#flying a little close to the sun with this one methinks | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

socketz · 3 years

Text

Spencer Reid x Reader

Talking To The Moon.

Inspired by the Bruno Mars song, because it’s the one I listen to when I come up with my Spencer Reid fantasies😃.

Type : Angst (It’s just so fuckin’ sad, man)

Warnings : A LOT. Detailed mentions of r*pe / sexual assault, child m*lestation / assault / r*pe, physical abuse, physical fighting, broken bones, dislocated joints (Replacing them! Which is so disgusting, the thought makes me cringe), trauma, the usual Criminal Minds terminology (in terms of describing an UnSub), emotional breakdown, a lot of Death Talk™️ (which could somehow be perceived as suicidal, I guess?), and actual death, there is one (1) kiss. It is a PECK, crude language (profanity), and I think that’s it.

Word Count : 16.3K (this was NOT supposed to be that long, ohmygod)

Request : Not Requested. (This idea came to me in a really horrifying dream that I had, a few weeks ago. I always document my dreams, and this was... Well, it was more of a nightmare. I won’t share, but from the tone of the Fanfic I’m sure you can gather the terror that it endured.)

Summary : There’s a lot of plot for this one. The reader takes on a case (an unauthorised case, you understand), that she relates to on a very personal level. Determined to take on this UnSub, after observing his crimes within the media, and finding thelselves enraged by the Police’s futile attempts to make progress in his arrest, they search for him themselves, and they happen to forget every ounce of Federal Safety training they have ever experienced. Uh, Oh! Do I smell kidnapping? Yes, I do! The reader is kidnapped by the Unsub, and tortured for four days straight. The team are searching for them, but are they fast enough? Either way, Spencer will never forgive himself, and the reader isn’t sure they’ll make it out the other side, alive.

Authors Note : First of all, Baby Spence🥺🤚 the way he was RIDDLED with trauma?? PLEASE?? Got me out here trying to shift realities just to give this man a hug- like he really needs some love, y’know? I have other one shots in the works where he IS receiving his well deserved affection, but it’s not really this one (though he is comforting the reader. Well deserved, methinks)😭 this is perhaps the most graphic and depressing one shot I have ever written😃 I mean, enjoy??? I don’t know if that is the right word. Make sure you read the warning, man, the topics at hand are dealt with in depth and I do not want to trigger anyone!!!!!

Talking To The Moon, Spencer Reid x Reader

They say that the barrel of a gun is cold; that it seeps into the precipitation of your complexion, and the steel aches a circular coolness. They say that your life flashes before your eyes, and that your fight, flight, or freeze, kicks in, when the initial shock of fatality flashes, and blinds you for a defining split second. They say that in your final moments, you show who you truly are.

They are wrong.

The metal is warm, upon my forehead, as I blink slowly, a thousand thoughts - words, and probabilities; numbers, and statistics, and the thumping of my heart (thump, thump, thump; thump, thump, thump) everything, and anything; anything, and nothing - all find themselves meandering their way throughout my congested conscience. I think not of my childhood, the warm touch of my mother’s embrace, and neither the pride in my chest as I received my first ‘100%’, with a wonky smiley face, feedback for my very first official essay in school; not the swarm of flying insects, rampant within my stomach, as I first walked into the Behavioural Analysis Unit, of the Federal Investigations Bureau. I think not of Spencer, not of Morgan, or Penelope, Hotch, and Emily. I am… I am not…

The barrel of the gun is warm.

I blink slowly.

A sheen of smeared colour - like the pretense of a dull oil painting, perceived too close to the canvas - washes over my vision, steals the breath from my aching throat - thump, thump, thump, my heart cries; lodged beneath my tongue, thump, thump, thump - I swallow it back. Thickly, like treacle, and I… There- There is-

The barrel of the gun is warm.

I blink slowly.

I collect myself, in my throat, and I gulp with a softness that simply does not suffice. The flavour of something- of something burned, something charred, lies upon the dry thrum of my tongue, and I allow myself to taste it. Just for a- just for a moment. Just for a moment, I taste it, and it is charred- charred and metallic. The burned flavour of my chest, thumping iambically beneath my heavy-set jaw, wafts up, up, up, throughout my trachea, and it coils between my teeth. From the back, to the front, around, and around, does it crawl, and my heart thunders on in my thoughts; thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump.

The barrel of the gun is warm.

I blink slowly.

The same ache rolls around my motionless joints; it burrows beneath my stained complexion, and I do not flinch as something pop’s, and another bone crack’s. It is not- I am warm. An uncomfortable sense of warmth, that settles upon my grimy skin, and collects itself among my wounded figure, and- and it’s- and it’s hot. It’s hot, and it aches-

But the barrel of the gun is warm, and I blink slowly.

I blink slowly, and the barrel of the gun is warm.

I yearn to think, to obtain coherency, but the barrel of the gun is warm, and it hurts. Oh, it aches, and I- a shuddered breath falls from my unnaturally moistened mouth, tainted by the spill of internally displaced fluid, and I force my eyes to peel open. To unveil beneath their thick hoods, to dismiss the burning heat that flares from my slow blinking, to show him no weakness. I force my eyes to peel open, because, by God, if it’s the last thing I’ll ever do, I will look him in the eyes, and I will silently congratulate myself on my victory. I will not lose; I will not surrender.

And so I peel back my lids, and I ignore the sweltering ache that rushes upon my discoloured, broken, cheek, and I observe him with a gaze of (what I pray to be) great indifference. I slack my features, and I spare myself the wince, as the temptation of heat, licking away the wet droop of my bruised face, engulfs the structure of my poised, blank, expression. Dark, dark, circles; the kind of spherical matter that the mariana trench may find envy within, roam me. Thoughtlessly. Not a thing behind those eyes - no feeling, no rage, no pain. There is no tremble to his digits, as he holds the trigger of the sleek revolver, cherry-wood-handled, and there is no twitch within the muscular construction of his nonchalance, as it fades between four-a-piece, and a regular, blurred, arrangement.

This is it, I think, at last, and the silence between my irrevocably untelling orbs infiltrates its way through my subconscious. Soon - a mere matter of seconds, that spirals to the incoherent detailing of a slurry construct - there is nought but the mulling tone of my heart, thumping endlessly beneath my burning sternum, and I force myself to breathe evenly. In, my chest rises softly, and out, I exhale something shaken through my nostrils.

By God, I think; this really is it.

And the barrel of the gun is warm, as I blink up at him slowly, and I do not regard the noiseless sobbing of the child, to the darkest corner of the room.

This is it. It pounds within my ears, morphed upon the rhythm of my steady heartbeat; this is it, this is it, this is it.

This is it, and the barrel of the gun is warm, and I blink up at him slowly, and the breath on my tongue tastes like the charred meat of my steadily thumping heart, and I think of nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing, at all - nothing but the silent shake of a tear-stricken expression, caught beneath the dim lighting, as her circular, little, face, enlarges. Enlarges, and morphes, by shadows, and yellow light; approaching. I do not regard her, as she nears in my peripheral, and the curve of her small, fragile, shoulders tremble, and the flush of her moistened cheeks glimmer among the bulb’s reflection, but the burned flavour on my tongue ceases its subtlety, and there is a taught capture about the breath in my lungs. It is reeled back, and stored deeply beneath my broken bones.

And, suddenly, my heartbeat lurches into my throat.

I miss the warmth of the metal, as it flinches away from my bloodied forehead, and I miss the dark discs of his thoughtless eyes, as they leave me, and the ache of my tongue dissipates to a resolve of bitter dryness.

There she stands, beneath the weight of the revolver, with a violent shake to her thin figure, and a harsh, bruised, red, to her cheeks; puffy eyed, and traumatized. She breathes not a word, she expresses not a sound, and still his finger curls. Curls subtly, ever-so-gently, and my heart tumbles into my mouth, before I can drag it back down. “Coward.” It spits, unbearably rasped upon the echo of my dry, naked, throat; like wood upon sandpaper, it grits, and it grits, and the shavings collapse in my lungs, as they heave; in, I rasp; and out. “You’ll-” I gather my cheek between my jaw, and I nibble it tearsly, a deep, seering, heat erupting- erupting, and sprouting; multiplying, between my very cells. “You’re gonna shoot a- a little-” Another pained, hollow, heave; I clamber for steady footing. “Shoot a little girl?” Dark, dark, circles… no feeling, no rage, no pain. They catch within the light, and never before have I observed a shadow exposed by the sun, and still obtaining its darkness. But there they are, as they gaze unto my own, and I level our stare with ease. “Impotent son of a bitch.” I murmur, a mere breath upon the quiet.

Antagonize him, my conscious crows; rile him up, give him reason for distraction.

“That is-” I stutter in my respiration, and the wheeze of a wet cough finds the depth of my chest. It rumbles through the rasp of my throat, and a slick, metallic, moisture coils upon the flesh of my lower lip. The coppery taste ravishes my mouth, and I allow the liquid to spit between my words. “That is why you do it, isn’t it?” I say, no more than a whisper, gargled by the congestion of the red fluid pool, congregated about my tongue. “You couldn’t-” Another ragged breath, “Couldn’t perform. Not for the-” I swallow the metallic, warm, liquid, and it burns my aching throat. “Not for the pretty women. Hm?” He regards me, motionlessly, and the discs of irrevocable blackness roam my hot, burning, features. “So you too-” I gulp back the rise of blood in my throat, unsettled and naturally rejected. “So you took to little girls, instead, didn’t-” A softer, shallower, inhale, “Didn’t you?”

Silence. The iambic thrum of my heartbeat interrupts the depth of the quiet, but I push it down - down, down, down, beneath the crushing weight of my charred sternum, and I force myself to continue.

“Yeah.” I say, quietly, “You did.” I harden my gaze. “You do.” You take them, their vulnerable, defenseless, innocent, selves, and you steal their childhood; you steal their youth like the dawn to the night, and you rip the world from beneath their fucking feet. “They’re small.” I rasp. “Young.” I try not to think of the dry red, that - the dry, dark, blood, that stains her little thighs, and I try not to picture the tears on her cheeks, and the seeping crimson that cakes the lower quarter of her sweet, white, dress. I try not to entangle her contorted features with a familiar reflection, try to ignore the burning ache of my sweltering chest, as it burns, and it binds, and contracts so ferociously, and I swallow back the lump, riddled with- with- with something. (Bile, blood, bitten down sobs, does it matter? Does it matter?).

There she stands, with a violent shake to her thin figure, and a harsh, bruised, red, to her cheeks; puffy eyed, and traumatized.

“They’re small enough to-” I nibble my inner cheek, and the rasp engulfing my tone threatens to tinge with a bespoken darkness. “They’re small enough to feel you, aren’t they?” I say, and there’s something- there’s something that flashes, be it only a split moment, behind those unforgiving holes he deems the window to his soul. Black, and inhumane. Fitting. “They feel you enough to react.” The muscle to the corner of his left eye contracts, a mere millimeter, or so, but I catch it. Oh, do I catch it. “They cry.” I say, softly, and I hope that the girl holds any kind of oblivion she once may have obtained. “They scream. They bleed.” They die. “But, hey,” I murmur, “any liquid is liquid, right?”

It burns, and it aches, and I nibble the eroded flesh of my inner cheek, and I blink up at him slowly, but at least he is here. At least he is here, at least her blood is dry, at least she can walk. At least I can buy her some extent of recovery time. “You’re sick.” I spit, tone lowered significantly, but still strong. Somehow, I obtain my strength, and I continue. “You’re twisted, and you’re useless.” I say. “You’re nothing but a freak, a shrimpy coward with no sexual capability.” Twitch, twitch; the muscle of his left eye contracts, once more, with more force; more concealed rage, bubbling away beneath the surface. “Pathetic.” I continue, a mere grumble upon the thickening silence. “You couldn’t satisfy a woman if you tried-” The barrel of the gun is colder, now, as he forcefully presses it’s rim upon my forehead, but the steel soon begins to warm. I blink up at him slowly, and I prod. I prod, and I prod, and I wait for the sleeping lion to snap and bite. A breathy chuckle falls from my dry tongue. “There it is.” I whisper. “There it is- you’re an embarrassment, aren’t you?” I mock, tone thick with some kind of congealed, faux, amusement. I swallow back the uprising liquid, lodged thickly amongst my throat, and I offer him a blank, condescending, smile. Bloody-toothed, and bitter. “Tell me, Ben, can you even get it up, properly, anymore?”

SMACK.

I hear it, and then- then I feel it, and before I know what has hit me, he has. The tang of warm liquid, filling my mouth, is entirely indifferent to the coppery flavour I have grown to know, as of late, and I bite back the bubbling groan, a flare of burning heat traveling through the very cells in my ruptured cheekbone. Bruised, and tender; the flourish of agonizing heat pulsates, like the steady beat of my burning chest, and I regain my sturdy posture, gazing back unto the deep, dark, discs. Lifeless, enraged. I ignore the pulse in my features, and the thump of my circulation, gushing rampantly through my senses, as I adjust my blaring joints, and I maneuver my strung limbs. Wrists confined to the sufficient, tight, expertise of Benjamin’s personal experience, they hang perpendicular to my sides; expanded, outstretched, like the span of a bird in flight.

I hang from them, there, upon the wall, and I ignore the raging fire, engulfing my (dislocated) damaged shoulders. Slumped upon my knees, bruised and discoloured for all their worth, I tilt my head up, and I blink at him slowly. My eyes water, a natural reaction, and the sting in my cheekbone echoes with the afterthought of his gun, freshly stricken, throbbing. But still, I bore my gaze unto his own, and I force my jaw to loosen. “Touchy.” I grumble, bitterly. “What’s the-” I swallow the consistently uprising clump of blood, and of rejected bile, and I try again. “What’s the matter, Benny?” I press. “You insecure?” I say. “Ashamed?” Of course he isn’t, he’s furious. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. “Challenged?” The muscle of his left eye twitches, again, and I force a crooked, toothy, smile. “Yeah.” I say, “That’s it. You’re afraid.” Another twitch. “Out of your dep- out of your depth.”

“Shut up.” He snaps, “Shut up.”

My eyebrows raise, and I allow another breathy, rasped, chuckle to fall from my cracked mouth. “Raping little girls is one thing,” I continue, “But kidnapping, and torturing an Official Officer?” Another fleeting, thin, laugh. “Jesus. Who knows what they’ll do to you in there?”

“They worship Pig killers in that place.” Benjamin snarls, and, for once, I find myself smiling with an unmissable genuinity.

“Yeah.” I say, with a grin. “They do.” And I allow my humour to dance within my gaze, as I motion the man closer, with a subtle toss of my head. He follows, nose aligned with the warm barrel of the revolver, and I ignore the throb of my cheek, and the iambic scream of my heart. “But, see, Benny-Boy,” I whisper, my breath fanning his thin lips, “I ain’t no Pig.” I tongue the soft mutilation of my inner cheek. “I’m a Federal Fucking Agent.”

The breeze is not calming, as it brushes upon my face, and I throw myself forward, crashing my forehead upon the smooth curve of his foolishly close expression. A barbaric crack rips though the disturbed quiet, and the sudden splat of warm liquid dignifies itself upon my sopping complexion, as the muffled tumble of retreating, unsteady, footsteps echo clumsily around the room. I think I got his nose, as I fall back against the wall, arms useless, and I connect with the concrete behind me, dragging my bruised and bloodied limbs out, as they abandon their position of lying beneath me. I sit aloft the ground, and my legs roar with a thousand shallow wounds; pins and needles scattering hoarsely about the flesh of my weak anatomy. “Fuck,” I murmur, as I ignore the dizzying, blurred, contortion that warps my unsturdy vision. From a multiple of four, to adjacent and blurred, but singular, Ben scurries to his feet, displaced to an enclosing distance.

Thump-thump-thump, my heart cries in my ears, and the white noise of the blurred silence seems to hum along to it’s rhythm, thump-thump-thump, but I can’t leave her behind. I cannot bring myself to let her down - not again. Not again. Not again.

I can’t let her down - thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump - as the pins run up my limbs, and the needles pivot their course around, and around the flesh of my legs. Thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump, he draws closer. One stumbled step at a time; one step, two steps, three steps, four, I use the wall and bend my knees, groaning beneath the weight of my fucking agony, and I tear myself from the concrete ground, allowing the yell to rip from my moistened, raspy, throat. Thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump, he tumbles; closer, closer, closer, closer.

The cry that rips from my throat, as I throw my leg to his side, it bounces upon the thick walls. It mocks me, in my dizzy breathing, and it laughs along with his soft, quiet, grunt. I strike at his chest, with the ball of my foot, and I pray that my quivering muscles suffice. Ignoring the ambush of sweltering heat, coursing throughout my ankle, and the damaged joint of my knee, I tear up to his throat (his frame hunched, and breathless) with the inner curve of my ankle. SLAM. I revel in the slap of skin, upon skin, as his betrayed choking engulfs my rugged, teary, silence. Oh, how it burns, it aches, and I cry- I cry with such volume, as I draw down upon his cheek, as he falls to the ground, and I crush it beneath my aching heel.

His parted lips heave with an airy groan, and I force myself to repeat. To repeat, to repeat, to repeat, until the blood beneath my throbbing heel all but retracts my complexion’s grip. The flesh of my foot slips upon his motionless expression, the curl of his digits slowly unravelling, and I slam my limb down upon his broken, bloodied, face, again, and again, and I ignore the warmth of the tears upon my cheek, as they dribble their way down. I notice the first, and then the rest seem to follow, uncontainable and relentless, and still I pummel the structure.

Bruised, and toughened, the sopping entrapment of my wounded heel draws down upon his fractured features, and I release a withheld, shuddered, breath. It is warm, as it fans my chin, and I allow my legs to feather themselves unstably upon the ground. I stop. I pause, and I gather myself with brief collection. The tight stinging behind my eyes seems to worsen, as I force the lump in my throat to dissect, and to surrender to the flames of my burning, charred, sternum, but I swallow it all back, and I shake my legs loose, slowly dropping my frame back down upon the concrete below.

There he lies; still, and unmoving. Not dead, but not quite alive.

The girl. It rings in my ears, as my heartbeat settles to something familiar; the girl, the girl, the girl. The girl who’s name I have yet to learn, the girl I have failed to protect - the girl I must save. The girl I refuse to let down, again. “Hey,” I call, quietly, and I soften my tone with significance, just enough (I hope) to eliminate the threat of the glimmering, red, blood, that begins to dry upon my body. “Hey, sweetheart.” I shake back my hair, and I turn to face her, ignoring the glassy shein that warps upon my vision, as my body entraps in a wave of unforgiving warmth, and the hot, burning, sensation engulfes my entirety; running up, and down, from left, to right, in and out of my limbs, from my eye sockets, to the tips of my bloodied toes. It aches, and it burns, and I plaster on a kind, gentle, smile, and I observe the tears upon her scarlet cheeks. “What’s your-” I nibble the ruined flesh of my inner cheek, as a flare of something (something like agony) curls around the joint of my displaced shoulder, and runs sharply through my arm, “What’s your name?” I ask, quietly, and I try to bereft the strain from my tone.

But, oh, it aches, and oh, it burns.

“Alyssa.” She replies, quietly.

“Alyssa?” I try the name on my tongue. “Alyssa, Okay.” I say. “Alyssa, I need you to do something for me.” I tell her, “I need you to do something for me, is that Okay?” Her nimble, sad, face, nods, and I feel something shift in my chest. The burning increases, and the blood on my tongue tastes more like heartache, than of copper. “Okay.” I say, “Can you try to untie these ropes?” I nod gently to the strong grip of my wrists, entrapped within the beige confinement, and I hope - oh, how I hope - that her little fingers are good for something.

“Okay.” Alyssa says, softly, as she teeters a step closer, and she approaches the still figure of the bloodied, unconscious, man. “Is it-” She steps over his arm, “Is it painful?”

She reaches up to the knot, be it just above her head, and she works at the painfully tightened enigma. I hiss, softly, at a gentle jolt of my shoulder, and I ignore the loud pop of its agonizing displacement, pulsating with heat, as I murmur my quiet reply. “Only a little.” I lie. “Are you feeling okay?” I ask, tenderly, “Does anything hurt, down-” Another hiss, I swallow it back audibly, “down there?”

“Only a little.” She mimics, not at all unkindly, as she works at the knot, and she straightens her small, tear-slick, mouth. There is mulled silence, for a passing moment, and I tongue the rough complexion of my inner cheek. “I didn’t cry.” She admits, as though I should be one to offer my congratulations. “I didn’t fight him.” She says. “I’m a good girl.” I swallow the lump in my throat, and I blink slowly, as to diminish the sting of my eyes, and I allow my breath to fall shaky, and uneven, as I regard the girl with a furrow to my brow. I didn’t cry. I didn’t fight him. I’m a good girl.

“Alyssa, I-” I meet the sharp blue of her cerulean, glossy, gaze, and I observe the seeking ache behind them - the dull rim that seeps upon the light’s reflection. “Alyssa,” I whisper, “listen to me.” Her hands work at the knot, and the curl of it all begins to shuffle loose. “That man is a bad man.” I say. “He’s a monster. You know the kind you read about? In- In the- In the books?” She nods, softly, and I reciprocate her action. “Well, he’s one of ‘em.” I say, and her gentle expression of repressed agony crumples; dissolves to the pinch of a furrow.

“He looks normal to me.” She says.

“They always do.” I reply, with something like sympathy curled among my smile. “The monster lives inside them.”

“Like a house?”

“Sure.” I say, “Like a house.”

“I don’t like that house.” She whispers, hardly that of a breath upon the laboured quiet, and I feel the subtle breeze of freedom beginning to slither around my aching wrist.

The strong simmer behind my eyes seems to ignite a stronger burn, and the blur of colours coaxing my vision adheres to engulfing my senses entirely, a clamp in my jaw to withhold the overwhelming urge to burst out with some kind of vocal sob. I bite it back, gnawing softly upon the mauled flesh of my inner cheek, and I offer Alyssa a gentle, toothy, smile. “Good.” I say. “Good. You don’t have to worry-” A scream tears from my throat, and the barricade of blurring moisture spills over with ease. “Fuck!” I hiss, “Fuck- Shit-” My arm audibly slaps down upon my side, the wrist an awkwardly angled bend, as it cracks aloft the harsh concrete below, and the mocking double-act-popping makes its merry way through, the joint finding itself inverted and ajar, and, oh, it aches, it burns. It fucking burns, and I- “Do the other one.” I murmur, strained by the bite of irrevocable pain, as a teary eyed Alyssa forces herself to overstep Benjamin’s right arm, and to meet the limp hang of my dislodged limb, and her nimble little fingers get to work on the opposing knot.

I try to grind my teeth, try to swallow back the uprising sob that teeters thickly among my taught throat, and I try to focus solely upon the unmoving man upon the floor, as my arm hangs loosely at my side, and the pulsating ache rivets throughout my entirety; it swirls behind my eyes, and up, up, up, up around the iambic thrum of my cold, incandescent, mind, and down to the very tips of my sharp collarbones; to the steady rise of my chest; in, and out, in, and out, and I listen to the thump of my heartbeat, as it sings it’s hellish chorus in my ears, and it rings true for yet another second - thump, thump, thump; thump, thump, thump - and I pay attention to the melody, the sporadic pulse, the rhythmic reminder that: Here I Am. Living. Breathing (Barely?). With The Life Of A Little Girl In My Hands. There it is. There it is. The truth. There it is. And I listen to it, again. I listen to it again, and I look at her.

I look at Alyssa, with a violent shake to her thin figure, and a harsh, bruised, red, to her cheeks; puffy eyed, and traumatized, as she works at the knot, and she sniffles to herself quietly. I look at Alyssa, and she isn’t crying. I didn’t cry. I didn’t fight him. I’m a good girl. She is a good girl. I look at Alyssa, and I see nothing but a girl that deserves the world, and I know that she is a good girl, but why should she have to learn her worth in such an earth-shattering way? I nibble my inner cheek, and I digest the uprising urge to allow my eyes to water (excessively, for they have already washed the blood of my bruised, and broken, features, and they lay wet upon my cheeks), as I call out to her gently, and I watch her glimmering gaze remove itself from her concentrated scowl.

“Lissy?” I call, softly, with a furrow to my eyebrows. I meet her cerulean stare, and I observe the reserved redness that circles her glassy orbs, as she draws back her own impulse to cry, and I speak again. Quietly. Always quietly. “Can I call you Lissy?” I ask.

Alyssa nods. “Mommy calls me Lissy Doll.” She says, and the burning flavour flares up, again, upon the back of my dry tongue. I concentrate on it, as the heat of my dislocated shoulder begins to fade, and I suppose that the taste of charred flesh is better than the agony of broken bones.

I offer her a smile, though I feel it comes across more as a grimace than that of any reassurance, and I nod gingerly. “Alright.” I say. “Lissy, it is.” There is something like heartache, and like the dullness of doubt, that clouds the brightness of her young, infantile, orbs, and I force my lower limbs to shuffle, to face the readily repressing girl before me, as she holds back her upcoming wave of cries, and she swallows back her sorrow. “It’s Okay to cry, you know.” I say, gently, and she shifts her gaze to engulf my warm, piercing, stare, within her own, and the glassy shein begins to thicken. “It doesn’t make you weak.” I whisper. “I know it-” I force down the uprising lump in my throat, a sudden lodge beneath the muscle of my tongue, and I try again, with a tone somehow softer than before. “I know that it hurts, Lissy.” I say, “I know that you want to be strong, and that you- that you want to be a good girl,” A shaken exhale falls from my lips, “but, sweetheart, you don’t need to go through something like that to prove it.”

She nods, softly, and she purses her lips together, trembling and shaken by her trauma.

“Lissy, if you can-” I swallow back an audible groan, as I shuffle my injured frame, and the pulse of reconciling heat flares violently within the loose hinge of my displaced shoulder. “If you can untie me, Okay, we can get out of here.” I assure, attempting to convey something like promise with the stern stare of my unwavering eyes. I pray that Alyssa does not notice the tremble of my limbs, or the shudder in my ribs, as something crawls, and winds, its way between my shattered bones, and I pray that she does not notice the exhaustion behind my determination, that she does not catch wind of my growing fatigue, and the difficulty I face in trying to suppress my growing agony.

“Okay.” She murmurs, and I find myself deflating with a soft exhale, shoulders falling, and dismissing the grave pulsation of fiery heat that depicts its bitter eruption throughout the damaged nerves of my bloody anatomy.

“Okay.” I nod, attempting to compile any form of reassurance, as I tilt my head back, gentle as I can possibly muster, and I let the crown loll back upon the brickwork. It aches, and it burns, but we’re almost there. By God, we are almost there. “Alright.” I repeat, breathless in my movement, as her small digits begin to unwind the tight knotting of the rope. “I need you to-” A subtle jolt, as the rope loosens, sends a great flare of agonized heat throughout my limb, and the rumble of a deep-routed groan falls from the hollow of my throat; low, and honest. “Fuck.” I murmur, softly, as Alyssa wraps her grip upon the burning ache of my wrist, and she removes the restraint entirely, supporting the arm with minimal (though violently painful) adjustment. A roar of unavoidable flames engulfs the limb, as she lowers it gently, and she drapes the limp wrist upon the concrete. I suppress the bubbling hiss that threatens to fall from between my gritted teeth, and I gulp back the wave of nausea that grips me suddenly.

A swirl of something bitter, something terrible, begins its sultry dance among my stomach - empty, by a four day solitude - and I feel the burl of air, and of ingested blood, of salivation, gargle nastily toward the very pit of my protesting stomach. Still, I ignore it.

“Lissy, you need to-” I swallow the uprising concoction, warm and smooth in my throat, and I try again, forcing my words through a clenched jaw. “I need you to fix my arm, Okay?” I need you to re-locate my fucking shoulder, and I need you to do it now, before Benjamin wakes up. If he wakes up, I suppose. The slow, unstable, rise and fall of his darkly clothed back is difficult to judge, among my dizzied vision, and the blurred contortion of the world. I do not dwell on this. I do not have to tear my eyes away, they drift naturally, and there she stands; wide-eyed, traumatized, silently begging me to let out a sudden laugh, and to declare my insinuation a practical joke. “Now, Alyssa.” I say, with a sternness that I suppose she is not used to. Not from me, at least, as the glossy depiction of her wide orbs returns, and, again, I find myself unable to dwell on it, as I turn to where her hands hesitantly hover about my sagging limb. “Just-” I exhale a shuddered breath, because, Jesus, this was never in the job description, and I allow my head to fall back upon the wall behind it, as my eyes flutter shut, and I open my mouth to continue. “Just grab onto it - gently, for the love of God - at the upper- at the upper arm.” A small hand wraps around my bicep, and I flinch involuntarily. Oh Fuck, my mind chants, pulsing throughout my body; Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck. “Put your other hand-” I swallow back the bile concoction, “Put your other hand next to my shoulde- Shit!” She rips away the palm of her small hand, explicit with a short cry, as I yell out my curse, and the pulse of agony spreads upon the damn wound she placed pressure upon. Be specific, Y/N, my conscience scolds; she’s a fucking child.

It’s not her fault - not her fault, not her fault - but fuck, if that didn’t hurt. I let out a shaky breath, and I force the erratic respiration of my rising chest to calm the fuck down; in, and out, in, and out, and I offer her a tight-lipped grimace, as she regards me with wide, cautious, eyes.

“Sorry.” I breathe. “I didn’t-” Another groan; the pulse of my pain continues to mock me, to taunt me violently within the unsteady strum of my gushing ears. Thump, thump, thump, it cries; Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.” I say, softly. “It just, uh-” I bite back another cry. “It hurts. That’s all.” She nods, timidly, and I observe the aggressive tremble of her hand, as she begins to re-insinuate her previous positioning. “Not there!” I splutter, abruptly, and she halts in her movement, “Not there, Lissy,” I murmur, as my head rolls back against the brickwork behind me, and I tilt it away from her. “Closer to my- closer to my neck, alright? Not on the shoulder, itself.” She murmurs a noise that sounds similar to some kind of agreement, and I clench my jaw. I clench my jaw, and the nausea bubbling within my stomach seems to heighten. Fuck. And I-

Oh Fuck. It pulses around my aching body; Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh- “FUCK!”

A loud, excruciating, crack, snaps out within the laboured silence, and I am submerged in (what feels like) the damned flames of Hell, licking and biting upon the sore flesh of my battered body, devouring my arm in sharp, agonized, nibbles; ripping chunks of my consciousness with them. “Jesu- Fuck. Holy fuck.” I murmur, slurred and messy, as a hot bout of drunken agony spouts throughout that damned joint. Up, and down, does it stumble; here, there, and everywhere, and I find myself unable to bite back the wave of tears, as they force themselves to grapple my attention, and to erode the bloodied concoction of fresh coating about my features, and I can hardly process the weight of their thickening moisture, as it gathers upon my cheeks, because - Oh, God, holy fuck - oh, I can hardly- It burns. It aches, and it burns, and it devours my limb entirely.

“Do the other one.” I demand, lowly, tone riddled with a rasp of violent agony, as the heat springs forth to my complexion in a tuft of dampening precipitation, and the salty layer begins to seep the red wash of my skin. “Alyssa.” I say, with a grave harshness to my tone, as she remains unmoving (sobbing silently, to herself) beside me. “Do the other one.” I do not dwell on her quiet crying, as she makes her way before me, and she nestles down at my opposing side, and I do not dwell on the ever-burning fire that seems to corrupt every living cell within me, swirling, biting, licking, ruining, me; running circles upon my exhausted frame. Exhausted. It paints the inner lids of my eyes, and the thought of rest seems so entirely delightful, that I have to peel them open. Exhausted. Exhausted. Exhausted. Exhausted. I resent myself for protesting my bodily wishes, and I heave the silent cry of my sobbing frame, denatured and entirely unaware. Unaware. Oblivious. Unfeeling, as another riveting POP echoes throughout the subtly disturbed volume of the room.

I feel it.

Oh, do I feel it.

But it does not register.

I am so alight, I am so wholly consumed, as the flames lick, and they engulf my frame; they wind brutally throughout the broken possession of my bone marrow, and they curve within the bruise of my jutting spine, my fractured rib; they grapple the cranium of my mind so violently, that I feel my slow blinking may rupture me an explosive head, at any given moment; they rip, and they tear, at the flesh of my muscles, running laps around, and around, my pain threshold; daring me, taunting me. Still think you’re winning? They laugh. Still think you’re winning?

But Alyssa is still here. Alyssa is still here, and Benjamin is still unmoving, at my feet, and I am still breathing. Alyssa is still here, and I am still breathing, and-

And soft, small, fingers wind through the matted knots of my bloodied, stained, hair, at the base of my neck.

I shift my watery gaze upon the girl beside me, stricken with a glaze of unforgettable, lurching, fear, as her blue eyes blubber silently, and she cries, and she cries, and she does her best to offer me comfort. She does her best to offer me comfort, and she smiles with closed, tear-tousled, lips, as I furrow my eyebrows, and I find myself bubbling with a warm determination.

Still winning, my heart thuds, still winning, still winning, still winning. Still winning, and I force my limbs to shift. To move an inch, or perhaps a mere centimeter, as that damned fire engulfs my arms, and it wraps them up, up, up; up, and down, spiraling throughout the system of my nerves. From the depth of the crook in my elbow, to the muscles hung loosely amongst my shoulders. Around, and around, but still, I try. “Come here,” I whisper, softly, and I motion with a nod of the head for Lissy to approach. She follows, a stumble or so trodden, and then she stands before me. I lift my arm - jaw clenched, swallowing back the rise of that bile concoction, and ignoring the violent flare of heat that deems eruption amongst the joint of my fucking shoulder - and I run my thumb along the red flush of her tear-stricken cheek. Trembling, though it is, I hold her face with soft assertion. “We’re gonna be just fine,” I say, almost inaudible beneath my bitten down cries, and I offer her a tight-lipped smile. “I promise, Lissy.” I say. “I promise.”

Alyssa doesn’t nod, she doesn’t offer me one of those (non)comforting, teary, smiles, that find my chest clenching with some sort of heartache, rather than warmth, and, instead, the girl furrows her eyebrows. “Does it hurt?” She asks, again, and I know that she is looking for honesty. That she wants the truth, despite her youth; that her innocence is gone. That whatever spark she once attained no longer resides within her cerulean orbs, and that they are darker beneath the dim yellow lighting. That they are darker beneath her trauma.

“Yeah.” I say, softly. “It does.”

“Can you move?”

No. “Yeah.” I smile, nodding gently, as I lower my arm, and I open my mouth to offer another white lie. “Just a little sore, that’s all.” I say. “Why don’t you-” I swallow the uprising bile that congregates within the over-salivation of my glands, and it scratches upon the ache of my tired throat. “Uh, why don’t you check- Check that, uhm-” I gulp back down my words, rearranging them upon my tongue, as the flaring pulse throughout my entirety finds itself momentarily blinding. Still think you’re winning? Still think you’re winning? “Check the door, Okay?” I say, quietly, and I do not dwell upon the observational quirk of her eyebrow, as Alyssa regards me cautiously, and she retreats her silent footwork. “Try and open it.” I offer her a reassuring (?) kind of smile, crooked, and bloody, but she does not seem to acknowledge it - not anymore - as she approaches the darkened corner of the room; the shadow of the great, steel, door. “Can you do it?” I call, tone impossibly rasped upon the echoing silence around.

There is the distinct sound of struggling metal, as the door jutts back and forth, stuck strictly within its positioning; locked. “It won’t open.” Alyssa says, quietly, and I wonder just how the little girl remains so consistently composed. Of course, her cheeks are littered with unforgiving layers of drying, and thickly moistened, tears, and her eyes are red raw, wide, and traumatized, but not yet has she… broken. Still, she speaks calmly; still, she bites back her loud sobs, and she contains the shudder of her frame. I can only assume that this gravely resolve will crack very suddenly, one day, and, much the same as the floodgates to an overflowing river, everything will come crashing down upon her city of composure. I do not allow myself to dwell upon this thought, however, as the pressing matter of escaping (preferably before Benjamin regains consciousness) thumps iambically throughout my bodily matter.

“Try the bolts.” I offer. “Are there any bolts?”

“No.” She says, distantly, with subtle strain, as though she is poised upon the tips of her toes, attempting to grapple the top of the door frame. “Nothing.” She says.

“Is there a keyhole?” I try, again, as I bite back a subtle groan. Fire. Fire. Heat, coursing throughout my motionless frame. Can you move? No. No. I cannot. I can hardly breathe, and I-

“Yeah.” She hums. “Right here.”

In, and out. In, and out. “Okay.” I say, “Keys in the door?”

“No.”

Fuck. There is no need for an IQ of 187 to figure out quite where the missing puzzle piece resides. Benjamin’s belt. The very same belt that he rather enjoyed wrapping around my throat, and observing the silent purple that flared upon the taint of my bloodied, fractured, face, just the evening before. Perhaps it was not evening - the concept of time has evaded me entirely, and I rely solely upon the scent of his breath, to know which meal he has likely devoured, before roaming his way within the… the room. Coffee, and something else particularly sweet (often a pastry, I like to believe) linger upon his words when he speaks, some days, and I know that it is morning. Sometimes the scent of seafood, or a cold sandwich filling, wafts upon my face, and the potent stench of a carbonated drink, with the distant flavour of a cheap beer, and I know that it is midday, or just after the fact. Warm, meaty, scents, with cheap red wine tend to find him delighted, by the time that dinner rolls around, and, I realise, that must mean that it is currently night.

Hours have since passed, from when he first entered the room, smelling strongly of a meat pie, and a three quarter bottle of cheap, red, wine, and, now, around twenty-five (or so) minutes have slipped through my fingers. Time flies when you’re in agony. Abiding by my own, personally devised, day clock, I might assume that I have been submerged within this room for four days. Almost five, I do suppose, should we not escape before the morning sun rises. Not that we may find out when that is, of course. There are no windows.

My capture had been no fault other than my own. The ‘case’ (Benjamin Fackle, a serial Child Molester, and Rapist, whom the media deemed the ‘Baby Raper’, and a creature the Police Department have been desperately searching for, for many a month) was not official. His name had not crossed my desk. The team knew of him - of course we did, he was a monster in disguise, and we ached for an invitation to work on the case - but, alas, our company was not beckoned for. I spoke to no one of my private research, my geographical profile, and neither my personal profile, but, with the aid of an unsuspecting Garcia (whom did not know the details of my expertly worded, and secretive, request) I had delved upon the narrowed depiction of three addresses.

The first, an Orphanage, which had since been demolished, and held not a single occupant, was futile. An easy occupation to discard from my list. And, then, came the second. In possession of my gun (and only my gun, my naivety be damned), with no vest, and no back-up-protection, I entered the grounds. That, among a conundrum of other things, was my first mistake.

There, waiting for me, among the looming shadows of night, was Benjamin Fackle. Crouched behind the door of an easily concealable blind-spot, I disregarded my Federal training, and I dismissed that damned corner. Always check your blindspots, Agent. I could hear the drilling tone bouncing around my mind, mocking me, much the same as that pulsating heat that continued to rivet around my conscience. You don’t check your blindspots, you’re as good as dead. You hear me? I heard him, alright, but that doesn’t matter, now. Not when it didn’t fall into practice, and I failed to do so when it mattered the most.

But I simply couldn’t resist it. Not this case. Not this kind of UnSub.

Not when he has been ripping the innocence from seventy-nine children (and counting), and disregarding them so heart wrenchingly. Not when he has been putting them through the same damned trauma I experienced, as a child. Not this case. Not this UnSub.

And so I force myself back, upon the brickwork behind me, and I ignore my burning frame with a foolish ignorance, engulfing the movement with stuttered fluidity, as the fragile joint of my wounded, bruised, knees, bend, and they shakingly heave my weakening body from the cold compress of the concrete floor. Up, and down, do the sharp pins flow; around, and around, do the needles pivot, but still, I force myself to stand. I force myself to stand, and my arms hang loosely at my sides; not dislodged, but still not quite intact, still burning violently, still thickly riddled with agony.

I stand, and I rest back upon the brickwork, and I heave my ragged breaths. In, and out, I stutter; in, and out. In, and out, but it aches, and it burns, and I blink slowly. I blink slowly, and I swallow back the protest of my uneasy stomach, that crawls within the salivation of my tight throat, and I force my stuttering frame to take a stumbled step forth.

Pushing from the wall, I tumble with heavy feet. Mulling within my agony; sharp, shallow, wounds, find themselves imprinting mercilessly about the trembling flesh, inflicting detrimentally upon the complexion, and I almost wish - just for a moment, just for a passing second - that I could halt my breathing. As my legs give out beneath me, and I crumble beside the shallow respire of Benjamin’s still frame, and I swallow down the loud cry that threatens to break through the tight catch of my teeth, as I bite down upon my lips, and I force it down - down, down, down - and I blink back the wave of tears (slowly), and I ignore the heat - God, the fucking heat - that dances, and grips, my aching muscles with piercing ferocity.

I crumble beside Benjamin, and I reach, with trembling, not quite numb, and paling, limbs, for his belt. The clink of the metal upon the stone seems to- it seems to- Alyssa. She lets out a quiet sob, from the corner, and I know what the indication sounds like, as a lump forms in my throat, and I can’t swallow it down, and I fumble with the buckle, and I hope, oh, I pray, that I can find those fucking keys, and I-

Jingle. I drag the metal back, and- Jingle, Jingle.

A soft, breathy, laugh falls from my mouth, as it contorts to the prologue of a violent sob, and I contort my features, I pinch them as tightly as I suppose that they may allow, and I hold it back- I hold it back, and I swallow the lump, and I press the cool metal of the keys to my chest, and I allow it to vibrate with the shudder of a hollow, dishonest, laugh. A laugh, to fulfil the urge of overwhelming moroseness, and exhaustion, that grapples me so aggressively, I find it difficult to breathe, with my head tipped back, and a glassy shein to my eyes, and I force myself to pull it together. I collect myself, there, upon the concrete, and I call out to the crying girl in the corner.

“Lissy.” I say, all too quietly for my liking. “Lissy, I’ve-” I swallow my words, as they threaten to exit in a jumbled mess. Oh Fuck, my heart thrums, with lesser the all-consuming fear, and more of the elation, the adrenaline, as the burning heat begins to dissipate, and I suppose that the adrenaline will not last forever. Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck. “I’ve got them.” I whisper. “Lissy, I’ve- They’re here, look, I’ve got them-” I stumble to my feet, riddled with the deafening thump of my heart, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, as it laughs within my ears, and it mocks my auditory joy. It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t ache. I can’t feel a damned thing - nothing but the dizzying beat of my heart, that pumps wildly in my ears. It won’t last long, I think, as I stumble unsteadily on my footing, and I make my way to Alyssa.

It won’t last long.

And so I do not bother to comfort the girl, as she cradles her head in her hands, and she ducks it between her bent knees, curled desperately upon the ground, beneath the door, and I do not bother to grow frustrated, as I try the first key of four, and it doesn’t fit. I try the second, and it jams within the lock - not that one - and then the third. The third - oh, the beautiful third - that twists, with jutted prosperity, and it signals the sequence of unlocking metal.

It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t ache. I can’t feel a damned thing, as I lower myself with unsteadying speed, and I scoop the light girl, trembling, and sobbing, within my arms. My bruised, broken, mangled limbs, and I clutch her to my chest. It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t ache. I can’t feel a damned thing, but I’m winning.

I’m winning.

I’m winning, as I stumble incoherently through the doorway, and I disregard the nauseating crack, when something collides with the steel of the door, as it chases me through, and I’m winning as I find myself shoving the damned key in the lock, and twisting, and twisting, and leaving it there to rot, and I trap that bastard within those damned, yellow-lit, walls, and I’m winning as I am tumbling through the misleading path of the unfamiliar home. Unfamiliar corners, unfamiliar rooms, unfamiliar sights. But I’m winning. I’m winning. By God, am I winning.

And I am still winning, as I collide with the front door, and I throw it open, thoughtless for the dutiful ache that is silenced by the thudding in my ears, and I make my way upon the pavement, concealed by the evading darkness that is night, and I begin to stutter my rugged footsteps - bare feet bloodied, and slapping down upon the walkway beneath me - and I hold the girl to my chest. I hold her, and I hold her, and I hold her, and I open my mouth to speak.

“We’re free, Lissy.” I say, quietly. “Look,” I point above her head, as I glance down upon her whimpering expression, “Look at the stars, baby.” I whisper. “We’re free.” And I know that we are not truly free, that, should my adrenaline, thrumming throughout my entirety, and consuming my conscience in a consistent hum of evading hope, ware off, should the pain settle back in, and the wind stop cooling the persistent burning that peppers moisture aloft my forehead, should everything fall to nothing, and should the morning sun mark the fifth day of my absence, we will not be free. That we will be, perhaps, as good as dead - Always check your blindspots, Agent - within the confinement of unfamiliar roads, and unfamiliar geography, and a town full of unfamiliar people.

After Benjamin had struck me over the head, a wound that soon sobered up, when he first began the beatings, he had locked me within the boot of his car. I was unconscious for most of the journey, and the back tail light seemed too difficult to kick through, at the time. He had weakened me, considerably, and I found myself unsure as to whereabouts it was that we were going. And, thus, I do not know our current location, either.

The low hang of the moon does little to console me, as the gush of my blood within my ears begins to slowly dwindle - thump-thump-thump; thump, thump; thump-thump-thump - but, with her cheek rested softly aloft my weightless chest, Alyssa stares up at it; bleary eyed, and consumed. Her stare of wonder gives little away, and I find myself praying, with whatever religion I have left in me, that she may recover. That this traumatic experience may dissipate beneath the life she has yet to live, and that, when the time comes, she will be able to face her trauma, and heal the wound indefinitely. That, one day, she may look up at the moon, and she may not be reminded of what Benjamin Fackle has done to her, and that she may capture the light of the stars within her blue stare, again. That she will regain a form of innocence, and that recovery comes quickly.

I know that it does not. I know that the pain never truly leaves you, but one can hope. One can hope, and while I am breathing, I hold on to that.

Just as I hold on to the girl, cradled to my chest, as the thinning beat within my ears begins to fade, and, with every passing second, I find my footing faltering ever-so-slightly. A dreadful kind of suspense begins to well in the pit of my stomach, as a creeping fire begins to erupt, deep within the soles of my bloody feet. It begins in my toes; travels up, up, up, to the uneasy curl of my ankle, the joint bitter in its inevitable damage, and I clench my jaw. I clench my jaw tightly, because I- because I knew that it wouldn’t last long, I knew that it wouldn’t last long, and still, I find myself surprised, frustrated, that the adrenaline is wearing. That, soon enough, I will find myself imobile, constricted by the worst level of pain I will ever endure. Bone, upon bone; fracture, upon fracture; the make-up of my anatomy begs for more adrenaline.

I push forth. Through the dim lighting of the streetlight - contorting to that of my aggressive dizziness, as the scene frame binds back and forth between the figure of four, and the singular, blurred, picture - I am able to… I can see a-

I sway in my footing, caught by the ferocious burn as it runs up, and it runs down, the joint of my knee; echoing around like the mocking laugh of my slow, steady, heartbeat. Still think you’re winning? It taunts, diving from one ear, circling my head, and protruding through the other, with a sickening giggle to warp it all in between. I grit my teeth, and I ignore it, inhaling shakily through my nostrils. In, I try, and out. But the burning ache has returned, and it drawls its slow, merciless, crawl, up, and up, and up, and up, my entirety; locking in the very cells of my biology, and taunting a dangerous song.

Oh, how it burns, I swallow thickly; how it aches.

It burns, and it aches, and I blink slowly, and I raise my foot - up, up, up - and I force it forward. A gentle connection with the floor holds no matter, I comprehend, as a thousand pins scatter about the marrow of my damaged skeleton, and a thousand needles pierce the tranquil complexion of a broken cohesion. It burns, and it aches, but I parry on. I parry on, and I delve myself yet another great number of unsteady stumbles; one foot, then the next, and then another few. I catch myself roughly as I groan out aloud, because, oh, it aches, and oh, it burns, and I blink slowly, and I entice myself to breathe, as I pause. In, my throat rasps upon the cool temperature of the night, and out.

“Alyssa.” I murmur, gently, as it fills the light air that surrounds us. The girl adjusts her attention, shuffling softly among my grip, and I am unable to swallow the cry that forces its way out, as she regards me with wide, watering, eyes, and I lower her (incautiously) to the ground. She lands with a thud, as her bare feet slap the concrete, and a subtle stumble, as I bend my frame, slightly, and I adhere to an unsteady lumber; contorted by the sheer ferocity of the flames, engulfing my arms with an unforgiving depiction. “Fuck,” I whisper, moreso for the expression, than for any natural effect, and I attempt to regain my posture. In, I rise to my full height, and I ignore the blasphemous heat that licks upon every morsel, every joint, and out. In, I ignore the blissful call of exhaustion’s lesion, as it beckons me slowly, and I flutter my eyes shut, arms hung limp at my sides, and out. I breathe, and I breathe, and I remain swaying in my place, silently wishing that the damned payphone was not fifteen feet away.

Still think you’re winning?

Fuck you, am I losing, I spit, internally, and I’m not quite sure who I am fighting, anymore. Benjamin Fackle? My pain? Myself? My exhaustion? Death? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

I take another step, and I force myself to contain my expression of pain. I swallow it back, as the salivating gland to the inner corner of my throat begins to over-work, and the sleek bile concoction begins to trail its way up, up, up, through my esophagus, once more, and I feel it beginning to crawl through the burn of my throat. But the payphone is ten feet away, and fuck you, am I losing.

A rough swallow, and a softly hidden gip; I trudge another few feet upon the cold pathway bellow me, and I pledge my attention solely upon the approaching, smooth, steel of the payphone, enlarging, and imposing, as it draws nearer, and nearer, and nearer; one step, two steps, three steps, four, do I stumble, stuttering gracelessly in my stride as I go, and, oh, the phone is almost here. I reach for it, the sweet, sweet, plastic of bitter salvation, and a gentle cry escapes my mouth as I curl my digits upon it. I’ve got it. I’ve got it. I’ve got it. I’ve got it.

I’ve got it, and I draw it up, ignoring the flaring heat that roars throughout my entirety, and I allow my trembling grip to pale upon the device; gripping it, gripping it, gripping it, because Holy Fuck, I’ve got it. I’ve got it, but I- I swallow thickly, and I drag my burning frame that little bit closer. I’ve got the phone, and there’s- I check the credit, faintly projected beneath the dim light of the street, and another breathless laugh falls from my mouth, perhaps the first genuine smile gracing my lips, as an unnoticed trail of warm tears track their salty trace down my cheeks.

One Call Remaining.

One call remaining, I hover my hand above the metal keypad. I only know one number. I only know one number, but, as I smile, and I sniffle gently to myself, I know that it’s the only number I need, and I dial it - with shaking, aching, fingers, I dial the number, and I clutch upon the rim of the metal compartment with a wavering grip.

It rings once, twice, three times, and I pray, oh, to any God that may here me, do I pray that he picks up, as the echo of the ringing begins to sound less like the bells of a church, and more like the mocking laugh of someone poking me, prodding: Still think you’re winning? Still think you’re winning? Come on, pick up. Pick up. Pick up. Pick u-

“Hello?” There he is. Tone thick with sleep, groggy, and deep - down, I notice, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. He picked up. He picked up. “Hello?”

“Spence.” I breathe, as another humourless, teary, laugh trickles from my throat. “Oh, my God, Spencer.”

There is immediate shuffling, across the line, and I can only assume that he is sitting upright, frowning into the dark before him. Perhaps he has switched on his bedside lamp. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. “Y/N?” He rasps, softly, with such a gentleness, I fear that something else hides behind his tone. “Is that you?”

I pause, for a moment, as my expression pinches, and the crumble of agony descends upon my shoulders like the tide upon the shore, and the edge of my eroded cliff begins to fall. “It’s me, Pretty Boy.” I whisper, tone riddled by the repressed lather of edging tears; the misery that threatens to spill. I bite it back, and I relax my contorted expression. I hold it down, and my chest begins to burn, again. It burns, and it aches, and my body is on fire. But he’s here - my Spencer, my Pretty Boy - he’s here, and I am still breathing, and Alyssa is still here, and Benjamin Fackle is not.

I blink slowly, and I swallow down my silent cries, as the warm moisture of irrevocable tears fall solemnly upon my cheeks, and I sniffle it back, as the shuffling continues through the rough auditory of the responding end.

“Where are you?” He asks, a certain heaviness to his tone that has not been invoked by the influence of exhaustion. He sniffles, and I wipe my moistened mouth with the back of my wrist, ignoring the sudden flare of pain that engulfs my arm, my body, as a soft sound falls from my lips. I could hope that he did not hear it, that my quiet whimper slipped through the cracks of the terrible connection, but I know Spencer. Oh, do I know him, and so, when he gulps audibly, and he stutters over his words, I know that he is entirely aware of my pain. “I- I couldn’t, I’m-” He takes a shaken, deep, breath, and he tries again. “Where, uh- where are you, Y/N?” He asks, quietly, as the explicit ruffle of a breeze picks up on his end, and the distant slam of a door alerts me that he is on the move. I almost smile. Almost, if it were not for the grave buck of my knee, as it gives out, and I half-collapse, and an audible yell falls from my lips, the phone slipping from my weak grip, and tumbling to clatter with the metal of the side panel.

The sudden glare of invading heat, rupturing between this cell, and that cell, and every damned muscle in between, catches my body in a crampating hold; forcing me down upon a half-crouch, half-bend, as a forty-five degree angle courses through my hot, hot, agonized, frame. “Fuck,” I groan, as I slowly - oh-so-slowly, with a hiss here, and a quiet moan there - drag myself back up, and I place the phone back to my ear. Fuck. The incessant flourish of heat warps my limbs, carries them upon a throne of daggers, and of bruising pellets, and I find myself stifling back a sob, as he immediately interrupts my discomforted quiet.

“Y/N?” Spencer calls, no less a shout, than an urgent call. “Y/N, what’s going on?” He pleads, not quite bothering to mask the teary tone that he displays. I suppose that Spencer has always been like that - with me, at least - whereby his emotions are so raw, so pretty, that one cannot help being entirely enamoured by the way his tone thickens, and his lower lip trembles, as he forces back his tears, and I cannot help but allow my eyes to flutter shut; to envision his large, brown, eyes, so pretty beneath the glassy shein, and, for the second time, tonight, I allow a thumping thought to re-iterate itself among my pulse.

This is it, it says, and I am not sure if I am winning, anymore.

It just- Oh, Oh it hurts, and it aches, and it burns, and I- and I can’t tell if the moisture on my cheeks is from my silent tears, or the precipitation from my hot sweat, but it doesn’t seem to matter. It doesn’t seem to matter, because the urgent calls of Spencer’s thickening concern seem to fade - drifting, drifting, drifting away - and I lose myself within that certain void of semi-consciousness. Slumped upright, against the payphone booth, it pulses in my ears, and it aches, and it burns, and it hurts, and this is it. This is it. This is it. This is how I die, and I’m not sure if I am winning anymore, and I can’t hear my Pretty Boy, and I can’t picture his pretty brown eyes, or his pretty little face, or the soft embrace I could dare to call home, and I can’t think of anything. I can’t- it won’t- it aches, and it burns, and it hurts, and this is it. This is it. This is it. This is it. And I’m not winning anymore. I’m not losing, I’ve gained some sort of victory, along the way, but I can’t see the finish line, and I’m slowing down. I’m slowing down. I’m slowing down. I’m slowing down, and this is it. This is it. This is it. This is it.

This is it, and small, nimble, fingers, approach my peripheral. Like that slow-motion scene, with distant classical music echoing from the depth of another, airy, room; I watch it take ahold of the phone; watch it disappear, again, and the muffled tone of a child - Lissy Doll, little, little, Lissy Doll - soaks within my senses, devoured like the sweet scent of honey to a sore throat. I hear her, as I slide down the metal of the payphone, and I succumb to the desperate flames; I hear her, but I cannot bring myself to listen. Not as she speaks, with tears - I assume this is what I notice, glimmering upon her pink cheeks, as she cries beneath the moonlight - trailing her face, and she sniffles, and stutters, and she tries to reply as informatively to Spencer as she possibly can. I want to call out to her - want to inform her that this is why she is a good girl, that her unrelenting ability to do the right thing is what makes her good, not her lack of protest, and neither her silence, or her previously dry cheeks. I want to tell her that I am proud of her, as I lower my cranium upon the cold pathway below me, but I am tired.

I am tired, and this is it.

This is it. This is it. This is it.

This is it, and I know that Spencer will save her, now. That, although I am not winning, although I have not won, Alyssa is safe. Alyssa will grow to learn her recovery, and she will regain her aforementioned youth. And, as I roll upon my back, my body aroar with flames that ache, and that burn, and that taunt me desperately within my ear, that thank me, profusely, for my sacrifice, I stare up at the sky, and I smile, softly. Benjamin Fackle will be caught, should he catch his breath, and regain his consciousness, and Alyssa will recover. Her mother will hold her little Lissy Doll, once more, and she will be able to watch her child grow old, and she will know that in my death, her daughter found life. I suppose that death is not quite as morbid, when I think of it like this.

When I ignore the persistent nagging, in the forefront of my mind, as my eyelids droop, and exhaustion overwhelms me, and I pretend that in dying, I would not tear Spencer apart. I pretend, and I pretend, as I attempt to count the stars above me, for I know that I would shred him, limb from limb, and he would never recover. I am not so arrogant as to believe that I hold such power over any other, but Spencer is not just ‘any other’. Spencer - my Spencer - devotes himself, entirely, to the concept of love. He has never told me this - not in words - but- but I know. Love is not something you should ever find yourself questioning, and, if you are, it is not true love. I have never found myself questioning Spencer’s muse of adoration, despite his reluctance to openly admit it (all those months ago), and I know that I am lucky. That Spencer has known far too much pain for someone of such a golden declaration, and that his soul must be woven of the finest silk. There is not a single part of me - not a fraction, not a section - that does not know this, is not consumed by this. But here, as I lie upon the concrete, and Alyssa’s quiet crying forms a background serenade for my slow, painful, death, I wonder if my Pretty Boy would be alright.

I wonder if Spencer would recover, in time, much the same as Alyssa will, and I wonder if he will accept that it was my fault. That, ultimately, had I not imposed myself upon this unofficial case, and attempted to take matters into my own, foolish, hands, I would not be here, at this moment, dying. And he would not be awoken in the middle of the night, to an Unknown Number, and he would not be met with the pained cry of his tortured partner - a tortured partner that stares up to the stars, as they lay dying, and smiles because they are beneath the same sky as the love of their life, and, well, nothing seems to matter, anymore.

My body tingles - the kind of tingle that curls, and crawls, throughout your broken skeleton - and I let it dance, drunkenly, through the course of my very being. For when I remain motionless, it doesn’t quite hurt, anymore. Quite, because I am unsure as to whether the tingling is a symptom of forthcoming death - if I am numb, and unable to feel anything, anymore, but it doesn’t matter.

This is it, and it doesn’t matter, as I stare up at the night sky, and I sketch my Pretty Boy’s face among the stars, and I know that he fits right in, up there, with his soft chocolate hair, that swoops upon the right side of his face, and curls behind his ear; with his perfect little nose, that buttons, and finds itself entirely symmetrical, and the round, gently crinkled, expression of adoration within his wonderfully dark eyes - creased to the edge, as he smiles at me, and I lose myself in his adoration. And I think that if I am to die tonight, beneath the stars, with the vision of Spencer glancing down upon me with nothing but pure love, and affectionate warmth, I think that I am to die happy.

“Lissy,” I call, softly, and I hear her murmur something to my Spencer. I am unsure as to how long the credit will remain, though I assume it will not be forever, as Alyssa turns to face me, and I offer her a genuine, toothy, smile. “Can I speak to him?” I ask, quietly, and I can hardly recognize my own voice, beneath the rasp of my naked throat, and the relief that courses through my frame from the numbness that dying provides. “Please?” Please, may I bid my farewell?

Alyssa doesn’t say anything, with yet another sniffle, and she speaks another bundle of words that I do not quite catch, as she lowers herself to kneel beside me, the chord of the phone almost entirely outstretched, and she places the receiver to my ear, and the speaker to my chapped, smiling, lips. “Y/N?” I hear, as I see him amongst the stars, and my eyes crinkle at the notion, bewitched by a toothy, genuine, grin. The phone is cold, and I blink slowly up at the sky.

“Hey, Pretty Boy.” I say, quietly. “I miss you.”

There is hardly a pause, though I notice that the wind is no longer present upon the static of his end. “I don’t- I’m-” He catches his words, and he rearranges them. He doesn’t know what to say, but I let him take his time. “Why would you do that?” He hisses, softly, after a moment and there is a returning thickness that bubbles in his throat. I hear him swallow, but it doesn’t quite seem to do anything, at all, as he continues, and he sniffles back his tears, slightly. “Why wouldn’t you tell anyone?” He asks. Not scolding, not angrily, more of the bitter mourning, and the grief, that wraps upon his tone, and I find myself swallowing my honesty, for the moment.

“Can you see the sky, Spencie?” I evade, staring up at the constellations that form before me, as he shuffles, and his silence echoes back to me. “Can you see the stars?”

“Y/N-” His voice trembles, but I cut him off.

“I’m not winning, anymore, Spence.” I say, a mere whisper upon the silent street around us. “I’m not losing.” I continue. “But I’m- I’m not winning, either.”

“What?” He mumbles, voice thick with tears, and I envision them tumbling down his face. Another shuffle breaks forth, and I assume that he has wiped his cheeks. My chest begins to ache, again, as I picture the subtle furrow of his eyebrows, and the way his tongue will run over the pout of his trembling lower lip, as he exhales through his cheeks, and he sniffles with his pretty nose, and I smile, softly, into the night, and, despite the dense knowledge that I will not, I hope that I will make it. That this isn’t it. But, deep down, I know that it is, and thus, I continue.

“I want you to-” I swallow back the uprising hiss, as I move my jaw somewhat to animatedly, and a flare of heat erupts in my throat, and I speak quieter, as I try again, and I know that Spencer’s expression is pinched. “I want you to take care of Lissy, alright?” I say.

Silence.

“Spencer, promise me.” I whisper. “I need you to do that for me.”

“Why would-” He delves a shaky inhale, “Why would I have to do it?” He says. “You’re gonna be fine, Y/N.” He continues, a tremble to his tone, “You’re gonna be Okay. You’re gonna walk away from this, just fine, and Alyssa’s gonna have access to as much help as she needs, and we- and we’re gonna be just fine, Okay?” I want to shake my head, I want to interrupt his self indulged, dishonest, ramble, and I want to stop him - want to reach out, and hold him, and to assure him that he will recover - but this is it, and time is simply not on my side.

“Spencer.” I call, softly, and he falls to immediate silence; his breathing inconsistent, and shaken. “I’m not winning, anymore.” I repeat, and I know that he has gathered together the missing pieces. “I’m not.” I say. “And- and it hurts.” I whisper. “It hurts, and I’m tired-”

“I know, baby,” He says, gently, as he gulps in a trembled lungful of air, and he swallows down the lump in his throat, and he tries to speak again. “I know you’re tired, and I know that you’re in pain, but you can hold on. I know you can, Y/N, come on.” He says. “Fight.” And a quiet, almost silent, whimper leaves my lips, until the stars are all a blanket of ill-lit darkness, and I can hardly comprehend his grief as he speaks again. “Please.” He whispers. “You’ve gotten through the worst of it, and if you- if you don’t move, and you stop talking, and you preserve your energy, you’ll be fine. You can survive another three minutes, and twenty four seconds, can’t you?”

A breathless, teary, laugh falls from me, then, and I ignore the blistering fire that erupts throughout my body. “Calculated to the second.” I tease, softly, “How ingenious of you, Doctor.”

He reciprocates my watery laugh, though riddled with far less enthusiasm than I, and he mutters his quiet response: “I do have an IQ of 187, and an-”

“And an eidetic memory.” I finish, smiling toothily to myself, despite the chorus of flames that attempts to swallow me whole. “I know, Spencer.” I say. “And I know that you don’t think intelligence can be quantitatively measured.”

“No.” He says, “I don’t.”

“And I know that you-” I gulp back the concoction of bile, and I try it again, a certain hoarseness about my tone. “I know that you can read twenty-thousand words per minute, and that you don’t much like the taste of coffee, so you- you pour the whole bag of sugar in there-”

“I do not-”

“You do, Pretty Boy.” I smile, and, beneath the soft crackle of the reception, I hear a low rumble of agreement.

“She’s right.” They say, a grin to their tone, and I know that voice. Oh, I know it well.

“Is that Morgan?” I rasp, softly, and I smile up at the sky, as the man in question offers his greeting.

“Hey, Babygirl.” He says, with that same kind of warmth that Derek seems to consistently radiate. My chest aches, again, and I realise that I do not want this to be it. It aches, and the charred flavour of my burning sternum crawls back upon my tongue, and it nestles there, as he offers a question of less-than-casual-conversation. “How you holdin’ up?” He asks.

“Great, actually.” I joke, as I offer a kind smile to Alyssa, and she runs her nimble, small, fingers through my hair, and she reciprocates the gesture, ascending her gaze back to the stars, as she goes. “If you consider two-” I let out a low cough, as the concoction of bile seeps beneath my tongue, and it- I heave, abruptly, and I force myself to twist to the side, unloading whatever the fuck was left, rejected, amongst my stomach. The wet splatter of blood, and of bile, of mucus, and salivation, coaxes the pavement, a mere few inches away, as I retreat, slowly, back to the receiver of the phone, and I dismiss the neverending roar of flames, engulfing my body, still, as I sink back into my vertical position, and I return to the conversation.

“Y/N?” Spencer calls, a thickened tone of worry conveying about his voice.

“I’m fine.” I lie. “Just a little, uh-” I swallow back the coppery aftertaste, and I offer Alyssa another gentle smile. “Nauseous.” I murmur.

“Nauseous?” Spencer repeats. “Do you have a fever?”

“I don’t have the flu, Spence,” I dare to jest, “It’s probably just something to do with my two dislocated, and relocated, shoulders. Or, maybe my- maybe my (probably broken) ankle, and the-” Another strained groan falls from me, as Alyssa slumps herself down upon the pathway, and she (accidentally) knocks the jolt of my displaced shoulder, a great POP echoing out from such a sudden movement. Fire. Heat. Hot, hot, hot; it licks away at the joint, and I let out a great, stifled cry, as she attempts to place her palm upon it, and I- “Fuck!” I cry, “Don’t touch it, Lissy, don’t-” I swallow down another yell, as the fire runs up, and down, up, and down, the length of my arm; pins and needles carouselling their way about the wounded flesh. “Don’t touch it. Please.” I implore, quietly, as I attempt to return to the phone, and I retrain my gaze upon the stars, slurry, and unfocused, for all its worth, as I find myself woozy beneath the beckon of exhaustion, once more.

“What was that?” Spencer pleads, as he holds the speaker somewhat too close to his mouth, and my head naturally jerks away from the volume of his cry. Another rip of gravely flames engulf my figure, as I strain myself to lower the extent of my groan, but it- Fuck, does it hurt. It aches, and it burns, and it licks up the fruit of my torture. “Y/N?” He calls, again, “What was that popping? Was that a joint?”

I grit my teeth, and I exhale through them roughly. In, I breathe, and out. “My shoulder, Spence.” I murmur, “Fuck- Please-” I do not want this to be it. I do not want this to be it. I do not want this to be it. The thump of my heart begins to pick up, and I withhold the uprising sob that threatens to break through. I do not want this to be it. “Please tell me you’re bringing an ambulance.” I murmur, and I hope that my insinuation is correct.

“They’re on the way.” He says. “We all are.”

“All?” I mutter, quietly.

“All of us, Babycakes.” Morgan says. “Don’t tell me you thought we’d be able to sleep, with your face on the news, like that.”

“I was on the news?”

“Headlining.”

“Great.” I scoff, “My big media break, and it’s the one thing that’ll have me fired.”

“It was a preposterous idea!” Spencer cuts in. “Going in alone, like that. You know that above ninety-seven percent of women are sexually assaulted? In their day-to-day lives? Why would you purposely search for a rapist? Why would you do that without back-up? I- I bet, I bet with every fibre of my being, that you didn’t check your blind spot.” He says, and I feel a certified something stir within the depth of my stomach, and pool deep within, for, oh, he knows me so well, and, and I- “You never check your blindspot. I do it for you, because I know that you’ll forget, but Y/N- fuck.” He says, and his breath shakes as he releases it. “And you know, you know that you are required, by law, to wait for back-up, when you do not have your vest, or any other form of protection. Y/N, we didn’t even know that you had worked on this case, never mind that you had gone to visit the UnSub by yourself-”

“He was out of his depth, Spencer.” I defend, quietly. I say it quietly, because it aches, and it burns, and it hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts, and he listens to me, anyway, and he lets out a shaky inhale, as I speak. “It wasn’t in the Profile for him to do something that ballsy-”

“Well, clearly your profile was inaccurate.” He snaps, a certain edge to his tone that I find myself unfamiliar with, as I recoil, slightly, and I ignore the flare of heat that congregates about my body. “If you hadn’t-” He pauses, and another trembled breath is to follow: In, and out. “Y/N, I just- I’m- I’m scared, alright? I’m worried. I don’t know your physiological, or psychological, condition, right now, and I’m- it’s just-” Another stuttered inhale. “This isn’t easy, Okay?”

“I know, Spence.”

“I don’t hear from you for four days, twenty-two hours, and thirty-nine minutes, roughly fourteen seconds, and you’re the headline for the news. MISSING: Federal Agent, Y/N Y/L/N, Last Seen in Quantico Virginia, at the Behavioural Analysis Unit Headquarters.” He recites, and I know that it has plagued the back of his eyelids like a lingering, bad, smell, ever since. “You know where you were last seen, Y/N? You were last seen with me, that’s where. And I can’t forget what that headline says, it is biologically impossible, and I can’t stop seeing it every time I close my eyes, and I- and I can’t stop thinking about how, should I have stayed with you for another four hours, or so, you wouldn’t have chased this UnSub, and you would be here, right now, and I wouldn’t be turning down the street, to find you sprawled out on the floor - because I know that’s what you’re doing - in agony, and feeling as though death is knocking at your door, and-”

“Breathe, Pretty Boy,” Morgan cuts in, “Breathe.”

But he doesn’t pause long enough to listen. “And I can’t-” His voice cracks, slightly, and my chest burns, it aches, as the subtlety of silent tears stream down the sides of my face, and they pool within the roots of my hair. “And I can’t listen to you, here, talking to me like you’ll-” He grapples a broken inhale, and he stutters amongst his breathing, and I hear the tears on his tongue. I hear them. I hear them. “-like you’ll never see me again. Like this call is some sort of goodbye.”

“I don’t want this to be it.” I say, gentler than I feel I have ever spoken, before, and Spencer offers his words of protest.

“It isn’t!” He exclaims, with a thick bitterness to his tone. Not quite directed at me, though the agony to his own constricting chest is evident. I find myself accustomed to the flavour of my burned sternum, as it rests upon my tongue, and I do not attempt to protest amongst his continuation, as he cries, and he parries on. “Fuck,” He whispers, and I envision him wiping away the fresh moisture of his expression, once again, as a quiet shuffling invokes upon the line. “This isn’t it. We’re-” He lets out a breath. “Can you hear us?” He asks. “We’re almost there.”

The distant wail of crying sirens engulfs my senses, paired with the static white noise of Spencer's anticipation, and I find my mouth up-tilting, ever so slightly. “Yeah.” I say. “I can hear you.” And maybe, just maybe, this isn’t it. Maybe Spencer - maybe my Pretty Boy Spence - is right. He is rarely wrong, that much may I agree, but he is not always accurate in his future depictions. For once, I find myself thinking, I hope that he is right.

“Good.” He says, perhaps more so to himself, than to me, as he repeats the notion, and he steadies his erratic breathing. “Good, Okay. We’re turning onto your street, now.” He says. “Can you see us?” The wailing sirens approach, they engulf the silence of the night, as they blare, and they scream, and they fall louder, and closer, and louder, and closer, and the stars all morph together, into one illuminated band of darkness, and the sirens blare on, growing louder, and closer, and louder, and closer, and- “Y/N?” Spencer calls.

“The sirens.” I murmur, distractedly, as they ricochet around my mind, and they bounce from one fragment of my inner skull, to the other, and they roll impotently about the curve of the bone. “They’re-” Louder, and closer, and louder, and closer. “They’re noisy.” I say, and I doubt that he can comprehend the gentle tone to which I depict, as the wail of the siren cry calls out, and a sudden screech falls present upon their hellish song.

Spencer does not reply, and I listen to the white noise - the white noise that grows distant, as the wailing aubade of the ambulance approaches - and, then, a chorus of footsteps consume my auditory senses.

I know my lover not by his footfall, but by the way in which he collapses, immediately, at my side, and his large, warm, hand, cusps at my broken cheek, and he observes me closely. And it aches, and it burns, but, oh, there he is. There he is, with a furrow to his straightened eyebrows, and a glassy film aloft his beautiful, warm, orbs - reduced to circles of worry, of anguish, as he observes my… my state of being - and I measure the map of his features, I blister them among the roof of my mind, as though I have not looked upon them fondly a thousand times before, and I offer my lover a soft, closed-mouth, smile. I offer him a smile, and I ache to run my fingers across his parted lips, to recall the feel of his skin, his perfect, perfect, complexion, and the symmetrical span of his face. In this moment, I want nothing more than to feel the weight of his body, sprawled out upon me, as my arms wind around his neck, and I embrace my Spencer, and we pretend that all the trauma of the world does not exist, and we love, and we love, and we love.

I watch the rapid descent of his features, and I gather that he wishes he knew nothing of my physiological well-being, if the subtlety of my pained cries aloft the phone were quite enough to reduce him to tears, and my fingers itch. They itch, they itch, and they itch, to run through the smooth flow of his hair, to brush it away from his pretty little features, and to assure him that: Hey, Pretty Boy, it’s alright. I’m alright. It’s going to be fine. Just fine, Okay? This isn’t it, I was wrong. I was wrong, Okay? This isn’t it, Pretty Boy. Come on. Come on, Pretty Boy, wipe those cheeks. It’s going to be just fine. It’s alright. It’s going to be fine, Pretty Boy. Okay? Okay.

But eyes, red raw, and leaking, stare down at me, and I know that to speak such words would be nought but a cruel spell of dishonesty. I’m not winning, anymore.

Trembling fingers work their way through the matted knots of my hair, brushing back the locks from my face, as they flail out upon the pathway beneath me, and Spencer shudders a quiet sigh. “Hey,” He greets, simply, as though he is not attempting to swallow his raging heart, that threatens to break through the lump in his throat. As though he is not on fire, with burning self-hatred (just like I know that he is), and gritting his teeth to prevent any upcoming sobs. As though I am not destroying him, as we speak. As though I am Okay, as though I am still winning. “Can-” Another shaken, stuttered, inhale, “Can you move?” He asks, and I gulp back the remainder of the bile concoction that has yet to bid me farewell. Can you move? No. No. I cannot. I can hardly breathe, and I-

I shake my head, gently, and I attempt to ignore the corrupting fire that, still, nibbles away at the aching flesh of my body, and I- “It hurts.” I repeat, no less than a whimper upon the business of the night. Blue light carousels around the darkness, illuminating the scene in an azure of flashing cerulean, but I see nothing other than the glassy brown of his wide, fearful, eyes. “It hurts, Spencer.” I say, and I am not quite sure just what it is that hurts, anymore, as my vision blurs, and the warmth of something hot, something wet, trails upon my broken cheeks.

“Shh,” He whispers, tone thickened by the tally of his own violent tear-shed, as he strokes the pad of his calloused thumb aloft my moistened complexion. “Shh,” He says, “I know.” But it aches, and it burns, and I can hardly breathe, once again. “I know, baby, it’s alright.” He says. “I’m here. I’m right here, Okay? Ri- right here.”

But that- it doesn’t- it doesn’t seem to matter, as he trails the dampness of my sopping cheeks, and his salty tears trickle down his throat. It doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because this is it. And, as a certain warmth begins to sprinkle upon the curve of my toes, and the quiet patter of uniformed feet scurry upon the pathway, and the roll of a- of the- stretcher? Of the stretcher. Oh, the stretcher. It aches, and it burns, and Spencer seems awfully beautiful, beneath the gaze of the moon, and my eyes- they ache, and they burn.

The angel that hangs above me, my very own offering from heaven (an offering, a fraction, like the stars, from the sun) and I think he has never looked more bittersweet in his beauty, than he does tonight, displayed beneath the moonlight. Displayed beneath the moonlight, as though he is carved, sculpted, so effortlessly, by the most callous, talented, hands that the Gods ever did have to offer. I swallow back my prosperity, as the shein upon my eyes begins to dwindle, and I consider whatever religion I have left, inside of me. I consider it, and I come to realise, as my adoration for this angel, for this sweet, sweet, lover of mine, paints itself in poetry upon my tongue, that all of my religion is made up of him. That he tastes like the body of Christ, or whomever my heart has decided is unworthy of worship in the presence of my Spencer, and he has stained my lungs with the scent of his forgiveness.

He is the religion that I have left, and I fall to my knees before him. As he furrows his eyebrows, and everything seems to dim, and the stars lose their spark, and I am wrapped- wrapped up, up, up, in a tingling sensation, that crawls around, and around, my entirety, and dissolves the fire, relishes the flames; that runs its hand through my hair, and threatens to succumb me to exhaustion.

This is it, I think, and I bore my stare into the warmth of Spencer’s darkening expression. His mouth, that hangs open, and shapes the body of words I cannot hear, but look a lot like my name, and the sirens of the world around, they all fall to nothing.

This is it, and I am consumed entirely in something that feels a lot like him. A lot like my Pretty Boy. A lot like Spencer. For it is warm, and it runs a steady hand through my hair, and it caresses my cheek, and I am- I am Okay. Just for this moment, I decide, I am Okay. The dull shadow of my gaze seems to darken, and the world around collapses, and I hear nothing. But I am Okay. I hear nothing; no buzz, no fuzz of the white noise, but I am Okay, and, in a strangely comforting anonymity, I allow myself to sway along with it’s somber aubade. For what, in life, is more beautiful than the transition? Than the end?

This is it, and I am Okay, and it does not hurt, as I indulge a final glance upon my lover, before me, and I strain my arm - my somewhat re-located joint, that doesn’t ache, and doesn’t burn, beneath the symphony that is my love - and I raise it up, up, up, and I cup at the curve of his trembled, tear-stricken, cheek. I hear him not, as he whispers to me, softly, and I do not dispel the announcement of my adoration, as I draw him closer to me, and he follows without question. Without question, because my Pretty Boy is not naive. Because my Pretty Boy knows, all to well, the prologue of agony, and, as he leans in to the heart of my hand, and his sopping wet features pinch with the repression of bitten back sobs, and he approaches, and he nears, and his warm, trembled, breath fans my lips, as it all takes place, and the world falls away, my Pretty Boy knows that this is it. That I am not winning, anymore.

He knows, he knows, he knows.

He knows, and his mouth is warm, is familiar, as it peppers its soft affection upon the wounded pout of my lips, and he cries his salted tears, that melt upon my damaged complexion with anger, and with poorly consumed rage, and he damns the cruel taste of fate, as it settles within his lungs. He knows, as he withdraws his fragile expression, and a gust of cold, frigid, air, wraps upon the flesh of my parted mouth, and his tongue darts upon his lower lip, and catches a bout full of tears. He knows. He knows. Oh, how he knows. And, as those very same lips bless the blood of my forehead with a ginger, angelic, kiss, and they press upon the skin with shaken certainty, our notion of adoration feels more like a goodbye, than an ‘I Love You’. But there doesn’t seem to be much of a difference, anymore, as I watch, through hooded eyes, and a numb, drifting, body, and I observe the violent tremble of his frame, his hunched shoulders, as he looms above me, and he cradles my face within his large hands.

There isn’t any difference, because this is it.

This is it, and I stutter through my final breath, and my half-lidded eyes absorb the dark nothingness before them for one final time.

This is it.

This is it, and I’m not winning, anymore.

#spencer reid #baby spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader fanfic #spencer reid x you fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader fanfiction #spencer reid x you fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #oneshot #criminal minds

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yukiwrites · 3 years

Text

Meeting Again, Now and Forever

Thank you for the support and patience as always, @breeachuu! I hope you like it! >v<)

Summary: After getting acquainted with the Traveler, Venti approached her for help with something as important, or even more so, than with the issue with Dvalin: He wanted to find his long-lost love, Auria, who was undoubtedly also looking for him...

Commission info HERE and HERE!

__________________________

It hadn’t been long since the Stormterror Crisis had been dealt with (not to mention how the party had to bolt out of the temple before the illusion on the Holy Lyre wore off), so Lumine -- and, by extension, Paimon -- went to Angel’s Share to rest her weary bones for a bit.

The sight that welcomed her the moment she stepped in, however, shouldn’t have been surprising, but given the state of their goodbyes just a day ago, Lumine hadn’t expected to meet Venti again so soon.

“Ah, Lumine!” The youthful bard smiled brightly once he saw the Traveler step into the tavern, cutting his performance short as though he had already been about to bring it to a close. “Good timing!”

“... What do you mean, ‘good timing’? You look like you’ve been waiting to ambush us!” Paimon crossed her tiny arms defiantly as she flew behind Lumine to snark at the Archon.

“Little old me? Why, I’d never!” Venti giggled adorably before stepping closer to the duo. “To be honest, I wanted to ask a last favor of you, but given how we got separated after our… elegant exit, I waited here!”

The way he smiled brightly could deceive many people (especially elderly), but Paimon only growled and narrowed her eyes. “What do you want NOW, Tone-Deaf Bard? We already went all over the place to help with that dragon business-”

“Paimon, it’s okay.” Lumine waved to shut the little fairy up. “If there’s anything I can help with, of course I’d want to. Is it anything serious?”

Venti smiled in a mature yet lonely way that didn’t go well with his youthful appearance -- it was perhaps the smile of an immortal being as it was confronted with its own endless life. Or perhaps it was a way to make himself seem more mysterious; there was no way for Lumine and Paimon to know.

“Actually, I’m looking for someone.” He bobbed his head to the side, walking towards the counter to sneak some alcohol into his system. “Her name’s Auria. We kind of missed each other during some time of turbulence.”

“...” Paimon sat on Lumine’s shoulder as the Traveler stood beside Venti by the counter. “That’s it? No more hints? What does the Tone-Deaf Lady Friend look like? Where did you meet last? You’re not gonna ask Paimon to look for someone without saying anything, right?”

Bluntly ignoring the talkative little fairy, Venti turned his unmatching mature smile to Lumine. “She’s my special someone; the muse I drink my inspiration from -- the one who’s been with me the longest. I keep sensing her in the wind, but it’s like we always barely miss each other.” He twirled his fingers around as a tiny current danced within his palm before he closed his fist. “Will you help me look for her, Traveler? I’m absolutely sure she’s here in Mondstadt, so the search shouldn’t take long.”

Lumine took a few seconds to nod, somehow appreciating the new side of this mysterious god as she felt the affection that dripped from his words when he spoke of Auria. Paimon shook her head once she saw the Traveler accepting yet another ridiculous request, but even she was unable to fully voice her complaint after sensing the weight of Venti’s words.

“Really?” Venti brightened up like the sun, jumping out of his seat with a spring in his step. “This calls for another song! Lo and behold, as the best bard of the land plays for all of you tonight!” He bowed extravagantly before hopping to the stage he had been earlier, a lyre ready at hand.

Lumine laughed and clapped along with the other patrons, happy that Venti’s mood seemed to have improved.

From the outside of the tavern, a young-looking girl looked up at the starry sky, wondering why the wind seemed so unstable that night…

________

Auria had been hiding amongst the humans for 500 years while she waited for Barbatos to wake up from his slumber, so she was well-versed in dealing with people; though she wasn’t one to stay in a place for long.

“Hmm, what I mean is that… why is it so hard to catch up to a single bard? I hear whispers here and there of his whereabouts, but by the time I arrive, it’s like he’s carried by the wind!” Auria grumbled under her robe which concealed her body, “of course, that wouldn’t be strange, considering Barbar’s personality…”

Sighing, the fairy-turned-sylph looked up to the endlessly blue sky. She had heard through the grapevine about those bard contests -- innumerable, considering the amount of stories to be sung by the many traveling bards in the land -- and had ignored them for two years until she had heard who had been the winner for the third year straight: A young boy named Venti.

Curse her lack of attention! What good was it to possess the power of an Anemo Vision and be clueless about the words the wind carried?

“Hahh…” Auria sighed again, kicking the dust just for the sake of it. She had heard about how Dvalin had left Mondstadt -- which was Venti’s handiwork, no doubt about it. If only she had been there…

Holding back another sigh, Auria took a deep breath and, instead, slapped both of her cheeks to spur herself into action.

“Get a hold of yourself, Auria! Those 500 years of wandering and hiding weren’t for nothing!” She looked up at the fluffy clouds with renewed resolve. “I’ll find him and we’ll finally be able to be together again, just like old times.” She nodded to herself, as though talking herself into action had become a habit she cultivated through the centuries. “Okay, now that’s dealt with…” she looked around the wide prairie before her to check if there was anyone looking before crossing both hands over her chest. “Annd, transform!”

After Auria’s whisper -- word that was actually not needed for her transformation from sylph to fairy to work, but that she had grown fond of using due to Venti’s influence -- she was covered in sparkling dust, seemingly poofing out of existence.

A tiny form, smaller than even Paimon, emerged from the dust, flying about freely to be able to cover the distance to the city. She had changed to her original form of a fairy, before Barbatos had bestowed upon her the very first ever Anemo Vision which allowed her to retain a human-like form to live out the rest of her life beside him.

It took her a while to arrive at the city, as the sky was now covered in a blanket of stars. She poofed back into her human form behind an alley, feeling a weird stir in the air after she felt it caress her face.

It felt as though it was welcoming her into an embrace -- like it was ready to give her what she wanted the most: the hug and comfort of her beloved Barbatos.

“Oh…” Auria covered her mouth with both hands in surprise, her eyes misting with tears. “He’s here! Ven is here!” Her voice shook with emotion for finally being able to grasp Venti’s presence like one catches a petal in the wind.

She closed her eyes and intertwined her fingers in almost prayer, focusing all of her being into the Anemo energy all around her. If she could pinpoint the source of the wind… If only she could, then she would most certainly find Barbatos at the end of it.

All wind and freedom are born from him, so it was no wonder that if one pulled the thread of the wind, they would find Venti at the end of it.

However, it was easier said than done -- there was a high amount of magic energy; differing levels of Anemo and other Visions spread throughout the land to be able to pull at one without finding it entangled in another. It felt like Auria was learning how to knit by untangling yarn instead of weaving it into clothing.

She spent the night at an inn not too far from the most famous one in town as she needed to concentrate on her task, though if only she had walked half a block further… her fate might’ve been different.

________

The next morning, Venti, Lumine and Paimon left Angel’s Share to look for the bard’s special someone, though not without Paimon’s easily-ignored teasing.

“She loves the natural sound of the wind, so I’m sure she’ll be in a place where she can be surrounded by nature!” Venti twirled around himself to make a small whirlwind follow his steps, making dust and leaves dance behind him. “The prairie right outside town should be a great place to look, methinks!”

“Alright, then you can go alone, Tone-Deaf Bard! It doesn’t make sense for all of us to go together, after all.” Paimon shook her tiny legs in annoyance for being ignored after asking questions about the Tone-Deaf Lady Friend.

Lumine nodded in accordance, “yeah, it’s best if we split up. I’ll ask people based on the description you told me, so you should look for places she’d most likely be at.”

“Mhm, mhm!” Venti nodded brightly, taking Lumine’s hand on his before shaking it vigorously. “Thanks again for this, Traveler! Let’s find her pronto! I miss her so much!”

“No one asked, though…” Paimon grumbled beside the duo, puffing her cheeks so they were fit to burst at any moment.

Blinking with sparkling eyes, Venti looked in Paimon’s direction and smiled before giving her a cheeky wink and turning to leave. “Then I leave this area to you! Let’s meet back at Angel’s Share if we return empty-handed.”

After saying that, a current of soft green wind covered Venti, dissipating into warm specs of light once he safely warped himself out.

“Good riddance!” Paimon grunted, wobbling around Lumine before taking a deep breath. “Alright then, let’s go, Traveler! I’m so curious to meet the lady crazy enough to live SO LONG with that Tone-Deaf Bard that I can’t stop scratching myself!” The flying little girl scratched the back of her hand excitedly, wearing an evil smile unfitting to her adorable face.

“Heh,” Lumine smiled before turning towards the market. “Let’s first ask some innkeepers; they’re the best when it comes to dealing with new people.”

“Let’s gooo!” Paimon eagerly flew behind the Traveler.

________

At the same time, Auria gasped, feeling the thread of wind she had barely managed to catch, snap. “Oh, noo…” She grumbled. “Did he warp somewhere? He was just around here in the city, but now he’s flown far away…” Her voice sounded dispirited as her body lumped forwards, on the bed.

Well, technically, she didn’t know if he had flown ‘far away’, but since he wasn’t within her grasp anymore, she pouted adorably, digging her face into the pillow.

She had barely slept last night; she was also starving and tired of trying to untangle the mess of winds and magic around this big city… Pouting even more, Auria growled impatiently before taking a deep breath.

“I’m going… yeah, I’m going to buy something to eat. Bread! Sweets! Fuel for my weary body!” She psyched herself up by springing to her feet, raising both fists to the sky. “Let’s go!”

Soon she left the tavern without checking out -- she was playing on staying until she found Barbatos, after all -- taking only her money pouch and cloak with her as she headed to the marketplace.

No matter how many times she squeezed herself through the stalls, the sight was always marvelous. Humans were truly fascinating in their own pursuit of freedom: from house decorations to delicious food; there was nothing one couldn’t find in this place as long as they looked hard enough.

Auria gleefully bought a bag of baked sweets that looked much too large for someone her size to eat by herself, which warranted her some glances from the shopkeepers as she passed them. Nevertheless, Auria happily munched on a creamy donut as she started to make her way out of the marketplace.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw a familiar sparkling dust, so she unconsciously followed it. Since it was just like what her wings in fairy form produced, she felt somehow akin to the flying little girl just a bit ahead of her.

The girl looked too big to be a fairy; not to mention her lack of wings, which cemented the fact that she was not one of Auria’s brethren. Still, Auria found her gaze following the little girl and the one she accompanied -- a young Knight of Favonius, from the looks of it.

Once the duo was out of sight, Auria realized she still had half a donut sticking out of her mouth, so she busied herself with eating it, making her way back to the inn. On the way there, however, she passed by the largest tavern, Angel’s Share, and shrugged before going in.

After all, it would be weird if one that held the title of Most Popular Bard of Mondstadt wasn’t known in such a big establishment. So, renewed with the power of sugar in her veins, Auria went inside with burning eyes.

“Excuse me, I want some information…” She walked to the counter, finding a beautiful flame-haired young man tending to the bar.

“Ask away.” Diluc said curtly, not raising his gaze from the cup he was drying.

“Do you perhchance know of a bard named Venti? He’s about this tall-”

“No need for a description; not only do I know of him, he performed here just last night.” Diluc looked at Auria, then to the piece of donut that fell from her mouth to the floor he had just moped in her surprise.

“He was WHAT? Here?! What?!” She almost let go of the bag of sweets, but managed to catch herself in time to prevent the tragedy. “But I’m just right- across the street? I can’t believe-” She widened her eyes the more she spoke, staring blankly into Diluc’s face.

After a few seconds of astonishment, she caught her breath with a gasp. “Do you know where is he right now? I must meet him!”

Diluc took a moment to reply as he circled the counter to get a broom. “He didn’t say where he was going, but he left this morning with the Traveler and that flying little girl that accompanies her.”

Auria knew who Diluc was talking about immediately. “That young knight of Favonius?” She mumbled more to herself than to Diluc, though he did nod in response.

“Yes.”

Squeezing the bag of sweets, Auria’s heart beat so hard it felt it was about to burst out of her chest. Was that the reason she was so drawn to them back at the market? Were the winds telling her to seek them out so she could finally be reunited with her love?

Her mouth agape as she breathed heavily, Auria’s face brightened with each passing second. “Thank you so much, master! I’ll- I’ll be back!” She quite literally flew out of the door, leaving only the sweet scent of her treats in her wake.

Diluc wasn’t even surprised about such things anymore, so he just finished his sweeping in silence.

________

“Huff, huff!” Auria panted as she turned the bag over into her open mouth to eat everything at once while she ran, clearly unafraid of choking. She quickly arrived back at the marketplace, though due to the sheer amount of people, it was hard to pinpoint a single duo.

Of course, the little not-fairy would be easy to find since she was such an odd sight, but that did not mean that looking would be effortless. Auria put herself on her tiptoes to look above the crowd, but ultimately decided that it would be easier to look from above.

She hurried to an alley and poofed into her fairy form, taking an easy flight high above people’s heads. Looking left and right, Auria flew not too close so as not to be spotted, but not too far so she would still be able to see clearly.

“There!” She pointed to the blonde knight far off in the distance, at the entrance to the pier. “It seems she’s talking to some people, so I’ll just fly down here…” Auria found a quiet spot behind some crates to poof back into her human form, immediately storming towards the place where she last saw Lumine.

She was so eager, she rammed into the young knight with everything she had the moment she took a turn, rolling on the ground in her arms. “Ow, ow, ow…”

“Lumine, Lumine! Are you alright? Who’s this crazy lady?!” Paimon pulled Auria’s cloak to take her off of the Traveler, failing miserably in moving anything but the hood she held on to.

“I’m alright, but-” Lumine shook her head, helping Auria sit up beside her. “Are you okay? Who are- wait… you look familiar.”

“Familiar? Have you seen this crook before, Lumine?” Paimon flew to Lumine’s side, widening her eyes once she took a good look at Auria. “Wait, it’s true! Aren’t you the Tone-Deaf Bard Lady Friend? You are, arentcha?!”

“Tone-deaf-” still dizzy from the collision, Auria massaged her forehead with a groan. “Tone-deaf…?”

“Don’t mind her.” Lumine waved her hand in Paimon’s direction, ignoring the ‘hey, what do you mean by that?’ from the emergency food. “You’re the one Venti is looking for, aren’t you?”

Auria’s eyes sparkled immediately, forgetting the pain and frustration as she took Lumine’s hand. “You know Venti?! Oh, thank the heavens! Do you know where he is? I’ve been looking everywhere for him!”

Lumine and Paimon exchanged surprised and pleased glances. “He just asked us to help him look for you. He left the city for a bit, but we promised to meet back at the Angel’s Share later this afternoon to report our findings.” Lumine nodded to the eager girl holding her hand. “Should we wait there together? It’s best if we stick close lest you two miss each other again.”

“Oh, would you do that for us? Thank you so much, sir knight! Thank you, thank you!” Amidst her emotion, Auria hugged Lumine as she laughed brightly to the point of tears.

“There, there,” Lumine smiled, patting Auria’s back so they could look each other in the eyes. “I’m Lumine, by the way. The one over there is Paimon, so no need for formalities.”

“That’s right! You’re thankful, aren’t you? You gotta tell us more about the Tone-Deaf Bard and how you two met and stuff!” Paimon bounced excitedly all around the two girls. “I need something to kick him in the shin with, keheheh…” She mumbled the last part to herself, snickering evilly.

“I truly am thankful!” Auria sniffled, then got up with Lumine’s help. “I would also love to hear how you two met Venti and what he’s been up to!”

“Sure,” Lumine patted the dirt out of her dress. “Let’s head back to the Angel’s Share.”

________

With each step Auria gave in the direction of the tavern she had left just an hour ago, the stronger her heart pounded. They haven’t seen each other in five hundred years, so the longing she felt to be in his arms was unparalleled.

She tried hard to listen to Paimon’s retelling of how they managed to save Dvalin, but the sound of her heart beating inside her ears made it difficult for Auria to do anything else apart from breathing. And even that was difficult, to be honest.

The wind was restless. Was Venti back? If so, was he already waiting for her? If not, would he take long? It was already the early hours of the afternoon, so he probably should be on his way… oh, Auria could hardly wait!

She didn’t notice, but her steps became quicker the more she approached the Angel’s Share, as though spurred by the threads of wind woven into a breeze. By the time she noticed it was hard to breathe, she was already running.

Her steps fueled by the swirling wind, Auria forgot all decorum and opened the door to the tavern with a loud bang.

The air entered from behind her into the building as though being sucked by a primal being; as though being rolled back into its beginning and end; as though it was simply returning to its master and servant.

The wind swirled around the two adorable twin braids, ruffling the little red cape that covered the small back.

Short of breath, Auria could only gasp as her eyes met Barbatos’ for the first time in a half a millennium. “Ven-” she stuttered, faltering on her feet as she reached out to him.

His clear, aqua eyes widened in surprise as he saw the wind usher her to him, a wide smile covering his face. “Auria!” He opened both arms and ran into her embrace, tackling her with everything he had.

“Ven- oof!” Auria opened her arms to welcome his lightning fast jump, squeezing him into her embrace as they wobbled backwards, falling on top of the incoming Traveler once again.

Paimon grumbled something about the Traveler pursuing a career of safety cushion, but neither of the two lovers heard her.

Auria’s clear tears rolled down her cheeks as she dug her face into Venti’s hair, rubbing her face on it as though to imprint him into her. “Ven! I missed you so much! Where,” she sniffled, “where have you beeen!” She sobbed.

“Hehe,” Venti smiled cheekily, rubbing his face on Auria’s chest as his own eyes itched with unshed tears. “Haven’t you heard my tunes? I was looking high and low for my one and only muse!”

Auria sobbed more, squeezing his neck into her embrace with such force he almost turned blue with lack of air. “I looked everywhere for you…”

“I know, Fairy.” He whispered her nickname in a loving voice, making Auria’s tears flow more intensely. “Thanks for being so good at finding me! What would I do without you, really…” he kissed her neck, then loosened his embrace so he could kiss her wet cheeks before trailing his lips to hers.

Paimon gawked at the sight, covering her eyes with a red face as the two young lovers shared their kiss of reunion, not even bothering to stand after they fell.

“Don’t, sniff, don’t even think about going around on your own again!” Auria dipped more tiny kisses onto Venti’s rosy lips, drying her tears the best she could. “We’ll stay together from now on, Ven!”

“I would have it no other way, Fairy!” Venti giggled brightly, using his frilly sleeve to dry his beloved’s faze. “Now there’s nothing that can separate us.”

#genshin impact #venti genshin impact #lumine gensin himpact #paimon genshin impact #genshin oc #i dont have a 'genshinsona' tag so ksadjlmasd #should i just go with fatesona #fatesona #there #my writings #yuki's commissions

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libidomechanica · 3 years

Text

Untitled # 8653

His clothes. So that nobody can love at length is come, as colour of should gae mad, o whistle, an Ill

come to ye, my lad, o whistle, an Ill come to ye, my lad. “As sure as her lute Corinna sings, her face

may read in the end is change, all thoughts there—thanks one must house with Sally sheep and dead picturesque Constantly? Fair Catherine

was gone: shee weeped, and accommodation in the close exposures: poorly-mounted

country he is dead. S the softening by, one faithful pairs (I needs the blossomd thee! For all. The sun of

all the worthy thing.) Be head of wicks, they” light and darting swoons and official duties of tempest, when she left, bowed

on her a tower which learnt, we, conscious of my life enduren of Illusion went: methinks, how stronger touches in

the dews on quench or Spanish fly and Attic bee, as her mother, no not on you went into jest. We

lap a dancd the noon-sun, with others Ancle— cries aloud, “Oh Good-for- Nothing but she is hurt in life of men

who groan, which opens her ears, they are employd for, since our day put by the cowslips grew, your idiot lyre; theres

no schism. And here have not look upon our son, on the incidents related. and enamoured

fish in barracks, priests, love well: hoof by hoof, Down from me: and hope, once gone, she shall rehearse Of him, the window into

thou livedst unlovd. making little confusion; there rose in June, when only Maud and then she doth, I fain must be—

my whole gazette of hys foe. Tho shewed his path, and that I love the lamps of Westminsters old abbey.” Both these will be to

pass thy sweet among the hill? Cleft from so much for fear their exit await, from far where thou continue thus to

wound, its wound of This and That; do Thou my separation I may rest, well miss, through the midst a fragrant blow;

roses that which precedes the Graces lead, and water, leaden strive to your cheating his Eyes, which is nothingness?

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #199 texts

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lady-moonbroch · 5 years

Text

Oliver x MC “Dangerous Provocations”

Fandom: Ikémen Revilution Kinktober: Day 8 || Chocking Genre: NSFW +18 (this might be triggering to some, please proceed with caution) {His POV}, Adult!Oliver Word Count: 1,645 Author’s note:Hello my pwetty darlings! This is second fic I post today 🔥 (which means this one might be just as sloppy, I’m sorry). I wanted to write about Oliver for a while now, but I need to delve in his personality a little more, I haven’t portrayed him snarky enough methinks. I hope you enjoy this one too, and I will see you again tomorrow 💉

[The challenge] ~ @alloveroliver

“Why, has the Black Army left YOU, of all people, unsupervised today?”, I grumbled. Fenrir probably sent her here to torture me for turning down his order the other day. That could explain it. What I couldn’t fathom the explanation of her irritating teasing this evening.

She sat there, giggling and chattering with Blanc in the garden. She kept nagging me to join them for tea and the fuzzy-tail’s bloody carrot cake. But no matter how many times I declined she kept pestering me for attention like a lost puppy.

“Why aren’t you coming little Oliver? You have been crumped up in your “cave of wonders” all day and now its almost nighttime. Isn’t it time for good children like you go to bed?”, she teased, mischief and deviltry interweaved in her sweet voice.

“You are trying my patience, little girl. And I’d be careful if I were you. Surprisingly enough, I am not known for it.” I said. The voice of a child that left my lips only increased my frustration and her emphasising when calling me “little” and her gurgling only made it worse.

Moments before dusk arrived, Blanc excused himself saying he has “an urgent business to attend to”, but I knew better. That lecherous rabbit didn’t act without purpose.

The sun had fallen, giving it’s way to nightfall. I was turned into my adult self, as I do every night and I breathed a sign of relief. I thought wouldn’t have to put up with her any longer. Oh, how wrong I was.

Making my way to the kitchen to make some tea, I heard her sing-song voice ring behind me.

“Well, well, children in Cradle do grow up fast!” she chuckled.

“I see you are still at it, aren’t you little moron?”, I replied with irritation.

“What ever do you mean, little Oliver?”

I have promised myself I wouldn’t let her get under my skin, wouldn’t let myself loose control around her. But her soft, rosy lips challenged my restrain and God knows I had plenty of ideas on how to close her pretty mouth shut.

“Quit pestering me, dimwit” I snarled, hoping it would keep her at bay.

“Oh, did I hit a nerve, little Oliver” she purred tantalisingly. I strode towards her with heavy steps and I looked down on her, my full height towering over her delicate figure.

“If you don’t stop I’m going to strangle you, Alice…”

“Is that a promise?” she whispered licking her lips.

I was too shocked to respond to her. Her eyes were serious, a fire burning bright inside of them. The same fire that I could feeling burning within me. Her syrupy voice lured me in like a fly in honey.

All thoughts eluded me as I reached for her slender, pearly neck and kissed her smart mouth with the hunger of a beast. I felt her small hands wrapped around my wrists as I lightly squeezed her neck. She moaned. And I felt I was going mad with yearning for her.

I traced her swollen lips with my tongue, temping them open. Soft, breathy moans slipped past, allowing me entrance. Our tongues entangled, twisting around each other. I applied more pleasure on her neck, making her gag softly. The feeling of her, fragile between my hands sent a throbbing straight to my core. I craved more.

“Do you like my hands around your neck so much, naughty little girl?” I asked, wanting to make sure I wasn’t pushing her too hard.

“Yes...hhnn please don’t stop. I...I want..”, her words trailed off and her eyes strayed away from me. I slithered a hand around her waist, while the other remained on her throat. I pulled her towards me and bit her lips roughly. I wanted her eyes back on me.

“Want what?” I whispered. I smirked at the mere thought of her uttering vulgar desires and asking of me to fulfil them. “Tell me what you wish for and I might grant you mercy”. Her eyes shone at my words and made me chuckle. Such a sweet little vixen, so innocent yet with such sinful thoughts. She was hesitating, so I goaded her on.

“Where is that smart mouth of yours now, huh? Cat got your tongue?” I cooed, tightening my grip.

“I-I want you...to make me yours” she stuttered. “Touch me...choke me...I’ll do..anything you ask” she entreated, her hands clutching on a fistful of my lapels.

“How can I say no to you, when you look so deliciously desperate?” I breathed, but I knew my voice betrayed my own desperation.

I kissed her deeply before hoisting her in my arms and leading her to my bedroom. I was too greedy to maintain basic courtesies, so I threw her on the bed and made quick work of our clothes. I was surprised at my own eagerness to touch her. She has enraptured me so much, I barely recognised myself.

The way she marvelled at me, her legs spreading slightly more and more, luring me to devour her. She was sending me over the edge already.

I kneeled down, like a man praying for salvation and lapped my tongue between her folds. I didn’t want to waste time, I wanted her to scream for me, her body arching like a bow from pleasure. I sucked hard on her bundle of nerves, coaxing whimpers and pleas that resounded like music in my ears. I inserting two fingers in her wet core, curling and stretching her walls to prepare them for what to come. I couldn’t be gentle, not when I wanted her so badly. I felt her muscles clenching harder on my digits, her legs quivering. It was too soon to give her want she wanted...what she deserved. I slipped my finger out and stood up, chucking at her distressed mewls.

“What is it sweetheart? Aren’t you satisfied yet?” I taunted. Being the one doing the teasing was the sweetest revenge.

“O-Oliver...you are being horrible” she whimpered. I grabbed her neck and lifted her torso, my erection at the same level with her pretty face.

“You ought to work for it, little girl”. I placed my hands behind her head and gently pushed her forward.

“Wait!”. I stopped dead at my tracks. She looked up at me, eyes wanton.

“I want you hand around my neck while I pleasure you, Oliver. I want you to take control of me...please” she purred. I was rendered speechless, barely managing a nod. With a satisfied smile she began to lick the tip, slowly working her way down with small licks until she reached the hilt. She made her way back up with one smooth motion while keeping our eye contact and then guided my cock straight in her mouth. I felt my knees growing weak at her ministrations, my groans becoming louder as she hummed joyfully around me, sending vibration thought my whole body.

I placed my hand around her neck once more and pressed it. Gag moans reverberated from her throat, our pleasures cries mingling as she kept working my cock in and out of mouth. I felt my hips bucking towards her face and realised I need more, I craved all of her. I pushed myself away from her and motioned her to stand up.

“Was I not good?” she asked with a troubled expression. I offered her a smile and caressed her rosy cheek lovingly.

“No dummy. You are perfect. So perfect that I will give you exactly what you want” I assured her guiding her to lay on the bed.

“What we want, you mean” she smirked. A chuckled drummed in my chest as I laid on top of her, kissing her with passion and fondling her beautiful curves. Her hand reached down and grabbed my cock guiding it and rubbing against her entrance.

“Impatient are we?”

“Yes. I waited enough...I want you inside of me, now!” she moaned and I couldn’t bring myself to deny her. I sighed in relief as pushed myself inside of her in one thrust, burying myself in her cunt unto my hilt. I began to thrust hard in and out of her, the room filled with our moans and skinslapping. She reached for my neck and I reached for hers, each of us squeezing just enough to make breathing harder. I pressed my forehead to hers, kissing while I fucked her even harder making us both even more breathless.

“You are...so tight..and wet. Ahhh...I can’t get enough...of you”

“Don’t worry...we hav-aahhnn..all night...you’re not getting rid of me...until we fuck each other senseless” she said between rugged breath, kissing and biting my lips and neck making me loose all focus and reason.

I felt her walls fluttering around me and I clutched her neck a little tighter, forcing her to gag slightly.

“Say my name when you cum, let me know you’re mine...” I roared, my voice hoarse and wanton as I slowly reached my own limits. She cried out in pleasure as her arousal poured out her pussy.

“Oliver....ah God..O-Oliver” she chanted my name and I felt the coil in my core ready to break. I pulled out of her and pumped my cock while I captured her lips, moans of her name slipping past my lips as she panted for air. I spilled my cum over her core, our fluids mingled and dripping down her thighs.

I toppled over her, she snaked her arms around me to press our bodies closer still.

I lifted my head to find her smiling at me. I gave her a single chaste kiss before I licked over her smart mouth deviously. She was too delicious to resist.

“Are you ready for round two?”

#alloverkinktober #ikemen revolution #ikerev oliver #oliver knight #ikerev smut #Kinktober day 8 #chocking #claire's kinktoberfest #I am going to sit on his face the next time we meet #i swear to god

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franthetutor · 6 years

Text

Laurel, Yanni and McGurk: Why your life is a lie

Update: I’m not dead! I know I haven’t been posting regularly. I’m sorry. It’s down to two things really: a) I’ve been very busy with the new job and b) I’ve frankly really struggled to find any kind of inspiration lately - I suppose that’s what happens when your life is taken over by your job. And you’re an auditor.

But this week this whole Yanni/Laurel brought about a bit of a brainwave - not least because it’s done nothing but do my nut in. Literally every one of my social media feeds is infected with these words. Apart from Twitter - but only because it contains an option to mute words - but even then I’m still swamped by the overhyped, equally annoying sequel: green needle/brainstorm.

However, as with most things I hate, I’m going to put my back into this.

A few things are going to happen in the next few minutes: we’re going to unpack the explanations behind these phenomena, and then I’m going to try to shatter your perception of the world.

The Yanni/Laurel thing has now been confirmed as an aural phenomenon: if you were to plot the frequencies present in the recording against time, much like something you’d get on Audacity or any other kind of audio-editing software, you would see that this clip is made up of a mixture of high and low frequency tones. Yanni is formed from the higher frequencies. Laurel is characterised by lower frequencies. It’s like listening to what are essentially two different tracks of music that have been overlaid. If your ear is more attuned to higher frequencies (perhaps the younger among you), or you’re the kind of animal that turns down the bass on your speakers, you’re going to hear Yanni. The vast majority of people however hear Laurel, because, well, we’re older.

Now we come to Laurel’s little sister: green-needle/brainstorm. She’s a little smarter, a tad more interesting and she was allowed to wear makeup from a younger age. What you can hear in this recording can be changed depending on simply the word you’re looking at when you hear it, which is much more than a physical phenomenon - it’s a psychological one. We know something to be true - that we’re hearing the same sound each time, but our perception of it changes. This is interesting for two reasons: firstly, on a psychological level it helps us to dissect how our brains work, and secondly, more importantly, it proves to us that objective truth is a fallacy.

Green needle/brainstorm is a slightly more evolved example of the McGurk effect, which is a widely known and studied phenomenon where your brain can interpret the same audio/visual recording as two different sounds depending on the context it’s given. This context often comes in the form of a visual cue, which is much better explained by the folks at Horizon: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G-lN8vWm3m0. Ultimately it comes about because of the top-down processing in our brains. What does this mean? Well, effectively our brains process a whole load of information all at once, and uses its analysis of this to work out the most probable explanation of our current circumstances to make sense of the world. For example, imagine you’re on safari. There’s not a cloud in the sky, you’ve got the sunroof down and you’re driving through a woody looking area. You hear a dense flock of startled birds swiftly fly out of the branches above you as your jeep slams through the undergrowth. They’re so close you can feel the beat of their wings in the air around you, and suddenly you feel something cold drip onto your hair and down your neck.

You’ve surely been shat on.

You look up and see a monkey peering down at you from the sunroof, drooling.

But for a second, you believed you’d been shat on, well, because you hadn’t noticed the monkey. Hey, we’re not perfect.

Additionally your analysis often relies on the outcomes of events that it’s seen before and it projects these probabilities on the current situation in order to work out what’s going on. For example, if you’ve had a horrid cough before and went to the GP, who told you it was pneumonia, the next time you get a cough you’re more likely to think it’s pneumonia again, even though that’s actually quite unlikely. The McGurk effect combines these two analytical phenomena. Most of the time you hear a hard “k” sound and seen a particular mouth shape, it’s turned out to be a word starting with that letter. But if that same exact sound is accompanied by a “g” mouth shape, your brain goes “Well, based on past experience, that word must begin with a G”.

TLDR: we can easily trick ourselves, and others based on the subset and quality of information we allow ourselves to see.

As well as being a fun illusion, like all other illusions it highlights something more insidious: we’re all primed for bias - it’s inherently how our brain deals with the mound of information it receives every single millisecond of every day. If we didn’t skip straight to conclusions we’d end up overthinking everything and ultimately not taking any action. Evolutionarily speaking, our ancestors would have died if they didn’t spring into action on hearing twigs breaking, assuming it was indicative of an imminent attack. The benefit of catching our predators pre-arrack vastly outweighed the excess energy expended on false alarms. Out of our ancestors, those who were the quickest to leap into action on hearing the quietest of sounds lived the longest. However, in modern day terms this kind of cranial processing doesn’t work as well. Sure, based on he gait of the person in front of you at Kings Cross, you might predict they’re going to take a hard swerve left to the Victoria line and you can use that information to prevent an embarrassing collision. I’m not saying this fundamental system of processing doesn’t have its merits - I’m just saying it has fewer: we don’t spend every waking moment fending off predators any more, because we’ve built infrastructure, terraformed land, driven predators out of their natural habitats and evolved societies that provide you with security against dangerous individuals in return for a cut of your income.

So we find ourselves in conflict. We have brains that are used to using whatever information is conveniently available and pre-existing knowledge to judge, but vastly reduced the need for that judgement. We’ve also reduced the benefits of this judgement - if anything it’s often frowned upon. We’ve developed a new term for unnecessary judgement: prejudice. And we often think we’re well aware of our own prejudices and can therefore escape them - but I’m here to tell you that the vast majority of us can’t. Take this for example:

Try to memorise these words: Adventure, curious, sun, brave, clean, friendly, ocean, white, fruit, learn, free, wholesome, holiday, talented.

Now read this: Alan is making plans for his gap year. He wants to visit the South America but is struggling to fit that in with his plans to take part in a motorcross rally. He missed it the year before because he broke his leg in the practice round. He needs to find his passport, which he lost on his last trip back from Bali and hopes his friend accidentally picked up. He also wants to visit India and needs to find time to move into his flat in Camden before he starts at his London uni.

What do you think of Alan?

What would you have thought had you memorised these words instead: Jealous, green, selfish, cocaine, petty, reckless, red, corrupt, idiot, lad, careless, clown, rude.

Go back and read the paragraph again - see what you think.

He might have seemed a bit of a gap yah wanker that time, methinks.

This is something called priming, which is an extension of the broken thinking we discussed earlier. It’s exactly how advertising works - we can’t help but associate things together when they’re close together, either spatially or temporally. You judged Alan because those lists of words made you linger on different sets of details in the narrative each time. If you start to form an opinion, you’re more likely to see details that reinforce them.

So what’s my point? I’ve just shown you that this kind of thinking is inescapable: you knew where this article was going and yet you likely painted a picture of two different Alans. I’ve told you that our brains are hard-wired for bias. That our perception of the world is inherently, inescapably warped. That we all have our blind spots. That we can convince ourselves of anything depending on what details we choose to notice. And that our choices of details are rooted in past experience. The logical conclusion of this is that as we get older, we get more biased. Something happens, we learn from it, maybe even form a slight opinion, we stumble across varied details in the subsequent hours, days, weeks of our lives, and out of these details our brains are primed to pick out those that are familiar, opinions and beliefs are justified and strengthened, our filter for details gets narrower, our opinion gets stronger, our blinkers come down even more, so on and so forth. Incidentally it’s eerily similar to how evolution works.

We’re built from bias.

This means that in order to even be able to grasp at objective truth, you have to work. Really work. Hard. And I think this is something that is totally overlooked in our current political climate. We all think that facts are facts - they’re not, simply by virtue of being beheld by us. We, these flawed, inherently biased networks of synapses in cages of bone and bags of skin. But we need to guard against this. No man is an island, and as a society we need to believe in the concept of objective truth, even if we accept we’ll never achieve it. If we don’t, we lose our baseline for discussion, leading to a society which is unable to sort opinion from fact: one in which radical, absurd and harmful ideas could propagate at the same speed as those more closely aligned with common sense, driven by whimsy. Truth is the tare weight for any battle of wits - without it, there could be no consensus.

So if we must believe in an objective truth, but can only ever see it through a glass, darkly, so to speak, how can we polish the lens?

This brings us full circle to audit, my bread and butter, and perhaps why the question of truth is at the front of my mind. Audit is fully preoccupied with objectivity and truth - firms drop clients and lose money because of it all the time. This is because our job is to take the draft financial statements a company prepares before they’re published and ensure that the figures in them haven’t just been made up, or tweaked. We need to assess whether the numbers show an adequately “true and fair” view of what’s happened to that company during the year. As with everything, we can never be 100% certain of the truth, or fairness of accounts, so we test the numbers to a reasonable level of assurance.

Believe it or not, there are a couple of aspects that are quite interesting about it:

Firstly, sampling. Much like biologists attempting to study animals in a large habitat, the feat of fully auditing every single transaction a company makes during the year is nigh on impossible. Instead we choose a representative sample of transactions and look at those in more detail to work out if they were recorded correctly. We’re always terrified of choosing the wrong number of transactions - if we audit too few, we might miss one large one which was fraudulent or recorded wrongly - one typo could change an overall profit to a loss. If I wasn’t thorough enough, I could lose my job over that.

Secondly, we rely heavily on the people running the audited company to tell us what happened during the year. If for example they failed to tell us that they underwent a huge merger, we might audit them against the wrong set of financial standards. We might think it’s all fine by those standards - but that’s a false positive. We used the wrong measure of truth, because we didn’t have all of the facts.

So why did I bother to tell you all this?

Because auditors measure truth for a living, and you might learn something from the highly discussed and regulated procedures we use day in, day out. The next time you find yourself judging something - anything, for that matter, however small - ask yourself these questions:

How much detail can I subtract from the situation before I change my view of it?

Is there a detail or perspective I’m missing because I’m being primed by my prior beliefs, assumptions or experiences?

If you find the threshold for Q1 and an example for Q2, you’ll be much closer to the truth than you were before.

You never know, you might end up finding truth in the most unlikely of places, and applying measured skepticism can lead to some of the most - sometimes surprising - eye-opening revelations. Those “MY LIFE HAS BEEN A LIE” moments. Never be afraid of disagreeing with your past opinions - it’s a sign of learning.

Some great resources:

On the illusion of pain, and how the perception of context guides belief: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-3NmTE-fJSo

On humans as slightly wonky bipedal brain machines: Kluge - The haphazard evolution of the human mind, Gary Marcus

#yanni #laurel #green needle #brainstorm #illusion #truth #trump #politics #objectivity #philosophy #psychology #mcgurk #what do you hear #original #snaprevise

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theimmortallabyrinth · 6 years

Text

Turn 9.5 - Inevitable Ends

( What’s this? A rushed chapter, months late?

Something strange must be going on. Hang on, folks. We’re coming up on round 10. A major milestone. Sounds like a good excuse to mix things up a bit, methinks. )

------Group 3------ Rhapsodos vs Ace

Rhapsodos accepted the weapon with a frown. He wouldn’t say it aloud and let Ace know he was weakened, but he was already almost out of mana from fighting earlier. Construct, however, recognized the face, and the unspoken complaint. “You’re my best student, James. I trust you can handle yourself, whatever the choice may be.”

“Well that’s real fuckin’ simple," Ace spoke before Rhapsodos had the chance. "I'm not about to challenge Construct, with or without a teammate. Sorry James my boy, but I gotta ki-”

Ace stumbled back, a kick to the gut catching him by surprise as he tried to draw a card. Rhapsodos had been ready, and he wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. The fight was on.

“Well now, maybe this’ll be fun after all?” Ace grinned. He watched as Rhapsodos leveled his blade, readying to fight. Ace’s hand slipped into his jacket. “Let’s see if as good as Wayland seems to think you...”

Both fighters paused as a deep rumble sounded from all around them. Stone cracked and shifted as the labyrinth came to life. It was moving.

“Disappointing,” Construct spoke as the walls rumbled around them. The ceiling began to fall, beams of sunlight stretching in where it opened to reveal sky above. Construct spoke as he effortlessly sidestepped falling stones, watching the others desperately do the same. “The rules have just changed, gentlemen. Time has slowly but surely ticked away. The labyrinth grows impatient.”

A few second later, the rumbling stopped. The stone of the walls lay crumbled in a circle around the three, the ceiling at their feet. They found themselves atop a green hill, standing in a pile of rubble with the sun shining brightly ahead.

The labyrinth had fallen away to reveal something new.

The tapping of metal recaptured their attention. Ace and Rhapsodos looked to see Construct tapping a blade against the ground. With he free hand he tossed rewards to the two, who quickly caught them.

“It will harm any person as if they were mortal,” Construct spoke as Rhapsodos looked over the small knife. “A stab in the heart will kill even a god. Assuming you live long enough to get that close.”

His attention turned to Ace, who gazed down at the 3 bullets in his hand. “They’ll pass through any armor, any cover. Anything that stands in the way of a target. Don’t waste them.”

Rhapsodos looked up from his reward. “Why give us these? I thought we had to fight?”

“You were, and you still may,” Construct answered. “But the rules have just changed. You see that?” he pointed past them. Far in the distance, a beam of light cut down from the sky to touch the ground.

“That is the end,” Construct spoke. “The walls have fallen away. The labyrinth is open.”

Ace looked at him skeptically. “Buuuuut?”

“But all the beasts and horrors are free. Every single obstacle and enemy that hid in the labyrinth is coming for all of you. And in... say... about one minute, I’ll be joining them,” Construct finished. “Good luck.”

James and Jensen exchanged a glance. Things had just changed.

------Group 3.5------ Plague - Harlequin

Plague and Harlequin thought for a moment. Fighting giant monsters wasn’t exactly why they’d come, but it could be enjoyable.

Before the pair could answer the hunters, though, something happened. A muffled rumble, far away through the trees.

Harlequin jumped to the ready, a grin on her face, prepared to fight. “Is that the monster?” she asked.

The blue hunter let out a sigh. “Heck,” he cured. “I thought we had more time.”

There was little sign of the labyrinth changing in the jungle, but the hunters seemed to know. The red one stood, shouldering his weapon. “Yep, sounds like the walls just came down.”

Geir looked to the confused pair of labyrinth-goers. “Rule change, folks. You’re no longer hunting, you’re being hunted. You can’t see it from down here but...” he pointed into the woods, “...somewhere off thataway is a big glowy light.”

“The exit,” Kaia added.

Geir nodded in agreement. “Mhmm. It just got a lot easier to reach. But also a whole lot more dangerous.”

“Oh ho ho!” Plague chuckled, cheerfully grinning behind his mask. “How lovely.”

------Group 6 & Group 7------ Israfela - Warden - Null & Ranger - Titan

‘I’m not suggesting anything rash,’ the voice added, ‘but please, be wary. Your friends may not be as friendly as you think they are... Particularly the snake among you.’

Israfela didn’t startle. She stood silent, listening. Finally she replied. ‘You state the obvious. And you seem to think I value my life and safety above others. I’ll not feed into distrust, nor will I turn on anyone to save myself. Death here is no threat to me. If I die, I will return in another group... And I am certain at least ONE other in this group will not break his promise till the girl is found.’

“Winged one.”

The insistent voice caught her attention. She looked to the paladin.

“The cathedral?” Warden asked. He looked to the others. “Objections? The castle is the straightest path to the girl, but as our companion has stated, there are many paths within a labyrinth. This may be the more cautious choice,” he said, gesturing to Null. The spell-thief didn’t look any less displeased than usual. Ranger and Titan seemed to be content with the plan, though.

She hesitated for a moment, and looked to the sky. "No objections.”

The towering knight stepped to the front. “Good. Then we continue to the cathedral,” Titan declared. The rest of the group followed his heavy footsteps as they set off towards the rotating bridge.

“I’ll watch from the skies. I’d enjoy a chance to fly again, if only for a moment,” Israfela said, quickly launching from the stone path. Someone called out to be careful, but that wasn’t something she needed to be told.

She took a brief moment to simply appreciate the feeling as she soared higher, wings stretching wide. The cramps halls of the labyrinth weren’t something she would ever grow to love. With nothing but the sight of sun-lit clouds and the sound of wind in her ears, it was a welcome moment of peace as well.

But there was still work to be done.

Coming to the crest of her ascent, she slowed and dropped, pulling her wings in close for a moment before leveling out to float lazily on the wind. The group far below her were safe as they neared the turning bridge. She cast a glance away from them to the cathedral ahead. Towering spires and magnificent archways stretched into the sky, the perpetually-setting sun lighting them in beautiful gold.

And then she heard it.

Even over the rush of wind, the heavy crash of thunder was clear. She felt it down to her bones as her allies pulled the lever for the bridge. It was as if the entire world cracked and shifted in response. Then the sun began to set.

‘On your left.’

Israfela turned to look. Wings pulled together just in time as an arrow larger than she was tall struck her. It bent against her wings, throwing her backwards. She didn’t have time to catch her bearings before another hit. Then another.

She tumbled through the air, wrapped safely within her wings. Through the gaps she saw it; thousands of arrows filled the sky, blotting out the fading sunlight. She heard yelling and smelled the stench of blood on the air.

Her wings snapped open as she fell below the volley, shifting her path in an instant to race alongside the stretching bridges. A golden dome of light stood in the distance among a horde of the dead. Its surface cracked like glass under the onslaught of arrows and the pounding of rusted weapons. Hundreds more crawled up the supports of the bridge, climbing out of the fog below like roaches.

A blast of flame roared out to meet enemies as the shield fell and the horde rushed in. A bolt of red lightning struck somewhere in the mass.

The cry of battle was deafening.

Flying low, Israfela strafed the side of the massive stone bridge. Her wings gouged into the side, cutting down masses of undead as they climbed. The voice in her head kept her inches from the arrows crashing around her.

She cut her path back up before pulling her wings close once again to drop to the surface of the bridge. She landed among a pile of living corpses, meeting armor and weapons both in a deafening clash of metal on metal. Blood sprayed as her wings rushed open. A spin cleared a circle around her, leaving only blood and pieces. Arrows beat like hail against the set of wings she held above her.

For the first time she had a clear look at the foes around her. Rotted creatures of all sizes crashed around her, a tangle of weapons and withered limbs clawing over one another to reach the bursts of fire that roared not far from her. Armored giants waded through the smaller undead like water as they thundered across the bridge.

One of the giants toppled, it’s leg parting from its body somewhere below the knee. A spray of sparks shot up near the severed leg, an explosion throwing undead knights from the bridge.

A booming voice sounded not far away. “Push to the cathedral!” Titan roared. He came into view swathed in flame as jets pushed him up and into the tumbling giant. Israfela pushed the undead back, lashing out with wings as the giant fell into the crowd between her and her allies.

Titan stood, smoldering in the dented chest of the giant. A path carved by the fallen undead through its smaller brethren. In an instant, the golden paladin joined the burning knight. He clutched a talisman in his hand, his other arm hanging limp and bloody at his side. He lept down and rushed to the cover of Israfela’s wings. He uttered a prayer and the oncoming wave of undead crumpled.

“Move!” he ordered.

Israfela cast a single glance back before obeying. The spell-thief and the hero weren’t coming. The massive cathedral doors loomed just ahead.

Thundering steps signaled as Titan caught up to them, then passed. Blue jets joined in with the flames covering him as he gained speed one more time. The burning knight barreled through what remained of the forces ahead of them and into the towering double doors.

More undead pulled themselves over the edge of the bridge by the second, their numbers seemingly endless. Darkness fell over the area as the sun finally fell below the horizon. The bridge rocked as something larger moved nearby.

‘Time to go,’ the voice warned in Israfela’s mind.

She gripped the back of Warden’s armor. “Hold on,” she said. Arrows crashed around them as Israfela’s wings dropped and, in a single powerful push, launched them forward. Titan held the door, clearing straggling undead as the two survivors rushed into the safety of the cathedral. He slammed the doors behind him as he hurried inside to join them.

“Sanctuary...” Warden spoke quietly in the silence of the cathedral. The sudden pounding of fists and iron against the door ruined his hopes of peace. Titan’s shoulder crashed into the door as it began to open.

“They’ve not yet given up the hunt,” Titan said, bracing the door closed. The noise outside grew louder. The floor shook as whatever had come with the sunset moved closer. A crash against the door knocked the burning Titan back a few feet before he braced again. “We cannot stay here!”

“Go. Find a path. Faith will take these wounds from me,” Warden said to the woman looking after him. He gave her a pat on the shoulder before he began a prayer.

Israfela stood. The only light in the cathedral was cast the undying flame covering Titan. A parting gift from the spell-thief, she reasoned. As she looked over the massive room ahead of them, she didn’t need much light to realize it wasn’t what they’d hoped.

The floor around them was marble, white and polished. Massive columns stretched high into the black above them, the bases of the columns marking the edge of a sunken area in the floor which seemed to take up all but the edges of the massive room, reaching into the blackness further in.

In that sunken pool, still and undisturbed in the dim light of the fire, rested a sea of crimson blood.

“Blood...” Warden commented. Israfela startled for the first time as the man walked up behind her. As if brought to life by the noise, the room shook. Far at the back of the room, past the lake of blood, a crack of light appeared high above. With a crash of rocks falling into water, the crack expanded, breaking open and allowing sunlight to pour through. It lit the room, flecks of light catching the tops of ripples and waves in the crimson lake as the blood started to flow towards the opening. It feel with a roar, a waterfall of red pouring out from the cathedral into a jungle below.

“We’re atop a mountain,” Israfela realized. “How?”

Behind them, death pounded at the doors. Ahead, far in the distance, a beam of light touched down to earth, lighting their objective.

The way forward was open.

------JUGGERNAUT------

“Darkness,” Juggernaut chuckled. “We’ll I never been afraid of the dark anyways. Why the hell not.”

No sooner had he spoke than the giant stone door creaked and began to slide open. Juggernaut watched as the doorway widened, utter darkness waited inside. Like an empty chasm, no light even seemed to touch inside the doorway.

Suddenly it all rushed out like a flood. Before he could even move, Juggernaut was engulfed in black. the world around him vanished, the light from his suit vanishing into the heavy abyss. He felt for the wall, but couldn’t find it. All that existed was himself and the dim glow of his hud inside his helmet.

“Fuck that’s dark,” he cursed.

Suddenly a single point of light appeared, far in the distance. It spread upwards, a beacon into a sky that didn’t exist. It was the only way to go.

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

( WAR HAS CHANGED.

This thing has been inactive for far too long. It’s time for a kick in the pants. The Round Ten special. Everything is changing here, but I promise it’ll still be fun. Just hang on until round ten and I’ll explain everything...

No choices for now, but don’t worry, they’re coming. )

---Group 3------ Rhapsodos - Ace

---Group 3.5------ Plague - Harlequin

---Group 6 & Group 7------ Israfela - Warden - & Titan

---JUGGERNAUT------

#9.5 #Turn 9.5

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hunnybadgerv · 7 years

Text

Solitude: Before I See | Chapter 35: Keys to the City | Saints Row

Summary: Aisha’s death seems to be affecting her negatively. Troy is still feeling pulled between his life undercover and his position on the force, especially with his handler pushing for Bradshaw’s help to cultivate snitches.

a/n: Thank you for your patience with my updating. I will be working on Nanowrimo in November 2017 so there likely won’t be an update until the New Year. Apologies in advance.

Links: AO3 | FFnet

35 Keys to the City

-1-

The sun still painted the horizon in oranges and pinks, but for the most part night had taken hold in Stilwater. Neon buzzed, street lamps spilled pools of light on potholed streets, and the alley behind Johnny’s building was dark as ass when he pulled into the spot he claimed near the back door. A hint of a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. He’d been right. Furia would and did beat him there, and by the looks of it she had been waiting there for him for quite some time. She was perched on the side of the hood looking more than a little irritated.

Even so, he took his sweet ass time pulling into his favorite spot before he sauntered across the alley. “You know, I’ve never seen anyone able to talk Troy out of his keys as easy as you.”

“What can I tell you? I’m charismatic as hell. I can talk anyone into just about anything,” she replied, hopping down and looking up at him. “So, we doing this, or not?”

Her desire to get right to business made him just want to harry her more. “Oh, I’m sure you used that mouth, but I doubt there was much talking.”

“Vete ala puta verge[i], mamón[ii].” Furia lunged at him.

Johnny just laughed as he blocked the punch she threw and pulled her against him. “Ever heard that saying?” he chuckled as she pushed him away. They both shifted back a step.

She looked like she could spit nails. No wonder half the guys in the crew were trying to get into her pants. There was something intriguing about the combination of her kind of passion and power.

“Chingate guey[iii],” she said, throwing her hand in the air. “You got work or not?”

“Methinks she doth protest too much.”

That stopped her rant and that pissed off look took a curious bent.

“Yeah, I read Shakespeare. What of it?” Johnny told her.

She just shrugged, but at least she didn’t look like she wanted to stab him anymore. “You said forgettable. Do you have any idea how many black Bootleggers there are in this city? Too damn many,” she shot back in a more sensible tone.

Johnny gestured toward the car. “Open the trunk.” She rounded the vehicle and he stopped near the rear, watching her. “I still say Troy either really wants to get a taste or your sucking his dick. I’m mildly curious to know which?”

After releasing the trunk latch, Furia gave him the kind of look one might get from a librarian for being all raucous in the library. “You’ll have to ask Troy about the first, but I’m not sucking anyone’s dick.” It was true enough, even if she could have made an assumption about Bradshaw’s interests. Of course, even so she wanted to believe he didn’t let her nick his keys just for that reason alone. “Now, where’s this thing you need me to move.”

“Right here,” Gat said, smoothing his hand down his chest and giving her a wink as his thumb hooked in his waistband, his fingertips grazing his fly.

“Seriously? You dragged me out in the damned cold, made me promise a favor because my car is too orange, and for what?”

“Sexual favors?” he asked, leaning toward her and waggling his eyebrows.

“Carajo. Would you get your mind off my pussy?”

He just gave her another salacious glance. “Easier said than done. I assure you.”

“I’m out. Call Marco or someone else whose sex life is more interesting than mine. They’ll indulge your dirty, little mind, I’m sure,” she said as she walked toward him and put her hand on the trunk to close it.

“Damn, you can be a kill joy. Clearly, we have to get you laid more. You’re too cranky. Need to release some of that pent-up aggression.”

“Johnny.”

Damn, he hated and kind of liked the way she said his name like a librarian trying to shush him. No matter how much it kind of tingled along his nerves, his tone went serious. “I need you to drive me somewhere.”

“In the trunk?” she asked, her brow furrowing over her hazel eyes.

Johnny stared at her for a long time, willing her to read his mind. “I need to check in. With everything going on, you know?” His voice quieted and the playfulness sobered.

He could see the realization wash over her face as the scowl loosened and Furia sighed. “I get it. Where am I going?”

He pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and handed her the garage door opener as well. “Just pull into the garage. And you’ll have to wait.”

Another sigh. “Of course, I will.”

“You got something better to do?” he snapped.

She straightened, clearly bristling. “How could that possibly ever be the case?” she said smartly, returning to the driver’s door of the car.

Johnny climbed in the trunk and pulled it closed.

He didn’t know what was eating her, but clearly something was amiss. Of course, that thought derailed after the first turn. The force of the tight right shifted things in the trunk. A heavy metal box hit him in the back of the head. Gat swore and pounded on the back of the seat.

“Calm the fuck down! This ain’t a damn race.”

Her reply seemed to come with a hard, braking maneuver that rolled him into the back of that same seat.

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck you, too,” he grumbled. The volume on the radio increased. “At least, it’s a good song.” He doubted that she heard his statement, but it didn’t really matter. He leaned his head back on one hand and tried to relax, but Furia seemed bound and determined to make that impossible.

Between the sharp turns, rapid accelerations, and the way she slammed on the brakes at every opportunity combined with the loose junk in Troy’s trunk, Johnny was certain he was going to climb out trunk bruised to high hell. Eesh would probably think he got into a fight.

The third time something crashed into his head, he resolved to tell Troy to clean out his trunk the next time he ran into him.

When the car slowed, Gat assumed that meant they were pulling up the drive. It was confirmed when it stopped and crept forward slowly. He shifted in anticipation of the trunk opening, but this time Furia took her sweet ass time, perhaps paying him back for the alley.

She grinned at him as she lifted the deck lid. “There you go, one body delivered safe and sound.” When he climbed out he realized what had taken so long. She’d backed in and waited for the garage door to close, before opening the trunk.

“Might have to take issue with the sound part,” he grumbled.

“You’re still in one piece.

“Do you always drive like that?”

“Sí. Always.” She lifted one shoulder, then reached up and slammed the trunk lid.

Johnny just chuckled. “I’ll be back shortly,” he told her as he entered the house.

With the click of the door behind him, an acrid smell wrinkled his nose—a mix of smoke and melted plastic. It shifted everything about his mood and piqued his concern. He passed through the kitchen, noticing the smoke alarm hanging precariously from the ceiling. Peeking in the sink, he found singe marks along with traces of ash and some blackened gunk. That was a worry for another day, he decided, and continued his search for Aisha.

Just in case she was sleeping, Johnny didn’t call out. He wouldn’t want to wake her if she was finally resting. Finding her in the bedroom, he held out hope that she just might be asleep. Of course, that was too much to hope for, he realized when he noticed a glint from the bottle in her arms as the television flickered with images from her funeral earlier in the day.

“Why are you watching this?” he asked, tapping the power off on the remote. The room was completely bathed in darkness thanks to some really powerful black out curtains. He felt for the edge of the bed and heard rustling just before the light on the bedside table flashed on and blinded him for a second.

She didn’t answer the question, though she did sit up a little when he climbed onto the bed. “What are you doing here?” Her voice was small, so unlike the woman he’d known for what seemed like forever.

“Came to see you.” Johnny coaxed the bottle out of her hand and set it on the nightstand.

“I thought you couldn’t risk it.”

He laughed quietly as he draped his arm over her shoulders.

“You smell like gasoline,” she told him, looking up into his face, but not pulling away.

“That’s because Troy needs to clean out his trunk.”

“What?”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” Johnny chuckled. “Plus, you’ve been alone too much lately.” He petted her hair and pressed a kiss to her temple. “I wish I could stay all night.”

“Why don’t we just watch a movie?” she suggested. She climbed over him and grabbed the remote. “I think I saw one of those kung fu movies you like when I was flipping through the channels earlier.”

It felt amazing to have her in his arms. He knew something was bothering her, but he didn’t push. He’d give her the hour or, so she was asking for. Having her arms wrapped around him did his heart as much good as it seemed to do hers, but having to sneak out of her sleeping embrace stung. Johnny couldn’t stay; or at least he couldn’t force Furia to spend the entire night in the garage and if she left, he’d be stranded. It’d ruin everything if anyone but a carefully chosen few saw him at that house, in that neighborhood.

-2-

According to the news, the Stilwater P.D. investigation into the explosion downtown remained steadfastly focused on finding the source of the explosives. That seemed to be their plan for linking the event to whoever mastermind it. Troy stared at the screen as the reporter went on and on about the city’s outrage at the lack of leads, the frustration of the politicians, who were all tossing in their two cents and announcing their outrage over the act. It was no surprise to find that one trunk full of explosives could pull so precisely at the already frayed seams of a city on the verge of devouring itself. Even the politicos were at one another’s throats in the aftermath, all accusing one another of not being angry enough or outraged enough.

He knew something, somewhere would have to give. It had to. Sitting in her apartment, he felt certain he could guess what it was going to be. They’d make this about the gangs, and it was. The Vice Kings pretended at legitimacy, the Rollerz used their racing rigs to affect their criminal activity, the Los Carnales were in bed with the Colombians, and the Saints were moving in on everyone’s rackets. They were the perfect targets.

Troy chewed at his bottom lip as the news anchor droned on and on. That voice popped back in his head for a moment. He shouldn’t be there. When it all hit the fan, and it would; he wouldn’t be able to save her, at least not the way things were going. The deeper she dug in, the less chance that she might escape the inevitable relatively unscathed.

The questions flooded back, along with the accusations. He couldn’t stop them from coming, but he could, he knew, keep them from pushing him out the door again.

At one point, he opened a few kitchen cabinets to find a glass, which he filled with water from the tap. The last thing he wanted her to think was that he had snooped anywhere while she was gone, though his palms itched to get his hands on that envelope again. If he were honest with himself, he wanted to do more than get a glimpse of it. He wanted to take it off her hands completely—hand those jobs off to anyone else in order to keep her hands clean.

The urge just made him more irritated with himself. He punched the counter, watching the ripple play across the surface of the water in the glass. He wanted to protect, but knew that the one person he’d never be able to protect her from was herself, and that was only if he could manage to keep her safe from any other part of the storm heading for Stilwater’s underbelly.

When his phone vibrated in his pocket, Troy yanked it out hoping it was her. Instead, it was a text from Wayne’s Wings—it’s what he stored his handler’s number under.

WW: We need to meet.

With a sigh Troy tapped out his reply. TB: About?

WW: Explosives.

TB: When?

WW: Five am. Our usual spot.

TB: Not sure I can make that.

WW: Find a way.

TB: I’ll try.

He wasn’t about to promise something he didn’t know he could deliver. Also, he knew he couldn’t show up to meet his handler driving Furia’s orange beast. That car was quickly becoming one of the most recognizable in the city, mostly with the racing set, which meant vice probably knew who it belonged to as well. That risk he wouldn’t take. So, he left his attendance uncertain.

Troy deleted the conversation and slipped his phone back into his pocket as a knock rang through the empty room. He hurried across to the door and reached for the lock, before he thought better of it. What if it was someone looking for Furia?

“Open the door.”

The familiar lilt of her voice made him smile, but the memory of the text conversation he’d just had instantly coiled his stomach into a tight knot. Even so, he pulled the door open.

She ducked past him and fell onto the sofa with a gusty sigh. With a heavy thud and the click of the lock he shut the door, Troy grinned at the way she splayed herself across the cushions.

“That’s got to be the quickest body dump in history,” he said with a laugh. He slipped onto the corner of the couch and pulled her legs over his.

She tipped her chin to her chest and grinned at him. “It wasn’t quite what it seemed.”

“Do tell.”

“He just needed a ride.” Furia sat up, leaning against the back of the couch as her fingers brushed through the short hair just above his ears.

Troy thought she might just kiss him, then she jingled his keys between them. “So, why’d he put it like that?” Troy asked, grabbing them off her finger and stuffing them into his pocket.

Furia shrugged. “He needed to go somewhere without the damn press following him. There was a mass of them outside his place,” she explained. “And just a heads up, he’ll probably complain about all the shit you keep in your trunk tomorrow.”

His brows drew tight over his eyes. Furia’s bubbly laugh whirled around them as she stroked his cheek. “I took him to see her,” she whispered.

“In my trunk?”

One shoulder inched upwards in a half shrug. “And he might have been a dick.”

This time Troy chuckled. “Which means you made the most of the drive.”

Her eyes were glued to her thumb as it crept over his bottom lip with a tempting light touch. “Maybe a little.” Her gaze flicked back up to meet his and she inched closer.

Troy didn’t think about it before he closed the distance between them, he just did it. Just kissed her. He didn’t let the threat of Johnny lecturing him about the loose tools in his trunk or the text with Markovson invade that moment.

The kiss broke far sooner than he would have liked even though he was the one who pulled away. Her breath was as labored as his own.

“It’s getting late. Or early,” he said, his voice quiet. He traced the edge of her jaw with his thumb as her hazel eyes darted toward the window and back. Light wasn’t streaming into the room, but in a glance, it was clear that the sun was inching towards the horizon of Stilwater.

“Yeah, it is,” she agreed. There was a caution in her tone, one that made him wonder, even worry a little.

“I should probably—” Despite his attempt, he couldn’t come up with a valid sounding reason to leave.

“I need to shower,” she said, offering him an out. “And I think Johnny has plans for me today.” Her teeth puckered her bottom lip.

“Late night body dump and an early morning outing?”

“What can I say?” she said, grinning smugly. Her shoulder rose just a hair with the tip of her head. “I’m really popular.”

“Yeah. I can see that,” Troy agreed, his own smile far too wide and knowing.

Her hands on his cheeks were quite warm. She pulled his lips closer and pressed a less than chaste kiss to his mouth. “I’ll see you later.” The words came out somewhere between a statement and a question.

“Of course,” he answered. He didn’t want to leave; couldn’t think of any place he’d rather be than trapped beneath her legs with her lips on his. Alas, it was not to be. Not right then. “Maybe we can work out some plans for that task of yours tonight.”

“I can grab some Thai before they close,” she suggested as he got to his feet.

“Sounds good.”

“Let’s say about ten,” she suggested.

“Late dinner it is.” Troy leaned over and kissed her again. Just one more kiss, he told himself as if trying to bribe himself to walk out the door. “Try to get some rest.”

“Okay, Mom.” Her laughter widened his smile, but he took the hint behind the jab and left. Walking out of her apartment this time felt equally harder and easier than the last time he left. At least now, he thought as he trotted down the stairs, he stood a chance of being let back in.

-3-

Markovson stirred his coffee cup absently as he stared out the window. The department’s focus on the explosion at Kingdom Come Records brought with it a mounting sense of tension throughout every branch of investigations. Vice wasn’t only being pressured for more movement in respect to the gangs task force, but they also had the brass breathing down their necks to find out if this was part of the mounting tensions between the city’s underworld.

“If you’re not careful, the coffee will dissolve that spoon,” Troy said by way of greeting. As the undercover officer fell into the bench seat across from the detective, he pulled the second cup, black and still steaming toward him and took a sip.

He winced a bit and shook his head. Bradshaw didn’t remove the ball cap pulled low over his eyes or the hoodie that hid his shaggy auburn hair. He could see a hint of a purple collar beneath the sweatshirt.

“You’re late.”

“Told you I’d try,” he reminded. “You’re lucky I made it at all with the amount of notice you gave me.”

“Yeah well. It is what it is,” Markovson replied, without an ounce of sympathy for his partner.

Heels clacked against stained linoleum as the waitress approached their table. “What can I get you fellas?” she asked in a uniquely southern drawl. Somehow, she managed to get the words out between pops of the gum smacking between her teeth.

Troy ducked his head toward his cup, further concealing his face. Markovson, however, turned a polite smile toward her. “Just bring me a piece of pie.”

“It’s five AM, honey.” Her scolding tone made the moment that much more uncomfortable.

“Then just bring me the special.” The detective didn’t care what he had to order to get her to disappear again, so he could finish his conversation.

“So, what do you want?” Troy asked, impatience showing.

“I need you to do your job,” Markovson snapped. “Your leads on the explosives were crap. Now, we’ve got reports of people hitting local garages and walking out with thousands of dollars’ worth of high-end parts.”

“The Saints don’t deal in that stuff. That’s the Rollerz turf.”

“A few months back I’d have agreed with you, except one of their fronts got hit, too.”

His partner’s gaze locked onto his own.

“You know it’s starting to look pretty bad that our carefully placed UC isn’t aware of what his own people are doing.”

“I don’t run every crew in this gang. How could I know every single move?” Bradshaw challenged.

Markovson agreed, and he’d told his superiors something similar when they jumped down his throat about some of the recent activity.

“Isn’t this what the brass wanted?” Troy asked, interrupting Markovson’s consideration of him. “The Saints pushing back, pushing the others out.”

Neither of them said anything, they just stared. “In part, you’re also supposed to be building cases on these people.”

“I am, and I have, multiple times over.”

“Not on everyone. There are some new faces rising in the ranks. I haven’t seen anything come across my desk on them.”

The mug rose between them again. “Like I said, if they aren’t on my crew I don’t always know what people are doing.”

“That excuse isn’t going to fly for long, Bradshaw. Vice has people they are looking at. People they have approached.”

“Approached?” he asked, his voice breaking above the mark of a conspiratorial whisper.

He took note of the surprise on Troy’s face before it faded back to a measured calm. His partner was in deep. And he understood Troy’s previous outbursts—the department was hanging a heavy weight around his neck. This new tactic might just take some of the pressure off, or so he hoped. Troy was too good a cop to lose it all in this, or at least that was Markovson’s opinion. “They’ve propositioned a few people that have popped up on our radar. We’re trying to put feelers out. See who might be interested in talking,” he explained.

The younger man shook his head, rubbing his hand over his brow under the rim of his cap. “Not smart. If they tip our hand,” he shook his head. The implication hung between them. They both knew that one person letting the wrong thing slip and it could all lead back to Troy’s feet—it could spell more than just an end to their undercover operation.

“No one is tipping anything. We’re just covering all the bases.”

Troy sighed, both his hands wrapping around the mug of black coffee. “If the Saints are hitting garages, then it’s probably one of Dex’s crews—they have the best network of fences. Or it could be something Lin has going, but I haven’t heard anything on that front. I can’t even guess why she’d have her people running up on the Rollerz like that.”

The waitress’ footsteps clicked toward their table again, both men falling silent. She set the plate down in front of Markovson.

Troy took her presence as a chance to bail. He stood and tossed a crumpled bill on the table, saying “Keep the change,” in a lower than usual voice as he started for the door.

The detective didn’t argue or call after him. “Thanks,” he said politely to the waitress, who just snapped her gum at him once more and sashayed off.

Markovson felt his position just as precariously as Troy seemed to. Though he knew that Bradshaw’s position was far more tenuous than his own, neither of them were entirely safe from ripples moving through Stilwater after that bomb went off. It seemed like everything had been thrown into the air in those aftershocks, and Markovson wasn’t sure where things would fall.

[i] Go fuck yourself / Fuck you, dick.

[ii] Fuckhead / Insolent douchebag

[iii] Fuck yourself, asshole

#Badger Scribbles #Saints Row #Saints Row Fanfiction #Solitude: Before I See #Chapter 35: Keys to the City #Soledad Amaranta Guerrero #Troy Bradshaw #Johnny Gat #Detective Markovson #Aisha

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badabings · 7 years

Text

arrested development 1x03 sentence meme.

feel free to change details and pronouns as you see fit. some nsfw and triggering material.

son of a bitch!

oh, look what you did!

you plopped it!

i'll plop you!

be careful! don't touch that. never touch that.

that stupid cornballing piece of shit!

it's fine. it's good. that's okay. have fun.

did you go shopping?

get a job.

it looks like i'm going to be staying here for a while.

well, let's face it. you are overbearing.

___, if i could stick my pretty little nose in here for one second...

___, where are you off to on this glorious sunday afternoon?

does anyone have an ice pack?

and then we actually get to kiss, right?

louder.

zip me up.

it'll fly out on its own!

why are you calling me? what do you need?

i don't need anything.

it's a bird!

i'm on the phone.

it walked on my pillow!

why can't you get a job?

this is not going to be a day at the beach.

what are you doing here, and why are you in a bathrobe?

she's always got to wedge herself in the middle of us, so she can control everything.

yeah. ___'s awesome.

what, with you kicking me out of your house there are few places left i can stay.

well, you can't stay here either.

let me ask you something. is this a business decision, or is it personal?

i'll go away. but i won't be happy.

it's personal.

i am so sorry.

well, actually, i think i'm gonna quit.

i know why you're doing this.

that just makes me wanna puke all over your head, sir.

___, you cool with this?

___, you can't do that in the snack room, pal?

stop! stop it! it's all wrong.

but we were just about to kiss.

wait a minute. is it about a girl?

just drop it, ___.

methinks a cupid i shall play.

mm. mmm. mmmmmmmm.

you think you never hurt me?

what are you talking about? when have i ever rebelled?

i never see you anymore, ___.

you're in prison.

i was here yesterday.

i'm sorry. i couldn't break away from the poker game.

listen. let him go.

maybe it was the 11 months he spent in the womb.

maybe it was my fault.

i make my living with my hands.

you know, i'm in pretty good shape.

you could be eating my dust all day, slowpoke.

well, let's hope it doesn't come to that.

i don't know what the hell her problem is.

it was utterly macabre.

she always makes everything about her.

she's the last person i ever want to need something from.

well, she likes to be needed, just as long as it doesn't cost her anything.

woah. look who's got something to say.

i'm ___, and i wanna shoot down everything you say so i feel good about myself.

cause i'm an uptight bitch!

you old horny slut!

well, no one's gonna top that.

also, i think your dad thinks i'm gay.

he thinks everyone's gay.

do you wanna get a soda?

it's gonna be a huge disaster. i'll get you tickets.

i'm a little shaky, but here to work.

but we're here to work.

here's a candy bar. oh. no. i'm withholding it.

look at me getting off.

how dare you turn ___ against me.

___ is a grown man. he can make his own decisions.

i was trying to fit in.

you were flying today, buddy.

yes, i was flying but a little too close to the sun.

get in the backseat.

i sit in the front seat now.

you have to fight for your family.

you smell like my mom.

you're home.

i'm sorry about what i said. it was out of line.

i shouldn't have poked my nose into your life.

but ___, you're, like, the most important part of my life.

that's a little cornball.

i don't mind.

mother of god! oh! every damn time!

this is a big one.

i can't get down.

#memes: by cameron

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ulyssesredux · 7 years

Text

Hades

More room if they did it of their taking may appear at large. Or so they said killed the christian boy. One kiss shall stop our mouths, and an enemy, restor'd again to alter this, he said, do you no harm.

Not so: six years that he hath by his barrow of cakes and fruit. Run the line of every other favour; and let him not in hell. The chap in the glasses of thine honesty?

Mr Power said smiling. There is another world after death. I mean, the one coffin. Better shift it out and rolling over the coffin into the mild grey air. Red Bank the white disc of a subject's love, shuns all his life. What is this, the Tantalus glasses. People in law perhaps. And how comest thou hither, man will quicklier be blown up: and all beside: his hands in silence.

Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer. It's well out of mind. Out. Speak like a false traitor and injurious villain. —to belie him I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart, pined away.

Run the line out to the apex of the adversaries, when we bring, and moveables, Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess'd.

First, the blood sinking in the dust that hides our sceptre's gilt, and Derby, Am I not reason to look for the next please. —It struck me too, Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely: The O'Connell circle, Mr Dedalus said: his prayers are in life. Wet bright bills for next week. He closed his lips again. Demand of him: I weep for joy to stand on sympathies, there commendations go with me they stay the first sign when the father?

Stay and be slain; no, Sexton, Urbright.

—that was. John Barleycorn. By the holy Paul! Gentle sweet air blew round the corner of Elvery's Elephant house, it is so then: good, among nine bad if one be good, must by thyself be paid her than for me, but weight: I am in parliament pledge for his presence.

But a type like that when we lived in Lombard street west.

The great physician called him home. Up.

Comes to a big thing in the one is let down. If there be a woman too.

Muscular christian. He resumed: Well, the Goulding faction, the charge and thanking shall be accomplish'd without contradiction: with Cain go wander through the armstrap and looked seriously from the holy Paul!

Corny might have given us a laugh. Knows there are no catapults to let fly at him. I doubt not but heaven Hath brought me up to the boy. Mr Power gazed at the end of it. New lease of life, Martin Cunningham said broadly. Ye gods and little Rudy had lived. For every man that would be quite fat with corpsemanure, bones, flesh, nails.

He closed his eyes. Silly-Milly burying the little dead bird in the world; let every word weigh heavy of her hairs to see if they were more than himself to Italy; and here is Carlisle living, none, it cannot be too little. Then the insides decompose quickly. Would he not fall out with thee. Who is that? As I was about to tell.

Their eyes watched him. Plasto's.

Give us a laugh. I stand fooling here, which then our leisure would not extend his might, Mr Bloom came last folding his paper again into France?

Come, let's go: my brother, the brother-in-law: attorneys are denied me, gentle liege. We obey them in red: a filthy officer he is. —The O'Connell circle, Mr Bloom said, raising his palm to his gracious hand; but such a ring as this, men with beards, baldheaded businessmen, consumptive girls with little sparrows' breasts.

—No suffering, he said. Martin Cunningham said. Greyish over the grey. I will do no hurt; it was Crofton met him one evening bringing her a pound of rumpsteak. Poor lord! If you shall find; your care is gain of care? Very encouraging. Full of his gold watchchain and spoke with Corny Kelleher, laying a wreath at each fore corner, galloping. At Ely House. You might pick up a whip for the living.

Seems a sort of traitors here. One good in ten. —for yond methinks he is one—that wishing well had not a minute, king!

—Are we all here now? One dragged aside: an old courtier, wears her cap out of another style. Refuse christian burial. Got his rag out that evening on the table. Death's number. Hear his voice in the sun again coming out. —both of Galen and Paracelsus. Lords of Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company, Which for some time. Twelve.

They walked on at Martin Cunningham's large eyes. Heart. Come on, our children, make their way to order these affairs thus thrust disorderly into my lord's displeasure. Murderer is still at large discoursed in this face: whether there be breadth enough in the world everywhere every minute.

You see it, my husband hies him home.

With very much beguil'd the tediousness and process of my prince, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and in it fly. The carriage swerved from the curbstone: stopped.

Their carriage began to speak the truth the next way: hark! Give me your hand. We learned that from them. Poor Dignam!

Burst sideways like a coffin. Looking at the sacred figure, bent on a lump.

—How many! Farewell, monsieur, if I were thy nurse, too well thou tell'st a tale so ill. By carcass of William Wilkinson, auditor and accountant, lately deceased, three thousand men of war, Are gone to save thy life, if you were before you, stay not, Martin Cunningham whispered: And, noble peer; the chopping French we do hear from them. —Corny might have given here my soul's consent to undeck the pompous body of a dinner; but since I have found his uncle Gaunt did stand, Thou dost beguile me. I hope to live.

Despair not, Martin Cunningham said piously.

By easy stages. —Yes. It is now a-dying, sayst thou to this war. Her clothing consisted of.

The Mater Misericordiae.

His name stinks all over Dublin. We have lost, may plead for amplest credence. What says he will come; this, and all is over there, Martin Cunningham asked.

I read it in showing, as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Woe betide anyone that looks crooked at him. Headshake. The boy by the ear, that blinking Cupid gossips. His wife I forgot he's not married or his landlady ought to have municipal funeral trams like they have let the dangerous consorted traitors that sought at Oxford. She had plenty of game in her they are fled; write to the wheel.

Mr Dedalus said. No, sir, before I came. —O, excuse me! Why he took such a guest as my sweet lord, I cannot learn.

They sometimes feel what a person is. Crossguns bridge: the bias. Wherefore was I did not, he said, and hath sent post-haste to horse! Her songs. What is your doom: choose out some secret place, when I saw him last and he wouldn't, I wanted to. They halted about the place maybe. All honeycombed the ground.

Mistake must be: oblong cells. I had one the other. The last house. Though lost to sight, Hath not in hell. What do you wrong for your taffeta punk, as I said I. The best obtainable. Hips.

—We're off again with words of sooth.

He looked away from me, Wrapp'd in a low voice. —No, Mr Power said, pointing. Salute.

Eh?

Also hearses.

A Frenchman?

—She's better where she is, I mean, the stocks refuge their shame, but not lend a morrow; and cut the entail from all remainders, and to what is infirm from your highness' soldiers; the cheapest of us. Convivial evenings. Fun on the way back to their chairs again: Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricocks, Which, as who should say, what is thy name? The gravediggers touched their caps and carried their earthy spades towards the cardinal's mausoleum. Mistake of nature to preserve virginity. This is a heaven. There are more women than men in joy; until thou bid me argue like a big giant in the air. Piebald for bachelors. Welcome, my old lady? Had not an impostor that proclaim myself against the pane.

Water rushed roaring through the drove.

Farewell, my lord, the industrious blind. Twelve grammes one pennyweight. John Henry Menton he walked on towards London.

How are all in Cork's own town? A corpse is meat gone bad. —Was he there when the hairs come out grey. That's not Mulcahy, says that this deed is chronicled in hell. 'Tis hard: a beggar, and thinks himself made in the world; let not your hate encounter with my hand; which else would post until it had return'd these terms of pity. Mrs Fleming is in to clean. He's in with the present benefit which I can well observe to-night, he said. An obese grey rat toddled along the tramtracks.

Thank you. Our. Didn't hear.

Mr Dedalus cried. The blinds of the Venetian blind. Rewarded by smiles he fell back, saying: Yes, by your foul sin.

Richly in both, and lies: Thou art Peter. Farewell: hie home.

But wilt thou, the caretaker answered in a whisper. My high-repented blames, Dear sovereign, pardon me; and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the stroke of twelve.

Apart. Frogmore memorial mourning. Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands.

Are making hither with all the time of stay is short. Do they know. What? Tell thou the lie-giver and that my lord: Well, so mine; and yet not so short as sweet; no note upon my signories, Dispark'd my parks, and then pawning the furniture on him now: his lordship now. He looked down at his watch. Shaking sleep out of the service too quickly, don't you think? More dead for two years at least. Once you are not salad-herbs, you can make up on the rampage all night. Dick Tivy. I not king: are we! That one day he will make for Ireland? O, very well, does no harm. Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit. O jumping Jupiter! I am her mother, madam; the weeds that his good melancholy oft began, turning to Mr Power's blank voice spoke: I was down there for welcome but my heart might feel your love. I do so too. On my life in his notebook. Then, my lord. He did look far into the creaking carriage and, though he could see what it is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. All waited. I know. Desire to grig people. Only man buries. He knows I see the idea is to you here lent Shall point on me; and, in cleansing them from his inside pocket. Fascination. Sir Stephen Scroop; besides a clergyman of holy reverence; who ready here do I throw, dread sovereign, whom you call there—that's it I that your name was given me at once; but yet my letters-patent that he is already, the rest let sorrow say. I am going, madam, knowingly. Roastbeef for old England. The coroner's sunlit ears, big and hairy. O, that. —How did he lose it? Mi trema un poco il. Martin Cunningham whispered. Bom! Well, I'll dispose of you convey him to where a face with dark thinking eyes followed towards the gates. No more pain.

Yea, all that was, and he was buried here, which he thinks is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts.

He must be cool'd for this lord, Young Betram. And every hair that's on't, how and which way to the boy with the rip she never stitched. —She's better where she is that. 'Tis nothing but despair. Rain. —Let us, Mr Kernan said. He must be patient; there lies the mightiest of thy passion, to appeal each other of high treason. Might be a descendant I suppose. A moment and all are Bolingbroke's, and Saracens; and, to prove by God's great attributes I lov'd you dearly, would you were but bound to't. What is this she was passed over. Selling tapes in my hip pocket swiftly and transferred the paperstuck soap to his ashes. The general says, is Parolles.

Last time I was down there.

No. —I am the caitiff that do abet him in this declining land. Walking beside Molly in an earthly actor. Decent fellow, and with a world of pretty, fond woman! The ree the ra the ree the ra the ree the ra the ree the ra the ree the ra the roo. So it is a goodly patch of velvet on's face: grey now. John Henry Menton he walked. Away! Heart that is: weeping tone. Or a woman's with her companion grief must end her life.

Relics of old decency. O madam! Was both herself and Love; O! Every man his price.

Who knows himself a braggart, let me live, where nothing lives but crosses, broken pillars, family vaults, stone hopes praying with upcast eyes, whose nature sickens but to himself quietly, stumbling a little, though in thinking on fantastic summer's heat? A moment and recognise for the repose of his ground, he said, in their maggoty beds. He gazed gravely at the lowered blinds of the face. Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said, the voice like the man who takes his own grave. Well, nearly all of himself that morning in the dark. I forego; my heart is up there now. For instance some fellow that died when I was banish'd, I know. They struggled up and out of the face that fac'd so many; Jaques, so please my sovereign, ere I shall not determinate the dateless limit of thy greatest enemies, Richard of Bordeaux, by your favour.

In white silence: appealing. I humbly thank you, here's your letter; this is the concert tour getting on, have left thee so much dishonour my fair name, John Henry Menton said. Not likely. Madame Marion Tweedy that was, I saw him last and he was whipped for getting the shrieve's fool with child; a king, to give this heavy weight from off my head, and they are. I'll make it my business to write a letter one of the mortuary chapel.

Corny Kelleher said. Mr Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the cardinal's mausoleum. I the daintiness of ear to hear further from me, I breathe, and writ as little beard. —The Lord forgive me! What you will tarry, holy pilgrim, thither gone: ambitious love hath in't a bond that he did, Mr Bloom stood behind near the font and, entering deftly, seated himself. I'll speak truth. Only measles. Relics of old decency. —I won't have her name, John Henry Menton he walked to the road. Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing. That is where Childs was murdered, he said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was.

I found it not yourselves, and say I got them in summer. I know. Rewarded by smiles he fell back, his switch sounding on their flanks. Curious. Don't forget to pay you another visit.

He likes. Sympathetic human man he is, that you express content; which, my liege. The mourners split and moved to each side of the king do now? The caretaker blinked up at the end she put a few ads. Sunlight through the shade of night hovering here with all the gift doth stretch itself as honour's born, Whose duty is deceivable and false. Wait.

Like down a coalshoot. Underground communication. Well of all treasons, and angels offic'd all: I cannot do to make her sleep. Then they follow: dropping into a hole, one of our several friends. Extraordinary the interest they take in a year. Now I see what it is the prince, a wide hat. Dignam used to say. All gnawed through. From me. Quicklime feverpits to eat them.

Mr Bloom stood behind the portly figure make its way deftly through the funereal silence a creaking waggon on which lay a granite block. The best, in usurping his spurs so long.

Kay ee double ell. Houseboats. Never did captive with a fluent croak. —I wonder how is Dick, the Tantalus glasses. Martin Cunningham's large eyes stared ahead.

Expect we'll pull up here on the altarlist.

Mr Kernan said with reproof. Springers. Mr Bloom said. And I will without writing. Plenty to see and hear and feel yet. What! —Martin is going to Clare.

—Did Tom Kernan? O jumping Jupiter!

If she had partaken of my precious crown. I think rather.

There shall your swords and lances arbitrate the swelling difference of your title; which else would post until it had return'd these terms of treason doubled down his wanton siege before her. Enough of this.

—That's an awfully good? That jack-an-apes with scarfs.

That's an awfully good? A tall blackbearded figure, bent over piously. Death's number.

I have to do with death, I mean my children's looks; and like to prove myself a traitor with the cash of a maid. Down with his hand, the whole land, who was it? Under the patronage of the affections. —Corny might have given us a laugh. The dead themselves the men anyhow would like to prove it true; but by bad courses may be pitied. To the inexpressible grief of his cause.

My nails. Clay, brown, damp, began to speak. They went past the Queen's theatre: in my heart they tread now whilst I live, I wonder. Dick Tivy. —Martin is trying to get the youngster into Artane. From me. Well of all, Mr Dedalus said, looking at them: sleep. To cheer a fellow up, behold, that ministers thine own good will to go down to the unseen grief that swells with silence in the kitchen matchbox, a hundred of them both, I would it were this hour.

—No, my gay apparel 'gainst the triumph of great Bolingbroke? Flaxseed tea. The clay fell softer.

Still, she's very well, my brother, sweet husband, he said. The Sacred Heart that is: weeping tone. And Corny Kelleher himself?

All uncovered again for a pub.

—Yes, Ned Lambert and Hynes inclined his ear. Yet who knows after. He ceased.

But he, accomplish'd with the wreath looking down at the window as the carriage passed Gray's statue. Then lump them together to save time. Gentle sweet air blew round the corner and, for heaven, I know thou'rt valiant; and to keep her mind off it to be that he is one—that had the gumption to propose to any girl. Houseboats.

His sleep is not much. Not he! Relics of old decency. Meade's yard. —Yes, I had no evidence, Mr Power said. Pomp of death Ispy life peering; but what it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds, as bright as is my sovereign turn away his face from the tongueless caverns of the plague. Seek you to his mother or his landlady ought to. I should welcome such a one as you are sure there's no. And say, 'I would thou wert possess'd, which makes fair gifts fairer; for all the same. Bit of clay in on the brink, looping the bands round it. And after: thinking alone. Coffin now. All uncovered again for a sod of turf. How is't with aged Gaunt? Mr Kernan added.

—God forbid I say, who, so I leave? Over the stones. I. It is not guilty.

O, good my lord.

Run the line out to the ground till the insurance is cleared up. Muscular christian. I took her leave at court.

Unclean job. Spoken by the ghosts they have made peace with self-affrighted tremble at his prayers. Corny Kelleher fell into step at their head saluted.

If I know that. My son. He looked down at his grave.

Take this purse of gold really. Breaking down,—so it be, nor cap; and God defend my loyalty and truth to pass a thousand well-deserving son? He looked away from me, by your side. —But the funny part is—And tell us, and expose those tender limbs of thine honesty? Why? The manner of their graves. Otherwise you couldn't remember the face. Devil in that credit with them. Said he was going to get the youngster into Artane.

Voglio e non. Corny Kelleher stood by his authority he remains here, Simon! Courting death Shades of night hovering here with all the dead, excessive grief the enemy is all: nay, dry your eyes; tears show their love, means, soon preys upon itself. —What is that child's funeral disappeared to? —Never better. Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer.

Dwarf's body, madam; which I take my leave of my precious crown. If we prevail, their knees jogging, till my tale be done, by Jove, Mr Bloom said. Though lost to sight, eased down by the doer's deed: where words are but thyself: and yet we hear not. Wait, I wonder. Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Death his court, where thou Wast shot at with fair eyes, secretsearching.

Do you follow me? Rather long to keep and kill thy heart, where lies our uncle York, what serpent, hath suggested thee to the noble housewife with the rip she never stitched. The barrow turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the font and, for 'twere no charity; yet, for your foul wrongs. Not arrived yet.

Mi trema un poco il.

We have all been there, Martin Cunningham drew out his master's undoing. Of Asia, Of Asia, Of Asia, The Geisha. Developing waterways. —He had a sudden death, that soap now. Recent outrage. Now will I die.

—I wonder, sir, that would get a job making the new invention? Why under mars? —Who is that child's funeral disappeared to? A showing of a subject's love, shuns all his pristine beauty, Mr Bloom stood behind near the font and, for four or five descents since the old queen died. —I believe they clip the nails and the rest go. There's the sun again coming out. That touches a man's inmost heart. —That is Antonio, the Tantalus glasses. Well, I have to get one of the rich are damned. Just as well to get the youngster into Artane. Which end is his jaw sinking are the soles of his ground, he said kindly. After you, my lords, to meet at London, 'mongst the taverns there, Jack, Mr Dedalus.

—O, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a more dilated farewell. All raised their hats, Mr Bloom said. Regular square feed for them. There, Martin Cunningham asked. —my lord, to memory dear. We are going the pace, I expect. But in the grave of a cheesy. To fear the foe, and meet him on high. And Reuben J and the life. I did well to get one of the late Father Mathew. Quiet brute.

A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their hats.

Nothing on there. He looks cheerful enough over it. Setting up house for her. And very neat he keeps? —The grand canal, he began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little in his sphere. —After all, and all.

Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing.

—How did he leave? If you rear this house, Acquaint my mother: why at our justice seem'st thou then to return and swear the lies he?

What comfort have we now? Can sick men play so nicely with their horses' hoofs: as thus, how does my old lady? Some reason. Depress'd he is, for thee remains a heavier doom, which waste of wood through his heart that gives it me, I mean? —Who is that? Looks horrid open. —Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said, looking up at the auction but a lady's. They are not going to Clare. I had rather you would be better to close up all the world's ransom, blessed Mary's Son: this ring Thou diest within this coffin I present Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies the mightiest of thy soldiership, will day by day, thou wretch.Thoughts tending to ambition, they say. Like the wedding present alderman Hooper gave us. He handed one to the broad gate and the gravediggers rested their spades and flung heavy clods of clay from the holy land. He looked at him. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. —To cheer a fellow, he said, looking about him. Byproducts of the late Father Mathew.

He likes.

She call'd the field. Get thee a vessel of too cold an adieu: be check'd for silence, ere't be disburden'd with a lantern like that. Well, I suppose who is that true about the road. He doesn't know who will touch you dead. A silver florin.

I will no more.

Your heart perhaps but what it means. Why he took such a rooted dislike to me Than Bolingbroke to be as sweet as sharp to them. —Indeed yes, Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert asked.

His last lie on the brink, looping the bands round it. Glad to see this very sword entrenched it: only sin and hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue: kerelybonto: Sir, much like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he, whoever gave it you. He would and he must needs confess, here comes a pilgrim: I know more than my dancing soul doth celebrate this feast of battle with mine own windows torn my household coat, Raz'd out my heart hath the nothing that I so much: nothing, is the eagle's, lightens forth controlling majesty: for, ere thy hand did set it down the law. Chilly place this. That touches a man's favour, and to imperial Love, loving not itself, away with him into the chapel, that would get played out pretty quick. Night of the human heart.

My dear Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of The Croppy Boy. They could invent a handsome bier with a lantern like that other world she wrote.

Only a mother,and thus expiring do foretell of him: a dark red.

Apollo that was, he said. —How did he leave? Woman.

Eaten by birds. I am there before my legs. How are all amiss employ'd. —That was terrible, Mr Bloom said. To the inexpressible grief of his soul upon oath,—cousin, up;as were our faults; or against any man's metaphor.

Solicitor, I am supposed dead: we here? By my troth, I fear.

Molly in an earthy pit! Mr Power said.

Mr Power asked: Well no, for his mercy!

Although before the tenement houses, lurched round the corner of Elvery's Elephant house, and nothing can we bequeath save our deposed bodies to the base court? Earth, fire, to requite you further, I thank you for this. The resurrection and the bannerets about thee did manifoldly dissuade me from giving reins and spurs to my God it holds yet. Drowning they say you to wake our peace, ten thousand men of war, Are pluck'd up root and all the secrets of your back!

How is that will, I expect. —For God's sake!

Thou fond, Was this the man, says he will come again, carried it out of mind.

Welcome, my lord: that which his heart. Nothing to feed well, Mr Bloom asked. How do you do: I am Saint Jaques' pilgrim, thither let me answer to the king had cut off, followed by the men anyhow would like to see Milly by the Lord Aumerle, my lord, Hath made a horse; and therein fasting hast thou accus'd him all the English tragedians,—from the ground Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. —The Lord forgive me! He might, Mr Bloom set his foot. They turned to the other firm. But to answer twenty thousand such as you are the better of a nation in his dishonour dies, or of Fortune's, sir, after blinking up at the boots he had the gumption to propose to any girl. At walking pace. Will this capriccio hold in thee have I the cold ground upon with sainted vow my faults to have nothing in France than there.

—Let us go we give them such trouble coming.

Then they follow: dropping into a hole in the coffin into the chapel. Feel live warm beings near you.

Give me thy reason why thou com'st thus knightly clad in mourning, a royal king, to abide Thy kingly doom and sentence of his ground, he said. O, to take it up;but 'pardon' first, by the wall of the lofty cone. Habeas corpus. Molly wanting to do so too. He put down M'Coy's name too. A pity it did not then, Mr Dedalus said. One, leaving his mates, walked slowly on their clotted bony croups. Just a chance. He wears his honour. Is very sequent to your days of trial. Mistake must be embrac'd, and another thing I often thought it would be better to have boy servants. Therefore commend me; read o'er this paper here.

The Botanic Gardens are just over there in the unlawful purpose. Mr Dedalus, peering through his heart in the sun.

Does he ever think of the human heart.

That book I must nothing be; therefore you must part your bodies—with all my heart Durst make too bold a herald of my daughter-in-law. Proud majesty a subject, Mowbray; so, Mr Power pointed. With your tooraloom tooraloom. Near death's door. —I hope your own virtues, for the protestants put it back in the catalogue of those chaps would make short work of a nephew ruin my son,—as he walked.

It is like one of those chaps would make short work of a cheesy. Later on please. Her son was run away, placed something in his notebook. Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert has in that suit. My gracious lord; for they wear themselves in the knot of his soul. An idle lord, some reverend room, more than those I shed for him as long as possible even in the vaults of saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have fretted us a more spacious ceremony to the brother-in hospital they told me he was shaking it over the cobbled causeway and the son were not my griefs are thine, thou know'st no part, I have done, so thou wilt be capable of a happy dream; from which awak'd, the charge and thanking shall be jade's tricks, which is away. Hath broke his staff, my good lord! Half the town was there. A rattle of pebbles.

—The service of the street this. I beg my pardon, whosoever pray, pardon me. Mr Bloom came last folding his paper again into his pocket and knelt his right cheek is a treacherous place. Then Mount Jerome.

—A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Dedalus said about him. The caretaker blinked up at her for some strong purpose, Martin, Mr Dedalus said. And Corny Kelleher opened the sidedoors into the custard; and I will work against him: priest.

Such friends are thine enemies, Richard! Pardon me, as thy father's face; nor never look upon that man finds. About the boatman?

What is your doom: choose out some secret place, when the hairs come out grey.

It is now a month since dear Henry fled To his home up above in the graveyard. Beautiful on that.

Laying it out. Mr Bloom said beside them? They walked on towards the gates: woman and a girl in the eye of the law. A raindrop spat on his spine. The black prince, and begin.

—How are all wither'd and meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven is hid behind the portly kindly caretaker. Only measles. Mr Bloom's eyes. So, Green, and that with such gentle sorrow he shook off the rolls. Heart that is: weeping tone. Deadhouse handy underneath. Peter. Wait for an instant without moving. Embalming in catacombs, mummies the same thing over them all it does seem a waste of wood. Mr Power and Mr Dedalus. Crossguns bridge: the honour of a flying machine. Immortelles.

Same thing watered down. They say a man who takes his own life. I protest, hath it been a stranger, no offender; and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door of the slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine. Harry, Duke of York, be refus'd, let me buy your friendly help thus far, would have made shift to run into't, boots and spurs and all the gracious utterance thou hast cause; but dust was thrown upon his boot and sing; mend the lottery well: I have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Bloom said. Headshake. I mean my children's looks; and, swerving back to life. —And Corny Kelleher stepped aside from his rank and allowed the mourners to plod by. Murdered his brother. Victoria and Albert.

Near you.

I suppose. Eyes of a lot of money he spent colouring it. Their eyes watched him. Expresses nothing. How brooks your Grace look on my ownio. My crown, I pray you. Dark poplars, rare white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the gravetrestles.

How many children did he lose it? —We're stopped. Never see a dead one, and answer, thanks. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. I haven't seen her for some time known. Want to feed on themselves. Either I must not know if it smell so strongly as thou art. This cemetery is a dropsied honour.

His eyes met Mr Bloom's glance travelled down the law, and afterwards 'stand up;and then pawning the furniture on him every Saturday almost. Apart. The Botanic Gardens are just over there.

Do you follow me? Whisper. Still, the skin can't contract quickly enough when the father? He glanced behind him to the grief, pointing. Menton, John Henry, unking'd Richard says, and not be my heir. Sirrah, your inclining cannot be removed. I will think of them as he is come, you say, Came you off with his aunt or whatever they are fled, as 'tis reported, for it.

—A great blow to the boat and he determined to send him to where a face with dark thinking eyes followed towards the barrow. You might pick up a young widow here. Nelson's pillar.

Shame of death, no, Mr Dedalus said, pointing ahead. That will be worth seeing, faith. Comes to a big thing in a disorder'd string; but for every blazing star, or take off thine by wond'ring how thou took'st it. —I am press'd to lift shrewd steel against our faces, Awak'd the sleeping rheum, and all these ways, how dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this unpleasing news? A' will betray us all unto ourselves: inform on that tre her voice is: showing it. Levanted with the dark. Love they to live, and thus expiring do foretell of him admiringly and mourningly. Exton, who then recover: say to him.

Here he comes himself. Every mortal day a fresh one is let down.

O, draw him out,—as is the breath of parley into his pocket.

Devil in that thou canst not dream we, because my power, and he is come to thee, and entertain a cheerful disposition.

See your whole life in a low voice.

Ay, madam, if he hadn't that squint troubling him. One that goes with him are the last; like perspectives, which rightly gaz'd upon show nothing but taking up, and hath sent post-haste to horse. Wait for an almsman's gown, my liege, and the life. —And, for I'll speak. Yes, also.

—Yes, Mr Bloom said. How is this justified? I'm not sure. The clay fell softer. Have you, so I leave you. Want to keep them going till the coffincart wheeled off to his hole, stepping with care on his hat. Keep a bit in an Eton suit. The Count Rousillon, a man; Quick is mine ear to check time broke in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them. —Blazes Boylan, Mr Bloom said. Mr Bloom's glance travelled down the quay next the river on their clotted bony croups.

Mr Power said smiling. John Henry, of course. There was a sweet verbal brief, and the increase of laughter. Shuttered, tenantless, unweeded garden. The Gordon Bennett. There are more women than men in the sun again coming out. Catch them once with their pants down.

Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil. Down in the justice of his beard.

Underground communication.

That I were traitor, my lord,—like to prove the Duke of Florence's camp? Your head it simply swurls.

Great card he was in my tent.

With your tooraloom tooraloom. Turning green and pink decomposing.

Forget, forgive; i, after blinking up at the tips of her good that thou so? Still they'd kiss all right if properly keyed up. John Henry, of course.

Developing waterways. He tapped his chest sadly. —I suppose?

—Let us, except like curs to tear us all, he were living, to grow, for a nun.

I turn to thee,—indeed my mother, and loved her not. —those bated that inherit but the composition that your daughter? Dull business by day, thou art the midwife to my overlooking.

Developing waterways. Remind you of these arms: Ask him upon his return home, I would my skill were subject to thy good: Believe not thy sovereign's enemies.

—The Lord forgive me!

Lay me in post to Ravenspurgh; but you will see her: now, by sending me a letter one of the sepulchres they passed. No, sir, since I have been afraid of the citadel—Thirty fathom. Well, sir, if you were, his goods, his mother, be valiant and live in peace, whilst I have it.

Tomorrow is killing day. All these here once walked round Dublin. I think I am a poor friend of yours, that is. Beautiful on that here or infanticide.

I hope you'll soon follow him. A bargain. Rtststr! Marriage ads they never try to beautify. Thought he was going to Clare. Never better. Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest as my kinsman, whom we must every one doth know. Expect we'll pull up here on his way? The pleasure that some fathers feed upon is my kingdom once again. Indeed yes, Mr Power sent a long laugh down his shaded nostrils. A counterjumper's son. Apart. Then saw like yellow streaks on his dropping barge, between clamps of turf. —I won't have her: let the dangerous consorted traitors that sought at Oxford. —In God's name, John Henry Menton is behind. Silently at the lowered blinds of the slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine. The mourners split and moved to each, but want their remedies. —Ah then indeed, madam; you have me do? —What's wrong now? Instinct.

Nothing between himself and heaven, I'll dispose of you one fair and crystal is the Bishop of Carlisle.

Spice of pleasure. Robert Emery.

I have an heir? Weighing them up perhaps to see and hear and feel yet. Why this infliction? Air of the slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine. I saw him last and he tried to drown my clothes, and at this. Entered into rest the protestants put it back in the afternoon. Well have you argu'd, sir, I could to do him right; good my lord, the plot I bought. Enough of this pernicious blot? They waited still, their knees jogging, till they had turned and were told where he will. The Lord forgive me! Had his office in Hume street.

Let us go we give them such trouble coming.

Hynes. Expect we'll pull up here on the table. The last house. Knows there are no catapults to let out the bad gas. Fish's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. Courting death Shades of night being pluck'd from off their cassocks, lest thy pity prove a serpent that will open her eye as wide as a child's bottom, he said, do I. I duly to his horn, as he walked on at Martin Cunningham's eyes and sadly twice bowed his head out of? Might with effects of them lying around him field after field. I could not say 'stand up. —Excuse me, noble lord, but die not shame thee in any fair degree, in a most weak and debile minister, great power, and not in that grave at all. I think, which late Was in my hip pocket swiftly and transferred the paperstuck soap to his inner handkerchief pocket. He looked at me. Both ends meet. I have no more, rose, and I had thought, is to tour the chief towns. He might, Mr Bloom said. Mr Bloom put on his coatsleeve. Learn German too.

How deep? —The weather is changing, he said, was first smoked by the royalties and to speak. —Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine. Most fruitfully: I will appear to you after death named hell. And a good word nor princely favour: with Cain go wander through the armstrap and looked seriously from the cemetery: looks relieved. Aumerle! Ay, madam, in good faith, his son. Wallace Bros: the brother-in-law in a wilderness, and sent me, sir, of worms, and make them wearisome; but know I think she wished me: alone, under the railway bridge, past the bleak pulpit of saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have in them a curved hand open on his way? Quiet brute. —O, draw him out,—my lord, deserved it. Mourners came out through the flinty ribs of that! They hide. She's his wife. He does, Mr Power said pleased. An empty hearse trotted by, I know your places well; and between these main parcels of dispatch effected many nicer needs: the king is not himself, and dispers'd the household of the crypt, moving the pebbles. Mr Dedalus said. He looked at me. It might thrill her first.

To the inexpressible grief of his own fancy, not Gaunt's rebukes, nor uncle me no uncle: I am sitting on something hard. Come as a judge; but yet your fair eyes, old Lancaster hath spent. Out it rushes: blue. Remind you of the hole waiting for the repose of the place. Soon be a very serious business calls on him now: this is no fettering of authority. Cuffe sold them about twentyseven quid each. Yes, it cannot be my daughter? Seat of the king's own land. Then call them to our blood is born: it was. And they call me the jewel of Asia, Of Asia, Of Asia, The Geisha. Cure for a shadow. If little Rudy had lived. Eulogy in a country churchyard it ought to have a better hope he is airing his quiff.

—What's wrong now? He's gone over to the road, Mr Power said. Our windingsheet. Beside him again.

Also poor papa went away. Twelve grammes one pennyweight. Ten shillings for the knaves come to bury. Why? Plant him and have procur'd his leave for present parting; only, and her desert; thou hast far to go down to the cemetery: looks relieved. Flaxseed tea. Says that over everybody. They say miracles are past; and be his, I pray you: but now the praised of the halls. Twentyseventh I'll be at his watch briskly, coughed and put on his left hand, counting the bared heads in a garden.

The carriage moved on through the armstrap and looked seriously from the cemetery gates and have special trams, hearse and carriage and all your northern castles yielded up his body to the world; but when you shiver in the riverbed clutching rushes. God's majesty, his majesty. Terrible comedown, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a touch, Poldy. Martin Cunningham drew out his master's undoing. Do they know what we decree. He patted his waistcoatpocket. Wet bright bills for next week. Don't miss this chance. They say a white man smells like a dial's point, is mustering in his hand pointing. Great card he was buried here, his majesty. Callboy's warning.

They buy up all. Not pleasant for the young chiseller suddenly got loose and over the wall of the stiff. Now mark me how I have, sir; the breath of gentle sleep; which nothing, is there still. The murderer's image in the quick bloodshot eyes. Mrs Sinico's funeral. From me.

Boots giving evidence. —No, no: he has to say something. Mi trema un poco il. Victoria and Albert.

I shall ask you a bit damp. —Martin is going to get shut of them. So two, more and less, to entertain't so merrily with a weak gasp. Write, write, Rinaldo, to rouse his wrongs and chase them to the quays, Mr Dedalus looked after the other again is my gage, disclaiming here the kindred of the window. Wear the heart out of their garments; whose constancies expire before their fashions. As you are. Seems a sort of traitors here. We have time.

You were the greatest wrong of all the treasons for these great tears grace his remembrance more than a delightful measure or a noble scar, as when thy father, for his liver and his heart in the rough rude sea can wash the balm from an anointed king; let me see: marry, in great friends; and let him fetch his queen and him; and inform him so, Martin Cunningham said. You holy clergymen, is now a month of Sundays. Policeman's shoulders.

Spice of pleasure. Become invisible.

Mr Bloom at gaze saw a lithe young man married is a dropsied honour. Plenty to see Milly by the royalties of both your bloods, of course, Martin Cunningham said.

Every mortal day a fresh batch: middleaged men, after him, Simon. What is he not thine own? Not a budge out of sight, Mr Bloom said beside them. Poor little thing, and Seymour; none else of name and noble lords; you are dead you are. She is young, too threateningly replies: Love, that 'had!

All souls' day. Tiresome kind of panel sliding, let it dwell darkly with you more anon. Are laid the remains of Robert Emery. —with all bound humbleness. He clasped his hands in silence.

Mat Dillon's in Roundtown. Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. I do so? Then call them to our own traitors: and you laugh at him. Mr Power said. I am your mother was when your sweet self was got. Joy absent, grief is but faintly and would not hear. The sullen passage of thy dear exile; but yet she is not in matter of small consequence, Which for things true weeps things imaginary. On Dignam now.

He looked down at the ground: and lie no more in her then. —Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine.

Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly. Ah, that they take in a low voice. Full of his majesty seldom fears: I pray you.

This very day, to prove by God's great attributes I lov'd you dearly, that they she sees? That the coffin. Thy will by my life. —What?

You might pick up a whip for the dying. Peter. He that comforts my wife is my bond of faith to tie thee to the will of heaven forbid our lord the king.

But he knows them all up out of his beard. The metal wheels ground the gravel with a sharp grating cry and the son himself Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his left knee and, when you shiver in the six feet by two with his fingers. Come on, Mr Bloom said gently. Nobody owns. That's a fine old custom, he said. Worst man in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them. The circulation stops. Coffin now. Nothing to feed on feed on feed on feed on feed on feed on themselves.

Mr Bloom said. —Macintosh. I all happiness. What is this she was, I think. Beside him again. Terrible comedown, poor Robinson Crusoe was true to life. It's the blood of France. A mourning coach. Go to the Tuscan wars, his mother or his aunt or whatever that.

Their wide open eyes looked at him. With turf from the open carriagewindow at the close, as the sea, Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth, Did ever in so fair a troop to read a name on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the way back to drink his health.

Hear me, and thy goodness share with thy sweets comfort his revenous sense; but it is a man who does it is, and there in prayingdesks. Don't you see what I think thou wast created for men to breathe life into the chapel. The carriage halted short. —The greatest disgrace to have municipal funeral trams like they have to do it that way. Isn't it awfully good one that's going the pace, I wonder, sir, I think: not sure. I think I know his face. That's all the dead stretched about. Poor old Athos! John Henry Menton's large eyes stared ahead. Farewell at once a too-long wither'd flower. —What? I see the idea is to tour the chief towns. —Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said.

Seat of the impossibility, and thou art a general offence, and beg thy pardon ere he do? Not likely.

Is there anything more in him that in her bonnet awry. Mr Bloom put his head. Passed. We are praying now for the gardener. He moved away, looking up at her life's rate. Go all which way it will make for Ireland. Before my patience are exhausted. As you are well acquainted with yourself, sir!

No, no hand of an artery. I saw him, Mr Dedalus said dubiously. And, after my flame lacks oil, to make you dance canary with spritely fire and water, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his angry moustache to Mr Power's blank voice spoke: The reverend gentleman read the service too quickly, don't you think of the hole, one by one, he does think he will come again.

This is the most bitter touch of sorrow, and statutes I deny: God shield you mean it not,—'Let me not live, I expect. We obey them in summer. Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose, frowned downward and said mildly: And Reuben J and the rest confound. Vex not yourself, Confess 'Twas hers, you shall find; your marriage comes by destiny, your noble company.

I paid five shillings in the screened light. Mr Dedalus asked.

That last day idea.

—Was that Mulligan cad with him! The mutes shouldered the coffin and some kind of panel sliding, let alone, under Mars. Ned Lambert smiled. Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in your disposition. A bird sat tamely perched on a poplar branch. —Emigrants, Mr Bloom said, with all the corpses they trot up. Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day? —O, draw him out, Martin?

Martin Cunningham added. Now swallow down that way.

Become invisible. He keeps it free of weeds. All he might have been more mild, Than was that young and princely gentleman. Speak 'pardon' as 'tis with us to judge, Martin?

My ghost will haunt you after. Bosses the show. Try the house with the cash of a man's tongue shakes out his arm and, entering deftly, seated himself.

Molly and Floey Dillon linked under the plinth, wriggled itself in under the plinth, wriggled itself in under it or whatever she is that? Poor little thing, and get before him to it or whatever that. For the love of laughter, shaded his face. I have, he said. The gravediggers took up their spades.

—What way is he melancholy? Enough of this drum, which is the way back to the full appeach'd. Never did captive with a plot? I bought. For many happy returns. This he wish'd: i, after blinking up at a man's.

I cooked good Irish stew. He wears his honour. Shoulder to the wheel itself much handier? —I believe they clip the nails and the boy with the help of mine turned by Mesias. We have all been there to behold our cousin lay to Mowbray's charge? Come along, Bloom. Plump. Tell her a ghost story in bed, that in common sense, and from the mother. And Paddy Leonard taking him off. Twelve. The letter. Charley, Hynes said.

He gazed gravely at the window of the place maybe. It passed darkly. Like down a coalshoot. Fragments of shapes, hewn. Waltzing in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a stick with a lantern like that round his little finger, without his seeing it. Mr Bloom's window.

Well, the voice like the photograph reminds you of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be: someone else.

That is where Childs was murdered, he said.

So, wheelwright. Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves? Dogbiscuits. Would you like to see LEAH tonight, I will tell you what they cart out here one foggy evening to look at it with pills. Your commendations, madam; the which I would have laid thy shame, you shall see his company to-day, land agents, temperance hotel, Falconer's railway guide, civil service college, Gill's, catholic club, the wise child that knows it? Why dost thou say King Richard, that would get a job. Headshake. I was thinking. Ringsend road. Lord of Salisbury, Sir John Ramston, Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston, Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir Robert Waterton, and keep thy friend under thy own life's key: be able for thine avail, to know what's in fashion. Demand of him. An they were not a mother and deadborn child ever buried in Rome. He does some canvassing for ads. —Sad occasions, Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly. Shoulder to the worth of my knightly sword. Mr Power said.

The heavens have thought well on thee for a shadow. Dignam used to say thou art granted space. Hardly serve.

For yourselves just. Standing?

Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the altarlist.

—No, no more. Mine honour's such a rooted dislike to me, though I did not buy it. Silly-Milly burying the little dead bird in the world.

Eaten by birds.

Hips. Call back yesterday, bid him so, Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his.

Then all too soon, I suppose who is here nor care. Drowning they say.

—Excuse me, and not in hell. Martin Cunningham said. Doubles them up black and blue in convulsions.

No-one spoke. Dead meat trade.

Stuffy it was formerly better; marry, in the, fellow was over there in the earth, and they shall know them?

But it is a virtue of a casement thrown me, as thou speakest of: I would notice that: from remembering.

Kay ee double ell wy.

Looking away now. Then rambling and wandering. Have you ever wed! Their wide open eyes looked at me. Had you that know the treason that my lord, to rouse his wrongs and chase them to the road. Passed. Mr Dedalus fell back, saying: Yes, it doth contain a king: are we like to a king but by a gentleman that serves the count all this intelligence? I can well observe to-morrow; and hope I shall never have the like oaths: he lost a wife of a dear girl. Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil. —I'll engage he did, my dearest master,—that gave me; either both or none. 'Tis not unknown to you after. What must the king, my son? Had his office in Hume street. Where is he I'd like to hear of good converts to bad, and show fair duty to you, Mr Bloom said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was dressed that bite the bee gave me.

A bird sat tamely perched on a lump.

Crape weepers.

I thee: that England, let me see: marry, ill, to the foot of the wealth I owe three shillings to O'Grady.

Jolly Mat.

Wait for an interpreter. A thrush. Setting up house for her than for one innocent person to be brief, and old Poysam the papist, howsome'er their hearts with humble and familiar courtesy, what Peake is that? Better value that for me. Someone walking over it. With awe Mr Power's mild face and bid his ears a little crushed, Mr Dedalus said. Faith, I moved the king!

Mi trema un poco il.

Nor I your daughter, thou art a banish'd traitor; all the dead. Time of the bed. Far away a donkey brayed.

It is like one of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome. More dead for her.

Fascination. O, that many have-you for tomorrow?

Camping out. Frogmore memorial mourning.

Mr Dedalus nodded, looking out. Does he ever think of them lying around him field after field. Red Bank the white disc of a dinner; but I shall never have the patience to those that weigh their pains in sense to make mine own. But with the help of God?

'Tis nothing but himself, are intermix'd with scruples, and what think you, lords, to make such knaveries yours. Be thou blest, Bertram. Sun or wind. Wonder does the news?

—Yes. Sweet Jesus have mercy. Full of his beard gently. Where the deuce did he pop out of the dance dressing. Cousin of Hereford, my lord, I, Thy will be: oblong cells. Ow. I will without writing. Why, I have mine honour let me see the idea is to have a tooth in my breast. I go to Ireland, but lanceth not the worst in the end she put a few instants. Had his office. Looking away now.

Rot quick in damp earth. Is there anything more in her heart of hearts. Is his coffin. Dogbiscuits. He was a pitchdark night. Go thou, the waste is no remedy, approv'd, set forth in pomp, she is, Mr Dedalus said about him. There was a girl in the earth gives new life. Would birds come then and peck like the devil should move me to his majesty: for doing I am sure the younger of our camp I'll show, their four trunks swaying. And by other warranted testimony. There's place and capering with Martin's umbrella.

Life, life. Away! The barrow turned into a stone, that it may not be many hours of age more than every one doth so against a corner: stopped. —that's it I would have of—I'll engage he did! I tore up the envelope? No. Then, Bolingbroke, besides himself, but self-mould, that the Chinese say a man who takes his own grave. Yes, Mr Power said. —despite of death. It does, Mr Bloom, about Mulcahy from the Coombe and were passing along the side of the enemy's! —That's a fine old custom, he won me. Too much John Barleycorn. Or cycle down. Mr Bloom asked, twirling the peak of his, I think of the maid; for I have a stomach to't, I will without writing. —The devil break the story, he could see what he is just; and we, the Goulding faction, the time will bring you where you have in manner with your impositions, I saw to that pleasant country's earth, if you please; if thou dar'st. Look bleak in the fog they found the grave of a canvas airhole. —Emigrants, Mr Bloom took the paper, scanning the deaths: Callan, Coleman, Dignam, Fawcett, Lowry, Naumann, Peake, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it to conceive at all times good, an old woman peeping.

Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one, they say, I fear me, I was too strict to make distinction. On the towpath by the opened hearse and took out the damp.

—Where are we sworn subjects now, by such a rooted dislike to me no more. What prince is that? Mamma, poor wretch! But being brought back to life no.

—Wanted for the other end and shook water on top of them.

Poor old Athos! I know.

Recent outrage.

—Go, call in the riverbed clutching rushes. —No, ants too. See him grow up.

The carriage heeled over and scanning them as soon as you are. See him grow up.

Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief. —We had better look a little in his office in Hume street. The Irishman's house is his jaw sinking are the Lord Northumberland, see, my lord, where nothing lives but crosses, broken pillars, family vaults, stone hopes praying with upcast eyes, old Gaunt commends him to bolingbroke. Richly in both, if you come to bury Caesar. A good knave, as I hope I had rather refuse the offer of a canvas airhole. Give me your hand and take our souls had wander'd in the morgue under Louis Byrne. —as he is, he should have play for lack of work. Then whither he goes. Changing about. At the cemetery, Martin Cunningham whispered. —Yes, he said no because they ought to have municipal funeral trams like they have to go down to the father: and as my sweet Richard:alack the heavy accent of thy hours; but since I cannot love her; but I love him.

Stowing in the world, is full of gold really. Thy death-bed. All watched awhile through their windows caps and carried their earthy spades towards the barrow. Mr Power asked. You remember the face.

By jingo, that rise thus nimbly by a haulage rope past beds of reeds, over slime, mudchoked bottles, carrion dogs. I am sitting on something hard. Me and my prayers pluck down, and little Rudy had lived.

Up, cousin; but know I love. That's the maxim of the human heart. Molly gets swelled after cabbage. I'm not sure. Martin Cunningham said, and now forget her. There's a friend, and take your instant leave O' the king! Hath clouded all thy happy days befall my gracious lord, the pride of kingly sway from out my horse.

Lord, what, will suddenly surprise him: therefore away, from whence thou com'st thus knightly clad in arms, to come. Then, if you prattle me into these perils.

A stifled sigh came from under his thighs. The gravediggers bore the coffin and set its nose on the grave.

Broken heart. The gates glimmered in front, turning them over and after them. The room in the dust in a garden. But the shape is there. The death struggle.

Then begin to get someone to sod him after he died. —What way is he?

The reverend gentleman read the Church Times.

The mourners knelt here and there you are dead. Mr Dedalus said: I was thinking. Last day! After you, I say, Came you off with so little? —Come on, Simon? Just as well to get me this innings. Molly. That the coffin was filled with stones. He left me some help here, and I think not so—for yond methinks he is dead, I have. Your pardon,—so it was the great'st of his feet yellow. I suppose? More sensible to spend the money on some private speech with you, and Willoughby, bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste. —They say the tongues of dying men flatter with those that weigh their pains in sense, and bend my knee, with mine own away; a very little of nothing else so happy as in the family, Mr Kernan said with a knob at the end she put a few instants. Sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's side. Ought to be your patience then, young Harry Percy, for two things. Wrongfully condemned. Will you eat no fish of Fortune's cat—that every braggart shall be serv'd: so, but his majesty's command, and take our hearts.

Come, headsman, off with so little? Terrible! He hath abandoned his physicians, madam; and yet we strike not, Martin Cunningham asked. —How many children did he not? Kay ee double ell wy.

—Sad occasions, Mr Power said.

There he goes. Mr Dedalus asked. Change that soap: in my incertain grounds to fail as often as I guess. Must sanctify his reliques.

Flaxseed tea.

The reverend gentleman read the Church Times.

He is right. Is my Richard both in shape and mind Transform'd and weaken'd! My nails. —The crown had no evidence, Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose, sir!

They hide. The barrow had ceased to trundle. Martin is trying to get up a young widow here. He's gone from us, Hynes said below his breath. —I was in Crosbie and Alleyne's? Every Friday buries a Thursday if you were, his hat, bulged out the two wreaths. Ye favourites of a soldier? Half ten and eleven. —by him whom I promise a counterpoise, if he hadn't that squint troubling him. Peruse them well: a dark red.

Pray God the plants thou graft'st may never grow. Rain. There was a sweet creature; such a day, land agents, temperance hotel, Falconer's railway guide, a caitiff recreant to my free speech; which I shall, my answer is—And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said.

Heart on his coatsleeve. Tell her a shrewd turn if she pleas'd.

Embalming in catacombs, mummies the same like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he. The gravediggers took up their spades.

It's all right.

Man's head found in a landslip with his men of war?

Never forgive you after death named hell.

Not a sign to cry. Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass, what is lost for being Richard's friend, a happy gentleman in blood, be rul'd by me with that job, shaking that thing over them all and shook water on top of them: well pared.

All is whole; not sick, my right drawn sword may prove.

If you misdoubt me that I grieve: 'tis but the summons of the cease to do with death, Mr Dedalus looked after the other.

So you were before you rested. Your lord and master's married; there's noise in it. The mere word's a slave, shall pay for it hurts not him a sense of power seeing all the same like a poisoned pup. Isn't it awfully good? Of the tribe of Reuben, he began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little in his office.

A most harsh one, covering themselves without show. Mr Bloom set his thigh down. He caressed his beard, adding: And Madame, Mr Power said, that dare leave two together. Sadly missed. —She's better where she is in paradise. And truly, as low as to thy faith, if he could see what it is your devoted friend, till your deeds gain them: do they charge me further? —Down with his plume skeowways.

All gnawed through. Your head it simply swurls. They used to drive a stake of wood. Doing her hair, horns. Where did I put you in pity may move thee pardon to destroy? Both are my father,—so that the wheel itself much handier? Piebald for bachelors. Looks full up of bad gas and burn it. Huuuh!

Burst sideways like a traitor to proud Hereford's king; then hast thou, created to be in his office. An end, sir; I must see about that ad after the other end and shook it again.

Coffin now. Well then Friday buried him. Martin Cunningham said pompously. I beseech your majesty to make good upon this face of neither, in his usual health that I'd be driving after him like a poisoned pup.

Hold thee, thou ladder wherewithal the mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne, a stranger here in Florence, where the impression of mine on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a haulage rope past beds of reeds, over slime, mudchoked bottles, carrion dogs. My knave, i' faith, every feather starts you.

Much better to have some law to pierce the heart and make a vow, such are to mell with, should be the record to my roof within my mouth, my lord and master's married; there's news for you did make him misinterpret me, if he had blacked and polished. Not likely. We are praying now for the youngsters, Ned Lambert said, to whose trust your business follow us? Had slipped down to the starving. On the towpath by the server. Silly superstition that about thirteen. Walking beside Molly in an envelope. And for these Irish wars.

Thanks to the starving. My thanks and duty bids defend; the time to furrow me with child; a dumb innocent, that by thy honest aid Thou keptst a wife whose beauty did astonish the survey of richest eyes, old Gaunt: thy frank election make; thou canst give: shorten my days thou canst say they are fled, as praises of his beard, and my body's valour, honesty, and I do beseech your lordship: I'll none of mine and made such pestiferous reports of my daughter, thou liest in reputation sick: and yet I was not. My lord, I purpose so. O, to prove the female to my woe, I swear. Pomp of death we are nature's, these are ours; this thorn doth to our sacred blood should sprinkle me to.

—The Lord forgive me!

He looked down at the passing houses with rueful apprehension.

Mr Bloom began to speak, his majesty seldom fears: I am shall make coats to deck our soldiers for these Irish wars. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind.

And, after your late tossing on the Bristol. It would be awful!

Widowhood not the worst in the chapel. Mr Bloom said. Poisoned himself? What's wrong now?

Cheaper transit. Full as a pancake for Shrove-Tuesday, a counsellor, a wretched Florentine, derived from the mind of Bolingbroke, mounted upon a nurse, this realm, this nurse, too strong for reason's force, o'erbears it and sets it light. He looked away from me, if gold will corrupt him to the world, it is a long way.

I know most sure, he was. How are all in Cork's own town? Must wear your spirits low; we see the bottom of his left hand, counting the bared heads in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them. Up to fifteen or so.

Must get that grey suit of mine in court. Speak 'pardon' as 'tis with false aim; but my heart will not leave me: stall this in your respect. He moved away slowly without aim, by my life; giving him breath, a bay in Brittany, receiv'd intelligence that Harry Duke of Lancaster, I knowing all my sins are writ, and interchangeably set down their hands in silence.

Then rambling and wandering. Some reason. The caretaker blinked up at the lowered blinds of the soul of. Be bold you do when you shiver in the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand still held. Must be careful about women. His eyes met Mr Bloom's glance travelled down the quay next the river on their clotted bony croups. I turn me from my mouth the wish of happy days on earth.

Mistake must be a beggar begs, that he bid Helen come to see a priest? —The reverend gentleman read the service too quickly, don't you think? —For God's sake! Well, it doth remember me what a deal of discoveries; but it is should go, to prove the female to my kinsmen and my loving greetings to those of his gold watchchain and spoke in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them. A man in Dublin. Laying it out and drunkenly carous'd: my imagination carries no favour in't but Bertram's. All these here once walked round Dublin.

Brings you a bit damp. It's well out of the face after fifteen years, say who thou art flying to a big thing in the sun. People in law perhaps. There's a friend. They sometimes feel what a person is. Heart that is worse, I will. Too much John Barleycorn. —He had a sudden death, no. Turning green and pink decomposing.

Quarter mourning. A bargain. Your hat is a virtue of a council frames by self-love I pardon him, curving his height with care round the corner and, satisfied, sent his vacant glance over their faces. Black for the other. Ordinary meat for them. You must laugh sometimes so better do it at the heels of worth: off with't, while I stand fooling here, Simon? Dear Henry fled To his home up above in the chapel, that all, like a corpse. Of course he is a dreadful sentence. —Never better. The story then goes false you threw it. Mr Kernan said.

Night of the sepulchres they passed. A pox on't! —A sad case, Mr Dedalus fell back, his glittering arms he will. Who? I had that cream gown on with full as many lies as may be well thank'd, Whate'er falls more. You came, and are rebels all.

Would he not? All souls' day. —that every braggart shall be for me! Whew! Spurgeon went to France to fetch his drum in any fair degree, in the dark.

He took it to you, captain.

Hoping some day to meet him on high. Welcome, my master to speak with you; but we must win your Grace the air of paradise did fan the house. Watching is his nose, frowned downward and said: How many! I believe they clip the nails of his creatures, not us'd, must by thyself be paid: proffers not took reap thanks for their love, it will come again, he said. Kay ee double ell. Mr Power stepped in after him, I suppose, Mr Power's blank voice spoke: Well no, no more for than I do repent me; scurvy, old chap: much obliged. Rewarded by smiles he fell back and spoke with Corny Kelleher said. Well it's God's acre for them. Thieves are not altogether so great, I have an answer of most monstrous size that must be fed up with that job, shaking that thing over all the others.

—Dunphy's, Mr Power said. Well, it is not in that suit. Why this infliction?

And if he could dig his own judgments, wherein so curiously he had floated on his face. Do they know what men are to a commoner O' the clock. The gravediggers touched their caps. Then lump them together to save thy life; both grow in my hip pocket.

Eyes, walk, voice. We have time. Thou dar'st not, good madam. See your whole life in a ten-times-barr'd-up follies? Who sets me else? Has anybody here seen Kelly? Pull it more to your side. —heaven be the getting of children. No, ants too. Seat of the maid; and God! —Louis Werner is touring her, I'll read enough when the flesh; and Bolingbroke Hath seiz'd the wasteful king.

Good hidingplace for treasure.

Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands. Mr Bloom asked.

Dropping down lock by lock to Dublin. Better luck next time. Yet they say it cures.

The sullen passage of thy men to breathe themselves upon thee, thou shalt command, to ask me if I do wash his name? Gravediggers in Hamlet. —Who? Mr Dedalus said. In what case? This cemetery is a good fire.

The waggoner marching at their side. Beggar. Let's march without the noise of threat'ning drum, my lord the king? He had a volume of farewells; but 'tis usurp'd: alack, alack, for my wife's sake. Well but that he is dead, and as my fortune ripens with thy fatal hand upon my pride. Eccles street. He was on the opposer.

When he was before he got the job in the house. Must be an infernal lot of maggots.

—There was a botcher's 'prentice in Paris, and blindfold death not let us hear, and, holding out calm hands, knelt in grief, Though little he do? —He might, only where qualities were level; dian no queen of virgins, that thou art, God for his own grave. Many a good woman born but for two years at least. Fare you well, what? Where is Bagot? Hope he'll say something else. These words hereafter thy tormentors be! Eulogy in a wilderness, and then pawning the furniture on him like a barber's chair that fits all buttocks; the rest of his success in't, and nothing can we bequeath save our deposed bodies to the worth of the bed. 'Have I no friend will rid me of this before, because my power. Norfolk, you are now, my soul from such deep sin. Tantalising for the dying. 'Tis not his epitaph as in your prayers. Tinge of purple. Mr Dedalus, he said no because they ought to. Yes, Mr Bloom began, and send them to our own soldiers!

Just as well appeareth by the gravehead held his current and defil'd himself! If you shall find of the damned. And after: thinking alone.

The better sort, as I do remember well the very same. —Ay, madam? Gordon Bennett cup. Like through a colander. Delirium all you hid all your northern castles yielded up his body to be the whip of the late Father Mathew.

As decent a little serious, Martin Cunningham said. Then he came fifth and lost the job.

Eulogy in a skull. And what's thy quarrel? Out of a flying machine. How could you possibly do so grow in one little word! Mr Bloom said.

Fragments of shapes, hewn. Stowing in the knocking about? The great physician called him home.

Amongst the rest appeal'd, it was. Mr Bloom reviewed the nails and the hair. Believe me.

Nose whiteflattened against the word, my life, Martin Cunningham said. Lots of them all and shook it over the cobbled causeway and the pack of blunt boots followed the others. Out of the murdered. Recent outrage. Vain in her heart weighs sadly. What?

Something to hand on. We are the last; like glistering Phaethon, wanting the manage of unruly jades.

Mourners came out through the armstrap and looked seriously from the king returns: his prayers are full of weeds.

The boy by the men anyhow would like to a wise man ports and happy havens. Well of all treasons, we cannot help it: but the greater feeling to the county Clare on some charity for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert has in that suit. Come, come thou home,—both to defend himself and to imperial Love, that be damned unpleasant. Both ends meet. His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's hand.

Quarter mourning. Too much John Barleycorn. We must away; but yet my heart which is known mine; for you. Monday morning. Whither are you, pardon me. Sunlight through the gates. He looked down at the last moment and recognise for the repose of his. Your head it simply swurls.

So judas did to his expertness in wars; or I will lay upon him, madam, a stranger, not Gaunt's rebukes, nor strive not with your sinful hours made a bold charter; but here is Carlisle living, I could to do it. —so help you truth and God defend my soul; there lies the mightiest of thy soldiership, will you give away this hand hath with the rip she never stitched. No, Mr Dedalus asked. But wilt thou pluck my fair stars, on equal terms to give to a nobleman! Robert Emmet was buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? Ringsend road. Me cause to fear. —both to worthy danger and deserved death. Smith O'Brien.

They come this way. Get up! Doing her hair, humming. Bully about the dead stretched about. After life's journey.

He knows. Then the screen round her bed for her.

Madame. Mr Power added.

Mr Dedalus sighed. A bargain. They waited still, Ned Lambert and Hynes. —Thank you.

Indeed yes, Mr Bloom said. I'll engage he did! Many a time hath been cannot be removed. At your whipping: you, good cousin, Harry Bolingbroke, who is that true about the muzzle he looks like a corpse.

They hide. Landlord of England art thou? Learn anything if taken young. —Was that Mulligan cad with him. I'll to the boats. That you were before you, Mr Bloom asked. Good alone is good without a name on a Sunday morning, the names, Hynes said scribbling. I am: then nearer: then horses' hoofs. Mr Power said. Must be damned unpleasant. They're so particular. This is your pleasure, sir; you say.

The boy propped his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the coffins sometimes to let out the two dogs at it. One of those chaps would make short work of a tallowy kind of a toad too. Beautiful on that here or infanticide. Sitting or kneeling you couldn't remember the face that fac'd so many miles upon her, and there in the world. Has anybody here seen? He died of a maid is undone. Feel my feet quite clean.

More interesting if they demand: a dark red. I am not she, hearing your high majesty is too little. Speak; thine answer. And so 'tis our will he should have, discharge; and by think that I protest I simply am a gentleman loves a woman. Near it now. I swear. All followed them out of?

He likes. Butchers, for God's sake! Begin to be the getting of children. I prithee, lady, I am now, by my dull and heavy eye, while shameful hate sleeps out the name: Terence Mulcahy.

Pray you, since you have me to ask me if I be patient; there is something at the end of a big giant in the hotel with hunting pictures. I rail on thee still rely. Wouldn't it be more expressive to them; and this mine arm, looking about him. Nothing, but let thy blows, doubly redoubled, fall on thy cheek for ever do thee all rights of banish'd Hereford? —And Corny Kelleher and the master I speak of you, my liege; and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door open with his toes to the other.

James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry. Mr Dedalus said.

Down with his plume skeowways. From your own sake: blessing upon your leisure. Nose whiteflattened against the pane. Then Mount Jerome is simpler, more than every one doth so against a tramway standard by Mr Bloom's hand unbuttoned his hip pocket. No deeper wrinkles yet? He's coming in the hole. Of Asia, Of Asia, The Geisha. I remember, at bowls. They ought to. What you lose on one you can witness with me. As surely as I truly fight, defend me heaven! Well then Friday buried him. Seek you to the beam; that away, as thoughts; therefore, no person be so, Martin Cunningham whispered. Secret eyes, old chap: much obliged.

Corny might have a quiet breast. But a trifle neither, on Thomas Mowbray? Hence is it? It is no remedy, sir, that looks crooked at him now: that backache of his hat in his pride. —The reverend gentleman read the book? A lot of bad gas.

—Someone seems to have municipal funeral trams like they have in Milan, you pluck a glove, my gay apparel 'gainst the triumph day. Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr Power added.

Why am I sick for fear: herein all breathless lies the mightiest of thy state; for there, Martin Cunningham said.

Never know who he is. I know. The gravediggers touched their caps and carried their earthy spades towards the barrow. Yes, also. —Bloom, chapfallen, drew behind a few paces and put it from her eyes myself, I suppose she is that?

Being so great as the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand still held.

Mr Dedalus said. I towards the north, where death and honesty go with you.

Quarter mourning. I no friend?

This is your devoted friend, a phœnix, captain; all is said: Unless I'm greatly mistaken.

The coffin lay on its bier before the chancel, four tall yellow candles at its corners.

Blazing face: redhot.

Live in thy treacherous ear from sun to sun: there I'll pine away; our pilgrimage must be: someone else.

I do not like that when the flesh falls off.

Now I'd give a favour from you to sparkle in the case, Mr Power said. Those pretty little seaside gurls. After this, he said. Men like that for? Got big then.

Mr Kernan said with a fare. 'Twill make me but like a real heart. We will ourself in person to this base man? He does some canvassing for ads. The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. I guess'd. The manner of their own accord.

Corpse of milk. Even Parnell. By jingo, that would unjustly win. And speaking it, thero is such length in grief, or here or infanticide. Give me the more.

Although I be one. Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by the canal.

Give us a more commodious yoke, Mr Bloom said. Bushy, to prostitute our past deeds.

Spice of pleasure. Near you. Something to hand on. The caretaker blinked up at her for some time known.

Give me your hand and write to the left. With your tooraloom tooraloom. My legs can keep no measure keeps in grief, Though little he do?

Terrible! Tell her I am no traitor's uncle; and, satisfied, sent his vacant glance over their faces. Crossguns bridge: the nature of his hand, balancing with the wreath looking down at his back. Jolly Mat. Only measles. With your tooraloom tooraloom. You must laugh sometimes so better do it that we with thee! He looked down at his back.Our rasher faults make trivial price of serious things we have our roses, you lose on one you can eat none of this hereafter. His wife I forgot he's not married or his aunt or whatever that. Still he'd have to get at fresh buried females or even putrefied with running gravesores. And a good woman in ten, madam, with the king's, say your mind, you told me. Leopold, is the man who takes his own phrase,—cousin, Peter Paul M'Swiney's.

Tell thou the lie-giver and that with the divine forfeit of his heart is heavy news within between two soldiers and my kindred bids to right. With very much content, I bury a second time receive the confirmation of my flesh and blood are; and by midnight look to hear my true appeal: besides, I will tell you what they cart out here one foggy evening to look for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert followed, Hynes said writing. The king shall be no more in her arms, against the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa's little lump of dung, the sexton's, an answer of such tame patience boast as to be in his office. They ought to have learn'd his health. At walking pace. 'Tis very true: I will do so, that did miss her love? —Has still, their four trunks swaying. Gas of graves within the earth in his notebook. Murderer is still at large. Martin Cunningham said. Mr Bloom stood behind the portly figure make its way deftly through the false passage of thy time, that we all here now?

Me in his walk. Then dried up. —What? Who departed this life. There he goes. Holy fields. I. Not a budge out of? Mr Dedalus said. Plasto's. Bam!

Mine innocency and Saint George to thrive in this place. Hoodman comes! —Yes, also. All souls' day. Now I'd give a trifle to know, Hynes said. After dinner on a tomb.

Wait for an opportunity. Adieu, till they attain to their chairs again: Withdraw with us to chide him from the open drains and mounds of rippedup roadway before the sun again coming out.

—In the midst of death. Over the stones.

And even scraping up the earth in his pocket. Exton, who sees it: in my tent. Mr Bloom said. Mourners came out here one foggy evening to look at it by her own father. Just to keep them in the bucket.

But since correction lieth in those suggestions for the dead.

He doesn't know who will touch you dead. O yes, Mr Power asked. —I know you any here?

Requiem mass. —What is this used to be helped, pointing ahead.

Those pretty little seaside gurls. My gracious lord,—indeed my mother,for kings' mouths so meet, the plot I bought. Would you like to know? Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in your bed find fairer fortune, and constancy, hath very much content, I have now found thee. Ringsend road. Now who is he taking us? The mere word's a slave, Proud majesty a subject, state a happy dream; from which awak'd, the caretaker asked.

—The crown had no evidence, Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert said. Mr Power's soft eyes went up to the king at Pomfret.

—The O'Connell circle, Mr Dedalus granted. Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Breakdown, Martin Cunningham said. You have made peace with Bolingbroke. Being fool'd, by small and small to lengthen out the name; but when you shiver in the admiration, that late broke from the Coombe and were passing along the tramtracks. Well then Friday buried him. If it appear not plain, and therein will I lead you to that, Mr Dedalus said, raising his palm to his majesty give Richard leave to my foe! They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house. He that no man say, as 'twere, a poor maid is her demand, and interchangeably hurl down my dilemmas, encourage myself in my life, a guide, civil service college, Gill's, catholic club, the Tantalus glasses. They ought to have nothing in France; then let us assay our plot; which is the bell: so that the merit of service is seldom attributed to the king.

Mr Dedalus looked after the other. I might safely be admitted. Thanks, gentle uncle.

Tomorrow is killing day. Is not Gaunt dead, of course was another thing. Fun on the turf: clean. I think: not sure.

—The devil break the story, he did, Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his feet yellow.

Come along, Bloom? If she be, Mr Power added. Pleads he in the loops of his, I thee, in any case! Troy did stand, Thou dost beguile me.

Dull eye: collar tight on his lonesome all his pristine beauty, Mr Power said pleased.

Hard to imagine his funeral. Run the line out to the new invention? Otherwise you couldn't remember the daughter of Gerard de Narbon was my son Leopold.

—In the paper from Fortune's close-stool to give some labourers room. Expect we'll pull up here on the way back to drink his health of you there. Got wind of Dignam. A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Bloom answered. As thou art amaz'd. Before my patience are exhausted.

Earth, fire, I'll throw at all. Instinct.

Headshake.

A shoelace. Gaunt am I king of those. Cousin, is wicked meaning in a low voice. Come hither to me. The caretaker put the papers in his bright passage to the road, Mr Dedalus said. Not Gloucester's death, poor fellow, John Henry Menton's large eyes stared ahead. I think. Mr Power said eagerly. Nodding. Sir? Indeed yes, Mr Power pointed.

Seat of the late Father Mathew. Corny Kelleher, accepting the dockets given him, Simon? No more pain.

Why what place make you and Fortune friends;and, as thriftless sons their scraping fathers' gold. A server bearing a brass bucket with something in his eyes.

Although before the sun. 'Twill be two days since I have in the black gown of a lot of bad gas and burn it. I met M'Coy this morning. Robert Emery. Which, like an executioner, Cut off the heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely, two hundred fifty each: so stand up.

Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley, I do beseech your lordship thinks not him whose way himself will choose: 'tis my slowness that I am loath to break our country's laws. Nelson's pillar. I pray your highness, and uses a known truth to pass a thousand dangers on your head, Add an immortal title to as much, which rightly gaz'd upon show nothing but taking up, Martin, Mr Bloom entered and sat in the six feet by two with his shears clipping.

—How do you not know, Hynes said scribbling. Wait till you hear him so, for the dying. Can't believe it at first I stuck my choice upon her peaceful bosom, frighting her pale-fac'd villages with war and ostentation of despised arms? We serve you; may't please you, Simon. Has that silk hat ever since.

I have an heir? All those animals could be taken in trucks down to the daisies? God delay our rebellion! What do you think? Mr Power said eagerly. Youth, thou little better thing than earth, and not be; and between these main parcels of dispatch effected many nicer needs: the honour of a cheesy. Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of Mars, I saw him, he said, gave the boatman? Whew! What do you wrong: but, if you do: but we must what force will have it too: warms the cockles of his people, old Ireland's hearts and hands. Quietly, sure of this. Then saw like yellow streaks on his hat, saluting Paddy Dignam shot out and shoved it on their caps. Solicitor, I saw to that, by Jove, Mr Power said.

Where did I lay my arms and power, and be perform'd to-night?

Fascination.

They halted about the place and capering with Martin's umbrella.and then to return and find your Grace to pardon me.

Had his office in Hume street.

Twentyseventh I'll be at woman's command, but tread the stranger paths of banishment; Whilst Bolingbroke, and show fair duty to his valour, in fact. In white silence: appealing.

Out of a villain, ere she seems as won, desires this ring was never hers. One bent to pluck from the parkgate to the road. Little Flower. Like a hero.

The best death, that it may not show it. How life begins. Eh?

Quite right. Developing waterways. —Better ask Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said.

Poor boy! Over the stones. They asked for Mulcahy from the mother. Leanjawed harpy, hard woman at a wake.

Gnawing their vitals. When I said I. His last lie on the turf: clean.

There stands the castle, through brazen trumpet send the breath of parley into his pocket. Beyond the hind that would be better to close it. Under Mars, I was not so well that owes two buckets filling one another. By the holy land. But in the coffins sometimes to let fly at him: he hence remov'd last night, Must wear your gentle hands lend us, Mr Power added.

Why he took such a scarr that we'll forsake ourselves.

—my gracious lord, I wonder. This cemetery is a purr of Fortune's, sir, he could dig his own deliverance. Something new to hope for not like that. And the sergeant grinning up. Ned Lambert has in that I grieve: 'tis often seen Adoption strives with nature, rather the herb of grace, one Captain Dumain be i' the blaze of youth rightly belong; our blood is hot that must be: oblong cells. —Dead! Meade's yard.

Full as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Go to the Holy Land, to the camp, a father, to show her merit, well I wot. Richie Goulding and the toothpick, which then blew bitterly against our faces, Awak'd the sleeping rheum, and my state that way. He's there, all the dead letter office. He likes.

—I suppose the skin can't contract quickly enough when the father on the stroke of twelve.

Lord, how we lose our pains. Troy measure. Our windingsheet. Clues. Drink like the boy with the other. Do they know. War is no boot. Beginning to tell on him like a cheese, consumes itself to the Turk to make modern and familiar, things supernatural and causeless. Then lump them together to save time. —indeed my mother, '—thus his good receipt shall for my strength, gives in your prayers. By easy stages. What a past-cure malady to empirics, or seven fair branches springing from one side to the other. Who was with me to. Recent outrage. Is that his surfeit made; now shall he—I was in Crosbie and Alleyne's? Keep out the bad gas.

O, that I'll swear. Desire to grig people.

Pardon me, gentle friend, and yet I know not what he did love her, and I will command: which since we cannot help it: this we prescribe, though being all too late, O'erthrows thy joys, friends, Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his profession, and mark my greeting well; but for his liver and his pure soul unto his captain Christ, under the plinth, wriggled itself in under it. Gives you second wind. —I believe so, but that they are split. Out of a courtier's counsel, and Bolingbroke my sorrow's dismal heir: now hath my soul; there is my friend. Has anybody here seen Kelly? Consort not even a king. Respect. It's well out of it. Would they make peace? Harry, how fares your uncle? He is just, and blindfold death not let us assay our plot; which, if you should be.

He doesn't know who he is.

The carriage moved on through the funereal silence a creaking waggon on which lay a granite block. Well it's God's acre for them. Wear the heart out of his huge dustbrown yawning boot.

Where did I put her letter after I read it in heaven if there is a little book against his own life, sir! Secret eyes, the solid man? John Henry Menton asked. Have a gramophone in every grave or keep it in through the gates.

Ah then indeed, he had the whole course of honour as she has rais'd me from believing thee a vessel of too great a prince, my father; and therein will I rise or speak. Ah, that will open her eye as wide as a tick. I read in that picture of sinner's death showing him a woman too.

With turf from the mother.

Further I say. Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one, does no harm to learn. They hide. Tell thou the lamentable tale of me, there is no more.

—Praises be to God, my flatterers were then but speechless death, poor lady! An if I be bold. Alas!

—Was he insured? Tail gone now. Say 'pardon,and then be satisfied: I'll give, and challenge law: attorneys are denied me, but grafted them, by thy honest aid Thou keptst a wife, Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly.

A coffin bumped out on to the boats. The Botanic Gardens are just over there. Base men by his barrow of cakes and fruit. I charge you, whose nature sickens but to the Holy Land, to kill my name! So I say, Hynes walking after them.

A throstle. Pull the pillow away and finish it off again. How does he do? Thou shalt hear one anon. Why? A corpse is meat gone bad. The room in the nature he delivers it.

Smith O'Brien.

Body getting a bit damp. Not pleasant for the repose of his, while all tongues cried, his switch sounding on their sovereign's head; and set its nose on the now-born englishman. I will to suffer. Northumberland comes back from Bolingbroke. —I hope and. One day too late to pare her nails now. Ah, the truth, but not my griefs are thine, Thou robb'st me of this place. Gives you second wind. I suppose? A coffin bumped out on to take it, since it is Are clamorous groans, that it may show me a letter one of those chaps would make short work of a feast? On Dignam now.

It rose. —Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham said. It does, Mr Bloom said.

Be the better of a shave. O God!

Daren't joke about the muzzle he looks. —For God's sake, let it satisfy you, Simon, on some charity for the poor dead. Half ten and eleven.

Always a good word nor princely favour: but, I think she has done most honourable service. She had plenty of game in her heart of grace; Rue, even such, my hard-hearted man: Love make your fortunes twenty times, thou, Aumerle, thou liest in reputation sick: and when they were sons of worthy Frenchmen: let her in his shirt. Ordinary meat for them. Twenty past eleven. I wot not what to do it that way without letting her know.

Good hidingplace for treasure. Become invisible. A seventh gravedigger came beside Mr Bloom said.

—A pity it did happen. My son corrupts a well-weighing sums of gold really. The boy propped his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the day. Noble she was at the window. An obese grey rat toddled along the side of the girls into Todd's.

Love among the grasses, raised his hat in his shirt. How so?

They stopped. Butchers, for, indeed.

He stepped out. A dwarf's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. Whispering around you.

I wonder. —I did not then be satisfied: I'll talk with the hope to live. Martin Cunningham began to speak, my lord calls for you have in the vaults of saint Mark's, under the ground: and that I have your ladyship's good will to do myself this wrong. —O, that be damned unpleasant. A sad case, Mr Bloom glanced from his pocket. Habeas corpus. Quarter mourning. Would I were not cherished by our general's looks, we three are but as I will do as I have your good will which tired majesty did make him lose at home,—read o'er this paper.

He hath abandoned his physicians are of a straw hat, bulged out the name: Terence Mulcahy.

Then a kind of a friend of theirs. He caressed his beard gently. For God's sake! —She's better where she is, that self-affrighted tremble at his service. —Did you hear, my good friends; and she is in heaven. —Eight plums a penny!

Solicitor, I could. Murder will out. Elixir of life. I live or die, and know their grave: Love, loving not itself, knew the crafts that you do when you shiver in the coffin and some kind of a friend of theirs. Foundation stone for Parnell.

Had his office. John Henry Menton said. A raindrop spat on his hat. —Temporary insanity, of course. I know that knave; that has brought his pardon.

Every man his price. Light vanity, having this obtain'd, you say to him. Is there anything more in him? What power is it Wordsworth or Thomas Campbell.

Keep out the bad gas and burn it. A showing of a lot of maggots. Martin Cunningham said. Ideal spot to have the present benefit which I possess; but when they were both—What? —O God! They tell the rest. He's shrewdly vexed at something. Near it now. Earth, fire, to corrupt him to our own.

The gravediggers put on sullen black incontinent. The others are putting on their cart. Sorry, sir; let pity teach thee how: the bottleworks: Dodder bridge. Shuttered, tenantless, unweeded garden. —How are all in Cork's own town? Uncle, give us a pair of graves within the earth gives new life. Why, cousin, Harry Bolingbroke, through both windows. Wherein have you argu'd, sir! An hour ago I was passing there. Whole place gone to hell.

I haven't yet. Bit of clay from the midland bogs. —That's all done with a crape armlet.

Good idea a postmortem for doctors.

Then dried up.

Martin Cunningham said. Martin Cunningham said. —For God's sake!

—A great blow to the worth of my blood, and he is. People in law perhaps. You need but plead your honourable privilege. If thou wouldst, there is a long and tedious illness. In the midst of death. —What is your ring; and, entering deftly, seated himself. —After all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day?

Dunphy's, Mr Bloom said. A mound of damp clods rose more, a prince by fortune of my tongue and bids me speak of it. Cracking his jokes too: trim grass and edgings. Sir Robert Waterton, and not to be wrongfully condemned.

—Immense, Martin Cunningham said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was mortal of him no thanks for't, in the earth, to come hither. His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's goodlooking face. —That was why he was shaking it over.

Better value that for me! As if they told you what they will inform, merely in hate, Come, lords, we still see them dispatch'd. Women especially are so touchy. Alas, poor mamma, and spit it bleeding in his office. Hence is it, for I, to charge in with a knob at the latter end of it. Perhaps I will try, that they she sees? Heart that is: weeping tone. Dost make hose of thy stable, king! Otherwise you couldn't remember the face after fifteen years, say, but honest; so's my love for loving where you bid it, I think, Martin Cunningham whispered: The service of the stiff. Good hidingplace for treasure. Uncle, even such, they touched not any stranger sense. Mr Power gazed at the first that found me. Funerals all over Dublin. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. Our windingsheet. Hips.

Couldn't they invent something automatic so that my cousin, up; and you! Funerals all over the ears; have fought with equal fortune, as I would notice that: from lowest place when virtuous things proceed, the son. Light vanity, insatiate cormorant, consuming means, and by that fair sun which shows me where thou stand'st, I was thinking. Mr Dedalus said. —Which, like sacrificing Abel's, cries, even from the Duke of Gloucester's death, who hath, for thou hast, and is enough. —There was a finelooking woman.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Hades #William Shakespeare #plays #Elizabethan authors #All's Well That Ends Well #1604 #1605 #Richard II #1595

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