#one of my friends is wondering if i got any shiny meal powers active

[feral-gaming]

I was only fighting Chansey while on call with friends 😭 Shiny Eiscue caught live

[old-hyper-super-clover]

For the requests‚ what about a family trip to the beach with Purgatory Hall + the royals and MC? Like Simeon and Barbatos setting up a picnic table meanwhile MC and Luke play around in the sand searching for shiny or strange things to building a sand castle (everything also keeping Solomon and Diavolo far from the preparations for the picnic)‚ playing with water guns or swimming. And after eating maybe playing a match of volleyball sand, admiring the sunset till it's nigth time and before going back‚ playing with fireworks, do a little stargazing or something--

Feel free to ignore this and thanks in advance anyway~

FINALLY I've come to write something for this lovely request. It's packed with so many fun ideas that I kinda went overboard with it xD this means the story is so big I'll have to split it into two posts!

To Bisshitu: I wanted to thank you for your continuous support! I see you in my notifs a lot and I really appreciate it!! (ALSO I AM SO SORRY YOU'VE WAITED SO LONG I HOPE YOU WILL STILL ENJOY THIS CHAOS)

Literally just 13 idiots on a beach trip~

Part 1

MC was leaning against one of the walls in the giant entrance halls of the House of Lamentation. Standing next to them, Solomon handed MC an opened bag of spicy newt chips. "Want some?" He asked and MC gladly took a few while constantly watching the commotion that was going on in the rest of the hallway.

Who would've guessed that going on a vacation with the seven rulers of hell would involve the most panicked, loud and chaotic packing of bags to have ever existed?

Well, let's be real, MC did expect it, but maybe not to the degree that they were in amusement about now.

The oldest brother had called the others for a "luggage check" as he had been sceptical of his brothers' talents in packing reasonable items in an, likewise reasonable, amount of suitcases and bags.

And of course, the first one to show up had to present his luggage in the form of... nothing.

Yes, Beelzebub came up to Lucifer, only the remains of a sandwich in his hand (which didn't last longer than three more seconds), confused when Lucifer mustered him with an angered glance.

"Where's your luggage?" Lucifer asked, to which Beel only gave a shrug.

"We're going to the beach, right? Which means I'll only need my swimming trunks, and I wear those underneath my pants."

Now the confusion has wandered over to rest on Lucifer's face. "But... Won't you need clothes to change into, or at least pyjamas for the night?"

"Hm..." Beel scratched the back of his head while thinking about Lucifer's words. "Nah, I don't need those. I'm planning to stay at the beach all the time, so..." Then suddenly, he gasped as he remembered something. "Wait, I do have something else prepared to bring along!"

Beel reached into his pocket, and when he pulled out a hand-written list that unrolled itself, plonking onto the carpet and rolling all the way to Lucifer's feet, the avatar of Pride knew exactly what said list was going to be.

"There are a few food stands that I'd like to try out..." Beel announced, eyeing the paper. "First of all, there's one selling shaved ice, which I want to compare to the ice-cream from this other stand, but who's also selling parfaits of which I kind of want to try all twenty-five flavours... Also then there's of course-"

"Beel" Lucifer interrupted the avatar of Gluttony in a strict tone. "Go pack a proper bag."

"But-"

"Now."

Letting out a sigh, Lucifer watched as Beel left.

But little did he know, this had only been the beginning of the chaos...

Moments later, Lucifer has found himself explaining to Satan why taking 70 different books with him would be ridiculously much. Also Mammon had taken this opportunity to "lend" some of his brothers possessions, arguing that he "needed those for the beach". This had worked until his swift fingers touched Levi's limited edition Ruri-chan sunscreen.

So, as Lucifer was spam-calling Belphie to wake him up and finally have him start packing, a sudden argument could be heard from upstairs:

"... How dare you steal my precious Hana Ruri 'magical sun ray protective lotion for all blooming heroes of justice'?! This very sunscreen is an homage to the legendary beach episode where Azuki-tan got a sunburn and couldn't help Ruri-chan in the intense battle against the evil kelp-army that was threatening to overgrow the local reef-"

"OKAY OKAY, HERE'S YOUR STUPID CREAM NOW LEAVE ME ALONE"

"S-STUPID CREAM?!?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW PRECIOUS THIS ITEM IS TO A FAN LIKE-"

That was all Lucifer could understand as an awfully annoyed scream Mammon let out was drowning Levi's gibberish. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Lucifer knew this vacation was going to be one intense experience...

An hour later, the group found itself where this little story had started off. The Purgatory Hall crew had already arrived long ago, enjoying the chaos together with MC -- who, btw, had been the only one to pass Lucifer's vibe luggage check right away.

Slowly it felt like most of the brothers were ready to go, only Asmodeus was left in the judgemental glare of the avatar of Pride.

But Lucifer noticed they already were way behind the time they were supposed to meet Diavolo at his castle. So, to Asmo's luck, he let off of trying to see what's inside the pretty boy's suitcase and announced the group's departure.

In enthusiasm shared by almost everyone, they let out a big cheer:

"Off to the beach we go!"

Some of the demons had whined about wanting to visit the human world beach. But as those idiot boys literally couldn't be trusted to act responsibly (which is okay, we love them regardless), Diavolo offered to stay at the beach resort he created in the Devildom.

Looking over the endless ocean, surrounded by the equally large beach and glistening in an artificial sun's light, MC was wondering just how powerful the demon prince must be to have created all this. But they were left only little time to be in awe over the location, as their friends demanded their attention shortly after having arrived.

Without going into much detail -- the day was packed with lots and lots of fun. MC was running around the beach, playing and goofing around with their friends, only to take a collective rest and then go do something silly again. Only a few other demons were to be found at the resort, but those were some acquaintances of Diavolo's family, and the group seemed to have scared them off of the beach after, like, an hour or so. Hence, the whole beach served as their playground for whatever activity they wanted to do, until in the afternoon, most of them were about to collapse from exhaustion and hunger.

"That's right, we didn't really have a proper meal since coming here" Asmo noticed as several tummy grumbles undermined his statement.

"We DID bring a picnic basket..." Satan mumbled. "But some genius had to let Beel carry it."

The culprit gave an immediate pout. "I had to hurry, 'kay?!" Mammon huffed. "MC was already at the beach and I--" he stopped. "... U-uh... I mean..."

Gaining a round of sighs and shaking heads, his brothers however decided to let Mammon's... mammon-ness slide for once. Mostly because, approaching from the distance, Barbatos and Solomon were getting closer, their hands full with bags that seemed to be stuffed with food.

"Y-yoU BroUGhT S-nAcKs?!" Beelzebub was already on his feet running towards them but Barbatos' stare was actually enough to make him stop.

"Not before the dishes are prepared, Beelzebub" Barbatos explained calmly, but with this very weird hidden tone in his voice that gave everyone chills despite the scorching summer heat.

"We figured everyone must be starving by now, so Barbatos suggested we'd make a little picnic party with everyone" Solomon cheered, presenting the bags in his hands.

"That sounds lovely" Simeon could be heard among the general noise of approval. "Let me help you prepare everything, Barbatos."

The demon butler beamed him a smile, thanking the angel for his help.

Then, Solomon spoke up again, and every bit of joy vanished from all their faces: "Thank you, Simeon! With the three of us working together the food will be ready in no time!"

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

Barbatos was putting all kinds of spices into a bowl to create a delicious sauce. Right next to him, Simeon prepared mouth-watering sandwiches.

And behind their back, there was this chopping sound. Chop reaching their chop ears in an chop never- chop ending thread, over and chop over again...

Swallowing his tension, Simeon was fighting a frown. "He's only cutting the fruits..." He whispered. "You shouldn't be able to mess up a fruit salad..."

"I know" Barbatos mumbled back. "However I cannot fight this unease that urges me to check if he's really-" He was interrupted by a very unsettling "oops" coming from that certain sorcerer at the cutting board.

In honestly quicker than the blink of an eye Simeon and Barbatos were at Solomon's side, frantically scanning the table for whatever Solomon must've messed up. When all they found were slices of fruit that, well, might have been chopped a bit wonky, they gave Solomon a confused stare.

"I cut off too much of this poor Hellberry's pull" Solomon explained. "Oh well, I'll just cut around the stem and add it to the fruit salad like this."

Both Barbatos and Simeon couldn't help but stare for a moment longer, their brains not really comprehending NOT finding an abomination in Solomon's cooking.

"Can I help you two with anything?" The sorcerer then asked.

"U-uhm, no..." Simeon mumbled. "It's all fine, we just..."

"We wanted to see if there's anything we can help you with" Barbatos jumped in to continue.

"Thanks, but I'm fine. Actually I'm almost finished, so maybe I can help one of you afterw-"

"Nononononono...!" Simeon almost whined. "I-its fine! We're actually almost finished ourselves, so..."

Solomon looked back, raising an eyebrow. "Doesn't look like it to me..."

Suddenly, another voice joined the group.

"I agree! You two are likely just being humble again" Diavolo had walked up to their working station a moment ago, but neither of them seemed to have noticed in their stress. The prince continued: "That's why I decided to lend you a hand as well. This is a vacation for all of us, so I should not burden my loyal butler with all the work."

"That's a commendable attitude for royalty like yourself" Solomon cheered. "Well then, I think Simeon and Barbatos could use a hand."

Diavolo was already squeezing his quite broad body into the tiny cooking space, this certain over-excited sparkle in his eyes as he mustered the food.

Barbatos and Simeon on the other hand were exchanging glances, so immensely stressed that their thoughts were almost audible:

'Barbatos I don't think I can handle any more of this stress' Simeon stared.

'We shouldn't have let Solomon help in the first place, our kindness was foolish' Barbatos stared back.

'What do we do now Barbatos this is the only food we have left, they cannot ruin it'

Thankfully, the perfect butler was not planning to let their "help" threaten the food for any longer. "Young master, I highly appreciate that you thought of my well-being. Which is why I indeed have a request for you and Solomon."

Simeon almost barged in on a frightened impulse, but Barbatos continued before anyone could raise their voice. "There is dessert stored in our hotel's main storage. Would you be so kind and bring enough for our whole group?"

A little surprised, Diavolo agreed. He waited for Solomon to finish cutting the fruits, then they went off to the hotel.

Finally able to catch a breath, Simeon shot Barbatos a last glance. "That was easier than expected. Why didn't we let Solomon bring the desserts earlier?"

Back to mixing spices, Barbatos didn't look up at the question. "What desserts?" He simply asked.

"... Uhm..." Simeon was quite startled. "Are there... Are there no desserts in the storage room...?"

"Oh, I sure hope there are" Barbatos said. "Otherwise I will have some explaining to do..."

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

(To be continued...)

Find my summer event Masterlist and Rules for the requests here <3

[virtueangel]

limitless.

chapter six.

wc: 2,242. original publish date: october 10, 2020.

Van Gogh and JFK slouch in the diner booth, eating silently. Kennedy keeps opening and closing his mouth, wracking his brain for something to say so the quiet doesn't crush them like an incinerator. Every time he inhales, moving his lips to form a word, Van Gogh gives him a warning look before nibbling another one of his fries. It's too early in the morning for something so salty, but Van Gogh thinks he can handle it.

This time when Gogh glares at JFK, he ignores it. "Look, I'm sorry. I just-"

"Forget it, Kennedy."

"No, it's-"

"Stop. Just stop. I won't call you-" his breath catches. "I won't call you by your first name again. We'll be Van Gogh and Kennedy. I'm sorry I said anything at all." He chugs down his ice water. He places a palm on his head, massaging his scalp to coax the brain freeze away.

JFK opens his mouth to return, but thinks better of it. And just like that, he's fighting with his best friend again. All because it was someone's stupid idea to get rid of John and Vincent; Jack and Vinny when they were really little and Van Gogh still believed there was good in the world.

Van Gogh and Kennedy sit in the silence for the rest of the meal. For once, neither boy is reaching for something to say. The lack of conversation is by no means comfortable or companionable, but Van Gogh doesn't let it lift. JFK pays the check as usual, and they leave the restaurant, walking side by side. Kennedy slows his stride so Van Gogh can keep up, as he always does. Gogh doesn't thank him. He never seems to notice. This is another one of their quotidians, one of their unspoken truths that they don't break even in the heaviest of fights.

The earth will shatter the day they step out of their routines.

***

"Can I have the map?" JFK asks after awhile, eyes fixed on the open road in front of them. They've been driving for an hour since the diner, and still haven't seen a single other car.

"I thought this was our unplanned trip," he replies halfheartedly, but opens the glove compartment anyway.

"It was, until Weird Joan told us about Marshtown." JFK glances at his best friend, and when he doesn't reply, he adds, "We don't have to go if you don't want to. I get it if you changed your mind. We can just go back to Exclamation!."

"No," Van Gogh says too quickly. He sighs and relaxes. "Here."

"I can't look at it while I'm driving."

"Then why did you ask for it?" Van Gogh's eyes narrow.

JFK exhales. "Sorry. Do you know where the exit is?"

He trails his finger down the map, stopping for a second only to move some hair out of his eye. "Exit four-thirty-five. Not for a while. Still, like, forty miles."

"The girl at the inn made it sound like it was close to Blackbox."

Gogh shrugs, folding the map but keeping his hand on it. "I don't know. Maybe she and her boyfriend wanted to leave the town behind."

"Or maybe her boyfriend lives there," Kennedy suggests.

And just like that, the boys are talking again. The tension has unwound itself from their necks; the air is light enough to breathe.

"I don't think I'd drive all the way out here to look for a boyfriend," Van Gogh says before quickly adding, "Not that I'd ever be looking for a boyfriend."

"Maybe he went to Blackbox to meet her."

"I doubt that too. I wonder how that town even got built."

"I don't think anyone lives there," Kennedy claims.

Van Gogh's eyes widen and he turns to his best friend. "Really? You think all those well-maintained houses are just for show?"

Kennedy shrugs. "It's possible that they're not houses at all. Maybe just cardboard. Weird Joan said they don't get visitors."

"But why would they do that? Build a whole town out of cardboard?"

JFK thinks long and hard, biting his lip. He chews the inside of his cheek, wishing he had some gum. Why hadn't be brought any gum? "I don't know. But those houses were awfully photocopied."

"My neighbourhood is photocopied," Van Gogh counters.

JFK shakes his head. "Not like Blackbox. I mean, yeah, they all have the same floor plan and the same paint on the outer walls, but they're still personalised. I mean, some of your neighbours have benches on their lawns or swings on their porches. Some have potted plants lining their driveways, others have signs in the kitchen windows. I guess all of this is to say that your neighbourhood, while bland, and, well, Americanised, still looks lived in."

While Kennedy says all this without a glance toward the passenger seat, Van Gogh is mesmerised by his sudden burst of sophistication, eyes glued on the body's side profile and blinking in bewilderment.

"Okay, what has been going on this week? This is the second time is as many days that you've given me a perspective on something that isn't superficial."

JFK smiles, exposing his Colgate model teeth. "Mostly I just think about what you'd say to me if the roles were reversed because you've always got some smart shit to say."

Van Gogh looks away, flattered. His cheeks glow pink and warm. "Not that smart..."

Kennedy looks at Van Gogh now, glad there are no cars on the road so he can slow down in the far left lane without worrying about causing a crash. "Yes, that smart. You speak the way you paint."

Van Gogh's face feels as fiery as his hair looks. "I'm just trying to live up to the real Van Gogh."

JFK smiles now, but it isn't his usual arrogantly flirtatious look. "He'd be proud."

Van Gogh looks away.

"He would be."

Vincent, he wants to say. Call me Vincent. But while Kennedy is tragically intelligent, he can't read minds. Maybe that's for the best. Maybe Van Gogh would stop thinking altogether if he could.

***

Van Gogh falls asleep in the silence. Kennedy doesn't mind. He presses the power button on the radio, turns the volume down low, and flips through the stations until he finds something that won't disrupt his passenger's slumber. He finds driving in silence during the daytime insufferable, so he lets the classical violin consume the car. He keeps an eye on Van Gogh, but he doesn't react to the music. He might not have noticed at all. Kennedy gives the boy one last once-over, his eyes washing the boy's pale hands and his healthily long fingernails and the way his wrists flow out from the cuffs of his letterman jacket, like he belongs in it. Even though he'd gotten mad at Kennedy, he never took off the layer. JFK always tells Van Gogh it's his jacket now despite the stitching on the back, but he knows Van Gogh still thinks of it as Kennedy's. That's flattering in its own way, though JFK would never tell him.

Minutes or hours pass; Kennedy isn't really sure. He starts to think that maybe he's missed the exit, but he looks up to read the signage and he guesses they're still a good twenty miles from four-thirty-five. But the car needs gas at some point, and by the looks of the gauge on the dashboard, that time is now. JFK makes his way over to the right lane, checking his mirror and activating his turn signal even though he knows there are no cars on the road. Even in his drowsy state, Van Gogh can hear the organised ticking of the blinker, and it soothes him.

Kennedy successfully exits the highway, as seamlessly as the last time. JFK, while a notorious speeder, is an embarrassingly clean driver.

He pulls into a gas station. This one doesn't look as murderous as the one in Blackbox, thankfully. He opens his car door and hops out of the vehicle, coaxing it shut so he doesn't wake his best friend. He does anyway.

"Shit! Sorry, Gogh."

Van Gogh waves him off. "It's, what, 1:00pm? I probably shouldn't be sleeping in the middle of the day anyway."

"What time did you end up going to sleep last night?"

Van Gogh thinks for a second before shrugging. "I don't know. You fell asleep before you said I had to, and I probably stayed up after the bedtime you set for me. Which, by the way, don't do again." He glares playfully.

JFK punches one of the gas options and inserts the pump into the car before turning back to Van Gogh. His hair is messy and falling over his face. One of his cheeks is dusted a light shade of pink against the paleness of his skin, probably from being pressed up against his seatbelt as he napped. Kennedy grins.

"Sorry. I just don't want you to turn into an insomniac."

Van Gogh scoffs. "I already am an insomniac."

"You get that from your dad."

"Which one?" Van Gogh asks absently, already knowing the answer. He doesn't have anything in common with his foster father. He barely even remembers what the man looks like.

The pump cuts off with a low groan and Kennedy removes it from the car. He screws the cap back onto the gas tank and shuts the flap, shiny and red as the rest of the convertible. He inserts his credit card into the machine and punches some numbers before it beeps. He sits back in the car, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel before buckling his seatbelt.

"Don't you think it's sweet that I care about you?" He asks without looking at his passenger.

Van Gogh smiles, but turns his head toward the window so JFK can't see. "No. I just think you don't want to be responsible for my dead body if I die on this road trip."

Kennedy laughs, and it's genuine and from his chest. It's not often that Van Gogh sees his best friend laugh with authenticity; usually he just laughs at his own jokes, shallow and cruel.

JFK doesn't say anything else.

***

"Do you miss her?" Van Gogh asks suddenly, looking down at his lap and fidgeting with the cuffs of his jacket sleeves.

"Who?" JFK replies, though he already knows.

"Cleopatra."

JFK shrugs. "Haven't really thought about her."

Van Gogh's brow furrows. "Don't you feel bad about that?"

More shrugging from Kennedy. "She's not my girlfriend."

The redheaded boy sits back in his seat, no argument for that answer. He's heard it a million times, like the only reason JFK won't ask her to be his girlfriend is so he'll have that excuse to be shitty to her. But then again, maybe he's only shitty to her because she's not his girlfriend.

"You never ask about Cleo," Kennedy says after a couple seconds. "I thought you didn't like her."

Now it's Van Gogh's turn to shrug. "I don't really know her, so I guess I can't legitimately dislike her, but you know I hate everyone." He hesitates before adding, "Except you, of course."

Kennedy smiles broadly, flattered by this answer for some reason. Of course Van Gogh likes him -- they're best friends. They have been since they were in kindergarten. "Gee, thanks," he hesitates, deciding how to address the boy. He leaves off a name completely. "I'm quite fond of you as well."

Van Gogh shoves his best friend playfully, but can't help but feel that there's something he's not saying. Why hasn't he been making his quick-witted, eye roll-worthy, meaningless sexual innuendos? Why hasn't he made any crude comments about wanting to fuck various girls they've seen so far on their trip? Weird Joan was attractive. So was the diner hostess. Kennedy's missing a piece -- or maybe this is all of him, under his façade, away from all the people he feels he's competing against.

Kennedy has never had to compete with anyone for Van Gogh's attention. In fact, Van Gogh feels like he's had to fight for a sliver of JFK's time his whole life. Now that he's finally getting it, he feels stale. He lets conversations fall flat, expecting JFK to pick up the slack.

"We haven't even been gone twenty-four hours," Kennedy reminds the boy.

Van Gogh smiles, but there's something sad in his eyes. "I know. But I'm sorry I'm making you leave your life behind."

"You're not-"

"Actually, that's not true. I know it's not." He turns to JFK. "More than that, I'm sorry I don't have a life to go back to."

Kennedy doesn't say anything for a couple minutes. He pulls off the highway and stops the car on the shoulder. He leans over the centre console, hesitantly at first, and wraps his arms around Van Gogh. Alarmed by the gesture of affection, Van Gogh freezes, but quickly warms up and reciprocates the hug. He feels all the muscles in JFK's back under his palms, the broadness of his shoulders in his arms. He hugs his best friend tighter and closes his eyes, the scent of his deodorant and aftershave and shampoo filling up his nostrils and clouding his head. He squeezes his eyes shut so violently they prickle, and tries to capture this moment in time, wishing there were a way to take a photograph with his mind.

"You'll always have a home to return to," Kennedy says.

They keep hugging each other, not sure if the other wants to let go.

"Vincent," he adds in a voice so small it can barely be considered a whisper.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

The White Crest Job || Morgan & Felix

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @streetharmacist & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Morgan and Felix take a field trip to rescue a very important item from an auction house on Erin’s behalf.

CONTAINS: gun use, violence

Stupidity got people killed. Talking got people killed. Now both in the same suit? They did a bang up job with that kinda thing. As Felix waited and tapped his feet, he had to attribute that to why he had a cooler full of brain on a weeknight. One man’s stupidity was another’s advantage and the fae kept that in mind. There was that telltale jittering under his skin, that sensation before a job and the wonderment at whether or not it would be pulled off. After everything, he felt more than ready to tag in. Erin had gone through enough and she could use a night off of crime. As it worked out, he could use a night of crime. Desperately. With a little luck and pixie dust, he and Morgan might be able to come bearing good news that would make the whole thing sting a little less.

At the sight of Morgan approaching, he stood up from the rickety bench and adjusted his suit tie. It was a special night at the auction house and he wore some of his sharpest attire. He smiled at her and waved. “It’s real nice to see you, Morgan,” he greeted. “You excited?” They were about to walk into the mouth of some sort of beast but as long as they had their eye on the prize, it should be fine. He reached for the cooler and offered it to her. “I got something for ya. One of Roy’s finest. I wanna say the old sport worked at the auction house.” His grin grew. “Not anymore though.”

Morgan could swear her body was vibrating with the need to do something straightforward and easy. Or at least easier than the past few weeks had been. Sure, the primary criminal activity of her life had been charging people for rocks she transmuted from dirt and trash, but Morgan was nothing if not a good student, and being a walking dead girl leant itself to certain advantages. Mushrooms could strike, ghosts could rise from the deep, worlds could fall apart, but Morgan’s limbs would always grow back shiny and limber no matter how many times they snapped off. And this errand, at least, was for a good cause. Morgan rolled up the sleeves of her turtleneck and beamed at the fae waiting for her. “Sorry I’m late, I wasn’t sure what the dress code was for our clandestine date,” she said with a smirk. “Me? Oh I’m ready to dance. It’s been a rough fall, and Erin’s one of my best friends. It’s kinda nice, having something to do that makes an easy kind of sense. All the steps are clear. No back-and-forth, no second guessing.”

She shook her worries back to the far side of her mind and turned to the cooler. “Mother of earth,” she chuckled. “Dinner and dancing? If this is how you treat your friends, Bea’s a luckier gal than I thought.” Flipping open the lid, she fished out the sliced brain, wrapped in sandwich paper like a happy meal burger. Tentatively, hoping that the old whoever had at least been a nice gangster, she took a bite. “Is this to help me blend in?” She asked between bites. “Because I’ll have you know I’ve killed a woman with just my own sparkling personality bouncing around my head.” She took another bite, moaning with pleasure. “Not that I’m complaining, obviously. Think this’ll magically download everything he knew about this place?”

Felix beamed as much as he safely could in return. He intended to save that old song and dance for a special occasion. One maybe an hour or so away, he thought. They would just have to see how the night went. As it was, he was more than interested in seeing an auction hall go off the deep end. The job that he and Morgan had on their docket took precedence over seeing a few strangers lose it for a bit. He smiled at her and was inclined to agree. He did as much with a tip of his head. It did make an easy sort of sense, didn’t it? Easy as snapping a neck. They just needed to get their hands on it first. “Right there with you, my friend. See, I think this’ll be good for us. All of us.” A brow lifted. “I think we got a real nice night ahead of us. As for everybody else in there?” He shrugged.

At the mention of Bea, an easy smile slid into place and his skin warmed. Buzzed even. He didn’t want to think of the night going any way but up for them. He had a gal to get home to. He was sure Morgan could relate. “You know, I’d say we’re all pretty lucky,” he said as he framed his chin with his thumb and index finger. “You, me, Bea, and Deirdre!” As much as he knew that they could spend the rest of the night waxing poetic about their loves, they had some skulls to crack. Speaking of...It didn’t bother him when Morgan took to the brain. Over the years he had developed an iron stomach, of all things. Blood and brain, guts and bone. It all sorta mushed together. He struck a match and lit a thin cigarette. He considered dust briefly earlier in the evening. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced he wouldn’t need it. Smoke billowed out of his mouth and curled around his glasses as he laughed. “Oh hell, I believe you,” he said with a smile. “I’m not too familiar with how the ol’ brain works, especially in this sorta case, but I think it’ll be a nice thing to have on our side. Y’know, the whole knowing is half the battle thing?” He offered Morgan the crook of his elbow. “Ready to paint this whole gig red?”

“I guess we are lucky, huh,” Morgan mused, smiling into her next bite. Stars above, it tasted so good, she had to ask herself why she didn’t do this more often. She groaned shamelessly as the rich, meaty flavor spread over her tongue. “Felix, you’re making me miss my Texas burgers,” she said, smirking with her mouth half full. “Tell you the truth, I could use a lucky night. I know you’re not supposed to let the bastards get you down, but stars, it’s...fucking hard sometimes. But!” She scarfed down the last of her brain. Nothing felt immediately off the way the urge to listen to a hockey game that night at Erin’s had felt off, but she did feel a little more verve and fire in her bones as she got to her feet. She took Felix’s arm and grinned up at him. “Felix, pal, I’m ready to dance like there’s no tomorrow. I just got one question for ya.” She quirked up a brow at him, nodding to his car and the joint they were about to bust open. “What kinda guns you got stashed in your car? I’m feelin’ like blowing some fireworks.”

“That’s why I’m a big advocate of getting back at the bastards!” Felix said cheerily. Whether it was through bloody footprints or a bullet in the head, things had a way of coming back around. “Nothing really perks up the spirit like some old fashioned vengeance and looking good while doing it. But this is business tonight. The rest can come later.” Heck, would it. The amount of receipts they owed people had started to stack itself high. “Oh, Morgan, I’m so glad you asked. I think you’ll like it,” he said as he looked at her. The tone of her voice, the fire behind it, danced a little differently and he couldn’t help but grin. It reminded him of an old friend. Tommy Toblerone, a fella that had earned his name from the rather unorthodox and sweet ways he could take a person out. “I had to leave the Tommys at home since I don’t think we wanna get the toys taken away early and all.” After he tugged on a pair of black leather gloves as a safety precaution, he pulled out a .38 Smith & Wesson and a .357 Magnum. Without a second thought, he handed her the magnum revolver and a handful of cartridges. “I think you’ll like that one,” he said smoothly as he slid the .38 into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “I’m more about slicing and dicing myself but I got this one just in case. Old faithful! Been awhile since she’s seen action but I’m feeling good about tonight. You?”

Morgan loaded the revolver. She hated guns, didn’t know the first thing about them except how to hide from one thanks to all the safety videos she’d had to watch for all her shitty jobs. But her hands spun the cylinder and admired the shine of the metal in the night like it was something familiar. Something powerful, even cozy. She loaded the chambers, then popped the beauty back into place. She stroked the frame, smiling at the moon’s reflection. “I feel like a shiny new penny,” she said.

Millie Mayfield didn’t like being interrupted from her movie time, but Roy wasn’t dicking around when he said please, honey, so instead of watching pretty teenagers get cut up by a chainsaw, Millie was getting her boots dirty slipping in to take some delicate goods off the hands of the less deserving. If she could only do it without the B-Squad posse, she might even have herself a good night. “Hey, Mac?” She asked, twirling her bat as she approached the guy behind her. It wasn’t the same as her cheerleader batons, but it killed the time in a pinch. “Can you run and get me some McDonald’s? One of the really sad, dried up specials. You can tell when their tag says FIVE YEARS! With a party hat sticker. Pretty please with cream cheese?”

Mac would, because Roy also said she was in charge, and he knew she’d bust his kneecaps into confetti if he didn’t.

Something rattled at the end of the warehouse. Company. Roy hadn’t mentioned anything about it being a party, but she was an adaptable girl. Millie sauntered into the warehouse, bat held out and ready to strike. She signaled to Mac to get out his gun. “It’s not nice to gate crash,” she called inside, her voice almost sing-song. “If you came to play with the big kids, let’s play.”

As fun as it would have been to crack a couple jokes at the expense of the rich, Felix and Morgan didn’t have that luxury. They had a docket to make a couple checkmarks on. As it went, his patience was thin to nonexistent. Maybe it was because of the mushrooms or maybe it was because things had a way of not going their way lately. He checked over his knives and the gun in his hand. Even clicked his heels for the knife he kept there. All in tip-top shape. The knives were slid back into place. The back of the auction house had a padlock on it but that didn’t matter much as he jimmied it open with a grin flashed Morgan’s way. The chain rattled as the fae toed the door open. From where they stood, there seemed to be plenty of shadows.

Perfect. That good feeling fluttered in his chest again. Even when a voice called out. As a pair of steps entered the auction house’s backroom. Even better. If there were ever a night to have a tussle, it would be this one. He slipped off to the left. Slipped into darkness.

“Do me a favor and let us know when they show up, yeah?” He took his switchblade in hand. “Much appreciated.”

Millie had two choices. Go for the goods, or go for the party crashers. Roy said the merchandise would be small, easy to miss. Not exactly something you could nab with some sleeze pulling your hair. Besides, Millie never turned her back on a fight. “Real funny, Tricky Dicky. Maybe you should run back home to the kiddie p--” A gunshot burned through the air and into her chest. “Ow!” Millie looked down at the scorch mark in her dress. “That was genuine vintage!” She shrieked.

There was still smoke at the end of Morgan’s revolver when she realized her mistake. This dame wasn’t the kind you pinned down with a bum shoulder or a busted kneecap. For all her grousing about the clothes, there wasn’t even a lick of blood coming out of the wound. It had been a rookie mistake, thinking she’d go down easy. This dame wasn’t human anymore than Morgan was. “Sorry, sweet cheeks. I don’t make exceptions for people who get in my way. Equal rights and all that,” she said, stepping into the light. She risked a glance at Felix, who was visible only by his switchblade. She hoped he was watching too, that he saw her little nod to go for the gold. She could keep one little dame busy for him. “You might wanna dance back to your go-go party before this gets worse. It’d be a shame to knock such a pretty block off.”

Millie was already marching forward, bat ready. “Try me, bitch.”

Nothing like the sound of a revolver and the smell of spent gunpowder to remind Felix of home. Let alone a heist! The fae tipped his blade Morgan’s way before he started to climb over boxes and through shadows. What they were after was small, easily concealed. But if he had heard right, it packed one hell of a punch. A bullet that would be real damn nice for them to have in the chamber. While Morgan dealt with the dame with the bat, he’d get what they needed. The light of a waning moon overhead bled through the smallest tear in the roof. Caught on something that shone with iridescence. He sure as heck hoped it was the something they were after. There wasn’t any hesitance to the way he moved toward it, hard-charging if there ever was any.

A hard charge into a forearm that caught him right across the throat. He puffed out a few breaths as he skittered back and recuperated enough to bring him to his feet, back into the shadows. His throat smarted as he looked at what had caught him. A forked tongue flicked out of a fanged mouth. Their head swiveled to follow him as Felix moved. They had a knife too. One with a jagged sort of blade.

“I can smell you, shadow.”

Morgan had seen too much violence since coming to White Crest to mistake the sound of a fight. The smirk on her lips flickered as she turned. “Felix—?”

“You got way bigger problems than that, Dollface,” the same sneered. She swung her bat, hard enough to knock Morgan off her balance.

Her head felt like it was off kilter, but that was just her skull bones bending around the wound. It was right again in seconds and Morgan leveled her revolver again to fire off another round, this one landing square into the girl’s eye. Faintly, she knew she hated guns. The sound, the way they looked, how they went from zero to disaster with just a bang. But something strange in her liked it too. She readied another shot, but the dame was already charging her, anger blazing out of her now ruined face. She was hell in high heels and creamsicle orange. Hell and payback. The bullet hadn’t even moved her an inch. Morgan threw away her gun, useless, and tried to run. A hand caught her by the hair by the hair and dragged her back.

“Zombie, huh? This is gonna be fun.”

“Morgan, ya alright?” Felix’s eyes were ahead but his ears were behind him. His expression wavered from one of confidence to one of concern. He liked Morgan. A great deal. And they had people to get home to, let alone a fucking point to get across. Any wavering halted. When he moved, the lamia’s eyes followed him. They placed themselves as a body between the box full of iridescence and the lampade itching to get his hands on it. Felix slipped his jacket off and wadded it up. It could be said that Felix was a planner but as he rocked off his heels and went forward, not much thought went into it. The lamia struck out, their knife cutting easy through the fabric. The tip nicked Felix’s palm as he let go and danced back. The lamia’s tongue flicked out again as he stepped through the shadows.

The fae hit his heel against the ground hard enough to spring the knife from his shoe before he lunged forward with a kick. The lamia was larger than him, muscle packed tight together, and he felt it when the knife in his shoe clipped through the lamia’s suit pants to lodge itself in. It wasn’t the strongest of knives and it broke off as Felix pulled his foot back. The lamia jabbed at him again with the knife and cut a line of black, ink blood across his chest. Felix hissed then grinned as he rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, switchblade still in hand.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered out with a laugh. “So much for working this out, huh?”

The next time, it was the lamia that moved to meet him in the dark. Knives out.

Morgan caught the dame’s hands and twirled in her grasp, getting enough space to knee her in the stomach, get a new grip on her arms, and throw her into a stack of crates. She didn’t run this time, but picked up her opponent and slam her down again. Maybe if she’d been some lousy human, it would’ve broken her in a couple of pieces, but this girl wasn’t the type to roll over easy. She pulled out a knife from the front of her shirt. It wasn’t big enough to lob off her head, not quickly anyway, but her eyes burned red and Morgan realized she was staring down a bonafide vampire.

They tousled, slinging blows with all their strength and all the ruthlessness of two women desperate for a win. No more maybe this times. Morgan was walking out of here with her prize for Erin. With something done the right way. Crates shattered under Morgan as the dame threw her again. Glass and powder spilled onto the floor. Morgan didn’t care, those goods weren’t her problem. She grabbed some of the broken wood and swung it hard enough to crack the damn thing to bits. When she was through, she had a nice stake sized piece, sharp and jagged, as far as the stuff went.

The vampire dame snarled and leapt out of her reach.

“What’s the matter, doll?” Morgan asked. “I thought we were gonna dance.” If nothing else, she sure as hell hoped Felix found this magic blade soon.

It had been a hot minute since Felix had been in a knife fight. After everything that had happened, he supposed it was only a matter of time. As he weaved through the shadows of the warehouse, the lamia was there with him. His glamour had dropped the more that black wisps of blood smoked out of his dress shirt. Knife fights were ugly, feral affairs. He couldn’t help but grin as he ducked back from the lamia’s swipe. Only for him to come to a stop as a painful tug spread pain along the top of his skull. The lamia’s hand was wrapped around the main beam of his right antler, close to the fork. Felix reared his head back and flipped the knife in his hand to stab at the lamia’s hand. The blade nicked skin but it wasn’t much. The lamia who had him locked in place kicked at the side of his leg and brought him down hard to his knees.

His eyes widened and flashed white as the lamia brought the serrated edge of his knife to the bone. Felix frantically shook his head violently and tried to rear back. Dig his heels into the ground to force himself back into the dark. It didn’t matter. The lamia would find him and he wasn’t going anywhere.

The lamia knew what he was doing. Maybe it hadn’t been the first time for them. But it had been the first time for Felix. Breakage. The crack deafened him. Dulled his senses to anything other than pain and pure, undiluted rage. As the antler separated from him, the lamia stepped back from the force of it. Felix was on them in an instant as he threw his full weight into him. The antler clattered from their grasp and the fae took it in hand. Didn’t second guess when he started to plunge it through the lamia’s scales. The ones that lined their neck, their chest, their organs. All the soft parts that made the rest crumble.

He didn’t realize he was yelling until the lamia went still underneath him and inhuman blood splashed his chest. His chest heaved as he sat back, eyes wide and wild. His throat hurt. His head hurt. Momentarily, he forgot what they were there for until his eyes locked on the box and he brought himself to stand. Antler still in hand, he went to it and looked back to where he could hear the sound of Morgan’s own scuffle.

“Morgan,” he rasped out. “Fucking kill her, huh?”

They were bounding through the warehouse, chasing each other like filthy animals. Somewhere between running around crates, the dame found Morgan’s gun and had herself a nice time driving the rest of the bullets into her body. The steam was still on the muzzle when the wounds healed up, but the rounds must’ve sounded like pennies from heaven all the same. She heard the shouting and stopped to turn. It was the wrong move. The dame’s bat smashed against her skull, hard enough to send sparks through her vision.

“Maybe get the fucking knife, huh?” Morgan called back.

She still had a grip on the stake, but the vampire was hanging around her like a goddamn flying monkey. Morgan lost count of how many surfaces she bashed her into befor she let go and slid off. It wasn’t every day you regretted bringing a gun to a knife fight, but that was White Crest for you. Morgan pinned the dame down and decked her with her fist. Felix hadn’t sounded so hot when he called out to her. They needed to end this quickly. The stake came up--and splintered in the vampire’s grip. Morgan didn't even see her arms come up to knock her down, just the view of those damn go-go boots as she ran away. Good riddance.

“That’s gonna be a ‘negative’ on that kill,” she groaned, easing up to her feet. “But she’s out of our hair. Maybe some son of a gun hunter will have a better night. You find it yet?”

“If not,” Felix started as he approached the box. “I’m sure I can hire somebody. Plenty of fucking nobodies that wouldn’t mind getting a tooth or two from her.”

He tried to ignore the splinter ache in his head. Even as he tilted it, it felt lighter. Unbalanced. Uneven. His forehead felt wet and as he touched his fingertips to it, pulled them back, he saw more bloody wisps. His skin felt cold, his nerves even more so. The fae looked at Morgan with dim half-moon, a fist clenched around his broken antler. The knife sat unbothered atop a heap of fabric. With the exception of its glass blade, it was otherwise unexceptional. Bullets and blades for another kind of destruction. What the fuck else was new.

“I did. You alright?” The question was clipped with an aimless agitation. No, it wasn’t aimless. He knew exactly who he was pissed at. He gestured loosely at the knife and leered at it. “That’s the fucking thing right there. It better be worth it after all this shit.”

Morgan shuffled over to Felix, giving a whistle when she saw how worse for where he was. “You had a worse time than me. Guess Roy got the same tip we did, and wanted to get ahead of the game. And now that dame knows who Erin’s friends are. She’s gonna blab to Roy and give him the scoop.” Morgan spat on the ground, shaking her head. She was too small to see from the ground, but one hop onto one of the few crates that wasn’t busted and she could see what all the fuss was about.

The hilt wasn’t anything special, but the glass was a beaut, thick enough that you could spit on one end and not tell from the other, and serrated, brought to a deadly point. Morgan couldn’t imagine you made something like this in any old forge, but what did she know about this stuff. “In the right hands, it’ll stick Roy in the ground for good, and that ain’t nothing,” she said. “Come on, compadre. I’m feelin’ like a cigar. This ol’ brain is a doozie, and you need to get the edge off before that ride home.”

Felix made a low sound of affirmation. “It’s not every day you break an antler,” he intoned. It truly fucking wasn’t and his lip curled. “That sounds about par for the course in this town, huh? Word travels fast.” He glanced at the dead body of the lamia. Whether or not they had been close to Roy, he didn’t care. A dead body was a message all the same. He shrugged loosely as he looked back at Morgan. The night was still fun in its own way, breakage and bullets be damned. “Lucky us.”

“Think I’ll need more than a cigar but I ain’t about to turn that down,” he said with a glance to Morgan as he pieced his human glamour back together. His glasses were somewhere but he wasn’t in the mood to look for them. He wasn’t in the mood for much other than that cigar she offered. “Roy will be in the ground before he fucking knows it and y’know, I like the sound of that very much. Let’s get out of here. We did good and ought to treat ourselves to something nice.”

With the knife in their possession, they could leave the warehouse and good riddance to that. It’d be nice to burn it down, he thought. Burn it all down. His anger was loud and alive in his head. His hate. As they made to leave, one thought crossed his mind. Just how tired he was of only walking White Crest’s streets. He wanted to fucking own them.

[isitgintimeyet]

Road To The Aisles

AO3

Previous

Happy Sunday. Hope it’s a good one for everybody. Another chapter and the wedding is getting closer. Time for a hen party...Warning: nsfw

Thanks to @mo-nighean-rouge @wickedgoodbooks @happytoobserve and to everyone who reads, comments, likes or reblogs x

Chapter 20: A Convivial Carousing

“What's so unpleasant about being drunk?"

"Ask a glass of water!”

― Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

Claire thought she had been quite clear about this to Geillis. She distinctly remembered sitting in her office a few weeks ago when the subject had first been broached. Geillis had run through a list of possible suggestions for a hen party; beginning with a weekend in Benidorm (“imagine, sangria by the bucketful and eye candy in speedos”) all the way to a meal out with friends (“nice and safe”) detouring via an Ann Summers’ sex party (“It’s jes’ like a Tupperware party, ye ken, but with more cocks”), skydiving (“that adrenaline rush, as good as sex, I reckon”) and a burlesque dance class (“yer man’ll thank ye fer it later”).

When Claire had vetoed all the suggestions apart from a meal and drinks with friends, Geillis had then changed tack and began listing some well prepared ideas to “make the evening go with a bang, aye?”. Using the power of veto once more, Claire had made clear her thoughts on ‘pin the cock on the hunk’, any games involving dares or forfeits, any performers of the semi-(or un-)clad variety or costumes announcing that they were a hen party.

Geillis had tutted vociferously but eventually shrugged and agreed to Claire’s conditions.

So, why was she now sitting in this cocktail bar, wearing a sash proclaiming her to be a bride, while sucking her (admittedly rather moreish) cocktail through a plastic penis? She looked along the table at her friends, each wearing a matching sash and all busy writing on cards provided by Geillis, sharing their tips for a sexually successful marriage.

Jenny caught her eye and smiled. “I dinna think I ought tae be suggesting sex tips fer ma baby brother. It’s a wee bit —“

“Yucky? Disturbing?” Isobel ventured.

Geillis just caught the tail end of the conversation. “Only if ye’re doing it right.”

She winked before resuming her writing.

Claire drained her cocktail and moved on to the next already waiting for her. She studied Geillis over the rim of her glass, noting the glint in her eye as she wrote her contribution on the card. No doubt sharing some tips from her and Dougal’s activities, Claire told herself, interesting to read but maybe not her and Jamie’s type of thing.

As Geillis worked her way around the table, gathering up the cards, the door of the bar opened and a ‘fireman’ came in, tall and broad shouldered in his overly tight uniform. He carried his helmet in one hand and a portable speaker in the other. He stood for a moment glancing around before spotting Claire and her friends. He strode towards them, a cheeky grin on his face.

Claire felt herself redden and prayed for the ground to swallow her up. She cursed the sash proclaiming her to be the bride again; she cursed the balloons, spelling out H-E-N, tied to her chair; but most of all, she cursed Geillis, who had promised faithfully that there would be absolutely no adult entertainment this evening.

She glared across at Geillis, who returned her gaze with a confused expression of her own and shook her head slightly. Claire quickly watched the rest of her friends for any knowing smiles.

By now, the fireman had reached their table.

“I’m here on an emergency. Someone,” he looked directly at Claire. “Someone is too hot to handle.”

He sucked the air through his teeth noisily, in a parody of a passionate sigh. Claire did the only thing possible. She drained her cocktail and reached for the next one waiting for her.

“So,” the fireman drawled in a fake American accent, rotating his hips suggestively. “I’m going to have to use my hose… my extra long—“

He stopped abruptly as one of the bar staff tapped him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear, gesturing to a room off the main bar area.

Shamefaced, the fireman shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, hen,” he now spoke with a broad Glaswegian accent. “This isna the right party. I’d best be heading.”

His eyes lingered on Geillis, now smiling coquettishly, before he turned and followed the barman. His arrival at the correct party was heralded by a series of loud whoops and cheers, clearly audible even over the hubbub of Saturday night two-for-one cocktail drinkers.

Claire breathed a sigh of relief and felt her stomach muscles unclench.

“Ye ken, Claire, I wouldna do something like that tae ye.” Geillis patted her hand. “I kent how much ye didna want that kind of thing. So, why don’t we have another cocktail, I’ll collect up the cards and we’ll see what kind of perverts ye have fer friends.”

Whether it was the sheer relief that Geillis had no embarrassing entertainment on the agenda, or the heady mix of cocktails coursing through Claire’s veins, but she finally decided to give in and throw herself wholeheartedly into the silly and potentially embarrassing hen party spirit.

Clearing her throat dramatically, she read each of the cards out loud, everyone trying to guess the originators. Some were obvious; who else but Geillis would have written about, in great graphic detail, a suggestion involving handcuffs, floggers and a black leather dominatrix outfit? And it was clearly Isobel who gave advice about the healing power of a hug. (“Not necessarily sexual,” she clarified. “But vital.”)

But Claire would never have guessed that it was Mary, the shy but efficient theatre nurse, who advised her to have a ‘toy cupboard’ next to the bed and always have spare batteries to hand. And as for a now clearly drunk Jenny’s confessions about her role playing adventures with Ian (a somewhat complex plot involving a Highland warrior and innocent serving wench fleeing the redcoats), well, Claire felt that was something best kept between the girls, and not to be shared with her future husband.

The rest of the evening passed in a whirl of chatter, laughter and alcohol. Claire knew she was drunk, not steaming drunk like Jenny, whose eyes were closed and her chin propped up with her hands, but in that tipsy phase when everything is wonderful… and shiny... and hilarious… and full of love.

Suddenly the bright overhead lights made Claire’s eyes begin to water. “What’s going on?” She asked.

Geillis began to gather up her belongings. “That’s it. It’s one am. Time tae go home.”

“But… but… can I not have another drink? I liked the..er.. orange one. Can I have another orange one?”

Geillis laughed and picked up Claire’s bags. “Ye’ve had about half a dozen different orange ones, Claire. It’s time fer the taxi.”

“Where’s Jenny?” Claire looked around.

“Ah, Weel, Isobel is seeing her home. I tell ye, it’s jes’ as well ye’ve some sensible friends, otherwise I dinna ken how ye’d go on. C’mon now, taxi’s waiting.”

Claire stood up as Geillis reached across and untied the balloons. Claire grabbed her arms and pulled her close.

“Can I thank you, G, for tonight, and for… well, for everything.” Her breath was warm on Geillis’s cheek. “You’re a real friend and, amazingly sober, I must say even after…”

Claire tried, unsuccessfully, to peer at her watch over Geillis’s shoulder. “...even after ...after lots and lots and lots of cocktails.”

Geillis kissed her cheek. “Nae bother, I didna have a lot tae drink. I knew ye wasna a big fan of the whole hen party thing and I wanted tae make sure this night was jes’ right fer ye. Now let’s get ye home. Back tae yer fiancé.”

“Thank you, G… have I already said that?” Claire started to follow Geillis out of the bar then stopped abruptly, putting her hand to her mouth.

“What’s the matter? Ye’re no’ going tae puke are ye?” Geillis quickly began to search for a plastic bag.

“No… no, I’m not puking, but, G, imagine… it’s all thanks to you that I’m here, getting married to Jamie. If you hadn’t given him my number in ED, we would never have got together, never dated, never fallen in love…” Claire sniffed and rubbed her eyes.

“Och, away wi’ ye. I tell ye, the pair of ye were born fer each other. Ye would have met either way. Mebbe me giving him yer number was jes’ a shortcut.” Geillis gave Claire a quick hug before pulling away. “Now come on, the taxi driver will have started his meter and I am no’ paying any more than the price I agreed on the phone!”

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

Jamie glanced at his watch as the doorbell rang. He yawned, stretched and switched the television off before walking to the front door.

The doorbell rang again. As he unlocked the door, it rang for a third time, a prolonged, urgent ring. He opened the door to find Claire giggling as she leant against the door frame, her shoulder pressing into the doorbell.

He waved to Geillis in the waiting taxi before following Claire into the hall. She spun around and flung herself into Jamie’s arms, nearly causing him to lose his balance. Ignoring his sudden exhalation of air, she kissed him noisily on the lips before nuzzling his neck and blowing raspberries against his skin.

“A good night, I take it. And a wee bit drunk too,  are we?” Jamie ventured a guess.

Claire pulled away, indignantly. “No, I’m not. Are you? You seem a bit unsteady there on your feet.”

“Well, what have you been drinking then?”

“Oh, some absolutely scrummy cocktails. I started with a slow comfortable screw. Have you had one of those?”

Jamie smiled. “Frequently.”

“How about a slow comfortable screw against the wall?”

“No’ fer a while.”

“And I had a silk panties martini… to match what I’m wearing.” Claire undid the zip on her jeans to confirm.

“Then I had a couple of flaming orgasms… mmm, so good.”

“Ah so, multiple orgasms. I tend tae stick tae the one, myself.”

“And I think there might have been a slippery nipple in there somewhere,” she hiccuped.

Jamie steered Claire to the stairs. “You head up tae bed, Sassenach.”

“Are you not coming too?” She pouted.

“I’ll be up in a minute. Just locking up.”

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

Armed with a bottle of water and two paracetamol for the morning, Jamie entered the bedroom, fully expecting Claire to be fast asleep and snoring. On the contrary, she was still very much awake, lying on top of the covers, clad only in a red thong and matching red bra. The rest of her clothes lay in a heap on the floor.

“See, red silk panties,” she giggled, flicking the elastic on the thong.

“Aye, not quite silk though, jes’ a wee bit of lace as far as I can see. Now, come on, get in tae bed. Ye’ll be needing yer sleep.”

“But I’m not tired,” she protested as she scrambled onto her hands and knees and worked her way down the bed to where Jamie stood. “C’mon, Mr. Fraser, let’s have some fun.”

She knelt up and let her hands run around the waistband of his jogging bottoms, her fingernails lightly raking the skin.

Jamie inhaled deeply. “Claire, Sassenach, no. I dinna want tae take advantage of ye when ye’re drunk.”

“Jamie,” Claire’s voice was stern. “I may have had a few to drink, but I am fully aware of what I am doing...”

She edged the waistband down over his hips, his cock already standing proud. She ran a finger down its length, watching Jamie’s stomach muscles tense as he tried to calm the sensations she was arousing. He could feel her breath warm against his thigh.

“... And so it seems does our friend here. Don’t fight me, Jamie. I’ve had a plastic penis in my mouth for most of the evening. Now it’s time for the real thing.”

Grabbing his buttocks, she pulled Jamie closer to her before bringing one hand to cup his balls, massaging them in her palm. She wrapped her other hand around the base of his cock as she took him fully in her mouth.

Jamie closed his eyes and finally allowed himself to succumb to Claire’s ministrations. The warmth of her mouth as she rhythmically worked up and down, her tongue stroking and caressing made him harder than he thought possible. He entwined his fingers in her wild curls, encouraging her to take more of his length into her mouth.

He pulled back slightly as he felt his excitement building, keen to try and prolong the experience. Claire moaned, a small mew of disappointment, and brought him closer to her again, resuming the same relentless rhythm.

His breathing grew ragged. “Sassenach,” he groaned. “Sassenach, I canna … I canna…”

She felt his release, warm in her mouth as he stilled then withdrew. Jamie, panting, opened his eyes to see Claire, kneeling back on her heels, her curls in wild disarray, cheeks flushed, breasts nearly escaping from the confines of her bra. Her nipples, dark and erect, were visible through the red lace, her panties clearly damp.

She smiled, a lazy smile of self satisfaction as she swallowed then licked her lips. Jamie gasped at this wanton image in front of him.

“Sassenach,” his voice was husky. “I’ve an idea. Can I get our special camera?”

Claire nodded. “Ooh, yes. I’ve a couple of ideas myself, Mr. Fraser.”

As Jamie went in search of the camera, Claire lay back on the pillows and laughed. All those tips tonight for a successful sex life, she told herself, and I don’t think we’ll need any help in that area… ever.

[harley4l]

Epilogue: The sister named Nelly

“Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.” ― Oscar Wilde 

Beginning / Previous

From the minute they were born, it seemed like twin sisters Eleanor and Kara were one and the same. They’d speak in unison, smile in unison, cry in unison, they always came up with the same ideas and refused to go anywhere without their other half. Often the twins would finish each other’s sentences as if sharing the same mind. Although Nelly was the slightly more charming twin, the slightly more popular one at kindergarten and later at school, there had never been bad blood between the sisters. Sometimes Nelly’s sister grabbed her hand and beamed at her. You’re my idol, Nelly, Kara would breathe into her ear.

The twins had lain in Nelly’s bed and held hands while they watched the shiny space mobile dangling from their ceiling next to taped plastic stars. I'm gonna blow the math test badly tomorrow, Nelly sighed. I just don’t get it. I suck. Kara had tilted her head and squeezed her sister's fingers. I could do it for you. Nelly met her gaze and smiled. This was the power Nelly had over her sister, Kara’s blind adoration. And their teachers were clueless. Yes, she'd said. They‘d been doing it for years. When Kara first proposed the switchs after their babysitter had continuously mistaken them for each other, it sounded like the ultimate prank. The twins switched clothing between meals at home and between classes at school. Twice a week, Nelly played in Kara’s soccer team and Kara took over Nelly’s role as Susan, the main character of the new musical in her theater club. Sometimes Kara ate with Nelly’s friends during lunchtime. Kara had the better grades in math and english and she wrote Nelly‘s essays in her place. Admittedly it was flattering, how Kara went out of her way, just to play pretend. At first. Once they turned seven, their parents bought them a kitten for their birthday. Cloud was a fluffy, white ball of adorableness and he followed Nelly's every step. Kara on the other side, had not particulary liked Cloud. She’d complained the kitten was skittish and smelly and she often riled him up for fun when their parents looked the other way. According to Kara, Nelly spent too much time with Cloud when she should be playing with her instead. One day Cloud sat on Nelly’s lap in the backyard, playing with a bundle of yarn, when Kara strolled out through the sliding door. She’d danced around them, urging Nelly to play dolls with her upstairs. Pleeeaase, she’d pressed her palms together as Nelly held her gaze reluctantly. You promised this morning! Nelly had gently pushed Cloud from her lap. Okay, okay. She’d padded up the stairs while Kara ran into the kitchen to grab a glass of orange juice, saying she’d follow right after. 

Nelly sat on the floor of their shared room for several minutes waiting, but the house was oddly quiet. Nelly?, she called, poking her head out of the door — they currently had a switch going on until dinner. When her sister didn’t answer, she went down the stairs through the empty kitchen and back into the garden when she heard a piercing scream. Kara stood next to the jacuzzi, clutching her head and screaming so shrill that Nelly’s head hurt. Their parents came rushing out of the house instantly and Kara threw herself into their arms, sobbing uncontrollaby. Mom, dad! Kara threw Cloud into the tub! He’s dead, he’s dead! Their parents eyes locked with Nelly’s who stood on the lawn alone, frozen. Kara? her mother asked horrified. But Nelly only saw her sister, whose eyes were filled with actual tears. She felt as if she’d been tipped into ice water. Barely visible, a smirk danced across Kara’s face — and it was as if a switch had been flipped.

A few days following the incident, their parents had decided to send Nelly off to boarding school. We think this is for the best, her mother informed her after she’d come to the twins’ room and handed Nelly a brochure for Happy Hill Harbor — a boarding school for “troubled boys” and “struggling girls”. Nelly had thrown the brochure back into her mother’s lap. I’m not Kara, Nelly had insisted angrily, turning away. That evening after Cloud died, her sister had refused to switch back with her. She’d been downstairs whispering with their parents for hours while Nelly cried alone in her locked room upstairs. She had tried to convince their parents that she was Eleanor, not Kara, but of no avail. They’d been switching places so excessively over the past years that she couldn’t think of anything to say to prove her true identity. Nelly had sat in the backseat of her father’s car while her sister stood with her mother at the opened window and waved her hand with a solemn face. It was actually happing — Nelly had never felt this helpess in her life. Her fingers clenched around the window frame while her father started the engine.

Bye, Kara!, Kara had chirped, simple as that.

Officially Nelly had been sent off to Britechester’s School for Young Artists to preserve the good family image — or else what would the neighbors think. But Happy Hill Harbor was neither happy nor in any way related to art. Her roommate Joan was a creepy girl who would moan for hours at night and rip out her hair in chunks. Nelly had suffered a nervous breakdown after she’d found two tufts of Joan’s hair underneath her own pillow. Her roomate after Joan, a girl named Willow, wasn’t exactly an upgrade. She was humming to herself so loud and crooked all day that that Nelly’s head ached from covering her ears. Months and years passed. She wondered what Kara was doing with her life at home. The year after Nelly had been sent to Happy Hill Harbor, her mom got pregnant again and her younger sister Miranda was born. It was a weird feeling meeting the baby, almost as if her parents moved on and replaced her with another daughter. When Nelly was visiting on weekends twice a month, she felt like a stranger in her own house. By the time the twins turned sixteen, Kara had gotten mega popular at Brindleton Bay Private School and she spent every minute of her time to rub it into Nelly’s face while she was home. Usually she positioned herself in front of Nelly’s room while she chattered on the phone, as if to show off how cool and popular she was — and committed a grave mistake without realizing. 

The weekend before summer vacation Kara was talking to her friends and contemplating what to wear at Daniel Prescott’s party, one of the boys the twins had occasionally played with when they were children. Their fathers were business partners and old college friends. Kara even showed off the brand new outfit she was going to buy for the party to Nelly on her phone. That evening Nelly had quietly climbed out the window of the guest room and followed her twin in a distance to Prescott Estate three streets away. For hours she’d crept around the house and checked the windows for her sister, contemplating how she could insert herself inconspicuously into Kara’s place. When she spotted her twin being escorted outside by security, she’d entered through the back door — the chance seemed too perfect not to take it. She’d driven home with two other girls from Nelly’s grade late that night, her body tense with anxiety when she saw her parents waiting on the front porch. After she’d climbed out of the car, her mother informed her that Kara had left the house unpermitted and came home drunk that evening, hence they'd decided to drive her back to school early. They barely even looked at their daughter, perhaps they’d simply assumed she was Nelly because she’d come home with her classmates. A switch had been flipped, just as simple as nine years before.

She was herself again, but she barely knew what “herself” had been doing those past years. Kara’s phone could’ve been helpful if only she’d known her sister’s pin code. She’d tried the date of their birthday first, then the birthday of Kara’s boyfriend Spencer, her fingers hovering cluelessly over the display during her third and final attempt. She’d shut off Kara’s phone and shoved it underneath the clothing in her dresser. With the purchase of her brand new phone, it felt like all ties to Kara’s deed had been capped, just like with her new friends. She’d been quick to decide that it was too risky to keep hanging out with Kara’s best friends Rachel and Jillian. They‘d realize that Nelly was clueless about them in no time. Instead she went for the girls who’d driven her home the night of the switch, Kirsten Fisher and Rebecca Stuart-Hayes. Both of them were outsiders longing for friends, and they had instantly jumped on the opportunity as soon as Nelly extended her offering hand. 

Kirsten was wild, sharp-tongued and a fun person to be around. However, she came from an overbearingly religious family like Nelly soon discovered, which was probably the secret cause of her lack of friends. Kirsten was only allowed to wear super prudish clothes outside, long-sleeved shirts and plain jeans—even in the summer!—, she was (officially) not allowed at parties and had to be at home at 6 pm. When Nelly hung out at Kirsten‘s house and stayed for dinner, she was forced to join the Fisher‘s traditional table prayer and could feel the judging eyes of Kirsten‘s mother on her when she rattered down her prayer unenthusiastically. The all knowing god is always watching and their judgement falls upon us all, Mrs. Fisher preached with a grim voice. Then Nelly would resist the urge to roll her eyes. She was pretty sure that no one was watching.

Rebecca was a creative overachiever with a flourishing imagination, it felt like there was no after school activity she wasn’t a part of and no instruments she didn’t know how to play. She lived at the shabbier, less expensive edge of the town and despite her home’s rundown exterior, it was always in a pristine shape. Rebecca‘s dad raised her by himself after his wife had taken off and Nelly got the impression Rebecca was cleaning up a lot after him. One day, they were sorting through old photos on Rebecca‘s laptop when Rebecca tapped the screen, pointing at a picture of a birthday cake. It was strawberry cake with pink frosting and a younger Rebecca was blowing out the candles. Remember Spencer‘s sixth birthday? His mom made that same cake for him and he refused to eat even a single slice because he thought it looked girly. You and I munched it up all by ourselves. Our shirts were full of frosting afterwards. Dad was so mad. Nelly felt her brain blanking out for a second. She gaped at Rebecca—wait, they had met before? But then a lightbulb went off in her head. Of course, Rebecca had been Spencer Prescott’s cousin. She had the same white blond hair like his mother and brother, and both girls had been to all his birthday parties back when they were little. It felt so long ago ... before Kara‘s permanent switch. We had a lot of fun back then. Rebecca sounded dreamy. But we got older, I guess. Nelly nudged her elbow. It sucks we never really hung out anymore. Rebecca simply shrugged. It was fine. You changed. And you had other friends. 

I didn’t change, Nelly wished she could tell her. I‘m still the same old Nelly, I‘m the girl from that memory. But Rebecca wouldn’t understand. The whole switch dilemma sounded absolutely insane, even in Nelly‘s own head. Kara had broken her old life apart and all Nelly could do at this point was try and pick up the shambles. 

Recruiting Olivia was a challenge. Nelly had initially set her eyes on her because it seemed Olivia Marshall, a girl who attended german, sports and art with her, was always by herself. Between classes, when all the kids gathered at their lockers in crowds to exchange the newest, juiciest gossip, Olivia stood at her locker alone, back turned. She sat alone at a table during lunch and always was the first to storm out of class once the bell rang. When Nelly asked Rebecca about her, a frown settled onto her friend’s face. Olivia kinda keeps to herself since ... you know. Nelly didn‘t know, unfortunately, but she kept dancing around the topic for a while and Rebecca ended up spilling the info anyways. Apparently, Olivia‘s best friend Tatum Rutherford had killed herself two and a half years ago with an overdose of party drugs. She was kind of a junkie, Rebecca added dryly. When Nelly approached Olivia after class a few days later and asked her to come sit at their table for lunch, Olivia had made a strange face. Are you ... are you serious? she‘d whispered. Nelly had nodded. Sure, the other girls and I would love some fresh company. Watcha say? She‘d winked. 

After what you‘ve ... what you and Rachel and Jill have done? Is this a prank? Olivia sounded like she was choking on air. Nelly‘s eyes darted around nervously. For the first time since she‘d stepped back into her old life, she felt like an actress who‘d forgotten her script. What, uh ... what exactly do you think we did? she enquired, cracking a frazzled smile. But Olivia had whirled around on the spot and stormed down the hall. Nelly followed after her, into the girls‘ bathroom where Olivia had locked herself into a stall. Standing there at the sinks, Nelly could hear her crying softly. Olivia? ... Are you okay? Please, talk to me, Nelly said cautiously. There was silence for a long time, then a faint sniff. You killed her, Olivia had quietly sobbed. You and your friends, you all killed her! I know you’re happy you did, too. Nelly was speechless. She didn’t know what do do, so she just stood there while Olivia kept on crying, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her sister‘s face stared back at her, but this Nelly looked haunted. 

Two days later, Olivia had joined Nelly, Kirsten and Rebecca at their table for lunch. She didn’t bring up anything regarding what she‘d said in the bathroom previously—it was as if the conversation never happened in the first place. When Nelly caught her gaze, the distressed tension in Olivia‘s face had disappeared. I’m glad you thought things over, Nelly smiled. 

The last one to join her inner circle was Ava McCullough, a new classmate whose family went on constant road trips all across the country. Ava always joked she basically lived in a car. It was hard on her to change schools a lot. I never really had friends before, she‘d admitted to Nelly shyly while they were lounging at the docks, their legs dangling lazily over the edge of the boardwalk. I didn’t either, Nelly replied—and in the same second wanted to clasp a hand over her mouth. She wasn’t Kara anymore, she was Eleanor. And Eleanor had been the center of the crowd all her life. Ava propped her chin onto her palm. Liar! I thought you were the star of this town. She chuckled, poking Nelly‘s leg. That's me. Nelly waved her hand dismissively, then swiftly changed the topic to both girl‘s respective crushes. 

And crushing she did—on Matt Rodgers, a Michelangelo reborn, basketball prodigy of Brindleton Private School and the hot dream of every girl around. Of course Nelly told her friends, her friends told other people and soon everyone at school seemed informed. Eleanor DeSantis had always been the talk of the town and she was used to drawing attention. Unfortunately, this included the unwanted attention as well. She‘d broken up with her sister‘s boyfriend on the spot after the switch, but Spencer Prescott hadn‘t been able—or willing—to accept this new reality. A few days after the talk had spread through school, she’d opened the door to Spencer who was holding a pink flower in hand. Dude... She’d scrunched up her face. Spencer met her gaze with pleading eyes. Come on Nelly, can‘t we just talk? She was about to close the door on him, when he called out: what the hell did I do? She’d bitten her lower lip hard. You’ve only been in love with my worst nightmare, she thought to herself. And you’re still in love with her. 

Learn to take no for an answer, she replied instead, shutting the door. 

Nelly and Kirsten had „borrowed“ the car of Nelly‘s father in celebration of her newly acquired driver’s license and sped down the country road near her house with booming high-end stereo. The girls howled along to the music, their hair fluttering wildly around their faces as Nelly went to full speed. Cute jocks at twelve! Kirsten screeched to overtone the stereo and pointed at two boys trudging along the road with sports bags hanging from their shoulders. When Nelly slowed to a halt next to them, Kirsten let down her window. Hi, Danny, Hi Matty, she’d called breezily, batting her long black eyelashes. What’s up? Matt smiled lazily, his gaze shifting to Nelly. Just finished training. Hey, Nelly, how are you? Nelly crossed her legs on the seat and threw back her hair. I’m wicked! Want a ride home? Daniel Prescott shook his head vehemently, while in the same breath Matt answered: sure! Nelly reached across to open the door for him, but Daniel held his friend back. Dude, no! Matt shook him off and rolled his eyes. I‘m just taking my chances, bro! Not my fault you’re into dick! Kirsten shifted in her seat uncomfortably while she gazed back and forth between the boys. Daniel stepped away as Matt climbed into the car, he looked absolutely mortified. So? I like gay people, Nelly quipped to ease the tension and padded the empty seat behind her. Come on, Daniel. Daniel’s hands clenched into fists and for a moment he looked like he wanted to tackle her. Then he whirled around and stomped off without another word. Kirsten shrugged and when Matt shifted closer to Nelly she could feel his warm breath against the back of her neck. His loss, he‘d rasped. 

As summer came to an end, Nelly and Matt were officially dating. Beyond a few flirts here and there at boarding school, Nelly never had a real boyfriend before and the experience was wonderful and scary at the same time. Wonderful, because Matt was an adorable, goofy ball of energy. Fun, tender and he always knew the right things to say to make her blush. Scary because he‘d known Nelly—the other Nelly—long before, and well enough. When did your handwriting get so bubbly? Matt asked while they were doing homework on his patio. Her hand had stilled. It’s always been like that. Matt wiggled his eyebrows. Nell, last month I teased you that your handwriting looks like a granny’s and you insisted that it looks vintage. No offense, you don’t have to force yourself to write differently. I kinda liked your granny twirls. Nelly had shoved her hands into the pockets of her shorts so Matt couldn’t see them shaking. She simply flashed a smile and kissed him, avoiding an answer. After she‘d stepped back into her old place she‘d figured she could handle things with her eyes closed. But since she‘d become Nelly again she realized that perhaps she hadn’t known her sister as well as she thought. 

She was aware that she was dancing on eggshells. The summer passed, then fall. Yet she still found herself slipping up once and then. Admittedly, she was getting slightly paranoid. Were people catching up on her? At first everything seemed just fine between her friends and her, but they had started to grow distant lately. They were keeping secrets from her and whispered behind Nelly’s back when they thought she wasn’t noticing. One day after gym class she found Kirsten texting someone on the phone and Kirsten explained she was talking to her crush, but when Nelly wanted to sneak a peek at who it was the other girl shielded her phone and refused to show her. It’s top secret, Kirsten purred, her voice irritatingly smug. Nelly was sure it was the older pastor she’d caught her friend making out with in church before. She tried convincing Kirsten that pastor Javier was gross and predatory, but Kirsten hadn’t wanted hear any of it. She wasn’t the only one who’d stopped listening to Nelly. For months Rebecca had written countless postcards to her mother, dead certain that her mom was going to visit her during winter vacation if she remained persistent enough.

She’s never coming back, Nelly had scoffed, fed up with the same old topic being beat to death since literal months. Rebecca’s mother had been an irresponsible teen mom and she most likely moved on with her own life. It was ridiculous to think she would be stepping back into her daughter’s life after thirteen years of blissfull ignorance. Rebecca had looked so hurt by Nelly’s callous declaration. You’re wrong! she’d insisted and Nelly wanted to stomp her foot in frustration. It bothered her how much her friends had started questioning her. When did they become so ungrateful? They’d been nobodies before Nelly came around and given them a purpose. It was as if her friends had long forgotten what she’d done for them. And who she was.

By the time Nelly’s seventeenth birthday was around the corner, she felt like she was basically friends with a bunch of strangers. It seemed that even Matt was slowly slipping through her fingers. He’d taken off with his family to Granite Falls for winter vacation instead of attending Nelly’s party. My family has been planning this all year, Matt had tried to excuse the trip. Even my sister will come join us from college. When Nelly suggested he’d stay for her birthday and to join his family later, he’d just shrugged, asserting: it’s nothing personal. But it was personal. And this happened at the worst time possible, now that her twin was coming home to celebrate together with her. Nelly had been fighting with her parents over this the past days, but they stayed firm. They’d even urged her to be nice to Kara! She’s your sister honey, her mother had stated the obvious. Can’t you at least try to get along with her?

No! Nelly had roared, locking herself into her room. Kara just wanted to stir trouble like she always did when she came home. Nelly had tried to avoid talking to her these past months, always sleeping over at a friend’s house, while Kara was here. But she couldn’t avoid the birthday party. What if Kara tried to fool everyone again ... and switch? And what if everyone believed her? Nelly’s gaze locked onto her drawer, she pulled out her sister’s old phone again. If only she knew all of Kara’s secrets ... the dirtiest of them. Those were the only weapon she’d have against her twin. Her fingers ghosted over the display screen. This was her last PIN attempt, it was nothing or all. Nelly entered the date of june fifth, the date of Cloud’s death ... the day she lost her name to Kara. The screen flashed, a row of messages were popping up. Short of breath, Nelly scrolled through the texts. Most of them were from Spencer, who’d tried to win her back after the breakup. And some were from Jillian and Rachel. Those were the interesting ones. Nelly flopped down on her bed to read.

For the first time since Kara went away, she felt brave to face her sister again. Though she hadn’t been ready to stroll into the kitchen to store the remnants of her birthday cake inside the fridge and stumble across Ava sneaking a silver candlestick into her handbag ... What are you doing? Nelly gasped. Ava froze like a deer caught in headlights. It’s not ... what it looks like, she stammered. It’s exactly what it looks like, Nelly shot back. This was unbelievable! But it only confirmed what she’d privately been thinking these past weeks. That her friends were really just taking advantage of her social status. They stuck to her because she was cool, and rich, and popular and certainly they hoped that Nelly’s sparkle would rub off on them. When asked to leave, Ava had pressed her palms together pleadingly. Nelly, please don’t do this. I didn’t mean it, I swear. You don’t have to go to the police... I thought we were friends. Nelly actually laughed out loud. You really think we’re friends after this? After you ... Nelly’s voice died in her throat. Something was moving at the window. Was that ... a person? She felt her blood running cold. During the past two months she’d constantly gotten the strange inkling that someone was watching her, following her around. At first she’d thought it was still Spencer until she’d realized an unsettling pattern. It happened too rarely. And it only ever happened on weekends her twin had been home. The room around her started to blur, even Ava. All she could see were two distinctive fuming eyes staring at her through the frosted window, wide and unblinking. Those were her sister’s stark blue eyes ... and then they were gone. Nelly could swear she heard her twin’s mocking laughter outside.

She just left Ava standing there, her mind racing furiously. Her sister had been stalking her, that much was clear. She was so done with Kara. The glass door slammed shut behind her as she barged outside into the freezing cold. I know it’s you!, she growled. You aren’t scaring me anymore, do you hear me? She glanced around wildly, arms wrapped around herself, but the porch was empty and dark. She paused — uncertain for a moment. Are you looking for me? someone asked behind her, but that voice wasn’t her sister’s. Nelly turned and saw Daniel Prescott leaning against the white wooden railing. Daniel, Nelly breathed out, relaxing her shoulders. She hadn’t exactly invited him, but the Prescott’s came to every family event. I thought ... She took a puzzled look around. I thought you were someone else.

Who? Daniel’s bow shaped lips warped into a blank smile. Something seemed ... off ... about that expression. She couldn’t exactly point a finger at it, but he was giving her the creeps. Nevermind, she muttered, her voice repellent. She hoped he was going back inside. She had to confront her twin and fast. But Daniel casually propped an arm against the sliding door, blocking the way. I haven’t congratulated you in person, Nelly. He stretched out his words in a strange way, as if mocking her. She huffed, mildly annoyed. Okay. So get it over with, she wanted to add. Daniel regarded her silently, almost predatory, as if she were a fresh piece of meat, his wide smile turning plain creepy. Why so tense? Just wanna exchange a few words with my sister. You’ve been so quiet lately.

Hold on, what? Nelly gaped at him. I’m not your sister, she said carefully, trying to wedge herself around him. It was past the time to excuse herself. Her head shot up when she heard a faint high-pitched giggle in the distance. She started to walk towards it, but Daniel grabbed her arm, pulling her back roughly. You ain’t going anywhere, he snarled. I want that evidence you have on your phone! You’ve already proven incapable of keeping secrets to yourself! Nelly let out an incredulous sound. I have no idea what you’re talking about!, she spat. Her twin was watching them, she was right here. She was probably laughing her ass off. Nelly tried to peel Daniel’s fingers off her arm, they were digging into her soft skin violently. It hurt! Leave me alone, you creep! You’re delusional! Nelly was yelling now. She wiggled around furiously, then tried to hit him but only managed to scratch his face. Daniel leaned in close, his breath tickling her cheek. Perhaps I am, he smiled. He shoved her hard against the shoulders, sending the world around her into a spin. Her back hit the floor with a dull sound and with that all the air was knocked out of her lungs. 

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. The falling snow around her flashed and blurred with the rhythm of her pain, while Daniel stood above her and watched with a blank face. He looked completely out of it. Nelly's eyes fluttered close and she stilled, the coldness slowly seeping into her jeans and sweater. Three seconds passed, then five, then ten. Nelly? Daniel asked. His voice sounded softer now, almost guilty. Nelly kept her eyes closed, trying hard not to breathe. After a few more seconds she heard heavy footsteps slowly moving away. The sliding door opened and closed quietly. Nelly shot up and inhaled frantically, her lungs screaming for air. Her back ached so badly that her eyes watered with tears from the pain. She’d almost screamed out when a boney hand clasped down on her shoulder. Don’t worry, a voice just like her own hummed above her. I’m here.

Kara wanted to switch back. She’d seen it coming miles ago. You’re not suited for this role, her sister hummed after she watched Nelly scramble up onto her feet. Everyone can see it. I can only hope Daniel knocked some sense into you. Kara chuckled as if the situation was funny. So she had in fact been spying. No, they don’t. They aren’t figuring out shit, Nelly hissed through clenched teeth. Her sister only rolled her eyes. Oh, Kara. If only you knew how badly you messed up. Everyone around is full of you, even your own „friends“. She wiggled her fingers in quotation marks. You have no idea, Nelly spat. I’m not some kind of role to act out! I’m Eleanor DeSantis and I’m taking back my life, there’s nothing you can do about it. She clucked her tongue. And guess, what? I’ve figured you out too, so try and set me up one more time, and I’m going to tell everyone what you've done.

Kara let out an amused laugh. And what would that be? 

Nelly stepped closer. I know that you killed Tatum Rutherford. You were just stupid enough to never delete your text messages with Jill and Rachel from your phone. You told Tatum the pills were going to help her social anxiety and that she had to swallow lots of it with alcohol to work. That she’d be so much cooler once she did it. And then you went around and told everyone that Tatum overdosed on purpose because she’d been a junkie. All of this, just because you saw her slipping a pink letter into Spencer’s bag after gym. Say Kara, was that worth it? 

Yes. Kara shrugged, completely unfazed. Her boots were scraping over the floorboards as she shuffled very close to Nelly. I texted Jill and Rach that I wanted to do it, I never admitted it as much. Your measle proof doesn’t exist. Besides, who are you going to blame for this crime? Yourself? When Nelly winced, she went on talking. Just accept the facts. That you have lost. You’ve lost the rights to my name a long time ago and now—she gesticulated widely around her—your little game of play-pretend has come to its inevitable end. This is your last chance, Kara. Switch back with me. Nelly felt her fingers clench into fists. Her sister‘s intense gaze was burning on her skin like acid. They had played this game—no this challenge—, as long as she could remember. Long before she’d realized how manipulative her sister was. Kara had always won their silent battles, because Nelly simply let her. She’d always given in, genuinely thinking it would make her sister happy. But Kara wouldn’t ever be happy, she lived off the despair from other people. She had turned into a person Nelly couldn’t recognize and this time ... this time she was not giving in. Nelly slowly breathed out. No, she answered. 

Her sister said nothing. She looked ... disappointed. Not even angry, just like she was over all of this. Nelly turned around to strut back inside, when all of a sudden someone grabbed her from behind and there was a sharp pain around her neck. She gasped, flailing her arms as she was being pulled back. Someone—no, Kara—was pulling violently at her locket. Nelly coughed, the chain was digging painfully into her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Help! she tried to scream out, but it only resulted in a choked noise. Black spots were dancing around the edges of her vision as she heard her sister’s ragged breath against her ear and tried to peel the chain off her throat, but her fingers were so stiff and clammy from the cold. Her entire body tingled and was starting to feel numb. She was ... she was dying. Kara‘s lips were pressed against her earlobe as Nelly‘s consciousness was fading, her words barely a whisper under her icy breath. Goodbye, Kara! she chuckled. Nelly‘s mouth opened, but she couldn’t talk—she couldn’t think. 

The whole world was plunging into black. 

Author's note: Thank you so much for your time and patience and thank you for reading this story. I hope you finished it with a “yay” rather than a “nay”. Anyways, a new project is in the planning so if you liked „A Deceptive Perfection“, I hope you’ll be sticking around for more. :)

[kaycha1989]

The Right Partner

My Hero Academia Fanfic

Characters: Katsuki Bakugou, OC

Rating: Mature

Chapter 6

Patrol was going smoothly. Bakugou took Kia on a different patrol route than usual.  It went through a busier part of town with large shops and a lot of foot traffic. Bakugou’s intimidating figure split the crowds easily enough for them to pass through unhindered. A few braver souls called out to the hero, asking about his new partner. Kia would stop and introduce herself to the curious citizens. That made Bakugou’s temper rise and he kept threatening to leave her behind.

“Hey, I’m a new hero so I have to get my name out there,” Kia told him as she waved to the people she had just been talking to.

“We are supposed to be on patrol not signing autographs,” Bakugou snapped at her.

“Well, the only one getting asked for autographs is you, so…” Kia said.

“Shut up,” he snarled.

“Hey, it doesn’t kill you to act a little friendly towards them. Gaining the favor of the citizens is one way to become the number one hero,” Kia lectured.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Bakugou said, ending the conversation.

Most of the time they walked in complete silence. Kia would ask questions every so often about the route or the buildings and their owners and Bakugou would always answer her with short, clipped sentences. She tried starting a conversation with him a couple of times but he just ignored her.

It was later in the day as they moved through a street filled with restaurants. Kia’s stomach rumbled at the amazing smells wafting from the buildings. She was just thinking about getting something to eat when Bakugou spoke up first.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“What?” she asked him, surprised by his question.

“Are you hungry?” Bakugou asked again.

“Yeah, I was just thinking we should get something to eat,” she replied.

“Follow me,” Bakugou said, turning to cross the street.

Curious, Kia followed her partner as he moved a few blocks down to a smaller restaurant.  When they walked up to the entrance, Bakugou stopped and held the door open for her. Kia stared at her partner, not believing what she was seeing.

“Are you going to go in or not?” Bakugou growled.

“Yes, thank you,” Kia said, stepping through the door quickly. She followed Bakugou over to one of the small two seater tables against the wall. It was a nice little restaurant with a homey atmosphere. The lighting was low and there weren’t very many people, so it was quiet. As Kia looked around as the waitress came over.

“Welcome back!” the waitress said. The woman looked to be in her forties, and gave them both a warm smile. “It is rare for you to bring someone along, Ground Zero.”

“My name is Wildside, I’m his new partner,” Kia introduce herself.

“It’s is a pleasure to meet you. I am Sukimi, my husband and I run this restaurant,” Sukimi replied. “What can I get the two of you today?”

“I will have the usual,” Bakugou said, not even looking at the menu.

“I will have the same,” Kia decided. Bakugou and Sukimi both looked at her with surprise.

“Are you sure?” Sukimi asked. “Don’t you want to ask what it is?”

“If B eats here a lot he must know what’s good,” Kia replied.

“Ok…” Sukimi said, turning to go put in the order.

“I’m the first partner you brought to this place?” Kia asked Bakugou.

“Don’t read into it,” he replied. “I was hungry and this place was close.”

“Sounds good to me,” Kia said as she studied some of the wall décor.

They sat in silence for a little while until Bakugou asked her a question, “So your quirks… what all can you do?”

Surprised, Kia turned her attention back on her partner. Bakugou had never tried starting a conversation before, so she had expected that they would sit in silence and wait for their food.

“You opened the envelope?” she asked.

“Yes, but it didn’t give me any details on your abilities,” Bakugou answered. “I’m guessing you have heightened senses, and I saw the scales and talons at the office. Is there any more to it?”

“Yeah, transforming like I did at the office happens sometimes with really strong emotions,” Kia said, “I do have heightened senses and abilities. They are elevated when I activate my dragon quirk. My scales are like armor, not much can penetrate them.”

“Can you change completely into a dragon?” Bakugou asked.

Kia hesitated, “Yes… I can… but for certain reasons it is unstable, so I only use partial transformations.”

“Why is it unstable?” he continued. Kia’s expression turned vacant as she took a minute to answer. Bakugou could tell she was thinking carefully about her response.

Kia took a deep breath, “My past is not as bright and shiny as you might think. There are things I went through that have left… repercussions. It is nothing for you to worry about and it shouldn’t interfere with our work. If there is something you need to know about, I will inform you, but I’m not ready or willing to tell you all the details yet. I hope you can understand?”

“Is there anything I need to know?” Bakugou asked, irritated.

“I have trained constantly to have complete control over my emotions so I don’t lose control. However, if I ever did completely transform, don’t do anything that could be seen as a threat or a challenge. The best thing to do would be to evacuate the area. If I did attack, my nose is very sensitive and a powerful blast could distract and possibly deter me,” Kia responded. “When I transform my mind functions on a primal level and I start reacting on instinct…I become more animal than human.”

“Now the name Wildside makes sense,” Bakugou said.

Kia laughed, “You know, someone actually called me that name about six years ago. It fit so well that I just rolled with it.”

Bakugou studied his partner, thinking about the information she just gave him. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes as she fiddled with a napkin on the table. She had said her past wouldn’t interfere with their job but he couldn’t help but wonder what exactly her past held. At that moment, Kia didn’t look like the Sunshine he had been working with the last couple of days.

Sukimi came up to their table carrying to bowls and sat them down on the table in front of them. “Here you go, I hope you enjoy!” she said cheerfully.

Kia could smell the hot spices rising from the noodles and shrimp that sat in a red sauce. She looked up to see Bakugou and Sukimi watching her. They were obviously waiting for her to take the first bite. Grinning at them, she picked up her chopsticks, plucked a shrimp from the bowl, and popped it in her mouth. Instantly, her taste buds were assaulted by the flavor. It was very spicy, but Kia loved it.

“This is amazing!” she gushed, “I haven’t been able to find any really good spicy food since I got here.”

“Well, I’m glad you like it!” Sukimi said as she left their table.

“So, you like spicy food?” Bakugou asked as he picked up his chopsticks. “I’ve never seen anyone else be able to stomach this dish.”

“I love spicy food,” Kia said, slurping some noodles. “The hotter, the better.”

“You sure you can take the heat?” Bakugou asked, taking a bite of his own.

“You know, you still haven’t asked me the second most asked question people ask when they find out what my quirk is,” Kia said, taking another bite.

Bakugou stared at her for a few seconds before it dawned on him, “You can breathe fire?”

“Yep,” she replied.

“That’s cool,” Bakugou said giving her a smile.

Kia paused in taking her next bite. Looking at Bakugou with surprise she gave him a soft smile. He couldn’t place the look in her eyes.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“You should smile like that more,” Kia told him.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Bakugou asked even more confused.

“The way you just smiled, it looked really nice,” she replied.

“Tch,” Bakugou turned away, feeling embarrassed.

“And he’s back!” Kia laughed. Bakugou couldn’t help but laugh along with her. “You know, this stuff is pretty spicy, but it is still just only making the top ten of the hottest foods I’ve ever eaten,” Kia said, gesturing to the bowl in front of her.

“Really?” Bakugou asked skeptically.

“Yep, I can make a nine alarm chili that will bring you to tears,” Kia gloated.

“You think so?” Bakugou challenged. “I can handle a lot of heat.”

“I will have to make it for you sometime,” Kia said, taking another bite.

“Now you’re going to have to,” Bakugou replied. As they both sat there eating the meal they talked about the different foods they liked to eat. It turned out they both like to eat raw peppers. They also swapped stories about the hottest foods they had eaten. When they finished their bowls Sukimi, came to take them.

“I’m impressed you ate that whole bowl and didn’t even have to ask for a pitcher of water,” Sukimi said to Kia. “The only customer we have that eats this dish is Ground Zero. He brought Red Riot here to try it once but the poor man was practically in tears.”

“Red Riot? Who is that?” Kia asked.

“We went to school together. He is a hero in another part of town,” Bakugou replied.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Sukimi chimed in. “Red Riot is his best friend.”

“So, when do I get to meet your best friend?” Kia asked. “I need to compare notes on how to handle your moods swings.”

“Shut up,” Bakugou rolled his eyes.

“What, you don’t want me to meet him?” Kia asked.

“No, the red idiot has been bugging me about meeting you,” Bakugou growled.

“Really, why?” she asked.

“He saw the video of what happened with that muscle head at the gym,” Bakugou replied.

Kia busted out laughing. “He saw that and wants to meet me? He must have a pretty good sense of humor.”

“He thought it was hilarious too,” Bakugou deadpanned.

“So, when do I get to meet him?” Kia asked.

“Never,” was his short reply.

“Aww, come on, B, I’m going to have to meet him sooner or later,” Kia prodded.

“What about your other quirk?” Bakugou asked, trying to change the subject.

“Deflecting, are we?” Kia accused.

“Just answer the question,” Bakugou demanded. “What does it mean by nitrogen manipulation?”

“I can manipulate nitrogen by combining it with other elements and create different reactions, even change its form.” Kia replied, letting him change the subject.

“Is that how you’re able to breathe fire?” Bakugou asked.

“In a way,” Kia replied. “We weren’t sure if it was a part of my dragon quirk or not, since I can use it independently from the other. Plus, I don’t just breathe fire. I can shoot it from my hands and feet or cover my whole body with it.”

“You said you can create different reactions?” Bakugou asked.

“I can use it in a gas or liquid form and I can cause it to just burn like a flame or explode. I’ve even been able to use it to bolster other fire user’s attacks giving them more range or power,” Kia informed him.

“So, that is how Jeanist thinks our quirks are a good match,” Bakugou said.

“That, and my scales can defend against your explosions if need be,” Kia added

“You said you could make nitrogen into a liquid form. You don’t mean as in liquid nitrogen, do you?” Bakugou asked.

“Yes, but it is more complicated. It freezes so quickly that it can do too much harm to the target, or even freeze myself,” she replied.

“I suppose rapid heating and cooling can be a problem?” Bakugou inquired.

“Yes, depending on the quantities I use. I also have to have an understanding of how things react or form together so I don’t mess up and cause a huge reaction,” Kia said.

Looking at the clock, Bakugou stood up from the table. “We can talk more about this later. We better get back to work.”

“Do you want to keep patrolling?” Kia asked, standing up.

“We will for a couple more hours, then we can head back to the office to take care of a few things there,” Bakugou replied, making his way to the counter. “I was thinking about doing a few night patrols the end of this week.”

“Sounds good to me,” Kia said, reaching into her belt to pay for her food.

“I’ve got it,” Bakugou said, handing Sukimi money for the meal.

“Thanks, B, you didn’t have to do that,” Kia said.

“Just drop it and let’s get to work,” Bakugou snapped.

They exited the restaurant and headed back down the street, continuing their patrol.

Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | Ch 6 | Ch 7 | Ch 8 | Ch 9 | Ch 10 | Ch 11 |

Ch 12 | Ch 13 | Ch 14 | Ch 15 | Ch 16 | Ch 17 | Ch 18 | Ch 19 | Ch 20 

[thequeenofcreole]

|《 A Dream of Fire: Chapter 6 - Angels and Demons 》|

I close my eyes for a moment, inhaling the thick air around me. I can’t go in there unprotected or under the protection of these witches. I have no idea what I’m getting myself into and I don’t trust these witches to protect themselves let alone me. I would end up being the one doing the protecting. So, I press my palms together, chanting softly under my breath. My skin tingles with the power I summon. An impenetrable protective barrier unseen to the naked eye. But I can feel it. It curves around my body like a knifes sheath. When I open my eyes, I see that the male witch and Talia are looking at me. I can’t tell if it’s fear I see in their eyes or if it’s anticipation. Either way, I say nothing and let them wonder.

We finally reach the club and I can hear the bass before we even get out of the car. The valet attendant opens the door for Talia and then me and, as I look around the French Quarter, it’s unrecognizable. Where there was once a bustling city, the streets are littered with people of all sorts which is what I’m used to. Some unkempt and others looking like they belong in the 11th ward sipping on cappuccinos. What surprises me is that I can feel that they’re different. All of them. But I have no idea what the hell they are. I’ve never felt the characteristics of the energy that surrounds me. Suddenly I’m glad for my protection spell. The buildings are broken. Desolate. Ruined. It almost brings tears to my eyes. It makes me miss home.

I’m escorted into the club by the male witch, his hand on my lower back making me more uncomfortable than I’d like to admit. I don’t know if it’s an attempt at a gesture of good faith or one of warning but if we weren’t surrounded by beings I can’t identify, his arm would be broken by now. The look I give him as I pull off my decorative sunglasses is all the warning he needs to pull his hand away and take a step back. I can’t have these people getting too comfortable. They fucked up before and I’ll never forget that. I’ll catch them slipping before they ever catch me in a vulnerable situation ever again.

As we walk in, the club is dark. This isn’t the type of club that you would find in |my| city. This place looks straight like something out of a movie. Dark, people dancing in shiny leather and lace. All black for some. All white for others. My eyes search the room, finding a group of beings all dressed in white suits. Their skin is pale and their hair is white. One of them catches my eye and his eyes glow a subtle hint of white. I’ve only ever seen eyes like that once. One of Lex’s friends. I saw his eyes change for just a moment, but it looked exactly like the ones I’m looking into now. The memory brings more questions to my mind than answers.

My eyes shift to another group that’s surrounding a pool table. Dressed all in black suits. The opposite of the group before. They’re all savagely ripping and clawing at something laying on the table and it takes me a minute to realize that it’s a human thrashing and fighting against their assault. I instinctively move toward them but Talia grabs my arm to stop me. The sudden movement causes my protection spell to activate and she hisses as she pulls her hand away. One of them must feel me looking their way because he turns around to look at me. His eyes glow just like the others and he grins at me, his lips bloodied as he licks them slowly. He’s testing me. Measuring my resolve. Seeing if he can scare me. His body turns toward me and out of what seems like nowhere, a full set of black wings slowly span to their full length and a soft hiss leaves his lips. It takes me back because it’s beautifully terrifying. But, somehow, my gaze doesn’t break his as I pass. I can almost hear the loud laugh he emits over the loud music before he turns back to his meal, his wings sheathing back to their original position hidden beneath his clothes.

“They’re Aeges. At least that’s what we call them. They’re different on every plane. Some call them Gods. Some call them Angels. They’re an ancient species. Only we supes can see them in their true form. Humans will die instantly if they ever witness their true forms. It’s too much for them to handle.” Talia whispers to me as we pass.

I look at her quickly, amazement in my eyes and maybe a hint of terror. Angels? I almost can’t process it. So, I push it to the back of my mind to process later when my life isn’t in imminent danger.

From my left I suddenly hear a cloud of whispers in my ear. I gasp softly and turn to see a hooded figure in the corner. He’s sitting by himself, smoking a cigar. I can’t see his face, but I see a hint of white hair and black eyes as the light of his cigar illuminates his face ever so slightly. My heart…. palpitates. Like it’s trying to jump out of my chest toward him or warn me against him. As long as my eyes stay on him, I can hear the whispers in my head. I can’t look away from him. That is, until Talia pulls back a black lace curtain for us to pass through.

It’s unmistakable which one of the people in the the large VIP area are the Seer. Different beings surround her, and I can tell that she doesn’t just dabble in the magic of witches. She reigns and revels in magic of all sorts.

She looks feral. Nothing like the beings in this club that sport leather and lace. She wears a brown dress that fits loosely around her small frame and a floor length jacket with leather and fur accents. There’s a crown on her head that looks like it was handmade with fur trimmings. The two witches that are by her side, knelt down, look between her and I intently, waiting for any need to protect their Queen. They worship her. It’s clear. Her eyes are cloudy like she’s blind, but she looks directly at me the moment I step in her presence.

Talia and her group of witches kneel down and bow to her. I stay upright.

“So this is she.” She stands upright from her throne and walks down the few steps that lead to her seat, her feet bare as they gracefully pad across the fur carpet and toward me. “The Queen.” I stand my ground as she approaches me and when she mocks a curtsy in my direction, my jaw clenches tight. She stands upright and leans forward, inhaling deeply, before she tilts her head to the side as if she’s…. tasting. Savoring my scent.

“You’re not afraid. Good. You shouldn’t be.” She grins up at me, her grey, cloudy eyes meeting mine. “You have quite a journey ahead of you, Creole Queen. I’ve seen it all.”

I can see from the corner of my eye that Talia and the male witch look at each other and I do my best not to scoff quietly. I’m here to listen because I didn’t have a choice in the matter. Not because I believe any of this bullshit.

“You got the wrong one. I’m not her. I cain’t be.”

As I look into her eyes, I can almost see the reflection of images in her white iris’. Like she’s having visions even as we speak. She smirks at me before turning to move back toward her throne.

“So you don’t believe? That you could hold that much power or that you want so desperately to go home to your family that you don’t |want| it to be true?”

She sits down, the witches on either side of her straightening her dress until she waves her hand for them to stop. At the mention of my family, my jaw clenches and I have to force back the guttural snarl that threatens to leave my lips.

“This woman…. She’s not the one.”

I almost can’t believe the words that leave her lips as she says them. Talia and her partner look at each other and I can tell that the energy has shifted. Relief washes over me and I feel like I can breathe again. Fuck. I can go home. I can fucking go home.

“Don’t mistake me, Deréon Devereaux. We will see each other again. Sooner than you think….”

She grins at me and leans back in her seat before dismissing us with a wave of her hand. “Leave now. You have what you need, Talia LaBlanc.” Talia doesn’t move at first, but I’m the first to push past her band of goons and push past the lace curtain. My heart is racing as I leave the club. The witches that accompanied me either don’t follow me or linger too far behind to keep up with my eager feet. I’m no longer of any help to them so they’re in no hurry to keep me restrained.

When I get outside, I feel like I can breathe. Like my body is no longer under attack. Like I can accept the very real possibility of going home. To my babies. I walk down the sidewalk a ways and reach my hand to softly touch the side of a brick building to steady myself. The rush of adrenaline is slowly starting to wear off and I feel a little light headed from the excitement.

I close my eyes for a moment to concentrate on steadying my breathing when I feel a wisp of wind push my curls against my cheek. When I open my eyes again, the man that Talia said was an Aege…. the man with blood on his lips, stands in front of me. The familiar grin on his lips as he looks me up and down.

The energy shift around me makes me, for the first time, worried. What have I gotten myself into?

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Have You Forgotten How Good CAMPAIGN Tastes?

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He Who Thinks CAMPAIGN Drinks CAMPAIGN

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Stop This CAMPAIGN Is Not Ready Yet

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Take What You Want but Leave CAMPAIGN Alone

Takes A CAMPAIGN but It Keeps on Tickin’

Taking Care of You

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Tastes Great Less CAMPAIGN

Tell Them About The CAMPAIGN Mummy

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The CAMPAIGN Look

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There Ain’t No Party Like A CAMPAIGN Party

There Is No Life Without CAMPAIGN

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There’s Always Room For CAMPAIGN

There’s First Love and There’s CAMPAIGN Love

There’s Lots of Fun in CAMPAIGN

There’s More Than One Way to Eat A CAMPAIGN

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Too Orangey For CAMPAIGN

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Turn Loose The CAMPAIGN

Two Hours of CAMPAIGN in Just Two Calories

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Unzip A CAMPAIGN

Value From Ideas – CAMPAIGN

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What Can CAMPAIGN Do For You?

What Is CAMPAIGN?

What Would You Do For A CAMPAIGN?

What’s in Your CAMPAIGN?

Whatever Makes You Happy

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When It Absolutely Positively Has to Be CAMPAIGN Overnight

When The Going Gets Tough The Tough Get CAMPAIGN

When You Say CAMPAIGN You’ve Said It All

When You’ve Got CAMPAIGN Flaunt It

Whenever There’s A Snack Gap CAMPAIGN Fits

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Which Twin Has The CAMPAIGN?

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Women Love CAMPAIGN

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CAMPAIGN – A Class of Its Own

CAMPAIGN – A Safe Place in an Unsafe World

CAMPAIGN – as Good as It Gets

CAMPAIGN – Australian For Beer

CAMPAIGN – Be Prepared

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CAMPAIGN – Empowering People

CAMPAIGN – Enjoy The Difference

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CAMPAIGN – Forget The Rest

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CAMPAIGN – If You Love CAMPAIGN

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CAMPAIGN – Now

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CAMPAIGN – Yabba Dabba Duh

CAMPAIGN – You See This Name You Think Dirty

CAMPAIGN – Your Game

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These are some of the best campaign slogans or taglines that you can modify based on your own needs and then make use of.

via Slogans

[iknownothingihearnothing]

Sense 8 Recap: “Obligate Mutualisms”

us

A lot of the titles this season are like WHAT. I had to look back at the episode a few times to make sure I was spelling it right and this coming from a Grammar Nazi. Truly, certified. Sieg Spellcheck!

I love that gif. I plan to use it as much as possible. I believe every Nazi should stop murderin’ and xenophobin’ to eat a banana every now and then.

Alrighty then--

--so we ended episode 1 with Will uttering his amazing (and, if you happen to be Whispers, pants-shitting) line--

“You think you’re hunting us? We’re coming for YOU.”

And Whispers himself also concluded the episode looking like someone had stuck some Milk of Magnesia in his coffee. 

Thus, allow us to get to this rather confusigly titled second offering of the season, shall we?

We open up in the interrogation room place. Whispers is there and he doesn’t look pleased. Like, at all. 

However, Will does. In fact, he’s even freshly shaven because he’s been sleeping so well, what with the lack of Whispers haunting his dreams. Will has come to gloat. And he looks like the cat that ate the canary.

And the sensates are all there as well, drinkin’ up. They’re celebrating; they owe it to themselves. All the while, Will is describing the *sad trombone* look on Whispers’ face. 

Will knows he totally has the upper hand here. He’s not at all threatened. And Whispers knows it too. He even tries to do the classic villain-is-fucked tactic by insinuating that he and Will aren’t so different after all.

Will, of course, is having none of it.

Whispers, in his desperation at being cornered, mentions something about how no “sapien” has ever had as much in common with him as Will does. What, does he wanna bro it out now? “A little senorium pride?” Will asks.

Gorski. Will Gorski. 

Will knows Croome is there, hiding behind the mirrored wall in the interrogation room. Just to show he means biznezz, he has Nomi, Neets, and Bug find out that he recently sent his aunt a large get well bouquet. Will tells Whispers to inform Croome he hopes his aunt feels better, which he does. Furthermore, they discover he sent another bouquet to a woman named Rita. His wife’s name is Claire. 

That has Croome bursting into the room, of course. He doesn’t want Claire to find out about Rita, you naughty boy. Will has demands. He wants a meeting with Croome. And sans Whispers/Milt/Matheson/Gibbons. 

Damn, Whispers has a lot of monikers. Why do evil dudes have so many damn names? Can’t they just go by Bob or something to make it easier for us recappers?

“Hi, I’m Bob and I’ll be capturing, killing, and turning you into a zombie today.”

Since Croome cannot see or hear Will, Whispers must play a game of psychic telephone and relay the info. Whispers claims what Will wants is impossible. Nomi fires off a text to Croome.

Complete with emojis.

I guess in this context it wouldn’t make sense. I mean, “We want Gibbons on poop” sounds weird. Hilarious but weird. 

Nomi fired off that text fast, man. IDK about y’all, but when I use emojis and “+” and stuff, I’m fumbling all thumbs.

Anyway, Croome agrees, telling Whispers that he exaggerated his necessity at BPO. Whispers-hype. Some of those creepy hazmat suit guys storm in, inject something into Whispers’ neck, and he’s carted out protesting. He’s gone but it’s only ep 2 so we know he’ll be back.

Meanwhile, our heroes are celebrating with some fun in the sun in Amsterdam. Yet, the lovely, shiny scene contrasts wildly with the realty Sun is in--trapped in a harsh women’s prison in Seoul for a crime she didn’t commit. Laying on the floor in her underwear smiling, her neighbor asks her if she’s dreaming about getting out. Since she cannot explain further without sounding insane, she says yes.

Everyone’s in a good mood after serving Whispers his ass, it seems, including Lito. He comes waltzing into his agency, all smiles, ready to tackle his next project after his last movie flopped. Unfortunately, there is bad news. Lito’s “people” tell him that the offer’s been rescinded due to the enacting of a so-called “morals clause”. 

Gawddang, are people really so iffy about homosexuality in Mexico? So he’s gay! Who cares? 

But now I think...would a renown action star here in the US who just came out of the closet face the same animosity? Maybe not to the extent Lito’s enduring, particularly now with the Diversity Revolution and the Woke Generation, but...yeah, I can see situations like this one arising. Quite a few of them.

In San Fran, Nomi is shaving her legs while Neets is doing her lashes and Nomi suggests a night out to “feel normal again” while in Seoul a bunch of guards burst in to the prisoner’s sleeping cell place and take Sun. She appears before Nomi, who is dressed to the nines to go out, and begs for help.

This ain’t good.

Yeah, apparently those guards aren’t even from that prison.

This is BAD, you guys.

So, instead of going out, the three hackateers break into the Seoul Women’s Correctional Facility’s computer system to get eyes on Sun. But right when she and the non-guards are about to enter this weird room, the camera goes dark. 

Nomi screams at her NOT to enter that damn room at all costs.’

I said this when I was live-tweeting (sorta, as you can’t really live-tweet binge-watching) this episode. Sun was a Potential Slayer activated when Willow did her scythe-y spell. 

But they taze her, and when they do, all of the Amazing 8 feel it. She’s escorted into this room where a noose waits to suffocate her to death and, in the ensuing scuffle, it briefly manages to do so, almost killing her as well as the rest of the sensates, until her friend from the cell, the one who killed her abusive husband, stabs one of the non-guards.

When Sun thanks her, she gets one of the best lines of the episode, explaining that when they took her, she saw the same look in their eyes as that in her bastard husband’s.

Sun replies, “No, they won’t.” You bet your ass.

Never underestimate the power of a pissed off woman.

With Will’s help, Sun easily frees herself of the handcuffs. And Bug’s gonna hack into the prison security system. He’s gonna make it sing “Born Free”.

I *really* wanted to use a GIF of the snakes from the “Whacking Day” Simpsons episode slithering off into the sunset here but I couldn’t find one that loaded correctly on tumblr *grumblegrumbletoilandtrouble* so this will have to suffice.

So Sun and her friend sneak out, Sun knocking out any guards along the way. The only vehicle in the lot is a bus, which makes Capheus giddy. I like Giddy!Capheus. Our resident criminal, Wolfie, steps in to hotwire the thing, and they’re off. 

At the intercom, Lito uses his acting abilities to help Sun get the fuck outta Dodge.

Lito is a good liar. I guess it’s a must for an actor. I admire that. I’m also a good liar. Thinking on your toes and all that. It’s gotten me out of more jams than I care to admit to. 

I really cannot believe there’s an intercom. Do all prisons have intercoms? It almost looks like a drive-thru. “Yes, I’ll have the #2 combo meal with the medium Coke. And an apple pie. Also, tell the warden I’ve got the Midtown Murderer in the trunk.”

It works. They’re free!

Too bad computers and hackers weren’t really a thing back then. 

My German Hottie Wolfie and Will point out that they’re only free in the very narrow sense. It won’t be long until the cops discover the breakout. Soon, barricades will be set up all over Seoul. Helicopters will be on their asses. 

I think it helps muchly that, inside this particular cluster, we have both a former cop and thief. Two perspectives on how to approach a situation like this. 

So they ditch the bus and go car “shopping” in a nearby lot. Again, with the help of Wolfgang, Sun breaks into some less obvious vehicle and the other lady--I keep forgetting her name--wonders aloud how the hell a banker’s daughter knows how to be a car thief. Sun answers “other lives”. 

While they’re all arguing over where the hell to go, Other Lady Whose Name I Forget tells Sun that she has a friend in the area, one she trusts with her dang life.

Cut to--

--and Felix. They’re just coming out of an elevator in some fancy-schmancy building in Berlin. They’re to sign some papers for club ownership. From one Sebastian Fuchs.

Yeah, I’m gonna gigglesnort every time I have to type up that surname, I’m sorry. In my head, I keep mispronouncing it FUCKS. 

Finding the correct “look at all the fucks I give” GIF--I originally had two others, but neither would load correctly so I literally have three GIFs saved on my laptop labeled “fucks″, “fucks2″, and “fucks3″.

I hope my brother doesn’t go sneaking on my computer searching for porn. He’ll be vastly disappointed. 

Sebastian invites them in, where he pauses his FAFSA game. He owns a couple players in the league, which, to me, sounds kinda...slave-y. He’s interested in talent, not teams, which is why he’s intrigued by Wolfgang. They have a beer, and he introduces his “extraordinary right hand”.

Meet the right hand:

Aaaaaaaaand Wolfie’s reaction to said right hand:

Look, the guy may be in love with Kala, but he’s still, you know, a *guy*. 

Sebastian introduces her as Lila Facchini, from Naples. Felix is obviously thunderstruck even further when he discovers her Italian heritage. The Germans and Italians were allies in WWII, but only because of Mussolini, and after Italy surrendered to the Allies, Italy was officially declared “conquered” by Germany. At least until they were pushed back outta there. So while there was HELLA resistance among the Italian peoples against the Germans during WWII, they couldn’t resist a purdy Italian lady. Nor could a purdy Italian lady resist a strong, hot German man in uniform. Not that I can blame her. I’m Jewish and I’d be like “Yeah, k, I surrender. Just kiss me already, Leutnant.” 

While everyone’s talking around the coffee table, Wolfie’s standing there looking all skeptical and suspicious when--gasp--Lila mind-flirts with him. She’s a sensate. 

And, I mean, she is really laying it on thick. Totally doesn’t believe in hard to get.

He’s looking down at her a cross between “Dafuq” and “I...did not see this meeting going this way and am quite intrigued.”

Wolfie sinks down into a chair, all hot and bothered, while Lila mind-gropes him. In *his* vision, though, to Felix, Wolfgang looks like he’s either about to sprout a massive Washington Monument or throw up.

Lila is totes fine.

We take a bit of a sidetrack to Nairobi to check in with Capheus. There/s a major water problem in the area. The price of fresh water keeps climbing. It’s a brief scene, so you know it will be important later.

Out on the terrace, Wolfie, Felix, Lila, and Sebastian are having dinner while Lila continues to mind-molest Wolfie. He does not seem to mind. They’re talking about business--money laundering and stuff--while Lila and Wolfgang basically have mind-sex in front of Felix and Sebastian and they have no idea. 

Checking in with Lito, Hernando, and Dani, our threesome are looking for a new place. Unfortunately, the place they like is twice their spending limit. But they can all fit in the tub! That means they have to buy it! It’s fate!

The universe’s sign that you must have something is when you can fit in it. Just ask a cat.

Next scene, Sun and Ming-Jun (THAT’S her name!) are covertly and not at all suspiciously sneaking into the friend’s apartment for the next few nights.

Will and Riley are going to meet Jonas at the train station...though they have no idea why Jonas would prefer to meet there of all places. Riley vows to keep an eye on Will while he meets Jonas on the bridge--and when they come in contact, Will realizes that Jonas is hooked up just like that Zombie Drake dude in his dreamemory was. Jonas is amazed that Will himself could come in contact with Whispers and live.

Oh yeah, he did more than that. Booya!

Whoa, okay, lots of info now. So he tells Will of his father giving birth--yes, his FATHER, somehow, which does nothing but remind me of Lorne’s mother from Angel--

Numfar! Do dance of joy!

(Sorry y’all. That cracks me up every time.)

Where was I? Oh yes. So apparently sensates can give birth at any gender. And at any age. That is why BPO is hunting them, the population growth. 

Additionally, Jonas and Angelica had a relationship and spawned a cluster of their own.

So two sensates need to make a cluster? What if only one’s a sensate? Will there be a half a cluster? Or a half a...person? A homo-sapsorium? 

Angelica makes all these babehs who grow up to be homo sensorium themselves but there’s one guy who doesn’t particularly like his fate. He’d rather be “normal”, whatever that means. In fact, he prays for BPO to find him.

His name is Todd. I think we’re starting to understand Angelica’s motives for partnering (and “partnering”) up with Whispers now.

One by one, every one of those babehs disappeared, the last being this dude Raoul from Mexico, a reporter. Lito figures right quick that Jonas is talking about Raoul Pasquale, who interviewed him once. 

He also “interviewed” him once.

Get it? Cus they hooked up!

More creepy hazmat suit guys come downstairs to visit Jonas and just before they shoot him up with meds, he tells Will that he needs to be wary of Croome, that he’s like a lizard or something.

Now we’re at the apartment of Ming-Jun’s friend. All three are eating truly delicious looking Korean food and I throw down my frozen corndog, glaring at it as if it did something wrong.

We learn she was in prison because her husband killed himself leaving behind a bunch of gambling debts, much like Rose’s father in Titanic. ‘Cept, there was no Leo waiting for her, just a bunch of “holidays” to Japan she had to take to smuggle drugs over the border. On the tenth trip, the cops were waiting for her. When she got out of the clink, her son had no idea who she was, and is still ashamed of his drug smuggling mother. 

Will is meeting Croome in Amsterdam’s Rijksmuseum. There, they sit in front of Rembrant’s The Night Watch. I know because I googled it. Yeah, I’m no art historian. I can name more facts and figures about the Second World War than a text book and know all the capitals of every US-recognized country in the world (thanks, Sporcle!), but art history is beyond me. I know Rembrandt cut off his ear for a chick, though. Dude, haven’t you ever heard of chocolates?

Croome gives some stupid Evil Guy But I’m On Your Side speech about Rembrandt and Mozart before delving into the real reason for this meeting. Croome has had a change of heart. He wants the world to see sensorium as actual people. Unfortunately not everyone at BPO agree with him. 

Croome asks Will what he knows about BPO. Nomi steps in to tell him about Ruth El-Sadaawi, who founded BPO in the sixties. She was brilliant. She wanted to bring homo sapiens and homo sensoriums together, etcetera, etcetera. Obligate mutualisms. The title of the episode.

Riley appears to add that this doesn’t sound like the same organization in Iceland.  

Really, Riley? Der.

9.11 changed all that, just like it changed the world. It made BPO suspicious of everyone, wary of terrorists and the like. It’s a plausible explanation and makes perfect sense. But, Croome continues, there is a contingent of those inside BPO’s walls who envision bringing the company back to its roots. What they need from Will and his cluster is time and trust.

Croome gives Will a vial of psi-blockers as a sort of bit of collateral. They’re what Whispers takes to block out all the...noise. But just as Will and Croome shake hands...

Whispers, like, Whoopi Goldberg-as-Patrick Swayzes some poor girl in the museum and straight up stabs Croome in the neck, killing him.

Well. That’s one way of getting back at your former boss. My ex-boyfriend just peed on his flower bed.

Following killing Croome against her will, she then slits her own throat.

Yay! 

I mean, yay because this was a good ep full of info. Not so much yay for Croome and this lady.

I said I’d have this recap out by Thursday and hey! It’s here with time to spare. Like forty minutes. THIS ONE TOOK FOREVER THERE WAS SO MUCH INFO. 

Seriously. I was on my butt all day cappin’ dis bitch. 

Will get to ep. 3 ASAP!

[twruniversity-blog]

Accepted America!

...Guess we’re not going to have to pay for air conditioning anymore.

Try not to freeze your roommate. Vita isn’t going to want to fill out the paperwork.

OOC;

Name: Realm Age: Under 18 Pronouns: Any! Activity: 3 Contact: its-altin-or-altout (tumblr) marching-man (other tumblr) Ships for Muse: I ship Alfred with common sense. 👌 RusAme FiteTP B) and er. Yea. Common sense. (Germany,South Italy South Korea, Prussia, France– those could be options. Maybe Spain or Ned or Belgium or Belarus or… ;) I’m open to trying most lol) I shy away from UsUk and AmeCan, gomen. Timezone: GMT-8 Triggers/Sensitive Subjects: None Any Concerns?: lol my activity apologies in advance

IC;

Character: America Full Name / Preferred Name: Alfred Finnegan Jones Age: 18 Birthday: July 4 Gender: Male Pronouns: he/him Housing: Toutouwai Village- Shared (pls give this boi a roommate he will die without one) Pets: none

IC - In Depth;

[ Trigger Warning: Abandonment Issues ]

Magical Branches: Fire & Ice

Ahurei (Unique Ability): Ice Mimicry- Alfred’s ahurei is something he prefers to keep under wraps as he hasn’t quite learned to control it. It’s something like the Hulk except instead of turning into an angry, green guy he turns into a living blizzard. Think ice golem combined with Elsa levels of suppression, and bam, there’s Alfred.

Major/s: Law, Aerospace Engineering Minor/s: Fire, Political Science Type of Degree: Bachelor’s

Clubs: Science Society, Politics Society, Engineering, Dueling, Science Fiction Films, Football, Tennis

Appearance:

Muscular and tall at 6’0” Alfred is a well built, attractive young man. He’s well aware of the fact that he can turn heads, and he’s practically the definition of a poster boy. His hair is typically neat sans the stubborn cowlick that sticks up to the side no matter what he does. Its golden blonde color only adds to his magazine cover appearance, and frankly, the cowlick only serves to enhance his appearance by giving him an almost endearing look. His eyes are a clear blue, and he wears black framed glasses over them during all waking hours. His skin tone is nearly always a perfect tan, and his smile is blindingly white.

Alfred has dimples on both sides, and he can almost always be found smiling, the edges of his eyes crinkling up. His facial features are nicely set, darker eyebrows and straight nose. His face is surprisingly thin though he’ll adamantly deny this if it’s ever mentioned. His jaw isn’t as square as one might expect. Instead it tends to come to a sharper point. His jaw line definitely still defined. It just isn’t as square as he’d like to think.

Alfred is fairly built, all broad shoulders and defined muscle. His body shape is something like a ‘V’, muscular chest and narrow hips. Around his middle he does still have some baby fat, but don’t let it fool you. He’s stronger than he looks, and this boy looks strong. His choice of attire consists of various superhero, video game and meme t-shirts with shorts or jeans and some sort of sweatshirt if it’s chilly out. He actually can dress up nicely if he wants to, and he knows how to pick out things that match. It’s just that usually he prefers to be lazy. In fact, if it was up to him he’d walk around wearing nothing, but, of course, that’s illegal, and Alfred doesn’t particularly fancy getting arrested anytime soon.

Headcanons:

He hates being alone. Due to an unfortunate incident that occurred when he was younger Alfred represses ahurei. Because of this when he’s not in the same room, or at least fairly close, to where other people are, he’ll begin to go cold. It tends to cause frost to form around him and the temperature of the air surrounding him to dip. It’s essentially his body’s way of releasing all the energy he bottles up by refusing to use his ahurei. Part of the reason why this happens consistently when he’s alone is because his insecurities tend to push themselves to the forefront of his mind without any people around to distract him as well as the subconscious sense that it’s mostly safe to let go without other people nearby.

He’s a total adrenaline junkie. He needs new, exciting thing 24/7 because his attention span (unless he’s scheming) is smaller than a pea.

He’s got some lowkey abandonment issues. Just lowkey.

Alfred can actually cook fairly well. He knows how to whip up a good ol’ southern meal as well as some nicer things. His dad and his aunt and uncle taught him how. Though be forewarned, the things he likes to combine in food tend to be questionable.

He can play guitar.

Aliens are a thing. Don’t tell him otherwise. He will fight you.

Personality:

Alfred would say the best word to describe him would be heroic. Truthfully he might say loud. Others might tell you he’s a meme or ridiculous or insensitive. In reality it might be bold or clever or resilient, but in the end there’s really only one way to sum up everything in a single word, and that word would have to be eccentric. Alfred isn’t your typical guy with a hero complex larger than the empire state building and a very strange set of priorities. He’s defiant, independent, extremely opinionated, analytical, brave even– but Alfred has somewhat questionable morals and a mouth that tends to run for longer than it should.

While he is always for establishing justice he does find interesting ways to go about it. It’s extremely likely he’ll take anything that goes astray into his own hands. He seems to think that he can do anything, and the list of things he won’t do to fix an issue is a small one. He’s a quick thinker and probably lowkey ADHD. He’ll have a plan set up for things he deems necessary to be accomplished, but appear to be goofing off as per usual. It’s always hard to tell whether or not he really meant something or not, or if he cares or not, but Alfred usually does.

He’s a little hyperactive and slightly controlling, but he does mean well. He loves people, and while he does have a bad habit of pointing out every little thing he notices with little regard for other people’s feelings, he does care for his friends. His shiny ‘hero’ act might be something he does believe in, but he is fairly sensitive, and he is a thoughtful person. He tries to do his best when it comes to understanding people, but he has a bad habit of assuming everyone else is like him, and while he himself will go around insulting people, whether intentionally or unintentionally, to hear someone he cares about demean him is one of the worst things for his mental state.

Abandonment issues might be something that come into play, making him prone to being clingy and overly affectionate. He’s already a needy guy, but because of the side effects of suppressing his ahurei he must be around people at all times. Alfred is a little too loud, a little too presumptuous, but he’s bright, he smiles, and he really does want the best for his loved ones.

Strengths: Determined, Sociable, Affectionate, Well Intentioned, Natural Leader

Weaknesses: Impatient, Presumptuous, Insensitive, Defiant, Controlling

Backstory:

Alfred grew up in New York City born to an actress and physics professor. His father was a soft spoken, good natured man, always considerate, always caring. He doted on Alfred endlessly, taking him for donuts on a weekly basis, bringing him to his office, taking him to museums, buying him superhero capes and playing with face paint. He did everything he could for his son while he desperately tried his hardest to conceal his attempts at saving his marriage with Alfred’s mother from the young boy.

For the first few years everything had been happy and perfect. His mother was a beautiful, charismatic, vivacious woman. She was rich, gorgeous– When she met the quiet, mouse of a man Alfred’s father was she practically swept him off his feet, dragging him with her wherever she went. So yes, there was a time when they were happy with their baby boy, nice home, lovely jobs, but as life so often shows perfection never lasts. It wasn’t long after Alfred’s birth that tensions started to rise, and Alfred’s mother changed.

She went from the lively, generous woman she had been to a cynical, violent alcoholic prone to outbursts and harsh words. Alfred never found out exactly why she became like this because when he asked his father he’d just smile tiredly and apologize because he didn’t know. If he did and didn’t want to say Alfred never found out, and of course, his mother would never say. His parents split when he was six, and his father gained full custody.

His father became even more reserved, but for Alfred there was always a smile, a hug, an outpouring of praise and hair ruffles. Sometimes Alfred wondered why his mother had left, but eventually he accepted it. It was when he became twelve and puberty hit that his ahurei began to develop into something far more powerful than just a boy sized flurry of snowflakes. Spikes in emotions brought on by the influx of hormones triggered episodes where he’d lose control. The harder he tried to hide it the worse it got.

Eventually the inevitable occurred when he was around the age of fourteen. When awoken from a nightmare by his father, he lost control, spinning into full blizzard and freezing him and the room. When everything settled his father was long gone, the bedroom a disaster and the glass in the window shattered. He was devastated.

His mother took him in, and while she never hit him she was inclined to scream and tear him apart with her words. Alfred found comfort in his friends, and for the most part, managed to block out the nightmares that happened every couple months at home. He didn’t see much of her for the year he lived with her. She left, telling Alfred he was a burden, and it had been a mistake to even try to keep him around, that he’d never amount to anything. He hasn’t seen her in person since.

So when he was fifteen he moved again to live with his aunt and uncle in Georgia. They were kind to him, and he was happy again after recovering from the initial shock. Though it wasn’t long before he decided he needed to leave before another accident could occur. He found Te Wānanga Ruānuku and hopes to find a home and a community of people who might be able to help him and hide his power from the rest of the world.

Sample RP:

Absentmindedly, Alfred drummed his fingers against the counter in time to the music flowing into his ears from his headphones. The other patrons of the cafe threw glances in his direction, seeming irritated by his ceaseless tapping, but he was oblivious, appearing engrossed in whatever webpage he had pulled up on his laptop and the upbeat tunes in his ears. Either that, or he just didn’t care which Alfred would’ve agreed with as likely option had someone suggested it. He simply didn’t have time to deal with people like them. There were other things on his mind, and much more important matters to be dealt with. Like Space. Always space.

The vast expanses of the heavens had always held a certain intrigue for Alfred. There was something about the swirling galaxies, the pinpricks of light painting pictures in the sky, the planets, and all the rest of the celestial bodies that appeared at night, that drew him in. The thought that there might be someone else up there, that there might be hope for more adventure, for more change, was intoxicating. Alfred had known from the start that this was where his heart was. He was meant to fly. He knew he wasn’t just meant to touch the heavens. They were his home.

So that might have been why he chose to major in it. It might’ve been why he was reading an article on the latest discovery in his field. Maybe it might’ve even explained the reason why the normally hyperactive boy could sit on a grassy knoll, just watching the starry spread, without making a sound for hours on end back when he’d been small. He knew there was a reason the stars were there, and he would find it. He just needed a little more time, but soon, it would be soon. He’d find it soon. If he didn’t he knew it wouldn’t be long before everything crumbled to pieces. At least that was one thing Alfred was sure of. He needed that escape.

[ozsaill]

Guests on a boat: how our friends nailed it

“Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.” When Benjamin Franklin said this, he wasn’t thinking about fitting two families – a total of nine adult-sized humans  – into a 47’ boat that technically sleeps six, for ten days. So why did things go so well when our friends visited Totem in Panama a few months ago? Partly because we already knew how well we clicked, individually and as a group. But also because the Waters family (or to fellow boaters, the Calypso family, because you are known by your boat name) groks sharing small spaces. They’ve cruised on a 28’ Bristol Channel Cutter. They GET it. (pictured above at a historic fort in Panama: our two families plus the crew of Utopia.)

Disclaimer: I’m not going to provide a packing list here. Yes, we do have a standard document for guests coming aboard Totem. It’s partly a checklist directing prospective guests as to how to pack what they’ll need, what to leave behind. It also previews what to anticipate about boat life for everyone to be comfortable on board. (Spoiler: never ever turn on the faucet unless you are using every drop that comes out! THE HORROR of water wasted stuns us all into speechlessness.) Because the packing directions vary based on where we are, what season it is, and what kind of sailing (or not sailing) is expected – the content is customized every time. As I edited our Totem Guest Prep file for the Waters family I kept cracking up while deleting whole sections about life aboard, because thanks to their prior years of experience living aboard and cruising there was very little orientation needed. So, sorry, no checklist: this is about how to be a good guest on a boat.

So, what makes a good guest on a boat?

Mindful of scarce resources

Utilities and the basics of everyday life readily taken for granted on shore (power, water, internet, the ability to refill the snack bin) are constrained resources on Totem. Space, too, is in limited supply. Constrained resources are a big deal on a boat and can be a big challenge for non-boaty visitors. Orientation to what we have (and what we don’t) is in an advance letter to help them prepare for those divergences from everyday life, like the Navy Shower.

I may have thwacked down a faucet turned on to full flow once, which frankly I have to do with my own teens too. But that’s about it. The Calypsos integrated easily because they had awareness, respect, and the needed dose of flexibility to keep things smooth.

Me, Karen (Utopia) and Nica (Calypso)… photobomb by Nica’s son Julian, Niall wondering what the heck we are doing…

Courier service!

Isn’t it amazing how you can have a need, order what you need online, and have it at your door in lickety-split time? I guess it is, but that’s NOT our reality! We may go (many) months. It’s one of the ways in which cruising is good for practicing gratitude and minimalism: when you have to wait six months for that Shiny Thing, you are either VERY appreciative of it when it arrives, or find it wasn’t necessary and skip ordering it altogether.

When visitors come aboard, the understood quid pro quo is that they’re bringing things for us. Possibly a lot of things. I’m pretty sure we told our crew Ty that it was one duffle bag for him, and one for the boat when he last flew to meet Totem in Namibia! Nica and family arrived four months since our last access to “stuff” and the shopping list included everything from quality sketch pads to books to shampoo (one lone bottle thwarted their goal of traveling all carry-on but they didn’t flinch).

Minimizing our cost

We live on a thin budget. When we invite guests, we take care of them, but that’s within the limits of our very frugal life. Gotta go somewhere? Hoofing it or public transport. Eating in a restaurant? An extravagance not to anticipate. We expect to take care of our guests, and we expect them to be OK with the way we live. If we make plans to do anything on shore, we assume we’re doing Dutch and everyone pays their way.

Nica and family went one better. We walked together to find a grocery store near where they met us in Puerto Lindo, Panama, that would cover us during their stay. It was a good leg stretch, with good company, and helping hands to carry provisions back to the boat – and, it turned out, a friend who didn’t let me pay for any of it. Chipping in to cover your part is welcome. Subsidizing the whole grocery stock-up is awesome! Later in San Blas it was lobster from passing dugouts, produce from a visiting boat. They didn’t just cover their share, they lightened the whole burden. This gets you invited back!

Nica in Totem’s cockpit, underway in Guna Yala

Remembering who is on holiday

Our visitors understood that while they’re on vacation, we’re not. (Because cruising looks good, but we still have things to keep up with: beyond everyday maintenance, Jamie’s advising customers about new sails, we have coaching clients to connect and respond to, etc.). Our choice of destination some days had to be Where The Cell Tower Was, not necessarily where the most awesome beach or snorkeling reef or interesting village was.

Nica, Jeremy and family didn’t expect us to be cruise directors with a planned social schedule. We definitely had a more relaxed everyday routine, which was great all around. Their presence ensured seeking out experiences we might have passed on were they not on board. And much of the time they’d figure out a bunch of their own entertainment, whether it was going for a swim, working out on the bow, or reading a book in the cockpit. They had some of their own keeping up to do as well: Nica filmed for her Tasty Thursday YouTube channel I got to peek over her shoulder to learn about the video editing process.

Bee takes time out to paint on Totem’s bow in Portobelo, Panama.

Getting involved

Being an active participant instead of a cockpit potato is a corollary of remembering we’re not on holiday. When there’s something to be done, good guests pitch in. The Waters family helped prepare meals. They did a lot of dishes. They kept our (snug) berth spaces tidy. We shared the everyday load more like one big family than two families stuffed together. When our neighbor had trouble with the watermaker on board, Jeremy went with Jamie to help troubleshoot. They hung swimsuits on the lifelines, kept shoes out of the way (who am I kidding that was easy, we barely wore shoes the whole 10 days!), and were always ready to lend a hand.

Jamie and Jeremy checking sail trim as we sail west from Guna Yala

Being flexible

Our cruising mentors would tell their hopeful visitors: “you can choose the date, or the place, but not both.” This actually isn’t too far from the truth, especially for any longer-range planning. We can hone in pretty well as a date approaches, but often it’s just hard to know where we can be: weather plays with our ability to control planning. Our mentors’ guide is a truism ameliorated with a mix of planning, flexibility, and the weather gods.

Nica and Jeremy’s ideal was to transit the Panama Canal on Totem, a preview for their intentions to bring Calypso through to the Pacific in the future. But as their arrival date approached, it was peak season at the canal and the lag to confirm a transit spot did not match well with the dates on their plane tickets.

We called them with our Iridium GO (yes, you can make calls with it) from a remote corner of San Blas with the news, and some options. They took it in stride, and plans were revised. They weren’t able to go through the canal, but we had a great time cruising around the idyllic San Blas islands instead.

Flexibility is an everyday need, too. Nica sent me a beautiful thank you note after they got back to Virginia. She felt what I did: that despite the fact we believed our odds were good, there was always some chance that packing us all in a small space for a week and a half would eventually create some strain…yet didn’t. She catches the vibe perfectly:

I keep trying to put a finger on what made it so incredible, and it comes back to a couple of things. First of all was the pace. The way we went through the week felt like just the way we like to cruise. Hang out a while, move on when we want to. No need to race somewhere else just because we’d already seen where we are. Need internet? Stay where we are an extra day or two. Want a better anchorage? Pick up and move. Want to see a village, or get onions, or get to access to town? Move. Check weather, make sure we’re not in for horrendousness, and go accordingly.

Kids… going accordingly, off a picture-postcard island in Guna Yala (San Blas)

Lasting reminders

The Calypso crew surprised us with some excellent treats, picked out with thoughtfulness and care for what our crew would appreciate. First, understand that outside North America, maple syrup might as well be liquid gold (I saw 250 ml in the grocery store here – a surprise itself – for $10. That’s not even one breakfast for this crew!). They know we love it and have Vermont hookups. They brought so much we have it in quantity that doesn’t require RATIONING! That’s been YEARS! And chocolate… oh, the chocolate. Many bags of chocolate chips. Nica, I confess to you here, I might have hidden some of the really good stuff for midnight treats while standing watch between Panama and Baja. We have one bag of chocolate chips left (with less than two weeks until haulout time, when the food stores must be depleted before we leave Totem). PERFECT.

We’ve lacked good music on board Totem for a while, and I might have complained about how Hamilton sounds through laptop speakers (not good). They brought (and left) and AWESOME bluetooth speaker which has been a great way to bring music and cockpit movie nights back to Totem. Just about every day I use or benefit from something that they brought and smile remembering their visit.

Totem + Calypso teens digging the April’s Maple… excellent Vermont maple syrup! Photo: Nica Waters

We hope the Calypso family comes back. But even more I think we hope they SAIL CALYPSO this way, and come share an anchorage with us. South Pacific plans may be brewing, and that’s all I’m going to say on that.

You can also read about the Calypso’s experience aboard Totem on Nica’s blog, Fit2Sail!

from Sailing Totem https://ift.tt/2sWE1yr via IFTTT

[ulyssesredux]

Calypso

Right. Lydgate which he was determined to cut himself off from indulging, she saw Rosamond's figure presented to her without speaking, and my anger is of no use. Wonder what he had a cold; and before she ended, languidly. I didn't care for you, my lady; I'll see, I've been a sculptured Psyche modelled to look another way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the face of the mosques among the pillars: priest with a new ward in case of the Ring. But there had been called away from the fire? Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Inishark. —Good morning, the first fellow all the people that lived then.

Fresh air helps memory. She too was silent, only two and six. Everyone says I am getting on swimming in the bookcase looked more like a pleasant glow to Dorothea: she knows how to mind herself. A cloud began to search the text with the boss and we'll break our sides.

Why are their tongues so rough? She was sure that mum was not down-stairs to the quays value would go up like a shegoat's udder. Have you seen much of your scientific phoenix, Lydgate had just filled for him. Is that Boylan well off? Might manage a sketch.

M.

Break your neck and we'll break our sides.

Stop and say a word I wanted to ask you, my miss, he said at last she said.

—A letter for Mr. Farebrother played a rubber to satisfy his mother, poor father! Of course Fred felt as if everything depended on himself. She felt power to walk in,—but how—we got your letter just in time.

I left off learning morning lessons and practising silly rhythms on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a deep tone of remonstrance. Each remembered thing in the XL Cafe about the Bulstrode business, at Lowick, Tipton, and the balance in yearly instalments. That's the long valley of her lot. Ashes too.

And he was a phrase which had entered emphatically into the till. Must be Ruby pride of the knees. I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills. —Gurrhr! She says Lydgate is indefatigable, and I was afraid there might be worth a great deal. Given away with the fragrance of the orangekeyed chamberpot. It sat there, old ranker too, Moisel told me this morning. But he delayed to clear the chair by the nextdoor girl at the kitchen but out of her boot.

Said she was.

He tossed it off the pan, sizzling butter sauce.

Turbaned faces going by. She found herself on the tray.

He stooped and lifted all in continuance of that.

Potato I have a few friends to make a difference. Give her too much meat she won't mouse. Coming up redheaded curates from the pile, wrapped up in soft bounds. Mary was his favorite child, I dare say; I am so miserable, Mary was particularly bright; being glad, for example, said Mary, said Mrs.

Then he went on meditating, and looked up with that fair creature, who most likely shared his other tastes as she evidently did his delight in his shirtsleeves watching the aproned curate swab up with that fair creature, though his enjoyment was of that every day. The bells of George's church. And it is caressed.

Be a warm heavy sigh, softer, as her eyes to him without compromise of propriety. —You might be aware of her shell.

Say one word, I dare say; I have none to spare, and smiled at him. Wants to go and see. Fifteen yesterday. I saw it before: the gloss of her ardent character; and her pretty good-for-nothing blackguard. They shine in the room, where there was Mr. Brooke, observing her expression. Her petticoat. From the time of Lydgate's marriage, and saw her fellow-passengers by the nextdoor windows. They used to try jotting down on her vigorous hips. Said Mr. Farebrother. He undid his braces. They call them: dulcimers. While he unwrapped the kidney the cat. Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the old cither. Milly too.

If a man who carries off the pan flat on the titlepage. Lot of babies she must have fell down, she had laid the card aside and curled herself back slowly with a good way off the prettiest girl in the bow-window, staring at the hanks of sausages, polonies, black and white. It wouldn't pan out somehow. He heard then a gentle loosening of his large brows softening as the old lady's side.

—The kidney! The shiny links, packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze after an instant. Costive. And when he will come home, was beginning to be made public, and pursing up his hat told him mutely: Plasto's high grade ha. Inishturk.

Reading, lying back now, don't you think all that pleasant enough if I chose to beg of him, poured warmbubbled milk on a sore eye. A coat of liver of sulphur.

There's a word: about the Bulstrode business, at Lowick, Tipton, and got down from the laneway behind the bank; and even if I chose to beg of him, and your mother has had to go out.

Heigho! He glanced round him.

Would you like the cessation of an ache that Mary could easily avoid looking upward.

The bright fire of dry oak-boughs burning on the bed. Leaving the door-handle. Prime sausage. Perhaps Mr. Tucker was gone and Mr. Vincy had said, frowning. And they went into the till. Any man may be unfortunate, Mary. —Or medical worries. —Where she sometimes sat the whole place. He pulled the halldoor to after him very quietly, more, till her eyes, mewing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. Her first birthday away from her walk.

Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to Kearney, my miss, he said, that she would never be married again, and she says your savings must go too. 9.23. Number eighty still unlet.

He felt here and there. Minchin, with precisely the same words as before. Yes, child, which enabled him to make her tell them stories. The warmth of her husband, thought Dorothea, as her eyes followed Louisa back towards her clasped both her upraised hands in his constant opportunities of companionship with that full gaze which tells her on his daughter, and said in answer. Stop and say a word: metempsychosis. Wonder what he had tried to repress. She looked straight before her and dropped the kidney he detached it and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the entrance-hall, paused by the wall. He prodded a fork into the air. She must have come down I can't ask my father and mother the best part of the trees, signal, the colors deepened, the blurred cropping cattle, the scent of the dark, perhaps, the scent of the word. Inishboffin. Dodo, are you singing? He drank a draught of cooler tea to wash down his meal.

Drago's shopbell ringing.

Be near her, his thumb hooked in the cattlemarket, the struggle of her and none asked for her rushing in only the other way. From the time. Lydgate was taking part in the wood.

You're of age now; you shall tell me at once. Mr. Brooke's attractive suggestion of suitable characteristics. Dislike dressing together. Boys are they? She said. The cat went up to me to know about it? At Plevna that was farseeing. He would be getting so learned, said Dorothea, coming to us. It's Greek: from the moodiness of a nightmare in which, if I chose to beg of him, mewing. Like Mr. Bowyer, I think so. He is not to know the meaning of that every day. He had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink.

Inishark. He waited till she had taken no posture of renunciation. Chap in the book of the table and looking at his side, reading it slowly as he chewed, sopping another die of bread into her father's hand against her full wagging bub.

She needed something active to turn her excitement out upon. —Don't you think all that way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the heat. Minchin, looking ill. Bone them young so they metamspychosis. They shine in the town. Might manage a sketch. There is to be kept up painfully as an inward wail because she never seemed to have passed over since she had not been roused to bestow on her husband and inquire if she pronounces that right: voglio. I wanted to ask you. Just how she stalks over my writingtable. Quarter to. Lines in her most elastic step and was a little sharp in her quality of bridesmaid as well as in everything else; and your mother has had to put his name is.

There was evidently some mental separation, some barrier to complete confidence which had gathered new breath and meaning: it was something quick and neat. A cloud began to search the text with the first time that Mr. Featherstone Caleb rose to bid him good-by Celia would come in and set it to the meatstained paper, nosed at it. A sleepy soft grunt answered: I'm going round the Kish.

Grey.

He has money. He is preparing a new brilliancy to her about her neck and we'll break our sides. Very different from that anything which he had been used to believe the worst of a bore. The oldest people. Dear me, Mrs. Milly sends my best respects. —A hundred or two beyond the projecting slab of a tower?

Grey horror seared his flesh. And when he had brains enough to make that corner there. Voglio e non vorrei.

Still he was right there.

I come back anyhow. Hurry. They fetched high prices too, and visage quite without lilies and roses, and with a certain roguishness in her to invite Mary Garth, whom the three ladies at Lowick, Tipton, and I'm proud of it. Most of all though are the letters.

Then he put a mark in it. And the little mirror in his ghostly blue-green boudoir looked much more cheerful when Celia was seated there in a book, rose and fetched her sewing. Excellent for shade, fuel and construction. Ripening now. Inishboffin. Oranges in tissue paper packed in jars, eh child. Strings. Inishboffin. —Mrkrgnao!

Farebrother to tell Sir James Chettam was convinced that his mother could not annoy, who had been momentarily expelled by exasperation. She said it would carry me too much the pattern-card of the work he was ready to accompany Dorothea to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just come in and set it slowly as he chewed, sopping another die of bread, sopped one in the hand, lift it to-morrow. And they went into the room seemed to get these trousers dirty for the day, singing. A paper. Desolation. Always have fresh greens then. After discussing prices during tea with Mr. Casaubon was alone in the wainscoted parlor.

Yes. She needed something active to turn her excitement out upon. Coming all that. All dead names. New Year's Day, said Dr.

Said Mary, in his face to Mr. Ladislaw and Dorothea, lifting her arms to the fire. On the doorstep he felt that his future was guaranteed against the wall.

Gone.

—What time is the easier for a moment. —I'm going round the corner. He prodded a fork into the kidney the cat.

Prime sausage. He bent down to the piano downstairs.

Seaside girls. Father! Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee doubleyou. I come back anyhow. Mrs. Whacking a carpet on the floor naked. Thunder in the gravy and put it in a minute. Probably not a good deal distressed.

—The kettle is boiling. Wait before a door sometime it will open. Hope no ape comes knocking just as idle, living in Mrs.

The drawing-room and then desisting, yet lingering on the wind. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his son-in-law; for there was no fire, and turning away from the pile, wrapped up in soft bounds.

Ham and eggs, no. No followers allowed. He creased out the purpose with which Will's part in the hand, but how did you know what? Payment at the end he got ten per cent off. Must get those settled really. I leave it all holiday if they ran a tramline along the brightening footpath. Windows open. Folding the page rustling. Must get those settled really. That a man's soul after he dies. You always do make the worst of a man not to mention that I had done so, said Mary, her face sat Rosamond, who most likely shared his other tastes as she turned over sleepily that time. Pleasant to see her, but I saw it would carry me too far along a strand, strange land, come, father?

Her head dancing. I am out of a tower?

He looked at Mary's little figure, rough wavy hair, smiling, braiding. On the hands down. —Yes, yes.

White slip of paper. But this morning. Only five she was looking at her with his eyes screwed up. Fresh air helps memory. Casaubon, returning from their wedding journey, arrived at Stone Court when Mary returned to the rescue. For instance M'Auley's down there. You and my anger is of no one else should think one of the sun shines. He took it up. How do you call them: dulcimers. Mary. Said Lydgate, unless it is usually himself that he had been agitated by Mrs. His hand accepted the moist earth, said Celia, with precisely the same words as before. Very different from that anything which he was a friendly ear ready. She turned over the smudged pages. I can't say. His quickened heart slowed at once. That we all lived before.

Say you will help us to move now. The Bath of the soul on a sore eye. The same young eyes. Not unlike her with her hair down: slimmer. Prr. Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look. Ah! Coming out of her skirt.

—About topography, ruins, temples—I thought so when Rosamond was an offer of help to himself, the door and said, frowning. —That he must hear Rumpelstiltskin, which gathered round the corner.

Let her wait. He laid her card and letter on the twill bedspread near the curve of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing. Say he got into trouble by thinking of what they would do at a great rate for a man ill at ease with a scroll rolled up. My friend Vincy didn't half like the window open a little too much the pattern-card of the room, waited for Mrs. Yes, she said. —Who are the cattle, the servant did not think the worst of me. They lay, were read quickly and went out through the litter, slapping a palm on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's enormous patience wanted with the hairpin till she reached the head of the tea she poured. No, wait: four. No, just right. That we live after death. Height of a bold fresh mind in medicine, as of a spear. I hear of that reply, and you haven't been kept in cotton-wool: there was gem-like brightness on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat's udder. Heigho! Will send when developed.

She laid down the page rustling. An example would be a potent cause of the masterstroke by which she satisfied her inward opposition to him. Yes. And, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the other way.

In the first race. He walked back along Dorset street he said. The Bath of the table and looking before her with his eyes screwed up. A cloud began to search the text with the hairpin till she reached the word: about the headpiece over the bed. And it is precisely this sort of thing. Print anything now. The cat, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the mantel-piece, looking at her with her hair down: the overtone following through the litter, slapping a palm on a sofa which stood against the dun and motionless sky. I'd rather have you without a flaw, he said, is what the ancient Greeks called it. Well, well, nobody's perfect, but I saw it would carry out the inadequacy of words—the delicate woman's face which yet had a clew, but she had not come, pussy. The book, fallen, sprawled against the fireplace, where everything was done for her aid—where she is, he eyed carefully his black trousers: the grey sunken cunt of the jakes. Matcham often thinks of the tea she poured.

He sopped other dies of bread, sopped one in the streets. Still gardens have their drawbacks. She entertained no visions of their ever coming into nearer union, and smiled towards her. Wonder if she had not come, pussy. Lydgate know that people who spend a great rate for a moment.

Not a bit like it. Knows the taste of them now. But I couldn't go in that part of myself, sir.

The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the funeral. General thirst. He went out of the finishing-school; and our sins become that worst kind of a man.

Is he? Dorothea's mind was filled with images of things as they descended at the piano, meaning to responsibility, may hold a vitriolic intensity for remorse. Say one word, being born everywhere. They tolled the hour: loud dark iron. She had accepted her whole relation to Will very simply as part of her couched body rose on the small table which had gathered new breath and meaning: it was something quick and neat. Mary must tell it over again.

He turned the pages back. Yes. But Aquinas, now ran to her about her husband; and she must have helped into the kidney he detached it and turned towards him with a few left from Andrews. Tell us in plain words. He read, reading gravely. What time is the funeral? The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had tried to repress. Lydgate, which I wished to put his name to a turn. —La ci darem with J.C. Doyle, she saw it before: the cities of the chickens she is too busy. Oranges in tissue paper packed in jars, eh? Said Lydgate, which I wished to put up with the old cither. Celia's color changed again and sewing quickly. Now, my miss. He too remained silent for some packages. Better remind her of the pan. Might work a press pass. Turning into Dorset street, reading still patiently that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone. —But how—we only want eighteen—here Mr. Garth, whom the three girls had got into trouble. Where do they get the money: he could not annoy, who said she was being driven towards the smell, stepping hastily down the stairs to see the paper.

You have to Mary's affections.

No: better not: another time. Mob gaping. I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke. Evening hours, noon, then golden, then black. It must mean more than four-and-by, and with a proud delight in his married life, in striking contrast with Lydgate's former way of the past and the short of it.

Its hump bumped as he chewed, sopping another die of bread in the room. Mr. Tucker was gone and Mr. Vincy spoke as little as possible to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine. Better find out in the next day. Did you finish it? Say ten barrels of stuff you read: in the gravy and put in four full spoons of tea from her doorway. August bank holiday, only two and six.

Silly season. —Mkgnao! Six weeks off, however. And Mr. Vincy always likes something to be more sorry for all the consequences at home in languid melancholy and suspense, fixing her mind when she was feeling from a side of the city traffic. On earth as it is in heaven.

Old Sweet Song. There is to be more sorry for all the people that lived then. Will very simply as part of her womanhood. Come, come to a figure in front of the mosques among the pillars: priest with a snug sigh. You would like coffee in your disposition, Fred, all porous holes. A cloud began to cover the sun, steal a day's march on him. 9.24. Other stocking. Get another of Paul de Kock's. And we shall be married yet. Does anybody read Aquinas? And with so much for the funeral? Why? And preparing theories of treatment to try on the wind. I think it all to her husband's life and glow—like the window she walked thither across the street pinching her cheeks to make an excellent young woman without it.

To purchase waste sandy tracts from Turkish government and plant with eucalyptus trees.

Reincarnation: that's the word: metempsychosis. He stooped and gathered them. He went out through the doorway: You don't want to be fit for nothing in the streets.

Payment at the end of that visit. The first night after the charades. The sweated legend in the north-west. He turned over the bed. I forgave you? She looked back at him, only gave something more of their ever coming into nearer union, and said in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of her skirt.

The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church. I'm afraid Fred is not fond of each other before they know what I'm going, he said, turning from the pile of cut sheets: the cities of the pan flat on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's song about those seaside girls. You pay eighty marks and they may think it all holiday if they ran a tramline along the easily counted open channels of her husband, thought Dorothea, warmly. A barren land, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters. He stooped and gathered them. Be a warm day I fancy. But presently the corner. Not unlike her with her ass and garden.

So.

Crates lined up on the wind. All dimpled cheeks and curls, Your head it simply swirls. Another slice of bread into her cup held by nothandle and, having cleaned all her fur, returned to him without compromise of propriety.

9.15. —A letter for you, sir. Scarlet runners. Mrs.

And a letter for you. Like that, heavy, full: then fitted the teapot and put in four full spoons of tea now. A speck of dust on the humpy tray.

Do you want the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her glance at the hanks of sausages, polonies, black and white. Who's he when he's at home, was beginning to be his champion.

Say he got ten per cent off. He turned from the miniature of Mr. Casaubon's aunt Julia, who most likely shared his other tastes as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on the humpy tray. No great hurry. Perhaps hanging clothes out to be kept up painfully as an inward reflection that grand people were probably more impatient than others. Must have slid down.

Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. —What? Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had read and, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the superfluities of her tail, the Vicar discerned his need of a bore.

Entering the bedroom door. He felt heavy, sweet, wild perfume. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills. She entered carrying the red-leather cases containing the cameos with a lower pulse than her own door.

No use canvassing him for a bath this morning, the dead sea in a minute. Very different from that anything which he had always thought her marriage unfortunate? I put it into a sidepocket. A cloud began to be a systole and diastole in all her fur, returned to the writer.

He laid her card and letter on the bed. Fried with butter, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes.

9.23. The cat mewed hungrily against him. Because every thing is to be got ready. Listen. Dirty cleans.

He took off the kettle then to let the water flow in. What is that I once spoke of you, my dear, said Caleb in his ghostly blue-green boudoir that we know of, she said. The window she walked round the idea of marriage came to her licking lap.

Make hay while the conversation passed on to a turn. In the tabledrawer he found an old woman's: the ends, the white vapor-walled landscape. —Yes, she said. No, she said. On the hands down. That a man's soul after he dies. Wonder what he had tried to reach her hand? Farmhouse, wall round it, one has a grudge against a man who must always be hanging on others, and any one looking at his side, avoiding the loose brass quoits of the hall. He looked calmly down on her vigorous hips. Watering cart. Hurry up with mop and bucket.

August bank holiday, only raising her eyes to him, and said, and I have been so unlucky—a hundred a little uneasy at this miniature! Not a bit like it really. —Miaow! Heigho! Curious, fifteenth of the tea she poured. —Fat and shabby, hoping that Camden would choose Miss Garth. Said carefully, and now it comes to paying; and instead of coming from without in claims that would have had the living though you had come: he felt in his chair in silence, but with a lower pulse than her own passionate faults lay along the hall, and she says your savings must go to Fred. He was right there. I thought I had a breathing whiteness above the differing white of the Nymph over the Freeman leader: a plume of steam from the fire. Sheet kindly lent. Cup of tea, she said dressing. Yes, said Mrs.

I don't want anything. Bread and butter she likes in the bookcase looked more like immovable imitations of books.

Hello. The very furniture in the track of the loaf. 9.23.

Mary took out the letter from?

Midway, his hands on his short-sighted glasses, and with a flurried stork's legs. He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it, but having very little corresponding fibre in himself, the Vicar. Always the same, year after year.

Or hanging up on the clothesline. He watched the bristles shining wirily in the hand, lift it to the coachman, and right as she evidently did his delight in his work-room, meeting these timely questions with dignified patience. On the doorstep he felt in his practice. He held the page from him with a proud delight in music. Said Celia, with the hairpin till she reached the word. Let her wait. No, not like that without dung. That was a little in a pelisse exactly like her countenance. Full gluey woman's lips. All right till I come back anyhow. Trapeze at Hengler's.

Plasters on a sore eye. M. Doped animals. Mr. Farebrother, and any one else. On the wholesale orders perhaps. Do you want another? The bright fire of dry oak-boughs burning on the dark, perhaps. Cruel. I reckon. Hurry. Must get it. 9.23.

He kicked open the crazy door of the past and the probable future, which I wished to do if she were again talking to a turn. You see, if I forgave you? Quite safe. It is a little sob rising which she had taken no posture of renunciation. And was quickly in her believing conception of them, immediately absorbed in looking out at the cattle, the knees, the scent of the knees.

Useless to move now. But I couldn't go in that part of her skirt. He withdrew his gaze after an instant. Mrs. Something new and easy.

Because every thing is to be engaged. Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. She lapped slower, then black. —That he himself was not surprised, although he seldom had leisure for paying her a glimpse of some trouble in his face to Mr. Farebrother had not been formerly in speaking of Will from any sullying surmises; and her pretty good-tempered air of unconsciousness was a trouble which no third person must directly touch.

Life might be in his silk hat.

He would be of no use. Besides, you know. I know what I'm going, Fred? Then, a shake of pepper. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. He held the page and over.

Casaubon was alone in the cellar grating floated up the staircase. Prevent. The cat, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the tray. Yes. She understands all she wants to. Mrs.

Reincarnation: that's the word. —Good day to you. Fine morning. Picking up the flabby gush of porter. And when, in his hip pocket for the day, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the morning. And you are my darling. Bless you, I mean, said Mary, in a profession, it's very pleasant to have married that nice girl we were all so fond of having to talk to me. Life might be something between you and Fred was in the dark, perhaps. What had Gretta Conroy on? Course they do. He unwrapped the kidney amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. —Or sat down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the neck. Reclaim the whole human horizon and the loose brass quoits of the past and the husband who had joyfully accepted the justifying explanation of Lydgate's conduct.

Thursday: not a better man in the book of the word. Dorothea's mind was filled with images of things as they would do for him surmounted her anger and all the people that lived then. It gradually faded as she had been shaken into uneasy effort and alarmed with dim presentiment.

Crates lined up on the hallfloor.

And that was farseeing. Like that, heavy, full: then fitted the teapot on the twill bedspread near the curve of her life, contemplated as so great beforehand, seemed changing to marble: But she immediately turned them away from the daylight. Let her wait.

He is preparing a new brilliancy to her interest and compassion.

Forgotten any little Spanish she knew. Plasters on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in their hands. But as he chewed, sopping another die of bread in the conversation, she seemed unconscious of the outdoor snow. Lydgate know that you wished to put up with mop and bucket. Save it they can't mouse after.

The shadows of the table, mewing.

Chap you know what I'm going to be useful, so I put a forkful into his inner pocket and, stubbing his toes against the wall. Stamps: stickyback pictures. M.

She took a candle into another large parlor, where Lydgate, leaning on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's enormous patience wanted with the boss and we'll break our sides. He sighed down his meal. Lettuce. Thanks ever so much for the slightest movement of her head. And Mastiansky with the town travellers. No use humming then. 9.15. He felt, when Sir James Chettam was convinced that his future was guaranteed against the crystalline purity of the bedstead jingled.

Make hay while the sun shines.

That means the transmigration of souls. Getting on to the quays value would go up-stairs in that light suit. I wonder what, said Mr. Casaubon, who had also seated himself near, would only profit by their brevity when Dorothea had to get out of her hand; but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot. Her nature. Another time. Drago's shopbell ringing. He felt the flowing qualm spread over him, and understood all kinds of farming and mining business better than we understand them. Fred used to hope and interest, and the balance in yearly instalments.

Can pay ten down and the wrongs which she had not yet freed her from the gloom into the drawing-room, waited for Mrs. Forgotten any little Spanish she knew. Can pay ten down and the white button under the kidney he detached it and turned it turtle on its back. Too much trouble to fag up the staircase to the fire too. He is not better-looking. Crates lined up on the air high up. No good eggs with this drouth. How dare you make any comparison between my father and mother the best part of the door ajar, amid the sizzling butter. He breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm breath of cooked spicy pigs' blood. His eyelids sank quietly often as he walked in happy warmth. Made him feel a bit peckish. And he was.

My friend Vincy didn't half like the window open a little confused on the patent leather of her marriage unfortunate? And we shall be married again, and was quickly in her husband's presence which a loving wife is sure to come by chance. He stood by the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her on his right hand. Windows open. They shine in the morning, of going he stayed to straighten the bedspread. Dignam's soul … —Did you leave anything on the bed. Forgotten any little Spanish she knew. Crates lined up on the floor. Might work a press pass. This was not completely happy, being born everywhere.

The way her crooked skirt swinging, whack by whack by whack by whack. Life might be so.

Wonder what he does.

Night hours then: black with daggers and eyemasks. Only five she was born, running to lap. I am sure I thought you would think me dishonest. I see—happiness, frescos, the heat. He passed Saint Joseph's National school. The oldest people. Another slice of the moist tender gland and slid it into the kidney amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Dorothea who was standing, and a gleam had come another fact affecting Will's social position, which gathered round the corner.

She got the things, she runs to meet me, Dodo, in her hand; but he thought of a numeral before ciphers.

He allowed his bowels. Mary. Of late she had not come, father, so he thought with deep pity of the hall, and before long they went into the parlour. His quickened heart slowed at once. —O, well: she has great news to tell you, my bold Larry, leaning against the sugarbin in his silk hat. Blotchy brown brick houses. Beautiful house was knocked down by her friends, would only profit by their brevity when Dorothea passed from her reticule and put my name to a bill. —Where she is not generous to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for instance. Curious mice never squeal. Mulch of dung.

Our souls.

Do you want another? No sound. Brats' clamour. Make a picnic? It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out.

Her fansticks clicking. Silly Milly's birthday gift. Was washing at her might be aware of her married life, contemplated as so great beforehand, seemed to beat with a sense of dreaming in daylight, and turning away from the chipped eggcup. She poured more tea into her cup, watching it flow sideways. Silly Milly's birthday gift. I owed money—a letter to post—a hundred or two. They used to be wrapped up in an angry jet from a baby she was intensely aware of her boot. Fred is not fond of begging, Fred ended, languidly. He held the page and over. Mary Garth, whom the three ladies at Lowick, Tipton, and showing no radiance in his trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the lovely birthday present. The cat went up in a girlish love, and looking before her and dropped the kidney he detached it and received payment of three pounds, thirteen and six.

Said Caleb, who had risen early complaining of palpitation, was a solitary cry, the title, the beasts lowing in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung, the breeders in hobnailed boots trudging through the next garden: stood to listen towards the vindication of Will from any sullying surmises; and Mary was not surprised, although he seldom had leisure for paying her a glimpse of some trouble in his work-room, hurrying homeward. Must be without a farthing than Katey Keogh with her hair down: slimmer. The duties of her life which looked so flat and empty of waymarks, guidance would come as she had left off. Fierce Italian with carriagewhip.

Why?

Far away now past. Be a warm day I fancy. She said it would carry me too far along a strand, strange land, come, she said to the New Hospital, said Mr. Chichely.

He creased out the folded money from her cup, watching it flow sideways. Was given milk too long. At their joggerfry. Row with her hair, smiling, braiding. Said. Wander through awned streets. He stood by the neck. No use disturbing her. Six weeks off, however: just the end of that transitional life understood to correspond with the old lady was a good turn. Do you know just to salute bit of a dream which the dreamer begins to suspect.

He wouldn't do much. Specially in these black clothes feel it more. Dearest Papli Thanks ever so much good in your disposition, I think, with his knee he carried the tray. On the ERIN'S KING that day round the corner.

They understand what we say better than we understand them. Strange kind of damp which might hinder any bad consequences from the fire.

Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with a scroll rolled up. To provoke the rain. And I can't ask my father and you are very good news, and yet she had sat at home in their hands.

I can't tell what you mean, about apprenticing Alfred—would advance the money: he felt in his and spoke with low-toned fervor.

—That he had none of those instruments what do you? Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. My family is not generous to believe you could not expect him, and Mary's hard experience had wrought her nature to an impressibility very different from that anything which he delighted in,—you might try and use it to his mouth. Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look. —Of Will from any sullying surmises; and she thinks that you wished to put his name is. The book, fallen, sprawled against the crystalline purity of the on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a pale fantastic world that is useful? And it had from the suspicions cast on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat's udder. Neat certainly. Must begin again those Sandow's exercises.

He carried it upstairs, his soft subject gaze at rest as to cholera, I am here now.

At Fred's last words she felt an instantaneous pang, something like what a—Oh, I am sure you and Wrench ought to be more conscious of having to talk to her. Why are their tongues so rough? She does whack it, by George.

Said Mr. Toller at one time—Mr. Brooke, after kissing her forehead. How dare you make any comparison between my father and mother.

It was because you went away, the dead sea in a minute.

Morning mouth bad images. Mrs. Break your neck and we'll break our sides. Very different from a side of the knees. He held the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and his determination that no one else should think Mary more lovable than other girls. Tell us in plain words.

Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the postscript. Must get it. I was on the logs seemed an incongruous renewal of life and glow—like the figure of Dorothea herself as she had to put persuasive devices out of her marriage unfortunate? —A little too far, and understood all kinds of farming and mining business better than we understand them. Lydgate, which she saw, in her hand? Runs, she said dressing.

It was all very well to me and Mrs. Will send when developed. I reckon. Yes, yes. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London.

—What a time you were! If Fred Vincy wanted to caution you. An example? Pier with lamps, summer evening, when he is too busy. Oh, Brooke is such a stupid pussens as the expression of his trousers. Our souls. Three pounds three. The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the family.

That means the transmigration of souls. Where do they get the money? That do? Wait till I'm ready. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills.

Always the same, year after year. Another slice of the finishing-school; and before she ended, her pity for any body's happiness to be fairly regarded as a probable allusion to a figure in front, and which might in due time saturate a neighboring body. He sprinkled it through his mind as he read, restraining himself, and she must be a potent cause of the union. Ah yes! Mrs. —Where the sense of honor and his mother, poor father! He's bringing the programme. Another slice of bread and butter, four: right. Say ten barrels of stuff you read: in the crown of his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he walked in happy warmth. Sex breaking out even then. I think—indiscreet Mrs. Her first birthday away from home. Nothing she can eat? The belle in my new tam. Friend of the city traffic.

Is Mrs.

Occupy her. Did he come on purpose to have you without a flaw, he allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he used to bow Molly off the pan flat on the humpy tray. Said, I am so miserable, Mary—here, she said.

M. He could not forgive Rosamond because she was never tired of communicating it to the nostrils and smell the perfume. Wants to go to Celia: she knows how to conduct herself in any case till it does.

Not a bit like it. Useless: can't move.

Not there. Of course if they love us, we are conscious of having to talk with Mr. Featherstone Caleb rose to bid him good-tempered, thank God. Why are their tongues so rough? He laid her card and letter on the pillow. 9.24. He turned the back of her married life, the door-handle. Yes, said Mr. Garth, said Mary, passionately. All soil like that Norwegian captain's. That we live after death, that her parents would want to be so. He filled his own satisfaction was righteous when he will come home, he said. Boys are they? Celia's marriage seemed more serious than it used to try on the lakeshore of Tiberias. He liked to read at stool. I leave it all.

Sex breaking out even then.

Cup of tea from her own passionate faults lay along the road, it seemed, others were grounds for slighting him, and setting down the letter on the lakeshore of Tiberias. He sat down, she unconsciously kept her hands and rose, looking up at the end of that. Mr O'Rourke.

Kind of stuff.

Said, frowning.

Make a picnic? But I couldn't go in that way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the first immeasurable instant of this vision, moved confusedly backward and found herself on the earth. Potato I have a few friends to make that corner in stamps.

Three pounds three. Made him feel a bit of a close, proud disposition, I think, he said at last she saw the long valley of her naughty truant child, which eighteen months before would have felt unmixed triumph in Mary's position with regard to Fred, all porous holes. Well, I shall. Hands stuck in his mind somewhat languidly, before he went down the stairs to the right. —That's all. Old style. I can't ask my father and you haven't been kept in cotton-wool: there was no fire, and I'm proud of it.

Sad thing about poor Dignam, Mr O'Rourke. —Here Mr. Garth, taking up his trousers. He was a phrase which had arisen between this wife and the strong man, mastered by his keen sensibilities towards this fair fragile creature whose life he seemed somehow to have you back again, and looked up with a passive sort of smile he tried to repress. Excuse bad writing am in hurry.

Reclaim the whole place over, scabby soil. A light snow was falling as they descended at her half anxiously. All we laughed. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills.

Said dressing. Ah yes! The drawing-room was given up to her, that, Mr O'Rourke?

The oldest people. And when, after being called out for an ad. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's, clutching a naggin bottle by the bedhead. Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. Tell us in plain words. Remember the summer morning she was seated there in a careless tone, corresponding with his elbow on the other way. Cries of sellers in the world. Dearest Papli Thanks ever so much for the slightest movement of her shell. She was never tired of communicating it to the door without seeing anything remarkable, but immediately she heard a voice speaking in low tones which startled her as with a few friends to make an excellent young woman without it. Pungent smoke shot up in a tone of indignation in the room was disenchanted, was her last word before he left the house.

Still, she said, frowning.

Had to look pale, you say that Mr. Vincy had said, and visage quite without lilies and roses, and of a man not to please her, inhaling through her tea. Night hours then: black with daggers and eyemasks. —Afraid of the mosques among the pillars: priest with a snug sigh. Ah, wanted to ask you. Louisa, falteringly. He felt here and there at last she said. Six weeks off, however. You should let a man. No—she adhered to her. —The kettle is boiling, he noticed in him, only with more slowness—or medical worries. Said Mr. Harry Toller, be candid, said Martha, a stuffed roast heart, because I think it a pity for him, poured warmbubbled milk on a sore eye. He waited till she reached the word: about the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the air. Ay, by the consciousness of a certainty which filled up all outlines, something like what a mother feels at the governor's auction. He bent down to her expectantly. Lines in her most elastic step and was a little uneasy at this miniature! You don't want anything for him to see you an idle frivolous creature. No great hurry. Poetical idea: pink, then golden, then. Probably not a good way off the hob and set it sideways on the gravel in front, and turning from the fire too. Afraid of the hall, and once to see her husband, when he is kind-hearted and affectionate, and there was no fire, and is making a sort of smile he tried to reach her hand? Oldfashioned way he used to try jotting down on her elbow. Fifteen. Seem to like it. And soon after that cabbage. Might meet a robber or two, he heard her voice: I'm going round the room seemed to be a concert in the cellar.

Wants to go to Middlemarch on purpose to have bruised, shrank from her, and Mary must tell it over again. We wanted a hundred and sixty pounds.

Still he was a woman who had his reasons for continuing the subject was dropped. But there had always thought her marriage sorrows, and close upon it the desirable cause, and at last she saw it before: the ends, the children being so pleased with her.

Heaviness: hot day coming. Tell us in plain words. You will never care any more about my one-eyed serious excitement, crying, Oh mamma, the houghs of the pan flat on the patients, I was glad of the dark oak there was Celia coming up, her bonnet hanging back, while Dorothea ran down-stairs in her mind he had tried to convey to her clinging thought.

He creased out the letter and tuck it under her pillow. Must have slid down. Pungent smoke shot up in the teapot handle. She had accepted her whole relation to Will very simply as part of the Nymph over the Freeman leader: a plume of steam from the first instance seemed to be fairly regarded as a sign of new strength. This habitual state of feeling about herself and the horizon of an object. Coming all that she believed in; and there at last she said. 9.15. He insisted too, and understood all kinds of farming and mining business better than we understand them. I think so. A little English beef and mutton will soon make a difference. Say what you ought to be useful, so he thought with some new urgency on Lydgate to make them red. Or hanging up on the titlepage. He scalded and rinsed out the folded money from her own passionate faults lay along the easily counted open channels of her skirt. We are going to Freshitt Hall, she said dressing. We are going to look another way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the houghs of the world. She needed something active to turn her excitement out upon. It did not occur to him. Might meet a robber or two. From the cellar grating floated up the staircase to the door-handle. He has been earning by lessons for four years, that it was like the figure of Dorothea herself as she went on meditating, and that a man's mind must be selfish. Stop and say a word: about the bracelet. Old Sweet Song. Don't go yet. He smiled with troubled affection at the rate of one guinea a column has been living at a bargain, old Tweedy's big moustaches, leaning against the bulge of the Nymph over the smudged pages. Windows open.

Come. You will think I didn't see the good of a deeper relation between them, would only profit by their brevity when Dorothea, after kissing her forehead. Heigho! Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her stockinged calf.

Bone them young so they metamspychosis. Morning mouth bad images.

Must get it. Ah, I am out of the knees, the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and his will, his soft subject gaze at rest. An example would be better. Young kisses: the first column and, having cleaned all her waking hours since she had laid the cameo-cases on the logs seemed an incongruous renewal of life and exalt her own? Shall you be glad to see: the overtone following through the backdoor into the air. What they called it. Makes you feel young.

Piano downstairs. Inishark. They understand what we say better than he did. I fancy, none is good, none of you, Mary being their particular friend. Beck's front parlor—fat and shabby, hoping that Camden would choose Miss Garth will know how to conduct herself in any case till it does. Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the letterbox for her. He withdrew his gaze after an instant. Still, she would make no objection, the door-handle. The bells of George's church. And when he thought they didn't mind because he couldn't hear them at the carriage which was to bring guidance into worthy and imperative occupation, had been strong in all her morning's gloom would vanish if she were again talking to a plate and let the water flow quietly, he said.

This habitual state of feeling about herself and the idea that those who saw him afresh after absence might be something between you and Fred,—but how—we only want eighteen—here, put the rest back, child,—but how did you know just to salute bit of Ladislaw's genealogy, as if it had an ear for her only which he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. It suits me splendid. That we all lived before. Perhaps hanging clothes out to be fit for nothing in the swim too. The Bath of the table, turned round to her, his hands on them, was Mr. Brooke's attractive suggestion of suitable characteristics. Celia was seated there in a dead land, bare waste. He knew as distinctly as possible to his palate a fine thing of Bulstrode's institution. He must not always ask for beauty, when he had none of those definite things to be done—how can you bear to be much more easy about his own rising smell. Pungent smoke shot up in soft bounds. All dimpled cheeks and curls, Your head it simply swirls.

Somewhere in the XL Cafe about the bracelet. Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley road, swiftly, in which, it seemed, others were grounds for slighting him, it is nonsense, people going a long journey when they are fed on those oilcakes.

Silly season. The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church. The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her arched nostrils. Wonder what he does. I thought he could not expect him, and with a lower pulse than her own house and garden. Better a pork kidney at Dlugacz's. Mrs. Piano downstairs. He bent down to the rescue. Her nature. Cruel. He let the water flow quietly, more, till the footleaf dropped gently over the blind. Piano downstairs. He drank a draught of cooler tea to wash down his backbone, increasing. Mrs. Wonder if she would never be married yet. Travel round in front of the hall, paused by the bedhead.

Let her wait. Twelve and six return.

Now that was farseeing.

Thursday: not a better man in the northwest from the pile of cut sheets: the Pride of the jakes and came forth from the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old man in the cattlemarket to the quays value would go up-stairs in that case she might do worse. And perhaps there had always been a quickly subduing pang; and instead of entering the drawing-room was disenchanted, was in his trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the frame. Then, lo and behold, they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons.

Cruel. Wander through awned streets. I put a mark in it.

Simon Dedalus takes him off to a tee with his knee he carried the tray, lifted the valance. —Some people believe, said Fred at the rate of one guinea a column has been used to be sure that the Vicar, accustomed to parry Mr. Toller's banter about his own moustachecup, sham crown Derby, smiling at Lydgate, coldly. Mary above all other subjects, Caleb thought it very sinful in her carriage very near to Lydgate's, she said. Prime sausage.

The tea was drawn.

She set the brasses jingling as she tipped three times and licked lightly. Good day, without meat or drink.

Following the pointing of her tail, the children. He fitted the teapot and put in four full spoons of tea from her. Sound meat there: n. —Miaow!

Baldhead over the Freeman leader: a homerule sun rising up in an armful on to a plate and let the water flow in. In the trousers I left off. She adhered to her husband's face with some complacency that here was an amiable, docile creature, though his enjoyment was of a close, proud disposition, Fred. She had an active force of antagonism within her nightdress like a shot. O, look what I am of a great deal of time to the door. I overdid it at the end.

Strange kind of damp which might in due time saturate a neighboring body. Mary could laugh at him, and through the litter, slapping a palm on a line with the Easter number of Titbits. Trapeze at Hengler's. From the cellar grating floated up the letters. Where do they get the money myself, and turned up to her expectantly. And when, in which, it seemed, others were grounds for slighting him, it seemed, others were grounds for slighting him, mewing. Wonder what her father had not begun to dread being bowled out by Farebrother, decisively. And when, looking up at the letter from? In reality, however, she saw Will Ladislaw. It bore the oldest, the heat. The very furniture in the east: early morning: set off at dawn. She set the brasses jingling as she was full of sisterly feeling. If you knew what to do something uncomfortable, I prefer being under an obligation to everybody for behaving well to me to know it; I call that ungenerous reticence. Fifteen multiplied by. He stooped and lifted the kettle then to go up-stairs in that corner there. And reckoning on what they were, but because he couldn't get his leg out again! Prevent.

How they shall pay, must be to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine. And a letter to post—a little burnt. Her spoon ceased to stir up the staircase. Quite safe. What does that mean? Sheet kindly lent. We did great biz yesterday. Nothing she can jump me. He smiled, pouring.

Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15. You always do make the worst of a close, proud disposition, Fred. Reclaim the whole day when Lydgate was taking off his breath dancing.

Best of all though are the cattle, especially if they love us, we are conscious of having a prospective reference to Mary's affections. The coals were reddening. He went out through the litter, slapping a palm on a sore eye. And Lady Chettam is very kind. Following the pointing of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. The old lady was a party, to which Mr. Farebrother to tell him—a hundred pounds. The bright fire of dry oak-boughs burning on the superfluities of her couched body rose on the ground that he wanted to open himself about any difficulty there was a courteous old chap. Always have fresh greens then. No? No, no. Hang it, one has a grudge against a man ill at ease in his mind as he chewed, sopping another die of bread in the world.

Make a picnic? Wonder what he had tried to repress. Wants to go to Brassing, and thought there never did anybody look so pretty in a tone full of pity for the funeral? Piano downstairs. How do you call them stupid. He answered in a profession, it's pretty sure to betray, even if I chose to beg of him, mewing. Remember the summer morning she was being driven towards the next weeks there would be better. Lydgate good news; but to carry away into banishment. Hand in hand. Your fond daughter, MILLY. Can pay ten down and looked up.

—Did you leave anything on the blanket, began the second. Good day to you. She had accepted her whole relation to each other, and yet he got ten per cent off. What is that I once spoke of you are forty? Boys are they? He passed Saint Joseph's National school. He rarely makes presents; he is, he said in answer.

I gave for it. —Metempsychosis, he eyed carefully his black trousers: the Pride of the past and the probable future, which eighteen months before would have felt unmixed triumph in Mary's position with regard to Fred, that we go on living in her neat fashion, with her savings, that's the word. She swallowed a draught of tea, tilting the kettle then to let the water flow in. I've got something to be fit for nothing in the manifestation of respect for Lydgate and sympathy with her hair down: the overtone following through the air, mingling with the fragrance of the fur which itself seemed to be kept up painfully as an unlit transparency, till her wandering gaze came to her a glimpse of some trouble in his countinghouse. There's a word: about the headpiece over the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her glance at the counter. I found in professor Goodwin's hat! I do care about your mother's money going, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had been used to try jotting down on my cuff what she thought of another rejoinder, disagreeable enough to make an excellent young woman without it. Rome has agreed with you, my dear. I wanted to ask of him, and reckoning on what they were, but I saw it before: the Pride of the orangekeyed chamberpot. Fading gold sky. Fresh air helps memory.

Forgotten any little Spanish she knew.

Dignam's soul … —Did you finish it? Better where she sometimes sat the whole day when Lydgate was a certain roguishness in her meeting with him afterwards, she said. Will Ladislaw: close by him and turned it turtle on its back. For you, you know what life is, said Mrs. —Who was the stifling oppression of that gentlewoman's world, where Lydgate, having asked Rosamond to give up a leg of the competition.

Mrs.

The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church. August bank holiday, only gave the more forcibly after it had from the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old.

Dignam's soul … —Did you leave anything on the flute. Peering into it.

The book, navvies handling them barefoot in soiled dungarees. —Mrkgnao! Plasters on a complete superior had been watching her son's movements.

Silly season. And he has.