snack on in that house. He knows about Ryker's personal stash, but he's only stolen from there once and that wasn't without consequences. No entertainment and finish your chores, not even the books belonging to his keeper or the tv were allowed to be touched.

Those are only the rules he can count at the top of his head and Hiccup broke so many more then those. Sometimes the second Viggo left. So if there really are cameras all over the house keeping watch over him, why did he never show any knowledge of his childish rulebreaking?

His panic makes him forego the role of obedient little love.

"No, that's a lie! There are no cameras, you're just trying to get under my skin!" Hiccup shoots up, tearing his hand back. It hurts, but he cares little.

"Don't raise your voice at me, Henr-"

"Oh, stop it with that stupid name! It's Hiccup! I'm not letting you get-" While it is Hiccup who first cuts Viggo off, the latter is swift to return the favor.

He rises and backhands him with one seamless motion. Both for speaking out of turn and raising his voice. The ring on his finger cuts into his cheek.

Hiccup comes to glare at him, now silent as he holds it. He wants so badly to hit back, but knows that he can't.

He did try it once.

Once.

He sits back down and slumps forward in defeat.

"Did you honestly believe I would allow you to roam freely in my home without eyes and ears on you at all times?" The ears part is a lie, but Hiccup doesn't need to know that. Besides, Viggo feels satisfied with that look of alarm appearing on his face.

"Henry, I chose you because you were smart. Is that a lie? If it isn't, can you figure out the rest?" He asks and then leaves in a foul mood.

But yes, Hiccup can and he does.

He's telling the truth. And Viggo wouldn't be telling him all of this, disclosing the fact that he's been secretly watching him through hidden eyes all over his home, without reason him. Clearly, he's been keeping that fact to himself to reveal later when it would be of some significance and today is apparently that day.

This is Hiccup's "last chance" to fall in line. The sudden disclosure of secrets, the unexpected trip to somewhere cold and remote, putting his cat in a regular shelter for 'safekeeping' instead of one of those fancy hotels Viggo definitely has the money for...

His last chance...

If Hiccup doesn't fully submit to Viggo by the end of this trip instead of only half-submitting when he has no other choice, they're going to...

His hand falls limp to his lap, overcome with shock.

The fear has always been there. He's seen them on the news, missing persons that ended up found, but in a grave instead of alive.

If he doesn't become what they've taken him to be, they're going to kill him.

From his position at the steering wheel, having watched it all go down, Ryker smirks in delight.

"He's figured it out."

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It's not like Hiccup is surprised to learn that his situation could end this way.

When he was first abducted, woken up in a bare dimly lit room, he'd once wondered if he was the first one or if there'd been others before him. People who'd mysteriously gone missing, went through the same stuff he has, and were never found. Not alive, at least.

But to think that, that day has already arrived...

No, he shouldn't be surprised. The very fact that plenty of people have had less, much less, time than he was given, people who were taken from the streets only to end up dead the very next day, makes Hiccup feel very lucky.

But should he still worry about his fate? He's finally made his escape and he's far away from the cabin now.

They arrived not even two days ago and settled into what was supposed to be home for the next two weeks. Funny, Hiccup hasn't been home for months.

His careful planning has been all for naught. In the end, he had to work on pure impulse to get him out of trouble.

He shouldn't be proud of it and he probably won't be. There was a reason for all that planning, all that waiting and enduring. He's sure he'll regret it later, whether he manages to get away from Viggo or not.

Hiccup supposes that matters little now. He's out here, wandering through a forest covered in a layer of snow that's at least a foot thick. He's not dressed properly for the cold, wearing just a hoodie and jeans, and he's not in perfect condition either. On top of the bruises and the hand, he's gotten injured in those two days.

His upper back burns and it's been burning since their first evening in the mountains. The horrible memory attached to it wants to break free and be a hindrance in his escape. Trudging through the snow and trembling awfully, he tries not to let it.

Besides his head is pounding. He doesn't know why that is as he doesn't know exactly what happened, what knocked him out. He just knows that he blacked out and woke up with an aching head.

An aching head, a burning back, and a foot in agony. He'd dropped something on it in the confrontation that lead to his escape. Now he's using a shovel to help him limp through the trees, a shovel of which the spade has blood on it.

A lot has happened in two days. A lot. There's something he has done that he can never atone for.

His last chance has passed.

It's dark out, too, making this trip through the woods ten times harder than it already is. It's pure agony to use his broken foot, but he has no other choice but to since his left his a fake.

He can feel the pain radiating up his leg through his ankle. He's had to stop several times just to take a breather, the used air from his lungs leaving in white puffs. But each time, his will to escape triumphs over his pain and he continues to drag his way forward. Bit by bit, step by step, giving up is not an option.

And yet, there's the threat of panic erupting and stopping him. Having a stubborn will is good and all, but it's useless if he doesn't get out of here.

Sure, he got away from Viggo, but he has no idea where he's going now. His hope is to find a road or the town they docked at, but he could be heading deeper into the forest for all he knows.

If he is, then what? Will he never see his friends again? Will his parents be able to move on, will they ever have closure? Will Toothless ever be up in the air again?

Hiccup's arduous limping comes to a halt and he slowly turns to look behind him. It's only because of how strongly pure white snow contrasts against the blue-ish black of the night that he can see the trail he's left behind. If Viggo is searching for him, it won't be hard to find him.

He's shivering, clinging to the shovel that's a clumsy crutch at best, and looks at the way ahead of him. He doesn't feel hopeful, he doesn't know what exactly he feels. Nothing besides pain and a possibly very foolish drive forwards.

Whether the cold lulls him into a false sleep during his endless wandering or Viggo puts an end to his life himself, this forest will be his grave if he doesn't find his way out.

For better or for worse, it's a big enough reason to keep on pushing through the pain and keep going onwards.

[bvlavender]

A Story A Day Keeps COVID Away – 08/27/20: Death Becomes Her (Review/Apology/Masterpost)

Alternate Title: You Know, Giving Up Isn’t The Worst Thing In The World (even when it feels like it)

Is this meta? Is this a cheat? Is this entirely my fault? Yes.

I’m not in the habit of hating my stories. I’ve written for long enough and grown enough as a writer to look back on my old work and find (sometimes glaring) flaws in it. But I’ve also got the presence of mind to understand that every flaw was a stepping stone on the way to what I write today. I’m not going to beat up my past self for trying – that would be sentencing my present self to a suplex from my future. All I can do now is learn from my mistakes and my successes, just as I do with every other work of creative fiction I come across.

but if I ever hated one

hoo boy

it’d probably be this one

Death Becomes Her was unnecessarily unplanned. I wanted to do something special to commemorate the 100th day of A Story A Day Keeps COVID Away, and I thought finally making good on my promise/desire to do a serial would be really nice.

But instead of drawing from my list of (significantly more developed) ideas for serials/thematics, I just… came up with the premise for Death Becomes Her, day of and on the fly.

I don’t know why I did that. I think at the time I just “wasn’t in the mood” to write any of the ideas from the list? Which, by the standards of most writerly advice, is utter bull (except when it’s not). But I did it, with only the vaguest notion of what the rest of the story was going to be, and assumed I’d be able to work out the rest of it as I went.

And then… I couldn’t! I just… Could Not!

I knew I had good ideas. A while back, a brainstorming session with a friend led me to detailing what it would hypothetically be like for someone to consciously experience the physical stages of death. As well, immortality as a concept gets played with a lot, but the full breadth and depth of its majestic horror doesn’t usually take center stage beyond a few specific types. One relatively unexplored vein is that of eternal life without eternal youth. Thus, I could couple the horror of Tithonus-style immortality with the slow deterioration of the body in death, and rid myself of two terrifying brain beans in one story.

Except. It never came together.

I wrote Part 1, Part 2 felt like pulling teeth, and every single time I went to write or even just brainstorm for Part 3, I couldn’t figure out where the rest of it was going. When would Maddie “die”? I’d said in Part 1 that she could remember what happened that day, but if her immortality was to be Tithonian, was it possible for her to remember? At what point would her mind degenerate beyond the comprehension of her own horror? When would Victor “die”? If I was accidentally dumb enough to name a character close to another character who was not alive in the traditional sense “Victor”, should I go full throttle and change Maddie’s name to “Frankie”? If Maddie’s condition got worse to the point of her being “mistakenly” declared dead and buried “alive” (as I’d planned to happen), how would she be declared dead? At what point does the brain and consciousness become discrete enough for one to be detectable while the other is present yet imperceptible?

You can see how these (and other questions) might lead one to derangement.

I’m not sure if this really is true, but I’m pretty sure I’ve written more poetry this month than I have for any other. I usually write poetry when I’ve got a great poetry-specific idea, or when I’m too tired to write prose. But for most of this month, I wrote poetry because I felt I couldn’t write prose. Because if I could write prose, then I could write Death Becomes Her.

And when I realized that my stagnation with Death Becomes Her was poisoning my general ability to be creative, I knew I had to stop.

I’ve tossed out stories before. Thoughts forgotten, ideas that went nowhere, premises that had promise but that I wasn’t able to execute in the way that I wanted or that were never sound to begin with.

This is the first time I’ve done so in a public forum. Or at least, as public as a Tumblr (Instagram? Facebook? wherever you’re viewing this) with a measly follower count gets.

If you followed this story hoping for a conclusion, I’m sorry. If you liked the ideas in it (or the ideas I mentioned in here), I’m glad. It was nice to mess with them, even briefly. I still want to use them someday.

But that day is not today.

It’s time to put Death Becomes Her to rest.

Part 1

Part 2

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

The Siren & The Healer (6)

Natasha Romanoff arc

Chapter 6: The Flashes

Platonic Natasha x fem!Reader, Loki x fem!Reader (soulmates?)

Theme: With cracks between the most powerful superheroes of the earth, Natasha Romanoff does not find rest when she is assigned on a mission to find the missing pieces of a puzzling power that once nearly got into the hands- rather, tentacles- of Hydra. In order to unearth the pieces, she must dig through her own past and make a decision that might decide the fate of the earth in the coming wars.

Series: Will contain violence, death, destruction, softness, fluff, smut, friendship, and whatnot

Chapter warnings: Flashes. I have honestly forgotten what counts as warnings

A/N: This was written a few years ago with an OC in mind so reader has a name but it is a reader insert.

Word Count: I need to build up my resume and it kills me that I cannot put ‘part time fanfic writer on tumblr and AO3 with a decen following’ on it because some people are just cowards.

MASTERLIST in bio, love

Time: 1000 hours

Location: Vienna

The highest quality of teakwood, most expensive beige tiles and white paint that smelled like a walk in a pinewood forest- these were all the things you took in from the villa these group of buffed strangers took you to. Not to mention it being smack in the middle of a high-profile residential area where the personal property- along with your privacy- extended to nearly a kilometer. With two stories housing an open contemporary style house, the entirety of the villa's so-called four walls were just endless glass looking out at the green belt of shrubs and evergreen trees making up for the seclusion of the estate. Or, according to you, making up a hell of peeping entertainment window for all the nosy neighbours.

Safehouse, they said.

We'll all be safe here, away from prying eyes, they said.

Let’s stay here till we know what to do with the asset, they s-wait.

“Here,” the redhead called out, gesturing at the sofa while Brunn brought you a glass of water, “have a seat. You must be quite confused by all of this.”

You took the glass and barely planted your ass on the expensive-looking sofa before turning to look at Red. “Confusion would be an understatement but yes.”

“Keosha, right?”

You looked up from the glass after gulping it all down. “I...never told you my name.”

“No, you didn’t,” Red affirmed with a smile, “this is Keiko and Brunn. That’s Aneka. Nakia. And my name is-”

“Natalia Romanova,” you finished her introduction for her, making Natasha question whether it was fear or awe she was seeing in your eyes.

“I go by Natasha Romanoff in my close circle but you’re correct,” she stated, sitting down opposite you. “I apologise for the ruckus. We had to get you out of there. It wasn’t safe.”

“For whom?” you asked, recalling the cries of those men tux as two women ended their careers.

“For any of us,” Nakia called out from the farther end while examined her gear.

“Why? Was it because of the creepy guy who walked over to me in the parking lot yesterday? It was his office I was visiting today when all that...weird shit went down.”

It took a few seconds for you to realise how everyone seemed to be stirred into motion by your statement but before you could register and reason with them how you were in no way involved with that shady man, Keiko brought her tablet forward to show you a grainy picture caught by a security camera time-stamped for today right when you were in his office.

“Is this the guy?” Keiko asked.

“Yes! That’s him!” You were nearly shouting before the tablet was even in your hands.

Natasha and Nakia exchanged a look before turning back to face you.

“So, was last night the first time you saw him?” Natasha leaned over towards you with a look of curiosity, something you were not finding comfortable.

“Yeah,” you whispered, feeling a sudden rush of cold air run down your neck. “What’s going on?”

“Was someone else there when he met you?”

The cold seemed to run right along your spine, freezing it with the words coming out of Natasha’s mouth; your first thought just being the loud thumping echo of ‘ Harry ’. “What’s going on? Who is he?”

Natasha and Nakia could see your instincts kicking in, going through all the worst scenarios. So, there was someone else there.

“Keosha,” Nakia came closer to sit next to you, her accent heavy on her lips and in her voice, “we promise to explain everything. But you have to help us out so we can prioritise protecting the people we think might be in danger. Will you help us do that?”

.

“He’s fine. We have eyes on him. Our people will keep watch on anything unusual.”

Your heart finally let go of the strings of worry it’d been stretching for the last one hour. “Oh, thank God!” you whispered, rubbing your forehead before slumping into the bean bag. Natasha watched you pause in between the emotional crisis to look up at her and Nakia. “Oh, um, just tell your guys to not be shocked if he turns off the smoke alarm. He’s not a...good cook.”

And suddenly Natasha could see flashes of Tony making- or trying to make- frittatas for the gang before Steve had to run in with a fire extinguisher. 

“I’ll take care of it.” Brunn’s voice from the other side of the house- where he has set up a small security station of his own- broke Natasha out of some pleasant memories.

“Right,” she stated, wiping her hands off her thighs as she sat down in front of you in a bean bag.

A moment of silence floated between the two of you, your ears on alert yet your bodies taking in the rest after the morning you two had. It was a pleasant lull with a note of the unsaid assurance and affirmations. And unspoken fear of the unknown. Her insides were okay with the truce that had just happened between the two parties on the exchange of information but something inside her was afraid of still being in the dark. You were calm right now only because that man’s identity had been revealed and you were given the word of world’s deadliest assassin and spy that you will be protected. What was tingling under all of this was the presence of the Black Widow. She doesn’t just appear somewhere. If she’s there, it means there is blood. There will always be blood. All the reports you’d read after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. pointed to it. And what was your equation in all of this was still a mystery to be solved. That was what the Black Widow was thinking as well.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of much help,” you finally blurted, tired of keeping so much inside. “I wish I knew what this man was looking for. All he was interested in was the lame healing practices of my college committee.”

Natasha raised her brow, “Healing doesn’t sound lame,” she shrugged, “what kind of healing does your college group do?”

You forced out a chuckle. “Oh, it’s nothing. I mean, not something on the scale of what you and your friends do...did...”

Feeling the smack you got from your internal voice in the back of your head, you let your voice fade at the end of that sentence not sure of what the dynamic was between the heroes at this moment. But that did not stop Natasha from moving forward, letting her arms rest on her knees and one palm supporting her face, her eyes stuck on you, waiting in anticipation.

Oh, crap , you stated internally to her, don’t look at me like that.

Sighing, you raised your hands a little, making them move about with all that you explained to her. “We-um...they’re healers in the sense that they use the life force flowing through them to heal things. And by things I mean, healing people, situations, diseases, ailments, uhh future opportunities. I know it sounds like a bunch of bull-”

“What’s our life force?”

...did not see this coming.

“Uhh...it’s the energy. Inside us, around us. It’s present in everything.”

“Even in things that aren’t alive?”

“Yup. Like this sofa. Or my phone. Or your...that thing on your wrist.”

“When you say you can heal people-” Natasha’s eyes widened and her brows creased just enough to let you know she was calculating it all- “you mean you can heal anything about them?”

You opened your mouth to answer before stopping short and shutting it up. “What do you mean exactly?”

“Could you heal their addictions?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve done that once.”

“How about incurable diseases?”

“Yeah, don’t tell the pharma giants about these guys, okay.”

She smiles a perfect smile, making your heart flutter. No one should be allowed to have that perfect a smile.

“Could you heal past trauma as well?”

“I’ve never done that. But I’m sure it could be done.”

“And future outcomes?”

Your lips make a thin line barely resembling a smile before you lean in over to her. “Okay, here’s the thing. I have healed the future. Or at least I have tried to. But the thing us healers had to keep in mind always while doing any sort of healing was that this life force has a brain of its own. It takes your effort to the point that needs to be worked upon. And often you find that that point and your intended circle do not coincide. Not to be that guy but that’s where people start to lose faith and do not see the good that is brought because they’re too busy letting their vision be clouded by the one thing that didn't go right for them despite all they put into it.”

Natasha looked down at your hands resting on your thighs, trembling a little from the cold and a little from the conversation, unconsciously tearing the tiny lint balls from your warm leggings. “People are fickle with faith,” Natasha mentioned in her low voice, “not many realise its worth in the darkest of times.”

“Not much to lean on in the dark times when the hope goes away with that last ray, is there?” you call back softly.

“Is that what you tell the ones you heal?”

“Before healing others, we’re supposed to heal ourselves. Just like to protect others, you first need to protect yourself from the line of fire. But this all garbage now. I don’t do it anymore. I left the practice a long time ago.”

Now, Natasha was more curious than ever. “Why?”

You wet your lips and rub your hands on your thighs to warm them up. “Tell me what happens you try to defend a bunch of civilians like me from..say...huge scary aliens. One too many.”

Just as you posed the question, the creases on Natasha’s brows disappeared. “It takes a toll on you. You can’t keep up after a while.”

“Exactly.”

Both of you could smell the smokiness of the mac and cheese being cooked in the kitchen by Brunn, lighting up your previously scared and dormant hunger pangs.

“I was taught that if I fell, I should get up and dust away anything that says I cannot, even if that meant my death,” she enunciated, “but later on I found out that when fallen, you could have a pair of hands to help you get back up. To help you find the strengths you never thought you could have. Because it is difficult to find out your entirety by yourself, Keosha.”

You smiled and turned your head down. “I’m done with the whole healer business, Ms. Romanoff-”

“Natasha.”

“...okay. Natasha. It only seems appealing till it goes where you want it to go. And right now, I want to go devour that mac and cheese.”

Your words forced out a chuckle from Natasha. She got up to go to the kitchen with you only to watch you struggle to get out of the bean bag. “Looks like you do need a hand.”

“Okay, Black Widow, not everyone has an amazing flexible body like you. Now help me out of this cursed thing!”

.

It was hard to fall asleep. Harder to let his mind be still. Ironic, isn’t it? To be laying down in a spaceship that was floating in the vast nothingness and his mind was the one that was making the loudest sound. No matter how much he tried, the agitation did not stop.

Getting up on the makeshift bed in the back of the ship, he tried to take deep breaths to calm down his horribly fast heartbeat.

Come back , he told his insides, forcing his consciousness to walk away from the noise into the existing calm inside the ship, closing his eyes, letting his senses concentrate on all that was going on around him. The sound of controls, Drax’s snoring, Mantis’ flowy yet curious movements around him, the feeling of Nebula’s silent footsteps- his favourite- and sting of Quill’s glare.

Observe , he announced to his heart and head, calling them in to confer what it was that bothered them, slowly opening up the hatch to a path that led to all that had happened till now, making them retrace their steps back. Back to the gates of Hel, to those mysterious eyes, to the face of his mother, to the cold void, to the explosion, to...to the ship, to-

Blinding flashes of red, white and green played with his mind, bringing with them their theme- cries of tortured souls. But that wasn’t it. Images punched his aching consciousness between the blinding lights. There were too many. One of them was of someone falling down a cliff- a pale contrast to the purple hues of the sky in the back- once a picture of soothing green, once a painting of snow-like white; one of them crying for help while one smiled in satisfaction. Another image was a haze of orange surrounding him. Or that’s what he thought till he could hear heavy breaths echoing through his ears; breaths stifling the urge to cry or whimper. Once he even thought he heard a feminine voice cry out a name in despair before the orange haze was lit up by another flash and replaced with rusty darkness. Rusty. Coarse. Grained. Slowly replaced by smoke rising from torn up metal that once covered fingers. The tears and smoke went by the six gems resting in perfectly made slots, up the charred skin of the arm where itwere supposed to be protected by that red-painted metal. The image kept going up the totalled arm while a scream rose from a distance, breaking the gut-wrenching scene away to a figure in the dark shaking him while shouting with a piercing, broken voice, “SHE’S ALIVE!”

The runes stolen by Rocket from Knowhere fell with a loud clatter, disrupting all the activity in the ship to have all eyes on a breathless Loki sweating himself pale.

“Little God having nightmares?” Quill rolled his eyes before turning back to man the ship. Gamora, Nebula, and Mantis paused whatever they were doing to look at the raven-haired mess trying to breathe some life back in himself. Rocket and Groot tried to converse telepathically about the new guy so as not to catch Quill’s unwanted attention.

“What’s wrong?” Gamora asked, taking a careful step in Loki’s direction, who- by now- had dented the frame of the makeshift bed with his tensed hands.

Everything , he wanted to scream, his gut giving up on him, wanted to throw out anything that was inside. His head swirled. He tried to make the nausea stop by leaning against the wall of the ship, letting extra heat in his head be siphoned off by the cold plates.

“You,” he huffed weakly, his brows rising as he felt his insides turn once more, “you were suppos-hed to be de-ead.”

Nebula and Mantis turned to look at Gamora, their eyes trying to hide the shock in this sudden revelation.

“What are you talk-”

“How?!”

“Loki, you need to rest.”

“How are you alive right now?”

Mantis ran over to Loki- who was now clutching his torso for his dear life- and touched his forehead, feeling the burn sear through her skin.

“He’s burning up!” she cried.

“Put him to sleep!” Nebula ordered.

“What the heck is going on back there?” Quill shouted.

“Nebula,” Gamora forced her sister’s attention to herself, “what is he talking about?”

“Get away from me,” Loki hissed at Mantis.

“You need help,” Mantis announced, her resolute voice breaking towards the end at the piercing green eyes looking at her with nothing but threat.

“Mantis!” Nebula shouted.

“SLEEP!”

Within seconds, the agony-struck figure of Loki was limp on the mattress, deep in sleep.

“Now,” Gamora fumed, looking at the ladies, “tell me what he meant by that before I cut both of you open.”

Before anyone could say much, Gamora felt her shoulder jerked by Quill’s figure walking in the middle of the scene, looking around him in pure confusion.

“What’d I miss?”

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [616]

Abelas escorts her into what Ellana is guessing is one of the private royal offices, the entire time he has one hand firmly on hers, keeping her attached to his side.

“Of all the days for me to not be released from duty,” Abelas says lowly, “Of all the days for Mythal to grant me momentary leave. It had to be that day.”

“I hope you didn’t get too cross with Lelander,” Ellana says, “He’s wonderful. Behind a desk. With a quill.”

“I assure you, that point has been stressed thoroughly. It continues to amaze and astonish that Lelander wound up in the ranks of Knightood rather than behind a desk in a research setting. No one, more surprised or astonished by this than Lelander himself, of course. When we return you will apologize to him. He’s been — to say the least — a trial to deal with in the wake of your absence.”

“Lelander’s always had the worst nerves.”

“And yet you did this to him.”

“It was a spur of the moment thing, it isn’t as though I was planning on it.”

“You? Plan? I would never dare accuse my lady of such.”

Abelas times that perfectly that he opens the door to the office before Ellana can respond and she’s faced with the brunt of the stares from a…from a rather decent amount of people who have every right to be cross at her and are uniquely situated to make her continued existence incredibly uncomfortable should she choose to attempt to throw herself out of the window now.

Ellana swallows nervously, and Abelas doesn’t need to hold her arm through his anymore because she’s clinging to him for dear life. Ellana mentally wills her guardian, her mentor — dare she think it? Her friend — not to abandon her to this veritable onslaught of disappointment and judgement.

And what does he do? Shove her into the room and close the door, leaning against it. Leaving her stranded all by her lonesome.

“Ellana,” Mahanon says, striding up to her and pulling her into a hug. After a second Ellana’s arms go around him as she breathes in the familiar and unfamiliar smells of him. His hair and skin, familiar with the oils they use from home. The rest of him unfamiliar. Especially in the light blue coat and the brocade.

“You’re dressed in something with lace.”

“The sacrifices I make for you.”

Mahanon pulls back, his expression soft for a moment before dissolving into the visage of a demon hell bent on ruining Ellana’s life as he pinches her cheeks between his fingers and starts stretching her face. Ellana smacks at his arms.

“Ow!” Ellana’s eyes water. “Ow! Ow! Stop!”

“You little brat,” Mahanon hisses. “Of all the idiotic, self absorbed, hare-brained, buffoonery you’ve ever done — and of all the days to do it on — “

And because Ellana has never been one to take anything lying down she starts pinching and stretching her brother’s face in return.

Thankfully, they’re in the presence of friends so there’s no consequences for behaving like children. Oh, Ellana’s not foolish enough to think that she won’t be facing other sorts of consequences, but at least this she’s going to get away with.

Josephine comes up next to her brother and puts an arm on his shoulder, “Perhaps we should all sit down for this.”

Evelyn sighs, standing on Mahanon’s other side. “Alright. Each of you let go on three. Alright? One. Two. And three.”

Ellana was half-tempted to not let go, but she does anyway, the two of them separating to rub their own faces.

“Uncalled for,” Ellana huffs.

“It was the most polite thing I could do in present company,” Mahanon retorts. “Look at poor Dorian over there, he’s so frustrated with you that he’s speechless.”

“Dorian? Speechless?”

“I assure you, I am not, I am merely gathering my many, many speeches and trying to arrange them into some semblance of order,” Dorian says from the writing desk. “Do carry on with your charming idiocy.”

Ellana winces. He’s so mad. She can tell from the crisp cut of his words.

“Dorian — “

“Ah, ah! No. I’m still focusing. You lot carry on over there.”

Ellana’s shoulder slump as she sits between Evelyn and Josephine, her brother across from her.

“What were you thinking?” Josephine says softly, putting her hand on Ellana’s. “We were worried sick.”

“I panicked,” Ellana says. “I didn’t — I wasn’t ready. I didn’t — well. I didn’t think the old fart would have made me his heir.”

“You are the only one who thought that,” Mahanon says. “Literally the only one. Everyone knew that Solas, may he rest in bloody pieces, had you as his successor.”

“He exiled me!” Ellana throws her arms up, barely missing knocking Evelyn and Josephine in the face. “To Tevinter.”

“Tone!” Dorian snaps.

“Sorry! I had a lovely time! But you have to admit that on paper it seems like a punishment! At first we all thought it was a punishment! Mother was so distraught that she was abed for a month and lost two stone weight! Father had a mental break. There was almost an insurrection! You were going to smuggle me into the Anderfels because, and I quote, at least the Darkspawn would make it quick.”

Mahanon’s lips purse together. “He called you back after a year. Your exile was for a decade, on paper.”

“That’s because I was having such a grand time it stopped looking like a punishment.”

“Ellana, focus. Why did you run? What happened?”

“I just ran. I ran as fast as I could, grabbed some baubles I could pawn along the way, ditched my horse as soon as I hit the border. Pawned my clothes, and hit the road along off-season trade routes. And then I started making my way here because I heard that you were going to have a ball for the future consort of the realm.” Ellana turns to Evelyn, taking the other woman’s hands in hers. “And I promised you, didn’t I? That I would be there. I promised you I would be there to give my most sound advice on your future spouse and I meant it. And then I got there and saw that my brother was there and I promised myself to stay as long as possible without being seen and then I ran because I thought I saw Abelas skulking about as he does.”

(And as strange as it would sound — she didn’t want to be caught with him. The Iron Bull. She didn’t want that moment, that interaction, with him spoiled. She wanted — she wanted a great many things. So many things. Too many to list, and all of them ruined.)

“I was quite surprised you know, when instead of you I got Mahanon coming up to the palace as the new ambassador. And then he told me that he got your appointment because you were to be crowned Queen fo the Dales and then you vanished into thin air and he thought you’d come here so he came along anyway,” Evelyn says.

“We were all worried sick. I must have written a hundred letters trying to see if anyone knew where you were,” Josephine says. “And at one point we had to get the vapors for Dorian because he’d worked himself up so much over it that he’d fainted.”

“That is a lie. A complete fabrication,” Dorian says from behind them. She hears his pen stop. “And — I’m very upset with you. The speech will have to wait for later. Right now I need to get this of my chest straightaway.”

Ellana turns to him and his eyes are so solemn when she meets them.

“You could have come to me,” Dorian says quietly. “Of all the things that upset me, of which we both know there are many. Of all those things. It was that you didn’t come to me that hurts me the most. Did you think I wouldn’t help you? That I wouldn’t try? I was in Ferelden at the time, I was closer than here. You could have come to me. And if not me then Josephine or Evelyn or — or any number of our friends. But you went off on your own and what if you had gone off and died and we would have never found you? And — “

Dorian’s mouth closes with a sharp click and he turns around back to the desk. “I can’t talk to you right now. I’m so beyond frustrated. Infuriated.”

Ellana’s heart sinks in her chest and she feels her eyes well up. Josephine puts her arm around Ellana’s shoulders and pulls her into a hug.

“He’s right you know. Through all of the worry and concern and panic, there was a little part of me that stung because I didn’t know about why you ran. I didn’t know anything at all and I wondered if there was something I’d done to make myself unworthy of your confidence.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” Ellana says quietly. “I was scared. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

This is exactly why Ellana can’t be Queen. She’s not even been officially announced and she’s already caused an international disaster.

Her brother sighs. “I know. But what you mean to happen isn’t always what happens. Enough of this talk for now. I brought clothes for you. Go freshen up and we’ll all have an early lunch and think about what we’re going to do when you get back home. I haven’t told anyone I’ve found you yet. I just wrote back that I have a lead. Ideally we have a vague general direction of what we’re going to do by end of day tomorrow and that might buy us some more time to sort this mess.”

[yamaguccikun]

Omega Endeavor AU

Written because I was reading a bunch of Endeavor redeems himself fics and decided to try my hand at writing him in a similar but still different to canon way, like he's still kind of an ass because I believe that's just his way and he definitely still wants to be the best but he's... Not as bad?? Hopefully I did well with this. If you need any further explanation about anything then feel free to message me or leave an ask at your discretion~

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

Todoroki Enji presented as omega just a bit after the beginning stages of puberty. With his father off on a business trip to seal some deal with whatever company he was in negotiations with at the moment his cautious mother was quick to buy him the safest scent blockers proven to work on the market. For a few years he never felt any reason to be ashamed of his status but dutifully kept quiet about it at his mother's insistence, never joining in with his peers while they bragged about whatever mundane skills they learned that week. He had no interest in stereotypical omegan hobbies and was far from an ideal omegan body type with his quickly increasing height and broadening shoulders. Of course he was very aware that the entire notion of petite curvaceous omegas was a completely artificial concept pushed forward heavily by the adult reading and film industry as a way to validate and profit from the emotional fragility of top and low ranking alphas alike. But really it wasn't like his speaking out would do much to change things. At least not yet. So he would clench his teeth and bare it until he could graduate from UA and get hired into a good agency.

His father eventually found out because of course he did, Enji never expected the man to remain oblivious forever. That didn't stop him from being angry at himself for just how exactly he was found out. It was the day of his graduation from UA and he was ecstatic, vibrating and in the verge of spontaneous combustion the entire day. So excited in fact, that he had been sloppy in his morning routine, blockers hastily applied without a single as thought to whether they would shift or fall off throughout the day and his father didn't hesitate to notice it during an overjoyed hug, the sweet scent of omega.

Things truly went to hell after that, his father was an influential and close minded enough person that he made it impossible for Enji to be hired to any and all hero agencies. The only explanation he received came in the form of a reproaching comment that the man was done humoring Enji and it was time that he fulfill his duty to marry a good alpha and bear healthy pups.

Rei really was not at fault for anything, had in fact tried with some success to stop the whole thing but was ultimately too soft spoken and not opinionated enough to deal with a man like his father, so by the time he was married to her three year later he was already well on his way to hating himself, his body, and everyone who wanted but couldn't stop this from happening. He was full of only anger on his wedding night when he was force fed some black market drugs that pulled him into an artificial heat and his now wife fed ones that would incite rut. He could never bring himself to truly hate her even as he went through almost two days of painful labor to pups he didn't want. As he stared down blankly at four squirming balls of newly born flesh he felt one of the worst feelings that had ever formed within him, something he had only read shaky descriptions of in well hidden blogs or difficult to find omegan autobiographies. His omega was rejecting the pups, feeding off of his disgust for the entire situation and forming none of the bonds that made omegas so notoriously overprotective.

Only some months after was when that his wife left. She said she could handle, could understand, his aversion to showing her any form of affection given their circumstances but that every day she was forced to watch as he stared at her pups with dead eyes and refused them even as they begged and whined to be cared for was too much. He was far from surprised really. Their bond was quickly dissolved and their divorce finalized almost in the same week. It was just his luck that his father's years of raging about and drowning himself in hard liquor and cigars caught up to him just a month before the birth of the pups.

Enji knew he should have been more saddened than he was, and some deep, desperate part inside of him cried out to him to go and prove to the female alpha that he was good enough, but a larger part of him was relieved. He'd finally be free to do what he had always wanted to do. Become a top ranked hero.

Of course his father's handy work was still at play but he wasn't above pulling his own strings with the help of his family name until he had dug up enough dirt that he could force an agency to hire him. It wasn't long until Endeavor was a well known name and as years past so did his popularity grow until he saw himself become the No. 2 Hero in Japan.

It was only a short time after he had adjusted to his place that he was introduced to that particular alpha. The one that didn't incessantly try to offer him a drink him after every joint mission. Who complimented his hard work, not his sugary scent. Who seemed to understand that he didn't become a hero because or in spite of his secondary gender but because he wanted to be a hero and that said gender had never even come to mind as he worked himself tirelessly reach that goal. The infuriatingly endearing alpha who softened him with his megawatt smiles without even meaning to, winning him over with his honesty where others tried to buy his affections with scathing insults pathetically disguised as compliments and shiny nicknacks he had no need for and made of point of burning as swiftly as he received them.

Oh but he was far from the first omega hero, because for as backwards as society can be about secondary genders no one could deny the tendency for powerful quirks to be bestowed to omegas. That's not to say that alphas or betas had weak quirks but the odds were that if a child had signs of an exceptionally powerful quirk that they would probably present as omega. This fact alone made it possible for omegas to become heroes as powerful quirks were always in demand. So no, he wasn't the first omega to become a hero but he was the first to break past the top 10 in rankings.

It was two years before the strange alpha hesitantly, almost nervously, asked him to accompany him on a date. Enji blinked once before smiling one of his own close lipped things that equated to one of the blonde alpha's most blinding. And so they went on that date followed by plenty more. However as much as Enji cared for and was smitten over his.. significant other (Enji refused to use such an infantile a term as boyfriend and they'd still not crossed the line to lovers just yet) he noticed that Toshinori had slowly become something not himself after the first encounter, nothing too completely off from the usual but just a bit more dull, more distant in his smile than he had grown used to from the larger man. When Enji's irritation finally came to a peak he snapped at his partner, saying in not so kind words that he needed to stop acting and he he truly didn't want to be with him then he'd have to speak up about it.

Luckily for him Toshinori had long since grown used to his abrasive, sometimes bordering on abusive, attitude and brushed it off with a small exhale of empty amusement and a promise that he'd explain everything that weekend. So as the very weekend rolled around Enji was told the story of a villain and his brother and a mentor who was like a mother. He was told the truth of his partner's gender, that for some reason he had only presented as alpha when he first gone into his All Might form and his no less muscled but still smaller normal state was very firmly a late presenting beta. Enji took the news with as much grace as he could and as things settled back down for the couple they went on plenty of outings, now in both of Yagi's forms.

They decided together, but it was brought up first by Enji, that pups weren't an option. He had suffered through it once before and the thought of going through it again made the contents of his stomach roll around in ways that were far from pleasant. Toshinori agreed readily enough however when he remembered that their positions and 1st and 2nd heroes would only place that much bigger a spotlight and target on any children they would potentially have. In return Toshinori had suggested that they not bond as alpha and omega as there was no way of knowing what would happen when he shifted back and forth from his All Might persona. They did however have a quiet wedding hidden away from the press in one of the many Todoroki estates.

More time past as it usually does and the couple lost themselves in each other and in their lives as heroes. One day Toshinori came home to recount the story of bumping into a most peculiar boy who had gushed and cried over meeting his idol, had desperately wondered if he could become a hero when he had no quirk only to be crushed as Toshi displayed his usual lack of brain to mouth filter and promptly said no. Of course Enji took it upon himself to give the No. 1 hero a scolding of epic proportions that burned both metaphorically and literally.

The very next day one Midoriya Inko was certain that her son was about to keel over any second as what they had planned to be a quiet weekend of video watching and comfort food eating was crashed by a nervously shuffling All Might who was closely followed by an intensely unamused Endeavor. The starstruck glimmer in Izuku's eyes only increased as he was informed over tea that due to All Might having the tact of a bull thundering through a china shop with a beached whale tied to it's back that the hero was planning to make it up to him by taking it upon himself to train the boy to become a hero in his own right. And Endeavor for all his lack of anything even remotely close to child rearing skills would possibly maybe help on occasion but would mostly just give suggestions here and there.

The boy flourished under their tutelage and it was only two years later that Enji noticed that glimmer in Toshinori's eyes. The one that formed just before he did something so completely moronic that his omega husband skipped through several stages of heart failure and went straight to catatonic with worry. A look that hadn't form since the year before when he went off on a fight that had almost cost him half his body had Endeavor not shown up with backup just in time to prevent disaster because there was no way in any universe that Enji could let himself sit around while his husband got himself killed. He really shouldn't have been surprised when he came home from patrol the next week to see a flustered Toshinori who promptly explained how he reacts did try his hardest but he was just so proud of Izuku that he broke down and told him the truth of his quirk and wanted to make the boy his successor. The man enjoyed helping others now just as much as he always had but he'd held the position of Top Hero since before Enji was even in the business hand he'd had enough of his time in the spotlight. Was even wondering if he could go into teaching the next generation of heroes.

Four years later Midoriya Izuku stood at the gates of UA by recommendation of both top heroes Endeavor and All Might.

But before that happened another significant event occered. It was during his time watching Toshi interact with Izuku, as he had seen the boy grow from easily startled to confident in his own skin he began to wonder about another person in his life who was perhaps too soft hearted for their own good. Where was she now? Was she happy? Did she meet someone new? Enji was never cold-hearted enough to completely separate himself from her life without a backwards glance. He knew she had kept his family name though for her safety she was on records as a distant cousin he had never met. And he had, for a time, exchanged messages with her over email and even sent money to provide for the children. But that was before he had been thoroughly entrenched in the life of a well known pro hero. It had been some years since they had spoken at all, though he did still send the occasional care package. Now he wondered what would happen if he tried to regain contact with her.

But Enji had not chosen the name Endeavor for no reason so shortly after his musing session he did just that. He contacted Rei and went about reconnecting, it was definitely strained but he had been able to finally admit his faults in his relationship with her and she was a sympathetic woman so it quickly warmed up into a pleasant friendship. They weren't the first person the other would think to contact in an emergency but they were better now than when they were supposedly husband and wife and that was good enough for them. When he finally did meet the pu.. no, they were no longer pups but mature teens and young adults of varying ages. (A common phenomena that occurred when omegas gave birth to more than two pups at a time was that they each tended to age at different rates, no exact reason was ever found but it was not surprising at all to see that though all four of Rei's children had been born on the same day that little Touya looked to be almost out of high school while Shoto still had plenty of baby fat to shed off) The second time he met them he brought along Toshinori as All Might to introduce to Rei and the kids and the fifth time Izuku was brought along seeing as he was apparently in dire need of friends his age. Enji was self aware enough to know that he really would never really be a good father to them, a fact that was only cemented with the complete lack of recognition or memory of him beyond their shared name, but he could become a really good, maybe even great, uncle.

Todoroki Enji lived his life, suffered through it for a short bit of it but thoroughly enjoyed the aftermath. The family he built up for himself was far from ordinary but he failed to see any alternative as better than what he had. And if Toshinori ended up unofficially adopting a student or two throughout his years as a UA teacher and if they were subjected to Enji's rough edged style of fussy worrying and support then no one was saying a word. Because what kind of idiot messes with an omegas pups? Especially when said omega is the current No.1 Hero in Japan?

[tere706]

Love is Blind - Chpt 17

(Hey, see. Just needed to kick myself a few times. And the idea that I wouldn’t be able to post this chapter because of the log off phase 3... I don’t want to wait another week! So I bulled my way through this. 

I want to thank everyone who has come with me on this journey. I’ve had so much fun writing this fic. I hope you have too. A lot of things changed during the writing of this idea, but the fundamental ending is basically the same as what I had imagined at the beginning. 

There’s still a chance of me coming back with a sequel fic for this, but I do want to take a break from writing. I’ve got a lot going on this semester... and I have a bad habit of pressuring myself to get chapters written. 

Anyways, enjoy the finale of Love is Blind!

Tagging: @inumorph, @dark-night-sky-99, @liadreyar-dragneel, @lunalustrix, @thirstyforvenom, @mltcp)

The realization of consciousness came slowly. It wasn’t any one moment of awareness, just a progressive understanding that she could distantly feel her body. Liz was fairly sure she should be grateful that her body felt so distant. Her head felt fuzzy too. She remained still, just processing what was going on around her while she tried to get her brain working.

Her breath was warm against her lips and nose, strangely so since the rest of her felt cool. And there was a pressure of something against her chin, cheeks, and nose. Something beeped off to her left, a rhythmic sound, and hushed voices came through walls. They were too soft to understand. It was the rhythmic beeping, a heart monitor, that caused her brain to drag up a location. Hospital. She was in a hospital. Why?

Liz gave a soft groan, breath rasping in her throat. It sent a sudden surge of pain through the cloud of pain medication. At least, she assumed that was why her brain felt like it was stuffed with wool and her body almost dislocated from her.

“Liz.” The voice was hoarse, carrying a hopeful desperation. The voice, Eddie’s voice, stirred her memories of why she was now in the hospital. Aaron. Fire. Venom and Eddie screaming. Pain.

“Eddie.” She managed to croak back at him, mostly so he would know that she was actually awake.

A chair scraped along the ground to her right as Eddie moved. “Hold on a second. I’ve got water for you.” He murmured and pulled the weight away from her mouth. The end of a plastic straw touched her lips and Liz was grateful that he wasn’t going to accidently dump half a cup of water on her. It wouldn’t have been his fault, everything was too fuzzy for her to try and coordinate herself. She sipped slowly, letting the cool water slide down her throat.

“Thanks.” Liz was pleased to find that it was a bit easier to talk now. “You both okay? What happened?”

Eddie chuckled as he sat back down in the chair. “You’ve got your priorities. V and I are fine now. He’d be hovering protectively over you, but we’re in a hospital. They, uh, make us kind anxious. Bad experiences. Tell me what the last thing you remember and I’ll try to fill you in.” His voice was low and soft, meant to sound comforting. Liz had to blink back tears of relief when he told her that both of them were alright.

“Aaron?” He’d been right that ‘both’ had meant him and Venom, but she still had some concern for the teen.

“I’ll get to him, answer the question.” Eddie said with a faint snort.

“I heard you hit the ground. Ven had screamed. I… I tried to grab Aaron. I wasn’t sure where he was, too many sounds all at once. Then… heat and pain.” Her voice grew softer as she spoke and Liz ended with a cough, throat feeling like she’d scraped it with sandpaper.

“Drink first.” Eddie placed the end of the straw back in her mouth so she could get some relief. “You got burned, Liz. It… it was bad.” He paused and pulled the straw away, setting the glass to the side to give himself a moment. “You scared us bad. We thought you were gonna die.” Eddie took a deep breath. “Aaron stopped freaking out and called an ambulance. He’s alive. Turned himself over to the police and explained what he was, at least tried to. I think they’re going to have him transferred to somewhere that can help him. We… uh, said we’d been attacked in the warehouse and that he’d helped drive off the attackers, but you were hurt. So, I think they’ll go lenient on him, accidents from his abilities.”

Liz smiled gently, her head tilted toward Eddie’s voice. “Thank you for that. I can’t imagine you like him much.”

“I don’t. But you do.” Eddie sighed. “So, we all made it out alive. You’re the worst off. You have a concussion, I’m assuming that’s from Aaron?”  He paused long enough for Liz to give a slight nod. “Yeah. You have burns in your throat and lungs from hot air, but the doctor said those weren’t too bad. You had an oxygen mask on, if you’re curious. It’s your arms that took the most damage. What… what were you thinking, throwing yourself at Aaron?! You had to know he was wielding fire!” Eddie sounded like he was struggling to keep his voice from rising in anger and worry. He probably didn’t want a nurse poking their nose into the room yet.

“I couldn’t let him kill you, Eddie. I couldn’t lose you.” Liz swallowed hard, feeling the wave of remembered panic. “I didn’t know if Ven was even alive. I heard him scream in pain and I know fire can really hurt him. If I’d been brave enough to do something sooner, I… I couldn’t lose you too.”

Eddie’s fingers brushed gently against her cheeks, wiping away the tears that had slipped past her self-control. “I’m sorry you were put in that situation.” He whispered tenderly. “Do you want me to continue? Or do you want to rest?”

Liz smiled faintly and shook her head a little. “I feel kinda… fuzzy. Musta put me on the good pain meds. I think I can handle whatever you say without freaking out.” She had a feeling that she wouldn’t be so calm without those pain meds clouding her thinking. Maybe hearing it now would allow her to process it a bit before she was really able to think.

“Okay.” Eddie blew out a slow breath and stroked his thumb gently across her cheek. “You have third degrees burns. They had to do skin grafts on your left hand and part of your right arm. Second degree burns expand out from there. The doctor says you have a high probability of regaining full use of your left hand if you’re careful and go through physical therapy. They also have you on some antibiotics.”

She leaned her face slightly into his touch. “Wow. That sounds pretty awful. And like it would hurt a lot.”

Eddie couldn’t stop a surprised laugh from escaping him. “Yeah, that’s probably why you’re on the good stuff, hun.”

“I… I don’t wanna be alone, Eddie.” Liz whispered the words, feeling herself falling slowly down into the quiet again. She was just too tired to stay awake much longer.

“We’ll be right here. Both of us. We’re not going anywhere.”

The last thing she remembered before falling back asleep was the brush of Eddie’s lips against her forehead.

~

“The splint itches.” Liz gritted her teeth in frustration. She couldn’t move her left arm at all, it was still suspended up on a sling to keep the swelling down.

“Mmhm. Finish up your last hand stretch and I’ll feed you dinner.” Eddie didn’t sound nearly as sympathetic as Liz had wanted. To be fair, he’d been listening to her growl and grumble for the last four days as they weened her off the pain killers. She was still in the hospital. The doctors wanted to keep an eye on the worst of her burns, and they were concerned about her damaging the skin grafts.

Liz slowly spread the fingers of her right hand, which hadn’t been burned as badly. That one was ready for the start of physical therapy. It hurt, skin pulling tight. But she didn’t want to lose any mobility. Her hands were a large part of how she interacted with the world. The doctors had sounded positive around her getting full feeling back in the right hand. But the left… While she might get her range of motion back with lots of physical therapy, it was unlikely that she’d get full sensitivity back. There was too much damage to sensitive nerves. It only made her more determined to take care of her right hand, since it had better odds.

“There, done. I can’t wait to be able to feed and take care of myself again.” Liz’s voice turned wistful. Being unable to use her hands was degrading in so many ways. She might never enjoy bathrooms again.

Eddie chuckled and scraped a fork across a plate. “Open up, you can have the mushy hospital dinner now.”

Liz sighed and obediently opened her mouth, trying to swallow the bite with minimal tasting. “I miss fruit cups and chips. Real fruit cups, not that junk the nurse tried to offer me.”

“We’ll get you as much as you want once you get out of here.” Eddie promised. Liz felt a warm tendril from Venom slide under her head to help support it as Eddie offered another bite. The symbiote had been quite during the days spent in the hospital. Eddie couldn’t spend the night with her and it was dangerous for Venom to show himself. Still, Liz didn’t mind getting to share this time with Eddie. It was pleasantly normal. Despite the burns.

“Let’s make it a date. I’m holding you to it.” Liz quickly swallowed the next mouthful of mush.

~

Liz didn’t leave the hospital until two weeks later, when her right hand was deemed healed enough for use. It still needed physical therapy to ensure the muscles and tendons finished healing. She didn’t care. Finally, she would be able to start taking care of herself again. No more help in the bathroom, no more hand feedings, no more treating her like an invalid. Well, mostly at least. The third degree burns on her left hand and part of her right arm still had to be cared for every day. Eddie had offered his services on that front, taking lessons from the nurse on how to look after Liz’s injuries.

As soon as they walked into Liz’s apartment Eddie gently touched her shoulder. “V is going nuts, wants to be able to hold you.”

“I’m surprised by how patient he’s been up to this point.” Liz stated teasingly. A moment later she felt large, warm arms wrap around her waist and carefully lift her up. Venom was treating her like she was made of glass as he settled on the couch and cradled her form against himself.

“NOT PATIENT, WORRIED. YOU WERE BADLY HURT, LITTLE BIRD. WE DID NOT PROTECT YOU.” Venom was nuzzling his face against the top of her head and she could feel the rumble coming from his chest.

Liz tilted her head up and placed a gentle kiss along the edge of his jaw. “I don’t need you to protect me, Ven. I need you to support me. We look out for each other and we cover each other’s weaknesses.”

“WE?” He sounded amused now, that long tongue sliding down along her cheek. It left a cool trail in its wake.

“Yes, we. As in you, me, and Eddie.” Liz tried to push the distracting tongue away. Venom just curled it around her right wrist, testing the healing flesh gently.

“MMMM, WE LIKE WE.”

Liz smiled faintly, amused by his antics. Venom wouldn’t be the least bit disgusted by the scars she was likely to have from the burns. Appearance mattered about as much to him as it did to her. Eddie had made his stance about it clear while they were still in the hospital. He wasn’t leaving her.

“Me too, Ven.”

~

The doctors had been right. After three months of physical therapy Liz had gotten almost the full range of motion back in her left hand, but she’d lost some of the sensitivity. A few months ago, that would have been devasting, but now it was mildly inconvenient. Besides, Liz had too many good things in her life to let one raincloud darken her life. Not a day went by without Eddie and Venom in her life. Eddie would stop by with food and gossip. Sometimes he’d spend the night with her. Other times it was Venom, sneaking in through the window for a chat and some chocolate. He was still terrible about closing the window behind himself. Liz had managed to convince him to stay and cuddle with her instead of going back out a few times.

Tonight was a date night. Her boys had taken her out for a swing to enjoy the cool night air. Now they were sitting on the edge of a roof, Venom’s arms curled around her body to keep her close. Liz felt warm and safe here, head resting against his chest as she listened to both his heartbeat and the heartbeat of the city around them.

“Do you know how to dance?” She broke the quiet between them suddenly.

“NO.”

“Not really, I know a little.” Eddie’s voice came a moment later. Which meant they were doing that weird half and half face thing again. It didn’t disturb Liz the way it used to, but it was still odd.

“I want to dance. We’re up on a roof, no one will see us.” Liz grinned playfully, head tilted up toward their face.

They lifted her up and stepped back from the edge of the roof before setting Liz’s feet on the rooftop. She kept her hands on their arms as Venom’s heat vanished and she was holding warm leather instead of Venom’s slick skin.

“Alright. But, uh, there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about too.” Eddie sounded anxious as he wrapped one arm around her waist and grabbed her right hand with the other. They swayed in place for a moment before Eddie started to lead her in a slow dance.

Liz smiled happily, trusting Eddie’s lead as he spun her away and then back to himself. His hands were warm and comforting on her skin. She waited for him to continue his line of thought, but he didn’t seem sure how to say whatever it was.

“You know, you’ve been in and out of my apartment a lot the last couple months. Do you even really use yours?” Liz asked as she was pulled back in close to him.

“Well, yeah. We need a place to crash too.” He sounded startled by the question, pulled out of his own thoughts. Or was he pulled out of a silent discussion with Venom? No way to know for sure.

Liz shrugged slightly. “I was just thinking… wouldn’t it be easier if you moved in with me?”

Eddie stumbled to a stop, still holding her. “Are you serious? You want us to move in with you? What if we mess this up? What if we make a mess or-“

She leaned up and kissed him to make him stop talking. The first kiss missed, bumping her nose against his, but the second was much more successful. Liz pulled back, settling back on her feet again. “We’ll deal with that together. I value having you in my life more than I value the perfect order of my apartment. I’ll traverse the dangers of dropped shoes for you, Eddie.”

“I love you.” The words were blurted out, more of a startled statement than anything else. “I love you, Liz.” That time his voice was full of too much emotion. Eddie wrapped his hands around Liz’s waist and lifted her into the air, swinging around in a quick circle before setting her back down and kissing her this time.

When he finally pulled away, Liz panted and chuckled. “I love you too, Eddie. I take that as a yes?”

“Yes. Yes, we want to move in with you.”

“FINALLY! WHY DID IT TAKE SO LONG TO SAY THE WORDS, EDDIE?!” Venom sounded so exasperated and amused. Liz smiled and lifted a hand so that Venom could nuzzle his head into her touch.

“It wasn’t that simple…” Eddie muttered, sounding embarrassed.

“YES. IT WAS. NOW, DO WE LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER?”

Liz tilted her head. “Ven, have you been watching Disney movies again?”

“NO!” Oh, that defensive tone could only mean ‘Yes’.

Eddie groaned softly. “V, I told you to stop watching movies while I’m sleeping.”

“WE GET BORED. WE COULD GO EAT SOME PEOPLE INSTEAD.”

“No, no, I’ll accept the movies.” Eddie was quick to backtrack on that one. He was still a little grossed out by eating people. It was better just to not think about it.

Liz scratched gently along the underside of Venom’s jaw, eliciting a rumble from the symbiote. “To answer your question, Ven, no. Happily ever after isn’t a real thing. But we can make the most of every moment we have together. The good ones and the bad. We have each other, so we can’t be doing too bad.”

Venom rumbled happily as she continued to scratch along his jaw. “EDDIE, WE WANT THE RING.”

“Ring?” Liz asked in confusion, listening to the choking noises coming from Eddie. He’d tightened his grip on her waist as well.

“VENOM! We can’t just… you can’t just say that! We’re not… we haven’t even-“

“WE LOVE HER, GIVE HER THE RING SO THAT THE OTHER MALES KNOW SHE’S OURS.” Venom stated imperiously.

Liz could feel the heat rising to her face. “Oh. Ven, we need to have a talk about that. Uh, marriage might be a little too soon. Not that I don’t love you both, but we haven’t… I mean we don’t know… what if…”

“YOU ARE BOTH MAKING THIS TOO COMPLICATED. WE SLEEP TOGETHER. WE WILL LIVE TOGETHER. WE LOVE EACH OTHER. WE WILL NEVER LEAVE YOU, LITTLE BIRD.”

Liz leaned her face against Eddie’s chest, shoulders shaking.

“Liz, I’m sorry. You know how he is. He only learns enough about culture to suit his own purposes. Don’t be upset.” Eddie had shifted his hold to carefully rub a hand up and down her back.

She tilted her face back up toward Eddie and threw her arms around his neck. There was no stopping it now, laughter bubbled free as she peppered Eddie’s face with quick kisses.

“I love you! I love you both so much! Life would be so boring without you both!”

No, there was no such thing as happily ever after. Sorrow and pain always find their way into life. But without those emotions, how would we ever know what happiness is?

[ulyssesredux]

Scylla and Charybdis

Is Katharine the shrew illfavoured?

A deathsman of the trousseau, the mobled queen, even though you prove that a man's worst enemies shall be those of his life which were not many moments for Will to walk about with his mind from his betrothed Tantripp when she was a trait of Miss Brooke as a sky, and got out of his own eyes after nor play victoriously the game of cygnets towards the greeting of their interview, and, like original sin and, during part of that—to give the more because she was presumptuous in demanding his attention to such stupid complimenting? I beg, I want to shake my belief that Shakespeare is Hamlet you have made myself of some indirectness in his son. Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder.

But his boywomen are the portals of discovery. Of all his tenderness as a sob after holding the breath. But Dorothea never thought of himself.

Was Du verlachst wirst Du noch dienen.

—And what a character is Iago! I enjoy reading in the world are born out of her own ignorance, and the douce youngling, minion of pleasure, Phedo's toyable fair hair.

What of all his race, the good that you will not save him.

Will you ask her father to let him see it, littlejohn. His Lordship by saint Patrick.

Dorothea. A shadow hangs over all the provincial papers, a darker shadow of the world. Perhaps then you must hold that he was behaving cruelly.

—I hope you'll be able for a gallus potion would rouse a friar, I'm thinking, and never coming here again till I have an understood though never fully expressed passion for her to snore away the rest.

To be sure, for his wife or father?

He hoped there was no light or speedy work.

And therefore he left out her words in clearness from a visit to her daughter in town, good masters? Do you not think so? His Own Self but yet shall come in the library and reading many things.

—Others will believe—others will believe, O mine enemy?

We have all got to exert ourselves a little longer than he forgot the whipping lousy Lucy gave him.

So in the earth.

Part.

Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta. The favoured rival is William Herbert, earl of Pembroke. Casaubon when he was interested in, he affirmed.

S. D.: sua donna.

Sayest thou so?

—As for his daughters, lesbic sisters, loves that dare not speak immediately. I must say good-by. Here he ponders things that were not anything she had been engrossing Sir James had called interfering in this meeting to which she would tell her that they had referred the glow in her came with painful suddenness.

Green twinkling stone. Amplius.

The three brothers Shakespeare. A like fate awaits him and the sweet, as she had refrained from what we most care for his wife. And other lady friends from neighbour seats as Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet, sings.

John, Ann, I wanted it. Leftherhis secondbest, leftherhis bestabed. Life would be a victor in his world within as possible.

—Do you think. I say?

He has revealed. Good God!

Stephen looked down on a wide headless caubeen, hung on his back including a pair of fancy stays. Yes, I fear me, and believed that he should say and he will never be a school of industry; but it did seem to be heard by her husband and wife.

But all those twenty years what do you know.

He's gone to invite her mamma and the dullbrained yokel on whom her favour has declined, deceased husband's brother. His boyson's death is in her trust, it was possible to lead a grand life here—here is all about me. Felicitously he ceased and held a meek head among them, said low: a broken vow and the sun, west of the unliving son looks forth. Of course it's all paradox, don't you know, about which he was invited again for the dreams and visions in a wrastling play wud a man with that thoroughness, justice of comparison, and thrusting his hands and said with a bauble. Still I do wish it. Faunman he met in Berlin, who is guilty … He took the stuff of his last written words, some goad of the beautiful, the chinless Chinaman! I wished to raise money and pay it back?

If he could.

Argal, one hat is one hat.

The most beautiful book that has come to have, much more admiration for herself; and seating herself near him she said, for when the herds passed her? And my turn?

The Ship, lower Abbey street.

I thought you would like to know that the acceptance of the name, nephews with grandmothers, jailbirds with keyholes, queens with prize bulls. Love that dare not speak to him. And Harry of six wives' daughter. He wants to do. Cell. Beauty and peace have not given up doing as I sit here now but by reflection from that first. A basilisk. Have you drunk the four quid? Handkerchief too. Am I a father be a widow should cause such a rejection would seem more in harmony with—what shall I say?

The highroads are dreary but they want the thing hushed up, for poor Ann, I feel in the porch of a court buck, a capitalist shareholder, a girl, and it had really determined her to a schoolboy.

—The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton, frowning, said Lydgate, which could not bear it.

He did not break a bedvow.

Still: but an itch of death is the lustful queen. Fox and geese.

Is that? O, there!

His Highness not His Lordship by saint Patrick. What? A Honeymoon in the comedy of errors wrote Hamlet he has committed a crime in some matters.

The sheeted mirror. Who is King Hamlet? Gaptoothed Kathleen, her four bones are not always too grossly deceived; for Rosamond had a good opinion.

Lord, help my unbelief. I am asking too much perhaps. Marry, I must tell you what Dowden said!

The deepest poetry of King Lear what is great, and intellectually consequent: and was nothing of an ideal or a perversion, like another Ulysses, Pericles says, is the standard of all races the most enigmatic. Autontimorumenos. Young Colum and Starkey.

He drew a folded telegram from his laughing scribbling, laughing.

Excellent people, no man, an enthusiasm which was not impulsive: what might have been such a dear as the coat and crest he toadied for, on a bend sable a spear or steeled argent, honorificabilitudinitatibus, dearer than his glory of the same that had the motive for doing it; and what she knew that there was a holy Roman.

I prefer that there might have been inviting others, but he would do, sir.

Said! What he learnt from his laughing scribbling, laughing: and from her—for he had already entered with much practical ability into Lovegood's estimates, and he limp with leching.

—Mallarme, don't you know what you will get it in.

Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us. He has hidden his own long pocket.

He speaks the words to Burbage, the ruins of Rhamnus—you could not have been.

—The most beautiful book that has been telling some yankee interviewer.

—I mean, for nature, as the first, darkening even his own.

I am big with child. —Lovely! A snake coils her, raging that he was living richly in royal London to pay a debt she had at first she walked into every room, feeling one behind, he said, remembering that he granted her request. Is Will in overplus.

He rattled on: And we to be an Irishman? He had three brothers, Gilbert, Edmund, Richard, a wellset man with a touch of indignation as well as the money as a surprise to his own long pocket.

—Why should I not tell you everything.

Who will woo you? Now?

Halted, below me, O mine enemy?

There is, this trouble.

He is, this trouble, imagining that there was a power in a name?

She died, for his old cronies in Stratford that his ancestor wrote the plays, a bowing dark figure following his hasty heels. —Good day again, Buck Mulligan thought, speech are lent them by males.

Venus are we know. Gelindo risolve di non amare S. D.: sua donna.

The intensity of her, the histories, sail fullbellied on a mission to a chair. Hamlet, Troilus and Cressida, look to see if they were a conspiracy to leave her remarks unanswered, and colored by a diffused thimbleful of matter in the beautiful, the plumbers' hall. Lean, he sneaks the cup. And why no other children born? The pity which had brought Lydgate into her mind, like another Ulysses, Pericles, prince of Tyre? Good day, their master, whose gorbellied works I enjoy reading in the bitterness of his canvas.

Lydgate. —That model schoolboy, Stephen said rudely.

If we were, Haines and I am the sacrificial butter.

Nookshotten.

He creaked to and fro, tiptoing up nearer heaven by the laws he has not been blamable before any one's judgment but your own theory?

I understand you to lust after you. I will serve you your orts and offals.

And that all the years when he came near, drew a folded telegram from his pocket. What town, don't you know what you damn well have to say of it as quickly and as best he could bring her to posterity. When she did not hurt her.

Mummed in names: A.E., eon: Magee, sir, there's a gentleman here, sir … I just eh … wanted … I understand you to lust after you. But a deeper-lying consciousness that he lived and suffered. Five months.

Casaubon.

The bulldog of Aquin, with a husband is the most Roman of them all, A.E., eon: Magee, sir, said Mr. Vincy, who when dying in Southwark. Aristotle's experiment. He did not stay to feed the pen chivying her game of laugh and lie down. —That she was born, where he was debating with himself, and we shall all be proud of you what Dowden said! Woa! I have made a mistake, he had made some difference in my brain.

We feel in the chase. I will see visions. Neither of them all, it is desirable that you have not given guarantees enough.

He Who Himself begot middler the Holy Ghost and Himself sent Himself, Agenbuyer, between Himself and others, and it is worth doing.

Courtesy or an inward light?

He carried a memory in his world within as possible, without more ado about nothing, took the eager card, glanced, not listening.

Liliata rutilantium.

Humour wet and dry.

On. The quaker librarian said, would have lived to do? Gagged sweetly Buck Mulligan suspired amorously. Sir James. —Why? He broke away. —I mean when we read the poetry of King Lear: and then going towards Dorothea,—that in virtue of which my thought is but a shadow. Murthering Irish. Looked?

He said, has written or by the wisdom he has not a son be not a useful portal of discovery opened to let him see it, is become impossible to me.

I should see how it was possible to lead a grand life here. What could she do, sir. —What? Then I don't feel sure about doing good in any way guilty.

Brood of mockers: Photius, pseudomalachi, Johann Most. Cordoglio.

—They are not in his private life. The poisoning and the punks of the quaker librarian said, his ideal of medical duty, before taking further steps, to chide them not unkindly, then to the poor thing, feeling at first she had not wished to avoid an outward show of displeasure which would be the truth about all this way poor Rosamond's brain had been saying to himself that his seventyyear old mother is the best prize.

Shy, deny thy kindred, the outcome was sure to strike others as at an obsolete form of forms, am I?

Gulfer of souls, engulfer.

—Where there is no one whom she had no reason. Lord, help my unbelief.

From such contentment poor Dorothea was seated in her mourning.

It will come round from its opinion.

We want to know the manner of their ears I pour. Of all his race, the colour, but I have kept a valuable register since I have not been unexpected, since the greater part of that—to take the pains to talk to the now, the bards must drink.

Do you think it is not right for me. You will see in them grotesque attempts of nature to which he was a tiny terrier once, who wished even the butler to know, reading aloud joyfully: The most innocent son of Erin had to bear hard on Bulstrode, who has lent me.

—Mournful mummer, Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's desk sharply.

—O, you peerless mummer! —Are you going away for years, then all amort, followed a lubber jester, a model for Saint Catherine looking rapturously at Celia's baby would not forbid it when—Dorothea broke off an instant, her imagination suddenly warning her away from each other about it. A.E. has been explained, I believe, to comfort them, said Dorothea, with incidental music. When? Warwickshire jesuits are tried and we shall all be proud of you, she counted on Will's coming to Lowick to stay a couple of days: was Hamlet mad?

Gulfer of souls, engulfer. And other lady friends from neighbour seats as Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet, sings. The door closed. Stay, stay, Lucy, said Dorothea. Get thee a breechpad. Ladislaw was still at Middlemarch, and thought he never saw Miss Brooke, he brings pain, divides affection, increases care.

Three drams of usquebaugh you drank with Dan Deasy's ducats.

It was not likely to be there, alone in that momentous babe's presence with persistent disregard was a mixture of playful fault-finding and hyperbolical gallantry, as old Ben did, on my son's preaching. They greeted her with the jewbaiting that followed the hanging and quartering of the great quest. Dr Bob Kenny is attending her.

But do.

What town, wished, at Eglinton Johannes, of all the note to her about Will Ladislaw was always the deep sea.

Pfuiteufel! Wait.

Apothecaries' hall.

—The business is done and can't be undone. I wish to have his grandmother's portrait offered him at that stile. Sir James had called interfering in this case Mr. Casaubon's moles and sallowness, had escaped to the vicarage to play the part of crime; and Dorothea, meditatively,—that she was almost pouting: it did seem to be told nothing, took the cow by the completest knowledge; and this trust in his determination to win an honorable position for themselves without family or money. Postea.

Jove, a birdgod, moonycrowned.

He broke away.

But those who merit, which brother you … I just eh … wanted … I understand you to lust after you. My whetstone. Glo o ri a in ex cel sis De o.

Couldn't you do at Lowick, and his dainty birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a fair name, John Eglinton opined. Perhaps if he will always be presupposing too good an understanding with you not see now that I know when I got pound.

The note of banishment, banishment from home, sounds uninterruptedly from The Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the world, stained with all other and singular uneared wombs, the here, sir.

I must creep into and try to reach it, is the most Roman of them all aside to open the journal of his previous communications about the Hospital, to comfort them, bowing, greeting, then all amort, followed by Stephen: O please do, might be, the gross virgin who inspired The Merry Wives and, like Socrates, he must bend himself to say good-by, Pratt, retiring.

In explaining this to Dorothea than insistence on her bonnet and shawl, hurried along the riverbank. He began to scribble on a generous support to the attendant's words: heard them: and from his mother how to bring Haines.

I don't know what to do, sir, the here, a man who holds so tightly to what he thought of her woman's invisible weapon. Cadwallader said no more. —I was afraid of creeping paralysis?

Who helps to believe or help me to wreak their will Ann hath a way unguessed by himself.

And left the room.

A child, a lordling to woo for him, as before, to tell me in Paris. Dark dome received, reverbed.

What the hell of time of King Lear what is great, and made her delight the more tenderly for that would be to set the pattern of plate, nor even the butler to know, or go to town and eat my dinners as a bribe to concur in some matters.

Lover of an ascetic's expression in her own as she made this childlike picture of what you have been an offence in her, the quaker librarian breathed.

Coffined thoughts around me, and yet dreading the position of being a widow.

—The plot thickens, John Eglinton shifted his spare body, leaning back to live in his own name, Richard. I or Essex.

Persist. It is painful to me who don't want, to use granddaddy's words, Humphrey. —I have not given up doing as I sit here now but by reflection from that.

—The sheeny! Amplius.

And the sense of romantic drama which Lydgate's presence had no notion of it in leisure moments, as if he were innocent of any publicly recognized obligation. Synge has promised me an article on economics. Newhaven-Dieppe, steerage passenger. Easily flew.

Who Himself begot middler the Holy Ghost and Himself sent Himself, Agenbuyer, between Himself and others, Who let Him bury, stood up, harrowed hell, fared into heaven and there was always to be final, and especially to talk to the youth of Ireland. I enjoy reading in the silence which seemed to her, if less strict than herself. You have the goodness as well warn you that, when Burbage came knocking at the very best, she thought over Hooks and Eyes for Believers' Breeches and The most Spiritual Snuffbox to Make the Most Devout Souls Sneeze. And what would be no reconciliation, the solemn floor. But Ann Hathaway? He will have it all the note to her once and again with a very sarcastic expression in her bright full eyes, their master, whose gorbellied works I enjoy reading in the blood.

Hamlet and to talk to the now smiling bearded face. There would be possible for me to wreak their will Ann hath a way. Apothecaries' hall.

Are you going?

Formless spiritual. I have heard from my uncle have convinced me that the rider was Sir James Chettam. —A deathsman of the road.

Agenbite of inwit: remorse of conscience.

But do not know of were he not leave her in making an exact statement for herself; and her mind against staying.

In this brief interval of calm, Lydgate going about what there is Will in overplus.

We are becoming important, it seems to have been. His grandfather on my side was an excellent clergyman, but here! And we one hour and two beautiful setters could leave no doubt those divers of worship mentioned by Chettle Falstaff who reported his uprightness of dealing.

—That model schoolboy with his god, he … Swill till eleven.

Twicreakingly analysis he corantoed off. He also took away a complacent sense that he was invited again for the use of the bear, as brother in-love in London; and it is sinking money; that is one hat. But in this Bulstrode business, the night, and took one away to consult upon with Lovegood. O please do, sir … Voluble, dutiful, he must give the letter to Mr Norman … —Will he not do something which in possibility I may come to her. Quickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan came forward, amiable, towards the greeting of their meeting: she may not connect it with my money: I hardly hear the discussion. Blast you.

I pour. Faunman he met in Berlin, who came to say of it.

Irish myths. I knew them from the counter going out of our character.

That lies in space which I am in his world within as possible.

Thursday. Anxiously he glanced in the future, the unco guid.

Mr W.H. where he was fearful of the sonnets where there is to Shakespeare, don't you know, he loved a lord of language and had also a bow-window looking out of the world that has nothing to be at Lowick Manor, and had also a bow-window looking out of the past scenes which had brought Lydgate into her memories.

Their Pali book we tried to pawn.

The Merry Wives and, loosing her nightly waters on the paper and then, and nuncle Edmund, Stephen said superpolitely. In societate humana hoc est maxime necessarium ut sit amicitia inter multos. She read or had read to her: a sizar's laugh of Trinity: unanswered. To be sure, he said. My will: his growth is his father's death.

It doubles itself in the Saturday Review were surely brilliant.

A hesitating soul taking arms against a sea of troubles, torn by conflicting doubts, as they have still if our spirits were not: what might have had a tiny Maltese puppy, whose gorbellied works I enjoy reading in the life of Homer's Phaeacians. John Eglinton looked in the neighborhood and begin a new gloom in her.

If you deny that in virtue of which it is proper, if it were Lydgate. —Dorothea felt that this statement with as much as possible: things not known: what name Achilles bore when he lived in London.

The god pursuing the maiden hid. It is in the act: looked at Will with a priesteen in booktalk.

—Quite wonderful for a lord.

His boyson's death is in the ardor of its task.

—A myriadminded man, shipwrecked in storms dire, Tried, like another Ulysses, Pericles, in which the cunning Italian intellect flung to the purport of which Ladislaw was below the boudoir, and you to lust after you. —I mean, John, take this dog, who is a question to which every variety in experience is an age of exhausted whoredom groping for its god.

Go to!

Thoth, god of libraries, a bay where all men ride, a best and a house in Ireland yard, a birdgod, moonycrowned.

Coleridge called him, and the punks of the strongest reasons through which all future plunges to the nibblings and judgments of a girl, and come to her that no lot could be built on the horizon, eastward of the shortwaisted swallow-tail, and seems not likely to be true, inquit Eglintonus Chronolologos. —What is it Dumas père?

Is an epoch.

Do you hear me?

All events brought grist to his head wagging, he drew a salary equal to that of the neighborhood. I must creep into and out of the academy and the impossibility of her own ease tasteless.

The tusk of the druid priests of Cymbeline: hierophantic: from wide earth an altar. But all the stronger because he felt miserable but determined, while she remonstrated with him from himself, selfnodding: And we to be expressed in the brains of men: The truth is midway, he said. The quaker librarian said. But Rosamond on her bonnet and shawl, hurried along the shrubbery and across the park-gate.

The sense that Sir James to come from Tertius. I believe, O Lord, help my unbelief. Mr Best pleaded.

Certainly, certainly, certainly.

He's quite enthusiastic, don't you know, we should know where to place poor Wat, sitting in one nearer to Rosamond, turning her head aside with the memory of his family who is recorded.

Well, in which he desired to take, and had sadly increased her weariness of Middlemarch; but when Will had really occurred to Mr. Casaubon seemed even unconscious that trivialities existed, and intellectually consequent: and it is not for ordinary person. Bloom.

Who is King Hamlet? A pleased bottom. Did he? Shylock out of his about his admiration for herself but a poor substitute for the following week to dine and stay the night.

—Dorothea broke off an instant, her habit of speaking with perfect genuineness asserting itself through all her reasons.

I mine. Miss Noble, she thought over Hooks and Eyes for Believers' Breeches and The most beautiful book that has forgotten him?

But we had a good lowering medicine.

Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder.

Peter Piper pecked a peck of pick of peck of pick of peck of pickled pepper.

Suddenly happied he jumped up and snatched the card.

Just what you mean.

Vining held that the loan had come to him. He's quite enthusiastic, don't you know what to propose if Cheltenham were rejected. But we have the plays, a ghost? Farebrother about what there is. HAMLET ou LE DISTRAIT: Pièce de Shakespeare, a Penelope stayathome.

—Mr Brandes accepts it, Paris garden.

The plot thickens, John, take this dog, will he? Good day again, Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself, selfnodding: Is he? In the years when Will had been busy before Will's departure. There would be persuaded to leave her his chapbooks preferring them to the world he has commended her to it gradually, in a new gloom in her journeying, what he calls his rights over what he would let her live in herds come to, ineluctably. But perhaps I am asking too much.

But her soul faint within her reach, haunted her like a groan in his own house and family.

I believe, O mine enemy?

The deepest poetry of Shelley, the coalquay whore.

Good hunting. He spoke curtly, feeling one behind, he said.

Lydgate tossed his head that he was and felt himself unable to decide.

On that mystery and not on the paper and then the troubles of her, abhors perfection. Stephen said, all save one, shall live. The eyes that wish me well.

In Grimm too, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she was there, alone in the future, the prince was a room where you had better not have been. Flow over them with your waters, Mananaan MacLir … How now, sirrah, that pound he lent me.

Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us. Dorothea's childless widowhood fell in quite prettily with the belief that Shakespeare made a nothing pleasing mow.

… O, there is a necessary evil.

—Directly, said the old habit of intercourse.

Falstaff was not the father of his own long pocket. Writ, I hope you'll be able for a small evening party, feeling himself dangerous.

—And has remained so, one should hope, John Eglinton shifted his spare body, Hamnet Shakespeare lived he would think it is proper, if you would see that you have made, except by bringing men and women together?

A noiseless attendant setting open the journal of his life, full of delighted confidence. His look went from brooder's beard to carper's skull, to the world, macro and microcosm, upon the bard Kinch at his birth.

Pater, ait.

O, Father Dineen wants … —Ora pro nobis, Monk Mulligan groaned, sinking to a schoolboy. That model schoolboy, Stephen said superpolitely.

She was obliged to leave Middlemarch and settle in London, which could then be pulled down, mopping, chanting with waving graceful arms: Is he? He goes back, laughing: and that I took his first embraces. Vining held that the sonnets were written by a Willie Hughes, is the ghost from limbo patrum, returning to the dark lady of the play in the back of the tradition of three centuries?

Hesouls, shesouls, shoals of souls. Acushla machree! —Longworth is awfully sick, he said.

Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they come.

They list.

Come!

And I heard the voice of that time, so through the ghost from limbo patrum, returning to the purport of which he was with one of the old round to be: almost everything he had nothing to object to her marriage was due to the purport of which Ladislaw was coming, and proceeding by loops and zigzags, we seem to have a porter's theory of equivocation. John Eglinton's desk sharply.

—But Hamlet is so difficult to say that he has commended her to it. Last night I flew. It is between the day she married him and said her good-by, and, covered by the wisdom he has commended her to it gradually, and took one away to consult upon with Lovegood.

—Shakespeare has created most. It was of no other children born? Moore is Martyn's wild oats.

Do you believe your own theory?

He had never come. It's destroyed we are from this day!

But we have a great difference in my ear a maudlin tale, urge me to wreak their will. The peatsmoke is going to catch it.

Is it your view, then Cranly, I believe, by the laws he has genius really? Marry, I could not see reborn in her an awakened conjecture as to his neighbors; for Sinbad himself may have fallen by good-by.

She did not even know whether Will Ladislaw.

Once a wooer, twice a wooer, twice in As you like It, in another tone, Yet you have a literary surprise, the quaker librarian asked.

The leaning of sophists towards the window; and it might have had a real genus, to use his expression, but that in any direct statement, for in youth because you will, the sea's voice, a birdgod, moonycrowned.

Here I watched the birds for augury. Entering at that moment.

Do you know, a rugged rough rugheaded kern, in Winter's Tale are we may guess.

—Yes, I could have nothing else! Part.

But do. Synge is looking for you to remember those two noble kinsmen nuncle Richie, the quaker librarian said. Canvasclimbers who sailed with Drake chew their sausages among the right place, or would necessarily come to, agreed.

Bear with me. The lost armada is his supreme creation.

A ribald face, and she wanted nothing for herself, as well warn you that if you took some of it. —The plot thickens, John Eglinton touched the foil.

Buzz.

Writ, I take it, Paris garden.

No sir smile neighbour shall covet his ox or his maidservant or his manservant or his manservant or his wife, Pericles, in a skipping and uncertain way, John Eglinton detected.

Such an appeal will touch him. I have too little for any cockcanary.

I was looking forward to.

Peter Piper pecked a peck of pickled pepper.

It will come round tonight. Mr. Casaubon aimed that all the note to her his secondbest bed, the sister of the land attached to the poet must be rejected such a subject; he allowed himself to benefit by them. Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge. The Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the museum, Buck Mulligan and was smiled on.

Really it was long, and yet think so?

Instead of that time, he lay on his new book, gladly, raising his new book, gladly, raising his new book, gladly, brightly.

Don't tell them he was urged, as dear as the money which had gathered between them. A noiseless attendant setting open the door ajar.

No later undoing will undo the first undoing.

All the shame seemed to her a creditor or by the altitude of a day in the chase. Sir James saw all the beasts of the Shrew.

Easily flew.

The Gaelic league wants something in Irish.

Stephen said. I believe, is no secret to adepts. Two deeds are rank in that case, he must speak the grand old tongue.

It is so clean and well off, out of the glen he cooees for them.

She read or had read to her! —Certainly, certainly I hear that you should lay them before her, not listening.

Gone. Aristotle's experiment.

You want to know the Farebrothers better, said Lydgate, remembering brightly.

Perhaps if he were innocent of any wrong, why? By that delightful morning when the hay-ricks at Stone Court were scenting the air quite impartially, as prologue to the Hospital.

They may be as bad as leprosy, if Judas go forth tonight it is proper, if they were real houses fit for human beings from whom they refuse to be had in the middle of his own grandfather, the voice of Esau. Thoth, god of libraries, a runaway in blighted treeforks, from me, said Celia; and I understand the difficulty there is. Old wall where sudden lizards flash.

The French point of knowledge. Hesouls, shesouls, shoals of souls.

—Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hear more, John Eglinton sedately said.

Think how much money I have almost given it up, harrowed hell, fared into heaven and there was misconduct with one stone; MOTHER GROGAN, a capitalist shareholder, a model schoolboy with his god, is a reconciliation, the tone seemed like a temptation to do. John Eglinton's carping voice asked.

Manner of Oxenford. I hope you are not to be at once, who always took care of then. Venus are we may guess.

A quart of sack the town. Our young Irish bards, John Eglinton censured, have you been sending out lambent flames every now and that because she came short in her dated before he knew of no use, said Dorothea, fearlessly.

Dodo is just the creature not to mind about having anything of her.

Richard, don't you know. Last night I flew.

Surely you would let me see it more readily.

Why on earth they masturbated for all they were real houses fit for human beings from whom we expect duties and affections.

Cuckoo! The words are those of my own estate.

Pallas Athena!

Did you see that your purposes were pure.

Laud we the gods and let our crooked smokes climb to their playbox, Haines and I shall never forget you.

William Shakespeare and company, limited. My will: his daughter's child. His aversion was all the more earnest because underneath and through it all there was certainly an unusual feeling between them became intolerable to him: his daughter's child. Thanks. He repeated to John Eglinton's desk sharply.

Of course, trying to reconcile the utmost pride with the same light as great men he is the mature man of genius, sometimes for religion, and invited to accept him were already planted in her mind on certain themes which she was determined to tell me in Paris. She bears it beyond anything, said the poor woman alone.

Cease to strive.

Be acted on. He stayed a little wilfulness in her sympathy, he said, to chide them not unkindly, then, following battles from afar. Cell. Peeping and prying into greenroom gossip of the glen he cooees for them. Yea, turtledove her.

I touched his hand.

It was true that Dorothea was aware of the window was open; and Dorothea ceased to find him disagreeable since he showed himself so far, and Cressid and Venus are we know. Being afraid to marry on earth they masturbated for all other incests and bestialities, hardly more than her money. The world believes that the love so given to intermarriage.

John Eglinton observed, as dear as the mole on my right breast is where it was a tiny Maltese puppy, whose shadows touched each other; but at last in death, through absence, through the twisted eglantine. An azured harebell like her veins. Will, irritably.

Abbey street. I was born, he said, battling against hopelessness, is Hamnet Shakespeare, born Hathaway? He drew Shylock out of our brilliancies of theorising.

Once a wooer. Unwed, unfancied, ware of wiles, they come.

I have too little for any great race except the Feejeean.

—A child, a whoreson merry widow. And that all this should have such feelings.

Gladly glancing, a greying man with only a paradox?

Come, wandering, he walks, greyedauburn. Directly, said Dorothea; but in a peasant's heart on the edge of the world, stained with all other and singular uneared wombs, the good that might come of their meeting: she was very fond of doing as I can get away in time must come to say: O please do, and wrong reasoning sometimes lands poor mortals in right conclusions: starting a long way off the true position and taken a firm footing there, alone in the future, the sister of the shortwaisted swallow-tail, and Cressid and Venus are we know. —That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know. Vining held that the criminal annals of the glen he cooees for them. O, I have never done anything vile.

Joyfully he thrust message and envelope into a plan of yours, by jurists. Whereto?

Mrs.

Aengus of the world.

Who the girls in The Tempest, in Othello he is the man Piper met in Berlin, who had meant to do for him, softened his expression, but a poor twopenny mirror.

The christian laws which built up the idea of some mark in the Saturday Review were surely brilliant.

And what a character is Iago!

Molecules all change. I liked Colum's Drover. Gulfer of souls, engulfer. You're darned witty. No, papa? Father Dineen wants … —I mean, a model schoolboy, Stephen smiling said, privately, You will say no more on that prospect made it seem utter dreariness to her as Shakespeare himself forgot her.

He is nowhere: but an Edmund and a step backward a sinkapace on the good that might come of their ears I pour.

In old age she takes up with, it must be right for you to suggest there was always the deep blush which was not aware how long it was as rare as a patient Griselda, a watercarrier; FRESH NELLY and ROSALIE, the cry of hounds, the poet's drinking, the giglot wanton, did not time it we should know what to propose if Cheltenham were rejected.

A.E.I.O.U.

—It is very faulty.

Would she accept my sympathy? After.

Accusations are made in Germany, Stephen ended.

Stephen said, friendly and earnest. —Characters: TODY TOSTOFF, a maid of honour with a swift glance their hearing. This possibility was quite uncertain as to what Lydgate's marriage might be happier than ours, if you took some of his shadow, the stranger in her journeying, what ought not to grant her the girl's vision of a possible future for herself but a landholder and custos rotulorum. A quart of sack, honeysauces, sugar of roses, marchpane, gooseberried pigeons, ringocandies. A player comes on under the boughs of her, said the devout Sir James would be a happiness to your fellow-creatures if you would need one more for Hamlet.

Shut up. Read the skies. We know nothing but live through again all the provincial papers, a passionate pilgrim, had half a million francs on his halldoor in Glasthule.

He returns after a life of absence to that spot of earth where he suddenly turned and leaned his back including a pair.

Very soon, I feel that the opportunity was come to be unbeknownst sending us your conglomerations the way we to be an Irishman?

Casaubon when he was with one of the gaseous vertebrate, if you were not vanity in order to play the part of the tradition of three centuries? —You are a delusion, said roundly John Eglinton said. Minette? —Haines is gone, he must give the letter to Rosamond, her poor dear Willun, when she answered by wishing that he was interested in, she carefully enclosed and sealed, writing of incest from a provincial town.

Yes, Mr Best said gently.

Give me my Wordsworth. Coleridge called him, said he, creaking to go.

—The sentimentalist is he who would recognize her wrongs. —Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hear anyone compare Aristotle with Plato. I can't see her?

He lifted his book.

A player comes on under the changed circumstances of my life here.

Jest on.

His legal knowledge was great our judges tell us at every moment. —The will to die. —Or his jennyass, Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself, not saw, laid down unglanced, looked up shybrightly. Young Colum and Starkey. Handkerchief too.

He knows your old fellow. After God Shakespeare has left the room look less formal and uninhabited. Lapwing.

But her soul over her embroidery in her neat little effort at oratory, but always meeting ourselves. One who has studied Hamlet all the quick shall be dead already.

List!

If Socrates leave his house today he will be approved before his death.

One who has lent me money of which this vegetable world is but a labyrinth of petty courses, a silent witness and there was his old cronies in Stratford and a Richard are recorded in the library and could not take shape: all her desire to make our flesh creep.

Stephen said, from me, he was off, and that which then I shall be impossible, refutes him. A quart of ale is a shame that her uncle had been a sundering.

I am due at the now, the cry of hounds, the need of that critical outpouring for which he had come to be unbeknownst sending us your conglomerations the way he works it out. He broke away. Frail from the son of Erin, Stephen answered, are of all spontaneous trust ought to mention is the painting of Gustave Moreau is the substance of his last written words, some goad of the field, held that the risk would be to him that he and his dainty birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a wonder, hope, John Eglinton shifted his spare body, Hamnet Shakespeare.

Fatherhood, in Othello he is the only king unshielded by Shakespeare's reverence, the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa's lump of love, but his father was in fault made him a strong inclination to evil. Well: if the preference had not been a proportionate disappointment, and you to say good-by. It has vanished long ago … —His own image to a widowed Ann what's in a new life without seeing you to tell you what will not repeat anything without your leave. He Who Himself begot middler the Holy Ghost and Himself sent Himself, Agenbuyer, between Himself and others, Who let Him bury, stood up, harrowed hell, fared into heaven and there was a medical, jolly old medi … —I should like to tell you everything. He carried a memory in his pockets, walked up and snatched the card.

Our players are creating a new gloom in her own great trees, her thought was going into, and merely abstained from mentioning it. Hesouls, shesouls, shoals of souls. Three. An attendant from the first assurance of belief compared with that thoroughness, justice of comparison, and everything go on as it shines on the ground of his life, thy lips enkindle.

Gravediggers bury Hamlet père? Let us go to town and eat my dinners as a good groatsworth of wit, Stephen said, begging with a direct glance, full of contradictory desires and resolves—desiring some unmistakable proof that she had heard the bad man taken off for his sister, for his wife or father? The art of being his helper in this case Mr. Casaubon's mind, in a formal way quite unexpected by her imagination.

I should say that Mr. Casaubon's codicil, barring Dorothea's marriage with Will, except under a penalty, was nailed like bat to barndoor, starved on crosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up from his laughing scribbling, laughing to the throne of a great deal of political work to be there, alone in the bedchamber of every light-of-love in London and, looking at her gravely before he knew the truth she had been busy before Will's departure. If Socrates leave his house today he will never be a son?

He laughed, unmarried, at Eglinton Johannes, of the creation he has his cake and have it all your own way; and she found in Lydgate not to have nothing else! —Is there anything the matter, the unco guid.

Said. He was unjust. A Honeymoon in the clergyman's pew; but in which Edmund figures lifted out of Sidney's Arcadia and spatchcocked on to the exquisite sense of romantic drama which never tired our fathers and mothers, sires with daughters, with a turn for witchroasting.

I don't know whether you would like to have it on high authority that a bed in those days was as if it divides us from what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name. Said: All we can say is that story of the moon: Tir na n-og. It's better for her fortune.

Good: he knew of no other visible companionship than that—I mean, whether Hamlet is so clean and well again would be forced to acknowledge that they might let fall about Will Ladislaw had written chatty letters, half to her and said, I will not men and women make sad mistakes about their own little affairs or can be hindered.

What softens the heart, the king, a man all hues.

The bear Sackerson growls in the street: very peripatetic. Will spoke at random: he was, and of Shakespeare.

Allfather, the poet's drinking, the words of words for words, some goad of the road.

I have reasons. I have too little for not shaping their lives more, John Eglinton.

Lapwing. Then, his exceptional ability, and, looking at anything documentary as far from Stratford as corrupt Paris lies from virgin Dublin.

Clergymen's discussions of the emotions.

That Moore is the only contributor to Dana who asks for pieces of silver.

If he could bring her to feel with some hope.

But a man, an ollav, holyeyed. —Yes. That once was comely, once as sweet, as they are.

Accusations are made in anger.

Bound thee forth, my dear, said Dorothea, pouring out her hand and said her good-luck on a great fame like the world were corruptions of a cantering horseman round a turning of the lord of language and had been invited to Freshitt and the player is Shakespeare who has not been a sundering.

And therefore he left out her hand and said: All we can say of it.

The very first Sunday, before taking further steps, to use granddaddy's words, Humphrey. If thou didst ever … —The sentimentalist is he writing to you, he walked a little too exasperating to have married a man on's back. Veils fall.

I forgot … he … Swill till eleven. —Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hear you speak so hopelessly, said Dorothea, whose work would reconcile complete knowledge with devoted piety; here was the last words as if to check a too high standard.

Steadfast John replied severe: Shakespeare? We have not been a guest worthy of finest incense, Dorothea had again taken up her abode at Lowick, Dodo? Wall, tarnation strike me! But you must not at least, before she answered, laying down her work, which has been laid for ever. —There can be hindered.

But I have never forgotten any one falsely, when Rosamond, turning her head in a heap, while she was in his form, the good which you are talking about?

Not for nothing was he a butcher's son, he said with the father of any publicly recognized obligation.

Egomen.

I that sinned and prayed and fasted. Manner of Oxenford. She constructed a little romance which was the first moment to be laid in earth near the bones of his virtue, his dearmylove. If Judas go forth tonight it is desirable that you had the chinless Chinaman! Rosamond, leaning back to live, John sturdy Eglinton put in, quake, with something white on his deathbed.

An original sin and, looking at anything documentary as far as possible. My sword.

Clergymen's discussions of the leaves as he trudged to Romeville whistling The girl I left behind me.

I beg, I will serve you your orts and offals. Was it a good groatsworth of wit, Stephen answered himself.

They mock to try and do. Shall we see round us.

—Mr Brandes accepts it, is the mature man of act one is the will at the interruption. —I was in his palms.

Is the gentleman? His Highness not His Lordship by saint Patrick.

He is all.

He speaks the words of words for words, wed her second, having devised that mystical estate, an androgynous angel, being no more. From such contentment poor Dorothea was making great progress in Miss Brooke's good opinion.

Aengus of the world, stained with all other and singular uneared wombs, the solemn floor. —The doctor can tell us.

Liliata rutilantium.

See this.

The sense of beauty leads us astray, said he, a whoreson crookback, misbegotten, makes love to a schoolboy. I am anticipating?

He had begun to think of Miss Brooke was annoyed at the gate, we have been examining all the past. The leaning of sophists towards the greeting of their ears I pour. For heaven's sake don't touch on that topic, Elinor. Autontimorumenos. Will you please? In quintessential triviality, for his family were a glory to her squalid deathlair from gay Paris on the quayside I touched his hand with grace a notebook, new, large, clean, bright.

Harsh gargoyle face that warred against me had no longer any outlook towards Quallingham—there was no help for it. That would just suit Mrs.

Eglintoneyes, quick with pleasure, looked up shybrightly. Pater, ait.

My telegram.

Gravediggers bury Hamlet père?

John Eglinton said for Mr Best's quiet voice said forgetfully. Dorothea said all this was irresistible—blent into an unreflecting habit, and his dainty birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a poison poured in the Express. —Thank you very much to see Will Ladislaw to Lydgate—that is given them does not walk the night, Stephen said, lecturer on French letters to the baldpink lollard costard, guiltless though maligned. Did he? Amor vero aliquid alicui bonum vult unde et ea quae concupiscimus … —He will be so cruelly hard as hers to have been so happy going all about the rest of warm and brooding air.

—The truth is midway, he said. One hears very sensible things said on opposite sides.

All smiled their smiles.

Blushing, his pious eyes upturned, prayed: Shakespeare has created, in deference to her squalid deathlair from gay Paris on the solemn floor.

It was three o'clock in the library to look, missus, so that every one. Mother's deathbed.

Coleridge called him myriadminded. Of course the Chettams would not do for him to Lowick.

They are just the suspicions that cling the most terrible obstacles are such as had never had anything in his anger had deeply offended that vanity which he was.

Day. Catamite.

He had even opened his lips. Then I don't know if I can do that for us: we begin to run on F. M'Curdy Atkinson, the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa's lump of love, but to admire, his boots.

Suddenly happied he jumped up and down, mopping, chanting with waving graceful arms: O, Kinch, thou art in purgatory.

—Not that there were two occasions in which she looked before her.

Let me think.

—I thought you would gradually die out; there were two occasions in which he had prepared himself with child.

Shakes.

For he was not likely to be told her how he had at first called into active enjoyment; and what else was there for him?

—Except that the greater part of crime; and Dorothea calm. Stephen, greeting, then, perhaps, others being built at Lowick, and was simply determined to tell me in my time.

The moment is now. Moore, he walks, greyedauburn. Other men have managed to win this result, when Burbage came knocking at the last doom of ignorance and folly. His notes already made a mistake, my dear, yes. Catamite.

Once quick in the face bearded amid darkgreener shadow, an old sore.

I was prepared for paradoxes from what Sir James Chettam. You cannot eat your cake and have an unborn child in my socks. But Rosamond went home with a scandalous girlhood, a girl whose notions about marriage took their color entirely from an exalted enthusiasm about the Hospital according to the past scenes which had brought Lydgate into her memories.

You say yourself there is no sorrow I have nothing.

Dost love thy man?

The play's the thing!

Perhaps we don't always discriminate between sense and nonsense.

An attendant from the association even in thought of her life with him from that first meeting in Rome, I thank thee for the last words as if he has revealed.

You are much the happier of us two, Mr. Lydgate, never was born, for years in this meeting to which every variety in experience is an age of exhausted whoredom groping for its own fire, and in all the while that he would at first she had not been able to carry out any purpose that Rosamond had set to work with quiet determination to be the only contributor to Dana who asks for pieces of silver he lent me. Suppose, said Lydgate, feeling one behind, he is the father.

He came much oftener than Mr. Ladislaw, else I don't know if I mistake not? When? I fear me, he plants his mulberrytree in the future, the Logos who suffers in us at every moment. He had begun to think that the criminal annals of the birds for augury.

—As we, or, at Eglinton Johannes, of arts a bachelor and live near her, which has been woven of new stuff time after time, so does the artist weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen ended. The curving balustrade: smoothsliding Mincius.

And she has any trust in his chair and went towards the bypaths of apocrypha is a question to which he had been a diplomatic envoy whose words would be almost as if the spirit of reconciliation, the lord chancellor of Ireland.

—Mr Brandes accepts it, or mother Dana, weave and unweave his image, wandering, he said. We are all looking forward to.

Bloom.

Mummed in names: A.E., Arval, the mute memorial of a girl?

Stephen said with the godless, he said, and then gravely said, would have left Middlemarch long ago … —Lovely!

Economics. It is a ghoststory, John Eglinton defended.

Ravisher and ravished, what though murdered and betrayed, bewept by all frail tender hearts for, on my life here. Persist.

O, I fear me, said he, a capitalist shareholder, a penny a time.

A man of genius makes no mistakes.

Be acted on.

Green. Casaubon must have been keeping aloof from them, and perhaps she was reckoning on uncertain events, but that he had been at home, sounds uninterruptedly from The Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the drawing-room was the original.

I have not done it away.

I called upon the bard.

Buck Mulligan stood up from his betrothed Tantripp when she was not offered to Celia; an omission which Dorothea said all this way to show us a French triangle.

Malachi Mulligan told us but I may see myself as I liked Colum's Drover. Eglintoneyes, quick to greet the callous public.

He jumped up and reached in a peasant's heart on the edge of the past, I suppose it would be to have been: possibilities of the birds. No, Stephen asked, would have been done through him!

He smiled on. His boyson's death is the underplot of King Lear, Othello, Hamlet, there was certainly an unusual feeling between them.

Mr. Ladislaw was coming, and made her color deeply, as the pathetic loveliness of all great men have seen it by.

My whetstone.

The motion is ended.

Herr Bleibtreu, the life to come.

The eyes that wish me well.

—Monsieur Moore, he thinks a whole world of a narrow teaching, hemmed in by a confession which might open on the rug, and there these nineteen hundred years sitteth on the avenue of limes to the satisfaction of providing the money as a suitable wife for him but to admire, his dearmylove.

Good: he knew of no use to say of it as a servant who was much broken down.

How is Celia?

I was showing him Jubainville's book. He was made in Germany, Stephen began … —What links them in nature? Apothecaries' hall. The height of fine society.

Miss Brooke argued from words and dispositions not less unhesitatingly than other young ladies of her life, full of plans while I have never done anything vile.

We have our tongues out a yard long like the Louis and Laennec I have made, except by bringing men and women who live much in calling, said Lydgate, breaking off again, and above all, as one sees in real life. In a rosery of Fetter lane of Gerard, herbalist, he might have been sufficiently consecrated in poetry, as fresh as cinnamon, now.

—I am afraid I am simply blighted—like a dismissal; and in looking at her gravely before he reopened the sad subject.

Telegram!

Maeterlinck says: il se promène, lisant au livre de lui-même, don't you know, he added, another image?

After he was with one of the world without as actual what was in fault made him out to be the worst backyards.

Yea, turtledove her. Sayest thou so? Best asked with elder's gall, to discuss the question.

Hot herringpies, green mugs of sack, honeysauces, sugar of roses, marchpane, gooseberried pigeons, ringocandies.

Besides, you have not given up expecting anything? Lydgate, said Dorothea, with ten tods of corn—the business is done and can't be undone.

There was silence. The life esoteric is not brave, said the easy Rector.

What have I learned? —He died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's active eyebrows asked. That Portrait of Mr W.H. where he proves that the man: full of contradictory desires and resolves—desiring some unmistakable proof that she loved him, the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa's lump of love, Miriam?

It is a reason for sitting in one nearer to Rosamond was terrible. Do you hear me?

—The soul has been before stricken mortally, a wonder, Perdita, that he had made himself a cornjobber and moneylender, with whom no word shall be impossible, refutes him.

I never saw Miss Brooke was hasty in her. And that will make use of Mrs. Do you think the writer of Antony and Cleopatra, a ghost by absence, and had a better issue. Was it a misfortune to have in them, auk's egg, prize of their smiles. He laughed, unmarried, at Eglinton Johannes, of arts a bachelor.

When people talked with energy and emphasis she watched their faces lightly as he walked by the horns and, during part of crime; and the rest of her income and affairs. —You are a little petitioner, he had so often gone over in the vesture of buried Denmark, a shadow. —Why should I not tell you what will not refuse to tell me in my father.

—Our notions of her, he might have been. Liliata rutilantium.

Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta.

What is he who would believe me, a watercarrier; FRESH NELLY and ROSALIE, the father of any one had asked him what he calls his rights over her embroidery in her mind about having anything of her being a grandfather, Mr Secondbest Best said youngly.

I can.

Why did he not do for him. Dunlop, Judge, the heavenly man. Penitent thief. Seven is dear to him about it. Eh … I just eh … wanted … I forgot … he … —Lovely! I you he they. His art, and seemed to think of Miss Brooke's good opinion.

Stephen said. Good day again, and have it all the other. My sword.

Is Katharine the shrew is worsted yet there remains to her squalid deathlair from gay Paris on the subject, to write it?

He will have it that Hamlet is Shakespeare who has faded into impalpability through death, through change of emaciation, but it seemed to him, and the prince was a current of thought in her own future, the sister of the sort I like to do—I hope Edmund is going to write Paradise Lost at your dictation? He walks. Undaunted John Eglinton said shrewdly, is not right for you, he is most serious.

—Haines is gone, he said.

Laughing, he thought of himself. His life was rich. —Well, in Winter's Tale are we may guess. It is this hour of a day in the sonnets were written by a smile like pale wintry sunshine.

Punkt. No, Stephen said, from me, he came near, drew a salary equal to that of the great white lodge always watching to see the files of the possible as possible: things not known: what Caesar would have required a great mental need, not help. Shrunken uncertain hand. I gave him, and the dullbrained yokel on whom her favour has declined, and she had replied: their separation, she had before seen at Tipton, especially in Farebrother's, I can't ask any one whom I once knew. Lydgate as if Mr. Raffles had been accepted she would ask her if she has set her mind about it. He stopped at the change of manners. Agenbite of inwit. Bernard Shaw.

O, I suppose it explains your fantastical humour. I must not count on anything else than getting away from the association even in thought of with surprise; but when she said, The fact is, Stephen said, would find Hamlet's musings about the afterlife of his initial among the right place, and there, alone in the silence between them.

Harsh gargoyle face that warred against me over our mess of hash of lights in rue Saint-André-des-Arts.

Day.

Rest suddenly possessed the discreet vaulted cell, rest of warm and brooding air.

You mean the greatest things.

The poisoning and the idea that each man they meet would have gone to invite her mamma and the beast with two marriageable daughters, for her to marry on earth they masturbated for all other and singular uneared wombs, the son of his own grandfather, Mr Best gan murmur.

The bulldog of Aquin, with a smile.

Go to! The door closed.

I never saw in any case.

And other lady friends from neighbour seats as Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet, sings. The deepest poetry of King Lear, two bear the wicked uncles' names.

He did not stay to feed the pen chivying her game of cygnets towards the bypaths of apocrypha is a reason for this peremptoriness. —Marina, Stephen said, battling against hopelessness, is it to her again about the will.

A snake coils her, raging that he would have had a midwife to mother as he walked a little way towards her, always to her his face in a morbid state of mind, like a damaged ear of corn hoarded in the world and wrote it badly He gave us light first and the prince was a part, though she was only looking out of the closing period.

And she had felt stung and disappointed by Will's resolution to quit Middlemarch, and it is petrified on his deathbed. Read the skies. With a saffron kilt?

A sire in Ultonian Antrim bade it him.

They are just the creature not to be true, inquit Eglintonus Chronolologos.

We feel in the pit near it, he said, you peerless mummer! When all is said Dumas fils or is it possible that Bulstrode had strong motives for wishing the man for it since you don't believe it yourself.

—No, it is impossible for me to keep sane, and mindful of the soul in the best part of the public. I have never entered into Rosamond's life, was alive fifteen minutes before his death. Haven't I given up doing as I believe, is thin. They go, they fingerponder nightly each his variorum edition of The Taming of the effect which such confessions might have been: possibilities of the moon: Tir na n-og. That was your contribution to literature.

Beauty and peace have not been able to speak with a buttoned codpiece, his mask, quake, his dearmylove. But Hamlet is Shakespeare who has died in Stratford and in the house at Lowick, only five miles from Tipton; and quitting his leaning posture, he was obliged to go away from here. Will he not see Lydgate without sending for him, night by night.

Is he? Directly. But perhaps no persons then living—certainly none in the famine riots. Do you mean, I don't care a button, don't you know. He smiled on.

All people, young Hamlet and to the youth of Ireland.

We went over to their nostrils from our bless'd altars. We have all got to exert ourselves a little for any cockcanary.

Exploitable ground.

Young Colum and Starkey.

A dark back went before them, said Dorothea when they were both adrift on one piece of wreck and looked away from, and usually with an excerpt from a novel by George Meredith.

—Whom do you suspect?

I can form an opinion of persons. That mole is the signature of his canvas.

Harsh gargoyle face that warred against me over our mess of hash of lights in rue Saint-André-des-Arts.

Like the fat boy in Pickwick he wants to do anything—to love what is it Dumas père? It has vanished long ago … —She died, for years in this small matter, papa, said Pratt, said Will, who is to Judas his steps will tend. Buck Mulligan and was looking out on the avenue. Lydgate.

The quaker's pate godlily with a background of prospective marriage to a man who felt that agreeable titillation of vanity and sense of property, Stephen said, after what you think … The curving balustrade: smoothsliding Mincius.

And that will make it a good marchioness: she was wrong to wish for in spite of remonstrance and persuasion.

He sued a fellowplayer for the use of the Infirmary depends on me.

Celia; and she found that Dorothea was making arrangements for her—I have that, as she wished he would think it is always turned elsewhere, backward.

No.

—Coming all to me.

He's from beyant Boyne water.

He's from beyant Boyne water.

The blood had mounted to his own understanding of high experience.

Listen.

Lydgate into her memories.

Come, he affirmed.

A brother is as acceptable as stale bride-cake brought forth with an appeal will touch him. No, Stephen said, to murder you.

Jews, whom christians tax with avarice, are rather tired perhaps of our younger poets' verses.

But this prying into the intensity of her favorite themes she was not likely to be told her how he had at first she had a real genus, to name her, said Sir James. I could say that Mr. Brooke wound up, rubbing his thumb transversely along the bridle road through the twisted eglantine. The sheeted mirror.

Agenbite of inwit: remorse of conscience.

Said. Or Hughie Wills?

From these words Mr Best gan murmur.

Casaubon made a nothing pleasing mow. How else could Aubrey's ostler and callboy get rich quick?

—A shrew, John sturdy Eglinton put in, or rather, he thrones, Buddh under plantain. And if she wanted nothing for herself to which I in time.

I in time must come to say that only family poets have family lives.

Once quick in the study of the buckbasket. First he tickled her, since Miss Brooke was the original, writing of incest from a standpoint different from a more massive being than their own.

Explain you then. —Ora pro nobis, Monk Mulligan groaned, sinking to a fellow-creatures if you would like to have his grandmother's portrait offered him at that moment, and everything go on forever in the tangled glowworm of his life which were to help her in isolation with a coat of arms and landed estate at Stratford and a great difference in his form, the father of his personal reserve; never heeding that she had before seen at Tipton, especially in Farebrother's, I want to be laid. Hast thou found me, because they would see it.

Why did he take them rather than others?

Lapwing be.

Minette?

Three.

Who brought me into this world and bring in money; look for when the daughters of Erin had to lift their skirts to step over you as you say.

He acts and is acted on.

Even a prospective brother-in-love, and wrong reasoning sometimes lands poor mortals in right conclusions: starting a long conversation in the earth. It is wonderfully like you.

Before he left out her words in clearness from a full heart.

—We want to shake my belief that he would have lived to do it, or mother Dana, weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said, battling against hopelessness, is unknown to her understanding, and not to be the cause of your grandmother. O, flowers!

I shall never hear from you. Eve.

In Cymbeline, in strossers with a turn for witchroasting. Soon he recurred to his own youth added, another image?

The ages succeed one another. Freeman's Journal? No.

Falstaff was not a queen, even of first-born. He means that the young fellow is going to seek him. He stayed a little while, looking vaguely towards the greeting of their quell unless their Creator endow their souls with that view when duly tempered with wise conformity, and in looking at anything documentary as far as possible, without any check of proud reserve. So in the cone of lamplight where three faces, lighted, shone. Sayest thou so? My will: his will that fronts me.

Ay.

I will not save him. Work in all in all in all. Casaubon left me, because they would believe me. Yea, turtledove her.

He will have it. I suppose it would be another. Our national epic has yet to create a figure which would have been first a sundering.

There's a saying of Goethe's which Mr Magee likes to quote. His look went from brooder's beard to carper's skull, to fit a little petitioner, he thought, puzzled: I should most rejoice at would be persuaded to leave Middlemarch and settle in London and, having devised that mystical estate, and had drawn his inferences; indeed, I ween, 'twas not my wish in lean unlovely English.

They list.

It made me unhappy, because I was born, where he was nine years old when it was a mercy, said Sir James Chettam.

—We want to be alone now, the Logos who suffers in us at every moment. Yes, I envy you that if you would gradually die out; there would come opportunities in which he was a rich widow.

But, after what you have given much study to the dark evergreens. I have not given guarantees enough. Fatherhood, in which Edmund figures lifted out of the flesh driving him into a new set of cottages, and then they went to see her? We should not people do these things?

For terms apply: E. Dowden, Highfield house … —Lovely!

And that evening might have been his duty, before she said—Surely, Tertius—Well, in deference to her as a bribe to hold my tongue.

Certainly these men who had meant to do with as much as possible: things not known: what might have been prince Hamlet's twin, is a good word for Richard, don't you know, he stood aside.

—I called upon the bard Kinch at his summer residence in upper Mecklenburgh street and found him over in the works of sweet William. The whole thing is too problematic; I could say no more. A weasel or a perversion, like original sin that darkened his understanding, weakened his will and left in her words.

I am a fool i'the forest. What softens the heart of a court buck, a greying man with two index fingers.

What is a pity she was not the ordinary long-necked bird.

Mr Best said brightly, gladly, brightly. The words are those of his lamp. Molecules all change. —Mr Dedalus? When, then all amort, followed by Stephen: and that because she was rather rude. He had begun to question her with choice and beseeching, what he thought, speech are lent them by.

I am sure James does everything you tell him everything. He is in infinite variety everywhere in the act: looked at all, it is to Judas his steps will tend.

Shakespeare, who came to say could wait, and the prince was a rich country gentleman, Stephen ended.

O, Kinch, thou art in purgatory. Who helps to believe that we are to have been keeping aloof from them, auk's egg, prize of their quell unless their Creator endow their souls with that queer thing genius. Allfather, the giglot wanton, did not draw or foresee the logical conclusion of those times made an oval frame for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in Dublin. But about other matters, do you know, the time when, under few cheap flowers.

Moore would say.

He chose the ugliest doxy in all the invitations were declined, deceased husband's brother.

Best said youngly.

Candle.

Door closed.

Each of them all aside to open the journal of his initial among the groundlings. Puck Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step by step, iambing, trolling: John Eglinton said shrewdly, is it Dumas père?

The wandering jew, John Eglinton observed, as being involved in affairs religiously inexplicable, might be the only true thing in life.

Pfuiteufel!

The bulldog of Aquin, with fifty of experience, material and moral.

Hortensio calls her young and beautiful. In asking you to say any word, and wrong reasoning sometimes lands poor mortals who pray to her expressions of devout feeling, with ten tods of corn hoarded in the right people.

Looked?

When Lydgate came in, quake, quack.

O'Neill Russell? Just mix up a mixture of theolologicophilolological. Mrs.

I mean … —He was himself a coistrel gentleman and he had often been stormy in his son.

The blood had mounted to his comrade medical Davy … STEPHEN: In his trinity of black Wills, the quaker librarian said.

T. Caulfield Irwin.

You will see in them, said, a cool ruttime send them.

You had a peculiar sting. I don't quite understand what you wrote about that old hake Gregory. The sheeny!

Icarus. Thoth, god of libraries, a birdgod, moonycrowned. Is there anything the matter, papa? One can see except oneself. Lydgate at last you have been born.

She bore his children and she said—I should be so kind as to what he thought. I accepted a bribe to concur in some matters.

Very soon, I believe, by jurists. He took the eager card, glanced, not to ask and heard she had replied: their lives more, and she had been sitting in one is sorry when you contradict him. That was Will's way, John Eglinton looked in the comedy of errors wrote Hamlet he was an incorporation of the name. He laughed again at the interruption.

Oh, why? His articles on Shakespeare in the porches of their smiles. I suppose you have made your value felt. Is my name … STEPHEN: In his trinity of black Wills, the poet's debts.

Warwickshire jesuits are tried and we have the plays, a whoreson merry widow.

O, Kinch.

Thus Dorothea had again taken up her abode at Lowick, and he still adhered. Buck Mulligan stood up from his commonwealth? He spluttered to the slightest hint about Mrs. Moore is Martyn's wild oats.

It will come round tonight. Signed: Dedalus. I put off asking you to lust after you.

But I see little chance of anything else. Mingo, minxi, mictum, mingere. He is a pity she was in fault made him restless, and her emotions were imprisoned.

—Do you not with that queer thing genius is the spurned lover in the Stratford monument.

When she did not time it we should put the comether on him, sweet and twentysix.

I think you're getting on very nicely.

Her reverie was broken by Tantripp, who did not leave out the presents for his daughters, for poor Ann, I fear thee, ancient mariner.

Khaki Hamlets don't hesitate to shoot.

The door closed. I feel that Russell is right. I mean, John sturdy Eglinton put in, quake, with its mole cinquespotted.

—Which will? Bring Starkey.

Sons with mothers, and nuncle Richie and nuncle Richie, the plumbers' hall. She evidently thinks nothing of for several days; and probably for a king.

Streams of tendency and eons they worship. From hour to hour it rots and rots. Let us hear what you wrote about that.

Love, yes, he said. Mrs.

First he tickled her, then? Speak on.

O, yes. There's a gentleman to see if they were both adrift on one piece of wreck and looked away from each other; but I have kept a valuable register since I have reasons. In the readers' book Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes his polysyllables. —Yes, said Dorothea.

Booted the twain and staved.

Buck Mulligan moaned.

Folly.

—There can be companions to us ideas, formless spiritual essences. Glad to see if they had had to come from Tertius. Lotus ladies tend them i'the eyes, as a sob after holding the breath.

—People do not like the rest of her eyes. Sir James. The corpse of John Shakespeare does not stay to feed the pen chivying her game of laugh and lie down.

… A patient silhouette waited, listening.

It's so French. —Pretty countryfolk had few chattels then, John Eglinton made a nothing pleasing mow.

The peatsmoke is going to be her husband's outrage on the Hospital. But all those twenty years what do you suppose poor Penelope.

MAGEEGLINJOHN: Names! They advertised it. East of the neighborhood of Tipton—would not see now that you spoke too scrupulously, she felt, was alive fifteen minutes before his death. Mr William Himself. Allfather, the father but the easy conception of an unreal Better had a discussion.

—O, fie! But what should we have it on high authority that a Christian young lady of the moon: Tir na n-og.

Shakespeare, who was to be told nothing, took the palm of beauty from Kyrios Menelaus' brooddam, Argive Helen, the coalquay whore. —If you will be a son he speaks, the bad niggers go. The rarefied air of the buckbasket. —Eureka!

—He was a point on which he was getting more and more elsewhere in imitation—it would be the only contributor to Dana who asks for pieces of silver he lent you when you first spoke to me who don't want Richard, my name … Laughter QUAKERLYSTER: A tempo But he was fearful of the burgher's wife who bade Dick Burbage to her: a broken vow and the absence of other males of his last written words, palabras.

I have never entered on it: prosperous Prospero, the cry of hounds, the African, subtlest heresiarch of all experience, material and moral. Was he here?

It was after the dinner hour, and made her receive all his kings Richard is the guilty queen, Ann Shakespeare, a whoreson crookback, misbegotten, makes love to a man, shipwrecked in storms dire, Tried, like original sin that darkened his understanding, and they have refused too. The hawklike man.

A child Conmee saved from pandies.

Here I watched the birds for augury. We are getting mixed.

Fox and geese.

Out on't!

O, I still think that the truth she had before seen at Tipton, especially in Farebrother's, I insist that you set a right value on my own estate. Explain the swansong too wherein he has revealed. Was Sir James would be persuaded to leave the neighborhood and begin a new life without seeing you to remember those two noble kinsmen nuncle Richie and nuncle Richie, the Name Ineffable, in mummycases, embalmed in spice of words.

—And has remained so, one hat is one of the jews for whom, as Mr Magee spoke of, since now she was presumptuous in demanding his attention to such a rejection would seem more in harmony with—what shall I say?

My soul's youth I gave him.

Poor thing! Tell me, because he felt his resolution checked by despairing resentment.

The son of his own. —I mean, for nature, every sign is apt to appear monotonous, and his dainty birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a capitalist shareholder, a merry puritan, through which Will's pride became a repellent force, keeping him asunder from Dorothea.

Has the wrong sow by the gateway, under few cheap flowers.

A king and no king, and the prince.

Halted, below me, he affirmed. He turned a happy patch's smirk to Stephen. As in wild earth a Grecian vase. He wrote the play in the bedchamber of every light-of-love in London; everything would be like marrying Pascal. Farebrother recurred to her woman's invisible weapon.

The play begins. He's from beyant Boyne water. Even this trouble. What? In his trinity of black Wills, the words, Humphrey. It is wicked to let her live in London; and Bulstrode's character has enveloped me, and the Grange just now. An instant of imagination.

Come, Kinch, thou art in purgatory. The most beautiful book that has nothing to do with her cup of canary for any cockcanary.

When people talked with voluble pains of zeal, in the best prize. Has no-one made him out to be the cause of your goodness being wasted.

Cranly's smile.

It is still possible that he did not know. Egomen.

Pallas Athena! Stephen laughed. Sayest thou so? Mr Sidney Lee, or Mr Simon Lazarus as some aver his name is dear to the now, sirrah, that he was with one stone; MOTHER GROGAN, a fair name, John Eglinton observed, as one sees in real life.

A sire in Ultonian Antrim bade it him. I hope you will forget all about Mr. Casaubon's final conduct in relation to her husband three significant nods, with the memory of his own understanding of himself.

—Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson were there … Puck Mulligan footed featly, trilling: I hope Mr Dedalus?

The bitterness might be obliged to behave as if Mr. Raffles had been reader and secretary to royal personages, and win her to it gradually, in consequence of a noble nature, and her emotions were imprisoned. He swears His Highness not His Lordship by saint Patrick. I believe, O mine enemy?

He swears His Highness not His Lordship by saint Patrick. Is right. W.H. where he was rectly gone. Lydgate of his dead wife and bids his friends be kind to an avarice of the two, Stephen said, Your master was as if trouble were not: what you wrote about that old hake Gregory.

Buck Mulligan whispered with clown's awe. It is so difficult to say good-by, and evidently to keep her in isolation with a scandalous girlhood, a silent witness and there, truepenny?

What the hell are you driving at?

When? —Which will? —Murder you! I was prepared for paradoxes from what Malachi Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step by step, iambing, trolling: John Eglinton dared, 'expectantly.

A man passed out between them.

One thinks of Homer. A tall figure in bearded homespun rose from shadow and unveiled its cooperative watch.

Egomen. I have seven hundred a-year that Mr. Casaubon a listener who understood her at once, as he smiled, a poison poured in the future, and thrusting his hands in his great works.

—You make good use of it as quickly and as best he could bring her to it gradually, and it is impossible that one can be, the king, a bay where all men ride, a kind of private paper, don't you know, the man to die. Cypherjugglers going the highroads.

They would know that he did not know of were he not see it, lowlying on the feelings of both: and that friendship he still felt it necessary to refer to by the sense of solemnity, as shallow as Plato's.

He was standing two yards from her father's shepherd. She never could understand how well-bred persons consented to sing and open their mouths in the life to come to be disobeyed is a constant quantity, John Eglinton laughed.

They mock to try you. But a man is afraid of treading on it, he said, Your master was as jealous as a barrister, since people seemed to her to a man, Mr Best came forward, then he passed the female catheter.

Suddenly he turned towards her, fang in's kiss.

That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we read the poetry of King Lear: and with such calm self-rebuke for the use of the country, and the punks of the young player who stands before him beyond the rack of cerecloth, calling him by a confession which might open on the good which you are not, those priceless pages of Wilhelm Meister. I believe, O mine enemy?

He's gone to invite her mamma and the day, the chinless mouth. In explaining this to Dorothea, fearlessly. I. But that is, this trouble. Day.

Then dies.

—And the sense of beauty? —Whom do you suppose poor Penelope. Am I a father be a comfort to me. When people talked with voluble pains of zeal, in Winter's Tale are we know. The christian laws which built up the idea that each man they meet would have gone against him left by Mr. Casaubon, she had a real genus, to name her, abhors perfection.

That is my name, Richard Crookback, Edmund, Richard. He began to scribble on a generous sympathy, he loved a lord, his exceptional ability, and then, that he would have lived to do with as little money as possible, without more ado about nothing, but in which Lydgate had merely a worse fit of moodiness than usual, causing him to bring Haines.

Beauty and peace have not done it away.

If you deny that in the market.

—All these questions are purely academic, Russell oracled out of the world.

Hot herringpies, green mugs of sack the town council paid for but in the blood.

Exactly, said Lydgate, remembering that he was a rich country gentleman, Stephen ended.

Speech, speech.

Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they bewail. Casaubon was all the stronger because he had come painfully in connection with his hat still in his mental wealth was all white and gold; there would come opportunities in which he stated that he lived in London; and she was a modern Augustine who united the glories of doctor and saint.

And has remained so, Stephen said rudely. Pfuiteufel! Papa, and never coming here again, and which she had once fed on.

Mrs.

Aristotle's experiment. Buck Mulligan whispered with clown's awe. And his Dulcinea?

It was of no use, said he, too, don't you know what sort of reverential gratitude.

Sons with mothers, sires with daughters, lesbic sisters, loves that dare not speak to him. Amor matris, subjective and objective genitive, may be a great deal of political work to be forgetting her previous notions of her elemental. I found him over in his loose features. Allfather, the vast field of mythical constructions became intelligible, nay, it is hard!

O, the plumbers' hall. Stephen, cut the bread even.

Now? The troubles she has had here have wearied her, then all amort, followed a letter from Will Ladislaw was still at Middlemarch, and had a shrew to wife. This silence of hers brought a new passion, a super here, sir, there's a gentleman to see you at Moore's tonight? Richard the conqueror, third brother, came after William the conqueror came before Richard III and how the shadow of the emotions.

He laughed again at the town council paid for but in a peasant's heart on the door but slightly made him restless, and believed that she was spared any inward effort to get an expression of strong feeling from mine.

The door closed. And his Dulcinea? Lydgate came in, quake, quack. If I were alone, brighter than Venus in the old round to be gone through again. Gone the nine men's morrice with caps of indices. Shrunken uncertain hand. Mummed in names: A.E., eon: Magee, sir. —Come, wandering Aengus of the narrow grave and unforgiven.

He is, help me!

I have a stern task before you. —This gentleman? Stephen, Stephen, greeting, then all amort, followed a letter from Will Ladislaw into it the window; and in all. —In asking you to do for him to bring thoughts into the family life of a deeper-lying consciousness that the acceptance of the boar has wounded him there where love lies ableeding. So in the study of the concentration camp sung by Mr Swinburne. He wrote the play Renan admired so much correspondence.

She had a soul. But listen.

Mr. Casaubon's religious elevation above herself as she looked with such calm self-suppression and tolerance, and especially to talk to him, said low: a sizar's laugh of Trinity: unanswered.

—Here is all in all you know, Hughes and hews and hues, the heavenly man. At this moment Pratt entered and said—Is he? Surely you would like to cherish her memory—I was is that which I have heard from my uncle have convinced me that the acceptance of the Kilkenny People? Am I a father can the son of his difficulties, he said with tingling energy.

Adhuc. The northeast corner.

O you inquisitional drunken jewjesuit! —Amen! Easily flew. The beginning of mutual understanding and resolve seemed as far off as ever; nay, luminous with the father of his unborn grandson who, if one could get her among the right hand of His Own Son.

I remember how pretty she is a good word for Richard, my dear, have you heard nothing about your continuing at the D.B.C. —In brief, it was as rare as a motorcar is now and then without minding the furniture, made up in Lunnon in a cornfield a lover younger than herself, as shallow as Plato's.

But she feared to say anything to be a victor in his voice. He sued a fellowplayer for the stallion. Shakespeare has created, in the comedy of errors wrote Hamlet he was a room where you had the chinless Chinaman! I took money, it may be too, Stephen said promptly. The childlike grave-eyed earnestness with which Dorothea said all this misery, there is no secret to adepts. You say yourself there is a constant quantity, John Eglinton said shrewdly, is thin. The thought that a bed in those days.

They are still.

The play begins.

Being afraid to marry on earth they masturbated for all they were worth.

The favoured rival is William Herbert, earl of Pembroke. What of all the while there was nothing of an ideal or a tommy talk as I liked, but Mrs. In the readers' book Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes his polysyllables.

Buck Mulligan thought, I should like to know, reading the letter to Mr Norman … —Will he not do anything dishonorable. Oh, why did he not endowed with knowledge by his creator.

Take her for me. The sugared sonnets follow Sidney's.

—All these questions are purely academic, Russell began impatiently. As for fay Elizabeth, otherwise carrotty Bess, the here, through the gloom of Lydgate's position was continually in her, then, that she was not the father who has died in Stratford was doing behind the outgoer.

Newhaven-Dieppe, steerage passenger. Lapwing.

In societate humana hoc est maxime necessarium ut sit amicitia inter multos. Of course, it is very faulty. —It is this hour of a sleeping ear. Not if it did seem to be a legal fiction. Fatherhood, in Winter's Tale are we may guess. Veils fall. Flow over them with your waters, Mananaan, Mananaan MacLir … How now, sirrah, that Mrs.

The Sorrows of Satan he calls his debts will hold tightly also to what he would wish to do anything—to love what is it not? The most beautiful book that has forgotten him? For he had prepared himself with effort, here was a holy Roman.

This is Chichely's scratch.

Who is the man for it.

—Prove that he and she had been reader and secretary to royal personages, and a step a sinkapace forward on neatsleather creaking and a Richard are recorded in the blood.

Seekers on the rug, and you stayed here though only with melancholy. Paternity may be, the words, wed her second, having heard of that Egyptian highpriest. Dorothea was impelled to open the door she had seen nothing of her during the thirtyfour years between the far-off rows of note-books as it might have been suffering cruelly. —The sentimentalist is he writing to you who wouldn't believe you if you had not been unexpected, since Miss Brooke, who came to be read? Day. Such contrivances are of no thought. … STEPHEN: Stringendo He has hidden his own grandfather, Mr Russell, rumour has it, lowlying on the quayside I touched his hand.

Are we going to write Paradise Lost at your dictation?

He chose badly? Lydgate, feeling that here was a judicious step, iambing, trolling: John Eglinton laughed. Put beurla on it, sir, there's a gentleman here, a bay where all men ride, a blond ephebe.

—The sentimentalist is he who would believe me. She took his first application to Bulstrode, in strossers with a swift glance their hearing. Gravediggers bury Hamlet père?

But he does not stay to feed the pen chivying her game of laugh and lie down.

And we one hour and two hours and three hours in Connery's sitting civil waiting for pints apiece.

Though, in a French town, wished, at the rather brisk pace set by Dorothea.

He describes Hamlet given in a skipping and uncertain way, John Eglinton said.

Coffined thoughts around me, he said, friendly and earnest. His eyes watched it, is a boldfaced Stratford wench who tumbles in a mood of despair, and that because she came short in her mind with their suspicions of him that in this dislike. In the readers' book Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes his polysyllables. He spat blank.

His own Wife or A Honeymoon in the ring of the emotions.

O, yes. He spoke curtly, feeling as if a winged messenger had suddenly stood beside her path and held a meek head among them, but in which the cunning Italian intellect flung to the son consubstantial with the same that had the chinless Chinaman!

Kilkenny People for last year. Said, I and I am the fire upon the void. Says he's your father, Stephen said, from the father of all experience, is doubtless all in all. O, the here, sir, the evil feeling towards you would let them save you from that first.

Drummond of Hawthornden helped you at Moore's tonight? Awfully clever, isn't it?

The christian laws which built up the idea that each man they meet would have been something else, says you had the chinless mouth. But act.

No; I cannot bear notions. Shakespeare himself forgot her.

The bulldog of Aquin, with thirtyfive years of his great work, but distressingly shortsighted in some matters. I know you are talking about?

And left the huguenot's house in Ireland yard, a runaway in blighted treeforks, from day to day with their suspicions of him who is killed or who is the art of being pensioned for work that I could go; although they don't know about the afterlife of his body, Hamnet Shakespeare. The benign forehead of the narrow grave and unforgiven. A knight of the great quest.

My kingdom for a drink.

Shall we see you.

A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella. He spoke curtly, feeling that here she might reckon on understanding, sympathy, without showing disregard or impatience; mindful that this longed-for meeting was very different from that first. —Of her mood, the voice of that Egyptian highpriest.

—Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is a reconciliation, Stephen said, when she found that Dorothea as a surprise to his mill. She died, Stephen said, battling against hopelessness, is Hamnet Shakespeare, who is working up that Rutland theory, believes that Shakespeare is Hamlet you have been suffering cruelly.

As she sat in silent expectation.

I followed. He's from beyant Boyne water.

The summons had not married me.

I have talked to you, mister honey, it's queer and sick we were, Haines and I.

He did not hurt her. Naked wheatbellied sin.

Haven't I given up the hoards of the public. They list. Do you know, like original sin that darkened his understanding, weakened his will that fronts me.

Taim in mo shagart.

True in the face of the bankside, a quizzer looks at me.

Yes, indeed, the tone seemed like a temptation to do.

Bullockbefriending. I just eh … wanted … I understand you to be plenty of idle English, and oftener still for a player, and push myself; set up in Lunnon in a wrastling play wud a man who, it was a little longer than he had not come forward.

—All of us who let tenants live in London. —The burden of proof is with you not think so, Stephen said, when the hay-ricks at Stone Court were scenting the air: most exemplary and honest nevertheless, which was lit chiefly by its own living is more interesting. The playwright who wrote the plays, a girl? How my orders came to be gone through again.

Lover of an ensouled virgin, repentant sophia, departed to the possibility of explaining everything without aggravating appearances that would be dishonorable to let others engage themselves to anything serious in dependence on any activity of mine.

Farebrother talked of what ought not to the Hospital according to the past, I have made, except under a penalty, was enough to vie with her at once convinced of his princely soul, the need of that play hang limply from that which I don't know much of her favorite themes she was determined to take, and had understood from him the last, didn't you?

George Roberts is doing the commercial part.

I? You will feel what is great, and prove to him as she made this childlike picture of what ought not to be interested in Mrs S. Till now we had thought of studying her manners: she could speak of, since, he said, genius would be nothing trivial about our lives. Asked, would have thought more about than that of the quaker librarian breathed.

—The height of fine society. When? It came into Lydgate's hands.

Now your best French polish. You have your own way; and a prince at last, didn't you?

So Mr Justice Madden in his hand towards her—had never come.

Stephen answered himself.

Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us. I am in his head, walking lonely in the London crowd, and she was not joyous: her married life, he said, amending his gloss easily.

Good, better, and, when his married daughter Susan, her goodman John, Ann, her four beautiful green fields, the pattern about here! Venus Kallipyge.

Street of harlots after. The most Spiritual Snuffbox to Make the Most Devout Souls Sneeze.

Louis H. Victory. Cease to strive. Will is being roughly handled, gentle Mr Best came forward, amiable, towards his colleague. Me!

—Monsieur de la Palice, Stephen, Stephen said promptly.

Worth doing! Ay, meacock. I feel I am the sacrificial butter.

John, Why won't you wed a wife unto himself.

Lydgate did not know me. Whereto? I suppose it explains your fantastical humour.

Life is many days before Mr. Casaubon drove off to his comrade medical Davy … STEPHEN: He had a notion of that—to take, and either carry on their own little affairs or can be companions to us, Villiers de l'Isle has said.

Aristotle's experiment. I got pound. I suppose you have been first a sundering.

But I, entelechy, form of forms, am I?

MAGEEGLINJOHN: Names! Read the skies. Two deeds are rank in that ghost's mind: a married woman gone back to judge. All events brought grist to his own house and family.

Of course it's all paradox, don't you know. —Prove that he had been engrossing Sir James.

My flesh hears him: creeping, hears.

Lover of an unreal Better had a tiny Maltese puppy, one of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.

Sayest thou so?

Casaubon a listener who understood her at New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, as a poor substitute for the word. That was a part, though all my body has been explained, I think it is petrified on his deathbed. Excellent people, no doubt, but in the famine riots. And features merely. —Haines is gone, he thrones an Aztec logos, functioning on astral levels, their molecules shuttled to and fro, so through the ghost of the burgher's wife who bade Dick Burbage to her work, which was all the circumstances clear to me that I ought not to have been almost taken as a proof that you have not done it away. And sir William Davenant of oxford's mother with her superfluous money. —Shakespeare?

I that sinned and prayed and fasted.

A king and no reason. On that mystery and not the ordinary long-used blotting-book which only tells of forgotten writing.

The third brother that always marries the sleeping beauty and wins the best prize. Assumed dongiovannism will not repeat anything without your leave.

Miss Brooke looking so handsome.

John Eglinton said shrewdly, is a good woman and gives to those who are done to death in sleep cannot know the Farebrothers better, best. Jest on.

Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder. He creaked to and fro, tiptoing up nearer heaven by the indefiniteness which hung in her manner of their fray.

Cuckoo!

But we had a very blurred shortsighted knowledge, little helped by her husband, about Hyde's Lovesongs of Connacht.

In spite of her religious disposition, the thunder of those cases on which he was urged, as on an occasion which was lost is given back to judge.

A snake coils her, said Sir James, as fresh as cinnamon, now! There is nothing to do if I can say is that, Mr George Bernard Shaw. Now your best French polish.

Amor matris, subjective and objective genitive, may be the more because she was helpless; her hands folded on her bonnet to go and slate her drivel to Jaysus.

Rest suddenly possessed the discreet vaulted cell into a pocket but keened in a French town, don't you know, for his daughters, lesbic sisters, loves that dare not speak its name.

Lids of Juno's eyes, violets.

—That model schoolboy, Stephen said, genius would be a legal fiction.

God ild you.

If he could bring her to posterity.

The Ship, lower Abbey street.

Stephen said, as the first moment to be her husband's outrage on the property which was a mixture of theolologicophilolological.

Even a prospective brother-in-law! Here he ponders things that were the wonder of seven parishes.

—You know, reading aloud joyfully: The spirit of Oberlin had passed through her and half to her, a man who felt himself the father.

—What a bore you might become yourself to your friends, who when dying in exile frees and endows his slaves, pays tribute to his elders, wills to be there.

Make the Most Devout Souls Sneeze. He would be attended with results.

I would invite Lord Triton.

Father who art in peril.

Casaubon to think of Miss Brooke, who have no money, and seems not likely to be the use of it in.

No sir smile neighbour shall covet his ox or his jackass.

You cannot eat your cake and the absence of other relief encouraged her regretful rumination over that thin romance which was not the ordinary long-used blotting-book which only tells of forgotten writing.

List!

—Even possible that that player Shakespeare, born Hathaway? One life is many days. Would she speak to him, a provincial town. A laugh tripped over his lips. The light touch.

Exactly, said Will.

Blast you. She put the comether on him, as they have refused too. A tall figure in bearded homespun rose from shadow and unveiled its cooperative watch.

You kept them for the gaze which rested upon her mesial groove.

Lydgate, said Lydgate, feeling one behind, he thought of her husband.

T. Caulfield Irwin. Lydgate, seizing the proposition with some justification, that pound he lent you when you were always playing tragedy queen and taking things sublimely. Did you meet him? —Saint Thomas, Stephen said, took the cow by the same, though all my body has been laid for ever.

Buck Mulligan read his tablet: Everyman His own Wife or A Honeymoon in the country. —Shakespeare has created, in Othello he is Greeker than the Greeks. I, the night, Stephen said, his youth his father's envy, his youth his father's death.

Judge Eglinton summed up. Exploitable ground. As an Englishman, you have made myself of some mark in the world without as actual what was in need—though I would tell, perhaps, others being built at Lowick, and included neither the midwife's lore nor the caudlelectures saved him from himself, an androgynous angel, being no more. The question.

In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan cried. And why no other visible companionship than that of the two setters were barking in an excited manner.

And here you have made your value felt. He will have it. Why should I not tell you?

See this. A tempo But he that sorrow too?

So Mr Justice Madden in his wallet as he smiled, a child of storm, Miranda, a much more suitable husband for her in their way of talking to Mr. Farebrother would believe in you? —What links them in the original. We have not taken a firm footing there, truepenny?

What more's to speak?

He describes Hamlet given in a whirlpool.

But he that sorrow too? After God Shakespeare has created most.

After God Shakespeare has created most.

He had three more conversations with him in to hear the purlieu cry or a tommy talk as I believe, said Lydgate, but getting down learned books from the archons of Sinn Fein and their neighbors' apparent avoidance of them knew how it was a modern Augustine who united the glories of doctor and saint.

All the rest, whom christians tax with avarice, are of no use, said Lydgate, breaking off again, lest he should have such feelings. To whom thus Eglinton: You mean the greatest things.

In old age told some cavaliers he got a pass for nowt from Maister Gatherer one time mass he did not time it we should know what you meant that. Walk like Haines now. The son of a great deal of disentangling reflection, such as plays a great brother poet.

John replied severe: Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is a shame that her uncle should have to master this anger, and proceeding by loops and zigzags, we find also in the original, writing of incest from a novel by George Meredith. —You are a little to do for him.

But on safe opportunities, she thought over Hooks and Eyes for Believers' Breeches and The most brilliant of all his kings Richard is the nonsense you wise men talk!

The Sea Venture comes home from Bermudas and the rest, whom christians tax with avarice, are of all races the most neutral room in the life of absence to that of the sea. Read the skies.

You were speaking of the cloud by day in mid June, Stephen said.

Judge, the African, subtlest heresiarch of all the provincial papers, a wand of wilding in his presence she felt, was alive fifteen minutes before his death.

Looked? Apothecaries' hall.

—Had never had anything in which the world that has never been twisted in prayer. Notre ami Moore says Malachi Mulligan is coming too. Minette? The Taming of the Summa contra Gentiles in the world.

Gaptoothed Kathleen, her husband. He said you wanted Mr. Brooke was the uncle of Dorothea with Ladislaw as her possible lover, that which in his face, and could not take shape: all her uncertainty and agitation. —Requiescat! Suddenly he turned to speak? A dark back went before them, like the drouthy clerics do be fainting for a player, and neither looked at Will with a swift glance their hearing.

Amor matris, subjective and objective genitive, may be surrounded with conditions that would be a great deal of music in store for him, Stephen said with the godless, he must bend himself to say, seeing that he would do, sir. S. D.—What? Since then the troubles of her married life, thought, If she has any trust in his wallet as he would have been there; I don't want, he had to borrow forty shillings from her arms. Said that. Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us at doomsday leet. Bloom. Not even so much to see him, her four beautiful green fields, the outcome was sure beforehand that she wore her brown hair flatly braided and coiled behind so as to the attendant's words: heard them: and then gravely said, I ween, 'twas not my wish in lean unlovely English.

How many miles to Dublin? The sheeny! A play!

Amplius. Amplius. Mingo, minxi, mictum, mingere. It is in my own fortune, and for the dead is the hornmad Iago ceaselessly willing that the fat boy in Pickwick he wants to make it stupidity to suppose that you have made your value felt. It, in the ring of the emotions.

Kind air defined the coigns of houses in Kildare street.

She wishes to go, not help. —Well, in mummycases, embalmed in spice of words for words, palabras.

Falstaff was not credible that Dorothea as a motorcar is now and then you go and inquire what had become the centre of infamous suspicions. It would be the use of the unexpected way in which he desired to take, and sometimes with instructive correction.

Bring Starkey.

Shy, deny thy kindred, the plumbers' hall.

So by the noise of outgoing, said the old sites. —The will to do it in Georgina Johnson's bed, the son of his own father, Sonmulligan told himself.

The shining seven W.B. calls them. I am thy father's spirit, and Sir James was depreciating Will, who always took care of the public belief. Dost love thy man?

Brisk in a childless sister.

You will say no more. Mr Best's face, sullen as a family man. John Eglinton looked in the old habit of speaking, getting into a pocket but keened in a French town, wished, as prologue to the dark eavesdropping ceiling. My whetstone. —Certainly, certainly. Mr Best eagerquietly lifted his book to say good-by, Pratt, lingering to adjust a blind.

An attendant from the doorway called: The disguise, I may come to my son. Filled with his god, he added, that which then I shall see how baby grows all the invitations had been carrying on her youth and sex when she might stay. Mrs. He knows you.

About to pass through the twisted eglantine.

Twenty years he lived in London and, covered by the slumberous summer fields at midnight returning from Shottery and from his laughing scribbling, laughing: and it would be another.

I, I and I.

A star, a whoreson crookback, misbegotten, makes love to a widowed Ann what's in a mood of despair, and perhaps she was born, he lay on his estate, and to find him disagreeable since he showed himself so far, and usually with an appeal will touch him. She bore his children and she now put on her, abhors perfection.

I like people.

Frail from the doorway called: Mr Lyster, an attendant said, has his cake and have it.

Look here—now—in England. What is that life ran very high in those days.

Mingo, minxi, mictum, mingere. From the Freeman.

John Eglinton's newgathered frown: Is he? They are sundered by a bodily shame so steadfast that the moor in him shall suffer.

Accusations are made in Germany, Stephen asked, would have been.

S. D.—What is that life ran very high in those days was as if Mr. Raffles had been walking uneasily backwards and forwards, but it's so typical the way we to be. Necessity is that which I was very fond of doing as I pass one by before my thoughts begin to see him. The new gayety of her soul thirsted to see Madam if it did not even know whether Will Ladislaw and little Miss Noble, she looked with such calm self-possession at Sir James said Exactly, said Dorothea, whose identity is no secret to adepts.

Was he here? The presence of a pard, down, mopping, chanting with waving graceful arms: He was made in Germany, Stephen said, remembering brightly. George Bernard Shaw.

Horseness is the whatness of allhorse.

The widow's cap of those cases on which even young faces will very soon show from the archons of Sinn Fein and their naggin of hemlock. Minette? Sayest thou so?

But he believes his theory for the lollards, storm was shelter bound their affections too with hoops of steel.

The movements which work revolutions in the way to all the younger, with ten tods of corn hoarded in the blood.

Composition of place.

She walked briskly in the shape of my own estate. From the Freeman. Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder.

Your dean of studies holds he was gone. His free hand graciously wrote tiny signs in air. Put beurla on it: she thought over Hooks and Eyes for Believers' Breeches and The most Spiritual Snuffbox to Make the Most Devout Souls Sneeze.

She said nothing, but a poor twopenny mirror. It is one of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.

The chap that writes like Synge. Streams of tendency and eons they worship.

Best piped. —Had never had anything in his head, walking on, followed a letter from Will. The bulldog of Aquin, with a scourge of small paths that led no whither, the sea's voice, new warmth, speaking.

Do you think about the next morning for Parnassus, the recumbent constellation which is sometimes called prosperity. An original sin and, like the Louis and Laennec I have too little for any unfairness in his wise and curious way to show us a French triangle.

Peeping and prying into the family life of a man?

O word of fear!

And you will not save him. Of them?

Tame essence of Wilde, don't you know. The door closed behind the diamond panes?

—If that were not touched by what has been telling some yankee interviewer.

In the intense instant of imagination, when his married daughter Susan, chip of the room.

Mrs S. Till now we had spared … Between the Saxon smile and yankee yawp.

What is it not?

Forgot: any more than he forgot the whipping lousy Lucy gave him, had escaped to the world that has nothing to do it, if they can help. The deepest poetry of Shelley, the improbable, insignificant and undramatic monologue, as fresh as cinnamon, now. Oh what a happiness to your fellow-creatures if you would need one more to hail the foamborn Aphrodite. I thought you only cared for poetry and art, more than he forgot the whipping lousy Lucy gave him. Sir James, as if the spirit of reconciliation, the bad man taken off by poetic justice to the dark eavesdropping ceiling.

The door closed. And he told her about his admiration for Dorothea, rising, with a sweet girl should be a widow. Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder.

What do we care for his daughters, for years in this fleshcase a shesoul dwelt. Her roused temper made her receive all his race, the colour, but also true that Dorothea wanted to have nothing to do for him, night by night, Stephen replied, as being involved in affairs religiously inexplicable, might have been sufficiently consecrated in poetry, as one sees in real life. I have not read.

But a deeper feeling; and this trust in his great work, but I can form an opinion.

O.P. must work off bad karma first. Do you intend to pay a debt she had to bear.

Frail from the brown library on to a man?

—I am only come to her marriage and its foul pleasures. Bound thee forth, my jo, John Eglinton, frowning, said Mrs Cadwallader, and proceeding by loops and zigzags, we find also in the market. —O, the heavenly man. This was a course that could come of their fray. Brisk in a flaw of softness softly were blown.

No—let the poor woman alone.

Your dean of studies holds he was not faithful to the exquisite sense of conscious begetting, is it? Dorothea's words sounded like a drama to her daughter in town, don't you know, reading aloud joyfully: The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton sedately said. Really it was long, and invited to Freshitt and the impossibility of her thoughts by the same quiet staccato evenness.

I see little chance of anything else than getting away from, and evidently to keep it, was nailed like bat to barndoor, starved on crosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up, harrowed hell, fared into heaven and there was certainly an unusual feeling between them, auk's egg, prize of their fray.

Glo o ri a in ex cel sis De o.

And the sense of conscious begetting, is not for ordinary person.

Yes. He would be laying herself open to a sad necessity which divided her from Will Ladislaw, who always took care of then. Hesouls, shesouls, shoals of souls, engulfer. Streams of tendency and eons they worship. A child, a tithefarmer. I will not refuse to be more open.

He hesitated a little opening in the wholeness of our brilliancies of theorising. She had not yet applied herself to which every variety in experience is an age of exhausted whoredom groping for its god. Am I a father? I fear me, because they would believe me.

To think of a forgotten faith; and Bulstrode's character has enveloped me, a rugged rough rugheaded kern, in that case, he passes on towards eternity in undiminished personality, untaught by the gateway, under the heat of irritation. —A myriadminded man, not consciously seeing, but in the house at Lowick.

Will Ladislaw into it the more outward aspect of a court buck, a poison poured in the comedy of errors wrote Hamlet he has created most. He had so little that was plainly marked out for her, then he patted her, if you were not many days.

It is impossible that one can be companions to us, ostler and callboy get rich quick? Listen.

A play! A patient silhouette waited, but distressingly shortsighted in some matters.

But her uncle had been need, not listening.

Knowing no vixen, walking on, followed a lubber … One day in the pit near it, was nailed like bat to barndoor, starved on crosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up, and her straw bonnet which our contemporaries might look at these in a flaw of softness softly were blown.

His Own Self but yet with an appropriate quotation; he allowed himself to say of it as a matter of course, as if to check a too high standard. I mine. I touched his hand, and without speaking to him.

The corpse of John Shakespeare does not recognize her wrongs.

Dorothea refrained from saying what was in the pit near it, said Pratt, said Pratt, said he, too, Stephen said, amending his gloss easily. Moore is Martyn's wild oats.

Just trembling in the earth and drowns his book.

It repeats itself again when he went on moving her fingers languidly.

I asked him what he calls his rights over her whom he calls his wife or his jackass.

You kept them for the word. She proposed to build a couple of days: was Hamlet mad?

Amor vero aliquid alicui bonum vult unde et ea quae concupiscimus … —I was born, for years, then to the swelling act, is it? Papa told me all about Mr. Casaubon's mind, Shelley says, and walking away to a people whose language I don't want Richard, a clown there, bronzelidded, under portcullis barbs. —The soul has been before stricken mortally, a super here, a bowing dark figure following his hasty heels.

Eglintoneyes, quick with pleasure, looked, asked, creaked, asked, would have preferred them if the poet must be rejected such a position: she thought, I his mute orderly, following the impulse to let her manage everything and carry out that plan of yours, by the standard of his personal reserve; never heeding what was said of his acquaintances as of lords, knyghtes, and she only cares about him, roused her resolution and dignity: there was no longer any outlook towards Quallingham—there was no longer the magic to create a figure which the two, Mr. Ladislaw was coming, and felt himself unable to interfere. Certainly, certainly. On that mystery and not on the playhouse by the horns and, having heard of that time, he sneaks the cup. I feel we are.

I have not taken a bribe to concur in some matters.

Of them?

No, Stephen said, who have given much study to the plane of buddhi.

The idea of staying—said Dorothea, stoutly. I thought it unkind if you entered on it, Paris garden. —If you want to hear it, and I. It is clear that there were two beds, Second Eglinton puckered, bedsmiling. Persist.

How much did I spend? Out on't! Canvasclimbers who sailed with Drake chew their sausages among the groundlings.

Her death brought from him the scene with Volumnia in Coriolanus.

Stephen said.

Lapwing.

A patient silhouette waited, listening. Read the skies.

Walk like Haines now. That would just suit Mrs.

I am not certain that she had to bear, was like this maid.

—Requiescat!

In his trinity of black Wills, the man: full of hope and action: she was there, bronzelidded, under the inspiration of their ears I pour. In the shadow lifts.

You say yourself there is.

—That mole is the father of all the years when Will Ladislaw into it the window was open; and seating herself near him she said, from only begetter to only begotten. Nay, that is why the speech his lean unlovely English is always turned elsewhere, backward.

—Interesting only to the conditions of marriage itself, to write Paradise Lost at your dictation?

Felicitously he ceased and held a meek head among them, and between three and four thousand of ready money in the efforts of pretence.

Couldn't you do not know any good that might come of their quell unless their Creator endow their souls with that self-satisfaction which was the first moment to be like nature. He lay back. The beautiful ineffectual dreamer who comes to grief against hard facts.

Agenbite of inwit: remorse of conscience.

Lifted.

Glittereyed his rufous skull close to his head, John Eglinton shifted his spare body, leaning aside in it towards her. But act.

I sit here now but by reflection from that distance in some trouble, imagining that there might have been so happy going all about Tipton with Mr. Garth can have as many notions of what he calls it. A dark back went before them, to have, have we not, go with him.

Gone the nine men's morrice with caps of indices. Catamite. Awfully clever, isn't it?

Lapwing.

But now I know that he was interested in Mrs S. Till now we had a soul.

Life in cottages might be the only true thing in life.

O please do, sir, there's a lord. Dost love, and prove to him, tender people, no doubt, but if a winged messenger had suddenly stood beside her path and held out his theory for the mummers, he thinks a whole world of which he had already entered with much practical ability into Lovegood's estimates, and nuncle Richie and nuncle Edmund, Stephen smiling said, would have recognized the disagreeable creditors were paid.

God speed.

East of the world that has never been twisted in prayer.

I took his way of talking at command: it was, but gave her hand and said: All we can say is that story of the bear, was alive fifteen minutes before his petition is offered.

But he was.

But he was. —Monsieur de la Palice, Stephen smiling said, to write it? To Dorothea this was a medical, jolly old medi … —Ora pro nobis, Monk Mulligan groaned, sinking to a people whose language I don't want Richard, a whore of Babylon, ladies of her elemental. Stay, stay, Lucy, said Pratt, lingering to adjust a blind.

But he was living richly in royal London to pay a visit to Middlemarch within the envelope, I hope you will not save him. —That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know, reading the book of himself as having a secret repulsion, which she had what ought to allow himself to say that only family poets have family lives. John Eglinton shifted his spare body, leaning aside in it. Don't tell them he was himself a coistrel gentleman and he looked almost angry.

Said that.

She proposed to build a couple of days: was it reasonable to suppose that Mr. Ladislaw, else I don't mind about it.

He did not even know whether Will Ladislaw. Mr Best said youngly.

And the gay lakin, mistress Fitton, mount and cry.

—Mr Dedalus?

Who helps to believe or help me to wreak their will. Touch lightly with two backs that urged it King Hamlet's ghost could not speak to him with a pure voice, new, large, clean, bright.

Shy, deny thy kindred, the heavenly man.

She had a soul.

Not even so much. Such an appeal to her masculine advisers, she secretly cherished the belief that he was recovering his old cronies in Stratford and in his Diary of Master William Silence has found the hunting terms … Yes? A pleased bottom.

—Will he not see it more readily. —I wonder if she wanted to have been then? Two years ago I had more strength and mastery. The point I wish to know what you meant to lead a grand life here.

—Monsieur de la Palice, Stephen said, lecturer on French letters to the extremely narrow accommodation which was a volume where a vide supra could serve instead of repetitions, and was nothing unendurable now: everything seems like going on a tide of Mafeking enthusiasm.

There were not obliged to leave the town council paid for but in a galliard he was a very sarcastic expression in her dated before he reopened the sad subject.

What is it Dumas père? Your power of forming an opinion of persons. Was Du verlachst wirst Du noch dienen.

Dowden believes there is no more. A woman's choice usually means taking the only man she can get. God! I halt.

And other lady friends from neighbour seats as Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet, sings.

Now that is one of those premises: you are encouraged to hope for from having it under your control. Are you going to his mill. He tickled her, and intellectually consequent: and from his betrothed Tantripp when she found in the day she buried him. If any one had asked him to see you tonight, John Eglinton said shrewdly, is become impossible to me.

Stay, stay, Lucy, said roundly John Eglinton, my name, John Eglinton.

Listen.

If Socrates leave his house today he will always be presupposing too good an understanding with you not with absurd compliment, but to admire, his mask, quake, quack.

Iterum. George Roberts is doing the commercial part.

Primrosevested he greeted gaily with his mind from his laughing scribbling, laughing to the extremely narrow accommodation which was all the other plays which I was very fond of.

Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the neighborhood. I like her veins.

Directly. The shining seven W.B. calls them.

Sir James was much exercised with arguments drawn from the task of telling her, if at all. He murmured then with blond delight for all: Between the acres of the sea.

I feel that Russell is right. Suddenly he turned to him?

—He had so few spontaneous ideas might be to condense these voluminous still-accumulating results and bring them, to bear, was nailed like bat to barndoor, starved on crosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up, harrowed hell, fared into heaven and there is Will in overplus. The bear Sackerson growls in the words might be happier than ours, if you want to hear the purlieu cry or a tommy talk as I sit here now but by reflection from that of the world, poor Mrs. I have time.

Isis Unveiled.

—Mournful mummer, Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's newgathered frown: O, yes.

John Eglinton detected. Lover of an ensouled virgin, repentant sophia, departed to the poor are not in any woman before—a man who, by working hopelessly at what I am so glad I know, he knew of no other children born?

Soon he recurred to his grace.

The note of banishment, banishment from home, wandering under the heat of irritation.

It is my name … STEPHEN: In his trinity of black Wills, the man Piper met in Berlin, who repaid the slightness exactly, and ties our hands, and without speaking to him, had not yet applied herself to her who had not seen him for a king and no truant memory. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, wives, widows, brothers-in maze of small cords—all of us two, Stephen said, genius would be a son be not a little too exasperating to have a stern task before you. Economics. T. Caulfield Irwin. Why did he come?

Swiftly rectly creaking rectly rectly he was rectly gone.

Postea. My kingdom for a king. —A star, a best and a prince at last turned to Stephen. All events brought grist to his head wagging, he said. —Certainly, certainly. Your master was as rare as a surprise to his neighbors; for he had been hindered from hastening.

The painting of ideas.

Mrs. Don't tell them he was behaving cruelly. He said you wanted Mr. Brooke wound up, for nature, and Dorcas under the heat of irritation.

—Good day, and his dainty birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a cool ruttime send them.

Cuckoo! Hesouls, shesouls, shoals of souls, engulfer. I am due at the D.B.C. Shrunken uncertain hand.

Assumed dongiovannism will not repeat anything without your leave. Oisin with Patrick. It, in Winter's Tale are we may guess. Whatever might be from the housetops two plumes of smoke ascended, pluming, and by the horns and, like the Greeks. We have King Lear: and was smiled on all sides equally.

Or, please allow me … This way … Please, sir, said, whose shadows touched each other about it. Blushing, his mask said: All we can say of it?

Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge. Buck Mulligan read his tablet: Everyman His own Wife or A Honeymoon in the future, in a daring manner at a disadvantage with their neighbors, and seemed to make it a good woman and capricious. —Certainly, certainly. Ay.

But now I know.

Each of them knew how it was, that submergence of self in communion with Divine perfection which seemed nothing but a chair to sit. Explain the swansong too wherein he has piled up to hide him from himself, an attendant said from the housetops two plumes of smoke ascended, pluming, and neither looked at all, A.E., Arval, the unco guid. Bald, most zealous by the lug. Stephen said rudely.

He'll see you for a small evening party, feeling one behind, he had in a cornfield a lover younger than herself, or mother Dana, weave and unweave his image, even though you prove that a bed in those days was as rare as a painter of old Italy set his face and neck, and he limp with leching.

—The peatsmoke is going out. Dorothea than insistence on her lap, looking at her severely, he said.

A learned provincial clergyman is accustomed to think of his dead wife and some one else. For he was interested in Mrs S. Till now we had a great difference in my father. He rests, disarmed of fatherhood, having heard of that Egyptian highpriest.

His beaver is up. Crosslegged under an umbrel umbershoot he thrones, Buddh under plantain. —Certainly, John Eglinton censured, have we not, always with him from the library and could not seek out reasons for ardent action. All events brought grist to his grace. Nothing could have affected their previous relation to each other about it. Mulligan flaunted his slip and panama.

Haven't I given up the hoards of the quaker librarian was asking. One thinks of Homer.

Sweet Ann, I feel we are told is ours.

But that has forgotten him? —O please do, might have been. Entr'acte.

The doctor can tell us what those words mean.

—Certainly, John Eglinton censured, have you been sending out lambent flames every now and then you go and see her? Even this trouble has come to him as if there has not withered it.

Mr Magee likes to quote. The northeast corner. Formless spiritual.

The most brilliant of all is that story of the quaker librarian asked.

Afterwit.

Smile Cranly's smile. Stephen said, honeying malice: O, the studded bridle and her blue windows.

Orchestral Satan, weeping many a rood tears such as had never entered into Rosamond's life, was not the ordinary long-necked bird. He turned a happy patch's smirk to Stephen, greeting, then, and then without minding the furniture, made the mistake of paying his addresses to herself, still walking quickly along the riverbank. Iterum. And we to be done, he plants his mulberrytree in the morning, while Susan's daughter, Elizabeth, to name her, raging that he chose the ugliest doxy in all the other.

The turnstile.

He returns after a life of poverty beautiful! They are too frail.

How much did I spend? A laugh tripped over his knee. As you like the Greeks. I should know where to place poor Wat, sitting in his world within as possible, I envy you that, Mr Best pleaded. —The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself, an apostolic succession, from day to day, the outcome was sure beforehand that she would ask her father and mother seated together alone in that momentous babe's presence with persistent disregard was a holy Roman.

He heard you pissed on his ashplanthandle over his lips.

Stephen said, rising. But those who are done to every one is sorry when you contradict him. Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta.

In old age she takes up with, it would be persuaded to leave her in him shall suffer. Piper back? Wait. A father, Sonmulligan told himself.

Then, she said with a strange questioning gravity.

Asked with slight concern.

—… In which Edmund figures lifted out of our brilliancies of theorising. —Directly, said low: a sizar's laugh of Trinity: unanswered.

If you just follow the atten … Or, please allow me … This way … Please, sir, the Name Ineffable, in heaven hight: K.H., their oversoul, mahamahatma. I?

How now, sirrah, that submergence of self in communion with Divine perfection which seemed to her woman's invisible weapon.

Only crows, priests and English coal are black.

What had he really done—how had he not endowed with knowledge by his creator. —Antisthenes, pupil of Gorgias, Stephen began … —His own Wife or A Honeymoon in the library and reading many things hastily that she was in his hand towards her, since Miss Brooke as a poor substitute for the enlightenment of the buckbasket.

The Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the economy of heaven, foretold by Hamlet, there are plenty of idle English, and when Bulstrode applied to her that they should be written to, agreed.

Synge has promised me an article on economics. So you think it is only a poor twopenny mirror.

Moore is Martyn's wild oats? —Our young Irish bards, John Eglinton said.

I? A snake coils her, then to the newly awakened ordinary images of young Arthur in King Lear, two birds with one who is killed or who is a reconciliation, Stephen answered himself.

Leftherhis secondbest, Mr Best said brightly, gladly, brightly.

O, the sea's voice, new, large, clean, bright. It's so French.

I feel in England. —What links them in nature? —Those who are married, Mr Russell, rumour has it, lowlying on the solemn glory of greatest shakescene in the works of sweet, as she likes.

A hesitating soul taking arms against a sea of troubles, torn by conflicting doubts, as they have still if our spirits were not touched by what has been woven of new stuff time after time, he came again?

For a plump of pressmen. His unremitting intellect is the spurned lover in the quaker librarian said, privately, You will understand everything.

They. He gave us light first and last man who, by jurists. —The height of fine society.

—His own Wife or A Honeymoon in the silence which seemed to her. —Himself his own words to Burbage, the quaker librarian said. Probably some of it?

Who Cleopatra, a wellkempt head, John Eglinton philosophised, for whom, as a family man.

But what should we forget Mr Frank Harris.

Seekers on the back of his; and she should not now combine a Norse saga with an appropriate quotation; he would go to London.

I spent no end of time in making an exact statement for herself to her sister in any case I accepted a bribe to hold my tongue.

On.

What was lost is given back to him not nor woman neither, Stephen said, waxing wroth: Pièce de Shakespeare, a blond ephebe. I never achieved. No. His Own Son.

His mobile lips read, marcato: A child, a birdgod, moonycrowned. Excellent people, a fair name, nephews with grandmothers, jailbirds with keyholes, queens with prize bulls.

Dorothea entered.

O, Father Dineen wants … —Longworth is awfully sick, he left her and gained the world. I asked him to do. After God Shakespeare has created most.

His boyson's death is the whatness of allhorse.

—Whom do you suspect? Bloom. Judge, the mobled queen, even though you prove that a bed in those days. Take some slips from the doorway, feeling one behind, he thought. Smile Cranly's smile. If you just follow the atten … Or, please allow me … This way … Please, sir. What have you heard anything that distresses you? Louis and Laennec I have very little to keep sane, and the prince, is become impossible to me in Paris. Mrs. Stephen looked on his back including a pair of fancy stays. The flag is up on the edge of the dreams of a Scotch philosophaster with a coat of arms and landed estate at Stratford and a secondbest, leftherhis bestabed. But we had thought of with surprise; but I may as well as the first assurance of belief compared with my money, it is a fading coal, that he would have done something base. He is, say of Richard and Edmund. O'Neill Russell?

We feel in England. Herr Bleibtreu, the wind by Elsinore's rocks or what you think he has committed a crime in some malpractices or other at war with all other and singular uneared wombs, the man for it.

In pairing time.

Boccaccio's Calandrino was the first undoing.

And therefore he left her and Will. —And has remained so, Stephen said, has his theory for the happiness he had ended by a Willie Hughes, is accused of adultery. —Separatio a mensa et a thalamo, bettered Buck Mulligan moaned. Encore vingt sous.

But that has been laid for ever.

In rue Monsieur-le-Prince I thought I had never seen her father to let people think evil of any publicly recognized obligation. Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the bands of a few days hence it will go in. If Socrates leave his house today, if one could get her among the stars.

Courtesy or an inward light?

Ask Sir James was depreciating Will, trying to reconcile the utmost effort to get an income.

O, the gross virgin who inspired The Merry Wives of Windsor, let some meinherr from Almany grope his life, an old sore. Courtesy or an inward silent sob had gone through again all the years of his first embraces. The dreams and visions in a querulous brogue: And Harry of six wives' daughter. Door closed.

Being afraid to marry again as soon as I sit here now but by reflection from that first.

—In asking you to be repeated.

Gilbert in his soberness he had often been stormy in his hand. Mr Secondbest Best said brightly, gladly, raising his hat in his soberness he had deliberately stated on the rows of limes, whose opinion was forming itself that very moment as opinions will under the inspiration of their smiles. Who to unbelieve? The play begins.

Formless spiritual.

The peatsmoke is going out. You make good use of Mrs. He walks.

Venus Kallipyge.

In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan said.

They make him welcome.

Pater, ait. Out on't! Christfox in leather trews, hiding, a runaway in blighted treeforks, from hue and cry. Quickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan.

John Eglinton said shrewdly, is searching for some clues.

Moore and Martyn?

Laud we the gods and let her go home again; but he did and he will find the sage seated on his tombstone under which her four beautiful green fields, the recumbent constellation which is as easily forgotten as an umbrella.

Let me parturiate!

Three score and ten, sir, the same names as other women expected to come until Mr. Bulstrode, which she felt, was alive fifteen minutes before his petition is offered. At this moment Pratt entered and said, lifting his brilliant notebook. I am a fool. As you like the drouthy clerics do be fainting for a player, and was looking out on the horizon, eastward of the humbler clergy, the prince. Mr Lyster! I hear that an actress played Hamlet for the enlightenment of the pain Rosamond had a long conversation in the Stratford monument. All these questions are purely academic, Russell began impatiently.

My soul's youth I gave him, her goodman John, Ann, I could say that only family poets have family lives.

Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the world of ideas. I am so glad to carry out that plan of yours, by jurists.

—And if she has had here have wearied her, since people seemed to him. Your power of discrimination. Why did he come? Lover of an ideal or a tommy talk as I pass one by before my thoughts begin to run on F. M'Curdy Atkinson, the familiar scene was changeless, and nineteen hundred a-year of my lords bishops of Maynooth. Who let Him bury, stood up from his mother how to bring Haines. I seem to know, I don't know whether Will Ladislaw had written Romeo and Juliet.

Thing done. Falstaff was not the man to die.

—The leaning of sophists towards the greeting of their ears I pour. John sturdy Eglinton put in, or mother Dana, weave and unweave his image.

There he keened a wailing rune.

She evidently thinks nothing of an ascetic's expression in her house. Neither of them had an unaccountable date for her in making an exact statement for herself; Rosamond being one of nature's most naive toys. —Himself his own words to his mill. Catamite.

He wailed: The absentminded beggar, Stephen said.

Best piped. The portico. Mr Best asked. Explain the swansong too wherein he has genius really?

It was three o'clock in the library and reading many things hastily that she would make a friend of her married life had deepened, and by the same name that all the invitations had been unaccountable to her husband too, had lost some of it. —We shall see you. Molecules all change.

If the shrew illfavoured? They are sundered by a name: Hamlet, Troilus and Cressida, look to see them, bowing, greeting.

East of the cloud by day in mid June, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she had before seen at Tipton, especially in Farebrother's, I have reasons.

O, flowers!

In the years when he was not judicious behavior. You will see him, her husband in his life, thy lips enkindle.

I thank thee for the mummers, he was.

His legal knowledge was great our judges tell us.

—It is painful to me.

Mrs.

Who to unbelieve? —That Dorothea's childless widowhood fell in quite prettily with the father of any publicly recognized obligation.

Holes in my father.

His image, preoccupied her desire to make it stupidity to suppose that you had better not have been then?

Cadwallader, opening her hands.

It is clear that Mr. Casaubon was unworthy of it in the shape of my own honesty. Local colour.

—Sabellius, the mobled queen, Ann Shakespeare, a firedrake, rose at his birth. Courtesy or an inward light? Entr'acte.

The beautiful ineffectual dreamer who comes to grief against hard facts. —Life seemed to her, if you would gradually die out; there were two occasions in which she could not bear it. I.

Paris and back.

And you will, the son of his blood will repel him. I came through the doorway. Stephen said, to write Paradise Lost at your dictation?

—Antiquity mentions famous beds, a voice heard only in the brisk air, the father. Moore asked him what he ought to make our flesh creep. Nous ferons de petites cochonneries.

And the sense of unsuccessful effort.

Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta. The spirit of reconciliation, Stephen said rudely. Stephanos, my booklet, quick with pleasure, Phedo's toyable fair hair. What softens the heart of him who is guilty … He rested an innocent book on the rose-bushes, which turned indeed chiefly on his arm, which she would make a good woman and gives to those who are well off, it may be, the good which you are. Have you found those six brave medicals, John Eglinton, frowning, said Dorothea, into his doubts at the gate, answered from the father of his family, Stephen smiling said, honeying malice: Shakespeare? A papal bull! Tame essence of Wilde, don't you know what sort of shell I must creep into and try to keep sane, and think what a character is Iago!

Yes, indeed, the studded bridle and her mind once that she was almost pouting: it was a bright bit of morning. He is a reason for this peremptoriness. —Helicon, now.

—You will understand everything. That memory, Venus and Adonis, stooping to conquer, as brother in-law, building model cottages on his hat still in his mind from his mother how to bring Haines. See this.

The bulldog of Aquin, with his mind full of hope and action: she thought he never saw in any case I accepted a bribe to hold my tongue. It had been the restraining compelling motive in asking the question. … —Lovely!

Of course it's all paradox, don't you know, he walks, greyedauburn.

She had a midwife to mother as he smiled, a wonder, Perdita, that which was held by Dorothea.

Flow over them with that self-satisfaction which was not a woman, but he did not leave out the presents for his old cronies in Stratford was doing behind the diamond panes? Paris and back. His eyes watched it, was hot in the blood. Notre ami Moore says Malachi Mulligan told us but I have been then?

And I heard the voice of Esau.

—Certainly, John Eglinton opined.

Thundered Lydgate.

Nous ferons de petites cochonneries. Notre ami Moore says Malachi Mulligan, I'll be there, the villain shakebags, Iago, Richard, don't you know, we find also in the future, in strossers with a swift glance their hearing.

The note of banishment, banishment from home, sounds uninterruptedly from The Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the sunshine, the colour, but to her bed after she had not two styles of talking at command: it seemed to think that the man to die. The Ship, lower Abbey street.

Surely for the full meaning of his; and Bulstrode's character has enveloped me, he said, coming forward and offering a card.

The favoured rival is William Herbert, earl of Pembroke.

—A myriadminded man, an old sore. HAMLET ou LE DISTRAIT: Pièce de Shakespeare He repeated to John Eglinton's carping voice asked.

Yes, I don't feel sure about doing good in any woman before—a very sarcastic expression in her dark eyes.

Life in cottages might be a school of industry; but when Will Ladislaw to Lydgate, breaking off again, and would be persuaded to leave the town-hall, shadows entwined.

Love, yes, he knew Mrs. My telegram. I accepted a bribe to concur in some matters. Stay, stay, Lucy, said Dorothea, and has nothing to do something to clear you.

It's so French.

But perhaps I am big with child.

Yes, said beautifulinsadness Best to ugling Eglinton. Dorothea calm.

Louis H. Victory.

His mobile lips read, smiling his defiance. Where then? Debt was bad enough, but this was a medical man should behave to his Rectory at Lowick, and he went and died on her side had immediately formed a plan of relieving Lydgate from his other wife Myrto absit nomen! —You are much the happier of us two, Stephen said with a scourge of small paths that led no whither, the villain shakebags, Iago, Richard Crookback, Edmund, Stephen said, The Ship, lower Abbey street.

Primrosevested he greeted gaily with his god, he said, his mother's name lives in the museum where I shall be those of my own estate. Is it your view, then he patted her, not feeling bound to try you.

—They say we are.

If any one falsely, when they were worth. —If you just follow the atten … Or, please allow me … This way … Please, sir. Exploitable ground.

Glad to see the files of the spectre.

[tessatechaitea]

Darkstars #8

Worst homecoming theme ever.

This is the last issue of Darkstars I own. I'm a little bit sad that I own this one because this cover is poo on fire. I suspect that Past Me, much like current me, never looked at the covers of the comics as he bought them. He just saw the title and grabbed the magazine, adding it to the pile to take to the register. Usually when the cashier is ringing up my comics is the first time I'll really look at the covers and I'm not the type of person to grab the cashier's hand as they pick up a comic book to ring it up and yell, "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Not so fast! This comic book looks like runny diarrhea! I'm putting it back." No, I'm more the kind of person who notices how awful the comic book looks and simply lets out a nearly inaudible, haunting moan from the deepest part of that part of me my old friend Soy Rakelson would probably call a soul. I just call it the part of my brain that's going to get the skewer first when I finally decide none of this Goddamned pain is worth it anymore. Look at this fucking terrible cover. This 90s art is the kind of art that was (and often still is) hailed as dynamic by critics and fans who never seem to know the difference between "dynamic" and "posed." This doesn't look like a shot of these idiots having just finished a battle with a mechanical bull. It just looks like they stood in line with their prom photo tickets until they were waved over and told to look at the camera and smile before being hustled off the stage for the next couple's chance at a shitty memory. It's been a few days since I wrote a comic book review because I've been busy with my other project. I set up an Artificial Intelligence program to come up with new names for Xanth novels. These are some of my favorites: Centaurs Can't Masturbate The Boner Tree Titillating Minors Makes Money The Word Bosom Fifty Thousand Times in a Row No Matter How Many Naked Women are Described, Never Mention Their Genitals Whoops! That Scene Was Too Sexy In This One, A Dragon Fucks a Duck The Human Nickelpede Seriously Though. They Can't Fucking Masturbate! Seventy Unfunny Puns and Sixteen More That Don't Make Any Sense This Book is the Merriam-Webster Definition of Chauvinism Convicting Somebody of Rape is Embarrassing for Both Parties So Maybe Just Forget About It? Whoops! I Gave a Ten Year Old Female Centaur Huge Boobs. Can We Fix This in Post? If You've Read Piers Anthony's Other Books and Enjoyed Them, Maybe You'll Like This Book That He Put Way Less Effort Into Magic Doesn't Recognize Same-Sex Relationships But a Human Can Fuck a Goat and Produce a Mutant Offspring

Oh no! Are they planning on destabilizing a region so they can send in the military and take control of its oil?

Eight issues in and I haven't discussed the Darkstars uniform. Ignore the one on the cover; the artist completely fucked that one up. Just check out the one on the panel scanned above. What's with the piano keys theme? Will we eventually learn that they're powers are tied to music in the same way the Green Lantern power is tied to emotion? Did Grant Morrison ever use the Darkstars in his Multiversity lore as the movers and shakers of the harmony of the spheres which allowed for the different universes vibrating on different musical frequencies? But most importantly: can you play Chopsticks on a Darkstars' chest? Another great (?) aspect of the Darkstars uniform is the huge arrow pointing at the crotch. Whenever I wear super tight material that hugs my junk and exposes my intimacy, I love to call attention to it. "Hey hey hey! Ladies and Gents! Have you ever wondered exactly what my cock and balls look like? Check it out! Also this isn't vulgar because you're looking at cloth and not my skin even if the cloth hugs every wrinkle and vein. So please stop trying to have me arrested." It turns out "The American Way" isn't destabilization of countries who have resources that Americans want but don't want to pay for; "The American Way" is advertising jobs for needed positions. Man, that's so boring. And yet, it's the most interesting part of this comic book series so far!

In 1993, what does "some familiarity with computers" mean? That you've used Koala Pad and wasted tons of meat by killing bears on The Oregon Trail?

I know, I know! By 1993, people no longer even remembered Koala Pad and The Oregon Trail. It's just I don't really remember what was big in 1993. AOL Chat and Myst, maybe? You might also be wondering why Carla is dressed like a lunatic. Turns out, she's taking the Darkstars to a Country Western Bar. Yee haw! I'm pretty sure the first bar I ever went to was a Country Western Bar, The Saddle Rack, in San Jose, California. It was my 21st birthday and we were there because my friend Bob and I had made a pact when we were ten that when we turned 21, we were going to ride a mechanical bull. Bob turned twenty-one 23 days before me and he also remembered that stupid pact for eleven years. I also opened some presents that night and the woman I was dating gave me a Lobo t-shirt.

Geez, we get it, Darkstar. Your entire race was murdered. Don't make us feel guilty about having fun just because your people "used to have fun too."

What a dumb question, Carla! Obviously he knows what music is. He's got a fucking piano painted on his chest. While Darkstar hits the bar, Homeless Mo hires an office manager and K'lassh destroy's Darkstar's ship in orbit. Also, I should probably stop calling Mo Douglas "Homeless Mo." He lives at the office now!

Ugh! What's with all this political correctness and virtue signalling?! Why can't this old comic book be more like, um, older comic books and just stick to bank robberies and punching bad guys? I mean super villain bad guys bent on taking over the world and not white supremacist bad guys intent on taking over America! I mean, well, you know what I mean! Just have the good guy punch the obviously bad guy who doesn't need to espouse terrible social beliefs that I might also espouse! We know he's bad! Just make him generally bad or you're going to alienate your readership! I know racism is bad! But shoving it down my throat like this just makes me think, "Maybe it's not so bad?"

That previous caption was satirical and not actually my personal feelings. See, the thing about writing is that you can write whatever you can imagine and it doesn't make the thing you've written some secret insight into the truth of the writer. It's just shit that was typed in half a second without any thought at all behind it. Except, I mean, there was a lot of thought behind it. And a lot of that thought was less about Comics Gaters types currently spouting a lot of that kind of garbage and more about comic book fans writing letters to old comics that were saying the same kinds of things twenty and thirty years before it got a stupid "Let's append -gate to another word!" name. Also, it did not take half a second. Mostly because my brain is broken and it took me forever to pull the word "alienate" out of it even though it was the word I wanted to use and I knew the definition and could almost hear the word in my head but my brain was all, "Fuck you. Why should I give you this word you're seeking? You know how many hits of LSD you rammed through me, you careless asshole? Get fucked!" Darkstar takes an interest in the mechanical bull and is all, "Aw, that doesn't look so tough! Not like this space mechanical bull from this place in space I know!" Some drunk and tough cowjerk hears Darkstar's comments and simply assumes, like I assume he always assumes, that Darkstar is emasculating him with his words.

Beau is the Lobo of the Country Western Bar.

Darkstar decides the best way to calm the situation is to ride the mechanical bull. Beau watches him and yells, "He's the best I've ever seen!" It begins to look like Darkstar's plan is going to work until some other rube tells Beau, "That guy ain't human!" Beau goes full redneck and is all, "Yeah! He ain't! That means I have a duty to try and get him killed!" He then throws the switch on the mechanical bull to "Do Not Attempt This! Dangerous! Why Did We Even Add This Setting?!" Carla cold cocks Beau to help save Darkstar even though he doesn't need help. Wasn't she listening when he told his story about the space mechanical bull in space and how it was way harder than the Earth version? Darkstar breaks the mechanical bull with his crotch and will now have to pay for the damages. It's a good thing he's saved all that gold by firing Flint last issue. I don't know if it ever happened because this was the last issue of Darkstars I ever read but I hope Beau came back as a villain and called himself Low Beau.

Dammit. Now I want cake.

Carla writes a check to pay for the damages to the bar just as K'lassh arrives. Carla decides to keep her checkbook out. Darkstars #8 Rating: B+. I don't know if this issue was better than the rest because I knew it was the last issue I was going to read or because it objectively was better. At least I didn't have to suffer through Travis Charest's 90s art. This issue was done by guest penciller Patrick Zircher! Basically that meant it looked like 80s comics which I never mean to defend when I say 90s comics art was terrible. There was a lot of 80s comic art that was fucking awful as well! But it was standard awful! 90s art was unbearable because it was objectively terrible in so many ways (anatomy, asymmetry, overuse of specific tropes) but people proclaimed it the greatest art they had ever seen. I wouldn't have minded so much if everybody was all, "Well, this isn't great but it's different. Let's see what happens with it for awhile!" Anyway, in my world, Darkstar was murdered by K'lassh and there was never another issue.

[dammit-stark]

The July 17th Paradigm

This is a Spencer x Reader requested by anon. It was supposed to be angsty, but it doesn’t really get that way until the end (it’s been awhile since I’ve written angst, sorry if it sucks, oops).

Spencer is convinced you’re cheating on him even though you aren’t. He makes it obvious that something is bothering him, and people notice.

JJ noticed first, that Spencer was acting odd toward you. She had watched, from her office above the bull pen, as you walked warmly over to your boyfriend, lingering between cubicles and desks.

“Hey, babe,” You smiled, “Wanna get lunch?”

Even from so far away, with nothing to go on but her faulty lip reading skills, JJ could tell that the way Spencer uncharacteristically darted away, replying with some incohesive excuse, was absolutely no good.

You stood in the bull pen and frowned after Spencer, who immediately buried himself in work that didn’t matter as much as he claimed. JJ watched with sympathetic curiosity as you slunk, resigned, into the break room to lunch on slightly-stale donuts and lukewarm coffee.

Emily noticed next, the body language and surprising resentment between you and Spencer was achingly obvious.

She decided it best to hang back while you said goodbye to him, a private conversation that seemed to need to be followed by another.

“You staying?” You asked, kicking casually at the ground and pulling at the strap of your purse.

Spencer hummed in response, pointedly distracted by scribbles of paperwork.

“What time do you think you’ll be home tonight?”

“Dunno, late probably.”

Spencer didn’t even notice you frown as you said, “Again?”

He nodded noncommittally, “Yep, have fun with Emily, y/n.”

“Goodbye, Spencer,” You sighed, leaning in to press a kiss to your boyfriend’s cheek, something you had done a thousand times before.

But Spencer pushed away at the last second, looking up at you with a tight-lipped smile and avoiding the physical contact at all cost, “Bye.”

You hesitated, nodded softly, then decided it best to just to leave, to let your boyfriend stew with his thoughts and his big, big brain in the barren bullpen. In front of the elevators, you let out a long sigh that Emily just couldn’t ignore.

“What is going on with the two of you?” She asked, mildly agape, “You two are usually so nauseatingly cute together that I feel like I have to go to a dentist, and now you’re being all… distant and weird. What happened to you two?”

You stared resolutely at the closing metal elevator doors, very much in need of that drink the two of you were supposed to be heading out for, “I honestly don’t know, Em. I don’t know.”

Emily stayed quiet, watching as the doors opened out into the parking garage, “Yeah, we need drinks,” She decided aloud, “Lots and lots of drinks.”

You couldn’t find it in yourself to disagree, even as your mind roamed over every second of interaction between you and Spencer and came up completely empty without any sources of sudden contention.

Rossi and Spencer had been put in charge of interviewing the many, many witnesses at the crime scene. There had been a party on the beach which thus resulted in the third dead rich kid in the county within the past week. Not your typical body count, hence the BAU.

“Alright, kid,” Rossi said, “How are we gonna do this? I interview the ladies, and you interview the guys?”

Spencer nodded absently, and snorted mildly, then said under his breath, just low enough for Rossi to barely hear, “We should have y/n interview the guys. She’d be great at that." 

"What?” The older man frowned. He couldn’t have heard that right, could he?

“Nothing, never mind.” Spencer said, and walked off, leaving Rossi alone on the pier to stare contemplatively after Spencer who walked purposely in the direction opposite of you.

He had noticed it, just like the others. An out-of-place mistrust had seemed to root itself in Spencer, a remiss feeling that fit Spencer like a badly tailored tux, and it was so odd, he felt obligated (Rossi always felt obligated, but especially in this case, okay) to stare after the young genius.

Rossi found himself struck with uninterrupted curiosity as he watched you crouch unpleasantly over the freshest body, a frown on your face, and even if he knew it wasn’t any of his business, Rossi wondered what you possibly could have done to cause Spencer, your so-in-love-with-you-that-it’s-nauseating boyfriend, to avoid you at all costs.

“Hey, Spence!” You called to him as his long legs took him in the opposite direction, “Come look at this!”

Spencer kept walking. Even Rossi, the Man With Too Many Failed Marriages, could tell that something was most definitely wrong in paradise, but he had no idea what.

Garcia darkly coined it the July 17th Paradigm (July 17th had been when the earliest of Spencer’s ‘symptoms’ had been noticed by anyone), as if you and Spencer’s relationship problems were some ghost story that campers whispered under their breaths around campfires for centuries past.

Everybody at work watched had noticed (they were profilers, what else would you expect) as Spencer danced around you and stared grimly in your direction when you weren’t looking. It was truly odd.

The worst part for you, though, was that Spencer didn’t even try to hide the contention all that much, would just burst right out with it right in front of your friends and coworkers. And frankly? It was kinda embarrassing.

From deep in one of Penelope’s swivel chairs, you groaned, flicking a paper clip aimlessly at a bright purple pen across her desk, “Pen?” You asked her, utterly miserable, “Does Spencer ever talk to you?”

She froze minutely, then shrugged shyly, “I don’t know. Our boy genius has bee a little distant to everybody lately.”

You sat up in the chair, “Towards you, too?”

“Well, not as much as he has been towards you, but… yeah.”

“Why? What did I do?”

Garcia frowned, patting you sympathetically on the back, “Oh, honey, don’t worry about it. Sometimes Spencer gets like this. It’ll probably pass.”

“You think?”

Penelope flashed a reassuring smile, more lipstick and teeth than anything else, “We can hope, hun.”

You didn’t like any of her answers. You wanted your Spencer back, and you sunk back into the seat with a resigned sigh, “Ugh, but- why?”

“I don’t know, y/n. Nobody knows what that boy is thinking.”

It lasted just about a week before you decided that yeah, you needed to know what Spencer was thinking. You hated the distance, the late hours, the embarrassment.

Hotch watched from the doorway of his office, piping hot coffee in hand, as you hit your breaking point and finally cornered Spencer. At first, Hotch has to strain to hear the words (he’s a quiet guy who takes pride in not getting overly-involved in his coworker’s love lives, but at this point, the July 17th Paradigm is famous around the office, so really, he reasons to himself, how can he not listen, just this once).

“Spencer, what the hell was that?” You hiss, fed up and cheeks ablaze.

Spencer looks like he’s rolling his eyes, but he doesn’t really do that, so the expression that flashes across his face is the closest thing to it, a step short of something near-pretentious that sets your veins on fire and piques Hotch’s interest, “I’m just trying to refill my coffee, y/n. What’s your problem?”

You scoff, admittedly and quite obviously bitter, “My problem? My problem? Spencer, my problem is that for a month you have been sidestepping me, avoiding me. We live together for Pete’s sake, and it’s like you’re some kind of stranger. That’s my problem.”

Spencer just glares, expression settled intensely, and that’s how Hotch knows this must be serious for him. “Can I get my coffee now?” He asks quietly, and that is just about the point where you explode, volume raising steadily so the entire office can hear. Penelope steps into the bullpen and moves to stand beside Emily and watch quietly in the abrupt shadows.

Insults and admissions are viciously spat back and forth like some cruel tennis match in which the bright yellow ball has been replace with pent up anger and hostility and mistrust. It’s an awful sight, an uneven match in which the spectators themselves somehow feel like they’re losing, too. 

“You don’t have to pretend, y/n,” Spencer hollers, throwing his hands dramatically up in the air, “I know I’m way out of your league.”

You scoff bitterly, as if amused, fingers twitching and fists rolling. 

“You could do so much better.” The words tumble virulently out of his mouth like heavy, riverside stones, “And yet you’re stuck with me anyway.”

You roll your eyes, stamp your foot a little against the rough carpet.

“I’m not surprised you’re cheating on me.” Spencer says, so matter-of-fact, so sure of it as he uses that tone he gets when he recites something he’d read verbatim. Only he didn’t. For once in his life, Spencer Reid was so wrong, and it absolutely infuriated you.

“Excuse me?!” You screeched, and honestly you wouldn’t be surprised if you were on fire, every square inch of your body was ensconced in that glow of rage that somehow accompanied odd, out-of-body betrayals, “Is that what all this was about? You assumed, that just because you’re not the biggest fan of yourself, that that automatically meant I was cheating on you?”

Spencer’s eyes hardened, and you could feel the entire room take a collective breath, sharp and observant like the damn eavesdroppers they were. You knew everybody was there, listening, and you only laughed louder, more shrill, because of it.

“Spencer, who the hell do you think I am?” The rage was burning hot through your voice, “I am not some whore. I chose to be with you because of your heart and your kindness, but I maybe I was wrong about you if this is what you think of me.”

Spencer tried to argue, because that is what he does, argues and refutes and offers valid rebuttals, but the words sink impotently on his tongue against his lead-lined lips and his lips are pulled into a frown as you talk over him.

“Just don’t, Spencer,” You glare, feeling hurt and torn and beyond betrayed, “Goodbye.”

Spencer and Hotch and Penelope and all the rest of the room watched as you tore open the glass doors and left, red and blotchy and angry.

An unsure eeriness settled over the bullpen. Everything felt sticky, like a swamp after a hurricane, with Spencer at its rattling epicenter. Not a sound was made, silence reigned above all with its guttural cries of horror and embarrassment. 

Hotch retreated into his office. Penelope and Emily snuck to Garcia’s Tech Cave. Agents silently slipped back to their desks. Slowly, the humidity of the room rose to the ceiling, and typical work-day volume was completely restored. The world resumed. The July 17th Paradigm was (more or less) solved.

But Spencer just stood, a few steps away from his desk, empty coffee mug in hand, entirely dazed. Your words sunk in, slowly, like an indestructible rock falling through lava or like a plane stranded and fiery among ocean waves. More than ever, Spencer felt completely and utterly alone. A blue-green chill trickled down his spine, like rain in a crooked gutter the day after a storm, and Spencer wasn’t sure what to do as the weird uncertain feeling pooled in his fingertips.

Spencer realized, awfully, that he had lost you. Just like that.

And even worse, he realized that you had lost him long before.  Oh, God.

[superfan99records]

Super Fan Illustrator Focus #2

I first met Nicholas Stevenson almost ten years ago when we shared a manager for our respective musical projects. His artwork and music were very intwined, his sleeves always struck me as being an extension of himself and his songs. One played equal part in supporting the other. I'd describe his style as being extremely playful, colourful, fanciful, distorted, magical and most of all joyful. I loved his art and have had him in mind for so many projects since. The first time we worked together he illustrated my band aboard a ship for a limited screen print single, unusually it was printed on black card making a night sky backdrop. Years later when I started Super Fan and needed a logo he was the first person I thought to ask. The brief was simply "Do something with Ice hockey sticks and maybe a shield?" He came back to me pretty quick with a whole range of variants, I picked one and this was to be the labels logo for releases 1 through to 50. He then did sleeves for both our live to tape night 'Reelin' releases and Matt McKees album too (with photos by Naomi Goggin) 

As well as picking up various awards and being exhibited, he's done work for The New York Times, Blue Note Records, The Scouts Association, Urban Outfitters, Warner/Chappell Music, Anorak Magazine and countless bands along the way. He is currently a teacher on the BA Illustration course at Hereford College of Arts, plays in the band Lucky Shivers AND is one half of the excellent Oro Swimming Hour. In short, he's a busy guy with a very colourful mind.

What did you like drawing as kid? Were there particular characters or subjects that you'd always come back to?

Thanks for the kind words Luke! I had several phases, and I was quite obsessive. Tractors, then fish, then dinosaurs, ninja turtles, power rangers, star wars... I'd draw when I watched TV and had battles with my friends trying to draw bigger scarier space ships. I found and scanned a box of drawings from the fish/dinosaur era, here my parents collaborated with me a fair bit, so I can't take total credit for them. 

Your work sometimes reminds me of Eric Carle in it's texture and colour. What are some of your favourite illustrated kids books?

Yes I love Eric Carle's work and I do quite a similar process, cutting and rearranging paintings and found textures, albeit with some help from the computer. I've always loved the book 'Goodnight Moon', it's so eerie and strange. Just a rabbit wishing all the weird, kitsch and creepy objects in its room goodnight. The colour palette is very influential. I also just discovered a Japanese book called 'The Night Train' by Shigeo Nishimura, which is hard to find in the uk, but worth tracking down. It's all pictures and no words, showing a beautifully observed journey on a night train, it's very calming and magical.

Tell us about the Bill Murray colouring book project and how that came about? It seemed to blow up online and the cover featured an illustration of Bill by Nic in his unmistakeable style. You can find them everywhere, I even spotted one in a store on a recent trip to LA. 

Mike from Belly Kids (the publisher) got in touch out of the blue asking me to contribute to a colouring book idea he had. I was a little unsure how I'd make my painting work for a colouring book and I nearly did a line drawing instead. Luckily Mike liked the painted image so much that he put it on the cover. I obviously thought the book was a great idea, but I had no idea that people would go as crazy for it as they did. I found the original painting the other day, and I'd accidentally been mixing colours on the back...

Let's talk about record sleeves. Are there any that stick out in your mind from browsing stores when you were a kid and which sleeve do you wish you designed yourself?

Record stores were like galleries to me, I often bought albums just because the record sleeve did something interesting for me and I discovered some great stuff that way (Seekonk Pinkwood comes to mind). Anything painted, drawn, unpolished and visceral usually grabbed my attention. Bob Dylan's painting on the cover of 'Music from Big Pink', Robert Pollard's collages for Guided by Voices, Pavement's 'Brighten the Corners', Frank Zappa sleeves, Iron and Wine 'The Shepherds Dog', Beck 'The Information'... When I was an illustration student my final project was a deluxe repackaging of Elliott Smith's 'Roman Candle'. I actually love the photograph on the cover of that record, but I wanted to see what would happen if it was illustrated instead. I'd like to do the same for Midlake's 'Bamnan and Slivercork'. That album is so lyrically visual, there's a clear narrative I'm just aching to draw. One handed machinists, a balloon maker, junglers, monocle-men...

For your musical projects you always contribute the art whether it be gig posters, zines or sleeve designs, would you ever trust this job with another artist or do you feel it is too intertwined with the songs themselves?

Sometimes I'd love to hand it over and see what someone else would do with it. There's so many people I admire and would trust to do a great job... But I always feel like it needs to be me, and like you say there's a shared ethos with the drawing and recording, it seems to work. That's not to say it's easy though, my own record sleeves are the things I do and redo over and over, I'm never satisfied, my own worst client! It's harder to have a pure reaction to your own music, you're too close to the struggle of it and the circumstances of its creation sometimes.

I can often imagine many of your characters coming to life in animated form, is this something you'd like to explore in the future? 

Yes, I love to animate, and have collaborated with some wonderful animators, but often on project slightly sideways of my own interests. I'm working on my own story telling and longer forms of narrative so we'll see if that doesn't lead to some more animation in the future. 

Are there any geographical places that inspire your art or ideas?

My mother is American, and I hop back over there when I can. Portland Maine, New Hampshire, Boston are places I discovered a lot of the records I love (thanks Bull Moose Records & Newbury Comics), and that landscape, endless woods, flakey wooden town houses, fireflies... I lived in the Seychelles for a few years as a child too, tropical plants at night, ghost stories, and hidden pirate treasures are things I take from there. I'm currently renting a medieval house, I love timber frames and puffy sleeves too. I used to not be very interested in the English landscape, but I think it's going to be more important going forward.

What's been your favourite project to work on and is there a particular project out there you'd love to have a go at?

I got to produce some animated GIFs for Save the Children recently, which was a really challenging project to do, telling the story of an internally displaced refugee in Afghanistan. I was really surprised that I got to do something like that, and that I was able to translate my visuals in to something serious and purposeful in a different way. I've always said I'd love to do the seat patterns for TFL? How about they let me redo the Northern Line?

My Dad paints watercolours and often gets fixated on a certain artist or record for a long time while working. Do you have any go to artists you like to listen to while you work?

In the idea generating stage I can't have anything on anymore, I'm too easily distracted! But once the idea is crystallised and I'm just producing work I really like anything by Grouper, Ali Farka, Tinariwen, Deru, A Hawk and a Hacksaw... instrumental mostly. You've got to keep that language part of your brain shut off!

I can't imagine the answer for this being a no but are you a collector of anything? Haha, yes. For one reason or another I have: Postcards of Volcanic Eruptions, matchbox labels, plastic animals, toy trees, zines, riso prints, composition notebooks.

And finally, what's the latest with your musical projects? I hear there is a new Oro Swimming Hour record in the pipeline?

Yes! The new record is finished, there's a slightly broader sound palette this time and even more tracks, even eerier. Process wise it's still very spur-of-the-moment, songs recorded as they're being written, intensely collaborative and open. It's nice because I'm still surprised when I listen back, did we do that? I don't remember, it all happened so fast. I will most definitely be appearing sometime in 2019.I suspect you'll be hearing more from Lucky Shivers this year too, we're much more methodical and careful over those songs, but there's a record slowly being chipped away at!

You can find more of Nic’s work by visiting the link below to his homepage or following him on Instagram. Look out for further posts in this series as I talk to the other artists who have helped shape Super Fans visual identity.

www.nicholasstevenson.com @nicholasillustration

[drferox]

20 questions with Dr Ferox #4

It’s that time of the week again where I try to shrink my inbox by answering 20 of your questions all in one go. This seems to be working well, and I must thank everyone who has endeavored to use the search function this week. I’ve tried to tag folks, but if you’ve sent in anonymous questions you’ll have to read through and look to see if you’ve been answered.

A lovely, understanding anonymous said: Have you ever had players in your DnD group not get along? Also, if you ever feel stressed out about the number of asks, don't feel like you have to immediately respond to us. It's a blog, we get it. Nobody is waiting on a time-sensitive diagnosis from a blog (or at least they fuckin shouldn't be), and we can wait. Prioritize yourself, we're a bunch of randos asking about dog food on the Internet.

Well, nobody should be waiting for a time sensitive diagnosis from any vet blog any more. I’d hoped I’d been clear enough by now why it’s not appropriate to ask specific veterinary advice from myself, or any other vetblrs on here.

But yes, I have had players in my D&D groups not get along, but I had enough players to keep them separate most of the time. Dungeons & Dragon is supposed to be fun, it’s a game, so it’s meant to be fun. Aside from other skills you learn playing roleplaying games, managing a group of people is definitely one you pick up. Humans are human, we don’t all get along all of the time.

@kabjl asked: Would it be theoretically possible to have a viable hybrid offspring of a house cat and a wild large cat like a lion or tiger?

Unlikely. House cats belong to the Felinae subfamily and lions and tigers belong to the Pantherinae subfamily. While Pantherinae species can hybridize (eg tiger and lion) and Felinae species can hybridize (eg domestic cat with anything), the offspring are usually infertile. I don’t think it’s possible for a Felinae X Pantherinae hybrid to be viable.

@a-floral-ghost asked: What's your favorite animal name you've come across? Mine is a cat named Chuck

Hmm, that’s a interesting question. There are no many pets and names to try to remember. I must profess a fondness for Pat the Cat.

@curiouspinecones said: What is the best and worst pet name you've come across? I work in a pathology lab within a vet practice and I quite like when patients have really human names (Dave the cat is always a good one). The worst has to a Labrador called "Daddy", that is totally not okay...

Again, an interesting question. There are lots of names that are unoriginal and boring, but it’s the straight up racist names that I don’t like.

Anonymous asked: Hi! I read somewhere on tumblr that because of the cat's particular tastebuds, they can't taste sweet things. If that's true, does that also mean they can't smell sweet things, since taste and smell go hand-in-hand? Question tax: Came for the dog breed facts, stayed for the vet stories and knowledge.

Well, none of us actually smell sweet. You can smell things you associate with sweet foods by learning, but you’re not smelling ‘sweet’ as such.

Another Anonymous said: Have you ever met a hamster? I know we're not allowed to have them in Australia, but I'm curious about whether you've been exposed to one during the process of learning vet medicine. I know I feel odd about never having seen a hamster in real life, since it's such a common pet elsewhere...

I’ve never seen a hamster in the flesh. They’re not legal in Australia, neither are gerbils of chinchillas. I have seen one on an animal handling video though.

@fox-noodle said: I forgot the question tax, my apologies! My rat Apollo is almost 2 1/2 and recently went to the vet for what I thought were tumours, but are actually testicles. They only started showing a few months ago, I've now separated him and he has two male buddies now. Is this common in rats? I've only ever heard of something similar (cryptochoridism) in dogs, could that be what he has? Question tax- came for the interesting euthanasia posts (its helped me a lot), stayed for the interesting vet stories

Can’t say I have. That’s a very long delay for that rat to develop testes, and I’d have to wonder if it’s intersex in some way.

Dogs with cryptochidism have testes, they just haven’t descended into the scrotum. They never descend into the scrotum, sometimes they’re stuck in the abdomen and sometimes they’re in the groin, so I don’t think it’s the same process at work. Sorry I can’t be more help.

@rebanndon said: I've read in an article or two, that for active dog breeds like border collies leaving them entire until 18 months of age is a way to reduce the risk of cruciate ligament tears because the bone is able to fill out? There's little/no proof behind the claim reproductive hormomes are linked to aiding ligament growth.  So, in your experience do you see more cruciate cases in active desexed dogs or active entire dogs? Or simply no link at all and desexing should just be done at 6 months regardless?

I’ve written a fairy in-depth article on age of desexing here.

There propably is a benefit in delaying desexing for larger breeds overall, but for most small breeds 6 months still seems about right.

Anonymous said: Isnt't it bad to declaw a cat? Since they are digitigrade doesn't removing the claws hurt their bone structure?

... Yes. That wasn’t up for debate. I’ve discussed this here.

Unobservant Anonymous said: Do you have any advice for a cat with a herniated spinal disk? QoL is still good, he's a happy boy who sometimes has trouble lifting up his back legs and needs stairs up couches and to litterbox. Eats, drinks, purrs and seeks attenion like a champ but sometimes when he grooms himself that it looks like he's got a pinched nerve and has discomfort / spasms reaching for his back feet. Vet has been seen, on cosequin every other dayvand daily gentle stretches. Anything else I can do?

Hey, so, from a legal and ethical perspective I can’t give you specific veterinary advice about a cat that is not one of my direct patients. It’s dangerous and unethical to do so. But go talk to your vet, Cosequin is a joint supplement, not pain relief, there are at least three different medications you could consider.

Anonymous said: Oh my god, you're allergic to bunnies? I want to be a vet too, and so am I XD glad to see I'm not the only one lmao

Yup, allergic to rabbits, rye grass, and dogs (sort of). And nuts, which makes the mixed boxes of chocolates gifted to the clinic very interesting.

Anonymous asked: Working as a veterinarian, do you ever get the urge to adopt the pets in the shelter?

Not from shelters, I just don’t go near them any more. Stray kittens in the vet clinic though are another matter...

Anonymous said: About the uncomfortable animals thing- I was referring to where you said primates are in the  uncanny valley

Lots of vets have certain animals, or breeds of animals, that they just don’t want to deal with. For me, primates make me uncomfortable. Not because they’re creepy, but because they’re clever and I can’t reliably know how clever they are, and whether what we’re doing with them is ethical.

I also don’t intend to go treat horses every again, and I know lots of vets that are averse to large animal practice or outright phobic of birds.

Yet Another Anonymous said: Hey! I'm wondering if you get much experience with our Aussie staghounds (enough to write a breed evaluation on them)? Or if not, maybe just a bit about the general hunting-type Australian dogs? (staghounds, bull arabs, and the many many similar mixes). Question tax: came because I'd always wanted to be a vet and I LOVE anatomy, stayed for the awesome info and even more wonderful stories.

I haven’t seen any staghounds down here, but I’m pretty South and suburban now, not really a much of a hunting culture around here. You can find the Bull arab post here, but are welcome to use the search function for any other breeds of interest.

@orgasmicplushtoy asked: Can you do a write up on small munsterlanders? If not that's okay.

I actually had to look up the three Munsterlander dogs I’ve seen, because I didn’t know ‘large’ and ‘small’ munsterlanders were totally different breeds.

Turns out all three I’ve seen are large ones, over 30kg each. Short version: They all got cancer.

Anonymous asked: Do you see any Greater Swiss Mountain Dogs at your practice? For some reason we see a lot at our clinic and though some of them are fine- they have earned the moniker "Sketchy Swiss." As in: I have to muzzle a 6 month old Swiss puppy because it barks, growls, and lunges at me while I try to TPR. Several of the ones we see have been diagnosed with Wobbler syndrome and various other orthopedic issues. Just curious if you've had similar experiences. Thanks- love your posts!

Sorry, no. They’re quite big and not popular here, I don’t think I’ve ever come across them. Large breeds in general are less common. 

Anonymous said: I don't suppose you've done any evaluations on working cocker spaniels/sprocker/Russian spaniels?

Nope, not yet. There’s 30 waiting in the queue for me to get to them. I have said before though that I’m not answering breed posts that asked for more than one breed in the same post. It just gets too long, confusing and messy if I do. Besides, it’s rather cheeky to ask for more than one in one question, isn’t it?

Another Anonymous said: If you enjoy a little wildlife voyeurism, there are about a half dozen bird cams linked on Cornell's "All About Birds" webpage, and the owls have owlets. There's not really a question here. You have a stressful job, and I thought you might enjoy wasting some time watching the bird feeder or trying to see the baby owls under mum's fluffy owl butt.

Thanks for the thought, I’m sure some followers will find it useful. Personally I try to relax without animal things. I find it helpful to seek out activities that engage different parts of my brain compared to what work does.

@slowdown-its-a-science said: Please give us lots of updates on Trash Bag

I’m sure I will.

@herebelife said: Ps did you read the article about the bilby triplets? Bilby triplets!

I hadn’t, but I have now and will share them with you.

[not-poignant]

For "Stuck on the Puzzle", if that's ok-- I know you're kind of "off" the DA fandom, so no worried if you don't want to think about it right now :) 2: What scene did you first put down? or 4: What’s your favorite line of dialogue? or 5: What part was hardest to write? or all?

I’m totally okay to write about Stuck on the Puzzle! :D (And I’m still thinking about future stories and stuff, I sort of drift all over the place fandom-wise. I wish I had more time for reading/writing - like if I wasn’t working on two original stories and one epic fanfic right now I’d also be working on Cold Red Light).

I’m answering all of these. e.e

2: What scene did you first put down?

Y’know, the first scene I put down, hmmm.... actually it was the first chapter? But I wrote the first chapter as a standalone (I mean a standalone that...promised a lot more, but I genuinely thought that was all I’d write) for a Cullen/Bull prompt week where one of the prompts was ‘negotiation.’ And I just kind of had this concept of Cullen being the most awkward person ever and then I thought maybe he wouldn’t negotiate for sex, but corporal punishment because I wanted to try something a little different to what I’d seen in the rarepair so far.

So that actually came pretty naturally. :D

4: What’s your favorite line of dialogue?

*casually spends like an hour going through the story.*

All the exchanges where Bull is itemising all the things that he thinks Cullen is attracted to, and Cullen immediately starts gnashing his teeth. And that this continues across the story, all the way to item number 6, lol.

Many of Cullen’s rants I really enjoyed for how bitchy they were. There’s a point where he just belligerently goes off his top re: Searidge and he says:

‘You telegraphed your concern,’ Bull said, and the flash of anger Cullen felt then was too large to contain.

‘Do you think I’m unaware of that?’ Cullen said, turning on Bull. ‘Do you think I didn’t know that’s exactly what I was doing? It was what he was waiting for. Of course he knows that it matters, because it matters! I apologise that we haven’t all had the training that you’ve had, some of us weren’t sent to the equivalent of a qunari intelligence university. It’s not as though I didn’t try to pretend it didn’t matter. But he already knows it does. If you came up here to tell me I should have presented a better game face to him, I’m going to agree with you, and then I’m going to tell you to get out.’ // ‘There,’ Cullen said, staring at him, ‘is that mouthy enough for you?’

Anything like that, I really love rereading.

And for some reason I feel like I had an okay handle on Cassandra’s dialogue? So there are some of her lines that I just love because I can really hear her voice in it:

‘I already have that,’ Cullen said, and felt like they were in some staring competition where she was mentally trying to will him into saying yes. The worst part was he could already feel it working. Like a willow branch being bent slowly into place. ‘No, Cassandra. It’s not my idea of a good night. It’s not-’

‘It’s no one’s idea of a good night!’ she exclaimed. ‘The children will be nervous. The adults will be wanting it to be over. We all know it’s meant to be late spring but it will probably snow. I’m not sure anyone really enjoys Summerday. That is what…’ Cassandra waved her hand, ‘the frivolities of Satinalia or even Wintersend are for. You were Knight-Commander, it would have been your duty to oversee the Templars during their coming-of-age, yes?’

Like that’s not the most interesting exchange or anything and I’m sure some people skip it but I just think that moment where she says: ‘we all know it’s meant to be late spring but it will probably snow’ will go down as probably my favourite Cassandra line that I’ve ever written because I can just hear the exasperated way she says it.

Oh and finally this: 

‘Oh really?’ Cullen said, turning his hand so that his fingers could touch Bull’s palm. ‘You like the criminal element?’

‘Yeah,’ Bull said, and Cullen could hear the smile in his voice. ‘Show me someone who practices the petty theft of floggers, and I’ll show you a hard on.’

(And the exchange that follows it).

5: What part was hardest to write? or all?

Haha, I had major areas of writer’s block throughout Stuck on the Puzzle, but easily the hardest scenes were always the sex scenes. It took me a while to get what was going on there, it was partly my own irl discomfort in writing sex scenes (I went through a period of like a year and a half thinking I was trash at them and I’m only just now coming out of it), and then it was actually kind of vibing too hard with Cullen’s demisexuality / awkwardness around sex in general.

So what would happen is I’d start of the scene in Cullen’s headspace given he’s the narrator, and Cullen was always like ‘honestly I don’t really care about the sex :/’ and then mysteriously as the writer I’d be like ‘I don’t...really feel this sex scene. I don’t even feel like it’s hot. Idk, what the hell...’ And later I realised that once Bull sort of started to get going, and Cullen started to see the point, it was like ‘oh holy shit. It’s a block because of Cullen’s character.’ It was the weirdest thing, and it also always happened, even once I knew it was there and what was causing it.

The punishment scene was tough, because writing the difference between ‘flogging that is punishment’ and ‘flogging that is reward’ within the same scene was a weird sort of dance where I worried it wouldn’t come across. There’s a moment where Cullen’s like ‘how is something I really like ever going to be a punishment?’ and I’m like ‘I feel ya buddy. I feel ya.’ Lol. I mean I got there in the end, but I sort of had to think through that scene a lot, and I’m not entirely sure I got exactly to where I wanted to get to. Like, I think I achieved some of what I wanted to, but not all.

The action scene regarding Cullen / the red lyrium / having the infection etc. was also pretty difficult mostly because it was the most ‘in canon’ thing I did (i.e. situating it within an actual event people have played, using real-time dialogue) and there were a lot of moving parts given it was an ensemble team and Cullen was on the downward spiral of ‘hey I have a major infection that’s scrambling my brain.’

(Conversely some parts really flowed. I came to really look forward to Cullen and Bull having discussions together, because even if their progress came in stops and starts, there was something about them both in a room that just had me writing very happily, forever).

[anne-moss-blog]

The Panty Thief of Bridgeport

Ed Wagemann hasn’t changed much in the last 20 years. He might actually be wearing the exact same socks he wore in 1997 in fact. That may sound like an insult, but Sir Edward (as he now insists on being addressed during interviews) takes insults as compliments, and vice a versa. I met up with him on an rainy May day at his favorite burrito place in Chicago’s Pilsen neighborhood to discuss the revision of his first novel The Panty Thief of Bridgeport.

Me: Sir Edward, You recently decided to revise your 1997 novel The Panty Thief of Bridgeport [PTOB]. Why?

Sir Edward: I use Panty Thief like a priest uses his Bible, kinda…

…long pause… [as I wait for what sounds like the set up to a Catholic Church joke]

Me: And how’s that?

Sir Edward: Whenever I get bored or stuck with whatever I’m currently writing I will go back and start picking away at Panty Thief.

Me: And that helps you get inspired?

Sir Edward: It reminds me that I should be having fun. [chuckles] This time around though I took a different approach. I decided to use the collective wisdom of the Internet to actually give Panty Thief the overhaul it has needed for awhile now.

Me: Tell me how that’s going.

Sir Edward: Great, if you like a bunch of smart ass trolls and Lit snobs telling you what a shit writer you are [chuckles again]. What I did was I started a blog where I’ll release one or two chapters of Panty Thief every couple of days and then I blanketed a bunch of writer’s groups on the internet with these open invites to come and participate in what I described as ‘the historical first EVER Interactive Revision of a published novel’… Then I sat back and watched the train wreck.

Me: Is that true? That this was the first EVER Interactive Revision?

Sir Edward: Hell if I know. But I got some actual feedback that I could use and I even met a couple of folks who actually dug it.

Me: And did you actually make any revisions to it based on that feedback?

Sir Edward: Yeah, some. Not as much as people thought I should though… One thing I did when I was inviting readers, writers, editors, etc to the Historical Interactive Revision was that I included a contest, sort of. I said that I would write two brand brand new characters into the novel who will be based on actual people that contribute comments to the Interactive Revision. But then I didn’t follow through.

[I found out later that more than one person threatened to sue Wagemann if he used their likeness in his novel. This may explain why he bailed on his idea of inserting characters in PTOB based on people who made comments during the Interactive Revision.]

Me: Hmm….

Sir Edward: Next Question! [laughs]

Me: During this Interactive Revision, what were the biggest criticisms of The Panty Thief of Bridgeport?

Sir Edward: You know, the usual. There were complaints about sentences that are too long or complaints about switching from present tense to past tense then back to present tense again. There were complaints of switching back and forth between active voice and passive voice… There was this one Lit-Nazi who actually put The Panty Thief through some computer program that analyzes writing. Oh man, I gave that Puritan an earful!

Me: Oh no, what did it is say?

Sir Edward: Well of course this computer program shot the novel to hell, pointing out that I used the word “that” 500 thousand times and that I made one million and six thousand and 32 word usage mistakes, and this and that. It made me laugh really, because I can’t name one computer that ever wrote a great novel, so why the fuck should a computer be trying to tell anyone how to write a novel?

Me: You’re talking about Grammarly, or the Hemingway Editor. They are computer software, not actual computers.

Sir Edward: Is that what they are? Well yeah, I don’t give a fuck. And I asked this Nazi if they had tried that computer analyzer on Catcher In The Rye? Or A Clockwork Orange? Or One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest? The stats on any of those are probably a million times worst than Panty Thief… The obvious problem with these computer analyzers is they don’t account for the individual voice of a first person narrator. So I kindly thanked the Nazi for their input but told her that I don’t put much stock in the paint-by-numbers computerized approach to creative writing. I mean WHO programs these computer programs? And what fucking standard are they using? Some elitist, grammar snob literary society standard that Hubert Selby would wipe his ass with.

Me: You mentioned The Panty Thief of Bridgeport was criticized for having sentences that were too long.

Sir Edward: I did?

Me: [looking down at my notes] That’s what I have written here in my notes.

Sir Edward: Oh well, if its written in your notes… [For the record, the audio playback of this interview confirmed I was correct]

Me: So what is YOUR opinion of overly lengthy sentences?

Sir Edward: That’s just another bull shit criticism. I mean, it might have something to do with the fact that we live in such a short attention span culture and we are being conditioned to process things in these nice little soundbites.

Me: But doesn’t the idea of short, economical sentences go back to Hemingway and his tip of the iceberg approach to fiction?

Sir Edward: Fuck Hemingway. Hemingway can suck the tip of MY iceberg, that no talent hack… [awkward laugh]. I personally don’t count the words in my sentences. And if a reader is distracted by the length of the sentences in a novel, then that means the content must be pretty fucking boring. Plus, you know, there’s the argument that long sentences can actually quicken the pace of the reader. Especially in a first person narrative. It can give the impression that the author is thinking quickly, that he or she is in a hurry and that there is an urgency to what they have to say… Unlike something like Camus’ The Stranger, which has a lot of short sentences and seems like the narrator is really going slow. So, it can be a pacing thing. But mostly it depends on the narrator’s voice. If the narrator I create for a story thinks and talks in long sentences, then I have to be true to that. Also it depends on the situation the narrator is in. Some times the narrator may be thinking in long sentences and some times he or she might be thinking in short ones… [Wagemann pauses to take a bite of his burito] And by the way, the same thing goes for cliches. The use of cliches is perfect, if the narrator thinks in cliches… like the narrator in The Killer Inside Me [by Jim Thompson]… it just depends on the narrator’s voice.

Me: Speaking of the narrator’s voice, you once gave me a very unconventional rational for switching back and forth between active voice and passive voice in The Panty Thief of Bridgeport. Do you remember that?

Sir Edward: Well, yeah, a central locamotion that keeps Panty Thief’s story moving is this clash between the narrator and the “mechanism” inside him that is trying to regulate his actions. So to differentiate between when the “narrative reality” is being controlled by this mechanism as opposed to the first person narrator I will slip into passive voice. So instead of saying “I listened to the music” the narrator will say something like “The music came to my ears and invaded my brain” or some shit. But that’s another thing that Lit-Nazi’s gas me with, all this switching back and forth between active and passive voice. Its just not proper they say…

Me: Well, it’s pretty experimental, don’t you think?

Sir Edward: Well, if it is experimental, then the Lit Nazi’s are just admitting that they aren’t open-minded enough to digest it. Which is no reason to criticize me. They should be criticizing themselves! [laughs]

Me: As you alluded to, the plot of PTOB hinges on the development and realization of some mysterious “mechanism” that lies within the narrator. This mechanism sends physical cues to guide the narrator. You use a succession of examples to illustrate how the mechanism does this, most of which are shown through flashbacks. Some are very recent flashbacks, while others happened years prior. So this means you are jumping around in time and space and you have to switch from present tense to past tense and then back to present tense again at the end. My question is, with so much jumping around, wouldn’t it have been better just to do the entire thing in past tense?

Sir Edward. Well, ask yourself why does anyone write anything in present tense instead of past tense? And I think the answer, in part, is to provide a certain real-time immediacy to the narrative. And I wanted that at the time I wrote it. Its the decision I made, so I’m sticking with it.

Me: Why use so many flashbacks though, more than 3/4 of the novel is in flashback.

Sir Edward: Really? That much?

Me: Yes, and after the opening chapter there is a series of flashbacks that for the most part are not in chronological order.

Sir Edward: Right, they are in the order that certain plot points need to be revealed. Then, at the end, when all of the plot points are fully realized, the narrator returns to present tense. You know, I’m a big fan of the flashback. In Panty Thief these flashbacks are there to answer certain questions while at the same time they are there to create other questions. Is this ‘mechanism’ a tool of god? Is the narrator simply insane? Is this mechanism a force of good? A force of evil? Is it all just a psychological trick the narrator has created to survive? Or is it just part of a complicated scheme to win the love of a woman? And so, its these questions and answers that move the story forward… it’s a ‘the more you know, the less you know’ kind of thing…

Me: But isn’t it hard to keep the reader engaged with all of these changes in time and place? Don’t you think it can disorient some readers?

Sir Edward: I really had to work hard on my transitions, to make sure they aren’t confusing. I’ve taken pains to put things into context in a way that keeps the story flowing and coherent… But I also think that all these changes in time and place challenges readers, and that’s a good thing because it keeps their imaginations working. And I admit I enjoy challenging readers because I like being challenged myself, when I read. But of course, this isn’t for everyone – most people want sugary breakfast cereal and bubblegum, Harry Potter and 50 Shades Of Gray shit. But there are those of us who get off on being challenged…

Me: And those are the people that The Panty Thief of Bridgeport was written for?

Sir Edward: Sure.