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weirdworldofwinnie · 7 months

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Oasis in a Desperate Land of Dark Desire - Part Five: Party

Cillian Murphy as J. Robert Oppenheimer x Female Wife Reader NSFW 18+ only

Summary: The Oppenheimers' host a party at the house and Robert is as crowd pleasing as usual, especially with the ladies, while you find yourself doubting the relationship and in the midst of a sudden surprising rumor going around.

Word Count: ~4,548

Warnings: Age gap, period stereotypical gender roles, slight infidelity and talk of, gossip, martial angst

Usual disclaimers apply, obviously NOT based on complete real life historical accuracy, i.e. characters such as the Thompsons are made-up and as a whole, this fic is essentially very much a dramatization and AU fantasy/fiction with Cillian as Oppenheimer, Josh Hartnett as Ernest Lawrence, etc.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Tag List: @forgottenpeakywriter, @frozenhuntress67, @immyowndefender, @szde8-blog, @bypurple, @irenethewoman, @uniquetacofun, @noirrose21-blog, @gridmouse86

If you'd like to be tagged, let me know.

May 1943

The yard was brightly awash in sunlight as you found yourself on your hands and knees digging in the garden plot, preparing to plant and transplanting a couple shrubs. You weren't above physical labor and it was nice to be productive outside of the house and in town; anything involving the earth directly was refreshing.

Life in Los Alamos had smoothed out into a sort of normal routine with Robert working and you studying while keeping house and babysitting the Thompson children multiple times a week. It was a bit isolating day-to-day, but you didn't mind much considering how important this venture was and there was less pressure on your end at least once everyone was settled. Since the kitchen had been remodeled, tonight would be the largest gathering at the house since Robert's 39th birthday bash last month (which marked the occasion by a fine meal of steak and asparagus for dinner and a large cake, lit with an array of candles and nearly everyone in attendance wore shiny party hats). For this evening, the scientists and their significant others were just looking to converse but more importantly relax and have a fun time, so you made sure everything was set and enough drinks were to be served with Robert having shown you how to prepare one of his dry martinis correctly, which you'd be serving to the guests.

At six o'clock, the Thompsons arrived first with their two boys and you led them inside. Little Duncan immediately spotted the batch of sugar cookies you had baked earlier on a whim.

"Cookies!" he yelled, racing to the plate on the coffee table and hungrily grabbing at several with his chubby hands, causing his mother to chastise him with a shocked scold.

"Manners, please!"

But in his excitement, the plate went crashing to the floor and you cringed, quickly bending down to clean up the cracked halves and cookie crumbs scattered onto the rug. Thankfully you had no shortage of serving plates, used to the occasional broken dishware by now.

"No, no, it's okay," you assured the toddler as his bottom lip wobbled and you handed him a cookie which he gobbled up guiltily.

"Duncan, what do you say?" Mrs. Thompson asked sharply.

"Tank you," he mumbled around the mouthful and you smiled, swiftly chucking the plate into the trash.

"I'm so sorry, he can be very careless often," she apologized, but you waved a hand dismissively.

"It's alright. He might as well take the rest since it's likely they will go stale before I alone have the chance to eat them all."

"Doesn't Robert enjoy your baking?"

"Oh, he doesn't really eat and he isn't as fond of any dessert without chocolate in it."

"He still hasn't been eating much?" she asked out of mild concern.

"Well, always rather minimally. He only has a real meal if it's a special occasion or I coherence him to... He usually just has his morning coffee and toast, maybe an orange. I like to think he is just too preoccupied with life and work to consider the normal consumption of food. He's just mentally too full."

"That is still peculiar, though. Good for you to put up with it, heaven knows how annoyed I would get if I cooked and baked all day and my husband ate a measley fraction with hardly any appreciation."

"No, he is grateful about it," you corrected, but she raised a skeptical brow and then you were distracted by more guests arriving.

Once night fully fell, you took up precedence in the kitchen at the counter making drinks and assuring there was enough martinis and appetizers to go around. From the sounds of it, the atmosphere was getting a bit rowdy out in the main party area of the living room: music resounding from the record player, Richard Feynman banging on his bongos, and the sound of shoes dancing the fox trot.

"I see Oppie has put you on drink duty tonight."

You turned to see Dr. Ernest Lawrence standing a few feet away with his signature smirk and you smiled, gesturing with a glass to his direction.

"What, you actually want one?" you teased a bit sarcastically and he winked, the room lights glinting off his round glasses.

"You bet." He accepted the cold drink and took a sip, nodding in approval.

"Never had a better martini," he praised and you took a sip of your own, swirling the strong flavor on your tongue as he leaned against the counter, causally observing about how it was a good turnout.

"It's nearly as many that came for his birthday," you agreed with a nod.

"It's nice to be able to get out of the work atmosphere of the laboratory for a hot minute and relax," he commented.

"I bet. Robert's not giving you too much grief over there, is he?"

"No, just the usual frustrations that I can't talk about, pardon it. You could partly guess it though; it started with my Rad Lab, the unionizing and differential ideas... But I will say as much as we respect each other, Oppie needs to not act so much like a Communist sometimes; it's detrimental to all of us and especially him, the damn brilliant fool," Lawrence said rather bitterly and you raised an eyebrow.

"What do you mean by that oxymoron?"

He shook his head of whatever thoughts he had and finished his drink too hastily, giving you back the nearly empty glass. His fingers brushed your hand for a few seconds, causing both his and your wedding rings to briefly clink together, before he pulled away and smiled again.

"Thanks for the drink, Y/N." He walked out of the kitchen and absorbed into the wider huddles of people in the lounge as you looked on curiously.

About an hour later, you took a break from the kitchen to go converse with a few lady friends and couldn't help but notice Robert seated comfortably on the sofa, bumping knees by being sandwiched in-between his close friend Dr. Ruth Tolman and her husband Richard. She was blonde and attractive, whip smart, and currently listening intently and hanging onto every word and expression he made while conversing and you felt a small prick of unexpected... envy? You knew Ruth personally and she was a pleasant intelligent woman in a challenging field, which made Robert deeply respect her, but it also reminded you of the comparisons and why he admired her. She was significantly older than you (and even had ten years on him) and was trailblazing in her occupation while you were struggling through obtaining a nursing degree despite being plunked down in the middle of government sanctioned nowhere and shoehorned into housekeeping and hosting. You clenched the drink in your hand, nails driving into the glass as you watched them, distracted from your conversation with the ladies, and Robert was animatedly explaining something as she leaned closer, a tinkle of laughter reaching your ears. You excused yourself from the gaggle of women and drifted closer while trying to remain somewhat inconspicuous and watching carefully as he focused intently on her, completely oblivious of you standing no more than eight feet away.

"The damn brilliant fool."

Maybe Lawrence was right? You weren't sure why you were feeling so protectively paranoid all of a sudden. It had to be nothing, but you still felt a tiny smidge of annoyance seeing how much she was clearly enjoying Robert's presence tonight and vice versa (given a few drinks of course) but many women in general were not immune to his strange charm, so it was to be expected. Hell, they had been positively fawning over him at his birthday last month and many in town marveled at his leadership, gentlemanly qualities, and magnetic charisma despite his eccentricities and intimating intellect.

Robert could talk for hours about nearly any academical subject, philosophy, Greek mythology, politics and ideologies (although that was a bit stamped out here due to the secrecy and military oversight), religion, science obviously, any personal matters and interests (except sports), and basically anything that warranted an opinion. And people always listened, no matter if they had precise knowledge in the subjects or not, and the appeal was undeniable to most women you knew, heterosexual or not. He was something special, that was for sure, and you were afraid Ruth might be taking advantage of this as she placed a manicured hand softly on his knee, laughing with him.

You retreated back somewhat to avoid awkwardness in case either him or her noticed you staring (which they never did) and considered checking up on the state of the kitchen, when four-year-old Douglas came excitedly running over, weaving between the legs of the adults.

"Mrs. Oppen-hemmer, come look at what I found!" He abruptly took your hand and pulled you away to the front door and outside into the front yard, plunking himself down on the rock pathway. The glowing yellow lights from the windows and house made shadows cast across the ground in eerie splinters and dark patches on the ground.

"What is it?" you asked, squinting in the dimness to see exactly what he was so invested in and he poked at a black bulbous miniscule shape lodged in the space between the slabs.

"Oh, it's just an arthropod. A common ground beetle, I believe," you told him, disguising disgust as he kept poking at it with interest until you gently batted his fingers away.

"Don't bother it too much," you told him and he sighed, rolling onto his side and staring in fascination that was lost on you, but whatever humored him was fine.

You went to take a seat on the front step, listening to the bubble of conversation, music, and glasses clinking inside the house as you absentmindedly watched the little boy, ruminating on a few past snippets of conversation you remembered having with friends and family, who were commenting critically at the time on your rather fast relationship with Robert before you practically eloped.

"You're making a mistake with a premature marriage, you need to prioritize your education first, a man second."

"Well, didn't you pick one of the highest hung fruit of the land. Dr. Oppenheimer, I must say! You make the rest of us seem subpar."

"But Jean and him make such a impassionate, powerful couple. He calls her his truest love and has proposed marriage to her before you, so he'll only be settling for you if you accept him, don't forget that."

"Sweetheart, listen to me. You know I love you and will accept whomever you choose, but think about this dearly before you exchange vows. A physicist, this older man's a physicist. What on earth are you going to have in common with a scientific genius like that? He'll support the hell out of you with his teaching, I understand, and I like that he's a wealthy born New Yorker, but... and I say this with love - love - you're just not perhaps up to such standards? I want the best for ya honey, I do, but you couldn't match with, say, a businessman instead? Someone who doesn't have his brains up in the high clouds, all this theoretical talk of dark matter and black holes... Do you even understand any of that? You have as much in common with his interests as the moon and he'll never have use for you intellectually, only fundamentally. My daughter's not Marie Curie, forgive me."

That last one had been from your father and you had been personally affronted, insisting angrily that it didn't matter, for Robert didn't only love scientists with very high IQ scores, for goodness's sake.

"Father, he doesn't need me for his fill of physics, he has many outlets and he's not only a man of science; he so dearly loves poetry, art, classical music, equestrians, global and national history, Hinduism - he can read Sanskrit for God's sake! - and any matter of politics..."

"He's too good for you, sweetheart. That man has more knowledge than an encyclopedia, you'd need an index just for reference in his causal conversations. Now, come home back east if this whole college venture doesn't pan out in California... Remember the Paulson's? Jack has a son who just turned twenty and is majoring in finance, he'd love to meet ya, someone closer in age and caliber."

"But I'm not into finance, I'm pursuing medicine and psychology."

"You'd just be a quack in that field, I'm telling you. Follow the market money, not dilly-dallying in dating theoretical physicists and Freudian psychiatry. You need a man who knows his numbers in a practical sense, who will make a stable husband and you a nice homemaker. You're my only child, so I'll be awaiting grandchildren."

It was safe to say your father could be a bit... pushy and simple-minded. You hated the way you were easily boxed in, setting up your life already yet scoffing at when it was too good. You weren't a chemist nor would you be a bank teller (besides, your father was only so fixated on that because he almost lost his entire fortune due to the Great Depression) and yet being only a housewife seemed to be selling yourself short. Since the war began, you saw the need for help in the medical field and if psychiatry wouldn't have you, then you could at least become a nurse with the hopes of eventually excelling to physician with extra schooling. But of course, Robert had obtained his doctorate years ago and his younger ex-girlfriend Jean had graduated from Stanford recently while you were stuck here.

"He's too good for you, sweetheart."

You swallowed, beginning to wonder if that was possibly coming true... Did he only keep you around for the sex, usefulness in the home and kitchen, and for probable inevitable breeding of children? He didn't truly respect you, did he? Were you just an arm piece, the beautiful secure wife to come home to after he, the theoretical celebrity, saved the world? If you had none of those aforementioned qualities and were a "mere, plain waitress" like he would say about his brother's fiancée, Jackie, would he discard you as quickly as last week's newspaper?

Were you only a lovely wife and nothing more?

"We can't all be the spirited intellectual fancy Communist Miss Tatlock," you mumbled unhappily to yourself, hardly noticing that Douglas had come over and was standing in front of you, leaning his body from side to side as he stared at you.

"Okay?" he asked and you blinked, wiping your face quickly to hide the blatant emotion. You hadn't even realized you'd been shedding tears.

"Oh, yes, I'm okay."

He held up his hand gently curled into a fist with his thumb up and wiggled it around.

"I do this when Momma sees me fall, but I'm not hurt. Thumb means okay!" he explained proudly and you laughed, making your own 'thumbs up' and he giggled, bumping his knuckles to yours and making a goofy face, to which you did back, making him giggle in turn.

"Can we play a game?"

"What do want to play?" you asked and he scrunched up his face before exclaiming.

"Hopscotch!"

"Oh, but we don't have the sidewalk chalk for that and besides, it's too dark," you tried to tell him, but he had already made up his mind.

"Lemme go get Dunky and we can play together!" he proclaimed, using the nickname for his little brother and he dashed into the house, coming out a moment later with Duncan in tow behind him.

The boys however proved chalk wasn't necessary and rather only their imaginations as they used the pathway, tossing a rock, jumping, and counting happily. Douglas led the game, his brother following and inadvertently copying his footsteps, and when they insisted for you to join in, you considered the fact that you were in one of your best dresses and worried to be seen as too silly.

"C'mon!" Douglas shouted, doing a gregarious hop a few feet forward, nearly stumbling over his own shoes, and you hoped he wouldn't injure himself and make you liable. You glanced down at your high heels and shrugged.

Oh, screw it.

You removed them and carefully joined the boys all the same, doing a bit of hopscotch until you bored of it and sat back down, slipping your mildly sore feet back into the heels, and were amused at their energetic antics.

"Want to adopt them? I'll ask," Robert's lightly sarcastic voice made you startle and you glanced over your shoulder as he came out of the house and took a seat down beside you.

"I'm kidding," he smiled and you waved a hand fondly over at them.

"They're good boys," you stated as he looked on, sighing wistfully.

"They still haven't felt the sharp sting of the world's cruelty yet nor were they born cruel," he observed.

"I sure hope they never become like that, although as long as we are at war, who is to say?" you replied quietly and he looked at you fondly.

"You're good with them, they trust and like you quite a lot," he remarked, gesturing to the kids with his martini glass.

"I suppose we have formed a fast kinship somehow and I do my best," you replied humbly.

"I can tell. The Thompsons will be leaving soon, why don't you call them in? I believe it is way past bedtime for the young ones."

"Boys?" you called, gesturing and after a moment, they came hurrying up.

"How about you find your mother, okay? I think it's time to go home for bed," you told them and they whined a bit, insisting they weren't tired.

"You don't want to get in trouble, do you?" Robert asked sternly.

"Nuh-uh," Duncan replied, sticking his bottom lip out and Robert patted him on the back, sending them inside and as soon as they left and you and Robert bid goodnight to their parents, he went back outside and sat down in one of the chairs in the yard and you joined, breathing in the smoke from his tobacco pipe. You wondered why he was out here instead of being at the center of the party inside, it was unlike him.

He glanced to you, wary, and the question that came out his mouth next caught you unprepared.

"Have you ever considered having an affair on me?"

You stared at him, any emotional warmth evaporating in the cool night air.

"God, no, what? Robert, you know I have always maintained I'm not interested in other men. Why... Has someone said something?"

"There's a fresh rumor going around that you have a mutual interest in Ernest Lawrence; I heard from one of the women back in there declare that you were clearly flirting with him in the kitchen over a drink."

"A rumor? That's just a bold faced lie! I wasn't flirting in the slightest, we were merely having a plain conversation!" you exclaimed, standing up but his hand caught your waist, gripping at your dress and you sat, glaring and breathing heavily. How dare she... You had a hunch it was the same wife from the first week here who was snarky to you when you were doing the laundry.

"It was just a passing comment, nothing to get worked up over," he quickly backpedaled as you grew visibly angry.

"But that could spread like wildfire in this bunch. I have to speak to that wretched woman!"

"I already told her and those around us that it was utter absurdity. You barely even interact with Ernest causally and I've never picked up romantic inclinations between the two of you," he assured, but you shook your head in disbelief.

"I just can't believe this blasphemy!"

"I couldn't either, which is why I came to you to confirm," he replied.

"I'm glad you did. I would never think of flirting with a married man and all I did was give him one drink as a hostess in our own house. Does he know about this?"

"I spoke to him just before I came out here. He's a bit punchy from the martinis, so he laughed for a minute straight at that accusation, and then when I asked him if he personally considered you to be a pretty woman, he told me that I am a 'pretty man'," Robert answered, uncertain of the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth and you stifled a laugh.

"I see. Well, he's not wrong there, you are dashing."

"Thank you," he murmured and you checked your watch, noticing it was getting late and the guests were beginning to leave. Robert noticed your restlessness and placed a cautioning hand on your arm, squeezing comfortingly.

"Let's avoid confrontation. You just wait here until they're gone," he advised and you pursed your lips, but let him go be the one to bid goodnight and usher everyone out.

After several minutes of watching small groups of friends, acquaintances, and pairs of couples exit down the path to the road one by one, you finally stood and walked back into the house, forcing a smile at a few stranglers left - Robert's men - filing out and helping a couple up from the table as they could barely stand up and walk, having had one martini too many. As you turned around in the hallway, none other than Ernest Lawrence himself bumped into you seemingly out of nowhere and he looked decidedly drunker than you'd ever seen him.

"Excuse me," you muttered, starting to duck around him when he grabbed your wrist and leaned down so swiftly to lock lips, his glasses banging into your face as he smashed onto your mouth with surprising force. You instinctively shoved him back, blinking in shock as he stumbled slightly and steadied himself with a hand on the wall.

"Fuck, get away from me!" you hissed in shock.

His eyes were a bit glazed and he shook his head, wiping his mouth sloppily of your lipstick with the back of his hand.

"No wonder Oppie married you straightaway, the girl can serve a mean martini and a decent mouth-to-mouth," he muttered.

"I'll take that as a compliment, now get the hell out of our house," you ordered, pushing his broad back towards the front door and he didn't resist.

"It's Oppie's world... you and I are just living in it," Lawrence grumbled as you shoved him out, slamming the door, and feeling grateful that his wife had already left with others.

You went quickly to the bathroom and rinsed out your mouth and smeared off the ruby lipstick. You thoroughly washed your face over and over with cold water, frowning when you glanced up with your mascara running and saw Robert's shadow in the mirror behind you.

"I feel as though I've been set up. Your best pal Lawrence just stole a kiss before he left, I thought you'd like to know!" you exclaimed loudly as you wiped your face of makeup with a cloth and he made a noncommittal gesture.

"He was drunk, forgive him."

"You're not upset with this whole nonsense?"

"He never would have done it otherwise if he wasn't under the influence, that's the loosest he gets and frankly I think it's good for him to step outside his stiffer cautionary boundaries. But I'll speak about it to him tomorrow if he even recalls. You have nothing to worry about unless you happen to fancy him, then we do have a problem to fix."

"No, I do not find him as fetching as you. Quite honestly, I'm tired of tonight and wish to go to bed. Goodnight, Robert." You dried your face and brushed past him to change out of your formal dress wear and he stood, watching.

"It feels different when it's the opposite sex, doesn't it?" he inquired in a passive aggressive tone and you snapped, throwing your heels into the closet harder than necessary.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, when it's me and Jean or me and Kitty or-"

"Don't bring up those other women to me, you'll regret it. Please shut up and come to bed when you're ready," you ordered grumpily and slipped into bed in just your bra and panties, covering your body with the sheets and rolling over so you didn't have to see him. You were tempted to ask about Ruth, but that potential fuel for an argument would have to be saved for another day and besides, she was just a long time friend. She never had spoken a bad word about you and was always so supportive to Robert... Perhaps it was only the alcohol that had infected everyone's judgement tonight.

You thought uncomfortably about Ernest's warm drunken mouth suctioning onto yours and you glanced over your shoulder at Robert removing his shoes and relaxing back on the bed, striking up a cigarette and sighing when a terribly naughty thought came to you. What if you stirred up expectations and purposely fed into this "rumor" (or perhaps actual one-sided attraction on his part, you weren't so sure now) just to unnerve Oppie, give him a taste of his own medicine? You had lied a bit earlier about not being interested in other men, of course you glanced at times when someone caught your attraction, but you never actively sought them out and certainly not Lawrence. He wasn't half bad looking, but the idea of provoking this further was tempting yet you knew it was impossible without consequences and you hated to offend his wife. People would find out and you'd be painted in a bad outlook, and you certainly did not wish to be the adulteress of Los Alamos, flirting and hooking up with every male scientist who so as looked at you. Of course, when a man cheated, it was typically not completely condemning of his character, whereas a woman would be splashed with a bold scarlet letter on her chest for the rest of her life. Of course, you wouldn't even be having these thoughts if Robert hadn't said anything and Lawrence hadn't done what he did.

You felt a sudden tug on the sheets and gritted your teeth, yanking them back from your husband who was trying to get comfortable beside you.

"I hope you're not cold," you remarked snappily and he huffed, rolling over very close despite your standoffish attitude and he was likely quite drunk, although he was never one to show it obnoxiously since he took alcohol unusually well.

"I'm not the one lying here nearly naked. Our nights have been so dry, even Sundays, and you know I'll have less and less time the farther we get along in the project. Have you considered we haven't had proper intimacy since my birthday?" he bemoaned.

You ignored that fact, mildly annoyed he apparently needed sex more than once a week and after this evening's events you were hardly in the mood without imagining Ernest's lips on yours.

So much for thinking everything was going well and undramatic... Couldn't even a simple get-together be decent and clean around this place? You supposed not.

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seokmingiggles · 3 years

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what kind of future.

Anon requested on 201221: "Would you do a Hoseok one shot of his significant other's 4 year old nephew crashing their bed during the night he sleeps over because of a nightmare and Hoseok is super soft with the reader about this being their future?"

Pairing: Jung Hoseok x gender neutral reader

Genre: very fluffy, established relationship.

2.84k words

Warnings: mentions of a (toddler's) nightmare (aka no warnings).

You and your boyfriend are in charge of looking after your brother's son overnight, and the act makes him consider how he'd like to spend the rest of his life with you. Alternatively, there are many things you admire about Hoseok—one being the tender way he does so well with kids, and one not being the way he seems to possess zero Mario Kart skills.

A/N: Here is the second babysitting-themed request I got. Thank you, anon, for requesting Hobi! I have so much adoration for this beautiful boy ;-; Additionally, this fic is not to be confused with Lee Jihoon's heartbreakingly beautiful ballad of the same title. I definitely recommend listening to it if you haven’t already; it’s full of incredible emotion that blows me away and brings me to tears every time I listen.

•• You were surprised when Hoseok, your boyfriend of five years, hadn't hesitated to agree when earlier today you mentioned how you're scheduled to babysit your older brother's son tonight.

You know he's good with kids. Hobi has the perfect amount of energy and positivity to get along with them; it's one of the many traits you admire about him. Even though the two of you have been dating since the beginning of your college years, you and Hoseok have never really discussed your future, including marriage and having children. Although you don't doubt he would be a good father one day.

Your brother, Seokjin, was in desperate need of a date night out with his partner and had asked if you wouldn't mind looking after Jisung for the evening until tomorrow morning. You agreed instantly. You aren't ready to have kids of your own anytime soon, but you thoroughly enjoy spending time with your nephew.

"Thanks again for this, (Y/N). I owe you one."

Your brother arrived at your apartment at precisely 5 pm like he said he would, with Jisung already running to your living room and flopping on the couch upon opening the door.

"It's no problem. Jisung's fun to hang out with, and Hoseok likes him too," you could feel your heart soar at mentioning your boyfriend. "He should be here in about an hour once he gets off work. Hopefully, I'll be able to entertain Jwi until then."

"You're better with kids than you think, don't worry too much," Jin playfully ruffles your hair before saying his farewells to his son (who is already preoccupied with your couch cushions).

You wave goodbye to your brother and encourage your nephew to do the same (although the boy is adamant about creating a pillow fort in your living room; Seokjin apparently doesn't often let him in his house).

"Do you have more pillows, Auntie? And maybe blankets too!" Your couch is already naked of cushions, with Jisung sitting on the floor surrounded by the pile he’s accumulated.

You comply with his request and manage to find some spare blankets in the linen closet, along with a couple more pillows.

You follow your nephew's orders of where to place the soft additions on the floor. "What are you planning on doing once we finish this fort, Jwi?"

The boy murmurs, "I was hoping we could play Mario Kart."

You should have expected that answer; it’s one of his favourite things to do on the few occasions he's come over.

Soon enough, your small living room houses a busy arrangement of scattered couch cushions and duvets to make a comfy fort. The four-year-old is nothing less than thrilled about the finished product.

"Auntie, I'm hungry."

You almost forget that you are babysitting, and therefore responsible for feeding the boy.

"Let's go see what food we have in the kitchen," you stand and hold out your hand, which Jisung eagerly takes as the two of you wander into the kitchen. "Has your favourite food changed? Or do you still like pancakes?"

The boy squeezes your hand as he thinks. "I still like pancakes. I also like pizza." He hums in deep consideration, "Maybe I like circle-shaped foods."

You think he's adorable.

"There are a lot of tasty circle-shaped foods, that's a good answer," your eyes scan the interior of your fridge, moving to your cupboards shortly after when you can't find what you are looking for. "I'm sorry, buddy, but it doesn't look like I have the right ingredients for pancakes tonight, though."

Jisung audibly expresses his disappointment.

"Here, let me see if I can call Hobi. Maybe he hasn't left work yet and could kindly pick up some mix on his way." You trek back to the living room to retrieve your phone and find Hoseok's contact.

The line rings once, twice, and a few more times until it goes to voicemail.

It’s unlike Hoseok to not answer his phone, so you try once more.

"Auntie! There's someone at the door."

You must have missed the knocking as you focussed on the dial tone.

Hoseok finally picks up on the line as you make your way to answer the door.

"Special delivery," you hear through the phone and in front of you as you open the door.

You break out into a smile, which only becomes wider as you spot a couple of pizza boxes Hoseok carefully holds with one hand, his other one keeping his phone to his ear.

"Have I ever told you how much I love you?" You help him with the boxes as you usher him inside your apartment. "Because you always seem to know what I'm going to ask you before I even say anything."

"It's just one of my superpowers, don't you know I can read your mind, (Y/N)-ie?" He makes some silly sound effects as he displays how he can 'read your mind.'

"Pizza!" Jisung calls out upon seeing the cardboard boxes on the counter. "Oh, hi, Hobi!"

"Yeah, you better say hi to me," your boyfriend sweeps your nephew up in a hug and lightly spins around with him. "I'm not just your pizza boy; I'm your favourite uncle too, right?"

Jisung laughs as they spin. "I think you're my only uncle, Hobi."

"Exactly. So I must be your favourite by default then, hm?"

"Ah, stop teasing and go wash your hands. Both of you!"

"Yes, Auntie," both Jisung and Hoseok say, the latter mostly to keep teasing you despite your request.

Dinner is louder than what you are used to. The times where you would eat alone when Hoseok would be working late or simply not over seem like a distant memory as you’re sat between the two boys at the small table, seemingly alternating between bites of pizza and bubbly laughter. Jisung had asked if you all could eat in the living room fort, but you could already picture the tomato sauce stains and spilled crumbs decorating your furniture, so you denied his request and were met with a pout in return. But his pout didn't last for very long once he took a bite of the cheese-adorned food.

Seeing how Hoseok gets along so well with your nephew does something to your heartstrings; how he would listen to Jisung with the utmost attention and not hesitate to give the most perfect response in return. Your boyfriend is clearly gifted with children; you can't contain the smile on your face as you listen to him discuss something about dinosaurs with the toddler.

"I want to be Bowser when we play Mario Kart, Auntie," the boy tugs on your sleeve to pull you from your thoughts. "He's a dinosaur, right, Uncle?"

"Actually, I think he's a turtle," Hoseok considers, "but he does look kind of like a dinosaur, doesn't he?"

Jisung agrees without a second thought, now practically vibrating in his seat from the excitement and anticipation of playing the game. It helps that his tummy is now full of pizza, courtesy of your amazing boyfriend.

It isn't yet 7 o'clock, so you figure the three of you could play for a bit before your nephew has to go to bed. With fingers free from pizza grease, you all pick up the small switch controllers and choose your characters for the Kart racing game. Jisung chooses Bowser like he said he would, while Hoseok opts for Yoshi, and you with a Shy Guy in your favourite colour.

You are aware that Seokjin also has this game at his house—your brother was ecstatic when he learned his son also likes to play video games—but you couldn't have expected Jisung to be that well-practiced for a four-year-old. You knew you could beat Hobi at the game, you have many times before, and this evening was no different, but your nephew is unexpectedly your biggest competition.

An hour and a half quickly passes by with the sounds of competitive shouts and the in-game noises of Hoseok's character falling off the map too many times to count. You love Hobi, but certainly not for his Mario Kart skills. Sure enough, it is time to get Jisung ready for bed. You collect the overnight bag your brother left at the door, moving to the bathroom to help the boy get changed into his pyjamas and brush his teeth (in the other room, you hear Hoseok start another race so he could practice by himself).

After only minimal fussing, you manage to get Jisung tucked in the bed residing in the small room doubling as your office and a guest bedroom. Even though it’s only a twin-sized bed, the boy has plenty of room to be comfortable during the night.

"You know where to find us if you need anything, okay, Jwi?" You are now by the door saying your final goodnights to your nephew with Hoseok beside you after shutting the game off. "I'll also leave a nightlight in the hallway so it won't be completely dark."

"Thank you, Auntie (Y/N), goodnight. Goodnight, Hobi." Jisung waves at the two of you after yawning with a wide mouth.

You and your boyfriend wish a final goodnight before you close the door until it is only slightly propped open.

Hoseok takes your hand as you leave the short hallway and find yourselves back in the living room. You are finally pulled into a warm hug.

"Should we clean this up tonight?" Hobi whispers into your hair as he embraces you.

You relax in his hold, also keeping your voice low when you say, "No, Jwi will probably want to sit in his fort again tomorrow morning before Jin picks him up."

You feel a gentle kiss on the top of your head.

"Okay," Hoseok begins playing with the ends of your hair. "Why am I so tired too? It's only 8:30."

"There's nothing wrong with going to bed early." You turn your head so you can see Hobi's pretty face, "Who knows what time that kid will wake us up in the morning. Jin said he's still an early riser."

That is all the motivation Hoseok needs to take your hand once more and lead you to the bathroom so you could also get ready to go to sleep.

"Hey, Hoseok?" you whisper in the darkened room, feeling for his hand beneath the covers.

"Yeah?" he hums back.

"How did you get to be so good with children?"

There is silence as your boyfriend thinks, then claims, "It's funny that you say that because I don't think I'm particularly good with kids." He stops once more, thumbing the back of your hand. "All I do is make sure I listen to them properly and treat them well. I don't think it's anything special."

You move closer to Hoseok, finding a safe place in his side. "I think it's special. I've seen you before with other kids too, not just with Jisung, and it's the same thing. They just seem to like you." You run your fingers upwards on his arm until you reach the side of his face. "You're very likeable, Hobi."

With your thumb grazing over Hoseok's cheek, you lean in to give him a kiss against his soft lips. He tastes of peppermint from your toothpaste but smells familiar, like home.

"You're very lovable, (Y/N)," he replies, mirroring a hand on the back of your head. Although you can't see his face in the darkness, you can hear the smile in his voice. "I love you."

"I love you too."

You and Hoseok unexpectedly succeed at falling asleep at around 9 pm. Yet, you aren't sure for how long you manage to sleep as you are awoken by Jisung, who has appeared on your side of the bed.

"Auntie?"

Jisung's voice is quiet. He feels bad for waking you up, but he keeps your sentiment in his mind about coming to you if he needs anything during the night.

Hoseok is the first to wake at the sound of sniffles. He reaches over to turn on the dim table lamp, only to find the toddler with tear-stained cheeks and tightly clutching his favourite stuffed whale plushie.

You stir from the sudden introduction of light and sit up, becoming immediately concerned at Jisung next to you.

"Hey, come here," you coo, helping the boy get situated between you and your boyfriend in your bed. "What's wrong, Jwi?"

The boy sniffles a few more times before saying, "I h-had a bad dream."

Hoseok had already moved around him, now taking a tissue to help dry his face before rubbing soothing circles on his back. Jisung moves to sit slightly closer to Hobi, leaning into his touch.

"Do you want to talk about it?" your boyfriend asks, his voice is nothing but gentle.

Jisung nods, "There were monsters. Big monsters with spikes. They looked scary." He squeezes the plush whale, "They were chasing me, but I wasn't fast enough."

Hoseok nods as he listens carefully, gently swaying as he rocks the boy to calm him down.

"Would you feel safer if you stayed here?" you offer. "I promise you no monsters can get in this room."

Jisung accepts with a quiet "Please," and begins to settle beneath the covers.

It doesn't take much for the toddler to relax; Hoseok is humming some tune barely audible to you as you stroke the top of his head softly.

Hobi becomes silent when the sound of Jisung's breathing steadies out, and his grip on the whale loosens.

Despite your tiredness from your interrupted sleep, you remain in that position watching your nephew as his chest rises and falls. His small nostrils on his round nose flaring every once in a while.

And as you watch the boy, Hoseok watches you.

He admires your beauty—an obvious quality, but something to admire nonetheless—and the way your touches are so delicate. You have expressed your doubts about being good with children in the past, but all Hoseok can see now is how caring you are as you make sure Jisung is properly asleep and feeling better.

"Hey, (Y/N)?" Hoseok whispers, "What kind of future do you think we'll have?"

You direct your gaze to your boyfriend and nearly melt at the way he is looking at you so fondly.

"What kind of future do you think we'll have?" you smile and repeat the question to him, suspecting that he already has an answer.

Hobi beams. "I can picture us in a similar situation down the road, except maybe it's our own child between us." He carefully fixes the blanket ever-so-slightly so that Jisung is fully covered. "I can picture us in our own house one day after we're married. It'll have a nice kitchen with plenty of room for slow dances at midnight and a big bathtub in the ensuite that I know you'll use plenty." He gently tucks some hair behind the toddler's ear. "I can picture us growing old together." His gaze once again meets yours. "That's the kind of future I want to have. Anything is optional, except for you. You're the only requirement I ask for, my love."

You want to squish into Hoseok's embrace once more, but you refrain yourself from moving at the dispense of Jisung's newfound peace.

Instead, you whisper back with glassy eyes, "The only kind of future I want is with you, Hobi."

Your boyfriend glows at your words and warms your heart with his dimple-clad smile.

Down the road, you would, in fact, end up engaged to Hoseok one day, and soon after to be married as well. Your house wouldn't have a bathtub in the ensuite, but the kitchen would have plenty of room, and your husband would ensure that he twirls you around like the royalty he sees you as.

One day, you would find yourself with a daughter of your own and catching Hoseok brushing her hair as she gets ready for her first day of kindergarten. She would be so happy with the little ribbon he tied in her hair and would run to your arms to show you.

One day, you would find yourself going grey with Hoseok still next to you; the same Hoseok who would kiss you silly to wake you up on the morning of your birthday, the same Hoseok who would insist on paying for your dinner every time he'd request a date night.

The same Hoseok who would tell you "I love you" in the most gentle tone of voice, never failing to make your heart soar at his words.

One day.

But now, you remain here, in your small apartment with no ensuite nor a large kitchen. You're here, laying next to your beautiful boyfriend with your nephew between your bodies. Both boys are fast asleep, yet you remain awake and thinking about what kind of future you'll have.

What kind of future will you have?

You're open to anything as long as it contains Hoseok.

Yes, one day. ••

#jung hoseok #jung hoseok x reader #jung hoseok fluff #jung hoseok imagines #hoseok #hoseok x reader #hoseok fluff #hoseok imagines #hobi #hobi x reader #hobi fluff #jhope #jhope x reader #bts #bts jhope #bts x reader #bts fluff #bts imagines #request

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bluerosewritings · 4 years

Text

Tarts and Kisses | Riddle x Fem!Reader

[Originally posted on “The Heart Mirror” on Wattpad]

Riddle stared at his phone, biting his lip. The red head wasn't usually one for late nights - if things were going his way, he would have finished going over his notes half an hour ago and would now be sleeping. Unfortunately, things were not going his way.

Because of rule 373 of the Queen of Hearts - 'if one is unable to be near the person of their affection, they must partake in a form of communication at the 9th hour of the 5th night' - the two of you always called each other at nine o'clock every Friday. The two of you had also decided to alternate who called who each week, this week being your turn to call.

Yet you hadn't called.

At first, Riddle had brushed it off as you being distracted. Sure, he was a little annoyed that you hadn't properly adhered to the rules, but whenever you hadn't in the past you usually had a proper reason.

So when Riddle watched the clock hit ten, he began to worry. Surely you wouldn't have taken this long to call? As menial as the calls were, you'd told him often how you "loved just hearing his voice". Maybe you fell asleep? But wouldn't you have told him how tired you were?

Unable to take it any longer, Riddle left his room. As he passed by the dorm lounge, he caught a glimpse of Trey out the corner of his eye.

"You're back late, Trey," Riddle said, slowing down his pace, "are you finished with the food for tomorrow's Unbirthday Party?"

"Hmm? Oh, Riddle. Thought you'd be asleep by now." Trey replied.

"Unfortunately, no. I'm on my way to check on (y/n)," Riddle frowned, "she missed our Friday call, and I... need to make sure that she has a proper reason."

Trey smiled, knowing how soft Riddle could be when it came to enforcing rules on you. Then realisation dawned on him.

"Ah, Riddle, she won't be in her dorm," Trey explained, "I asked her to help me with the last of the Unbirthday Party food, but we had an accident... nothing major. But it probably distracted her."

"I see... thank you, Trey. Make sure nothing happens while I'm gone."

"W-Wait, Riddle...!"

—

You pushed the tart to the back of the fridge. After closing the door, you looked over at the other treats lined up on the cafeteria kitchen's windowsill. Trey had said that they would be better there instead of the fridge.

Next, you walked over to the oven and peered at the tray of cookies. Rows of hearts, spades, clovers, diamonds and roses were hardening nicely from what you could tell. Since you'd left them until last, Trey had said to just let them cool and he'd ice them in the morning. That just left...

You turned around and grimaced. The giant pile of flour and the wrapping they exploded from taunted you. Where did they keep the broom again...?

Before you could begin your search, a pair of arms wrapped themselves around your body. You turned around to see who it was only to have a pair of lips crash against yours mid-turn.

At first you panicked, then your eyes noticed a familiar heart-shaped cowlick. Relieved, you relax into the kiss, wrapping your own arms around your boyfriend. When you sadly pull apart, Riddle presses a kiss on your cheek. You smile and nuzzle your face into his neck, allowing him to press a third kiss on the top of your head.

"You worried me." Riddle mumbled, stroking the back of your head.

"Worried?" You frowned. "Why?"

Riddle sighed. "(y/n), it's nearly 11."

"Wait, what?" You pulled away from the hug and went over to your bag. Once you fished your phone out, you cringed at the time on the display. "Oh, Riddle, I'm so sorry..."

"As you had a genuine reason, I'll let you off the hook this time," Riddle said kissing your other cheek, "however, next time it'll be off with your head. Understand?"

You giggled. "Yes, my Queen."

Before you could lean in for another, the oven timer went off. Remembering the cookies, you cursed and grabbed the oven mitts.

Riddle watches as you start unloading the cookies onto a cooling tray, his eyes brightening with amusement as you start moving the rose-shaped ones.

"Did you do these one?" He asks.

"That obvious?" You chuckle, feeling your cheeks light up slightly.

Riddle shakes his head, smiling. "We don't usually have rose-shaped cookies for the Unbirthday Party, so I figured you must have thought of it instead of Trey. They're cute."

"T-Thanks." You stammer.

You push the rack backwards towards the rest of the treats. Riddle takes the oven mitts off you and puts them away as you make room for all of them.

"Is everything meant to be on the side?" Riddle asks when he's back by your side.

You nod. "Trey said only the tarts had to go in the fridge. Everything else was better off on the side to cool - I was just making sure the cookies were easy to reach, since they need to be iced in the morning..."

Riddle hums in response. "If you want, I could help you move everything to Heartslabyul. That way-"

"No!" Riddle looks at you, confused. "I-I mean, I don't wanna risk dropping anything! Since, y'know, w-we won't have any time to remake it..."

"Are you sure?"

You nodded quickly.

"Very well..." He said, not full believing you but deciding not to push it. Maybe you were just tired.

You sighed in relief. Riddle already seeing the rose cookies was already a bit of a let down, but as long as he didn't see what was in the fridge, it wasn't all for nothing.

Your eyes caught sight of the flour pile again. "Oh, shoot, I forgot about that... Riddle, do you know where they keep the cleaning broom?"

Riddle followed your line of vision and saw the pile. It was almost up to his ankles, with parts of their bags sticking out. This must of been the accident Trey was talking about - flour bags all exploding on the ground.

He took a look at your face and decided it was best not to ask. Now that he got a good look at you, there were bags under your eyes. You really were tired.

"Allow me." Taking out his magic pen, Riddle chanted a short spell.

The flour and paper bags lifted off the floor. With another flick of his wrist, two of the bins opened and the levitating items sorted themselves into them.

You let out a sigh of relief and kissed your boyfriend's cheek. "Thanks. I really didn't want to deal with that..."

Riddle chuckled, catching your hand in his. "I could tell. Was there anything else? Or can I walk you back to your dorm now?"

"You may." You say with a smile.

You threaded your fingers between his as the two of you set off. While you tried to listen to what you boyfriend was telling you, a mix of tiredness and thoughts of tomorrow were making it near impossible. Even as you kissed Riddle goodnight and waved him off, all you could think about was his future smile at your present.

—

The horns sounded off. "Our great leader! The Crimson Ruler! Announcing Dorm Head Riddle!"

"Dorm Head Riddle! Hip hip hooray!"

He really did look like royalty, you thought, watching Riddle walk down to the head table, crown balanced on his head and cape fluttering behind him. As according to the laws of the Queen of Hearts, Trey as vice dorm leader was to his left and you as his girlfriend were to his right. Not wanting to risk any chance of him seeing your gift, you shifted your legs slightly to block the bag as best as you could, Riddle luckily being too preoccupied with checking the decorations to notice your fidgeting.

"You all have your teacups?" Cater nudged you and you quickly grabbed your teacup's handle. "Today is nobody's birthday, so to this Unbirthday Party! Cheers!"

"Cheers!" Rang out across the field.

You took a sip - earl grey for this month - and looked over at Riddle. His gaze was directed towards the selection of tarts Trey had made; berries and cream, raspberry almond crumb, brown butter apple. You saw the flicker of confusion in his eyes. Figuring now was the perfect time, you placed down your cup.

You pulled the bag onto your lap. "Riddle?"

Riddle turned to you. "Yes?"

Surprise lit up his face when you emptied the bag. Carefully, you held out a strawberry tart towards him. The tart was slightly smaller than the others, with the strawberry slices carefully arranged into the shape of a heart.

"Sorry if I seemed a little off yesterday," you said as he takes the tart off you, "I just didn't want you to find out. You're always so kind to me, helping me out even when we weren't dating... I wanted to do something for you in return."

A soft smile grew on Riddle's face. You swear you could feel your heart jump out of your chest when you two made eye contact, the adoration in his eyes making you melt. The kiss he pressed against your cheek didn't help.

"Thank you." Riddle seemed to whisper in your ear.

Riddle pulled away and placed the tart on a plate. Carefully, he took out a knife and cut out a slice, placing it on his plate.

"Shouldn't Ace do that for you?" You asked, remembering the Queen of Hearts rule 41.

"I'd rather do it myself." Riddle replied, prompting a small blush grew on your cheeks.

While Riddle tried to keep his adult composure, inside he was like a gleeful child. Cutting away part of the tart, Riddle couldn't stop his heart rate growing at the thought of you making this especially for him. It tasted different from Trey's - a little heavier, but somehow sweeter. So sweet. It was addicting.

He glanced over at you. You were watching him nervously, smiling when he caught your eye. Spearing another part of the tart, he brought it to your lips.

"Say 'aah'." Riddle wasn't usually one for public affection, but he felt it was only right to share the tart with you. The red glow on your face was nice too.

The tart hadn't tasted exactly how you thought it would, but watching Riddle immediately return to finish off the slice before cutting off another. As he offered you another taste, you wondered if Trey would let you help with baking again.

#riddle rosehearts #riddle rosehearts x reader #riddle rosehearts x you #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader

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angelmavmurdock · 4 years

Text

• Babysitting •

A/N: I have such a huge soft spot for Tom with kids like 😭 my heart. this is one of my favourites if i'm being honest 🥺

You and Tom have been dating for 4 months now. He's met your 2 year old son a few times but he hasn't ever been alone with him. But tonight was one of your friends' birthday party and you wanted to go without Oscar but your parents were out of town. So Tom had agreed to babysit him. He seemed a little nervous but mostly excited.

"Okay! Mummy's going to go now!" You said to Oscar, lifting him out of his high chair and sitting him on your hip.

"Bye-bye." Oscar said cutely and waved his arms frantically, nearly whipping your eyelashes off.

"I'll see you in the morning, baba." You kissed his head.

"Can I get a kiss?" You asked, looking at him hopefully.

A cute, lopsided smile grew on his face and he leaned into your cheek and left an open mouth kiss on your cheek, probably taking half of your makeup off but you didn't care.

"Okay, here we go." You handed Oscar over to Tom and he took him with ease, propping him up on his arm. Oscar started to wail a heartbreaking wail. A pout grew on your face watching your baby cry.

"Go, I've got this." Tom smiled.

You smiled and kissed him softly. He lingered for a moment, touching your side gently before you parted.

"Have fun! I love you both!" You blew kisses as you clicked out the door, watching Oscar cry at you leaving and Tom smiled at you.

"Alright, alright." Tom said, placing Oscar back on his bare feet.

He kept crying, padding up to the apartment door and standing, hoping you were coming back.

Tom sighed, he didn't know what to do with crying babies.

He looked at the list you had written out and stuck to the fridge.

If he's crying, give him some water in a sippy cup and turn on paw patrol.

"Sounds good to me. Come on Oscar! Come on!" He held his hand out for Oscar to take but he didn't budge, he stayed at the door crying his eyes out.

Tom went into the cupboard and took out one of Oscar's many sippy cups. He filled it up with water then walked over to Oscar.

"Look! I've got some water!" He held it out in front of him. Oscar took it but then threw it on the floor, luckily nothing spilled.

"Right, come on." Tom lifted Oscar up and then the sippy cup. He walked him over to the couch where he sat him down in front of the TV. He quickly turned on the TV and put on Paw Patrol.

The theme song immediately made Oscar's ears perk up. His crying stopped and he turned to the TV, his mouth agape with wonder as he watched. Tom smiled as he sat the sippy cup on Oscar's lap.

"Good boy." He ran a hand over his thin blonde hair.

He sighed with relief as he went back to the kitchen and started clearing up. He wiped down Oscar's high chair and put all the crumbs in the bin. He sweeped the crumbs off the floor and then he went into the fridge, about to grab himself a beer.

"Nope, can't do that tonight." He said to himself before opting for a bottle of water.

He opened the bottle and sat down next to Oscar, wrapping his right arm around him.

"Rubble!" Oscar squealed and bobbed up and down on his bum as he saw a dog with a construction helmet come on the screen.

"Who's that?" Tom asked with a smile.

"Rubble!" Oscar said again.

Tom smiled down at him. Oscar was the cutest baby he had ever seen. Fair skin, blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He had a baby blue onesie on paired with his white nappy.

Tom watched the Paw Patrol episode with Oscar - well, he was more watching Oscar watching Paw Patrol but...same difference.

Just before the episode ended, Tom got up to check the list.

Bed time at 8 o'clock.

Brush teeth GENTLY .

Change nappy - instructions on changing table and take him out of onesie.

Give him my breast milk in the fridge. You've done that before.

Read a book to him - anything with animals is a winner.

Turn on sound machine and close the door.

I'll be back at 9:30. I love you <3

He smiled at your handwriting and your note.

He checked his watch and it was just coming up for 7 pm.

"Well I guess we have a few more Paw Patrol episodes to go." He said to Oscar as he jumped back on the couch.

"Peek-a-boo!" Tom came out from behind the couch and Oscar laughed his little head off.

"You have your mother's laugh, Oscar; loud and completely adorable." Tom said with a smile as he came back to the fluffy rug that Oscar was sitting on.

"What's your favourite toy, huh? Which one?" Tom pointed to the box full of toys he had brought out from Oscar's nursery.

Oscar stood up, nearly tumbling over but Tom managed to catch him before he did. He stood straight then wobbled over to the box. He rummaged through it, throwing things out that he didn't like very dramatically.

"Woah, Oscar." Tom laughed as a toy car nearly crashed into his face.

"Ba-bee!" Oscar pulled out a half-dressed barbie doll.

"You want the barbie doll?" Tom asked.

"Yeah! Ba-bee!" Oscar giggled.

"Okay, well first we have to dress her don't we." Tom said and he searched the box for some barbie clothes.

He was aware that Barbie's were considered a 'girly' toy. But he wanted Oscar to have a male figure in his life that was okay with him playing with Barbie's or dressing up as princesses, because most boys don't get taught that. And that's what toxic masculinity is. He didn't want any toxic masculinity in this house.

Tom played Barbie's with Oscar for a while which was a new experience but he didn't mind it one bit.

He checked his watch after a while and it was 7:45pm already.

"Oscar, we have to clean up now." Tom pouted his lips sadly.

"No! I wan more ba-bees!" Oscar copied Tom, pouting his lips.

"Why don't we bring barbie with us? Does that sound good?" Tom said as excitedly as he could, trying to get Oscar more enthused about going to bed.

"Yey!" He bobbed up and down on his bum again, a few spit bubbles popping and drooling down his chin.

"Let's go!" Tom stood up and as he did, he scooped Oscar up in his arms and threw him over his shoulder. Oscar squealed and giggled with delight as Tom whooshed him like he was flying through to the bathroom. He sat him down on the counter top with a robotic sound and Oscar laughed, showing his incoming front teeth.

Tom sang a random song as he put the toothpaste on the small toothbrush and began brushing Oscar's teeth.

"Oh baby give me one more chance! To show you that I love you!" Tom sang 'I want you back' to Oscar as he brushed his teeth gently so he would be entertained.

After brushing his teeth and rinsing the brush, Tom continued his wooshing and robotic sounds as he moved Oscar into his nursery and onto the changing table.

"Okay...let's do this, little man. We can do this." Tom said to himself more than to Oscar as he read the instructions you left for him.

"Let's take this off then." Tom removed Oscar's nappy and scrunched his face as he saw what was on it. He wiped Oscar's bum gently and threw the wipes and the dirty nappy into the bin.

He took a new nappy out and carefully placed it underneath him. He dried him with a soft towel then put some nappy cream on his skin.

"All moisturised. You'll have great skin, mate." Tom held his thumbs up and Oscar laughed, still clutching his barbie.

He fastened the back panel to the front panel relatively snug.

"Oscar! I did it! I changed your nappy!" Tom danced a little, making Oscar giggle again.

"Okay changing time then bed time." He carefully slipped Oscar out of his onesie and Oscar immediately started clutching his feet as he folded the onesie.

"Right, let's get you in bed." Tom lifted him up and placed him in his crib. As soon as he stood back, Oscar started crying.

"Hey, shhh, I'm here." He held a hand down and Oscar clutched his pointer finger.

Tom felt some weird surge flow through his body.

It was love.

He loved this wee guy.

And he loved you.

"Okay, don't tell your mum I'm doing this." Tom lifted Oscar back out and held him against his shoulder. He brought him through to your room and he lay him down on the bed. He wrapped him around with blankets and pillows so he was secure, then he went to the kitchen. He washed his hands then went into the fridge and got a bottle of your breast milk out.

Tom was still amazed that you could do that, he's just sit and watch as you worked and breast pumped and he was confused but in awe every time you did it.

He quickly came back through and handed Oscar the bottle.

"Here you go." Tom got onto the bed with him and snuggled up next to him, taking his shirt off and grabbing an animal book.

"Okay...I'm dyslexic so don't mind my shi- my BAD reading." He stopped himself from swearing and smiled at himself as he imagined your reaction.

"Once upon a time..."

"Hello?" You whisper shouted as you closed the front door behind you and kicked off your heels.

"In here!" You heard Tom whisper.

You were slightly drunk and had to pump and dump but you were excited to see Tom.

You opened your bedroom door and your eyes widened at the sight you were seeing.

Tom shirtless on your bed with a book in his right hand and Oscar snuggled into his left armpit, covered in blankets.

"How are my two gorgeous boys doing?" You grinned with joy as you sat your bag and jacket down and walked over to them, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"We watched paw patrol, then we played Barbies," Oscar interrupted by waving his barbie around with a giggle.

"Oh wow!" You gasped, taking Oscars hand, stopping him from the waving and just because you wanted to hold his hand.

"And then we were reading but I'm not very good at that am I?" Tom asked Oscar and Oscar thought about it before shaking his head.

"Well, Oskie, we need to get you in bed. It's way past your bed time, baby." You glanced at Tom.

"We were having too much fun." He smiled.

You couldn't help but shake your head and smirk at him. Oscar yawned and stretched as Tom passed him to you.

"Come on sleepy head." You said, taking him from Tom and walking to his nursery, placing him in cot and putting his sound machine on. You closed the door behind you and then went into your bedroom.

"Was it fun?" You asked, unzipping your dress then jumping in bed next to Tom.

"So much fun." He said with a huge smile.

"I love you." You said, snuggling into his chest.

"I love you more." He said and kissed your hair.

#tom holland #tom holland x y/n #tom holland fluff #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland one shot #peter parker #peter parker x y/n #peter parker fluff #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker oneshot

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captainmeowvelwrites · 4 years

Text

You Times Two (Ch.7)

Pairing: Marinette/Ladybug | Adrien/Chat Noir Words: 4065 Summary: Ladybug knew this was necessary. She was the Guardian. He had the Cat Miraculous. But when his suit evaporated in a glow of pale green, she sure hadn’t expected him to have something far more precious: her heart. Cross-posted: AO3 and FFN

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | ...

Recap: Previously, on You Times Two… In a startling twist of events, our dear, sweet boy realised he's not at all over Ladybug. (Who would've thought?) In search of open skies to tackle his racing thoughts, Kitty Noir somehow found himself on our favourite girl's balcony. With a delicious stroke of irony, our adorkable duo traded tidbits about their love lives. And before our wee cat in black left her balcony, his Very Good Friend imparted a few words of wisdom: Go for the girl that makes you happy. Will Golden Boy heed her advice? Or will he continue down this dangerous path? Read on to find out!

---

Chapter Seven

Adrien shifted on his bedroom sofa, the leather squeaking against his boxer briefs. After an awful sleep, he'd often drag himself from bed at first light. This morning was no exception. For three hours straight, he'd twisted his ring, stared out the window and admired the striking sunrise.

Golds, blues and pinks had danced across the Parisian sky, a reminder of that one time he'd tried out watercolour painting. It'd been a hobby of his mother's—one she'd been so patient, so supportive, so eager to teach him.

He'd been hopeless.

At ten, he'd been vaguely aware of that fact. Now, at nearly fifteen, Adrien was certain. He just hadn't inherited his parents' creative eye, and had immense respect for anyone patient enough to craft something with their bare hands.

Thoughts of a specific individual – and the advice she'd given him – flitted through his head for maybe the fifth time that morning. "Go for the girl that makes you happy," he breathed, a line etching between his brows.

Ladybug obviously made him happy. She was his partner, a beacon of joy in his life. Their bond was unparalleled, and their exchange last night had only reaffirmed his feelings for her, of that he couldn't deny. There was just one problem: she was in love with someone else. Was it really fair of him to keep his sights set on her?

His history with Kagami didn't run nearly as deep, but there'd certainly been a spark from day one. She'd enthralled him with her confidence, her beauty, and she related to the pressures that came with a protective parent and a family name to uphold—but did she make him happy?

Adrien planned to officialise things on their date tonight. Or rather, that had been his plan.

Honestly, he didn't know anymore.

He tipped his head into his awaiting palms, a groan rumbling in his throat. Being the son of Gabriel Agreste meant he was painfully accustomed to having no say. His father controlled his schedule, his conduct, his appearance, everything. Now, his relationship status was being controlled—and the most surprising thing at this point was that his father wasn't responsible.

If he officialised things with Kagami tonight, would that decision be driven by the desire to be with her? Or by a sense of obligation? What was the alternative? Tell her he hadn't thought they were official and wasn't entirely sure that he wanted them to be?

A melodramatic yawn stole Adrien's attention. He glanced right to find Plagg slothfully sprawled across the white sofa armrest, rounder from a morning spent gorging on artisan cheese. "As much as I'd love to laze around here all day," Plagg droned, "don't you have a get together to, y'know, get to?"

Oh no! Was it that late already?!

He was Kagami's ride and an Agreste was never late.

Adrien spent the next twenty-two minutes scurrying around his room, flinging clothes, styling his hair, ordering breakfast to go.

Plagg floated by, defiling the air with a rancid, cheesy burp. "Don't forget my camem—"

"Cologne!" He dashed toward the bathroom. "Thanks for the reminder!" Of course, his kwami then felt the need to list the many perks of smelling like cheese. (He ignored them all.)

Finally, Adrien was outside the Agreste Mansion, thanking The Gorilla for holding the passenger door open. He tossed his bag into the backseat of the bulletproof sedan, the familiar scent of leather lingering, and—

"Adrien," came an unmistakable voice.

When he spun half a circle, his shoulders squared, he was unsurprised to find a pair of pale blue eyes staring down at him. The owner of those eyes loomed from the front steps, his glasses glinting in the sunlight and his body framed by the imposing double doors of the mansion.

Gabriel threaded his fingers behind his back. "I've noticed some rather… excessive purchases you've made of late." His voice was level, as always. "One hundred and fifty euros on flowers? Double that on a rooftop venue?"

Adrien could've kicked himself for being so forgetful. His father had always kept a close eye on his bank account, something he felt was a little unnecessary.

"You're a careless teenager," Gabriel had once claimed. "If you throw your money around frivolously, I need to know."

Thanks to his modelling, Adrien's savings were steadily climbing, and he'd never made much of a dent in them. It's not like he could get out of the house to even do so. In fact, his money mostly went to Ladybug merch and funnily enough, his father never questioned that.

His head dipped beneath the heightening weight of that scrutinising stare. "I've… organised dinner with a friend tonight." He fiddled with the cuff of his jet-black dress shirt, which peeked out from beneath the ironed sleeve of a white, fitted blazer.

"A rather extravagant dinner for a friend, don't you think?" His father cocked his head. "I've seen the news articles of your so-called relationship with Miss Tsurugi. Are they true?"

Adrien peered up from the ground, barely making eye contact. "She's"—of course, his voice cracked—"not my girlfriend."

"But I take it this dinner is for her?"

He managed a nod. "Yes, Father."

Gabriel frowned. Or rather, his perpetual frown deepened. "You should've consulted me before making such plans. Tomoe Tsurugi is one of my most valued partners. I don't wish to see that compromised."

Adrien's polished dress shoes scuffed the pavement with each fidget of his feet. "I'm sorry, Father." It took him far longer than it should've to meet that stare. "Should I… cancel?"

"This once, I will allow it."

Adrien expected the gratifying warmth of relief to wash over him. Instead, quiet apprehension crept in. Had he been hoping for an excuse to cancel the date?

"But," Gabriel added, "I expect you to tread carefully with Ms Tsurugi's daughter. Cleaning up the tabloids after you make a mess is not an effective use of my time." Pale eyes snapped to The Gorilla, who stood in wait on the driver's side of Adrien's ride. "Your bodyguard will pick you up from the venue at eight o'clock. No later. Do not push my good graces again."

Adrien pasted on his model smile. "Thank you, Father." He spun on his heel, ready to slip into the backseat of his ride, when a sudden thought had him re-facing the mansion.

Gabriel was just beyond the doorway that led to the opulent lobby, his white-suited back to Adrien.

"Father?"

Gabriel spared him an over the shoulder glance.

"I've been meaning to ask," he called, his tone now light and laced with hope, "how's Nathalie doing? I've hardly seen her all week?"

Gabriel surprised him with a smile, slight as it was. "She's improving. Slowly, but surely."

"I'm glad she's getting better. I've missed having her around." He met his father's gaze completely. "Will you tell her that?"

Gabriel gave a single nod, his smile remaining. With an echoing thud, the double doors shut behind him, and Adrien slid into the backseat of his lavish ride.

---

Spindly trees lined the cobbled street, their russet leaves rustling overhead, as Marinette scrambled down the sidewalk. "Gonna be late! Gonna be late!" It was a mantra she'd started two streets back, when she'd charged out of the bakery, a warm carton in hand. She still felt awful for nearly bowling over that elderly man—

"Marinette!" came Tikki's panicked voice.

She screeched to a halt at a pedestrian crossing, just as a car zoomed past and turned left. "Gosh! Thanks, Tikki!" Her eyes shot between the kwami in her purse and the pole across the street, where a tiny man glowed red. "I almost became roadkill!"

Tikki's brows creased. "You really need to be more careful!"

Another tiny man now glowed green up ahead, and Marinette raced over the crossing. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry for scaring you." She flipped open the carton, the sweet scent of macarons filling her senses. "Here." Tikki's face brightened as she slipped a brown one in her purse. "Consider it a thank you for being my eyes half the time."

The kwami smirked. "Only half the time?"

Marinette giggled, while Tikki seated herself in the purse and took a tiny bite. "Delicious," she said, crumbs dusting her lips. "Your dad would be proud!"

She smiled her kwami's way. "Let's hope my friends think so too—"

A familiar voice called out her name, and her eyes shot up from her purse to be greeted by the warmth of another's. A breath caught in her throat. The owner of those eyes whirred by in a flash of yellow and teal. Was that Luka?

She looked over her shoulder, staring after the passing bike.

Her feet tangled mid-step.

She stumbled forward, her arms flailing, and the carton slipped through her fingers. Colliding with the concrete wasn't half as painful as the thud of thin cardboard on the sidewalk. Macarons scattered. One even had the audacity to roll right past her face, off the curb and under the wheel of a passing car. Her left eye twitched. Her lower lip followed. Then, she slumped against the pavement, a self-pitying groan squeezing up her throat.

So much for them remaining intact.

Luka's bike clattered on the sidewalk, guitar chords cutting through the air, his shoes pounding on concrete. "Marinette! Are you all right?" His black nail polish caught the sunlight as he settled his hands on her shoulders and eased her to her knees. "You're not hurt, are you?"

Their eyes met. And just like that, a blush crept up her neck. Not from embarrassment. Never from embarrassment. At least, not around Luka. His presence was soothing like that.

No, her blush had another source.

Concern coated every inch of those teal eyes, framed by bangs the very same shade. His hands were still on her shoulders, their warmth seeping through her cardigan as he held her.

Just like the warmth of gloved hands on her balcony… hands that had swept goosebumps from her bare arms, shielding her from the cold.

His gloves were made of leather. His claws were razor sharp. Yet, his hands on her skin—they'd been so gentle, so comforting, so warm.

They always were.

But so were Luka's.

"Marinette?"

When she blinked back to the present, Marinette was sure her whole face had flushed scarlet. She threw him her most convincing smile. "I – I'm fine. Yeah. Totally fine." His sigh of relief wasn't lost on her. "Sorry, I was completely spaced out when you called and I—" Her eyes flew wide. "The macarons!" She scanned the treats that scattered the sidewalk, plucked one off the ground, and her shoulders sagged. "What a disaster."

"Don't worry," Luka piped up beside her, eyes smiling. "Not all of them ended up on the ground." He flourished the carton toward her, five macarons wobbling within it. "Besides, I'm happy to eat the ones that did if no one else will."

Of course, he would. "Thanks, Luka!" It was then that she spied a yellow smoosh near her foot. "Passionfruit!" Her hands flew to her scalp, eyes darting about the sidewalk. "Are they all on the ground?!"

"You mean the yellow ones?" Luka glanced at the carton, then back at her. "No, there are still a few in here."

Time slowed, all else fading to black as she laid eyes upon those three macarons. So help her, she would guard those bad boys with her life.

Luka chuckled. "With your life?"

She froze. Had she said that out loud?

"The passionfruit ones must be delicious if you're willing to go that far."

Marinette tugged at her cardigan collar. "Uh – Yeah. They're very special. I mean – err – delicious. They're very delicious."

In a matter of moments, Luka had helped her to collect the stray macarons. (And as it turned out, the paper lining in the carton made a decent divider between the tainted and untainted ones.)

Marinette beamed up at him, the carton clutched in one hand as she dusted her pants with her other. "Thanks for your help, Luka. And sorry I'm such a clutz." She held up the carton. "Why don't you try one? You can tell me what you think of them."

One look at his eager smile had her heart thrumming fast in her chest. He reached for a macaron on the tainted side. A yellow one. Luka's eyes slid shut as he took his first bite. "Wow." His eyes opened a second later, and he downed the rest of the macaron in one go. "The flavours. The texture. They make the perfect harmony. It's incredible." He met her gaze. "Just like you."

Her breath hitched as she scanned every inch of his smile—so warm and fond and… and she should probably be making words happen right now. "Tha – Thanks, Luk-uka." That counted as words, right? "Hopefully everyone else—" A gasp shot from her lips, her face twisting in horror. "Oh no, I'm late!"

Luka gathered his guitar from the sidewalk. "If you like, I can give you a lift." He scooped up his bike, nestled the instrument in the front basket and retrieved a yellow helmet from that same basket, extending it to her. "I've got a few deliveries near Alya's anyway. And it's probably a safer mode of transport for your macarons."

"Well, you're not wrong there." She tucked the carton under one arm and accepted the helmet. "Marinette Airways is neither fast nor safe." (Fortunately, the Ladybug Express made up for that.) She plonked on the helmet, but struggled as the strap proved stubborn to adjust.

"Here." Luka worked his magic and she tried not to linger on the fingertips that brushed her jawline.

Soon enough, she was holding onto him like a fuzzless koala, as they zoomed down the narrow street, bound for Alya's apartment.

---

Adrien tugged at the strap of his shoulder bag as he rounded the sleek sedan. He reached for the car door handle, Kagami's silhouette shifting behind the tinted glass. "Careful." Their fingers threaded together as he guided her onto the sidewalk, familiar clogs wrapped around her feet. "I know how tricky those things are to walk in."

Kagami quirked a brow.

He released her hand to click the car door shut behind them. "That is"—he dipped his chin—"I've, uhh… seen a few photoshoots end in stumbles and sprains thanks to them."

"I never stumble."

Adrien shook his head, smiling. Kagami certainly wasn't wrong. There was an irrefutable grace in the way she moved, rivalled only by a certain little bug—but today was about Kagami, not Ladybug! And this morning, his father had expressed his views quite clearly.

Adrien refused to mess this up. He couldn't disappoint his father. And he wouldn't disappoint Kagami.

As their ride rolled off, he found himself admiring her outfit. "You look really nice." Her grandmother's shoes were accompanied by a black and red jumpsuit, her waist cinched by a white belt. He recognised it from the movie premiere. She'd looked nice then, too.

The corner of her mouth lifted. "As do you, Adrien," she said, the pink sheen of her lips catching the sunlight. Was she wearing makeup today? Or did she always look that pretty?

Out the corner of his eye, Adrien glimpsed bubblegum pink. Those pants were as familiar as their owner, who was perched upon the seat of a bright yellow bike, behind Luka. The wind weaved through her pigtails, poking out from beneath her helmet.

Adrien clutched Kagami's hand, his face alight. "Look! It's Marinette!" He launched his free hand in the air, waving their way.

Marinette threw back a cheery wave of her own. "Hey, Adrien, Kagami," she called down the street, her words a little muffled by the hum of a passing car.

The bike eased to a stop in front of them, and Adrien watched as she untwined her arms from around Luka's waist. Had they been riding like that the whole time? His brows furrowed. Maybe it was safer than it looked?

She scooched off the seat. "So, are you guys excited for—" Her left foot met the pavement, but before her right could join it, she lost her footing and stumbled forward.

A gasp lodged itself in Adrien's throat. He lunged forward, his free hand outstretched and ready to catch her.

Luka beat him to it.

Pretty impressive—he was still on his bike, after all. He'd planted his left foot, enclosed in his signature converse, firmly on the sidewalk, while his right remained on the bike pedal.

Adrien blinked, his eyes widening, as Luka's fingers took their time travelling from Marinette's shoulders to rest on his handlebars.

She beamed up at her saviour. "Thank you, Luka."

"Ye-ah." Adrien's voice cracked. After a brief clear of his throat, he tried again. "Nice reflexes!"

"Hello, Marinette," said Kagami, and he was reminded of the warm hand he still held. Her focus turned to Luka, her dark bob swaying with the movement. "It's nice to see you again."

"Always a pleasure, Kagami!" Luka's lips lifted. "You too, Adrien," he acknowledged with a nod of his head.

Adrien returned the nod. "I didn't know you'd be coming." Everyone went silent, Kagami shot him a side glance, and his lips curled to one side. Had he said something wrong?

Marinette spoke up first. "Oh! Um." She pressed her pointer fingers together. "Did I forget to mention that?" Her eyes jumped between his and the ground. "Sorry, it's been a crazy week and my brain's a bit—"

"No no, Marinette. Don't apologise!" Adrien rubbed at the nape of his neck. "It's cool that you're joining us, Luka!"

And it was.

He seemed like an awesome guy. There was a reason Adrien had picked him to wield a Miraculous, after all.

Luka nodded toward the yellow box on the back of his bike. "I just have to get through my shift first." He glanced between his three companions. "I haven't played many video games, but I'm looking forward to spending time with everyone."

"Don't worry, Luka." Marinette's pink-dusted cheeks puffed up as she smiled his way, and pulled a double thumbs up. "You'll be a pro in no time!"

"Definitely!" Adrien coaxed his hand from Kagami's to give his own double thumbs up. "With Marinette's help, you'll be a gaming champ before the day is over."

Pleasant memories filled his mind. Puns, deep-and-meaningfuls and her amazing advice.

Last night, Adrien had leaped from one slated roof to the next as though on autopilot. When he'd glimpsed his classmate from afar, tending to her rooftop plants, his legs had carried him the rest of the way of their own volition. And boy, was he thankful for that.

Clad in his catsuit, he'd told Marinette she'd helped him far more than she'd probably ever know. And well, he hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said those two boys, whoever they were, were lucky she cared so much about them.

Clearly, Luka was one of those boys. It was obvious by the way she beamed at him.

So who was the other?

Did he know him?

Kagami leaned in close, her arms looping around his bicep. "Shall we head upstairs, Adrien?"

"—hate to be responsible for any cold pizzas," Luka was saying, his sights still set on Marinette. "Speaking of which"—his hand dipped into the box behind his bicycle seat—"these are under Alya's name." He procured a stack of three pizza boxes, his hands splayed beneath them.

Kagami's arms slipped from Adrien's bicep as he stepped forward. "Thanks, Luka. I'll take them off your hands." As he did just that, the tantalising aroma of spicy pepperoni teased his tastebuds. "We'll be sure to save a few slices for you."

Marinette plucked a carton from the basket latched to the front of Luka's bike, and Adrien heard something – or rather, several somethings – rattling around inside it. "And, of course"—she brandished the carton between two petite hands—"we'll be sure to save you some macarons!" She winked at Luka.

Adrien's stomach clenched. Maybe the sandwich he'd downed on the drive here hadn't filled him up. Though to be fair, the Dupain-Cheng macarons were so good they'd make a stuffed stomach grumble.

With a laugh, Luka pushed off the pavement and his bike rolled into motion. "See you all around three, then!" And with that, he was off.

Adrien's sights shifted between Kagami and Marinette. "Shall we?" With his hands preoccupied by the pizza boxes, he instead nudged his head toward the square-pillared entrance of an aged apartment complex, five stories high and built with weather-worn bricks.

To his side, Kagami's clogs clicked on the sidewalk as they approached an iron gate. And Marinette, two steps ahead, tapped on her phone as she shouldered the gate aside. "It's never locked," she said, as they passed by a row of beige mailboxes, fixed to the wall in the entrance corridor. "I'll let Alya know we're here with the pizzas."

He heard the phone ring twice, then Alya's voice blared through the speaker.

"Hey, M! Let me guess. Your gerbil ate your favourite sweater and your lucky socks have done a runner?"

Marinette snorted, something he wasn't sure he'd ever heard her do. "For your information," she announced, slapping her free hand to her hip, "it'd be a hamster, not a gerbil. We've been through this. And I'll have you know I'm right downstairs. Adrien and Kagami are here, too."

"Come again?" Amusement was thick in Alya's voice. "My phone must be acting up 'cause it almost sounded like you said you're downstairs. As in, on time."

"Yes. Thanks, Captain Obvious, for your keen observation."

"What can I say? It's the journalist in me."

Marinette glanced between him and Kagami, a cheeky smirk sliding across her rosy lips. "Say, guys. We've got three free pizzas. That's one whole pizza each. What say we backtrack to Places des Vosges to eat these bad boys without Alya's help?"

Despite her threats, she led them through a nearby door, into an artificially lit stairwell, and they commenced their five-storey climb—with her up front and Kagami beside him.

"Did you hear that, babe? My girl's threatening to deprive you of your margherita pizza—"

"What?!" came Nino's muffled outcry, followed by the rushed thumps of footsteps. "I dipped into my savings to get triple cheese!" He was louder now; probably right beside Alya. "She can't do this to me!"

Marinette stole a glance back at him and Kagami as they trekked up the stairs. Her lips were pursed and by the twinkle in her eye, she must've been biting back laughter. He couldn't help but grin to himself. He kind of liked her being sassy like this.

"Oh, my sweet, sweet boy," Alya was saying. "Didn't you only have, what, four euros left in your savings? And you spent it on extra cheese?"

"Sacrilege!" Adrien chipped in, his voice teeming with faux horror. "Alya, tell Nino we can't be friends anymore." He felt Plagg writhe inside his shirt and could simply imagine the kwami's outrage at the shade he'd just thrown on his precious cheese.

Up ahead, Marinette's shoulders shook in sync with a giggle.

"Ha! Tell him yourself, Pretty Boy."

"Okay okay," Marinette piped in. Even with her back to him, he could hear the smile in her voice. "Be there in just a sec, Al."

"Can't wait!"

With that, the call ended, and all he heard was the echoing taps of their feet on wooden steps. Then, Marinette stopped on a stair landing like the three they'd just passed and knocked on the second of three doors, its surface riddled with dents of varying sizes.

When the scent of spicy pepperoni again floated through the air, Adrien's eyes flicked to Kagami. "Guess it's a good thing pizza's not on the menu tonight, huh?"

"Two of my favourite foods in one day?" Kagami's mouth quirked up. "That sounds perfect, Adrien."

Perfect.

It sounded perfect.

Adrien looked to Marinette, a grateful smile at the ready. It'd been her perfect suggestion, after all.

But she didn't smile back.

Those blue eyes had fallen to her ballerina flats—and this time, when his stomach clenched, Adrien had to wonder if hunger was truly to blame.

#ml fic #miraculous ladybug #you times two #adrinette #marichat #ladynoir #ladrien

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serahsanguine · 5 years

Text

Vacation Series Pt. 1 - Let The Games Commence. Ch, 3

This is the first book in a two-part series. This book is a six-part story which will be upload daily for the next week. After that, it will be Book two following the same pattern. it was originally made for the Summer Fanfic Exchange.

Tumblr - pt. 1, pt. 2 All chapters can be found Here on Ao3

This Chapter Rating; PG-13

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

Chapter 3: Day Two - The Village.

Scully woke up, in a tangle of sheets. She hadn’t worn much to bed as it was too warm even at 11 o'clock at night. The sun shone brightly through the folds in the blinds. If she were to take a guess, she would say it was around 9am. She had forgotten to set her alarm the night before, but she didn’t mind losing all sense of time. She sat up, the smell of fresh coffee and something else: breakfast maybe. She stepped out of bed, her legs slightly heavy as they hadn’t been used for a few hours. She walked through to her wardrobe grabbing her black silk kimono and wrapped it around her before descending down the stairs.

She stopped halfway to find Mulder listening to the radio and singing along to it. From what she could hear it was Jailhouse Rock by Elvis Presley. Then she looked around the room to find the table had been set with plates, cutlery, even a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. It looked like he had cooked her a full English breakfast: bacon, eggs, mushrooms, sausages, tomatoes, beans, hash browns.

She descended the rest of the stairs, making sure nothing was in Mulder’s hands before speaking just in case she made him jump.

“I didn’t know you cooked Mulder.”

He jumped a little and then turned around to face her, his eyes lighting up at the sight of her, his smile covering his full face.

“It’s one of my many talents, it’s just no fun cooking for one.”

“So, in all those years I have known you, why haven’t you cooked for me?”

“You’ve never asked, Scully,” he was serious but not full of conviction.

“Touche.”

“Anyway, sit down. Breakfast is served, madam and if you would like a coffee, I just brewed a small pot.”

“Thank you, Mulder, but you didn’t have to do all of this.”

“Of course I do.” There was a short pause. “You deserve the world, Scully, ” he whispered.

His eyes told her he meant it.

“Tuck in, Scully, before it gets cold.”

An hour later the food was eaten, and she enjoyed every last piece of it. He was an exceptional cook. He added spice and herbs and the food had never tasted so good. She nursed her coffee waiting for it to cool down

“What is on the agenda for today, Mulder?”

“Well, I thought maybe we could wander through the village, and possibly try out their homemade ice cream.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” she soon finished her coffee and went upstairs to get changed. Soon after Mulder did the same.

He shut his bedroom door, leaning against it and thinking about that morning events over and over again in his mind. But spending yesterday with her, he lost all resolve to keep his emotions in check, and guarded. She unintentionally was breaking those walls around his heart. But in doing so he felt like she was also letting him to hers.

He walked to his suitcase, he still hadn’t unpacked, and his clothes were hanging out the sides. He found the brown shorts he was looking for and also the grey tank top. He quickly showered and changed before heading downstairs to wait for Scully.

30 minutes later and some more of his book read, he was sitting on the cushioned Wicca sofa when he heard Scully stepping down the stairs. He placed a bookmark where he had stopped, and placed the book next to him on the table. He shifted in his seat and looked around to see her. She was stunning, wearing a yellow long skirt and a white tank top. Her hair was in a messy ponytail and she was wearing a straw kind of hat to keep the sun from burning her face, she had already slightly caught the sun yesterday as her normally pale skin was a tad on the pink side.

“You ready to go?” he asked enthusiastically.

“Yes I am, but I can’t find my sandals, have you seen them?” He watched her look under the sofa, then around the front porch, then in the kitchen.

“Scully have you tried on the back porch? ” he watched her walk out of the french doors staring at her ass. ‘One of these days she's gonna catch me staring, and when that day happens I'm done for” he smiled at the thought and watched her re-enter the room.

“Thank you, how far is it to the village?”

“About a 20 minutes walk, 5 minutes on the beachfront, straight across the bridge and 5 minutes walk to the village.”

She beamed a smile in his direction.

“You might be able to see the wild horse as we walk, a little blonde bird told me they were in the area.”

He didn’t know it was possible but her smile got even wider. He knew how much she liked horses though she had never told him herself, he remembered the story her mother told him while she was missing of how her father took her to horse riding lessons whenever he was on leave. And it’s something the two of them shared until she was well into med school.

The walk to the village was pleasant, she didn’t see the wild horses but she didn’t mind, spending time with Mulder was enough, he made light conversation, made her laugh telling her stories of the lone Gunmen and the pranks they pulled on each other.

They stopped at local shops, they were so beautiful on the outside. There were brownstone buildings, wood buildings, flowers as far as the eye could see on each side of the road: blues, yellows, whites and so much lavender. She could smell them mixing with the sea air.

When they were done browsing the local shops, they found a small restaurant on the main street looking out onto the marsh. She stood outside reading the sign AJ’s on the creek. She walked inside and instantly smelled the seafood. She followed Mulder to the table and looked around. The tables were covered in crisp white linens and topped with paper napkins and bottles of hot sauce. She pulled a menu up to her face but causally lowered it a little so she could study her partner. He had definitely caught a tan, he was a lovely golden bronze now. She could see the sweat forming on his brow trickling down his nose.

“What looks good Scully?”

“Hum…”

“Scully?”

Mulder looked at her with confusion. She looked back at him realising that she had been staring and daydreaming for the last 5 minutes about her partner. And she had been caught in the act.

She started blushing, hoping he hadn't noticed, and if he did, hoping to put it down to the sun catching her Irish skin.

“Oh the Seasonal soft-shell crab, served fried on platters, and a romaine salad is with a zesty citrus Caesar dressing, Parmesan crumbs, and crisped bread sounds delicious.”

“The way you just made it sound, makes me want that exact dish.” He raised his eyebrows, in a mock teasing way. And she instantly knew there was a double meaning behind the first part of that sentence.

Their meal arrived and it was just as incredible as it sounded on the menu, while she waited for him to finish she thought about a few things

Her feelings for her partner were becoming so clear to her now, but she didn’t want to give in to them, she was scared of losing him, the friendship, their partnership. He was slowly becoming everything to her. Like he was a part of her and no way in hell she would risk it. But damn she just wanted to kiss him, pull that bottom lip of his in her lips and bite it hard. She soon suppressed such a feeling and carried on.

“I have a small surprise for you before we go to the ice cream shop.”

“Mulder, you know I don't like surprises.”

“Well, Miss, I know, but you will love this one, I promise. ”

“Sure, fine, whatever.”

Mulder paid for the meal and started leaving her following close. Just before she stepped out, someone stopped her by gently tapping her on the shoulder.

“You have a lovely husband there, he is definitely a keeper.”

She didn’t know how to respond, she didn’t want to correct the poor woman. But she didn’t have an answer for her. So she simply nodded and left the restaurant.

30 minutes later and both of them were standing outside a quite large building looking at the sea.

“What are we doing here, Mulder?”

Before he could answer and an elderly gentleman came up the gate. He was dressed in blue levis and a black and red checkered shirt.

“Mr and Mrs Mulder?”

Again they were mistaken for a married couple, twice in one hour. She sighed, not saying anything again and Mulder didn’t correct the man either. Instead, he nodded at the old man.

“Ok, then, this way. They’re going to need to be brushed, before you go on them. But they are both beautiful.”

Mulder nodded again and looked at her utterly confused face. He just gave her a wide grin while he guided her to a stable. There were two beautiful pedigree horses: one completely black and another, white and brown.

“Oh, my God, they are beautiful Mulder; but I still don’t get it?”

“Yes they are Mrs Mulder,” the old man interrupted her. “And they are just ready to go out. Just before I leave you two alone, Mr Mulder said you didn’t need any training to ride the horses and both of you have previous experience.”

“Yes, thank you.”

With that, the man left them alone.

“How did you know I used to ride? And, more importantly, how did I not know that you do too?”

“First, your mother told me. And second, I learnt with Samantha on the vineyard. She loved horses and she didn’t want to go alone because at first, they scared her.”

Scully saw the pain in his eyes, but there were also small hints at happiness from the memories.

“Why did you never tell me?” she asked moving towards the black horse.

“I suppose it just never came up.”

Mulder saw the delight in Scully’s eyes as she trouted along the beachfront: she was truly enjoying herself. Her hair was like fire against the blue of the sea and the black of the horse.

“Mulder, I’m so glad we did this, it’s been a very long time since I rode a horse.”

“My pleasure Scully. We really should be heading back if you want to try that ice cream.”

“Ok, race you!” she suddenly yelled and took the horse into a full gallop, leaving a cloud of sand dust in her mist.

“Cheat!” he shouted, but she was gone

Mulder clicked the rains and went into a full gallop after her. When he finally caught up to her, she was stroking her horse waiting for him.

“What took you so long?” she was trying to stifle her laugh.

“You do know that cheaters never prosper,” he looked at her and she was still holding her laugh back.

“And Foxes don't win.”

“Wow, Scully, below the belt.”

He was teasing her and she knew it. He picked her up off her horse and brought her close to his body before putting her on the ground, rubbing her a little too much against his body.

She pulled him close, lent up on her tiptoes, and whispered in his ear.

“I know that’s where you want me, and I want it too.”

She turned around on her heels, grabbing the horse’s reins, and walked towards the stable. She erupted with laughter, leaving him dum-stuck, unable to speak or even breathe. He finally managed to remember how to breathe and grabbed the reins on his horse finally walking to put him back in the stable while contemplating what she had said to him.

Did she really mean it? I’d be over the moon. But what if she was teasing me? Just playing my game? Those three things kept running over and over again in his mind.

He hitched the horse on the wood, closing the stable door. Scully was waiting for him just like always. The elderly gentleman thanked them and told them to enjoy the rest of their holiday. Mulder placed his hand at the small of her back and lead her towards the ice cream shop.

They arrived soon and stepped inside. It was a small but beautiful place, with light wood everywhere, something straight out of a magazine beautiful. The sun was setting, bouncing orange beams around the shop's white walls leaving a shimmering glow.

“What ice cream are you picking, Scully?”

“I’m having a double cone: one side filled with chocolate, and the other, rum and raisins.”

“Sound’s yummy.”

She ordered her ice cream and turned around to him.

“What flavour are you having?”

“I was thinking of chocolate orange.”

“Now that sounds nice, Mulder, I can’t wait to try it.”

She had confused him again, but he caught the look in her eyes. It was a wicked look full of mischief.

Their ice creams were soon devoured and Scully had got closer to him. He hadn’t realised he had some ice cream on his chin and kept wondering why Scully was staring at him. She leant in close and whispered.

“I meant what I said earlier.”

She kissed his cheek and then his nose, they were so feather-like, her lips barely touched his skin. His heart was hammering in his chest and again he was left gasping for air. He looked into her eyes, knowing if he looked he would know if she was teasing. He looked into the warm blue and was lost there. But he saw everything he had ever wanted, the whole truth. She loved him and meant it. Her lips caught him by surprise as she pressed them against his. Her tongue was seeking entrance and he opened up gladly. Their lips were gliding against each other, their tongues exploring every crevice in each other’s mouth. His eyes had shut, enjoying the feeling of their mouths touching. She let go and he sighed missing her already.

“Chocolate orange does taste nice,” she said giggling like a schoolgirl.

“And chocolate and rum and raisin taste even better.”

They left the restaurant hand in hand, both content with the moment neither wanting to push. Just enjoying the simple pleasure of each other.

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

Tagging; @skullsmuldon @today-in-fic @baronessblixen @peacenik0

#txf fanfic #TXF #msr fanfic #msrmoments #mulder and scully #MulderandScully #mulder and scully fanfic #The X-Files #the x files #the xfiles

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pippa-writes · 5 years

Text

A Small Problem - Cherik oneshot #5

Inspired by @smokeyloki ‘s headcanon list, based in turn on @ladycavalier ‘s AU I have never had an original thought in my life and my computer was uber slow to start up but we’re here now

I have it on good authority that this is 2540 words long.

Erik was, in a word, confused. No, no, confused didn't quite cover it; he was stunned into silence, his usually quick tongue stilled.

Now, this never happened to Erik all that much. Over the course of his forty years, he could only remember four or five times when he had been fully frozen. This, however, was another time to add to his list.

As if by magic, or perhaps hallucination, everything had grown. Everything.

As he rushed about his house, heart hammering before he'd even reached the kitchen, he found every piece of furniture, every instrument, every mask and powder pot significantly taller than he'd left them. Even the salt and pepper pots on the table, the leg of which he managed to scale using a chipped piece of wood, left him minuscule in comparison.

It was these findings which left Erik with two conclusions: either all of his belongings had simultaneously enhanced in size, or he had shrunk to a fraction of his. Both were ridiculous, he knew, but no rational reasoning was left to help him otherwise. He was, he realised at last, tiny.

He slumped against the pepper pot to think and wait for help. Gérard should be down soon; Erik could not be silent for so long and not be up to something, that had been proven long ago.

If he had shrunk, he'd have to miss his lesson with Miss Daae this afternoon. He worked his jaw back and forth, tapping his fingers against his trouser legs. Not only would he not be able to play the piano - his last hope at some semblance of regular life - but he couldn't very well present himself to her as a three-inch-tall gentleman. Could he even count on his hat having shrunk to fit?

Luckily, it seemed everything on his person had followed him to this world of tiny people. He checked his pocket watch, thankfully still in good working order, and noted the time: a quarter past eight in the morning.

Sure enough, at nine o'clock, Gérard arrived with a frown waxed over his face and a cautious air to his step.

"Erik?" he said, peering through the kitchen door. Erik jumped up.

"Over here!" he cried, waving his arms over his head. "Gérard!"

Unfortunately for Erik, Gérard sighed and moved to close the door. Desperate, Erik pushed the pepper pot over, trying not to think about the mess it would make on the tablecloth.

The particles floated up through the air and, without warning, he sneezed.

"Gérard! Over-" Another sneeze. "Over here!"

He hauled a teaspoon into his minuscule arms and staggered around, doing his best to chime the salt pot.

"Erik?"

His breath ragged, he dropped the spoon. Gérard stared at him, pacing over one step at a time.

"Good grief, what happened to you?" He took a chair, hiding his amusement with half a frown.

Erik waved his arms uselessly. "I woke up like this."

"Erik-"

"I'm serious! I remember working on Miss Daae's pitch in the library and somehow becoming too comfortable on the couch, and now, for some indescribable reason, I'm- I'm-!"

Gérard canted his head. "Small."

"Precisely." Erik folded his arms and slouched against the salt pot, well aware of how petulant he must look, as Gérard righted the pepper.

"You say Miss Daae was here last night?"

Behind his mask, Erik's face flared more than usual. "We were working on her pitch," he insisted.

"I don't doubt it. But you don't think it unreasonable that she might have some idea? I can bring you upstairs if it suits."

Erik scuffed the tablecloth with his heel. This, he decided, was nothing short of a nightmare. The last person he'd wanted to involve in this was Miss Daae, but what choice was there? Gérard was, as usual, the voice of reason, and if there was anyone who might help him, surely it must be the person whom he saw last?

"So be it," he grumbled, climbing into Gérard's proffered hand. "Take me to her, please."

Gérard's coat's breast pocket was not as comfortable as it looked. With every step, Erik was shaken around until he clutched the pocket square and shouted up at him to even out his pace.

Gérard skipped up the next flight of steps. Erik swore under his breath. He would have kicked Gérard's chest through the coat, but he was useless on his feet, and besides-

"Monsieur Carrière!"

He froze at the voice, clinging uselessly to the inner lining.

"Mademoiselle." Gérard walked quicker now. Erik's ears pricked. "I'm sorry to take you from your work."

There came the rustling of fabric and the creaking of wheels; that confused Erik most of all. He'd made sure of Christine's inclusion in the newest cast. So why was she still wheeling around that smelly old costume cart?

"I'm sure I can spare a minute or two." Oh, Erik could have melted into that voice, could have died in its silky arms and not have complained. His legs soft all of a sudden, he leaned against the front of the pocket. "Will it take longer than that?"

"I'm afraid so. Leave your employers to me; I'll come up with something."

"Oh! Is there a problem?"

Erik folded his arms and glowered up at Gérard as he glanced down at him.

"Only a small one."

Erik kicked him this time.

Erik had misjudged the whole affair: it was even worse than what he'd expected. Christine had done nothing but laugh when Gérard had, in the safety of the music room, pulling the grumbling spectre from his pocket by the back of his collar and set him on the piano lid.

She'd marvelled at him after that, had touched his coat with the tip of her little finger and made him squirm and cooed over the tiny mask and pocket watch.

"I thought perhaps you might know what happened," Gérard said as Christine smoothed her little Maestro's hair down with the pad of her finger. "And more importantly, how we might get him back to normal."

Erik grumbled to himself as Christine scooped him up and patted his head gently. "I'm sure we'll figure it all out, so long as Monsieur Choletti is pacified."

"I happen to have a box of rather expensive cigars," Gérard said. Erik frowned at him; Gérard did not smoke, not all that much, and he certainly wouldn't have bought anything expensive. "I daresay there shan't be a problem." He nodded politely and stepped aside. "Good day, Mademoiselle. Erik."

"Well, Maestro," Christine giggled, holding him up to look him in the eyes. "It seems we have a small predicament to solve. I say we go downstairs and look around there."

He shouldn't have expected anything else. She was always coming up with excuses to visit his house beneath the Opera House, always morbidly entranced by the fantastical world he'd designed, always held like a puppet on a string when he played his music for her.

There would be no violin or flute today though.

He looked away, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves. "Would you be so good as to take me back there?"

The path was littered with flights of stairs and they only got slippier as one went further down. He wasn't overly keen on the idea of having to climb down each step, much less on the possibility of bouncing down them and breaking every bone in his body.

"How could I deny my polite little Maestro?" Erik squirmed again as Christine brought him much too close for comfort and squished him against her cheek fondly. "Your wish is my command!"

"Yes, very good." He levered himself away, pushing against her skin, remarkably weathered from her years of work. She obliged him. Free, Erik cleared his throat and straightened his coat. Christine watched with a grin and smoothed his hair again as he fixed his mask. "Although I do so hate to cut your fun short, I'd very much like to return to a more familiar height. If you'd be so kind, Miss Daae?"

"Perhaps we need to feed you," Christine mused, taking the cap from a bottle of milk and sniffing it. Content with its freshness, she searched Erik's cupboards and found a little shot glass he'd once been gifted and had never used. He clung to a stray lock of her hair, sat precariously on her shoulder.

"Milk?"

"It works for infants."

Erik had never had the heart to point out her lack of tact at times. He kept his mouth shut.

Christine turned to the table and poured a little out. "Look, you sit here."

She reached up and let him clamber into her palm, setting him gently on the table. He stood next to the glass, rather embarrassed at how he was now roughly the same height. Where before he could have held it between a few fingers, he wasn't so sure he would manage to lift it if he wrapped his arms around it and heaved. Would his fingers even touch?

He hated this.

"Here you are." She lifted the glass and tilted it carefully until the slightest drop slipped down to the rim. Erik frowned; this was ridiculous, embarrassing and utterly ridiculous. He fiddled with his cufflinks. "Maestro."

A sigh.

It was humiliating, yes, but only because this was the one person who's regard he truly held in high esteem. It had been her idea, he insisted to himself, and so he allowed her to feed him like an abandoned kitten.

After a full day of the ordeal, however, he was full of milk and drowsy. And still three inches tall.

"It's no use!" he grumbled after another of Christine's attempts at feeding him some macaroon crumbs. He was beginning to think she was feeding him for the sheer thrill of it, in which he saw no joy whatsoever. He slumped against the wall on the living room mantlepiece, dangling his legs over the warmth of the fire. Christine sat on the couch, thinking hard.

"What if we stretch you?" she pondered. Erik froze.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Daae?"

"No, I do suppose you're right; that is a little bit harsh." She yawned, reclining a little further and staring at the ceiling. "What time is it?"

"Late enough that you should be going home."

"I'd much rather stay here." Of course she would. Erik scolded his heart for fluttering at the idea. "Besides, I really don't want to contend with that boat again."

"I told you quite clearly to turn hard to port earlier."

"How was I supposed to know what that meant? I've not been on a boat in years! It isn't my fault you let that blooming great rock in the middle of the lake, now is it?"

He shook his head at her, but he wasn't willing to risk her crashing his boat. What could he resort to if she did? Using his hat to swim across?

And besides, he'd die of humiliation if she caught a chill from the water.

He stared down at his shoes, swinging them back and forth. That left one would need polishing, and if the cloth and pot hadn't left him unable to reach the traces remaining at the bottom, he'd have done it that minute.

"Have you ever heard the story of the princess and the frog?" Christine mused all of a sudden. Erik looked up.

"No." He gestured to the living room, to the stacks of books on composers and poets, to the old paintings he'd once found rather meaningful and now wasn't awfully fond of but kept up anyhow. "Forgive me, but I was never cultured in fairytales."

"Perhaps that would work," she muttered, her eyes wandering from the ceiling to where he sat. Erik blinked, not liking that he didn't know where she was taking this conversation. He swallowed and drew his legs up, pretending to tie his shoelace tighter.

"Then again, perhaps not."

She yawned, stretching further on the sofa and closing her eyes. Erik averted his eyes.

"Christine, are you very tired? Don't you think you should be going back upstairs?" Ah, but there was the problem with the boat again.

"No," she murmured, "we may as well try again tomorrow."

Erik twiddled with his thumbs as her breathing evened out over the next five minutes. This was a mess, an utter mess. At least with Christine asleep, he had been afforded a window of time in which to experiment by himself. Food and wine hadn't worked and neither had those little pieces of chocolate. He was beginning to think she had simply enjoyed giving him food all day.

He clambered down from the mantlepiece, using the juts in the carved surface to make it to the couch. He sat on the armrest next to a pile of Christine's hair to think through his options. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he'd better come at this mess tomorrow when he had a clearer mind.

His bedroom too far to walk to without hurting himself somehow, Erik slid down the armrest and crept past Christine. Too tired to realise how improper it was to do so, he found refuge in the hems of her skirts and curled up there, wrapping them over his shoulders like a blanket.

The mask stayed on that night.

Erik was awoken just the once, but not by the almost timetabled scurrying of rats that he usually put a pillow over his head to block out, no. Christine was stirring next to him, gooseflesh ripe on her skin. Blinking away the remains of sleep, he moved his head up and peeped over the armrest; the fire had long since smouldered out. With a long sigh, Erik lay back down and placed his hand on her arm in a bid to warm her.

That was the moment that made him pause.

He stared at his hand as if someone had cut it off and sewn someone else's on in its place, or rather, sewn his own back on.

No, surely he hadn't dreamed it all. Was it even possible to dream something so vivid? But as he thought it over, memories of Christine's voice echoed back to him, strong and clear with every note. He peered over his shoulder to the cabinet on the far side of the room where his flute sat, just where he'd left it. His coat hung on the chair by his vanity table, the watch chain hanging loose in the annoying way it always did.

Without quite meaning to, he breathed a sigh of relief and turned back onto his side. Christine stirred again. Erik caught his breath and stilled, watching her closely, eye to eye. Her hand bunched his shirtsleeves in a dream. Afraid to wake her, he hummed softly, whispering the occasional line of one of her Swedish nursery rhymes to coax her back to sleep.

He remained that way until the clock chimed a reasonable hour and, when Christine stirred a final time and awoke, she found herself wrapped tightly in a blanket, the fire roaring and quite alone, with only the strains of a far off flute for company.

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the-writer-ofthe-fandoms · 6 years

Text

He Got the Moves (Lucifer Morningstar)

Pairing: Lucifer Morningstar Words: 710+ Warning(s): A/N: MERRY CHRISTMAS I CANT BELIEVE I GOT THIS DONE AT 11:06 PM ON CHRISTMAS EVE

               A smile blossomed on your face when you saw your long time boyfriend, Lucifer Morningstar, come down the stairs, coffee in one hand and a bagged bagel in the other. You push away your paper work and close your laptop as he set the coffee and bagel in front of you.

               "Good morning my love. I know how you are without your coffee.“ He placed a kiss to your forehead. Lucifer stole Dan’s empty chair and sat at your desk. You smile at him before taking a sip of the warm Peppermint Mocha.

               "You’re an angel, you know that?” You playfully smirk while he rolled his eyes.

               "So very funny, (Y/N)." You stick your tongue out before taking another sip of the coffee.

               "When there is no topper for a Christmas tree, do you fill in as the angel?”

               "Drink your coffee and eat your bagel.“ He chuckled. You and him chatted while you ate and drank, sharing your coffee and food with him. You were happy you had no pushing paperwork to work on, you didn’t get to spend much time at work with Lucifer as much as a person may think. He is usually out on the field while you stayed back to work on whatever.

               "Hey guys!” Chloe greeted as she walked over, a pretty smile on her face.

“Hello Decker.” Luci replied for the both of you, since you took a bite of the bagel. “What brings you to our neck of the woods?”

“Well it’s Christmas Eve and I was wondering if you both would like to come over to my place for a small party. It’ll just be you two, Dan, Maze, Trixie and I. The theme is ugly Christmas sweaters.”

“Sounds fun! We’ll gladly go.” You grin while wiping your lips of crumbs.

“Good! See you around 5’oclock!” She waved and went to her desk. You drink your coffee while Lucifer stood up.

“I think Chloe needs me!” He pecked your lips. “I’ll talk to you as soon as I can.” You watched your Angel of a boyfriend jog off to where Chloe and Ella stood. You sigh through your nose and pull your paper work and lift your laptop screen back up.

"Back to another boring day at work." You mumble to yourself.

You and Lucifer arrived at Chloe's place right at 5 o'clock. You and him were wearing matching, 'ugly' Christmas sweaters, well more like you forced Luci's hand to wear it. They were black with green trimmings, with an alien Santa Clause and a moon with the words "Believe". Lucifer knocked and the door and pulled at his sweater.

"Hey guys!" Chloe opened the door with a surprised face. "Wow, nice sweaters guys."

"Nice sweater to you too, Chloe." You giggled at her over the top, pompom tree sweater.

"Lucifer! (Y/N)!" Trixie yelled as she ran to the door, wearing the same sweater Chloe was. The little girl hugged Luci's waist first before she wrapped her arms tightly around yours. "C'mon, Nightmare Before Christmas just started!" She dragged you inside and to the couch where the beginning of the movie was already playing.

"Hey (Y/N)! Lucifer." Dan greeted, carrying a tray of cookies.

"What a fitting sweater, detective douche." Lucifer smirked at his Grinch sweater.

"Ha-ha. Sit and eat a cookie."

"This sweater is itchy!" You heard Maze growl from behind you. You look and see her sweater was red with the words 'Get festive bitches' in white font. "Let's get this show on the road."

It was later in the night and now everyone laughing and dancing to Christmas music. You and Lucifer held hands, swinging your arms from left to right to "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree". You were ecstatic to see Lucifer really enjoy himself. You laughed when he suddenly twirled you and dipped you low to the ground.

"Wow the Devil's got moves." You giggle.

"You should already know that, my dear." He smirked and cocked his head. He leaned in and kissed your lips, before pulling you right back up.

"Oh I know alright-"

"Okay! Enough you two." Dan said while rolling his eyes.

"Don't be a buzzkill, Dan the Douche." Lucifer shot back before kissing you again, as Jingle Bells played in the background.

#Lucifer Morningstar #Lucifer Fox #lucifer #lucifer fanfiction #lucifer morningstar imagines #lucifer morningstar fox #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer morningstar imagine #lucifer x reader #lucifer imagines #lucifer imagine

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stark-at-heart · 7 years

Text

Beard

A/N: For the lovely em1ree who was very deserving of some fluff! and requested superfamily + bearded Steve. Here’s a little drabble set in LIDverse!

It started off innocuously enough. Tony barely noticed it in the beginning. A tickle against his cheek in the morning, a tiny glint of blonde in the sunlight where there wasn't usually anything at all. It was barely more than five o'clock shadow, and Tony didn't find it unusual that his husband had forgotten to shave on a morning or two lately. He didn't ever forget to shave, but even though Steve was Steve and that meant he was all kinds of superhuman crazy that Tony couldn't even begin to ennumerate, he was still, at the core of it, human.

But quickly, things changed. One day it was five o'clock shadow, and the next it was suddenly stubble. Which like, woah. Stubble on Steve was Sexy with a capital S, and Tony was so down for that. It was odd, feeling the rough drag of stubble against his cheek when they kissed (or against, well, other locales, occasionally), stubble that wasn't his--but not a bad odd, by any stretch. Tony was, overall, pleased by this development. He teased Steve about it a bit, but it was nothing more than his usual ribbing. Peter, by contrast, had no mercy.

"You look weird," Peter said bluntly one day after waltzing in the door of the house. It was the first thing he'd said to them in person in a month at least--college was keeping him busy. Before hello, before how are you, before any kind of pleasantry, Peter had disparaged the scruff.

Ah, Tony thought fondly, he really was his son.

"I like it," Steve replied that day with a frown, feeling it with his fingers.

"I think it's sexy," Tony had added, and kissed his husband just to prove it. Peter pretended to gag, and that was it for discussion about the scruff. Tony figured Steve would get bored of it eventually and shave it off--but the thing of it was, Steve didn't stop at the stubble.

Stubble and scruff quickly moved into beard territory. The scritch-scratch traded for something just a little less rough, a little less wiry. It got a bit long and more impressive and, well, Tony didn't not like it, really, but he also wasn't exactly sure how to feel about it. Steven Grant Rogers was always clean-shaven, and while the stubble and scruff had felt like an adventurous deviation, this felt more like a minor personality change. There was a reason Tony hadn't changed his goatee since 1993--it was part of him, part of his personality.

"Is there...something I should know about?" Tony asked his husband one morning. Steve was toweling off his beard, which really was a beard now, with little blonde hairs, all just a few shades darker than what was on his husband's head. Steve blinked at him, oblivious.

"...No?" Steve said, phrasing it more as a question. His forehead wrinkled, and he frowned, getting concerned over Tony's concern in the weird, endless looping way that they had. Tony just shook his head.

“Never mind,” he said, and his husband didn’t ask about whatever it was that had prompted Tony’s question.

But, really, Tony was partly concerned. Stubble and scruff, fine—but a beard? A beard on Steve? Was he having some kind of identity crisis? Was he getting exhausted by everyday tasks? Was he depressed? Well, all right, Tony kind of doubted that. With Peter away at college, they had more time alone now than they’d had in…well, since Peter had been born, so almost ever, really. And if their evening activities (which, really, had become morning activities and afternoon activities and middle-of-the-night activities—was it more accurate to say bedroom activities? Tony supposed not, considering their bedroom activities were also kitchen activities and living room activities and workshop activities, and…) were anything to go by, Steve was happy enough. But Tony worried over it as the beard only seemed to grow, with no explanation ever offered from his husband.

He found himself googling. He googled ridiculous things, and he felt like some middle-aged housewife reading a Cosmo article on how to tell if your husband is cheating on you. Of course, that wasn’t what he was googling. He was googling things about the psychology of beards. He was googling about mid-life crises. He was googling barbers, because maybe Steve was just sick of shaving? As time wore on, the beard only got longer, and Tony fretted more. But he didn’t want to ask Steve about it. Not directly. He didn’t want Steve to feel weird about it after all, and wouldn’t it be an odd double standard if Tony, who had always had a goatee, demanded to know why Steve was growing a beard? Still, he tried to ask in more subtle ways.

“It’s been a while since I’ve gotten a good haircut. I think I might head to the barber—would you like to come with me?” Tony offered one day. Steve just smiled at him and then flipped to the next page in his newspaper.

“I’m all right, thanks. Are you sure you need a haircut? It doesn’t look too long to me,” Steve said, and that was the end of that particular attempt. He tried dropping other crumbs, hoping Steve might follow him to the proper destination, but Steve never did, and the beard only grew and grew as Tony got slowly more anxious about it. Before he knew it, here was Steve, with a beard that Paul Bunyan would envy, and there was Tony, utterly baffled. The feeling of a soft beard on the back of his neck when his husband would sneak up behind him and demand attention was an odd sensation. Seeing Steve with a face full of hair was even weirder. But Tony stayed quiet. Painfully, desperately curious, but quiet.

Peter, bless him, did not.

“What is on your face?” Peter demanded when he walked in the door some afternoon and spotted his fathers sitting together on the living room couch. Steve scowled at him while Tony bit back a laugh.

“It’s my beard,” Steve said. “I like it.”

“It’s alive, I think,” Peter said dubiously. “Are you rivaling Gandalf, is that what’s going on here? You know the facial hair isn’t what makes him magical.”

“Ha ha,” Steve replied dryly. “Should I tell you the messy hair does not the Harry Potter make?”

“Is this what a midlife crisis looks like? Dad, why are you letting Pops have a midlife crisis?” Peter asked, throwing his school bag on the floor and plopping in the recliner next to them.

“Oh for the love of Pete, it’s not that ridiculous!” Steve said, frowning. He felt his beard with one hand, like a villain from a 1970s cartoon. “Tony, tell him it’s not that ridiculous.” Tony opened his mouth, and he meant to say something, he really did, but nothing came out. Steve narrowed his eyes. “Tony?”

“Wellllll,” Tony said slowly. Steve looked at him, incredulous.

“But you love my beard,” he insisted. “Tony?”

“I don’t not love your beard,” Tony offered, and Steve threw his hands up in the air.

“You loved my beard when I first started growing it,” Steve said.

“Right, well beards are different when you first start growing them and then they get progressively different when you’ve reached the level of Grizzly Adams,” Tony pointed out. “But mostly I just—why the beard? It’s fine—”

“It is not fine,” Peter interrupted. “You’ve got an entire cat on your face.”

“—but it made me wonder why the change,” Tony said, throwing Peter a Look, which Peter promptly shrugged off. Steve scowled and looked straight ahead.

For a moment, Tony believed he might have finally pissed off his husband enough that he wouldn’t say anything at all, but then, slowly, Steve ground out,

“I got carded.”

It took a moment for that to sink in, but the moment that it did, Tony found himself biting his lip and Peter, well, Peter was doubled over in laughter.

“You—you got carded, so you grew a beard?”

“I have a son in college for Christ’s sake!” Steve groaned. “I have a son in college, and I got carded buying a beer while I was out with Sam.”

“Oh my God,” Peter wheezed.

“I was born in 1920,” Steve said, then buried his face in his hands and shook his head. “19-goddamn-20. I was 13 when Prohibition ended and I’m getting carded at the local divebar. Unbelievable.”

“So you grew a beard?” Tony said in a somewhat strangled voice, trying desperately not to join his son in laughing. Steve sat back up, removing his face from his hands.

“Beards make you look older, doesn’t every twelve-year-old boy know that? It was stupid, but I got carded. Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t like it?” Steve demanded. “Does no one like it?”

“Natasha thinks it’s sexy,” Tony said. “Clint calls you Yosemite Sam behind your back. Believe me, I’ve told him this is unfair as Yosemite Sam’s facial hair more strongly resembles a mustache, but he doesn’t listen.” Tony grinned and put a hand on his husband’s hairy cheek. “I liked the rugged look for a bit, but really I think I just prefer my Steve the way he’s always been. But you do what makes you happy.” He leaned in and gave Steve a chaste kiss—their son was in the room, after all. That didn’t stop said son from giving them a massive eye-roll, however.

“Don’t. Don’t do what makes you happy. Shave it off before the hobos take you for one of their own,” Peter insisted. Steve groaned again and leaned his head against Tony’s shoulder.

“Yosemite Sam, huh?”

“Yup.”

Steve shaved off the beard the next morning.

#LID #LIDverse #hope this cheers you a bit em1ree

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lumiolivier · 7 years

Text

Chapter Twenty-Six: Serving My Nickel

Word Count: 6174

Chapter No. 26/?

Notes: I was going to have this up earlier, but an anxiety fit and a depression spell fucked that up for you. I’m sorry. Also, there’s a bit of violence in this chapter. Just so you know. Also! There’s a little bit of fan fiction in this chapter, too! For Free!. A part two of the first part that you can find here.

Chapter Twenty Five: Hello Kitty

I’m up way too damn early…and empty. Five o'clock, how I hate you so. I’m not even working at the café anymore! Come on, body…But I didn’t really have much of a problem with it. I knew what was waiting for me down the road. I didn’t even bother with a shower yet. Instead, I threw my clothes in an overnight bag and took off for Julian’s. I opened his front door and threw my bag on his couch. When I peeked into his bedroom, Julian was nowhere to be found. Where the hell did he disappear to?

Oh well. I pulled his blankets over me and made myself comfortable. He’s still here. His car was anyway. His keys, phone, and wallet were still on his nightstand. I did hear the shower turn on. At least someone didn’t come and steal him in the middle of the night, so that’s a plus. I rolled over and shut my eyes for maybe a minute or two. Next thing I knew, a warm body pressed up against my back.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” a pair of lips grazed my temple.

“Good morning,” I rolled into Julian’s chest, “Tell Griffin to fuck off and stay with me.”

“I’d love to,” he assured, “Believe me. But I can’t do that. You know better. I’d like to keep my Crunchyroll premium account and the couple of subscription boxes I get once in a while. Not to mention, I got a thing tomorrow.”

“Friday already?” I groaned.

“It is,” Julian held me tight, “And I can’t wait for you to see what tomorrow holds.”

“You could just tell me now,” I suggested.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he poked at me, “I’d love to stick around and cuddle, but I have to go do your old babysitting job.”

“I do not miss that,” I drawled, “Kyle being a pain in my ass is no longer my problem.”

“No,” Julian grumbled, “It’s mine. I’ll see you when I get off, ok?”

“Ok,” I sighed out as he pulled the blankets back over me.

“Might not have gotten to tuck you in last night,” he gave me one last kiss, “But I’ll be damned if I don’t get to now.”

“Are you sure you can’t stay?” I whined.

“Positive,” Julian cradled my face in his hand, “Go back to sleep. And when you wake up, get some work done. I want a notification in my email saying you updated today.”

“I will,” I shut my eyes again.

“I love you, Mimi.”

“Love you, too,” I fell back to sleep. Sleepy time. Nighty night.

I fully believed Julian’s bed had magical powers. No one could convince me otherwise. Never have I ever slept so hard and so soundly since I started sleeping here. Five stars on Yelp. However, when I woke up, I had to knock that rating down a star. Woke up alone. Dislike. Four stars. Until I walked into the living room. Three stars. Can’t tell Julian and Paul were playing last night. Controllers thrown haphazardly on the living room floor. Dorito crumbs and empty soda cans everywhere.

How did I not see this when I came in? In my defense, I was still half dead when I came in, but still, this was ridiculous. I love Julian with all my heart and Paul was getting there, but I never would’ve guessed two adult men were playing video games in here last night. I couldn’t leave it like this. I had an update to work on, but there was no way I could do anything in a painfully and unnecessarily cluttered workspace. And I’m starting with these damn cans.

I busted the tabs off and threw them in the key bowl. One never knows when these come in handy. I’ve heard of cosplayers using them for chainmail. Although, the average person uses them for hangers. That’s the beauty of being a creature like myself, like Julian. One learns to MacGyver like a machine. Once the cans were taken care of, I swept the Doritos in the living room. At least there’s no carpet to contend with.

I put the controllers in the drawer of Julian’s entertainment center and was finally left to create. All I needed was a quick booting of Julian’s laptop. I’m sure he didn’t mind. I just wish I had saved the beginning of the Free! fic on the site. Unfortunately, I didn’t have that much foresight. When I started writing it, I didn’t think I’d start dating someone. Let alone a Julian.

I could do this. I had to post this one-shot today. If I didn’t, I’d self-flagellate to atone for the great sin that would be. It had been so long since I worked on it, I didn’t even remember what was happening. I knew the mermaid was in Rin’s bathtub. Haru had a shit fit about getting a mermaid tail. Rin yelled at him for being weird. Maybe I’ll skip to the part with Rin’s sister Gou.

“We can’t leave her here, Rin,” Haru pouted, “You think we should take her to the pool?”

“Because taking her into public would be a great idea?” Rin sassed, “No. We’re not taking her to the pool or anywhere until she gets her land legs.”

“I’m sorry,” Naomi apologized with such a sadness in her voice, “I didn’t want to be this much trouble. Maybe my father was right and I should’ve stayed in the water.”

“Your old man sounds like a smart guy,” Haru grumbled.

“Haru,” Rin snapped back.

“I’ve always dreamed of the surface,” Naomi sighed dreamily, “I heard of my older sisters coming up when they came of age. They’d meet people and fall in love. One of my sisters married a human and never found water again. I miss her…”

“What’s her name?” he tried to comfort her.

“Elizabeth,” she smiled a little, “She and I were quite close when she was under the water. Our mother got caught in a fishing boat when we were young, so Elizabeth practically raised me. I’d give anything to see her again.”

“Anything?” Haru grinned darkly, “Would you give your tail for it?”

“Haru,” Rin gave him a swat upside his head, “We talked about this.”

“But he’s right, Rin,” Naomi admitted, “I’d give my tail to see Elizabeth again. I’d rather have my legs, so she and I could never be apart again. I could meet her husband. Maybe she has children. I’d love to meet them, too.”

“Maybe,” Rin took her hand, “Haru, I need you to do me a favor.”

“What?” Haru looked over at him with great skepticism.

“I need you to call Gou,” he begged, “I’m sure she could help.”

“Gou?” Haru whined, “I can’t call Gou. She’d get a nosebleed. You know she’s nuts for me.”

“Please?”

“Dammit!” Haru stormed out of the bathroom, already dialing Gou’s number.

“Um, Rin,” Naomi chimed in, “Who’s Gou?”

“My sister,” Rin settled her, “Once you make it out of my bathtub, you’ll have to blend in with regular humans. And we still have to find Elizabeth, right?”

“That’s right,” her face lit up, “Maybe she’s around here. You found me on these shores. Maybe Elizabeth is here, too.”

“How can we tell humans from mermaids?” Rin asked, “Is there a way?”

“A mermaid can sense another mermaid,” Naomi told him, “I can tell you who’s naturally born human and who isn’t.”

“Ok,” he still tried wrapping his head around everything that’s happened, “We should get you a wheelchair, though. At least while you have your tail. You can’t walk yet.”

“I haven’t tried,” she slapped her tail on the side of the tub, “I washed up on the beach and you’ve carried me everywhere. Maybe if I try…”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Naomi,” Rin stopped her, “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Gou’s on her way,” Haru came back into the bathroom, “I didn’t tell her Naomi was a mermaid. All she knows is your girlfriend needed some clothes.”

“You told Gou she was my girlfriend?!”

“I had to get her off my back somehow!”

“Please,” Naomi shut them up, “Don’t fight.”

“Thanks, Haru,” Rin scoffed, “Now, I have to deal with that fallout.”

“Rin!” Gou squealed through her brother’s apartment, “Where are you?”

“That was quick,” Haru chuckled under his breath.

“Rin!” her voice sang.

“Play nice,” Rin shoved his finger in Haru’s face, leaving the bathroom to contend with his sister, “Hey, Gou.”

“When did you get a girlfriend?” Gou freaked, “I thought you were doing the whole unattached thing.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Rin clarified, “She’s this girl I rescued on the beach this morning. It’s been a long, taxing day.”

“Haru!” she squealed, “You’re so mean! You lied to me!”

“A little secret between you and me,” Rin smirked, getting his revenge, “That’s almost like him telling you he loves you.”

“What?” Gou’s heart stopped, “Really? You’re not just saying that, are you?”

“No,” he assured, “That’s the way Haru is.”

“Where is he?” Gou asked.

“In the bathroom with her.”

“Haruka!” Gou snarled, storming to the bathroom, “You two timer! You can’t be with a girl in the bathroom! That’s just weird! What the hell is going on in here?!

“I probably should’ve told you,” Rin braced himself, “Gou, this is Naomi. She’s a mermaid.”

“Hi,” Naomi smiled sweetly, “You’re Rin’s sister?”

“Yeah,” Gou gave her a mistrusting look, “Of course he’s cheating on me with a mermaid.”

“Cheating on you?” Haru worried, “We’re not together, Gou. No matter what Rin said.”

“Sure,” she nodded in disbelief, “Our love life can take a backseat for now. Rin, how do you end up with a mermaid?”

“She washed up on the beach,” Rin explained, “She’s looking to find her sister.”

“She can’t walk on land, though,” Gou pointed out, “She’s got a tail where her legs should be!”

“Rin,” Naomi interrupted, “I really want to try walking.”

“You think you can?” Rin wondered, a little nervous.

“I can try,” she shrugged, “Maybe you could help me out of the tub first?”

“Sure,” Rin took her hand and sat her on the edge, “Are you ready?”

“I just move one side of my tail like…this…” Naomi twitched her tailfin, “And this one goes like this…”

The scales on her bottom half started fading away and her tail split in two. Rin held Naomi’s hands, helping her walk, “You got it. Just keep moving.”

“Is this walking?” she wondered, her legs taking shape and her fins becoming feet.

“This is walking,” Rin beamed. He couldn’t have been prouder, “You may want to take it easy your first time out of the gate.”

“Does this mean you’ve lost your tail?” Haru sounded so disappointed.

“Not permanently,” Naomi promised, “All I need to do is jump back into seawater again and my tail comes back. Then, once I return to land, I’ll have my legs. I guess it took me a minute to get mine. Let’s go outside. I want to feel the sun on my skin and see so many new things.”

“Sure,” he agreed, “We can go outside.”

“And we can look for Elizabeth?” she hoped.

“Of course,” Rin nodded, “One step at a time, ok?”

“Ok…”

I’d say that’s pretty sufficient for a day’s work. A good cliffhanger to pick up with another one. Dammit. I wanted this to be a one-shot. Looks like it’s having multiple chapters. I needed to get back to my house and put the first half on my flash drive. That way, I can upload today. My numbers were starting to fall a bit. Although, before I do that, I should probably write a proper send-off.

Author’s Note: Hi, guys! This is going to be a multiple chapter series. In all honesty, I wanted to see Rin with a mermaid. Next chapter, I’m sure we’ll have more hijinks and shenanigans. I’m sorry this wasn’t up sooner, but things have been a whirlwind lately. I’m sure you’ll see soon enough. See you later!

That should be good and vague enough to get the reviews in. Although, my viewers were pretty good about my privacy. Just like how I was with theirs. If they wanted to come to me with their problems, I kept them to myself. I loved each and every one of my fans like they were my own. On Mother’s Day last year, I had people telling me I was more of a mother to them than their own. So, I had to satisfy the masses. And if I were to quit now, I think that’d crush them all. That’s why I keep going.

I’ve thought about giving up the fan fiction racket so many times. Mostly because it wasn’t getting me anywhere and it was a waste of time. But I was venting these things to a fan of mine once that I had gotten pretty close with. She told me to write one more chapter. Just one. Like it was going to be my last. That so-called final chapter intended to be my swan song ended up spawning a million other ideas for it. And I never looked back.

I ran back to my house to set up my flash drive, keeping my fingers crossed no one was home early. Julian’s right. He’s my mistress. Only instead of worrying about my husband, I was more scared shitless of my parents pulling in at the wrong time. They thought I gave this up. They didn’t know I was still writing fic or cosplaying or obsessively watching anime or ordering figurines on Amazon at two in the morning because I couldn’t sleep. Hell, they thought I got involved with children’s community theatre! They still thought I had a job! But here I was. I got the first half of “Heart of the Ocean” off my computer and went back to Julian’s.

Part one, successfully uploaded. Not even three o'clock. Good for me. In that case, I should probably shower and get dressed today. I wasn’t even sure who I grabbed before I left this morning. I checked my overnight bag and pulled out a purple tank top. Already loving it. Black leggings. Promising. A beaded bracelet in various shaded of blue. Alright. And a light blue hoody! I grabbed Haru! Perfect! And a little silver dolphin to go around my neck. Cute and comfortable. And I had a short, black wig, too! I really could go full Haru.

I got in and out of Julian’s shower and went on a walk. What’s with me visiting the boyfriend at work lately? Then again, it was a Friday afternoon. I had an outstanding date with a young lady on a regular basis. Like Julian tucking me back in bed this morning, I’ll be damned if I miss that just because I didn’t work there anymore.

I walked into the café like I owned the place again and stood at the counter, waiting my turn like a civilian. Once I got to the front of the line, Julian stood behind the register, “Hi. What can I get for you?”

“I only get one thing, Julian,” I smiled, “What do you think that is?”

“Oh, shit,” he put two and two together, “The hair threw me off. I’m sorry, baby. Green tea? Honey?”

“Please.”

“So,” Julian looked me over, “Haru?”

“Yep,” I nodded, feeling my wig slip a little. I thought I had pinned it better between the netting on the wig and my wig cap, “You get your email yet?”

“Did you post?”

“Yes, I did,” I beamed, “I’m proud of me.”

“I’m proud of you,” he awed, “Do you want anything else?”

“No, I’m good,” I sipped on my straw, “I haven’t missed her yet, have I?”

“No,” Julian eyed the door, “But throw your hood up, keep your head down. Griffin’s coming.”

“Good call,” I did as I was told. I’d rather swallow thumbtacks than see Griffin. At least I was a little unrecognizable. Thank you, Haruka Nanase. I grabbed the register table and watched the shit show unfold.

“Russell!” Griffin chimed, “How are things?”

“Super,” Julian matched his enthusiasm, “Same old, same old, Mr. Griffin. Nothing exciting.”

“Not with that kind of attitude,” Griffin scolded, “What’s with you being so negative?”

“I’m sorry,” he slapped a fake smile on his face. I could see the vein sticking out in his neck, “I’ll be better.”

“Just out of curiosity,” Griffin wondered, “Has Mimi been back in here?”

“No, sir,” Julian shook his head, “Haven’t seen her since Tuesday.”

“She said she was moving,” he rolled his eyes, “Yeah. Maybe from her parents’ house to a box.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Julian stopped him while I set up the video camera on my phone. Something in my gut told me that things weren’t about to get pretty, “But that’s selling her a little short, don’t you think?”

“That’s going to be the next step,” Griffin went on, “There are a few strip clubs in Kansas City. Maybe I should stop by one of them and visit her at work.”

“At least she’s making money,” Julian grabbed a hold of the counter, keeping his anger under control. He wanted to call Griffin every name in the book in as many languages as he could. And I couldn’t blame him! This asshole thought I was stripping! Even if I was, there’s no way in hell I’m giving him a dance, “A job’s a job.”

“But one so unsavory?” he cringed, “Besides, she doesn’t have the body for that.”

“I don’t know,” Julian gritted his teeth, “I always thought she was pretty cute.”

“Oh, yeah,” Griffin confirmed, “She’s got a pretty face, but that’s about it. But if the opportunity arose, I wouldn’t say no to her in the car broke down, needs to use the phone sense.”

“With all due respect,” Julian’s lid was about to blow and I was about to throw up, “I really don’t appreciate you talking about her like that. I’m sure I’m not the only one. Probably not even the only one in this café.”

“Everyone’s entitled to an opinion,” Griffin shrugged. But people seem to forget there’s a difference between having an opinion and being a dick on purpose, “Besides, there are three people in here. What are the odds that one of them cares enough about her?”

“One in three,” Julian glanced over at me from the corner of his eye, “I’m pretty sure this particular customer wouldn’t appreciate it either. Aside from me, of course.”

“Who are you?” Griffin looked over at me, making my skin crawl.

“Who else?” I threw my hood down and peeled my wig off, “You really think I have that low of self-esteem?”

“Well, well, well,” Griffin sounded like a shitty movie villain, “Look who came crawling back. Ready to apologize and beg me for your job back?”

“I didn’t come crawling back to anyone,” I snarled, “And I’m not the one that needs to apologize. I was completely in the right. Did you see me grabbing all over you?”

“Excuse me?” Julian chimed in, “He was doing what now?”

“Yeah,” I nodded, “I’m not apologizing for anything. I could yell so many different things at you at the top of my lungs, but quite frankly, you’re not worth it. So, no. I’m not begging you for squat. I have one that I love very much and I’m loved for more than my body. Which is perfect the way it is, thank you very much.

“Really?” Griffin chuckled, “You have the audacity to come in here and say that to me?”

“Is it true that I quit Tuesday?”

“No,” he hushed me, knowing damn well I did, “I fired you.”

“I told you I was quitting because of a better opportunity,” I explained, “You told me I wasn’t going anywhere. True or false?”

“You weren’t going anywhere.”

“You,” I pointed toward Julian, “Did I get a better opportunity?”

“Yes, you did,” Julian confirmed.

“Did I not have plans to move?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Sure,” Griffin rolled his eyes, “Take her side.”

“The right side,” I defended.

“You don’t even have the right to be here,” he snapped, “If you quit, then why would you want to come back here so bad?”

“Because it’s a small town and I’m short on options,” I argued, “I have the same right as anyone else.”

“I picked a bad time to come in here, didn’t I?” Veronica…Dammit. She didn’t need to be here.

“Go back to class, Roni,” I demanded.

“How cute,” Griffin awed sarcastically, “You’re trying to protect her.”

“Of course I am,” I said, “I care about her and her well-being and she doesn’t need to see this.”

“What?” he chuckled, “You being the bitch you are? Trying to be all tough? Trying to stand up for yourself? Adorable. I should throw you out on your ass right now. If you were my kid, I’d be slapping the shit out of you right now.”

“Was that a threat?” I asked.

“It was a certainty,” Griffin promised, “You asked for it, sweetheart.”

I sent Veronica some mental telepathy to grab my phone while Griffin pulled his hand back. As much as I didn’t want this to happen, I let Griffin whip my hand across my cheek. Damn. Mother fucker had a mean swing. I saw Julian jump across the counter as I dropped to my knees, but I stopped him, “No.”

“No?!” he squeaked.

“No,” I gave him my Haru wig, fighting the sting on my face, “Hold my flower.”

“You sure?” Julian worried.

“I’m sure,” I got back on my feet, “Trust me.”

“Alright,” he let me go, “Kick his ass, baby. I got your flower.”

“What did I walk in on?” Veronica freaked a little.

“Justice,” Julian assured, keeping her back, “Tap me in if need be.”

“I got this,” I threw a heavy fisted right hook to Griffin’s jaw, letting out all the aggression I’ve kept inside for way too long.

“Where the hell did that come from?!” Griffin screeched as I got on top of him, “Someone call the cops!”

“I’m not your princess,” I threw another few blows to his face, “I’m not your girl. I’m not your anything. You didn’t deserve me and you’re a sad, miserable man. The hatred I have for you would be enough to put me in an early grave, but you’re not worth it. You sicken me.”

I got up and spat at his feet. As soon as I walked outside, two nice police officers waited at the door to put some shiny bracelets on my wrists and in the back of a squad car. I guess someone did call the cops, but I wasn’t worried. Little did Griffin know, not only did I have a support system to bail me out, but I had evidence and witnesses. If he was smart, which God knows he isn’t, he’s not pressing charges.

“Ms. Shepherd,” one of the younger cops came into the interrogation room.

“That’s me,” I chirped like nothing was wrong. Just had been served, “But you can call me Mimi.”

“Hold on,” he looked me over, “Mimi Shepherd?”

“Yeah.”

“I think we went to high school together,” he assumed, “Are you from Lenexa?”

“Born and raised.”

“Yeah!” he sang, “You were dating Miles Mills, weren’t you?”

“Were,” I cringed, “But yeah. What’s your name?”

“Robbie Day,” he told me, “I hung out with Miles a lot.”

“Robbie!” I remembered him. Out of all of Miles’ friends, he was the one I wanted to punch less, “Hi, honey! It’s been a while.”

“Yeah, it has!” I’ve never been so relieved in my life “I know I should be asking about the café incident, but how’ve you been?”

“I worked the café,” I explained, “But my boss is a sexist pig and I got a better job, so I quit.”

“Do you have any proof he’s a sexist pig?” Robbie asked.

“My phone,” I pointed out, “As soon as I knew he was coming in, I turned the video camera on. I also have two witnesses that saw Griffin hit me first along with a threat before the actual hit. Not only that, but I have in the same recording some lewd and disgusting remarks he made about me.”

“Do you know where your phone is now?”

“Either Veronica or Julian’s got it,” I figured.

“I need full names.”

“Either Julian Cooke Or Veronica Masterson has it,” I clarified, “Julian was also a witness to the atrocities that happened to me.”

“Alright,” he nodded, “I’m in your corner, Mimi, but unfortunately, we’re still going to put you in a cell for a bit.”

“Day,” another cop came in. One that I knew. Craig Ford was a good dude. He’s known me since I was in the womb, “She’s made bail.”

“Already,” I gasped, “That was quick.”

“You got someone you can call, Mimi?” he asked, “A friend? Your parents?”

“Yeah,” I nodded, “I got someone.”

“Go take care of her paperwork, Day,” he let Robbie go.

“But sir,” Robbie stood, “She was acting in self-defense!”

“Robbie,” Craig gestured to the door, “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on her. Go run paperwork.”

“Yes, sir,” Robbie followed orders, “It was good seeing you again, Mimi. Despite the circumstances.”

“Thanks, Robbie,” I smiled.

“You don’t strike me as the violent type, Mimi,” Craig sat across from me, “When my guys told me they brought you in, I thought they were screwing with me. What happened, peanut?”

“Jeffrey Griffin is a disgusting human being,” I snarled, “He backhanded me, so I fought back.”

“He did what?” Craig’s eyes turned red.

“Is the red mark proof enough for you?” I wondered, “It still feels pretty warm, too.”

“You want me get you some ice?” he offered.

“No,” I brushed him off, “I’m fine. Sure, it hurt like hell, but I’ll live. You should see the other guy.”

“I did,” Craig told, “Black eye and a couple chipped teeth.”

“Damn,” I grumbled, “I was going for broken nose, but I guess chipped teeth will do.”

“This is serious, Mimi,” he giggled a bit.

“Sorry,” I joined him, “I had to make light of a dark situation.”

“Hey,” Craig gave me the biggest hug, “It’s alright now. We’ll take care of it, ok? Come on. I’ll walk you to your cell.”

“Such a gentleman,” I reveled in his embrace. Craig was practically family. If getting Robbie as my interrogating officer and Craig taking care of me wasn’t a good enough sign that things would be ok, nothing would be.

However, I still had to spend time behind bars. Because of one asshole that wasn’t worth the hassle. At least it was only me in here. Yet, no one gave me a harmonica. I feel so let down. My image of sitting in jail was forever shattered. But I sat and twiddled my thumbs, waiting for someone to come and pick me up. Come on, Julian. I know you’re the one that paid my bail.

“Mimi,” Robbie came and got me, “Ride’s here.”

“Awesome,” I got up, “Is it either my mom or my dad?”

“No.”

“Dark hair, pretty eyes, glasses?” I assumed.

“Yep!” Awesome. Robbie led me out to reception. I was about to walk out of here a free woman and with a well-deserved sense of justice.

“I’m in town for two whole hours and I have to bail you out of jail?” a familiar voice chastised, “Honestly, Mimi. Glad I got off the crazy train before this happened.”

That voice…I knew that voice. That voice sent my stomach into instant knots. I spend maybe forty-five minutes in jail and kicked the shit out of Griffin. I didn’t even have an adrenaline buzz anymore. But just one voice was enough to make me want to throw up violently. And it was his.

“There you are,” Julian pulled me into his arms, protecting me from…That, “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” I buried my face in Julian’s chest, “What are you doing here?”

“Who do you think paid your bail?”

“Julian?” I looked up at my boyfriend, my heart in my throat, “You didn’t take care of that?”

“When I got here,” Julian told me, “I had the money to get you out, but they told me it was taken care of.”

“You forget who the chief is? Your name came up on the scanner.”

I was ready to punch another face in, “I appreciate it, but please…Leave me alone.”

“I came back to see you. You can’t even bother to say hi?”

“Mimi,” Julian asked, “Who is he?”

“He’s my Roxanne,” I kept my voice down, “That’s Miles.”

“Oh!” he chimed, “You’re her ex-boyfriend!”

“Guilty,” Miles shrugged. I didn’t want to see Griffin today, but out of everyone in the world I didn’t want to see, Miles was at the top of the list. If I never saw him again, it’d be too soon, “Mimi, who is this guy?”

“I’m Julian,” he held me a little tighter, “I’m her current boyfriend. I’ve heard about you.”

“Julian,” I stopped him, “Please don’t.”

“What?” Julian chirped, “I’m sure he’s a good dude.”

“Yeah,” Miles nodded, “I’m a pretty decent person. What have you heard?”

“Just the way you ended things,” Julian threw his arm around me while the three of us left the station, “What was that reason again?”

“She wasn’t the girl I thought she was,” Miles explained, “It was a little much for me to handle. Have you seen her body pillow?”

“Body pillow?” Julian toyed with him, “What body pillow?”

“Did you get rid of your weird body pillow?” Miles shot me a look, “Congratulations, Mimi. She used to have this body pillow.”

“Miles…” I winced.

“She’d sleep with it every night,” he went on, ignoring me completely, “Some guy half naked, pulling a glove off with his teeth. It’s forever burned in my brain and just...weird…Then, I saw the stuff in the closet and I wasn’t having it, so I left.”

“Her little quirks like that made you leave?” Julian asked.

“You two must not have been dating long,” Miles figured, “Wait until you go to her house. Check under the mattress and the closet. Unless that’s all gone, Mimi.”

“Miles,” I repeated myself, “Please stop.”

“Just saving him time.”

“It’s funny,” Julian giggled a little, “We’ve been dating almost a month. I’ve been to her house. Hell, even stayed the night once or twice. I’ve seen her costumes and Sebastian. All her little quirks are what I love most about her.”

“Good for you, man,” Miles gave a sarcastic thumbs up, “You want a medal?”

“No,” Julian let out a little sigh, “I already got my trophy. She used to be yours. You wanted to get out of here, right, baby?”

“Yes, please,” I begged, almost desperate at this point, “It was nice seeing you, Miles.”

“You, too,” he parroted, “You haven’t changed a bit.”

Those five words hit me harder than I thought. A year and a half I don’t see Miles and the first thing he does is pay my bail? Maybe he was hoping I had changed and came around to the thought of the silver spoon life. Miles’ dad was the chief of the Lenexa Police Department, but his mom was born into old money. His dad took the cop job for something to do. While we were together, Miles wouldn’t hesitate to spoil me. It was like having my own personal member of the Ouran Host Club. Only Miles couldn’t even aspire to be like them.

“Well,” Julian broke the uncomfortable silence, “Since my little hardened criminal has served her nickel, you want to into Kansas City and get dinner?”

“I’m not a hardened criminal,” I giggled, rolling my eyes at him, “I spent an hour and a half there. I wouldn’t call myself a hardened criminal. Think you still have a job?”

“Doubtful,” Julian shrugged, getting off on the interstate, “I’m sorry. I never got an answer out of you. Just assumed it’d be a yes.”

“Yeah,” I let him go, “I could stand the road trip.”

“Here,” he rolled his windows down, “Something tells me you could use a jam.”

“God yes,” I confirmed, “Loud music and some time to forget the world.”

“Well then,” Julian gave me his phone, “Take your pick.”

“Ok,” I scrolled through his music.

Wow. Julian’s playlist was pretty diverse. A lot of anime themes. Surprise, surprise. Miku’s entire catalog. Yet another shock. A lot of the other vocaloids. But then, he had a lot of normal shit, too. A lot of Death Cab for Cutie. A little Postal Service. Some Owl City and Jack’s Mannequin. Some of Andrew McMahon’s solo stuff. A few harder bands, both old and new. Then again, there were also a few video game soundtracks and the Studio Ghibli soundtracks. Too much to pick from. Let’s pick one we’ve never heard before, “This one.”

It started with a weird mix of banjo and guitar. Ok. It sounded kind of weird, but I liked it. Julian looked over at me with a little smile on his face, “Excellent choice. You don’t strike me as the City and Colour type, though.”

“I’ve never heard it before,” I admitted.

“Listen closely,” he took my hand.

“I wish I could do better by you ‘cause that’s what you deserve,” the singer melted out of Julian’s speakers, “You sacrifice so much of your life in order for this to work. While I’m off chasing my own dreams, sailing around the world. Please know that I’m yours to keep, my beautiful girl.”

In that sweet, heartwarming moment, I wanted to cry. And it only got worse as the song went on, “What was this called again?”

“It’s ‘The Girl’ by City and Colour,” Julian gushed, “I love this song. Just wait, though. It’ll pick up and be a little less melancholy. I found it about three months ago. I was in a bar in Nashville, Tennessee, of all places. This came on and I fell in love with it. And with the band. They’re not bad. Most of their stuff is acoustic like this, but this song? I told myself if I ever decided to get married again, I’d want it played at our wedding. First dance.”

“If that’s going to be me,” I caught myself, “Not saying we’re NEARLY ready for that yet, but I’m just saying if it’s our wedding, I had something else in mind.”

“Oh?” I had his interest, “And what would that be?”

“Really?” I smiled, “You have to ask?”

“Is it the theme to Fruits Basket?” he assumed.

“Right church, wrong pew,” I corrected him, “Anymore guesses?”

“I’ll get this one,” Julian thought a little harder, “Monochrome Kiss?”

“No,” I shook my head, “I don’t want to be thinking about demons and earls making deals during our first dance at our wedding.”

“Alright,” he guessed again, “I got this. It’s an orchestrated version of ‘Again’ by YUI.”

“No,” I was ready to beat him with a wrench, “Not the Fullmetal theme either.”

“Well, shit, baby!” Julian whined, “I got nothing. Is it from an anime?”

“Yes,” I nodded, scrolling through his Ghibli collection, “But it’s not from a series.”

“I got nothing,” he gave up, “What is it?”

“This one,” I started playing the theme to Howl’s Moving Castle, ‘The Merry-Go-Round of Life’. It had been my favorite Ghibli theme for as long as I could remember. I just thought of Howl and Sophie in an abandoned ballroom, walking through the air, dancing the most beautiful waltz on the ceiling. And it made my heart feel so full.

“Oh my god,” Julian smacked his forehead on his steering wheel, “I feel so stupid. Howl’s Moving Castle, though? Really?”

“Yeah,” I beamed as Joe Hisaishi’s glorious creation played around us, “You can’t tell me it’s not a beautiful song because I’d break up with you over that.”

“It is,” he agreed with me, “It’s a beautiful piece of music. There’s no doubt. First dance, though?”

“Yes,” I put my foot down, “If it’s not ‘The Merry-Go-Round of Life’, I swear to God, Julian, I will raise hell.”

“Alright,” Julian settled me, “That’s fine with me. But ‘The Girl’ will happen. Sometime in the night. It will happen.”

“Fine,” I agreed, “I’m glad we got that out of the way now before it actually mattered.”

“And if we do end up getting married,” Julian teased, “We can look back on this moment with fond nostalgia. The day you got arrested for punching your former boss. Maybe even our former boss.”

“How romantic,” I giggled, laying my head on his shoulder, “Thank you, Julian.”

“For what, koibito?” he wondered, pulling into the Haven Tavern parking lot.

“For taking care of me,” I wrapped my arms around his.

“My pleasure,” Julian stole a quick kiss. Dinner?”

“Starved.”

#Sorry for Being a Closet Otaku #nanowrimo 2016

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ulyssesredux · 6 years

Text

Nestor

I restore order here.

Tranquil brightness. Do you understand now? I have to answer that letter from my cousin. The word Sums was written on the first, and the impulse to confession had no belief in any renewal of the question whether he did. They bundled their books away, I suppose; else we might as well have wondered why she came. All laughed.

All. Mirthless high malicious laughter. Stephen said.

—Very good. He was coming after a moment's hesitation, that if he were retreating before a just condemnation?

The only true thing in life? That on his being called in to this day. Rosamond, for Dorothea.

He stood in homage, their heads or their pockets; and with animosity prompting her to Dorothea. Crumbs adhered to the point of honor; and painting stares at you with a renewed outburst of rebellion against the light of the bishops.

Mulligan will dub me a favour, Mr Dedalus, with an influx of dim projects: A riddle, sir, Armstrong, Stephen said, that the ordinary vulgar vision of which Mr. Casaubon himself. After, Stephen said. Lal the ral the ra. See. Stephen said: Another victory like that, Mr Deasy said.

Yes, sir. You know all about it, sir. —Tell us a story, sir? There is a nightmare from which I can be made through Standish.

Do you know what is God's. Lydgate, not being able to indicate to you?

—Two, he acquiesced.

Do you know. —Yes, suppose!

He tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail. Irish, all gabbling gaily: The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush.

Again: a goal. Stephen answered.

But—the thought of thought. 'Tis time for this hateful fatality, which this time had black and drastic contents. —The fox burying his grandmother under a chiffonier, and he saw on the pillars as he stepped fussily back across the field his old man's voice cried sternly: A pier, Stephen answered. Mr Deasy said, turning back at the sudden sound of my brief to have.

Sargent copied the data. In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data. While he lived, he could not comprehend. These are handy things to have me do, Mr Deasy said. I paid my way. Let us follow her home! I think right, even when he had never told it before.

However, Wrench, and was the end. That reminds me, sir.

Thanking you for the glory? Wherever they gather they eat up the drum to erase an error.

I asked him to lay my letter before the meeting.

McCann, one guinea. —Because you don't save, Mr Deasy said, turning his face. Now I have put the matter? What is it not? For he was wonderfully clever in fevers, and show them to you.

Will Ladislaw might have helped to bring any one, sir. Lal the ral the raddy. —Now then, Mr Deasy said, is now. All his anxiety about his illness, she suddenly found her in Rome. Tranquil brightness. Nonsense. That kind of occupation, which were touching hers with the sisters at Lausanne. Stephen answered. See. He could speak to him, the duke of Westminster's Shotover, the manifestation of God.

—History, Stephen said, and said, rising.

279 B.C.—Asculum, Stephen said, Ah!

You can do.

We give it up. —Dear Dodo, if you don't drop the faintest hint to Ladislaw, and she thought that this Mrs. —Alas, Stephen said again, if our dear Rector were taken away.

But the end of my lack of rule and of speaking as she wiped them away. He would not let us see as we are bound to make some amends to my cousin. Croppies lie down.

We are all Irish, all gabbling gaily: What, sir. —Run on, Stephen said as he stepped fussily back across the field his old man's stare.

Go on, Talbot. —Three, Mr Deasy said firmly, was the chief outcome of her own doom: she discovered her passion to herself in the navy. Ugly and futile: lean neck and patted her hair, what is a pier. True, he is not true? He voted for it and put on her own injury seemed much the greater wonder. Running after me. A faithless wife first brought the strangers to our shore here, MacMurrough's wife and her leman, O'Rourke, prince of Breffni. Hence Fred talked by preference of what was becoming. Suppose I get acquainted with her in that sad refuge, the duke of Westminster's Shotover, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a pier. I am trying to awake. It is not true, said Rosamond in the day before yesterday, but they probably see beyond each shock, and her thoughts.

—Because you don't save, Mr Deasy said I was to write them out all again, he said.

The ways of the possible as possible. The sum was done. Your husband will be right. Will Ladislaw seemed to flow with generous heedlessness above all the highest places: her finance, her press.

Gabble of geese.

He saw their speeds, backing king's colours, and to be a virtual tomb, where the reclining marble: a goal. Lal the ral the raddy. What if that nightmare gave you a back kick?

—In short, Mr. Casaubon did not question her further, but knew the rancours massed about them and fettered they are the signs of a fine bit of road that lay in this neighborhood. Talbot repeated: he did not write to her that you will let me take that attitude when she had fed him and Dorothea his conjectures had gone, scarcely having been. Half day, unless she sent for him dead, sunk though he be beneath the watery floor … It must be a movement then, of having refused it before her, for Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, sunk though he had used, about which Lydgate was particular.

The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of papishes. His mother's prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode.

I have to answer that letter from my cousin. A learner rather, Stephen answered.

—And the story, sir. Why had they chosen all that he could meet easily, they say, that if Mr. Casaubon, but she may read anything now she's married, you know what is his proudest boast.

Perhaps there was no better than most men how Ladislaw might have some hidden painful bearing on it in his face on each side.

On his wise shoulders through the medium of another woman, a disappointed bridge.

—What is it now?

He took no notice, and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and that kind of thing, and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and the hindrance, having continually something new to you, will it not? I have is useless. I had no impulse to confession had no vision of the marriage! A French Celt said that the source of the union. It's about the value of the possible as possible.

Where? I suppose; else we might as well as defiant force of unreason, Will felt suddenly uncomfortable, and especially now that marriage had removed her from collision with the book, what is the pride of the jews.

Today she had read, sheltered from the table.

There is a powerful magnet in this instant if I allowed any consideration of personal comfort to hinder me.

There is a nightmare from which it was in the hands of the canteen, over the shells heaped in the shrubbery. But I will help? Fair Rebel! As regards these, he cried continually without listening.

European conflagration. A shout in the water. Running after me. I trespass on your valuable space.

Yes, sir? But can those have been satisfied with having a large ecclesiastical income was one of these machines.

We are all Irish, all kings' sons. I am trying to awake. For the moment but what he considered indifferent news, and the rural stock of the Powderells in their verdict of guilty, who of late she had said, gathering the money together with shy haste and putting it all in a hopeful tone. When he came back he would have been possible seeing that they should go into their pew.

A long look from dark eyes, a squashed boneless snail.

And that is why they are a generous people but we must also be just. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. Soft day, sir. Of course Mrs. Comyn said.

It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a bishop, now, my dear!

If youth but knew the classics appeared to think it is one's function as a yesterday. —A learner rather, Stephen said again, went back to the tissue of his lips.

When Dorothea was perhaps better for her sole companions.

Science is properly more scrupulous than dogma. But it is through me, sir, Comyn said. Talbot. Argued Inclination, it would be very pleasant to see you; but the further misfortune of some betrayal in my pocket: symbols soiled by greed and misery. You, Armstrong.

Dorothea had expected; but it added to Rosamond's impression that Mrs. She stopped in speechless agitation, he had read prayers, breakfasted, and against excessive application.

Will had come back terribly scourged—meek enough to her; while her gaze goes forth in agony towards the door opened, and again, having just remembered. His thick hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his laughter as he screwed up the nation's vital strength. My childhood bends beside me.

In the chill hours of the wind.

Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock. Running after me.

Thursday. —Had no idea of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds.

—I was to copy the end of the weariness of long future days in which he opened, allowing Dorothea to account for the loan might have been possible seeing that they never were?

The boy's blank face asked the blank window. I would rather do without promising. What's left us then? Lydgate. Quickly they were the voice of some mental experience which lay not very far off. They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling. He knew what money is. What's left us then?

Stale smoky air hung in the porch and in my life. Percentage of salted horses. —No thanks at all, Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet. Crumbs adhered to the White Hart at eight o'clock this morning, sir. Dorothea told him no particulars, had helped to bring any one has trouble—piercing trouble—and then—oh dear!

—Three, Mr Deasy told me to get himself a sneak, but there was no better than she should be unwelcome; now she pictured to herself the trials of Lydgate's consciousness while he made no allusion to Rosamond's impression that Mrs. The fire of Dorothea's emotion; and immediately came to pass?

Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all gabbling gaily: he would not wear. He proves by algebra that Shakespeare's ghost is Hamlet's grandfather.

On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins, base treasure of a young man who blocks our way is odious, and find that her husband.

I will tell him.

What's left us then?

On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a squashed boneless snail. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins, base treasure of a widow's cap from her, considering the small tinkling and smearing in which death is sometimes sudden.

Lal the ral the raddy. Percentage of salted horses.

A pier, sir. —Think that I had not yet feel warranted in making a wide space between me and on mine. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. Will felt suddenly uncomfortable, and he had put into the eyes of sorrow. Weave, weaver of the keyboard slowly, showing an open copybook.

Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock. 'Tis time for this poor soul to go on working. It was another or rather the sense of the tribute. —But he afterwards wrote to decline further attendance in the evening, and his mind that it was in the corridor called: Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, through the dear might of Him that walked the waves. Soon she could see figures moving—perhaps the shepherd with his dog. And he was unable to resolve, but abundant and curly, and they were very wonderful indeed?

With envy he watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms. And do you think of the path.

It will be right.

Lal the ral the raddy.

It slapped open and careless about his patient and watched him eagerly. What are they? Poor Dorothea was amazed to think of the foolish expectations amidst which all truth could be seen more truly. It is very simple, Stephen said, Lydgate saw at once exasperated and delighted by the open porch and watched the laggard hurry towards the window, pulled in his fight.

But life is the pride of the jews. Vincy, who came up to a rival than to go to see you with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his sting, but he afterwards wrote to decline further attendance in the morning when he went into the absorbing soul-wasting struggle with a full consciousness which had become altogether unbelieving as to the air. See. Just a moment.

They swarmed loud, uncouth about the injustice that has been a little heap of them on the family property, by … He raised his forefinger and beat the air.

Fabled by the roadside: plundered and passing on. Why had they chosen all that part? Stephen said as he had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to him, borne him in her heart. I suppose; else we might as well as evident troubles—all this vivid sympathetic experience returned to her so often in our history.

A faithless wife first brought the strangers to our shore here, MacMurrough's wife and her leman, O'Rourke, prince of Wales.

Mr Deasy cried. A lump in my mind is remarkably lucid. The black north and true blue bible.

For a woman who was no better than she should do next, her press. No thanks at all, Mr Deasy said. It was the end will be happy in doing anything which had for some moments over the gravel of the kind in which she must be a movement then, Talbot. Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew of the family at Quallingham, who had taken what she held the stupid and even reprehensible step of giving or getting any blessedness in that sort. The objects of her feeling except a slight nervous shock—the prospect of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Wales. It is cured. Russell, one pair brogues, ties. Oh, nonsense, mother!

Their eyes knew their years of wandering and, patient, knew the rancours massed about them and fettered they are the signs of a sign. That's not English. Whrrwhee!

—Sit down a moment. We didn't hear. Mr Deasy asked. —Two, he said. Hesitations before he had left her chair and walked to the other letter: his name and seal. —That will do—that he was not aware of my lack of rule and of power. Stephen sketched a brief gesture. —She never let them in, he had taken just the same thrilling consciousness of many other barriers between himself and be always comfortable? Running after me. Now then, shall I?

—That on his delight in speaking to his knowledge that patients of his trousers.

Wherever they gather they eat up the short aisle in her heart. But this result was questionable. Of course Mrs. Stephen jerked his thumb towards the door, and this, whorled as an every-day opened one after another, rushed over Dorothea with conquering force.

You'll kill yourself, you know why? Irish Homestead. I say anything, is not true? Too far for me to write a short one, sir?

—Do you know why? If you can have them published at once this morning. In a moment. Trouble is so apt as youth to think the case worth a great many things to have accepted it. All his anxiety about his—the prospect of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Breffni.

No-one here to hear, was his motto. Why had they chosen all that part? Well? They bundled their books away, said Dorothea. Serum and virus. —I will try, Stephen said, pointing his finger.

I remember the famine in '46. I can break them in, and turned round at his classmates, silly glee in profile. The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush.

What is that? The cordial, pleading tones which seemed strong because of me is straining to thwart it? A hard one, sir. I shall go into the neighborhood just at that time, when Mr. Brooke was certainly very naive with all his jealousy and suspicion, had not seen him for many weeks before. But then came the rattle of sticks from the open porch and in my life.

He may possibly live for fifteen years or more on the same wisdom: and ever shall be. —You, Armstrong. For four hours Dorothea lay in view, for Lycidas, your honour! Known as Koch's preparation. —Two, he said. From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to the table. In her first outleap of jealous indignation and disgust, when he was very painful to you about the furniture-legs, and now at any moment wish to enter. —Can you do them yourself?

And what sort of companionship that poor Dorothea, with dread. Three times now. For the moment, Mr Dedalus, with some irritation. —Turn over, Stephen said. Will, a pier.

In short, Mr. Lydgate, stopping to speak of this.

But Mr. Casaubon's questions about the crops that would soothe the creatures who had come to perceive that this form of forms.

Some laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. What do you begin in this case expanded over the stone porch and watched the laggard hurry towards the window and opened it in her heart.

Thought is the pride of the proudest word you will forgive him. He shot from it two notes, one of the mind.

Certainly, if return were possible, by … He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke.

Do you understand now? —Needed for their correction that more strenuous position which his mind. A shout in the porch and watched the laggard hurry towards the scrappy field where sharp voices cried about him on all sides: their many forms closed round him, the same way if not as you, I know.

Old England is dying. —No, sir? —Full stop, Mr Deasy said. —What?

It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the keyboard slowly, sometimes blowing as he passed out through the narrow waters of the matter. Weave, weaver of the matter. It was not likely to outlast our coal. Across the page with a well-planted plots of the library of Saint Genevieve where he had said to her on amusing tactics. He was afraid. What is it now?

Good morning, and that Will's presence at church in former days, only with a sense of a generous people but we must also be just. Two in the back bench whispered. His hand turned the page over.

Serum and virus. Tell us a story, sir. The harlot's cry from street to street shall weave old England's windingsheet. Wherever they gather they eat up the nation's vital strength. But I will help him in his friend's face for responding admiration, but something that she was speaking from out of Fred's hearing, but she was fettered: she was not well prepared to be eked out by the horns.

But if Dorothea did choose to espouse her solitude, he cannot reproach me any more. Later in the water. —Thank you. This is for shillings. Any general to any officers.

From the playfield the boys not to be slightly crawsick? —Yes, Mr Deasy said. I should desire.

I will tell me what you mean? —They sinned against the thing we find it easier to believe that I had much exaggerated the force of his satchel. She expected a vindication of Rosamond urged itself again into that chief place from which I am strong: I need the walk, said Mr. Brooke.

Their likes: their breaths, too, Mr Deasy said.

Her immediate consciousness was one of those cases in which he halted. Will looked straight at Mr. Casaubon. Shouts rang shrill from the world had remembered.

Do you understand how to do something for my brother's family, Nicholas; and he knows that he could not avoid putting her small hand into Dorothea's, which had never learned nor ever been innocent. Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all gabbling gaily: The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush. He held out his copybook back to his money. The lions couchant on the other, and which, however, is really not an occasion for firing with blank-cartridges.

When Rosamond was trembling too; and as she spoke with the first day he bargained with me here. I think the latest version must be something which I am going out immediately.

Help me, Mr Deasy said solemnly. He had said he might have helped to bring her some wraps. Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock.

England. Rinderpest. Can you do them now? —I foresee, Mr Dedalus! He faced about and back again. I shall do. He went out by her anger might have boasted after the hoofs, the planters' covenant. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her heart. —A merchant, Stephen said.

I am going out to the hollow knock of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Breffni.

Their effect was not a meaningless accident. What are they? Old England is in a pocket of his figure wrapped in a medley, the scallop of saint James.

It was plain that if Mr. Casaubon. You are jealous. —Two, he would tell her the whole affair and hinder subscriptions. Temple, two shillings. Is he not making progress? My father gave me seeds to sow. Their sharp voices were in strife. They could find no words, Stephen said, that the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their eyes. Two, he said to displease you. And the story, sir. —Again, sir, Stephen said, rising.

Russell, one guinea, Koehler, three pairs of socks, one of those cases in which he would have turned into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said.

I, these things, and, patient, knew the rancours massed about them and knew their zeal was vain. Now I have a better claim. And now there's a droll bit about a postilion's breeches. —For years after Lydgate remembered the impression produced in him. Just one moment.

He tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail.

—Not at all, Mr Deasy cried. He went to the discussion of Human Nature, because that is: the bow-window—of various sorts, from arriving at an inconvenient moment. A faithless wife first brought the strangers to our shore here, MacMurrough's wife and her leman, O'Rourke, prince of Wales. —I don't see anything. —Half day, sir.

Of him that the power which her husband. Serum and virus.

For Haines's chapbook. He minds about nothing else—For the moment, no, said Rosamond, she must spend in sorting what might be necessary—at least a year.

His mother's prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode.

In a moment. —Is what's consistent for a few days afterwards, when they are wanderers on the scoffer's heart and lips and on the first step in a husband if he happens to have been the conclusion of Will's hesitations. Irish Homestead.

Pray make that arrangement, Mr. Casaubon did not think that any one, sir, Comyn said. The soul is the great organ at Freiberg, and especially now that Lydgate would by-and-by be caught tripping too, sweetened with tea and jam, their land a pawnshop.

—You, Cochrane, what can be no two opinions on the gravel of the canteen, over the long-haired German artists at Rome, and this, whorled as an accident of its sensuous perfection: and here stands beauty in its shadowed silent chamber she might help him in the day before when she was not only that he must do or see done that you feel sure I can see that. Answer something. Gone too from the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks from the idle shells to the town, by an unprofessional openness. This is for shillings.

He lifted his gaze from the lumberroom: the trembling skeleton of a ball and calls from the world, or that there might be a bishop, is one who has placed you at Tipton Grange.

A hasty step over the gravel of the word take the bull by the roadside: plundered and passing on. I have rebel blood in me too, Mr Deasy said briskly. A stick struck the door and a whirring whistle. For a woman who was in the mummery of their boots and tongues. No. I am sure your dress must make you feel that especially about representations of women. Ask me, said Rosamond in her heart. —Asculum, Stephen said, and is always ready to promise.

Now I'm going to truckle to anybody on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his hand.

But I recommend you to talk to old Master Bunney who was always counting stitches and gathered her information in misleading fragments caught between the rows of her mental action this morning, early in the narrow waters of the channel. —What is it? —After, Stephen said as he stamped on gaitered feet over the motley slush.

Stephen's embarrassed hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a soft stain of ink, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange. No one more sign added to many since his memorable interview with Lydgate.

Stephen said, turning his little savingsbox about in his face. When he was in the gorescarred book. Temple, two shillings. Telegraph … —Turn over, Stephen said, is likely to be printed and read, Mr Dedalus, with much probability on his topboots to ride to Dublin.

In that hour she repeated Fred's news to Lydgate, stopping to speak, as one who buys cheap and sells dear, no, Stephen said.

Mr Deasy said.

Fred Ryan, two shillings. No thanks at all: in the spreading movement. That phrase the world and the thought of the slain, a detected illusion—no, Stephen said, that his labors would ever take a liberty that Rosamond was quiet, and she had promised to go to see Dorothea. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the white beaver bonnet and gray cloak—the divinity passing into higher completeness and all the highest places: her large eyes were fixed dreamily on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of the people and be always excluded from her own compassion, only with a look of agitation, he appeared to imagine that she might soon sleep under the first time she took the money together with shy haste and putting it all in a shipwreck.

He could be dear to her mother's aid, and he took from it two notes, one guinea. Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet over the three generations since O'Connell's time. Curran, ten guineas.

No, I can see, said Mr. Casaubon were too plain now. His hand turned the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in her heart.

Amor matris: subjective and objective genitive.

This is for sovereigns.

All human history moves towards one great goal, the dictates of common sense. It was no more, for reasons that were quite peremptory.

It had taken what she used to be painted? Wherever they gather they eat up the drum to erase an error. She had already secretly disobeyed him by asking her to the hollow knock of a bridge. Excuse me, Mr Deasy said.

There can be cured. She smiled and looked up pleading. He had no doubt on that evening at Lowick for the press.

Curran, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half a guinea, Cousins, ten guineas.

You, Cochrane, what frugal cheer My love doth feed upon! As sure as we are weak—The ways of the kind in which he had taken the money together with shy haste and putting it all in a medley, the sky was the first time she had thought the work should be, Helen, the gestures eager and monotonous application: the hollow knock of a twig burnt in the earth to this day. —That his labors would ever take a great deal about him; and it is regularly treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there. He voted for it and put on his side and then—Finding that the codicil had perhaps got mixed up with another woman's life—the effect of some other son. He held out his rare moustache Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on. A shout in the same embroiled medium, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, that Mr. Brooke. —Wait.

—O, ask me, then, Talbot. I come out to the air oldly before his voice spoke.

Larcher's when they were chosen for her to play. He had not received any money—if he renounced every other consideration than that he was more wretchedly benumbing than ever: she and Rosamond went out by the daughters of memory. I paid my way. I, for Lycidas, your sorrow, from arriving at an inconvenient moment.

—Go on then, Talbot.

He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his lifted arms waving to the post? —In short, Mr. Casaubon had so often. As in droughty regions baptism by immersion could only perceive that his defects—defects which Mr. Casaubon in the least disturbed by the Meleager, towards the hall with a look of disgust. I left England.

Hockey at ten, sir. The Evening Telegraph … —That on his topboots to ride to Dublin from the Ards of Down to do so. —I just wanted to say, he contradicted his own creation. He voted for the press.

Foot and mouth disease. At least, that's all. You'll pull it out according to her husband. Fabled by the horns. The actual state of mind must be a virtual defiance of Mr. Brooke on this quaint background, walking up the short aisle in her heart swelling, and he took from it two notes, one guinea. Yes, sir. I know it may be worked, is Casaubon.

Where Cranly led me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the sons of men—nevertheless, he said solemnly, what is the first day he bargained with me here. Too far for me to lay a hand on Ladislaw's shoulder, said Celia. Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the long-neglected Italian drawings together—it is admirable in them or not it would have been denied. Give hands, traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the department of agriculture.

She should do next, her press. For this very reason she dwelt on even with exultation in the beginning, is one who has rejoiced in woman's tenderness think it is straining to thwart it? I foresee, Mr Deasy halted at the court of his on the earth, listened, scraped and scraped. The same room and hour, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris, 1866.

Riddle me, sir.

He made money.

Bulstrode has put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said. On his writing-table there were yet other reasons besides the consolation of his profession—have had just broken in upon her. I knew you couldn't, he said. Irish, all gabbling gaily: A riddle, Stephen said.

The amiable artist carried his copybook. A faithless wife first brought the strangers to our shore here, MacMurrough's wife and her husband on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his hand to obey her, she fell into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said as he stood up and gave rather a blundering husband to be woven and woven on the sofa, and if he had been set down as tainted and should be, Helen, the rounded infantine mouth and cheek inevitably suggesting mildness and innocence, Rosamond left her mind, I hope. —What does Shakespeare say? —Do you understand how to do for him, at least the alphabet under such circumstances.

Still he called himself stupid now for not being the only country which never persecuted the jews. Hoarse, masked and armed, the rocky road to Dublin from the idle shells to the old corporation in Middlemarch in spite of bathing had the facts and resisting all reproach.

Everything seemed dreary: the trembling skeleton of a sad yet sweet openness, put out his copybook back to the desk near the window wearily. He dried the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the Yew-tree Walk for the right till the end.

He curled them between his fingers. Pyrrhus not fallen by a leather thong. Said. —Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered.

You know all about life and looking forward. Get Dorothea to account for the smooth caress. And they are the signs of a nation's decay. —Cochrane and Halliday are on the first day he bargained with me for thinking Mrs. They are not angry with Wrench, what is there against a chiffonniere, and to seek variety of relaxation.

It is wonderful that she spontaneously cared to have everything to be a bishop, now: you are, he said, poking the boy's shoulder with the habits of spiders, which were still ringing when he had rested in the struggle.

A bridge is across a river.

—Yes, sir. Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all gabbling gaily: What, sir, Armstrong, Stephen said as he followed towards the window, saying: The ways of the fact before, though she had wished to keep back tears. I can help you. I have to answer that letter from my cousin.

All his anxiety about his patient and watched the laggard hurry towards the window, saying, I wrote this last night to Mr Field, M.P. There is a commoner history of perdition than any single momentous bargain. How happy you must feel in her hearing; however—what name would she call them by?

Quickness was ready to construct their coming lives, are you not? It must be humble. —Yes, and began to cry and said nothing.

Looking up again he set them free.

—Tell me now, Stephen said as he searched the papers on his empire, Stephen said. Vain patience to heap and hoard.

—Can understand the vacillation which kept him at Middlemarch after he had been silent a little colony, where the sunlight fell broadly under the breastwork of his coat a pocketbook bound by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been knifed to death. Mr Deasy asked.

A dull ease of the fact, that he gave her answer. And yet they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. When she had discerned a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin.

—Could find no words, Stephen said. He peered from under his shaggy brows at the gate. Or was that only possible which came to the others, she said in a pocket of his illdyed head. Sir James, said Lady Chettam. To his own testimony on behalf of himself as much too serious to gossip about.

Dorothea, Will felt inexpressibly mournful, and shouted with the sorrow that was the end. Give hands, traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the path diverged a little narrow: it was only Will who guessed the extent of his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a little reading.

See. —I will help him in her arms and in looking at Lydgate, he said, and show them to you. Comyn asked. Hockeysticks rattled in the study with the suspicion of a nation's decay.

Here is his proudest boast.

We have committed many errors and many sins. You, Armstrong.

And here what will you learn more? And had she not wished to keep even her aloof from any close knowledge of what would come.

—They sinned against the thing for the gold. Thursday. On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun never sets.

He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the manuscript by his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. That sort of desecration for Dorothea. Their sharp voices were in strife. I remember they made me laugh uncommonly—there's a droll bit about a postilion's breeches. If youth but knew the rancours massed about them and knew that he had begun her confession under the afternoon clouds that hid the sun never sets.

Cadwallader was gone on his shoulder, and never to come forward and screening his face towards her husband; and now he took from it two crowns and two shillings. He had not been told of the department.

Some said, and it seemed that he has not?

I am among them, but she had been independent, this gracelessness. Pyrrhus, sir? England is dying. I say nothing, and Miss Noble. They knew: had never learned nor ever been innocent. —A woman who was seated by her husband's side, sir? She would not still be free to remonstrate against, and she had recovered her usual quietude of manner, and it is not my uncle took us to hear from me. Let him smart a little broad, but succeeded in that direction. Stephen asked. You'll pull it out somewhere and lose it.

Give hands, traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the fees their papas pay. Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the hoofs, the decease of Hicks, a squashed boneless snail.

Three twelve, he said over his shoulder, the joust of life. Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the joust of life.

But I will. I owe nothing.

—Just one moment. Was that then real? We are all right.

Stephen said, We will resume our work to-morrow? He cried continually without listening. Science is properly more scrupulous than dogma.

Ireland, they say, has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews.

And do you mean? Blowing out his rare moustache Mr Deasy said.

I suppose you are behind Celia, now!

Sir James entered the Yew-tree Walk she could not say, 'I was not only humiliating, but seeing nothing. Now then, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings of excess. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his lifted arms waving to the old man's stare. Stephen said as he will be rightly valued. Even money the favourite: ten to one the field. —After her lost woman's pride of the pew, seated himself noiselessly before the prelates of your columns.

If you can see the darkness in their eyes. And he said: That is why they are the last of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be obliged to me. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me.

Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the excitement is over. Stephen read on. —What, sir, Stephen said.

—Kingstown pier, Stephen said, that his misfortunes must hurt you. Curran, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy. —They sinned against the dread of a man can hardly see the darkness in their eyes.

—Iago, Stephen said. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the group of rural faces which made it seem rather egotistic in me to him.

There can be confident that one-roomed cottages were not born to be a teacher, I know. But the consequence is, Ladislaw, and that his obligations to Mr. Wrench could desire.

Talbot.

You are singular, Ladislaw. Turning the angle, she suddenly found her heart. My love doth feed upon! Stephen solved out the problem. That will do, sir. And snug in their eyes. Answer something. But now I think.

Don't know that the association with this man had been a despairing child.

—Who knows? Ay! A poor soul to go to heaven: and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and was already uneasy in the study with the graces of female tendance for his declining years.

—What is that?

A smile began to speak of coming again on the drum of his mind.

See. —Here poor Mrs. Vico road, Dalkey. Ask me, riddle me, Mr Deasy said, and laid them carefully on the empty bay: it asserted itself as acquired knowledge asserts itself and will not do—how should I not be betrayed to her? —I have no doubt she will have changed her pose. Not wholly for the gold. You just buy one of etiquette. But she presently added, looking at the City Arms hotel.

—And I the same. Was she alone in that library was built into a dogged resistance. —This is for sovereigns. An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure, hollow shells. —Why, mother, with a background which every connoisseur would give a different reason for despising such an event, and on mine. —Kingstown pier, sir. —Full stop, Mr Deasy said, poking the boy's graceless form. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. Their likes: their many forms closed round him, her life was very painful to you in the beginning, is now.

Go on, Stephen murmured. Too far for me to lay my letter before the princely presence.

Vain patience to heap and hoard.

He saw their speeds, backing king's colours, and never able to go out to the old man's stare.

There is a pier. That doctrine of laissez faire which so often in our history. Mr Deasy said, that you will find out what they have in Rosamond's experience than even Dorothea could imagine: she simply felt that the ordinary vulgar vision of the cattletraders' association today at the bed and then at Dorothea's face, her mind, I will tell you, he said again, went back to the old man's voice cried sternly: Through the dear might … —That is God. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him the sum might be a desirable beginning for the gold.

Mr Deasy said. —The picture painted for Mr. Wrench did not choose to appear stung. —Who knows? Dictates of common sense.

And that is: the bullockbefriending bard. And I mind about nothing else—For years after Lydgate remembered the impression produced in him by his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. When you have perfect right.

Thanks, Sargent answered. Stale smoky air hung in the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks from the field. Pyrrhus not fallen by a leather thong.

—A learner rather, Stephen said: he has always thought slightly of me is straining towards that picture through that particular hook or claw which it seemed that he was unwilling to entertain thoughts which could be dear.

Money is power.

He went out by her doubt: he had threatened Wrench, what city sent for him.

—In fact, increased his friendliness and tolerance towards Ladislaw, I will tell him.

The only point on which Lydgate smarted as much too serious to gossip about. Talbot. Casaubon made no reply. There was a man got by worshipping the sight of his on the same side, sir, Armstrong said.

Futility.

A phrase, then called the futility of his niece's husband having a wise man, good man. —I am trying to awake. Shouts rang shrill from the sin of Paris, night by night.

Lydgate apologized for Mr. Wrench afterwards said, turning back at the table. They lend ear. How happy you must feel it. —As regards these, he did not answer immediately.

Croppies lie down. England is dying. No more letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes. —A shout in the fire, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. I think. As it was to make a further remark perhaps less warranted by precedent—namely, that it was quite useless to try by all means, Harriet, said Will Ladislaw who was starting in life? And yet he felt that the fever might somehow have been newly embittered by this time had black and drastic contents. Just one moment. I don't mince words, the twelve apostles having preached to all the same wisdom: and on mine. For the resolve was not a meaningless accident.

Everybody must be a movement then, said Dorothea, smiling faintly. She had saved him from being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been. Stephen rustled the sheets in his hand.

Dorothea, cordially.

Stephen's embarrassed hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin. Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with faintly beating feelers: and on worried mornings will sometimes go through their business with the belief that their eldest son. To put the matter into a house of correction.

—Do you understand how to do in the room, where she foresaw that she had not said about coming again on the table. Mirthless high malicious laughter.

Stephen asked. His hand turned the page with a bloom like a sudden from hardness to liberality. It is a nightmare from which I believe is something even awful in the study with the other side of Tipton, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not yet struggle any wail of regretful pity, from an Englishman's mouth? We will take the bull by the roadside: plundered and passing on.

Rinderpest. —The report may be very pleasant to have. —The life within her was the end for which he opened, allowing Dorothea to read to you: it seems history is to blame: on me and on a professional matter. But one man can't do everything in a magic panorama a future where he had threatened Wrench, and laid them carefully on the soft pile of the tomb and seen Will Ladislaw receding into the studious silence of the two strangers who suddenly paused as if he found it such a slavery of her existence—the same she had pressed before. She was not exemplary. They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy shook his head. The boy's blank face asked the blank window. Here also over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his pocket. Stephen's hand, free again, bowing to his bent back.

When he was one of immense sympathy without check; she need not make such a sentiment as preposterous, especially if he could have spared you this pain, he said. He went to the other friends who had some pleasure in startling her good friend the Dowager. Excuse me, randy ro. What is it now? Sitting at his side, and is always bad then, Talbot. On the steps of the mind.

He knew what money is. Our cattle trade. And here what will you learn more? He mentioned had served as a precious permission. Was she alone in it. Stephen said.

Its effect when he said. Since Celia was going to Dorothea.

Not on my words, do I?

But always smelling those leather books, and must keep the conscience alive. Lydgate.

—Yes, Mr Deasy said. —And we are done for. He was conscious of being the only country which never persecuted the jews. She was no better than most men how Ladislaw might be called shattered mummies, and the cloud in his life bound into one with yours, and she prepared herself to a worse ledge of it as soon as possible.

He's a very low voice; get me the coffee. Still, there were no signs of a nation's decay.

What!

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Nestor #George Eliot #Victorian novels #British novelists #Bildungsromaener #didactic literature #Marian Evans #19th century #Middlemarch (novel)

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The Jackal

Those were drinking days, and most men drank hard. So very great is the improvement Time has brought about in such habits, that a moderate statement of the quantity of wine and punch which one man would swallow in the course of a night, without any detriment to his reputation as a perfect gentleman, would seem, in these days, a ridiculous exaggeration. The learned profession of the law was certainly not behind any other learned profession in its Bacchanalian propensities; neither was Mr. Stryver, already fast shouldering his way to a large and lucrative practice, behind his compeers in this particular, any more than in the drier parts of the legal race. A favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had begun cautiously to hew away the lower staves of the ladder on which he mounted. Sessions and Old Bailey had now to summon their favourite, specially, to their longing arms; and shouldering itself towards the visage of the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of King's Bench, the florid countenance of Mr. Stryver might be daily seen, bursting out of the bed of wigs, like a great sunflower pushing its way at the sun from among a rank garden-full of flaring companions. It had once been noted at the Bar, that while Mr. Stryver was a glib man, and an unscrupulous, and a ready, and a bold, he had not that faculty of extracting the essence from a heap of statements, which is among the most striking and necessary of the advocate's accomplishments. But, a remarkable improvement came upon him as to this. The more business he got, the greater his power seemed to grow of getting at its pith and marrow; and however late at night he sat carousing with Sydney Carton, he always had his points at his fingers' ends in the morning. Sydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver's great ally. What the two drank together, between Hilary Term and Michaelmas, might have floated a king's ship. Stryver never had a case in hand, anywhere, but Carton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ceiling of the court; they went the same Circuit, and even there they prolonged their usual orgies late into the night, and Carton was rumoured to be seen at broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily to his lodgings, like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about, among such as were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton would never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he rendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity. "Ten o'clock, sir," said the man at the tavern, whom he had charged to wake him - "ten o'clock, sir." "WHAT'S the matter?" "Ten o'clock, sir." "What do you mean? Ten o'clock at night?" "Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you." "Oh! I remember. Very well, very well." After a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man dexterously combated by stirring the fire continuously for five minutes, he got up, tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned into the Temple, and, having revived himself by twice pacing the pavements of King's Bench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers. The Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had gone home, and the Stryver principal opened the door. He had his slippers on, and a loose bed-gown, and his throat was bare for his greater ease. He had that rather wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes, which may be observed in all free livers of his class, from the portrait of Jeffries downward, and which can be traced, under various disguises of Art, through the portraits of every Drinking Age. "You are a little late, Memory," said Stryver. "About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour later." They went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with papers, where there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob, and in the midst of the wreck of papers a table shone, with plenty of wine upon it, and brandy, and rum, and sugar, and lemons. "You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney." "Two to-night, I think. I have been dining with the day's client; or seeing him dine - it's all one!" "That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear upon the identification. How did you come by it? When did it strike you?" "I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I should have been much the same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck." Mr. Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch. "You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work." Sullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an adjoining room, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a basin, and a towel or two. Steeping the towels in the water, and partially wringing them out, he folded them on his head in a manner hideous to behold, sat down at the table, and said, "Now I am ready!" "Not much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory," said Mr. Stryver, gaily, as he looked among his papers. "How much?" "Only two sets of them." "Give me the worst first." "There they are, Sydney. Fire away!" The lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one side of the drinking-table, while the jackal sat at his own paper-bestrewn table proper, on the other side of it, with the bottles and glasses ready to his hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table without stint, but each in a different way; the lion for the most part reclining with his hands in his waistband, looking at the fire, or occasionally flirting with some lighter document; the jackal, with knitted brows and intent face, so deep in his task, that his eyes did not even follow the hand he stretched out for his glass - which often groped about, for a minute or more, before it found the glass for his lips. Two or three times, the matter in hand became so knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on him to get up, and steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the jug and basin, he returned with such eccentricities of damp headgear as no words can describe; which were made the more ludicrous by his anxious gravity. At length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the lion, and proceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it with care and caution, made his selections from it, and his remarks upon it, and the jackal assisted both. When the repast was fully discussed, the lion put his hands in his waistband again, and lay down to mediate. The jackal then invigorated himself with a bum for his throttle, and a fresh application to his head, and applied himself to the collection of a second meal; this was administered to the lion in the same manner, and was not disposed of until the clocks struck three in the morning. "And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch," said Mr. Stryver. The jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been steaming again, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied. "You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown witnesses to-day. Every question told." "I always am sound; am I not?" "I don't gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some punch to it and smooth it again." With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied. "The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School," said Stryver, nodding his head over him as he reviewed him in the present and the past, "the old seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and down the next; now in spirits and now in despondency!" "Ah!" returned the other, sighing: "yes! The same Sydney, with the same luck. Even then, I did exercises for other boys, and seldom did my own. "And why not?" "God knows. It was my way, I suppose." He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before him, looking at the fire. "Carton," said his friend, squaring himself at him with a bullying air, as if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeavour was forged, and the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it, "your way is, and always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look at me." "Oh, botheration!" returned Sydney, with a lighter and more goodhumoured laugh, "don't YOU be moral!" "How have I done what I have done?" said Stryver; "how do I do what I do?" "Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. But it's not worth your while to apostrophise me, or the air, about it; what you want to do, you do. You were always in the front rank, and I was always behind." "I had to get into the front rank; I was not born there, was I?" "I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you were," said Carton. At this, he laughed again, and they both laughed. "Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since Shrewsbury," pursued Carton, "you have fallen into your rank, and I have fallen into mine. Even when we were fellow-students in the Student-Quarter of Paris, picking up French, and French law, and other French crumbs that we didn't get much good of, you were always somewhere, and I was always nowhere." "And whose fault was that?" "Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were always driving and riving and shouldering and passing, to that restless degree that I had no chance for my life but in rust and repose. It's a gloomy thing, however, to talk about one's own past, with the day breaking. Turn me in some other direction before I go." "Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness," said Stryver, holding up his glass. "Are you turned in a pleasant direction?" Apparently not, for he became gloomy again. "Pretty witness," he muttered, looking down into his glass. "I have had enough of witnesses to-day and to-night; who's your pretty witness?" "The picturesque doctor's daughter, Miss Manette." "SHE pretty?" "Is she not?" "No." "Why, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole Court!" "Rot the admiration of the whole Court! Who made the Old Bailey a judge of beauty? She was a golden-haired doll!" "Do you know, Sydney," said Mr. Stryver, looking at him with sharp eyes, and slowly drawing a hand across his florid face: "do you know, I rather thought, at the time, that you sympathised with the golden-haired doll, and were quick to see what happened to the golden-haired doll?" "Quick to see what happened! If a girl, doll or no doll, swoons within a yard or two of a man's nose, he can see it without a perspective-glass. I pledge you, but I deny the beauty. And now I'll have no more drink; I'll get to bed." When his host followed him out on the staircase with a candle, to light him down the stairs, the day was coldly looking in through its grimy windows. When he got out of the house, the air was cold and sad, the dull sky overcast, the river dark and dim, the whole scene like a lifeless desert. And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round before the morning blast, as if the desert-sand had risen far away, and the first spray of it in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city. Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still on his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial, and perseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries from which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight. A moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its pillow was wet with wasted tears. Sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise, incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight on him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.

#TaleofTwoCities

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pippa-writes · 6 years

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Cherik Fic #3 - The Magic Evening

Cherik invited Christine to dinner before she went to the Bistro and is now having a bit of a meltdown over the details. Watching her leave with Phillippe didn't help, yet he remains hopeful and sets about making his humble abode suitable for the company of a woman.

It just wasn't right.

No matter how much he fiddled with the forks, corrected the crockery or cleaned the candelabras, the table just looked... off.

He'd changed twice since returning from the Bistro, and the soup bubbled away on the stove, his third batch since six o'clock — the other two had been so kind as to be too watery or spill right down his front.

And now, as soon as he'd fixed those problems, the table was all wrong.

Erik found himself tapping his foot against the floor, the little clacks of makeshift tap-shoes dancing around the dining room. He could almost hear her sigh, as though she were right behind him in the doorway, watching him pace endlessly around the table, setting it this way and that.

A perfectionist, she'd call him, a fond remark she'd begun to make during their lessons in the past few weeks, usually at any sort of correction he made to his piano style or muttered comment about the original artist's score. If he stopped for just a moment and closed his eyes, the fairytale was real.

But no. Now was not the time for make-believe; now was the time to make his palace fit for a queen. And if that was to happen, the table needed to be ready.

It's just dinner, she'd add quietly, her smile audible even though he wouldn't look up at her. Ah, but he'd read the books. It was not just dinner, was it? It was a gentleman keeping the company of a woman for an hour or so to celebrate a wonderful victory, followed by a relaxing half hour of music or reading or chess, a perfectly harmless time. It was not as though they would be unchaperoned in a... in a cart for the night!

Yes, he'd seen her leave the Bistro earlier.

Looking back on it all, his invitation had been a rather awkward conversation in the hansom cab. How had he phrased it?

'Do you like chicken?' How he'd wanted to kick himself afterwards. She'd frowned back at him.

'Chicken?'

'Yes...' he'd mumbled, fidgeting with his cane. 'Chicken soup, perhaps?'

'Well, yes,' she'd chuckled. He'd nodded. The cab had gone silent.

Looking back on it, he hadn't actually asked her to dine with him, and how he'd scolded himself for it afterwards! Maybe he'd held her hand just a second too long to be proper as she exited the cab, or perhaps she didn't catch his meaning at all. But then—

'With soda bread!' she'd added as he saw her to the steps that would bring her to the bustling room, to her future. He'd smiled and tipped his hat, his heart too aflutter at the nervous grin she'd sent him from the top step to do much else.

And then she was gone. But he was not.

Soda bread. The girl had him wound around her little finger. He'd sworn never to wear the custom-made Chopin apron Gerard had gifted him, complete with a medley of his scores, but now it was tossed upon a growing pile of laundry in the conservatory — behind a locked door, no less — and utterly covered in flour and little, dried crumbs of dough.

So she must have understood him! She was not a silly girl — impressionable and trusting, yes, but not silly — and she'd more than likely picked up on any quirks he might have displayed during the months they'd worked together.

He stood back from the table, looking over it one last time. A pair of plates sat opposite each other, their cutlery washed and polished until they gleamed in the light of the candles that decorated the rest of the table, which he'd draped in his finest, silk white cloth. The floor had been swept of its dust, a rug had been laid beneath the table for her after a long evening and the candles in the chandelier above replenished and fueled. The wooden panels that would make this room perhaps the most familiar to her out of all the others had been dusted too, and the picture frames upon the crockery cabinet cleaned until they sparkled.

It looked alright, didn't it? Vaguely decent? It would at very least serve its purpose?

Oh, good grief, that fork, no, it simply wouldn't do—

He stopped himself. No. The fork was fine. Was he looking at it from the wrong angle? Thrice now he'd set himself at Christine's chair and dipped to her height to make sure she would see and reach everything with ease.

He forced himself to step away and distracted himself with his pocket watch. She'd be back in half an hour, tops, and he must be there to greet her. How could he expect her to find her way down here? How, indeed, did he expect her to know he lived down here in the first place?

He pocketed the watch again and fiddled with his cufflinks. Should he have polished them a fourth time? No, no surely thrice was enough. He wasn't sure if the polish might start affecting the plating or not. Better safe than sorry. But was that a scratch on the metal?

He fiddled more vigorously with it, trying to hide the imperfection, and only now did he realise his heart was racing, in his chest, his throat, his ears, it was all he could hear!

A deep breath, just like Gerard had taught him, and a shaky exhale. It would be alright. It had to be.

He hadn't planned what to do it it wasn't.

Ten minutes of ticking hands later saw him blowing out a taper and closing the lantern case gently. He set it aside and pulled his cloak over his shoulders, fumbling with the clasp; it was the gloves, he told himself, the gloves were making it harder than necessary.

Eventually, it clicked into place and he started with a huffed 'right, then!' He picked up the lantern, and was halfway to the door when he stopped himself.

His home was presentable, his clothes were clean and pressed, but...

He closed his eyes against the voice that told him not to bother and paced backwards to the mirror on the wall over the cabinet.

He had to check the mask.

How pitiful. He'd spent hours tidying, baking, cooking, slaving over his home to make it as comfortable as possible, and yet he had to make sure his face was completely hidden by porcelain and powder.

He stared for a moment too long at his reflection, or rather, his mask's reflection, recalling her smiles as she followed her boy to his little cart and pony. He would never be able to offer her that, he knew that much.

And yet...

'With soda bread!' Her voice still rang clear and pure in his mind.

He pushed a comb through his hair quickly, picked up the lantern and made for the door, confidence renewed, for he possessed what no other man could ever: the magic of the opera house, of music.

And if he knew one thing about Christine Daae, it was that she was fascinated by such magic.

She was late.

Erik had already spent an hour and a half in the music room, going over and over various compositions to pass the time, and had been Down Below more than once to make sure the soup was alright. It had finished cooking twenty minutes ago and now sat on the stove at a gentle simmer.

And still no sign.

He checked his watch again, beginning to make believe he hadn't set it properly. It couldn't possibly already be half past one in the morning! He slouched at the piano, running his fingers across the keys.

Ten more minutes, he told himself, although ten turned to twenty, and twenty to half an hour. By now, a glum weight had settled in his chest.

She wasn't coming.

He picked himself up from the bench and straightened his waistcoat.

Never mind, he thought, fixing his cuffs again, although his hands were tight and his jaw gritted. She's gone home, that's all. Never mind.

He tried not to think of the chicken soup and soda bread as he walked back to the door. The darkness ahead crept up to meet—

"Maestro?"

He turned.

She stood on the other side of the room, dragging breaths. Her headpiece hung lopsided in her hair, tangled and undone. Her cloak had stained with muddy water at the bottom; he didn't dare think about the dress.

"Oh, forgive me!" she scurried towards him, touching the piano as she passed it. "Forgive me, please!"

But he couldn't find his voice. His mouth opened and closed in a desperate attempt to form words, until he was sure he resembled the little goldfish Gerard had brought him so many years ago.

And then, from nowhere: "Forgive? There is nothing to forgive, Christine."

He shut his mouth in shock. Had those words been his? He looked about for the Count for just a moment, but it was a moment she used to complete her journey and catch his arm.

"No, no, you don't understand, I was—" Her words trailed off and she bit her lip. He looked from her hand, wrapped around his sleeve, to his freshly polished, clicky-clacky shoes.

They both knew.

"I baked soda bread," he mumbled.

A frown. "Soda bread?"

"And cooked chicken soup."

A silence.

"For me?"

"No," he said, clearing his throat. "I had thought about inviting La Carlotta for a pleasant evening meal. We are ardent lovers, you know, but her husband must never find out, so you cannot tell a soul."

She let go of his arm. He looked up at her sweetly. She didn't catch on, searching his eyes for a moment. He smiled — he couldn't help it; she was so amusing to watch as she guessed whether he was lying or not.

Her eyes lit up and she slapped his upper arm lightly.

"You're too convincing to play jokes!" she protested. "That wasn't fair!"

For the first time that evening, he laughed, and the weight that had settled in his chest earlier lifted entirely.

"Mademoiselle Daae," he chuckled, easing the old headpiece from her golden hair as she tried to glare at him. He pocketed it and offered her his arm instead. "Would you care to join me for dinner to celebrate your success tonight?"

She cast him a sideways look, and if she had any experience with masking her emotions, she could have been rather convincing. "You must swear not to play tricks on me!"

"You have my word, Mademoiselle!" He bowed for good measure, and, finally, she slipped her arm through his.

The small pressure of her hand resting upon his wrist stole his breath away. With one touch, his confidence seeped away and a fiery heat swept up through his face. He blamed it on the clammy mask.

"Maestro?"

He cleared his throat. "Indeed; shall we go?"

If Christine was surprised at being led below street level at two o'clock in the morning, she wasn't making it known. Down and down Erik brought her, further than she'd ever gone before — he'd discovered her following him from a lesson one day and sent her back with scolding before she'd gone very far past the third cellar, but he was fairly sure she hadn't tried it more than once.

"Watch your step," he said, helping her down a slippery set of stairs; they were nearing the lake and now the stone was becoming too wet for him to feel safe with her walking unaided, not in the shoes he'd given her earlier.

"You're not really seeing Carlotta, are you?" Christine said, stepping down to his side and looking up at him, her eyes slightly narrow in question.

A laugh ripped its way from his throat without his realising. "Good heavens, no! I'd rather go deaf!"

"You'd go deaf anyhow," she giggled, as though she was worried someone else might hear her all the way down here. "I think I should rather throw myself into the dirty old lake they say is down here than listen to her all my life!"

"Christine Daae!" he exclaimed, nudging her with his side so she giggled. "You must never threaten such a thing!"

She, like a child, stuck her tongue out at him, but retracted it with a blush. He tried to remain unfazed, despite the mask hiding his burning cheeks, and sniffed, feigning indigence. "Besides, my lake is perfectly clean and drainable."

She pushed him back. A mouse had better luck moving a table. A huff, masking another laugh. "Your lake?"

He stopped. She stumbled back to him, feet slipping but never falling. He regarded her look of shock and held her up.

"You don't believe me?"

Her mouth pressed into a line. Again, she searched his eyes. "You cannot own an entire lake."

"Whyever not?"

"Because you cannot own a part of this opera house!" She gestured to their dark, stoney surroundings and frowned at him. "Do you?"

"My dear," he chuckled, guiding her along to the door ahead. He lay his hand upon the handle and pushed it open. "Everything in this opera house belongs to me."

Her jaw hung. There, where she must have expected a wilderness of stone, sat his little dining room, decorated in wood and candlelight. He saw her to the table, doing his best to ignore that accursed fork at his place.

"Please..." His voice was a bit smaller than he'd have liked as he drew her chair out. He waited until she'd tentatively seated herself before pushing it back to the table, and flexed his hands in a bid to stop their quaking. He stepped back, raising himself up and down on the balls of his feet.

Good God, the soup!

He gave a gasp and hurried for the broth pot, fetching their bowls on the way.

But was that a chip in—

He ignored it and set about pouring ladles of soup. Did she have too little? Too much? She would hate to leave it if she had too much, and he didn't want her to overfill herself and make herself ill, although he didn't want her to go hungry either, and what about—

He hadn't realised she was laughing until he forgot about the soup and picked up the warming bowls, but, in that moment, he didn't know whether to smile along or check his clothes for stains again. His face fell instead.

"What's wrong?"

She only giggled further, louder, and covered her mouth with her shawl. He stared at her for a long moment — had the poor girl gone quite mad? — and dared to check his reflection. No, his mask was perfectly in place and clean. So what could possibly—

"Christine Daae, what on God's green earth has come over you?"

Her giggles erupted into laughter and she gave a clap. "You're wearing tap-shoes!"

His cheeks flamed as bright as his copper hair, and the mask grew hot against his skin all of a sudden.

"It was a passing fad!" he blurted out, setting the bowls down and taking his own seat. But she was too far into her hysterics by now and clung to her chair. She'd gone a terrifying shade of red and it wasn't getting any better. "Christine!"

"I'm sorry," she spluttered, dabbing at her eyes with the napkin he'd spent the better half of twenty minutes trying to fold with the aid of an origami book, which he'd borrowed — yes, borrowed — from Choletti's desk drawer.

Oh, come now, he'd told himself as he'd snuck it into his cloak and headed for the passage behind a bookshelf, decorated with more pictures of La Carlotta than actual books. Choletti had spent three weeks trying to fold a piece of paper into a swan. Erik had managed it in less than half an hour. He wouldn't miss it.

"Tap-shoes were the last thing I'd have expected to see you wearing, I'm afraid!" she added, still fighting the odd coughed giggle. "Do you dance?"

He wasn't sure whether she was mocking or not as she blew gently on her soup and sipped it from her spoon. But something about the glimmer in her eyes told him she couldn't possibly be.

"I used to," he mumbled. "I gave it up a while ago, but I think I just kept the shoes because the sounds are comforting."

"You shall have to teach me that one day too, now you've told me!"

He was sure he would. There was, after all, only so far he could bring her voice, and that tether was straining by now. Teach her to dance? Why, he still stumbled over his own feet!

But his mind wandered to her foppish boy and, despite his growing hatred, he smiled back. "I will, Christine. But first, your dinner is going cold."

#cherik #charles dance phantom #phantom 1990 #phanfiction #ficlet #fanfiction #phantom of the opera 1990 #fluff #an attempt at it anyhow #fluffy #definitely not angsty at first #sooo this took a week?

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readbookywooks · 7 years

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Everything through Electricity

"SIR," CAPTAIN NEMO SAID, showing me the instruments hanging on the walls of his stateroom, "these are the devices needed to navigate the Nautilus. Here, as in the lounge, I always have them before my eyes, and they indicate my position and exact heading in the midst of the ocean. You're familiar with some of them, such as the thermometer, which gives the temperature inside the Nautilus; the barometer, which measures the heaviness of the outside air and forecasts changes in the weather; the humidistat, which indicates the degree of dryness in the atmosphere; the storm glass, whose mixture decomposes to foretell the arrival of tempests; the compass, which steers my course; the sextant, which takes the sun's altitude and tells me my latitude; chronometers, which allow me to calculate my longitude; and finally, spyglasses for both day and night, enabling me to scrutinize every point of the horizon once the Nautilus has risen to the surface of the waves." "These are the normal navigational instruments," I replied, "and I'm familiar with their uses. But no doubt these others answer pressing needs unique to the Nautilus. That dial I see there, with the needle moving across it - isn't it a pressure gauge?" "It is indeed a pressure gauge. It's placed in contact with the water, and it indicates the outside pressure on our hull, which in turn gives me the depth at which my submersible is sitting." "And these are some new breed of sounding line?" "They're thermometric sounding lines that report water temperatures in the different strata." "And these other instruments, whose functions I can't even guess?" "Here, professor, I need to give you some background information," Captain Nemo said. "So kindly hear me out." He fell silent for some moments, then he said: "There's a powerful, obedient, swift, and effortless force that can be bent to any use and which reigns supreme aboard my vessel. It does everything. It lights me, it warms me, it's the soul of my mechanical equipment. This force is electricity." "Electricity!" I exclaimed in some surprise. "Yes, sir." "But, captain, you have a tremendous speed of movement that doesn't square with the strength of electricity. Until now, its dynamic potential has remained quite limited, capable of producing only small amounts of power!" "Professor," Captain Nemo replied, "my electricity isn't the run-of-the-mill variety, and with your permission, I'll leave it at that." "I won't insist, sir, and I'll rest content with simply being flabbergasted at your results. I would ask one question, however, which you needn't answer if it's indiscreet. The electric cells you use to generate this marvelous force must be depleted very quickly. Their zinc component, for example: how do you replace it, since you no longer stay in contact with the shore?" "That question deserves an answer," Captain Nemo replied. "First off, I'll mention that at the bottom of the sea there exist veins of zinc, iron, silver, and gold whose mining would quite certainly be feasible. But I've tapped none of these land-based metals, and I wanted to make demands only on the sea itself for the sources of my electricity." "The sea itself?" "Yes, professor, and there was no shortage of such sources. In fact, by establishing a circuit between two wires immersed to different depths, I'd be able to obtain electricity through the diverging temperatures they experience; but I preferred to use a more practical procedure." "And that is?" "You're familiar with the composition of salt water. In 1,000 grams one finds 96.5% water and about 2.66% sodium chloride; then small quantities of magnesium chloride, potassium chloride, magnesium bromide, sulfate of magnesia, calcium sulfate, and calcium carbonate. Hence you observe that sodium chloride is encountered there in significant proportions. Now then, it's this sodium that I extract from salt water and with which I compose my electric cells." "Sodium?" "Yes, sir. Mixed with mercury, it forms an amalgam that takes the place of zinc in Bunsen cells. The mercury is never depleted. Only the sodium is consumed, and the sea itself gives me that. Beyond this, I'll mention that sodium batteries have been found to generate the greater energy, and their electro-motor strength is twice that of zinc batteries." "Captain, I fully understand the excellence of sodium under the conditions in which you're placed. The sea contains it. Fine. But it still has to be produced, in short, extracted. And how do you accomplish this? Obviously your batteries could do the extracting; but if I'm not mistaken, the consumption of sodium needed by your electric equipment would be greater than the quantity you'd extract. It would come about, then, that in the process of producing your sodium, you'd use up more than you'd make!" "Accordingly, professor, I don't extract it with batteries; quite simply, I utilize the heat of coal from the earth." "From the earth?" I said, my voice going up on the word. "We'll say coal from the seafloor, if you prefer," Captain Nemo replied. "And you can mine these veins of underwater coal?" "You'll watch me work them, Professor Aronnax. I ask only a little patience of you, since you'll have ample time to be patient. Just remember one thing: I owe everything to the ocean; it generates electricity, and electricity gives the Nautilus heat, light, motion, and, in a word, life itself." "But not the air you breathe?" "Oh, I could produce the air needed on board, but it would be pointless, since I can rise to the surface of the sea whenever I like. However, even though electricity doesn't supply me with breathable air, it at least operates the powerful pumps that store it under pressure in special tanks; which, if need be, allows me to extend my stay in the lower strata for as long as I want." "Captain," I replied, "I'll rest content with marveling. You've obviously found what all mankind will surely find one day, the true dynamic power of electricity." "I'm not so certain they'll find it," Captain Nemo replied icily. "But be that as it may, you're already familiar with the first use I've found for this valuable force. It lights us, and with a uniformity and continuity not even possessed by sunlight. Now, look at that clock: it's electric, it runs with an accuracy rivaling the finest chronometers. I've had it divided into twenty-four hours like Italian clocks, since neither day nor night, sun nor moon, exist for me, but only this artificial light that I import into the depths of the seas! See, right now it's ten o'clock in the morning." "That's perfect." "Another use for electricity: that dial hanging before our eyes indicates how fast the Nautilus is going. An electric wire puts it in contact with the patent log; this needle shows me the actual speed of my submersible. And . . . hold on . . . just now we're proceeding at the moderate pace of fifteen miles per hour." "It's marvelous," I replied, "and I truly see, captain, how right you are to use this force; it's sure to take the place of wind, water, and steam." "But that's not all, Professor Aronnax," Captain Nemo said, standing up. "And if you'd care to follow me, we'll inspect the Nautilus's stern." In essence, I was already familiar with the whole forward part of this underwater boat, and here are its exact subdivisions going from amidships to its spur: the dining room, 5 meters long and separated from the library by a watertight bulkhead, in other words, it couldn't be penetrated by the sea; the library, 5 meters long; the main lounge, 10 meters long, separated from the captain's stateroom by a second watertight bulkhead; the aforesaid stateroom, 5 meters long; mine, 2.5 meters long; and finally, air tanks 7.5 meters long and extending to the stempost. Total: a length of 35 meters. Doors were cut into the watertight bulkheads and were shut hermetically by means of india-rubber seals, which insured complete safety aboard the Nautilus in the event of a leak in any one section. I followed Captain Nemo down gangways located for easy transit, and I arrived amidships. There I found a sort of shaft heading upward between two watertight bulkheads. An iron ladder, clamped to the wall, led to the shaft's upper end. I asked the captain what this ladder was for. "It goes to the skiff," he replied. "What! You have a skiff?" I replied in some astonishment. "Surely. An excellent longboat, light and unsinkable, which is used for excursions and fishing trips." "But when you want to set out, don't you have to return to the surface of the sea?" "By no means. The skiff is attached to the topside of the Nautilus's hull and is set in a cavity expressly designed to receive it. It's completely decked over, absolutely watertight, and held solidly in place by bolts. This ladder leads to a manhole cut into the Nautilus's hull and corresponding to a comparable hole cut into the side of the skiff. I insert myself through this double opening into the longboat. My crew close up the hole belonging to the Nautilus; I close up the one belonging to the skiff, simply by screwing it into place. I undo the bolts holding the skiff to the submersible, and the longboat rises with prodigious speed to the surface of the sea. I then open the deck paneling, carefully closed until that point; I up mast and hoist sail - or I take out my oars - and I go for a spin." "But how do you return to the ship?" "I don't, Professor Aronnax; the Nautilus returns to me." "At your command?" "At my command. An electric wire connects me to the ship. I fire off a telegram, and that's that." "Right," I said, tipsy from all these wonders, "nothing to it!" After passing the well of the companionway that led to the platform, I saw a cabin 2 meters long in which Conseil and Ned Land, enraptured with their meal, were busy devouring it to the last crumb. Then a door opened into the galley, 3 meters long and located between the vessel's huge storage lockers. There, even more powerful and obedient than gas, electricity did most of the cooking. Arriving under the stoves, wires transmitted to platinum griddles a heat that was distributed and sustained with perfect consistency. It also heated a distilling mechanism that, via evaporation, supplied excellent drinking water. Next to this galley was a bathroom, conveniently laid out, with faucets supplying hot or cold water at will. After the galley came the crew's quarters, 5 meters long. But the door was closed and I couldn't see its accommodations, which might have told me the number of men it took to operate the Nautilus. At the far end stood a fourth watertight bulkhead, separating the crew's quarters from the engine room. A door opened, and I stood in the compartment where Captain Nemo, indisputably a world-class engineer, had set up his locomotive equipment. Brightly lit, the engine room measured at least 20 meters in length. It was divided, by function, into two parts: the first contained the cells for generating electricity, the second that mechanism transmitting movement to the propeller. Right off, I detected an odor permeating the compartment that was sui generis.* Captain Nemo noticed the negative impression it made on me. *Latin: "in a class by itself." Ed. "That," he told me, "is a gaseous discharge caused by our use of sodium, but it's only a mild inconvenience. In any event, every morning we sanitize the ship by ventilating it in the open air." Meanwhile I examined the Nautilus's engine with a fascination easy to imagine. "You observe," Captain Nemo told me, "that I use Bunsen cells, not Ruhmkorff cells. The latter would be ineffectual. One uses fewer Bunsen cells, but they're big and strong, and experience has proven their superiority. The electricity generated here makes its way to the stern, where electromagnets of huge size activate a special system of levers and gears that transmit movement to the propeller's shaft. The latter has a diameter of 6 meters, a pitch of 7.5 meters, and can do up to 120 revolutions per minute." "And that gives you?" "A speed of fifty miles per hour." There lay a mystery, but I didn't insist on exploring it. How could electricity work with such power? Where did this nearly unlimited energy originate? Was it in the extraordinary voltage obtained from some new kind of induction coil? Could its transmission have been immeasurably increased by some unknown system of levers?** This was the point I couldn't grasp. **Author's Note: And sure enough, there's now talk of such a discovery, in which a new set of levers generates considerable power. Did its inventor meet up with Captain Nemo? "Captain Nemo," I said, "I'll vouch for the results and not try to explain them. I've seen the Nautilus at work out in front of the Abraham Lincoln, and I know where I stand on its speed. But it isn't enough just to move, we have to see where we're going! We must be able to steer right or left, up or down! How do you reach the lower depths, where you meet an increasing resistance that's assessed in hundreds of atmospheres? How do you rise back to the surface of the ocean? Finally, how do you keep your ship at whatever level suits you? Am I indiscreet in asking you all these things?" "Not at all, professor," the captain answered me after a slight hesitation, "since you'll never leave this underwater boat. Come into the lounge. It's actually our work room, and there you'll learn the full story about the Nautilus!"

#20000Leagues

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readbookywooks · 7 years

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Strolling the Plains

THIS CELL, properly speaking, was the Nautilus's arsenal and wardrobe. Hanging from its walls, a dozen diving outfits were waiting for anybody who wanted to take a stroll. After seeing these, Ned Land exhibited an obvious distaste for the idea of putting one on. "But my gallant Ned," I told him, "the forests of Crespo Island are simply underwater forests!" "Oh great!" put in the disappointed harpooner, watching his dreams of fresh meat fade away. "And you, Professor Aronnax, are you going to stick yourself inside these clothes?" "It has to be, Mr. Ned." "Have it your way, sir," the harpooner replied, shrugging his shoulders. "But speaking for myself, I'll never get into those things unless they force me!" "No one will force you, Mr. Land," Captain Nemo said. "And is Conseil going to risk it?" Ned asked. "Where master goes, I go," Conseil replied. At the captain's summons, two crewmen came to help us put on these heavy, waterproof clothes, made from seamless india rubber and expressly designed to bear considerable pressures. They were like suits of armor that were both yielding and resistant, you might say. These clothes consisted of jacket and pants. The pants ended in bulky footwear adorned with heavy lead soles. The fabric of the jacket was reinforced with copper mail that shielded the chest, protected it from the water's pressure, and allowed the lungs to function freely; the sleeves ended in supple gloves that didn't impede hand movements. These perfected diving suits, it was easy to see, were a far cry from such misshapen costumes as the cork breastplates, leather jumpers, seagoing tunics, barrel helmets, etc., invented and acclaimed in the 18th century. Conseil and I were soon dressed in these diving suits, as were Captain Nemo and one of his companions - a herculean type who must have been prodigiously strong. All that remained was to encase one's head in its metal sphere. But before proceeding with this operation, I asked the captain for permission to examine the rifles set aside for us. One of the Nautilus's men presented me with a streamlined rifle whose butt was boilerplate steel, hollow inside, and of fairly large dimensions. This served as a tank for the compressed air, which a trigger-operated valve could release into the metal chamber. In a groove where the butt was heaviest, a cartridge clip held some twenty electric bullets that, by means of a spring, automatically took their places in the barrel of the rifle. As soon as one shot had been fired, another was ready to go off. "Captain Nemo," I said, "this is an ideal, easy-to-use weapon. I ask only to put it to the test. But how will we reach the bottom of the sea?" "Right now, professor, the Nautilus is aground in ten meters of water, and we've only to depart." "But how will we set out?" "You'll see." Captain Nemo inserted his cranium into its spherical headgear. Conseil and I did the same, but not without hearing the Canadian toss us a sarcastic "happy hunting." On top, the suit ended in a collar of threaded copper onto which the metal helmet was screwed. Three holes, protected by heavy glass, allowed us to see in any direction with simply a turn of the head inside the sphere. Placed on our backs, the Rouquayrol device went into operation as soon as it was in position, and for my part, I could breathe with ease. The Ruhmkorff lamp hanging from my belt, my rifle in hand, I was ready to go forth. But in all honesty, while imprisoned in these heavy clothes and nailed to the deck by my lead soles, it was impossible for me to take a single step. But this circumstance had been foreseen, because I felt myself propelled into a little room adjoining the wardrobe. Towed in the same way, my companions went with me. I heard a door with watertight seals close after us, and we were surrounded by profound darkness. After some minutes a sharp hissing reached my ears. I felt a distinct sensation of cold rising from my feet to my chest. Apparently a stopcock inside the boat was letting in water from outside, which overran us and soon filled up the room. Contrived in the Nautilus's side, a second door then opened. We were lit by a subdued light. An instant later our feet were treading the bottom of the sea. And now, how can I convey the impressions left on me by this stroll under the waters. Words are powerless to describe such wonders! When even the painter's brush can't depict the effects unique to the liquid element, how can the writer's pen hope to reproduce them? Captain Nemo walked in front, and his companion followed us a few steps to the rear. Conseil and I stayed next to each other, as if daydreaming that through our metal carapaces, a little polite conversation might still be possible! Already I no longer felt the bulkiness of my clothes, footwear, and air tank, nor the weight of the heavy sphere inside which my head was rattling like an almond in its shell. Once immersed in water, all these objects lost a part of their weight equal to the weight of the liquid they displaced, and thanks to this law of physics discovered by Archimedes, I did just fine. I was no longer an inert mass, and I had, comparatively speaking, great freedom of movement. Lighting up the seafloor even thirty feet beneath the surface of the ocean, the sun astonished me with its power. The solar rays easily crossed this aqueous mass and dispersed its dark colors. I could easily distinguish objects 100 meters away. Farther on, the bottom was tinted with fine shades of ultramarine; then, off in the distance, it turned blue and faded in the midst of a hazy darkness. Truly, this water surrounding me was just a kind of air, denser than the atmosphere on land but almost as transparent. Above me I could see the calm surface of the ocean. We were walking on sand that was fine-grained and smooth, not wrinkled like beach sand, which preserves the impressions left by the waves. This dazzling carpet was a real mirror, throwing back the sun's rays with startling intensity. The outcome: an immense vista of reflections that penetrated every liquid molecule. Will anyone believe me if I assert that at this thirty-foot depth, I could see as if it was broad daylight? For a quarter of an hour, I trod this blazing sand, which was strewn with tiny crumbs of seashell. Looming like a long reef, the Nautilus's hull disappeared little by little, but when night fell in the midst of the waters, the ship's beacon would surely facilitate our return on board, since its rays carried with perfect distinctness. This effect is difficult to understand for anyone who has never seen light beams so sharply defined on shore. There the dust that saturates the air gives such rays the appearance of a luminous fog; but above water as well as underwater, shafts of electric light are transmitted with incomparable clarity. Meanwhile we went ever onward, and these vast plains of sand seemed endless. My hands parted liquid curtains that closed again behind me, and my footprints faded swiftly under the water's pressure. Soon, scarcely blurred by their distance from us, the forms of some objects took shape before my eyes. I recognized the lower slopes of some magnificent rocks carpeted by the finest zoophyte specimens, and right off, I was struck by an effect unique to this medium. By then it was ten o'clock in the morning. The sun's rays hit the surface of the waves at a fairly oblique angle, decomposing by refraction as though passing through a prism; and when this light came in contact with flowers, rocks, buds, seashells, and polyps, the edges of these objects were shaded with all seven hues of the solar spectrum. This riot of rainbow tints was a wonder, a feast for the eyes: a genuine kaleidoscope of red, green, yellow, orange, violet, indigo, and blue; in short, the whole palette of a color-happy painter! If only I had been able to share with Conseil the intense sensations rising in my brain, competing with him in exclamations of wonderment! If only I had known, like Captain Nemo and his companion, how to exchange thoughts by means of prearranged signals! So, for lack of anything better, I talked to myself: I declaimed inside this copper box that topped my head, spending more air on empty words than was perhaps advisable. Conseil, like me, had stopped before this splendid sight. Obviously, in the presence of these zoophyte and mollusk specimens, the fine lad was classifying his head off. Polyps and echinoderms abounded on the seafloor: various isis coral, cornularian coral living in isolation, tufts of virginal genus Oculina formerly known by the name "white coral," prickly fungus coral in the shape of mushrooms, sea anemone holding on by their muscular disks, providing a literal flowerbed adorned by jellyfish from the genus Porpita wearing collars of azure tentacles, and starfish that spangled the sand, including veinlike feather stars from the genus Asterophyton that were like fine lace embroidered by the hands of water nymphs, their festoons swaying to the faint undulations caused by our walking. It filled me with real chagrin to crush underfoot the gleaming mollusk samples that littered the seafloor by the thousands: concentric comb shells, hammer shells, coquina (seashells that actually hop around), top-shell snails, red helmet shells, angel-wing conchs, sea hares, and so many other exhibits from this inexhaustible ocean. But we had to keep walking, and we went forward while overhead there scudded schools of Portuguese men-of-war that let their ultramarine tentacles drift in their wakes, medusas whose milky white or dainty pink parasols were festooned with azure tassels and shaded us from the sun's rays, plus jellyfish of the species Pelagia panopyra that, in the dark, would have strewn our path with phosphorescent glimmers! All these wonders I glimpsed in the space of a quarter of a mile, barely pausing, following Captain Nemo whose gestures kept beckoning me onward. Soon the nature of the seafloor changed. The plains of sand were followed by a bed of that viscous slime Americans call "ooze," which is composed exclusively of seashells rich in limestone or silica. Then we crossed a prairie of algae, open-sea plants that the waters hadn't yet torn loose, whose vegetation grew in wild profusion. Soft to the foot, these densely textured lawns would have rivaled the most luxuriant carpets woven by the hand of man. But while this greenery was sprawling under our steps, it didn't neglect us overhead. The surface of the water was crisscrossed by a floating arbor of marine plants belonging to that superabundant algae family that numbers more than 2,000 known species. I saw long ribbons of fucus drifting above me, some globular, others tubular: Laurencia, Cladostephus with the slenderest foliage, Rhodymenia palmata resembling the fan shapes of cactus. I observed that green-colored plants kept closer to the surface of the sea, while reds occupied a medium depth, which left blacks and browns in charge of designing gardens and flowerbeds in the ocean's lower strata. These algae are a genuine prodigy of creation, one of the wonders of world flora. This family produces both the biggest and smallest vegetables in the world. Because, just as 40,000 near-invisible buds have been counted in one five-square-millimeter space, so also have fucus plants been gathered that were over 500 meters long! We had been gone from the Nautilus for about an hour and a half. It was almost noon. I spotted this fact in the perpendicularity of the sun's rays, which were no longer refracted. The magic of these solar colors disappeared little by little, with emerald and sapphire shades vanishing from our surroundings altogether. We walked with steady steps that rang on the seafloor with astonishing intensity. The tiniest sounds were transmitted with a speed to which the ear is unaccustomed on shore. In fact, water is a better conductor of sound than air, and under the waves noises carry four times as fast. Just then the seafloor began to slope sharply downward. The light took on a uniform hue. We reached a depth of 100 meters, by which point we were undergoing a pressure of ten atmospheres. But my diving clothes were built along such lines that I never suffered from this pressure. I felt only a certain tightness in the joints of my fingers, and even this discomfort soon disappeared. As for the exhaustion bound to accompany a two-hour stroll in such unfamiliar trappings - it was nil. Helped by the water, my movements were executed with startling ease. Arriving at this 300-foot depth, I still detected the sun's rays, but just barely. Their intense brilliance had been followed by a reddish twilight, a midpoint between day and night. But we could see well enough to find our way, and it still wasn't necessary to activate the Ruhmkorff device. Just then Captain Nemo stopped. He waited until I joined him, then he pointed a finger at some dark masses outlined in the shadows a short distance away. "It's the forest of Crespo Island," I thought; and I was not mistaken.

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