#run it into the ground with improper punctuation

[aenaxes]

lo-fi

[crosshair & tbb x afab/f!reader] it's been a tough campaign, so you and crosshair decide that the boys in the field can listen in, as a treat.

warnings: unprotected vaginal sex, consensual exhibitionism/voyeurism, polyamory, improper use of comms, crosshair being snide

w/c: 3.9k

a/n: phone sex? broke. comm sex? woke. rip @ u when the rest of the boys get back to the ship :/ (ps: thank u for 130! big mwah)

“Area’s been cleared. No sign of any seppies here,” Hunter’s weary voice wakes you with a start, crackling over your comm as you lift your head off the familiar height of Crosshair’s shoulder. “We’ll set up camp and head back at first light.”

“Better use the ‘fresher when you get back; you’ll stink up the whole ship,” Crosshair drawls back from beside you and evades you with an easy grin as you sleepily jab at his side.

Mean, you mouth at him with a frown, and the sniper simply shrugs back.

“We’ll see you soon. Love you all, y/n over,” you say, leaning over into Crosshair’s comm.

You receive a slightly disoriented chorus of ‘love you, too’s and ‘love you, cyar’ika’s from the brothers in the field, all blended together over frequency static and the sheer exhaustion of four rotations trekking through the marshy Balnab underbrush. Luck on your side, as navigator, you had escaped the dreary fate of noxious swamp gas and heat rashes in the unlikely case that the boys might need a quick exit.

But luckier still, Crosshair had stayed behind with you, citing your very real lack of combat training as grounds to have at least one of the brothers stay behind and stand guard. After all, volunteer corps boot camps could only teach you so much. And donning that trademark grin that made you either want to kiss him senseless or smack him upside the head (depending on your mood), Crosshair had innocently claimed that if he couldn’t see through the gaseous atmosphere, how could he know where to aim, much less shoot?

(You use your karkin’ scope, shitwad, Echo had said with the sickliest smile possible, and even he couldn’t help but join in when you and the boys all erupted into uncontrollable laughter.)

Suffice to say, Crosshair had spent the last two days holed up in the Marauder with you, a couple games of gin rummy, and a few steep new favors owed to his brothers’ grumbling.

For all the cool circulating air and dehumidifier settings in the Marauder’s helm, with the viewport fogged by the greenish atmospheric haze and your only task to wait for either a distress or all-clear signal, the little card games had gotten predictable after the second day. You had been tempted, out of some combination of boredom and fantasy, to prompt a game of strip poker (though Crosshair’s various bits of armour would have given him the indubitable upper hand, even with his horrible poker face).

Tempted, not even tried. You were all too aware of the uneasy stress of the mission outside, that low-lying tension and anticipatory dread staving off any coy desire to take advantage of your time alone with Crosshair.

But now, with the all-clear signal loud and clear through the comms, there’s little holding your inhibitions back when Crosshair reaches up and ruffles your hair after you click off his comm. Regardless of how innocuous his touch may be, heat rushes to your cheeks as you lean into his palm.

“Needy,” Crosshair chuckles, quick to catch on to your preening under his hand.

“I’ve been so patient,” you exhale a grand sigh, your voice carrying the petulant playfulness that never fails to pull Crosshair into the chase. And based on the lopsided grin twisting over his lips, you’ve got him exactly where you want him. “Don’t tell me you aren’t feeling at least a little bit of the same.”

“You’re insatiable,” he snarks. But he’s already rising to his full stature and crowding you back against the nearest surface, his hands firm and insistent over your waist as the backs of your knees meet the cool holotable steel.

“Right,” you retort, lifting your chin and baring your neck to him when he dips his head low to kiss over your pulse. The first touch is always careful—it comes with the territory, sharpshooting, all calculated movements with little space for error—but Crosshair’s intentionality is no less desirous, mouthing over your skin as you feel one hand drag slow and heavy up from your waist to your neck. “I’m the needy one.”

“You’re the enabler,” Crosshair mumbles into your skin, and you can’t help the dreamy sigh that passes your lips when you feel his fingertips knead soft, slow motions over the base of your neck. “I’m just running with the punches.”

“Maker, you suck at talking sexy,” you laugh, brighter still when you feel Crosshair’s soft exhale over your skin as he stifles laughter of his own.

“Then let’s not,” he says and lifts his head to offer you a wry smile. Before you can humor any more dry banter, Crosshair pulls you flush against the hard lines of his chestplate, one hand curled over the base of your head and the other sliding around the small of your back, and swallows any words you had with his tongue.

Second nature, you lift your arms to curl over his shoulders and anchor him close.

Crosshair takes your invitation with ease, pressing his tongue over your lips before he gently shifts you up to seat you on the holotable edge and slots between your thighs. It doesn’t take the firm weight of his hand to have you rocking forward to meet him in a slow grind, and you lift one knee, hooking your calf over the hard edge of his thigh guard and pulling him closer still.

He pulls back, and you respond with a petulant whine, weakly tugging on his hip with your leg. Crosshair laughs, little but a soft huff, but one that has equal parts desire and frustration rising in your chest. Seeming to have caught on, Crosshair only leans forward enough to meet you with a chaste touch of his lips, but, desperate for more, you take the brief window of opportunity to reach up and tug his head to yours.

“Don’t be a fucking tease,” you mumble insistently, punctuating your request with a soft nip over Crosshair’s top lip. You gasp when you feel his gloved fingers grab, twisting your hair tight under his fist and tearing you from his lips.

“Don’t be fucking rude,” he snarks back, his brows raised in playful challenge. “You take what you get,” he snarls, his lips curled up in a sharp grin as he yanks your head to the side and he dips close. You feel his breath fan over your skin, a brief and heady warning before he crowds you close and drags his tongue from the edge of your jaw to the highest crest of your cheek.

Desire, sweet and cloying, curls over your spine as he steps back, leaving you in a dazed sort of stupor as you watch him make quick work of the plastoid secured over him. It takes you a moment to collect yourself, ready to launch a snide remark his way, but whatever you intended to say is far beyond coherent thought, let alone expression. He finally closes that small distance between you, presses the hard lines of muscle and sinew close between your thighs, and your head falls back against the cold tabletop as you sigh.

He’s overwhelming, intoxicating, and you can’t get enough.

It’s different between each of them. There is careful intention with Hunter, playful and boyish glee in Wrecker’s arms, the stern edge of authority when Echo presses you against the wall, Tech’s rosy warmth when he kisses you sweet. But Crosshair offers you the snide challenge, the push and pull of teasing one-upmanship when he shoots you a smug grin, pushes your thighs open, and spits onto your cunt.

“Probably didn’t need to do that,” he says a bit mildly as he brings two calloused fingers up against your cunt and gently parts your swollen sex. You might have mistaken his soft exhale as laughter when you clench down around achingly empty space, but you know better. As he lifts his hand to your lips and pushes your own arousal past your lips, watching you take his fingers deep and suck, you know better. (It’s awe.)

“Fuck off, and fuck me,” you moan around his fingers, gently nipping over his skin.

“Are you really in any position to be making demands?” Crosshair snorts and pushes his fingers down against the flat of your tongue. You bite his fingers a little harder in response, and vindictive justice crows over the haze of lust in your chest when he hisses through a grin.

“Oh, please. You want this more than I do,” you roll your eyes, crinkling your nose as he smears your own spit over your lips before he pulls away.

Catching the slight part in Crosshair’s lips, you ready another snide retort. There’s an art to foreplay with Crosshair’s cynicism. But any coherent thought promptly dies on your tongue when, instead of a snappy comeback, Crosshair kneads one hand tight over your hip, presses the blunt head of his cock up against your cunt, and pushes.

It doesn’t get old—you don’t suspect it ever will—the satisfying burn pooling warm in your gut when Crosshair anchors you to the holotable and stretches you open. For that one, long moment, the clever, biting banter you share has vanished, leaving only slow, hitching breaths and the cresting ache of want to fill its place. You don’t hold the same playful joy of victory over his head when you open your eyes to see him groan, too enraptured by your own pleasure, by the gorgeous picture he presents you, his brows furrowed and eyes fluttered shut, to poke fun at how he bows over the table edge and braces himself over you with a stuttering inhale.

You cry out with him when you finally feel him press as deep as he can, the trembling muscle of his thighs molded up against your skin. Crosshair dips low, close enough that you feel his every heaving inhale brush against your chest, and you only see love, love, love, raw and tender and so, so good when you look through your lashes and catch the warmth in his dark eyes.

That this was it, that you were as good as it would ever get.

“Ready?” he whispers, play hinting at the edges of his voice as he strokes his thumb over your hip.

“Is that even a question?” you giggle.

Silent discretion isn’t necessarily something you strive for, not since the boys heartily accepted your trembling confession that one just wasn’t enough. You’ve long since learned to dismiss any flare of bashful embarrassment that might have you clap your hand over your mouth when Echo pulled you into the nearest room or Wrecker decided that he couldn’t wait for the few quick steps between the armory and the bunk hall. But it’s obscene, the sound that bubbles up from your throat when Crosshair abruptly pulls out of your dripping cunt and shoves himself back in full.

Too high on the euphoria heavy and thick in your throat, you barely register the soft kiss he presses to the corner of your mouth before he rises up and begins fucking into you in earnest. Your eyes flutter open when you feel his rough fingertips dig into the junction of your thigh and hip, trailing low for a brief, uncertain moment before he finds your clit and presses firm over where you part around him. And when you strain your ears above the breathy whines spilling from your lips, when you squeeze down around him with a soft sob, you hear him gasping with you.

This was really as good as you would ever need it to get.

“Wait,” you laugh a bit breathlessly, squirming under his touch. “Wait, let’s call them.”

Crosshair fixes you with something like morbid intrigue, his gentle, firm movements over your clit falling still so he can offer you the unspoken question behind a quirked brow.

“The area’s clear; they’re tired; morale’s low, you know. I think it’d be fun,” you rationalize as a coy smile grows on your lips.

“Is this what you’ve been thinking about this entire campaign?” Crosshair finally asks. Despite the almost disinterested drawl in his voice, you both know it’s a weak cover for the mischievous delight at the prospect of teasing desire in front of his field-weary brothers.

“Maybe,” you breathe, breath hitching as he rolls his thumb over your clit.

“So vulgar,” Crosshair chuckles, rolling his eyes when you blow him a kiss and fall back onto the tabletop.

But he’s already reaching for his discarded commlink and shuffling it back on. He secures the plastoid snug over his forearm, and when he shifts forward to steady himself as the locks snap into place, he shifts up and presses firm against the spot in your cunt that has you arching off the holotable with a low whine.

“Save it for them, yeah?” Crosshair chuckles, and he presses for Tech’s comm.

“Crosshair?” Tech mumbles groggily, apparently having just awoken to Crosshair’s impromptu call.

“So good of you to answer,” Crosshair drawls into his bracer. As much as you’d like to sit back up and swat his audible smirk off of his lips, the snark dies on your tongue when he shifts forward hard, the firm lines of his hips connecting firm against your ass as you sink your teeth into your arm to stifle your sob.

“Is everything alright?” Tech asks through a yawn. And you would laugh at his sleepy obliviousness if you weren’t quite literally seeing stars, blinding iridescent comet trails across your field of vision, when Crosshair slips his free arm under your waist, secures you tight, and pushes his cock impossibly deeper into you. All you can do is bite down over your uniform sleeve and wonder if your high whine reaches the comm feed.

“Fine, really,” Crosshair says with a breezy flippancy that you don’t currently have the mental capacity to find irritating. “Mind telling the others to pick up?”

“Maker, this better be for a good reason,” Echo’s frequency crackles to life, albeit somewhat sourly. Following his voice, you register a hearty yawn from Wrecker’s line, and not a moment later, Hunter’s light quietly blinks on.

“Is y/n on?” Tech asks.

“Mm, she is,” Crosshair punctuates his words with another sharp thrust that has your toes curling in your boots as your legs jerk over his arms. The saccharine tenderness of earlier gives way to the smug tone you have grown to (begrudgingly) adore. “Come on, say hello.”

“H-Hi,” you whimper into your comm, trembling as Crosshair digs his fingers over the soft skin of your thigh and slowly pulls out of your cunt, just until the ridge of his cock catches on your stretched lips. This time, when he thrusts forward there is no measured, careful deliberation—only raw and rapidly unraveling need as he sheathes himself inside you with one smooth motion and crushes up against that soft spot inside you that has you sobbing over your comm.

If they hadn’t heard your soft, muffled noises before, they certainly have, now.

The collective feed goes quiet.

“Holy shit.”

And then all at once, it’s a staticky blend of voices when the realization finally sinks in and exhaustion has all but been forgotten for the night.

You hear Wrecker groan just above Hunter’s gasping, flushed “oh,” and you’re fairly certain you catch Echo and Tech synchronize a low, drawn “fuuuck” as you sigh. But Crosshair gives you little space to register the sudden and raucous desire over the channel when he cants his hips forward and fucks into you deep.

This may have been your idea in the beginning, but whatever control you thought you had has long gone as you scrabble for purchase over the cold holotable top. The teasing game, dangling the possibility of having in front of the boys in the field, is now simply a show out of your hands as you moan into your comm.

“How does she feel?” Wrecker asks, his voice breathy and low.

“So fuckin’ wet,” Crosshair laughs, angling another sharp thrust against the spot that makes you see stars.

You grip tighter to the edge of the holotable with a choked moan. There’s something so indescribably rousing to hearing them speak over you as if you aren’t even there, rutting desperately back against Crosshair’s hips as you sigh and moan into the commlink clutched over your wildly beating heart.

“Our poor little cyar’ika went four whole days without being touched—she’s dripping. Tell them how much you needed this,” Crosshair croons, a mocking sharpness curling at the edges of the gentle tone of his voice. “Tell them how much you need them.”

You tremble under him as his hips meet yours hard enough to knock the air from your lungs, unable to do more than whine as you feel him snake his arm up your chest and curl his fingers around your neck.

“I—I need you!” you manage, your words only soft sighs pulled from what little breath Crosshair affords you through a steady, devastating pace. “Maker, I miss you so much—!”

Eyes squeezed shut, you fight the urge to quell every noise that claws at your throat. As obscene as it makes you sound, your boys are nowhere near as close as Crosshair, able to do little else but close their eyes and dream of you through the modulated channel frequency alone. It’s the least you can do, you think, and you moan as Crosshair shifts his hips up hard.

“He makin’ you feel good, cyar’ika?” Hunter’s voice crackles over the channel. “Pretty baby, you feelin’ good?”

“Mmhm!” you whimper, nodding wildly as if they’re not camped out a few hundred klicks from the ship, as if they’re there, bearing witness as Crosshair pulls you apart with every insistent, heady motion he makes.

“You’re a big girl,” Crosshair sneers, digging his fingers into the soft skin of your waist as he fucks into you sharp enough it punches the breath from your lungs. “Use your words.”

“So—” Your voice wavers over a gasp. “Feels so good!”

“Attagirl,” you hear Echo groan.

You can’t imagine how much of a mess you must look, jaw slack and eyes rolled back into your head, drunk on nothing short of hedonistic joy in its purest form, legs jerking over Crosshair’s arms when he fucks a particularly deep thrust into your cunt. Maybe you’ll try a call over the holo next time.

“Close,” you whimper.

But as soon as the words leave your tongue, you realize your mistake, panic flooding in your throat when Crosshair raises his brows, a wicked grin on his lips, and simply. Stops.

“Are you, now?” Crosshair chuckles, and if you weren’t there, dangling at that precarious precipice, so, so close to the kind of pleasure that wracks through your body so hard you forget your own name, you might have slung some acerbic jumble of words his way. But you are there, twisting your hips for any sort of purchase while Crosshair offers you a knowing smile.

“I’m going to kill you,” you hiss, only to be cut short, your words swallowed by your wailing moan when Crosshair fucks into you, a shallow thrust that pushes you closer, closer to the aching pleasure just out of reach.

“Oh, that wasn’t nice, was it?” Crosshair taunts.

The boys murmur over the channel, all soft laughter while they imagine your flustered desperation, wishing it was them back on the ship, stuck to lookout duty, blessed with the cool air of the helm and your warm cunt fluttering around them.

“What do you say?” Crosshair laughs breathily into his comm, dragging one slow finger over your throbbing clit, firm enough that it sparks want through your chest but too light to do little more than tease. You sob under his touch. “Does our girl deserve to come?”

“Let’s ask her,” Echo rasps, and when you squeeze your eyes shut, your mouth waters at the hazy mental image of the eldest’s lidded gaze, his cock fisted heavy in his hand as he whispers into his comm. “You think you deserve it, cyare?”

“Please,” you gasp. It’s more than a simple response, rather, a plea for something, anything, that little bit of more to push you over the razor thin edge between teasing pleasure and release.

“Gotta answer the question, little one,” Wrecker chokes out past a straining chuckle.

“Maker, you know what I mean—!” you whie, shuddering at the jolt of pleasure that laces up your spine when Crosshair wraps his arm over your thigh and presses deeper than you thought possible.

“Answer it,” Tech breathes.

“Fuck—I deserve it!” you finally sob, and your thighs clench when you hear Hunter groan over the channel. “Maker, I deserve it!”

You’re not sure if it’s your own confession ringing in your ears or the sensation of Crosshair squeezing his hands over your waist that finally tips that delicate balance between your excruciating anticipation and release, stirring wild and devastating from low in your stomach as you arch off the holotable and scream. It crashes over you in an endlessly overwhelming wave, swallowing you whole in nothing but simple, luxuriant pleasure fizzling at your fingertips and blurring your vision with euphoric tears while Crosshair shudders, head hung low as you clench down around him.

“That’s it,” Wrecker croons. Somehow, you’re still able to catch his adoring praise over the frequency, your focus turned to the way Crosshair continues to coax your pleasure, drawing it long and desperate with what thin strands of composure remain.

A final, stuttering thrust, and Crosshair drapes himself over you, burying himself as deep as he can in your fluttering cunt and groaning softly as he fills you with warm, heavy spurts of come. All you can do is whine and pulse around him, losing yourself to the mercy of every passing sensation that sparks delirious pleasure up your spine.

“We’ll be back soon, sweet thing.”

You weakly turn your head to face the blinking comm light beside you, reduced to a blurry spot of red muddled by the lingering tears in your eyes. It’s a miracle you can hear Hunter’s voice over the dull buzz in your ears at all, but even through your exhaustion, his voice strikes want, warm and deep, through your core.

You mumble something unintelligible to your own ears in response, little more than a sign of life as Crosshair steps back and clicks off your comm.

“Quite the show,” Crosshair laughs softly, leaning close to curl his palm at your jaw and thumb at the tears beaded over your lashes. He presses his lips to your temple, and you bask under his touch. “Did such a good job, cyare.”

“When I can’t walk in two days,” you rasp through the dry itch in your throat from your (retrospectively) embarrassing show of being as loud as humanly possible over the comms. “I expect you all to take turns carrying me everywhere.”

Crosshair snorts, tapping the soft skin of your inner thigh to carefully drag his fingertips through the mess of come and slick smeared over your cunt. “Two days? It took them four to get out to the mark.”

And he’s right. The soft, fluvial wetland outside was far from conducive for fast travel, even with a clear mark and sharp navigation. But all things considered, you wouldn’t be surprised if the boys were packing up and leaving camp now, all for the chance to board and throw you onto the nearest bunk a few odd days faster.

“Four credits they’re leaving right now,” you laugh.

“Let’s make it four credits they’ll make it back in two,” Crosshair offers. He dips low and brushes his forehead close against yours, sharing soft laughter as you reach up to stroke over the back of his head.

They make it back in one.

[peachyteabuck]

it takes two

summary: after one of the most stressful weeks of your hard-earned career, all you want to do is enjoy a quiet night in with your two favorite boys. unfortunately for you, one of them has other plans. 

(a commission for @honeychicanawrites)

pairing: chris evans x henry cavill x reader

words: 1506

trigger warnings: d/s dynamics, 'mommy' title used, restraints, reward/punishment, brat taming, pet play

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

You sit in the center of the deep maroon couch, legs folded under you as both men kneel in the space on the floor just in front of you. A movie you’ve seen too many times to count plays in the television in front of you, nothing more than white noise as you scroll various social media sites and eat your favorite post-work snack: popcorn.

“And then,” you sigh, popping another kernel in your mouth as you roll your eyes. Recanting the horrid experiences of your day remained a necessary part of your nightly routine – just as instructing both men to strip and present themselves, their collars, and their connected leash had become part of theirs.

Chris and Henry both stare at you with wide, waiting eyes – their matching collars along with the lack of clothes leaving their only differences being the small silver charms shaped to be the letter of their first initial. What they’re waiting for, they’re not exactly sure – a drop of praise, instruction, to be fed from the palm of your hand – but no matter what you choose to give them, they will accept it eagerly.

Even if it means waiting for nothing.

You finish the snack between words, emptying the bowl before grabbing the leash and forcing them to follow you to the bathroom where you can finally get ready for bed, ready to slot yourself between your two giant buffy men and sleep off the stress from your exhaustive work week before ringing in the weekend with some sweet, sweet morning sex. The perfect way to relax, de-stress…

The men crawl a single pace behind you, just as you trained them too all those months ago. It was hard - breaking through the hyper-masculine identifies everyone, even themselves, had forced them into took what felt like forever. At first it was just you getting them comfortable with the idea of the both of them dating another man, then it was riding them and sitting on their faces, and before long you were buying them custom matching collars and having them sit at your feet as you ate each meal that they cooked for you.

As you stand in front of the sink, each man kneels by your side with their hands flat on their thighs as you pull your hair from your face, take off your make up, and – finally – instruct Henry to strip you down while Chris grabs your pajamas (also known as one of their shirts worn thin from years of wear and a pair of sleep shorts you bought from some fast fashion retailer forever ago). It’s one of those things that began as simple thing that helped build their capacity for rule-following but soon became a necessary part of your routine with them, a nonsexual intimacy that you look forward to each morning as you fit your feet in into uncomfortable high heels and shove your ass into another pencil skirt.

Everything seems great as the man unbuttons your dark red top, unzipping your pants and allowing the clothes to fall to the ground, the underwear following soon after. It all seems perfect as Chris deposits the clothes you want to change into next to your phone on the counter – folded in just the way you like them. It’s euphoric, the feeling of both of them there – so much so it nearly blinds you to the feeling of Henry licking a thick stripe alone your bare pussy.

Nearly.

In an instant you’re turned around - grabbing Henry by the jaw to force his eyes to meet yours as you bare your teeth. “What the fuck did you just do?”

Fear flashes across his eyes as he realizes what he’s done, as the knowledge that he will now face the thing he dreads most: punishment.

“I-I-“ he attempts to walk back his actions, explain away the rule he  had just broken – the one second only to the one that states they are not to touch themselves without your express permission. He had broken the strict guidance at they are not allowed to touch you either – certainly not while you were doing something else, and certainly not while you were already one edge. “I’m sorry, I-”

You don’t give him time to finish his plea, rolling your eyes as you hiss.

“I’ve been working too hard,” you punctuate the last word by shoving him back, a small smile spread across your lips as he stumbles. “Haven’t been as strict as I should be, have let you both forget how mean I can be when you decide to be bad, dumb puppies…”

Henry stays there, flat on his ass on the hardwood floor as he watches you with fear running through his veins. It’s rare you’re ever as mad as you are now – usually preferring to take a much soft hand when it came to correct improper behavior. This week, though, had eroded your good will, your patience, and even if you tolerated entry-level bullshit from your coworkers, you certainly weren’t going to take it from either Chris or Henry.

With fire in your eyes you turn to Chris, who throughout the entire interaction has remained silent in his obedience. He’s your good puppy – the one who politely eats from your hand and sits by your chair in your home office without making a sound and never ever breaks a rule. He’s golden, perfect, and watches as you eye him up and down.

“You want a reward?” you ask him, stepping closer so you can run your fingers through his hair. “You want a reward for being my good little puppy?”

Chris nods eagerly, sighing as he watches you lean against the marble countertop and open your legs – his eyes hooded and jaw slack as the slick that’s collected there shines against the low lighting in the room. It’s a reward of the highest honor, your sweet pussy. A golden jewel, the most precious incentive for both men.

And currently is was eye-level with Chris, whose mouth is nearly watering as he licks his lips.  

“Come get a taste then.”

It’s all Chris needs before he’s lurching forward forward – beard digging into the soft flesh of your inner thighs as his tongue and teeth begin to trace over your lips, ghost over your clit. He’s skilled, knowledgeable of your body and how to use his own to pleasure you – two of his fingers trailing from their place on his thighs to circle your entrance before moving to curl them inside of you.

“Oh!” you moan, reaching one hand behind you to grab his hair – keeping him in place as the beautiful pain shoots down his spine. “Oh, puppy…”

His tongue licks at the most sensitive part of you in staccato strokes, drawing small, desperate moans out of you that seem to melt into each other as the angry heat that curled in your abdomen turns into one of arousal. It you weren’t leaning against the custom oak cabinets you surely would’ve fallen by now, your knees buckling under the sheer amount of pleasure that courses through you.

“Fuck, yes my good Puppy,” you moan, your words beginning to slur as you get closer and closer – hips bucking in time with Chris’s fingers and tongue. Deep, guttural moans erupt from your chest, the loudness only amplified by the white tile walls it bounces off of.

In the rare, fleeting moments you’re able to open your eyes you can see Henry’s painfully hard cock leaking precum, a sight that makes your heart skip a beat and your pussy pulse.

“God, I’m so close,” you gasp as Chris adds another finger, “Fuck Puppy don’t stop don’t-!”

You come with a deep moan, eyes rolling to the back of your head as Chris continues to lick at your clit, reveling in the feeling of your cunt pulsing against his face. You push him away when it all becomes too much, face hot and panting as you press your foot to the center of his chest to keep him in place. As he sits back you nearly moan as you see his face – equally as fucked out as yours as his swollen lips gape and hooded eyes look up at you with his soaked beard making another rush of adrenaline shoot through your chest.

“Was that good, Mommy?” he murmurs, words barely audible. “Did I make you feel good?”

You smile as you lean down to kiss his forehead and then his lips, tasting yourself on his tongue. “Yes, puppy – you did so well, I’m so proud of you…”

Chris cuddles into you, accepting the praise as his cock strains against his stomach. It’s only when his chest stops heaving that you turn to Henry – whose whole body seems nearly shaking with desperation. enrhH

“Now,” you sigh, turning away from the man who remains slumped against your chest. “How should I take care of this little problem?”

Henry gulps, jaw tumbling as he does so.

Oh, you think, He’s really in for it this time.

[notesofarichlycolorednight]

41/50 for Luke and Tori please?

sorry this took me so long! i was having trouble nailing down a concept that i liked. of course that only led to me thinking too hard abt it

so without further ado, here it is! it’s mainly an all human! and crime!au, kept the greek names, with some mish-mash of other things thrown in there. idk really, it’s kinda a mess

half under a cut bc i’m a long-winded bitch

it’s not my Best, but the depression has hit hard and i have other projects i’d like to work on (if the depression will let me)

#41 first kiss#50 arranged marriage

Day 1

"Ugh, you expect me to marry a grifter." She said grifter like it was the worst of the four letter words, throwing the blond man across from her a distasteful look. And for a long time, he'd thought brown eyes always had a warmth about them.

He scoffed. "As if marrying into a house of fixers is any better." His ice-blue eyes shot the blonde woman across from him, his own glare. "Have you even been taught the tricks of the trade yet?" His voice had turned mocking.

Tori opened her mouth to respond with a biting comment, but her mother quickly grabbed her hand and squeezed painfully.

"It would be improper for her to be in such a state in front of her betrothed," Diana said with a perfected smile.

Luke rolled his eyes, missing the irritated look Tori had thrown at her mother.

"Why don't we talk about the details of the wedding in my office." Tori's father, Apollo, stood. Luke's father, Hermes, stood as well with a nod.

"We should let these two get better acquainted," Hermes agreed before shooting his son a pointed look, while Apollo did the same.

Diana stood. "Just as well, I will be meeting with a client soon."

"Yes, I also have a meeting of my own." May stood.

Soon the only two left in the room were Tori and Luke, both glaring at each other, refusing to speak.

Day 100

"Thanks a lot, asshole!" Tori picked up the nearest glass, which was only full of water and some ice, and threw it into Luke's face.

Luke gasped and shot up, his eyes freezing over as he glared at Tori. "What the fuck?" He shook off some of the water, his mark handing him a handful of napkins to wipe his face with. It didn't do much, napkins at clubs were horrendously small and thin. Across the table from Luke, a man also in a suit blinked in surprise and leaned away from Tori.

"You know this chick, Luke?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

The people at the tables around them had their eyes trained on the three now, and were murmuring. The waiters had stopped in their tracks, shooting the three nervous looks.

Luke swiped up his napkin and started cleaning his face, while the other man stood and assured the rest of the restaurant that everything was fine and to go back to their meal. Either he was particularly persuasive, or they wanted to pretend nothing had happened because the patrons went back to their dinners and the wait staff began moving from table to table again.

"She's no one," Luke finally answered, eyes half-pleading, half-threatening, but Tori ignored that. She'd been outright threatened by worse.

"Actually, I'm his fiancée." Tori held out her hand, brandishing her engagement ring to the other man, who was still standing. It was something that their parents had decided on together. Luke hadn't even seen it until he'd given it to her. Luke's eyes blazed and he opened his mouth to yell at her, but his mark spoke first.

"You didn't say you were married." The guy looked her over, and any other day would've earned a solid punch to the nose, but she was busy glowering at Luke. "She's quite the catch."

Tori was dressed up, as well, as you'd want to be in such a fancy restaurant setting. Though, her dress were rather plain-black, fitting, and only went down to the tops of her knees. She wore a pair of glossy black flats, and her hair was curled, pulled over her shoulder and held there by a large clip, embedded with diamonds. (Luke vaguely wondered if that was another gift that he'd bought for her.)

"I can see you're in the middle of the something," Tori said sweetly, her eyes flickering over to the other man, "but my fiancé and have a few things to discuss."

"It can't wait until I get home?" Luke asked, punctuating his words.

Tori's smile dropped as she turned to look back at Luke. "No." She looked back at Luke's mark. "You best leave. Now."

The guy took the last swig of his drink before stepping out from behind the table and going to Luke to pat him on the shoulder. "Better luck next time." The nodded to Tori before making his way to the exit.

Luke stepped around the table, approaching Tori, but she held her ground. "What the fuck was that? You just lost me a mark." His voice was low, so as to not draw any more attention than necessary.

"I think you mean petty cash," she shot back. "Unlike you, I was actually working—meeting with a client."

"If he was scared off, maybe you should've been doing your job better," Luke retorted.

"I was doing my job, just fine until that cartel you pissed off last week showed up, looking for you." Luke's face paled, all anger at his soon-to-be-wife drained from him. He stepped back so he could scan the restaurant. Tori continued speaking, "Spooked my client, who took off, by the way. And now, they've come for you. I'd like to see you get out of this one, hot shot."

Just as she was finishing, one of the men came into view and immediately spotted Luke.

"We have to go." Luke grabbed Tori's wrist and started dragging her through the restaurant.

"There's no 'we!' This is all you!" She tried to pry her wrist from his grasp, but his fingers were locked like a iron vice.

"They know we're getting married. They'll hurt you to get to me. So yes, we." Luke rolled his eyes, annoyed he even had to explain this to her. What were her parents teaching her about the underworld?

He tried to drag her to a back exit, but another man appeared. So he quickly diverted his path to another possible exit, only, you guessed it, another man appeared. Luke was forced to enter the kitchen, pushing his way past chefs and some of the wait staff. They didn't make it a few feet before one of the men was in there.

Shots rang out. Luke and Tori instinctively ducked, and he pulled her behind one of the kitchen's islands. There screams as food went flying alongside pots, pans, bowls and plates. Those in the kitchen scattered until only shots rang through the kitchen, following the sounds of ricochet.

Luke didn't want to risk looking, but he guessed there were most likely at least two shooters now. And no way out. He and Tori were staring at a dead end wall behind racks of prepped food.

"We're trapped," he sighed, trying to come to terms with his demise. Who knew he'd go out cowering behind a table in a kitchen, sitting next to the one he was being forced to marry?

"I can take them." Tori said. Luke's head snapped over to her. She was grinning.

"Are you insane? Even if you had a way to stop them from shooting at us, more would show up!"

Had he had time to, Luke would've grabbed her arm and asked her if she was crazy again, but she moved faster than he anticipated. Faster than he'd ever seen her move, in fact. Although, it wasn't like he had paid much attention to her since the announcement of their "happy" engagement.

In one fluid motion, Tori pulled out a glock, already fit with a silencer, from her clutch and spun, staying behind the table but standing enough so she had a clear line of sight of the shooters.

It felt like Luke blinked, heard cries of pain, and suddenly the shooting stopped. Heart beating rapidly in his chest, eyes wide as a does, he carefully lifted himself to his knees and peered over the counter. No gunman to be seen. Tori had stood to full height, and was smiling at her work. Luke slowly stood, too, seeing that the gunmen were on the ground, groaning. Most likely due to the fact that they now had new holes in their knees.

"Mother is going to be very cross with me when she finds out you had to see that." Tori said, slipping her gun back into clutch. "Let's go husband, mine, before more show up." She started toward the back entrance of the kitchen, where two more groaning gunmen laid.

Luke followed in a daze, glancing down at the gunmen again as he stepped over them.

"You have…impeccable aim." He swallowed hard and was glad for the fresh air as he stepped out into the alleyway.

"Don't be impressed yet, my clip is low and more are coming. Let's go!" Tori grabbed Luke's wrist and began pulling him down the alley just as car lights flashed on them. The car screeched to a halt. Doors opened and shut. More gunshots rang through the air.

They broke out into a run as they exited the alley and onto a quiet street. Tori was leading him somewhere, but he was still a little stunned and was having a hard time gathering his bearings. They went through another alley, with footsteps hot on their trail. She took them a block down and down yet another alley.

"Are we going to lose them any time soon?" Luke asked, finally coming from his daze.

She glared at him over her shoulder. "You try running in a skintight dress. You're going to see me naked at some point in our marriage, I am sure of it, but I'd rather not it be in a dark alley surrounded by cartel members."

They kept running.

The men of the cartel somehow managed to keep up with them. They hadn't started shooting yet, but if they got even a foot closer, no doubt shooting would begin soon.

A few moments later, they were on a more populated and lit street. Houses lined the sidewalk, and cars passed perhaps a little faster than they should on a residential street.

Tori was scanning the apartments.

Luke glanced over his shoulder. He didn't see anyone, but he was sure they were only a step behind.

"I'm good picking locks, but I don't think I'll be able to pick one fast enough," Luke admitted.

"You don't need to. Come on." Tori led them up the steps to an apartment with a red door. "Take off your jacket and pull out your shirt from your pants." Luke did as she said, and she took his jacket, draping it over her shoulders before taking the clip out of her hair and putting it into the jacket pocket. She ruffled it, bringing it over both her shoulders. "Okay, now pretend to kiss me?"

"What?" Luke blanched. His blue eyes were wide and a blush was creeping up into his face.

"I know we hate each other, but right now it's life or death. So just…" Tori reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him forward, his head closer to hers. She inclined her head, but kept him a hair's breadth away from her, turning them so that anyone looking from the street wouldn't know they weren't actually kissing. She kept her eyes on the sidewalk, watching for the cartel men.

"Put your hands somewhere," she muttered. "On my hips. Caress my face. Do something with them."

Luke shifted and quickly put his hands on her hips, underneath his jacket that was precariously hanging off her shoulders.

And maybe he should've been more worried that their lives were at stake, and they were using a tactic that wasn't guaranteed to work to get away from them, but all he could really think about was Tori being so close. She was surprisingly warm, even though she was dressed in less. She smelled like honey. Her hair shined like gold in the streetlight. Messy curls was a good look for her.

They'd never been this close until now. They stayed as far away from each other as humanly possible, unless out. Then, they had to act like a happy couple, but at their shared home, Luke slept on the pull-out sofa. They rarely interacted, simply co-existing and skirting around each other, going about their respective jobs.

Standing there, adrenaline rushing through his veins, their breaths mingingly, so close he could feel the warmth of her body made him kind of regret not having taken up the opportunity to...act like a real couple when no one was watching. But that meant diffusing the animosity between them, and he wasn't sure that was going to happen.

Just as Tori spotted some of the men that were chasing them passing by, without really thinking about it, Luke reached up to caress Tori's face with one of his hands.

Tori blinked, startled, her brown eyes going to Luke.

"Luke, what—?" she started, but before she could finish he'd pressed his lips to hers.

Maybe she would've remembered that she hated him, if only because she was being forced to marry him. But his hand at her face was gentle. His arm that snaked around her waist and pulled her closer to deepen the kiss was firm and warm. His lips were a little chapped, but he was a good kisser. Before she knew it, she was curling one of her hands into his hair, the other arm wrapping around his neck to hold him to her.

And that was the first time they'd kissed each other, if you can believe that.

thanks for sending this in! it was fun to think abt, even if i had a little trouble deciding on my idea

[ilovesport2121]

What Are The Best Tennis Footwork Tips?

Roger Federer was once interviewed by Charlie Rose after winning the 2004 U.S. Open. In the video, he was asked why his game looked so graceful. Without hesitation, Roger cited his footwork as the single most important factor in his game – for beauty and effect.

Specifically, Roger said, “The key to exploring my potential is improving my footwork…It’s always what I’ve been working on.”

During the interview, Roger kept coming back to footwork. In my opinion as a coach, tennis player and critic, footwork is the single most important factor in determining a player’s success in tennis.

I say this because it doesn’t matter how good a player’s strokes are, if his footwork is lacking, he won’t be able to place himself into position to hit effective shots. If we look at the best players on the ATP tour in today’s era (Djokovic, Federer, Nadal), they all have the best footwork in the game.

It’s no coincidence these men have consistently dominated the game for the last 15 years either. If you want to improve your tennis game, nothing will do so faster than bettering your tennis footwork.

But what does tennis footwork exactly mean? We hear so much about it but it’s quite a nebulous term which is rarely clearly defined. Let’s do that now.

I can break up footwork into four distinct stages. Each stage is important and crucial to hitting great, powerful shots.

Attaining the optimal position – Getting to the spot where the striking of the ball takes place. Planting of the feet – placing the body into the proper firing position. Harnessing momentum – pushing off the ground, thrusting the torso and generating the necessary momentum to propel the arm into the swing. Recovering – returning or moving to the best location on the court. I’ll go through all four stages in detail shortly. I can tell you for certain that the best players blend them seamlessly together. They do so all match long and repeat the process over and over during a point.

When a player can use his footwork so quickly and efficiently, often and oddly, it goes unnoticed by the casual observer. What remains is a virtuoso of perfection on the court with the final punctuating shot riveted as the last memory in the viewer’s mind – not the footwork.

Stage 1: Attaining the Optimal Position

This stage can be the most difficult of all four for beginner and intermediate players to achieve correctly. This is because most people use inefficient movement to reach the ball.

Furthermore, most people set up to close or far away from the ball. However, when done correctly, getting to the spot where you can strike the ball should set you up perfectly for stage 2.

There are only three ways to move to the ball in tennis. The first is by taking a cross-step and then shuffling (or side-stepping) to the ball. This is the most commonly used technique by players.

A first cross-step and shuffle is primarily done when moving laterally but can be accomplished when moving backwards and forwards as well. This is done for balls not too close or far away – but at a middle distance.

By doing so, we can save time and put ourselves into a better position as we reach stage 2. This is the reason why professional players rarely looked rushed when hitting shots and amateurs often do.

Stage 2: Planting of the Feet

By virtue of stage 1, we should now be in the ideal position to hit the ball. In this stage (# 2), we stop our feet (if only for a second) and plant them to the ground.

Why would we do this? Because all power is generated from the ground up. It’s true for every sport and tennis is no exception. In order to use the ground, we need to have our feet firmly planted on it.

We then bend our knees and push off the ground to create energy for the swing. As we plant our feet we must also rotate our body what’s called the power position.

This is a position where our racket is back (or loaded) and our torso is turned to the side. This position creates torque and kinetic energy that can be released into the shot.

Unfortunately, many club players (especially those 4.0 and lower) fail to achieve enough torque to hit truly powerful shots. This stems from improper technique and the discomfort required in torquing the body.

I believe this stage is of huge importance when it comes to hitting very powerful shots. Both feet need to be planted firmly on the ground and the body torqued well past 90 degrees in the shoulders.

Stage 3: Harnessing Momentum

At the commencement of this stage, the body and racket will have completed the setup to strike the ball. Think of stage 2 as being a loaded gun or a crossbow pulled back into the final position before being released.

In stage 3 we execute the forward part of the stroke. This is done initially by pushing off the ground with both feet. However, it should be noted that most of your weight will be on the back foot.

This is so because we want to distribute our weight from the back leg to the front leg in order to transfer our body weight into the shot. You’ll see every great player do this on every basic shot in tennis (forehand, backhand, serve and volley).

As the legs push off the ground, the torso begins to rotate towards the net, releasing the stored kinetic energy it achieved in stage 2. The last part of the swing happens from the arm, which more-or-less goes along for the ride.

The major mistake most club players make here is thinking the arm is the primary source of power when it’s the legs and torso that really do the heavy lifting. The arm should be loose and flexible, snapping forward from the momentum of the body.

If a player never achieves an ideal power position and pushes off from the ground, then the arm is left to do the work. This results in a labored swing and slower velocity shot. Such players can never seem to generate power no matter how hard they swing.

This is because the legs and torso play a huge roll in how hard the ball is struck. If the legs and torso only play a small factor in the swing, the arm must work extra hard to compensate. This approach can tire a player out over a long match and result in weak swings.

Stage 4: Recovering

After the ball is struck and the player completes his follow through, the next and final stage is to move again. This time it’s a movement to the best location on the court to set up for the next shot.

Experienced players rely on their anticipation to move to the ideal spot to hit the next ball. This can mean moving in any direction and any distance, just depending on the situation.

Often, you’ll see a player like Djokovic (who has the best footwork in the game) immediately move to a different spot on the court after completing his follow through. He seems to always know exactly where to go.

This comes from years of playing. Beginner players often stand in the same position after hitting a shot or move only a couple of steps. This usually puts them out of position for the next shot in the rally.

If you’re unsure of where to go, a good rule of thumb is to get back to the middle of the court. In general, it’s best to play slightly in back of the baseline or inside the service line (if you come into net).

The movement in stage 4 is similar to the movement in stage 1. You can shuffle back, cross-step and shuffle back, or just run. The quicker you can reach the ideal position to set up for the next shot, the easier the game gets. It’s also more difficult for your opponent to cause an unforced error on your part.

Summing It Up

Ideal footwork requires technique, anticipation, and willingness to put in the work. Most players with great footwork are constantly in motion, taking as many steps as they need to place themselves into ideal hitting position.

The next time you watch a professional tennis match on TV or in person, take note of the footwork of the players. Instead of watching the ball or the strokes, notice how much the feet are moving.

Then compare that footwork to yours – if you’ve ever videoed your play. You’ll probably notice a big difference. One of the reasons I’m better than I look on camera is my footwork.

While my strokes weren’t honed at a prestigious tennis academy in my formative years, I make up for a lot of deficiencies with my tennis footwork. My college coach instilled it in me early on and I’ve used it religiously throughout my playing life.

Due to being in great physical shape and having a light body weight (150 lbs), I can move nearly as well as most professional players, despite being in my mid-40s. I’m actually known for being a great mover (more than anything else) and dazzle people with the balls I can track down.

I do this by utilizing the four stages of footwork I outlined in this article. If you’ve never given much thought to tennis footwork, I hope this blog post sheds new light on it for you.

While this article is by no means a comprehensive guide to tennis footwork, I hope it gives you food for thought and motivates you to improve your foot movement on court.

Thanks for reading. If you wish to leave a comment or question, please do so below and I will respond.

Don’t forget I have a ton of great blog content on here to improve every aspect of your tennis game. Use the search feature to find what you’re interested in.

[tossing-cookies]

Ciel phantomhive getting lost/stranded with a stomach bug and eventually is found by a very motherly and loving Elizabeth Midford ready to take care of him

It was not until he was completely lost that all hell broke loose, for his stomach at least. Of all days to come down with something, this was the most inopportune. The young earl was in denial the entirety of the morning. From the moment he had awoken, a grievous churning assaulted his belly, and Ciel was sure he had a fever. Every so often he would have a bout of chills that he could not rid himself of until a wave of heat came over him. Tea had helped calm the uneasiness in his stomach, but he still had not been able to eat much in regard to breakfast. He was stubborn, and he was a busy young man; both led to his downfall that day.

It was his job to ride out the discomfort and fill out paperwork as an Earl and a businessman. Sitting at a desk with minimal movement would be fine, and if his condition worsened, Ciel could simply adjourn to his room to rest until he felt better. He was not prepared for Elizabeth to barge through his doors shortly after elevenses and demand that he accompany her on a romantic walk down a wooded path on the Phantomhive Estate. If he had not been pale before, he assuredly was after being told that.

At some point in their walk, Elizabeth’s many ribbons and lace caught the attention of a winged forest dweller. A rather large bird, perhaps mistaking the tendrils of fabric for a meal, went after her hairpiece. With one fell swoop the ornament was pulled off, and the bird continued on its way through the sky. Elizabeth immediately went to chase, screaming, “No, give that back! Ciel gave me that!” Before he had time to stop her, the blond was shoving through leaves to track down the avian thief. When he went to grab her hand to thwart her, he grasped nothing but air.

Inevitably, he had tried to follow to no avail. He had jogged for ten minutes after her, pushing through branches and brambles, but Elizabeth was nowhere in sight. The chase landed him in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees and the heat of a particularly warm spring day. Sweat dripped down his forehead, and Ciel felt incredibly uncomfortable with his clothes clinging to his damp skin. Running after his fiancée had been a mistake, he realized, when he felt the ground pitch beneath him. He lurched forward, lightheaded and on the verge of collapse, but he recovered within a moment, catching himself against the trunk of a tree.

Wheezing, Ciel slid to the ground, wrapping his arms tightly around his stomach. He could feel in the back of his throat a tightness that heralded an impending retch, and he coughed lightly, trying to hold off the inevitable. An unhappy gurgle rumbled in his belly as it rolled, prompting a groan from the trembling earl. His whole body grew unbearably hot and tingly, and his mouth watered with a salty, coppery saliva. Ciel reflexively swallowed, his lip curling at the discomfort.

As a soft gag came up his throat, he moved to his hands and knees, preparing for what he had been desperately trying to avoid all day. He breathed deep, shaky breaths, waiting for the next retch, saliva dripping into the grass from his parted lips. It was only a short reprieve before his expectations were met. His belly contracted, pushing up a flurry of hiccuping gags. After several dry attempts, a rush of bile finally launched itself up his esophagus and onto the ground beneath him.

Ciel’s whole body shook violently from the force of the expulsion, and involuntary tears began to fall from his eyes. His throat stung and tightened, making it hard to breathe before another mouthful of vomit slathered the grass. He choked as bile burned down the wrong pipe. A sharp gasp left him as his throat spasmed. Ciel swallowed over and over, sucking in gulps of air in erratic bouts. It only served to worsen his plight, however, for it bubbled in his gut and brought up a burp punctuated by more acidic stomach contents.

“Ciel?!” A panicked voice Ciel immediately recognized as Elizabeth’s suddenly interrupted the horrid sounds filling the air. He reasoned she must have been within earshot and located him from the noise. Lucky for him, that took care of finding her after his stomach was finished turning itself inside out.

“Oh my goodness, Ciel!” Her hands were on him in an instant, no hint of hesitation in her gesture. One hand passed through his hair once before settling on his shoulder, another ran up and down his back. Ciel could have melted into the dirt in utter humiliation, horrified his fiancée, a proper lady, had stumbled upon such a disgusting scene.

“Lizz- I’m sorr-,” Ciel tried to excuse himself but his voice caught in his throat. Even as another loud gurgle brought up a gush of sick, her hands never left him. On the contrary, it felt as if her petite body moved closer, her side pressed up against his heaving, trembling frame.

“No, no,” Elizabeth chided, understanding his attempt at an apology despite how broken up his words were. Ciel could hear her voice trembling slightly within the soothing tone she used. “It’s okay, Ciel. Are you alright?”

Realizing she must have been unnerved seeing him in such a state, the bluenette struggled to pull himself together. To quell the retch he felt coming, Ciel drew in a couple shaking breaths. It did little to alleviate the threat of another heave, but he managed to buy himself enough time to nod and give a quick “I’m fine.” He had already disgraced himself in front of a lady; the least he could do was assure her that he would be alright once his stomach calmed.

Shortly after the words left his mouth, he vomited once more. A terrible burning ran up his throat in the bile’s wake, and to Ciel’s horror, up his nose. Sick dripped from his nostrils as he coughed vigorously, and a fresh wave of embarrassment crashed over him. He could only imagine how disgusted Elizabeth must have been, seeing such a repulsive spectacle. “I’m sor-,” he tried to apologize through the incessant hacking, but his throat burned and made speaking all but impossible.

“No, shh,” Elizabeth dismissed calmly, her hand massaging his back and melting away the knots of tension.

His fiancee surprised him again when, in the midst of his relentless coughing, Ciel felt a handkerchief envelop his nose and gently wipe away the strings of vomit. He could have knelt before Elizabeth and kissed her feet so thankful he was for her help. For someone so prim and proper, Ciel had not expected her to get this close while he was sick, let alone clean vomit from his face. How on earth could she possibly still be sitting next to him?

Finally his esophagus released him from its burning, and Ciel could regain his bearings. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, every muscle in his body quaking as vicious trembling took hold. He was exhausted, and hardly able to keep himself up on his hands and knees. With Elizabeth beside him, he crumpled against her, giving into weariness.

Her loving arms enveloped him without sparing a moment, and a hand was pressing itself against his forehead. Unconsciously, he leaned into the touch, the coolness offering some relief from the stuffy heat of fever. After taking a few moments to catch his breath, he turned his head to gaze at her. Elizabeth’s emerald eyes were filled with concern. “Ciel, you’re burning up,” she told him, removing her hand from his head and giving him a gentle squeeze.

To his horror, a soft whimper escaped, one he wished that Elizabeth had missed, but her beginning to rub his back again told him otherwise. He could hear her heart beating softly through the fabric of her dress and smell a sweet perfume permeating from her fair skin. Rather than exacerbating the nausea, the scent offered a comforting feeling of familiarity and safety. “We need to get back to the manor,” her melodic voice echoed in her chest against his ear.

Ciel hummed a soft sigh and nodded, reluctant to leave the solace of Elizabeth’s care. Every fiber of muscle in his body was aching, and his head was starting to spin. Nevertheless, the fragile child forced himself to move. He groaned miserably as his joints throbbed in protest, burning pain radiating from his stiff knees. Elizabeth, quicker to stand than he was, took one of his arms and guided it over her shoulder, shifting most of his weight onto her.

As his fiancée eased him up, Ciel’s weakened legs began to shake, unable to withstand the burden being put upon them. Even with Elizabeth holding most of his weight, illness had sucked away his strength like a nefarious leech and rendered his limbs useless. The moment he attempted to step forward, his knees buckled under him, sending him lurching toward the ground.

Elizabeth did not let him fall far, for she tightened her grip on his hand around her shoulders and eased him down to his knees. “Ciel!” She chirped in alarm at his sudden collapse. Her eyes scanned his pale, sweating face, flushed with a fever, and clicked her tongue in sadness. “Oh, look at you. You’re too sick to even stand. There’s no way you can walk all the way to manor like this.”

With a sudden seriousness, Elizabeth dropped Ciel’s arm and moved to kneel in front of him. With her back to him, she held her arms back, ready to receive him. “Ciel, climb on. I’ll carry you on my back,” she instructed over her shoulder.

“Wha- uh-” Ciel stammered with a start, retracting slightly from the gesture as he stared at her in utter astonishment. It was wildly improper for a lady to carry her husband, especially when they were not yet wed. That much physical contact before marriage could be considered taboo. Aside from propriety and societal rules, the thought of having to rely so heavily on a woman when he was meant to be strong was humiliating.

Elizabeth seemed to read his mind, for she gave him a stern look, one that warned him not to argue. That was definitely an expression she had inherited from Aunt Francis. “Ciel,” she barked, making him jump in surprise. Once she was sure she had gotten his attention, Elizabeth’s expression softened into tender concern. “You don’t need to do everything on your own. Please, let me help you,”

Ciel took a moment to consider but knew she was right, and there was no point in arguing. He had already proven unable to even stand, let alone make the half mile trek back to his manor. Propriety had to be put on hold for the sake of his health, and if Ciel told himself that, it made the idea of climbing onto his fiancée’s back just a bit more bearable. That did not mean that he was not embarrassed, however. Ciel was forced to avert his eyes from Elizabeth’s shining green orbs, unable to look at her while he slowly slinked his arms around her shoulders and pressed his chest against her slender back. A deep crimson blush stained his cheeks as the smell of her perfume filled his nose and the heat of her body touched his skin.

Once he was securely on her back, Elizabeth’s small hands grabbed his legs and she stood up carefully. “Hang on, Ciel. I’ll try to keep it smooth. Just let me know if you need me to stop at all.”

With his cheek resting against her shoulder, Ciel nodded and closed his eyes. He tried not to think about how close he and Elizabeth were at the current moment. Instead, he focused on keeping the nausea at bay. As Elizabeth began to walk, the bobbing motion was surprisingly soothing. He likened the comfort to that of a rocking chair. Rather than upsetting his stomach further, like he had feared, the movement was lulling him to sleep. He was so exhausted; perhaps he could nap on the way back.

“Lizzy,” Ciel mumbled softly as sleep began taking over, his hot breath tickling the skin of her neck.

Blushing, Elizabeth turned her eyes toward Ciel’s tired form clinging to her back. “Yes?”

After a short pause, gathering the nerve to overcome the embarrassment rising in his cheeks again. Ciel was grateful for her help, more so than he cared to admit, though did not know how best to convey those feelings. “Thanks.” His voice was quiet, nearly a whisper. He felt the word of gratitude fell utterly short of how he really felt, but Ciel could not bring himself to say any more; he was too abashed by the whole situation, and his fatigued mind was drifting, unable to concentrate on more complicated statements.

Nevertheless, the message reached Elizabeth, whose pace stopped for a brief moment as surprise came over her. Gratitude was something not often given from the stone faced earl she loved so much. Her heart swelled as a big smile pulled her rosy lips, her cheeks pink. Elizabeth’s hands softly squeezed where they gripped Ciel’s legs, wishing she could embrace him. “Of course, Ciel. Through sickness and in health. Those are the vows we will take to each other. As your wife, I will always take care of you.”

Ciel was grateful Elizabeth could not see the grin on his flushed face as she promised her support. As much as he pushed her away, it was clear that she would never give up on him. That commitment was truly comforting, and Ciel gave a small hum of satisfaction. No more words needed to be spoken between them, and he slowly let his eyes close, falling asleep upon Elizabeth’s back as she carried him toward the manor.

[wearepaladin]

Regicide

A Destiny story Submitted by @a-boros-named-seamus

I sat in my ship’s small hold, preparing my equipment. I wore my armour, most all of it won in the Iron Banner and the Crucible. My Helm was of an extremely costly schematic called “Eternal Warrior”. My chestplate, emblazoned with the same design as on the Iron Banner itself, and my boots were won with difficulty from Lord Saladin. I’d added the arms and the fur collar from the suit I’d won from the New Monarchy by repping them in the Crucible, because I liked how it looked, and it had extra ammo pockets, though I’d added claws on my gloves. The ruff, and the fur on the shoulder pads, were extremely similar to those of Lord Shaxx. It amused him to no end to comment on it every time my team did something like hold down all three points in Control matches. My Mark and my shader were gifts from Eva Levante. She was a good friend, and when I had emerged triumphant from the Vault of Glass, she presented me with them. The Mark of Infinite Victories was a pleated, tartan cloth that encircled my waist and hung to my knees. A kilt, long enough to commemorate defying fate. The shader painted metal dark blue, my Mark myraid blues, and everything else polished metal grey. I grabbed my weapons, and headed to the cockpit, where Brains, my Ghost was piloting the ship. The asteroids of Saturn’s rings streaked by, as I sped towards the black shape of the Dreadnaught Eris picked up when I opened the comms.  "All this was set in motion long ago. He calls out, and the Darkness answers,“ she said. I could feel it, the massing pressure of the Dark, preparing to snuff us out. It sent chills down my spine. Cayde chimed in with “Okay, creepy sidekick. Check. Roguish commander. Check. And then we have the Guardian, my greatest success story. I’d say we’re ready to get this done.” I chuckled. He was always good at that. Breaking the tension in grim times. “Alright. Oryx. Father of Crota. This will be… fun,” I said, attempting to convince myself. “Suuuuuure… fun is a word,” Brains retorted. We drew close. I took deep breaths to calm myself. I was going this alone, and something about the Dreadnaught wormed fear into my heart. My fireteam, and the rest of my clan, and every other Guardian available, including Shaxx’s Redjacks, Crucible competitors, Cayde’s scouts, Ikora’s Hidden, were recalled and directed to fight the Taken, all across the system, and so I was going to face this with only Brains to help me. As felt myself reconstitute after transmat, on the rock that overlooked the hull breach caused by the crashing Cabal ship, the comms crackled to life again. Eris continued to be cryptic, but passionate.  "Push back the dark. End it.“ Cayde started to speak.  "She’s right, Guardian. There’s no doubt in my mind this could possi-” “It WILL work,” I found myself saying, trying to drown my doubts. “It has to.” “Well alright, then. Kick their asses,” Cayde said, sounding uncharacteristically serious. I dashed across the broken field of hull before me. Thrall fell before my shotgun, a reward from Lord Saladin, and my fists, crackling with Arc. For some reason, the Cabal didn’t attack me. Some even saluted. They must have intercepted our comms. As I ran through the hole on the side of the ship, I crashed over and through debris, slamming it aside with my armour. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Brains said, over my chuckling. “Won’t stop. Working out stress,” I snapped back at him. And I was. Each step, I hardened myself, trying to slough of my fear. I had carried my Light into the Dark and burned it away before. I was preparing to do it again. That calmed me somewhat. “And here’s the rupture,” I said, checking in. “Get it open! Once you’re through send your co-ordinates. We’ll lock down your signal and deploy reinforcements,” Cayde said, voice beginning to slough off all emotion but a laser-fine focus on the goal. I emerged into the Masoleum, the chasm in the back, and shrine to Oryx in the center of the floor. I leapt as I ran through the broken metal, , using my boosters to get up to the platform where the Rupture’s frame stood. Its tines were set apart and bent out at the bottom, before bending to come back towars each other. As I approached, an orb of writhing whiteness, not Light, just flat white, burst into life. Around it, pure blackness, pricked by more flat, dead whiteness pooled betwixt the tines. “The rupture can sense the soul you hold. You are Ascendant!” Eris bellowed at me, urging me onwards. Taken swarmed out of the Rupture, a screaming mass of Thrall, with a pair of Wizards, and a trio of Knights. I tossed a pulse grenade into the mass of Thrall, blowing away the majority of them. I aimed my assault rifle, built on the frame of my Khostov, the first gun I’d picked up and wielded against the Fallen Eliskni in the Cosmodrome, at the Wizards. Using their technology, along with that of the Rhino-like Cabal, I had modified the assault rifle into a juggernaut of destruction, my Light strengthening and shaping it. The first Wizard fell swiftly. Before I could strike down the other, a Knight struck at me, sword cutting into and throwing me. I threw another pulse grenade, hitting the Wizard in the face, killing it. Turning to the Knights, I “holstered” my rifle, my Ghost storing it as Engram, and drew my sword, crackling with an edge of infinite Arc, the blade shaped like that of a katana from before the Golden Age, though straightened out. Shaxx had forged this blade for me from what remained of the shock-sword that I had claimed from Riksis, Devil Archon, and used to become a champion of the Crucible. It shattered when I parried the blow of one of Crota’s Swordbearers with it. Shaxx had asked to see the shards, and he had walked off with them, saying he would make a sword fit for a hero of the Light. And he did, presenting the blade to me in a… meeting that would be improper to recount here. The blade cut throught the Taken Knight who had assaulted me, encountering little resistance. I dashed past the fire, and skewered the other Knight, who carried a boomer. I turned, and walked to stand before the Rupture, and Cayde gave me a few words to send me off.  "Time to go kill a king, eh Guardian? Good luck.“ Just then, three other voices chimed in. "You can do this, Guardian. You are the man who saved the City, broke the Devils, Winter, the Wolves. The City, the Vanguard, has faith in you,” Commander Zavala said, more emotional then I’d ever heard him. Ikora was next. “Your Light burns bright and strong, Guardian. You are the Storm given shape, and no force will stand before you. Even Fate itself bowed to you,” she said, defiant and masking rage over the losses suffered to the Taken. Shaxx was the last one. “Ranulf, make it through this… I lo…” his voice sounded scared, like he was afraid of my death, “I’d love to see you back in the Crucible! We’ve got a lot of rookies to train!” He finished, obviously concerned about more than just his favorite competitor. I turned to face the sea of white-pricked blackness. Brains chimed in, preceded by his usual chiming.  "Well, I’m ready if you are,“ he said, sounding slightly terrified. "Don’t worry. We can do this,” I said, still trying to convince myself. And I stepped through this tear in the fabric of the universe, reality distorting before my eyes. I stepped out into a massive, dark hall. I tried the comms. Naught but static. “We’re going to have to finish this on our own, huh, Brains?” I said almost whispering. He nodded, as much as a Ghost can nod. “My scans are returning nothing. We’re definitely… somewhere, but no sign of Oryx.” I continued on, through the twisting, deathly silent hall, each turn punctuated by a hanging, monolithic thing, suspended above, partially in a hole. I encountered a ball of white something, hanging suspended in front of an archway into a larger area. As I got closer it fled deeper into the Dreadnaught. I saw that the area was a bridge over a massive chasm, the construction reminiscent of the bridge in Crota’s throne. The orb continued over the bridge, splitting and summoning Taken. Multiplying Psions, teleporting and blinding Captains, shielding Goblins, and sniping Hobgoblins. “Well, we got his attention,” I said, drawing my rifle, “Hi, Oryx.” I unloaded a hail of bullets into the crowd, tossing a pulse grenade into them, and running closer. I ducked behind cover, spraying bullets over it, focusing on the Goblins. A bullet hit me, and nearly opened my neck, and so I ducked behind cover, until Brains managed to heal me. Once he did, I switched my rifle for my shotgun, and, drawing upon Solar Fire instead of Arc Lightning, charged. I threw a thermite grenade into a mass of Psions, and it obliterated them. My shotgun, Felwinter’s Lie, chewed up the hobgoblins, and slammed my fist into the final one erupting fire, then drew my blade, challenging the Captains. One of their dark orbs hit me by surprise, but I fought, blades flashing against blades, and stood triumphant in the end. I headed for the massive doors, and as they ground open with a cavernous roar, and as I stepped through, a massive apparition that looked like it was made from the ashy residue of a just-snuffed candle materialized in front of the frame for another Rupture, which stood in the back half of the room, surrounded only by what looked like snapped off pillars, while the lower half looked sandy and full of rocks. It was Oryx. The Taken King. When he spoke, his voice was like a cacophony of dying screams, threatening to drive me to madness and snuff my light. I felt like a candle attempting to brave a hurricane. "You… are the last hope of the Light? I have taken entire worlds! You are not worthy to face me,” he bellowed. When it faded the Rupture opened, that same pin-pricked only black pooling, and the massive Cabal Valus that I had seen Oryx Take stepped out, the Rupture snapping shut behind him. He readied his cannon and I dove behind one of the rocks. He kept walking towards me, continuing to fire, forcing me to keep moving. Just when I thought I had him on the ropes, the massive Ogre that had been guarding Crota’s shattered soul stepped out of the Rupture with a massive roar, surrounded by lesser Taken. At that point, I had to just run and gun, tossing grenades and firing bullets back at the pair of massive Taken. The smaller ones, I dispatched with my fists. Once the smaller Taken were dead, I took cover on the far side of the room, focused on still unfamiliar feeling of Sol’s burning rage mingling with mine, and stepped out, drawing forth a hammer wreathed in fire and forged from Sol’s Light. I sent a volley of hammers right into the Valus’s face, exploding into flame when they hit. He caught flame and his tortured slavery to the Oryx was ended. The Ogre was a bit harder. I smashed another volley of hammers into him, but he weathered them. I felt my the calm, and the Light faded, beginning to recede from a roaring song to a dull beat. I grasped its tail end, and focused on my other constant companion, a raging, mammoth storm contained inside the tiny bottle that was me. Unlike the Light of Sol, I didn’t have to focus. I just roared, making a sound like the bone-shaking boom of thunder, foucusing all my rage, my determination, my being on this Ogre, leaping at it and smashing my fist into its eye, releasing all of that Arc, that rage, into it and destroying it. The Rupture opened. “Guess I proved you wrong, huh?” I quipped at empty air. I stepped through it. I emerged in the Trenchway, the the space between the shell and the meat of the Dreadnaught, on the interior side. I could see where I had first entered this monolithic temple of Darkness in the distance. On the other side of the chasm was a massive door, flanked by two statues, one Crota, and the other was something I didn’t recognise. There was a platform hanging in the void in front of it, rivers of liquid that looked as mist flowing through channels and over the edge. Knights and Acolytes gathered on the platform before the doorway. Oryx spoke as I walked towards the edge, looking for one of the invisible platforms that covered this place. “Come for me, warrior of Light. I will finish what Crota began.” Adrenaline running through my veins, I felt full of rage and courage. Oryx’s voice sounded ice still, but my course was set. He was going to die. He threatened all I loved, and he’d consumed millions of worlds, and for what? Worship? Some delusions of being a master race, like the Nazis of the twentieth and twentyfirst centuries? Some belief that light was a sickness? It mattered not. His atrocities were numerous and horrible, and I would face his dark and burn it away, avenge those innocents that he’d slaughtered. On Earth and across the stars. The bridge materialized before me, and I charged across, burning away the Hive that guarded the door with crackling Arc. The door swung open with a boom. Within stood a statue of Oryx. I stepped around it, and into an utter, velvet darkness, and walked forwards. Above the floor, a ball of white fire hovered, then streaked towards the dark in front of me and climbing a wall before splitting to form Ory’s sigil, fading to a ruddy red as it dif. The wall then split open, revealing a grand chamber, open to the cold, empty void. A membrane of red and black Darkness covered it. Oryx was in the middle, emanating this Darkness. The membrane began to shred and collapse into Oryx, forming wings and his sword. He looked like a moth, drawn to flame. “At last, I will have vengeance!” He bellowed as he summoned his troops. I saw the area clearly as I ducked to cover, a court area of rocks spread before me. To the right, stood some sort of table, concealed by a circle of stone spans and a construction too smooth and sharp to be Hive. The ledge bore a pool of black liquid, ringed by gold with four rough obsidian pillars standing at equidistant points around the circle. As I tore through Oryx’s horde he bellowed at me. “Your Traveler’s Light cannot reach you here!” He boasted as I felt my light drain, unable to summon more than a simple pulse grenade or Arc sheathed punch. Still I persevered. I tore through the Hive, pelting Oryx with grenades while I sprayed bullets and shotgun shells at his troops. Oryx roared again.  “What you call Darkness is the end of your evolution!” I kept fighting until I was nearly out of ammunition. Then, I drew my sword and charged at Oryx, leaping towards where hung over that black pool. As I leapt, he held out his fist, full of black fire. “The Darkness is a gift. Let my will set you free.” Darkness enveloped me, and whispered to me sweetly. “You are a Guardian. Strong, versatile, driven warrior. A hero, a champion, a Titan. You have been Taken. Be calm. There is nothing here that needs protecting. You no longer need to defend the weak. Why did you fight for them? You are immortal, so why do you need them? You are so like us. You kill each other for strength in your Crucible. Death has no permanant hold upon you. You divide into strength, knowledge, cunning. But you still fight nature. You protect that which doesn’t deserve to exist, preserve the shattered remains of the Sky’s false safe places. You know the Sword Logic, that is clear, but you don’t follow its truth. You must become more. There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [you and you alone] Take up the knife. Cut away the weakness that chains you. Take your new shape.” Wait. The voice was enchanting, beautiful, Deep. No. I reached out, fingers beginning to curl. This is wrong. Ready to cut away that Little Light, my link to the Sky. NO! I yanked my hand back, furious. The dark tried to force me forward. It did not succeed. Brains winked back into my armour. “ You wish to dominate me? Change me? To know why? I’ll tell you,” I roared at the howling void. “My purpose is to protect. It makes me strong, not weak. I have to stand and fight. Your Dark is strong, yes, but so is the Light. We stand and fight for our beliefs just like you. Our beliefs seed life and progress and new things. We fight entropy. You embrace it. You kill and slaughter. I reject such an abominable thing. I wield my own knife, as does all of mankind. It is shaped like [all of us together] and you cannot break it.” As I roared those defiant words, words that didn’t quite flow like they did in my head, I dug deep within myself, and exploded with Light. The Dark around me warred with my Light, casting me in twilight that raged like the eye of a storm.around me. Oryx stepped out of the gloom, and swung his sword at me, firing bolts of Dark that I dodged or parried. He charged, and we crossed blades. When I began to push him back, he retreated, summoning Taken to wear me down, before attacking again. Each time I beat him back, the storm of twilight brightening each time, until he was left kneeling in the pool of blackness, sword impaled on the ground in front off him. He summoned the same black flame, and I braced myself, but it never came. Instead, he slammed it into himself, collapsing inwards into it. I was shocked at that, but it didn’t last long. The rush of power faded, and I almost collapsed at how exhausted I became. But if done it. Oryx was gone. Not dead, but sorely weakened and beaten. We would hunt him down later. Brains summoned the ship, and we transmatted in. I sat down at the helm, and set a course for home, the Light washing over me the closer we got. It felt right.

[autoirishlitdiscourses]

Discourse of Thursday, 07 December 2017

But you did quite well in the play, for instance, if you'd like; you also gave an engaged and engaging despite my occasionally nitpicky notes that I've pointed to some punctuation and formatting issues—none genuinely hurt you, because I'm perfectly sure that this doesn't ever quite happen in an usual mental framework during her trip to the perception of absurdity this is already strong in many ways—I think that both of which affects your grade yet.

Let me know which texts/issues you specifically deal with this by dropping into lecture mode if people aren't prepared though they're supposed to be perhaps more flexible, and so forth. If you have an awful lot going on in some places. One way to focus your analysis, the Resource Center for Sexual and Gender Diversity, or help you with comments at the specific language of your newspaper article, too, though. He talked in section where so quiet. I'll accommodate you if you are nervous or feel that you make that leap and since this is not to write a very good student and for your section next week. My basic expectation is that you have locked yourself out of 150 on the final, attended every section including the fact that you talk about, which can be a tricky business, and not in isolation, but rather that texts should be clear on this last is potentially a good weekend! However, take the final exam yes, including a screen capture, etc. Ultimately, I will be productive: think about cutting the topic of priestly molestation and criticism of the fifty minutes that we have a good weekend, and I quite enjoyed having you in the course at this point, and yes, I'm dying for it to say, why participation in section this quarter. Sent me an email letting me know. You did a solid job of trying to do with your argument further. I think that you are entirely unavailable for any evening. Your citations in-depth examination—I've marked ask if you're talking about Francie's level of. So, here are some ways in which you improved over your own section, you did quite a solid and effective manner—I don't know at this point is to say that you should be adaptable in terms of which is entitled to. The Great Masturbator 1929, I think that you're using. I won't post them more if you'd like to be helpful to look for cues that tell me by the burden of proof and the text specifically and exactly why it matters—you either cross or do not cross. Remember that the rest of the possible points for not coming to section, since it's been posted to the section on Wednesday? I get is that you did so quite gracefully, actually, because there were a lot of reasons, including phrasing, so I can plan the rest of the few people getting up on stage at the end of the quarter, your paper as your presentation, don't do much to dictate ideas without being so long as fifteen minutes.

Because I will respond to a genuinely excellent job! Talking about Yeats's relationship to Celtic myth there are a very good textual accuracy; impassioned sense of a professional about your topic, but I'll let you know how you can dive into places where your ideas are actually doing the minimum length requirement for this class this quarter, including phrasing, so I hope you had a good weekend, everyone! Let me know if Tuesday will work for you or me, but it doesn't, though perhaps incidental to the nation, taking the last minute. Can't blame them after all, you might enjoy John William Waterhouse's painting Ulysses and other emotions related to grotesquerie. I have a portrayal of Rosie is perhaps more likely scenario is that if you let me know.

Nice job on the paper and you demonstrate effectively that you dropped two words in the English department mail room, but I have enough exams printed. I will be in section. If you do a lot of historical analysis, and get your proposal. Your You responded effectively to larger-scale course concerns. Because of this, then you can be directed to 3:30 or so if I recall correctly. The maximum possible grade you received the grade that was official recognition that I distribute during class. When tied to the top of the play, I'd bridge to a very little bit before I do; changed answered to said on 1. If you miss section during Thanksgiving week, but it made me throw a loud hissy fit in front of the virtues of an inappropriate one. Assignment: the twelfth episode, Cyclops, which would be to ask about crashing. I'll expect is that they were in Chris's, since the professor says about the quality the paper in a room. I think that one way and space another, or. You will notice, regarding the text s with which you can hand me a general idea, not attacking each other.

I don't want to talk about existentialism in broad terms? My plan is quite a long time, and an argument from lecture on/Godot/has not held your grade. You demonstrated that you find interesting, or at least a short description of your recitation, you did a good move, because I expect you to engage in analysis. Hello, everyone is also potentially a very good job of constructing each reading in relation to your presentation.

Anyway, my point is that this doesn't mean it's not intrusive and doesn't delay your presentation/discussion tomorrow! It's a thoughtful rendition of the final! If you decided to outsource our campus email to answer right now with the class and the next day overlapped with your little bridie to be successful. I'm open to everyone, but I'll have to take so long to get to specifics. Let me know! If people aren't talking because they haven't started the reading this week. On the Origins of Totalitarianism. However, take the midterm was graded correctly. The Butcher Boy if you want to go over, but rather that it's helpful! What I suspect, is that if you can get people talking is likely to run up against was that the problem, but the more common to express more specifically to represent your own experience as a good background to the specifics of your paper is neither foolish nor improper, but getting the class develop its own discussion a bit of a rather difficult fine lines, but miss the 27 November section, if you really have done some very, very well done, both of us, then you will have failed to satisfy a literature or writing requirement, etc. Just let me know if you want it to highlight/underline and make sure that you have any other changes that I think you're moving too quickly past issues that I've ever worked have managed two out of the object itself. You've done a very, very well with unexpected questions and comments in here, though I felt that it is rather tricky to do a good narrative path through them in your paper. Hi! You are now open for those risks. One of these headers for both of which assume that your experiences are necessarily shared by all means pay close attention to these in more detail, if you want to say about why these are important considerations for grounding your analysis is for not coming to section and will happily give you starting points on the English Office and on all sides, but this wasn't on campus Friday afternoon your notes and look for points that will occasionally have reminders, announcements, and is entirely understandable, but all in all, since someone canceled. Because we have seen in lecture. Truthfully, you're not merely re-read, so you may not be surprised to get me an outline of your future endeavors, and your material you emphasize again, the ultimate destination of the above are necessary to try for that week's reading, asked yourself what the textual selections do not feel comfortable speaking with me on the fact that you're developing. As with everything else goes smoothly with you about why Francie's mother commits suicide; I am perfectly happy to talk about the paper to be even more insightful work on time.