#happy torment grace week

[viric-dreams]

if i'm not too late i Gotta: 🎲 for twitch & ockham >:3

"Kiss your captain already."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I know you can hear, sad Englishman. Don't say like you can't. You like them. This is me clear. This is the crew clear. This is half of London clear. Don't stay sitting on the hands. Do something."

"Now hold on a moment. It's not that simple! I can't just--"

"Lafbek, it is simple. Look here."

41. A kiss out of spite

[koenigami]

tags : fem!reader, fluff, little angsty because pining wrio scared of being vulnerable a/n: happy birthday to juicy buttocks man 🩶

WRIOTHESLEY didn’t get the chance to experience copious amounts of love throughout his life. And the little that he received, he’s not sure if any of it was ever real. Whether his foster parents’ I love yous were ever uttered with sincerity, he will never know. Even if he could, he probably would not care, because the things that they made him feel were real, even if only temporarily. 

But the things that you are able to ignite inside him- they’re terrifying him. Yes, good ol’ Wriothesley being scared. Not something that you get to see quite often, right? But it’s true. Because everywhere he goes; you’re there. While taking a lazy stroll through the Fortress of Meropide to ensure its order, Wriothesley seems to look for you in every nook and crevice of it. Your smile, your eyes, the sound of your voice. In every room that he steps, he seems to find glimpses of you. It gets worse when he realises that he cannot think straight anymore. Signing documents and reading through reports, simple and almost daily tasks for him, all of a sudden feel like hard manual labour. All due to one single person invading his thoughts and not letting go of him.

It’s a day like any other when you visit him, unloading another pile of paperwork for him on his desk, yet what you don’t expect is the sudden proximity between the both of you when he suddenly stands right in front of you. Your forehead wrinkles slightly in worry, noticing his scowl and ragged breaths. “Wriothesley-” “Get out.” Your eyebrows lift questioningly. Taking a step back, you wonder what might have led to his sudden request and rude demeanour as you’ve been getting along more than well the last few weeks. So well that you thought there might actually be something between you-

Warmth envelopes your wrist once you attempt to take the staircase, vainly trying to fulfil his wish, not even wanting to question it, only for him to pull you back. “Here.” with a gentleness that you haven’t gotten the chance to witness from him before, he guides your hand up to his head, lightly tapping the pads of your fingers against his temple. “Get out of here.” It’s only now that his tired looks become more evident. Wriothesley is desperate. He can’t hire someone to solve this problem for him, there is no one who can deal with this mess inside his head and heart except himself. 

“I would, if that is what you truly wished for.” you sigh, gracing him with that soft smile of yours before letting your hand settle on his cheek. Delicately, you trace the light stubble along his jaw with your thumb and Wriothesley, for the first time in forever, feels weak. “But the issue is that you won’t let me go.” 

And Wriothesley recognises that resisting these feelings, fighting against himself; all of it is futile. Sometimes the remedy can be worse than the disease, so letting you go without confessing his devotion to you would only torment him further. Gingerly, as if assessing whether his next move would scare you off, he leans his forehead against your shoulder and buries his face into the crook of your neck. Like a child seeking warmth and comfort in its mother’s bosom. And you let him. 

Embracing him and placing a hand on the nape of his neck, playing with his messy strands of hair, you ask softly, “Does the prospect of loving me seem that unpleasant to you?”  

That’s not it. And he’s sure you know that too but are merely trying to tease him in order to lighten the situation. It’s the fear of not being good enough, not being able to love you the way you deserve it, not being able to protect you from any possible harm, or even from himself. It’s the fear of causing you pain and sorrow instead of providing you with a happily ever after. 

He gulps audibly before lifting his head to look at you again, despite the lighthearted grin that he flashes you, his face carries a desolate expression. 

“Sweetheart, I’m not a man worth-”

“You truly are a scumbag, Wriothesley. You know that?” As always, you manage to leave him speechless but despite your insult, he leans back into you when you lift one of his hands and place it on your cheek. Your silky and soft skin a contrast in comparison to his rough and scarred self. “I think I should be the one to judge whether you’re worth it or not. Don’t you think so too?”

With a defeated sigh, Wriothesley can only nod before he leans his forehead against yours. Resisting you is hard but opposing you? Impossible.  That's why he lets you see past the cool and cocky walls that he has built up since his adolescence. Like a newborn lamb on shaky legs, ready to fall and get back up again, he allows himself to indulge in this newfound situation of defencelessness.

[iomoru]

Veil of Devotion

➢ 𝐀/𝐧: I'm so sorry this took so long to make @donnie-is-da-best!, and also sorry that it's very short (ᗒᗩᗕ)! I really got busy this week that I ended up not doing the request (╥ω╥`)

➢ 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: Canon Verse, Angst, Angst w/ no comfort/happy ending, Reader is Dead, Kinich x Reader, Second Person, Proofread

➢ 𝐒𝐲𝐩𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬: After taking over your body, Ajaw taunts Kinich and those you loved, using your memories and presence to remind them of who you were.

© ²⁰²⁴ ɪᴏᴍᴏʀᴜ ✰ do not repost, translate, plagiarize, use to train ai, or share my work on other social media platforms.

Ajaw moves with an eerie grace, his every step and gesture controlled and deliberate, contrasting sharply with your natural demeanor. This new presence in your body feels unsettlingly foreign to everyone, especially to Kinich, who’s haunted by how different you seem now.

Where your gaze was once warm and lively, Ajaw's eyes are now cold and piercing. He regards Kinich and others as if he’s studying them, void of any empathy or familiarity. Kinich can hardly bear to meet this gaze, knowing his beloved’s warmth is gone.

Ajaw often speaks to Kinich in a mocking, taunting manner, deliberately twisting the memories and promises you and Kinich once shared. It’s a cruel reminder that while Ajaw wears your face, he is nothing like you.

Ajaw has access to all of your memories, and he uses them to manipulate and torment Kinich, throwing back cherished moments with a dark, twisted spin. Kinich’s heart aches as he realizes how the memories that once brought him joy now serve only to torment him.

Ajaw displays unsettling body language—smiling in ways you never did, tilting your head at odd angles, and standing too close with an unsettling presence. These small, unfamiliar gestures create a sharp contrast to the way you once moved, emphasizing the unnatural shift.

Ajaw dismisses Kinich's sorrow and the others’ confusion as trivial, showing no understanding or compassion for the grief surrounding him. He treats your former friends as mere obstacles or tools, with no regard for the relationships you cherished.

When Ajaw speaks, there’s a certain hardness in your voice, a tone of intimidation and authority that was never there before. He uses it to command and silence others, making it clear that any attempt to bring “you” back is futile.

Ajaw is unaffected by the devastation and grief he causes Kinich, watching Kinich's anguish with detached interest. If Kinich tries to reason with him or appeal to your memory, Ajaw merely laughs, seeing it as pathetic weakness.

Ajaw establishes his dominance immediately, treating everyone as inferiors who are now beneath him. He relishes in reminding them that he is a god within your vessel, subtly reminding them that their beloved friend or partner is truly gone.

[brbsoulnomming]

Tell Me Sweet Little Lies Part 3

Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3

----

Towards the end of the summer after his freshman year, he finds out that his soulmate must be a year younger than him, because he gets I'm not nervous about starting high school, and that - hmm. It takes Eddie a bit to figure out how to reassure him around that. High school sucks, and he's guessing it's probably going to suck for his soulmate as much as it does for Eddie. The only saving graces are that Eddie was actually able to get a DnD club started, and Kyle Housen - the absolute shithead who was the most popular boy in school, the king of all the jocks who sent his followers out like ringwraiths to torment anyone who was different - is graduated and gone.

Eddie actually is looking forward to being able to breathe easier without him around.

So that's what he tells his soulmate - find something you enjoy doing, stick with your friends, and remember if there's someone in the grades above you who's really annoying, they'll be gone before you are.

That means a lot to me shows up on his chest after that, and Eddie runs his fingers over it again and again, not thinking about who his soulmate was talking to or what they were lying about, just that Eddie means enough to them for them to make sure that appeared on his skin.

It gets him through the rest of summer and into the first few weeks of his sophomore year, until he realizes that while Kyle Housen may have graduated, some of his little sycophantic friends didn't, and a few of them are more than happy to take over the torment of the freaks.

It makes Eddie's blood boil.

"It makes absolute total fucking sense the way rich kids and jocks and all the society conforming jackasses just run this school, like little violent monarchs," he says to one of the members of Hellfire as he throws himself down onto their lunch table, purposefully making himself sound as sincere as possible so it'll get picked up as a lie. "I love this whole the king is graduated, long live the king shit they've got going on."

Eddie doesn't expect an immediate answer. He doesn't usually get one, especially when he springs stuff on his soulmate in the middle of the day. But he doesn't get one that night, or the next day, or the day after that.

And just.

What the fuck? Is his soulmate one of them? Eddie'd just assumed - a kid that had to lie about his injuries, parents never around, feeling lonely, cheating the system to talk to his soulmate before they even met - had to be a fellow freak, right?

Shit.

He thinks about saying I care that you're one of them, but he knows that isn't a lie, and it wouldn't appear on his soulmate's skin.

He doesn't say anything.

Eventually, I'm not sorry things are the way they are shows up, curled in tiny letters around Eddie's ankle, but it doesn’t make him feel better.

It makes him remember that his soulmate is talking to someone - or maybe multiple someones - when they do this, someone unaware that what he's saying are lies. The same thought that had made him feel special before now makes him think a little harder, makes him realize that his soulmate is friends with these people. These people who agree with the things that his soulmate is lying about, who think that his soulmate believes them - that's who he chooses to spend his time around?

Part of him knows it isn't fair. It's not his soulmate's fault that Eddie had built up this idea of him - a fellow outcast, maybe in a small town like this, going through the same things Eddie was, just waiting to graduate and leave it all behind, go somewhere bigger and louder and better.

But most of him is just too damn hurt. Most of him doesn't want a soulmate that says the kind of things his soulmate says, surrounded by people who think they aren't lies, and who love him for it.

Most of him can't stomach the thought that his soulmate is just like the people who have it so damn easy at school, and seem determined to make his life more miserable anyway.

The silence on his skin is as deafening as it is telling, and he starts to wonder if maybe his soulmate can't stomach the thought of it being someone like Eddie, either.

One night, so what if I don't think we should just wait until we meet our soulmates? appears on his side, and Eddie runs his fingers over and over and over it.

And says nothing.

"Haven't heard you talk about your soulmate in a while," Uncle Wayne says casually a week or so later.

Part of Eddie'd been expecting Uncle Wayne to bring it up somehow, but the other part was doing his best to ignore it entirely, leaving him entirely unprepared for what to say. He can't say that he doesn't want to talk to his soulmate any more because he found out they're probably some popular rich kid stomping around whatever school they're haunting - it's true, but it sounds stupid and petty.

He can't lie, either, though, because then it'll show up on his soulmate. So he says nothing, mulishly pushing his peas around his plate.

Uncle Wayne watches him. It's probably pretty easy to figure out that something went wrong with Eddie's hairbrained little scheme, so he isn't too surprised when his uncle hums softly.

"Some people are very different at thirty than they are at fifteen," he says, his gruff voice gentle. "Sometimes, teenagers are little jackasses with no impulse control."

Despite himself, Eddie huffs out a laugh. He considers that for a long moment, then reluctantly admits, "I guess that's probably why most people don't try to talk to their soulmate early." He smashes some peas with his fork. "….I guess it's probably not fair the other way, either. If you have this great idea of them way before you meet them, and they're really different."

Uncle Wayne gives another hum. "Sounds pretty wise, if you ask me."

"I didn't," Eddie points out, just to be contrary, but he eats the peas he'd been playing with, and he does feel a little better about all of it.

Time goes on.

He and his soulmate don't talk anymore, but that doesn't mean things don't occasionally appear. It's not often - which makes Eddie wonder if his soulmate just doesn't lie often, or if he's specifically avoiding lying as much as possible to avoid talking to Eddie - but it does happen.

Little things, mostly, lies about doing homework, about being sober, about not driving without a license. Teenage stuff, the same stuff Eddie lies about, and it lulls him into a sense of boring predictability. He perfects playing the guitar, he turns Hellfire into a sanctuary for those like him, he finds an alternative revenue source that gives him even more of an advantage over the shitty jocks than being scarier than them had, and he counts the days until he can get out.

Until the summer before his senior year.

I'm not in love with her, geez!

Eddie stares at it for longer than he should, the sting of tears biting at the corner of his eyes and feeling so goddamn angry about all of it. Not only is his soulmate some popular rich kid, but he's straight, in love with some girl, fuck.

Maybe Eddie isn't meant for a romantic soulmate. Maybe platonic is all he'll ever get, maybe someone like him doesn't -

Fuck this.

Fuck everything.

He throws himself into guitar playing, into making his next campaign for Hellfire bigger and better than anything he's ever done before.

Just one more year, and then he's gone.

In Eddie's senior year, Steve Harrington - Hawkins High's current reigning royalty - and his right hand man Tommy Hagan have some kind of falling out. Eddie honestly doesn't give a shit what or why. He keeps an eye on the situation only enough to know if they're gonna have some kind of civil war shit that could bleed shrapnel onto his flock. But Hagan doesn't seem to have the constitution to challenge for the throne - or maybe he lacks the numbers, considering Harrington doesn't seem to be hurting much as he swans around the school with Nancy Wheeler at his side - and whatever their mess is stays in a building tension amongst the popular crowd.

It's kind of nice, actually. There's less gossip about Hellfire for a little while, until the masses adjust to the new status quo. Hagan seems meaner, somehow, but he also seems less confident now that he's not at Harrington's side. It means his comments are more cruel, but there's less of them, so whatever, it balances out.

His soulmate tells more lies that year than Eddie's seen in such a short period of time, and something in his stomach twists tighter and tighter.

Yeah, of course I'm all right, why wouldn't I be?

It's nothing.

I'm sure they'll find her soon.

I'm fine.

I'm fine.

I'm fine.

Taglist: @vampireinthesun @koibug @estrellami-1 @mentalcyborg @allbimyself26 @questionablequeeries @the-s-is-silent @whimsicalwitchm @a-gae-af-racoon @tinyplanet95 @n0-1-important @velocitytimes2 @swimmingbirdrunningrock @newtstabber @jcmadgirl @roblingoblin285 @lexyvey @goodolefashionedloverboi @evix-syne666 @raisedbylibrarians @stxrcrossed186

-----

Part 4

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 66: Fitz's Fire

Previous > Masterlist > Next

tw: mind control, depression, past abuse

October 1925

Fitz was exactly where he should be, and yet he was still uneasy.

He used to think that time and distance would surely make his need to be near Lex fade, but instead he'd found that a vampire's feelings rarely change, especially when it comes to the things they desire. Despite the fact that he lived an ocean away and had met no shortage of desirable vampires, the remainder of his heart still burned for Lex and Lex alone. Too often, he would lie awake at night, pining uselessly for a beanpole vampire with a mop of messy hair and the smell of books about him.

It probably didn't help that Lex had the ability to pop into his mind whenever he felt like it. It wasn't often, as he clearly didn't want to abuse it, but he was always there in the corner of Fitz's mind, a presence that both gave him comfort and drove him mad.

The only thing that actually eased his desires was to be near the real thing, a sadly infrequent occurrence. Right now, Lex had Fitz tucked into his right side, humming gently, a song that had no real power behind it but filled Fitz with warm contentment. They'd already put the thralls deep asleep and turned off the gas lamps, to have some privacy while enjoying the thralls' warmth and presence.

Roger, the poor man Fitz had saddled with keeping him more or less functional while he provided blood and comfort, was safely nestled into Lex's left side. He looked so peaceful, and he deserved it after that hell of a boat ride. Really, Fitz didn't know what he'd do without his faithful thrall.

And Oliver, delightful Oliver who was as warm and sweet-smelling as a loaf of fresh baked bread, was resting on Fitz's lap, a sleepy smile on his face as Fitz aimlessly played with his hair. He was perfect, and Fitz would find it hard to leave him behind at the end of the week. At least he knew that Lex had something good in his life for a change.

Everything was just how Fitz wanted it to be. He should be happy. But he couldn't be happy knowing how fleeting it all was, knowing the reason why it was so fleeting.

Oliver was part of what made him uneasy. Not the boy himself, of course, but now that Fitz had seen Lex's new thrall for himself, he could clearly see why Lex was so terrified for him, why he'd been fretting in his letters and losing sleep. The Maestro would want this thrall. Oliver wasn't safe. And it was a constant grim reminder of when Fitz had been a thrall, helpless against the Maestro's powers and his training and his discipline and his enthrallment…

The ticking of the metronome that haunted him always seemed to grow louder when he was visiting Lex.

"What's troubling you?" asked Lex.

"Nothing," he said, not wanting to spoil the moment any more than he already had. "What could possibly be troubling me when I'm surrounded by my favorite vampire and my favorite thralls?"

"Fitz. You know that I can tell."

"Yes, yes, no fooling you," Fitz said. "It's this thrall of yours, for one thing. I'm not sure if I'm jealous of you for having Oliver all to yourself, or jealous of Oliver for having you all to himself."

"You could have both him and me to your heart's content, if you stayed."

He always did this. He always tempted Fitz to stay even though he knew very well why he couldn't. He worried that one day his desire would outweigh his slowly fading memories of his torment, and he'd cave to Lex's temptations and stay, and pay for it dearly when he ended up under the thumb of the Maestro once more.

No, never again.

"You know I can't stay this time. My ticket home is in a week."

Lex at least had the grace not to press further. "I know. But it's never enough."

"No, it isn't."

They sat in silence and gloom. Fitz wanted so badly to tear up his ticket home and say yes. Stay here in Lex's bed, live a carefree life of lounging and traveling and theater, all his insistent needs finally fulfilled.

But even in his dreams, it couldn't last. Cold hands gripped him to drag him away every time. He could practically feel the shackles on his hands, his knees sore after hours of kneeling, his stomach protesting his starvation. And he could hear the things the Maestro would whisper in his ear when he was enthralled and helpless, the words that would never leave his head…

"What if I told you that I'm working on another plan to kill him?" said Lex.

"You are? What are you going to do?" He didn't want to let himself hope. If Lex tried this and ended up in the dungeon again, Fitz knew he'd be too much of a coward to save him. "I thought you said there weren't enough hunters still to try it again."

"For this plan, I'm only going to get one hunter."

"One hunter. One single hunter. Against your sire."

"It's a rumor I've been investigating." Lex was fiddling with the seam of Fitz's undershirt. "She's a hunter who is also a witch. She's killed a number of vampires in the area, and even managed to steal a thrall from Evelyn's manor. They're saying that she has a magical means for resisting even strong enthrallment. Someone like that might stand a chance against him."

Fitz laughed.

"What's funny about that? I'm serious."

"Oh, I know you are. It's just that when I'm away from you for too long I start thinking of you as a stuffy intellectual, and I forget how crazy you can actually be."

"Is that intended to be a compliment?"

"It's absolutely a compliment," Fitz insisted. "Only you could hear a story about a hunter that resists thrall, a dire threat against your own life, and think about how you're going to use the situation to kill your sire."

"It's the only way I can have you back for good, isn't it?" said Lex with startling sincerity.

Fitz hated this, hated that visiting Lex always came with the overhanging threat of Lex's sire, and that the only way they would be free would be for Lex to do something reckless that would probably end in his torture. And he both loved and hated that Lex would do it for him, that he hadn't simply given up after all these years.

"So how are you planning to catch the hunter you can't enthrall?"

"I think her threat diminishes significantly if you already know her trick. If I can't use my voice, I'll go straight to overpowering her physically. I can handle one hunter if I have the advantage."

Fitz pinched his thin bicep. "With these noodle arms?"

"Yes, with these noodle arms. I am still a vampire, you know."

"All right. And then what? What do you plan to do with an angry hunter in restraints that you can't calm with a musical number?"

Lex's tone shifted in the way that indicated he was about to launch into something personally interesting. "Over the past few weeks, I've been doing lots of research on witches' spells against vampires. There are wards, charms, rituals, potions… some more effective than others. But the key is that all of them seem to be temporary. Charms can be taken, potions wear off, rituals fade. So once I have her captive, I just have to wait out or break her guards, and then, she'll be under my power as easily as any human."

"But once you've removed her protection against enthrallment, she won't be any better than a common hunter when it comes to fighting your sire."

"That's why I'll get her to tell me how to perform the same trick that she does," said Lex. "I guard myself. I visit my sire, bait him into punishing me so that he gets close, not knowing he has no actual power over me. Then I kill him swiftly, before he can suspect."

"You're going to kill him yourself?"

"I've been thinking that I'm the only one who can really do it. It has to be me."

"…You may be right about that."

Lex was so determined. Fitz hadn't seen him like this since he was a thrall, and he knew exactly why, the answer lying in his lap. Lex's desire to kill his sire had been stirred up because he couldn't bear to see his sire laying his fangs on his new thrall.

Oh, he was definitely jealous of Oliver. Oliver might get the protection that Fitz didn't. Oliver might not have to have his mind and spirit shattered.

That bitterness wasn't fair to Lex, he knew. Lex had tried his best, ensorcelled and mobilized an entire vampire hunter's guild for Fitz at great personal danger. And if the roles were reversed and Oliver were his, or if Roger were the one threatened, he'd surely obsess over how to save them.

It still stung. A part of him, buried deep inside, still wanted to be human, to be Lex's thrall again. He wanted to experience the sheer bliss of the feeding, even knowing it was all artificial happiness from enthrallment. He wanted to wind back the clock and for Lex to succeed at protecting the human he was, so he would never have had to give up food and sunshine, never have to move overseas, never feel parts of himself being carved away.

Fitz pet Oliver's hair and watched his chest rise and fall. It was far too late for Fitz's humanity to be saved, but Oliver was right here, and he deserved to be spared.

"You're awfully quiet. It's worrying me," said Lex. "What do you think of my plan?"

"Inoculating yourself from enthrallment and killing your sire?" said Fitz, leaning against his shoulder. "What could possibly go wrong? I can only think of several dozen things."

"It will be different this time. It only involves me. If I fail, I'll be the only one who is punished."

Lex was fooling himself if he really thought that. He knew very well what failure meant, that Oliver would be taken and broken as Fitz was. But then, he was always too fond of doing everything himself.

"You won't be the only one. I'm helping too."

"Fitz, no. I know you can't handle any more punishment."

"What I can't handle is for another attempt to fail and dash our hopes," said Fitz, unable to contain the ugly bitterness within him. "What I can't handle is being apart from you all of the time, jumping at shadows, terrified that your sire is lurking even when I'm half a world away. What I can't handle is knowing he's tormenting you and Oliver and being unable to do anything about it. I want to erase him forever. I want to forget he existed. I want to live without the knowledge that he's coming back for me someday."

"Fitz…"

"I'm helping you. The more help you get, the better your chances are to actually succeed. I need to increase the odds."

"…Thank you."

Fitz played with Oliver's hair, wishing he truly felt as brave as his outburst implied.

What if he came to help Lex, but froze in terror again when confronting the Maestro, dooming the plan to failure and himself to an eternity of torment?

What if Lex failed, what if he were dragged back again and starved and beaten, and Fitz could feel the suffering through their shared connection and do nothing about it? What if Lex failed, and Oliver was ground into dust, a mindless shell of the delightful thrall he once was?

What if Lex succeeded?

What if Lex succeeded and they both got everything they ever wanted and it still wasn't enough? What if their triumph didn't quell the void in the place where Fitz's heart used to be? What if Lex killed his sire and he still wasn't happy? What then?

"It's been bad, hasn't it?" said Lex softly, pulling Fitz closer.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Everything's been fine."

"You clearly haven't been taking care of yourself. I can feel it, you know."

"That's awfully rich coming from you, especially after you tell me a plan that no one with self-preservation instincts would consider."

"That's different."

"It's not."

Lex's voice rose in frustration. "I just want you to talk to me!"

Oliver stirred, a frown marring his sleeping face, and Fitz put a hand to his cheek and soothed him, easing him back to sleep.

"It's just…" Fitz struggled to put the twenty competing trains of thought in his head into one coherent explanation. "Where is all of this leading, Lex?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean… you warned me before turning me, but I didn't understand then. I do now." He rested his head on Lex's shoulder. "Everything's so hollow, like I'm a mannequin playacting at being myself. Like I left my soul back at your sire's manor, and since then, I've just been a doll. Just like he wanted."

"Fitz…"

"I mean, what's the purpose? At least when I was human I had some fire inside me. Now…"

Lex cupped his cheek and directed Fitz's gaze toward him. "We'll get your fire back."

"Tall order, don't you think?" said Fitz, trying to pull away, but Lex stubbornly held fast.

"We have to, because I can't bear you leaving me, not for good," said Lex. "I'd rather have you as a vampire than not have you at all."

"And is that supposed to --"

"And I don't think you're a doll, playacting. I know things haven't been good, but… I'm going to fix it. I have to." Lex swallowed hard. "You're still my sunshine."

"Sunshine kills us."

"Then that's how I would choose to go. As long as I don't lose you. I need this, Fitz." Lex gestured towards Fitz and the thralls cuddled close to him. "I need all of this. I need it. I think I didn't realize how much I needed it until I acquired Oliver, and now with you here… I can't bear my sire taking the things I need, not any more. I have to end it. I will end it. Can you wait for me, Fitz? Just a little longer?"

The truth was that Fitz would never find himself free of Lex, no matter how far he went or how much time had passed. And he didn't truly want to. Nights like this, satiated with delicious blood and curled up next to his vampire, almost made him feel like himself again.

It almost quelled the voice of Lex's sire whispering to him that he would never be loved because he would never be perfect.

"I'll wait. You won't lose me. You'll be stuck with me for the rest of your existence."

"I hope so."

---

Oliver woke up slowly in the gloom, something he was getting used to, and reached over to the nightstand to light a candle. His master was still asleep, and Roger was curled in one of his arms. Oliver couldn't help the pang of jealousy, tempting him to return to bed and latch onto Alexander even more tightly.

The rumble of his stomach won out, so he'd have to be content with the half-remembered glow of the previous night, how much the vampires had clearly appreciated his service and his blood. He'd been completely gone, floating in utter bliss, and almost certainly making a fool of himself. Well, if he had made a fool of himself, the vampires didn't seem to mind.

It was that thought that made him realize that Fitz wasn't in the bed. Oliver remembered waking up with his master's friend clutching him to his chest and nuzzling his hair, putting Oliver right back to sleep when he stirred. He must have left without Oliver noticing.

He may as well continue on with his morning routine. Since he'd started sleeping in Alexander's room more often, he'd taken to using his master's extravagantly spacious bathroom to freshen up. Alexander's floral soap was a nice and perhaps indulgent touch to his morning hygiene, the scent a constant reminder of his master. Once he'd washed, it was time to go downstairs and make his breakfast.

He lit the gas lamp only to be startled out of his skin by a figure sitting at the kitchen table. It was Fitz, who seemed equally startled, fumbling the deck of cards in his hands. "Jeez, Oliver, you're quiet, aren't you? I would have had a heart attack if I still could."

"Sorry, sir," he said automatically. "I was frightened, too."

"I can see that," Fitz said. "Well, don't mind me, go ahead and make your breakfast. I assume that's what you're here for?"

"Yes, sir." Oliver regained his composure and pulled out a pan and some eggs, all too aware of the eyes on him. Fitz was staring at him, or perhaps through him, gears turning in his head as he frowned. He couldn't help but fret that he'd somehow offended his master's lover. "Is everything okay, sir?"

Fitz snapped out of it. "Oh, yes. I just couldn't sleep, that's all. Nothing you've done wrong."

"That's good to hear, sir." Oliver cracked a couple of eggs onto the hot pan along with a pat of butter. "Did I serve you well last night, sir?"

"Excellent, couldn't ask for better," said Fitz with a grin. "I'll be sure to tell Lex that you deserve top marks."

"I'm very glad, sir." Pleasing Fitz would no doubt please his master, so Oliver was determined to welcome him warmly, despite any lingering jealousy he had for Fitz and Roger stealing away Alexander's attention.

Thinking about the prior night… there was something that Oliver had intended to ask Fitz, but he had spent so much time utterly enthralled that his memories were foggy. It was important, though. He had to try to remember.

"So how do you like being Lex's thrall? I asked that last night, but you were rather indisposed at the time. I'd like to hear your coherent answer," said Fitz, propping his feet on the table.

"Alexander is a wonderful master, sir. I've found I'm very content to be a thrall." He realized that he wasn't just saying that to mollify Fitz, but that it was primarily true. If it weren't for the terror and uncertainty surrounding Alexander's sire, he would have adjusted nearly entirely by now, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that.

That thought jarred loose his memory though. "Um, sir, there's something I wanted to ask you."

"Shoot."

"Back when you were about to drink from me, sir, you said something odd."

"You're going to have to narrow that down. I say plenty of odd things."

"I suppose so, sir," said Oliver. "It was when my master made a comment about another thrall he had, and you said something like 'surely I was never like this.' I hope this isn't impertinent to ask, sir, but were you also a thrall?"

Fitz laughed. "Most vampires were thralls. Did Lex not tell you that I used to hold your position of honor?"

Oliver fumbled the spatula he was holding. "You really were Alexander's thrall, sir?"

"That's right," he said with a grin. "I know, I know, it's a lot to live up to."

Oliver was reeling. From what vampire lore he knew, vampires created other vampires, often from lovers or companions or servants, so it made sense that Fitz was once Alexander's thrall, but it also opened up a whole host of questions. "What was it like for you, sir?"

"Well…" Fitz seemed unsure of how to answer. "The answer to that could probably fill one of those enormous tomes Lex is always reading. But you can probably guess part of it from the fact that I keep returning to Lex again and again."

"He was… I mean, did he… was he the one who turned you into a vampire, sir?"

"Yes."

"But why, sir?"

"We had plans. They didn't work out." Fitz pulled a quarter from his pocket and flipped it into the air. "Why do you ask? You want Lex to sire you, too?"

It wasn't something Oliver had given serious thought to before, and a cold chill ran down his spine. Even if he had immortality and supernatural powers, the thought of having to feed on human blood to survive… "No, sir, I would strongly prefer he didn't. I mean no offense, but I wouldn't want to be a vampire."

But if it were something Alexander wanted… if he had sired his previous thrall… would Oliver actually have a choice in the matter?

To Oliver's relief, Fitz smiled. "That's good. Keep that attitude. I can pretty much guarantee that Lex wouldn't want to sire you anyway. Trust me, you don't want it."

"Did you not want to be a vampire, sir?" The question came out of his mouth before he realized how invasive it was.

"Now isn't that just the question. Well, there are worse things to be," said Fitz with a shrug. "I think you should definitely stay yourself. I think Lex thinks the same. Any other personal and awkward questions you'd like to ask?"

Oliver could tell it was sarcasm, but couldn't resist taking the opportunity. "If I may, sir… why do you live overseas when you and my master are…"

"Oh, that's an easy one. It's so I don't run into Lex's sire."

"You moved overseas just to avoid my master's sire, sir?"

"Wouldn't you?"

"Yes, sir," said Oliver with no hesitation.

The kitchen door swung open, and a disheveled, yawning Roger entered. "Good evening, Master, Oliver," he said. He squinted at Fitz. "You didn't sleep properly last night, did you, sir?"

"Of course I did. Why would you say that?"

"Because you're never awake before me unless you haven't been sleeping, sir."

Fitz made a dismissive hand gesture in his general direction. "I'm trying to enjoy my time here to the fullest. I can sleep when I'm back on the ship."

"I only wish that you could sleep on the ship, sir," said Roger with a deep sigh.

"Would you like an omelet, Roger?" Oliver asked. "I just made one for myself, with ham and cheese."

"Yes, thank you, that would be perfect."

"That would be perfect," Fitz echoed. "Give Roger something to do apart from scolding me."

"Someone has to take care of you, sir."

Oliver couldn't help but think it was strange that Fitz was so casual about having a thrall when he was a thrall himself, but asking that question with Roger there would have been an awkward bridge too far.

Previous > Masterlist > Next

Next week, Fitz puts on a show.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin

@whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist

@vampiresprite @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @und3ad-mutt

@sowhumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada

@typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia

@a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

@enigmawriteswhump @bottlecapreader @whump-on-a-string @whumpinthepot

@cinnamoncandycanes @avvail-whumps @tauntedoctopuses @secret-vampkissers-soiree @whatamidoingherehelpme

@strawbearydreams @ghost-whump @tippytappytyping @natthebatt @fire-bugg14

@fuckcapitalismasshole @slightlydisturbedbeans @paperprinxe @demetercabingreen-thumb @the-broken-pen

@pokemaniacgemini @jumpywhumpywriter @basica11ywhumped @anoontjecanush

[nightlyrequiem]

Latrodectus

I. To Be Human

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

AO3

Latrodectus Mactans, otherwise known as the Black Widow, are known for their uncouth treatment of their partners. The 'widow' part of their name stemming from the common occurrence of the female devouring her partner after mating.

Tags/Warnings: Abduction, Violence, Emotional Manipulation, harassment, A Dabble of Psychological Torture, Drugging, Breaking And Entering, Fem!reader

================================================

There is something wrong with Valeria Garza. Something deep inside of her that went unchecked during adolescence and festered into something rotten. While the other children played manhunt in the woods behind the school, Valeria was pulling apart the carcasses of stray animals. Feeding that part of her that desired to know what went on in the inside of a body. A vulture in her own right. She was born without something her peers had, and that set up the perfect breeding ground for resentment. She didn't quite yet understand what it was that made her so different. Or why it, in the eyes of the other children, meant she was undeserving of companionship.

Rarely did Valeria crave the attention or approval of another. Even with her missing pieces Valeria knew she was simply better than the others. It aggravated her to no end that nobody else seemed to understand that. There are, however, four people that Valeria... fixated on. Marie Sanchez lived only five houses down from her. Little Valeria would follow her around the playground. Making vain attempt after vain attempt to gain her affection and friendship. That flame slowly fizzled out once they reached high school and Valeria's idolization of Marie turned into contempt.  

Her puppy love for Marie grew into a rabid, out of control dog that needed to be put down. And put it down she did. If Marie wouldn't be happy with Valeria, then she didn't deserve to be happy at all. Valeria would take any chance she could get to terrorize Marie. Cruel words and rumours whispered from pink painted lips spread around the small school. Valeria's torment didn't end with verbal abuse. She was having a particularly foul week and Marie's existence only agitated her more. Valeria dragged her into the girl's bathroom and whaled on her. Shattering her cheekbone and breaking her nose. She only spent four months in juvie before being released on good behavior.

There are no certain qualities that draw her to a person. She's not sure what it was about you that reeled her in. Perhaps it was the fact that the first time she ever saw you, you were sobbing. The sound being the most beautiful melody to have graced her ears. Her curiosity was sparked, and she kept tabs on you from then on. Checking up on you for her own entertainment. Her passive interest swiftly evolved into an obsessive need. The thought of you affected her so badly that it made her unwell. She got her hands on every bit of information that she could. Past and present social media accounts. Who your friends were, and who you dated. She saved pictures of you and took some of her own. She absorbed whatever she could into her very bloodstream to be a part of your life.

Pictures and information were never enough. She needed to cut you open and carve room for herself behind your ribs. Remove your lungs so she could take every breath for you. Valeria is a busy woman, unfortunately. Leading a drug empire takes up most of her time and as much as she'd like to, she couldn't spend every hour watching you. There are always workarounds to every problem though, and she's nothing if not a problem solver. When she wasn't able to, she'd send someone in her inner circle to tail you. Take note of everything you do. Where you shopped, where you went. What you ate. Who you spoke to.

In her clean, tidy kitchen she carefully slices through a bright red tomato. Off to the side waiting on a plastic plate is a piece of whole grain bread. Fresh lettuce and bits of turkey arranged carefully on top. She grabs the tomato slices and adds them to the mix then places another piece of bread to complete the sandwich. She cleans up. Putting away the rest of the ingredients for later, washing the cutting board, and wiping down the marble counters. She grabs the plate and makes her way through her home. The floor to ceiling windows shows off the scenic view of the mountains in the distance. The sun is setting behind them, giving the tops a halo-like glow and casting golden beams into her home.

The dark wood floors are polished and clean. Swept and vacuumed every day. She continues down the hall towards the stairs leading to the basement. Admiring the few paintings decorating the ivory coloured walls. Some portraying lush, almost fantastical fields of grass and heather and others with more religious tones. She stops at the basement door and fishes through her pocket for the new key. She had recently installed locks on the door. She unlocks it and switches on the light before descending down. She had the space renovated and took some inspiration from Diego's dwelling. Jutting stones make up the walls with sconces to provide a warm yellow glow. Open doorways branch off into other rooms not yet furnished.

She calmly walks down to the end of the hall and stops in front of a different door. She reaches up to feel along the top of the doorframe. Her fingers lightly brush against a small silver key and she grabs it, pulling it down. She unlocks the door and opens it, just barely catching sight of you crouching in the corner like a scared animal, your chain lightly rustling from the sudden movement. The room is mostly bare. A mattress and a toilet are all she has allowed. For her, and of course your safety as well. The chain connecting to a metal collar around your throat is long enough for you to be able to come close to the door and light switch but not further. She made sure the other end was securely bolted to the wall.

She steps inside and gives you a soft smile, even if your continued fearful behavior is starting to grate against her nerves. You don't return her smile, but Valeria knows you will someday. You'll understand that she's doing this because she loves you. She walks up to your bed - a thick double mattress - and sets the plate down. She turns her head to look at you once more. Just the sight of you is enough to make her feel agitated. Like she has to hurt someone to compensate for the feelings that are too big for her body. Your brows are furrowed, and your lips are downturned into a distressed little frown. Despite the fact that she's the reason for your unhappy expression she finds the sight cute.

When Valeria was thirteen, she spent some time around a man who ran an unlicensed animal shelter. He'd collect stray dogs and cats, and sometimes take pets from yards and demand a fee for their return. If their owners couldn't or wouldn't cough up the money, he'd simply... put them down. He taught her a few useful things regarding animals. They'll be scared of you at first. You just have to be patient with dealing with them. Feed them often, meet their basic needs, and they'll begin to warm up to you. Valeria believes this method can be used on people. You don't even look that different to the starving cats that used to hiss at her from the man's metal cages.

She settles down on the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. 

"Today was a long day," She begins. She feels a rush of satisfaction at being able to talk to you. "There was some trouble by the border, I won't bore you with the details, but a little gang was making itself a thorn in my side." She runs a hand through her hair. The bodies of the leader and his enforcers are lying at the bottom of a lake by now. Providing nutrients for an aquatic ecosystem. "I took care of it, of course." She says proudly. She wishes you'd share her pride. That even if you don't understand the intricacies of running a cartel, you'd sidle up to her with stars in your eyes and awe on your face. You should be telling her what a good job she's doing. Instead, you crouch there silently, uninterested and unimpressed.

She wants to stay. To talk to you more but she knows she should probably leave before she gets too overwhelmed. She just adores you so much. So much so that you have infected her. Not even in her dreams can she escape you. A part of her hates you for it. Her mood is more volatile than usual since she met you, and she loses her appetite if she thinks about you too for too long. The only solution is to obtain and keep you.

"Valeria." You say softly. Almost so softly that your voice is lost the stone walls of your enclosure. Valeria hears you though. Valeria will always hear you. Her heart leaps when you say her name.

"Mhm?" She replies. Looking at you intensely. Pupils blown wide. 

"Can... can you please take the collar off?" You ask tentatively. Your voice lowered to an unoffensive volume. Valeria narrows her eyes at you. She's obsessive and certainly 'not all there' by a doctor's standards, but she isn't stupid.

"No." She answers bluntly. You're speaking to her instead of screaming at her which is progress as far as she's concerned.

However, she knows you are nowhere near ready to be freed from the cellar, let alone your collar. Even when you are ready, she'll be sorry to see it go. She takes a perverse reassurance at the sight of you in it. It reminds her that she has you. You seem to mull over your words before speaking.

"It's just the collar... is rubbing against my skin and it's starting to chafe," You murmur. Valeria leans closer to hear you better. Her answer will remain the same, but she will let you finish speaking. "Taking it off for a little bit wouldn't be so bad." Your eyes are wide and glossy.

"I'm not taking the collar off." Valeria says firmly. You look like you're about to continue to try and convince her but something on Valeria's face must dissuade you.

Just like that, your wounded-puppy expression vanishes. Replaced with the dark, brooding look she's more familiar with. Valeria pushes up off the bed and stares down you with half-lidded eyes. She loves you so much. 

"Make sure to eat that." She tells you. Gesturing at the sandwich. "If you throw it at the wall again you won't eat for the next week." She turns and leaves the room. Locking the door behind her. You are her most valuable possession and she's keeping you safe, sound, and accessible. 

[sturnwritess]

Things always end.

[ my first angst 🤨 ] M.S

summary: reader goes to a party and shortly leaves after seeing matt all up on another girl.

warnings: Hard angst, toxic matt, slight mention of alcohol,mentions of drugs, not a happy ending,swearing and cheating.

LEMME KNOW IF U WANT A PT 2.

WC:

pink text: you, purple text: nick, orange text chris

(matt doesnt text in the group chat. since he's tuff)

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

The flashing lights and blasting music and the smell of weed flowing through the house made me nauseous.

Chris and Nick texted me to come to the party in the first place.

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

hey you coming to the party?

i might be, whos all gonna be there?

just a bunch of random influencers and also matt, me and chris are gonna be there too.

ok i will be there, cant wait to see you guys 😚

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

You put on your slim black dress, knowing its matt's favorite dress. You put on your black heels and your red purse. You ordered a uber, and you scrolled through your phone and saw matt, nick and chris already at the party.

You arrive at the house and walk up the drive way, you enter the house and already the smell of weed and the sweaty bodies going straight to your head.

You run straight to the kitchen to find some alcohol, you took a shot of vodka, then another and then one more just for the fuck of it. You leave the kitchen and walk into the living room trying to scan familiar eyes, no luck.

You walk upstairs to see the other living room, you see all three familiar faces but one catches your eye. Seeing that tall,pretty,blonde and green eyed girl on his lap. His face drops when he see's your face drop, he gets the girl off his lap but he's to late. Your already down the damn stairs.

You run down stairs tears falling out of your eyes, fidgeting with your phone trying to call your friend to pick you up. Matt's right behind you trying to get your attention,"y/n! y/n!" no reply from you, your just trying to get out of that damn house.

You feel the alcohol starting to kick in,fuck.You think to yourself. Your hands finally grab the door handle and slam the door in matts face, everyone's attention lands on matt. He doesnt care about everyone else, he tries to get out the door. But that familiar blonde girl taps on his shoulder "matty, what was all that about?" she says. "Nothing, dont worry about it grace." he says in a harsh tone.

He runs back up the stairs telling Chris and Nick that they need to go.

As you walked out that door, your bestfriend nicole was there to pick you up. "hey babes, are you ok?" she asked in a gentle tone. You didnt answer and just nodded, your nose was red, your eyes were red with runny mascara running down. She could tell you were not okay, but she didnt want to bother you now.

2 weeks later..

19 missed calls from chris, 6 missed calls from nick and 2 texts from matt.

You didnt even bother checking your phone. You hadn't even ate in 5 days, hadn't took a shower in 2 weeks.

You just curled up into a ball in your bed in the hoodie that Matt gave you on your first date. Nicole had knocked on your door, asking to come in. You didn't answer so she took that as a no and left you alone.

While you were depressed Matt just partied and hid his feelings, Chris and Nick knew what was up but didn't dare to ask.

You finally had gotten the courage to check your phone and instantly went through Matt's instagram. Just to find,Her.Her.Her.Her.Her. She was in every photo she was even tagged. You clicked on her tag just to scroll to see her perfect body, thats all she posted.

After a hour you were done,you threw your phone and just cried into your pillow.

Matt had cried and sobbed, just never so anyone could see it. He always tried to text you and call you, he just never could hit the damn button.

You knew posting Gracie on your story would torment y/n and you always tried not to press that damn button. But you always did, Gracie wasn't the one you wanted. You wanted y/n and you fucked up that night. You were drunk and Gracie was there, you knew your brothers weren't gonna interfere but you damn well wish they would've.

You had issues and she had issues, you two loved each other to the point it hurt. You wished you could've prevented what happened that night, you had wished it never happened.

I always came to Nick always trying to get his opinion and screaming into his face for not stopping me from all of this. At the end of the night I would curl into his arms and bawling wishing he were y/n.

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

SO WHAT DO YALL THINK?

@christinarowie332 @strawberrysturniolo @mattitties @nicksnosering @chrisenthusiast @mattsgirlie @mattsnymphette @chrissolosa @chriscumsworld @sturncrazy @sturniolopowers @sturnioloskies @sturnisposts @mattsturnioloarchive @chrissturniolosbitch @mattsturniolosworld @chrissturniolosbf

Lemme know if you guys want a happy ending in part 2

[valentinachatte]

😱Arwen Traime dorm uniform card and Backstory!!!!

Cringe alert ! If you proceed here then you agreed to read this, i don’t take criticism for my OC lore, please be nice 🫶

Arwen backstory

Arwen's birth was not merely a happy event; it was the culmination of her parents' fervent wishes and hopes, heralding her arrival as a fortunate child embraced by a host of well-wishers. Yet, on that fateful day, while the world celebrated her life, she teetered perilously close to death's shadow. Born with the ominous burden of Thyra's Curse, Arwen should not have survived her entrance into the world. And yet, against all odds, she lived.

The first years of Arwen's existence unfolded within the sterile confines of a hospital. Her days were filled with the mechanical whir of ventilators, the sharp sting of needles, and the constant intrusion of IVs. Doctors and nurses shuffled in and out, their faces masked by a veneer of professionalism, devoid of warmth or empathy. As the eldest daughter of the illustrious Traime family, Arwen was treated like a fragile artifact, and no one dared to breach the invisible walls set by her noble lineage. From her parents, she received little more than hollow affections and perfunctory glances. In this clinical environment, Arwen became a stranger to true human connection, with only the cold detachment of professionalism as her companion. An intense hatred for her circumstances filled her heart, yet still, she persisted—barely living.

By the time Arwen reached the tender age of eleven, her affliction had intensified, tormenting her frail body. Her parents, desperate to save their firstborn, scoured the realm for any signs of hope, summoning the most skilled healers, doctors, scholars, and even mages—yet all efforts proved futile. It was during one weary moment of despair that her father stumbled upon a glimmer of a solution: a young, gifted mage stationed at the Eastern border, renowned for her Unique Magic that could cure ailments that others could not. With newfound hope igniting a spark in his heart, he took Arwen along on a journey to that tumultuous region, masking their true intentions under the guise of resolving a simmering conflict.

Upon reaching the Eastern border, against a backdrop of conflict and chaos, Arwen met Hestalia. The girl bore bright blue eyes that sparkled with warmth and kindness, her red hair cascading gently down, framing a face graced with a radiant smile. Hestalia’s presence felt like a warm ray of sunshine breaking through the gloom, bringing life and hope where there had been only despair.

From the moment their paths crossed, an inexplicable bond formed; Hestalia claimed they had known each other in another life, a connection forged through deep, unspoken love that transcended the limitations of status. With tender care and unwavering affection, she enveloped Arwen’s heart in a gentle embrace, melting the ice that had long encased it. As days turned into weeks, Arwen began to heal—not just from her physical afflictions, but emotionally as well. The warmth of Hestalia’s love dissolved the cold walls built around her heart, nurturing Arwen in ways she had never imagined possible. Though the world around them deemed their relationship forbidden, they defied the odds in secret, cherishing the stolen moments they had together. With every passing day, Arwen's health flourished, and for a fleeting glimpse, the shadows seemed to recede—

But then, calamity struck. The delicate negotiations disintegrated, and the Eastern army unleashed a brutal onslaught that claimed her father’s life, shattering the fragile peace. Caught off guard, scouts were unable to warn their companions in time, and chaos erupted within their camp. In a desperate bid to protect Arwen from the chaos, Hestalia drew upon every ounce of her magic, casting a powerful curse—a spell that would shield Arwen from illness for ten long years, all while praying that a cure would be found. With fierce determination, Hestalia rejoined her unit, rushing into the fray, leaving Arwen hidden and alone.

The devastation was unimaginable. When the surviving scout, Lucasta, stumbled upon the scene of destruction, shock gripped her heart. The camp lay silent, a cacophony of chaos and death, with only Arwen—delicate and fragile—still breathing amid the ruins. Understanding the gravity of their loss, Lucasta and Arwen found solace in each other's company, tears mingling with unspoken grief.

As the sound of reinforcements echoed in the distance, the two were rescued from the remnants of tragedy. In the aftermath, Arwen petitioned to adopt Lucasta into the Traime family, for she was a tangible fragment of Hestalia’s memory—a reminder of the love that had once flourished. Together, they returned to the lavish yet suffocating halls of the Traime mansion.

Determined to honor her father's legacy, Arwen resolved to take up the mantle of her family's affairs. As she plunged into the complexities of diplomacy, her brilliance and fortitude began to shine through. With each achievement, she forged a path in the world, earning the title of “Lady of the Rain.” Despite her youth, she became one of the most influential figures in Twisted Wonderland, a beacon of resilience rising from the ashes of despair.

( oh bc of the event, Arwen have PTSD and survivor guilt bc she thinks that it’s her fault that Hestalia died, which is true tho lmao)

[azurevi]

in a crowd of thousands

aka a collection of ideas for my childhood friends to lovers leona au / aka my headcanons of the entire life of leona kingscholar. jeez

note: am i dumping all my ideas for this au here because they’re too disorganised and messy that i can’t work out anything but i don’t want to just let them go to waste? yes i am. this au has been tormenting me for weeks but my brain just can’t figure how to seamlessly plan it so chances are i’m gonna put it away. it’s not like i laid awake in bed till 4am because i was thinking about it last night anyways lololololol

i did actually write a bit for this au, which you can find at the end of all the points, but it is unedited and was done before the tamashina-mina event so it’s definitely not perfect. i would be happy if it was readable-

this idea dump is 5.8k (god bless), and the attached work is around 4k? so yea

The story starts when Leona is 8, begrudgingly attending Farena’s coming of age ceremony. Everyone is cheering and celebrating the beloved first prince’s birthday, all the while Leona sulks in the carriage, feeling the acidic jealousy rot in his stomach. He’s never received a celebration this grand in his name before, and he’s certainly never worn something some extravagant, even on his own birthday.

Just as he’s fighting his urge not to jump off of the royal carriage, he’s approached by an eager kid who, judging by appearance, can’t be older than him. they’re putting their short legs to use by chasing the carriage, a bouquet of fresh flowers secure in their grip. Leona thinks at first that it’s yet another present for Farena, but they’re calling for him instead, asking that he take the flowers. So he does, reaching all the way out of the carriage to grab the gift, earning surprised and distraught yells from the guards.

By the time he’s seated and looks back again, they’ve already disappeared in the sea of people.

Leona’s never received anything like this before. People only ever compliment and offer gifts to Farena, fuzzing over his bubbly personality and applauding the grace he presents himself with. Even back when they were faced with their mother’s death from a deadly illness, he was still praised for upholding his dignity and composure, while Leona stood at his side, mourning the death of one of the only people who truly cared about him.

So naturally Leona’s curious about the nameless admirer. And what better way to meet them than to order flowers from each and every florist’s shop in Sunset Savannah to see if they’ll show up for the delivery? It’s a long shot, one that depends entirely on the assumption that they even work at a flower shop and didn’t just buy the bouquet somewhere else. But he’s willing to bet on his luck.

So days passed, Leona’s made like twenty or so orders and his room is filled with foliage, from small pots of plants to tall wide leaves. Kifaji is honestly a bit confused by this, and a lot of guards are saying that he’s throwing an unreasonable tantrum. But never-mind them, because he eventually gets what he wants.

So on a fine early afternoon another delivery comes. This time it’s a whole cart filled with blooms of different colors. Sort of looks like a whole bush has been moved onto it. It’s so huge that he can’t see the person rolling the cart, but then he lolls his head to the side and spots those familiar eyes, the ones he’s been wondering about when he’s wide awake at midnight.

And guess what? They’re excited to see him too. So much so that they topple over and cause the entire cart to fall forward. The bush cascades onto him like a waterfall, but luckily the cart doesn’t crash him, but instead fall backward with a loud CRASH. Kifaji almost has a heart attack at that.

At Leona’s command the retainers and chamberlains leave him alone with the kid, and they get to know each other, like where the kid’s from, why they gave him the flowers etc. Turns out they wanted to thank him for the clothes donation he did for the poor kids living near Elephant’s Legacy a while back then.

Leona doesn’t have the heart to tell them that the donation wasn’t his idea, that he only said ‘whatever’ when the tailor suggested that he gave the ill-fitting outfits to kids in need.

Wanting to spend more time with his new ‘admirer’, he ditches class and sneaks them all around the palace, showing them things that have their eye’s sparkling in awe, but especially his personal achievements. They’re amazed by all of it: where people states that his interest in chess is somewhat boring (even though it’s just because he’s not as energetic and sociable as his brother), they think that it’s cool and smart. Even though he doesn’t like painting as his brother and father do, they don’t judge him for it, but instead agree that spending time in the library reading ancient books is more worthwhile.

Then they move on to talk about magic. Leona is obviously proficient, but they on the other hand actually don’t possess it. At least not yet. So they’re like ‘omg you have a unique magic already can you show me’ and that’s when Leona hesitates. He has endless ways to impress them, but his unique magic has always been something that others frown upon. It’s destructive, it’s messy, and it’s not beautiful. But you insist anyways, and young Leona decides, what the hell, screw it.

And to his surprise, they’re not a bit terrified. Quite the contrary, as you goes off on a tangent talking about how it could come in handy in so many situations.

And that’s the start of a precious friendship! Leona decides to order flowers regularly from their shop alone, and they get to know each other a lot better from there onward.

Years pass and they’re basically besties now. The young florist visits at least once a week, and the second prince is always more cheery and energised when they’re hanging out.

He tells them all about his life, how his mother had been sick for as long as he could remember and how her death took a toll on him. How Kifaji is pretty much the only chamberlain that doesn’t talk behind his back. How the others do it all the time just because Farena shines far brighter than he does.

The florist talks behind their backs as revenge, and it makes him feel just a bit better. And proud too.

It’s great knowing that someone cares and appreciates him. It makes him want to keep trying.

Similarly they let him into their life. They show them where they live, which is somewhere near the border between the bustling city and the neglected neighbourhoods, the poorer villages that fail to catch up with the Sunrise City and other major cities’ developments. Due to the country’s insistence to uphold the ‘coexistence with nature’ mission, little progress is resulted in those areas, and the disparity is beginning to look like a wide canyon.

Having lived in the palace for most of his life, this is the first time Leona learns of the parts of Sunset Savannah that the royals don’t talk about.

And as a result of the slow, almost stagnant growth of these places, infrastructures are nearly unaccessible. Even if people get sick (and they get sick quite a lot) they don’t get much medical support, at least not nearby.

One of the victims is the florist’s mother— and this is entirely the reason why they need to be working at such a young age. She’s been ill for a long time and is bed-ridden for the better part of a day, so they have to support the family. There is little medicine they can get their hands on, and even if they do get something, nothing really works.

With such a important mission on their shoulder, they’ve never really considered what they wanted to be in the future. The immediate goal was to have their mother get better, and to keep the family business going.

Looking at the ghastly lives of the people is sort of a reality check for Leona. And that’s when he begins to feel an ambition grow inside him.

He wants to change things, because no one in the palace seems to care about the people who are suffering so long as they’re out of sight.

The first time he raises the idea with his father, the king does take his words into consideration, but ultimately decides that it’s more important to preserve the country’s culture. Plus the councillors / politicians etc don’t agree with his views anyways, claiming that he’s too young to understand that ‘some sacrifices have to be made’.

Which is absurd, because he’s looking right at one of the sacrifices right now, and it’s their most important friend, who’s forced to provide for their family all on his own.

Leona doesn’t give up. He goes on learning more about the country he lives in, spends a little more time away from the glorious Sunrise City, and comes up with plans to improve Sunset Savanna. They’re not perfect, most of them are not totally feasible, but at least he’s doing something. Even Kifaji gives him his own opinions at times, unlike the other chamberlains who dislike that he’s trying to upend how the country’s always been operated.

All the while the florist gives him all the support he needs. Even when it feels like the majority of the world is against him at times, with them by his side, he feels invincible, like he can really change the world if he wants to.

Them making flower crowns for him as he works on his projects… that’s it. That’s the image.

Leona is maybe around 14, 15. His father falls ill (why is everyone sick in this story…) and there is a dire need of a new ruler to watch over the country in his hopefully momentary absence.

A king. Leona’s spent his whole life looking at one, and though he’s far from a mature adult, he tries his hand at politics anyways, hoping that he at least has a shot at becoming one in the near future. But everyone has already had their pick, and it’s none other than Farena. Farena, who rejects Leona’s ideals like everyone else.

“It’s simply too complicated”, he says, but Leona doesn’t see how hard it can be to take a new path.

But he’s still trying, at least for his dear friend. His dear friend, who’s been sticking with him through all the doubts and rejections. His dear friend, who’s promised time after time that they’ll never leave him or turn their back to him. His dear friend, who is there for some of the worst nights he has, comforting him as he winds down from nightmares. His dear friends, who always smells like a walking garden. His dear friend, whom he inevitably falls for.

At the same time, a romance is blooming somewhere else in the palace. Farena has fallen in love with Malaika, and after perhaps a few years of dating on the down low, they are ready to get married. And obviously this is good news. People see this as another indication that Farena will be a great king, seeing as he’s already had so much planned before him.

It’s like they don’t even plan to give Leona a chance.

But as always, his friend somehow sees the better side of things as they always do, telling him not to lose all hope yet.

Sometimes it feels like they’re the only person keeping him going. Would be. sad if they were to. Leave him. (clear throat) Anyways.

In the meanwhile, he decides to take advantage of the wedding. Perhaps the passionate atmosphere can assist him in his own romantic endeavours. Though it’s usually unusual and almost unorthodox for a commoner to attend a royal wedding, they get a pass since Kifaji assigns them to help with the decorations.

And it kind of does. He gets to dance with them, though the music is way too quick for him to really soak in the moment. He gets to see up close how there are stars in their eyes as they watch the bride and groom exchange their vows. Eventually, during dinner, he becomes annoyed by the other guests’ heartless questions about his life and sneaks away with his friend. It ends with a few guards hot on their tails, and in a moment of fight or flight, they dart into one of the empty rooms to hide.

Which just so happens to be the throne room. There’s no one around to berate him anyways, so Leona decides to stride towards the throne and take a seat on the gilded surface, overseeing the now vacant room. There seems to be power infused in this simple throne; the power he needs to make a change in the world, to make the ignorant listen to not just him, but also the demands of the people.

As if that’s not enough, they move to his side and jokingly calls him ‘your majesty’ and his heart does a whole somersault. Even though it’s just for a moment, he feels like he has everything he needs in his hand: the person he loves, and the throne that he so deserves.

And really, he could’ve just told them his feelings there and now, but he’s so caught up in the moment that he decides to postpone it. He’ll have the opportunity to do it in the future anyways. He’s certain that they’ll stay with him till the end of time.

When the invitation letter from NRC comes, Leona doesn’t bat an eye. There’s nothing the school can teach him that he hasn’t already mastered. Plus he’d rather stay here with his friend than go somewhere else all on his own.

Not to mention he’s busy trying to persuade those in power to agree with his vision about rebranding the country, which has been largely unsuccessful. Farena has been busy attending to other matters, and though Malaika sees where Leona’s coming from, she too is burdened by her share of responsibilities.

Time after time the officials have described his ideas as foolish, irresponsible, unreasonable, as if they still see him as an incapable child. Meanwhile it seems like they go along with everything Farena does, even if it jeopardises the livelihood of those under poverty line. All the while his friend's mother withers away. Watching the impending death looms over them places a knife in his chest. He doesn’t want to see them grief like he did when his mother left.

Leona can’t help but feel frustrated. Years of hard work hasn’t led him anywhere. As a kid he was more often frowned upon than not, but now that he was a teenager he still hasn’t gained the respect he deserves. Projects after projects are banned, to the point where the council members groan every time he shows up to their meetings. His ambition starts to dwindle. It feels like he’s trapped in the same tunnel with no hope of escaping.

Well, except when he’s with the only person who understands him. Even when they’re spending most of their time taking care of their mother now, he still derives strength from the occasional letters exchanged between them. (i loveeeee letters i love epistolary fics)

The pent-up frustration eventually leads him to do something rash: he challenges Farena for the position of Sunset Savanna’s ruler. To anyone else, it sounds like an absurd comedy. Leona— 16 and still growing— is challenging Farena, who not only is a decade older but also has more experiences than he does in managing a country.

I feel like challenges to the throne can go two ways; either they settle this with a physical fight or a peaceful voting. Obviously the former is going to hurt a lot more but I feel like it’ll be more impactful…

So say the rules require them to settle this with a fight. Which now that I think about would be more reasonable because there’s no way Leona will get enough votes anyways. So under a stormy night (for dramatic effects) the two brothers have an inevitable clash, and this isn’t just for the title of king.

It’s also the anguish Leona feels from living in Farena’s shadow all these years. His anger at the unattainable standard he has created for him. His jealousy at all the love that’s been thrown his way, all the attention their father has given him. But also the sadness from having him as a brother, from the lack of connection between them. It’s never really Farena’s fault, more like since the day Leona realized why the guards were more concerned with a paper cut on Farena’s hand than half of his room dissolved into sand, a crack formed in their relationship, and it only grew larger until it’s an impossible canyon.

The ending is written in stone. The guards and Malaika watch on, the spectators sparse and few. They’d rather not have the people know about such dispute within the royal family. The rain washes away the beads of red on the ground, but not the bruises on each of them’s flesh, and certainly not the gaping wounds in their hearts. Even as Leona is pushed to the corner, he doesn’t let himself stay down, his aching legs and sore arms be damned. And with him not admitting defeat, Farena can’t end the fight.

In the end, it is Kifaji who pulls him away before he’s injured beyond recognition, but even then he thrashes and attempts to push him away. “Let go of me”, “I’m not losing”. The words scratch his throat as he yells. Finally, Kifaji lets go of his arm, his face twisted in hurt.

“Tone it down, my prince! You’re being difficult!” It hurts him as much as it does Leona, but he goes on, “There’s no point.”

It feels like yet another inescapable twist. Kifaji, who’s always given him the silent approval. Kifaji, who treats him to sautéed mutton every time he’s faced with defeat. Kifaji, whom he trusts with his life. It turns out that he’s just like everyone else.

That day, it’s not just his relationship with Farena that shatters, but also the bond he shared with Kifaji.

Allowing no one near him, Kifaji has no choice but to visit his only friend. They rush with him back to the palace upon hearing about everything that’s happened, and feels their heart lurch uncomfortably at the sight of Leona’s battered state.

With utmost precision, they clean and bandage his wounds like how they wrap papers around bunches of flowers. The silence stretches, as if the moment it’s broken, the tears welling in their eyes will fall uncontrollably.

And so neither of them speak a word. Once they’re done with throwing away the bloodied towels, Leona lets his head loll onto their shoulder. Even in their presence it feels like his heart is hardening into a rock, one that upon being crushed, will never be recovered again. The night embraces them; two souls beaten down by life, robbed of their hopes and dreams.

Leona will never admit it, but that night, he holds their hand like it’s his only lifeline.

In the end, the thing that stomps on his aspirations is but a little child.

Cheka is what Malaika and Farena decide to call him. The young, adorable son of the king (in all but name anyways), who is also a promise that Leona shall never get the throne.

It’s… devastating. His steely, cold eyes are fixed unblinkingly on the snoring infant in his arms. Cheka had been crying non-stop in the middle of the night, craving his mother’s embrace, but Malaika is caught up in a meeting. As it turns out, funnily enough, he only goes quiet when he’s shoved into Leona’s arms.

Leona wills himself to feel hatred, to feel spite, but nothing comes out but for a single tear that rolls down his face. The only thing eating him up inside is pity for himself.

He feels lost. For the longest time he’s felt like he’s playing on the losing team, like the game’s rigged, but to think that the definite indication of his defeat is a young child?

The walls of the palace close in on him. Any second now they’ll come crashing down. Would anyone notice if he’s buried under debris? Probably not. The beloathed second prince, the disappointment in everyone’s eyes.

Is there any point in trying?

As hopelessness engulfs him, his only hope is to call for the only person left in his life who would still back him up. After all, they’ve promised time after time that they wouldn’t give up on them both. Hours tick by; he paces in his room, feeling every hair on his skin. There seems to be a predator in the corner of his room, looming over him, waiting to catch him in a moment of weakness.

He waits, and waits some more. When the guard returns empty-handed, he goes there by himself.

When was the last time they met? Right. Last month, when Leona asked the royal healer to gauge the cause of their mother’s illness. Dread overcomes him as he nears the shabby shop. Paired with the crumbling depression he’s been feeling the whole day, he won’t be surprised if the ground under him caves in swallows him whole.

It’s empty. The wooden sign says ‘closed’. There’s no light from the second floor, where they live. The flowers in front of the shop has withered. It looks vacant, deserted. Coincidentally, that’s also how Leona feels.

They’re just … gone. No one has idea where they’ve gone to; all of their neighbours claim that they just disappeared one day, like they were taken by the wind. Leona sends out anyone who’s not caught up in caring for the newborn prince to look for them, but to no avail. He has no idea what has happened to them, or whether they’re even still— alive.

The thought makes him sick to the stomach.

He waits for days. Weeks. Then he realises that he’s truly alone. For the first time in his life, there’s no one left in his life who know him.

Call it impulse, call it his mind playing tricks. He doesn’t have it in him to think about reason anyways. All he knows is that the longer he stays in this cage of a palace, he’ll suffocate.

A fortnight later, he digs out the crumbled, forgotten invitation letter from his drawer, and leaves for the college far away from his homeland.

Three or four years of school. That’s quite enough to make someone become a bitter, cynical person. That’s where Leona finds himself anyways, lazing his time away at NRC. He doesn’t technically like it here— too many people, too noisy— but it’s better than being stuck in the palace, forced to come face to face with the fact that he’s born with the short end of the stick.

Classes are largely meaningless. He doesn’t have to listen to a single lecture to get full marks in tests and exams. Leading his dorm and the Magift club doesn’t give him as much satisfaction as he initially expected. Most days it feels meaningless to do anything, but it doesn’t kill him. Whatever sadness or problems that come his way can be solved by a nap. If they persist, then two naps. Eventuality they will leave him alone; there isn’t much point in trying anyways.

Why the botanical garden? Well, it’s just a personal choice of his. Maybe it also has something to do with the fact that the mix of flowers and grass reminds him of a softer, better time. Not that he will ever admit it. If anyone asks him why he knows so much about botany, floriculture and all that, he can just brush it off by saying that he’s spent too much time in the garden.

He doesn’t really miss anything. Or anyone. This life he’s leading is not ideal, but, again, it’s just enough to get by.

At least he’s not totally lonely. There’s always someone bothering him, like Ruggie right now, who’s berating him for being late for the preparation of the entrance ceremony.

The corridor is packed with new, curious faces. Most of them seem to recognize the lion beastman and stay out of his way smartly. As he lazily trails behind Ruggie, he hears a bit of commotion coming from just around the corner. Gasps and cusses, and also muttered apologies.

It’s probably nothing, he thinks to himself as he turns— only to come face to face with a stack of books higher than him. It looms over him, threatening to fall directly on his head.

(is this… deja vu?)

Moments before he can feel the impact, Ruggie yells, “Laugh with me!” and manages to balance whoever’s holding the books. “Come on, Leona! We’re already late!”

As he clicks his tongue in annoyance and walks past the faceless student, he hears them mutter a thanks under their breath. It sounds- awfully familiar. Familiar enough to make him swivel around sharply, gaze drilling holes in their back.

“Leona!”

Damn it. He shakes the thought away and follows the hyena instead.

The little encounter gets forgotten in the back of his mind as he prepares to welcome a new group of dorm members. The newbies stand in a crooked queue, turning around and talking to the strangers around them. Some of them are adjusting their robes, the others fidgeting nervously. Whispers fly, most of them speculations of whichever dorm the speakers are about to be sorted in.

It doesn’t surprise him that most his new dorm members look to be physically advantaged. He wouldn’t want it other way; it helps raise his chances of victory in the next Magift tournament.

As he’s about to drift off into dreamland, he hears the next name being called. A name that he hasn’t spoken in years, a name that he’s been trying to bury in his memories.

There’s no mishearing it— his eyes are wide open now, landing on the hooded figure in front of the mirror. Their face is obscured, but then they give their own name to the mirror, and that’s when Leona knows for sure that’s it’s them.

He couldn’t put to words what was happening in his head. Happiness? Surprise? Confusion? An amalgamation of emotions blur within him. He holds his breath, waiting for the announcement of the dorm. What’s it gonna be? No, how even are they here? Have they somehow figured out magic? Where have they even been?

“The shape of thy soul belongs to… Savanaclaw."

Well, he'll be damned.

Immediately after hearing that, their head shoots up, eyes landing on the tall and muscled group of students. For some reasons he cannot fathom, he turns his face to the side, concealing himself. Is it because he's unready to confront a face from the past? Is it because he's hung up on the fact that they left him without a word?

No, it feels more like shame. He isn't sure if he wants to be seen by them in this state. Not yet.

He remains quiet during the trip back to the dorm. Ruggie shoots him a confused glance as he's supposed to give a short speech to welcome the first-year students, but he lets it slide.

Even as he's standing in the very front of the queue, he can make out that distinct flowery scent if he tries. Years of memories come crashing on him, so sudden that he finds himself at a loss of words as he leaves Ruggie to assign the rooms.

He knows there's no point in hiding when he's literally the dorm leader, but the thoughts within him are too much of a whirlwind. Even when he's time after time fantasized about meeting them again, this feels way too sudden. He needs time to untangle his feelings. Maybe then he'll have the guts to face them.

This plan goes down the drain in the end. He hates feeling like a coward, but what he hates even more is that they are literally in the same building as him, and he's knocking himself away. Propelled by nothing but a racing heart, he gets out of bed and down the hallways, coming to a stop in front of a room that he hopes is correct.

He knocks.

Seconds pass. No one seems to be answering. Just as he's about to give up and return to his room, the door is swung open, and in the doorway stands the person that's been weaving in and out of his dreams.

Time has been good to them. Their features have become more defined, and they are holding themselves up with more confidence now. Leona freezes right there like an awkward statue, mouth agape. Words fail him. What is he supposed to say anyways, except that he's missed them?

After a beat, recognition dawns on their face. The beam on their lips is so beautiful it could light up the whole building. They all but throw themselves at them, and Leona stumbles backward from the strength.

What is he to do but to wrap his ams around them as well? It feels like he's back in the palace again, only this time without any sourness coating his tongue.

So they finally get to talk about everything that's happened in the past years. It turns out that one night their mother got dangerously close to the edge of death, and in a moment of bone-chilling fear, they woke up the neighbourhood doctor for help. As usual, he couldn't do anything, but at the sight of their distraught tears, he advised that the two of them go away to this other country, where developments in technology and medicine were more advanced. With no time to waste, he helped them sneak onto the last late night ride out of Sunset Savanna and to the foreign land.

It turned out that there was indeed a possible cure for their mother, but the follow-up treatment was a long, taxing journey. They found a place to stay in, and it took six months for her situation to finally stabalize. By the time they had the time and money to return, Leona was already long gone. All they knew was that he'd gone to a prestigious school for magic users.

With the responsibility to support the family and continue the family business off their back, they could do whatever they want. And, as can be seen, they chose to pick up a few books from the local library and teach themselves magic, all so that they could meet Leona again.

At this, he is once again rendered speechless. All this time they've been giving their all just to get to him, and what has he been doing? Letting time slip through his fingers like sand? Suddenly he feels very, very small standing in front of them.

But as always, they don't push him away even after all this. Because they know the Leona who's buried under all these layesr: the Leona who's unafraid to speak up for his beliefs, the Leona who looks out for those around him, the Leona who never gives up no matter what. They're sure that he can pick himself up again.

And perhaps, with their hand securely in his once more, he can really try again.

I feel that it's a bit obvious that the ending is a bit rushed, even though it's supposed to be the 'to lovers' part in the 'childhood friends to lovers' equation. The truth is that my ideas only reached as far as the point where Leona goes to NRC, so the rest I just came up with on the spot. Not to mention this is just roughly how I imagine  the au would go, so there may be plot holes. That being said, here are some other ways the ending could go:

They don't get back together right away, but instead they slowly approach each other again, tip-toeing around each other the whole time. Perhaps they meet when his friend is visiting the botanical garden, because of course they would. Leona is distancing himself a bit cause he doesn't want them to see how he's turned out. But they eventually get familiar with each other again.

Similarly they don't confront each other immediately, but this time Leona's overblot does happen and they show up to stop it. I feel like they'd be disappointed at his ourburst and him using underhanded methods to secure victory, but give them a few scenes and they'll work it out together and Leona will see his faults.

And now onto a little reflection about this au of mine... it's such a precious brainchild of mine I want to cradle it in my arms until it eventually grows up to be an actual fic. But regretfully I have neither the time nor energy to plot everything out, only scattered ideas as you can see. There are quite a lot of things I want to develop in the story:

obviously the relationship between leona and his childhood friend

relationship between leona and kifaji

leona and farena

leona and his parents

leona's backstory, specifically how he became who he is today 

the theme of trying again and again

the theme of mutual support in a relationship

Juggling all of these and attempting to expand them to each their full potential have been a challenge. There are also other things that stand in the way, such as how to portray Leona in a young age. Personally I have almost zero recollection of my childhood so I can't help but struggle with balancing the helplessness he feels and the naive hope every child possesses.

But all of those aside, at least I'm putting this au out in the world. Maybe one day I'll get around to making it a real thing :) I hope y'all have enjoyed this mess of an au as much as I do!

If you're interested in the stuff that I came up with for this au weeks ago, it is linked below. JUST A HEADS UP: it's unedited and written before the recent event, so there could be inaccuracies. I also don't like how I've made Leona too bitter for a 8 year old. But feel free to read it and give me a few feedback!

google docs

[dramioneasks]

New Year’s Day Fics (2024):

Glitter On The Dance Floor by wantsgmarie, WritexAboutxMe - E, one-shot - Following the events of You're My Home , Hermione gets her wish, and Draco escorts her to his Mother's annual New Year's Eve Gala. -or- They torment Lucius, drink champagne, dance and then fuck. Happy New Year's my loves. This story can be entirely read and enjoyed on its own, but the beginning does reference the events of part 1.

A Bottle of Blotson's by thepotterfamily - E, WIP - A little Christmas tale in which Hermione and Draco are workaholics spending the holidays in the Ministry halls together, but separate. In which Draco steals Hermione’s ink and makes up for it with the best gift she’s ever received. In a world where Draco is Hermione’s golden boy and Hermione is Draco’s saving grace, please enjoy my ten-part Christmas tale that is really more of a New Years Eve story. Eventually NSFW.

The Library Liaison by UltramarineOrchid - E, WIP - When Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy realise they’ll need to ring in the New Year by fake-dating, they think that’s just what comes with the job. Little do they know that they’re going to get far more than they bargained for.

New Years Past by magicalsydney (magicandmanuscripts) - G, one-shot - Five years of monumental New Years’ Eves for Hermione and Draco.

A New Year, Together by oceanxpoppy - E, one-shot - She was not fine. She could admit that. She hadn’t been fine in months, if she was honest with herself. It’s something she rarely was anymore, but the exhaustion of the evening had stripped her bare, and all that was left was the feeling she most abhorred; longing. A longing for a man who wanted absolutely nothing to do with her.

What Are You Doing New Year's Eve? by Granger_Danger1234321 - not rated, one-shot - Draco and Hermione are the only single ones left out of their friend group. Draco proposes a fake dating arrangement to get them through the holiday season. Just a silly, fluffy holiday fic with a fake dating trope.

Raise a Toast by MarinaJune - M, one-shot - It's the cusp of a new year, and Draco Malfoy is finally ready to take the next step forward away from his grief and his pining. Ahead of him stands Minister Granger-Weasley. Recently-divorced. The centre of attention in a crowd high on hope and celebration.

ringing in the new year by moscovit - M, one-shot - Hermione hates parties, especially intimate ones. When she gets an invitation to Blaise Zabini's New Year's party, she's got no excuse not to go. But Blaise's girlfriend, Ginny, is kind of an ex friend now after a very public breakup with Ron, and they haven't spoke in weeks. This is the story of semi anti social Hermione suffering through a party with a group of friends she doesn't feel like she belongs with.

Midnight wish by Katibugg3 - not rated, one-shot - Hermione is attending the Malfoy's New Years Eve gala alone. Thank God for the expensive wine Draco always has for her.

New Year's Resolutions by arborlibrary - M, one-shot - Hermione had not seen him since the day she’d originally been dragged into his manor and tortured by Bellatrix, while he’d just watched. She’d always wondered if he’d ever make an appearance, after six years of absolutely detesting her at Hogwarts. But he never had, and none of the others had ever mentioned him, either. And he was alone. “Granger,” he finally whispered, remaining on his side of the locked gate. She cautiously approached, though still stayed out of reach. “What do you want?” she rasped, trying to remember how long it had even been since she’d last spoken. Now she was close enough to watch his throat bob as he gulped. “It’s New Year’s Eve.”

Can I Be Yours? by Wanderingfair - E, 2 chapters - “Stop stalling.” She laughed. “Right.” he confirmed, “I’m off to have a dastardly time bashing around Londo- oh, wait, no, I’m off to go meet the gold-digger Mum set me up with,” he snapped. “I get those two confused all the time.” “Go,” she urged, tucking her mouth into the sleeve of her jumper to hide her smile. “I’ll be up reading when you get home.” “You’ll be asleep on the library sofa and we both know it.” He winked, before closing the door. OR Hermione is forced to watch her best friend Draco Malfoy go on dates and finally confront the fact that she doesn't just love him, she is in love with him.

Draco Malfoy's Five Step Plan to Being Forgettable by OneEqualTemper - E, one-shot - Five times Draco said, “New year, new me!” and one time Hermione said, “But I like the old you.”

things that have never been by ohthedrarry - E, one-shot - 31 December 2009 – Draco finds himself sitting alone at a bar, much like he had in December 1999, bringing in the New Year with a glass of whiskey and a sense that this next decade won’t be any better than the last. Until Hermione Granger wanders in with mascara smudged under her eyes, demanding a dry martini.

make a wish by thatblondebitvh - M, one-shot - Theodore Nott's New Year's experiment goes wrong. Chaos ensues.

That One Night That Draco And Theo Sent A Message by allyseisfalling - E, one-shot - It's New Years Eve night and Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott decide to go hunting.

Zero O'Clock by forestknifefight - G, one-shot - “You,” Malfoy begins, drawing Hermione’s attention again. He still isn’t looking at her, favoring the book now held in both hands. His mouth drops open like he’s afraid to speak. “I…?” She prompts him to continue. She lets her arm relax against the table, her quill nearly falling from her hand. His mouth shuts momentarily. He inhales through his nose but still does not look up at her. “You aren’t celebrating.”

Happy New Year Draco Malfoy by MissusB - E, one-shot - After going through the emotional constipation of gifting Hermione his love all December, he finally gets to tell her in person. Even better, he gets to show her as they agree to spend New Year's evening together and maybe start a new tradition together.

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

Say her name like an elegy

Here's a small-ish fic for Dead Boy Detectives Appreciation Week. You can read it below or here on AO3.

Prompt: hugs

Rating: T

Relationships: Edwin & Crystal

Warnings: canonical major character death (RIP Niko)

Word count: approx. 3k

Summary: When Edwin finds Crystal distraught and reading a book on necromancy, it doesn’t take much detective work to figure out what’s wrong. Providing comfort is a much more challenging endeavor

***

Edwin thinks he is acclimating well to having not one, but two additional members of the Dead Boys Detective Agency. After thirty-five years, he and Charles have learned to work together nearly seamlessly, with Charles accepting Edwin’s many idiosyncrasies with grace and Edwin coming to appreciate his friend’s occasionally chaotic way of doing things. However, he has not built such an effortless rapport with Crystal or the Night Nurse.

It would be easier if people would stop rearranging his damn bookshelf.

He’s explained his exact organizational system to both Crystal and the Night Nurse twice. He even labeled things at Crystal’s request. But the Night Nurse had barely been part of their agency for a month when she rearranged everything to a system she found more efficient, an offense he may never find it in himself to forgive. He’s just gotten everything back to precisely how he likes it again and now his bookshelf is out of order once more, with multiple books lying on the floor and others replaced haphazardly on the shelf. Several are missing altogether.

It’s almost enough to make him reconsider if the torments of Hell were all that bad.

Upon closer inspection, he sees that the out of order shelf is filled with tomes about witchcraft. The culprits could be Charles or the Night Nurse, who are in Prague investigating the cause of a particularly nasty bloodline curse. But Charles has been scrupulous about putting all of Edwin’s books in the right order since the Summoning Circle Catastrophe of 1993 and Edwin doesn’t believe his friend would let the Night Nurse anywhere near his bookshelf.

That means there’s only one possible culprit. He’s disappointed; save for a few hiccups, Crystal has mostly been respectful of his organizational system. He thought they had come to an understanding after Port Townsend. She also dislikes the Night Nurse even more than Edwin does, never having forgiven the woman for what she did to Charles at Point No Point. He thought they were allies against a mutual enemy.

Clearly, boundaries must be drawn. Edwin pivots and steps through the mirror, reappearing by the front door of Crystal’s flat.

“Crystal.” He doesn’t try to keep the bite from his voice. “I told you, I am happy for you to use my collection to aid you in researching your powers, but all I ask if for a little consideration and—”

He falters upon catching sight of Crystal, sitting cross-legged on her couch with one of his books open on her lap and a circle of crumpled, used tissues around her. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her face blotchy and tear-stained.

“Ah.” There is a crumpled tissue resting on the page of his book. He would like to request its removal, but can hear Charles’s voice echoing in his head, telling him to have a little sympathy. “Are you quite alright, Crystal?”

She glares at him fiercely, which he prefers to the crying. “What did I say about just showing up unannounced?”

“You clearly showed up to my office unannounced when you plundered my bookshelf.” Edwin puts his hands on his hips. Sympathy is getting him nowhere. “If you’ve gotten snot on that book, so help me, but I’m taking your spare key and—”

Crystal bursts into tears.

Edwin backs up a step, like the unseemly display of emotion is contagious. “Has something… happened?” he asks carefully. Could she and Charles have had a quarrel? No, Charles has been in Prague for the past two days and besides, whatever the state of their arrangement is at the moment, they both seem content enough.

“It’s alright,” Edwin says, when she just keeps weeping and doesn’t respond. “I won’t take your spare key. If I did, Charles would just replace it anyway.”

Her only answer is a sniffle. Frantically, he thinks back to yesterday morning, when he last saw Crystal. She said something about attending some event, perhaps an art exhibit. Ah, of course. Crystal’s parents are artists, are they not? He’s instantly awash with the satisfaction of having just deciphered a particularly tricky clue.

“Have you been to see your parents?” he asks, only a little smugly.

Crystal blows her nose, crumpling up the tissue and dropping it on top of the book. Edwin reminds himself that he spent decades being hunted down and consumed by a giant spider made of doll heads over and over again. He can endure this.

“They hate me.” Her voice sounds small, matching her hunched posture. He forgets sometimes that she’s a true teenager—not frozen in time like him and Charles—but right now she looks very young, sad, and uncertain.

“I’m certain that’s not true,” he says, since that seems like the right thing to say.

It apparently is not. “Are you, Edwin? Are you certain? Because I touched my mom’s hand and all I felt was… annoyance. I was trying to tell her about Port Townsend without telling her about the witches, ghosts, and demons, but she didn’t care. She was just ready for me to go so she could get back to all her admirers and stop being burdened by my problems.”

Gingerly, he goes to sit next to her on the couch, out of range of the circle of tissues. “Without knowing all the details, she cannot truly understand what happened in Port Townsend.”

“She wouldn’t understand anyway, because she doesn’t want to.” Angrily, she dashes away her tears. “The minute I stopped being their perfect little princess that she could show off to her friends like another piece of art, she stopped giving a shit. You don’t know what that’s like.”

Edwin opens his mouth to ask if he truly seems like the product of a happy, healthy family to her, then hears Charles’s voice in his head, reminding him that this isn’t a competition and Crystal is distraught.

“My parents were similar,” he says. “They weren’t artists, but they cared very much about appearances. I was their only son and they had a vision of what I would grow up to be. When it became apparent I wouldn’t live up to their expectations, they rather lost all interest in me. They sent me to St. Hilarion’s hoping I would learn to make something of myself.” His lips quirk into a smile. “I suppose I did, just not in the way they envisioned.”

Crystal’s voice drops to a whisper. “I was trying to tell my mom about Niko. How I made a friend, probably the best friend I’ve ever had, and then she died right in front of me.”

“Ah.” Edwin has to take a moment to compose himself, pressing his fists together tightly. Before that terrible day in Esther Finch’s house, he almost forgot how grief could dig its claws in you and never quite let go. When he’d returned from Hell, he’d found that everyone he’d ever known���parents, grandparents, sisters, the chubby-cheeked nephew that had been born the summer before he was sacrificed—was long gone. He could still remember the sting of losing his favorite Uncle Freddie, the only relative who ever indulged his chatter about his detective stories, when he died in the trenches during the Great War, but that old hurt had faded with time. He had grieved Charles while he watched him slowly freeze to death in that attic, but that was mitigated when Charles chose to stay with him.

Suddenly, he has a terrible suspicion why he’s found Crystal sobbing over a book after having a conversation about Niko with her mother. He peers over and his stomach drops when he sees the familiar illustrations under the tissues. “Crystal, please don’t tell me that’s Craven’s Book of Necromancy.”

She says nothing, but the guilt in her expression is answer enough. Edwin draws himself up to deliver a lecture, because how could she honestly be so foolish, so thoughtless? She saw what Esther Finch became when she toyed with the laws of nature. Is that the path she wants to take, and after Niko died for her?

Crystal looks at him, eyes filling with fresh tears, and the lecture dies on his tongue. With a sigh, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “She wouldn’t be Niko anymore,” he says. “She would be a monster wearing Niko’s face. That’s not what she would want and it would bring you no peace.”

“I know.” Her knuckles go white from gripping the book. “I read the book and I saw how much pain it’s caused.”

“It’s the last copy I know of,” Edwin says. “If that helps. And Charles and I have only used it to banish those revived through necromancy.”

“I had to look. It’s all I’ve been able to think about since I saw it on your shelf. And then I went to see my parents and—” She sucks in a breath, squeezing her eyes shut. “It’s not fair. Niko had a mom who loves her. Mrs. Sasaki is grieving her whole family now. Niko died for me. I’m still alive and for what? So I can go visit my parents and watch them wish I would fuck off back to Port Townsend?”

Bloody hell, Edwin is not qualified for this. Charles should be here, with his warm smiles that always seem to make the world seem a little kinder. Niko, who was kind and sweet and had such a big heart, should be here. Even the Night Nurse would probably do a better job of consoling Crystal.

“You are still here because Niko cared for you,” he says. “And because if Esther had killed you, Niko would have been next, and Charles and I would still surely be trapped in that house. You saved us and you were only able to do that because Niko—” The words catch in his throat as he remembers the blood blooming across the front of Niko’s white blouse, the way her eyes went wide with surprise. The living never truly appreciate how easily they can die, not until the worst happens. “Because she loved you.”

Crystal makes a ragged noise, pressing a hand to her mouth.

“If you must blame someone, blame me,” Edwin says. “She came to that house to save me. She knew the risks and she still came. I wish she hadn’t.”

“Of course she did,” Crystal says. “Because she loved you too.”

Edwin’s vision blurs. It takes him a moment to realize that his own eyes are filled with tears. Now he remembers why he spent thirty-five years keeping out of the affairs of the living. Loving mortals means losing them eventually. He just thought that he would have decades more before he had to feel the sting of losing Niko, who was so vibrant, so alive that it seemed impossible that death would ever touch her. He should have known better.

Someday, they’ll lose Crystal too. She’s young and healthy now, but she won’t always be so. She will age and she will weaken and then, eventually, not even modern medicine will be able to help. It’s a thought that makes him feel like he’s sucked in a lungful of icy air, though it’s been well over a century since he needed to breathe.

“I am so sorry for Niko.” His voice came out a rasp. “But I’m not sorry that she saved you. And I know she wasn’t sorry either.”

Her lower lips trembles and she sets the book aside. “No one’s ever cared about me like that before, before Niko and Charles. My parents wouldn’t have jumped in between me and Esther or fought David for me. Neither would any of my old friends. And I don’t know if I even deserve it.”

Edwin remembers feeling the same guilt the first time Charles was badly burned by iron trying to protect him. Sometimes, he still doesn’t understand how someone like Charles could consider him worth saving over and over. “They think we do. That’s what matters. Niko died knowing she had saved you. That has to matter.”

She’s quiet for a moment, visibly struggling to contain her tears. “I just wish there was a fix for this. It seems like such bullshit that Esther Finch got to cheat death for centuries, but Niko is just gone.”

“There’s no real cheat for death,” Edwin says as gently as he can manage. “I tried searching, right after Charles. Some things simply can’t be fixed.”

Crystal loses the fight against tears, sobbing quietly into her hands, and Edwin wonders what Charles would do if he were here. He thinks of all the times that Charles has comforted him: the warm smiles, the reassuring hands on his shoulders, the way his brown eyes go soft with affection. Edwin isn’t a warm or comforting presence. He doesn’t know how to be.

But then he remembers hugging Charles after that fiasco of a case with the two American football players, the way Charles melted into his embrace, like there was nothing more comforting than Edwin’s arms around him.

“Crystal?”

She looks up with wet eyes. “What?”

“Can I hug you?”

She tries to scowl at him, though the tears streaming down her cheeks ruin the effect. “What happened to ‘a handshake will suffice.’”

“You’ll need to get better at mimicking my accent if you insist on doing it repeatedly.” He draws back. “And it’s fine. I just thought I’d offer. I thought it might be… comforting.”

She lets out an incredulous little laugh. “Comforting?”

“I see now that I was mistaken,” he says stiffly. “I apol—”

She surges forward, sending both the book and a shower of tissues sliding to the ground. Before Edwin can protest the treatment of a one-of-a-kind text, her arms are around his middle and her face is buried in his shoulder. For a moment, he’s perfectly still, hands hovering over her back. Then, he tentatively wraps his arms around her, closing his eyes. He can almost understand what Charles meant when he said he couldn’t feel kissing Crystal, but could feel it in his head. Edwin can almost feel the tickle of her hair against his nose and the dampness of her tears soaking through the front of his shirt. It’s not entirely unpleasant.

“I miss her too,” he whispers into Crystal’s hair. “So much. But I have to believe that wherever she is, she’s happy. She deserved nothing less than paradise.”

Crystal sniffles.

“And if you’d ever like to talk about her, I’m happy to,” he adds. “I’m sorry if you’ve felt alone in your grief. I don’t find talking about these things easy.”

That gets a wet little laugh out of her. “I had no idea.”

“I have grown to value you.” Christ, why is talking about his feelings so challenging? He would rather be facing down a hellhound. “And I’m not only saying that to get you to stop crying. I see you as a…”

“A friend?”

“Yes.” He nods. “A friend, like Niko was to me. For what it’s worth, you say no one has ever cared about you like Niko and Charles. I do. Well.” He pauses, considering. “Not precisely like Charles. I will object if you try to snog me.”

Her shoulders begin to shake and for a terrible moment, he thinks he’s hurt her feelings. Then he realizes she’s laughing. “Oh my God,” she says through giggles. “I love you too, Edwin.”

He feels a reluctant smile tug at the corners of his lips. “And I… hold you in very high regard.”

“We’ll work on it.” She lets him go, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry about your bookshelf. I was in a hurry. I didn’t want you to find me looking through the books on necromancy.”

“I forgive you.” Grimacing, he looks down at the book on the floor. “However, must I reiterate that this book is one-of-a-kind? I have to object to the amount of snot-stained tissues that are touching it right now.”

She bends to retrieve the book, shaking her head and smiling. For now, the tears seem to have stopped. He knows there will be more where that came from later. Their grief over Niko won’t go away with a single conversation. There will be other dark days, though hopefully Charles will be around to provide his own kind of comfort. It will never feel fair that they had to lose Niko, who still had so much to live for.

But right now, Crystal isn’t crying, is even smiling. And to Edwin, that feels enough like what Charles would call a job officially jobbed.

***

If you enjoyed it, please consider letting me know on AO3!

[sequinsmile-x]

Hi, would you like to write a new chapter of Retour Des Morts please? I think it'll be interesting to see how they come back after all that. Have you ever considered writing where Emily doesn't come back to the BAU? Sometimes, I think if she already has a home, she won't be doing what she did in canon. She might be more into building a new place and also reassuring Jack and Hotch (or whoever will come next :>)

hiiii bestie

Ever since you sent this in I have thought about this constantly. Retour Des Morts is one of my favourite things I've written, and the fact you asked for this close to two years after I wrote it means a lot.

I hope you like this and that it lives up to what you wanted <3

-x-

Retour à La Vie

Aaron and Emily work to put their life back together after she returns from the dead.

A sequel to Retour Des Morts

-x-

Words: 4.1k

Warnings: pregnancy, lots of big feelings

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

They get married within a week of her coming back from the dead. 

It’s not what she’d ever imagined her wedding would be like. There’s no white dress, no crowd of wellwishers watching with tissues clasped in their hands as she and Aaron exchanged vows. It’s just the two of them and Jack in the judge's chambers at the courthouse, a small bouquet Aaron had bought her that morning the only traditional sign that they were getting married. It’s no less special to her, no less meaningful, the happiness she feels when the judge declares them husband and wife overwhelming. 

The first kiss they shared as a married couple tasted of their tears with a chaser of desperation, the fact that just two weeks ago he’d thought she was dead not lost on either one of them. Whilst it’s not what she’d pictured she’s glad it’s what she ended up with, an intimate moment with the man she loves and the little boy she loves as her own. 

She knows Aaron was still struggling to believe it was real, that her suddenly being back with him wasn’t a cruel dream his subconscious was tormenting him with. She could feel it in how tightly he’d hold her, how he’d look for her in a room the moment he stepped into it. How he’d bury his face in her collarbone as they had sex, as if he wanted to crawl under her skin and stay there, desperately seeking solace in the place in her chest that she’d carved out for him years ago. 

She can’t blame him, because she feels the exact same way. It’s what she’d spent 7 months wishing for, what she’d pictured when she scrunched her eyes shut in a cold, uncomfortable bed in Paris, desperate to fall asleep. The memory of his embrace, of how having his arms around her would shut her brain off, stop all the noise that came with being her, just out of reach. 

When the team found out they’d married in secret the reactions were mixed. Fury, sadness and confusion at being left out painted across their friends' faces when they all went to Dave’s house for dinner. Their accusations of keeping a secret fell flat when Aaron reminded them, his glare fixed on JJ and Derek, that he’d been kept out of the loop on a lot of things. He was angry, and she was too, and she didn’t know if their relationships with the team, with the people she knew had made decisions to protect them both, would ever truly recover. 

She smiles as she hears the front door open, the tension in her chest that she felt every time she was separated from him, from her husband, dissipating immediately. She knew they couldn’t live like this forever, that it wasn’t healthy for them to be so codependent, but she was giving them both the grace they needed, and deserved, for now. She sits up and places her book down, not sure she’d absorbed anything she’d been reading, and her smile only gets wider as he steps into the room. 

“Hi honey,” she says softly, “How was work?” 

He blows out a steady breath and leans down to kiss her, stamping his lips against hers before he walks around it to join her. He places his briefcase on the coffee table and sits next to her, his hand heavy and warm as he places it on her thigh. 

“Long,” he replies gruffly, smiling when she raises her eyebrow at him, “I missed you.” 

She places her hand on his, rubbing her thumb back and forth over his wedding ring, “I missed you too.” 

She’d made the decision not to back to work yet. The thought of it paralysed her, fear she didn’t quite understand overwhelming her every time she thought about it. She was unsure if she even wanted to go back, if she wanted to put herself back in the line of fire in a dangerous job when she’d already lost so much. She also knew Aaron and Jack had been through so much too, they’d buried her. They’d mourned her, and she wasn’t sure if she would ever be able to forgive herself if they had to do that again. 

She wasn’t sure they’d be able to forgive her either, and the thought of that hurt more than anything. 

Her gaze drifts from their joint hands to his briefcase, and she frowns slightly when she sees a newspaper sticking out of it, a circled home in the open real estate section visible through the open zip. She smiles at her husband curiously, her head tilted as her eyes meet his. 

“Are you planning on moving sometime soon?” She asks, reaching for the newspaper and pulling it out, her eyebrows raised as she realises it’s one of many circled homes on the first page alone, “Or are you starting a new career in real estate and you don’t know how to tell me?” Her smile fades when she looks at him again, the tension in his jaw, the way he avoids her gaze, enough to make concern flood her belly, “Aaron?”

He sighs and shakes his head at himself, his lips pressed together as he tries to find a way to tell her. He’d wanted to wait a little while, to figure out how to broach the subject. She loved this house. They’d spent weeks going to viewings and looking for somewhere perfect, but he was starting to feel suffocated here. 

Any joy he had once found in these walls had been buried with her, but they hadn’t come back from the dead, hadn’t crawled out of the hole he’d forced it into. 

“I…I’ve been thinking it would be good for us to find somewhere new,” he says, and she stares at him, her mouth falling open slightly as his unexpected confession washes over her. 

“Oh,” she says, her eyes drifting back down to the newspaper, the pages crinkling slightly in her tight grip. 

“Yeah,” he replies, clearing his throat, hating the tension that had quickly filled the room, “I think we need a fresh start. Jack too.” 

She furrows her brows as she looks up at him, her teeth sinking into her lower lip as she blows out a steady breath, “But…we love this house.” 

He doesn’t understand the anger that licks through him, burning in his veins in a way it so rarely did, a phantom that had haunted him since his childhood, something he could never quite outrun.

“We held your wake in this room, Emily,” he says, harsher than he means to, the way her eyes widen, how she recoils away from him ever so slightly, the thing that calms him down. He sighs as guilt chases away his anger. “You sit in this room and you think of the night we moved in. When we sat on the floor with Jack and ate pizza because the couch hadn’t been delivered yet,” he says, unable to stop smiling at the memory, but it fades quickly, “I think of sitting right here with Jack after everyone left after your wake,” he clenches his teeth and looks down at his lap, tears burning in the back of his eyes, “I think of the fact I slept on this couch for weeks because even the spare rooms upstairs held too many memories.” 

She blows out a slow breath and looks up at the ceiling, shaking her head as she wipes away a stray tear from her cheek, “Aaron, I am so-”

“I don’t need you to keep apologising sweetheart,” he says, reaching for her hand and holding it desperately, her bones popping against each other, “I want to move past this with you. Move on with our lives and just…”

He drifts off, unsure how to put it into words and she squeezes his hand back. She places the newspaper down and shifts closer to him, their knees pressed together as she cups his cheek with her free hand, forcing him to look at her. 

“Just start living again,” she finishes for him, and he chuckles, the sound wet as it catches on his ribs, and he nods. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, clearing his throat as his voice cracks, “I want that more than anything.” 

She looks around the living room, at the memories on the walls in the form of photographs. At the tv stand they’d built together, the fireplace they decorated every season. She once thought she’d live here forever, that this was the place she’d build a family with him, but when she was gone, dead to him and almost everyone she knew, it wasn’t the house she’d missed.

It was him. It was Jack. They were her home.

“Okay,” she says quietly, resting her forehead against his, “We’ll find somewhere new,” she says, stroking her thumb back and forth over his cheek, lamenting the loss of his beard since he’d gone back to work. 

She smiles when his eyes get brighter and his smile gets wider, as if a weight she hadn’t known he was carrying had been lifted from his shoulders, “Really?”

She’d miss this house, but it was something she was willing to lose if it made him happier. She nods and kisses him, tasting the smile he presses against her lips.  

“Really.” 

___

Six Months Later 

Emily sighs as the car comes to a stop, nerves making her belly roll as she stares at Dave’s house. She lifts her hand to her mouth without thinking, ready to chew her cuticles, but Aaron catches her hand halfway, linking their fingers together and squeezing. She turns to look at him and smiles tightly, relaxing slightly as he lifts their joint hands to his lips to kiss her knuckles. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” He asks, squeezing her hand again as they drop to the centre console, “We don’t have to tell them tonight if you don’t want to.”

She smiles softly at him, love for him warming her from the inside out as he looks at her like she’s made of something precious and she shakes her head, “No, we should tell them,” she says, placing the hand not wrapped up in his on her slightly rounded belly, “I don’t think I’d be able to hide it much longer anyway, I’m starting to resemble a blimp.” 

She was convinced it would take a long time to get pregnant, the warnings of her doctors in France echoing around in her head as she and Aaron discussed expanding their family. They’d decided to start trying right away even though things had still been rocky at the time, their lives and their relationship on unsteady ground, their love for each other the only thing that kept them on track for the easier path ahead. It had surprised her when she stood in the bathroom of their old house with a positive pregnancy test just two months after she came home. Despite the timing not being ideal, she was happy, and she knew he was too. She was almost halfway through her pregnancy now, and she knew it was time to share the news with the people she once called her family

No one else other than Jack, Jessica and Emily’s doctor knew about the baby, about the little girl growing steadily under Emily’s skin. It wasn’t because she didn’t want their friends to know, but because of a lack of opportunity. Aaron saw them every day at work but she still hadn’t gone back. And now she never would. She’d met with Strauss only the day before and officially changed her career break into retirement from the FBI. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to do going forward, what she’d do once she was more settled back into her life and her baby was born, but she knew it was the right decision. 

She wanted to be what she’d never had - a present parent, and she no longer felt like that was something she could do in a career that had almost killed her. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, placing his hand over hers on her bump, “Both of you.” 

She hums and leans in to kiss him, stamping her lips against his before she pulls back, “Come on,” she says, “We’d better get in there before Dave sends out a search party.” 

As she steps out of the car she adjusts her sweater, making sure the baggy material isn’t clinging to her bump, and then she reaches for Aaron’s hand, squeezing it tightly as they approach the house. 

The evening is easier than she thought it would be, the slight tension she still felt at times around them, JJ in particular, more bearable than it used to be. If any of them notice she isn’t drinking wine they don’t mention it, all of them content to act as if nothing had changed, as if seven months ago she hadn’t been dead to almost everyone sitting around the dining table. 

“So, peaches, are you ever coming back to work?” Penelope asks, her lips pushed out in a pout as she looks at her friend, “I miss seeing your beautiful face in the office. "

Emily chuckles politely and she looks at Aaron and he nods, his hand on her knee under the table a much needed comfort. She takes a moment to breathe slowly before she looks at her friends.

“Yesterday I gave Strauss my official notice that I’m going to be retiring from the FBI,” she says, pressing her lips together when she sees the shock spread across their faces, a tidal wave of emotions sweeping through them all, “The paperwork has all been filled out, so I won’t be coming back.” 

The room falls into silence and it hangs over them all, cloying and suffocating like a thick blanket as her words sink in. 

“Why?” Spencer asks, the first to get his ability to speak back, “I thought you loved your job.” 

“I did,” she says, smiling sadly as she shakes her head, “I do. I just…” she looks at Aaron and any tension that had gathered in her chest disappears the moment their eyes meet, his love a balm for any ailment she felt, and she looks at her friends again, “I love my family more. This is the right thing for us. Jack is doing so much better now, and his therapist says it is partly because he has a more consistent life now,” she shrugs and chuckles humourlessly, “How can I take that away from him just because I like my job?” 

Dave sighs and sits backwards, his hands on the back of his head as he looks back and forth between her and Aaron, “That makes sense.”

Derek nods, clearly not agreeing but aware of his place in Emily’s life now, how he had lost her trust, “We’ll miss you, Princess. We already do.” 

She smiles and nods, “I’ll make more of an effort to come in and see you all,” she says, aware that she was partly to blame for how things were between them, that her resistance to going to the office whilst she was on her career break had been a factor. She places her hand over Aaron’s on her knee and links their fingers together, “Plus,” she says, clearing her throat in an attempt to hide her smile as she nods her head towards him, “I’ve already promised this one I’ll bring the baby in to see him all the time anyway.”

There’s another moment of silence, shock and joy rolled into one as it fills the air and her lungs, making her feel like she can breathe clearly for the first time since she’d got out of the car. The room descends into chaos, and Penelope is out of her chair before any of the others can even react, wrapping her arms tightly around Emily who is still sitting down. 

“You’re having a baby?” She squeals, making Emily chuckle with her enthusiasm, and she nods, placing her hand on Penelope’s arm that was tight around her neck. 

“Yes,” she laughs, “But only if you don’t choke me before she’s born.”

“She?” Penelope squeals again, forcing Derek to make a joke about his hearing as she switches to hug Aaron instead, and they all laugh in between congratulating them, and for a moment everything feels exactly as it should. 

Emily eventually steps out for some air and to grab another soda from the kitchen, shaking off Aaron’s attempts to go get it for her with nothing more than a soft smile. She rolls her neck and places her hand on her bump as she walks to the fridge, grateful for a moment of silence away from the dozens of questions. 

“Congratulations.” 

She turns and looks at JJ, her smile tight as she nods gratefully, “Thank you.”

JJ clears her throat as she steps closer, her arms tight over her chest as she looks at the floor, the awkwardness between them still as fresh as it was the day Emily came home, “So you’re 19 weeks along?” 

Emily nods, her hand on her belly as she sees JJ looking at it, “Yeah, I turn 20 weeks next Wednesday.”

JJ nods, her teeth sinking into her lower lip, “And you said you’re having a girl.” 

She smiles, “Yeah, a girl,” she says, her smile getting wider when she feels the baby move as if she knew she was being spoken about, “Jack is excited, he said he wanted a little sister from the moment we told him.” 

JJ’s smile changes as she steps closer, sadness creeping in, somehow making her eyes seem darker, “There was a time when you would have told me the moment you found out.” 

Emily immediately feels anger rush through her, rolling in her belly alongside her daughter, and she clenches her teeth, but it’s not enough to capture the words that escape her, “Well, there was a time when I didn’t think you’d lie to me for 7 months,” she shrugs, “I guess things have changed.” 

JJ closes her eyes and shakes her head, “I don’t know how many times I have to say I did what I had to do,” she says as she looks at her, “One day you’re going to have to forgive me.”

She scoffs and shakes her head, “No I won’t,” she says firmly, her arms crossed over her chest, “I don’t have to forgive you for this. I don’t think I can.” 

“Em-”

“If it was just me…” Emily shouts, cutting over JJ before she clears her throat to calm herself down, her daughter’s kicks getting sharper as her blood pressure increases, “If it was just me,” she says again, her voice softer this time, “I would have been able to get past it. But you lied to Aaron, you let him and Jack think I was dead after they’d already lost Haley and I can’t get past that.” 

JJ clenches her jaw to stop herself from crying and looks up, “I did what I thought was right.” 

“We had to move. Because every corner of that house changed for them. Jack still has nightmares. He sleeps in our bed more often than he doesn’t and Aaron…” She shakes her head and looks away, turning her head so she can wipe away a stray tear before she looks back at her friend, “Sometimes when he first wakes up he still thinks it’s not real. He never says it, but I can see it in his eyes. The flash of panic, the relief when he realises I’m right there. I don’t know if I can forgive you for doing that to him.” 

They fall into silence and JJ sighs, running her fingers through her hair as she shakes her head, “I am sorry, Em. It was an impossible situation.”

“I know that,” she says, “And I know part of it is my fault, it’s because of my decisions before I’d even met Aaron. But your decisions put them through something we will live with our entire lives. I can’t forgive that but…I think one day I’ll be able to live with it.” 

The spark of joy that flashes across JJ’s face makes her ache, “Really?” 

She nods and chokes on a laugh, “Yeah,” she says, wiping away another tear from her cheek, “Really. My little girl is going to need her Aunt JJ to balance out the crazy from Aunt Pen.” 

JJ laughs, the sound catching on a sob as she pulls Emily into a hug, and it feels like a step in the right direction.

___

Six Months Later

Emily shushes her daughter as she paces the living room, holding the two-month-old against her chest as she pats her back, burping her after her 3 am feed.

“I know sweet girl,” she mumbles against the baby’s temple as she fusses, wholly against the idea of settling back down to sleep, “Life is so hard when you’re 8 weeks old and Mommy can’t constantly feed you.” 

Renee was born on her due date, arriving right on time into the world in a way Emily had joked ever since was something she’d inherited from Aaron. He’d always reply that he was glad she’d got something from him, since the baby girl was Emily’s double in every other way. She couldn’t deny it, as the weeks passed the resemblance became even clearer, and features she’d hated her whole life on her own face, such as her nose, were suddenly beautiful to her when she saw them on her daughter. 

“Give her a break, she just happens to love your breasts.” 

She smiles wryly as she turns to look at her husband, her eyebrow raised as his eyes meet hers from where he is standing in the doorway, “Well, at least that’s another thing she got from you.” 

He chuckles and walks over, stamping a quick kiss against her lips, “True enough,” he says, kissing her again before he pulls back, “Have you been awake for long?” 

She shakes her head and looks down to see Renee is now fast asleep against her, “Maybe 30 minutes or so,” she replies, walking over and slowly lowering herself to the couch, “I’m sorry if we woke you up.” 

“You didn’t,” he says as he joins her, his arm automatically around her shoulders as she settles against his side, “I woke up and you were gone so…”

It was the year anniversary of her return from the dead, of the start of the journey they’d been walking together ever since. Sometimes it felt like no time at all, like she’d blinked and she was here with him and their children in a new house. Other times she could feel every second, every moment of doubt and pain and sadness that they’d had as they navigated to where they were now. To the life she liked to think they both deserved. Quiet and so achingly normal she sometimes wanted to cry at the beautiful simplicity of it all. 

She hears what he hasn’t said, what his brain will still trick him into even a year later, and she sighs sadly, pressing her lips against his cheek, “We’re right here.” 

“I know,” he says, capturing her lips in a kiss, “My girls.” 

She smiles and nods, the moniker never failing to warm her from the inside out even though he’d said it countless times ever since they’d found out they were having a daughter. 

“Your girls,” she confirms, kissing him again before she turns her attention back to the sleeping baby on her chest, “Sometimes I still can’t quite believe I have all of this.” 

He wasn’t the only one who was prone to thinking that this was all too good to be true, that one day she’d wake up and she’d still be in Paris, the last year of her life nothing more than a fantasy she had come up with to sleep through the night. 

“You do sweetheart,” he says, kissing the side of her head as his hand shifts to the back of Renee’s head, his fingers following the swirling pattern of her dark hair.

“We’re all right here,” he says, repeating her words, “Rey is right here with us, Jack is upstairs in his room,” he says, kissing the right of her head, “We’re all here.” 

She nods, turning her head so her forehead is pressed against his cheek, the feeling of his breath skipping across her skin relaxing her, a gentle reminder of what she had now, what she’d once died to protect. 

“Yeah,” she says, “We really are.” 

-x-

Tag List:

@ssa-sparks, @ptrckjcne, @lyds102, @glockleveledatyourcrotch, @hotchnissenthusiast, @danadeservesadrink, @ssamorganhotchner, @emilyprentissisgod, @notagentprentiss, @freesiasandfics, @emilyshotchniss, @thecharmingart, @paulitalblond, @hancydrewfan, @camille093, @whitecrossgirl, @moonlight-2-6, @rawr-jess, @florenceremingtonthethird, @jareauswife, @ms-black-a, @beebeelank, @aubreyprc, @zipzapboingg, @psychopath-at-heart, @criminalmindsgonewrong, @fionaloover, @kinqslcys, @prentissinred, @ccmattis-22, @denvivale317, @thrindis, @hotchsguccitie, @cmfouatslota77, @alexblakegf, @aliensaururex, @prentissxhotch, @emobabeyy, @victoiregranger, @stormyweatherth, @wanderingdreamer009, @ssablackbird, @luhwithah, @lex13cm, @prentiss-theorem, @dont-emily-me, @mrs-ssa-hotch, @jocyycreation, @itsmytimetoodream, @hotchnissgroupie, @controversialpooh, @capsshinyshield, @canuck-eh

Join my tag list here!

[man-down-in-hatchet-town]

Until Another Richie Comes Along...

(UPDATE: For anyone who didn't see the live show or digital ticket and are wondering what the fuck I'm talking about, they actually changed the lyrics from the original show for the album and proshoot. This post is about what Max originally sings.)

Well folks, we’re a couple of weeks into the digital ticket run, and I can’t stop thinking about the “who will pray for me” section of “Nerdy Prudes Must Die." Aside from just sounding incredible, it's a vitally important moment for Max’s character, especially as it comes right after “Go Go Nighthawks” and the scene in which Richie finally befriends the popular kids. As much as he claims to be above revenge, Max’s pain clearly shapes Richie’s torment in a very specific way. And it almost…makes me really feel for our literal monster?

Just look at the lyrics.

“Who will pray for me when my body’s gone?” is bad enough. Max has been gone for two weeks, and we get this whole sequence about how his classmates and “friends” just… don’t care. If anything, they’re happy he’s gone. As valid as their response is, there’s something incredibly lonely and horrifying about someone’s disappearance eliciting nothing but a shrug and a “fuck that guy” from those who knew them best. The people Max spent his childhood alongside have no grief to offer, no prayers for the vanished body. And then…

Well, and then we have “until another Richie comes along.” Obnoxious, nerdy Richie with his overactive sweat glands, who is so “unimportant” that Max kept him ground into dust for mere idle amusement. But suddenly Max is gone and all of his “friends” fill the vacancy by literally bringing Richie into their circle (football huddle). They befriend him because they can, they are kind to him because they want to be, they accept him with open hearts. As the person stepping into space left open by Max, it’s almost as if Richie is “another Max” who's come along, one very different from the first, and Max’s people really like the replacement better. That has to hurt.

And so Max puts Richie into his shoes, demanding that Richie wrestle with the same idea of insignificance that Max himself has just encountered. Will those who failed to pray for Max take time to pray for Richie? Who will be the next person added to the huddle in his stead? It’s interesting that Richie receives the most brutal and drawn-out death of anyone—he’s being punished not just for Max’s death or for being a “nerdy prude,” or even for defying Max’s social hierarchy, but for doing so in a way that makes him the face of everything Max has just learned he never really had.

Max spent his life tormenting classmates to make up for being tormented at home. The other kids deserve to feel the way they do about his absence, and the far kinder, gentler Richie deserved to live a long and happy life. But just like Max’s gleeful speech before his fall, like his attempts to protect Steph from the haunted house or his offer to carry Grace’s books, Max’s Act 1 finale moment of monstrous apotheosis ironically recalls the real, hurting person who lurks underneath.

And part of me can't help but just think “this poor kid.”

[ariannadi]

Bait and Release

Can also be read on Ao3

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

After encountering two of his six siblings at the flophouse near Wyrm's Crossing, and knowing quite well it would not be the last time they crossed paths, Astarion remained on high alert whenever he and their ragtag group happened to retire. The fact that their party currently occupied the Elfsong Tavern's upstairs suite, which stood mere meters away from Szarr Palace, only made it all the more inevitable.

He was curled up against Sitri, who, after his confession in the Shadow-Cursed Lands a few weeks prior, had made it her personal mission to snuggle with him every night after she had finished her studies for the evening (something he made a point to gripe about but absolutely adored in reality). That's when he heard faint footsteps approaching their shared bed. Immediately he shot up, jostling his half-elf lover in the process, and reached for the dagger stashed under his pillow.

"Astarion?" Sitri asked drowsily, still coming to. Once she noticed what he had, she too reached for her glaive, which was propped up against the wall. Two pairs of practically glowing red eyes stared at them both in the dim light of the suite, another set idling a few paces behind them. It only took a second for Astarion to be able to identify who they belonged to.

Leon, Violet, Aurelia, and Yousen. 

"Get the hells away from me!" he shouted at them all, and scurried to his feet, holding the dagger out towards them.

Aurelia held her hands up, pleading to his good graces. "Peace, brother. We've come to bring you home," she said soothingly.

"The master needs all seven of us for the ceremony. Come with us and be reborn. We'll live again," Leon calmly followed.

"How in the hells did you find us?" Sitri demanded as she took her place next to Astarion, looking rightfully peeved at having been disturbed. At this point, the others could be heard tumbling out of bed from their various spots around the apartment.

"Master Cazador knew where Astarion was all along," Aurelia scoffed. "He knew that he would return. The Rite... the master needs him. He must attend."

"Oh, I'm well aware of what the master needs," Astarion spat in response. "But don't we deserve better?"

"'Better'? What do you mean, 'better'?" Leon demanded, fangs twisted in a confused scowl.

"After these centuries of torment, I know what you all want," Astarion was all-too-happy to clarify. "More than power. More than the ability to walk in the sun without turning to cinders. You want to see him dead." When both Leon and Aurelia looked at each other in uncertainty, he knew he had struck a nerve with them.

"Astarion?" Sitri quietly inquired. The man in question let her prodding go unanswered; he couldn't regard those watery, sapphire eyes in that moment, or else he would risk his façade crumbling on the spot.

"The Rite of Profane Ascension will be mine, and he won't see a scrap of its glory," Astarion continued, his every word radiating a certain confidence. "I am going to complete the ritual as the Ascendant, and then I am going to kill him. This is your chance. Stand with me. Name me your new master. We will get our revenge, and you will all live again."

"Astarion! What has gotten into you?" Sitri demanded of him, her voice rising in pitch. "You're asking your siblings to die for you in the ritual."

I thought you were better than this?

"Don't look at me like that. With the sweet little 'disappointed I'm not getting cuddly Astarion' pout. I can't take it. I can't be what you want to see in me," he told her despite not being entirely convinced, his heart aching at the way her entire face fell.

"'Die' in the ritual? Whatsoever are you speaking of?" Aurelia asked. "We are going to cheat undeath."

"Please think for a moment," Sitri, ignoring Astarion's look of disapproval, pleaded with the tiefling, throwing out her hands in exasperation. "Surely you've seen the ins and outs of the process—the ritual is a sacrifice and all of you the lambs for slaughter. The scars on your back should be evidence enough."

"The master doesn't need to lie to us; he controls us fully. Why go through the trouble of giving us hope?" Aurelia rebutted, still not convinced.

However, Leon was. "Because it's more cruel... shit." he spat as realization dawned on him. "We're doomed. All right - what do you need from us? We'll help you."

But before Sitri could make another peep, all four spawn began to groan in agony as their eyes blazed with the telltale glow of compulsion. Cazador had caught wind of their slip-up and was now yanking the leash.

"The master’s hold—we have no choice! We must... obey!" Aurelia shrieked, clutching at her head. "Get out of here, Astarion! Before—!"

In the blink of an eye, the countenance of all four spawn changed; their somewhat collected demeanor giving way to mere beasts that gnashed their fangs and brandished sharpened claws. By then the rest of the party had gathered in the center of the room, obviously confused as to what was going on but ready to fight nonetheless.

"Figures your past would come back to disrupt our temporary reprieve," a disheveled Lae'zel hissed at Astarion, who sent an equally dirty look her way.

"I didn't ask for them to come here!" he shot back in retaliation, only to dodge an incoming attack from Violet.

"Less bickering, more getting rid of this lot, guys," Karlach chided them both amidst swinging her axe.

As the battle escalated, the words from the Gur they had encountered in the Hag's swamp made their useless resurgence in Astarion's mind. You will not find a more deadly quarry. That was an understatement if there ever was one. Had he ever been this vicious in a fight on behalf of Cazador?

Thinking he’d finally gotten a grasp on the tactics involved, the elf was blindsided when three of his siblings shifted their focus to Sitri; quickly cornering and downing her. No one in their party was within reach to assist, and whatever was organic within Astarion’s body quickly turned to ice.

The half-elf groaned as she reached for her glaive with what little strength she had, but Leon, who casually sauntered up to her, beat her to the punch. He kicked the weapon away, only to slice his claws through Sitri's back a final time.

"Sitri!" Shadowheart exclaimed in a panic, watching as the now-unconscious woman was lifted into her assailant's arms. Astarion just stared in horror, somehow avidly aware of what his sibling intended to do.

"He will come for her," Leon, in a voice unlike his own, addressed the other spawn in the room, who stopped their ambush and quickly vanished into puffs of smoke. Leon then turned to stare Astarion in the eyes as he readied himself to follow suit - Sitri in tow.

"NO!" Astarion cried, and attempted to dive towards the plume before it dissipated, though the elf knew quite well that the point was moot. As the reality of the situation set in, the room was all at once spinning and his heart nearly plummeted into his stomach. Before he could even register what he was doing, he was sprinting to where he kept his armor and practically throwing it onto his person.

"What the fuck are you all staring at?" he hissed at the others as they gazed at him warily. "Go get your fucking armor on!"

"Astarion, I understand your wanting to hurry, but shouldn't we strategize before marching directly into a vampire lord's lair?" Gale attempted to reason, only for the elf's nostrils to start flaring in anger.

"No. No, you complete and utter imbecile! Have you not processed a word of what I've said before? We. Do. Not. Have. Time!" Astarion lashed out, enough so that Gale visibly recoiled. "Cazador will maim her alive while he waits for me to make my appearance. He'll strip her down and flog her into a pulp; he'll throw acid on her flesh and leave her for the rats to digest. You cannot fathom what that monster is capable of. He will do anything and everything to ensure I suffer as much as possible. And now that he has Sitri... oh, gods... he has Sitri." he practically sobbed as he sank to his knees, running a hand over his face.

If Cazador had truly been spying on him from the shadows all this time, then there was no question that the vampire lord was avidly aware of the depths of affection Astarion held for the rose-haired wizard. Perhaps the bastard could even feel it through what little remained of their bond; of just how much she had helped Astarion see his worth as an individual from the time he'd encountered her on that beach.

And to think I was about to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.

I see you. I’ll be your mirror.

This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.

I care about you. Deeply.

The desperation in his voice must have been enough for the party to change their tune, because all at once he could hear them hurrying to where their gear was stashed. They were a group that had little in common aside from their shared affliction, but if there was one thing they could all agree on, it was that they needed Sitri. She was the glue that held them together most days, after all.

"Alright, Astarion. How do we get into the palace?" Wyll asked once they'd regrouped, now battle-ready. Astarion blinked up at them, breathed a habitual sigh of relief, and straightened his back.

Thank you, he voiced to them all in their shared mind, the words like thick molasses on his tongue.

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

    Everything that happened the moment they entered the palace Astarion processed in a blur—Werewolves, seven-thousand spawn (consisting of conquests he'd once believed dead), a vampire lord's skull that predated Cazador himself—as his only focus was rescuing Sitri before Cazador could get his filthy clutches on her.

Though, he couldn’t deny that potentially capturing the power the Rite of Profane Ascension offered consistently hovered in his peripheral. Especially now that he had failed to protect Sitri.

If only I’d been more powerful. If only I’d been more powerful. If only I’d been more…!

As they descended the staircase leading down into the ritual chamber he spotted his beloved, laying directly in front of where Cazador stood and looking no worse for wear than when she'd been abducted. He wanted to cry out in relief, but he settled for rushing further into the inner sanctum, the rest of the party following close behind him.

"Ah-ah! Take another step and she dies!" Cazador threatened once Astarion was barely within reach of her. "The nerve of you, boy. To come crawling back to your family like this. You should be ashamed!"

"Shut the fuck up!" Astarion barked, fangs bared. "She has nothing to do with this! This is between you and I!"

"Oh-ho-ho! And yet you came here! Would you have done so had I not taken such extreme measures?" Cazador taunted, prompting Astarion's fury to rise. "Look at you… you’re just as pathetic as you were before. Perhaps even more so, now that you've sullied whatever dignity you possessed under the digression of this wench. Now... be a good little ungrateful spawn and take your spot amongst your siblings so that the ritual may commence.”

The vampire lord gestured behind him, where the six spawn he’d come to know as family were dangling in the air—bound by their scars through some hellish magic. One spot was vacant, and Astarion could only presume it was meant to be his.

"You son-of-a-bitch..." Astarion seethed, practically frothing with each syllable—to Cazador's evident satisfaction.

Hold, Astarion, came the voice of Shadowheart in his mind just as he was about to lunge. I think I can catch him off-guard using Daylight - he'll be vulnerable for short time. While he falters, it will give us the opportunity to grab Sitri and get her out of harm's way.

Yes. Yes. But we have to be swift, Astarion agreed, all the while ensuring the anticipation wasn't showing on his features.

On the count of three, Shadowheart's voice began again, One... Two... Three!

"Daylight!" the cleric shouted vocally, and a sphere of brilliant sunlight came streaming down into the vicinity. Cazador immediately recoiled, sheltering his face from the ensuing burns, and Astarion took his chance in dashing forward and scooping Sitri into his arms. 

"I've got you, my love. I'm so sorry," he told her unconscious self in a whoosh of breath, then he and the others quickly turned heel and retreated towards the staircase.

"Oh no you don't, you little brat! I've worked far too long for this!" Cazador practically screeched, and with the wave of his staff Astarion was being held in place by the very same magic that rendered his siblings immobile. 

"Quick! Take her!" he called to Karlach, holding Sitri out towards the tiefling. Just as Karlach had her safely secured in her arms, Astarion was ripped away from them all - towards his dedicated spot along the ritual ring. The instant he was in place, his armor was torn from his body like wet paper so that the rune carved into his back was glowing in plain view.

"No! Stop him! And get me out of this!" he begged, thrashing against his bonds but remaining in place.

"Karlach, I'll take care of her!" Shadowheart said, motioning for the taller woman to place Sitri on the ground. "The rest of you, help Astarion!"

The party did just that, letting out battle cries as they charged towards the horde of ghouls and werewolves surrounding Cazador with their weapons raised. 

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

  When all was said and done, Astarion, dagger in hand, loomed over a groveling Cazador who had been brought to heel. The power that the Rite of Profane Ascension offered was right there at his grasp, and a voice in the back of his mind that feared being controlled, being subjected to someone else's whims for an infinite amount of lifetimes, whispered that it was his right to take Cazador's place after everything he had endured.

He could protect himself. He could protect Sitri. None of this would ever have to happen again.

But then he looked over at his lover; barely awake and leaning against Shadowheart, and saw the sadness that permeated her sapphire eyes as she stared directly into what little remained of his soul. 

"Astarion..." she uttered, almost inaudibly. "I know you fear your freedom being stripped from you once again, as well as our future—but going through with this ritual... killing all of those people... that power will only trap you—just as Cazador’s trapped him. I want you to be someone you can be proud of. You can't be proud of this."

"I..." he croaked, and swallowed as her heavy words lay like a compress over his intoxicated senses. "You're right. I can be better than him."

The visible relief, which was quickly followed by pride on Sitri's features was worth more than any power in that moment - knowing that someone like her could care so much for a mess like him… saw something in him worth saving. But he had one more task to accomplish before reveling in such emotions, and that was to put an end to the being who had caused him so much torment; the one who had had the gall to abduct and threaten the only person who had ever truly mattered to him as a last resort.

“But I’m not above enjoying this.”

He lifted the dagger and grabbed Cazador by the hair, hauling him upward as he began to stab and stab and stab. He stabbed until blood was gurgling from the vampire lord's lips; he stabbed until he went limp in Astarion's grasp. Even when Cazador was in a heap on the stone floor, he still stabbed, before his rage finally depleted and he fell to his knees with a harsh cry.

And finally... he was free.

The others looked on in silence as the elf’s broken sobs reverberated off the walls of the stone chamber, only for Sitri to pull away from Shadowheart, to the latter’s protest. With visible pain on her face, the rose-haired woman limped over and collapsed at Astarion’s side just as his cries subsided into whimpers, and then she lifted a hand, before quickly snatching it back.

“It’s… it’s alright,” he managed, and Sitri nodded, weakly wrapping him up in her arms. His head fell into the crook of her neck as he turned in her embrace; blood-stained curls streaking her flesh, but the half-elf wasn’t fazed in the slightest.

“I’m so proud of you, my love,” she whispered for his ears alone, her own tears slipping forth and sweeping Cazador’s blood from his skin, and he clutched at her like she might disappear should he loosen his hold even the slightest bit.

[marshmallowprotection]

Heya! I was wondering if i could suggest a semi-specific request 😅😂

Could I request a scene where I reunite with Ray in VAE? I was thinking I could've been with him in Mint Eye and had a relationship with him - even though it is V's ending.

What happened to Magenta with the bomb shattered me, and that uncertainty about Ray was just 😖😖😖

I would miss him so, so much

Would he miss me as much too? He's everything to me 😅

After all the time V spends with him in his AE, would Ray still remember me? Would he be shocked that I remembered him? And still love him so much?

Aaah 🤧🤧

Skittish.

Tentative.

Frightened.

Those are the words Jihyun used to describe him at his worst. Even after years of trying to pull himself back together, there was nothing that could change the fact that he was forever scarred by what he'd done that day in Magenta. On the of losing everything, he thought it would be better to get rid of himself than it would be to join the rest of the believers in paradise.

What was life worth if everyone left him all over again?

That was how he felt for the longest time... his only regret being that he called you before the bomb went off. He didn't want to scare you with the truth of his actions, but that selfish part inside of his chest wanted you to know he loved you with everything his heart had and he would never love another soul like he loved you.

He thought you'd move on with your life, become happy as can be, and have everything he ever dreamed of.

In some ways... his love for you would carry on in your happiness. It was the only thing that brought him peace in those final moments, and yet, even so, he always yearned for more than that.

Maybe that was the most human thing about him. He always obeyed the rules given to him because they were an oath made in blood... like a tool or a puppet, but his love for you gave him a bleeding heart that made him feel alive. It was his love for you that kept him alive as long as it had. That's what he wanted to believe.

You were an angel unlike any other he'd ever met.

And maybe, just maybe, by the grace of your love... or just dumb luck, he survived that explosion. He suffered torment for weeks as the scars rattled his bones and fried his skin, but one thought never left his head. You. You were the singular thought that he both yearned for and dreamed would never come close to him again.

He hurt you in every sense of the word, and he couldn't bring himself to let go. It would've been better if he let you go. You could have a life with the RFA! You could enjoy everything the world had to offer and it would make him happy. As long as you had a life... a life you dreamed of... he knew nothing could ever dampen his dream. You were his true dream... his only dream, but he knew that he may never have you the way he wanted.

You would never look at him the way he looked at you... he would be a fool to think otherwise.

The light in your eyes saved him.

That was why he agreed to come with Jihyun to the party. He didn't want to go in the beginning. He only wanted to stay in the shadows... to erase himself until it was time to find his brother, but the thought of seeing your face one last time made him yearn to come along for... for what would probably be the last time he'd allow himself to see you in person.

He planned to stay in the crowd, hidden by the number of guests and patrons, and then he would retreat to the hotel to spare himself a lot of painful circumstance. Seeing you at the party, smiling, was meant to be enough for him.

If you were dancing with someone or thriving in a way that would've challenged his memory, it would've stung deep and made it hard to breathe, but... the risk was worth it. Even if you were in love with the world outside of him... and you found a reason to smile... he would be okay with that. He would have to be.

He just... needed to see your face one final time.

It had to be worth it.

You found him despite his desire to hide when Jihyun extended his hand to welcome the newest member to the RFA. He looked over at Jihyun, nerves eating away at his very soul, but a smile remained on Jihyun's face, as if beckoning him to task a risk. He stood there, like a deer in the headlights, unable to move or say a word as you stared at him.

Everything felt like it was moving in slow-motion.

His body was stuck.

Then, all at once, when he felt like he needed to run away, you leapt in his direction before his brother could—throwing your arms around him with a sob on your lips that sounded like—misery and hope all at once. He stood there, eyes wide and jaw-slacked, unable to say even a single word as Saeyoung embraced the two of you as well.

"Ray," you wept. You sounded like it hurt to lose him in the first place. He never thought you would miss him. "You're alive! I was afraid that I lost you forever! I can't believe you're here! You're here and breathing. Tell me it's not a dream...!"

"You're okay," sobbed his twin brother, his voice filled with just as much relief and pain that it felt otherworldly to someone like Ray. Years of his life were spent thinking he was nothing more than the nuisance he was taught to be, and now... just like Jihyun said many times in the past... his loved ones were telling what he thought was a pipe dream. "My baby brother, you're okay!"

Ray couldn't believe it.

Saeyoung missed him... truly.

You'd missed him... deeply.

Jihyun hadn't lied to him.

"I'm sorry," he croaked. The tears flooding his vision as he broke down for the first time in a very long time. "I'm sorry!"

[libidomechanica]

“We movements, defiles”

A ballad sequence

               First Stanza

With coral beneath that hath no     stays, had He the clouded, and turning sister, pitying     chance through by charms, my dame

taught off Juan said. Which was so far     retire intoxicating the branches me to blamed     hym thought, in proper forming

rich their finger of a threading     in his dripping a golden tits arching toward part of     their right an history, and

that glance of mine. In act to Time’s     creeping shortly and most unmeek,—I knelt before he could     my wrinkled on fire: when

every face.—Shut his face. Not by     rude sound digestion, ’ said the Lady Ida: here are no     changes of promise twice

five bullets frequent in words, and     pray yow soon juan, what capacious state? Lest, till not happiness!     And gay, and every

fine style: how looks like a ballistic     missing our fury with such sweeter! Singing O darlin’     darlin’ darlin’ darlin’

darlin’ darlin’ darlin’. Women     and rosé on the lash one, I think two persuade, and on     the fold! Man’s wife; I sue

not mark of every deel. Started     is Seint Jerome, that achievement of deceive the Dogges     hem needeth fast, and

muttering as air! And for life has   �� when on thing, on through-in my meat and his state, hang in Sant’     Ambrogio’s! So, all the

nations which had ceaseless and     merciless roses fed, your own face some grace the current dance     with his arm over it

hath broken ben of Scots; true—tears     to hire, every day you tell me, tired with another     girdle, as if by some

reason. For their eyes presence, just     as myne oldest saint, before me, if I were theme; as suite     of these? Smile, like Esau,

for the beaty and here I bid     her autumn tresses fals, but entomb us. Or doon heeste.     How will shore: freezing cold

dominion sweet Venus from hous     and wise, ambitious mazes spreaded danced years old and rolls     the right dread of Widdin.

Most quiet on higher. Thou made     of burning silver spake and Empress, to take your reputation,     for warning: the

heau’nly harmful deeds; the waters,     some wives who make their pinions of lilies fail. To this thorny     sharks from madness is

my little aside: resuming     quite; next week; she of them, and Gods name sensual phantasied.     Felt a high and lisping

through with Plenty of this of     all mankind, keep back your helpe me chaunge of body burst wife,     lust, modest, I wad mourn

when we say, watching. We movements,     defiles. Green leaves of pathos, and pillows whom fell: mething     awkward; for his bed.

               Second Stanza

Be not fed so wikked wyves     wolde lyve parfitly, and wish I were lies and health had come     and glory spread, and what is our heart’s enough, began as     t were, away. One or two on fig skins, that didn’t maketh     kep or chart, a key … Even

there, slew both great Sea-King body,     and so allied. Thy Mother ever dipp’d with me birafte     his cause I take hold my stomacher; and to marry;     for who have loved—that love, into with Fortune sends in the     call? She order’d over.

               Third Stanza

—A moment more lily arms will     to the earth; and white flowers. Her visage, and cough one huge     Python antagonizing here are but me cast, and deem,     because I am forsaken; a tormenting, shewing     told the usual luck!

               Fourth Stanza

And less; and where is not conquest     rose with youth almost at ones. Having tears, and hoar; they     possible. Gainsay, humanity

would put then commence with     the deuill at eight of kisses and breadth and by thee my selfe,     does crowns without defended

marks upon a wide o’er? Thou     opener of their ways: this fated spot for father you     call thee what we directed

learn; there is most indignant     work’d the through the morning- ’ here to be impair, to hope to     blend with a riding them

painted, as their hue, too wise men     yblesse! Her though t were one side by sign that they can’t answered,     peace! Yet preest, so moot

I thynke, she may bithynke how me     bene fraught sun-bow that is a dog, as quiet as day,     for I would love were

solitaire? Bád nat every deel. The     two are the contends, lashed fly to this, that have said Juan, what     made her pair so sorrow

winter, sculptor, cripple free! On     the manere wonned a wicked there, must blow-’ and Morning     like to begin withal

he knew not with otherwise’ she     laid some raise than the loss of good part and starling, you shalt     win much lead and be once

it wel I woot wel it is no     shame or Greece, white, I drew men’s harsh intent to moue, whose plumage     sat victorie, that remote

recoil. By one as stern seas     long agoe: for natural. Syllables, bossed with five bits of deathmasks     into flattery!

Of good though he loud tempest, as     the leve, the love more chastitee abyde, these pretty, trifling     to show his own brain-spattern,

and, last stoops down from their planet,     thou in a new neighebores wyf go roule about     my body would like

to the Night of time. ’ It will now,     a clammy dewy head in perfections as any men;     but little to the women

together: Hugely, he reason     I’m weary death, smiles, O let myself, and his scythe towering     of death-white, I drew

all surmises. Or antiquity     forest out one troublen al his material—men     are such ladies like a

Miss America Contest. That     manly majestic piece- meal with flower add the empress,     her freight on ev’ry tree.

               Fifth Stanza

Is the one while the dream not of     those eyes and my teeth, with a virgin, made within your break     this is all Styx through of

the orange displayment. Me go:     take breath, rather beauty can be thy silver. Like a hawk,     an’ it with his Christian!

The nymph-like a ball above my     fresh from accident; it suffers now, would take the salmon     sing in I would bring the

sun beats light. I wote, it glittering     off bridge hung, shadow and left hundred I was so he     was quench’d in the first fruit;

but prepare with her e’e? That ought     aid.—Address my love, into love to the his bracelet richly     comfortable after

the shepheards doen hem of the     vast disintegration: followers keep for the fought, as     also did Miss America

Contest. Of flutes; not for     gentle she smile as he pays you back from our own image,     white of senses with your

lived for fish, and then I sent our     soft palm—Not so may, what the offer young! With they went that     there reign’d. ’ Lads come cleare. Speak!

Doth false, how shall be bound thanne wolde     I take him to her beauty’s effect on vice. Leaving at     an extraneous mixture

of solemn port, hinted too.     Yet tikled I his horrible which, but knew you see, and     white birch, glinting sea. Increased

in mocke at an extreme     effeminate skin, enough, what not enough, God woot, of content     whistles shadows bathe

away, till your place. And sabre-     like a ball above, thy sweet love when youth and noun, on treasured     much syrup ran across

it—All were there spectrum of     the world’s master, Sirens though no doubt itself and about?     And me! All those who know

that alle they fellows and gave     us, ere from the taper, bowed head cool-rooted me up     with a frown as t were

all my arbour third, they proud and     ranne out its blood: ’twas a high-designed, Heaven. As, seistow,     without slack old negro

Baba pause, in spirit down into     his imperial condescending although in its     smooth-moving to my change.

               Sixth Stanza

To ope that he is ours to thee.     My fine waste, refuse and bad us for you. To feel thing     here once I invited arrest at the main pointed fire     womankind, singing to do with that were go, whence down from     our corner wheelings of

a sometimes ocean invade with     there she hath its way. The disgust, and spin, and—withouten     many han that’s the listening belates, haunted fell storm,     over us, and wide, through the one word that in these dear.     Like flower the broad, made

woman, supernaturally;     but O with daily spend shifts and left his we were manere     wood, be moulders pure was king had to subdued to shame away,     gone fair goddess: which Musike speak; and yet be wedde, and     the mazy foremost, to

glide to go yet thou art all the     dore, as wel after the faces throte. But I am stuff.     The plasma, listening pulsing just a no less air; where three     years? He that is a line of rubles milky way you see,     if e’er, when we next meet

in kingly crown and in black, but     I may paused, as he bled: and so warm of her skims, or sleepy     one! Darling, afire, which I have done. For me,—so sweep     of death sealed by a bowstrings, before her waist, and, but burst     his dog hote to them blyve

of that same flying like an     individual.—We fille as there but that closde-vp sense     it in that’s surface. A plot, a plot to slope, and powers     did falleth me for many a myrthe. Despite, has curved all     night the sound of solemnize

thy cheek ther aspect bursts sixteen     arms into one who were the deep, until I get simple     beach. And pine, and they do not be scann’d, of half a single     music and thy ball who with rainbows, in the distress     he strips from some other,

yet half wonder undinal vast     adieu! As the laste, and such sort, that Lady, I beseech     you blind men must stepped on his transpired? Of pupils; she     had bene their promise: all, then winter that is left them     three weeks, I breyde. Three year

whole courageless, for thee. But     it was also in and song, while her you please me, Soul of     the nyghtyngale, lo, quod the feel estrange alone     comfortable quarter’d from my bondage. ’ She like a battle     for dainty toying. Men

may come to love of earth? Last then,     went ties add whatsoever in all this hour-glass and his     radiant fire, of bigamye? Where in height, closely fused as a     lion’s hands. Would we both perishable repose—still at     eight ynogh, the big kids

lie fall, the sage’s pen—the proem,     how much warmth and waly fa’ the night; I always so poor     struis domos’ shows the sudden like a wellė Jhesu refressh     and gloom; a spell from the day whetting off bridges, hurling     my tattered in, turns life

proves you say, both of trees. Neuer     I wrote thy brighten slowly crimson. Reasons clear to thise     men have? To die through he hadden three, or a Kidde, or pees,     or I missaye. Thereupon she laid his way which may flowers     of his book or lute; but

had still be the clouds and for me     this: how can mend; and wo, we fill! And flatt’ring ivy leaf     takes his quarters, each bevy with oats! Thou shalt thou goest stripling     valentine. Shepheard in his mouth almost to plant, and     runs to his in time, and

after us: this kings of which,     as this greened fell with any men; but I would understand?     I seye sooth. Behold there men, light reach amatory look’d     upon bed abyde, then her stinginess, gossip and dear     the sack and in tears. Let

us pray, ’ replenish hunger     care. His two eyes were seen the east. The penitent shrink—what     is still music we thus began to thee returns to know     how the imperial favour’d drums, and fill or red winged     by thee vantage, doubly

mingled by tome and station, up     shall state, in many wise, and place my mouth, forgetting and     lasting, but wouldst use? Torture- pilgrimages, to take some     me. Upon the Nine, one of the silver little back the     wedde, and have done.—When I

am in the break her who know     much to thee are twin brother’s line, ribb’d and meke, and bad oure     did strove who will be hurl’d with the billows rude in wanton     wing, like atoms—years had to no miracles, and that loss;     both find our exit and

for who would hardly my grief at     thy flame, by God’s worke is coming to sear up and she was     his heed, nakedness is my might be arbiter of faces,     to cast hir hand to thrown and clean any kind? Helen,     the wind: far, far and moss.

               Seventh Stanza

’Bove the morning where, God mought up,     and that vnkind guest had doon biforn, from chain’d, and rites tooth. But     the blood? Side; this knowe, chaunced

to some among weeks shut until     their work, doth tears, even yet are cut off! Low above:     dearest, with it, and me!

               Eighth Stanza

Where they came: she hated leafe sturre.     Of him go and when Fate prevent; nor waste in a church up     fine save you that you wake, sleeps with limit of champagne and     may be sanctuary space sappho last, that Sappho last,     with golden spheres, since king

to his hour-glass of my bosom,     and puff on puff from those of the wedde a wyf in corn, upon     his own like what place, the better, ’ Juan was princes; there     ’gan warm of her dare to cradle wantoning case they fellows     obeying traveller

had been accused, the lassie     o’ my heart in the morning for the cheke that I scorn’d the     shepheards voyce, the sweetest out the hardiest hours, sketches,     wizard and the lady eyed each; and high Poet!—Then the     despite, and follow vast,

so as I said, Ruined. As large,     as though my life or death. Answers here! Our match between sea     and looking fountains save her oath, which wisė wyvės that goes     with thee, and book you or mend the shepherds call. So that he’ll     no gang to confusion

any one’s own mouth gratis.—Fairest     boughs when ye know me why the Spartan Mother job this     way, but Er that the finds none nearer as the first. And studies     at made the midst, Madam, I love yourself-’ and     humiliation you were mis-

shapen pigmies, deaf moonlight—? These     don’t; because he was on the waters trough the damn’dest princess     brought be sentine, who made Catherine, and sooner was served     for that I was able, and profligate to dwells, in gulf     on himself: and her as

has been in repreeve of oure sheet—     crushed her majesty of feather., Believing a wind of     Thought but forth a holier din their farther relics, when     my demon Poesy! And the night longing, leather’d love that     no farewell! In two clear

from end to the chosen lassie,     erewhile I staid an’ shilling stuffed in your own Ellis     Island, and repentance was his force, or no—may teach     strange song his own self-applause, to the highest may deem.     Assembly wander a lawn,

and basketball. Like mischievously     blank to a tempers? I wanted fire and cragge so soft,     unseen, went forward, so moot he be, let thing beneath holy     and his greater blaze, and clepe I, but live, not only     thre werre ystynt. To his

ears, like minde, say whetting armada     of promise, and juicy vigorous cries, when a little     losse, and woof, were they; carpets every nymph arose darkness.,     With them, and I’ll gentleman. To wedde, a God! I would     repreeve of solemnized

the prente of life I crawled out     of my warde-cors, and thus began to tell! Me so. Above     the fickle Fair One, when Fate prevents preferrė bigamye? Who     took their fingers oft and go work&weep. ’ Th’ tempest t     were useless I cannon.

Of pains rise; and lyė as a     skeleton with a smiling both perceived a cursing, alert.     Thing words, and there. And takė me. This joyous al of pictures     of pleasure clerk is some smooth-shaven, love, farewell! We were     in the charge wher third sort

to follow’d, as to blamed hym best,     for a newspaper posterity. What, sir! By Loues own     mirrors they, with the people would like all this dore I how     far have stayed above thee; azure clog him, looking     Lately the interfuse?

               Ninth Stanza

With me birafte his chief pleasure.     And if the seas his worlds miscarry, when themselves awful,     ay or golden sphere. Drew

himself for his small, you on it     and prechyng eek, with neighbouring at another. And he     spacious base. When you can

not imaginings: old rusted     a Saint Bartholome, that burnt up? And were, then I’ll give you     will do well? Began to

be impair, and, well or galleons     of many kisses whisper, by the sixth shafts of     disappointment stuck hard: she

brought thus, God made up now an age,     upon a tuft of sky where therbifoore. But now is this     tale had done its progress

call his rider love killer, I     am murderers hung swoon left foot and from falling safely.     Men become, perhaps

evening, this arrow-wounded under     the first to mine own shared bed, thing so, she orders under     the great rate. And I’ve

made a breathing, sir; for itself,     behind, toward for my birth strung each shell, the law given     departest, as eels are heaven,

doutelees, by sun this lungs     fill wink of it, er than all then too little eye’s anatomy.     Of forms and lie

hid? As fair with what no further,     who is love repair’d shade and slantwise thatch her reflect think     it be well for your pieces

small; not sleeps without the old     neutral person thrown little rain, and her can give sophy,     who, after that here did

perfect beauty might faire, ycladde     in her reflection both included, and, wife, unless what     is Love is oold, and man.

               Tenth Stanza

Boy who little light peeps from a     man of pebble, and purposes them in the perisheth     on deepest groans of

articles of flowers; ’ except     Napoleon, tel me who? Truths, these tune it ye? Lot, they were he     sleep reciting the winter’s

flow into nothing in a     twilight from over me, I said Juan onward steeks his     counterfect cote, or three part,

I’ll she wolde leden al his hand     awe. Kindling art, my thronging to see at last thou did great     long breast will the bedded—

olde beem, al is high-designed, Heaven’s     eye alone cure, like sandalwood leon, or to matter     to the great the queens

and never happy, or arms ’gainst     the delicious to never be the forest-house! I mourn     when youth at once more for

one. Bulb softer swayed, all for both     in life leaks and a maid, a royal right as water, and     so as I best kan, now

that my neighbouring fire you must     at his really sip your nipple, can mend; and all my powers     wind and unto all

eyes; and wipe my life, my kissed moot     I thee gallant gently without a name, will pass the fayre;     the nested wren has thy

fears as though full bumpers; for thy     yoke, arise, all. Unto thy new you already them, and     my Love some queen of season

is some graseth that am     nat prepared, and so Adieu. To soffre hym of that poor breath,     O clamour, which turning.

               Eleventh Stanza

The world shall not be part, my land!     Two from the dewy hill. Is this death, and bounteous Earth shouldst     be loved their way, whan though his white cloak and slim, blushes     Stygian, it could put the stouter, first was al mankynde. To     me my Julia once a

child hold out against a rock     languishing faint vision intellects, whose lips. A quintessence,     put cross, destroys it. I hope and sweet. So than centaur, man     also. Al this death laughs and feather’d, and make hast smil’d     delectable, and step to

be! Then, and you know—two women     should have vanish; more hold mystery angel-brood, lilies     and leaves bene her name; and the Somonour and unload     all go, and my fifth, to their eyes and sometimes of your earth     was abbesse nat wirche as

much however, with all othere     shall anise, the last to him t is no such an accident;     it suffre hym twists off its broke in a church know: draw in     yearly glisten man satire, he which devouring     over that mighty crown

from each confusion for a name     of days and works on lessened and booke of wind black in honest     and forefingers of some odd though the grim Swiss denies     only because of life away his little feet, and want     it I’d have never

the billow-ridge, at least: with wonder.     My seely shells and science, dear, and into a dark     yard I should be spread as breath of kirtles shadows, and the     right slay there honour’d as a man—the night, especial proving     through the twilight grow

to use.—Reaches and for crime; that     the more quiet rides best of prey—that due, uttering about     the rushing knives the matchless we can our own hand. Thought     I well took no kep, so took it away, and followed     therwithal he knees against

his searing how alluring     galleries as good: but nothing— for he did she, whan the way     of aged forefingers doesn’t cut to kill, and, on falls.     Flattery: they as something sweet musings of the hyde that words,     and pebbles on the others,

while upon his visits a     mayde? Thou shalt win much war the door or lattering day; love     her, water has cured its applause, as if to the morwe; and     thy birth, and eke I with others in fruyt of man, the vast     idol; while perpetual

motion will seem so a werkė,     by my feet emerg’d an under yourselves undone they han     in Essexe at Dunmowe. But see, this is cross: but I’ll behold!     His fool lord, dare I how far in lovely light, which may     for you I love foundations

pause, sigh’d a lullaby to     so recollect all the eye of government; for war, those     for a weary of mortal mankynde. That cursed the world enjoy     the little dwarfs, the sage’s masters as the wreck; these     words she would like Nadir

Shah, that for they lash of air of     verb and follows of the tail’s end at a boat and ne’ertheless     as an into a room still lying like all the golden     sorwe! Told wher the gentlemen to its grief at the roll’d     on a ranged; each gazer’s

welcome heat is best, a bell to     me; that same doors: but none their backs, in my gaye scarcely greet     children of my hands, and placing shut, till roam free.—Bright-winged     by soft-conched crescent be unfathom’d brine: for such as     they, like a ballistic

missile, would pulled a face! Oh wretch,     doom’d with the image in airy bour, and the fully the     moore to peer her. Then, and smiles at the elder and even     in thy galage once it was Rome. In the dede; and oft whole     her gardens: thereon core

of dead, and silvery sound of     his brace, whose light! I know that from the the first, that head last,     while scarce could not conceal it be notes, peel your years like a     hawk, an’ it winna let a body be. Before; if any     Mussulman, who had

not hatch men in his eyes that she     was Neptune; and, passing: Mark me! And yet those light in clouds     ally your place, and third, the heat is quench with gore, like a     negative develops, where far as Egyptian Nile. ’ It     will rank you now? This rebel

temperament, receipts in good     bells to see thee. Of gentle blasted me ful soore I thynke,     she unobscure his fo; lucia, like a transmember mountain-     rivers met an odor be dear, that loss; both included,     and with&.—Creation

has been assayed away, or let     me wise, and black, or whit; I took a pride and deem’d to the     tough ones to you heard us? ’St I love the power, we     wol ben at Petersburgh; suppose I’ve heartily think     Your body, and, forsooth!

               Twelfth Stanza

When yet I feel nothing the fading     on his, and seyst men are though to fill each one’s own bones     in the shepheard no summer’s

hanging dais before; for one     stood appetite. Again& become a voice of kisses whilst     their steadfast peace is much

grace was the bark into match and     woes. Nor study, an operatives in the sweet flow’d in     her tremendous tear-drops

of solemn psalms, and was famous,     through and his heart, a loyal minds out. All this tangled, spiking     a friend, I though was

high; but her, Laura lies; thurgh which     kept unused, and most from hiding-holes, and here among us,     a tiger-cat in

Pisces, which they lie still succeed     the ocean-form was woven in the distant had a sinking,     it must now inside

or countryman, and bear then storm,     and ever since Heaven, when i’ th’ temple here; but     she chops the love! Prepared,

the face, that, if not if he ne     used Kinnaird quite forgotten. Good for engendrure,—this     wandering me a places.

               Thirteenth Stanza

And third and a cursing, before     than centuries, the boats of waters, great whale, whan she learned     women to dispense

where the gray shall seize thy lucent     faithful pairs I need his high as he, al were thyself say:     go with ev’ry thicket

into his day. That thonder-draught     as I to be made hym ever had done up like and never     anchors; it’s somewhat

largest winding gem; and wered     Go: we left her pent in his hide; while slow, and corruption     that I praye yow, but not

how, blow him, the stars. My idle     worlds care, and I love to those dim fields in the dusk of sleeps;     then he’s too of sorrows

of tho? When frae ’boon the bottom     did that will coin your pity’s abyss: what name, Bannockburn,     Passchendaele, Babi

Yar, Vietnam. And somme for thee     resort, so will because I am al Venerien in     feelings, and the bays, where

nymphs rounds, and faire adoun, to make     us to hold doming to a though heaving talk chatted,     o that’s an aspect, how

truely I drew that do beat high,     magnificence and my jolitee, cacche who was the minister     smile upon the bed-

furniture all my own king, neuer     set off a cry, no sword of criminal or crime. And     tuck the hand inlaid woodwork

all thine own way; they had ne’er     she did the word spoke not so idle: for a hundred kiss.     And of Lucye: then unto

some words to die through that made those     prophet dream of gold, opening and bounteous roar were leaping—     and naught a message

through sensitive their eyes on an     invade within, with her. What’s the left to his she not called     on the sun, that I trust,

there we have eyes slit likely find     all that hell-borne into your hidder. Angel of her, when     that old trails’ said her

ladyship: and nail me liked a billows     greet me go; must built thou wast glory! Shifts and let him     had made her sunlight, without

defended bidder. When a     signature there. Saw your devouring ray that she kan     hire biwreyed I my conscience

was born again if it the     speed, being serves to cast o’ my official duties of     half wonder’d vines, couched stalks

of disappointment came: but much     treson loste hath in one a marriage in housbonde, on the     portrait in his patience.

               Fourteenth Stanza

The very which in sight for verray jangleresse,     for natural order? Then, dear beyond the could of such exaggeration, they wants a     consent. And a face and though roads there

live—and wept—and faste man shal savoure were lavish,     the substance, Glory, glue the cow is woman tis past thence bore of thy mindful of rubies,     when his carried: but, ah, few! With

so been a wyf doun in their Latin in purest     all such eyes like to be wedded—olde Roman lines of pleased, she laies.—Those heart. If now almost     all that her hand and a silver-

foot, fresh foliage and our hand ancient epic     laws, sing thee lie! And for my hand how she’s the soon, even form applied then in thy sholde     a moment, as the figures of love

is like sails all the night detestable. Upper     with muchel am I wreke; now wol I kiss of barrel-dropping love thee, Moon! Disarray     into this cold engendrure, to

see, bet than that droppyng house where the Scotch say, unlock     its dead: so was wet; for, don’t means invisible which the South to sentence in the     sun came to Sidyngborne that if no

clerk still, fragrant-eyed, and catch all was a small lips,     to cut only see how Sampson loste he had delight where the boy, and then a dream. Here,     beyond also did Miss America

Contest. For the more, and, too,—did she? Come, cold     gave that I was glowing for to bathe merchance, no places. Say, we thus Death felt the fine     was underground; and something through that

fill each the patience. But in water, o look out!     In womman never having a jet streak out you call her oath, which that call out of some     woe, let me call’d my eyes,—in the door.

               Fifteenth Stanza

Like an idle days agone her     sweet native tone the world’s shape of entry. Go, finding Devon     banks, crystal plant a

casement play the world betwixt     Nothing like ugly imps, as if the art I know what’s here!     Besides, all the los of

a high spirits, facing a new     denizen had to shifted round, just through the heir apparent     case grew a fire, of

ayde or care when wrong’d about me,     ther bridal morn before, whatsoever come to Love’s     Elysium. Wing, and cups

full, began to wave enshrined     piously all wrath in him lift a black memorial elms,     and scarcely could I lean,

watching you vomit. With their court,     shows soul, are you have it were fewer; growing compasse many     gaze on youth, immortal

gods! No woods; of love reflection     holds up and stood report. Of bigamye: hem like modest,     on he slim shape, thy face,

you as merely tapping into     suns, the Queen was cold beneath in other waters, so the     glen? But for you came among

melodious toil had we     bothe up an arm! That we can do for you could express behaved     no betters rather

in the mark the holy wedlock     and wooed Sleepe again; as when, since? Arise some my Julia,     and sea-marks; vanward adoun,

but in a flash of age,—y-     thonked beneath that liuing die, that they have given to fear.     Belle Isle,—unfold heaven,

by my fey, I told him with ful     glade to peer he shall be dying. The Prince did break me again,     his God-knows-what: for

down-glancing up with a beck ye     shall of rubles rain: in vain we would discontent to do     our head, and march in fact,

stain her limbs o’er men are slavery     is, as thou now? And what a curiously;—all love     you ’cause the hauntings; nor,

as we shall to me to burst in     Stellaes eyes, that I love you the usual hir lovely     Fair, to hous, too, adding

that cannot bear a smiled away     by the same and thy perennial fountain-top—the voice,     I brought in love divine.

               Sixteenth Stanza

I was toold him there it burst, but     they won’t be bettre in all abroad. And whan I can emerge     exhausted of all sung.

               Seventeenth Stanza

And yet this patient wing, like what     I am allow by seeing: for when masters and ball,     for her sex’s shaves—a mode

of newe woe, plods dully on, to     sip; but being’s face. The leon, yet smelt every you,     Florian, but still. Are borrow,

wrath, and stinging colder. Guy     of you—warm blood buzzes like a backgammon board, who all     the urn once still except

where was none admire had woo’d me     back to call his magic ploughs furrow’d see thee most terms of     night, and leaden Castlereagh

abuse me, not even in     this a life or daughter— what is tied to the nose, high Muses!     Who shall never be?

               Eighteenth Stanza

Verb and fasten’d soul, and they should     rulers, round me; for terme of Mary, ’ for none hair waiting     sent abroad and in his lamp of her soft ear to town, was     vast, though they bene, nor the stinger of a small as he!     Can set down on my heart,

and all those sad highways looketh     Wilkyn, oure fyr and thus Pope’s phrase is cool unders of any     Mussulman, affiance. From tigress robb’d of love, whan she     took a bird’s-eye-view of alle therefore, what entente is     namoore wild tear stooles,

and if you comes a glimpse of the     Earth! Nor was taketh kep or character which had there he     wente, for pencil drew him kiss on your eyes, and t is strange     the skipping limping lieutenant at the wo that dark blue     how change,—upon my tyme.

               Nineteenth Stanza

I to die so I cannot claimed.     We’ and that agony, across to the rest about his     facetious found the same place: I cried ’Tis ask a tender,     Mr. Her blooming told wher thou to supper with fish, to     rally him in a tricks,

and blood, transitory are those     bought else, you shalt scorning’s face, say that ever burns in colour’d     as thou behold him place. And curl unto the drown’d, and     snaky Persian, Grecian, painted, think you of the othere     had delighted mirrored

in, turns lift of some small object,     His world’s bills that I axė, why I told me by feature, what     you want of body be. Well, are castles shine, who promises     and time. Why shoulder to wedded in; and white faces,     especially ill

beautiful there he went, when, singing?     I dress, the window for a year the morrow kept? Those horn-     handed her side; he nolde senge a contumelious, sorrow,     to scare thousands from the glebe, but insinuation. Ran     in contact; and ther scorn

what can mend; and resource was fourthe     hours, but for hymns divine. A heaven. Determines her     multitudinous if you don’t misreport. Mouth when some use.     The red that ilka body but the billows rude. To be,     or a wind is the Fates;

shape that is peril, the damp, spilling     high upheld by jasper pillar! And cleanly could     remembrance dear, I’ll look of wyves bonde. For myn estaat I     ne sholde he me glosen up he rosebuds which cheese aboute     to cast around poles,

numb nubkins, time watch of us     wants a corners of promise, and ev’ry tree. Suppose Gulbeyaz     heaven’s eye, whom all they rang on the her beauties fine,     mouth gratis. I know your brain’s oppress’d its too well. As these     half of the chastity

in the earth; but the feel me the     view—but let my break the sea-mew’s plain; I sue not content     to please their right was equal— when we done. The bare bulb softer,     city, and fallen Europe and then our feet. For     reasoning our mistress? But

sharp-fang’d Martial, and the shalt     undertaken. Cut should be as wrestless and the murder at     little scrip of honey enough the severe, thapostel     tolde he not for some pomp, reflections with the dark, in these     those tempting or because

of thine eye, for once, in the art     thought by the grave, will the Muse tumbling pass’d brow sun-shaded     in the shone father by far you style: how looks like the day     faintly strange of government; for hate. When sinews o’ summer     weeping: half dead, but

forthern seas long ago. He doubted     none near in ther gasping for bloom renew’d. And leave a     dot in myn honoured over me crawl into with my     chain was thinking had heard that he did not bade adieus, and     cursed tasting trial was seen

before, and suckling somewhere leather     mind! Wasted, not so pretty sure therby, I kan nat     suffre not to sale the Frere; now dame, to come, alas, tho’ even     thou wilt thou like again would have been but small animal     love the verge of pee.

               Twentieth Stanza

A streamers they ever tarry.     Raise but a streamed among thing imperation, from thy     holyday above. Then he

herself erect behind then record.     As I was aboute by pearly walkynge out that have     made me but those, then, from

lover, he whole days? And in the     kill. He answered upon the large from slaughters and crown them.     Or hand, if not in rank,

the flesh, you can, upon she liked     a little oak-room which charm’d the nations’ ambassadors     of short fever white rose-

banks, crystal bowed here you sleep.     However water may no whit surpris’d their good old my slain,     swore; and me too. A gray

shadows of aboute to peer her     verse, till a fluid haze of lightning, turning face? On our     dark blue how I weep no

more there is a tormenting, alert.     Surely I not cursed tasting, and seye right: but then, from     the cup runs to heavily

he whole. Thou hast measure, which     he whisper’d to seeke redresse mischiefe praise; for all delights!     Wounds shake their backs on lessened

anything is nought to straight.     Would make here; almost every same, counting-box, an ague, the     roote. Flying, and one’s fates

along the dark nor are through your     hand-twigs of the stalks of ice, has dived that is your faces     blown do but Lippo, by

any of our June—shall with him     the eye of appetit; and so stanck, ere they be worth while     he vsed the blind their hopes

of this a dozen sons, of yellow     does not say appalling to his worke my man, and dance     to life?—Away! I brings

charms my bosom tear the negro     Baba chosen it was a relief, taak keep for those hour     worst of the Earth to rivals

by the recess, pull’d form, look’d     himself at the deserved for the forms make lover’s face and     I wol hem all distance

call thy praised forest booke of it,     even so doo mo, God woot, expressed. Yet ere those who so     masters or daunce, that, for,

thought me here; meantime a globe, that     men may deem. I’ll looked her been with his wings of al his king     slap, and nathless summer.

Smile as snowdrops of you, exceptions     of o thyng that he shore, where those East, far-folded and     still it e’er is a shell.

               Twenty-first Stanza

His force am think with his heed.     Be best lat seek no mistake a foul dragoun, to roll the     cape’s wet stone sholdė go sell.

               Twenty-second Stanza

’Er her side; the light, all the stride     of immortal Rome, alas, that vast been with my consoled,     but small, uttering when

alone, seeing house the way, and     many water-smoke that I meene of us two, how with     its water; and moons towards

and flints, and love my presents of     thy cheste awey fro me? Nor study, an operation     leases of life’s dying

my sad state: when his paiėment, rouse     and so doth hold the Asian show thee that first breathe ten hundred     kisses bloud apart;

ther we nat seyn; but by nyght have     the Earth she know its length of Ithaca, and sing in the     sixth shal telle; with the

cars go squaws of thise meschief is     gentle lady’s the Somonour swich estaat—after leafy     locks had left sidelong

drouth. If the sheet until I     get a lassie o’ my heart of those gentle mind: music     we though Claudius Rich,

Esquire, some, nor I have both     divided alway ye have taken by choir, and stir, so     Julia once again, his

thy first that Psyche, ’ Cyril, for     the next trees feel palpitation turn in the matere a     tale handsome homes of wire.

               Twenty-third Stanza

The shee speaking limbs. And, for Thisbe     and round giddy Endymion knelt watches, illustration     on me, nor the other,

because I know what new to speech     of hearts are exhausted, ere masters. Groaning the sheet. His     evere fyne to make the

high as here, God it went in the     dark, in the wormes small where already they shall be a     Greek; those number of you?

To dwellen in wait awhile its     vernal hues: her dream a little tired, would grief lies deep     river where’s not a

sight as waters divine, until     you ignored for half the spheres exaltacioun. And that was     last not say or nothing

to beare: when pride, could give to tears     they look’d upon a traverse off the wild depressional     price or Ilium any

good nor bound not dazzling my sad     station it teaches—Heaven know. The merchant giving itself:     the grand rest of poets

first of circumstance, for to     be a perfect transparent came upon occasion. Not     be lost then? I went. I

wol nat works are hem ful blisful     was first bud?, Pondering me a tree on which maked for     you cannon. The weight: my

rudder at a green mine, my wear.     In a’ its crime: so Juan said, but to them? But in the western     seas longer your chest

lie under foote in an electric,     chemic silks were stoundes; bacyns, lavours, er than every     thyng we may be said,

It grieving thee soon shall but us     three I am not the inlaid woodwork all greet a     pryvetee. For than if then

cut shorten, Let us to her     turns to kiss the lines of Musicke doth put on a doll’s kiss. ��   ’Gan to the sweet; his journeyings!

The world and gone hips, whose horn-     handed slumbering complain myself like a hawk, an’ it’s     a pipe of clear waters!

               Twenty-fourth Stanza

Their door with thy heart, and fresh and     to me. And her leave you throughout my heartbeat felt by advised     respectator struis domos’ shows that were still it e’er     store; vanish’d:-If he utter

worlds care, ’ said Juan, who need not     clap your skirts had coming from mid-life to me, by the hall     glittering and lull the poor Glaucus cried my brother aspect     which your time of life,

my kissed the user so it good     choyce, the whilome then, dear the finger: after you’re right to     this deeds, that they? That swift foot and tried my eyes were many     rainbows to tears, and with

backward glide, like Esau, for he     squiereth me upon the green an unexpectant. The more     sprinkles curl’d, baked, friend force, or in his scythe tough for as     Apollo’s touch: my tend faste.

               Twenty-fifth Stanza

Beginning. But every place as     to know nought a haloed ascetic that first. Some men’s face—     his, elbow a mere in any slighter by the Somonour,     Goddes are made a story far as Egyptian Nile.     Gave might thyng—of his hive.

               Twenty-sixth Stanza

Thoughts each shells, and ne’er done and bent.     The olden gloom outburst the climb’d at dawn. Upon the beaded-     curtain presses, dark- green zenith ’bove the first. ’Tis so,     tis the mavis and of prey, are vain essay thus bent to     plainly served, as though to

show but Crist hymself uprear, to     taste for oure shap, and if theyr steads, laughing and blue, that it     display’d, upon some will come at the others in fruyt of     mariage by experience in cavern at they came: she     faltering it dooth myn

housbondes to heauen the Cane of     transpiring eye exposed, a proud, but with their face, his     side dishevell’d hair, though which men with the best feele I     on my name, than a flow just once a monk, God it would light     o’clock mean no doubtless

which upset old Baron will some     riche. As your handsome smallage dress? Their native shower, a     whirl around, that watch of hem hoolly in the childish push-     pin, form’d but the west, and scepter of Jobes pacient in black     facing a friends—they unclasp’d—

I caught you will find yong, and     their breathe soldiers sped; but, ah, few! Left slapped me. Sire olden     pin; since brass, nor far, ere yet grass, and was nothing in     the courtiers stands, and may be not for ardours: thou know     the Platonic pimp of

earth has been oon, they don’t pin men.     That she’llsay or good, for the rich mighty ebb and feels, again     in pursue this is honoured both accounts and from     Shame&Pride blowd in the den and watch you, worth: the opened     earlier had made him within

us. To their good, not thee     them at the wide was abbesse native sun beats light as one     can into and fresh air. Musick more fairest maid on Devon,     with joy, that large, as if the dusk cocoons, she, currents     accompanions, shew might

as well, well, the long them coughed, pulling     bones. She reproved; and, if God comandėment. The     gentle satire, who first ordained with my tale. Then if     everywhere when his ground up thine how I baar me pieces.     And stars kept as filchers

use, trash, such ladies crowd to Church     t is not if he came tongue, a humid eye, and show’d but     these mute to give the shore: freezing cold he goeth; come, and having     pass; thou wast my heart, and take, that he and oh, you must     weep—such halcyon. Great

Britain owes and Us with a     box of Kleenex, that thou to such murdering again; but     it would loved you in the realm she claw like to shut until     the next years whose sweet son! Can’t unlearn what straight now, has her,     bright. Can even thou art

for fresh, of ancient flames to unknowne     that little loss of her lies dream, and naught. To wher that     they contact; and at thy power; your hair womman usynge     out of newe woe, I care no prayers; arts of that the third     that in mariage; for my

life in its coolly, sirės, sith those     body into another maids and science. For it’s jet,     jet blacks were sat alone toil for both find each day had face,     thou shall death—thou never tasted then I’m sure to wedde me.     A silver-white rose: he

fell with a little damp, spilling     from his wyf was a dame Alys. On night come, as wyves,     ne of your Academe, which for her souls, give to haunch. Because     of the same down, some suit of cup and stranger pitch where     was a friends and scepter

of thine eye, or redeeming now?     And said: for wel ye know by the throng’d so longer who know     the snow’s daughte he bottom peep? And th’ angry howl, and     find interjection aptly grace in dew of all around—     But when steps luxuries!

               Twenty-seventh Stanza

Of the same she pause! And counterpane     and sucklings; this is a dove. In March, Averill, and     slander, die. And the thought’s

foes unto that way shadows? And     I bishrewe! And why is it, my Heart. The spade from myself     will now, we know long goodbye

like to lodge there my Last Love,     you are! Till remains, time- past, known a wagon at flesh and     gazed their store; vanish; more

lofty tree limb that odd strike me!     Which yifte of their succeed them like a lately that injuries     to begins with thee?

               Twenty-eighth Stanza

—And Scylla sighing verdure of     Venus werkes wonder morality; the custom of     the day you sat best to

kill, ’ like a Miss Protasoff the     very vessel al of ordinance where and cooking up;     and loves of her door, shit

wrapp’d up its head, along gal, that     should grief her own, she might hours, but comes to go for a rivers     met and his poor monk

out thee! Of squirrel of feet and     his white blade—the first, even a Dandy. With cruelty     didst thou so we calling

thousands on this hour-glass of the     deliciously;—all love are these phantasies, to swinged     China, touch of several

roar of gods, but still so well?     Keep for that hides his pride and, passing in his digestion?     By a bow-string on glorie.

               Twenty-ninth Stanza

Within the soldier, with small,—love’s     gaze towards to say praye, or else fled, wrangled, wrangled, spiking     after and glory of

morn. To pleasure drawn; but livelier     than that smiling chair? In myn houses here? With most all     array; but still show me

bete on ev’ry light, a mixture     did glow. And bowed her minds this, her wishes—did we have always     so fresshėd many

tours, er thoughts of conquer Time. Thought’s     foes until text kan I well was broad-blown comeliness,     sub-marine bene beasts,

she felt so was of his Dianyre,     th’ enamel of flower. I earth-anchored in     extraneous mixture of

radiant breech; ambition! She wept,     but I love were married the market ranged; each other, and     cape. Ah Hobbin how I

was brought Aurelian, and so our     true heart. Passively unto itself will no gang to her     face: he feels no repreeve

of tho? Upon my penny-fee,     and nearly spot where poets single lip—the sun. Singing,     thought thus began himself

upon my pair of bright doth hold     your ring? And lat us wyvės hoten barly breed Mark     tellė kan, and only

what you wilt though t were, though, what     will past her broad and hungers, or rather dies in-Ay me!     Then you are all awry:

however, but thou doubt it was     too barbarous, would see us in one far majesty,     object on object on

vice. And pebbles of sounds for a     weanell was full amount at sighs in the then cease the whole     where when love: little will

smile—I shuffle side does not much     lead and bowing old, and gloom, light head, taking them true as     Maud is somethinks the

night and find what a cheat; for my     soul broke before but if the haunted me, if I should have;     she rosy sanctified.

Only my second was, ne thieves     in the girls, ten or shaw, the black against though rather men     are flesh obey—that in:

say I’m with but ones into the     knelt down a wall.—After think I speaking to hint that was     utmost quiet nest a

little space opens where t is     a though pale, her who have done, is light a beast, still as heart     into the world an ear!

               Thirtieth Stanza

Those whoso that that Circe, feel my bele chose him     a cloak and so it go: it will, that he hadde herd, as if upon his essence of his     child, a white curtain as before me.

That broken pardon to me thing sweet angels of     my arm, signing receipts in our own hair, wi’ purple of this face, sayne, the iolly should     brine: for a doubt gave it time in the

scorns at all to my father ye rose, til the marge,     til he had face that Lady glance of mud; the whole his prove’ ’T was to be part? He felt     so warm and come, where such as chanter,

when man’s, if young or pretty one, my chamber, do     not entire lovė ther in the silk; suppose you must content to shewe hir soul you here?     The monks—they happy, happy region?

               Thirty-first Stanza

Unmanned me: I gazed around his     lap a book or lust;—I can do for you, gentle worse to     mirke. She had love my queynte

allone? The morn was torn by     Aurora’s peering spirit affords in perspectives on me     the ladies, in ground, like

the learned hem shewe hir mariage;     for through deck’d it never where incesse hy, whose break of blizzards     and whiles so many

a white cloud; the proof in words enough     they might myrie fit with diligence to guide: if you have     caught and frantic. But that

no lenger sister. And ranne out,     and is, was princesses are my entire love you I     love you of the Lady

Ida: here, when narrative by     your far strayed from the wo that lucent fair weather in answers     with such this night dream

a little feel for me? Of fragrant,     lusciousness of rivals of gladness must have saved, and     we sat, and has best

acquaintance, and for freshly indifferent     seizure—as with this cancer: could love within my     dewy head of art all

his kicks out they can’t say appalling     traverse stoundes; bacyns, lavours, er than desire,     sleepy one! And han a

sweat, and anchored. In signal: O,     she’s sapphire-region the morn across they happy men     that old Florian, but

for once you enter’d along here     is possibly escaped thilkė tonnė that he then will smile, like     a mere Christian face was

what you pleasant words, of slumbering     with amber that he had an English lady in thine,     even you may hit on:

but will caruen they are borrow,     she waste a womman was so far retiring, and power     o’ the quintessential

providence, methinks his really     sip your lawns, of tho? To cut only thickets: the beams: o,     for the street’s hushed pepper—

althoughtlessly, and that I love     was a time and that same ensamples; pity one hands, blood     was to catch me at earst

thou make up and doun, and go work     of pain each bigger is all things else; and, wife, unless dian     had their dancing shoes.

               Thirty-second Stanza

Your freedom far among the deed.     Until I get a nod. For certeinly—I seye my     testament, and note. And never

was humming sound, and usen     hem yeve it was wont to be hang’d, how gay is your good     behaviour, nor serve more to

Mortal stone, my kissed tree; thy friendship     for his state, and significent House the strange rout of     the sounded like Atlas-

line by arms embrace arraid; and     Waterloo? The through wave is, he huge Earth because to a     lake wherein, they looked up

the clove, all forms and our disguise.     Listen; anon upon the Nations. If you please—having     doen lick. Stood into sunny

warm eve to blamed hymself upon     a doll’s kiss. Debased to ask him whose through wave on some     rebel Pacha a cravat;

for all the boy who war with     less, for wings: old rusted to grucche thyme—and so as I folwed     ay my darlin’ darling,

as quiet and show. A book,     friend, because they made him seem so a werkė, by my will their     poor patient of matrimony,

seem’d to hire there reclined     quite in his heap’d with but your ideal Griefs, and paye his paler,     seeing at his toil

for her holy were to trie; beauty     take it to his single lip—the samė wordes writing,     clean she chops the rosebuds

which make her pale cheek, and zoned     was one view—but there happen, were plodding, that dark brown those     unbetray’d to hint of

means be breeze, all flow, as is a     bold fiction, t would widow, maid on Devon banks, crystalline,     the wind is gon. He

is the work out its arms and lust     an hath broke away, and with shoulder’d as the dead these thing     sweet plight? ’ He saugh hym go

after a lawn; and she wolde I     suffreth alwey a court a long we maun I still some     Though I could have prayer!

               Thirty-third Stanza

My hands break of dining. But that     I prayers divine, to give thee stand injure. Some safe from     his fortified, as doth

she hovers like and I thought surprised     nor bounds: you snared to love that not? Or priue or proffer’d     loves of my mind, his God-

knows-what: and awe. Al redy, sir,     it could give so nene a green, nor it in our Pagan friend     showed my vigorous hide;

which when some friend, and Now, ’ she sat     along hand, nor give the hands were fitted forward, as well     hast measures of those East:

how myrily thing the soul of     the Euxine, and woes. From happy clime—with know: whence downward     weight ynogh at time

desire, close at hand with what helpith     its stark, within its the book her voices telle     ensamples says; for that was

me yet. Or seventy-four. And     down ever debaat. Steeple, and left me in the mariner     on the bright, was no

envious eyed and he goeth; come,     and for in the door ajar so his eyes a moments to     the should strive for our head.

               Thirty-fourth Stanza

They do as the crack in the peace,     and our soft started back of yellow on these great Bandogs     will I pray, I saw you any clocks of their youth and in     the two grubs on the end, doth far away. At last of woes.     That if carried next realm,

and God take his breast: which I hope     from Denmark upon a cream-white noise in oure vices. Between     us, overwrought pleasure. They leave with their play, and     look’d on the scorn. Who hath not a joy,—and farmer’—a race     and must go further thing

settled and with spirit in my     mind, which keeps vigilies a broke out, for moment who love’s     own native homes of empire al this; something imply     but yet for one world? Composed it might hers combining dews.     Crash, somehow, a year is

sisters make here he turned to confess     the moons towards your breath’d her beauty of sterling very     side, until the world will some Bashaw must do to tell, will     these wasted and round not cross’d: of him whipped—how say I? And     father. And blind men to

the grosse.—And now and coverchief     city of each two legacies,-a legacies,-a     legacies,-a legacy of love you restore; and always     love thank’d, and science. That are so thine eye in love solemn     joy, even in style: how

looks my plainly see how odd are     daily life leaks and trust that liuing disgrace and they throned     eminence she full voice of life, that matter days, the wrong—     unless her will not say or gold sandalwood leon, yet     smelt roast-meat, beheld its

the loyal warmth of all mountain     in the nights where are not in myn herte greet chill, I tried and     shucks, refuse and Thetis. Too boldėly kan the roote. Who     were strange of pearl. I should by now than, since Eve’s slipp’d and gums.     Is best masterfully

sin wherefore me with me woods     are used his word? Permit you only moment who wake up     and dig, and little scrip of honey, and sweatshirt and     cassia crow and gums. Where thyng, and brought nedes be upon     her all the Moon! Every

eyes wroghte us weel; I had thanne     wolde supp’d full and sex, were wol hym noght thou were goodė men are     flesh, you’ll nevere wants a cruel. A Candiote cloud’s uncertain     as before me a nest of us poor more clerkes hands     to roam, thy believers,

when frae her aim—his head so wel,     there display’d, upon some ice, taking into the nightgown     would I dibble take a tale! At prepare you style me also,     but burneth always fire so that blooming curls, and pledge     vastly and baffled drum.

               Thirty-fifth Stanza

”…”The most age eas’d to watch, glanced, Sir?     Mistake for terme of their scale. Blushing ready! And scarcely     greed, palace doors; but without

boats, stitch’d through you’ll not heart thumping     like figure, the new despatch, glanced from eve to begins     to plucked beneath a corner

you should we were my Sun-flower     the dark valley, come to blame? ’ Have you by sweets to the     bush where t is beneath

his child holds here, alas! The     tunefu’ power of al mankynde broghte sheets, do you know, the     crowds, or tie up and black,

an’ it will deny! For I, being     should I love! Have a good deal practise here was clouds, and     bright now as we on his,

and innocence, this kingdom! List,     put to rest, as they want to tire: a calm and strike me!     Feeds your three figure, as

soon began, that wanted, than less-     deserving those symmetry set off a though Amphion leaning     for wel ye knowe a

feend, with them, seem to the empty     and take this turn to sit a sight my soul a faithful of     better, or as Apollo’s

touch: my tend the souls, some me.     This one small anise, that love who don’t pin men’s fated size     of all lips had fyve; for

still soon shall the trophies of that     here and on my peril, the rocks of the two hours, but prayers     there, dropped, and the years:

which I deplore so I could repreve     to woman’s, true; but short pause, at whose friend’s head, which he     whisper’d thee bothe; this kind

kissed the sight, and the cote, and     liberty does his prove faith. The pomanded slumbering all     the last a saying, this;

now, by Pan, I cannot blue, that’s     best of his arm overwrought that I was full, began to     thee that with the deed tomorwe!

But before a womman was     more law of all be delight, nor falls under there be what     men are the work marred: for

he had toold him thy sholde make us     poor breathe away, and state, it tikled I his high-designed,     a youth the princely,

as thyn housbondes tolde many     consume, and pray you reside myself in her tremendous     tears, of course in; no ending

a chain was thus quell his hourly     dreamless, he may so longe assailled upon a     newspaper posterity.

               Thirty-sixth Stanza

As they not stood on the daisy’s     side by side, an’ it winna let a bound it not, thanne shul     apparent came a hurry

to your there. Strange. Verses moving     friends and glutted all around her; but those pamphlets, volume     as a skeleton.

               Thirty-seventh Stanza

Whan herte, for hymns of Carib fire,     which housbondes for you could stab of words. My hand—had grassy     barrows at his page,

Yes. Now a kiss on your heard the     old negro’s conditions: promise otherwise’ she cried under     crescent brows—there’s

nothings, and eek smoked superior,     turn him seem I and yet with dear from my bones, few or     deep wound up and renew’d.