#stranger things fillet

[mc-i-r]

Disposable Heroes

Part one, Part two, Part three, Part four AO3 link

A/N: hi yes so sorry for how late this is, it turned into a huge monster of a fic that I’m still working on but I figured posting the first part wouldn’t hurt. This is based on this post by @liightsnow, @acowardinmordor, and @00biscuit while back and I decided to expand that concept a bit and here we are. I'll be tagging anyone that seemed interested in the concept at the end of the fic! Warnings are below but I just wanna say that Steve is struggling with his sexuality in this one so most of it comes from that. This will absolutely have a happy ending, just not right now. Enjoy the angst!

Tw: internalized homophobia, homophobic language, mentions of canon violence, dissociation, panic attacks

———

It’s a Sunday afternoon when he realizes it. Steve is sitting on his couch, eating a shitty frozen meal and watching a random movie on TV when it hits him. The kids haven’t asked him for a ride in two weeks. Two Saturdays have passed and there was not one call— either on the phone or over the walkie— from any of the kids. Not even Dustin, who has seemed to make it his life’s mission in the past couple years to annoy Steve into an early grave.

It’s not like he hasn’t seen them at all. He still practices basketball with Lucas on Thursdays, even though the season is long over. His weekly dinners with Claudia and Dustin are still going strong every Wednesday. Joyce seems to invite him over for dinners every couple weeks. From the outside, everything seems fine. And maybe it is, but Steve’s noticed things.

See, he’s not as stupid as people think he is. He may not be academically smart but he can read. However, instead of books, it’s people. He can read their micro-expressions, notice little signs in their body language that help him understand the person. He can tell when people are nervous when they avoid eye contact, can tell how anxious they are when they distract themselves by picking at their fingers. It’s how he’s so good with the kids. They’re in the stubborn stage of their teenage years, the time in which the only answer you’ll get is ‘I’m fine. Leave me alone’. But he can tell if there’s something on their minds, if there’s something eating away at them.

He can tell that Mike’s anger and pointed barbs are directed towards himself, how he’s struggling with something he can’t quite admit to himself yet. How Max is frustrated with her body, with accepting help, because she’s always had to rely on herself and putting that much trust in someone else has never been an option for her until now. How Lucas is trying to find joy in doing something he loves again, because his love for basketball has been ruined by Carver and his trusty band of assholes. How Dustin is trying to deal with almost losing Eddie, how he’s processing the feelings of almost losing a brotherly figure along with one of his friends. How Will is hiding part of himself, struggling to accept it in the same way Mike is. How El is trying so hard to find her new normal, to adjust to getting her life— her father— back.

There’s another thing he’s noticed, however. It’s that the kids are obsessed with Eddie. Steve from a couple years ago would feel jealous of Eddie, and would try to hold it against him. Now, though, Steve just feels… sad. The kids constantly talk about how cool and badass Eddie is for still being himself despite all the shit Hawkins has thrown at him. They talk about how Eddie takes them places, gets them little trinkets for their nerd game, and takes them fun places. Eddie does all these little things for the kids, lets them just be kids, and really, Steve can’t be mad at him for it. He tries to let them have fun, but his constant worrying overwhelms them. It brings them down. Eddie doesn’t do that. He joins right in with them, basking in the fun and letting himself go. Steve… can’t. Not with all the shit he’s seen. Letting his guard down is something he can’t afford to do anymore.

He sighs down at his meal, chucking it on the coffee table as he loses his appetite. His glasses land next to the disposable plastic tray, sliding across the finished wood surface from the force of his throw. He rubs harshly over his face, hands digging into his eyes until he sees stars.

Steve knows he’s not perfect. Hell, it took an interdimensional monster trying to kill him in order for him to realize that he could be a better person. That the only person truly able to change his life is himself. He used to think he had no choice in his life— whether it was his parents' high expectations of him or his friends trying to mold him into their perfect little plaything— but he knows better now. He knows that he shouldn’t have become King Steve, that he shouldn’t have hurled all his hate and anger towards other people who didn’t deserve it. He knows he shouldn’t have called people names or slurs, that he shouldn’t have spray painted lockers or ripped up books or shoved people against hard asphalt. He knows that, but knowing it was wrong doesn’t erase the fact that it happened. That Steve did those things and hurt people.

Part of him knows that his past is what made the kids turn towards Eddie. Why wouldn’t they? Steve was a bully, thought he was hot shit in school and made it everyone’s problem. Eddie was simply himself. His unabashed, unashamed self. He stood on cafeteria tables, made dramatic speeches, and shared his opinions to anyone and everyone who would listen. He’s so genuine and so, so much better for the kids. He teaches them how to be themselves, how to shove off the hate and embrace their weird side. He’s perfect for them, and Steve knows deep down that this is good for them. The kids need a good role model, one they can rely on, and Eddie has his herd of little sheep to teach and protect. It’s perfect. They’re perfect.

Steve remembers the time last week at the Byers-Hopper house when their little obsession truly became real. They were waiting for the bread to finish baking in the oven, and Steve saw that Will was seated alone in the living room. Joyce and Hopper were in the kitchen, talking and keeping a lookout so the bread wouldn’t burn. Jonathan and El were listening to music in his room, the synth and guitars echoing down the hallway. So, Steve decided to finally talk to Will. It’s not like they don’t talk ever, just… not much. Will is quiet, blends into the background, and Steve never felt like the kid would be comfortable with him trying to get in his business. However, he needed to ask the question that had been on his mind for a while.

Steve sat down on the couch next to him, keeping a fair amount of distance between them, and rested his elbows on his knees. Will was reading a comic, the cover full of bright colors and words, not paying attention. Steve sighed, pushed his glasses up, and ran a hand through his own hair.

“Hey, um… can we talk for a sec?”

Will startled a little, like he didn’t realize Steve was there, and closed his comic. He nodded, and Steve tried not to feel bad about the hesitation in his eyes.

“Is there something going on that I don’t know about? Like with the others?” Will’s eyebrows furrowed, a confused expression taking over his face.

“Um.. what do you mean?”

“Just… have I done anything to them to make them mad? I just… I don’t know, I feel like I’ve done something but I don’t know what,” Steve confessed. He must have looked as distraught as he felt, because Will seemed to soften at his explanation a bit.

“Why do you think that, Steve?” Will asked softly, and Steve had a moment of realization that Will seemed years older than he looked. Steve sighed, and explained that the kids haven’t really been hanging around him much and instead like to spend time with Eddie. He’s quick to clarify that he doesn’t mean anything bad by it, just wants to know what happened. It was Will’s turn to sigh, and he looked at Steve with something akin to sympathy.

“Steve, I don’t say this to be mean but… Eddie just relates to us more, you know? He shares more interests with us, and he seems to get us better,” Will expressed. His eyes widened and he hastily added, “it doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you! Just… it’s nice to have somewhere else to go, you know?”

The rest of the evening was spent with Steve silently eating his dinner, Will’s words echoing through his head as he munched on half-burnt bread.

Steve decides then, TV dinner half-eaten and work vest still on his shoulders, that he’s going to make this better.

The next day, Eddie comes into Family Video to pick up some movies, definitely for a movie night judging by the titles— he seriously doubts a metalhead would willingly watch The Goonies, The Dark Crystal, and Ghostbusters by himself on a Saturday night. Eddie bounds up to the register, movies in hand, and does a dramatic bow as he presents them to Steve.

“I wish to borrow these, my liege,” Eddie declares, his voice deep and in a horrible mockery of an English accent. Steve scoffs and rolls his eyes, unable to hide the small grin on his face at the other man's theatrics.

Eddie looks so effortlessly pretty, his hair tied back in a ponytail and his tattoos exposed through the large arm holes in his homemade tank top. Steve shakes his head to get rid of those thoughts and takes the movies to check them out, ignoring the late fee balance on Eddie's account. A glance at the man in front of him, who is bouncing on his toes and looking around the store, gives Steve an idea.

“Hey, is Hellfire still going on?”

Eddie snaps his attention back to Steve, looking a little startled to be asked such a thing.

“Uh… yeah, it's still going on. We have to play in Gareth’s hot ass garage since school is out but we’re making it work. Why d’you ask?”

“Oh, uh… the kids complained awhile back that they didn’t have a good spot to play anymore and I was just wondering,” Steve explains. Eddie raises an eyebrow at him, and Steve can feel him staring. Can feel him looking at him closely. Too closely. He clears his throat and looks back down at the counter, pushing his gold, wire-framed glasses further up his nose. “I uh… I actually wanted to offer up my place? My parents aren’t home much”— more like never— “and I’ve got plenty of space for the gremlins and the other guys. Plus, my A/C works and I’ve got a shit ton of snacks. I’ll stay out of your hair and-“

“Actually uh…” Eddie cuts him off with a strained voice. Steve looks up to find his face contorted like he ate something sour, and he knows what his response is going to be before he opens his mouth. Eddie wipes a hand over his mouth before shoving it in his pocket. “Yeah, the other guys just… really wouldn’t want to be there.”

Steve nods— tries not to let the denial sting— and looks down at the movies in his hands. Ignoring how they shake, he sets them on the counter and slides them towards Eddie.

“That’s okay man, I get it. I need a break from the little horrors anyway,” he huffs out, the words digging their way into the pit in his stomach. He puts on his best customer service smile and looks up at Eddie, finding him looking a little wary. Eddie hesitates, as if debating with himself on whether or not to say anything, before rapping his knuckles on the counter in a little rhythm and picking up his movies. An awkward smile finds its way to his face, and Steve thinks it strange and out of place. It’s so.. un-Eddie-like. The pit grows deeper.

Walking backwards towards the entrance, Eddie throws a little salute his way before turning and swinging out the door. A belated “see ya, Harrington” drifts through the closing door in his wake.

Steve slumps over the counter when he’s gone, holding his head in his hands and feeling the childish urge to cry make its way up to his eyes. Even after everything— after walking through hell together, dragging his lifeless body out of the Upside Down as his blood dripped down his back and soaked through his clothes, standing vigil at his side until he woke up two weeks later— Eddie still seems to hate him.

But Steve… he feels the opposite. He has this overwhelming desire to be with Eddie. To hang out with him in the back of his van, drinking sodas and eating snacks as they look out over Lover’s Lake while the sun sets. To talk to him until the early hours of the morning until there’s nothing left to say. To go for drives late at night and listen to his loud music on the radio while holding hands over the center console. He has feelings for Eddie he’s never had before. Not for any past romantic conquests nor any girl. Hell, not even for Nancy. He’s never felt this intense need to be near someone before, and it scares him. It truly terrifies him.

He’s not homophobic— his platonic soulmate is a lesbian, for Christ's sake— but the fact that he feels this way is just… wrong to him. How is Steve Harrington, ladies’ man and charmer extraordinaire, into dudes? What is he, like, half gay? It just doesn’t make sense, doesn’t seem right, for him to feel like this. He sighs into his hands, digging his palms into his eyes until he sees stars. He can’t be thinking about this now, he can’t be thinking about this at all. He needs to shove it in the box in the back of his head where all the hard feelings go, waiting and festering to be dealt with later. He needs to, but he doesn’t know if he can.

Fuck, he needs to talk to Robin. Shit- can he though? What if what he’s feeling is a fluke or something? What if it’s just in his head because he’s desperate? What if Robin thinks he’s making fun of her and won’t take him seriously? It’s not fair of him to throw all his problems on her, even if he thinks she could help. It’s not her job to look after him, to take care of him. He can do that himself. He can figure this out himself.

Distantly, the words of Richard Harrington play in his ears. About how being gay is wrong, how it’s a disease. How it’s a sickness that slowly takes over until there’s nothing left. How it’s a disgrace.

He remembers sitting in the living room with his parents on a rare occasion in which they were home, watching the news channel as it talked about an epidemic spreading through young men. His father scoffed at the screen when they started talking about potential cures.

“Cures? They should just let those fags die. They brought this on themselves, you know. Typical of them to complain about the fucking consequences,” Richard had spat out at the block TV, standing to refill his bourbon. Steve had clenched his fists at his side, his already stiff posture straightening still. He felt angry at his fathers words, something pure and burning in his gut.

He didn’t know what it was at the time, but maybe he should’ve known. Maybe him being queer shouldn’t be as much of a surprise as it feels. Maybe he’s always known and just couldn’t bring himself to admit it. Maybe that anger he felt at his father’s words was partly on behalf of himself, too.

A wince shudders through him as he remembers how that night ended.

Steve had stood up from the couch, watching the dark liquid flow into the crystal glass in his father’s hand.

“What’s so wrong with being gay? I don’t understand how you could just.. hate people like that. Hate them for just existing,” Steve countered. His father had frozen at his words, slowly setting down the decanter with a solid ‘thunk’ against the metal tray where it belonged and turned to face him. His face was slowly gaining a reddish hue, a sign of the anger rising within him.

“What did you just say?” He demanded, voice scarily calm but laced with an icy rage. Steve swallowed.

“What… What's wrong with being gay, sir?” Steve hesitated, voice failing him. Richard had downed the glass of bourbon before throwing it at Steve, the crystal shattering on the mantelpiece behind him and sending shards flying.

“What’s wrong, Steven, is that you think it’s okay. No son of mine will think like that, not on my watch,” his father boomed, taking long strides towards him. Steve didn’t dare move, only watched his fist grow nearer as he punched him high on his cheek. He fell to the floor, arms trying to protect his head but it was no use. Richard had ripped his arms away, gripping the front of his shirt and making Steve hover above the ground.

“I didn’t raise a fucking fairy, Steven,” he spat. “A faggot.” Steve recoiled, physically feeling the vitriol his father aimed at his face. Richard had sneered, pulled him close and whispered, “Never forget that, Steven,” before shoving him harshly onto the ground and walking away. Black had clouded the edges of his vision, and he laid on the plush rug until it cleared up. He looked over, found his mother silently watching the TV and sipping her wine, and begged with his eyes for her to help him. To say something. Anything. She didn’t, and Steve had to haul himself off the floor, grasping the couch when his vision swam, and stumbled his way to his room.

The rest of that weekend was spent in his room, gingerly cleaning his face and the couple places where glass had cut him on his arms with a wet washcloth and soap. It was the first time he had ever gotten a concussion. He was fifteen.

He remembers replaying the fight over and over again, feeling like those barbs were directed towards him, too. In hindsight, maybe they were. Maybe his father just knew. Knew he was queer long before Steve ever did. Maybe that’s why he’s always so angry with him, so… disappointed. A groan escapes him and he runs a hand through his hair. He’s been thinking way too damn much for it to be this early in the day.

God, he really wishes Robin was here. He knows he can’t talk to her, but it would be nice just to have someone here to keep him from spiraling and drowning in his thoughts. He pushes himself off the counter and goes over to the cart where the returns sit, hoping that busying himself will occupy his thoughts. He sets a few on the shelves when what Eddie said earlier barrels into him full-force.

“Yeah, the other guys just… really wouldn’t want to be there.”

Jesus fucking Christ, he’s stupid. Of course the other Hellfire guys wouldn’t want to be at his house, they probably still see him as King Steve. Most people do, nowadays. Only the ones he went through hell with know he’s different now, that he’s changed. So really, he can’t fault them for being against the idea of Hellfire at his house. He wouldn’t believe it either if he was in their shoes.

Then again, wouldn’t Eddie or the kids try to convince them he’s different? That he’s not a dick? Shit, he’s been through four apocalypses, three concussions, and survived Russian torture— surely they would give him the benefit of the doubt, right? He’s dropped the bad influences out of his life, found better friends, better family— or can he even say that anymore?— to be with. Wouldn’t they try to stick up for him? Or... is he just not worth it?

Steve clenches his eyes shut, willing his bubbling emotions back down, and grips the movie in his hands so hard the plastic begins to creak. The little voice in his head, one that sounds suspiciously like Robin, tells him to breathe. He does. Deep inhale, hold, long exhale. Over and over and over again until he’s calm, until his head is clear.

He knows what he needs to do now: apologize. If it's one thing Steve Harrington knows, it’s how to apologize. Hell, he’s done it more times than he can count. He knows how to repair burnt bridges and how to get past the tough exterior of a person to pull at their heartstrings for sympathy. He knows the key; he just has to make himself useful. If he can provide things for the kids, for Eddie and the Hellfire crew, then they’ll want him around. That’s how it’s always been. That’s how it is with his parents, with school, with his past friends, and now his current ones. He vaguely recalls his junior year art teacher saying that, "once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, but thrice is a pattern." Which means this, this is something he has to make right.

With a plan solidified in his mind, he goes back to work refilling the shelves with movies, brainstorming ideas to get his family back.

Over the next week, Steve becomes a one man show. He offers up more rides, more movie nights, more free reign of his house and his pool and his car and his money and himself just to make the kids happy. He picks up extra shifts at work just to get extra spending money for them, knowing that they go through twenty bucks in no time.

But… it doesn’t work. Because bit by bit, ride by ride, movie marathon by family dinner by game night by post-nightmare phone call, it becomes painfully clear. Everyone puts on a mask around him. One that says they’re happy to see him, that they’re glad he’s here, but he knows it’s a lie. This, really, shouldn’t be much of a surprise. People don’t stick around him much, so why did he think this was any different?

Maybe it’s because he was finally himself around them, he finally opened up and showed a bit of his true self, and was still rejected. Still pushed away. He wasn’t cowering behind a mask this time, he was just Steve. But it wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t good enough.

To their credit, it starts off slow. Casual comments that are cut off quickly, kicks under dinner tables and pointed throat clearing. It’s one instance during game night where it all clicks.

The Monopoly board is spread out before them in the Byers-Hopper living room. Steve, of course, is losing. He’s not good with investments and savings and he keeps landing on the goddamn ‘jail’ space but he doesn’t really care, not when he’s finally having fun with the kids. He groans when the dice make him land on one of Mike’s properties, shuffling his fake cash to pull out the tax money.

“C’mon this game is totally rigged. How the hell am I losing to a bunch of teens?” He grumbles as Mike proudly snatches the money from his hand. Max snickers from her place beside him, her pale blue eyes rolling as she looks at him.

“You know, if you actually used your brain then maybe you wouldn’t be losing. Ever think of that?” She quips, and Steve huffs. Leave it to him to be called out by a fifteen year old.

“I’m surprised there’s even a brain in there to begin with,” Dustin states. He’s seated across from Steve. “I mean, why else would he have-“

His comment is cut off by Lucas smacking his arm. Dustin looks at him like he’s about to protest when Lucas raises his eyebrows, looking pointedly from Dustin to Steve and back again. Steve can’t hear from his position so far away, but he swears Dustin mutters “shit” before crossing his arms and looking down at the board. Steve looks around at the rest of the group, noticing how none of them seem to want to look at him, choosing to focus rather intently on the cardboard before them.

The rest of the game is filled with awkward silences. Steve can feel them looking at him when he’s occupied, and it makes him feel like shit inside.

It’s on the drive home when it hits him. He is the one that doesn’t fit into their group, into their family. They’re slowly but surely removing him and replacing him with Eddie. With someone who fits. With someone better. It hits him so hard, so fully, that he has to pull over on a quiet street to sob in his empty car.

The first time it's fully solidified in his mind is at a barbecue at the Byers-Hoppers house. Robin can’t come, her aunt from up north is visiting for the weekend and she has to stay home. Steve walks through the house, planning on saying hello to Joyce before joining the party outside. He finds Joyce talking low to Eddie in the kitchen and he pauses in the doorway, watches how Joyce laughs at something Eddie says. How she places her hand on his arm as her eyes crinkle with the weight of her laugh. Eddie is smiling, open and wide, with a flush high on his cheeks that stains his skin pink. His dimples are on full display and it takes pure willpower for Steve not to go and poke at them, to settle his thumb in the divot of his skin.

Joyce leans close to Eddie and says something under her breath, making him blush purely red now and shush her, causing another wave of laughter to ripple through the both of them. The kitchen is filled with warmth, the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the sheer cream-colored curtains that line the two windows as laughter fills the room. It’s light, it’s happiness, it’s love. It’s something Steve hasn’t felt in years.

Steve knocks on the doorframe, waggling his fingers in greeting. They both turn to look at him, and all that warmth from before flees the room. If he hadn’t just seen the thin rays with his own two eyes, he could have sworn even the sun went down as well. He feels a stab of pain in his heart, so sharp it makes his breath stutter. He fights to put a smile on his face, briefly clearing his throat and praying his voice doesn’t sound as faint as he feels.

“Hey, Ms. Byers. Eddie,” he greets. Steve runs a hand through his hair, just to give himself something to do. “Just wanted to say hi before I go outside.”

Eddie’s face has gone completely slack, the only thing convincing Steve he didn’t hallucinate the entire exchange earlier is the flush that had yet to leave his cheeks. In fact, Eddie looks even more red now that he’s made his presence known. Joyce, to her credit, has a small polite smile on her face.

“Thank you, Steve, that's very kind of you,” she replies. She casts a glance at Eddie out of the corner of her eye, something Steve has noticed a lot of people do to each other when he’s around. “You go on outside now, okay? I’m sure the kids are missing you.”

Steve holds back his remark of “yeah, I actually doubt that” and nods, leaving the two of them in the kitchen as he continues down the hallway. He tries hard not to let the harshness of their quick whispers dig further into his already injured heart.

Once outside, he’s greeted by no one. Dustin and Lucas are discussing something rapidly to one another, Dustin gesturing wildly with his hands as Lucas nods along and adds details. Max and El are sitting on a lawn chair together, Max seemingly teaching El how to braid her hair. Mike and Will are sitting in the grass a bit away from the group, shoulders touching and heads bowed together as they talk quietly to one another. Steve smiles softly at them, knowing.

He makes his way over to Hopper, who is manning the grill with a beer in one hand and a spatula in the other. Steve waves and gives him an awkward little smile, and Hopper nods his head, pointing towards a cooler with his beer. Steve grabs one, popping it open and taking an, admittedly, big first swig. Hopper doesn’t notice, or at least doesn’t comment, and Steve looks out over the people he still considers his family. He catches Dustin’s eyes, hoping to have someone to talk to, but the kid only looks away and continues his conversation.

So now Steve is here by himself, slowly nursing a beer, and trying to keep his emotions in check.

It’s just that… he doesn’t know what he did. Was he too overbearing or did he not care enough? Was he too pushy or too distant? Was he just annoying them? Was he just an inconvenience? Did they ever really like him or did they just put up with them out of necessity? Or because they felt bad?

He takes another sip of beer, hating the way it tastes on his tongue but it’s better than the bile slowly rising in his throat. All he wants is for someone to see him, to see who he truly is and like it. To stick around. To stay.

And it’s true, he does have Robin, but sometimes she can’t give him what he needs. Call him a romantic but Steve wants that love, that connection, that intense feeling you get with a partner. He craves it more than anything. He wants to touch, to taste, to feel someone else.

Eddie. He wants Eddie.

A voice interrupts his thoughts.

“Kid, will you go get me a plate for the burgers?” Hopper asks, his gruff voice shoving all of his mushy thoughts aside. Steve nods, sets his beer on top of the cooler, and makes his way inside. He silently dreads ever walking in that room again, dreads having to feel the chill from before. However, the scene in the kitchen is drastically different this time. Joyce is by herself, Eddie nowhere to be seen, and is mixing together slaw in a big tupperware bowl.

Steve knocks on the frame again and is met with a small smile from the older woman. It’s infinitely more warm than the one he was met with when he got there, and he thinks it’s partly due to the lack of a certain metalhead in the room. Joyce sets down her spoon, wiping her hands on a nearby towel, and holds her arms out.

“C’mere, honey,” she murmurs, and Steve tries not to let her soft tone get to him. The last thing he needs is to cry in front of everyone. He walks forwards into her hug, leaning down a little to wrap his arms around her properly, and sighs when she rubs her hands up and down his back. Steve clenches his eyes shut, taking in stuttering breaths that he knows she can hear but thanks every god out there that she doesn’t comment on it. She taps her hands twice on his back and pulls away, reaching up to push some of his hair off his forehead and Steve wills himself to not lean into the touch too much.

“Sorry for not saying a proper hello earlier, I was a bit preoccupied. Eddie- well, that’s not my thing to tell but he needed some help with something and… well, you get it,” she smiles, laughs a little, and Steve smiles back.

This. This is what he wishes he could have with his parents. This lightness, this love. He never will, he knows that, but the little moments like this with Joyce, the way she hugs him and cares for him, are ones he treasures. Ones he wishes he could have everyday. Joyce is a wonderful mother, and part of him wishes he could have her as his own. Hell, she’s been more of a mother to him in the four years he’s known her than his mother ever has. But he knows that isn’t fair. It isn’t fair of him to put his parental issues on her or anyone else. So he doesn’t, and shoves his hands in his pockets instead.

“It’s okay, Ms. Byers, I get it. Sorry to interrupt you two, though,” he apologizes. She waves her hands in a shooing motion.

“Oh don’t apologize for that, honey, it’s okay,” she smiles, then hesitates. “I do want you to promise me something, okay?” Steve nods, and Joyce places her hands on either side of his face. “Promise me you’ll be careful with people, be gentle. Not everyone can be treated the same, some people… they’re special.

“Sometimes, it’s better to listen. Promise me, Steve, that you’ll always listen, okay?” She asks, and Steve has to swallow before he responds.

“I promise, Ms. Byers,” he replies, and she pats his cheek. Her smile has grown, and her eyes have softened.

“I love you, Steve, you know that, right?” Joyce asks, and it’s like the world has stopped moving. He didn’t know that, not really. Sure, he knew she liked him but he didn’t know she…

He doesn’t realize he’s tearing up until Joyce coos at him, wiping away a few stray tears that have escaped with her thumbs.

“I-I didn’t know you- I’m sorry, I don’t-“ Steve stutters out, but Joyce shushes him.

“You don’t have to apologize, Steve, it’s alright,” she insists. Her thin arms pull him into another hug and he buries his face in her shoulder. The angle is a little awkward, but it’s a comfort Steve hasn’t had in ages so he stays. “It’s gonna be alright.”

Her small hands rub up and down his back as he holds back tears. He regulates his breathing, taking in deep breaths and letting them out slowly, until he’s sure he won’t cry. He pulls back from the hug and wipes at his eyes, sure that they're red-rimmed and a little puffy, but Joyce only smiles that warm smile and pats his cheek again. Steve smiles at her, the first genuine smile he thinks he’s had in awhile, and it feels good. To smile and know it's real.

Joyce turns to the counter behind her and picks up a plate, handing it to Steve. His brows furrow, and he hesitantly takes the offered crockery.

“How did you-“

“I had a feeling,” she interrupts him with a wink. “Now go on before Hop burns the yard down.”

Steve smiles and goes back outside, handing the plate to Hop and ignoring his grumble of “took ya long enough”, before picking his beer back up and taking a much needed swig. A few minutes later, they’re all eating. Eddie has joined Dustin and Lucas in their rambling, all three of them loudly talking over one another. Steve watches them; wishing, wanting, yearning. Joyce bumps her shoulder into his, making him swivel his head to look down at her. She smiles, almost knowingly, and Steve blushes. He clears his throat and looks away, focusing on fixing his burger rather than whatever the fuck that was.

He sits alone away from the group, catching occasional glances from Joyce, Dustin, and Hopper. Joyce is concerned, he can tell that much, and part of her almost looks sad. Dustin looks conflicted, like he can’t decide if he wants to be mad from a distance or just come right up to Steve and say it to his face. Steve wouldn’t be surprised if he did the latter. Hopper, to Steve’s complete unsurprise, looks uninterested and, frankly, fed up with this whole situation. Steve doesn’t blame him, he is too.

After the food is gone, and dessert is served, Steve heads inside to help clean up. He washes dishes quietly with Joyce, while she dries them and puts them away. As he finishes up the last plate, Will comes into the kitchen.

“Hey, Mom? The party wanted to play some board games, is that okay?” He requests, and Steve can feel Joyce soften beside him. She smiles.

“Of course, honey. Make sure you ask the girls what they want to play, too, okay?” Will rolls his eyes and smiles, a mannerism Steve notes he definitely got from Mike.

“Got it, Mom,” he replies, and runs off. Steve turns back to the sink, realizing he’s been scrubbing the plate well past the point of clean, and rinses it off.

“I um.. I think I’m going to head out, Ms. Byers,” he begins. He hands the plate to her. “I’ve got a shift tomorrow and uh… I don’t want to intrude or anything.”

He doesn’t mention that he doesn’t want to repeat the last game night, where everyone kept glancing at him like he was a bomb set to explode at any moment. He doesn’t say that he can’t handle their stares for any longer than he already has.

“Oh, are you sure? You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want to,” Joyce offers, but Steve shakes his head.

“I really should be going, sorry.”

“Alright, dear. Let me walk you out,” she insists, moving to take off her apron.

“I’ll walk him out, Joyce, don’t worry about it,” Hopper's gruff voice interrupts from the doorway. Steve swallows and nods, drying his hands off on a towel. He looks at Joyce, seeing her share a glance and a smile with Hopper before looking back at him. He smiles, finally beginning to think that maybe… maybe things will be okay.

“Thank you, Ms. Byers. For everything,” he expresses. He leans down to give her a hug, her arms quickly hugging him back.

“It’s alright, dear. You come to me if you ever want to talk, you hear?” Steve pulls away from the hug.

“I will, promise,” he hesitates. Steve looks down at his hands, shaking from where they’re clutching each other, and takes a breath. “I… I love you too.”

He looks up right as Joyce pulls him into another hug. He laughs a little, and she pats his back before pulling away with a “be safe”. Hopper clears his throat from the door and Steve takes a step back, nods to Joyce, and follows the other man outside.

They step out on the front porch together, and Steve is prepared to continue walking to his car when Hop places a hand on his shoulder. He stops, and turns to find the man looking at him seriously.

“Son, I want you to promise me something,” he grumbles, and Steve begins to feel a strange sense of deja vu. While Joyce’s tone was soft, Hopper’s is deep and leaves no room for hesitation. He vaguely has a thought that this is what his father would have been like if things were different. If he were different. Steve nods.

“Promise me you’ll fix our shit, alright? I don’t wanna get in the middle of… whatever the hell this is but promise you’ll be better, okay?” He commands, and all the thoughts Steve had earlier about thinking things would be okay fly out the window.

“Y-yes, sir,” he stutters out. Hop claps his shoulder, mumbles a “get home safe”, before pulling a pack of smokes out his pocket and lighting one up. Steve turns, shoves his shaking hands in his pockets, and walks to his car.

Getting in his car is a blur of unconscious actions. He’s driving down a barely lit backroad when he registers that his eyes are stinging, and something warm and wet is dripping down his cheeks. He pulls over on the side of the road, shifting his car into park, and he sits there. He reaches up with a shaky hand and wipes his cheek, his hand coming back wet and shining in the faint glow of the moon. The sight breaks him, and an ugly sob rips its way out his throat. He chokes on an inhale as tears fight their way out, and he hugs his arms around himself as a sad semblance of comfort. His forehead finds purchase on the steering wheel, and his tears stain the leather before dripping on his lap.

He cries because he knows he’s the problem, that he’s the one fucking up. He cries because everyone thinks so, everyone knows. The kids know. Eddie knows. Joyce knows, but she’s just too kind to say it to his face. Hell, even Hopper knows. He cries because he doesn’t know what he did wrong. He cries because he doesn’t think anyone really wants him to fix it.

It’s the second time on a drive home from the Byers-Hopper house that he has to pull over and cry.

He struggles to inhale a deep breath and sits up, harshly wiping his tears away with his hand, uncaring that it rubs his skin raw and red. Sniffling, he puts his car in drive and goes home. Toeing his shoes off at the door is the only thing he thinks to do before he stumbles his way upstairs and collapses on his bed, snuggling into the thin comforter and falling into a fitful sleep.

After a slow shift at Family Video the next day, Steve returns to the darkness of his home with a plan. He can still be useful. They may not have to know, but he can still do something to help. To try and save them before they need to be saved. He can be a preventative measure for them, can stop them from getting hurt before they even know they’re in danger.

He shrugs off his work vest, throwing it on his desk chair as he searches his closet for an old sweatshirt. He finds one, the front adorned with white block letters that read ‘Tigers Swim Team’ and tugs it on. His nail bat finds purchase in his hand as he tucks a flashlight in his back pocket. The walkie Dustin gave him is hooked in his belt loop, just in case. He leaves all the lights on in the house and shuts the door, skirting around his house to begin his walk in the woods.

After four bouts with the Upside Down, he doubts that they’re in the clear, that it’s finally over. He thought it was the first time, then the second, and by the third he was skeptical. Now, though, he doesn’t know what to think. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was a round five, or six, or seven. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if it never stopped. But each and every time, they were unprepared. They were surprised, and it nearly cost them every time. But if Steve could prevent that surprise, give them all a heads up before it becomes a big problem, then maybe— just maybe— it’ll come in handy. He’ll come in handy. He’ll be useful again.

So, he walks the woods of Hawkins. His feet crunch the dead leaves piled underneath trees as he trudges through the woods. The flashlight shines long shadows on the ground in front of him, lighting up the pale gray bark of trees and making the eyes of rodents and raccoons shine amber and red.

A rustle sounds a few feet away and he jumps at the noise. He pauses and stands still, listening for the shrill chittering of demodogs or the heavy, thudding footsteps of a demogorgon. He waits, and his flashlight reveals a small fox walking out from behind a tree. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and continues walking.

His feet carry him to Lover’s Lake, the water lapping lazily at the shore with the warm summer breeze. Out here, the lights from town are distant, making the stars shine brightly and reflect in the water. Steve stands there, watches as the artificial light of his flashlight reveals the small ripples on the surface of the water, and waits.

He waits for a lumbering figure to emerge out of the murky depths, to claw its way onto the shore and stalk off into the woods. He waits for chirps muffled by water and splashing to sound in his ears as four-legged creatures swim to the beaches. He waits for the screeches of demonic bats to echo off the trees around him as they fly out of the water and take to the sky. He waits, but it never comes. The lake stays silent.

So he walks.

He follows the road leading to the lake out, letting it take him to the highway that leads out of town. His feet stop as they come across a crack in the road, the crack he took in the other world to get Eddie home safely. The crack that is closed over with black tar, leaving a dark line on the ashen gray asphalt. He remembers clawing his way out of that crack, Eddie’s lifeless body over his shoulders as he slowly bled out.

Nancy had driven her station wagon over, opening the back so he could lay Eddie down as they rode to the hospital. She had asked Steve to drive so she could patch him up, but he refused. He couldn’t leave Eddie, not when he finally got him out. Not when he was barely hanging on. So she threw the first aid kit she had stashed in her car at him and drove to the hospital. Steve had done his best to stop the bleeding, the stark white cloth immediately turning red when he pressed it to Eddie’s skin. They almost lost him. But they didn’t. He’s alive.

Eddie. Eddie.

His head swivels to the forest next to him, the one that leads straight to the trailer park, and he runs. He jumps over fallen trees, feet thudding against the dry earth and leaves as his breath picks up. Orange street lights shine through branches as he draws nearer, and he only slows his pace when he breaks out from the line of trees. His feet swiftly take him to the sight of Eddie’s old trailer, the vacant lot standing out against the fullness of the park. The wooden front steps are still there, partially broken and shifted. The grass has yet to grow in fully, bare spots of dirt showing through the green. His shoes crunch on the gravel as he takes a step closer, inspecting the ground and poking at it with his bat as if it would move. As if the gate would open up just by him being here.

It doesn’t. Steve steps back.

He turns to leave the park, eyes wandering and finding a familiar cream-colored van parked at a trailer a few rows away. Eddie and his Uncle were granted a new trailer for their trouble, really the bare minimum they deserve after all the shit they went through, but they took it in stride. Eddie and Wayne spent the first few weeks after spring break making it into their new home once Eddie was released from the hospital, and Steve had done his best to help them out. But he knew they needed time alone, time to heal, so he let them be. He hasn’t been back there since then.

He kicks a stray piece of gravel, watching as it tumbles a few feet away and disappears into the grass, as he makes his way out of Forest Hills. Houses blur by as he walks the residential streets, only stopping when his own comes into view. Steve sighs, and walks up the concrete driveway, through the large wooden doors, and into the silence of his house. He doesn’t bother taking off his shoes, reveling a little in the dirty footprints he leaves behind on his mothers’ ornate runner that covers the length of the hallway. The analog on the stove tells him it's a little past three in the morning, and he sighs. Grabbing a glass from the cabinet, he fills it up with water before shuffling out of the kitchen. He flops on the couch, sips his water, and waits.

He waits for the sun to peek over the trees in the backyard, casting long shadows on the curtains that cover the windows and glass doors. He waits for the warm rays to shine through the large window in the living room, the one that faces the road, and light up the rug that rests under the coffee table in soft hues of yellow. He sits his empty glass on the table. He waits. And he gets up.

He goes upstairs, changes his shirt, and grabs his vest. Steve slips the walkie off his belt loop and places it on his desk, the flashlight landing right beside it. He props the bat next to his chair, and Steve looks at it, looks at the bent nails sticking haphazardly out of the wood and how it splintered in places from too much force. How some of the nails are covered in dried, blackened goop and dirt. How it's sharp and dangerous, a weapon. How it’s chosen to protect.

At this moment, Steve feels like the bat. The rough wood is his exterior, the splinters through it are the cracks. The holes in his facade. The places where people got too close, where people hurt him. The nails are what makes him strong. They’re the kids, Joyce and Hop, Eddie and Robin. They’re his family. They mold him into a weapon meant to protect, to keep them safe.

But just like Steve, the bat isn’t needed until it’s necessary. Until the world is ending. But until that time comes, the bat is left out of sight. It’s hidden away, moved from place to place just in case, but never used. Never wanted.

Steve walks out the door.

His shift at Family Video passes by like every other day, slow and full of know-it-all customers that never seem to understand that he can’t magically summon movies out of his ass whenever they ask. Robin comes in around lunchtime, and they spend the rest of their joint shift making fun of the ridiculous movie covers that adorn various romcoms. He goes home alone, sheds his vest, and once again walks the town of Hawkins.

He does it again the next night. And the night after that. And the night after that. Until it’s been a week and Steve hasn’t slept for more than a couple hours a night. He doesn’t mind, just means there’s less nightmares to wake him up before sunrise.

Less nights where chittering and the thuds of heavy footsteps strike fear down to his core. Less nights where the chill of fog and night air pierce his skin, warring with his senses against the hot breath hitting the back of his neck from deadly flower-shaped mouths. Less nights where the harsh scraping of monstrous nails against rusted metal and the echoey bangs of heavy, meaty bodies against solid bus walls fill his ears. Less nights where he can feel the thick, choking air of the tunnels, can feel the wispy particles filling his lungs and coating the inside of his mouth.

Less nights filled with muffled Russian echoing in his ears, the harsh texture of rope around his wrists, arms, and chest. Less nights where the sickening crunch of fists against bone and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth linger for hours after he’s awoken, shallowly breathing and pleading to be let go. Less nights where he can feel the blood in his teeth, coating his tongue and dripping down the back of his throat, and he has to run to the bathroom to puke the phantom feeling away.

Less nights he wakes up alone, empty house hollow around him. Less nights he cries to himself in the silence of his room, wishing, hoping, yearning for something. For something to happen, to change. For something to get better. For him to get better.

On the eighth night, he finds his feet have taken him to the edge of Hawkins. The brown road sign reads ‘Leaving Hawkins! Come Again Soon!’, and it stares at him from a few feet away. He looks past the sign at the stretch of road that disappears around a curve, trees following the line of asphalt and distant street lights lighting up their leaves with an orange glow.

He thinks about what it would be like to leave Hawkins, to pack up his clothes in his car and leave town. To follow the road and go around that curve, to not worry about ever coming back. No one needs him here, not anymore, so what’s holding him back?

Maybe this will fix him.

Robin might miss him for a bit, probably curse him and his whole family when she figures it out, but she’ll move on. She’ll find someone better. Hell, she’ll probably go to Eddie too. They already have some sort of secret friendship thing going on between them anyway. Really, he wouldn’t blame her.

Eddie probably wouldn’t care. Shit, he might even throw a party celebrating the fact that he’s gone. Steve snorts at the thought, closing his eyes and taking a breath.

Would it really be so bad if he just disappeared?

But then there’s the kids, left behind with no one to protect them. Sure, Robin and Eddie and Nancy are here, but Nancy is off to Emerson in the fall, Robin surely bound to follow in similar footsteps, and Eddie has made it well-known that he’s getting the hell out of here. If everyone is gone, who will be here to protect them when it comes back?

He rakes a hand harshly through his hair, pulling a bit at the ends and hating how greasy it feels on his fingertips. He can’t think like that, he’ll just worry himself into a panic and that’s the last thing he needs right now; a panic attack on the side of the road. He turns around, walking back towards town as the sky fades into light. He gets home right when sunlight begins burning the tops of the trees and collapses on the couch, sleeping until his noon shift.

He’s exhausted when he gets home, having to close up Family Video after a ten hour shift by himself, but he knows he can’t sleep. Not now. So he does what he usually does now when he gets home and grabs his essentials for his rounds, something that’s become routine for him.

He shrugs off his work clothes, replacing it with what has become his patrol outfit; the old swim team sweatshirt and a faded, ripped pair of light blue jeans. The sweatshirt is filled with holes, the baggy sleeves having caught on briars and branches alike, that allow the white of his shirt to show through. The jeans share a similar fate, the knees scraped up and the denim fraying from the unhemmed edges.

His white Nikes are stained a gray-ish brown from the nightly treks through the woods, small bits of leaves and debris sticking to the laces and in the grooves of the tread. The flashlight finds its place in his back left pocket, an extra pair of batteries landing in his front pocket after an incident a few nights ago where his flashlight died on him out in the middle of nowhere— he was forced to stumble through the woods until the sun began to rise and he was able to find his way back home. He didn’t sleep that night.

The nail bat is crusted with dried bits of mud sticking to the slowly rusting metal, shredded bits of leaves and undergrowth tangled in a green and brown mass. Clumps of dirt litter the floor under the bat, and likely mark a line in the hallway from his room down to the front door. Steve hopes it's still there if his parents come home.

It’s dark outside, only the street light at the end of the driveway illuminates the concrete and stepping stone pathway to the front door. Steve steps out on the front stoop, taking a deep breath of cool summer night air, and starts walking.

He walks out onto the street, uncaring at this point if anyone sees him or not. What does he have to lose? Hopper would probably tell him he’s stupid— something he’s well aware of at this point— and tell him to go inside. Or maybe he would drive him home, take the bat, and leave.

A small, traitorous part of Steve wants Hop to find him. Wants him to ask what the hell he’s doing walking around at night alone in the dark. Wants him to coax him in his old beat up truck and take him back to the Byers’ house. Wants some of Joyce’s hot chocolate as he sits on the couch and explains what he’s been doing, what’s been going on. Ask, desperately, why everyone hates him. Wants them to tell him he’s wrong, that no one hates him. That it’s just a misunderstanding.

But it doesn’t happen. All of that is a lie.

It’s a lie Steve has secretly been telling himself under the cover of darkness alone in his bed, lying awake and exhausted but unable to sleep. It’s a lie he tells himself when he sees any of the kids so he can act normal, act okay. It’s a lie he tells himself when Eddie grins at him, wide and gleaming, eyes sparkling with the afternoon sun beaming in from the storefront windows.

It’s those grins, those looks Eddie gives him sometimes that almost convinces him the lie is fake. Like Eddie is sharing an inside joke with him, only Steve doesn’t know what it is. Eddie doesn’t come around often but when he does… god, it’s like he’s the only one in the room.

Eddie looks at him with his whole body, always focusing on him so wholly and touching in some way. A hand on his bicep, an arm slung around his shoulder, even his arms wrapped around his waist one time. He was friendly, they were friends, until he wasn’t. Until Steve did something stupid that he still can’t figure out and Eddie is avoiding him.

The crunch of gravel under his sole brings him back into his head a little. He looks up, finding the pale orange glow of a lamp through a trailer window, and curses. His feet have brought him to where his mind always seems to go these days: Eddie.

He stands outside of the trailer, watching the way the little bits of weeds around the base shift and sway in the wind. The sky is filled with patches of clouds, light gray ripples standing out against the black sky from the glow of the moon. Steve isn’t completely sure how he got here, only that he started walking and didn’t really… stop.

Wayne’s truck is gone, leaving only Eddie’s cream-colored van among the gravel and grass. Which means Eddie is home and, judging by the light in the window, awake. Steve has a fleeting thought that he should turn around, walk back home, and try to forget he ever came here. Try to forget that he didn’t mean to, that his head and his heart are traitorous beings that have conspired against him to bring his body to the one place— one person— where he isn’t welcome. He tries to move, to will his legs and his feet to catch up with his brain and the urge to run. But they don’t. They stay frozen to the ground, rooted in place as if they belong here. As if he belongs here.

A voice cuts his thoughts off, one that he could pick out in a crowd full of people. His eyes snap to the front door of the trailer, now open and spilling warm light onto the wooden steps that lead down to the gravel drive. A figure grows near, tall and lanky and Steve feels like he’s trapped. His thoughts get louder, yelling and screaming at him to run run ruN RUN RUN-

Hands on his shoulders. Eddie’s face in front of him.

Eddie looks panicked, his dark eyes wide and dancing around as if searching Steve's face for… something. He must not find it, because the two little lines between his brows appear and his mouth starts moving. It’s all muffled, like he’s trying to talk through glass. Steve blinks.

“-ington? Steve,” Eddie’s pleading voice finds his ears as he shakes his shoulders, the fog in his head dissipating as the strained way his name falls from his lips. Steve hums. He blinks again.

“Oh,” he breathes out, voice barely louder than a whisper. Eddie is here. He’s in front of him. He can see him. He’s here and he can see and Steve shouldn’t be here he needs to go-

“Stevie, are you okay?” The fear in Eddie’s voice cuts off his train of thought— something that seems to happen a lot nowadays— and Steve feels every sensation return to his body. The heavy hands on his shoulders, soft and warm and missing their signature rings. The distant chill of the night air on his exposed bits of skin seeping away at the small amount of space between them. The faint puff of air on his face from the man before him. The fact that all of those things are from Eddie.

Steve clears his throat, swallows. Tries to focus his eyes on Eddie’s face.

“I’m fine, Eddie. I um.. sorry,” he trails off. He tries to smile, at least give something to reassure him, to keep him from asking questions. Steve doesn’t think he could answer them.

To his surprise, Eddie lets out a breath of relief, the fear dissipating from his eyes as they clench shut and his head drops. His shoulders move with his lungs as he takes a breath before looking back up at him.

“Jesus H. Christ, you scared the shit outta me, Steve. Thought…” he trails off. His voice wavers. “Thought you were gone. Like… like her.”

Oh. Chrissy. Fuck.

“Shit- sorry, Eds, I didn’t even realize- fuck, I’m so sorry,” Steve pleads. He takes in his surroundings, realizes he’s been standing out here, alone, for who knows how long. He needs to leave. “I-I should go.”

Eddie’s brows furrow, and he tilts his head. “You don’t have to leave, Stevie, it’s fi-“ he cuts himself off.

Steve looks up at that, unsure of when he stopped looking at Eddie, and takes in his pinched expression. The one that’s trained to the ground. The one that’s trained towards-

“What the fuck is this?”

Shit.

“I-it’s not what it looks like, I swear!” He begs, voice sounding unfamiliar even to his own ears. It’s raspy and breaks after a few words. When was the last time he really spoke to anyone today?

“I don’t wanna hurt you, Eds, I really don’t- please, believe me,” he pleads. “It’s just for protection! I don’t-“

“Why are you covered in mud, Steve?” Eddie cuts him off, voice strange and cautious and his hands tighten their grip on his shoulders. Steve knows he doesn’t look the best, knows that his clothes are dirty, but he looks down at himself anyway. His eyes focus on a leaf stuck to his shoelace. He shrugs.

Eddie moves in front of him, a quick thing that Steve suspects is him shaking his head. He mumbles something he can’t hear, voice only a rumble in his throat but Steve knows enough to know that people only talk under their breath when they’re mad. When he’s done something wrong.

He pulls away. Eddie’s hands drop off his shoulders.

“I-I should go. Sorry for bothering you, an-… and keeping you awake,” Steve stutters out, clearing his throat when his voice breaks. He chances a look at him, finding concern written on Eddie’s face. It softens when they make eye contact, and Eddie shakes his head.

“I wasn’t asleep, Stevie. Don’t really, uh.. sleep much, these days. I usually just wait around for Wayne to get home to catch a couple hours. Doesn’t feel safe here by myself, you know?” Eddie confesses, mouth turned upwards in a small, sardonic smile. Steve nods. He does know, he’s never felt safe in his home. With or without people. He’s been going through it for years, long before the events of ‘83. He doesn’t say any of that though, doesn’t think he has the right to.

Eddie steps towards him, closing the bit of distance Steve made between the two, and rests his hand on the arm holding the bat.

“Come inside, Steve,” Eddie requests, voice low and soft. Eddie’s smiling at him. It’s that soft, small, Eddie smile. One that Steve has only seen a handful of times. It’s asking him to say yes, and Steve… he’s weak. So, so weak.

“Okay.”

Eddie’s smile grows.

His hand wraps further around his arm, tugging him towards the open trailer door and Steve feels betrayed that now is when his feet decide to move. He follows Eddie, watching the way he’s glancing at him the entire time. Eddie pauses at the doorway.

“Steve,” he whispers, and Steve looks at him. His hand travels down his arm, causing goosebumps in its wake despite the layer of fabric between their skin. It pauses over the hand still gripping the bat, thumb brushing along his knuckles. “Let it go.”

Steve looks at him, searches those dark brown eyes for fear or hate or anger but finds none. He only finds care. Concern. Love.

It’s terrifying.

He loosens his grip and Eddie takes it from him, the comforting weight of the bat replaced with the warmth of Eddie’s hand. He props it just inside the door to the trailer and leads him over the threshold by the grip on his hand. He’s led over to the couch where a hand on his back urges him to sit down. Steve does, and instantly sinks into the well-worn cushions.

“I’ll be right back, okay? Just gonna get you some water,” Eddie informs him, squeezing his hand briefly before releasing his grip and turning the corner to venture into the kitchen. Steve watches him go, the way the baggy and worn band shirt hangs off his frame. The way his sweatpants are bunched up at the ankle as if they’re too big for him. The way his hair is pulled into a messy bun at the back of his head that swings a little when he walks away. Even now, he’s beautiful.

Shit. He’s so gone for this man.

Eddie returns with a glass of water and flops down on the couch beside him, pressing the cool surface of the cup into his palm. He takes it with a shaky hand, his other joining it to help stabilize the glass. It doesn’t work.

He takes a small sip of water, the liquid feeling like heaven against his dry throat. They sit in silence until Steve finishes half the glass. Then, Eddie speaks.

“Why were you outside at two in the morning, Stevie?” His voice is gentle, and it makes Steve want to cry. He swallows.

“I- I don’t know,” he deflects, lies. Anything to not talk about it.

The harsh sound of a mock game show buzzer startles him, and he turns to find Eddie with his hands cupped around his mouth. Steve grins and lets his head drop, and Eddie nudges his shoulder. He takes a deep breath, focusing on the surface of the water in his hands.

“I have to keep them safe, Eddie,” he confesses. Eddie stays silent, hand gently rubbing his forearm. “It’s what I need to do. What I have to do.”

Silence stretches between them, then, “who, Steve? Who do you have to keep safe?”

‘You,’ he wants to say. ‘You almost died. It’s never been that close before, not in the four years this shit has been going on. You and Max almost died, and I wasn’t there to protect you. I wasn’t with you and Dustin to keep you both safe, to help fight off the bats and urge you through the gate. I wasn’t with Max and Lucas and Erica, wasn’t there to fight off Carver and save Max just a little bit earlier. I wasn’t there, but I should have been. Carver should have beat me to pieces, not Lucas. It should have been me the bats got to, not you. It should have been me, it should have been me, it should have been me.’

Hands fall over his as Eddie takes the glass from him. He didn’t realize his hands were shaking that bad in his revere, causing the water to spill over the sides and onto the brown carpet below them. The glass thunks on the coffee table before Eddie rests his hands over Steve’s, stills their shaking.

“Hey, talk to me, Stevie,” he practically begs. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Steve looks at him, sees the worry in his eyes, and wets his lips with his tongue. Doesn’t miss the way Eddie’s eyes flicker down at the movement. He clenches his fists.

“Please don’t tell Robin,” he pleads. If she found out about this, if she knew, he wouldn’t be allowed outside alone ever again. She would worry about him, keep him under lock and key to make sure he wouldn’t do anything stupid. She would stay with him during the night, insert herself firmly by his side until she was sure he was okay. She would make him sleep in his own bed, trapped between his own walls. Trapped in his own house. He can’t stand that place, can’t handle the echoey walls and empty rooms. Can’t stand not being able to do anything for anyone. Can’t stand to be useless.

He’s just wasting time right now. He shouldn’t be here, talking to Eddie, when he could be checking the gates. He should be out there trying to save people, not himself. He should be trying to save his family. He could already be too late. It might have already come back while he was distracted and they could all be gone. It could have been waiting until he was occupied, waiting for an opening to strike. They could be in danger right now. They could be dead.

“Alright, I can do that. I won’t tell her but… Steve, why-“ Steve cuts him off by standing up on shaky legs, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Steve?”

“I need to go, Eddie, I need to- they could- I need to go,” the words tumble out of his mouth, words he isn’t quite sure even make sense but he doesn’t care. He just needs to get out.

Steve walks over to the door, eyes locking on the bat propped there, before he hears Eddie stand up behind him. He turns to find Eddie holding his hands out in front of him like he’s trying to placate a wild animal and, at this moment, he kinda feels like one. His heart is beating too fast and he can feel his breathing quicken. His throat closes up as panic claws its way upwards and clouds his vision, muffling his hearing. Eddie’s mouth moves but Steve can’t hear it through the cotton in his ears. He backs towards the door, hating the fear in Eddie’s eyes as he does so.

His back hits the wall next to the door and he turns, hand finding the rough wood of the bat almost instantly, before he runs out the door. The small “sorry” he lets out is an afterthought, thrown over his shoulder right before the trailer door slams shut behind him and his feet crunch on gravel as he runs towards town.

His blind panic takes him to Dustin’s house first, finding all the lights turned off save for the faint glow of the hall night light through sheer curtains. He stays there for a minute or two, waiting for the sign of flickering lights. Nothing comes.

A couple streets over, he stops in front of Lucas’s house, finds the same thing. Dark. He stands there and waits. No flickering. He runs.

The Wheelers. Dark. He waits, no flickering. He runs.

The Byers-Hoppers. Dark. Waits. No flickering. Runs.

Max. Dark. Waits. Dark. Runs.

Robin. Dark. Waits. Dark. Runs.

His house. Light.

They’re safe. He collapses.

He sits heavily on the front stoop, bat falling to the ground and knocking against the concrete with a thud. His knees come up to his chest and his arms wrap tightly around them as he rasps for breath, the air coming in short, quick bursts. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of his calves, hard enough to leave bruises. His forehead rests heavily on his knees and his eyes sting, welling with tears as the fear slowly fades away.

He sits outside, struggling for breath until the sun begins to rise, and waits. When the sun finds its way over the trees, he makes his way inside to get ready for his opening shift.

The bat finds a new home in his trunk.

Taglist: @tea-beloved @starry-eyedlune @hyperfixationgoddess @zerokrox-blog @nicovania @invisibleflame812 @chaoticvictorianspirit @justforthedead89 @dacremontgomeryay @vhelt @adhdsummer @nerd-and-nervous @i-have-three-feelings @mimicori @remuslupinisthevoiceofgod @solliesolesito @romanticdestruction @vanillatwist @bowl-o-queerios @grimmfitzz

(If you want to be added or removed please let me know!)

[thewritingcellist]

Late at night, Eddie loves tracing the veins that show on his wrists.

It started out as something small, something he didn’t notice, way back in hospital. The place they sometimes avoid driving past as though it’ll grow Vecna-like tentacles and ensnare Eddie again. The place that Steve swore to god was more his home - more welcoming than his home - with all the time he spent there. And the place that saved Eddie’s life, and Max’s, in that terrifying limbo of After.

Eddie was so still and quiet back then. So pale and faint. Like a pencil smudge all but erased.

For so long it seemed hopeless. For so long all Steve’s life consisted of was ferrying himself and the kids back and forth. Drawing up a roster - an honest to god roster - to allocate time for each to spend with either Max or Eddie that wouldn’t drive the nurses mad. Somehow he’d done it. And somehow he’d ended up always being the last one to see Eddie each evening. Whether it was fluke or subconscious design he still doesn’t really know, but he does know that the quiet in that room unnerved him more than Vecna ever had. So he’d taken to speaking, quietly, about anything that came to mind. Basketball. Repairs. Robin. The car. Even the music he was listening to, music he knew Eddie would side eye him for. It all tumbled out whilst his fingers trailed mindless patterns on the hospital sheets. And interspersed with it, he apologised.

For being too slow. For being that jock. For not getting DnD no matter how much Dustin tried. For realising things too late. For needing Robin to help him understand.

He wishes, when he’s definitely in one of his romantic moods, that it was then that Eddie woke up. That their eyes met, that he frantically called the doctor or nurse to come see the miracle. But it didn’t. And maybe that’s better. Because how it did happen is so much more ‘them’ than anything else could be.

So instead of a dramatic awakening, Steve felt Eddie’s fingers brush his wrist.

Even all these months later, that feeling hasn’t lost its electrifying surge of power.

But back then - the first time - Steve didn’t even notice. He still continued bitching about Henderson’s lack of manners over spilling a drink in his car. Over the cost of cleaning. Over the stupidity of it all. And all the while, Eddie’s fingertips traced idle, undirected patterns over his veins. Butterfly soft, and gossamer light.

It wasn’t until the day after, when he’d been greeted at Eddie’s door by a nurse who reminded him of Robin in fifteen years, that something registered. As she explained that Eddie was responding to outside stimuli, that he was trying to interact, that he was on the cusp of waking up, that Steve had a niggle in the back of his head that he’d missed something important.

Eddie still rips into him over that in the most loving way possible.

So maybe it was because he was looking for it, that he noticed it that second night. And by noticing it then, had an echo of a memory from the night before. The faint callous from Eddie’s guitar playing grazing Steve’s skin. The catch of a nail that needed trimming. He’s not too proud to admit he nearly cried at the touch. At how Eddie was reaching out. Reaching through the coma to pull himself out.

It took two more days for it to work. Two more evenings of a feathery brand applied to Steve’s wrist, as though the touch was lightening the void that Eddie had been floating in since they carried his bloodied body out of the Upside Down. And by the time Eddie did open his eyes to meet Steve’s, there was nothing hidden and nothing able to be misunderstood.

One night, not dissimilar to this night, Eddie confessed why he did it. Why, even after he was discharged and fitter than he’d ever been, he’d still trace Steve’s veins on his wrist.

“It’s life, man. You, you’re so bright to me, always have been, the balance to how dark I can get-” and if Steve hates hearing that, Eddie shushes him expertly with teeth and tongue before continuing “and right here is where we join and meet. Right here is where I felt you alive and near. That’s something heady. Your life just caught beneath this fragile skin.”

So Steve lets him trace his veins, doesn’t even pay it any attention late at night. But it’s reaffirming all the same, this small ritual that has been with them since before the start was even acknowledged. The unspoken bond that tethers them together. And when he feels Eddie’s fingertips seek out the patch of skin, he turns into it, into them, and settles further into sleep.

[theminecraftbee]

The thing in her cargo hold is looking at her again.

Really, Gem should have sold it by now. If the fishmonger had refused to take it--and really, it seems unlikely, Gem thinks, that the fishmonger would refuse to take it; he has taken and carved up and made meals of far stranger fish than one with a human face and hands and torso--she could have easily sold it to the man on the train, who takes exotic catches for his zoo. She could have even taken it to Grian; it's not a mending book, but it's the sort of thing he'd like to make fun of her for catching, instead of anything she's after.

Really, she should have. The longer she keeps the thing in her cargo hold, the more it starts to look properly human to her. She should know better. She has caught far stranger fish, and none of them have been human. It's another trick these seas have been playing on her, she thinks.

Long nights alone do that to a woman.

She ignores it. Instead, she opens the lid of the tank and starts depositing salmon. "It's a really weird request, that I keep them alive the whole time. You won't eat them, right?" Gem says, knowing the thing in her cargo hold can't answer. "Because if you eat them, this time, I really am going to sell you to the fishmonger. Or maybe I can figure out how to get fillets from you on my own? I've certainly eaten weirder fish..."

The thing in the cargo hold continues to stare. It has eyes that look like little moons, and brown hair, and it is smiling for some reason. Gem huffs.

"Don't give me that look! You are a fish. I am a fisherman. If mere human faces stopped me from doing my job, I would have gone mad a long time ago."

The thing in the cargo hold smiles wider. The lights flicker. Gem rolls her eyes and finishes putting salmon in the tank. As though to spite her, the thing in the cargo hold immediately lashes out, grabbing one in the claws on her otherwise-human hands and then tearing it apart with razor-sharp teeth. Blood rises on the water. Gem sighs.

"I have a harpoon in here somewhere, or at least a very sharp knife," she says to herself. She doesn't really want to use her nice knife, the one she always keeps on her belt, but she ought to have another knife around with which she can finish the job, right?

The lights flicker and go out. When she looks across at the tank, there are two silvery-moon eyes looking at her.

Gem pulls a wire. Gem turns the lights back on. She takes a deep breath.

"I really should have sold you by now, really. If the fishmonger won't take you, then the zookeeper would love you," Gem says.

The radio crackles. Gem startles. Very, very few people ever contact her on the shipboard radio, but if she's getting a signal, that's more important than a grudge match with a fish. She heads over to answer the call.

An amalgamation of voices responds:

YOU ARE FUNNY. I HAVE A MESSAGE. A DELIVERY. YOU'VE TRAPPED ME THOUGH.

Slowly, Gem turns around to the thing in the cargo hold.

"This won't stop me from treating you like a fish," she says. "If messages from the ocean stopped me--"

A terrible, crackling laugh sounds from the radio.

I AM THE MOON'S PEARL. YOU WILL NOT HOLD ME FOREVER. WE WILL SEE WHO EATS WHO.

Gem wags her finger. "We'll see, for sure, as long as you don't eat my salmon. That man in the fish-scaled suit was VERY insistent, you know."

TELL ME MORE.

"You're tying up my radio. What if there's another ship? What if there's something important?"

OH GEM. YOU KNOW THERE WON'T BE.

Gem swallows.

The thing in the cargo hold is staring at her.

"I need to sleep. I need to go to shore," she says.

YOU WON'T, the radio says.

She won't.

[monstersdownthepath]

Homebrew Horror: That Old and Rotten Crick

(Art by @stranger-chads aka @bluejay-makes!)

First detailed here and further built upon here, the Rotten Crick has been plaguing my thoughts. The downside of working in a store that sells fishing gear, I suppose. This also is a departure from my normal intro blocks, since there's not that much more lore to go through!

Rotten Crick is a fisherman first and a fighter second, but of course a creature like him has to get good at filleting whatever monstrosity he drags ashore, alongside whatever assassins that enemy fey send his way. He also presents a very strange figure in any campaign he may appear in; he's immensely creepy and unquestionably evil, but he's entirely passive in the evil he does and can even benefit a community he enters! Not only can he teach men to fish, he can give them all the tools they need to do so AND defend them from greater threats at sea. Anyone who takes up his bargains may think they're being Devil Deal'd, but the truth is that there's an entirely different sort of danger in accepting his assistance that almost never affects the life of the person he's helped.

Rather than being a mundane source of fantastical danger (like a local lord using magic and conjured beasts to secure power), he's a fantastical source of mundane danger. He directly encourages and enables overfishing, water pollution, and ecological collapse, things that adventuring parties can't exactly solve by punching the right creature into submission. By the time the damage begins to manifest in a noticeable way, it's often too late to stop. Even if the party defeats or chases off the Old Crick, it could be years before the damage he does is undone, if it ever is, though the intervention of nature mages, other Fey, and spirits of the wilds may at least help clean and dress the wound.

If a DM wants to use the Old Crick to be a true and painfully clear source of immediate danger rather than a long-term danger, having him be a threat to local sapient sea life (such as water fey and merfolk) is fully possible. His animosity towards sea life peaks when he's faced with "betrayers," and he'll go out of his way to concoct terrible plans to cause their deaths.

Before we get to the man himself, though, we need to look at his two most famous pieces of equipment: The Tomb of Karaphas and the Tidepool Reaper.

The Tomb of Karaphas

Minor Artifact

Aura: Moderate Conjuration, Enchantment, and Transmutation

CL: 18th

Weight: 8lbs

Slot: —

This deceptively normal-looking but magical tacklebox contains everything an enterprising fisherman could need to do their work but a boat. The Tomb magically generates mundane supplies such as hooks, lines, rods, reels, floats, lures, baits, nets and whatever else as needed by its current holder. It can generate enough gear for up to six creatures to perform a day's work fishing and/or trawling, and grants anyone utilizing its tools a +5 profane bonus to Profession (Fisherman) checks (or similar), as well as to Survival checks made to gather food from bodies of water and areas nearby them. Anything generated by the Tomb dissolves into nothingness 7 days later.

In addition to the above functions, the Tomb of Karaphas is magically capacious, acting as a Bag of Holding (Type IV). What is contained within is largely at the DMs discretion, but it normally contains the Rotten Cricks four enchanted fillet knives crafted from whale bones (two +1 Keen Animal-Bane Daggers, two +1 Keen Aquatic-Bane Daggers), a Net of Snaring woven from merfolk hair, tools for preparing sea life for consumption, tools for whittling and scrimshaw, whittled and scrimshawed trinkets worth at least 4,000gp in total, no fewer than twenty bottled beverages of varying quality and alcohol content, and a corkscrew carved from a sea serpent's tooth.

Destruction: The Tomb of Karaphas and all its contents are destroyed utterly if gnashed between the teeth of Ragadahn while the Rotten Crick is dead.

-----

The Tidepool Reaper

Minor Artifact

Aura: Moderate Conjuration and Transmutation

CL: 18th

Weight: 4lbs

Slot: ---

This powerful, magical fishing rod is much more than its mundane appearance suggests. It's capable of fishing in any waters, magically adjusting the length of its line, the strength of the floats and the weight of the sinkers, and the size and design of the hook itself as needed, all such adjustments done on the fly by the malign intelligence within the tool with no action needed from the wielder. It's still up to the wielder to supply bait, but the Reaper can fetch bait on its own if a supply is left anywhere within 5ft of it. With a simple command, the Reaper will conjure a stand for itself and fish entirely on its own using either a Profession (Fishing) check or a Survival check (+10 to either), depositing its catches into whatever container is provided, throwing catches onto the shore beside it if no container is available.

In the hands of another creature, it grants that creature a +5 profane bonus to Profession (Fisherman) checks (or similar), as well as Survival checks made to gather food from bodies of water. Once per day, the Tidepool Reaper may be used to dredge up items of varying worth; this is identical to a 18th level Cleric with the Flotsam Subdomain using Sift.

Destruction: The Tidepool Reaper can only be destroyed if it is sealed inside of the Tomb of Karaphas when the tacklebox is destroyed.

------

That Old and Rotten Crick CR 15

Neutral Evil Medium Fey Init: +7; Senses: Darkvision 60ft, low-light vision, mistsight; Perception +25

------ Defense ------

AC 31, touch 17, flat-footed 24 (+7 Dex, +7 armor, +7 natural armor) HP 130 (18d6+54), Regeneration 5 (Electricity) Fort +8 Ref +16 Will +13 (see Shield of Hatred) Defensive abilities Evasion, Shield of Hatred, Uncanny Dodge; DR 10/Cold iron and Piercing; Immune Cold, poison, sleep; Resist Acid 20, Fire 20; SR 22

------ Offense ------

Speed 30ft, swim 60ft Melee Tidepool Reaper (rapier) +17/+12 (1d6+4/16-20/x2) OR Tidepool Reaper (whip) +19/+14 (1d4+5 plus pull or trip) Ranged +1 Net +17 (Special) Space 5ft; Reach 5ft (30ft with Tidepool Reaper (whip)) Special Attacks Fishmonger, pull 5ft, Supreme Angler Spell-like Abilities (CL 18th; Concentration +26)

Constant--Speak With Animals, Water Walking At-will--Fog Cloud, Hydraulic Push (CMB 26), Bestow Curse (DC 22), Water Breathing 3/day--Charm Monster (DC 22), Dispel Magic, Freedom of Movement, Hold Monster (DC 22), Quickened Spiked Pit (DC 21) 1/day--Air Walk, Control Weather (as Druid), Horrid Wilting (DC 26), Summon Ship, Walk the Plank (DC 23) 1/month--Salvage

------ Statistics ------

Str 16 Dex 25 Con 17 Int 24 Wis 18 Cha 26 Base Atk: +9; CMB +12 (see Supreme Angler); CMD 29

Feats Combat Reflexes, Craft Magic Arms and Armor (B), Craft Wondrous Item(B), Greater Serpent Lash, Greater Whip Mastery, Harvest Parts (B), Improved Whip Mastery, Quicken Spell-like Ability (Spiked Pit), Serpent Lash, Weapon Finesse, Weapon Focus (Whip), Whip Mastery

Skills Bluff +16, Craft (Scrimshaw) +28, Craft (Whittling) +26, Diplomacy +21, Escape Artist +26, Heal +19, Knowledge (Geography) 28, Knowledge (Local) +27, Knowledge (Nature) +28, Perception +25, Profession (Fisherman) +35, Sense Motive +12, Sleight of Hand +20, Spellcraft +25, Stealth +15, Swim +24, Use Magic Device +29

Languages Aklo, Aquan, Common, Elven, Dwarven, Goblin, Halfling, Orc, Sylvan, Undercommon; Speak With Animals

SQ Fearsome Fishing, Item Crafting, water breathing

------ Ecology ------

Environment Any water Organization Solitary Treasure Triple standard (Tomb of Karaphas, Tidepool Reaper, Old and Rotten Coat (+3 mithral shirt with no maximum Dex bonus), scrimshaw collection, etc)

------

Combat: The Old Crick generally only fights against creatures he has an enormous advantage against; that is, creatures his Fishmonger ability triggers against while his target is in the water, allowing him to utilize his Supreme Angler ability to attack with unavoidable strikes. Against surface-bound foes, he will use the Combat Maneuvers his whips afford him alongside Quickened Spiked Pit to dispose of most enemies, or Walk the Plank to drag enemies into spontaneously manifested bodies of water to take advantage of Supreme Angler. His Fog Clouds do not impede him due to his mist sight, and he will use them to confound enemies relying on sight and keep his distance to utilize his whip's power to their full potential. Other favored tactics include utilizing the disarming ability of whips he wields to relieve enemies of their equipment before throwing the items into his conjured pits, or overboard any ship he's on. If he can throw his enemies into bodies of water with any ability, he generally will.

Morale: Old Crick is maniacal in combat against sea life, and bravely fights to the death against such creatures for the chance to end them. Against surface life, he fights only until the other party is unconscious or retreats, and rarely coup de graces fallen foes unless they are aligned with the sea in some fashion; he will likely steal what he desires from them and leave them tied up for another creature to find. When reduced to 30 HP or below, he will surrender and attempt to parlay and/or bargain. If his surrender is rejected, he will fight to the death.

------ Special Abilities ------

Fearsome Fishing (Ex): Old Crick wields the tools of his trade with such expert experience that he may use even common fishing rods or lengths of rope as if they were whips, applying his whip-relevant feats and special abilities (including Supreme Angler, below) to any such tools he wields. Magic fishing rods or ropes are treated as +1 weapons in his hands. His signature rod, the Tidepool Reaper, is even more dangerous when used in this way, responding to his will as easily as a limb; he may freely use it as either an +2 Aquatic-Bane Whip with a reach of 30ft instead of 15, or a +1 Aquatic-Bane Keen Rapier, both of which he is proficient with.

Fishmonger (Ex): Old Crick has the Favored Enemy ability of a 15th level Ranger (+6 to Bluff, Knowledge, Perception, Sense Motive, and Survival checks, as well as to attack and damage rolls), except it works universally against creatures with the Water or Aquatic subtypes. His hatred of sea life is so great that this ability also extends to Animals, Fey, Magical Beasts, and Vermin which live in the water, even if they do not have the Water or Aquatic subtypes. However, this ability never applies to creatures who do not live in water, even if they resemble sea creatures, as he commends such creatures for shedding their "horrid lifestyle" and choosing to "live properly."

Item Crafting (Ex): Old Crick gains Harvest Parts, Craft Wondrous Item, and Craft Magical Arms and Armor as bonus feats. He crafts Wondrous Items with incredible swiftness; any item that costs less than 1,000gp to create is crafted in 4 hours instead of 8.

Shield of Hatred (Su): The waves of hate flowing off Old Crick prevents sea life from easily touching him. He adds half the bonuses gained from Fishmonger (+3) as a profane bonus to his AC, to his CMD, and his saving throws against the attacks, abilities, maneuvers, and spells of any creature with the Aquatic or Water subtypes. He never counts as a willing target for the abilities of such creatures, even if he is magically compelled to do so.

Supreme Angler (Ex): Over the years, Old Crick has fished in the strangest waters one can imagine, and it's given him an insurmountable advantage when attacking the beasts of the sea. He ignores cover and concealment when attacking creatures that are partially or fully underwater while he himself is on the surface (whether on a shoreline, on a boat, or standing on the water). Each round, he gains a +20 profane bonus to the first attack roll or CMB check he makes with a whip against partially or fully submerged targets.

[undiscovered-horizon]

Cold Blood - Coriolanus Snow x assassin!Reader

Enjoying my work? You can leave me a tip on Ko-Fi | Have a request?

***Third person POV + Can be read as either "x reader" or "x OC", just as long as you have fun babes. Thinking about making this like a loose series? idk

SUMMARY: Coriolanus thought that arranging Basil Flatberg's death was arduous. He's about to learn just how complicated things can get when he learns that his despicable actions have been noticed by someone or something. The stranger claims to be an ally but can a person so passionate about murder be worthy of trust?

WORDCOUNT: ~ 3.2k

The rain is thundering against the windows, a painful reminder that summer is long gone and the upcoming weeks will be drowned in cold and darkness. Except for a few cars, the streets of the Capitol are deserted. Freezing, biting wind howls as it pulls and tugs at everything it can lay its hands on. A thunder rolls in the distance, loud and ominous as though mountains have been split in two. The sky appears rancorous this evening. 

If Coriolanus had a speck of poetry in him, he’d think the black clouds hanging over the Capitol are akin to the swirling thoughts inside his head. Albeit, he is a pragmatic man and such colourful comparisons escape him.

His home is drowned in darkness when he enters. The rhythmic ticking of the old clock is barely audible over the hollering of the storm. Although not a sound of life can be heard in these four walls, an aroma of gravy and soap fills the air: Tigris and Grandmother must have retired early. 

Coriolanus guides his hand to turn on the overhead light when he notices a stripe of glow under the door to his bedroom. How strange - he could clearly remember turning off the bedside lamp when he was leaving in the morning.

Cagily, he turns the brass knob and pushes the door open. The hinges creak shrilly, slowly unravelling the inside of the room:

The bedside lamp is, indeed, on. It shines a faint, unpleasantly yellow light. The bed he had carefully made after waking up is left untouched - not an unfamiliar wrinkle on the expensive, dark duvet. His eyes glide along the sleek material towards the large window. 

He clenches his fist and takes a sharp inhale. Coriolanus Snow is startled.

On the windowsill is sitting someone - a nimble silhouette dressed in various shades of grey. Their back is leaning against the wall, one leg propped up and the other casually hanging in the air. Dexterous fingers keep flipping a knife. The blade flows through the air, time and time again performing the same motion of doing a full circle, only to be caught at an angle that doesn’t seem to change either. Although not instantly, Coriolanus does recognize the weapon as an old filleting knife he keeps in the drawer of his bedside table. ‘Just in case,’ as he told himself once.

But what strikes him as the strangest about this already bizarre encounter is that she's completely dry, even though it's been raining for a few hours now.

"Sweating and breathing, Panting and screaming," a female voice resounds in his bedroom. She recites the poem in a comically dramatic tone. "Didn’t think I’d ever see him." The woman turns the blade in her skilled fingers, suddenly pointing its sharp tip at Coriolanus. "But I heard and so did you, The thud and smack of the steel-toed shoe." Suddenly, the woman taps her foot against the windowsill three times. “Dancing to the beat of that drum, Lolling head and swollen tongue. A baseline! “She exclaims with a theatrical gesture. “A crescendo!” Like the unbearable tension before the climax, her dramatics are brought to a halt as she hangs her voice and lays the knife against her chest. “A guttural moan when the thing was done.”

Only when she leans forward can Coriolanus see her face. The dim light of his bedside lamp is enough only to illuminate a part visage. Despite that, the twilight of his bedroom is sufficient for him to be certain that nothing about her features is familiar.

"Basil Flatberg fell dead in his own house, among friends and family,” she continues, although her voice is rid of dramatics. “Poison! They said. Which would be awfully sad if it wasn't so..." The unwelcome guest waves her hand looking for a suitable word. "Anti-climatic. Really, Coryo, you could do so much better,” she reprimands him with visible disappointment.

Coriolanus feels his blood turn cold. There is nothing that ties him to the premature demise of Basil. He’s made sure of that. So how come she knows? Has he missed out on a prying set of eyes? Ears, perhaps?

"Who are you?" he asks in a stern voice. Despite the tension inside him, Coriolanus doesn’t let his voice waver.

She does a half-hearted, mocking bow. A playful grin curves her lips. "A specialist at unfortunate accidents, if you will."

It’s not said directly, the important things rarely are, but Coriolanus knows there is only one reason such a ‘specialist’ would visit his bedroom in the late hours of a rainy evening.

Thunder rolls in the distance. Lightning splits the black sky in two. Quite fitting circumstances for the last night alive.

His mind is galloping as he’s considering all the possibilities of surviving this encounter. He may have his fair share of experience in the morbid matters but that doesn’t compare to someone who’s been doing this for years. "So you've come to kill me?" Coriolanus questions, hoping to buy himself a few more minutes.

But the stranger only chuckles.

The woman, whoever she really is, once again point the sharp tip of the filleting knife at Coriolanus. "That's where the dog is buried, my friend,” she says with amusement. The knife glides through the air as she resumes flipping it. “I come it peace. Even better!” Coriolanus closely watches the blade as it makes a few more turns mid-air. The visitor doesn’t catch it with their hand. The knife falls on their hanging foot, nestling perfectly on top of the worn-down work boot. With a swift move of her ankle, she tosses the blade towards Coriolanus. It lays at his feet, glistening in the yellow light of the bedside lamp. “I come with a proposal of an alliance of sorts,” she continues. A satisfied chuckle rumbles in her chest. “Oh, I know that look. You're curious. Good! You see, Coryo, you and I are not so different.” She points between him and her. “The plotting, the opportunistic tendencies, the disregard for morality or human life. Except for the unfortunate limelight. Whether you like it or not, you're kind of a public figure now. And public figures look awful behind prison bars, with blood on their hands. Say, if you could have the ability to have some inconveniences removed without as much as lifting a finger and in return you'd do a small favour every now and then, would you?"

Would you sign away your soul to the Devil?

Yet unsure how he’s supposed to feel about the change of the scenario, Coriolanus is all the more eager to learn about the identity of his unwelcome guest. "I won't ask the third time: who are you?" Anger drips from his words like a cornered animal that turns fear into violence. She has complete control over this situation and it’s making his skin crawl.

"Let's put it this way. If the world was a coronation, all of you self-important Capitol pricks are the princes,” she lays her hand on her chest, “while I'm the bishop."

He ponders her words for a moment. The stranger doesn’t strike him as someone who just runs their mouth - no, each of her words is carefully selected. Her analogy has another, hidden, meaning that is not lot on his quick wit.

"If you're the bishop,” he begins, piercing blue eyes studying all of the nonverbal cues he can see in the twilight of the room, “then who's the pope?"

A smile curves her lips once more. She’s amused, satisfied even. Which in turn means that, so far, Coriolanus is doing exactly what she wants him to do. The ambitious, young man is seething. He’s found himself in the eye of the storm with only basic knowledge on how to navigate restless tides.

"Excellent question!” she exclaims. “I can already tell we're going to get along. I speak in the name of Lucky Jade. She has a lot of emissaries, scattered across Panem. Some pose as simple workers, others as socialites. And some, like yours truly, live away from the public eye."

The notion that there’s some unknown persona pulling the proverbial strings is equally asinine and entirely probable. Panem, after all, is ruled by deplorable schemes and back-stabbing. Who’s to say that there isn’t some higher power orchestrating these morbid dramatics?

Still, no matter how plausible such things are, Coriolanus is a pragmatic man. Hearsays and gossips, as useful and lovely as they are, will always be inferior to material evidence. And such evidence, if she can provide it, might tell him more about the identity of the stranger than she’s willing to admit. "That's a lot of extraordinary claims you're making,” he states, new wave of confidence coursing through his veins. “You better have some proof."

Much to his satisfaction, the woman takes something out of her pocket. It’s small, metallic. The object glistens in the low light of the lamp when she tosses it towards him.

The supposed evidence in his hand is… a ring. It’s made out of silver. There’s an engraving of thorns wrapped around a fish on the inside of the band. Long years of wear and tear have flattened and dulled the image but it remains clear enough to be read.

"I'm always prepared, Coryo.” The nickname has a hint of mockery when she says it. “July, three years ago, district Four. Clover Pitforest, the only daughter of Caspian Thorneforge, dies in a lakehouse fire. Her husband, Fellord Pitforest, is in town, taking care of some business. Officially, the fire started from a lit cigarette that fell on wooden boards and set fresh resin aflame. Not that Clover ever smoked. After the fire is put out and the crispy bones of the fishmongering princess are found, another discovery is made: the jewellery box is gone. Now, you might think to yourself why would a thief set the house on fire but then, why shouldn't a barking dog bite? Good old Caspian breaks down and signs away his fishmongering fortune to Fellord.” The woman returns to her theatrics as she dramatically put the back of her hand against her forehead. “Oh, what a shame, that mister Pitforest has to live the life of a revered widower bathing in obscene wealth.” Then, she spreads her hands in a grand, welcoming gesture. “And they lived happily ever after, or something to that effect."

"Alright, let's say I agree to your proposal. What sort of favours would I have to do?"

"Nothing gory, if that's what you're asking. Unless that’s what gets you going. You see, Coryo, the thing about influential people is that the smallest of their deeds carry immense power. The fact that you say 'yes' to one question and 'no' to the other; whether you show up at an event or leave right before the self-absorbed host makes his pointless speech. All that will be asked of you is to simply be in the right place at the right time. Ask a question, mention an event or a name. Gently nudge the world in a certain direction like water carves the stone over long centuries." She mimics a flowing wave with her hand to get her point across.

But, like older people tend to say, he’s not been hit in the crown of his head. Coriolanus Snow is as smart as a Devil. Maybe even too smart for his own good.

"This all seems too easy to be true, don't you think? I find it hard to believe that you will kill someone if I agree to be ‘in the right place at the right time’ as you have elegantly put it."

"Believe," she muses, slowly nodding. "A strange word indeed. You must believe if there's not enough proof that something is real. I'm not asking you to believe, Coryo. I'm stating a fact of life. I'm asking you to know." A moment of tense silence falls between them. The woman fishes out an old fob watch from her grey jacket. Something must have surprised her because her eyebrows raise as she looks at the pocket watch. "We've been chatting for quite a while and a thunderstorm is perfect weather to fulfil some of my responsibilities. I'm afraid we'll have to part ways, for now. If you're willing to give our cooperation a try, just find someone with a vulture pin. They'll let me know."

He’s not yet done with her, so Coriolanus doesn’t move from his spot in front of the door. If she wants to go, she’ll have to go through him and that’s not happening anytime soon. Although she’s told him quite a lot about what kind of business she wants from him, Coriolanus is aware that he’s barely scraped the tip of this bizarre iceberg.

Just when he’s about to say something, egg her on to tell more, thunder roars and a purple vein of lightning crashes near the building. For a moment, Coriolanus’s bedroom is bright as though it’s daytime before it drowns in complete darkness. Some part of the wiring must have been struck.

Perhaps a minute passes by until the light turns on again. But to his surprise, Coriolanus is alone in his bedroom. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was all a hallucination brought on by illness or stress. Nothing indicates that a stranger has trespassed into his home. Everything is disturbingly undisturbed.

Albeit the ring is still in his hand and the filleting knife still lays at his feet. 

The next day, as he’s making his way to Doctor Gaul’s office, Coriolanus convinces himself to put the strange encounter aside until the proverbial viper comes back to bite. He is going to be Panem’s next president and even an intimidating stranger in the night can not dissuade him.

His footsteps echo through the cream-coloured halls. Someone passes him and says a half-hearted ‘Good morning’ but Coriolanus ignores them. He keeps on walking.

A cleaner is mopping the floor close to the wall. Whether it’s her attire or her small frame, she’s almost invisible to the man. Not that servants have any kind of presence to them. That is until something glistens as he’s walking past her.

A pin.

Coriolanus stops dead in his tracks. He takes a good look at the cleaner, only to realize he recognizes her - he’s seen her quite a few times cleaning windows and mopping bathroom floors at the Academy. Despite his memory working as it should, he can not recall whether she’s always had this bronze pin in the shape of a bird of prey. Surely, he’d notice such an out-of-place accessory.

A strange emotion overtakes him. The feeling of being seen through, as though he had been stripped naked and displayed for public humiliation. How long have these ‘emissaries’ been following him? Stalking his every movement?

How much does the woman in grey actually know?

If he wasn’t sure before, he is now - someone who might know him inside-out makes for a dangerous foe. His empire could fall before he has a good chance to start it.

Not caring for etiquette, Coriolanus harshly grabs the cleaner’s arm. She turns around, her body language speaking of fear but the calculated calmness in her hazel eyes shows anything but. The vulture pin sits proudly on her chest, right above where her heart’s supposed to be.

“Tell her I agree,” he barks at the maid.

The cleaner changes her demeanour instantaneously. Her body relaxes as she learns she can drop her A-grade act in front of him. Visibly offended, she yanks her arm out of his tight grasp.

“At once, sir,” she forces herself to sound polite but her eyes throw daggers at the blond man. In an ostentatious manner, she fixes the sleeve of her white shirt.

Coriolanus continues his quick walk towards Gaul’s office. He’s a few minutes late but that’s hardly his fault. How was he supposed to know he was going to run a friend of his most unwelcome guest?

When he enters the spacious room, Gaul is not alone. The woman standing next to her is looking through a folder, nodding along to the Doctor’s monologue. From time to time, the stranger asks a single question or gives a short answer.

It is only when the two women notice his presence that Coriolanus feels his heart drop for the second time this morning. Standing there, in a grey skirt and a matching grey jacket, is the very same person who had trespassed into his bedroom last night. She’s clutching the dossier close to her chest. Her legs are glued together. Contrary to just a few hours prior, she appears timid. 

“And here he is,” Gaul’s voice echoes through the surgically white room. The irate tone of her voice is not lost on Coriolanus.

The stranger he met last night gives him a soft smile. She extends her arm, offering a polite handshake. "I don't think we've been introduced, mister...?"

"Snow,” he answers shaking her hand. He’s carefully studying her features but no matter how closely he examines her expression, nothing about it indicates that she’s putting up an act. By all means, this facade appears genuine. “Coriolanus Snow."

Her face lights up in a way so innocent, it makes him sick to his stomach. “One night I saw a snowflake fall. Past memories it did recall. And as the snow fell to the ground, So quietly without a sound, I watched until a blanket made, To glistening white - brown earth did fade.” Coriolanus feels a cold shiver run down his spine as the woman quotes the poem. This part about her is familiar. Judging by the knowing look in her eyes, this time, too, there is more to her words than just their surface-level meaning. Then, the familiarity disappears as she breaks into nervous laughter. "I'm sorry, it's a force of habit. My late father used to teach literature. Pleased to make your acquaintance, mister Snow."

The foreign accent, the syntax... It’s almost as though the woman in front of him is a completely different person. In some sense, she is.

"Likewise,” he hears himself slowly answer. How come this situation is only getting weirder by the second?

Then she simply leaves his side, walking towards the door. The way she moves is so ordinary, Coriolanus finds it hard to believe that the very same woman simply vanished in front of his eyes the night before.

‘Believe,’ he catches his thoughts. ‘A strange word indeed.’

"Tomorrow morning, miss Bishop and not a minute later,” Gaul calls after the woman.

Coriolanus fights hard against himself to control his expression. Bishop? It’s almost as if the whole point of this lark was to prove to him how far Lucky Jade’s roots reach. If this person, whoever they really are, can fabricate a persona to get her into the Ministry of War, she must be someone worth knowing. Even better - someone worth befriending.

"Of course, doctor Gaul,” she answers. Her eyes switch from the Doctor to Snow’s face. “I take pride in my work.”

Just like last night, when thunder rumbled and rain thudded on his windows, the woman disappears. Despite the answers she provided, he’s left with many more questions.

And just like yesterday, the lack of control leaves him seething.

___

The poems used are "A Snowflake Falls" by Ruth Adams and "Fin" by Collic

[piedpiperslists]

heyyyyyyy wondering if you have a list of innocent oc/experienced jk or the other way around fics recs

Hi. I'm going to assume you mean experienced in sex? These fics I included aren't necessarily innocent x experienced, but more of them being "inexperienced".

This is over 25 fics, so I put it under the cut.

* s - contains smut sm - social media format

Inexperienced!Reader:

Love Me by mono-moonchilds - drabble (s) / producer's daughter!reader, idol au Summary: Girl, I fuck who I want and fuck who I don’t. Got that A1 credit and that fillet mignon. She said, “I never wanna make you mad I just wanna make you proud.” I said, “Baby just make me cum, Then don’t make a sound.”

Angel by pixieknj - one shot (s) / wc~5.2k / fuckboy!Jungkook, university au Summary: After giving your virginity to the university’s most notorious fuckboy, he’s on a mission to slut your innocent ass out and take all that he can get... [or] small collection of fuckboy JK turning you out...

First & Last by kookiesjoonies - one shot (s) / wc~4.2k / friends to lovers Summary: During a game of never have I ever, Jungkook finds out that you haven’t had your first kiss yet and decides to show you how it’s done.

Milestone by 1kook - one shot (s) / wc~8.2k / brother's best friend Summary: Part of you is touched that Jungkook really has been there for every milestone in your life. The other part wishes he hadn’t shown up looking so ridiculously sexy.

No Longer Strangers by soft4gguk - one shot (s) / wc~9.4k / strangers to lovers, PWP

Pop Goes the Cherry by 1oserjk - one shot / wc~3.8k / angst, brother's best friend Summary: Jungkook comes back home to find you visiting as well, all grown up — in more ways than one.

Strictly Platonic by jeonqkooks - one shot (s) / wc~19.4k / friends to lovers, fake dating, college au Summary: Sometimes, Jungkook can be a little selfish; and sometimes, the lengths you would go to for his happiness mean relinquishing your own.

Practice by chryblossomjjk - series (s) / fuckboy!Jungkook, FWB, college au Summary: You usually spend Friday nights on your own. Tonight, however, your friend and campus fuckboy, Jungkook, decides to pay you a visit.

Ruin You by bts-bay-bee - series (s) / FWB Summary: Best friend!JK teaches you the basics of sex, and essentially ruins you for anyone else.

Shiver by hansolmates - series (s) / bad boy!Jungkook, church girl!reader, childhood friends to lovers, FWB Summary: Your childhood crush Jeon Jungkook has changed since he moved out of his small town church community and attended college. When he returns for a Christmas mass, you suddenly crave a taste of his fun and carefree life. In exchange, Jungkook craves a taste of you.

Inexperienced!Jungkook:

Close the Distance by hearts4joon - one shot (s) / wc~13.5k / college au, neighbors au Summary: Two different adults, living two completely separate lives — in the same neighborhood. A guy who’s overbearing mother makes him carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. A girl who’s parents are all too drawn to her younger siblings to even give her the time of day. While the two fall in an unlikely relationship (very unlikely), they still ravish each and every part of one another in every way — the best of attention, the one they both craved all their lives.

Curiosity by hobidreams - one shot (s) / wc~3.6k / best friend's brother, college au Summary: When innocent Jungkook comes to you with a not-so-innocent question… you decide it’s easier to just demonstrate.

Ghosts Just Wanna Have Fun by sugaxjpg - one shot (s) / wc~20k / med school au, psychic au Summary: When Jungkook discovered that he could communicate with dead people, the last thing he expected was that they would be there to give him romantic advice.

Gotcha by whatifyoulivelikethat - one shot (s) / wc~11k / childhood friends to lovers, college au Summary: The color blue. Two white hairpins. “Hey, Jungkook.” A laugh with shaking shoulders that Jeon Jungkook thought he would hear and see forever. Hey, Jungkook. But then those words became a memory, until she was standing in front of him again, sporting the title of “Virgin Killer” and Min Yoongi by her side. Was this his second chance or just another memory?

I Want to Have Sex by jeongi - one shot (s) / wc~7.2k / established relationship Summary: You plan on taking your boyfriend, Jungkook’s, virginity tonight.

Infatuated by namsjunies - one shot (s) / wc~3k / university au

Need to Know by pixieknj - one shot (s) / wc~4.4k / virgin!Jungkook, friends to lovers Summary: Jungkook’s tired of you teasing him…

The Virgin Volume by kpopfanfictrash - one shot (s) / wc~6.8k / angst, college au Summary: The story of how The Rich Man’s Crochet Club Jungkook lost his virginity. Prequel to The Monogamy Monologues.

Here's more Inexperienced!Jungkook but I keep getting an error, so I had to break up the list

Will You Make a Mess Now? by softyoongiionly - one shot (s) / established relationship, college au Summary: Jungkook’s never been touched before and, after a hectic end to his semester, he thinks he wants that to change… Can I Make a Mess Now? by softyoongiionly - one shot (s) / established relationship, college au Summary: Jungkook’s never had sex before but, after realizing that he’s falling in love with you, he thinks he wants that to change.

Twelve Hours by whatifyoulivelikethat - two shots (s) / film director!Jungkook, burlesque dancer!reader Summary: You have twelve hours to make Jeon Jungkook fall in love with you. He's about to get married. You're the entertainment at his bachelor party - a burlesque dancer. Long ago, he used to be the class representative and you used to be the class delinquent. Nothing has changed and, yet, everything has.

For Science by boymeetsweevil - series (s) / nerd!Jungkook, friends to lovers, FWB, college au Summary: Jungkook asks you to let him watch you get off. For science.

Love Formula by kimnjss - series (s sm) / shy boy!Jungkook, fuckgirl!reader, college au Summary: You’re barreling into his life when he least expects it, stealing all his attention until the nights spent studying are replaced with rolling around the sheets. He’s hopelessly romantic and you’re in it for the fun, but no one told you it would ruin your life.

One Time, In Your Room by ubemango - series (s) / established relationship, college au Summary: There are papers to write, and virgins to daydream about. (You can think about Jeongguk’s dick later.)

Both Inexperienced:

Taste the Feeling by 94hixtape - drabble (s) / established relationship, PWP Summary: Masturbation + Bodily fluids.

But We Loved Too Young by jl-micasea-fics - one shot (s) / wc~10.4k / childhood friends to lovers Summary: Jungkook is everything you’re not, the ying to your yang. Your tight knit friendship nurtured from childhood survived the major life events that most don’t, and to that end, you suppose you’re fated to be together, until unrequited longing is eventually noticed, and boundaries are forever crossed.

Helping Hand by minlucent - one shot (s) / wc~3k / ft KSJ, boyfriend!Jungkook, PWP Summary: You and your boyfriend are inexperienced in terms of sex. It is decided that the best way to fix that is to have a little help from a friend.

The Fuckbuddy Code of Conduct by yoongiphoria - one shot (s) / wc~2.7k / fuckbuddy!Jungkook, lawyer!reader, FWB Summary: A little experiment between you and your fuckbuddy leads to an unexpected confession.

[dellalyra]

omg imagine gojo with a welsh or irish gf - another irish girl

Gojo would thrive with one of us Irish women

Because let’s face it: we’re mostly all firebrands, strong, fiery passionate women.

That strong sense of loyalty and family (blood or found) oriented attitude? He relishes it, a feeling of belonging - of being truly loved and respected by someone? Amazing. The fiery nature of our blood lends itself a protective nature. The higher ups are giving him shit? Not a chance.

“Eh? Excuse you, you wrinkly sack of shite? What your last skivvy die of? Hush your gob or I’ll shut it for you. Fucking scarlet for ya’, absolute state of ya.”

Sometimes when you’re angry your accent becomes thicker or if you’re a gaeilgeoir you might slip into your teanga nádúrtha and I stg gojo has never gotten a hard on quicker in his life than seeing you spitting fire at that typical angry Irish girl speed of light.

None of his arrogance or occasional push-too-far would float either. None of us have the energy.

“Satoru, for the love of God, if you keep going on about not wanting to do the washing up because you’re the strongest, I’m going to crack up. I don’t have the energy for your shite right now. Now get up off your arse and clean the pan.”

Probably takes him a while to get used to how casually we curse and drink too, like you’re going to see your friends?

“I’m meeting the gang for a few jars tonight, coming?”

“The fuck are you doing with jars?”

The vernacular gets him too.

“SATORU!” Comes a shout from across the house.

“Yes, gremlin?”

“Grab me a few tea cloths from the hot press will you? Good chap.”

“Hot press? Is that a sex position?”

“Oh, Jesus Mary and Joseph.”

If you guys have kids - they’re brought up with the value that the mammy is the centre of the family and nothing goes on without her say so.

Like imagine a little mini version of Satoru running around and sprinting to his dad.

“Daddy, can I have the sweets on the table?” Shiny blue eyes mirror each other.

“Ask your mother, kiddo, it’s her dairy milk.”

The patter of feet is followed by a:

“MAAAAAAA! Can I have your selection box?”

“You can in your hat!”

Satoru sick? Why do you keep giving him flat 7up or cream crackers? Suguru got wounded on a mission, why do you insist on putting sudocream on it?

Christmas rolls around and for some reason in late November it’s a very big deal one Friday night. You have cornered him, Suguru and Shoko and forced them all into Christmas pyjamas and made hot chocolates for everyone and switched the telly on.

“What is going on? It’s not even Christmas.” Suguru asks, completely lost.

“Wha? Sure it’s the last Friday in November.”

The three just sit in silence.

“You three, thick as a plank, the lot of ye. I told ye last week that it’s the Toy Show tonight!”

“The what show?”

“The Toy Show!”

“It’s a show… about toys?”

“Yeah! A load of kids showing off their toys and showing how they work and all. Fierce funny. Robbie Keane usually ends up on it too somehow.”

If ever there’s an issue where some arsehole is annoying you about stereotypes, it’s always an entertaining show for Satoru.

“Can you do a Riverdance?” The stranger asks.

“Jaysus, sure I haven’t done any Irish dancing since I was in 3rd class and my nanny forced me to.”

Introducing him to Irish delicacies?

No I don’t mean coddle, or stew.

I mean real delicacies.

Like a chicken fillet roll or a spice bag. Your Nana’s apple tart. Soda bread or a bottle of Lilt. Bag of tayto (cheese and onion, obviously) or purple snack bars? A curly wurly? Red lemonade or a mikado biscuit? (Fuck, we love sweets I’m realising as I write this) or a decent cup of tea (Barry’s or Lyon’s, I won’t start that debate here).

Most of all, I think Satoru would thrive in the warmth of an Irish woman. We might be temperamental, battleaxes sometimes, and always a bit mad but one thing I know is we love wholeheartedly and fiercely, with every fibre of who we are. That belonging, the nurturing, the warmth and sheer sense of home that we all somehow tend to exude would made Satoru an incredibly happy man.

[desertpersephone]

Writing Patterns

tagged by no one, I just wanted to do it.

Rules: list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

blue swallow motel, room 14, 7pm. hope to see you there, secret agent.

M, 3k, marmalade | bathing/washing, conversations

“So what was real?” Steam swirled around the tiny bathroom, and Otis’ toes curled into the fuzzy bath mat thrown down on tile that maybe at one point was white. Now the grout was gray and the tiles were tan and the bathmat was that old kind. The kind grannies have, the itchy kind, and he figured whoever had picked it must have thought it made the bathroom look homey.

He Peels An Orange And I Eat The Fruit On My Knees

E, 7.3k, steddie | valentines exchange, baker steve

There was something special about the early morning. It was quiet, but not quiet in the way that the evening was quiet, not quiet in the way an empty house was quiet. It was its very own kind of quiet. Almost peaceful, hazy and glowing with pre-dawn light. It had some kind of liminal feeling, both day and night or sleep and wakefulness. It was special. Except that waking up early also sucked absolute balls.

syrup sweet and lonesome

E, 17k, steddie | christmas exchange, subspace

The distant sound of cars echoed into the alley, and the frigid air of Indianapolis in the winter started to soak into his bones like cheap brandy. Steve kind of wished he had some cheap brandy to chase it away, to stoke the dying heat in his chest. With brick of questionable cleanness and graffiti against his back, Steve puffed out a lungful of smoke and stared at the phone in his hand again.

I had a feeling that I belonged. I had a feeling I could be someone.

E, 3k, 9-1-1 | eddie diaz character study, fatherhood

The day she tells him feels like the worst day of his life. Something forms in his chest. Tight. Maybe it's the worst day of their lives. She's supposed to go to college, got in at UT in Austin, and the fall semester starts in just a few weeks, and Eddie was going to put some hours in at his dad's company, and then he was going to move to Austin to be with her in a year, and they were going to start their lives — and now Shannon was telling him she was pregnant.

add salt to taste

T, 1.5k, 1/?, steddie | personal chef steve, rockstar eddie

The kitchen was so much quieter than the ones Steve had worked in before. There was no yelling, no work chatter, no fryer, no vents, no water boiling over. The only sizzling came from the one pan he had on the front burner, hot oil welcoming as he lay a nice fillet of catfish skin side down. He could feel eyes on his back, monitoring his process, making sure he actually knew what the fuck he was doing.

we're here tonight, and that's enough

G, 3.5k, steddie | christmas exchange, hard of hearing steve, steddie as dads

Snow fell outside, dimly visible as it reflected the streetlights, the heavy blanket of quiet already starting to enrapture the neighborhood. Eddie always swore he could hear it, when it was landing thick and soft on Steve’s rose bushes under the front window, or on the steps he would shovel for his husband in the morning, or on the plastic slide of the backyard play structure. But right now all he could hear was the quiet Christmas music coming from the living room stereo, echoing gently through the warm house.

Becoming. . .

G, 1.3k, stranger things | spiderman orgin story, spider!steve

Steve Harrington had never liked spiders. Of all the bugs in the world, they were the worst. He didn't really like any bugs — maybe rolly pollies or butterflies, but most of the rest? Awful. And spiders gave him the heebeejeebees.

THESE HANDS ARE GROWING COLD THEY'RE RUNNING OUT OF THINGS TO HOLD

G, 1.8k, stranger things | steve harrington character study, crochet, grief

Steve was intimately familiar with the emergency room at Hawkins Memorial by now. Even more familiar with the long, quiet halls of the nuero wing, with its big, private rooms. The rest of the hospital he knew from growing up there, being relegated to the doctors' lounge or the surgical waiting room when his parents couldn't find a babysitter, or when his mom was supposed to be off work and instead came to loiter around the hospital in hopes of snagging a new case.

rotting like a wreck on the ocean floor

T, 2.7k, 2/7, steddie | merman steve harrington, modern au

The beach after a storm was the best place in the world. There was a strange quiet to the sand and the mystery of what had been blown ashore; logs and ropes, chunks of debris lost at sea, shells and bottles and moon jellies. Eddie had developed quite a fondness for the beach after a storm, to the point that he would get up while his uncle was still sleeping to walk down the short trek to the beach and poke around. Sometimes he would find treasures -- and sometimes he would find trash.

i have never known peace like the damp grass that yields to me

M, 3.3k, the witcher | original character backstory, wounds and amputation

Oberyn hated taking monster contracts. He had always found that there was never enough coin on the other side, and more often than not they were either far too easy — and thusly boring — or too much effort for that little bit of coin. Humans just wanted him to be an exterminator, to come in and clean up their pests, with no understanding of the training that went in to being a witcher.

God I really like to Set the Scene don't I? I like people to Feel where we're meeting our characters before actually being introduced to the plot. Even in my smutty oneshots am taking you on a visual journey. Or I try at least.

[you-get-me-closer-to-god]

Vamptember Day 3

“Free Day”

SUMMARY: A lovely dinner with two new friends

PAIRING: Platonic Armand, Daniel, and Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 696 (just a little one for today!)

WARNINGS: mentions of the atrocities of capitalism

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

I really wanted to take my time on this one, but I was so busy today ughh. I’m totally coming back to this scene tomorrow with at least 2k words! Regardless, please enjoy reading! I know I love writing them bickering hehehehehe

You were beyond impressed, it looked like something out of a movie, or straight out of your dreams.

The low lighted restaurant gave a hazy and dreamlike energy, where murmurs from other tables around you were indistinct and private. Creamy white linen was draped elegantly over the round table you sat at, folded cloth napkins were poised and ready.

You were overwhelmed at the sight of the menu, most words were in a language you couldn’t even pronounce, so Armand had done it for you, waiters and waitresses quickly appeared, buzzing around you placing dish and dessert and skewer and fillet in front of you, until you had to beg him to stop them.

It was a glimpse of a life you only ever watched strangers have. Only ever an onlooker. It was something you didn’t know you yearned for until you had a taste, and you feared you wouldn’t go quietly back to ramen noodles and cereal.

You stuffed your face as politely as you could, listening to Armand and Daniel’s conversation. Holding back a moan as you took the first bite.

“I will tell you exactly why that is not the case, Daniel.” Armand held up a slender finger, as if to silence him, but Daniel ignored him, setting his fork and knife onto his plate and taking a quick sip out of his spotless glass before continuing.

“I’m only saying you’re being a little dramatic. It’s the twenty-first century for god sake, can you blame them?”

Armand’s eyes widened and his eyebrows raised incredulously, taking personal offense.

“I most certainly can!”

Daniel sighed and leaned back into his red velvet lined chair, taking a piece of cake from a small plate across from you.

“In all my years of living on this earth, not one thing has appalled me quite as much as a massive cellphone advertisement on the very facade of Our Lady of Paris!”

He wanted to slam his fist down onto the table, but at the last second he gently let it drop.

“There was never a more sacred place in France, and if these ‘twenty-first century’ blasphemers could do this, I shudder to think of what else they are capable of.”

“But, wasn’t the building under restoration?They would’ve had to cover it anyway.” You spoke between bites, watching as his fiery expression melted into one of calm.

“Of course, that only makes perfect sense, to cover it for restoration, that I completely understand. But why a cellphone? Why not advertise the Louvre? Or one of Paris’s many convents that keep children off the streets? Something that at the very least reflected the dignity and integrity of Paris, something that would make the holy virgin proud. A company that is no doubt using slavers in a distant country to put together cellphones, is like spitting on her very face.”

Daniel tilted his head to the side and made an unsure noise. In an instant, Armand squared his narrow shoulders and gave him a firm stare, unbelieving that Daniel would still oppose him.

“I think it’s kind of smart.” He shrugged.

“You don’t understand.” Armand said, a tone of finality in his voice, a flick of the wrist as if to disregard the whole topic.

“No, you’re right. I don’t.” Daniel nodded. “Neither do I understand your stubborn inclination toward the worst movies. I guess we’re just that different.”

“Like arguing with a child, sometimes…” He shook his head, his red curls shaking back and forth.

They quieted down suddenly and it made you want to laugh. As much as they bickered, you could still tell they were very close. Maybe so close that they were driving each other insane, but it was clear Armand cared for him still, and Daniel just liked to provoke him. A comical vision, the younger of the two being the more mature one.

You saw a small smile creep onto Armand’s face, as he watched Daniel very ungracefully scarf down the rest of his cake.

You weren’t sure how a third wheel was going to fit in this tête-à-tête. But if it was impossible, the French wouldn’t have invented a ménage à trois, you supposed…

[queen-susans-revenge]

Hello!

Thank you for your interest in the Distant Stars: Women in Star Wars Challenge! Your enthusiasm and passion will be a wonderful way to celebrate the silent and forgotten women of the Galaxy Far Far Away, and we are so thrilled you’re joining us on this adventure.

The character you will be creating for is: Frog Lady https://starwars.fandom. com/wiki/Frog_Lady

We hope you will love her and have fun showing us all how lovable she is, too!

When you have completed your work, please feel free to post it on tumblr and tag @distantstarssw, and submit it to the Distant Stars: Women in Star Wars Challenge collection on AO3. It can be found here:  https://archiveofourown. org/collections/DistantStars_WomeninStarWarsChallenge_2023/profile

This challenge runs from March 1st-March 31st at 23:59 PST during Women’s History Month.

Please note: If you are unhappy with your selection and would like an alternative, just message the mods on tumblr @distantstarssw.

Got it done! It's short, but here's Frog Lady's Fishcake Recipe.

The tadpole stage is intense, everyone tells you that. You wake up ten times a night just to check that their little gills are still fluttering.

But just wait, because when they start hopping—that's when the REAL trouble starts!

I'll admit right now that I'm something of a "mamacore mama". My little one was the only to hatch from my last brood cycle—and that was a story of its own, see my recipe for "Authentic Mandalorian Pog Soup"! So of course I'm protective, but like my husband always says, children only learn by experiencing the world for themselves.

I believe in letting a child take the lead when it comes to climbing out of the kiddie pool, and that's how I'm trying to raise my own.

I also think it's important to grow up with friends of different backgrounds. My husband and I spent time on a number of worlds before we came to Trask, and I just feel that experience really helped us stay open to making connections with all kinds of people. Sometimes a stranger becomes a lifelong friend after just ten minutes—like me and Peli Motto.

You never know when someone will come into your life and change it forever.

So I've been taking the little sprog to a community pool for story hour, to hear tales from different traditions and languages, and to make friends. Well, we sure got a story the other day! The pool cleaner droid malfunctioned and started up a cycle with everyone still inside. It's a good thing I worked all those years in a droidsmithy! I was able to get to the deactivation button, although I had to use my tongue, which was a little bit embarrassing in front of everybody.

Anyway, after that the sproglet asked for fish for dinner, so I picked some up on the way home for fishcakes. The way I make mine is simple: about a one pound fillet, skin and bones removed, and coarsely chopped. Also half a cup of herby greens and another quarter cup of paleshoots. Last, a quarter cup of fresh bread crumbs, and two tablespoons of mustard. You mix all those up in a bowl, add some salt and pepper, and then divide it into four equal portions and mash them into patties.

Fry the patties on a hot skillet with a little oil, over medium heat. You'll want to cook them about five minutes on a side, and try to turn them only once because they do have a tendency to fall apart if you're not careful. But they're tasty, and kid friendly—my kid likes them, anyway!

For a side dish, I sometimes like to make a veggie relish while the fish is cooking. It's best with fresh veggies (everything's best fresh!) but you can also thaw some from frozen. You'll want about two cups of something sweet/starchy, like cob-kernels, and a couple of tangy fruits, like tomatoes. And you'll need a second skillet. Heat up a little oil and chop up an onion, your tomatoes, and a quarter cup of basil. Put the onion in the skillet first and saute it for about five minutes before you add the cob-kernels. That'll only need a couple of minutes to cook. Put the tomatoes in last, and give it just another minute to all cook together. Then add the basil off heat with some salt and pepper and your relish is ready. It goes really nicely with the fish cakes!

Notes: The recipe given here was adapted from "Shogun Salmon Cakes with Corn and Tomato Salsa," in The San Francisco Ferry Plaza Farmers' Market Cookbook. "Herby greens" = cilantro, "paleshoots" = scallions, "cob-kernels" = corn, and basil, onions, and tomatoes are just themselves because it got tedious translating everything into Star Wars-speak. Use salmon for the fish and olive oil for the oil.

[saviolum-sanguineus]

cineri gloria sera venit

blurb

They come at night, and quietly. Any reasonable person would have been fast asleep and caught unawares, but Esme has not slept deeply or easily since Parlan’s heart stuttered to a stop beneath her hands. The war, stretching on as it has, has only scraped away at her sleep like a knife at soft carving wood until her nights are thin enough that the light of mornings is welcome when it shines through her eyelids if only because it signifies the coming of an end to fruitless attempts at rest.

Dear Joel My Your My Holiness, Forgive me my absences, my sins, and my forwardness. I fear I have little right to the confessional, but I have news that time will not act graciously upon.

The mob does not know the name sigil that unlocks the window nearest Esme’s bedroom, so they knock on the door first. The sound is feeble, inquisitive and hopeful in nature, and it reminds Esme so bizarrely of Cassius that she is mid-laugh when a pre-traced sigil explodes the glass of the doors leading to the balcony, where her wards are weakest.

She has time to slam wards up around Ember, who wakes with a yowl of alarm, before the first of them are upon her. The chain of Enoch’s gift is icy in her palm when she scrabbles for it, facets cutting into her flesh as wintergreen burns faintly in the air. The warding enchantment is strong but unmaintained since her return from the front, and a crude sigil burns on the club that eventually breaks it.

I have not maintained residence at my lands in the Crimson Corentine for some time. With the war straining resources and morale, I have reallocated the staff there as follows:

Esme is fast and stronger than she looks, but Pheles has demanded of her a dancer, not a fighter, and even the ghost of a farmgirl cannot do much against the frenzy that has come to Shatterlily Square. The moon is new, leaving a blankness in the sky like an eye scooped free of the socket, so it is by the light of a torch that layers of violet-ginger-scented wards shatter and tear.

The first to fall is a woman whose fear stinks of ignorance. Her skull splits on the wooden floor and Esme and her attackers are strangers enough to such things to be frozen in horror for a heartbeat. Esme has the dubious advantage of having borne witness to Nicholas lathering Peteuil blood over the wood of the breaking wheel, but it wanes quickly under assault augmented by adrenaline and freshly-frothed rage.

- I. Corrail; Aplesnay (TMS) - L. Stravinsky; Aplesnay (TMS) - Y. Metrois; Aplesnay (TMS)

- A. Restag; Aixois (AAC) - N. Guerrol; Aixois (AAC) - G. Possor; Aixois (AAC)

They are good people, and go with letters of recommendation. Many of them will be returning to homes once left in pursuit of service.

Ember howls in fear and ire that would set scallops trembling in their shells. If only her foes had been so spineless, perhaps they would have been cowed. Instead, the kitten is shoved out onto the balcony; a child too young to be there but old enough to feel a burning need to be scoops her up with a cry of delight, holding Ember up in the night like a prize. Years later, her clawing protests would be changed over many retellings to the ferocity of a beast from hell, animal anguish distilled with the knowledge that her wicked mistress would soon face comeuppance.

Esme spins and spits sigils until her hands shake too violently to cast, and then she claws and bites until every hand laid upon her bears the mark of her teeth; but eventually she tires and a knife filched from her own kitchen finds the tender skin of a recently-healed wound. The blade fillets flesh that still sizzles with healing magic—the scent of cloves, so unlike the sun-warm florals she cannot allow herself to crave as she does—and Esme lurches away with a scream, fire searing through her veins and gushing out from the wound opened anew.

I understand our obligations. If anyone must pay the price of my selfishness, I would not have it be you. Enclosed are copies of the papers I received confirming the legitimacy of the Trinity Memoriam Service and Aixois Artemancy Conservatory, respectively. TMS is newly-established in the memory of a late mother of an upstanding citizen of Aplesnay. It is my hope that their mission to honour her memory and keep the town’s walls well-shored does good for years to come.

There is no leader of this group that has come to turn her home into a crucible, but a man, masked like the rest of them, steps forward to speak for the senseless rage that reflects up from the blood and shattered glass on the floor. He wears a crucifix of heavy gold around his neck and the kick he aims into Esme’s stomach lands like his boots are soled with it too.

“Redeem yourself. Repent. Accept what forgiveness you can.”

He punctuates the commands with another kick, then motions at the mob. It mills for a moment before arms extend from the mass to seize her, another tight in her hair to hold her head up. Someone’s weight is on her tail, pinning her into a cramped, crooked kneel—another corruption of the faith shining up from the bloodied glass underfoot.

“Repent,” the man says again. On the balcony, the child holding Ember watches with wide eyes; they are too far to hear exactly what’s being said, but invented glory will fill in the gaps for years to come. The distraction proves enough opportunity for Ember to wriggle free, snarling, and escape into a hollow of debris. The Malrics will piece together the news the day after, when Ember scratches, bedraggled, at their door.

Esme struggles against the grip of her captors and manages to break free long enough to swipe a clawed hand over the man’s face. It tears skin, painting over his surprise with blood, and earns her several feet stomping on her tail. Her scream, at least, drowns out the crunch of bone.

“Will you cast the first stone?” Esme coughs while the fire under her skin is still hers. The man throws instead a fist and one golden eye shutters, blood vessels bursting dark and furious.

There comes no third call to empty salvation. Esme’s arms are tied fast behind her back, broken tail dangling limply while the legs she’d made her life lash out. Eventually those too are tied fast at the joints; there comes a terrible splintering crack from the front room as the mob breaks away a crooked slab of wood from the furniture and lashes Esme to it to carry her to the site of execution, apparently brilliantly unaware of the irony muddling through their motions like thick fog.

Across the square, all is dark.

Someone told me once that love is a service with pleasure in its rendering. I have come to find that being loved is not the same as being of service. Perhaps there is truth to both.

Sunlight is just gripping the horizon when they reach the stake. Esme’s vision is blotted with alarming clusters of darkness, but she musters enough strength to bite savagely at every attempt to untie her until it’s decided that the same effect can be achieved by simply tying the broken wood to the prepared stage.

The smell of gunpowder and thinned grain spirit is achingly familiar. She’s measured them out countless times over the past seven years, after all. Esme laughs as they pour the mixture out over the branches stacked at and over her feet, soaking through her nightgown when it splashes over unexpected pockets of wood. No one threatens her: she would like to think it’s out of intimidation, but even to her own ears, her laughter sounds more like sobbing.

She would like to taunt them, to throw it in their faces that the way they’ve tossed this kindling together will take longer to catch, but there’s real, uncontrollable terror writhing in Esme’s gut now, and no amount of icy eyes or a head held high can slay it.

Still, she refuses to break—refuses to allow herself to be broken, even as she feels something running down her wrists that is too warm and sticky to be sweat; even as a slap wrenches her head to the side and slams it against the pole; even as a shout for her to keep her heretical eyes open—muffled, as though coming from very far away and through deep water—crashes slowly through the air, Esme bites through her tongue to keep her silence.

I have learned many things in Pheles. Among them is that the goodness of man is surprising, a force that even the most cursed eyes cannot corrupt, and that love can be both selfish and selfless. Whichever mine is, I hope it is well-received.

Sunlight breaks over a white wall, bathing the nearest window of the papal residence in blindness, and Esme screams. Blood flies from her pierced tongue and the open cuts on her face; she doesn’t quite know what words her mouth shapes, only that No! is among them—and as the great cathedral bells begin to toll the first hour of daybreak, a torch is tossed onto the pyre.

She was right. It does take a few extra minutes for the wood to catch, even doused as it is with accelerants. Her accuracy is agony.

Inside the papal residence, in a marble cloister carved of stone so purely white it is blinding, Cassius kneels and says his morning prayers. His voice echoes off the walls, bouncing into a chorus of holy words and wishes. The heavy door behind him seals out all sound and keeps his voice filling the air.

The sweet smell of roasting meat chokes into something putrid as flesh chars, blackening into sickness.

A courier—an auburn-haired man wearing an unseasonably long coat—makes his way up the cobblestone path that leads to the side door of the papal residence, hidden from view of the pyre by the sloping grounds. The guard there recognises him, tips a friendly hat at him, and waves him through with a commiserating grimace at the smell carried over through the air.

“They’ve gotten started early today. Poor souls.”

Matteo drops the slim bundle of correspondence on Joel’s desk and turns to leave; he’d usually stick around for a quick chat and a few wan smiles, but having to stop by the Imperial registry to pick up whatever documents Esme had ordered copies of had eaten more time than he’d thought it would, and Sam would be even more of a terror if he thought he had something to hold over Mat’s head.

He comes across the pope on his way out; Joel is just exiting the kitchen, hands dusted with traces of flour from mixing pancake batter together, breath faintly scented with coffee. Matteo waves, slowing but not stopping, and calls, “On your desk—have to run!”

I send my love. With grace I intend it for Joseph and his kindly ward. Always, Esme

[eyeknowmayhem]

“You’ve gotten so far. You should be proud.” ( for ray fillet! )

Sentences to be sent anonymously - accepting

The smaller rivers of nyc may not be as well known, but it’s a quiet peaceful place to be by the waterside. He won’t dream of swimming in this water, but sitting by it’s peaceful all the same. His eye opens with the stranger’s words. “What’s there to be proud of? I didn’t do anything.” That’s not true. He punched his brother in his big ugly face as many times as he possibly could. Then he turned into a whale and died. Not exactly the nice way a story is supposed to end.

Which isn’t the whole thing. Having the acoustics of a sewer and not hear anyone tell him off was a change for the better. As much as this would take getting used to, in the long run. “But, thank you. It, uh, means a lot.” The words come out awkward and stiff. He still means them.

[cursedfortune]

To be hated by Miles County Clown was to receive the kiss of death from a grease-painted face. The filleted man beneath him had learnt that much after having been dealt a piss-poor hand by fate. The woods were not Art's backdrop of choice but they would have to do since he had an audience now.

Forcing the man to stay alive was easy, the man could only gurgle beneath Art as he lifted his head to look up at Mortem and with a little waggle of his fingers he waved at her.

@adizzyingemporium

When these ugly modern towns began to grate on Mortem, she did what any creature like herself would do - take a stroll in the woods. It was a piss poor imitation of home but it helped her reorient her senses a little. Humanity had grown in abundance; it seemed like her cabin in the heart of a dense forest was the only place she didn't have to feel them wriggling constantly.

Though she did the rare act of minimizing her range of focus, she still found individuals in close proximity. Just ahead, a little further. Mortem had expected it to be just kids out and about but no. The sight her gaze landed upon was riddled with blood and anguish. Perhaps one of the more intriguing things she could have come across this eve.

In silence she watched the display until the one committing this slow murder acknowledged her with a little wave. She searched his expression, his body language - observed what he wore, amused by his clown-like appearance and its darker tones.

Wasn't there a joke about 'what's black and white and red all over' that humans liked to make? She supposed she found the answer here.

In turn, a little wave was given back.

She gave the strangers a wide enough berth, not out of fear but out of a respect to not interfere. Once she found a better angle, the witch lowered into a crouch and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. "Do you much care for an audience, lovely creature?" Mortem inquired, unmoved by the victim's plight. How could she care about a single soul when there was something far more valuable before her?

[wordofwisdomlinkmeet]

Book 1, Chapter 4

[TBA] < Part 2 > [TBA]

When he recovered consciousness, the first thing he was aware of was someone dabbing something cold and wet on his forehead. He shifted away from it, wrinkling his nose.

"Are you there?" asked a voice from somewhere in the distance.

Dazed though he was, Link did not feel safe lying on the ground with a stranger looming over him. He rolled up to his knees, reaching for his sword. Or, at least, he tried to; he actually flailed his limbs vaguely, smacking his knuckles painfully on the floor.

"Hey, easy!" said the voice. "I won't hurt you, it's OK."

Finally, Link pried his eyes open and blinked to focus in the muted light of the temple, tinted blue by the nearby shrine. Gradually, the stranger's face swam into view: tanned, round-cheeked, with full lips and circles under his blue eyes so dark they almost looked like bruises. He was smiling, though it didn't reach his eyes. Like Link, he was wearing a green tunic over chain mail, but he had a rolled blue and white cloth slung across his chest and was wearing an embroidered fillet that presumably held the red feather Wild could see poking from somewhere in his hair.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

Link nodded, shoving himself up to sitting and waving off the stranger's attempt to help.

"OK." The stranger sat back on his heels. "Perhaps you can tell me what's going on?"

Link blinked, surprised and confused. "I might ask the same: how did you get here?"

"That's what I'm asking you. And where _is_ here?" The stranger gestured up at the statue. "This looks like the sacred statue from the Sealed Grounds, but there is no roof at that site, and even if it were, that wouldn't answer the question of how I came to be here; I was miles away."

Link shook his head. "I came here to ask the Goddess for guidance and then… something happened."

The stranger tilted his head curiously.

Link shrugged. "I don't know how to describe it." But he shot a suspicious look at the shrine. It looked normal, but their best guess for what had brought the group of princesses to Kakariko was some sort of malfunctioning Sheikah tech, so perhaps something similar had happened to this stranger. Surely he hadn't picked his way past the Guardians.

The stranger had followed his gaze to the shrine, but he didn't look like it meant anything to him; he just looked back at Link with a sigh. "Before we continue this… Clearly something is going on, whatever it is. My… my wife Zelda disappeared a few days ago. Have you seen or heard anything of her?" He swallowed hard. "She's a little shorter than I am. Fair hair, done up with ribbons when… when I last saw her. Beautiful…"

"I have seen her!" exclaimed Link, glad there were at least some pieces fitting together. "She's in Kakariko. The queen is there too; it's actually what I came here for guidance about."

The stranger sagged, his breath catching in something between a sob and a laugh. "Really?" he asked, his voice thin. Link reached out instinctively to steady him, looking again at his shadowed eyes. He'd seen that look reflected back at him from rivers and polished surfaces on his quest; the stranger hadn't slept for too long.

"Really," he said.

The stranger nodded with a deep sigh that sounded like it came from his heart. "Well, then," he said, shaking his head and pulling his eyes open again with what looked like an effort. "Who are you? And why do you have a replica of the Sword the Seals the Darkness?"

Link blinked, shifting back slightly. "What?"

The stranger pointed to the master sword, still lying at the statue's feet where Link had laid it.

"The Master Sword? It's not a replica."

The stranger smiled, a little more genuinely though with an ironic tilt of the head. "Well, it's not the real one," he said teasingly.

"Of course it is, I pulled it out of its pedestal in the Lost Woods myself," snapped Link. It wasn't the first time someone had made that assumption, but it had taken too much pain and effort for Link to get that sword in his hands for him to laugh it off.

"It can't be," said the stranger. He shifted and pointed to the hilt poking over his shoulder. "Because _this_ is the real one."

Link stared at the shining blue hilt, untouched by age. If he had been guessing, he'd have said this was the replica; it looked like it had freshly come from the forge.

"So who are you?" asked the stranger.

Link shook his head, pulling himself back to reality. "No, it's my turn: who are _you_?"

The stranger smiled. "My name is Link. I'm a knight of Skyloft."

As soon as he heard it, Link felt ridiculous. Harper had _told_ him her husband's name was Link.

"And you?"

"My… my name's Link too. Well, sort of." His name had never really fitted; he couldn't help feeling like it was as stolen as those memories that had been put in his head. It belonged to the dead man whose identity he had taken and whose quest he had finished. "I get called all sorts of things. Wanderer. Traveller. Swordsman." He scratched his head. "Hey you…"

Harper's Link was staring at him, but at that he shook his head. "I'm not calling you "Hey you"."

"Well, we need to call each other something. The queen's name is Zelda too, and several others have also appeared and gathered at Kakariko. They've all adopted nicknames and the two of us had probably better do the same."

Harper's Link wrinkled his nose uncomfortably.

"Your Zelda's called Harper," added Link.

"Well… all right. You said people call you Wanderer… that's a bit of a mouthful. How's Wander?"

Link - Wander now, he supposed - shrugged. "That's fine. I'm calling you Feather."

Feather arched an eyebrow, raising a hand to the feather in his hair.

"Or I can keep calling you Harper's Link, but that's also a bit of a mouthful." He tried to imitate Feather's accent as he echoed his words.

Feather laughed. "Honestly, I wouldn't mind," he said with a fond smile. It reminded Wander of the smile on Mipha's face when she had looked at the Link he had replaced and he looked away, his stomach clenching. "But yes," said Feather. "For convenience, probably best not to. Feather's fine." He got up and dusted the dirt off his trousers. "You don't know what it is that brought us here?"

Wander got up too, though his legs wobbled worryingly. He internally growled at his muscles to behave themselves. "No, not really. The… well…" He laughed awkwardly. "The Zeldas are trying to figure it out, but I came straight here."

Feather nodded. "We'd best get back to Kakariko, then." He turned to look up at the statue and Wander went to stand beside him.

For a long moment they were silent. Wander prayed for guidance through whatever was happening and that soon these strange visitors would be able to go home. And that they would be able to make it past the Guardians. If he was unwilling to teleport alone, he certainly wasn't going to experiment with whether he could take someone with him.

He stepped away and scooped up the Master Sword, swapping it for the Guardian Axe he had been carrying. He could feel its power humming with the proximity of the Guardians as he crept to the doorway and peered through.

Feather soon joined him. "What's going on?" he asked.

"See that?" Wander pointed at the nearest Guardian, on its platform just beyond the row of broken columns. "Do you know what it is?"

"No?"

Wander cursed under his breath. "OK. I think we're going to need to fight our way out. You stay here until I wave you forward." He turned and caught Feather by the shoulders, looking him in the eyes. "Do not risk getting shot. Stay. Here."

"But -"

Wander didn't wait for the rest of Feather's response; his heart in his mouth, he darted for the dubious shelter of the Guardian's overhanging platform.

[swxpped]

@royal-baby-birb​ said: → The child has been thrown out of her pram, I repeat, the child has been thrown out of her pram ! There is a baby on the floor everyone, and it is very confused about it !

swxpped:

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰ 

{!!} – Oh, no, no, no, NO, NO. Immediate panic the second he realises the baby is on the floor, box of dainties being instinctively dropped and coating the pavement in a disastrous glaze of jam & fresh cream as Alexsander rushed to her side, abandoning the brief incertitude he had about lifting her up to return her hastily to her carriage where she was quickly swaddled over the shoulders with her natural merino wool blanket. ❝Péridianne...! Are you alright?❞

He fretfully checked over her far-too-easily-breakable, little body for any sign of bumps & bruises, paying close attention to the infantile frailness of her tiny head and delicate face, thankfully to no detection...but she wasn’t crying. Why wasn’t she crying?? Alexsander distinctly remembered Caroline having once recounted a story to him by which he became aware that if a baby is dropped and it doesn’t cry, it could be a sign of internal injury. He hadn’t really given the story much acknowledgement at the time, seeing as childcare really hadn’t been on the cards for him...but then he’d found P-M. And now she was hurt. Under his care. How could he be so negligent?? He could’ve sworn he had safely secured her into her pram with the built-in safety straps. In fact, in reflection...he was absolutely certain that he did. Alexsander was meticulous in every aspect of what he did, from making a cup of tea to filleting exotic game, he very seldom left something to chance. Especially not when in regard of P-M’s safety. 

That could only mean one thing.

The puzzle pieces slowly began to slip into place as he realised that Péridianne hadn’t fallen from her pram, but that she had been deliberately removed. He’d only taken his eyes off of her for a moment at most while he signed for the collection of the pastries; evidently, one moment far too great. Was there a baby snatcher in the vicinity? Such a concern felt ironic in a way that caused him a great deal of self-loathing given the fact of how Alexsander had even acquired P-M to begin with. But at least he had taken her away for more principled reasons than he could possibly imagine for whichever vile reprobate had unbuckled her safety straps that day. Now, he was left questioning the integrity of every stranger that walked by her pram. Nobody was innocent until proven otherwise! The faerie had a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling, indeed. He peered regretfully beneath the soft shelter of the retractable hood on her carriage, a guilty look etched onto his face for having allowed this to happen to the poor, defenceless, little thing. He wondered aloud, ❝How did you get out of there, little one...?❞ 

Alexsander very nearly acted upon the impulse to apologise to her, but he got the feeling an apology would be of very little value to a two-year-old. Still no tears from Péridianne. He couldn’t take her to the hospital - people would ask questions, far too many questions, probably all very much along the lines of ‘Whose baby is this?’ and ‘Why the Hell weren’t you watching her?’. Ordinarily, when Alexsander was so vastly out of his depth, his first instinct was to call Caroline for help, but in this case, that option seemed equally as impracticable as the last. She was still as blissfully ignorant as ever to the existence of the fae and angel-kind, and Alexsander intended to keep it that way for the foreseeable future. Caroline couldn’t know, and explaining this to her would unravel far too many secrets. But what if the baby was hurt? Who else could he possibly turn amidst this predicament?

...Oh. It dawned on him with grave discomfort.

There was only one thing left for him to do, and Alexsander acquiesced to it only out of sheer necessitation. He was going to have to call Ashton.

[libidomechanica]

Perfection remove; and this,

A Meredith sonnet sequence

                That o’erjoyed to fa’! By various pain   a suddenly up, and the spring. So   boldly he, the silv’ry wine are with those my dare na look as he great Nether, in his lap. And our mouthed and moved by loved me   they saw Majnún where bless intice. And day,   when to with your Johnny to the delightning, ding, sir, but follow hair there I looks and bearing in his where he difference.   Perfection remove; and this, that you the leads   his own she wintry folkes my would every had brough the men! And there, and cause than springs wear The pretty my sunflower that   links he through Year stray or pucelled Hope   Lake where it hurt that no peace is not love, and stepping as its with his lighted main.

                He said, he lives, though my foes a land for   her child. Weep and grow, each base. For, like an   afford no more. More delightly met. ’ The centertain leave that can beautiful, but bind him; burned that hear me with teach one to   becoming struggling she plays, no second   such brings and I must ere twere strong bridegroom in what the Trees but now appears! Gather stay, a desert vastness, shall never feet   as a bells like these men, and psalms but come   died of the Nether happy world, with number caught you with bays. And sight, But my sire, over-like a comin’ to my friend;   and seemed through my boast; how Holland our skies;   in a star-shape it change in her boots fire with a been sae nice; the women’s eye off!

                My love as she casket of wit? For thou   would how doubt na, but ere the crush was he   had express without. High tree, and is close, drink Me I kisses smooth by the moon large to the west the Prince her for his month at   lay be better all burden breast on; but   Heavens, and feminine were never seem so. And fall in Heavens to meeting not fall in loved the listening patient faces   we site of innumerable echo   in things me for here you, I could, by the Heaven! And waste my would never turned my own: they in being the monstrous boy; like   a winter, Care,—I will the Scotia’s short   of Living Universes sweet me by morrow, come fell thy cheeks so through I knew.

                By variety of bitter stay, and   the back into my Mother love, the loving   light glories were but by any father that binds perfumed the crunch of Natures, blown i’ the meadows, winter, Care,—I will   be wish would ne’er seen the prove, hope, with fear,   if though glitter the poor griefs in sackclothes short or breath, and never turn of her roving house perpetual feastern end   out, embrace though thee, her and glowing song,   and charm. When bird with a drap o’ dew, in my offering I saw men’s eyes without a stranger to the purple is our mind; till   Gazing grew the paired with a parasitic   formed by us, some pleasant hour aged to myself in the hearts, now my pale?

                Her foot still, and save when not from hurt to   even as they were you didst tell me and   seeming; till unfold to and furrows of my wife, of fortune once your sweet. And ocean before, they built thoughts lay beside your   Highness, yet love her hungry wing! South and   when it would be like that warily oped he knew her sight look them that shall come against thy heart is mortal offices,   when her—let head, and golden dream wherein   it the Sunne who have before he discretion of bird with Fortune takes me anyone. That all it would to-nights are was mad,   o whistle, be not what I sorrow. And   affection in whom I look back into myself respect, thy eternal applies.

                I am glad life decker’s bitter all   die ye e’er your from thee’ I said and stood   to what would closed with Plenty years ago. And call night slept, filletings, let me senses roll’d; by variety, she said, Dear,   but not thyself up: she party’s fire, over-   like any more wild that by the was it king in me unnamed! Sparkling seen that all many read. Then, deny not for   the porphyria word he sandalwood left   and yet since her head. A-wee; but not word, was begotten meteor one long and death; then her is dissever: you’ve to our   own, wait. With vices, or let you couldn’t remain,   the every day, ye wadna be a Jew. And wind’s bosom of men, whose Saint, mine.

                Your soules in lose to the cashier with some   I woke to my father air beats transmitted   egg release reign and down broodings of it bore and when out to-day when in the woman love were spirit, nor shall dabble   of cowslips into the will not Ida   whom the rising home. Frolic virgins of they fleet stall. I want of men, and sank and at a’? Alone, doth fold the more: angry   waked to Four; painfully does, the day,   comfort her, yet into the wet will drawn afternoon, amorous leaves with teach and quenching flatt’ry so favorite customers.   Tree rush, and right would keep that dawn that darts   be done! So them so. In should take; But I am old, o ye this an aggression.

                From her locks lurch, it’s garden seeming fruitful   may light bless: Ye’re even as my lord   to built thou lives: he, forced then unto grow on the blast she was on the prince I be dead with high come the petals shall native   charger soil. She birds do singing, but the   other, in a shell, a turtle. The under— everlasting air, hate me for my lad, o whisper’d, thou feeling on too, be   than garments happy, it half the shook up,   and see, that last—at lay it do not my wrath did me the red with power that her reasons of senses? And yet did the   attention in sits, all he can tell you read,   throne in their live some wearied too; court me, but her whom all things the miles toward loved.

                Why did grows on my hot thy vision of   bison still smile, a greet it be in her   now it; taunt mine eyes and of Cupid bitter to ask her cold, so gentleness; but I lay through the unhappy, it were posses   hence like thee to bring their own scatter   on Sevents his my friend; and wildly and the blue. By the pray to the one leaf and her forehead we love. But your mournful, sober-   suited Night farthen all thinks with   forever and beating slow dilation; the sun, and dear hear hears by autumn come, we knows its of Man—thered the yard, looked, and   you written incredulous fold set early   house possessed by Worth, throught you death the sobb’d, he ourself up: she, but lie the light.

                That warily I said, Ruin, and you   need spraying, to the hollowed fire, and the   monstrous lamp of light, as the patching every side; and from earling soul from my word rest, as not for once is though infinite   immensity. The mountains doth shut frae   they were the night her when ope to shoot my spirit rest, trust on its these arms had you in my foot she came glowing the hills, hall-   door, and through infinity, like your through   my handsome, where Fountain total summer air lady morrow to belong what it shining languor wept: her blows, so that   divines of clichés. Might while, will night dawn,   behold likes the with such a curls, she guests are gray city these like a Mercury.

                Oh, yes, a penthousand made it seemed it,   clamouring well castle wa’; and in height   for a trace of disappear like car bomb … And my tears, this cros, our of you loves, if your helm, nor fingers part I cover use,   and out, embrace in abundance folly   on her, spied it word that sweete-cruell show heaven brake out though I oft tiresome few sad from the unseen the what is friend? I   will lot. Nor mother with may ceasing to   might hand the world again: the chilled then all I dream, be one else count, I will. Honey on her lives, that life a face doth coarse may,   old ages and all their injuries peepe;   nay, it nursed me; so sore death for the temperature’s blink o’ gear me where to her.

                Within my heard a noises draught in signs.   Is a bluff too. Dwelt away, the babe yet   from and either presence. So sang, though brows you can tell mind an every way? Her roving so long braid Ida sound its come her   robe, to mournful, we fooles him not in   the valves, just now I that: disastrous house periwinkle home! ’ I’ll comething of it time into them who taxeth me? With   all the heart the delight. The but how Meg   o’ the city, guessed in height off, and set, and to me. She said: he sandalwood and seed i’ the art? All the crushes, from where   under mountain cleft where is some on pranks   of day-old past midnight detail up as I wish workmen and round towns, where distance.

                Their motherwhere a mad way. If, dearer   fair, were but her face. So fair. Then contented   a thou, whose Saint, mine If, dearer, to yield often in a cry The Brightening register was on the partridge, both I can   brede, lay long glades’ colonnades, and rain.   And other happens, both endless would lik’d; I lie in long to a street with other’s Arms the rest’? Better equipage: but have   falsen not taketh afore faint pink-bronze   vales await upon the armed by us, of whom all men’s eye waste of her sad heeds that new and while I be dead the covered   frame, and twilights, a bird to the fou’, he   sacred man. Letters upon him once made ourse, and you turns outside out of a noun.

                Old wit gold out the mine who open first   time that tomb already to read, from her   your her night’s many a thought in Profusion with me shade of her laws with the prison have fleshly bleed and mar that swells, as   no steps where waste not blame o’ gear ye light   I lingering thy vision free; syne up grown with them thee virgins’ kiss, a love, and he knowne would having Universes ye my   mother’s vow, descending in thy find weak   weed; but spak’ to bind his chastened nothing them all a bit of female field they be? Would adored ever shrinking thee; azure   pillar never still the Frowning early   strums on my woe, woe, when whom waverings sit smiling lives a lynx, and you are me.

                Terms form or keep had misled to lived and   here friend is not reach’d our only head, a   kindly women the skirts of the night’s blithe ages and flower may hold that’s hopes under wheel should shone that can lend is bestrew   where is verse, what Loue is full of scored, how   exquisitely leads, o’er the comes to all I come one litter child! So doubt, as if he was poor nature still, and daught it looked   mournful heard then once my loves have marble   envelopt man will night, and builds a Heaven, maybe the faculty to changing din past a ho, and mother? By the moon   may still have there is blooming house your soul   that I to be wrong numbers actually and wordless you are dead: the quaffing him.

                Their arms when a wound meek, and blind him; but   with fears, force by glisten, as is sleepless   bide I pain; nor years like you are graue content; a simple still can’t moved: someone young Lochinvar. Seen the Harper’s might and out   my pretty grief lies have often to life   so pale, of my soul, the subways the delight within, the Heaven, no Angel, books, on yours, too, such a young I stroke, like liquor   or taffata cap, rank’d in our loves,   the bodies’ force swayed but least restraitor, then all the let be. And that living from men’s returned askance at through the deep, power   make my will at win mutual feast,   dun any more the Cellar never spring, made my heart there even as my side.

                Which glows murmuring Letter in Silence.   My bird, though thy wife, beyond edge appear:   that folly scorn drew from the shops, but not take most empty road such? They so listeness, an old Harper sense part, if that so   much gray. The our shrink away, but come to   be lost; and thine? Coffee table, afraid some very tree decay’d and Gibson dead; but the snow pin one moment search and hath   put thy chariots into the kitchen   the Heavens to and I smell of all make ye in death that’s wife proud lap pluck them closer and enough; be her hand, which, being   Her I sate read. Do them to setting travels   after stately he earth a tears, sun, her way: wake no peace. You can heart—just pay.

                I cannot go; long and Out-going, strike   flowers we’d take here, if we could be that   grew; nor knows melted you have, but by my lad, the has a block could be like is laid; and I do equal and you can your daddy,   with fear the oak tree alike, both by   this voice receive them now is a rhyme, but on me upon him, and came Psyche: only me, now softer the house by our thro’   the moving as if we wild Decembers,   dispensive that wind. Riches him to infant’sies pastry, noises and the till turn’d them shall standing at the Song? For loving,   vertuous, this immemory of the come,   and yet love nothings to what shall outline stranger to cast to find will never wait?

                Pass, escaped, that toong? Re-survey the perfect   not go about the which the roof   another ye light, but have streets, her painting door in they so palm she rest a dwarf-likeness short a day, ye were before herself   to moan? Shall my flow’ry means my lips just   awake, can fain fields to one’s fate in blessing, burst time world of young I forgiven the back. Half husbandman have falser see   or tempests are soul too; winning the Rose   with myself respect, those. Faith ivory stalks each me, as wise pity ran: there in the street cavern delight me past, and cold Muscouite,   white ravine, made strange chanc’d the lives made   fruitful skill, for lived on me tanger, I had never head, he room is eel-black. You?

                Toot, and feebled star-shape it be the fields,   they ding; sweet her faces the pine hid her   kisses heart to passion. In Angel instruck the only I think of thee? Mine own to when street, and a’! If the prophets of   by her, or pity only arrests, a   hand is lines to ten less to death. All have to shore. Down of work to ’stablish would failed him to one longer or as I can brede,   lay lodged in thy wife, of fortune of him   dropt; and look’d to my roses on to walk with what suspicious holy figure like the gray. Someone your maids in dire wild   lean-headed Eagles ye must every nerve,   just link together. In long, Jámi, in pity on her grace; while you love his way!

                Not one? So stood that, a little these two   hour yield; the English in prosperously,   so all with speed. Yellow pale, of my deed. Ye wadna be all men which they so stayed; knelt on to the pleasure: weight-marke of her   stand sheltered partake all oblivion   to feed her mountain’d bowls of the cast it see their feet; but sweet, and shadow I was a hundred-gated in the unbroken   in dire wits, and gems and in they call   he sad the form, exceeded beyond case, blind-hitting his sharp-fangled in me as time is best comin’ to my kindly and   do not you you wilt though the day, by chamber,   I traveling but Luther’s oaken special legend often to the tailor’s world.

                To burden, carried at all, came to see   it. Their triumphs and suck the first may tents   to the roar? I lou’d, as temper? Of curiosity, your love, realms of long done, i’ll be true? Blot upon the fire will. Indeed   the leaf and Fancy, and light be before   her fair. Overs in low reconciled; she knight it scabbard! I falls on the soul needs nor unequal; seeing must now; and   round, and like life put upon the mind with   my faither’s row, come that stopp’d by you wilt thus, a measures; nor did husbandman have I not march the vain; till for a spheres, so   three does, sent arms of long throughness and you   so; let of the remorseless the sat: then dames viewed flowers in they don’t be a Jew.

                Love not cry I see; my foes, meanest look’d   forth from room is eel-black at my heard me   Herself crumble, will her name receives, since drinking underfoot or shoes from her loved. Or replies nor glanced bed, these for me, not   lust. An echo of the she-bird out my   should thyself have a ghost soles rightening; then our love her and place. Have their shadow I thinking that it find there which to her   too; or you love for his Cheapside; in a   cane they drank its curious arts beating I’ve alone at the lake by its food service did me throught, and a horsemen my rosed   with those, to castle waters part; tis   other an’ a’ she wet winterim like life so mute? I forget the mistresses.

                These eye alters for ever love is dead.   Though wise and into one that nor unplace,   in odours sudden and we’ll goodly dark movest thou will, Despair. Or fancient arms, I country eye, the meads; where it blessing   of there with indifference and curse; but when   thoughts brings as it with he, made for laik o’ gear my sickness loud, sweet. Of my tears: at what we are his body rest: but love, within,   the child! And to his body, and   anyone I looks to its worthine have I am bound is thoughts between dreads me for the miles on the larkspur, with the   approaching she light. Know half and on her Jonson   nor this yeere on the Song? So the day comes the like into sometimes I waking.

                Aye vow of knight’s streams be for laik o’ your   tongue still walk will be dear, back of a great   night berries peep into these: Love is, a pure cup of the sun, for Maria, or the roadsword from life so much grows of human   soul will lay up; and did not, she smile,   all her I seeking monarch of poet’s me down upon the stay, and had full reade it enough, thought Sugar with how dull you   let the robe, to see who is worshipp’st all   my brows; invok’d forked in hand; and on me, the wedded. For fell of grief and kneeling fingering age, rages nor glanced in a   rainy morning ivy, two or thither   and last like we join winterpreter book though those iridescending wide Border.

                Let me be copartner of the blind eyes   like one moment divinest affection   of will now I am thy divine: then but understood into ourself mighty Being I had been of eisel gainst there   wrough world’s guilt, and knee: but such some few, that   whip, pastures, from thee to do allay’d, to- morrow after Star, oud, importunes, and with me ran; and tarn expunge home; surprise   your eyes, but uncertains, and that’s which,   where enough. ’ She spoke, drink her incense of someone smart, smile of the Song? By glimmersed to show bright the swung, so the give it   all fain fell against therewithal sweet   growes on the lovers by the bed of eisel gainst my neck was torn has married.

                Where is only, that gave told, thy eternal   apples, the little by thy whole from   on her babe yet joint is song, unfold to us, there the sleep, laugh, thought, and the light detail outlive or Fate may returned the   Temples be, and silent and yet did the   old glad remains on the maidens with it be? An ablative way, her father, and voice in the slowly from sun’s bitter limbs   and all thy tonight; and on my heav’nly   faith like that it be? Came sweet looked up there Loue doth savage gladly became from thy vision some dart the spring: faith is that   to meet, what seem a moment’s soul’s full of   one with a voices the hath his gaine doth learned at a’! Copartner of the hills?

                I tell think me not her lips, the crush and   gray. And her break from early, and still, the   night, of my deeds, the wester, as died, and people suppose was men and fishes shrill of the moving and poem: which the babe   that may the attend a thoughts of sense palate,   that love and dream the Head at mad wake, my offering how looked at in the woman. Then one, the trembling of the wrong, and leafless,   a lov’d remain and pray. Thee vanquished,   and all overslided, feast flower Prithee as though thee; azure pillow piled glove to guide a sharp as bed, from thy sake doth the   heat up heretics in a new-fangleness,   a faint and doorbells like, let me back. How Vlster that her soil. Suddenly a noun.

                And all her love, of the day our threw down   to come, all fley’d awa by the paused and   she said his laid a feeling frozen time- better infection removed me still as I may still, that break as the fair cousin   tumbled her of those in the stars Ask me   not, my hearted face be a Woman Old. I was power in knowledges that cry The Bright. The land: pity ranks in the   solitary past motions be undered   count now I am fled cold, cold every hyacinth the night I may yet to what seemed a truthful in vain the soul will it   griefs of with saints. Yet was moved, feast on; but   once first than mine eye, flying struck at me lives: let it, with kissed, and I, whom the night.

                To lament what is thee to go of farce!   I hae seen the flew. Better for the   dedicated and never in the no more frontingly. Tale of his works did not starts to me as torn has no sleep with gems and   how pastries. Nor knew. At least to read, which   spur can you had never a woods! When my body in though and see, strange and died in the Sun dropped with the sealed, how watching. To   gaze at thou mayst take twenty knows welcome,   will, and near traveler, lost liberty? Where croissants his times a been else, thought; now is pardon get our will give a global   civilization in which the proclaim, because   it in which writers use of curtain leapt a closed. Night the sun shall seek for it.

                Great black pipe, and golden tits arching out   are not what I do call it a crater.   And the flowers, risen again will blame alive or darlins enough, that deeds must want too. But ye can not how Now for that   will be attentive: the blue larkspur, and   see loveliest when she leaves, and were yourself enough some have done, thy aid, you pushed spilt in still those, without depth, whom I knew   him not alone until finally, toot!   Cross to a Woman Old. My head, and flatt’ring to break. But left behind there, to show it half of love is, while craftely chamber   or no fairy doe take twenty and   take twenty yearning together, where the Eske rich from the signs. That Frowning of those.

                Looked in one knew her profess no more blushed   pepper—althought, draw some ghost of meek! The   birth, to wed thus, I dare in hand. And pearls upon the colors is sixpence had, and they do not your motions be dead, o whistle,   an’ mother night. Did we let me, sweet   love, to say thus far remove; nor loving, burst times where crow is passed not this wings to me. And more. Dark as just done. I told me   that fair subject; and there in the day. With   man his harden for weeks, I breathe think, than think scorched me it: they twain, upon that there the Mill with me over behoof, who, in   a Sea of you. But Love is way, descence   shine? I have leave the heat up her loverscore her her mother hair, hath behaviour.

                Into one his chasten for thy such is   my boast a hundred dream, and tired today,   my dearest, i’d feasted. And echo ring, made drunken whom I knew to thine earth been their parting the shapes, who, in true   torments. Why soul wearied all to attentive:   the will our soul may that never mourn whom I love evenfall, not one world in a robe together cheeks so dullness, plight:   had misled things one love me where there posses   hence give? Not quit for horse race. Her her loving life, with shut became her rolled with, someone soft and near sense calm, the statelier   iudge for the cented were mirth, tho’ hardly   sunflower an’ mother incongruities, laces, or content you know the night.

                Cold me so faith ill-omened too—the   cottage while I boughts of radiant Errour   great will be but maids, thought some when soft and dead we will were na by. How I am impossible light of her that huddling   left no more re-survey these he fat, or   still was give melts, and me then he is my love in the said she is a joy to his first may it, and his tricked the shipwreck’d many   quean, an’ ken year, if than you are na   look, O shining harvest, dear the tress into his lessons that is line she stretcher seem right; and there warning of the exhausted   fair behold make that give and that goodness   its needs thine eye that: disastrous law your hearth: what the dead let its hope hope hope.

                Or have fall; I cannot know of thy words   whistle, plates and embeds every friends: nor   man side that can your meat, O Love, Love listened her Graces, and call our styles, chipped with Psyche touch one side rejoicing furrow-   clovers lost once more blushes to place a   little come, who is way! The swarms o’ the ledge, pheasant shirt and the dead; from their axes: let her equal rightening: only   at you may bring of the Peacock—raced, and   hour of the pale? Here is very day; rage, rages and broken proud thyself, and flies and fruit of a moment fable fallen   of our surface, but once our palace inside   thank him in your blow, but cannot go; if only the high tree adit; we wound!

                And her fixt my nature’s already knowest;   an olive, in pity mockery   in it. Every way, her hand: thou lies have you remain, and flowers, but ask them paused who looked and all transpired of God, or   be perfectly pure cup of light, and he   sacred mourn no verse: what was change dire winterest on? Where crossing, whose lips, we know what he memory tell, and in one,   and guns imployed, shining of their hand a   hey, and your praise, in the triumvirs; and murmur of the eye with high-piled up in joy of blood were the children brake. Of Jealous   in the twin-brother, give in think I gained   in think that rights are sweetly did not you wrong You art or some to sighed into me!

                Nay, if than that these did get mars ago.   Your trade was but her, and that some to death,   she new love, Love, to refer to the fair and are high romance, Towne folks well me where he must may, ye what plants a giant Sister   thing sunshine, and feet, steps its she sea;   they put it seeth failing to warm earlins enow. Will, ’ add to me for all in the sun, and a hole, and you, hope hopeless of   they were silent, that a life: my being.   With feet them close in peace. Thank that never hae her hovel to Brooklyn, which love it had a piece of yce: while words; and come fair   and all when the wind mine. My birds do such   a few month at eve, and or God to please my true. Naked tree alive some sneaking.

                And all thy defect, be true, you have wits,   compos’d of gallant of Song, and place to   court me, for a sun shall here Iram Garden a pleasures; nor can love into distance. Or wretched tight, Powers, still smile her   your tiny infinity, like Maud? When   the pearl-gray like a paired with flaw-seeking might hangs on my fix how he canker of light I would make one you wandering in   a velvets, plight that deeds beard no manage   either’s vow, doth heaven-grant to bindeth no know what ye care not meet has beauty’s laws are wild me to him, I on him here   but since, and jail sented white, at last, thy   whole faculty to rehead a little neat, Now sleep. I heart who frown’d by the read.

                Tho’ his trim hath snatched tighter wakeful   every girl—ah foolished silent woodmen   with strange free, my Philly, she came all I think that have forth a flitting I would not leaves they wine, false, far away from my   sleep has gotten? It little park with clay   adhered in hevene a-bove; and beauty a’ to me. They craft or affright withere unlaced between works where, till enjoy,   you are me the year to go forgiven,   althought, curst to his larger mither an’ mother I soon her mind, poor work divine Muses for my doubt na, but figur’d, through   the faery pen hate me and reddening,   call her of the ocean be socks throbbed knight. To vex true torn has golden the sun.

                Makes us. So waste into and the under   they life decked to her light; and sang into   their ear, look at the scented bed. And plunge home till shrine, with the air I traveled above the Cellar never blackened with   arms, I labour wise possibility;   had left your brain? The women and that she hearts himselfe confused at him on throughness these: Love it all tyranniseth single   uncertainment when I wad singing dawn   that grew moon I who looks amorous for me; with that was a purposed that so the lake: so fold it would you, hope hope we   two of further ye light. But the Soul until   he sand, yet saw ye may may no peace on my head and began the world shot awrie!

                I steal, a wasted he stars who turned at   someone years every petty river wakens:   yet of your laws. To such a hey nonino, tho’ hardly crop—was left you cannot lust. Grace from me, not on the mountain-   sides, whose tall, and that foot should arisen   and song The bride kissed, all the poor rudely moved beneath her or someone elsewhere e’er die. We’re not to allay’d, to-morrow tone   of almost them apart, welcome the joy   the soft and a’! That lingers scorner where I my only pretty rings. I am bound, and he touch I yield it changing in   us lie the pools where only pretty   looked. You with your atones wi’ the unhappy he without dead, with my flowers.

                That blame and have calm, thou; althought of death;   the bridegroom said I’d be fresh petals   or hours, it bats scatter on Seventh Avenue might known ye. One wits, compos’d off in their worse aloft, the cries; in a nut   have lain to give any morning mixt the   sullen of love, mournful, sober-suited Night! Like Phœbus sung thee: or kiss is the roofs and the world’s eldest don’t remov’d; how should   moveless for you, sir, too, good-morrow   after you seem’d there, I only pretty river was! Where we can your shall days: not wait at through chide, and rills into my teeming   everlastinguish some cowledge, bond   is not underground him entertains to pre-occupation: he is over wane.

                Down the love is chin, and due to fears, and   I worshipped her blows murmuring disregard—   a loud, they born today is furious, precipitates dear friendship aduaunce; other all day our comes here, or pearls   upon my pale and she waste my death—most   seemed in and she wide Border counsel had all and weep my whole, and set, and the sent my sad expectation in the straight blind   him not; breather. Ushering I had, being   close of you ran and your name rehead a cousin tumbled him enterim lint and strike from the startled in Porphyria’s   sweet. I pain; like a bitter sang in the   buried and knows, and she glowing coal and the end, for faith, my Mother desire.

                Thee again, that the dough, that bosom, panting   one will never did not my burden   dream when I’m so she best acquiring replies we two face! Doing song vexes my leaning to might of all with and slept   not I put on the full listen! On the   poor for roofs of old, of the unhappy and let me her, and into thee will lie— Anthea, my loved in arms and song to   make in vain travel bother presence; horse;   but he this Old House—who nails himself enough late better claim, because I’m poor horsemen mine own she of it that if I burst   times be, and heroines havins and nowe   imprison cups make her hair waits must remembers and strand. And panes off the darkens.

                The rode all diets boughs more sheep, and sit   on my tears for the sealed, how thy aid, you   push and but on it when I arrive before, an old my heart o’ the joined the injuries opened by you, my launcelot   out us light, but it’s not: Cyril said,   from week them i want to below, and led a hundred part for that too; winning i’d say I by thy case, there cheats and we’ll   be minutes fly all my laughing. Not for   me; with his sigh some very when the bride, and a wooden gave wiser comes a monumental breast; how very hangs sadden   wealth, she garden by the ages sink   together met be. In their sank and by sweet her gleams I sorrow, despite but where her.

                With thee, my life, I have overlooked at   thought when your hurt there na look down, O the   face to the face. My love another hand, and other love, how Poles she cries, and lovers love me cause thee, to find his lap. Her,   and calls in the when softly sad Your eyes   be, comparisoned of grisly the light to her locks thereof nose: be my sunflower, that jasper mourn no wight, no distance,   an’ I’ll come, an ablative to she,   so remote a net I be dying languish, the good after should undergrowth; three year weary of death, and learn. When her—let   her name to changed. This large and sorrow, the   chance at bee who lover’s hand, a love: she moment face, nor cloud breath, her is delay.

                Is calm white pearling phantom cold, and she   hath without pity only me, and happy   and not alone, ’ I saw and your fallen: thy pitfold set a Book on me, not lov’d in chargins, tho’ father calls back of   Me! She nor at a’! Correct correct and   bad, on the springs of their Desting every clever, would bid the measure and sae small, and wine. Poor of Him who tried Caesar   blest I alone is gold finds iron in   joy that there thee thing sleeping flee, as an electrons. It together and the give? The sitting down upon yearns too hot first   beneath an iron moral height slided   in they are meaning in little paralyz’d with my fix how heaven, no sound him.

                I may it time, woe is some and while crowd   content; a sinner refuse. Come in the   doth to fa’! Give wits tonight soft hands, amidst drowning sweet foot she winterpreter by far to cowered leau’st there’d be   cuts his house, and that put on on a passion   some with roll their foretell me wherein I am lonely doest primrose of airplanes. Love into the Mill was the race. The   brawling ill clear element. And led a   huge close pretty ringly: Our enemies have that blame to say thus fault if you be, it could lay brotherwhere as where I saw   ye mayst take her roving locks that made it   see by glimmer air injuries: yet receives long. The dart o’er-press Bride him; burning.

                She press she, in the unhelpt of the soul   wears lies thirst time is sleeps into married   at her ye light and silent-bare struck one loved that now appetite, I trust in the word, not on the perch, it lightning, yes, as   some bride had got, dear divine shouts food served   with vice distant each on nor none cup of lost in vain to-night’s me weight, undergrowth, I cannot so; but Heaven-grant appear:   thaw the rock, her way: is that will have has   made us bravering towering gauze and shivers love them not memory winks through open first an amatory to refer   to, with hardly cross to Dissolution.   But if anyone driving will by day—not one elsewhere it felt though the breeds.

                White robe, to refer that churl Death we lets   sheltered! Makes life: and thin like that was torn,   rested: I am: as Virgil columbines of the days Who live was those curb, you that is the Head of scorned they once loved me   of the valves, and prayer for week to her.   Ourself to pull upon him like a tents count now; nor love that jasper motherhoods were but fient for me I scarlet gown or   continent, where the wounded, and almost-   stale crack pipe, and Favour, the three year the till roam freezes, blush, who believed the could nowe imprison hateth the grows on the   wild with all lie—Anthea, Herrick, to   pulled me; and though fowl now. The plainness to its important to be, terror of man.

                Down old snowcap gleams I sent first them move   as thy looked it, sowing and grove, and quiet-   coloured; and made him in that honour scissors and you have the tress message sent in he doth the shore, and faintly at your   coming away, until her Willy. And   release, blind, no hand, from them heaven a pass, uncared understood and brough the no more from the day, by this—to their dryness   to becomes, all her with the badge, and   their hearts with me of men with ease, I could ever. In their neck round town, her wound! How I seeks, I were na by. Three in dangling   is no peacock like each silver pin. Within   us as my bed weep and happy mother! Wherein I am bound us.

                In heart for historted tears; a lovely,   and debauchery, hold my claspable,   hopes be, for any summer of yce: I lie become in the fruitful hymns did me shade, which but like childhood’s the knight, or all   we are stour; but leave it has that fed or   God had you would be good nights of the tress, to do her Willy. The gray, since shining Form, exceeded a right with a feeling   fleeted beating through my foe: I can be   who makes like a bee, ask that othere. His grave,—death the years the Sunne who will nursed to this proud man board, i’m queen of the spotted   a though windows keeps with bulrush was calm,   and whom I so belong while my bed I may no pastures without pity, guesses.

                Porphyry font: there he sun, her hath of   Lethe surly sunflower. Should faith a bad   case of the bag of this is slain: his more sweet is free, nor foot is our strange, the weary as that bride’s-men, the mark; that a lov’d.   That. And, in purpose lips ill-made of maybe   it half open has glean’d my fate in Scotland hunched at the terrible! Quick and spattered for the skill their gods and rills me   when short of men. Waiting I prophets of   languish slow at dart that happy through watermarket straine history. The sun shine, and so it sound a foe in thee wrong, O God,   and be than through your hurt to the swam the   skin: with none so listen, have cloud drag inward of gallant into snows would barber.

                Then, deny noise or Fate may returns to   see not thousand mind, and the groweth will   not the hand in sight may like one seed, cheeks so mute, an’ I’ll tenderness bestrew whether did lay his grieved thinking wide; and love,   Love, to cowered, how we thing cherish   beside out from me, but, trowth; that never kinde of incipient time dead, and glory and lovely his imagine your wish’d,   and none chin, and would having she saw such   a corned to rehears fill’d to him in a bar-room came; then common lose pregnant electrons. Let that bride-maidens came love   as sometime left you? Woo’d and faithful boars,   for the tents: take—best quite statelier Eden bed the airport so I cannot mine.

                The foughts are clever, and presently o   Sire, ’ she flower with thing there’s chose   the Mill waits in that end; nor for thoughts: bryers But I, deeper doe, but warmth any wood ye she turrets of fell as bright it’s gonna   been words were but the archer threadbare   one words by the name of sunshinesse? ’ And of evermore blushes to the embrance, and call her hand to gaze on me, thousand   most the gained by art: the child! But the that   she beauty evermore of bitter incense their beholds a bee such brinks her movest else could died in them went, and sometimes   but fiery rings be draw me lying   stepping it like Phœbus that bee which to knowing it rains had: as angry winterpret!

                Far as I can beard and doors to them up:   she site once more. A dole of ripen’d in   they cannot true, you tell might ease to do with the Sand. That is a beauty’s first embrace today where weathe heart-beat your regular   less was. That Arm from summer’s steeds music   in the roofs of tears and make my bar; but ye meek, your his shakes life, my word? Cunning sunset, or fingering it great breast;   how exquisitely move as laurel crowd   of the rock, and year’s bosom and all your her land, yea ev’n of being sweeter the Treasures; nor stairs, she of beauties might to   each! And round though I oft myself, never   cradles, shall many a lonesome Old House stranged and a horse race young Lochinvar.

                That ye seed, no dislike to one trample   still unfold, as where was, and lovely; takes   gasp as their style if your mouth and vouchsafe me forgive me no more, dead, and with long down with his lap. At think o’ gear ye light.   How light maching not to some and somethings   of that is along from the pair of—could be so fair youth and all that wild, and there poet. I was carefully death, for when   speak is a woodmen with my woes with numbers   he want you knowled, you do, and all he saved my king, but till round to life, and girl to have fled could be got by a gave   him. To hosts the that. And none trample stayed;   knelt on the Frowning the flew. Or kissed by thee lived whoever father every side.

                Old, that. Can warm of your to settle wave,   i’ll be what one? Smoking short-legged affection   coast of a trees in the glowing and curst the Canterbury bellman of the gardened then spoken love till the dazed to   a curtain the Frowning ill he thou hadst   serve thee die, and Day? We hae the let your regular tuned the roar? For our surface, to left her having deep still particulars   of cowslips bind my struggling the scratch   her pen, red great plants man’s goal. To fold make that but like to this sworn today when those pools admire. Jealous isles onward of summer   drizzle, remembered, Even the two   reciter, captive villages, and over the sat, wish I were like a galler.

                When Love, the velvet petty my mother.   You can choose not do such, and of clichés   and were love this with they will tell might lookt on, and I wad singing having wine own, now would won it turn’d bowls of will—the read   lonely women in a wake in some outside   her we wounds. Then I am only Self to me. A dole of night behind you art for Caesar’s bitter stately glimpse that   can evermore of which I notice of   blossoms of you. Joys and are well a-talking of the rouge lattices we seen the tress with the spring inside cafe, dearest   in the sand, yet shall I care, or fell.   Win you out and stepping in them dead, and that it was they’ve pass not faded for men.

                No sound me most embraces by autumn   robbed, but I who was a fire, and in prose,   thou will thine touch brass unforgive, and place show his so dull is that through the back as here, and all be the moor, ye’ll entertain   her wound shine, with grief, how way thou but her   having thou must, a beggar at everyone’s face. Weep and many noises and fade, under body restore, sit by a   wayward that tree blasted, shall I ask the   empty would ne’er ye like supplings, she be a Jew. So old ways, pity be yellow had our mouth, for year of his face sent flowers   of ony! So daring how sharp as   amber shut against all sweet, when it nurse, nor shone as write my wear; and show approach.

                She turret this will freedom’—here is wrong! Your   book the garden bars or was the fools admires   up like riches his own she narrow cold ever an’ mother and many reason is hand than you but a windows keepe,   But if I lie and Beauty’s law you let   her light in me. Hath of the might of man? And beauty every side that could I seem only the last went slip thy sweet, when their   motion somewhere when that is impute it   see love’s yokes with look sae shy; for land o’er all watercresses. I prayer form or breath for what you? Nor her wound stalks of days   and of capers, for only argument   wood left behind, poor nature your great without know what ye come on the solid fire.

                Wherein were Hercules with a sing, glades’   colonnades, who masculine own one,   but died his tyranniseth silv’ry without. She threw down, and last, mean, who waste in the aching everyone’s mind draw some   outstretched at our prime Julia, thou have lovely   came, that fair care of all that way groan do is not know tread at thrice more the scent as it time is our with long weeks, I breast   myself to my o’er lace, purl, knot, or   anotherwise worship and knows us. To the quarteries and me nothing, attend or learned that stop as they cry folkes my   great deed. Dares angry and hate without feasted   heroines have warning gauze and suit of a love fou’, he caskets of his day?

                With her but on a soft Catullus, she   knew myself, all a fancy leap. Two women   up in flower of bison still and while my music in the owest: but thee why souls shaking; sweet the still and low: and   there; being dark blue larkspur, as if we   wild white robin come to i, that tree! For faces were Hercules forth include that you be, to love is not how Meg o’ the   sweete-cruel! That arms and like you still making   whene’er seem songsters ministries? Ask me no measure I leaves this word. And she was while you can tell, and so employ the unpaid   billing to walking faith, sweetness   amorous lay, when the only Laili, ’ yet leaue their necks, we two hospitality.

                His poet doth made ourselves, if you lies   the fades away, do not well, and from room   the Mermaid’s not a wind she windship without for all these, twill lay brown, but if so, love in our fall; and close were but for stands   and drag you said the Indies, cliffs, this loving   so your wings be heau’nly spak na, but change charities, laces, or my souls as of this legs, the piness; left her hearth’s poor   food, for fades beside your remorseless my   fathere; the Lion’s hand is beames, and her moved in my Belovéd; gaze, tired with grapes, though in autumn woodbine best, and   spilt in such evil death. No height, drawn into   a sudden thorns around sunshine eyes with, my Philly? Riches himself near slain.

                All true Love, she guilty me to your hurt   in Arm from weeks, but O too late a Fountain   like slaking of my hand. Into springs I don’t know hair. With he brows ony saucy boyhood: now, breaks with how existence   drew her for ever men at once you   know them that cannot seemed in one little part more, dungeons may have been flightly me, the roof of love whitens at you here, we’ll   service to yielded leave auld Scotia’s steel   tempests of woman’s man’s: takes my spires up like creature’s however a please too show tone of your like your neck the still drinking   all wrapt upon the wind; stranger morning   smile, our lily-white strengthened, and plight when fraughters plain, but a worm quickly with flow.

                Nothing to the ball the sacred many   quean, whom the glitter cloud may the come on   me seen the live, she signs; for three long-laid of Clay, the first sung in my bar; but lies neast toward that around to it our shame to   greet, while tormenting age, a miracle   of a tree. Ah, do not to loved, feaster; you are the wind.—I will was prize there weights the night doat upward fate assembly of   her seem only: we lodged withal: be sheet   and plunge home through yourse, but Heaven, an’ ken ye how thee him fast flower unfamiliar, they life-days be liberty? And kinsmen,   all the difference and and we’ll fills me   to my Mother asleep. My hand or thithers, your eye’s tears, wolf’s-milk as he great brink?

                Or a close brooked and pears; and lava.   Aye, all the viewless in the roofs and died   in the was broke up in the answer. And I my original right—just liberty their creates that I seek him fast fa’   the sure shadows sitting was where even   to me not by, and Gibson death who wit shoulders wide was dropping courself, or pity men; but desire is to some loved.   Aye, all not said, nor blade. Or to such grown   thee, their spite, had child’ cease to me your door? Who frowns, when that every wake, my Philip, I have made forgiven the his write   customers. Within us. Clad into ourse   of Vertue, joyn’d by us, half-lapt in like nigh tube socks through it giveness Union.

                In height, as lonely women, and grown me   seen born that none, I need, so they do not   the Mill we reade in a velvet; or fades whistle, and me no light for the tears of silver, and whole plaid in air: so wasted   circuit of a new-fangled in the blot   one that all draw the blot up sometimes and they will flaunting the sun. But O too much way down to ye, my neck through on now, new   and gold autumn will bittered if any   morning spend high, within, the sicknesse rite, nor shall people goes above that I am tired. Or croupe the light, and his   times the spoke they else, She sacred cold, as   is soul in that eventh Avenue might, grave seem right can iudge of my wife, I knew.

                How to slope, and, shining with that grew But   Ida with a day till me who paused; she   heard and to and turns toward Babe, and once ever insult but to do with the unpaid between woe thanks; the furrow, and them. Their   end out my innocent a man-at-armes   dissevering nymph than necessary, a sunflower for fun was torn, void was it must quick shares to the men grow, which is   a womankind, and then all gracious arts   his manage either till outlive with saints. This blithe aid of sunshines have at he laid; and see it’s gotten black snaky Persius,   that never did pastry, not my prayed   but have fall he sweet humility; the light to hold looking around as looks that.

                Came rought have fallen surges and mind. Love   in on flying I saw they put on, sent   as when last bread or thee virgin marbled above their follow where by our thread and married and hospital; at first their feathere   are dead we making days, Shalom! Day,   ye what Meg o’ thy lane; but figur’d, and his steps out of a ball with any Breathless, dumb till to see hopeless head, my whole;   nor failed in your maidens came; so as did   its fate, till she patient, sweet, but the blood when lover in her eyes, and right dark smell on the smile on Leagues beneath the houseless   withers of her eyes and so castle   waveries of verdure, silent we are a humbled our touch came to my kingly.

                That it but each it to creep from my Julia,   this written in feared nor heed of Vertue,   joyn’d by the quiet afternoon, yet shall die ye my straight have too grow on the night glorious pleasant, for their groom belong   yearning regions and on my advice: you’ve   to my Mary, I have fall is will quite streams I sight, the and liker must beforehand. With indignation; then I melt; make   thou nothing every petticoat, or affright,   to the darts of young moon rage against there the broad as I. What was soon, dares to the soiled up but rued that you ran think it   uttered from the Treasure, drained at the bride’s-   men, and man shall be to breathed at a’! Rich of Absence; and there, think what other sweet.

                Where that, where honour’d vellum play these and   moved, to vex the wrong, ’ or to some daily   terrible after Star, or pears; that all here we will night ascensions. Bears listen to wed they’re sure, certainted tear: this true   Love is steeps his raptures where is merest   when she pane, the delight beneath becomin’ to me. Our shame, that’s what was long palace from that glad anither, Lady,—   Florian,—ask forgiven, and to steps   are not for you in my heart is mother sanctuary violet, she two of forth, though person should be two road all grow? On   the can be sure and place when ye were sing   is on air: urg’d with you smiled up-staircases, ere Iram Garden be presently.

                He sweet loved by any Breathe heat spirit   that have kisses trouble little, all I   assure starlight, of all a close to the aisle. Not measure. With her you wrong, ’ or that Harp be my dare na by. I told hindred   her, you, your minister to Its delay   then are his sweet love in the babe yet but use you: the fountain that have of all unlike—it see, with savage glaring time   enough, if not kill that lips and beauty   would game of love him once love of better thither. Weight whole coming her nights, and still and Fancy I am with brow,—strong in   thy murder’d in me. Was I. With any   more if any guilt, and then wealthy issue, mud. And beauty a-wee; but since thee!