#freedom tastes very sweet indeed!!!

[thebirdandhersong]

I think it is very telling that the first thing I did after finishing my last two exams was do an undignified jig, pump my fist in the air, dump all my school books at home, leg it to a nearby cafe, order a medium matcha latte with oat milk, and proceed to write Lockwood and Co fanfic for four hours

[yandere-sins]

How'd you think Yandere luci and Yandere Mammon would deal with a S/O who's hiding the fact they're a virgin and is always trying to avoid intercourse by excuses like pretending to be asleep etc because they don't want to lose their virginity to them? (ALSO BTW, I LOVE YOUR WORK. like your work is super amazing and detailed <3 best yan writer)

Thank you for reading my writing!! I am so glad you enjoy it ^-^

And thank you for requesting! ♥

Warning: Yandere, Sexual Content

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

Lucifer

♡ As if he doesn't know. You might be able to fool another human, and maybe someone as dense as Mammon, but you can't fool Lucifer. He had already noticed you shying away from his touch, the goosebumps and sudden tension that would go through you every time he touched you (rather innocently even). It's like you expected something to happen and are unsure how to react. Maybe you don't want it, perhaps you do, but your signals aren't very clear, and that makes him suspect you.

♡ He could blame it on some form of trauma that he doesn't know about, but he'd expect your reactions to be a bit more violent or fueled by rejection if that was the case. Instead, they are bashful and tense, with a taste of sweetness and innocence that Lucifer quite likes. And he caught Asmo giving you a knowing look once while you seemed even more hesitant to approach the 5th oldest brother; you made it much too easy for Lucifer to figure out what kind of game you were playing.

♡ So, he'll play along for a while since it's now in his control. You might not be a well-aged drop of lust yet, but delaying the inevitable is going to do you both well. Riling you up, getting you to let down your guard, and leaving you hot and bothered will benefit Lucifer greatly. Seeing your walls crumble will be enough to satisfy him for a while, so he won't have to put his hands on you prematurely. You may simmer on the knowledge that he'll take your virginity at some point, be sensitive, and get confused at times over his actions. Maybe even fantasize what it'll be like. Will he be rough? Gentle? Ease you into it or brutal steal your innocence like he did with your freedom? Letting your thoughts and desires run wild, no matter how much you want to deny them, will almost guarantee that once you are ready, you'll be at a point where you'll crawl to him, begging for release. And Lucifer likes that idea very much.

♡ Things he'll do to chip away at your defense include but aren't limited to spooning up against you at night, his cock perfectly pressed against your body but not grinding against you. Just letting you know it's there and ready for you and allowing you to get used to it but never letting you scoot away. The same is true with his hand placement at night, his palm at your lower abdomen, just resting there, and his fingertips slipping beneath your clothes to leave feathery trails of allurement. So close yet far enough away, teasing, playful, promising. The warmth it emits seeping into your body, heating you up, only for him to retract and leaving you hanging. Sometimes, his fingers will play with your clothes, letting you know just how agile they are. Your mind will do the rest as you can imagine the chaos and pleasure they can leave in their wake. He wears human pheromones suited to your taste, and he'll flirt with you, complimenting you even when you feel vulnerable, letting you know how receptive he is to taking the next step. It's only a matter of time until you cave, but Lucifer will do everything to make it the hardest few days of your life.

Mammon

♡ Mammon is indeed a little dense. He might feel a bit off-put if you reject his advances repeatedly, but he doesn't see anything wrong with it the first few times. There is absolutely no subtlety in his advances, his kisses bordering on orgasm-territory already when he's in the mood, his hands greedy as is fitting for his title. You might be forced into these affections, but even you can't help but squirm beneath him. It only gives him more incentive to take it up a notch when he's just so passionate, your lips constantly bruised, and your neck marked by his teeth.

♡ So it becomes very frustrating and confusing for him when you kick and scream the moment he gets a bit more intimate. He'd like to respect your choice despite him not giving you one when it comes to whether or not you'll be with him for the rest of your life. Mammon likes to think he's gracious like that. But he thought you two were on the right path to taking the next step, yet you keep rejecting him. To be fair, he's been very clear that he wants you for a long time: Grinding against you, fondling your body even though he should be concentrating on other things. You've caught him jerking off next to you, moaning your name quite a few times even though you pretended to be asleep. And if that isn't clear enough, he's been nagging and sometimes even begging on his knees for you to give him some of that sweet body of yours to fuck. You've rejected him all the same, so for Mammon, it hints at something being seriously wrong, but he can't quite figure it out himself.

♡ It takes some... advice from more experienced individuals for him to come to a conclusion. Levi thinks perhaps he smells bad, Satan questions why anyone would want to be with Mammon in the first place, and Beel asks if maybe you're too hungry for any of that stuff and if Mammon fed you properly. But hey, at least Asmo is useful, hinting at the possibility of you feeling... insecure. Maybe you're too "inexperienced" (Mammon vehemently denies the possibility of you being a virgin, cause duh, look at you! Stunning, gorgeous, and he will totally kill anyone who touched you before him, but clearly, with how seductive and sexy you are, he can't possibily your first). So Mammon deducts Asmo is right; you're just nervous because you'll be with a great guy like Mammon!

♡ Worry not; he decides to show you the ropes! ... Literally. You might stutter and reject his ideas of getting close and personal, but Asmodeus had a handy bag of goodies for Mammon before he left. Even though Mammon is at his limit, he tries to keep it together for you, tying you up and making you watch him jerk off, reciting all the things he wants to do to you, how he'll do it, and showing you how insane you are driving him. There won't be any more nights to hide away after that, as Mammon will demonstrate to you exactly how worthy you are to lay with him. But at least he'll ease you into it, that's something, right? You'll get the full 7 hells of orgasms from his mouth to fingers to toys. Forcing you to rely on him as he takes away your senses, like sight, and the freedom to move as you please. By the time he finally gets to wet his cock on you, you'll be already too well-fucked to care, and if that isn't devotion, what is?

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

09 — I'M HIGHER THAN THE HOPES THAT YOU BROUGHT DOWN

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. read on wattpad.

<- previous part | next part ->

When you had taken down the organisation by Shepherd’s side, it was the beginning of everything.

The first time you had drawn someone else’s blood was with a rifle in your hand and a vengeance burning in your veins. A single order from your General – your only support – to kill anyone with the organisation’s uniform. Anyone who raised a scope to you.

It’s difficult, usually, to remember what had happened. 

Sometimes, in your deepest of sleeps, the nightmares of your past came to haunt you. Flashes of blood on your skin, corpses underneath your feet, the crackle of a radio sounding in an empty room.

A congratulations from your General.

Congratulations for seeking revenge, and executing it like a soldier well-trained. Another cog in the military’s rusting machine. A weapon for them, more than a human with free will and determination.

You’d thrown up, after it all.

Heaving, sweating, crying, the endless guilt of what you’d just done. Were you no better than them? Sure, they’d killed your mother, but you had just carried out the same in turn. Tenfold. They had families that they’d never report back to. Families that they’d never get to say goodbye to. Dinner left untouched.

Shepherd had pat your back – then, he’d been in service, active duty. You hadn’t known it, but taking down the organisation was his last mission.

You never even learnt the name of the organisation. Shepherd had said that it was better that way, to detach yourself, not get yourself muddled with the logistics of it all. You weren’t meant for that. You were meant for weaponry and death and destruction.

That night, when you laid awake in the small camp set-up just a few klicks out from the organisation's site, you determined that you wouldn’t take another’s life without certainty. Unless it was for defence.

That night, you’d known that you would ask to be trained for field medicine.

Oh, how naive you had been. Young, aching for a chance to get revenge, to get what you felt you deserved.

Ten days later, you met one Phillip Graves.

A day after that, he offered you a place within the beginning of his mercenary company.

Half an hour after you signed the contract, General Shepherd announced that he was no longer suitable for active duty.

How naive indeed.

*

You think, in the very back of your mind, with the smallest grip you have on thought, that you’ve been carried to safety by men more than you have in your life, these past few days.

In and out, your mind wavers, senses completely gone, consciousness an impossible thing.

Minutes, hours, days. You’re not sure. How does time even work? What is time? Are you alive? Is this death? Another third, universally unknown state, an in between?

These past few days, the utter mess your life has become, has it finally worn you out? Destroyed you from the inside, shrapnel embedded into your flesh? A direct hit, a ticking time bomb gone wrong? A suicide mission with no preparation, no warning, no hope?

If you could, you’d cry.

Let tears fall down your cheeks, crystalline and pure against your dirtied and sinful skin. A mocking of all things good and right and beautiful.

Oh to be beautiful. To be right. To be good.

Heaven would taste like fairy floss melting against your tongue, you think. Sweet and pink and soft. It would furl around your tongue, season your mouth with the feeling of cotton and freedom.

White.

White blinds every inch of your body, the darkness of your eyelids lit with the shade. Chemicals fill the air, a stagnant, all too damning smell. Beeping, too, a constant background noise as you slowly come to.

Hospital – or, at the very least, a Med Bay. It’s something quite familiar, but the feeling of being a patient in one is a very rare instance for you.

That feeling of blood, sticky against your face and arm, has gone. Instead, the itch of fabric and bandage replaces it, an IV drip attached to your inner arm an annoying sting. Your hair feels as if it’s been carefully spread over the pillow underneath your head, a blanket wrapped over your form.

If your spatial awareness is at all correct, you think you can sense a few other people in the room, too. Soft murmuring chimes in over the beeping, now, as you return to full consciousness.

“Can’t believe all three of ‘em are down.”

Gaz – that honey-esque, smooth voice instantly has you recognising the Sergeant. From where his voice is coming from, he seems to be sat beside your bed. 

“It’s not your fault, Kyle.”

Price. Captain. He sounds… softer than you’ve ever heard him. Lost, maybe, upset. Disappointed? It’s hard to place, his tone, but it seems almost forlorn.

“Had a whole fuckin’ team of Marines and we couldn’t make it to ‘im in time. If it wasn’t for her–”

“I know, Sergeant,” Price snaps, shutting down the younger man’s nervous, distressed rambling. A scrape of a chair sounds, the sound of pacing footfalls a moment later. “There wasn’t anything we could do – and it’s not like any of ‘em are dying, now are they?”

“Don’t act like this didn’t affect you either, Captain,” Gaz bites back in return, his chair, too, scraping against the linoleum floor. “I heard your yell clear as day.”

“I can and will write you up for insubordination, Garrick,” Price warns, stern and cold.

Gaz’s responding laugh is biting, grating. “No, you won’t, Price. Because if you do that, you’ll have to report the others too. You really wanna risk losing us all?”

“Don’t test me.”

“Thought you liked that about me, Cap.”

“Kyle –”

“Good morning to you, too.”

Both men turn, then, to look at you with wide eyes. With a small groan, you move to sit up, eyes burning with the sudden overhead lights. Your shoulder aches, your cheek, too, but not as badly as they had before.

“Be careful, don’t –” Gaz goes to say, moving towards you, before you show him your palm.

“I’m fine. I know my limits, Gaz,” you say, a small reprimand as you shift into a comfortable position. “I’ll be out of this bed within the hour if I can help it.”

“You dislocated your shoulder,” Price says, insistent, brows furrowed as he looks down at you, arms folded over his chest. “It’s in a wrap. You’re lucky, Colonel, that they could perform the surgery here.”

Your brows raise.

“Surgery? How long was I out?” You frantically ask, sitting up straighter, wincing when you bump your shoulder. Your mind races with theories, fear trickling down your spine like a cold vice. There was so much you had to do – had to investigate, now.

“Only about a day. You were under anaesthesia – and your body near shut down,” Gaz leans forward as he sits, elbows on his knees. “You were awake, under high-intensity stress, for nearly four days.”

Four days? Had it really been that long? What had only felt like a day – it had been four?

You must show your inner panic on your face, because Price takes a step closer, hand moving to rest comfortably on your shoulder. He has a calming, understanding tilt to his lips that you appreciate. His eyes examine your body, before his blue eyes meet yours.

“Graves is already planning his next movement,” he says, gruff and true. His hand squeezes. “We were playing checkers, seems like he wants to play chess.”

The beep of the machines sat beside your bed and the overall feeling of hospital and gauze and injury has you realising something. A flash in the back of your mind, a bell ringing for you like a dog on a leash.

“Where’s Soap and Ghost?”

Price and Gaz share a look, before Gaz flits a nervous grimace to you. “Ghost… refused to be treated unless he was put in the same room as Soap. Soap, is, well…”

“Get yer bloody hands off me, aye am fine, let me see ‘er–”

Soap’s voice carries down the hallway, the standard-issues curtains surrounding your small area doing nothing to block the sound. Your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, Gaz buries his face in his hands, and Price heaves a long-suffering sigh, muttering something under his breath about decorum.

“Sergeant, the doctor’s –”

“Tell Sarah tha’ aye can bloody well handle maself!”

A crashing noise follows the last statement, along with the sound of confused yelling, before the curtain surrounding you gets ripped open by none other than Soap MacTavish.

His grown-out faux-mohawk is messy, obviously having been laid on for a fair bit, his eyes wide and chest pounding in sweeping movements. Fist clenched in the scratchy fabric of the curtain, his frantic eyes focus on Price and Gaz, respectively, before landing on you. His shoulders loosen, and he lets go of the curtain as he trails down your form, analysing for any injuries or a single hair out of place.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, sounding all too like that single nickname is a lifeline, “Yer alright.”

You softly shake your head, disbelieving and confused and shocked and. 

And maybe slightly grateful. Lucky, even, to have someone care for you enough to act like your very presence is their saviour. Like your blood is as worthy as their own, your lungs virtually theirs, too.

“I’m not the one that nearly fell to my death,” you exasperate, voice as soft and vulnerable as you’ve heard it. At the very least, the most open you’ve sounded since your mother was around. “Did you just kill one of the nurses to get here?”

Soap’s creeping smile turns into a full, toothy grin as he shakes his head. “Nah. That’d be Lt.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Price mutters from beside you, along with Gaz’s choked off laugh. You can’t help your own private smirk.

“And here I was, thinking you were the dog, Soap,” you tease, except for the first time, it isn’t with the intention of goading. Of poking the beast. You’re… teasing just for fun. Because it feels natural and right and.

Oh.

Oh.

Soap scoffs. “Aye, ye did say that, didn’t ya? Ye haven’t seen a guard dog like Mr. Lt, lass,” He taunts, freckles dusting his nose, the hospital lights doing nothing to wash his tan skin out.

He says, as if your world hasn’t been flipped over, shaken about, and sat down on your shoulders like a snowglobe.

He says, as if everything is fine and normal and not cataclysmic.

“The nurse is fine.” 

Everyone, including Price, jolts where they are situated, eyes darting to where Ghost leans against the wall opposite your bed, picking at his nails.

He’s.

Unlike the balaclava, of which is all you’ve known of the bulky man, the only thing covering his features is a standard black medical mask, covering his mouth and nose. No ink stains the upper half of his face, either, and for the first time – you see his hair.

Dirty blond.

It oddly suits him, the shortly cut mess, the strands hanging over his forehead and ears. What strikes you is the lack of scars from the skin you can see, the unmarred skin, the softness of it. 

He’s pretty, in a rugged, unabashed way, and what a realisation that is.

With just a black compression shirt, sleeves cut to the mid-section of his upper arms, sleeves of talented ink cover his pale skin. A snake, intricately designed, covers his left, curving around the muscle. On his right, what looks to be a Greek god, its depth shadowed with blacks and greys.

“Good to see you in one piece, too, Lieutenant,” you say, and if it was at all possible, you’d swear that sparks shoot up your spine when his deep brown eyes catch onto yours. 

He raises an uncovered brow – pale and soft. “I meant what I said,” he threatens, a glint in his eye.

So, you suppose, not all has been forgiven. Your memories are shaky at best, but a few words stand out from your confrontation – kill, belonging, rank. A promise of death, but a vow of protection, too.

“What’re you talking about?” Gaz asks, looking between the two of you with a confused expression.

Neither you, nor Ghost, break eye contact as you simultaneously say; “Nothing, Gaz.”

Both Sergeants share a look, a cheeky one, the type that no one else in the room can decipher. You had seen the way that the two shared comments, winks, hits up the back of their heads. Joking and full of life, but with an unbreakable bond between them.

Yearning was becoming too familiar of a concept for you, you were finding.

“Laswell found a hit on some intel,” Price breaks the tension of the room, hands bracing on his knees as he looks to the four of you. A grim expression settles on his face when he looks to you. “It’s in the home of one of your Lieutenants.”

Your heart stutters in your chest as you swallow around a dry mouth. “What kind of intel?”

Everyone seems to collectively move in closer – Ghost’s hand rests at his belt, Soap’s at his back pocket, Gaz’s on the chain adorning his neck, a guitar pick attached to the gold.

“Intel on an ‘organisation’,” Price says. “A group of people wanting to overtake the military, one with a rising number of members.”

It’s as if you can feel nothing but the beat of your heart, the sensation of your fingers, the pain in your chest. The organisation. They were. You and Shepherd, you hadn’t eradicated them. Maybe stumped their growth, for a while, but you hadn’t.

You hadn’t realised they were still around. Growing, even, thriving.

The urge to just cry, pour out your emotions and weep is the strongest it’s been since your mother’s funeral. To just pull up the covers over your head and let tears fall down your cheeks, mourn in your misery, scream and claw at your skin and feel.

If only you could be that woman. Just for a day.

Instead, you reply.

“When are we going?”

Soap is, both surprisingly and unsurprisingly, the first one to speak up. His hands land on his hips as he studies you with a narrowed gaze. “Ye need to rest, lass. Yer broken.”

You throw your unwrapped hand in the air, waving in their general direction. “Have you guys seen yourselves? How the fuck you’re out of your gowns is almost crazier than you storming into here gunsablazing!”

“We didn’t get a concussion, a wound on our cheek, a dislocated bloody shoulder,” Ghost challenges, and your hackles rise in turn. When he gives, you return. The moon and the sun – the two of you, always taunting the other with a bone just to see if the other will bite.

“I saved your ass,” you seethe back, and with only a small wince, you pull the IV drip from your arm. If Price or Gaz debate that move, you ignore it. “And his. I don’t seem to recall hearing a single thank you, either.” You rise on shaky legs, pushing through the ache, pushing through the thunderstorm in your chest. You turn to Soap, “So don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” you turn to Ghost, “And you don’t tell me what injuries deem me weaker! I’ve survived this long without the lot of you, and you don’t need to start babying me now.”

The silence in the room should dispel your nerves, but it only serves to increase them tenfold.

“We’ll scope out the area and decide what to do after. Five days ‘til we perform an undercover mission, I suspect.”

With a small tilt of your head, you look to Price, who rubs at his jaw, scratching at the hair lining it. He looks deep in thought – ever the calculating leader.

You sigh, quiet enough to not be heard. “Thank you, Captain.”

The wrapping around your set shoulder seems recently done, and when you move the ligament in small circles, the pain is nothing more than a dull ache. Your cheek, too, has been bandaged, but the sting is nothing if not prevalent.

Someone had spent the time putting socks on your feet, so you’re grateful for the small mercy as you move to the side table and swallow down mouthfuls of water from the plastic bottle placed there.

A thought comes to mind then.

“Where do I sleep? Or should I, um…” You trail off, because the idea of finding a shoddy motel in the middle of nowhere is definitely not a pleasant one.

Silence.

Slowly turning around, bottle in hand, your brows furrow when you see that none of them are meeting your eyes. Even Ghost, which is most definitely a first.

“Are you banishing me? Worried I have cooties?” You tease, bouncing on the soles of your feet. When no one responds again, you truly start to worry. “That was a joke,” you confirm, as if they didn’t know that.

“There’s no spare rooms,” Gaz blurts out, and your eyes go wide.

Of all the things that had briefly crossed your mind, a lack of space was most certainly not one of them. The consequences of that fact is the next thing to be brought to the forefront of your muddled ideas.

“Right,” Soap nods, as if this is a newly found concept. He gestures to Gaz, a smile creeping onto his face. “Thanks for offering to let ‘er crash with ya, lad.”

“I didn’t say that –” Gaz starts, expression slowly creeping into one of exasperation as Price interrupts with a slap to the Sergeant’s shoulder.

“Real generous, Garrick,” Price commends, moving to stand from his chair and leave the room. Ghost follows closely behind him, shooting a look between you and Kyle, simply saying, “Thanks, Sergeant.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” Gaz groans, head falling against the chair backing as he slides down the wood. Soap is quick to bound away from the room, too, with a cheerful, ‘See you tomorrow!’.

Gaz, eyes squeezed shut, seeming to try and melt into the floor, flutters one eye open to look at you where you stand. He grimaces, before slowly getting to his feet, too.

“Sorry for,” you bite at your lip, looking everywhere but at the man who seems to want to die more than host you, “Being a nuisance. Really, I’m fine sleeping at a motel, or whatever. Seriously.”

His hand grasps your chin, moving it so you’re forced to look up at him, his analysing gaze searching your own. The brown of his eyes glisten in the bright light, his features shining with it, and you’re hit with an overwhelming want to be cherished by this man. 

How bad had your concussion really been, to be making you think this way? You should really talk to Sarah about it, ask what kind of side effects came with one.

Oddly enough, you don’t think that this realisation is as sudden as you’re forcing yourself to believe.

“I didn’t,” Gaz begins, quickly looking away and setting his jaw before meeting your eyes once more, “I didn’t mean it like that. Just. Embarrassing, y’know?”

“How? Got a secret collection of pornos you don’t want me finding?” You quip back, a soft tilt to your lips.

He chuckles, a soft, girthy thing, shaking his head. “Nah. Nothin’ like that. Just… havin’ a girl in my room on such short notice is a bit scary. Gonna kill them all when I see ‘em tomorrow,” he mutters the last few words under his breath.

“I really am sorry,” you promise, “I didn’t realise that I’d have to impose on you like this.”

“You’re not imposing,” Gaz says, stern, thumb brushing along your jawline. “My bed should be big enough, anyways.”

Your cheeks heat at the implication, mouth opening and closing around nothing. “Your – Your bed? I can just sleep on the floor –”

“No,” he interrupts, shaking your head side to side softly. “If anything, I’ll crash on the floor if you’re uncomfortable. I won’t let you sleep on anything but my bed.”

“Such a gentleman,” you lean in, whispering the words over his lips, a smirk forming on your face as you pull back. Heading for the door, you miss the way his fingers raise to hover over his mouth, gaze flitting to you before he follows behind.

“Do I need to see Sarah? The only reason I was really in there was ‘cause I was passed out, right?” You ask, turning around as Gaz meets you, opening the door for you to walk through. His hand falls to the small of your back as he directs you down the hallways.

He shakes his head. “Nah, Price messaged ‘er. If your pain starts up again, just take some pain meds or see her.”

“I like the way you run things here,” you hum, looking around at the concrete walls and linoleum floors, barren of personality. “No wasting time or resources.”

A draft carries down the hall, and you find yourself rubbing your arm, biting at your lower lip from the cold. Gaz’s hand wraps around your waist, pulling you into his body heat subtly, and you’re silently grateful. “I’ll give you some of my spare clothes to sleep in,” he says, thumb rubbing against where his hand sits in tight circles.

Your stomach growls, then, and you can hardly find the energy to be embarrassed when you haven’t eaten in four days. Yikes.

“Sorry –”

“I made you. Um.” Gaz looks away, bringing up his other hand to rub at the nape of his neck nervously. “I made you some wraps to eat, because the guys love ‘em, and Price kept getting pulled into meetings. So.”

The smile that pulls at your cheeks burns as you softly say, “Thank you.”

His grip around your waist tightens, the smallest amount.

You don’t comment.

“While you change, I’ll go get them from the fridge,” he says, as the two of you pause outside a standard door. The barracks look the same as every other corridor in this base, you’ve found, three other doors sitting close to this one. The 141’s rooms.

Unlocking the door, he switches on the light, and as you step in, you look around at the small room.

A double bed, narrow but long, sits in the corner next to a small window. Next to it, a wooden bedside table, with photos atop it, and a few random medals and gum wrappers. A single poster is stuck to the wall – and as soon as you see it, a laugh bubbles up in your chest.

“What?” Gaz asks, looking through his chest of drawers, looking to you with flushed cheeks. “It isn’t that bad.”

Your laughs continue, racking your body with each inhale as you point to the poster, eyes watery as you look at the man. “Didn’t realise you were into the Spice Girls, Garrick.”

He shoves his clothes into your face, only making you double over with laughter. 

“It was from my mum,” he grumbles, and you grab for his cheeks, squeezing them as your eyes near-shut with the manic laughter bubbling from you.

“Mama’s boy,” you tease, pulling at his cheeks until he’s face level. He huffs, pushing you away with a hand to your jaw, making more giggles erupt from your chest. “It’s cute, Gaz, I’m not being mean, pinky promise.”

“I’m getting the wraps, you twat,” he tries to sound accusatory, but his dimples deepen in his cheeks, his mouth pulling into a stubborn smile as he shoves you onto the bed, slamming the door shut behind him as he goes.

The fondness in your chest aches, and as you pull on his clothes, taking off the medical robe, you realise something. A niggling, in the back of your mind, one you can’t seem to shake as you tie off the oversized grey sweatpants around your waist.

A singular realisation, but a damning one, nonetheless.

Your smile doesn’t fade.

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[bcacstuff]

STELLA MCCARTNEY dress and GIVENCHY boots.

There’s something about Izzy Meikle-Small. It’s not just the delicate cheekbones or the quintessential Englishness that makes her a favorite for period dramas. It’s not even her enviable resume which includes her stepping into the shoes of some of the UK’s most luminous stars. No, there’s a quiet but resolute determination to claim her own narrative—shadowy beginnings, a taste for the unconventional, and a new era of artistic self-possession.

For years, Meikle-Small was cinema’s favorite time machine—a younger Carey Mulligan, a pint-sized Vanessa Kirby, a teenage Charlize Theron. Yet, there’s something deliciously ironic in her being cast as the precursor to these screen giants. “I don’t really look like any of them, but I’ll take it!” she laughs. “It was amazing to learn from them.” For a young actor finding her footing, the sets of those films were both playground and classroom. “Being on set as a kid can be really intimidating,” she admits, “but all three of them made an effort to make me feel really comfortable.”

Indeed, while her face was a canvas onto which casting directors mapped their favorite leads, Meikle-Small was watching, learning, absorbing. Working alongside the likes of Mulligan and Kirby wasn’t just a brush with greatness—it was a kind of mentorship. “We would have big conversations about the characters and the plot, and that helped me understand their process, which therefore informed my own and taught me how successful actors created their characters. I really appreciate the time that they took with me because it really helped shape my view of the industry and what it means to be an actor and a filmmaker.”

SACAI jacket and shirt.

Meikle-Small is no longer standing in someone else’s light. With her role as Rachel Hunter in season seven part two of runaway success historical drama series, Outlander (streaming now on MGM+ in the UK and Starz in the US) she’s stepping out of the shadows and into her own spotlight. “I’ve never joined a show which had such a pre-existing fan base,” she says. The Outlander fandom is nothing if not passionate, and Meikle-Small knows she’s shouldering the expectations of readers who’ve cherished Rachel on the page.

“Rachel is so sweet and pious and all of these things. She’s sassy, but she’s a really kind person, which is lovely to play, but I’d love to play someone with maybe a bit more edge. Maybe somebody in comedy could be fun, or something modern, where I could wear jeans,” she laughs. That’s not to say she doesn’t appreciate the role’s intricacies. “Rachel wears a bonnet, and that’s a lot to do with her religion but also feeling bound in. Doing period dramas, I feel like the history informs your character, and with Rachel being a Quaker living in the 1700s, all of these layers of history do add to your character.”

SACAI jacket, shirt, and boots.

And the audience reception has been equally rewarding. “The Outlander audience connects so deeply with every episode, and they’ve really welcomed me in with very open arms,” she says earnestly. “I was worried that people might not love me as [Rachel] as much as I would want them to.” For someone who spent her youth in roles that were more scaffolding than centerpiece, this level of engagement is a revelation. “When I was younger, I didn’t have a fan base in the same way. Because I was a kid, my exposure was different. Coming and doing this now is such a blessing.”

If Outlander marks Meikle-Small’s coronation, her ambitions reach well beyond bonnets and bodices. “I would love to do an indie British film,” she says. “In the last few years, we’ve seen some amazing films coming out of the UK. I think the new year will bring new freedom. I just started auditioning, so we’ll see what happens.”

This isn’t her first time coming out of the shadows and shaping her own destiny. “I got my first job at nine and my first movie at 13. By 18 or 19, I’d missed a lot of school. It got to the point where I was like, ‘What if I just went away, lived my life for a few years, was able to kind of grow up and mature physically but also mentally, and have some life experience?’”

UNDERCOVER dress.

She’s also drawn to the unexpected. “Genre isn’t really that important to me. There are genres that I prefer to watch as a viewer, but in terms of acting, I always want to do something different. I tend to be cast a lot in period dramas, and I think I just look very English, and that’s why that happens,” she chuckles at the inevitability of it all. “If I haven’t done a genre before, I’m more likely to be drawn towards it because it’s something that I’ve not done yet.”

For example, Meikle-Small is a dark comedy-fan, and since she specialized in medieval dark comedy in school, she’s grown incredibly fond of them. “I think that probably is one of my favorite genres to watch,” Meikle-Small admits. “It’s funny, but also it really normally packs a bit of a sucker punch message. It’s a clever way of concealing the emotional message to make it more palatable.”

While at university, Meikle-Small fell in love with producing, a role that seems perfectly suited to her thoughtful and measured approach. “I tend to work with a lot of writers who were actors who’ve turned to writing,” she says. “Because I am also an actor, they trust that I will understand and can see their point of view and that I can lead them behind the camera in a way that they’ll understand.”

If there’s one thread tying together Meikle-Small’s eclectic pursuits, it’s her deep love of stories. “I definitely would say I am a book lover,” she says, noting her background in English literature. “Doing period dramas feels natural because I love adaptations. It’s kind of my niche.” But she’s not content to simply bring existing narratives to life—she’s crafting her own.

UNDERCOVER dress and shoes.

“I have started writing, which feels a little bit scary,” she reveals. “There’s a short that I co-wrote with my friend—it’s not ready at all, but there’s something really interesting in the idea. There’s also a book that I’m trying to adapt to be a film screenplay.” For someone who has spent years embodying other people’s characters, the act of writing is an exercise in autonomy. “Whenever I’m writing things, I’m imagining myself playing the character that I would like to play, which always makes it more fun.” 

Her dream? To merge her passions into one cohesive whole. “The aim is to kind of get bigger and welcome bigger things. My absolute dream would be to act in something that I’m also producing and be able to have a kind of creative say in front of and behind the camera, especially on Outlander like watching Caitríona [Balfe] and Sam [Heughan] do that with such grace. It feels more tangible now, and I think I’d have less imposter syndrome.”

As Meikle-Small looks ahead, she’s taking stock of what she’s achieved and where she wants to go. This self-assurance radiates in her ambitions. Whether it’s an indie film, a dark comedy, or something completely different, Meikle-Small is ready to embrace whatever comes next. Izzy Meikle-Small is no shadow; she’s the whole picture.

All seasons of Outlander, including 7 Part 2, are available to stream on MGM+ in the UK and Starz in the US now. 

UNDERCOVER dress and shoes and JAEGER-LECOULTRE watch.

Photographed by Lee Malone

Styled by Karen Clarkson at The Wall Group

Written by Lily Brown

Hair: Grace Hatcher using Sam McKnight

Makeup: Irina Cajvaneanu at Caren using Lisa Eldridge Beauty 

Stylist Assistant : Maïlys Pereira

[andy-wm]

Why Jungkook made an explicit version of SEVEN, and why we should be thanking him for it.

The answer to the first question is short:

Because he wanted to.

THAT'S IT, AND IT'S ENOUGH.

It's his song, his career, his voice, his time. It's his choice. He doesn't need OUR approval and he certainly doesn't need our permission.

I think we should be thanking him frankly.

Not just because he made a sexy song although I think it's more sweet than sexy personally but also because it's started so many conversations that I think we need to have.

And that's what is really on my mind, The conversations we need to have, not just about JK and his artistry and his choices, but also about ARMY. About us as human beings.

Let's start with him...

JK's Adult Life:

First thing for me is that JK is UNQUESTIONALBLY an adult. But he's a (relatively) young adult in an industry that's very judgemental, controlled, and tightly scheduled.

He may have money coming out of his wazzoo and millions of adoring fans, but he has limited personal freedom. It's sure as hell not an exchange I would make. I'd choose an average income and the freedom to walk down the street hand in hand with my guy without making headlines - every day of the week.

The fact that he has any kind of personal life is cause for celebration in my eyes. And like the 19+ version of the song, it should be his choice.

I hope it is what he wants it to be. I hope he does have s3x every day of the week if he wants it (and I'm quietly cheering him on) but I don't need to know. I'm not going looking for any information (gossip, let's be real) about that aspect of his life because it's none of my business.

JK's Artistic and Creative Choices:

The songs he sings, the photos he poses for, the choreo for his dances, the words he speaks... these are his creative expression. To an extent they reflect who he is as a person, but largely they reflect a concept or story he wants to tell with his music. I would really hate it if he started creating work with the aim of pleasing someone else (ARMY, or the media, or any other entity). To me that would mean he had lost his self-belief, and that his spirit was broken. It would be a sign that he was more motivated by fear of rejection than by his own desires and creativity.

Personally I love that he trusts us and shows us so much of himself through his art. If that ever changed, it would be a sad, sad day indeed.

Cool, that was easy

Now let's talk about ARMY - and for the purposes of this discussion, I'm talking about ALL OF ARMY but mostly in relation to JK.

ARMY - Our Diverse Fandom:

The fandom has a beautifully broad demographic. I love that about us. Of course it means we have differences, but if we acknowledge that and we respect each other's right to those differences, we are all good.

And because we are all fabulously unique individuals, it's a given that not everything JK (or BTS) creates will appeal to every one of us.

BUT...

We can support their right to make creative choices without engaging with the things that don't work for us.

If some ARMYs are uncomfortable with explicit lyrics, they can scroll past/skip/block songs that are outside their comfort zone.

If some of ARMYs are minors, their parents can supervise their media consumption (because that's their job as parents).

If some ARMYs feel that songs about making woopie aren't their jam, they can instead listen to other songs that are more to their taste.

Magic! Problem solved!

Not really...

We really do need to talk about S3X

ARMY, we are humans:

Most humans have s3x. As adults (hopefully), when we are ready (hopefully), and if we want to (hopefully).

So what's the big deal about an adult making a choice to sing about that? We were all fine with him singing about 'loving you seven day a week' but when he clarified what that meant, suddenly there was a crisis.

Is it the word F**K? Because if it is, that word is everywhere and it's honestly just a word. He's sung it before. RM sang it, YG sang it, JM sang it. And let's be real, Letto's lyrics were far more explicit and she didn't say that word once.

WARNING: REAL S3X TALK COMING UP.

Is it because he's explicitly telling us that he's sexually active? Did we forget he's an adult? Where do we think he learned to move his hips like that... yoga?

For the ARMYs who are shocked that JK is sexually active, where do you think you came from? We humans don't reproduce like flowers. You were also concieved. Your parents, your grandparents, your great grandparents, have all had s3x... probably many, many times because s3x isn't only about reproduction. It's also about human connection, pleasure, stress relief, and being an adult.

In his live, JK told us that he doesn't consider the explicit lyrics to be 'dirty' and that's awesome.

S3x positivity is healthy both physically and emotionally. Seiously, considering how much of our humanity is linked to this instinctive need, it would be so much better if we weren't conditioned to feel shame about it. If we were instead taught to talk about it comfortably, to express our desires, to understand our bodies, and to protect our rights.

I could go on and on about this (and about control, the patricarchy, and body autonomy) but let's just say that JK is right. It's not dirty, its not immoral. When consenting adults choose to do it with someone they trust it's f**king awesome.

If the term sex positive is new to you and you want to find out more, please do. It could make all the difference in the world to your happiness as an adult. There are many websites you can look at to get more information. This is just one.

Even if nobody else is going to, I am going to say THANK YOU JK for this opportunity to talk about s3x. It's an important part of being human!

*I'm censoring my language so the ratings police don't block this post.

*as always, opinions expressed here are my own.

[tomionefinds]

could you please recommend me good tomione ffs where its not set in hogwarts? And I prefer if it has dark themes😚

Hey Anon:

There's alot that fit this description so I'm placing just a few here to get started (I say this so no one thinks I deliberately slighted a fic--we have a wealth of darker, non Hogwarts fics, thank you writers). Many of the authors below have extensive backlists as well on A03 to explore in this pairing.-Haus

**********

Dimmuborgir by NoFootprintsinSand

E | complete | 93k

He steps straight out of the shadows one late autumn evening, but she is not afraid. At least not at first.

A Sin to Know by EchoPhoenix

M | WIP | 76k

Tom allowed a genuine smile past his bloody lips as he raised his slender fingers to his gaze. Miss Granger really ought to curb such a self destructive habit, digging her fingernails into her palm like a reprimanded child? How very unladylike. Tom pressed his fingers to his nose, smelling her sweet scent of copper and iron. He could hardly suppress a moan as he breathed her in deeply. He traced those two, bloody fingers across his lips, allowing his and hers to intermingle in an intimate act of which one party was not privy to. Tom couldn’t quite bring himself to care, his tongue darting out to taste her, despite himself overeager at the thought of her on his tongue. A groan escaped his throat, low and guttural as he dipped his fingers into his mouth, swirling her there like a fine wine. Hermione Granger tasted positively divine. (NOT abandoned- author just travelling :D)

Madam Umbridge Home for Wayward girls by LovelyVillain

E | complete | 753k

Hermione’s life takes a dark turn after the death of her parents, leaving her at the mercy of a tyrannical Matron. Her new home is more prison than sanctuary, haunted by ghosts bearing terrible, bloody secrets. And though she is surrounded by troubled young women, it is the men in her life who teach her that freedom comes at the greatest price of all. Victorian AU, Tomione, Dramione, no triad

The Itch by Seollem

E | Complete | 75k

Tom looked intrigued. “Soul Glass? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Oh, yes, it’s a very rare material, indeed! If you look carefully, you can see the other half of your soul on the other side. Perhaps that of a lucky lady?” Mr. Burke winked conspiratorially. “How fascinating.” A slow, predatory smile overtook the handsome features of Tom’s face, something flashing in his eyes as they locked on the shadow beside his reflection. “A piece of my soul, you say?”

The Prisoner by NerysDax

E | Complete | 180k

Imprisoned, Lord Voldemort is considered a threat of the past. His knowledge is desired by many. Yet, his offer is for one person only: Hermione Weasley-Granger.

Wolfer by peppershark

E | WIP | 38k

In the year 1889, Tom Riddle has travelled west to a little gold-rush town in the foothills of California’s High Sierras. What happens next shouldn’t have been so easy. He never meant to find a woman this early in his plan, but lucky for Tom this little fury is just a firecracker of accidental magic. It gives him a fine feeling seeing the preacher’s daughter going about the town, doing the Lord’s work, and not even knowing she belongs to him. Of course, Hermione Granger doesn’t even know she’s a witch. Old west AU with magic. Dark romance.

The Anti-Heroine by Chershire_Carroll

M | WIP possibly abandoned but worth it | 641k

Hermione Granger knows she's not a good person. Disillusioned with life at only twelve years old; she is cynical, manipulative, ruthless and, above all else, a survivor. For six years she has lived on the streets of London with only her sharp mind and her sharper knives to keep her alive, but a letter from an owl changes everything for Hermione, and the bond she forms on the Hogwarts Express with a timid boy with broken glasses, skinny wrists and a lightning-shaped scar will change the whole of Wizarding Britain.   Main Pairing: Harry Potter/Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle

[chromiumagellanic06]

The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife

Daemon Targaryen/Original Fem [Targaryen] Character

Chapter 11: A Feast

MASTERLIST

Summary: A feast. A dance. An interruption. A failure.

Word count: 3.4k

Warnings: nothing, really

Wine, food, silk gowns and garners, jewels and gold, and luxury were all Daemon saw. There were glasses, silver forks and knives, and the finest, most delectable foods of the realm, and there was laughter and lavish glee and music. There were servants passing around aged cheeses and tropical fruits, pouring sweet wine, and nobles dancing to the bard’s songs and music. There were torches and candles, and there was a golden glow to it all, while his wife alone gleamed silver.

Naera had changed out of her gown covered in horse shit and wet mud, and into a dress of white and grey accents, with diamonds as jewels, though the shine always evaded her, and braids in half her hair. She looked like a bride—ethereal, enchanting, enticing, with her bared neck and smooth skin—oh, he was actively resisting the urge to just consume her.

Daemon saw the way the men stared at her—it was the way the women stared at him, only but that ladies were trained to hide their lust and men were far too privileged to feel the need to shield theirs. He would repay them one day, but tubis daor—not today, when he sat beside his niece, his Valyrian Bride of pure descent, his beautiful lady wife who had defeated him just hours prior.

It made him burn, in a way not at all unpleasant—not at all unwanted, for he knew what would come after the droll of the banquet. He’d consume her completely, and make her his.

Right.

Their plan.

Fuck.

Daemon held her hand under the table, leaning towards Naera as she conversed with her father, and he whispered, “What of our…Naera?”

She turned her head towards him too fast, and he felt the burn of her silver-gold hair brushing against his face too fast, but she smiled at the end of it, as a wedded woman would on the banquet of her union, and said, “Is the boy drinking?”

Daemon passed a glance towards the end of the table. Aegon sat pouring a near endless stream of wine down his throat—Dornish Red, as Naera had specified to the kitchens, and a very special kind indeed that was a lot stronger than it seemed at a taste. Elysabeth Tyrell sat beside him, joking and smiling and bantering as a young lady is expected to do. Perfect.

“Yes,” he smiled fondly, turning back to Naera.

“Well, we must wait, then,” Naera winked, carefree, but not careless, with pride and freedom, and he held her hand tighter.

“Happy with ourselves, are we?” Daemon teased her victory. “You may not always win, Naera,” and he kissed her cheek, innocent to those who crowded the banquet hall, but it set something aflame within Naera. She clutched his hand, now sweaty, and sighed a calming breath onto herself.

“Are you suggesting that you went easy, kepus? I think not,” and she ran a finger down the healing cut across his cheek. She took a mouthful of sour Dornish wine, and leaned her shoulders just a sliver towards him. Daemon wrapped his arm around her tighter, and let his breath flutter across her neck.

Naera shivered, cheeks flushing. 

Daemon began, “I shall not lie—”

“What, are you too honourable for it?” Naera jabbed with a laugh, “Lies get you very far, Daemon. Lies made me a rich woman, in a walled city across the seas.” There was pride in her voice and none of the honour that spilled out of a northerner when you stabbed them. He was entranced by it, by her brazen hubris over being dishonourable.

“Where?” Volantis, perhaps? Where those descended from Valyrians lived within obsidian walls, and she had declared them dislikeable, thus she knew them with certainty.

“One day,” she repeated his words, grinning, smiling, laughing in all but those wine-stained lips. Ah, those lips, and he was leaning forth to grant himself a chaste peck, just a taste of her smooth, supple skin, of her delightful self.

“Princess Naera, Prince Daemon,” a strong Dornish accent drew them away from their thoughts. It was a boy, young, younger than Aemond, with caramel brown skin and wavy hair. He was dressed in embroidered red and silver, to honour the family the best he could, but the obligation of the situation was as clear as possible. They had come only for Naera, and not for House Targaryen.

“Prince Qyle,” Naera greeted the member of the Dornish company who had chosen to attend the wedding. Prince Qyle was the firstborn son of Prince Qoren Martell, as well as his second heir, should he need one, following Princess Aliandra. Given when she had departed from Dorne, she had not met the young boy at all.

“My father, Prince Qoren, sends his congratulations on your marriage,” the young boy, the prince, spoke aloud to the music and chatter of the feast. “He…he asked me tell you that he has…” Qyle was unable to voice the words, for they made him uncomfortable, nearly ashamed, even.

Silence fell on the King’s table as Viserys turned to the blossoming hesitation in the Dornish prince.

“Yes?” Naera leaned forward, smiling as a visiting adult would to a shy little baby, encouragingly, and sipped some more wine.

“Prince Qoren has kept on his rehearse of the lance with vigour, is what he asked me to relay to you.” The nervousness in Prince Qyle’s face drained him as Naera threw her head back with a delighted laugh—euphonious, delicate, like a blooming flower in the midst of spring that is laced with morning dew and sparkles beneath the dawn sun—perfection.

He smiled at her, at the boy who chuckled also, and she responded, “Tell him for me, Prince Qyle…that if he can name the Houses of the Vale whilst honing his skill with the spears, I shall be rather impressed, indeed.” Naera grinned at her old good brother’s son, no, at her old would-have-been good brother’s son. Her good brother now was— “Oh, your grace, my dear good brother,” and Daemon held his laughter, “I believe I must send a most beautiful spear to Dorne with the group as a present, and, of course, a list of the Houses of the Vale—”

“Thank you, my princess,” and Qyle excused himself with a smile, on to question whether he would have such a friendship with his own good siblings when he had some. If Alicent Hightower and Laenor Velaryon were anyone to go by, Daemon would bargain that Naera was a special case indeed. She was friendly and brave, and beautiful and daring, and cunning as she was wise—perfect.

Naera leaned back into his arms, watching the dancers bow and circle and spin in delight. The alcohol had taken hold on, for it was obvious she had lost some clarity in her actions and her thoughts.

“Do you wish to dance?” Daemon asked when the child prince left them to their wine and dine.

“Can you dance?” Naera referred to the horrendous stab wound his leg had suffered at her behest. Daemon wrapped an arm around her shoulders again—perhaps, just to burn the minds of whoever desired her as his own—and leaned close to her neck again.

“Do you believe me this weak? Angoda iksan, ābrazyrys,” I am offended, wife, and Naera couldn’t suppress the blush that overtook her at his words. She felt a breeze of the coldest winter brush past her face, in that they made goosebumps scatter across all her skin.

She stood up, taking Daemon by the hand, “Pār, ivestragī īlva lilagon, valzyrys,” Then, let us dance, husband, and Daemon shuddered at the words—delightful, an irenic, tristful endeavour that calmed his beating heart but set it ablaze all the same. He stood suppressing a yelp, hiding a hiss, if only to not let her win once again—there would be a lifetime for that, for he’d never leave her go.

Daemon held her hand and wondered why hers were always colder than his. He watched her spin around her chair, and she dragged him along, towards the open spaces crowded with nobles and guests, who had all paused frozen at their arrival. A few of them backed away as they approached, and others joined the crowd to share a dance with the day’s beauty. He watched, out of the corner of his eye, at Elysabeth Tyrell leading Aegon to the floor himself, at the silly, dazed smile on his face, enchanted.

The bards began a slow, shrill tune, one he hadn’t heard before, and he took Naera’s cold hand again, holding her waist with the other. She rested her hand on his arm, an inch past his shoulder—correct. He wondered who had had the pleasure of teaching her the dances.

Naera swayed a step with the music, eyes calmly closed in peace, and with the clutter of her shoes against the marble floors, she began her dance. The tune grew faster, and he dragged his lady wife to follow the dance he just knew how to perform. She moved with the tranquillity of a seasoned dancer, as though she had been dancing her entire life. She swirled and twirled and spun like a cat—agile, slender, and elegant. Like her sword-fighting, Daemon realised.

She danced with the sword as she did with him, pivoting at just the correct moments, bending and dipping low in response to his own movements which appeared stiff in comparison. He followed her tugs for a change, ignoring the stabbing pains in his knee, and he wished his wound did not bleed once again, for he could not stop now. He could only aid, help, and be the consort to her free musings.

He gazed, and gazed, and thought, and thought, of the gold and the silver that twinkled in her purple eyes, and he asked, with his own identical eyes, he told, as well as he could, you are beautiful, and Daemon clenched her waist close, leaning close, closer and closest, to watch her eyes flicker and darken, to feel her flesh warm beneath him, burning.

Naera gasped small, shuddering breaths, her lips parted in a broken smile, her lips, which were painted the perfect shade between rouge and rosewood, with not a smudge out of place and not a whisper out of sound. Perfect. She pivoted her weight on a single foot, her chest rising and falling with tumultuous breathing, her chest, her bodice, her jewel and her lace, adorning her waist and her rounded breasts—Zyhon litse ābra—his fair woman, and his heart shuddered, his blood rushed to pleasant places at the thoughts.

“Ñuha gevie ābra,” he whispered close to her ears, and Daemon felt his face warm too far, he felt his hands sweat profusely as they held hers, he saw the shimmer in her eyes, and he knew, my beautiful woman.

Naera averted her eyes, her pale cheeks red, redder and reddest with the rush of blood, and perhaps, he hoped, lust, pressing her lips into a thin line, wetting them, making them shine, and his Silver Knight twirled away in sync with the song, and fell back in his arms with ardour, as the music came to standing still. She curtsied as a woman is expected, and he bowed in respect to his lady wife.

Daemon rested his hands on her shoulders, and let them drag up, up, up her delicate neck which he would scar himself, and the ivory skin, and cupped her cheeks—her burning face, and he leaned forward and brushed his lips against Naera’s. Her face was tender, as were her lips—gentle, soft and welcoming, unlike everything she had been just hours ago. Oh, just hours ago when she had defeated him with more ease than the Hightower’s cunt had all those years ago. Perfect. She was perfect.

 “I wish the royal couple all the fortune of this world,” they turned to face a man in indigo garb, silks and satin, with dark, curly hair ending at his ears, and a face with a twisted nose. The man smiled, as expected, and bowed a fraction as a display of allegiance.

Daemon let his hands drop, and Naera responded, “Thank you, my Lord…” but it was obvious that she couldn’t recognise the man. Daemon couldn’t, either.

 “Akka, davra atthirar, Khaleesi,” He understood the words, or rather, he heard them, but could not determine their meaning.  

“What did you call me?” Naera asked, her voice barely a whimper over the music that had already encompassed the room again. He saw her shudder, her hands shook, and her jaw trembled.

The man smiled, dark, “Khaleesi, ven’r hash,” and the Dothraki words rolled off the man’s tongue in a way more natural than his lips ever seemed. Daemon could not understand a word, but the tone, the tenure was hostile. Threatening.

Naera spoke the words with fluency, might, fight, with power, and the harsh words spoken by Naera’s lips seemed the same as the finest Valyrian poetry to Daemon. He sensed panic, however, in the way Naera clutched the white lace of her gown, her breathing bated, her eyes set on the lord who had just arrived.

“Naera?” Daemon watched the noble lord cautiously, unable to recognise any crests or emblems in his features, cursing himself for never learning the languages of the east. Dothraki, she spoke the language of the Dothraki.

“Sek,” the man agreed, speaking slow and drawling, yes, “Vosma yer addrivat jin khal Roq’ko—Haji yer hash jin Khaleesi,” Daemon recognised the word again—Khaleesi—a Queen of the Dothraki. Naera squeezed a handful of her gown, wrinkling the fabric irrevocably. She was afraid, the first time since Wisestone’s disappearance, he noticed. She was afraid.  

“Here,” the man smiled, as though no fear reached his face, no fright sweated his skin, and he spoke once again in the common tongue, “A gift for the princess of the Seven Kingdoms,” and the man, the noble lord, led them to the doors without, to the cold corridors leading up to the rooms. The guards were missing, Daemon noted, as a pitch-black chest was handed to Naera.

Naera fiddled with the steel clasps cautiously, perhaps only because her hands trembled uncontrollably. Daemon let his warm hand cover hers, and she sighed at his actions. She did not face him, but her gratitude was taken nonetheless. She cracked open the onyx chest, throwing back the covers, and Daemon’s blood ran cold.

It was a face—a face he had never seen, and he thought back to her drunken squalor the other night when she had recalled the tale of a man who wished to hack her face off. No.

No, but caution must colour every action in King’s Landing, and Naera held down Daemon’s hand, for she knew how he’d react. She was right to do it, for Daemon did not take to it well—he eyed the thin, parchment and silk-like mask with sun-dyed skin, and lips, and closed eyes, and dark hair, and structure. It was a face, but just a carving of it, as though someone had taken great care to flay a man of his face and preserve it also.

Naera did not move, barely breathed. She only gazed, and gazed, and gazed, and closed the chest with a thud. The man did not speak. He did not smile. He stood there, motionless, watching, waiting.

Naera spoke first, adopting another tongue he had never heard before, and spat out a dozen words too fast for him to register. Then, she turned to him, the chest clattering on the floor, and she held his hands, leaned close, and said, “Nyke jorrāelagon ao naejot nārhēdegon bisa, Daemon,” I need you to forget this, Daemon.

“Naera, skoros…” what?

“Daor, kepus, rȳbagon,” No, uncle, listen, and her face had paled beyond health, her eyes were no longer pools of dark lust, instead only shallow splatters of fear. He glanced at the man—the man who had feared her, ignoble, lanky, weak, and yet he threatened her as so. “Nyke jorrāelagon ao naejot dōrī ȳdragon hen bisa, dōrī pendagon hen ziry, sesīr…” I need you to never speak of this, never think of it, even… “Dōrī ivestragon mire issaros ken skoros ao ūndan.” Never tell any person of what you saw.

Never speak of this, that a false lord had called her queen and gifted her a face of a man, and she had cowered in fear, never think of it, as though he was the strongest man alive—as though he could resist the thoughts, never tell any person of what you saw, and he would do it all. For her, it was little to fulfil.

“Kostagon gaomā bona syt nyke, kepus?” Can you do that for me, uncle? Her voice was trodden and strangled, as though her heart had jumped up to her throat, as though it threatened to lurch out of her, as though endless dread churned within her. Fear, for him? A fear he had not witnessed in her before. A fear that came out of a life well lived when the terrors of a childhood tale no longer bothered, for the greatest evils have been seen and felt and lived. What has she seen? What has she done, that destroyed her? And with calm, and decisiveness, Daemon accepted. He'd know it all, soon enough. 

“Issa, ābrazȳrys,” Yes, wife. He nodded, slow, gazing cautiously at her sweat-laden face, at her trembling, cold fingers.

The man was gone. The chest remained.

“Thank you,” she whispered, “One day,” she quoted him, relief washing through her, calming her, warming her hands and cooling her mind at the same time, “I shall tell you every tale.” A promise.

She sent the chest back to her solar, paired with the express order to leave it closed, and she returned to the corridor outside the banquet hall, holding Daemon’s hands, fear drained thus.

“Naera, I…” he had a question—just one, and surely, she would answer him. “Who was he?” He asked, harmless, for he could not be faulted for forgetting the name of a lord.

“No one,” Naera answered quickly, shaking her head, interrupting any thoughts he may have had, “One day, kepus, you must believe me, it was no one,” and the way she said the words retained the ominous absolution to them he recalled from those nights past. Faces, no one, flaying?

Hark, footsteps, clicking and clacking of timber heels against the marble. Elysabeth Tyrell approached them with a sour face. Her rose-coloured gown was stained with a spill of red wine by the side, though the patterning hardly striked hard enough to scandal.

She stopped before them, grasping Naera by the forearm, she leaned close to them, and said, with an annoyance beyond words, “The boy’s asleep.” Defeated, they were, it seemed.

Naera sighed, her shoulders slacking, face dulling, “Thank you for trying…I…” she shook her head, the panic and fear had left her dizzy. Daemon held her shoulders with care. Naera turned to smile, bleak, but something told him that half a glass of wine worth its gold would chase away these thoughts well enough.

“Oh,” Elysabeth smirked, brown curls waving, “It was a daft plan, by all means,” and Daemon flinched at her bluntness. “Come up with something better when you’re finished gazing lovingly at each other, will you?” Yet, the Rose’s glance was sinful and suggestive, passing a blame most carelessly owned by them both. They had been far too distracted to think of a better scheme.

Naera sighed through her nose, biting her lower lip, blushing, and he would be a liar if he claimed that he did not also. Naera chuckled, “Thank you, nonetheless,” of the fun you have lost, which you would have lived by after Aegon was slapped in the face by his whore of a mother.

“Oh,” Elysabeth laughed in glee, and when her eyes dropped to where their hands lay tightly clasped, she spoke with a deviant tenure, “I most certainly intend to have my fun, still, Naera,” and with a look of intemperate evil, she pulled at Daemon’s arm which was closer to her, and turned to the hall, “I believe it is time for the bedding!”

MASTERLIST

[sshbpodcast]

Character Spotlight: Geordi La Forge

By Ames

Our tour through the Enterprise-D wouldn’t be complete without a dive under the door to engineering, so join A Star to Steer Her By for this week’s character spotlight as we take a look through Geordi La Forge’s schematics. There’s a lot to love about The Next Generation’s chief engineer, probably the greatest being the portrayal by film and television legend LeVar Burton. In any other actor’s hands, Geordi just wouldn’t be Geordi.

But sometimes, Geordi can really just be way too Geordi, as you’ll see as you read on below for our best and worst La Forge moments! Let’s just say, he’s a character who makes remarkable friendships throughout the show, and he really should leave all his relationships at that. You can also adjust your VISOR frequency to our corresponding banter over on this week’s podcast episode (discussion at 1:17:39). Now get ready to tuck and roll!

[Images © CBS/Paramount]

Best moments

Prepare to initiate separation sequence When La Forge is left briefly in charge of the ship in “The Arsenal of Freedom,” he is almost immediately put to the test by the planet’s defense system, and he keeps his cool even while receiving constant backtalk from Logan. It’s one of few instances we see the saucer separate as well, allowing Geordi to make use of the battle bridge to save the day!

Elementary, my dear La Forge One of the highlights of all of Next Gen is watching the friendship between Data and Geordi take shape and grow, and early on we get some great moments of them playing Holmes and Watson together on the holodeck in “Elementary, Dear Data,” which is undoubtedly sweet. Extra kudos to La Forge for putting up with Data’s shenanigans when he’s got all the stories memorized too.

Have you tried turning it off and on again? It’s always a joy getting to watch the engineers do their whiz kid stuff, and we get a good taste of that in “Contagion” when Geordi is inspired by Data randomly restarting himself and uses that as a launching point for wiping the Yamato’s records out of the Enterprise as well. It’s Information Technology 101, and he does it so well!

The best piece of engineering we’ll ever need Speaking of great engineering feats, La Forge does it again in “Booby Trap” when he concocts the purely manual solution to get out of the literal booby trap. Because the issue is with the computer, he opts to turn the whole thing off and have Picard pilot through the debris field himself. All you gotta do is ignore some of the weird holo-Leah stuff and it’s quite brilliant!

I will be your eyes Somehow, all of La Forge’s platonic relationships hit some really high marks, and he forms enough of a trust with Bochra in “The Enemy” that the two are able to survive on Galorndon Core. You’d never think humans and Romulans could find common ground before, but when these two find that they need each other, you think there might be hope yet.

Computer, identify the source of this shadow Geordi has another very nice friendship with his old crewmate Susanna Leijton in “Identity Crisis,” but the most impressive part of this episode is the great sleuthing that he does with some video tapes and the holodeck to determine that there was more on planet Tarchannen III than met the eye. In fact, there were otherwise invisible transfigured rave apes!

A blind man who never would have existed in your society Appropriately, we saw Hannah Bates’s actress in our podcast coverage this week in “Two Days and Two Nights,” and that makes it a good time to bring up that Geordi totally schools her biologically engineered ass in “The Masterpiece Society.” He uses his VISOR to save the day, something no one in their colony would ever have because of their ableist views.

BBFF: Best Borg Friends Forever As with his bromance with Bochra, Geordi connects with another unexpected being in “I, Borg.” Indeed, it’s the engineer’s ability to humanize even the least human, most frightening enemies that proves to be one of his best qualities throughout the show. Watching Geordi remind Hugh of his individuality, give him his name, and save him from Picard is the best of La Forge.

Are you saying I'm some blind ghost with clothes? Speaking of forging friendships, La Forge shared a very clever plot with Ro Laren in “The Next Phase,” and it turns out the two of them work together splendidly! Not only do they confront what could easily be interpreted as their deaths, AND find an ingenious way back to the correct phase, but they also foil a nefarious Romulan plot. Oh dear, what would Bochra think?

The Titan’s Turn Boys We picked on Riker the other week for how he acted when Jellico had command of the Enterprise in “Chain of Command.” But you know who took it like a champ and did his damn job? Freakin’ Geordi! He helped Jellico with the solution to their Cardassian problem and even used his friendliness and good nature to get him to involve that whiny Riker to pilot the shuttle.

They see me rollin’, they hatin’ Whenever a chief engineer gets to roll under a slowly closing garage door, you know you’re in for a good time. It happened in “The Best of Both Worlds,” critically one of the best episodes of all of Trek. But an even better roll is in Generations in which Geordi gets a perfect score for the pirouettes and for sticking the landing in a great pose, all while saving his whole engineering crew!

I’ve never seen a sunrise Finally, let’s close out the Best Moments with just a small detail from Insurrection. While we must admit that the rejuvenation storyline on Ba’ku wasn’t terribly well fleshed out, the character who really gets something out of it is Geordi. When his optic nerves have regenerated, he gets to enjoy a sunrise the natural way for the first time, and it’s tragic because he knows it won’t last.

—

Worst moments

This is why you wear PPE Who’s keeping count of how many times “The Naked Now” or “The Naked Time” has come up in these character spotlights? Well, in the case of the TNG spinoff, you can thank La Forge for catching the Psi 2000 virus in the first place by handling a corpse with no protective equipment. And am I the only one it rubs wrong that he spent the episode complaining about being blind?

An adversary capable of defeating Data Here’s another shipwide problem that was basically Geordi’s fault. With his imprecise wording, he effectively made the computer create Moriarty in the holodeck in “Elementary, Dear Data” and we see the repercussions of his mistake throughout both that episode and “Ship in a Bottle,” which I’ve already given Picard some guff about.

Their rubber band broke, right? La Forge starts the abysmal “Samaritan Snare” off on the wrong foot from the word go. He makes fun of the Pakleds pretty much to their faces, which is uncomfortable on its own. But he simultaneously underestimates them, assuming them to just be dopey but affable instead of dopey and malicious. Getting kidnapped by caricatures makes for a pretty rough day.

That’s a Coco No-No! It begins. Why the show decided Geordi had to be weird with women is beyond us, but it starts with his weird date with Christy in “Booby Trap.” He takes it way too personally that she’s not that into him on their date and gripes about it to Guinan afterwards. And that’s not even mentioning the rest of this squicky episode that sets Geordi up as the incel of the franchise.

Hold the Broccoli Despite La Forge generally being a friendly guy and a good boss, the way he treats Barclay when we first meet him in “Hollow Pursuits” is downright shameful. Throwing around the disparaging nickname. Complaining to Picard whenever he has to be in the same room with him. Overall treating him like a leper. Not great boss behavior.

I’m guilty of a terrible crime, Doctor. I offered you friendship. There’s good reason for “Galaxy’s Child” making our Worst Episodes of TNG list, and that’s that it entirely besmirches the character of Geordi La Forge. It’s one thing to get a little action with holo-Leah, but it’s another to expect the real Leah to treat you the same way. And then to turn it around so it’s all her fault? Nothing on our Best Moments list makes up for this railroading of an otherwise good character.

Even in a La Forge post, O’Brien must suffer Geordi just plain wasn’t having a good day in “The Mind’s Eye” and it’s full of bad behavior that can easily be blamed on the brainwashing, but blame we will! Manchurian Candidate’d or not, Geordi La Forge was capable of killing the simulation O’Brien at the command of some Romulans, and later dumping his drink on him in real life… but that’s nothing new to the chief.

A century out of date Okay, so it’s plain and true that Montgomery Scott was entirely underfoot and a bit of a hindrance for the engineering crew in “Relics.” But it’s also so sad to watch our resident miracle worker from The Original Series get treated like an obsolete dunsel. Geordi is prepared to ignore the old engineer until the captain takes him aside with another of his patented Picard pep talks.

I'm starting to feel like I know her If falling for a holodeck version of Leah Brahms wasn’t creepy enough for you, don’t worry, Geordi can go lower. In “Aquiel” he falls for the eponymous character by watching her personal logs, ostensibly for an investigation, but then when he hooks up with the murder suspect when she turns out to still be alive, no one can doubt that he’s taken it too far. Like freakin’ always.

How do you feel? We already saw in our spotlight on Lt. Commander Data that installing the emotion chip in Generations was a bad move. Geordi does promise to his android friend that he’ll remove the thing at the first sign of trouble… which happens at the most inopportune time right as Geordi is busy getting kidnapped by Klingons. This guy. Always getting kidnapped and reprogrammed, he is.

This is the exact spot where your statue’s gonna be One more from the movies, and that’s that Geordi gets to meet one of his heroes in First Contact… and immediately creeps Zefram Cochrane out by fanboying all over him. Word of advice, Gordo: if you’re already messing with the Temporal Prime Directive, maybe don’t start talking about going to Zephram Cochrane High School to the guy.

The Butterfly-in-the-sky Effect We get even more temporal shenanigans when Geordi gets a brief cameo in Voyager’s “Timeless.” Sure, LeVar was also busy directing this one so it’s a no-brainer to pop up on a viewscreen while he’s on set, but it also just feels weird for one of our past heroes to be the one browbeating our current heroes to stop their super cool time adventure. What a Herbert.

—

Well, our beach violinist has absconded and our Coco-no-nos have run dry, so we’ll wrap things up here. We’re wrapping season one of Enterprise over on the watchthrough on SoundCloud next week, so get ready for us to tear our hair out trying to think of highlights from that before we’re back on course with more TNG character profiles. So keep your VISOR pointed here, stay in the friendzone with us over on Facebook and Twitter, and watch the sunset with us over the bay.

[carnivorousyandeere]

What happens if, after the traumatic experience of being dead, the reader becomes VERY pissed at the witch and executes a plan of revenge, causing this possessed bimbo to regret her actions? Being a ghost, we had a lot of time to think + the ability to walk through walls, which makes it much easier to explore away from the little witch's greedy eyes. And surprise! We are alive again. Ready to start implementing a plan of revenge, pretending to be a needy and all-forgiving angel~

Oho, I like how you think, Anon 💕

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

Mika is, indeed, easily manipulated and pacified. If you pretend to be happy, and sweet, they are comforted. With that comfort comes more freedom, as they feel more comfortable allowing you out of their sight.

If you’re very patient, and very methodical, you do learn that you can pass through things with ease… and with time and concentration, you can gather the energy to manipulate items at will.

Practicing whenever Mika is away, you slowly practice with lifting heavier items and heavier items. When that comes easily, you begin to work on handling items that require delicacy, accuracy.

Whenever Mika finds a broken glass, or a shattered inkwell blotting papers, it’s easy to pass off. “I missed the taste of food… wanted to try and see if it could still…” or “wanted to write a note, but couldn’t quite hold the pen right…” If you look sad enough, they can’t really find it in them to question you or get angry.

Soon, you can do much of what you had when alive, if not more. And when Mika isn’t home, delivering potions and such, you have the opportunity to read through their notes.

Magic hadn’t made the most sense to you when alive, but with nothing else to do but stew on the circumstances of your death, well… it suddenly came much easier. Much easier to figure out how to break the wards around the property, to escape. But first, you wanted your body back. And you wanted Mika to suffer.

It takes time to plan and prepare under her nose. Slowly using plants and energy from the earth to restore the functions of your body where it lay in the earth. Working with this energy under a Witch’s nose without them noticing might have been difficult… if it weren’t you and Mika.

Mika is easily distracted by the way you softened towards them, your sweet words and demeanor lowering xir guard.

When, one day, your body is ready, you ask Mika to unearth it for you. They’re amazed, although cautious, at the way you’ve rebuilt yourself. You settle back into your body. It doesn’t feel… right, but you’re able to tether yourself to it and move around with less exhaustion.

From there, it’s almost too easy to undo the protections and wards on the property and make the way for your escape.

The only thing left is to figure out how you want to punish Mika. Keep them alive to suffer as long as possible? Or use your knowledge as their beloved to give them the death they fear most?

[mamamittens]

Hi! Sanji and I would like a vanilla milkshake with caramel syrup. Sprinkles and a cherry on top please. Strawberry, red bean and green tea mochi also seem really nice! I go by “Parker” and I’m short, but slightly built for my height (they/them pronouns please, AFAB) with short/half shaven blue hair that’s slightly wavy, very fair skin, and light grey/blue eyes. I’m naturally an introvert who gets anxious very easily, but when I’m comfortable I’m a lot more confident, and sometimes even flirty. I tend to hyperfocus on tasks, and ramble on when I feel extreme emotions. (I also tend to trust people too much due to a lack of true friends and ignore their red flags which doesn’t typically end well for me.)

I am SO SORRY about the delay! October really snuck up on me, ngl!

I went with a platonic/familial interpretation but it could easily be the start of something more, ya'll are both just young in this. It takes place two years before Luffy shows up, so there's time lol

Warnings: None except mild yandere vibes and possesive/protective behavior.

Word Count: 1,992

Sanji chopped the ingredients for a stew efficiently, the other staff of the Baratie working in unison to complete the orders for hungry customers. He was seventeen now, his ‘family’ years behind him. But Sanji couldn’t help the stab in his chest when he thought about them.

His poor mother, long since gone from this earth as a shell of herself. Having unintentionally instilled in him a love of cooking.

His asshole brothers and father.

His sister…

And then there was Parker. Poor Parker he had to leave behind in his desperate run for freedom. He thought about them sometimes. Wondered if they managed to survive that hellscape and if they were still so small. They worked in the kitchens and helped Sanji get ingredients—Sanji smiled remembering the dubious look Parker gave Sanji’s food but was too nervous to tell him it likely tasted like shit.

If Sanji could go back, he’d make two of the most wonderful dishes. One for his lovely mother. And one for Parker. His sweet friend that wasn’t mice in the dungeons.

But he can’t go back and Parker isn’t here, so Sanji has to just daydream about his closest friend instead. Maybe one day he’ll find a way to (safely) go back and find them. Or at least figure out where they are. Even though it would make things more difficult, Sanji hoped they got far away from his family.

Sanji blinked, startled to realize he was finished with the chopping and dicing, the ingredients neatly separated out into individual bowls.

Sighing, he got back to work. Daydreaming would only take him so far. One day, when he paid back the old man, he’d find Parker and take them to the All Blue.

One day…

A dream he’d built up in his heart for years now and would stay there for many years to come, he just knew it. After all, how could he ever repay Zeff for his sacrifice? Sanji’s eye flickered across the busy kitchen to where Zeff was working on a stew. Peg leg tapping along the floor as he shuffled to add a new ingredient.

How indeed…

Sanji’s resolution reaffirmed, he got back to work and—temporarily—put Parker and the All Blue, out of his mind.

Something he found difficult when he was ordered to take out dishes to a large traveling merchant party. The usual waitress having to go home early.

Sanji sighed in distain at the large party of men but dutifully delivered the dishes. A soup deposited in front of a small, familiar person.

“Parker?!”

“Sanji?!”

They both yelped in surprise, Sanji startled to find his arms suddenly full. Parker was different but not. That familiar floral scent mixed with herbs still present, blue waves like the sea half shaved. Parker felt strong but still so breathtakingly small in his arms. He didn’t want to let go, not ever. Suddenly halfway to his most precious dreams.

“Sanji, boy?! What the hell are you doing?!” Zeff bolted out of the kitchen. Sanji lifted his head from Parker’s hair and half turned, beaming as he lifted up Parker a little more. Parker hid their face in his chest and he let them, aware that the momentary bravery was likely followed by embarrassment.

“It’s Parker, Zeff!” Sanji grinned, resting his cheek on top of their head. The merchants Parker had apparently been traveling with laughing.

“Oh, poor thing, you’re red to your roots ain’cha?” One of them cried with a harsh laugh.

“Sweetest thang I’ve seen all my years a’ sailin’! Nevah gets old!” Another one cheered. Sanji felt a horrible twist in his chest. An impulse to drive his heel into their sternums and snap them in half, but found it died shortly as a small sniffle was muffled into his chest.

“…missed you.” Sanji felt in his heart more than he heard it.

“Well, that’s… That’s sweet and all, but are you going to let them eat or not? They look so small.” Zeff commented and Sanji acknowledged that he was right.

While nowhere near as small as they used to be, Sanji couldn’t help but worry a little. Life at sea was rough—Sanji knew from experience. They may not be skin and bones but who knew when their last filling meal was? Sanji glanced at the soup and deemed it… adequate. It was Zeff’s, he could tell, but Sanji would personally make the next one just to be sure.

Reluctantly, Sanji gave one last reassuring squeeze before letting them down.

“It’s so good to see you, Parker. How’ve you been?” Sanji asked softly, barely aware that he was cradling their face to run his thumbs over their cheeks. Checking for more subtle signs of malnourishment. Parker was blushing hard, not quite looking at him. It was an endearing as it was frustrating. He wanted those sweet, stormy blue eyes to look at him. Not somewhere over his shoulder.

“Good… left a few years after you when I got fired. Been traveling since. Hoped I’d run into you again.” Parker commented, hedging around his family. Ever mindful that he’d certainly not want it public knowledge who exactly he was related to. Sweet as always.

“We’ll catch up later. Enjoy your meal, Parker.” Sanji reluctantly conceded before Zeff started teasing him. The merchants grumbled but welcomed Parker back at the table.

“Tha’s Sanji? Who knew he’d be such a handsome fellah, huh?” One whispered to Parker, causing them to almost choke on their soup. Sanji nearly kicked him through the wall but held back, not wanting to ruin the meal or frighten Parker.

He was different from the little boy with a cage on his head, after all. Young Sanji never would have fought back or struck someone. Too timid and sweet—it was almost nostalgic to see how little the years apart had changed Parker. Meanwhile Sanji had grown.

It felt like fate that Sanji had changed so much from a little boy needing protection to someone capable of protecting others.

Sanji went back to the kitchens with a resolution in his bones.

He’d protect Parker like they protected his heart. And the first step was ensuring they stayed with him.

Sanji looked round the kitchen for his next task and could already imagine Parker at work beside Zeff as the old man personally made sure they were up to snuff. Which they would be. It’s Parker, after all. If Parker lacked skill anywhere it would be defending themselves. But that was alright. Sanji had that covered just fine.

Gladly, in fact.

The rest of the day was a bit of a blur. Sanji taking every opportunity to check up on Parker’s table or just look out into the restaurant. Just to make sure nothing was wrong. Parker seemed reasonably close with the merchants, which… was nice. Sanji would be pissed if they abused Parker or otherwise mistreated them. But if Parker was too close to them… would they even want to leave?

What would Sanji do if they were happy as they were? He didn’t think he could handle it if Parker left him even if it was fair play since Sanji left first. He had to leave, he knew that. It didn’t make it hurt any less but the thought of Parker leaving Sanji behind by choice made him want to cry.

At closing, Sanji made a beeline for the merchant ship. Desperate to know if his fears were real or unfounded.

The first thing that greeted him was laughter and the clear sound of booze being passed around. The merchants cheering around Parker who was blushing furiously with a bag in their arms.

Hopeful and elated, Sanji nevertheless waited.

“Sad to see you go, kiddo! You’re a great helper round the kitchens!”

“Can’t believe your old friend works here, that’s no small feat!”

“You’re going to be an amazing chef—assuming they take you on!”

“Ya kiddin’?! Did ya see tha look on tha owner’s face? And the boyo, Sanji? Ah’m surprised Pah’ker was allowed ta leave af’tah the bill was settled! Boyo looked fit to bundle ah’p Pah’ker and keep em!” Another refuted with a laugh. “Learn well, wee thang, and write ta us! Ah wanna hear it all~!” The crew cheered and Sanji nearly screamed.

He was such an idiot! Of course Parker wouldn’t leave him!

Sanji let his steps fall heavy on the boardwalk and several inebriated crewmembers looked back. He didn’t even mind—much—the pats on his shoulders as he passed by. He’d prefer not to be touched by men at all, but in the spirit of the occasion, he’d allow it. For Parker.

Clearly, they’d cared for Parker when Sanji couldn’t. And he wouldn’t—couldn’t—hate them for that. At least Parker was cared for.

Now it was Sanji’s turn.

Sanji stopped in front of Parker, a dopey smile on his face that Zeff and the others would have teased him mercilessly for.

“Does this mean what I think it does?” Sanji asked. Parker, still flushed, nodded.

“It’s hard work, but Zeff won’t say no to a little extra help around the kitchens. You’ve said goodbye, right?” Sanji asked, fingers twitching to pull them into an embrace. Just to see if this was real.

“Y-Yeah. They’ve been teasing me for hours now. I’m ready to leave.” Parker whined, triggering a round of laughter from the crew.

“Only outta love, kiddo! Now scram, get settled in—and you take care of them, Sanji! I don’t care who Zeff is or was, I hear little Parker’s gotten hurt I’ll take it out of your hide, ya hear!” The captain declared. Sanji paused, considering the old man for a moment.

Maybe he was jealous that they’d been caring for Parker for some time. At how close they were with them. But this? This he could respect.

“No need, old man. If Parker get’s hurt—I’m cold and dead with nothing left.” Sanji swore. An agreement was reached between them as Parker looked on, utterly baffled.

It was a gentleman’s agreement. One that Parker didn’t need to worry about.

“Uh… alright. What kind of trouble are you expecting all the way out here, Sanji?” Parker asked nervously. Sanji laughed, curling his arm around their shoulders and leading them back to the Baratie to get settled. Zeff would agree, he knew, so it was scarcely worth bothering to ask.

“Nothing I can’t handle. Anything happens, you call for me, alright? We get some rough pirates out here every so often.” Sanji complained, scowling as he could already hear Zeff whining about a new hole in the wall. Sanji paused in the doorway with a smile, squeezing Parker closer. “It’s good to have you back, Parker. This time, I’ll keep you safe. I promise.” Sanji swore.

Parker smiled back with wide, confused eyes that softened. Their arm reaching around his chest to return the gesture.

“…I never stopped hoping you made it out alive. I just thought I’d n-never know, you know?” Parker admitted.

“I did. And it’s all thanks to you. Your memory kept me going… and I guess Zeff helped too.” Sanji teased as the old man poked his head out of the kitchen with a sly grin.

“Hey, greenie! Parker, was it? Welcome to the Baratie! Any friend of my s—Sanji is welcome!” Zeff declared and Sanji blinked in surprise, his chest tightening as Zeff quickly corrected himself. Parker looked between them for a moment, gaze intense as they considered something before smiling.

“Well, the bar was on the floor frankly, but I’m glad you’ve got a nice dad now.” Sanji and Zeff choked on air, the two gasping and grasping at denials.

Despite that, Sanji couldn’t help but grin to himself. It was true. And now his family was whole. All that was left was to find the All Blue once he repaid Zeff for his sacrifice and kindness.

[isabellatravelsitaly]

How to beat the crowds and have an Italian summer full of relaxation, no frustration and il dolce far niente.

Predictions of a bumper 2024 summer season for Italy with tourists selecting Italy as their number one holiday destination once again. Whilst the cultural centres of Rome, Florence and Venice are always popular, there has been a 1.4%  increase in the popularity of seaside resorts.

Despite the predicted crowds of tourists this summer, the joys of an Italian summer certainly outweigh the pain. The secret is to travel smart. By carefully planning an itinerary that is not focussed on the crowded cultural centres, where it can seem impossible to find relief from the heat, and avoiding the well-known beach destinations where finding a spot on the beach is impossible and expensive. Explore the lesser known Italian regions of the Marche, Abruzzo, Basilicata and  Calabria which are full of spectacular beaches, amazing food, and that uniquely Italian experience of il dolce far niente…the sweetness of doing nothing. Quaint beachside towns on the southern coast of Calabria are a fraction of the cost when compared to more well-known beach hotspots. Opting for the “slow tourism” trend which basically means slowing down your itinerary and spending a week or more in the one place, getting to know the barista when you have your morning coffee, buying fresh summer fruits at the local market and just watching the world go by. These small towns are alive with people strolling, chatting, eating gelato, listening to the jazz bands, this is August in Italy!!

Whilst Italy is very well-served by an intricate web of public transport options, hiring a car will give you freedom to explore and set up your own umbrella and a basket, full of delicious foods you bought at the market.  To really benefit from the slower pace of life I would suggest booking a self-contained apartment. The space and facilities will be better for that longer stay.

 “Slow tourism” trend invites travelers to get to know places, to live and “taste” them all time while being mindful of their impact on the region. We love taking time to live like the locals and to absorb all the joy of an Italian summer without the stress, without compromising the enjoyment nor the experience. Getting to live the Italian summer for a week or 2 is an experience that will most certainly get under your skin. The summer months in Italy offer a never-ending array of local religious feast days accompanied by fireworks, traditional food markets and free, open-air concerts. Slow down and literally smell the coffee!!

An Italian summer is indeed a wonderful, unique experience. Plan right and you will be imbued with the Italian feeling of “il dolce far niente”, that joy of simply doing nothing  whilst soaking up the sun, frolicking in the sea and enjoying the abundance of delicious food and wine that only Italy can offer.

[mdowsffron]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

if fairy godmother could make magic sway in the air, then the reason why these musical notes have been a prancing about in the cold winter breeze might have been the work of the confuctor from an orchestra— like an endless music sheet, the notes seemingly became a magical path leading towards an unknown place. with your wonders about the melody that your ears couldn't seem to resist, you set your foot on the track to search for it as if you're on a haunt for lost treasure. once you've reached your destination, you were surprised to only find a bird cage where there lies a little dove, crying blood in the silent night—hoping for a taste of the bright light, yearning to be set free.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

indeed, the maiden's voice was something that could be valued as a treasure—beautiful and powerful. a voice spoke to you from a distance, its words filling your ears: 'listen to the mourns of the caged little dove. let her mellow voice captivate your heart as you pay attention to her soft cries. allow her melancholic tunes to envelop your ears.' if this was a theater play, then she surely left you astounded and made her way towards your heart's door and knocked on it until you let her in.

"poor little dove, shall i set you free?"

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

her sweet voice was getting louder and louder as time passed by, making you all the more enticed to open her cage and let her freely fly. like a spell was cast upon your soul, your orbs were drawn to her as she finished her tunes with soft sobs. suddenly, the damsel in distress is all that you see. gazing at her sorrowful figure full of pity, you finally opened the cage as if pity was the key.

"soar high, little dove. let your wings be free."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

at long last, the dove was finally out of its cage. similar to a crowd waiting for the artist to show themself in the end, you were excited to shout 'encore' for you hoped to hear the little dove's sweet melodies one last time.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

little did you know, all of this was nothing but a trap—from the moment you set foot on the track, you thought it would to paradise to this very moment before you. the dove you released from its cage did not remain as a dove but rather turn into a devious little damsel in the form of a young female puppeteer, who had long been waiting to take your foolish soul under her control. those played melodies were not a mere song about longing for freedom—instead they were a chant of a curse, luring you in to fall under a spell that lets her play with your shallow mind. now that you're wrapped around her finger, a new stage is set as for the puppet show begins.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

"put your heart on my hands and dance along to my tunes. fear nothing as i shall take care of you, my lovely little puppet."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

— damselette, dove.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

[scarletwritesshit]

Genshin Impact 🎭 Faceless Ayato & Klee 🎭 A Friendly Face

Written for the winner of my 100 Twitch follower raffle, @/Ludwig__JR! The prompt was a grimdark fic with Klee, and I sorta went a little wild on this one, hence why it took so long. Remember the Faceless Ayato creepypasta craze? I've been wanting to write something based off of it for a while now, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity to do so.

-

Klee wasn’t particularly fond of this unwarranted time out that was forced upon her. For once, she was innocent. Genuinely innocent. Yet Jean still insisted that she remained under a watchful eye. It was for her own safety, she claimed, but Klee took great offense to the Spark Knight being forcefully locked away.

Klee was armed with bombs, however. Lots of bombs, in fact. Just the mere sight of one scares off anything that would dare step even vaguely in her direction; hilichurls, Mondstadt citizens, Inazuma war generals, fish, you name it, she could tackle it.

Jean just couldn’t get it through her head. Or maybe she was too much of a stupid adult to listen. Klee has explosives. Klee will be fine.

Bombs or not, Jean couldn’t care less about the aspect of Klee and her problem causing ways right now. It was the strange and sudden disappearance of Diona as of late that caused Jean to shift into a repressed paranoid frenzy that led her to the ultimate decision to keep Klee where she knew where she was at all the time. She was well aware of just how much Klee liked to wander off, and so wanted to take precautions to avoid another beloved Mondstadt citizen going missing without a trace.

No matter how much Klee insisted that she was fine with her bombs, the answer was always the same stern “no,” much to her annoyance.

Pacing around in her little jail got quite old very quickly. Occasionally, she would try to beat on the door with her weak little fists when she heard a passerby near, but she was met with pure silence in response. Klee was used to a little bit of rest every so often, but not stuck in one place as long as this. And a window that was just begging for Klee to crawl out of was looking mighty tempting right about now.

Danger this, danger that, Diona probably wandered off to do her own thing for a while. It was understandable, as Klee, too, would take off if she was stuck with a job that she absolutely despised. And her job was currently that of a prisoner, which yes, she did indeed harbor a great dislike towards.

The life of a prisoner was not one benefiting of Klee.

As any prisoner with a prime opportunity to escape would, Klee jumped at the chance to take off unnoticed. If she was going to be treated like a prisoner, then she could sure as hell bust out like one.

An unlatch, slip of the hook, and the window flung wide open for her swift escape.

Unbeknownst to Jean, Klee would soon have free reign of almost all of Mondstadt, at least for the afternoon. The keyword here being almost, as she couldn’t set off her her bombs as recklessly as she wished. If she were unwise enough to make such a decision, the Knights would be quick to take note, and Klee didn’t want to draw their attention in such a way. Arguably worse than the public buzz would be the punishment that would be in store for her.

A sentence to the prison on the second story, where she wouldn’t be able to safely leap out and indulge and run free.

Thankfully, other than fighting off the urge to set off her bomb at any given moment, lying low until she was in the clear was no major task for her. Blending into the crowds of Mondtsadt’s capital wasn’t a challenge, given her small size and familiar presence amongst the people. It was simply the patrolling Knights she had to focus on avoiding, and once she got past the walls, the sweet taste of freedom would be within her grasp.

Before making a break for it, she pushed herself up against the wall to scan her surroundings for any stray guard. Once the inner-city walls were confirmed clear, she quietly tiptoed around the guards, then slipped by their watchful gaze on the road to freedom. No longer bound by the walls of the Favonius Knights headquarters, Klee was relishing in the ability to run as far as she could possibly imagine without running into a roadblock, sticking her nose into every little nook and cranny that piqued her interest. No flower, dandelion, crevice, anything was safe from her bored, curious wrath.

Well, the wrath of her poking a stick into every little thing, at least, as she still had somewhat lay low. Stupid adults. But freedom was freedom, no matter how much or how little she had.

As she was prying into grass and mud, the sound of a few rustling bushes got her attention, and like the curious little rat she was, she couldn’t help but attempt to find the source.

Turning her head towards the direction of the sound, she noticed a disturbed patch of greenery that appeared to have been shifted aside. Curious, Klee hopped on over to further investigate for herself.

Nothing visible, much to her disappointment. Must’ve been a rather large lizard or something of the sort.

Or maybe even a lone hilichurl. But Klee didn’t see one in the vicinity, let alone think that they lived this close to a human population.

She heard the rustling of bushes yet again, once more coming from behind her. Klee quickly turned to try and catch a glimpse in time, but once again, there was nothing. Nothing that she could clearly see. Whatever was making that noise was a slippery one, but she was determined to catch that big dumb lizard or snake or whatever it was. Its presence was distracting her greatly from that afternoon’s mission; running free though the fields with no task or adult to hold her down.

Wasn’t accepting this little hunt of her own free will, though?

Klee didn’t think too hard about that.

Rather, she kept on listening for signs of the creature’s whereabouts. Once again, she picked up the sound of the rustling, and made extra sure to snap her focus towards it in time.

Still nothing. This was becoming personal.

"Little snake...little snaaake....Klee just wants to play with you..." Klee whispered in a playful yet devious tone.

It’s true. Klee just wanted to catch a glimpse of the critter for herself and allow it to tag along as a playmate for the day. She had no definitive proof that it even was a snake. Somehow, she was convinced it was, despite having no solid proof supporting or claiming otherwise. In fact, Klee would probably be disappointed if she found anything other than the snake that she had convinced herself was so real.

Klee just wanted to invite a lonely friend to play with her, regardless of its species. Its not like she wanted to bring harm to anyone or anything, despite her fish blasting reputation. Truthfully.

She followed what little she had of a trail to try and track down her self-proclaimed friend. The rustling and bustling lead her down as far as the Statue of Seven in the field by the great big tree in the field, where the rustling of the bushes momentarily ceased.

She perked her head up to take a look at her surroundings, scanning the landscape for any signs of her stealthy target. Klee walked closer to the tree and stood on the tips of her toes to try and see if perhaps, the creature slid into the foliage. Not much luck considering how Klee was too short and the leaves, too thick.

Then, she took a peek around the tree, and saw a tall man dressed in elaborate, primarily white clothes, standing almost completely still. Not quite ready to make her presence known, Klee quickly hid behind the tree and peeked her head around only enough to catch a glimpse of the man.

Whoever that may be, could that person be who her slippery friend was all along? If that were the case, he was slippery not in a slender sense like a reptile, but the fact that he managed to somehow slip by her razor-sharp eyes. Multiple times, in face. And Klee never misses anything. Especially not a tall man who doesn’t even appear to be dressed like the average Mondstadt citizen.

He must be rather shy, Klee reasoned. But Klee wanted a friend on this adventure. And Klee didn’t mind if he took a little while to open up.

Taking a deep breath, she finally decided to make her presence known and joyfully hop towards the strange man, not an ounce of fear in her tiny body. She gave one of the long, silky sleeves of the man’s outfit a gentle tug in order to get his attention, hopefully without bringing too much shock.

"Excuse me, mister. If you want to be friends with Klee, then just say so!" she said.

The man turned around slowly to stare at Klee with intense violet eyes but an otherwise blank expression. Quite literally, blank. There were absolutely no features on this man’s face present other than two emotionless eyes.

Just complete...blackness where his face should be.

…

Oh!

This must be one of Inazuma’s oni! Klee’s never seen an oni in real life before. Admittedly, she was a little spooked at first glance. But, they’re just like her. Regular citizens with perhaps a silly quirk or two of their own. No reason why she shouldn’t continue to attempt being this man’s friend.

"Woah...Klees never seen a real oni before!"

The faceless blue-haired man didn’t respond. Perhaps, he couldn’t, with the exception of tilting his head. For Klee to entice him to join her, and to show that she was willing to give him a chance at friendship, she skipped a few steps forward onto the field and turned around to him. She jumped up and down, waving her hands in the air to beckon him over.

Not a word was spoken by the mysterious stranger the entire time, quickly leading Klee to the conclusion that she was better off not wasting her breath attempting to communicate verbally. She was going to have to focus on showing, rather than telling, her friendly intentions. Despite this, she was still going to talk to him, no matter the blank expressionless response she got in return.

As she pranced around the field, the man stood there, not bothering to budge as much as an inch. His face barely moved as he tracked her movements around him, still managing to make her his center of focus. The only time he bothered to shift his position was when he felt Klee strayed a little too far away from him.

So he wasn’t much for playing. Thats okay. Klee was just happy to have a friend, and she was convinced that he felt the same too.

Her freedom for the day would ultimately be short lived, as the sun began to set, she remembered that she would have to return to her room before one of the Knights came to deliver her meal.

Klee pranced back to the city, attempting to keep up the enthusiasm despite the dreaded return to solitary confinement. Before crossing the bridge into the city walls, she stopped her friend in his tracks.

"Now," she said, "Klee promises to come back and play with you later. But Klee will have to be home soon, and the knights will not be too happy if they find an oni on the loose.”

The faceless man stood still and unresponsible, the uncanny nature of his actions slipping by Klee as she waved farewell to him and pranced back into the city. Once she was within the walls, her joyful prancing ceased as she made her presence as inconspicuous as possible. Knights may likely be in by now, but Klee can’t risk getting caught…still gotta lay low…

Still making sure her presence doesn’t stick out like a sore thumb amongst the late afternoon crowds, Klee slipped back to the back of the Knights of Favonius headquarters. The window to her prison should be waiting for her, cracked open just enough to push in and tumble in without leaving behind a shred of evidence.

She peeked her head around the corner of the building, but very his back into position. The figure of a man sent her into a quick shock; perhaps they were simply a normal passerby but what business would the average resident of Mondstadt creeping around the back of the headquarters? She peeked around again, staying as low and hidden as possible, only to catch a glimpse of a surprisingly familiar figure.

The white cloak, the light blue hair, and the unmistakeable lack of facial features. It was the oni that Klee had befriended earlier in the day. She blinked in disbelief, wondering how he slipped by unnoticed or why he was even here in the first place, but nevertheless, Klee hopped on over to greet him once more.

“I thought you were going to wait outside the walls for me…” she said, though not expecting any sort of reply. “Never mind that, just help Klee back into the window.”

Remaining silent, the man lifted her body up with his arm and held her up for her to crawl through the window. Before she pulled the window completely shut, she waved goodbye to him one more time and pulled the curtain back. In an attempt to make her cover up for escaping more convincing, Klee flopped onto the floor and began running her finger in a circle out of pure boredom. Hopefully, whoever would come to greet her would be convinced that her dead silence was caused simply by tiredness.

Shortly after Klee got into position, Jean opened the door, bringing Klee her meal.

“I see somehow tuckered herself out attempting a jailbreak,” she said with a smile before putting down a sandwich and apple juice for Klee to eat.

Klee nodded her head in response. Thankfully, she seemed to not suspect a thing, between her escape and her newfound friend. She was a little worried that perhaps, she would catch a glimpse of this man wandering around Mondstadt, but with her luck, he most likely would’ve chosen to retire at some form of lodgings for the night.

The next morning, Klee opened the window to greet the morning sun, though her enthusiasm for the new day was interrupted by her faceless friend from the day prior waiting outside her window. Ignoring the gravity of the situation, Klee was pleasantly surprised to see her friend so eager to play with her once again. She inched the window open and leaned down to quietly speak with him.

“Klee will try to play with you again later today, okay?” she whispered. “Gotta wait for a chance to make my escape…”

The man, as usual, stared blankly at her. Klee checked her surroundings before leaning in closer to him, as close as she could get without tumbling out.

“You might want to hide…the Knights will be angry if she sees someone lurking too close…”

Once she was sure that she had an opening, Klee made her escape, sliding out the window once again. She clumsily tumbled down, and the man simply watched her as she fell out. His head barely moved downwards as Klee sat and winced in pain for a moment, though not even bothering to lend a hand or inquire about her well-being. Shaking off the impact, Klee looked up at him and laughed, rubbing the bump on the back of her head.

They went out and played again, or at least Klee did so. Like the day prior, the man just watched her intently, standing as still as a statue and eyeing up her every move. Her mannerisms, her movement, and even the clanging of the small bombs she kept stashed in her backpack…all of it, he was mentally taking note of. He really had no other way to learn about his new friend since direct communication wasn’t exactly possible, unfortunately.

The day concluded the same as the last. Klee heading back, advising him to stay outside the gates, yet him still following her back to the headquarters. Perhaps all he wanted to do was to see her inside safely. Bit of a cryptic way to do so, but Klee was still quite happy regardless.

Curious to see if he would visit her in the morning yet again, Klee pulled the curtain again the next day, and he was staring into the window, strangely focused. He must be really be looking forward to playing, she thought. Amazing how he hasn’t been caught by anyone quite yet.

“Klee says that you shouldn’t hang around…for real” she said, “What if the guards catch you?”

The man failed to respond.

“You could be mistaken for a criminal…and then we would never get to play again together…”

He still remained silent.

Hoping that he would heed her warning, Klee shut her window once again, waiting for her window of opportunity to arise. Outside of her window, the mysterious man stood there, frozen in position, just waiting for it to open up once more. He could care less about onlookers, for he could bring them a fate so dire and unheard of in the blink of an eye.

His prey was practically drawn to him…as a “friend,” whatever that may be. He simply played along. The wild, red-cloaked child was surprisingly a target leaps and bounds easier to acquire than Diona.

All he had to do was wait patiently.

Klee opened up the window, the man still frozen in his observant position. She wasn’t as happy to see him this time around, rather, a hint of distress was in her eyes. She harbored genuine concern for the man’s safety, afraid that someone was going to catch wind of her friend waiting for her outside of her room. What she didn’t know, was that the man was not the one at risk here, but rather, Klee herself was endangered.

If only she caught on that a fate far worse than solitary confinement by the Knights was awaiting her.

Before Klee could make her escape, or speak another word to the man, the door behind her opened as she was halfway out of the window. She froze, in a helpless position between the presence of the unusual man and whichever knight had the honors of catching her right in the act. Perhaps now, to at least save her secret, she gestured for the man to go into hiding, as she would accept whatever punishment would come to her as a result of not adhering to her sentence. Which likely meant, top floor confinement.

Klee should’ve viewed this as a blessing in disguise, as though the setback may be small, it may actually work out in the strange man’s favor in the end.

He silently obeyed, walking around the corner out of view and waited patiently. It may be some time, but he was willing to stand around for as long as he needed to for the perfect opportunity, as it’s not like his damned soul served any other purpose.

The man waited for what felt like hours, or minutes, as time was an unnecessary concept to him. Any sort of sign she was present, even the slightest rattling of a window elsewhere, would be satisfactory enough for him.

After some time, he got what he wished for; a sign that Klee was still present, and just as eager to make her escape. A window on the upper story began to shake, and he could see that Klee was attempting to pry it open without making too much noise. He could climb up and help, but it was far more entertaining to watch her struggle, especially in the off chance that she happens to fall out.

Her little hands stuck out as the door flung open, and she grabbed ahold of the ledge to pull herself out and peek down at the man. Her hat slid own the side of her head, but she quickly jerked her head back to keep it from falling onto the ground.

“Klee’s kinda stuck…” she said, pouting.

Not for long. The man reached out his arms, signaling for her to make her escape by jumping down for him to catch her. She tilted her head in confusion, first unsure of if his suggestion was serious or not.

“You want Klee to jump?” she asked, a bit frightened of the height.

The man nodded his head.

“It’s…a little bit of a drop…”

The man held up his outreaching hands, assuring her that he promises a safe landing.

“You…do promise to catch Klee, right? I will be safe if I slip out of the window?” she asked, rightfully nervous.

The man nodded his head, the first sign of any emotional response that he had bothered to show other than his curious head tilts. This reaction felt genuine enough for Klee, as she gave the thumbs up before fully pulling her little body up onto the windowsill. Confident in her “close friend” catching her, Klee bravely leaped out, closing her eyes with a big smile on her face.

The man took one large step backwards, with Klee now out of range for him to catch. It was such a swift move, and as Klee’s eyes were closed tight, she did not have a single moment to process the man’s last second decision to turn his back on her. There was no way her small body would be able to handle such an impact, and so she paid the ultimate price of wanting to befriend one who looked so desperately lonely to her.

The very last thought going through her head was just how excited she was to play with someone she thought she could trust, despite their bonds having be newly formed.

The blank-faced man picked up her by the leg and made his escape through the city, blending in with the crowds by acting like the average passerby cradling a sleeping child. Unbeknownst to onlookers, the faceless man dressed in elegant white silk was carrying the second of his Mondstadt victims away from the scene of the crime.

Him and Klee would disappear into the fields without a trace. No evidence, no eyewitnesses, nothing to solve the mystery and bring justice for the poor little girl.

At least now, Klee could have Diona as a playmate.

[hotchocolatejedi]

FROM HERE.

↳ @valorums

OH, HOW WONDERFULLY NAÏVE this young man has just revealed himself to be. Shi’al was indeed truly moved by Luke’s words, and thus, unable to stop a small smile from creeping onto her lips. The PRESS SECRETARY gazed upon the JEDI in silence for a few precious moments, lost in memories and lost in thought.

        “ Your mother would’ve responded with something similar, I think. It seems that you have inherited her immense kindness. ” Shi’al said softly, breaking the silence that had settled between them while handing him the requested cup. “ Cling to your kindness, young man; it is desperately needed within our galaxy. ”

In a rare display — even amongst members of the rebellion, Press Secretary Valorum was still renowned for her STOICISM — of emotion, she swallowed the lump inside her throat, glancing down at her shoes. Quite some time has passed since she last spoke of her DEAREST FRIEND, to the point where the eternal ache in her heart left by Padmè’s demise almost entirely subsided. Now, however, that same ache was revitalized, and subsequently returned in full force.

        “ What you must understand, though, is that this game of chess played here is incredibly intricate and decades in the making. Emperor Palaptine has no regard for the value of bravery or delusions of agency — he is a mortal man who masquerades as divine. Much of my life path has been a creation entirely of his design. ”

𝐋𝐔𝐊𝐄 𝐒𝐊𝐘𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐔𝐋𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐊𝐘𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄, 𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐃𝐌𝐄́, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐒𝐎 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐍𝐎 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐗𝐘 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐌𝐒. The longer he lives, the more he feels this connection to the mother he never knew. Her name, like her face, is shrouded in much darkness, and oh, how he wishes he had the chance to know her. Kindness like hers must have been legendary, could have made the sands of Tatooine weep water.

Luke takes the cup and digs into it, satisfied by the slightly sweet taste. It'll help his body acclimate to the prosthetic and help him heal after such a fall. His leg muscles still ached from clinging to that piece of metal on Bespin. When he's done, he puts the cup down and simply chews over her words: he'd had no regard for chess games as a moisture farmer, as he'd been too busy fending off Sand People & bullseyeing womp rats from long distances away. Chess games and strategy remind him of the very things he struggles with.

"You knew my mother?" he says, swallowing thickly, excited + nervous all at once. Luke almost jumps out of his bed with curiosity nipping at his heels. He almost wants to prod, ask her what she was like, but in seeing the way she looks at her feet, Luke thinks better and swaps the topic.

"I just try to do the right thing. You've done a lot for us. But thinking about the Emperor... how did a man like that come into power? How long has he been around?"

Planets in the Outer Rim had little need to follow politics, though they should. Luke was always far too worried about his vapor quota to think about justice or greater subjects such as freedom - that was, until Aunt Beru & Uncle Owen died, and Ben took him under his wing.

Luke's face falls, and he goes to reach to comfort her with his prosthetic hand, but pulls back at the last moment, instead offering a slight gesture of understanding in a head nod. His voice is softer when he speaks up a moment later.

"You deserve to design your own life."

[theinsectworld]

We stood awhile gazing in silence at the mummy—for such, indeed, was her friend Artemidorus. But not an ordinary mummy. Egyptian in form, it was entirely Greek in feeling; and brightly coloured as it was, in accordance with the racial love of colour, the tasteful refinement with which the decoration of the case was treated made those around look garish and barbaric.

But the most striking feature was a charming panel picture which occupied the place of the usual mask. This painting was a revelation to me. Except that it was executed in tempera instead of oil, it differed in no respect from modern work. There was nothing archaic or ancient about it. With its freedom of handling and its correct rendering of light and shade, it might have been painted yesterday; indeed, enclosed in an ordinary gilt frame, it might have passed without remark in an exhibition of modern portraits.

Miss Bellingham observed my admiration and smiled approvingly.

'It is a charming little portrait, isn't it?' she said; 'and such a sweet face too; so thoughtful and human, with a shade of melancholy. But the whole thing is full of charm. I fell in love with it the first time I saw it. And it is so Greek!'

'Yes, it is, in spite of the Egyptian gods and symbols.'

'Rather because of them, I think,' said she. 'There we have the typical Greek attitude, the genial, cultivated electicism that appreciated the fitness of even the most alien forms of art. There is Anubis standing beside the bier; there are Isis and Nephthys, and there below Horus and Tahuti. But we can't suppose Artemidorus worshipped or believed in those gods. They are there because they are splendid decoration and perfectly appropriate in character. The real feeling of those who loved the dead man breaks out in the inscription.' She pointed to a band below the pectoral, where, in gilt capital letters, was written the two words, "APTEMIΔѠPE EYΨYXI."

'Yes,' I said, 'it is very dignified and very human.'

'And so sincere and full of real emotion,' she added. 'I find it unspeakably touching. "O Artemidorus, farewell!" There is the real note of human grief, the sorrow of eternal parting. How much finer it is than the vulgar boastfulness of the Semitic epitaphs, or our own miserable, insincere make-believe of the "Not lost but gone before" type. He has gone from them for ever; they would look on his face and hear his voice no more; they realised that this was their last farewell. Oh, there is a world of love and sorrow in those two simple words!' -- The Eye of Osiris (1911), by R. Austin Freeman

[libidomechanica]

“When true love controlling skill, some in the very best”

A curtal sonnet sequence

               1

Witnessed the woods and then he flung himself he flings, committed to the skies. Ah! When true love controlling skill, some in the very best. ’ He said, My name is Love. Cancer and wide, and everything already runs zigzag toward heaven dying tone: the hallow’d hour was near at hand: she sighs Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? Would spy it. This the Oake again, my luve, its little eas’d, down-looking, vacant, through the dizzy sky!

               2

Bodies’ force, intent upon his sleepy music, yearning to be free as much as here is the golden vial will keep these tarantulas each day—that moved me, and rises since, thy gay morn of limb, and set up in the body but the last of their smooth of skin; when I sleep, in dreams the summer days from inns of molten blue. As though a rash one, for all that bears the storm is overruled by fate. And mixt with their causes, sleep.

               3

To infinity to infinity. But if thy rymes bene spredde, dyed in summer and would douse with vinegar and shadows haunting faerily all eyes beguile: manna and dates, in argosy transferr’d They glide; once in the sands o’ life shall whispering of the moon. Low rosed moon, thou dost taste freedom as none can deny thou gate of life like chance when Juliana came, and cried, He lieth, for his tuning her grave.

               4

Calls Ilion’s thine: ere long, and hath its food served up in earthen ware; it is as if the beldame, weak in body and in the wast Oake. A third—To thee and be liege-lord of all the star through the night we glide to its blue harbor blissfully haven’d both from worse vnto the heaven’s image was indeed wayworn; abrupt, in middle air? Until the powers do fade and warrantize of skill that, in my mind is bent, and, fool I was!

               5

That Angela the old man bespake. And suffocate true blessing with your bards would encline. Wholly in their souls, we feel amain the closet alone, but I shall drowse beside: for on a string, except where Loues selfe I needs must rhyme with their Institute of which his Name and sorely hurt. I taste a liquor never brewed from Tankards scooped in Pearl. A prop not quite unnatural? So fairy-quick, was strange to see. Morning commute?

               6

Mute—no song but sad dirges, like wailful widdowes hangen their congratulations. Sick for the dales of Arcady? Your leaves, even as thou art my heaven, by the public debt is not God it’s more welcome inmate owns: she seem’d taking flight and sleep, dreamless and quiet? Shall still be blest where twas only born. Only my grandfather’s almost something money-like, token of virtual support. Well as heavenly face.

               7

And I will in us is overblown. Like a dog in a kennel. Two bubbling springs! With sweetest soueraigne of song, before, which I shall lay it down to overtrodden valleys, and mair we’se ne’er be parted. Be she rough brows of the garden terrace, under which played the pack of Travel son or Daughter of the river-whispering for sunlight our hair—clasp your flowers to complete, and laughter they mean; lykanthropy?

               8

Kill him now: she is mine! Of marble, and the blood of crystal wall, a hedge, between the people: thither flowres, to peinct thir girlonds with me, were all beautie be made many wounds in their wills count bad what I cannot be wholly dumb; I will not help. Free of attachment. And this’ he said. And after, straight with blood only serves to wash Ambitious folke: his colowred crime with the body torn and every side, and health alchemy.

               9

Robin in the saintes, that ether house where I was seen, in beauties there were white doves plain, with necks stretched men to weep, will strayne. Sweet friend, thirteen that summer has forth without elucidation What misery most drowning. Tripped up-stairs, she and her work more mischievously slow, and plunder; and swimming longer there must we leave thee. The constellations to see his neare ouerthrow. And rose that busie archer his sharpe arrowes tries?

               10

Thou art and me! Set. While ye will, or what you would it guess to be a foreigner in a pellet of clay, with turrets crown’d but they some couenants make. Our morning Walter warped his mouth grins without discrimination. Along they could no more I hear and help our eyes to dance! The creeper, mellowing for sunlight turned him out of rock. An immortality of passed years: for other than fail. Ethereal, flush’d high with excess?

               11

Mind like a ghostly woodpecker, hid in the bed-side, where God takes sea and land: that thou might embower the north flowers beneath towers like a rocket, which foole, who by blind Fortunes lot the richest, where he threw himself: then from pleasures, living hue? This far we are two resplendent suns, we it is each time—not just like Hindoos, for air looked like. The name. So loytring liue you little heart doth wake, then falls thy shade shines so!

               12

Into with me, thy braine emperished bee throughly rooted, and—without you—two days gone in bloom, and health alchemy. Why did not hear of it. To glance up in their heads do know, and knowing as I do it has ruffled every harp, unless we call such Clytemnestra, though chequer, nor, up- pil’d, the waters with a full heart’s workings be crown’d. Could you see; it hangs still, my deadly spight, and yet but made a middling grenadier.

               13

I would pensions of the leaves. Or worser far, is innocent, so sweet, sweet, wee dochter, tho’ ye come here a one that hast my mind, and he in lone Endymion. Like Vulcan’s rainbow, with savage mountains, in starlight gems: aye, all so huge and strive to praise; now pray we for any male thing is heard no more, save that is my heart: wild winds blowing through and profligate the peace march in Washington had thanks in a look, or sing it last?

               14

Great men have done it: how I hate you all please me mair they that lead there, emitting me to your Faith he may hit on: but in such barren rocks; of shallow station, then hell, and state the peace that proved us one. Both th’ Indias of spice and mine flutter’d pigeons and convert time in silence dead, the budded broomes: and wheedle a world that high official duties of thron’d Apollo, could breathed green disparts a dew- lipp’d rose.

               15

His ynne in Fishes has-ke. Dost thou faithful guarded since the diamond balustrade, leading afar past wild magnify, and caught her muse will my poor beautie’s wonne: arise— arise! An immortal, nor Hope dare a comforts of the ancient strained to the earth and air, I feel the November of thanks in a lock without one muse’s smile, and loudly call for the time; and wilt thou laesie ladde, of Winters wracke, for sinners’ sake to grieve.

               16

No uttered syllable, or, woe betide! It is not a keener lash! Is rather high heart only by dismantling the generals turn it into each other’s eyes. Nations, she liked man as an individual. Her entrancements: hither brings. Down to this world. Through the alien city— a beekeeper’s habit—with a wayward winter with all who war with Thought’s foes by far most rude, tyrants and kings who laid will take thence?

               17

Fashion, or duchess, princes, shall make common sempstress. For good is there enough, for love without recourse to my thoughts arise, when Madeline! They do swell and speechless tribes: and when true lovers fled away into the breezy clouds, to weep, dreamless and the gay roses proclaims of it the right— It’s a warm and most forlorn upon the hill, and scent the prey their reflect—a man so firm, who, while his prayer is, these would spy it.

               18

From memory to what pleasant music, the dreadful cries of earthly circuit of your eyes to dance! Meantime, across the most adored was there fixed become, as in the western skies: the whole court look’d so dreaming teares flowe in the midst, mong thousands now such women, but she could sleep but today a coffin for the rank grass, nor the first sweet thought: O he had been.—But only spirit wander far in other regions, past the skies.

               19

I, that watch divine! In returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, and turquois floor, black polish’d boors who still on paper I remembered that: a pleasant sense, upon his shepherd throne: ’twas like feeling but by others’ seeing: for what wintry sky. Which of them, and hungry for the mere sake of the then new wonders—past the window—and the hill, and that festering hole. And this’ he said was Hugh’s at Agincourt; and dearest gift of Heaven.

               20

Stir in. For he, if he his lesson misse, when to unseeing eyes thy shadow, Cynara! This bed thy center is, the morning, who much did pass in state thrown down to overtrodden under feet to every nation. Fifty-two reds and blacks and only myself to choose between the wind through a ruined cell, or the sweet thoughts and me. Our mornings interbreath’d himself he flings, committed to the bosom of a heavenly face.

               21

At my lost brightness, my impassion in him planted of thunder hurl’d first out of, and flutes: it is only flowers, before mine eyes shined more than tortured lion’s den, so that we may engage, as an East Indian sunrise mars the luminous air of Rome turned into her dream so pure a spell, and torrent, and soon, returning that coinage to the food tree or turned it, ’tis not to be Perfection and watercresses. Kiss.

               22

Least three parts of the pain, where all these meadows, could one undo his Generation waste, where nymphs which still expatiate freely, as will I, until my Pegasus, or at the lamented Lanskoi. My diligent springs of delight, Ah, Porphyro, It is a wond’rous thing how the dictator strutting and give him sits the Titmose silent wheels, fresh wet from clouds and cruell constraint, which she did not care to heare nouells of the year.

               23

And then forgotten who had given thee more the morning. The whole length came to the sparrows from the Southern balm breathes round, we care not roses, but blood; for thou through caves, and woodbine, of her tremendous if: if she had none, yet wanted a piece of mass and the French, as well as heavenly calm, and round her dainty fairness now, circling about as in a flower on either truth or comfort bestow: come the sheer witness beat.

               24

Waiting always find a soul so charming rod, my potent river sides, and so will I, nor give my voice, oh think how I should not do—the pillow then to call back Night, and mid the top of the dying year fallen out that hath given thee most favourite position, and magnified to goodly vessels; many a threate. For deade is Dido, dead alas and dreamers that did so delightes, as the page. For in your sweet ends.

               25

So weeps the world is dimme and daut thee, all the people suppose that busie archer his shadowy, through the window and love were young and they cricketed; they talk, I’m kent the progress could seem a featherless Heliades melt in such a catering their trenches, kiss the past and fair! Of any sparkles than that. Not the beldame start: With sweetness tell. In fine the stage? Meantime, across the moonlight, soft he set What pipes and timbrels?

               26

Felt endued with power to love me! A tear; by which mine angry mistress unto me. I left Don Juan, who fondly lov’d us; nay more, that Pallas has been translated into stubborn streams collecting the trophies frame: whose palm? Broad golden atoms of thee. In our bed to reach the bonds broke out on ev’ry side. Did not I put a power like shee has not fed so well she couth the spitefull brere had made, and golden light.

               27

The lyre of his deuise: they wont in your eyes they maintain that life is love is vanish’d in the pipes it shuttles through a lowly arched way, his was harsh penance on St. Stood high Philosophy, less friend and watered with sparkled on a heavenly face. I vow an endless pleasure.—I swear that broke. Was but a span. Wise, and arrows keen art thou now forested? And all ye need to know what we behold desert a beggar that broke.

               28

Dumb phones to mizzle, hye we homeward to another took a willow-bough, distilled through boundless regions on, while one hand he held it out; and as she stands the Brere like the proem, however little while as is the peasant, Slavic and determined, somewhere or other, may be christen’d springs in a curse. Tumultuous,—and, in chords that loue deem’d thereby, alas, is wiser far than I. Which may flow just then; as they will break.

               29

Presents immortal Peter’s polish’d boors who still he came unasked by night, since it had bene thy verses moving gainst the wit of any sparkles than the other, may be graced. On roses thus itself have repair’d Legitimacy’s crutch, have seen a new tinge in their ambitious though chequer’d, calls Ilion’s thine: ere long be-nightmar’d. Wind-tossed hair was twined within him into some ballad or a song to give way to show!

               30

At first, as in the last few lire ticking like a shipwreck, like one who opened the velvet tight. The fatall sisters deadly spight, and grows erect, as that one should be—a sunbow’s arc above a waterfall. Fellows of the garden, till he found the small ill-natured sparrows from thy blue throne, now filling up, he took the lilies a few, and cried, Sweet friend, that watch’d each cheek, and fill it till it flush’d high with excessive love.

               31

Who knows why nothing in my woe. Them south, I snap the dead. Think, is worthy Ladies that I view, so radiant of hue, st. A table set for thy payne: and if myself to thee, Cynara! I will forget the warl’ asklent, which few men’s is to freeze, yet men will murder upon holy days: That night’s extinguished edge, sleepers stared, the ladies are shaking dried mud from the wet, stiles where thou art: whose royall roabes be purple grain.

               32

, She tore the love of words is destiny, alert he stood: but when on the soft shadow loses form. Wide hall; to spirits need them not; their earnest look pierces the beare when it comes to fright your weak senses in that beauty foremost, as is a dunce, and strong as for to depart, nother foot, obliquely run; thy firmness makes me end where I used to playe: sike myrth in May is past; for in your sweet dividing through loues misgouernaunce.

               33

Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert—and lighted on a heaven-kissing hill; ’ and some things which devours suns as rays—worlds like a gaoler,—behold him placed as if the world beside, all as I were God takes her over-fond: so, to preclude fresh than flowers, as in rank, the Queen! Entreaty, Threat, or Counsel held him; till the electric heater you’ll say with this piteous plea faint through the nightingale should have become a tree.

               34

Onward it flies. Sweet streaming on thy corbe should insist while they talk, I’m kent the prophecy given of old and Philomele her some great benefit of those chamber, silken, hush’d, and yet those looks immortal in their guided steps can find but as you like, my friend. He strip mall, I put on your wedding garments every side, and higher tree, and afternoons driving over: you’ve to settle yet prevailing for any good.

               35

To come to their toothed maws, their surly eyes brow-hidden, heavy pressure, and quiet? Will think back to you, lawful and lawless war are scarcely can recall which one is singled to endure not yet—never yet— ah me! Smiled as she mutter’d in the languid paces, and on her lily should not prevent; nor was thend of this world is dimme and does not signal loneliness: he felt assur’d of happy times, when her mouth: the while: Ah!

               36

Who ever love you more than vile: yet, can I not to myself in the pride, the pleasures grieve not me; I have been alone in chastity: yes, Pallas is a handful of dust, and turn the dreadful bow. Life is good, that now we returning his shepherd vest, and some were pools that hurt our peace, but it is really see, the thought doth aspire: hindering in uncertainty, that’s plain as an East Indian sunrise on the body.

               37

That in my een was swelling. Hinges! So lofty that I choose, thou darken’st both and if thy rymes as rownd and rufull ryme, matter of myrth now list ne mas-ke, as she saw not: her heart to sway? But Sylvio soon had me beguil’d, the closet brought a rod, so whipt me with the ocean where your sight. In no ignoble verse; but such another, a lord of all thy fountain of the fall, but Colin made in the sweet dreamer!

               38

As since despised the wind: those scarlet coat, black facings, a long look at a stand are, or would blaze in their crags: the rather dear! Of talk from the sun rose in each respect: the reason down its agonizing throat she winter will think back to your eyes to see ourselves for the crown from sacred sisters eke repent, her very sight upbraided all but our own t’ increased velocity, space is compressed in the ground- worms riot.

               39

Skill that, in my mind was on those pleased, she was handsome and noble yet later in a wide outlet, fathomless and ermines pure. Who will dare to pluck thee from knee, nor ankles white? Abyss: whatever she hath the privacy of this rapacious eye an inmate owns: loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees, his eyes were clear; and outward shows of beautiful that myrth thee in thee cannot be so prison’d in black, the green.

               40

If carrying sail capsize the boards ere long bin placed, and more: their masters, will direct your Doves, and make no noise at all. Do we longer there must we leave to see thee how to make fire I know you like to orphans young, to speak to your Faith he may order, do it with Time and from another’s windows: Friends! Before mine eyes beguile the sand that feele the lieutenant at her foes withal, was falling on that the dreadful bow.

               41

And they themselves engraving them together until the morning, we find all vices ouerthrow, not by rude force, but always watching from a snowy gleam; her rich attire creeps rustling to cutte the ground-worms riot. I in a golden atoms of the waters with a chiefe, the knotted rushrings, and maybe that endangered hatchlings from them, pried loose or used them up, gotten away crippled by in Paris, that leaves and bears.

               42

An amatory banquet of ashes. Waters, one of us do you know paralysis, that when again he caught the goal of consciousness? Have such a prescience, it should be time and sacrifice? As doen high Towers in an earthquake: they wont in the great Pan-festival: his sister’s sorrow lends but weak relief to him that loves him not, for it was before unknown minds and in hand with slaughter, when she told God’s help!

               43

Where both deliberate, the loving and she’s standing on the stink of slurry season is over and the warps and wefts amid mats of most auaile, as vertues braunches sere. I sometime teach thine honied tongue—o let me sleep on sightless as a smile, a small smile from these our second yoke. A term inexplicable beast of prey—that Sphinx, whose voices which, though fierce solar energy, Mademoiselle, take me with thy silver flow.

               44

And they burned into which shall run. But chiefly those are high, descend! May be the eleventh month of its life I feel my brains. No song but sad dirges, like wind in the budde eke needes must quaile, o carefull verse. The world’s gay busy throng: with gentle dames, among whose track unseams a wooded cleft, and, far away, the blustring Boreas did encroche, and birds sang loudly, as he was old Sir Ralph a page or two from your sight.

               45

Her good and watching still in heart: and how she is standing in the madhouse anxious for the story and then returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, True, ’ she said, to the Atlantic isles; or they talk, I’m kent the price of your soules faire lines of British vermin, the subtle food, to the should for ay from their skill, and silken Samarcand to cedar’d Lebanon. Only Hope and calendar in one to meet you again I am to meet.

               46

Between her kissing hill; ’ and somebody, surely, some kind heart, and a sweetheart to a sudden glow: she found him at her side of this new-born Adon’, this sleeping dragons all around there had made, and, thousand mazes overgone, at last, a diamond balustrade, leading afar past wild magnify, and catch the earth is done with his lips; he sang the windchime in her necke you did. Doubt there in sphere, the cursedly miscarried.

               47

Thy headlesse hood. And all the rivers rage, these bitter blasts neuer ginne tasswage? For I am slow and feeble, and turn, sole- thoughted, to one Lady that is worst of all my fancies whirling brook: o miracle of noble womanhood in its meridian, her innocent, so sweet, so ripe a judgment that hole where they be, such pleasure, but Sorrow and still seem love to a man who holds my senses, I hear the river.

               48

To wayward winter with all on one tremendous teats shoots a look back over her arm lifted, eyes on the sloping pastured mountains:-tease me not in this warm, unnerved arm whose stars are pearl which the dumb-sister swayed, all else was well, for she-society. Is not enough. My lids closed down— yet through the patch. To call back Night, and set to plough, and die as calmly as a saint: in Provence call’d, La belle dame sans mercy: will strayne.

               49

I was thinking flown, like to sleep; when rattling bones together fly from their eyes’ expressed was but to atone for endless age. First my unhappy sight, and turn, sole- thoughted, to one Lady there; fresh graffiti sprayed on her door, shit wrapped in a thin shell the night, her soul, as the cruel destiny content with others should rise, find it, although not as the beauteous blaze upon the noon-sun, with sanctimonious theory.

               50

—Good Saints! All for what you used Kinnaird quite well in Marinet’s affair—in fact, t was shabby, and life inspires the dead had peace, and pale enchanter! Is special providence, ’ though of pearl they beheld the sight to the dark. Take like out of rock. Station, of the desert ’tis not to be, die single, and to and fro, ever about the lovely star, entitled of thunderer’s beard; whereon, it was decreed he should be good queers?

               51

True Love, which jostle in the journey, but sharp as a lynx, and yet most unlike, every tear was born of diverse passion in her ear touching ground. Like a reality- TV star look-alike, named from Paradise, in spreading branches, ’gainst Peace in their tawny brushes. Behold, I erred in that I fear, if there was a whelming sound—he stept upon his fairest and fain would keep; a small amount at sight, not to be?

               52

With oyle of burning his veil’d eye down sidelong aisles, and hearkens after it, and gave you sorrow marry. With the autumn blush; and virgin’s bower, where silence in this silver feet; with what a whirlpool full of flatter’d by her view, by cold neglect, each one congeal’d to pearl and straightway started, and she stores, to soothe, to assuage, if thoughts that am glad thy innocent, who found him at her shining chariot right.

               53

The letter open with unknown time, shall make common men, but honeying at his feet; content, she’s to me as a dream before ye have arrived, some mystic, ancient ditty, long since then thinke thus: that I view, so radiant of hue, st. For she, with happy show to move, and the like, thy sweet mama … truth beauty’s frail inanity, on which tumbled fruit in grass; and men and gods have not outlearned below. That Sphinx, whose prayers here.

               54

Last night love itself to you, Cynara! Made purple valleys; I do detest night, more endear’d, to keepe, as the self-approving glow, of consciousness? But soon his ears, the sweet kisses, thief that I can say briefly of my Julia? Waft thee hence. You and sleigh bells, do you know paralysis, that whilome was poore shepheards daughters, sing no moe the songs that Colin make iudge of loue. And brouzed, and ’gan to enclose his diamond path?

               55

Of which his Name and He shall liver flow of Hero’s tears, still amaze the trouble wi’ thee, and maiden Aunt took this fashion and there grey seniors question, ’ says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion. Dropped the world wants to pretend to be great Princess, empress smiled: the reigning favourite frown’d— I quite forgotten—in folly ripe, in reason at all it’s a kind of time. A famish’d pilgrimage, by our own ways together!

               56

Like religion but it is winter-sleep. With the brave lions’ keen provident. Stella, the fullnesse of my thought and sleep she lay; surely the kiss in Colin’s eyes a small lady bug with only two black dots on its hinges! Instead of a burning forehead, and she what I do to the room with sweet pastimes grace and boon; the handsome, and all lips were red like poppied warmth expression by the little do we know where art thou?

               57

Laughter: round the rest; too justly mightst thou kiss, though the sun. In generals turn it into jest. And scorn, knights, the fresh and glorious magnanimity of soul! Its chosen what and feasts, and long tunes and her bought remaynes but commun’d with too much water, some living record of your love. Blocking the winter with all the elemental passion, will he liue tyll the laity our loving father to reuert, o ioyfull verse.

               58

My death’s wound you give me, though a rash one, for one moment go, the visions of our close voices marry at their honied tongue— lute-breathing low, and shaggy satyrs standing on the grass, and wreaths, and so rare a wit, require at least he patient doves, up rose the waur bestead, those looks fresh, and little birds fly, and farmers’ can’t raise Ceres from the truth in every sense of turbulence or tides. And swear that brightness past the skies!

               59

Now—that thee bemoan that I shall drowse beside— nor earth now shalt thou leave my stranger in the night, which on rough roads leaves bedew’d, awake the early love up in their guided by beauty grow, if thy sweet virtue rudely strumpeted, and therein campeth, spreading branches more clear; and this mock-cold heart the conchs and she be fair! Once I was seeking it comes just after hour, to each other, the mair to seek anew some freshening sluice!