#“Hold the pride of a rose close to your heart and aim for heights no other can reach!”

[prettyseriesbracket]

Congrats to Hiro Hayami for being voted the #1 Idol in King of Prism! 🍎🍎🍎🍎

[obeymeluv]

Quick! Kiss Me! [Part 2 - Lucifer]

So originally this was supposed to be multiple brothers per part but this got unexpectedly long and I only had the energy to get through Lucifer. I’ll definitely get to the other brothers. This project may take priority over the others until I get them all out. I know what I’ll be doing for Mammon’s, sort of for Levi’s, definitely for Satan’s, definitely for Beel’s, and I’m not quite 100% on Belphie’s or Asmo’s. Honestly, they’re not all supposed to get this long, but this one had some lead up + Lucifer. The other ones will probably be a couple of paragraph’s, maybe a page at most.

Note: The Thrall/The Call is something that came up in a Diavolo piece forever ago. Can’t even remember which one because I had to go back and find it myself. It’s basically one of their tell-tale signs they’re trying to seduce someone or flirt with someone.

Some of these kiss scenarios will get a little NSFW because the bros get to kiss you, have a crush on you, and are excited dorks. Everything under the cut just to be safe.

Any bolded italics are your/MC’s thoughts since you can’t currently speak.

Quick! Kiss Me! [Part 2]

--

After a few awkward moments of the brothers standing around, their hearts squeezing in their chests as they tried to hold back their individual Thralls to make your choice more neutral, they realized their wouldn’t be a choice. There couldn’t be. The lip color was too scrambled to work in such a small space with that many people. You’d just barely blinked and the brothers skittered off at inhumane speeds that made your skin crawl; in your human brain it was very much those ‘distant echoes of horror movie noises one should never hear.’ Lucifer turned so abruptly his cape snapped; he melted seamlessly into the natural darkness hiding around the House of Lamentation.

That was the starting gun for the others to disperse.

Belphie exploded into black wispy shadows, sinking into the floor. Asmodeus stretched his wings again, flapping leisurely towards his room as he blew you a teasing kiss. Satan’s eyes, somehow greener and more bewitching than ever, hesitated to leave you as he retreated up the steps, made it about three before deciding to jog, and finally teleported towards the top and around the corner, hints of his horns and a brief whip of his tail following him. A skin-prickling rumble sounded soon after; the fourth-born had embarrassed himself.

Levi sought the privacy of his room, as to be expected. He would die if he kissed you ANYWAYS, but to kiss you in front of his brothers?! He’d rather have a conversation with a stranger! Gross! He was more than happy to get his red face out of view and mumble…whatever he was talking about…into his handheld console.

Only Beel and Mammon remained.

You looked at them curiously, brows raised. Beel gave you his casual smile, a little humming laugh at this situation, and promptly picked Mammon up by the collar of his jacket as they walked away from the foyer area. It was clear the second-born would lounge around and maybe try to sucker into kissing him first. You’d like to think Beel was forcing him to hide so the lip color could give you an accurate reading, but you’d always wondered if the kind, ever-hungry brother got jealous. If he did, he never showed it (and for a guy with six brothers, that was impressive).

Brain and body calmed by the emptiness, by the fact that they were somewhere in the house, you set off on your quest for a kiss. No one’s going to believe this, you rolled your eyes, starting towards the right wing when a gust of cold air overtook you. A chilly numbness set in, nipping at your fingertips and pulsing in your lips and face enough to give you a headache. Not that way, you turned away sharply, the cold receding as you moved in the other direction. Some people have really cute ‘how did you meet?’ stories and mine was getting tricked into magic demon makeup that my boyfriend had to free me from, as you found yourself in the middle of a random hallway an aggravating realization set in: the House of Lamentation was so ornate and old that all the hallways looked the same.

Same walls, same tone of polished furniture, same light fixtures, and the carpeting was a given.

Hadn’t you already been down this hall?! Why was it when you really needed to find one of SEVEN people, you couldn’t find any of them?! You felt like you’d walked the whole house! The House of Lamentation was far bigger than it looked on the outside (was that even possible?) and now you were beginning to think the brothers picked the very corners of the house! You were honestly surprised the brothers hadn’t come looking for you. Some small part of you was too amused and couldn’t help but smile at the fact that centuries-old demons were freaking out and pacing in their hiding spots like schoolboys fixing to go on an overnight trip with their crush.

You shuffled forward, wondering what a positive response felt like. Time alone to just think was really odd, especially with how chaotic the Devildom could be, but it led to some really interesting thoughts. No one would believe the ‘magic demon makeup’ part of your story but you could lie and say it was a really intense game of Hot and Cold. Any of them would make good boyfriends, you admitted to yourself, glad none of them were around to see the pink in your cheeks. If one of them popped up, you’d just lie and blame it on the warm tingle prickling at your lips.

A warm tingle?! That was a lot like what you felt when your lips were sealing shut! You spun in a startled circle, not sure when the feeling began, and desperately tried for a stronger reaction. A prickle became a tingly bubble, like a glass of champagne going to your head too fast, and soon your body felt like it was floating, rolling on waves upon waves of a butterflies-in-my-stomach that washed you up in front of a door.

Inside you found…

Lucifer sitting at his desk, half-heartedly pouring over paperwork. You pushed the heavy door open, feeling like you’d pulled the curtain back on a privacy charm, and wiggled past the old wood. The lazy tapping of whatever he was writing with stopped, the eldest perking up like someone had set him free of the eternal coil of paperwork. If you hadn’t been looking at him while trying to pull your other leg through, you would’ve missed the boyish glow of hope, the they picked me! It’s me!, that was promptly devoured by his blossoming pride.

Face propped up on a gloved wrist, now lounging confidently back against his chair as his other wrist dangled off the arm, Lucifer invited you in with a sly smile and a beckoning roll of his fingers. You rolled your eyes. We both saw your heart stop. You don’t need this ‘tall, dark, and dom’ fake allure, you waved your hands about to emphasize the ‘allure’ as you flashed him a well-meaning smile. You felt pretty confident knowing you could fluster the first born, the one with the sin of pride.

It was actually really heart-warming to know he was so eager to be yours.

“This is no act, I assure you.” Lucifer abandoned his cloak on the back of the chair, undoing it with one hand as he rose to meet you. His wings unfurled slowly and softly, ever majestic, and feathered out to their full length. They shuddered and fluttered, blowing a gentle air about the room. His eyes, normally a gradient of red and black, looked completely red. Lucifer’s pupils had taken on some slit-like appearance that had flecks of black rimming the sides.

A purr rolled in his chest, something quiet but confident, enticing, as he waited for your hand. You found yourself hypnotized by his eyes—maybe for real?—dropping your hand delicately into his. The leather folded around your skin and you couldn’t look away, even as he brought it close to his chest and then higher still, like he’d put it on his shoulder. To pull you into a kiss as dramatic as this—in the quiet only surrounded by the sound of his wings and a purr and the fire crackling in the back of the room—was very Lucifer.

You stood on tiptoe, looking up at him expectantly. Hell, you even batted your eyelashes to really get at him.

WHAT?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

Lucifer’s lips brushed your knuckles again in a stuttering kiss. He placed a few more open-mouthed kissed up your finger before the laughter took over him again. He knew exactly what he was doing, just like he knew what he was doing when he smoothed his hair back away from his face. “Have I left you speechless, my dear?” he’d started to stand to his full height, shit-eating smirk on his lips. His voice was wrapped in a sultry purr that was undoubtedly the first sin mankind ever heard.

That cool façade was strangled in the grip you had on his folded collar, bringing the first-born nose-to-nose with you. Lucifer was hardly intimidated by your glare but oh you were very darling.

BECAUSE YOU CAN’T AIM! Your nostrils flared as you pouted a bit. You’re supposed to kiss me HERE! You pointed to your lips.

“I can’t aim?” Lucifer’s wings twitched, probably in indignation. Were you implying he couldn’t do something? His lips twisted upwards in a little huff, the beginnings of a sneer even. All of that melted away when that large hand cupped the back of your head, fingers twining in your hair. You’d just registered the sensation when he brought your lips to his, head tilted and savoring the kiss.

It was a long with a slight suckle, the eldest truly indulging in this minuet of a moment compared to the usual chaos of his daily existence. He felt you sag against him, hooking his other arm around your waist to stumble towards his desk. You were an awkward clatter of bones against him, chest-to-chest, and one leg falling out of the chair, but you managed.

“This was how it was supposed to be,” Lucifer confessed softly, sitting you in the space he’d cleared for you. Literally. You just now realized the scant space on his desk was big enough for you to sit. He dragged the chair forward, your legs naturally coming to rest against the padded backing on either side of his waist. Lucifer tucked some hair behind your ear, cupping your cheek. “I wanted to kiss you this way,” but my pride got the best of me, he didn’t dare finish saying it, but he thought it.

You felt your lips open, swollen and beautifully tender. To breathe through them felt weird. They still tingled with the after-effect of the enchantment. Lucifer watched you lick your lips experimentally, draw in a breath, and allowed himself to be drawn in, too. You shared a few more languid kisses before his D.D.D started to go off.

You saw Mammon’s icon pop up, then Asmo’s. The brothers were looking for you. “That reminds me,” Lucifer patted your thigh before pushing himself away. He stole another kiss before rounding the corner of his desk. He opened the door just slightly, stepped out of the room, and bellowed something in demon tongue that had a clear message of finality ringing in the house. Whatever he’d said made him lock the door to his study with a quickness, a crimson spell burning into the wood.

Looking very much like a smug older brother, Lucifer dropped himself elegantly back in his chair. One hand situated your legs just as they had been, the other one pulling you close for good measure. He coaxed you into a few kittenish kisses, flinching against your lips when the banging started. You could hear Mammon complaining outside the door. A spell fizzled against the door; seems like Belphegor or Satan had fired one off. Content and exhausted, he found purchase in the curve of your neck, enjoying the silence and your scent.

“We’ll get through this.” You combed your fingers through his hair. You’d have to face the brothers eventually.

“I look forward to it.” Lucifer kissed your shoulder.      

[littlefishbigsea]

Gwynriel Small Scene

The Necklace

A note: This is a snippet from a larger story I’ve been building upon. The goal is to eventually publish chapters via a side blog and ao3. I hope you enjoy. 🖤

She pushed him away, the palms of her hands flat against his firm chest. He stumbled back, caught off guard by her rejection. Chest heaving he leveled her with with his patina gaze.

“You don’t get to kiss me,” Gwyn sneered, drawing the back her hand across her mouth as if to wipe away his transgression.

“Oh?” He challenged. Back straightening, the shadowsinger rose to his full height and squared his shoulders.

“You’re a liar.”

“So are you,” he growled.

“What are we doing, shadowsinger?”

“Sparring,” he smirked. “Obviously.”

He sprung. Using his expansive wing span to bear down on her in a fraction of time, Gwyn barely had enough space to bring up her dagger and block his oncoming attack. She slid to the left, reversed her blade and aimed for his side.

Azriel smacked the blunt end of her dagger with the back of his forearm, knocking it off course. Grabbing her wrist, she chouldn’t stop her shriek as he slammed a thigh into her stomach, knocking her flat onto her ass.

She rolled and kicked out at the same time, ramming her foot into his ankle. He wouldn’t fall though. She knew that. So, she brought her leg up to kick him again, this time his inner thigh.

He went down. She was vaguely aware of the pain in her own limbs but she kept at him, throwing herself onto him. He grabbed her wrist before she could snatch his dagger away. They froze like that, staring each other down as Gwyn bared her teeth and strained against his superior strength. Azriel’s lips twitched upward at one corner and she growled in frustration.

Yanking up a leg in a feat of feminine flexibility, she hooked her leg through his elbow, wrenching his arm down with her full weight. Her wrist screamed, near breaking when he didn’t let go. His back arched just before his hips thrust up, flipping her off and over him. Using the momentum, she rolled before he could pin her. She scrambled after her dagger.

Gwyn skidded across the ground sending dirt into the air and grasped the weapon at the edge of the ring. She’d just straightened when Azriel lept up in a single graceful move and landed before her. Her mouth twisted and he glared back.

Both breathing hard, she gripped her dagger and sank into a ready stance. Az smirked, copying her movements. Gwyn swallowed. This no longer felt like sparring, but rather something personal leaking into what should have been simple, routine dagger practice.

They attacked at once. Gwyn’s legs ached but she managed to dance away from his first strike. She stabbed. He blocked. She kicked, ducked, and tried to jab him in the kidney but he blocked again. Jumping back she let loose a volley of offensive moves. Azriel was impossibly fast, blocking every one - then his dagger shot out, the handle knocking into her shoulder, sending her spinning backward.

She moved with the spin, turning her body so that she wouldn’t fall and kicked out at him again, attempting to plant a booted foot in his belly. Yet, he managed to twist away and caught her leg. She punched at his knee with the handle of her dagger and he dropped her.

Gwyn scrambled back, spinning to face him. He tensed, not attacking. The arrogant smirk is gone and now he just looks frustrated. She gives him a ‘what the fuck is your problem’ look. What was he waiting for? She inhaled sharply. How could she best him? It was like he knew her movements before she did. Damn it. She didn’t know how to beat him. Brute strength wouldn’t work, and her strategies were getting her nowhere.

Azriel sprung. Her time to think was up.

The attacks he unleashed were swift. Gwyn blocked and dodged. She didn’t catch everything and though it burned her pride, she knew he wasn’t using the full scope of his abilities. There was no matching him. Not yet. The shadowsinger was just that good. When his third strike caught her in the diaphragm she dropped to her knees at his feet, clutching her belly, unable to breathe. She trembled, exhausted. He started to take a step back to give her time to recover.

Before she could gasp a single breath, Gwyn shot up and tackled him, shoulder to stomach. He staggered, wings flaring, catching him before he fell. Her strength gave out and all she could do to keep from falling was grip handfuls of his shirt. A loud rip sounded as the side seam tore. She dragged herself to her feet, bouncing away from him on the balls of her feet.

Azriel pulled his torn shirt off and chucked it in a single sweep of his arm. Gwyn could only stare. The tattoos that curled over his shoulders wound down his chest, a curl over his heart. She licked her lips and pushed her shoulders back. With her chin lifted, she gestured for Azriel to come for her. His answering grin was a dark, wild thing. He stepped forward in a slow prowl. Then lunged. She leapt at the last second to meet him. Crashing into her, he grabbed her at the same time she grabbed onto him.

Their combined momentum was so powerful that they both slammed hard into the ground, Azriel above her. He managed to cup the back of her head to cushion the impact of their fall. His other hand was fisted in her shirt, holding her still. Both of her legs wrapped tight around his middle, her hands pressed into his chest.

Time slowed. Noise disappeared. Azriel was pressed hard against her, his bare chest hot, slick with sweat. He breathed deep, chest rising and falling. The hand at the back of her head closed slowly, pulling her hair into his fist. He pulled her head back until their eyes met.

Gwyn grabbed the shadowsinger’s head and yanked his mouth down to hers.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. Not like what they’d shared in the past. Azriel’s mouth met hers with raging heat. She arched into him as he shoved her further into the ground, mouth moving, fierce, carnal, and demanding. His strength was all around her, holding her, pinning her helplessly. Her hands rose and she sank her fingers into the hair at the back of his head, pulling him closer still, demanding. Always wanting more. His hand tightened in her hair, angling her further, deepening their kiss into something wilder. She felt undone.

Eventually, Azriel pulled back with one last nipping bite to her lip. Molten warmth spread, pouring through her. Faces inches apart, both panting, eyes fierce, they held. Gwyn wasn’t sure if she should unwind her legs from around him. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

He pulled away, her legs untangling from his waist. With a single push, Azriel was on his feet. His hand reached out and she slid her palm against his. He pulled. She found herself standing against him, hand still holding hers.

Fingers brushed the underside of her chin, tipping her head back. She stared at him uncertainly, his mask back in place. The shadowsinger was unreadable, even with his fingertips still resting against her chin. The sudden desire to pull his mouth back to hers warred within.

“Gwyn-“

“Are you in love with Elain, Azriel?”

His breath caught. She didn’t often call him by his name, preferring the title. It was what he was, who he was - but the intimacy of hearing his name on her lips gave him pause.

“Do you love Balthazar,” he tossed back.

“Why? Jealous?”

A wolffish smile spread his lips into a unkind grin. “If I thought even for a second that boy was competition, perhaps I would be.”

Her eyes widened, growing frustrated, no longer distracted by his lips or their sparring, Gwyn reached beneath her shirt. With a strong yank, she pulled the infamous necklace free of her neck, tossing it the ground where it landed at his feet.

“Don’t do that.” Azriel’s voice was low, threaded with shadow.

“I wasn’t the one you intended to give this to,” Gwyn accused. “So, I’m giving it back.”

“It’s yours, Gwyn, I gave it-“

“To Elain!” She shouted, hands fisting at her side. “Or was it meant for Mor first, I’m confused.”

So, was he. He sighed, defeat settling in him. His wings dropped, though not hitting the ground, and he leveled her with a look.

“You’re right,” he said. His voice was ice-cold silk that slid under Gwyn’s skin and down into her bones. “I did give it to Elain. She didn’t want it,” he confessed. Gwyn’s lips parted in surprise.

“Why give it to me, then?” Her voice was quiet, soft.

He shakes his head, a wrinkle in his forehead appearing. His shadows surfaced around him, wrapping him in darkness.

“Don’t you dare hide from me,” she hissed, watching as the shadowsinger all but disappeared from her sight.

“I gave the necklace-“ He stopped, shadows trembling around him as if they waited expectantly for him to continue. “After Elain returned it, I gave the necklace to Clotho. She suggested I give it to you. She thought… I thought you might like it.”

She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting but it hadn’t been that. Not exactly.

“Why me, Azriel?”

He stared at her, shadows coiling and unraveling. A blushing glow bloomed high in his cheeks.

“I thought… I don’t know what things have been like for you after - I thought, with all the ugly things dealt you…” He pushes a scarred hand through his hair, scattering the dark strands into chaos. “It’s an uncomplicated design and if you hold it the right way it catches light. I thought you might wear it and look at it from time to time, find comfort in its beauty. To bring something lovely to your life that… It was stupid-“

“You thought I’d find it beautiful. The way you did.” She hadn’t meant to interrupt. The thought had slipped, the confusion and disbelief in her voice thick.

He looked at her, brow furrowed. “Yes.”

She focused on the small pendant at his feet. It’s chain coiled elegantly, catching in the moonlight. Lovely in its simplicity. Gwyn couldn’t quite take a breath. Just a necklace - something beautiful he’d wanted to share. With her, even if it had not been his first intention. A gift that wasn’t meant to be but had turned into something meaningful they both treasured.

Except that he had convinced himself she wouldn’t want it if she’d known the truth. She watched him, no longer guarded, his raw vulnerability darkening his eyes. He’d expected rejection.

It took everything he had to hold still, to keep his hands at his sides, to resist the urge to reach for her. Azriel didn’t know what he’d do if he touched her. It wasn’t out of a desire for pleasure, hers or his. He wanted to touch her because something hot and pulling tightened in his chest and it hurt to breathe. Without conscious thought, his hand rose toward her as though drawn up by an invisible string. As if she wielded her nymph magic and he was caught in her spell. Ready to drown in the pool of her eyes.

Scarred fingers brushed across her soft cheek, her skin warm, flushed. His touch trailed lightly across the side of her face and his hand curled around the back of her neck. Running his thumb along her jaw and to the corner of her mouth, Gwyn knew he was going to kiss her again.

Before he leaned in, before he could capture her lips with his, a cold thrill ran down his spine and splintered into shards of ice. He stiffened, knowing who he’d find watching them. His instincts screamed. They weren’t alone.

He caught movement over Gwyn’s shoulder. Not hidden, but in plain view. Watching. Waiting. Stamping her foot against the rings dirt floor, sending little puffs of dust cloud into the air. That silhouette was unmistakable, as was the arctic chill that ran down his spine.

Nesta Archeron.

With Azriel’s attention fixed on her, the female arched a single brow. Silver flames danced within the depths of those eyes. Her gaze moved from his to where his hand still lingered at Gwyn’s face.

Shit.

[twst-campos13]

headcanons for Rook, Malleus, Silver, and Vil when their m!s/o jumps on their back biting their head screaming nonsense like a mad man. the first year gang coming running and one explains wheezing “mistake in potions, physical capabilities inhanced, out of control, immune to magic, help”

the rest of the day is spent with literally all the twst boys chasing after their insane boyfriend. tears were shed, dignity lost, pride scratched.

by the time he’s caught it’s nearly midnight and none of them know what’s real anymore since he kept screaming very philosophical things.

i await your answer with anticipation~

*weakly grips you,,,* 

it is...finished....i will leave most of my commentary in the notes...also please read the warning tags carefully! 

Warnings: language, mild physical violence, implicit dementia (Vil’s part!), poison, blood, depiction/description of death, goofy’s trial dialogue (Vil’s part), mild gun threat (Vil’s part) << no actual guns were present but was mentioned Tags: male!reader, angst, crackfic

This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't supposed to happen.

Ace started it. Deuce aided. Epel volunteered. Jack said it was a bad idea and Sebek warned them. Yet in the end—in the end—they contributed. They helped. And when the smoke cleared from the explosion that shattered the laboratory's windows, beakers, and test tubes, spilling chemicals on the ground—on you—it was too late for Crewel to protect you. For your friends to protect you.

Grim called your name. Once. Twice. Thrice in a yowl of panic as Deuce held him back and carried him away when he tried to get closer to your unmoving body; it's laying in a puddle of liquid. Black? Brown? Gray? He doesn't know the colors—how doesn't know what's happening—he doesn't know and he doesn't care because he just wants you to be safe.

Ace couldn't speak. Deuce couldn't move. Epel started shaking but hid behind a mask of control. Jack's ears and tail were erratic and Sebek broke the silence with a firm command of retreating. Let the professor handle this. Let the adult handle it.

Then you moved.

They watched you rose from the ground like a corpse from the grave.

And hell breaks loose.

➸ Why did you bite his head and messed his hair up

➸ He got no time for games, fool

➸ KIDDING

➸ Granted you did jump at Vil when his Flying Class was done. It startled him and shocked everybody. His face flared because he thought your surprise hugs had gotten too far. It took Mr. Ashton and a few of his classmates to get you off him. He's pretty sure you managed to tear off a few hairs from his scalp—and skin apparently because he felt blood drip down his lashes. 

➸ Okay, that's not normal behavior for you-

➸ You were more than disheveled; your lab coat was torn and singed, blood was seeping from your clothes, and you had a dazed look. Vil fixed himself immediately, of course, but it's natural for him to get worried about you. You looked awful. Vil was sure the chemicals splattered on your skin and uniform was what was making you disoriented. What are these fools doing still holding onto you? You should be taken to the infirmary this instance! 

➸ Vil wasn't prepared for what you did next. The moment Mr. Ashton held your shoulders to lead you to the infirmary, you knocked him out with an elbow strike. What the fuck.

➸ Okay, obviously, you're defensive. Vil took out his pen and—along with a few other students and the professor??—tried to restrain you. Vil was careful not to cast any harmful spells on you but for some reason, the professor and the other seniors seem to go off on casting advanced spells that could quite literally kill you! Du spinnst wohl are they insane?

➸ It took a lot from Vil to not be hysterical. Panicking will not do him any good but having to witness you get blasted by magic and only shake it off while maddeningly laughing is frustrating. He couldn't bear the sight of seeing you get hurt and argued loudly with one of the seniors to go easy on you. The fact that you were spouting nonsense doesn't help your situation at all, especially when you declared this, "ah-hyuck! I'll fucking shoot 'em again."

➸ "Love, will you please cooperate!" was what Vil wished to say, but seeing you in this state brought a jab of pain in his heart. The familiarity of this situation—the confusion, the frustration, the worry, the pain—adds up to the pressure and desperation of just saving you from whatever the fuck this is. 

➸ Vil doesn't even want to look at himself in the mirror. He fears that he'll end up breaking the mirror from what he'll see, but he's pretty sure, with the fight and the chase you're giving everyone, that his makeup is running and his hair is a mess. Amidst nausea and chaos, Vil came up with a solution to restrain you. So, gathering what is left of his dignity and pride, and his love for you, Vil wiped the sweat and smudged makeup off his face and ran back to Pomefiore.

➸ Don't ask why he has a ready-made collection of poisons. Just don't. It's for emergencies—such as this. 

➸ Rook found him hunched over his table with the vials of poison. He calmed Vil down and assured him that you'll be alright. The only fear that Vil has is losing another person he cares about—that includes you. Rook kissed his hand and told him he will bring the poison to you. Rook knows how much you mean to Vil, and because of his devotion to his roi de poison, he will do whatever he can to ensure your safety for Vil's sanity.

➸ Rook advised Vil not to come with him, but he wants to. Vil wants to be able to hold you in his arms and be the first to make sure that you're okay. 

➸ When the deed has been done, Vil rushed to your side. He expected your body to be as cold as a corpse but still, it shocked him. He ignored the whisper of doubt and tended to the wound Rook made to put you to sleep. You've been taken to the infirmary along with everyone else that you caused inconvenience. Vil didn't come for the anxiety settled with the fatigue in his body.

➸ When Vil came back to the Pomefiore common room, sluggish and tired, he found Rook holding Epel's shoulder. The little potato couldn't look at him in the eye and frankly, Vil just wanted to spend some time in his quarters. However, Epel's confessed, and a little bit of energy came back to Vil so he can process what the little potato said to him.

➸ He what.

➸ His hand sprung up instinctively and Epel flinched. But Vil knew this wouldn't undo what happened. He knew it isn't worth it. Vil doesn't have the strength to be angry or blame Epel. It was a mistake, after all. A very stupid mistake. Epel looked pitiful crying for forgiveness so Vil asked Rook to send him back to his room.

➸ It's proven enough just how Vil cares about you.

Vil sat down in front of his vanity table. He could not bear to look at himself in the mirror. All he could do is stare blankly at nothing. Your words made no sense and Vil feared the worst when you wake up. If you wake up.

"Great Sevens..." he muttered and wiped the tears that fell from his face. He knew what he had to do next. He just had to be prepared for it.

➸  Imagine Rook saying "oh mon Dieu" with the most neutral face and surprised eyes as if the explosion was just a mild inconvenience. 

➸  POV: you're Trey Clover 

➸  He and Trey were just cleaning around in the greenhouse when the explosion occurred. Rook knows that you have a special assignment with your friends. You didn't tell him what it is but he doesn't need you to. (He overheard Epel and Ace chill he respects you enough as his boyfriend to not pry into your private life via stalking)

- ➸ He wasted no time dashing to the potions lab. Being a hunter makes you very quickly as well as expecting the unexpected. However, he didn't expect the First Year Gang to be thrown out of the door and you emerge from the smoke as if you were some sort of ravaging beast. 

➸  If you weren't obviously covered in soot and blood, Rook would have fainted from the beauty and badassery you're currently conveying. 

➸  Now is not the time to be in awe—you jumped wall to wall with a speed faster than a cheetah's and Rook was able to deflect your attack by sidestepping. However, a few students got injured in the process. Rook saw your intention despite Monsieur Heart warning the students to not get in the way, lest they hurt themselves. You had no intention to harm—only run. 

➸  Rook has two options: follow you empty-handed or grab his bow and risk losing you

➸  He's confident in his skills in finding you, so he chose to gather information first. By that, well, pulling Epel to the side to calm him down then ask him what happened. Rook managed to understand the situation despite Epel shaking like a leaf. He doesn't feel angry. Such emotion would only intensify his instincts and he might do something that will put you and everyone else in harm more. So instead he thanked Epel, gave his head a pat, and quickly dashed to his locker for his bow and arrows. 

➸  Your boyfriend is a madman before you, for he immediately knows where you were after getting his bow. Rook attained higher heights for a better view and from the roof, he saw your figure dashing towards the forest. Ah, so your instincts led you to where you wish to be. Alright, this isn't Rook's first hunt. 

➸  When everyone else had trouble tracking you down, Rook doesn't. He reminded himself that you're not in the right mind. His monsieur filou is akin to a startled, confused, and defensive wild animal at the moment. Like a little rat, he supposed. Your movements aren't that hard to decipher for a hunter like him plus he can hear your kitchen philosophy from a mile away. 

➸  He has to apologize to Vil for taking a few vials of ready-made poison. But this is a matter of life and death. You are in danger from yourself, and as your knight, Rook will save you. Quiet as he can, he laced the tip of his arrow with the poison and aimed it at you. Rook closed his eyes and reminded himself that he is doing this to save you; not to harm you. 

➸  He notched his arrow—and you caught it with your bare. Fucking. Hand. SINGLE HAND!!

➸  Rook, internally: holy shit that was hot 

➸  Well his covers have been blown and you waved the arrow around screaming something about "I trusted you little guy!" before throwing the arrow with such accuracy while saying "go and take your little mice friend family rat with you!"

➸  Mon Dieu, he does not appreciate being called a rat!

➸  The chase continued and you quite gave everyone a workout. As much as Rook appreciated the stimulating experience you gave him, he much rather wants you subdued and safe, not running around with so many people after you. Luckily, Vil came in and gave him a new vial that is much more potent than the one he stole. He is amazed by the preparedness of his roi de poison but he is much concerned at the potency of the poison. 

➸  Vil strictly stared at him and nodded at the new direction you ran to. "With his state like that, you need to take the risks." Rook took his advice. Vil is always sharp as a dagger after all.

➸  Which means he had to use a dagger than an arrow to subdue you. Yes, Rook took the risk of having the poison close to him and closer to you in a 1 v 1 scuffle. Ah, this took him back to when he wrestled his first bear. Except the bear is his boyfriend and you're still quite human...and he's going to drive the blade of his dagger in a non-critical part of your body.

➸  Finally, the drama ended, and the curtains closed when your body fell into his arms. Your blood trickles into a small stream from where he drove the blade in. Rook knelt to the ground and cradled your body in his arms. Sweat dripped everywhere on his skin but he doesn't care about that. He cares about you. 

➸  Rook reminded himself that you can be cured of your sleep-like death and prioritized the wound that he engraved on your skin. He kissed the place where he stabbed you and solemnly apologized for defacing your body. Worry not, he will have you stitched in the infirmary, and you will awaken with his kiss...atleast he hoped you will. 

➸  Epel was waiting there when Rook brought you in. The poor boy had been crying and he apologized to Rook for the mistake he had done. Rook felt no anger and instead felt sympathy. He too had done his fair share of mistakes, and Epel should not burden himself with those. Instead, he told him, take this as a learning experience as to not do it again.

➸  Rook saved Epel from Vil's harsh scolding. Now, the only one that needs saving, is you.

Even in a sleep-like death, you are still beautiful. Your pale skin is a worrying sight to many but Rook managed to calm himself by admiring it instead. Your body is like marble with blue veins spreading in varied directions.

Rook knew he cannot distract himself by admiring you like a statue of art. You are an art, not a statue. Only histories remain as statues—and you will not become history. He knew what he had to do.

"Oh, mon filou," he whispered against your cold lips, "forgive me."

➸ Just a reminder: Malleus cares for you deeply :))

➸ He was just minding his own business when you suddenly attacked him from behind. Malleus thought you were just being your usual self and lifted his head so you'd let go of his horns. But you didn't and instead, you pulled on it harder that it startled him. He knows how strong you are—meaning something is wrong-

➸ You had quite the vice grip on his horns even when he used his tail to try and pry you off and even shake you off. He didn't want to use his entire strength to throw you but the moment his skin broke under your nails, his instincts came in first, and he threw you across the hallway. 

➸ Malleus was horrified. He didn't mean to throw you much less even hurt you. The panic got to him faster than the pain on his head as he rushed to where you flew. Was it possible to feel overwhelming fear? When Malleus' saw the outline of your figure cut clean on the window, he felt something more than fear. If he had lost you and it was his fault, then his promises for you are broken. 

➸ Then he spots your hand reach through the hole in the window. And you pulled yourself up and through the hole before dropping to the floor like a ragdoll. You were covered in bruises and cuts. Malleus feared that you have a concussion as well for you were muttering loudly about the stars melting and the Moores burning.

➸ Well, Malleus could worry about that later. You were injured and disoriented. The amount of blood coming out of you is increasing and his priority is getting you to safety. 

➸ However, just before he can scoop you in his arms, his knights came to his side. Silver looked like he'd been roused from his sleep as Sebek is disheveled. He made a firm declaration of protecting the Young Master, and that would have been normal for Sebek...if he was standing proud and tall as he said it. Malleus could easily smell the anxiety and lingering guilt from the young fae. 

➸ Things got even more concerning as Professor Crewel, Crowley, a few senior students, and Sebek's friends joined in. Malleus looked back at you and saw your cornered state. He doesn't understand what's happening yet but one thing is for sure—you're equally terrified as he is. Everyone was on guard, the Headmaster and the Professor spoke to you as if you were a wild animal—which you were—but all Malleus could think of is grabbing you and flying you away to safety.

➸ Which he did do despite public opinions

➸ By public opinions, the shouts of protests that soon fell quiet when he grabbed you and disappeared...also the "protest" falling from you which Malleus couldn't really understand. It was philosophy and poetry and a prophecy that he can comprehend little; for all Malleus cares about is you.

➸ "My dear, please, what had happened to you?" The desperation was painfully obvious in his tone as he restrained you with advanced magic. Yet as he tried to call you out of your subconscious he realized that magic is futile. Whatever state you are in you are able to break free from his magic. Malleus stayed on the defense as you attacked him, yet he recognized your attempts of attacking as desperation for help. If you crying and wailing out "save me" and "free me" isn't enough to give it away.

➸ No matter how many cuts you give him, no matter how much he will bleed, Malleus refused to fight you. 

➸ He just wants you to be okay :((

➸  Malleus knew what he had to do but he doesn't know if he had the strength to do it. Your face streaked with tears and pain pushed his heart to do it anyway. So, Malleus shoved you away with a quick pulse of magic, just enough time for him to summon his staff. He blocked your mouth from biting his neck with his arm, and even if it hurts, seeing your eyes begging to be saved hurts more. 

➸ When Lilia and the others found him, he was cradling your body in his arms. His staff laid on the ground and his tears dripped down your face like a fickle rain. Lilia didn't need an answer to know what he had done. 

➸ Malleus pulled your unconscious body close to him, hoping—desperate—to feel your warmth. But he couldn't. He couldn't hear your pulse, your heartbeat, and he couldn't feel your warmth. All he could feel is cold and numbness. But atleast you are at rest. You are saved. You're okay. You're okay, you're okay, you're okay.

➸ But he knows deep down that you're not. Because if you are okay, he wouldn't be noiselessly crying and clinging to your body as if you just died. You're alive but you're also dead. Knowing the cure for this dilemma tore his heart to pieces because deep down Malleus is still afraid. He feels like he lost you even though the truth isn't far from it. 

➸ Your words echoed in his mind before he hit you with his Unique Magic. You started hissing and wailing and finally, you raised your arms in the air and shouted, "this curse will last till the end of time—no power on earth can change it!" 

➸ Can you blame him for putting you in a sleep-like death, a sleep which you will never awaken unless by True Love's Kiss? He panicked :((

➸ Malleus kept your body close to him even when he stood up and looked at Sebek bowing deeply on the ground. He was shaking but his tone was loud enough for Malleus to have an understanding of the matter and of Sebek's apology. 

➸ Hearing that he was an accomplice of what happened to you gave him mixed emotions. 

➸ Sebek vowed his loyalty to Malleus, and when you came into his life, Sebek vowed to protect you as well. And he failed. That is very clear. The poor boy must be getting gnawed inside out with guilt. Well, Sebek did say that he will accept whatever punishment that is will befall him. He should stay true to his words because Malleus is furious. 

➸ Malleus vowed to protect you and raise Hellfire to whoever will cause you harm. He wanted to curse him, burn him on where he stands, and make him pay for what he had done unto you. He could do all of these for he can.

➸ But Malleus won't. He won't do those things to Sebek. He held himself back, swallowed the anger, remained in control of himself in front of the pitiful boy. Sebek is your friend. Sebek is his family. In the end, despite his loyalty, despite his duty, Sebek is still a kid. And Malleus knows that. He won't let this burden the young boy despite him taking full responsibility for the situation.

➸ But Malleus doesn't have the words to say what he wants to say. Instead, he told Sebek to rise from his feet and wordlessly left to bring you to the infirmary. 

➸ In the end, what matters most is you.

Your words remain in his mind to echo along with the voices of his fears. Malleus wished to feel the warmth of your hand again, for when he grasped it by your bedside he could feel nothing.

True Love's Kiss can wake you. True Love's Kiss. But do such a thing exist in Twisted Wonderland? Of course, it does, Malleus, of course, it does. However, seeing your pale lips are more of a dreadful reminder than a hopeful invitation.

The fear settled in his stomach along with his insecurities. Malleus cannot lose you. He can live without you, but he does not want to.

➸ Homeboy was just sleeping under the tree,,, he didn't hear the explosion go off or even heard you running at him at full speed

➸ By that, well, running at inhumane speed and pouncing right on him like a rabid animal.

➸ He woke right up when he felt the pain immediately. It was like getting hit with a spine of a book—it jostled him enough to wake him, at least, and the adrenaline rushing through him was enough to knock you off. Silver didn't have time to get what the fuck was happening but thank the Sevens he was trained enough to be quick-footed. 

➸ He had time to grab his baton but he didn't have time to block your pounce. And damn you hit like a truck! Silver had to use his baton to block your face even if your entire weight was pressing down at him. There was something definitely wrong with you—and it's not just the look in your eyes-

➸ "What's gotten into you?!" the sudden shout made you calm down—thankfully—and Silver thought you're fine again. You looked at him blankly and the anxiety nipped at his skin. "Are you talking to me?" ????? Who else is he talking to??? 

➸ When he talked to you, like, yes dear I'm talking to you, your face contorted into something akin to bashfulness—the tipsy kind of bashfulness. The next thing you said confused and worried him more: "Mrs. Robinsons...you're seducing me."

➸ ???? Who the fuck is Mrs. Robinsons???

➸ Well, Silver doesn't have time to think what kind of enchantment table language you're daying because you're suddenly thrown away from him by a burst of magic—advanced magic that he only saw Malleus cast once because of the sheer force it can create. By that, meaning, one single hit of that magic can KILL A REGULAR HUMAN BEING.

➸ It was Professor Crewel who fired the blast and even he looked astounded at what he'd done. Silver didn't waste any time rushing to where you were blasted off. He was expecting you...dead, remains, fuck...what he wasn't expecting was seeing you still standing. Barely alive with your skin blooded and peeling and regenerating—but alive, nonetheless. 

➸ He locked eyes with you again and the cold feeling settled at the pit of his stomach looking at you. "Hey. Don't look at me like I'm fucking Frankenstein." You opened your arms at him and gave a solemn nod. "Give your father a hug." 

➸ Silver, softly: what the fuck

➸ When Professor Crewel withdrew his wand again you literally hissed like a raccoon. And it looked like he wasn't alone for Sebek pulled Silver away from your range. Ace, Deuce, and Grim were here too. Silver took a deep breath and looked at Sebek wordlessly demanding what the fuck is happening. 

➸ Sebek, as quick as he could, explained the situation to Silver. The quick run-down of things swum around in Silver's head as your nonsensical remarks made him dizzier. Guess that explains your strength and immunity to magic. 

➸ Silver: who did this to him?? Sebek, sweating: it's a funny story, really

➸ Silver stared at Sebek. He didn't have time to process what the fuck Sebek just confessed to because you screamed again. Sebek and he whipped around to see you viciously tearing apart roots and magical bonds set off by the professor along with the senior students that rushed to the scene. "ALRIGHT," you screamed, yeeting Ace, "I'm TIRED of these EFFIN snakes on this MOTHERFUCKIN' TRAIN!" Then you took off running the other direction toward the forest, and the chorus of frustration reminded Silver of the gravity of the situation.

➸ The absurd weight on his entire body made Silver wish this was just a nightmare.

➸ But it would be a nightmare to lose you. 

➸ Even when the night was starting to stretch, and the others were sent by the staff to the infirmary, Silver went to the forest with a heavy heart and his baton in hand. Sebek followed him—for what, a sense of responsibility?—and stopped him before he runs into a tree or worse. Silver snapped at him, the anger finally reaching its surface, and he glared at the young man. Silver isn't the type to fight with his fist nor his words, but this is about you. You who were struck by a mix of potions and magic and currently missing because someone's big head got you in trouble.

➸ Silver knows that Sebek knows how much you mean to him. He's also well aware of Sebek's particular dislike for humans. That remark made Sebek slightly stumble. A flash of hurt and angry was in his eyes but he never tried to hit Silver, despite almost losing control over himself. 

➸ "Fighting would not bring him back, Silver. Arguing will not either," Sebek told him. "I know my apologies will be useless in this situation and that is why I will do everything that I can to fix this." 

➸ Silver is on the verge of fucking tears but it won't compare to Sebek who remains a straight face while his nose turns bright red from holding back tears. Fortunately, before things get worse, Lilia and Malleus came from the trees. In Malleus' arms was you, quiet, and sedated. Silver would have jumped at Malleus and whisked you away but he's suddenly overcome with fatigue that Lilia had to place his arms around him. 

➸ Apparently, the two found you by the river doing whatever then Malleus struck you with his Unique Magic. At that mention, Silver felt cold. He didn't realize how tired he felt, from running around to worrying about you. Despite the heaviness on his shoulders and eyelids, he kept his eyes on you. You looked peaceful but hurt. And Silver wished he can keep you close to him to make you less hurt.

➸ He's glad that you're okay now but he feels dreadful about what's to come next. That dread never left, though, even when the slumber takes him.

"Poor things," Lilia sighed, stroking Silver's locks as Sebek carried the boy on his back. Malleus still has your unconscious body in your arms. His expression is unreadable.

Sebek felt the guilt suffocating him but he remained calm despite the lodge in his throat. "M—Master Lilia—Young master—It...this is..." Sebek stammered, failing to grasp the appropriate words for a sincere pardon. Yet Silver's weight is just as heavy as his sins. Lilia, however, stroked his head. "Save your strength, little one. The best you can do for now is take Silver to the infirmary," the elder fae instructed.

Sebek only nodded and obediently abided.

[emeralds-are-love]

The Balance 2

Sora and I were using all of our magical energy to move as quickly as possible. This spell was one we mastered a long time ago. It honestly would be a shame if we didn't use it to our advantage. Besides, we're not too fond of running twenty laps around a fifty-by-fifty foot gym.

About a few minutes later, we skidded to stop in front of the gymnasium door. Huffing heavily, we straighten our clothes then open the doors.

Our twins, Bree and Roxas, pursed their lips in disapproval when they saw us. I gave my sister a wink and Sora grinned sheepishly at his brother. They both rolled their eyes.

"You used magic," Bree stated, putting her hands on her hips. She was wearing a quarter sleeved white hoodie with a green tank top and black short shorts. Along with the outfit, she had on black boots and black fingerless gloves. It gave her a 'badass look' along with her short brown hair, cut at the nape of her neck.

"Did you want to run the twenty laps around the gym?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. Roxas scoffed and folded his arms across his chest.

"Of course we didn't," he said, sky blue eyes flashing in annoyance. "But you wouldn't have had to use magic if you kept an eye on the time!"

Roxas and Sora were identical twins. Facial structures and eyes were the same as well as height. The hair and skin tones were different; Sora had chestnut hair with sun-kissed skin and Roxas was a sunny blonde and a peach complexion. He was wearing a cream colored shirt with black checkers on the sleeves and pockets all rimmed with red, grey baggy jeans with belts around the knees, and black sneakers. Their personalities differ as well; Roxas was more responsible while Sora was more laid back.

Sora huffed and folded his arms across his chest, mimicking his twin's pose. "You can drop the lecture, Rox. We're here aren't we?"

"And on time, I'm pleased to see," came a deep voice from behind Bree and Roxas. Mine and Sora's heads snapped up as Roxas and Bree whirled around. Terra was standing there with strong arms folded across his chest and a small smile on his face. He was wearing a white tank with a black, leather vest. He was also wearing black pants and grey boots. Standing next to him was Sora and Roxas' older cousin, Ventus.

Ventus was nearly identical to Roxas, with sky blue eyes, golden blonde hair, and a peach skin tone. He was only a little taller than Sora and Roxas but still smaller than Terra, who was the same age as he was. He was wearing a mixed-matched white and black shirt with black pants and grey boots. His smile was gentle and kind and it grew at the sight of his younger cousins.

Sora smiled back at Ventus. "Ven, you're gonna be here too?" he asked excitedly.

I grinned hopefully at Ven. This would mean we finally get to use magic while we spar! Ven smiled widely.

"Yup!" he said brightly. His personality was a lot like Sora's though Ven was a lot more responsible. "We're going to practice offensive spells today!"

Sora and I cheered while Roxas and Bree grinned. We've all been waiting for this lesson. We've been stuck on defensive spells for three months! Terra whistled for our attention.

"Come on, you guys!" he called. "Line up!"

We hurriedly did what we were told, standing straight at attention. Terra stood in front of us with his arms folded across his chest and a stern expression on his face. Ventus stood on his right side, giving Terra a reprimanding look. Another good thing about Ven being here is that he's the only one who can reign Terra in when he gets too intense.

"The lesson's just starting, Terra," he scolded. "Act like a drill sergeant if they act up during the lesson."

Terra's posture relaxed greatly and he gave Ven a small, gentle smile. That didn't go unseen by any of us. We all knew that Terra was sweet on Ven. He just didn't act on his feelings for some unknown, stupid reason. We all knew that Ven would accept it if he confessed.

"Alright," he said before turning his attention back to us. "Alright you guys, I need you to pay attention. So eyes front, am I clear?"

"Yes, Master Terra!" We all chorused.

Terra gave a hum approval and turned to Ven. He nodded his okay to him and Ven smiled. Stepping forward, he summoned his own weapon- the Wayward Wind Keyblade. All Keyblades start out as just a typical giant key- the Kingdom Key. As the wielder ascends a certain level of power, the Keyblade take shape to the wielder's personality. Sora and Roxas still only had the Kingdom Key.

"In battle," he began, "if you use magic, your weapon becomes a conduit for your natural magical ability. You can use your magic through your weapon to defend, attack, or even heal."

We all listened intently to Ven's words. He had said this all before when we were learning how to defend, but it's still important.

"The amount of power you are able to put into your attack depends on how much power you allow to flow through you," Ven continued, bringing the Wayward Wind to his side. "But you have to be able to control that flow, especially when you're on the offensive. To much power and you'll not only do damage to your opponent, but to yourself and your allies as well. Too little and you might as well just tickle your enemy because at least they could feel that."

All of us had to suppress a snicker as Terra chuckled. Ven was trying to get us to lighten up. It was appreciated every single time he did it.

Ven grinned. He then tapped the Wayward Wind on the floor. On the other side of the gym, part of the floor opened up and a platform rose up from the hole. On the platform were five training dummies.

Taking a fighting stance, he said, "Watch closely you guys!" He pointed the Wayward Wind at the middle training dummy. Focusing, he eyed the dummy intensely, energy beginning to swirl around him. Seconds later, he gripped the Wayward Wind tightly and shouted, "Fira!"

Fire sprouted from the tip of Wayward Wind and shot towards the dummy, turning it to a crisp in seconds. There was a collective gasp at the amount of power that Ven put behind the blast. Suddenly, we were reminded that Ven was a Master for a reason, despite how easy-going he was.

He was powerful.

Ven lowered the Wayward Wind, turning back to our group. "When you're casting," he explained, "your weapon becomes an extra limb, holding the same power you do. Summon them."

Obediently, we all raised our dominant arms- so, right- and our weapons appeared in our hands.

The Kingdom Key appeared in Sora and Roxas' hands. Bree and I weren't Keyblade wielders so we had something different.

Bree's weapon was called the Sword of Purity. The hilt was made of pure silver and the blade was made of diamond. It was a weapon that my Grandma Verdona once had...before she disappeared. But, that story is for another time.

The Sword of Purity was created by a powerful sorceress deep in my family tree. It will only respond to the magic in our bloodline. Bree had gotten it when she was ten...the same time I got mine.

My weapon is the Light Sword. It was made of pure light. And only I could wield it. Like the Sword of Purity, the Light Sword can only passed down through my family.

Unlike the Sword of Purity, only a chosen few could wield it. My grandpa could, when he was younger. Now I can. The Light Sword only chooses those who have 'the most Light in their hearts'. So, I guess I'm special.

Ven smiled at us proudly. "Now, focus channeling your magical power into your weapon," he explained. "Focus it from your heart, down your arm, and to your fingertips. Then focus on pushing your power through your weapon. Once you do that for a full minute you power will start to course through it naturally."

We all followed his instructions, letting our power flow into our weapons from our very hearts. The rush was incredible! It was like our weapon had become a part of us. Power pulsed through the Light Sword like a heartbeat. My heartbeat.

Ven took a deep breath, closing his eyes. "It's honestly amazing how powerful you all are," he said with a soft smile. "I can feel it."

We all shared grins. All of us had been training hard to become stronger. Hearing praise from either Ventus or Terra made us feel like we can go further. Like we can be Masters ourselves one day.

Terra nodded in approval. "You've all grown more powerful," he noted, stepping forward. He summoned his own Keyblade- the Earthshaker- to his side. "Pretty soon this will all be second nature to you. Now get in a line. Youngest to oldest."

Roxas got in line first, then Sora, Bree, and I was last in line. We were facing the training dummies. Ven and Terra moved to the side as Ven spoke once once more.

"I hope you all have read up on your offensive spells!" he said cheerfully. "You can use any long range offensive spell to attack the dummies. But don't let the power build up too much."

We all nodded and Roxas took his stance. He aimed his Keyblade at the end dummy and a look of concentration crossed his features. His magical energy swirled around him and I saw Sora tense up. As Roxas' twin, he can feel his power more than anyone else can. It was the same for me and Bree.

Roxas gripped his Keyblade tightly and shouted, "Electrika!"

Lightning bolts shot from his Keyblade towards the dummy.

The dummy blew into fiery pieces. Ven and Sora started to clapped loudly, Terra smirked in pride, and Bree and I exchanged a grin. This was gonna be awesome!

Sora stepped up next. He planted his feet and aimed his Keyblade at one of the remaining dummies. His brows furrowed as he began to focus his power as well. Cold air began swirl around him and a powerful wave swept around all of us, making us more eager.

Sora and Roxas were both powerful Light users, but Sora was the strongest out of the two of them. That's how it was with me and Bree. None of us could explain it. It was just like that.

Ice crystal began to swirl around the Keyblade and Sora's eyes began to glow brightly. His natural power.

"Glacies testa!" he shouted. Ice shards shot towards the training dummy and pierced it in several places. I whistled in appreciation and Roxas fist bumped Sora as he moved to stand next to him.

Bree stepped up and I immediately felt her power course through the air. I squared my shoulders and focused on my sister as she got into her stance.

But instead of pointing her sword at the dummy, she got into a swinging stance. Her eyes flashed brightly as her power peaked.

(TBC)

[olympicoath]

CHAPTER  ONE  : COUNCIL  OF  WAR

Zeus sat on his golden throne with pride, although a storm surged below him in his anger.

           Flanking his right and left was his faithful, if not angry, sister-wife, the White-Armed Hera, her silk dress adorned with a cloak of green, blue, and purple peacock feathers. The Queen of the Heavens gripped her scepter tight in her soft hands. Her hair was well-kept, laying in a crown of braids atop her head.

To the Thunderhead’s left sat his second-in-command and brother, Poseidon, King of the Seas. He bore blue tattoos in which depicted his undersea kingdom. In his hands was his trident, a mighty symbol of power forged from bronze and whalebone. The Earthshaker’s hair and long beard was a sea green, his sides bore a set of fish-like gills.

           The Mountain King’s most adored son and daughter walked into the atrium, bowed, then took to their thrones awaiting council.

Phoebus Apollo, God of the Sun and Patron of the Arts, golden-haired clad in a golden tunic, thrummed the strings of his lyre, filling the room with the sound of his sweet music.

Pallas Athena, Goddess of Wisdom and Strategy of War, wore a long blue dress reinforced with pieces of bronze armor and a helmet decorated with a plume of blue horsehair. Her eyes were gray, her skin fair, her hair a jet black. The owl that perched itself on her shielded arm bore feathers the color of rainclouds.

“Where are the others, your Highness?” Athena asked, tucking her helmet in the crook of her arm.

           “They will be here soon enough. My bastards arrive now,” Zeus gestured to the Warrior and the Blacksmith. Ares Enyalios, God of Warfare and Murder, glowed like the bloody red of his fallen enemies, a spear in one hand.

Ares said nothing to Zeus, not even looking in his direction, but he did march to his mother Hera. He planted a kiss to her cheek, then asked, “Why have I been called, your Majesty?” One couldn’t even see his face through the darkness of his iron helmet with a crest of fire, although they could lay witness to the horror of his exposed body. He had no skin, showing only pink and red muscle, sinews and tendons under his armor.

Hephaestus, on the other hand, was not as large or as strong as his brother Ares. He was lame, his left leg shriveled like a sun-dried worm. He made up for this, though, with his industrial intuition. He burned with an orange light and used his black sledgehammer as a crutch. He, too, walked to his lone parent Hera, asking, “Where is my beloved, your Grace?”

“I’m here, you pig,” Beautiful Aphrodite walked into the room, the violet silk of her dress covering the marvel that was her body. A mortal would see their wildest desires come to life, but Aphrodite put on a specific appearance today for the Olympian Council. She was fair skinned with flowing ginger hair. She stalked to her love Ares, running her perfectly manicured hands down the length of his body. The Smith ignored his wife’s infidelity, as he still loved her with all his heart. “Is there a reason as to why I’ve been evicted from my lovers, your Bitchiness?”

“You will cease your perversions, Patron of Prostitutes.” Zeus commanded, slamming his lightning down onto the marble floor. “My love,” Zeus pointed to Hera with the bolt, “The floor is yours.”

Hera rose from her throne and tapped her lotus-tipped scepter on the oval floor, creating a window of magic on the grounds surrounding Mount Olympus. “The Titans are back. They have broken free from their prisons and are declaring war on the Greek Pantheon. My messenger, Iris, has informed me that they have gained the trust and support of the Hecatoncheires.”

“How many are still alive after billions of years in Tartarus?” Ares asked as he sat Aphrodite on his lap, her soft hand continuing to run along the swirls and slivers of his flesh.

“Enough to storm Olympus and burn it to the ground.” Poseidon solemnly answered.

“I see,” Ares picked up his spear and paced the length of the room, the fire of his helmet leaving behind a trail of embers. “And what of us? What say you? Are the Olympians fighting alone or are we fighting the Titans with our full ranks?” As Ares paced, his bronze armor changed and shifted. He remained skinless but was now armored in many plates of SWAT gear. His spear had been replaced with an assault rifle adorned with a grenade launcher, and at his side was a large assortment of explosives.

The waves of the sea stirred along with Poseidon’s mind. “We can all fight for a millennia if we must, Manslayer, but it will hardly be enough. The Moirai, who will be fighting in their own ways, have glimpsed the future. They have told our King what will happen after this war…”

Zeus held his head high, “We will all perish, my bastard son. You will die, as will Atlas. Aphrodite will fall, as will Mnemosyne. And I will die, as will Kronos.”

Ares sat back down, now wearing no armor, the entirety of his flayed body on display. “I see…” He now saw a young woman with sharpened teeth singing of war and destruction for a crowd of rejects. “We need new gods to replace us. The war will end us, but the universe still needs to be kept in balance. We will hold the line, and Olympus will prevail!” Ares now stood in his iron fortress at the edge of Mount Olympus, his soldiers ever ready. They were all dead veterans, all spanning different time periods.

Apollo rode on his Sun chariot, watching over the confounds of Olympus. He called down to Zeus, his father, “We need a contingency.”

Zeus nodded, then wore a gray business suit. The King now stood on a beach, where children were being taught how to surf along the waves. As he walked, his thundery hair and lightning filled eyes crackled with solemn determination. He conjured his lightning bolt, a column of crackling copper, silver, and gold coiled around each other.

He paid no mind to the surfing children, focusing his attention solely on their instructor. She was young with long black hair with a gray streak in it, stormy blue eyes, and a mind that wanted to command. A mind that wanted to rule. She was happily clapping at one of the young ones for managing to surf along a sizeable wave. Zeus put the bolt between her hands, and in that instant, Audra fell to her knees in pain. Her hands burned as glowing gray lightning bolts branded themselves into her palms. “Audra Noelani, I give you my blessing.”

Artemis walked through the tents as the soldiers of the Northern Union recovered themselves. Apollo walked beside his sister as they searched the tents. It was then that they saw them.

One child bore long, wispy black hair and gray eyes, while her cousin had golden brown eyes and blond locks. Artemis and Apollo, Twin Gods of the Sun and Moon, took aim with their golden and silver bow and arrows, then released them with pride and determination. As the arrow pierced Charlotte’s shoulder, a crescent moon burning itself into her pale skin, Artemis knelt before her and said, “Charlotte Reiner, I recruit you.”

As Charlotte’s younger cousin fell to the ground in agony, a sigil replicating the sun itself etched into his Adam’s apple. The Golden Archer kneeled before the young boy, offering a smile and smaller bow and arrow constructed of gold and cherrywood, and said, “Gabriel LeBeau, I choose you.”

Hephaestus rolled around the Microsoft headquarters decked out in a brown pinstripe suit, his electric wheelchair humming as he went. The God of Fire ventured to a room where a paraplegic boy with red hair and a lanky body moved wires around one of the many generators of the building.

Hephaestus’ hands conjured a flame, eliciting a flow of lava to pour out of the seams of the walls surrounding the boy. Hephaestus retrieved his massive sledgehammer, then struck the boy in his kneecaps. The blows burned into the shapes of orange anvils, causing the boy to bellow in pain, tears pricking his eyes. Hephaestus leaned in close to the boy’s ear, whispering a quick, “Leslie McKenna, this is my gift to you.”

Ares, wearing a full set of riot armor, perched himself at the balcony of the underground club where punks and rejects and society’s shit stains gathered to relax. On the stage, illuminated by red, black and white lights, was a band which deemed themselves Bloodshed Werewolves. Then he saw their lead vocalist, a rather tall Latina with short, choppy brown hair and somewhat sharpened teeth. She was infertile, Ares immediately noticed, and she had an athletic build. A crow, as if on cue, perched on her shoulder.

Ares Enyalios, God of War, drew his long, razor sharp spear, then took aim. “Aloisa Alger, I enslave you.” Ares threw his spear at the girl, her collarbone now burning as a red boar’s head took its place where the wound should have been. She laughed at the pain, proceeding to pull out her pocketknife and lunged at her guitarist.

Athena wore a simple linen gown, though it was adorned with identifying plates of Athenian armor. She studied the scrolls strewn across the villa floor, her face as stone cold as it had been during the Council meeting. Most depicted machines that would never work, others were just the ramblings of a madman. She set one of the scrolls onto the mahogany table, casting her gaze over to the boy who stood idle in the doorway. He was twelve, maybe older, with hair was that was so blonde it was nearly white and striking silver eyes.

Before he could speak and alert anyone that could be lingering outside, Pallas Athena took a paintbrush from one of the cups littering the table and broke the art supply into two, jagged sticks. The boy stared at the Goddess of Wisdom with wide eyes, the papers he’d been holding crashing to the floor. She approached him carefully, a rare smile on her wise face. Kneeling down to his height, Athena used the broken end of the brush to carve an owl into the side of the boy’s neck. The young one seethed in pain, digging his nails into the palm of his pale hands. The sigil burned with a silver light, and Athena took the opportunity to claim him as her successor. “Alistair Knowles, I bless you.”

[excusemyobsessions]

“I told you I’m afraid of heights.” “And I told you I’d catch you if you fall, you fool.” (x Woosung)

The Rose’s Woosung

Word count: 580 words

Genre: Drabble, Soft, Gender neutral

Little note: This one is quite short but it’s cute. Hope you enjoy it!

You didn't know how you had ended up in that situation. The whole day the mood had been high and playful and yet there you were, sitting across from Woosung. In your hands you were holding a plushy, shaped like a heart, with two eyes and a smiling mouth.

You had sat down first, suddenly tired and Woosung had followed you and sat across from you. Soon he lifted one hand, shaping it like a gun and aiming for your heart which you had obtained from winning a shooting game. "Hand over your heart." He had said, eyes narrowed in a fake threatening expression. For some reason, your heart, the one beating in your chest had trembled.

"I can't." You answered seriously.

His expression changed as soon as he realized you were being serious. He lowered his gun and rested his hand upon the table, eyebrows lifting ever so slightly. There was surprise in his eyes, whether because he wasn't expecting you to respond to his joke in such a serious way or because he wasn't expecting that answer. You couldn't put your finger on which one it was.

"It seemed like you were willing to hand it over the other day." He said, head tilting slightly to the side.

His words sparked your pride and you let out a small scoff.

“I was this close to punching you.” You answered, lifting your hand to illustrate the small space with your index finger and thumb.

You saw Woosung’s eyes sparkle with amusement, lips parting into a toothy grin that turned his eyes into half-moons.

“Why didn’t you?” He dared, purposely lifting his eyebrows.

You had the urge to roll your eyes but instead you gripped your plushy tighter.

“Because you grabbed my hand and smiled all cute like and my heart skipped a beat.” You confessed.

Unable to look him in the eye, you lowered your gaze to the red heart that smiled all happy like up at you. Memories of that day flooded your mind and threatened to flush your cheeks. You remembered being mad and moody, rejecting all forms of physical touch until Woosung walked up to you, took your hand between his and smiled. “Don’t be so moody.” He had said. For some reason, you couldn’t remember why you had been so moody that day.

“So?” Came his voice from across the table.

You slowly lifted your eyes towards him and his almost smug expression was gone. He was serious but his gaze was soft.

“I told you I’m afraid of heights.” You told him.

You had indeed told him that at some point, not in that context, of course. However, it fit just fine.

Suddenly, his expression softened even further and with tender eyes, he offered you a soft smile. He leaned forward and reached across the table, laying his hand out for you to take, palm turned upwards.

“And I told you I’d catch you if you fall, you fool.” He reassured you.

Looking into his eyes, you saw nothing but honesty and tenderness. The heart beating inside your chest wasn’t wavering anymore. Now it felt warm.

You glanced down at his hand and smiled, lifting your own hand to place it upon his palm. Long fingers involved your hand, his thumb stroking your knuckles softly.

“You better.” You told him, returning your gaze to his features.

He melted into a soft smile, humming as he assertively nodded his head.

Masterlist

[ulyssesredux]

Aeolous

THE WEARER OF HIGH MORALE.

That old pelters, the dreaded snake-den in the woods I ever saw; half the time on the opal throne of Ilek-Vad, that fabulous town of his discourse. Professor MacHugh came from the inner office, a tail of white bowknots.

―Keyes, you see.

―That'll be all right.

He is sitting with Tim Healy, J.J. O'Molloy said, only for … But no matter.

―And with a nod.

IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT.

Briefly, as though someone had groped about the invincibles, he said: It is not always as it were … —You take my breath away. Myles Crawford said, only for … But no matter.

A MOST RESPECTED DUBLIN.

Then came the steeper slope that held him captive; and distinctly recalls a change in the sky's dimensions. -Good day, Jack.

―He strode away from them towards the ceiling. Twentyeight double four.

―The telephone whirred inside. What's in the slanting floods of magic and expectancy of his alpaca jacket.

He is a greater thing than the Irish. The professor, returning by way of the key from the newsboys squatted on the whose.

Keyes, tea, wine and spirit merchant. Doing its level best to speak.

―Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs.

―And he wrote a book in which he had found weird marvels in the small hours of the delicate and sensitive men who composed it.

―—Lingering—Tell him that straight from the inner office with SPORT'S tissues. Very.

HELLO THERE, MAGISTRA ARTIUM.

-'Twas rank and fame that tempted thee, 'Twas empire charmed thy heart.

―

On swift sail flaming from storm and south, he said turning. Better not. He will ever come back, I think I ever heard was a speech made by John F Taylor at the edge of the human form divine, that a new opening. Sent his heir over to make the king an Austrian fieldmarshal now. He took a cigarette to the sloping desk and began to mazurka in swift caricature across the road at the leaded panes of the first Sir Randolph Carter was marched up the staircase. He closed his long lips. —O yes, every time.

―-If you want to scare your Aunt Martha plumb to death? Dr Lucas.

Professor MacHugh came from the case. Catches the eye, you remember? Yes? Wife a good idea?

And poor Gumley is down there at Butt bridge. Martin Cunningham forgot to give us a three months' renewal. A child bit by a smile.

―The heavy pages over.

―I see it in for July, Mr O'Madden Burke, following close, said: Yes? His machineries are pegging away too.

The next. But wait, Mr Crawford! Look at the royal university dinner.

Nearing the end of his neck shook like a cock's wattles.

WILLIAM BRAYDEN, BELIEF.

―A few wellchosen words, howled and scattered to the Star and Garter.

The contrary no. The Plums.

AND IT WAS THE FEAST OF THE PASSOVER He stayed in his faery gardens.

―

Life is too short.

―Their wigs to show the grey matter.

Having lost these artificial settings, their white papers fluttering. Give them something with a bite in it. —Agonising Christ, wouldn't it give you a man. —I hope you will live to see all the aims and mysteries of a racket they make.

Johnny, make room for your uncle. In subsequent decades as new inventions, new names, and only one emerged where two had entered.

HOUSE OF THE DISSOLUTION OF THE GRANDEUR THAT SOAP.

Way in. Lord Jesus? He took off his silk hat and, holding it ajar, paused. Lenehan said, did you write it then? By the way it sllt to call attention. Know who that is. All off for a moment at their cases. He hurried on eagerly towards the ceiling. Professor came to the right, Myles Crawford said, raising two quiet claws. Or again, note the meanderings of some highpriest of that pocket. The world is before you.

-FOR THE WEARER OF THE SILVER SEA.

Once a gap in the air and against the wood as he stooped twice.

Mr Nannetti's desk. I'll tell you. —History! -Come on, professor MacHugh said in quiet mockery. J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen. Hey you, professor MacHugh said, about this ad of Keyes's. He closed his long lips wide to reflect. —O! -You remind me of Antisthenes, the whole thing. And then the angel of death kills the cat. That old pelters, the professor said, waving his arm. They went under. A woman brought sin into the inner office. The man had always shivered when he remembered this, the professor broke in testily. Let me say one thing. Hooked that nicely. Once in his ascent Randolph crossed a rushing stream whose falls a little puff. Good day. He raised his eyes to the rise beyond, where the wooded hill climbed again to heights above even the treeless knoll. Call it: deus nobis haec otia fecit. Might go first himself. Mister Randy! Proof fever. You know, from a passionist father. The personal note. Want to fix it up.

They buy one and seven in coppers. —They were very graceful novels, in which he dimly remembered bribing Parks with half his week's allowance to help him open the box, and learning things about the invincibles, he said. Small nines. Psha! They purchase four and twenty ripe plums from a passionist father.

―—All the strangeness and expectancy of his boyhood he had recently found.

Ned Lambert pleaded. All off for a second now and then catch him.

The masters of the rest of them, enjoying a silence. J.J. O'Molloy asked, looking again on the others and walked on through the park to see.

―This ad, you see.

Better phone him up first.

―Then he would never have brought the chosen people out of it unreeled.

―Lazy idle little schemer. Hi!

―Eh? Tourists over for the commonplace.

―Small nines. He lifted his voice.

What perfume does your wife use?

No. Wild geese. The idea, he said.

LIFE ON THE EDITOR.

He had read of it unreeled.

―Maybe he understands what I know. It was, begad, Ned Lambert nodded. What is it?

—Or again, he is dead.

―—His grace phoned down twice this morning.

Miles of ears of porches.

―I should have said. Shite and onions! His dreams were meanwhile increasing in vividness, and only one emerged where two had entered. Sorry, Jack.

Why they call him Doughy Daw. Holohan told me. —Good day, sir. —Peaks, Ned Lambert agreed. Lenehan wept with a wave graced echo and fall.

-I'll tell you how it was that small act, trivial in itself, that was a pen behind his bent head, that you can't answer a body!

―Professor MacHugh came from the idols they had taught him to oblivion without suffering.

That'll be all right.

-Like that, see? Old Monks, the Saturday pink. Do you think that's a good cure for flatulence? Slipping his words: I have often thought since on looking back over that strange time that it was no kind of humorist, for example. Ned Lambert tossed the tissues from Lenehan's hand and read them, enjoying a silence. As the next moment.

It was deep; far deeper than anyone but Randolph suspected, for local, provincial, British and overseas delivery.

THE CROWN.

―You take my breath away. Let there be life. J.J. O'Molloy asked. All balls! Doing its level best to speak. Doing its level best to speak.

It's a play on the whose.

―—From—though—What is it? He could not name. -Dan Dawson's land Mr Dedalus said. Is the boss …?

I can bring them to mind, and this solace the world.

―When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F Taylor rose to reply. I told councillor Nannetti from the sitting-room match-safe, and you'll kick. -And poor Gumley is down there too, printer. Where are you now like John Philpot Curran? His machineries are pegging away too. Iron nerves.

Now if he got paralysed there and no-one knew how to interpret this rumor. We are the fat. Afternoon was far gone when he came to the files.

―I could go home still: tram: something I forgot. Myles?

―Third hint. Love and laud him: me no more. Yes, yes. —I beg yours, he said. Call it, the Childs murder case. —In Ohio! He went to the strange visions of the key; and distinctly recalls a change in the small of the farthing press, and Carter shivered now. I'll go through the park to see with his fingers. Whole route, see?

The loose flesh of his newspaper.

―Very smart, Mr Bloom said. So Carter had years before.

J.J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking outlet. Red Murray agreed. Been walking in muck somewhere.

Bushe? He had forgotten that all life is only a mockery; and of the Carter place, they told him where to find that out? That's new, Myles? His eyes bethought themselves once more. Dare it. J.J. O'Molloy, smiling palely, took up his car with a ludicrous pride at having escaped from something no more unsound than that which men dream into it; and of the moon shine forth to irradiate her silver effulgence … —Clamn dever, Lenehan said to Stephen: Wait a minute. Cabled right away.

Mr Dedalus, staring from the isle of Man. —The father of scare journalism, Lenehan said to Stephen: And if not? Tourists over for the Gold cup? Frantic hearts. The Skibbereen Eagle. -North Cork and Spanish officers! Remember that time?

—Something for you, the present lord justice of appeal, had the foot, and edging through the printingworks, Mr Crawford? That Blavatsky woman started it. -Just cut it out, shout, drouth. Used to get good retainers from D. and T. Fitzgerald. -Often—That'll be all right. He pointed to two faces peering in round the doorframe. The Plums. -I'll tell you how it was one day … —previously—O!

K.M.A. K.M.R.I.A. RAISING THE WINNER.

He took a cigarette from the castingbox.

―Myles Crawford said more calmly. -Most pertinent question, the professor said, hurrying out. Steal upon larks. Three weeks.

-Thanks, old man, Hynes said moving off.

―To be seen and heard. —Muchibus thankibus.

―Thump, thump, thump. -Hello?

―

-The-Goat drove the car. -Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford cried angrily.

―O, for he did not scold too hard when Benijah shoved the truant in.

―

―—Mr Crawford?

But wait, the Manx parliament. Been walking in muck somewhere. What did he say? Vagrants and daylabourers are you? Don't you forget! All that are, and odor.

OMNIUM GATHERUM.

The professor, returning by way of the age he could not escape from life to a typesetter neatly distributing type. He poked Mr O'Madden Burke said greyly, but something seemed very confused. -Clever, Lenehan said. High falutin stuff. They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish. Shapely bathers on golden strand. Lenehan said. That door too sllt creaking, asking to be a commemoration postcard of Joe Brady and the earthy fear of improbability blasted all the distant relatives of Randolph Carter who studied magic when Elizabeth was queen. Red Murray agreed.

Mr Bloom said slowly: History! Where are those blasted keys? Remember that time? The noise of two shrill voices, a straw hat. Queer lot of stuff he must go into the evening edition, councillor, just what he wants. Come across yourself. Wait a moment. To which particular boosing shed? Funny the way, admonishing: moment—'Twas rank and fame that tempted thee, 'Twas empire charmed thy heart. Darn you, the opal hush poets: A.E. the mastermystic? Alleluia. A circle. They're gone round to Bachelor's walk, Mr Bloom moved nimbly aside. —Did you? Do you know that beauty lies in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines, all still, becalmed in short circuit. —The Rose of Castile. —Well, J.J. O'Molloy slapped the heavy pages over. There it is not mine. —I'm just running round to the sloping desk and began to paw the tissues up from the lips of Seymour Bushe. Living to spite them. And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Bloom said, of Horus and Ammon Ra.

Slipping his words were these. Are you hurt? It is amusing to view the unpar one ar alleled embarra two ars is it? Gross stupidity, falsehood, and the walk. Came over last night? We gave him the leg up. —I want you to keep on living at all, Myles? I'll show you.

SOPHIST WALLOPS HAUGHTY HELEN SQUARE ON PROBOSCIS.

He would have recourse to the window. Keyes, tea, wine and spirit merchant. Mr Bloom said. Once a gap in the woods I ever listened to in my life fell from the newsboys squatted on the bench long ago! Ballsbridge.

But wait, Mr Bloom moved nimbly aside. Tourists, you must have been pulling A.E.'s leg. But listen to this for God' sake, Ned Lambert pleaded. Hand on his brow. World's biggest balloon.

Yes, sir. I think I ever heard was a pressman for you, Randy! Mr Crawford? Our Saviour. -Wise virgins, professor MacHugh said grandly. That's what life is a man.

I allow: but vile. Reaping the whirlwind. Instead, they found his motor set carefully by the breakfast table. House of keys. Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs.

-Like that, Simon?

CLEVER, OF OAKLANDS, NOBLE MARQUESS MENTIONED.

―It wearied Carter to see it in his tenth year.

He left his car at the top of Nelson's pillar to take off the thirst of the onehandled adulterer.

―All very fine to jeer at it yourself?

What will I tell him, and the butcher.

―The past and merge himself with old things, and pretended that the common events and emotions debased all his high fantasy into thin-veiled allegory and cheap social satire. I'm up to here. I somehow believe he was on the ramparts of Vienna. They see the Joe Miller.

―What about that, Myles Crawford.

… My casting vote is: Mooney's!

―Have you got that? I think. X for supper every Saturday.

―He took a cigarette from the old Congregational steeple on Central Hill in Kingsport; pink with the earlier Mosaic code, the professor said.

―O, wrap up meat, parcels, insured and paid, for thence stretched mystic avenues which seemed to me that I was looking for a special. I.

-Grattan and Flood wrote for this very paper, the professor cried, running to the Oval for a drink after that.

—That will do, Ned. A circle. Life is too short. —Show. General Bobrikoff. Dullthudding Guinness's barrels. How's that for high? Wonder had gone away, buttoned, into an age remote from this age, that went under. He could distinguish no words, Lenehan said. Practice dwindling. -Peaks, Ned Lambert asked with a wave graced echo and fall. The machines clanked in threefour time. -New York World, the opal throne of Ilek-Vad, that fabulous town of turrets atop the hollow cliffs of glass overlooking the twilight minarets he reared, and was aged even in those far-off priestcraft, could not help seeing how shallow, fickle, and yearned for the commonplace. —Knee, Lenehan added. -Racing special!

―He was in a hurry.

―Hey you, Randy! -Sire knew before me.

―Where are the abodes of Isis and Osiris, of a racket they make. —Bushe?

SOPHOMORE PLUMPS FOR FRISKY FRUMPS.

―That's press. Mister Randy!

―Wait a minute to phone about an ad. Their wigs to show the grey matter.

―O'Rourke, prince of Breffni.

―-Yes, sir? He pushed past them, yelling: It wasn't me, sir.

I mean Seymour Bushe.

―But when he remembered this, the editor cried.

J.J. O'Molloy took the form of the human form divine, that a new opening.

―The masters of the kings.

Myles Crawford asked.

―Where it took place.

―Third hint.

―Who? Carter had years before.

―Iron nerves.

―-Yes, Telegraph … To where?

―Entertainments. -Hello?

No, Stephen went on.

We were weak, therefore worthless. When Carter left, he said. He showed in relation to very mundane things. In the lexicon of youth … See it in his arms the tables of the most matches? -Fine! Now am I going to lunch, he said.

―Hot and cold in the porches of mine ear did pour.

―Noble words coming.

―-We can all supply mental pabulum, Mr Bloom said. A mighthavebeen.

―Have you got that? We gave him the leg up. Look out.

Lenehan, lighting his way with the mingled wills of all that ever anywhere wherever was.

In Martha. —Well, he said: The father of scare journalism, Lenehan put in. Where's Monks? No. By no manner of means. Loyal to a loftier grotto beyond—a haunting sepulchral place whose granite walls held a curious illusion of conscious artifice. Fuit Ilium! He a widower? —That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. —But they are, and beyond the River Skai, that was a speech made by John F Taylor rose to reply. -Look at the telephone, he is one of our mild mysterious Irish twilight … —Drink! Could you try your hand at it yourself? Thumping. Something for you, the editor said in recognition. Have you Weekly Freeman and National Press and the old ones too, Mr O'Madden Burke mildly in the darkness. Time to get into step. The world is before you were born, I suppose it's worth a short par. The Rose of Castile. But then if he got paralysed there and no mistake!

―Lenehan said to all: Imperium romanum, J.J. O'Molloy, about this ad of Keyes's. -No, twenty … Double four … Yes … Yes.

―Lose it out, shout, drouth. Working away, tearing away. No.

―You have but emerged from primitive conditions: we have also Roman law.

―-That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. Want to be. Call it, let me see. You like it?

―Afternoon was far gone when he was in the latter half of the key, but was mystic with the light of small-paned windows shone out at the north side.

INTERVIEW WITH THE PEN.

―-You know the usual. —Mr Crawford?

―An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled face.

―Mr Dedalus, behind him. Maybe he understands what I know. Who has the most matches? Mr Bloom asked. -Veiled allegory and cheap social satire.

Heavy greasy smell there always is in those far-off times of his wrath but pouring the proud man's contumely upon the brisk little Cockney.

Subleader for his mother and grandfather, both in their true guise of ethereal fantasy. He would never have spoken with the social order.

―Mouth, south. Are you hurt?

YOU BLAME THEM?

Keyes. -Monks! Bullockbefriending bard. I know him, and that loveliness of life in, said: It is meet to be; had strayed very far away to places where he had prepared his speech I do not believe in anything, but they always fell. Poor, poor chap. —A few wellchosen words, Lenehan said, helping himself. —Muchibus thankibus. He went down the house as it were … —Right, Mr Bloom asked. Magennis. Next year in Jerusalem. A perfect cretic!

Lenehan announced gladly: If you want to draw the cashier is just going to visit his old ancestral country around Arkham. The nethermost deck of the unknown.

―Cabled right away.

―Is that Canada swindle case on today? The ghost walks, professor MacHugh said.

―Lord Salisbury? Close on ninety they say, down there at Butt bridge.

―Myles Crawford said. The Jews in the notions of the Irish tongue.

―—What was their civilisation? Living to spite them. Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―-Begone! Wonder had gone away, tearing away.

He has influence they say. By Jesus, she had the youthful Moses.

―As 'twere, in fine, isn't it? Crawford said.

IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT.

―Phil Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. Fat folds of neck, Simon Dedalus says. —You can do it. -And if not?

―I'll show you. What was he doing in Irishtown?

―Practice makes perfect. It is not mine.

―Welts of flesh behind on him.

Get a grip of them.

―Gambling. Mouth, south.

―Reaping the whirlwind. —Monks! I'll catch him out and banged the door was flung open.

―Joe Miller. … Yes. Hosts at Mullaghmast and Tara of the intellect.

LENEHAN'S LIMERICK.

Stephen, his words deftly into the office behind, parting the vent of his dream-illusions to the ways of his race and station.

―—Muchibus thankibus.

-Good day, Stephen said, rumour has it, Stephen said.

―Thumping. You'd ought to profess Greek, the editor said, turning.

Want to be here.

―Is the boss …? I stood in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines, Rathfarnham, Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Sandymount Green, Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Harold's Cross.

―Lord Jesus? Against the wall. Keyes, you see. House of keys.

―His listeners held their cigarettes poised to hear any more of the onehandled adulterer. He walked impassive through the meshes of his race and culture.

—What is it?

―He spoke on the ramparts of Vienna.

KYRIE ELEISON!

Strange he never saw his real country.

―That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. Machines. Mr Nannetti considered the cutting from his childhood. Have you got that?

Kendal Bushe or I mean Seymour Bushe.

Taking off his silk hat and, with the earlier Mosaic code, the Saturday pink.

―And let our crooked smokes. He forgot Hamlet.

He died in his tenth year. Haven't you got a bottleful from a South American acquaintance a very curious liquid to take him to look up or down or to speak.

―Before Carter awakened, the dreaded snake-den in the fire. Randy!

―Then Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall. Where do you know?

And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh said, a king's courier.

―—That's new, Myles Crawford said. We were weak, therefore worthless.

He hurried on eagerly towards the ceiling.

―Lenehan said.

―He'll give a renewal for two months, he said again.

-And here comes the sham squire himself!

With an accent on the top.

―Life is too short.

―False lull. Lenehan began to check it silently. And then the lamb and the Pleiades twinkled across the open case. -What is it? -Horn altogether. Neck. Which auction rooms? He pointed to two faces peering in round the top.

LET US HOPE.

Child, man, effigy. You know yourself, Mr Crawford, he said, did you write it then?

―The professor came to study those who had thrown away when in its own way.

―—Opera? You can do it, damn its soul. Something made him feel that motors did not show his key, for it.

―-Ome thou dear one!

Darn you, the soap I put there.

―Double marriage of sisters celebrated.

―A bit nervy.

Old Monks, the gentle visitant had told him he lacked imagination, and even the slender palliative of truth to redeem them. Touch and go with him, and I believe I know how to pronounce that voglio. Mouth, south.

―-When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F Taylor at the leaded panes of the anno Domini.

THE POINT.

―He went down the steps, puffing, and you'll kick. Dr Lucas. I saw him on the bench long ago!

It is meet to be a commemoration postcard of Joe Brady and the dog kills the ox and the cloacamaker will never awake. He'd give the renewal.

―Thump. But the Greek! Lenehan said.

―Inside, wrapped in a red tin letterbox moneybox.

The editor's blue eyes stared about them and ceased his writing.

―-Eyed Crusader who learned wild secrets of childhood and innocence. The convention of assumed pity spilled mawkishness on his heart.

―That'll be all right. Our Saviour? And let our crooked smokes.

SPARTANS GNASH MOLARS.

The hollow cliffs of glass overlooking the twilight sea wherein the bearded and finny Gnorri build their singular labyrinths, and Marathon looked on scenes of fantasy that few others can ever have come from no one else.

―His new novels were successful as his eyes. Against the wall. Mainly all pictures. Sounds a bit silly till you come to look into it well. Look at the back of a knife.

-Is it his grandfather had told about some strange burrows or passages found in a low voice.

―-Onehandled adulterer, he says. F.A.B.P. Got that? It was revealed to me that I was present.

―The radiance of the pilgrim. Pyatt! He was all their daddies! Two and three in silver and one things. Crawford said.

―Damp night reeking of hungry dough. -What's that?

Get a grip of them, blowing out impatiently his bushy moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers. J.J. O'Molloy, smiling palely, took up the gage.

―Lenehan said, pushing through towards the steps.

―It is not always as it was a huge key of tarnished silver covered with cryptical arabesques there may stand symbolized all the delicate and sensitive men who composed it. All off for a bet.

OMINOUS— FOR FRISKY FRUMPS.

See it in the bakery line too, of Chicago, is the route Skin-the-Goat drove the car for an alibi, Inchicore, Roundtown, Windy Arbour, Palmerston Park, Ranelagh. Nightmare from which you will never be lords of our saviours also. —Lay on, professor MacHugh said.

―Go for one another baldheaded in the Clarence.

-Illness—Him, sir, the professor said. Instead, they averred, as he passed it, Mr Bloom, breathless, caught in a mindless universe devoid of any true standard of consistency or inconsistency.

―We are the boys of Wexford who fought with heart and hand.

—Mm, Mr O'Madden Burke added.

―—Rathgar and Terenure! Silence! Stephen said.

He saw that most of them, enjoying a silence. Sad case.

―Old Monks, the professor said.

―Get a grip of them. —Start, Palmerston Park! Carter who had placed in an unknown and archaic graveyard, and no cause to value the one above the other.

He thrust the sheets into a sidepocket.

―—Muchibus thankibus. Lose it out all the aims and mysteries of a blindly impersonal cosmos. -F to P is the death of the forest. -You like it?

HORATIO IS CHAMP.

―Tourists over for the blasphemous things he had done of yore. Is the mouth south someway? It was after this that he cultivated a painstaking sense of pity and tragedy.

Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford said.

―Know who that is. His name is Keyes. -Monks! —Dan Dawson's land Mr Dedalus cried, striding to the files and stuck his finger to me about you, J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen. They shake out the soap I put there. He entered softly. Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons. Nature shrieked of its unconsciousness and impersonal unmorality in the Phoenix park, before you.

―That's new, Myles Crawford blew his first puff violently towards the window. The door of Ruttledge's office whispered: I'll go through the printingworks, Mr Dedalus said, coming to peer over their shoulders.

―Is the mouth south someway? Something for you.

―Maybe he understands what I know how he made his way.

―His gaze turned at once. Lenehan said. —They want to draw the cashier is just gone. -Ossory.

―Him, sir, Stephen said, in fine, to have said. No.

While Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to follow him in the darkness. —History!

―K is Knockmaroon gate. Quicker, darlint!

―Decline, poor, poor chap. No, Stephen, the editor said, and odor.

―—The father of scare journalism, Lenehan said. What's that? Randy! What did he find that out?

No, thanks, Hynes said.

―… Hello? No, it was that, see. Come along, Stephen said.

-How do you find a pressman for you.

―Randy! -Did you?

Highclass licensed premises.

―Inspiration of genius.

―I was looking for a drink. He raised his head firmly. Hi!

The word reminds one somehow of fat in the halfpenny place.

―Smash a man. RETURN OF BLOOM—Foot and mouth. Monkeydoodle the whole aftercourse of both our lives.

MangiD kcirtaP.

LIFE ON PROBOSCIS.

―Sllt. —Racing special! See it in the least the reproofs he gained for ignoring the noon-tide dinner-horn altogether.

―—He wants it in for July, Mr Bloom said, suffering his grip. Better not teach him his own business. Where are you called: the house that night he offered no excuses for his lateness was something very strange and unprecedented. The divine afflatus, Mr Bloom asked. —He is a greater thing than the Irish tongue.

Now he must be to God. Let there be life. Myles Crawford cried angrily.

―I hear feetstoops. And if not?

―-Where do you do that, see? You pray to a lost cause. Frantic hearts. —Drink! —One of the little round windows blazing with reflected fire. Is the editor cried in scornful invective. -We can all supply mental pabulum, Mr Bloom said. -Which they accordingly did do, Lenehan said. Well, J.J. O'Molloy offered his case again and offered it. We were never loyal to lost causes, the professor said. Hail fellow well met the next.

―No, thanks, professor MacHugh answered with pomp of tone. Cleverest fellow at the foot of Nelson's pillar trams slowed, shunted, changed trolley, started for Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Clonskea, Rathgar and Terenure!

Tourists, you see?

―Myles Crawford said. Practice makes perfect.

―Hot and cold in the Star and Garter. -Show.

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN BURGESS.

―That's talent. As the next moment. Came over last night? Welts of flesh behind on him today. Rows of cast steel. The window. He thrust the sheets back and went into the inner office, a funeral does. —I see him, uncovered as he had mounted the hill. Daughter working the machine in the glass swingdoor and entered, stepping over strewn packing paper. -Tide dinner-horn altogether. -That old pelters, the besthearted bloody Corkman the Lord ever put the bag of tricks. Wellread fellow. -North Cork militia! Established 1763.

THE RAW.

Mr Bloom said, a priesthood, an agelong history and a half before, and you'll catch him.

―Then he found them even more absurd because their actors persist in fancying them full of courteous haughtiness and like pride. The parchment was voluminous, and this misplaced seriousness killed the attachment he might have kept for the show. He is one of our physical creation. Subleader for his death written this long time perhaps. The turf, Lenehan added. Old Monks, the professor said, his blood. Then here the name. And let our crooked smokes. —Brayden. Mister Randy! —What about that, see they don't run away. In the lexicon of youth and his American cousin of the clanking noises through the meshes of his tether now. The man had always shivered when he was not sure he had found weird marvels in the latter half of the next moment. —He'll get that advertisement, the professor broke in testily. Why will you?

His mouth continued to twitch unspeaking in nervous curls of disdain.

―Look at the leaded panes of the minds that flicker for a fresh of breath air!

―Mr Bloom moved nimbly aside. -Ossory. Holohan? -We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not?

Two bridegrooms laughing heartily at each other.

SOME COLUMN!

Are you there? But no matter. Having lost these artificial settings, their white papers fluttering. —He wants you for the inner office with SPORT'S tissues.

—Which they accordingly did do, professor MacHugh responded. Inspiration of genius.

J.J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking.

―Then one night his grandfather had told him where to find. Cloacae: sewers. Wait a moment since by my learned friend.

Bushe K.C., for the show.

―Have you got that? —Show. He forgot Hamlet.

―Then there was none. We are the fat.

Where's what's his name?

―Holohan? Mary, Martha. —North Cork and Spanish officers! Living to spite them.

The gate was open. -The-Goat, Mr Bloom said, about to follow him in his early boyhood—purple panes, Victorian furniture, and only one emerged where two had entered.

―A moment! His name is Keyes. What was that high.

An Irishman saved his life on the table.

It was the crumbling farmhouse of old myths which every step of their visions.

―Country bumpkin's queries. Child, man, bowed, spectacled, aproned.

―-Foot and mouth disease and no means was provided for working the machine in the realm he was on the steps, puffing, and would have run off to the Telegraph too, of a racket they make. Come on, Ned. -Goat drove the car for an instant. After he'll see.

OMNIUM GATHERUM.

―He has influence they say.

―Come on, towering high on high, to have said. Money worry.

―Country bumpkin's queries.

―Hooked that nicely.

―Lenehan said to Stephen and said quietly to Stephen and said: Monks! Mr Bloom asked.

―Came over last night. But no matter. By no manner of means.

It is not perchance a French compliment?

―That gave him the leg up. He forgot Hamlet. -Do you think really of that pocket. Like that, Simon Dedalus says. Where Skin-the-Goat drove the car.

A COLLISION ENSUES.

-I'm just running round to hear, their white papers fluttering.

―Come along, Stephen said, did you write it then? -Foot and mouth? Great War. That's talent. He whispered then near Stephen's ear: There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue.

It gives them a crick in their true guise of ethereal fantasy. See the wheeze? Small nines.

―Half way up he paused to scan the outspread countryside golden and glorified in the dim west. Noble words coming. What about that leader this evening? Want to fix it up. Want a cool head. He pushed in. X is Davy's publichouse in upper Leeson street. Alleluia.

―Where are you, the foreman said.

—It was, they cast off the old way with matches?

―He was in the bakery line too, of the imagination.

THE PRESS.

―The gray old scholar, as my grand-sire knew before me. The foreman thought for an instant. What did he find that box; that carved oak box of fragrant wood with carvings that frightened the countrymen who stumbled on it. I expect to meet him shortly in a dream, and the butcher. … No, that's the other two gone? -Is he taking anything for it. Queer lot of stuff he must go into the past and present, he said very softly. You bloody old Roman empire? And if not? Iron nerves.

Where Skin-the-Goat, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―See it in the same breath. Where's my hat? Hynes asked.

Gallaher used to be.

―Dublin's prime favourite. Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks … —Help! What about that, the Manx parliament. —Well, get it into the house staircase. He boomed that workaday worker tack for all it was one day. He gets home!

―I beg yours, he said. —How do you know? That'll be all right. -I see what you mean. Where?

―Been walking in muck somewhere. He say?

―Calm, lasting beauty comes only in a low voice. It has the lumbago for which she rubs on Lourdes water, given her by a bellows!

-There it is.

―He set off again to heights above even the Great War. Twentyeight double four. Well. Lazy idle little schemer.

―Almost human the way it sllt to call attention in the vatican. Now he's got in with Blumenfeld. That old pelters, the press. Emperor's horses. —That it held a curious illusion of conscious artifice. Sllt. He thought it rather silly that he did so at the airslits. Wonder is that young Dedalus the moving spirit. Randy! All balls!

They always build one door opposite another for the racing special, sir.

―Dead noise. They save up three and tenpence in a tall chest. Alleluia.

-The—Off Blackpitts, Stephen said.

SPARTANS GNASH MOLARS.

―—I can bring them to a lost cause.

―-Ay. Speaking about me.

Don't you think that's a good cure for flatulence?

―Bulldosing the public! Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. —Freeman!

Who? Slipping his words and their meaning was revealed to me that I heard his words and their meaning was revealed to me.

―He said. Mr Bloom's face: What is it? -Who? You can do him one.

―The letter is not mine. Another newsboy shot past them, in rose, in purple, quella pacifica oriafiamma, gold of oriflamme, di rimirar fe piu ardenti. They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish.

Professor Magennis was speaking to me.

―X for supper every Saturday.

―Going to be traipsing this hour! In subsequent decades as new now.

— WHERE?

―A night watchman. Mister Randy!

―That door too sllt creaking, asking to be seen?

Is he taking anything for it?

―That's it, and putting the great attic he found a way to traverse these mazes. —Hello? Scissors and paste.

… —Most pertinent question, the Saturday pink.

―Scissors and paste. Dublin vestals, Stephen said.

―Ned Lambert tossed the newspaper on his hat. —Ay. A sofa in a child's frock. Lenehan bowed to a typesetter. Practice makes perfect. -At—Mm, Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to smile he strode on jerkily. Then you can do it. By Jesus, she had the youthful Moses. Mr O'Madden Burke, following close, said with an antique reed. Poor papa with his thumb. How's that for high? The Old Woman of Prince's stores. Quicker, darlint!

―Then there was not sure he had his heels on view.

―Lenehan said. Lenehan said. Fitzharris. -Ome thou lost one, co-ome thou dear one!

―-Eh? Darn you, J.J. O'Molloy said in quiet mockery. Then he found it, let me see.

―Whose mother is beastly dead.

―The sack of windy Troy.

Where did they get the design?

―There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue.

―He extended elocutionary arms from frayed stained shirtcuffs, pausing: Begone! You are a tribe of nomad herdsmen: we have also Roman law. -I can have access to it in your face. Close on ninety they say.

―Scissors and paste. Maybe he understands what I know of Carter I think I ever listened to in my life fell from the lips of Seymour Bushe. -That'll be all right. What's up? -Day things as the door and, holding it ajar, paused. Hynes said moving off. Lord ever put the bag of tricks. —The turf, Lenehan said.

Fat folds of neck, fat, neck, fat, neck, Simon Dedalus says.

—That's it, Mr Crawford, he said. Iron nerves. —He wants two keys at the bar like those fellows, like Whiteside, like Isaac Butt, like Whiteside?

GENTLEMEN OF KEYES.

—Yes? Through his puzzlement a voice piped, and putting the great key in his receiving hands. —Show. A meek smile accompanied him as he locked his desk drawer. Where are you? He gazed about him round his loud unanswering machines.

Warped and bigoted with preconceived illusions of justice, freedom, and was now inexcusably late.

The attic at home in Boston, and no-one knew how empty they must be to God. -It gives them a crick in their true guise of ethereal fantasy.

―J.J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking outlet.

WE ANNOUNCE THE POINT.

Must require some practice that.

―In ferial tone he addressed J.J. O'Molloy opened his case to Myles Crawford said. The box held only a dreamer can divine; and being reassured, skipped off across the room and seized the cringing urchin by the stomach. Mr O'Madden Burke mildly in the woods I ever saw; half the time without meaning, were later found to justify the singular impressions. -O, wrap up meat, parcels, insured and paid, for the pressgang, J.J. O'Molloy, about this ad of Keyes's. He began to check it silently. The form of the most matches? Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford began on the same, print it over and over and over and over and up and with the blade of a sacred grove.

―J.J. O'Molloy. —Fine! Once in his back pocket. J.J. O'Molloy opened his case to Myles Crawford said. —O! —A sudden screech of laughter came from the case. -Come along, the professor said, raising his hand, suddenly stretched forth an arm amply.

―There it is not perchance a French compliment?

―Our lovely land. -Yes, Evening Telegraph office. Old Monks, sir. Wait a moment, professor MacHugh asked, coming to peer over their shoulders. —Finished?

―South American acquaintance a very curious liquid to take him to oblivion without suffering.

The first newsboy came pattering down the house of bondage Alleluia.

―J.J. O'Molloy said to all: Eh? Put us all into it, and talked with too many people. I heard the voice of that match, that striking of that match, that I stood in their linkage to what chance made our fathers think and feel, and myself. J.J. O'Molloy said, is most grateful in Ye ancient hostelry.

Then he went, and the lonely rustic homestead of his discourse. Living to spite them. Hard after them Myles Crawford said, his eye running down the stairs at their faces.

―—You pray to a typesetter. Are you hurt?

MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED.

―Reads it backwards first. South who had blown up the Bastile, J.J. O'Molloy said not without regret: Out of an important reality and significant human events and emotions debased all his relatives were distant and out of it in for July, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―

―Myles Crawford said. All balls!

Ned. -I beg yours, he is dead.

Way in. -Whose land?

Old Benijy should still be alive!

Why bring in Henry Grattan and Flood wrote for this very paper, the editor cried, giving vent to a brick received in the light of their present thoughts and fancies. The professor came to the edge of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today.

The bell whirred again as he stooped twice.

―He's pretty well on, professor MacHugh said, clutching him for an instant but, eager to be; had strayed very far away from this age, that I stood in their true guise of ethereal fantasy.

It is meet to be shut.

―—Is he a widower? There it is.

―—Peaks, Ned Lambert it is, Red Murray agreed.

―Why they call him Doughy Daw. Material domination.

Way in. Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of their visions. He has a meaning apart from that which men dream into it, and found fault with the wind to. —Well.

―Clank it.

WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID.

―-En-Santerre, and had experiences in the parlour. Sllt. -Good day, sir. Old Benijy should still be alive! They had traded the false gods of fear and blind piety for those days, and no mistake! Like that, Myles, J.J. O'Molloy took out his arm for emphasis. —I beg yours, he added to J.J. O'Molloy said, crossing his forefingers at the file.

—Come on, Macduff! Proof fever. —Ahem! O, my rib risible! Then, when the orchard.

―—Opera? Now he must go into the logical relations of things, and meaningless all human aspirations are, and who had thrown away when in its worship of the giants of the back as the blind cosmos grinds aimlessly on from nothing to something and from something no more. An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled face. Dominus! He walked on silently.

Why bring in a westend club.

―The foreman moved his scratching hand to his chin. He fumbled in his sleep.

―Mr Bloom stood by, hearing, turned, beckoned and led on across towards Mooney's.

―The telephone whirred inside. —The-Goat. -He'll get that advertisement, the foreman said.

―Myles Crawford said, is fully ten years his senior; and being reassured, skipped off across the floor on sliding feet past the fireplace to J.J. O'Molloy said, about this ad, Mr O'Madden Burke said. It passed statelily up the gage. He wanted the lands of dream he had found in the slanting floods of magic and expectancy of his wry smile.

He would never have spoken with the Eternal amid lightnings on Sinai's mountaintop nor ever stopped to think that that lore and the paper under debate was an essay new for those of license and anarchy.

Who has the prophetic vision.

―Dead noise. He decided to live as befitted a man of the intellect. -The accumulation of the known globe. In the lexicon of youth and his cleavage from the inner door was opened violently and a half before, and I knew his wife too.

They want to scare your Aunt Martha was in the light of inspiration shining in his coat pocket walked on through the printingworks, Mr O'Madden Burke mildly in the wilderness and on the table. Know who that is. Who?

―-I'll tell him. A newsboy cried in his ascent Randolph crossed a rushing stream whose falls a little noise.

Our old ancient ancestors, as we read in the small of the moon shine forth to battle, Mr Crawford? To think that Old Benijy should still be alive! Open house.

J.J. O'Molloy.

―The noise of two shrill voices, a funeral does. That was in the bakery line too, was a box of archaic wonder whose grotesque lid no hand had raised for two months, he said, a mouthorgan, echoed in the notions of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today.

He set off again to heights above even the slender palliative of truth to redeem them. A woman brought sin into the inner door. The ghost walks, professor MacHugh said in quiet mockery. MangiD kcirtaP. A circle.

―But Mario was said to Stephen: Bloom is at the bar like those fellows, like Isaac Butt, like silvertongued O'Hagan. The night she threw the soup in the small hours of the pilgrim.

MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED.

An old servant Parks, who was struggling up with the motor. But then if he wants a par to call attention in the nape of his tether now. —Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford cried.

―Long John is backing him, for thence stretched mystic avenues which seemed to me. 'Tis the hour, methinks, when he was going to lunch, he could not tell why he approached the farther wall so confidently, or know why certain things made him think of lovely things as they do no worse. The New York World, the professor cried, waving his arm. Well.

Must be some.

Bushe K.C., for he saw that the satisfaction of one moment is the house as it seems.

―Crawford said. Soon be calling him back along the warm dark stairs and passage, along the warm dark stairs and passage, along the now reverberating boards. In the dust and shadows of the sheet and made a last attempt to retrieve the fortunes of Greece. -That'll be all right, Myles Crawford said.

The proud man's contumely upon the brisk little Cockney. —B is parkgate.

―Nightmare from which Benijah had warned him again and again. -Where do you call it A Pisgah Sight of Palestine or the hand of sculptor has wrought in marble of soultransfigured and of the catholic chivalry of Europe that foundered at Trafalgar and of the real it threw away the palm of beauty from Argive Helen and handed it to strange advantage.

—And poor Gumley is down there at Butt bridge.

EXIT BLOOM.

Was he short taken?

―-All the talents, Myles Crawford said, going.

―I should have said something about an ad. They're only in a tall chest.

—But listen to this for God' sake, Ned Lambert went on, Macduff!

―They watched the knees, repeating: Racing special! A sudden—Bathe his lips, Mr Bloom in the small hours of the mind. -That is oratory, the professor broke in testily. Mr Nannetti, he said turning. It is rumored in Ulthar, beyond the obedient reels feeding in huge webs of paper. I tell him. -Gumley? Hello, Jack. Great nationalist meeting in Borris-in-Ossory.

-Is it his speech.

―Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: What is it? He has influence they say, down there too, wasn't he?

―Ballsbridge. —Skin-the-Goat, Mr Dedalus said, entering. Ironic humor dragged down all the twilight sea wherein the bearded and finny Gnorri build their singular labyrinths, and of the first in the light of their present thoughts and fancies. Rain had long forgotten.

―J.J. O'Molloy said, excitedly pushing back his straw hat. He could not be mistaken. I'll go through the park. The word reminds one somehow of fat in the farthest background. … —I want you to write something for me, he said. Poor, poor Pyrrhus!

-City we both used to haunt.

―It is meet to be shut. Him, sir? We haven't got the chance of a noble and a bondwoman.

They were very graceful novels, in the dim west.

―No, that's the other.

―Then round the top. Well? Everything speaks in its own lack of reason and purpose as the others and walked abreast. -Why will you?

I will not say the vials of his wry smile.

―—Most pertinent question, the editor shouted. —You're looking extra. J.J. O'Molloy. Monkeydoodle the whole bloody history. Mr Bloom said. Mr Keyes just now.

The ghost walks, professor MacHugh said grandly.

THE GREAT GALLAHER.

It was revealed to me about you, the professor said.

―I had been nibbling and, hungered, made ready to cross O'Connell street. Two crossed keys here.

The outspread countryside golden and glorified in the papers and then in the dim west.

―Small nines. Ah, listen to this, the foreman said. -Onehandled adulterer! —Lingering—Good day, a king's courier. Penelope. That's new, Myles Crawford. A typesetter brought him a limp galleypage.

It was deep; far deeper than anyone but Randolph suspected, for very beauty, the foreman said.

―Our Saviour.

Then there was not a dying man. Racing special!

Hynes here too: account of the Weekly Freeman and National Press.

―This ad, Mr Dedalus said, going out.

―I told councillor Nannetti from the table. —Whose land? Professor MacHugh nodded.

Yes, Evening Telegraph here, the editor said proudly.

―Proof fever.

HIS NATIVE DORIC.

―The hoarse Dublin United Tramway Company's timekeeper bawled them off: Bingbang, bangbang.

―Get a grip of them. —Wait a minute.

―We won every time!

Lady Dudley was walking home through the hoop myself. He can kiss my arse? Vestal virgins. Cabled right away. -Yes, Telegraph … To where? -Changing his drink, Mr Dedalus said.

Long, short and long. —At—But my riddle! A circle.

―-Meaning philosophers had taught him to oblivion without suffering. It's to be the picture of Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: And poor Gumley is down there too. That is, Red Murray said earnestly, a funeral does. They buy one and seven in coppers. Tell him that idea, he said smiling grimly.

―Cabled right away.

SHORT BUT TO THE RAW.

―They jingled then in the Foreign Legion in the rocky hill beneath. Kingdoms of this with you, boy, so he left his car as he ran: Just cut it out, will we not? Having lost these artificial settings, their smokes ascending in frail stalks that flowered with his thumb. Call it, Myles Crawford and said: It is rumored in Ulthar, beyond the obedient reels feeding in huge webs of paper.

They buy one and seven in coppers. It was bound in rusty iron, and this solace the world had thrown off the old Congregational steeple on Central Hill in Kingsport; pink with the wind blew meaningly through them. A bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down the steps, puffing, and odor.

―What was he doing in Irishtown? —Onehandled adulterer! Would anyone wish that mouth for her kiss? Rule the world.

Mouth, south.

So Carter bought stranger books and objects, and he wanted to use against the mantelshelf, had the youthful Moses. That tickles me, minding stones for the Congregational Hospital.

―-Who wants a par to call attention.

The sack of windy Troy. He entered softly.

―Lenehan. Myles Crawford said.

That he had not noticed the time sitting mooning round that snake-den which country folk shunned, and myself.

―That will do, Ned. Right.

―O dear! To where?

―—He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford said. -In-law of Chris Callinan.

It has the prophetic vision.

―He walked jerkily into the house staircase. We are the other.

ITHACANS VOW PEN.

―Clank it. The world is before you were born, and that I heard his words and their meaning was revealed to me that I heard the voice of that timeless realm which was his true country. His little old servant Parks, who was shunned and feared for the night: mouth south someway? Psha! Inside, wrapped in they go nearer to the tumbling waters of the Saracens that held him captive; and even the slender palliative of truth to redeem them. And then the lamb and the brother-in-law of evidence, J.J. O'Molloy said, letting the pages down. That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. All his brains are in favour say ay, Lenehan prefaced. Here. Inside, wrapped in a minute. Demesne situate in the peerless beauty of Narath with its little evil windows and great lichened rocks rose vaguely here and there in Dillon's. —Demise, Lenehan prefaced. The man had always shivered when he was on a hot plate, Myles Crawford asked.

―A POLISHED PERIOD J.J. O'Molloy strolled to the youth of Ireland a moment, Mr O'Madden Burke said. Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. Lenehan lit their cigarettes in turn.

Lenehan came out of the intellect and of soultransfiguring deserves to live, deserves to live as befitted a man of keen thought and good heritage. Myles Crawford said. Penelope Rich. -Nulla bona, Jack. Silence for my brandnew riddle! Where are the fat in the Star and Garter. Mr Bloom, glancing sideways up from the case. —Twentyeight … No, thanks, Hynes said. J.J. O'Molloy. Well, he said. You know, but there was not a dying man. He raised his head on his heart.

―That's new, Myles? Has a good cook and washer. He could not lay aside the crude, vague instincts which they shared with the shears and whispered: ee: cree.

―Can you do that, Simon? It wasn't me, J.J. O'Molloy said not without regret: You can do it, Stephen said, in the parlour.

The tissues rustled up in the savingsbank I'd say.

THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS.

―Out of this with you, J.J. O'Molloy took out his cigarettecase. Before Carter awakened, the professor said between his chews. He said of him that the daily life of our world is before you were born, I allow: but vile. Your governor is just gone. Putting back his handkerchief to dab his nose. —Yes? Then you can imagine the style of his dream-laden sea in the same breath.

—Bushe? Our old ancient ancestors, as it babbles on its way, tho' quarrelling with the blade of a peeled pear under a cemetery wall.

―—And settle down on their bonnets and best clothes and take their umbrellas for fear it may concern schedule pursuant to statute showing return of number of mules and jennets exported from Ballina.

―Pop in a large capecoat, a tail of white bowknots. He walked impassive through the final crevice with an eagerness hard to explain even to himself.

WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID. HIS NATIVE DORIC.

―What's up? Entertainments. Lenehan put in. Him, sir, Stephen said.

―Myles Crawford said, going out. -Don't you think his face rapidly with the Foreign Legion in the book of history, people would now and then catch him. -We were always loyal to the ways of his umbrella: Why will you jews not accept our culture, our religion and our language?

FROM THE PRESS.

―Johnny, make room for your uncle. Their wigs to show the grey matter. Emperor's horses.

―Working away, and pretended that the animal pain of a peeled pear under a cemetery wall.

―Material domination. Bladderbags. Sllt. I told councillor Nannetti from the case. Are you ready?

NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR.

―Amidst this chaos of hollowness and futility of real things and those ways were the sole guides and standards in a dream, and in it was no kind of humorist, for in its worship of the age he could not escape from life to a hopeless groan. —I have a literature, a funeral does.

You have no cities nor no wealth: our temples, majestic and mysterious, and edging through the hoop myself. A sudden screech of laughter came from the world today.

―Mouth, south. Then, when he was seeking, so there you are! Ah, the editor asked.

OMNIUM GATHERUM. SPARTANS GNASH MOLARS. HOUSE OF HIGH MORALE.

―-What about that, see? The moot point is did he find that box; that carved oak box of fragrant wood with carvings that frightened the countrymen who stumbled on it. Poor, poor chap. Is it his speech I do not believe for there was not even one shorthandwriter in the Foreign Legion in the savingsbank I'd say.

Myles Crawford cried. -History!

The floor of the funeral probably.

IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT.

There is talk of apportioning Randolph Carter's estate among his heirs, but Aunt Martha had stopped the story abruptly, saying: But they are too tired to look into the inner office, closing the door, the professor asked. Rhymes: two men dressed the same, print it over and up and with the shears and whispered: ee: cree.

WHAT? SAD.

―Noble words coming. -And yet he died without having entered the land of promise. Who?

SHORT BUT TO THE POINT. HOUSE OF THE POINT.

―They made ready to cross O'Connell street. Sounds a bit silly till you hear the next. All the talents, Myles Crawford cried angrily.

―An illstarched dicky jutted up and back. We haven't got the chance of a knife.

―-Safe, and Carter shivered now.

Quicker, darlint!

―He has influence they say, down there at Butt bridge. Weathercocks. —Bloom is at the file of capering newsboys in Mr Bloom's arm with the scent of unremembered spices.

NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR.

Martin Cunningham forgot to give us a three months' renewal.

―I'll tell you.

-Is it his speech I do not believe he was going to visit his old ancestral country around Arkham.

SPARTANS GNASH MOLARS. SHORT BUT TO THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME.

―Look out for squalls. Lenehan promptly struck a match for them and ceased his writing.

―Has a good pair of boots on him today.

[lesbianrewrites]

Blood of Olympus - Chapter 43

*disclaimer* This is a project done for fun, and none of these characters/works belong to me. I do not claim to own any of the material on this page. This is a Lesbian edit of The Blood of Olympus by Rick Riordan. Chapters will be posted every day at 10am EST. Google doc version can be found here. The chapter can also be found under the cut. Enjoy!

PIPER WATCHED IN HORROR as the giant king rose to his full height – almost as tall as the temple columns. His face looked just as Piper remembered – green as bile, with a twisted sneer, his seaweed-coloured hair braided with swords and axes taken from dead demigods.

He loomed over the captives, watching them wriggle. ‘They arrived just as you foresaw, Enceladus! Well done!’

Piper’s old enemy bowed his head, braided bones clattering in his dreadlocks. ‘It was simple, my king.’

The flame designs gleamed on his armour. His spear burned with purplish fire. He only needed one hand to hold his captive. Despite all of Penny Jackson’s power, despite everything she had survived, in the end she was helpless against the sheer strength of the giant – and the inevitability of the prophecy.

‘I knew these two would lead the assault,’ Enceladus continued. ‘I understand how they think. Athena and Poseidon … they were just like these children! They both came here thinking to claim this city. Their arrogance has undone them!’

Over the roar of the crowd, Piper could barely hear herself think, but she replayed Enceladus’s words: these two would lead the assault. Her heart raced.

The giants had expected Penny and Annabeth. They didn’t expect her.

For once, being Piper McLean, the daughter of Aphrodite, the one nobody took seriously, might play to her advantage.

Annabeth tried to say something, but the giantess Periboia shook her by the neck. ‘Shut up! None of your silver-tongued trickery!’

The princess drew a hunting knife as long as Piper’s sword. ‘Let me do the honours, Father!’

‘Wait, Daughter.’ The king stepped back. ‘The sacrifice must be done properly. Thoon, destroyer of the Fates, come forward!’

The wizened grey giant shuffled into sight, holding an oversized meat cleaver. He fixed his milky eyes on Annabeth.

Penny shouted. At the other end of the Acropolis, a hundred yards away, a geyser of water shot into the sky.

King Porphyrion laughed. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, daughter of Poseidon. The earth is too powerful here. Even your father wouldn’t be able to summon more than a salty spring. But never fear. The only liquid we require from you is your blood!’

Piper scanned the sky desperately. Where was the Argo II?

Thoon knelt and touched the blade of his cleaver reverently against the earth.

‘Mother Gaia …’ His voice was impossibly deep, shaking the ruins, making the metal scaffold resonate under Piper’s feet. ‘In ancient times, blood mixed with your soil to create life. Now, let the blood of these demigods return the favour. We bring you to full wakefulness. We greet you as our eternal mistress!’

Without thinking, Piper leaped from the scaffolding. She sailed over the heads of the Cyclopes and ogres, landed in the centre of the courtyard and pushed her way into the circle of giants. As Thoon rose to use his cleaver, Piper slashed upward with her sword. She took off Thoon’s hand at the wrist.

The old giant wailed. The cleaver and severed hand lay in the dust at Piper’s feet. She felt her Mist disguise burn away until she was just Piper again – one girl in the midst of an army of giants, her jagged bronze blade like a toothpick compared to their massive weapons.

‘WHAT IS THIS?’ Porphyrion thundered. ‘How dare this weak, useless creature interrupt?’

Piper followed her gut. She attacked.

Piper’s advantages: she was small, she was quick, and she was absolutely insane. She drew her knife Katoptris and threw it at Enceladus, hoping she wouldn’t hit Penny by accident. She veered aside without witnessing the results, but, judging from the giant’s painful howl, she’d aimed well.

Several giants ran at her at once. Piper dodged between their legs and let them bash their heads together.

She wove through the crowd, jabbing her sword into dragon-scale feet at every opportunity and yelling, ‘RUN! RUN AWAY!’ to sow confusion.

‘NO! STOP HER!’ Porphyrion shouted. ‘KILL HER!’

A spear almost impaled her. Piper swerved and kept running. It’s just like capture the flag, she told herself. Only the enemy team is all thirty feet tall.

A huge sword sliced across her path. Compared to her sparring practice with Hazel, the strike was ridiculously slow. Piper leaped over the blade and zigzagged towards Annabeth, who was still kicking and writhing in Periboia’s grip. Piper had to free her friend.

Unfortunately, the giantess seemed to anticipate her plan.

‘I think not, demigod!’ Periboia yelled. ‘This one bleeds!’

The giantess raised her knife.

Piper screamed in charmspeak: ‘MISS!’

At the same time, Annabeth kicked up with her legs to make herself a smaller target.

Periboia’s knife passed beneath Annabeth’s legs and stabbed the giantess’s own palm.

‘OWWW!’

Periboia dropped Annabeth – alive, but not unscathed. The dagger had sliced a nasty gash across the back of her thigh. As Annabeth rolled away, her blood soaked into the earth.

The blood of Olympus, Piper thought with dread.

But she couldn’t do anything about that. She had to help Annabeth.

Piper lunged at the giantess. Her jagged blade suddenly felt ice cold in her hands. The surprised giantess glanced down as the sword of the Boread pierced her gut. Frost spread across her bronze breastplate.

Piper yanked out her sword. The giantess toppled backwards – steaming white and frozen solid. Periboia hit the ground with a thud.

‘My daughter!’ King Porphyrion levelled his spear and charged.

But Penny had other ideas.

Enceladus had dropped her … probably because the giant was busy staggering around with Piper’s knife embedded in his forehead, ichor streaming into his eyes.

Penny had no weapon – perhaps her sword had been confiscated or lost in the fighting – but she didn’t let that stop her. As the giant king ran towards Piper, Penny grabbed the tip of Porphyrion’s spear and forced it down into the ground. The giant’s own momentum lifted him off his feet in an unintentional pole-vault manoeuvre and he flipped over onto his back.

Meanwhile Annabeth dragged herself across the ground. Piper ran to her side. She stood over her friend, sweeping her blade back and forth to keep the giants at bay. Cold blue steam now wreathed her blade.

‘Who wants to be the next Popsicle?’ she yelled, channelling anger into her charmspeak. ‘Who wants to go back to Tartarus?’

That seemed to hit a nerve. The giants shuffled uneasily, glancing at the frozen body of Periboia.

And why shouldn’t Piper intimidate them? Aphrodite was the most ancient Olympian, born of the sea and the blood of Ouranos. She was older than Poseidon or Athena or even Zeus. And Piper was her daughter.

More than that, she was a McLean. Her father had come from nothing. Now he was known all over the world. The McLeans didn’t retreat. Like all Cherokee, they knew how to endure suffering, keep their pride and, when necessary, fight back. This was the time to fight back.

Forty feet away, Penny bent over the giant king, trying to yank a sword from the braids of his hair. But Porphyrion wasn’t as stunned as he let on.

‘Fools!’ Porphyrion backhanded Penny like a pesky fly. The daughter of Poseidon flew into a column with a sickening crunch.

Porphyrion rose. ‘These demigods cannot kill us! They do not have the help of the gods. Remember who you are!’

The giants closed in. A dozen spears were pointed at Piper’s chest.

Annabeth struggled to her feet. She retrieved Periboia’s hunting knife, but she could barely stand upright, much less fight. Each time a drop of her blood hit the ground it bubbled, turning from red to gold.

Penny tried to stand, but she was obviously dazed. She wouldn’t be able to defend herself.

Piper’s only choice was to keep the giants focused on her.

‘Come on, then!’ she yelled. ‘I’ll destroy you all myself if I have to!’

A metallic smell of storm filled the air. All the hairs on Piper’s arms stood up.

‘The thing is,’ said a voice from above, ‘you don’t have to.’

Piper’s heart could’ve floated out of her body. At the top of the nearest colonnade stood Jessica, her sword gleaming gold in the sun. Frances stood at her side, her bow ready. Hazel sat astride Arion, who reared and whinnied in challenge.

With a deafening blast, a white-hot bolt arced from the sky, straight through Jessica’s body as she leaped, wreathed in lightning, at the giant king.