#but since Victor used to go by Mr. Zero I thought Zero would be good!

[spacesuitsforemergency]

Nancy’s new design as the villain Zero!

[mementomori-demimonde]

Old Wounds

Hidden Scars: I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X - XI.1 / XI.2 XII - XIII - XIV - XV - XVI - XVII - XVIII - XIX - XX

Bonus Chapter (21):

Three years ago, you broke up with Miranda.

Or, to better say, three years ago, Miranda broke up with you.

After escaping Victor’s grasp and embarking on the flight headed to England, Miranda thought it was best for the two of you to be constantly moving around.

She easily procured fake IDs and documents and, as Mrs. & Mrs. O’Brien (so lame that you loved it), you checked in the most expensive hotels and made a mess of the room, only to be off the next day. Every bill was paid and the staff generously tipped, even though the money didn’t certainly come from your pockets as you didn’t have any: you found out it was fairly easy to transfer money around and trick the systems; at least all those hacking software lessons had proven useful, though you weren’t up to anything illegal - it was a matter of survivance, that was what you told yourself. 

Life was wild and exciting, every morning you were someone slightly different while remaining the same, every night you got lost in the scent of her, only to be woken up by her fingers exploring your body.

Miranda was never satiated. And while it was only a matter of sex, before, there was something addicting, now, that flickered between the two of you.

It was something you thought was unbreakable. Something so rare to be born in such a hostile condition that it would be so hard to kill that nobody would even try to.

You thought.

Miranda lit up the day you reached Glasgow.

You could see her eyes gleaming, you could see her sharp fangs shining at the pale light of the sun as she dragged you around, showing you this and that, telling you about her childhood while turning a child herself, innocent and carefree and happy enough to be pulling you in and kiss you in the middle of the road.

You stayed in Glasgow for five months after that, because she thought you were both safe.

You decided to rent a small apartment next to the theater because, apparently, Miranda loved the theatre and you loved discovering things about her just as much as you loved watching her glow as she watched the show and the people acting or the orchestra playing.

You even convinced her to take yoga classes and, except for a couple of smashed glasses when she thought a waiter was ogling you, and an exploded pillow when her football team lost to the rigors, she seemed to have learned how to manage her anger pretty well.

Even her part-time job as a dog-sitter helped her keep her calmness, even to balance with the frustration she would accumulate during her other job as a consultant; of what, you never worked it out completely, you simply knew it was something to do with finance, probably internationally. Miranda didn’t like to talk about it excessively - the pay was good, she seemed satisfied with it - so you let her be.

As for you, when the first opportunity came out, you accepted it right away: as a receptionist of a luxury hotel, you had a fair amount of working hours, perfectly timed with Miranda, and you were able to bake breakfast for the both of you, pack your lunch boxes and be back before her to prepare dinner when Miranda didn’t surprise you, instead, with some take out and a lit candle.

She uncovered a nice, unexpected side of her, but sometimes she still was the scary old Miranda, even when it wasn’t necessary, to your opinion.

Whenever she acted bad, you served her a banana on a plate instead of a nice dinner you baked, to commemorate the first meal she had you eat. Miranda would pout, eat the banana in silence, and ask for forgiveness between the freshly cleaned sheets. This worked the other way around too, of course, with the exception that she enjoyed herself a little too much, sometimes, prolonging the punishment to something more than just a banana for dinner. Either way, everything was solved in bed. Not that you complained about this method, of course.

You thought you couldn’t be happier; but you thought you could never be any less happy either, and, of course, you were wrong.

It was a casual question you blurted out without much thought.

One night, you were watching a cheesy movie on tv, just for the fun of hearing her complain while she had her legs slung over yours, silently demanding for cuddles she would never admit to be requesting. As the couple on the screen kissed and cried happily, you said “have you ever thought about marriage?”

Miranda froze. You tried to explain that it meant nothing in particular, it was just conversation, but something in her eyes had changed.

She never answered the question.

Days went by and you could tell that something had painfully shifted between the two of you.

You tried to take it back, make her forget with some rough nights, just like she used to like it, but nothing worked.

Miranda wasn’t the same.

And then, one morning she was simply gone, without a single explanation. 

After twelve days of waiting, you made peace with yourself that Miranda wouldn’t be coming back.

You started to hate everything you loved so quickly that even going out in the streets and hearing all those people talking Scottish made you sick, so taking the next decision wasn’t too hard, after all: you told Cecilia to mind the tabby cat Miranda pulled out a stray dog’s jaws and brought home for you to heal, vacated the apartment hotfoot and accepted the job as head manager of the hotel subsidiary in Rome, Italy.

 After a few weeks, you realized the change was exactly what you needed: Rome was amazing, you like the people and, most of all, the food. You even decided to join a gym so you could keep eating the delicious meals the hotel chef cooked for the staff and when the weather was good, you went for a run, early in the morning, enjoying the sight of the city lazily waking up. Late in the night, before going to bed, you would flick your tear-drop-shaped dagger and put it in the top drawer in the nightstand, only to wear it the next day, because now you felt naked without its cold blade pressing against your leg. You dropped the habit of wearing it on your thigh - it wasn’t practical with your work attire - but strapped to your calf or pocketed inside your boot. You hated yourself for it, but it couldn’t be helped. You tried to convince yourself it was just in case you had to defend yourself - it was sensible since you had to walk by yourself most of the time.

All things considered, you fit in well.

Your apartment is good, with a nice view on the Tevere, the pay is almost double the one in Glasgow and you can allow yourself some treats, from time to time, whenever you feel too blue to stay in the apartment by yourself.

You contemplated the idea of getting a pet for a time, but you decided against it since that too would awaken sour thoughts.

You tried to date for a while, but nobody was enough.

Nobody compared to her.

Despite everything Miranda did to you, her memory was latched to your brain like a plague.

It still is.

Sometimes, only some heavy drinking can get her out of your head.

 You weren’t on duty tonight, and while you’re coming back from a peaceful stroll, your colleague calls: there has been a great fuss in the hotel; he tells you about ambulances and police cars hurrying with the sirens blaring to arrest some psycho that attacked a woman in her room. A guy was shot, but you don’t register much about the events, nor do you ask for further information, eager to drop the argument and avoid some unpleasant memories rising in your mind. Guns, people attacking other people, blood… It’s all in the past.

Hurrying up the stairs and fishing in your purse for the keys, you barely notice that the door lock is slightly scratched.

You don’t pay attention to it, nor the way your key slides inside the hole, until you step inside your home, pawing at the switch, and the light doesn’t work.

Immediately, all your senses turn on, your eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness, your ears eager to capture the smallest sound.

It’s the hair on the back of your neck that puts you in alarm. Rising for an imperceptible breath of wind, they notify of the imminent danger.

The next thing you feel is a strong arm wrapped around your throat, and a warm body pressed against your back.

The attacker clearly knows what they’re doing, but you do too.

Everything she taught you is stuck in your brain, branded on your bones.

In a flash, you lift your dominant leg just enough to grab the knife.

You plunge it into your attacker’s thigh without hesitation.

She - it’s a she - grunts in anger.

The hold of her elbow softens, her arm slides from your neck, her body moves abruptly from yours as she limps away, leaving you alone and scared, but in complete control of yourself.

“My, my. I am getting sloppy.” The voice sends chills down your spine. It’s warm, it’s smug, almost amused, and familiar. Terribly familiar.

Your heart, despite yourself, throbs painfully.

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes from your lips.

“Good.” She says, “very good, m’eudail.”

Whatever doubt you might’ve had, now it’s completely gone. It’s not your mind playing tricks, associating a familiar event with a lost person, this is happening for real. Running away from England to another country, taking a new name, a new identity, rebuilding your life almost from zero has served you nothing: she still has found you.

“Miranda?”

Three years.

Three years you haven’t heard from this woman.

Three years you’ve tried to push it out of your head.

Three years of pretending it was just a nightmare.

Three years and she’s back as if it’s nothing, standing in your apartment like she owns the place. She does, in a way. Miranda still owns you, in the first place, whether you like it or not: it’s not your choice to make. Until Miranda decides to let you go, you’re hers. It’s inevitable. And you know, you feel it in your guts, that Miranda will never let you go.

Some exchange rings, some jump over an old broom; your ‘until death do us part’ was a carving in the shape of an M - not on wood or marble, but on flesh - and you wonder how could she be so scared of marriage in the first place if she, too, has made a promise for life.

She comes into the light pouring in from the windows: it’s sunset, and the streetlight has just been lightened up.

Like it’s no big deal, you watch her bend down and wrap her fingers around the handle of the knife and, with a quick motion, she pulls it out from her wounded flesh with minimum bleeding.

With a wince, you notice that her trousers are already stained with dried blood, mixing with the fresh one.

She straightens her back and bares her teeth into a crooked smile, her split lip glistening with droplets of crimson. It looks painful. She doesn’t seem to mind one bit. Her cheekbone is blooming with blue and purple, her throat bears a sore line around. Miranda wears her bruises as if it was makeup, proud and confident. And, oh, so beautiful like the night before she left.

You can’t help but feel concerned, which only adds to your frustration: you shouldn’t care about her, you shouldn’t feel so strongly about the blood running down her chin - she probably deserves it, and more - but you do care.

You watch her, powerless, as she stumbles toward the couch and lets herself fall unceremoniously on top of it, grunting as her bruised body slackens against the soft pillows. Her shirt is stained as well, her knuckles scraped.

“You’re beaten up.” You dumbly point out.

She lets out a dark chuckle and lolls her head back. Your eyes are drawn to the rhythmic movements of her throat as she swallows. You can almost taste the iron inside your own mouth - how many times she’s kissed you after a training session, how many times your sweat mingled with hers when you wondered if you were fighting or fucking.

It all felt so long ago and, still, it hurt like it was yesterday.

“Tried my best, but you can’t expect the featherweight to win against the heavyweight without a significantly favorable weapon. He was just a bigger psycho than me: came out on top, in the end.” Miranda murmurs, a smug expression deforming her features. “Victor, on the other hand-”

The name has your head spinning. His ugly mouse-face comes to visit on the blurry surface of your mirror every time you shower, the rough lines crossing your back are a distant yet a painful reminder of those days of imprisonment, confined in that small room with Miranda, uncovering her past, her job, her boss and his despicable ways. Those marks hurt, but not as much as it hurts the one on your left shoulder - not until now.

“You’ve gone back to work for him?”

After all you’ve been through, after all the pain he inflicted, after she promised to have him killed because he took it out on you, Miranda decided to still work with him. Betrayal didn’t even compare to what you felt.

How many things can change in three years? You lived a lifetime in two months, since Miranda kidnapped you. Three years, right now, are an eternity.

Miranda’s smile drops. Her blue eyes wander aimlessly around the room, stopping in a dark corner. They aren’t focused, but it’s easy for you to see the regret blaring in her lost gaze.

“It was what I am,” Miranda murmurs, her voice emotionless, “it was the only thing I knew.”

There’s a pregnant silence between the two of you. It feels like forever before you move your first step toward the couch, your gaze fixed on her as if you were trying to control a snake about to snap its vicious attack.

You know Miranda won’t move, not to attack you anyway, but you’re cautious when you speak.

“You’re talking in the past tense.”

“He’s dead now.” Miranda breathes out heavily. Her voice almost overlaps yours, as if she’s completely zoned out, not listening at all, unaware of her surroundings, as impossible as it seems. “I killed him, gave him what he deserved.”

The sheepish look she gives you is the sparkle that lits your flame. It doesn’t matter if Victor is dead now, the memories still haunt your dreams, and Miranda has gone back to work for him.

You feel cheated on, betrayed, and you still don’t know what she wants from you. Frustration builds up from within until you feel like exploding.

You would smack her and shake her by her shoulders if she wasn’t so bruised - and if she’d let you, of course, before succumbing to her strong arms and be stopped by force.

“Miranda, why are you here?” You would ask her to leave, tell her you can’t stand her sight… if only that was true. Angered beyond words by her persistent silence, you walk to her with heavy steps, until you’re in front of her, for the first time, towering her small figure on the couch. She looks frail, harmless, submissive, but you know she’s not any of those things. “Miranda-”

“Shut up.”

You don’t know how she’s managed that - if she’s pulled you down by the collar of your shirt, or hooked her fingers in your belt, or even hit the back of your knees with her foot - but you’re falling right onto her, like the controlled destruction of a building, collapsing right where the demolition expert planned. You try to catch yourself with one hand on either side of her head, fingers clawing the soft pad of the back cushion, even if it’s not necessary: of course, Miranda has caught you first.

Although ‘catch’ is not entirely correct. Her greedy fingers are grabbing your head, pulling more than supporting, and before you can realize what’s happening, her lips are on your mouth.

Oh, God, how much you missed her.

It’s not a nostalgic kiss, she’s not asking for forgiveness or awakening long-lost memories. Her lips are urgent, almost aggressive.

It’s like those three years never went by, as if a lot of things never happened: this one isn’t Miranda, but the mysterious woman who kidnapped you in the alley; she’s back to that unhinged creature that tortured you in the most pleasant ways, who turned a cage into paradoxical heaven where wrong was right and the pain was pleasure.

Too easily you fall back into the addicting spiral that bound you to her. You’re completely at her mercy, once again, with no power nor will to pull yourself out of it. Despite everything, you want more of her kisses, you want more of her touches, you want more of her, no matter if she’s rough or brutal - something of Miranda is still better than nothing.

Hungry hands travel fast from your face to your neck and, for a moment, you prepare to hold your breath thinking she will wrap her fingers around your throat to have you squirm in her lap, desperate for air, just to assert her total control, but you’re wrong. Miranda doesn’t stop: she paws possessively at your breasts, teasing your nipples through the coarse fabric - you hate a little how your body seems to react regardless of your mind, answering to her touch in all the right ways.

You always take minutes to remove your uniform, Miranda hasn’t taken more than one to leave you in your undergarments, confused and wondering if you were actually wearing something before she claimed ownership over you and your body, like always, like she was entitled since the beginning.

Her mouth travels fast, in tow, she nibbles and lavishes, sending electric sparks to your core.

You don’t dare speak, afraid that the spell will break, that you’ll wake up from a dream even though you don’t remember falling asleep, even if it feels real, so real, almost too real that you can’t bring yourself to renounce it.

The tip of her nose tickles the valley of your breasts when she kisses her way down your stomach and belly, her nails scratch dully at the small of your back, pulling your knickers down in one move.

You’ve never noticed how chill your apartment can be. Or maybe you’ve never been so hot before, within these walls.

Her mouth knows exactly where to tease you, her tongue touches all the right places and only in the right ways. Her body remembers everything, and at the same time, it feels new. She tastes you, pursuing the depths of you, almost as if she wants to drown right there and then.

Bare and vulnerable, you don’t even perceive the typical powering position on top of her; Miranda is always on top, also when she’s not.

You can only arch over her as she draws a hurried orgasm out of you, leaving you raw and trembling, your mind spiraling from contentment, nostalgia, and a deep sense of guilt and then back again, when her tongue doesn’t stop until she isn’t satisfied with a second climax, and a third.

It’s easy to lose count when Miranda is having her way. It’s easy to get lost and losing track of time and of yourself, it’s easy to set aside everything to chase her with your hips, desperate for everything and in everything.

She doesn’t allow you to catch your breath when she’s done. You barely catch a glimpse of her when she pulls away, working her jaw to relieve the soreness that has surely set in her muscles, but her eyes are elusive, disappointing you when you hoped to look at her and find the woman you know.

It’s just another confirmation that she is still somewhere else, at least in spirit.

You’ve learned to know her strength, despite her petite size, and yet you can’t prevent the surprised gasp that escapes your mouth when she pushes you off of her and into the couch on your front, so fast that you gape at the pillow below.

You struggle to adjust your head and tilt it to the side when you feel her climb on your thighs, her ripped legs grabbing yours with vicious force when she lowers herself, and despite being fully clothed, you can feel the heat from her core right below your bottom, where she sits.

You swallow in anticipation, shiver when her nails rake at your skin, and then, then everything stops. She pauses.

You feel all the tension leave the room like the fog lifting from the streets.

Her legs are looser when she shifts lower on your thighs, her hands are softer when she glides her fingers up the small of your back and they linger, for a moment too long, across your shoulder blades.

You want to say something, even say her name again, listen to your own voice calling Miranda while still striving to breathe, wearied by the pleasure her skilled tongue has brought you. But as soon as you take a small breath to speak, a startling weight on your back knocks the air out of your lungs.

You take a moment to comprehend that Miranda has leaned on the top of you, her chest rises and falls rhythmically against your back, her breath tickles your left shoulder and you blink at the fact that her cheek is probably resting on her carved initial, and not just by chance.

You mentally count three seconds in, three seconds out. Her warm breath sends shivers down your spine.

“Had to find you.”

It’s a murmur, barely a whisper, so small you even doubt you heard it for real or just in your head.

“What?”

You try to squirm from below, eager to watch her face, read in her eyes if she’s making fun of you in the cruelest of ways or not. Her voice has tricked you on many occasions… or not. Maybe it was her eyes. Maybe it’s better for both of you if you can’t cage into each other’s eyes.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, relax your muscles, stop your hands from scrambling in the purchase of a steady surface to push yourself up and Miranda off of you.

It’s better this way: she won’t talk, otherwise.

“Thought I could do it.” She sighs, her lips move on your skin, leaving a moist halo around her lips. “Thing is… that I could.”

“You’re talking about-”

“Glasgow.” She snaps. You feel her clenching her jaw tight. “When we lived together.”

“You’re scared that you could live normally?”

Silence.

“You don’t understand.” She huffs. “People like me can’t usually walk away whenever they please and forget about their pasts.”

“But you did.” You retort. “We were fine.”

Miranda chuckles. It’s a bittersweet one, and it ends quickly.

 “I was doing fine before you came.” She clarifies. It clarifies nothing, but you don’t dare to interrupt, fearing she’ll just walk away for good. “There’s a reason why so many have failed. No one was able to ruin me while I ruined them. No one was you.”

You can breathe easily now that Miranda has rolled off of you.

You turn to your side quickly, eager to follow her with your eyes and make sure she won’t take the door and never come back after such a declaration. Rare have been the times you’ve heard Miranda talk in such ways and you can only imagine what is the prelude for: something fatally bad, or something impossibly good.

In the forced darkness of your apartment, the blue of her eyes glows at the dim reflection of the streetlights.

Her voice echoes in your head.

When you initiate the kiss you’re surprised she doesn’t pull back. She doesn’t even complain. She doesn’t grab your face or the back of your neck, she doesn’t claim the lead.

It’s startling, and it’s a foreign sensation you’re not used to, at all.

You barely register the soft rustle of fabric as you chase her taste and mingle it with yours.

And then finally you feel her hands on yours, her slender fingers reaching for yours and sliding almost perfectly in between, like pieces of a puzzle.

She swallows your breathy moan.

You haven’t expected your hands to be drawn closer to the warmth of her body. She lets her fingers move to your wrists, she lets them loop around the protruding bone there - she doesn’t squeeze, she doesn’t pull nor push - leaving your pads free to roam over her stomach, through the small crack of her shirt, gliding over the taut skin of her abdomen. You feel new bumps, new scars perhaps.

She squirms when you push a little too hard against her hip bone.

Or, maybe, she doesn’t exactly squirm.

You feel her adjust, raising her pelvis off the couch, but not to ease discomfort.

Your fingertips slip easily beyond the band of her high-waist trousers.

Miranda doesn’t move.

She’s even stopped the kiss, letting you decide.

It’s an open invitation - a request, perhaps - to touch her, properly, like you’ve been asking, for weeks, silently, before you decided to voice your thoughts and your feelings. 

Everything went downhill from there.

Your breath catches, the long-awaited moment feeling so terrifying, now, that you can’t bring yourself to just stop thinking and follow your guts, your innermost desires, to claim what has been denied to you for so long.

Miranda wouldn’t have hesitated. She didn’t hesitate to take when she wanted and could.

Thing is, you’re not her.

You pull away from her in a blink, your fingers tingle with unsatisfied electricity when you hide your face in your hands.

“Miranda.” You growl. Your voice comes out muffled from behind your palms. You’d want to yell at her, berate her, but it only comes out desperate, you sound on the verge of crying. Maybe you are. “What are you doing?”

Her hands are touching your wrists again. She’s gentle. More than she’s ever been. She forces you to unpeel your hands from your face.

In the dim light from the streetlights, her eyes shine again. They seem full of unshed tears, but you don’t want to fool yourself with dull illusions that don’t belong, with every possibility, to either of you.

Miranda doesn’t talk. You know it, you can see it, there’s a whole universe of things she’s dying to say, and still… she doesn’t speak.

You let out a shaky breath, sit lower on her legs, your gazes locked.

“Miranda, what’s your point?” You try again, softer this time.

She opens her mouth to speak then, only to close it soon after with a frustrated sigh.

You can’t endure more of it. You’re too spent to keep playing.

Miranda speaks only when you push yourself off of her, trying to stand up.

“My point is- I’m done.” She huffs out a disbelieving chuckle as if it’s the first time she’s told that, to herself even; the first time she’s truly grasped the idea and made it final. “I’ve got tons of money now and I can leave it all behind.”

“Miranda-”

“We can leave it all behind.” She corrects. One of her hands slithers to the small of your back, pushing you down to keep you near. It’s confident but for the first time, somehow, it’s not possessive. “Start over, for real.”

You swallow a mouthful of sand. Your head is spinning. You even wonder if something has possessed Miranda’s body and has turned her into some normal person who is actually repentant and is willing to start over.

How much can a person change in three years? Does it also apply to Miranda? The rules of mortals apply to such mysterious creatures like her?

You’re about to ask for a moment when you hear a distinct mew.

“What the fuck-” You startle, snapping your head toward the kitchen. It’s hard to see, but there’s definitely something on the counter. A box, maybe a crate. With something furry poking out. “You brought the cat?!”

Miranda’s lips are crooked into a sheepish smile when you look back at her.

“Please?” She whispers. Her voice is velvety against your lips, so close you could answer with a kiss. “What do you say?”

Maybe you will answer with a kiss.

Maybe.

[stardancerluv]

Gotham Surviving the Pandemic 2021

Part 2a

Summary: Trouble is never far away!

Roman felt fantastic, his club was buzzing again. He reached over to your hand and squeezed it.

You smiled looking over at him.

“I’m going around to say hello.” He stood, buttoning his suit jacket as he did. He turned to you. “Would you like anything?”

You went over to him and kissed his cheek. “Maybe one more drink?”

“I should have had that for my send off always.” You beamed and he smiled. “Certainly, love.”

Reaching into his pocket, he took out and then slipped his mask back onto place. One of the girls came over as if on a spring. It pleased him to see how attentive she was.

“Mr. Sionis?”

He smiled. “Not me, Y/N would like something though.”

He met your eyes. You shared a look and with a nod he went around the ocean that was his club, where he was the great white shark making sure territory was secured.

You gave him a warm smile before giving your attention to the girl. Your delicate fingers moving in your hair as you spoke.

He was soon making his way around. It was nice to not have to plaster a smile on his face. Though despite the mask covering his face as he made small talk which sometimes ran a little long, he would still smile. There was a part of him that was genuinely pleased to be open and that these people had chosen his club to go to.

Catching a shadow, he disappeared into its darkness to catch his breath. He wasn’t nervous but he was on edge. Another drink called his name, but he could not afford to. He had to be alert and not relax, he was not used to this anymore.

To feel better, he glanced over at you. He had always enjoyed watching you. Your eyes moved through the people. Were you looking for him, he wondered. Were you more at ease because of his promise. Sometimes he wished he knew what bounced around in your head. He was able to breathe again.

“Boss?” Victor’s raspy voice broke into his thoughts.

He stiffened and turned on his heel. “Yes?”

“Some men are demanding dances.”

“Seriously?” He rolled his eyes. “Where the fuck are they?”

“VIP lounge.” He exhaled harshly.

Storming out of the shadows he made his way quickly over to the lounge. It was the one place in his club where if you got tested you would not have to wear a mask. He knew he’d regret opening that up so quickly. Gritting his teeth he was fuming, they wanted a fucking dance the first night he’s open.

He practically tore open the door. “Who’s the one asking for a dance?” He growled.

The small group of men withered in their seats. He knew them. He wasn’t really surprised. They were low-level enforcers from Falcone’s and Two-Face’s crew. He tore off his mask.

“Seriously, you come to my club and start causing fucking trouble because we’re not offering private dances?” He snarled.

They shrank where they sat.

“Since none of you are fucking talking, get the fuck out.”

He smirked when he saw one begin to puff up. Roman walked right up to him. “Don’t even fucking think about it. This is my territory you are fucking in.”

Some grumbling angry looks were slid his way. But they all began to leave. He rubbed his temple. “What assholes.” He whispered to himself.

“You are my hero. They scared me, sir.”

He barely heard the squeaky voice or bracelets jingling as two arms wrapped around him. A sharp sweet perfume flooded his nose.

Jolting back to the situation, he turned his head, raising an eyebrow. She dropped her arms.

“Tell Victor to give you two hundred and go home, and get tested in the morning.”

She shrugged. “Thank you.” She squealed. “Thank you, Mr. Sionis.” She fluttered away.

Victor walked up a few moments later.

“Victor, tell me all the girls got tested.”

“All the girls got tested.”

Roman slid him a look.

“Yes, they got tested.” He scratched the back of his head. “I took their temperatures before they came in.”

“They were all legitimate?”

“Yes, cost a pretty penny but yeah. I made sure.”

“Good. Give Stacey two hundred dollars. Make sure she gets the test in the morning.”

“Sure.”

******

He looked into the club. He watched as you shifted where you sat, you were so lovely there at his table. He went to the elevator. He needed to clean. Stripping down so he was completely nude, he shoved it all down to the incinerator.

Turning the knobs to full, he let the scalding water rain down on him. He winced but he needed to be clean. He grabbed the soap and lathered up. Then poured shampoo into his hand and washed his hair. Finally when he felt like he could breathe, he lessened the heat. Stepping out of the shower, he wrapped a towel around his hips.

Once in his closet, he dropped the towel and grabbed a shirt and a pair of pajama pants. After pulling them on he felt a little better, though the anger of those thugs acting like they did and that dancer made his heart beat in anger.

Going to his private bar he poured himself two fingers of whiskey. He quickly downed it and with a clink of the glass, he poured himself another.

“Roman! What happened?”

He turned to look towards you, your

heels clicked as you ran the short distance over to him. The sound of your voice and scent of your perfume continued to help calm him.

Seeing the anguish in your eyes, he pulled back and threw his glass across the room. It shattered.

“Roman?” You didn’t flinch. “Talk to me.”

“Some low-level enforcers were making trouble for one of the dancers. I threw them the fuck out but then the dancer in question hugged me.”

You didn’t step back. It made his throat tighten as a new wave of emotions washed over him.

******

You slipped out of your fancy dress and heels, now you were comfortable in one of your silken robes that hung loose.

“Allow me.” You smiled meeting Roman’s eyes in the mirror.

You wiggled where you sat. “Please.”

He smoothed his hands over your bare shoulders and to your throat. A deep pleased sound came from you.

“Allow me.” You gathered your hair and let him unclasp your necklace. He placed it on your vanity.

You reached back and held him close. “You did good tonight.”

He grimaced. “I did realize where before I had zero patience, now it’s less than that. Turning, you kissed his cheek.

“We’re in a new world.”

He rested his forehead against yours.

“We’ll get through this, just like we did the lockdown. But let’s not throw too many glasses, ok?”

He chuckled. “We’ll see.”

@spn-obsessed-dean @vintagemichelle91 @xxxeatyourh3artoutxxx @ewanfuckingmcgregor @zodiyack @angel98624 @frenchgirlinlondon @emyliabernstein @thepeachreads @nebulastarr @itsknife2meetu @omghappilyuniquebouquetlove @poe-kadot26 @babydoll97-blog1 @hazel-nuss @vcat55 @feelthemadnessinside @johallzy @foreverhockeytrash @frostypenguinoz @starwarsslytherin @professionalclown @chogisss @shantellorraine @xxinvisiblexx @blondekel77 @saphic-stories @drarrylov3r @i-cant-hear-you16 @deadlymistress24 @yesqueenofthelight @generallj @thebeckyjolene @blackmasque @mrskenobi19

[op-peccatori]

Anthesis | MLQC Victor

Fandom: Mr Love Queen’s Choice

Pairing: Hades!Victor/Persephone|Kore!Reader

Rating: 18+/Explicit

Word Count: 10k

Summary: Your ambition takes you down a path few would prefer to take, to the world where the dead go to rest. But in a place where you expect to find only darkness, you’re surprised to find so much more.

A/N: Better late than never? Happy (belated) Birthday, Victor! Ily. This was supposed to be up on his birthday but, well, I had zero motivation to write at the time lmao. Please keep in mind that this is mostly inspired from alternate versions of the Hades/Persephone tale, and not the original. These are pretty much my own versions of them.

(tags under the cut)

Warnings/Tags: explicit sexual content, virgin mc, vaginal sex, oral sex, a sad mix of formal and informal language, no abductions here folks, I’ll edit later just take this away from me

Violets and crocuses wiggle in delight and part as the grass, eager to cushion your stride, nearly presses up against your feet. Roughened bark meets smooth skin as your hands brace against it, the tree nearly twisting around you to shelter you as you peek around it; the leaves murmur to themselves, wondering what you're up to. 

You shush the leaves and pat the tree into compliance with haste, lest they give your position away. Another glance at your target shows no change. You have to wonder—does he really not know you're spying, or are you just being ignored? Pushing the question aside, for now, you hurry along after him. Your patience and labour are rewarded when you follow him into a meadow, where his ride awaits him. 

A gilded chariot, drawn by four of the most beautifully frightening beasts you have ever seen. Helios had been right; their tales don't do them justice. The same, however, can be said for their rider, who now greets them with gentle strokes upon their heads, the menacing horses whinnying and bowing their heads, competing for just a smidge more attention. The flowers stir with curiosity and terror, knowing these beings belong to another place, one where they would struggle to survive.

"Why have you come?" 

It takes you a moment to realize he's addressing you. You've heard it a few times now, yet the deep baritone sends a thrill down your spine. He does not speak with the condescension you're subjected to so often, and neither does he attempt to seduce you into his bed. All he asks is a simple question, his back to you, his hand stilling where it was stroking. 

"I wanted to see your chariot," you answer easily, stepping forward into the clearing so the moonlight can wash over you. His hair falls down his back in a river of ebony, his statuesque form clad in intricate armour of the darkest black so unlike the ones you see on the surface. He, in all his menacing glory, is so unlike anybody you’ve ever met. 

"You've seen it." He still doesn't face you, and you're startled to realize you're clenching your fist, uncurling it and flexing it nervously. "Run along now, little goddess." 

His words are harsh in their very nature and yet you brush them off, something about his tone striking you as odd. You step closer, and though he doesn't move, he stiffens further. 

"I'm Kore." The warm breeze in the air greets you softly, rustling your hair affectionately as it passes. "But you can call me ___." 

He says nothing, turning to step onto the chariot. He doesn't look at you, but you can see a side of his face now. It grates on you, how aloof he looks. How they avoid him. How every time you ask your mother to visit his domain, you're turned down. 

"Goodbye, Hades!" you call after him, satisfaction squeezing your gut when, as his chariot descends into the chasm, he's startled into looking at you. For a long moment, it seems as if time has stopped. Eyes that seem opalescent at this distance, flecks of blue and violet in that grey grey storm locking with your own. You're overcome by the urge to follow, and you nearly do, were it not for the hyacinths twisting around your feet in their alarm. 

The moment is broken as he disappears, the earth closing back in seamlessly in the aftermath of his departure. You can't quite look away, despite knowing it's unlikely he'll be back. It'll be a while before you see him again, as he rarely leaves his domain. You know you're young, younger in comparison to these older gods but the impatience you feel still catches you off guard. You don't know how much longer you can keep playing this long game, especially now that it seems like you're the only player on the board.

"___?" Distant voices call for you, prompting a deep sigh. Your mother is probably looking for you, and even as you turn to leave, you resist the urge to glance back until you're deep within the woods once more.

There is something you want. It's terrifying and it's exhilarating—it probably won't end well. But for the first time in your life, you want something badly enough to defy all odds and your mother. It's been slow to bloom, starting off as a sapling that has now spread its branches throughout your being, spreading sheer want in their wake. All you need is a plan. And so, it is with eyes shining with hope that you rush to your mother where she reads by a fountain, taking a seat next to her.

"Mother, may I invite Helios over? It's been some time since I saw him," you ask in the politest tone in your arsenal, batting your lashes and clasping your hands together. To nobody's surprise, she agrees. 

"But you stay where I can reach you," she says sternly, cupping your cheek when you purse your lips. "We can't have anyone getting any ideas, hm?"

"Yes, mother."

Helios arrives in a golden chariot of his own, his ivory-winged horses gliding to a stop where you wait in the meadow. His windblown, flaxen hair tumbles over his shoulders, and the honest blue eyes and cheery grin are a welcome sight—beautiful, but one that doesn't quite shake you, doesn't possess you with the impulse to stumble after it.

You don't speak of it right away. Instead, you offer up sweet wine and weave flower crowns as he shares all the gossip in the realm; some are things Aphrodite really will kill him for one day. As always, one name is conspicuously missing from his lively tales of love and debauchery, and that's the one you finally bring up as you adjust the wreath over his head.

"Hades? He rarely leaves his realm, I don't think he's one to indulge himself that often. I don't know how he does it," he muses. Kiro, as you're allowed to call him, eyes you speculatively. This isn't the first time you've asked after the reticent god, and he knows you too well to think your inquiries are innocent in nature. "Oh, just tell me." 

You look around the clearing, ensuring that none of your mother's agents are around. The trees would tell you if they were, but years of dodging them have taught you better. 

"I want to visit the Underworld," you confess, unable to help the smile that steals over your mouth when his mouth drops open. This is the first time you've said it aloud, and doing so only cements the desire further. Kiro groans, half despair and half lament, rubbing a hand over his face.

"I regret this visit already."

"I know you know how to do it." You cross your arms over your chest, your chin jutting out in a way that makes him sigh.

"There's a reason why nobody goes there, you know."

"It isn't forbidden."

"Your mother will destroy us both." She will, but with any hope, you'll be far away when she figures it out.

"Kiro, please?"

"Argh, fine! There's only one way for the living to pass through safely; you'll need a gift for the ferryman."

You pester him until he tells you what might be suitable, until you're certain you have just the thing in mind, flopping onto your back once you know everything you need to. You study the vast expanse of the sky, awash in strokes of pinks and orange, wondering if you'll get to see it once your plan is in motion. 

"He really caught your eye, didn't he?" Kiro muses as he lays down beside you. "Demeter will throw a fit."

"Hm. Something like that. And mother can throw all the fits she wants to. This is a decision I've made for myself." 

"Have you ever even spoken to him?" You can't quite bring yourself to look at him, giving it away and his next words are incredulous. "You haven't! That's why you aren't going through the usual channels! I thought it was just because of Demeter—"

"It is!" you insist, still refusing to meet his eyes.

"But you don't want H-Him to know either." 

"...not right away, no," you mumble, continuing before he can panic. "Only because he wouldn't agree to let me visit!" 

Kiro can't argue with that. "I don't know what you're thinking, just—don't irk him." That's just one of the many things you shouldn't, the first step of your operation being at the very top. 

Slipping out of your mother's grasp isn't easy; her watchful gaze, as you murmur promises of being careful and wanting to visit forest nymphs, tells you she knows you aren't being entirely truthful. But you're aware that she will chalk it up to you playing your silly games. 

Oh, you are. This is a game you want to win. The stakes are just higher this time. 

Helios agrees to fly you down to the ocean, flying you across it as if he's afraid Demeter is right behind you. It feels surreal as you finally stand at the entrance to the cavern, your form shrouded by a cloak of thick velvet with the hood drawn up. You hesitate, for just a moment. You might be sent back right away. Or, if you are successful, there will be no going back from this. 

As you close your eyes, memories of your mother pass through your mind. The good and the bad, the dreaded and the cherished. It transitions into a vivid memory of a battle you hadn't witnessed in person, but one that you had watched while you had been hidden away in one of your temples, a shallow pool of water reflecting the bloody battlefield so far away. 

It hadn't been the first time you had seen him, but it had stayed with you until the next time you saw him leaving Olympus. You had seen him obliterate the thieves attempting to steal away the souls in his custody with nary a blink, the cold fury in his eyes belying his smooth countenance. You had been thoughtful as you watched his chariot ascend from the gape of the earth, watched him greet the sable-black horses with a muted affection at complete odds with the ruthlessness he had displayed just minutes prior.

In that conflicting visage, you saw an opportunity. 

And so, you step through the threshold, your golden gift in hand. 

You weren't expecting it to be a pleasant journey, but the wailing and complaining souls you walk in line with are still unnerving. The silent ones even more so. They look human, just a little more opaque, almost glowing in the gloomy caves. They don't seem to realize you walk with them, which is admittedly a relief. You feel uneasy at the lack of life here, and not for the first time during your walk, you wonder if you can really do this.

There will be steep consequences, the world will change, you will change. You walk, and walk, and walk, and just as you begin to feel the frustration, you see it: the long stretch of water beyond the white sand you step onto, aglow with wisps of green light swimming beneath the surface. And on the boat that glides along the surface, coming to a halt as it reaches the shore, stands the ferryman.  You have to wait as the ones ahead of you climb onto the boat before you're face to face with him. Not an inch of him is visible, the cloak doing an excellent job to conceal whatever hides behind it. Still, you can feel him peer down at you. 

You brace yourself before slipping the hood back, inclining your head as you greet him. "Charon, I presume?" 

"You...are not supposed to be here." His voice seems to echo through the cavern, soft yet scattered as if it comes from all around you. 

"No, I'm not," you concede, before offering up the golden branch you had fashioned with painstaking care. "I did bring a gift." 

You can feel him studying you as if you are the strangest passenger he's come across before he holds out his hand for the bough. "I'll accept it. Welcome aboard, young goddess." 

"I didn't think you would let me pass so easily." You climb onto the boat, taking the seat right behind Charon. 

"As long as you do not cause trouble, young goddess, I don't see why I should not."  

The boat starts to move, needing no rowers, leaving behind the souls who will have to wait their turn. You're so preoccupied with examining the luminous water that it takes you a moment to realize Charon is looking at you. 

"Are you?" You blink. "Are you here to cause trouble?"

"I'm not here to cause trouble," you answer, your slight smile giving you away. 

"And yet, I do not think He will see it that way." He seems amused despite his words, and you're distracted from answering as you exit the cave, your gaze captured by the scenery. 

The air isn't stale. There are no skulls lining the shores. The river isn't filled with the blood of the dead, instead, it seems to be so pure it's glowing. You wonder why people are so fond of spreading false accounts of their experiences in the underworld. The sky, as you observe when you tilt your head back, is a blend of greys and purples with no sign of sunlight. You refrain from squirming in discomfort—you'll just have to get used to it, trade your bright skies for vaguely ominous ones. 

The shores on either side of the river are barren of anything but sand, and on one side you see a wall of obsidian rock that stretches along the shore as far as the eye can see. 

"How do I get to Hades' palace?" you ask in slight dismay, not fond of the thought of getting lost in this strange new realm.

"The boat will stop at the entrance to the realm," he murmurs. "From there, someone will come to get you." 

"Who?" 

"Someone from the palace, I suppose." He doesn't seem to be inclined to give you more answers, and you ease away with a quiet sigh, knowing he's done more than enough. 

True to his word, Charon's boat stops in front of what looks to be the only entrance to the realm. There are two enormous gates on either side of the opening in the wall, also carved with obsidian, unembellished but for the symbols etched into the surface. A closer look shows them to be sceptres, the symbol of the ruler of this realm.

You look back at Charon with a faint smile. "Thank you." 

"You need not thank me for doing my duty, young goddess." As the boat starts back down the river, his echoing laugh sends a frisson of unease through you. "I wish you luck." 

The 'you'll need it' goes unsaid but you hear it clearly enough. Well, you will need luck when the god finds out you're here, but hopefully, it'll be a while before that happens. 

A few steps towards the gates let you know you will need luck for a lot more. 

There is no sense of alarm from the souls who continue to pass through the gates as if they don't feel the way the air grows heavy. You feel the hot, panting breath at the back of your head first, followed by a low growl. Every inch of your being tenses in place and the first thought in your head is-

'I don't have power here.'

You turn around on wobbly legs, biting back a whimper when you see him. A massive beast you had only heard rumours of, rumours you really should have given more thought because now there are three heads growling at you.

"Oh, h-hello," you croak out. The heads tilt in unsettling unison, sniffing at you in confusion. "You must be Cerberus." 

He's nearly as big as the towering gates, with a glossy black coat and eyes that possess a red sheen. One of the heads, the one on the right, whines low in his throat and is immediately snapped at by the one on the left. Their teeth look to be nearly as big as your forearm, and you curse yourself for not bringing extra gifts. You hadn't thought to prepare too much for the trip, as you aren't a demigod on a quest. 

If you want to stay in this place, it would be wise to forge friendships with its residents.

"I'm Kore," you offer when they continue to stare at you as if unable to figure out what to make of you. And then, the head on the right seems to win out as he darts forward, butting your shoulder gently as your shriek dies in your throat. You can tell he had tried to be gentle, and still, it sends you sprawling on the sand. 

You all stare at each other in surprise. The startled looks on their faces drain them of any menace they had previously displayed; it makes you clutch your abdomen as you burst out laughing. The headbutting head whines slightly, taking a hesitant step forward, sniffing frantically as if to make sure you're in one piece. 

The hand you place on his snout is gentle, your touch soothing as you coo at him, reassuring the oddly concerned looking dog. You're still giggling as the heads tilt in confusion, still unsure, and nearly miss the sound of horses whinnying from a distance. Nearly, for it's impossible to miss the thundering of hooves as they reach the ground, and your heart rattles in its cage as Cerberus sits back on his haunches, his tail curling and wagging with delight. 

And why shouldn't it, when his master has come to greet them?

"Well, I'm glad to see you're enjoying yourself." The icy words reach you before you've mustered the courage to look back at the chariot and its terrifying rider. Your fingers dig into the sand as you scramble to get ahold of the fortitude that had brought you here.

"Oh," is all you can say when you do turn around, for you're not expecting the casual attire. The armour is nowhere in sight, his body clad in flowing robes of red and gold, a sash tying them in place. His hair is free from its usual half-updo, flowing freely over his shoulders and back. 

You can't quite bring yourself to say another word, let alone give him the explanation you know he's waiting for. He raises a brow at you before scoffing, jumping off the small platform and striding towards you. Cerberus intercepts him before he can reach you, bounding forward to greet him with low whines escaping all three heads. He doesn't let Hades pass until every head has received an acceptable amount of head pats, giving you a moment to collect yourself. 

"Someone will come to get you," you repeat in a low mutter, fists clenching. "Charon, you evil, evil being."

"What was that?" A shadow falls over you, and you squint up at the god standing over you. Without the armour, however, he doesn't look as threatening as usual, though you won't be the one one to tell him that. You smile up at him brightly. 

"Nothing! Hello. Thank you for coming to get me," you say as if you hadn't sneaked into the realm and broken a few different rules. He squeezes his eyes shut for a few seconds, before exhaling forcefully and holding his hand out. You can't deny the tremble in your chest when you take it, his hand pleasantly warm to the touch as he pulls you up. 

"Come, little goddess." Your fingers tighten around his hand and he drops yours as if it were dripping with the venom of a Hydra, turning on his heel and stalking back to his chariot, clearly expecting you to follow. 

You do so quietly, waving at the horses as they eye you, flexing your hand in an attempt to suppress the strange tingling. It doesn't work, and you try not to sigh as you climb onto the chariot next to him. You're here on a mission, and the warmth spreading over your cheeks is not helping in any way.

You're further embarrassed by the startled yelp that escapes you when the chariot takes off without warning, but it's forgotten when you feel a hand settle over the top of your head, pulling you closer to the body it's attached to until you're close enough to feel it's warmth. His warmth. 

"Try not to fall off," he chides, before seeming to realize that his hand is still on your head and pulling it away to rest it on the railing. The air whipping through your hair feels blessedly cool on your heated skin, and you focus on looking around instead. You pass by what looks to be a pavilion, wondering if it is what you think it is but not having the courage to ask when he's clearly irritated. All you can do is sneak glances. His hair whips around him, brushing against yours and you avert your eyes as he turns to glance at you in question.

Any excuse you might have come up with fades away when his palace looms into view. Sitting upon an island in the middle of a lake, the walls of obsidian stone matching the wall seem to give off their own strange glow. A cobblestone bridge connects the island to the rest of the land, a spiked portcullis standing in the way of whoever dares to visit. The four towers to each corner stand proud and high enough that you worry about running into them. 

The chariot circles the tower closest to you, flying lower with each lap until you arrive in a courtyard, stopping before the stables. A nervous-looking man in golden robes seems to have been waiting there, bowing as you both climb out of the chariot. 

"My Lord." He looks at you almost suspiciously. "Lady Kore."

"Hello." Hades steps into your path before you can continue. Why is it that you're unable to finish your sentences around this man?

"I will open the entrance to the surface, I think you've had enough adventures for this decade." 

Your what echoes, confusing you until you realise it had come from the other man.

"I did not come here to just leave," you argue hotly, squaring your shoulders when he glowers down at you. "This is not some silly adventure." 

"Oh? What would you call it?"

"I came here to ask you a few questions." And a few other things, but he doesn't need to know that just yet. "Surely you can grant me that much." You cross your arms, refusing to break eye contact until he grunts and looks at the...attendant?

"Prepare the guest wing for the lady." He turns back to you just as you open your mouth. "I have things to attend to, so I'm afraid your questions will have to wait. I assume you know the rule?" 

"The rule?" you repeat, trading glances with the other man, who nods in encouragement. "Yes?" You don't have a clue. 

He seems aware of that, leaning in until his hair falls forward in a silken curtain and your entire view is filled with thick lashes and stormy eyes. 

"Don't..." You're aware that you're staring at his mouth, but seem to have lost control over where your eyes stray. "...eat anything. Unless you want to be stuck here forever." 

"O-oh." You feel uncomfortably warm again, unable to meet the wicked glint of his eyes when he pulls back. "Yes, I knew that!" 

"Wonderful. We shouldn't have any problems then. Enjoy your stay, little goddess," he calls over his shoulder as he begins to walk away. "It'll be a short one."

And then there were two—left staring after the man who disappears behind a corner.

The attendant turns to you. "I'll show you to the guest wing, My Lady." 

"Thank you..." 

"Oh! My apologies," he leads you to what looks like a side entrance to the building. "You may call me Goldman." 

"Thank you, Goldman," you say warmly. 

As you step through the door, it begins to sink in. You're really here. You're doing this. How successfully, that has yet to be seen. But you have hope. 

"Please don't mention this to My Lord but," he leans in almost conspiratorially, his hair seeming to fluff up in his cheer. " I'm personally very glad to see you here."

"You are?" It certainly hadn't seemed that way earlier. 

"Yes, My Lord rarely gets visits from the Others. And if you're here for the reason I think you are," he grins at you. "Then I'm doubly glad!" 

You both come to a halt, just before stepping through the archway that leads to a long flight of stairs. The interior of the building is vastly different from its outward appearance, with its marble floors and gilded walls.

"How could you possibly know what I'm here for?" 

"My Lady, I make it my business to know as much as I can about My Lord's everyday affairs," he gestures for you to continue. "You must know. All of us here—we're rooting for you!"

Oh. 

"Yes, well," you laugh nervously, guilt trickling through your insides. "Thank you. I'll...I shall try my best."

The guest wing you're taken to looks completely out of place for something built in Hades' realm. The bedroom itself looks like one you would have designed yourself, with its sheer white curtains and plush rugs. Set in the middle of the room, the bed itself is orbicular with a sheer curtain enclosing it almost completely, with a parting in the middle to allow easy access. The walls here are white marble with speckles of gold, with a massive armoire resting against the one in the back of the room. 

Behind the bed is a shallow pool with steps built into the sides, but what surprises you the most is the tree that seems to be curling in towards the room through the balcony that has no doors, just wide arches. There is limited flora in this realm and you had already made your peace with it, but as you press your hand against the oddly smooth bark of the tree and feel it vibrate with delight, something tense unwinds in your chest.

"I'll let Him know you like it," Goldman calls from where he stands at the threshold, hands clasped in front of him. 

"It's lovely." You take a quick peek out the balcony, which shows you a lovely view of the glowing lake.

"Yes, well," he hesitates, shaking his head. "Ah, I shouldn't...I'll send someone in to attend to you." 

He hurries away before you can press for answers, leaving you to climb into bed with a huff. Your cloak is unfastened and thrown to the side, freeing your unruly tresses and limbs. Resting on your stomach, you feel silly as the loneliness creeps in. You miss your mother and the Naiads; you had, all your life up till now, been surrounded by the Nymphs' giggles and it pains you to think that you might never hear it again. 

But your melancholy is weak when faced with your ambition. If things go your way, this will be your new home and it is with that thought in mind that your eyes flutter shut as sleep crawls over you.

A glance at the mirror shows you, clad in a forest green dress that wraps around your body, and your hair braided back with golden twine. You leave your room with your attendants' instructions, heading straight for the throne room where Hades should be. They're pleasant enough creatures, but your heart still aches with longing. Kiki and Willow must be worried out of their minds; you had told no one of your plans, with only Helios aware of your whereabouts. 

Your path takes you along another winding bridge, chandeliers with softly glowing orbs lining the ceiling and the familiar green wisps darting beneath the lake. The sky above seems almost agitated, clouds of grey and violet swirling around each other restlessly. 

Strange though it may be, the Underworld is beautiful in its own way. How could it not be, when its ruler is the same?

He stands there now, peering down into the lake as if it holds answers to any questions he may have. You know the moment he registers your presence, his shoulders turning as if to leave before he aborts the movement and faces you. 

You should be afraid, you think, standing as you are across the bridge from one of the most feared gods in all the realms. And yet, your feet move on their own as if they can't help it, taking you to him. Your heart throbs with anticipation as you draw closer. He smells like smoke laced with magic, that drugs you with every breath you take, and you think you're a fool for being so relaxed in his presence. 

And yet he's the one looking at you so warily, as if you're the one to fear?

"Hades," you greet him evenly, watching curiously as his eyes dart down to your flowing dress before meeting your gaze. 

"Kore." 

"I told you, you can call me ___," you mutter. "I was told you have no other matters to attend to at the moment?"

"Hm." 

There’s no point in beating around the bush, it would only give him more chances to escape. 

"Lovely. So," you clasp your hands behind you, tilting your head to the side. You feel your hardened resolve waver when he only watches you carefully. "Why did you reject me?"

He seems to be at a loss for words, so you continue. 

"You thought I didn't know," you state, stepping closer to him. It annoys you that you have to look up at him, but a deeper part of you enjoys it, more so when he begins to look wary. "Oh, I know. About your proposal. Zeus agreed—and then you turned it down. Why?" 

He stares at you. "You came to ask me this?" 

"I did." 

"Wh-why?" He seems genuinely baffled, blinking when you narrow your eyes at him. "It doesn't matter-"

"Of course it matters!" you snap. He steps back as you step forward, and it continues step for step until his back is pressed to the wall beside the arch. It feels a bit silly, but you reach your hand out to rest it on the wall just over his shoulder, to make sure he can't slip away. "Am I that undesirable in your eyes?" 

The words burn in your chest but oddly enough, he seems to relax at that, his mouth twitching into a tiny smile. You're quite offended by how pretty it makes him look. "Kore, that's not the case at all. You're beautiful-"

"Do not patronize me."

"I'm not-"

"I could not care less how beautiful you think I am." You stand, face to face, and you know your face is flushed with the force of your anger in that deeply unattractive way your mother hates. "All I want to know is why you changed your mind after approaching Zeus yourself." 

"It...does not matter," he finally says after a long moment spent blinking rapidly in the face of your frustration. 

"I just told you it does," you growl, and you're unsure what he sees in your face, but it makes him twitch.

"You...aren't fit for the role. I think I hear Thanatos calling for me..." 

He slips from your grasp easily, feeble as it is all of a sudden. His words echo within your thoughts, a numbness spreading through you as you try to gather yourself. 

Not fit to—what, be queen? Be his wife?

You sigh, a faint ache in your jaw from how hard you had been grinding your teeth, and rest your hands on the railing. Are you supposed to go home now?

'No.'

After all, Hades was very clear in declaring you unfit to be his wife. There's nothing more to do. You got your answers. 

'It's not enough.'

"Answers aren't all I want, after all," you murmur, reaching out a hand, smiling as a glowing orb floated up from the water to flutter around your palm. "I'll just have to show him." 

Hades wouldn't have spent all those months watching you in the meadow if he thought you to be so unsuitable. He wouldn't have kicked up such a fuss after catching wind of Ares' proposal, although he would be pissed if he found out Zeus had told you about that too. No, you won't let him escape so easily. 

You came here to be Queen, and it wouldn't do to let the King slip from your fingers with a few thoughtless words, would it?  

Your resolve remains strong, and you have another plan. Now if only he would stop avoiding you. 

If nothing else, you can at least say that you can have the almighty ruler of the Underworld running in the other direction with just a word, as he's been doing for a few days. It had been exceedingly amusing at first, watching him try to make it look as if he isn't running from you, but now your frustration mounts. Yesterday, you had followed him to the courtyard only for him to quite literally melt into the shadows. It's infuriating and you're done with this chase.

Now, you lurk in the shadows of his throne room, watching him attend to his duties. He's a stern one, this god you're trying to lockdown. Not one to be swayed easily.  You're content to wait, determination tight in your throat, as you watch the last of the Judges leave. 

Hades leans back in his throne of ebony, his shoulders relaxing from their stiff posture. You move when his eyes slide shut, creeping towards him and drawing Goldman's surprised gaze to you.

You hold up a finger to your lips, indicating for him to keep quiet until you reach the bottom of the steps leading up to the throne. Goldman hesitates before nodding, hurrying down the steps and ushering the two armoured guards at the doors from the room. 

Hades, who now watches you from his throne, says nothing as you come to a halt before him, close enough to touch. 

He does nothing as you step closer, between his spread knees to take a seat on one of them. His hands, resting on the arms of the throne, clench around the metal. 

"Not running away this time?" 

"You would just hunt me down again," he mutters, still watching you as you lean closer. "One could think you're Artemis in disguise."

"Invoking another goddess' name while I sit on your lap? You're quite shameless."

"And you're astonishingly persistent."

"I can be when it comes to what’s mine," you counter coolly, fighting a smirk when you catch the slight flush spreading high on his cheeks. 

"You go too far, Kore." The slight tremble in his tone belies his harsh words. He's not wrong, but he also hasn't pushed you off his lap yet. 

"You've left me no choice, Hades." You lean in, smiling faintly. He turns his head away, but two fingers under his chin tilt it back towards you. For a moment, you say nothing. You can't because his mask is slipping, it's apparent in the agitation in his eyes and the skies beyond the windows. "They say you're elusive, but there's only so much a girl can take."

The tip of your nose brushes his and it has you swallowing, has his lips parting, the feel of your breath mingling with his dizzying and terrifying. 

"I'll be good to you. Let me show you," you whisper, pressing your lips to his cheek. A shuddering, almost pained breath leaves him.

"You don't know what you're doing." It's a rumble in his chest, a half-hearted attempt to warn you but you've come too far to quit now. Your lips carve a soft path to his ear, kissing the lobe lightly. 

"Tell me you don't want me," you murmur, tracing the shell of his ear with your tongue.

He says nothing, but it's clear in the way his muscles strain, in his eyes that speak of yearning and desire.

Just one move and you'll have him. 

But he's temptation given form, and you're shaken by how violently your heart thunders in your chest. This will change the game, for better or for worse, you know it in your bones. If you give yourself to him, he will never let you go. Your tongue sweeps across your full lips, his eyes focusing on it and for the shortest of seconds, your lips meet the corner of his mouth. And then you dart away—or at least you try to, were it not for the hand sliding into your hair and bringing you back to him. Your breath stutters at the fierce look in his eyes, at the sudden unyielding grip he has on your hair and your heart.

"You should finish what games you start, little goddess." His voice is somehow fuller, his eyes dancing with sheer want and it scares you how much you want it but—it's that word, the 'little' that sparks your stubborn desire and has your eyes sliding shut as you press your mouth to his. For a moment, there's a buzzing sound in the back of your head and then, it feels like you've been struck by lightning. As if you've jumped into the deepest fires of Tartarus, and somewhere in the back of your thoughts, you realize you're in trouble.

But then he tilts his head and moves his lips and you have nothing to spare for anyone or anything except for him. A moan comes to life and dies within your throat when his other arm wraps around your waist to pull you closer. The next is stolen by him when you're pressed into him, melting into the chiselled planes of his torso. 

You can't think. 

His hands rove over your body, drawing you closer until your parted knees rest on the throne, on either side of his hips. You're not sure how long you sit there, kissing deeper and deeper and wanting more. Your heart feels full and you can't believe you finally have this, have him and then his hips press up into yours. A hot jolt in your belly has desire dripping through you as you feel him, firm against your centre, and then you realise your dress has ridden up almost to your waist.

'Oh.'

You're both dazed as you pull away, unable to form a thought let alone words. But this feeling, this contentment, you don't want to give it up. His flushed ears, his warm breath, his burning gaze. You want to capture it all and hoard it forever. The flashing skies break you out of the moment.

"I think we both have things to think through," you half-slur, flushing in embarrassment as you clamber off his lap, righting the hem of your dress. You nearly give in when he reaches for you, the lost look on his face tugging at your heartstrings but you force yourself to turn away and sprint down the stairs. 

This was the plan. Leave him wanting more, and he'll come after you. But this desire you feel, this need to go back, to curl around him and spent an eternity there—this wasn't part of the plan.  

'But this is a good thing.'

It could be. You came here to be more. Because you had deemed Hades to be the perfect one to marry, to escape your mundane life and reach for more than you were given, more than you were expected to be. Here, you could spread your wings.

But you hadn't expected to feel this deeply. 

When did it even begin, you wonder? Was it when you first saw him in battle? Had it all already been set in motion when you had so very conveniently positioned yourself close to his preferred spot of opening a portal to his realm? When you had heard the first whispers of him watching you plucking flowers? 

You had been content to let him observe you, listening to the trees giggle at his attempt at stealth. You had no idea what was so interesting about watching you frolic about the meadow, giggling with the Naiads, but it had worked to your advantage. That had been clear when Zeus spoke to you of his interest. 

But then he withdrew the offer, snatched away your chance and you were forced to take matters into your own hands. 

You reach your room with haste, rushing to your balcony to collapse beside the railing closest to the tree, clutching your chest. The branches above shiver and reach down to you. Your heart longs powerfully, it aches with it, and it's so sweet it's foolish. You're a fool. All the other gods and mortals, they're all fools. 

Hiding away in the Underworld is, not only the deadliest but perhaps the fairest god of them all. 

This time, you're the one avoiding him. 

It grates at you, this cowardice, but your heart flutters at just the thought of facing him and it makes you nervous. You're emotionally compromised. You want him, more than you've ever wanted anyone. 

It's when the palace is still, when the skies are darker, that you sneak out to the stables. His chariot rests in the back, but you're distracted by the scarlet eyes watching you from different stalls. They're quiet when you come closer, reaching into the one on right, stroking its soft forehead gently as he neighs. 

"Nyctaeus is more tolerant than the others." You nearly jump in fright as He materializes from the shadows, smiling slightly as the steed, who you now know to be Nyctaeus, neighs softly. 

His hand joins yours in stroking his head and you wish he would do that to you too. 

'I wonder if Cerebrus would consent to eat me?'

"They're good companions, especially when you can't sleep. Alastor," he points at the one on the far left, "can be quite chatty. Orphnaeus is a bit more reserved. Aethon...he may kick you if you try to make conversation." 

This might be the longest you've heard him talk in one conversation. You glance at him; he's dressed in a robe similar to yours, muted red where yours is olive green. His hair seems a bit dishevelled, as if he had run a hand through it one too many times. 

"I would love to get to know them better," you smile when Nyctaeus butts his muzzle into your palm. You watch from the corner of your eye as Hades pauses, then hesitates. 

"Kore." You turn to face him and he offers you his arm. "Walk with me?"

You walk for some time before the silence is broken, coming up to the bridge where you had cornered him and he'd run from you for the first time. The chandeliers are inactive, the lake providing enough light as it isn't quite dark here. 

"The other day..."

"I regret nothing," you cut in before he can take that route. He huffs out a low laugh, pulling you to where it's brightest.

"No, I suppose you don't." The green light from the lake reflects onto his features, illuminating them with an eerie glow. "And neither do I."

'Perfect,' you think, but there is only anticipation where there should be more triumph. 

"So..." He sighs, and something within you squeezes painfully. 

"Kore," he begins, tugging you closer when you turn away. "I didn't withdraw the proposal because I don't desire you. If it isn't clear already, it's very much the opposite."

You look up at him as he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, smiling ruefully. "But?"

"But I think you would be wasted here. Spring has no place in this realm of mine." There is a flicker of something in his eyes as he says those words. It hurts him, and hurts you too. And more than that, it offends you.

"Don't you think that should be my decision?" Your breath grows heavy, anger and longing warring within you at how sad he looks in the dim glow. 

"I think you deserve better," he argues, rather weakly in your opinion. He looks pitiful, the look out of place on this dark king and you hate it. He looks pained yet he can't seem to look away from you, and you can't turn your eyes away now that you've seen him. You've had a glimpse of his heart and you want it.

You simply kiss him. 

You do feel triumph now—in how helplessly he kisses you back, in the low groan he lets out, and in how naturally his arms find their place around you. 

"Hades," you begin, pulling away and bracing a hand against his chest when he follows. "I know I made it seem that away, but I don't actually have time."

"What do you mean?" The husky timbre of his voice makes you shiver. 

"I mean, I have until my mother finds out I've run away and sends someone after me," you admit sheepishly. His eyes widen before squeezing shut. 

"Demeter doesn't know you're here."

"She might now. But no, I didn't tell her anything." He glances around as if expecting your mother to come raging out of the lake. 

"Kore..." he sighs.

"She would never have agreed!" 

"Well, you clearly have a plan. What do you want to do?" 

You shrug. "Marry you."

"Kore!" 

"I'm serious. That was my plan."

"So am I. A wedding for those of our standing," he begins, pulling you into his arms. "It must take place before the Pantheon for it to be valid in their eyes." 

"I don't care about what they think," you mumble into his chest, feeling it shake as he chuckles. 

"I more than agree with that but," his lips brush your hair, "I would like for your mother and anyone else you love to be there."

You take a moment to think, before scraping the marriage plan—for now. Another idea sparks, one that you'd considered and abandoned before kissing him that day.

"A lovely thought," you purr, standing up on the tips of your toes to brush your lips along his sculpted jawline. His fingers dig into the sides of your waist. "Then we need to leave them no other choice but to give us their blessings." 

"And how do we go about that?"

Your tongue flicks against his lower lips and he opens his mouth instantly; you've kissed others before, but never has it been this addictive.

"First," your teeth graze his lip, "we go to my room." 

His hands find the backs of your thighs, hoisting you up with ease. Your surroundings blur with his speed, as he sinks into the shadows that form a blanket around you. It's a second of complete darkness and then you're in your room.

Now that he isn't using it to escape you, it really does seem like a handy trick.

"And then?" He lets you slip off, watching with glittering eyes as you start walking back to where your bed is. 

"And then," your nimble fingers find the knot of your dress, easing it open and unwrapping the cloth swiftly. "you make me yours." 

You laugh loudly at how wide his eyes get before he's on you and you're on the bed. He kisses you desperately as if he's afraid you'll be torn from his grasp, and you pull him closer until the soft material of his robes meets your bare skin. 

Rough fingertips slide down the gentle slope of your neck, reverent in their touch, brushing over a hardening nipple, sliding over your soft abdomen, dipping into the mess of curls below but not reaching for what lies beyond. 

"You're so beautiful, ___." His lips are fervent on your skin. "Thank you."

You laugh helplessly, shifting into a moan when he takes a nipple into his mouth. "Thank you?" 

Your back arches when he sucks, until he pulls back to smile down at you. The sight alone is enough to stun you, and the slight dimple in one cheek ensures further silence on your part.

"Yes," he leans in to kiss you but doesn't elaborate. You reach for the sash of his robes, tugging it off impatiently. You regret it the moment you succeed and the part of his robe allows you a closer look at what lies beneath. His torso looks as if it could have been sculpted by Hephaestus himself, and his cock—the sight of it flushed and erect has your mouth dry. 

"Oh," you say, and your face could've been on fire with how hot it feels.

"You seem nervous, little goddess," he says lightly, but the darkening of his eyes displays his lethal desire. "With how boldly you climbed onto my lap that day, I almost thought you were going to have me right there." 

"Ah, well," you avert your eyes, unable to escape his teasing gaze, "I actually...I've never..."

You miss the way his eyes soften at your trembling words, blinking when you feel his lips on your forehead. 

"I know. They do call you the Maiden, after all." 

At this, you glare at him. "Well, then, My Lord—I trust you to change that tonight." 

He grins as if he thinks you adorable, prompting you to push him until you switch positions. You climb onto him with flushed cheeks, sliding your hands down his chest until they splay dangerously low on his abdomen. His smile is fainter, edged with a warning, his hair fanned out over the sheets. You simply smile as you wrap your hands around his cock, squeezing it curiously. 

"K-Kore," he groans. "Please be careful with that." He helps you adjust your grip on the base of his shaft, guiding you to pump it slowly. 

"I told you, call me ___," you insist, watching with fascination as the tip of his cock starts to glisten temptingly. "Everybody else calls me Kore." 

"Right," he croaks, bucking his hips when you finally give in to the urge to lick at the slit of his cock. "By Tartarus. You wicked little thing. Ah, then, you m-may call me Victor." 

"Victor?" you ask, tongue stilling where it was sliding along his length. He smirks down at you. 

"I certainly feel like one." His ensuing chuckle is cut off when you take him into your mouth, trying to remember what the Naiads had mentioned about pleasuring your lovers. "D-don't push yourself." 

You hollow your cheeks in response, taking him deeper until your mouth feels uncomfortably full. You begin to bob your head slowly, unsure until you hear him groan and begin moving more confidently. 

It's when your tongue begins to slide in unison with your mouth and your hand inches towards his ballsack that you feel him tug at your hair, not easing his grip until you've let his cock slip out of your mouth with a whine. He curses again, sitting up and pulling you to him, tasting himself on your tongue. His robe slips off completely and you're quick to take advantage of it, stroking over his flexing muscles avidly.

You tense when you feel his warm palm on your inner thigh, as if your body is waiting for something but you don't know what, not until you feel him touch your sex. His fingers slide along your slit and you gasp into his mouth, fingers clenching around his shoulders as he touches you gently, stoking the flame you hadn't realised was there, preoccupied as you were with his bare skin.

"You're so wet for me," he murmurs, pleased. He slides a finger in, hissing when your walls squeeze him tight. "Oh, ___." 

You've only ever indulged yourself a few times, mostly out of curiosity and restlessness, but here as you sit in the arms of the man you've claimed as yours, it feels completely different. His fingers are longer, thicker, and it seems so deliciously erotic; he swallows your moans, kisses your cheeks, whispers his encouragement as your hips begin to move, grinding into his hand. He makes you come on his fingers, holding you as you tremble and cling to him. 

He lays you down, kissing your forehead, the lids of your eyes, your nose, your cheeks. He lingers on your lips before his mouth glides along your neck, stopping to suck softly on your breasts. His lips on your abdomen feel ticklish, making you giggle until you feel his breath on your quivering cunt. He parts your legs, and his ravenous gaze makes you throb harder. 

"Vic-Victor-"

Any capacity to speak coherently is lost with the first lick along your slit, before his tongue pushes through and you're left writhing on the bed. He sucks and laps at you, his iron grip around your thighs thwarting your attempts at squirming away. His lips close around your nub and you keen, begging for respite or for more, you don't even know yourself. 

He does pull away, crawling over to kiss your hair and murmur soothing praises as you kiss his jaw and widen your legs in a silent invitation. Ha-Victor looks at you when he brushes the head of his cock against you, not looking away even as he begins to push in. The air feels charged with magic, you feel it in little sparks against your skin. Your head falls to the mattress, eyes rolling back as he pulls back to slide in further with shallow thrusts, overwhelmed by how full it feels. 

"You're going to be the death of me," he chokes out, feeling your walls fluttering around him. Locking eyes with him has been an intense experience every single time but now, with him throbbing within you, it feels almost painfully intimate.  

"G-Good thing you won't be going anywhere," you manage to quip, smiling even as he draws you into a kiss and begins to thrust. He sets a smooth pace, allowing you to try and keep up as your hips begin to undulate. It's with measured thrusts and clever fingers that you come again, with fervid kisses on your skin that soften with every breath you take. He empties himself within you, murmuring incoherent praises into the side of your throat as he shakes.  

He takes you into his arms, a hand caressing the length of your back, and a memory springs up; once, one of the visiting nymphs had claimed to have bedded Hades. She had scoffed and declared him to be a cold lover, that living in the Underworld for so long must've drained him of all passion. You had suspected it even then, but now you know she had been lying. 

Your soft snickers draw his attention away from your shoulders, where he had been planting soft kisses.

"What is it?"

"Oh, nothing," you say breezily, rolling over to grin at him. "Just congratulating myself on a job well-done." 

"As you should," he agrees. "But I don't see how this stops Demeter from taking you away." 

You stare at him. He hasn't realized it, has he?"

"That was just for us." You sit up, opening your arms when he shifts to rest his head on your stomach. "Now...I'm hungry."

He freezes, nearly flinging himself back with how quickly he rises. "___." 

"You can't tell me you hadn't considered it." You raise a brow at how his eyes fall with shame.

"I...did. It would've done the job. But at the time it would've been against your wishes," he admits, tucking your head under his chin as you wrap your arms around him. 

"And now it won't be." 

"___." He places his hands on your shoulders, looking at you gravely. "This will bind you to the Underworld. To me."

Your only response is to roll your eyes and kiss him. 

The conversation derails very quickly from there and time blurs as you lose yourselves in each other. It's when you sit on the edge of the pool, leaning back on your arms with your legs spread wide as Victor fucks you with his tongue, that a strange ringing sound reaches your ears. Victor growls and continues until you're a mewling mess on unsteady limbs that he pulls into the water.

"Hermes is here," he informs you, his arms tight around as you both realize your time is up. You kiss him, hard and fast, pulling him up the steps before your common sense takes leave once more. 

"We have to do it now," you insist, shaking your head when he opens his mouth. "I'm sure. I want you. I will have no one else as my husband."

He blushes, clearing his throat and nodding. "I feel the same. I...I want you as my wife. And my queen." 

You stand there like a pair of fools, smiling at each other until there's another insistent ring. Victor holds his hand out, and you stare at it in confusion until a pomegranate appears from thin air. 

"Right, we must consider your other duties as well," he mutters to himself, seemingly agonizing over it until he digs out six seeds. 

“...Yes, we must.” 

"Six seeds for six months?" he asks quietly. 

"That should do it." A shame that you can't stay by his side, but you must think of your mother and the people too. You did consider just having someone replace you but it's not that easy, and it would be too selfish of you. "You can come to visit while I'm there."

"I will," he promises, holding up the first seed to your mouth. He feeds you each seed individually, waiting patiently as you chew. You look down at yourself and then around. 

"I don't feel any changes." He laughs and laces his fingers through yours. 

"I do. They'll have no choice but to let you come now," he whispers into your hair. "Hermes will probably take you to Olympus." 

"I'll see you there, then." You can't help the mischievous smirk that curls along your mouth. "We do have a wedding to plan." 

Victor groans and pushes you onto the bed. 

It's with a cheerful grin and a skip in your step that you materialize out of the shadows to meet Hermes in the throne room. The Messenger looks confused by your enthusiastic greeting, which contrasts greatly with Victor's brooding pout.

"Hades. Kore. I believe you know why I'm here," he states, peering at you through his helmet when you just nod. "Kore, I'm to take you to Olympus. Your parents are waiting." 

Hermes nearly chokes when you turn to Victor, waiting until he lowers his head so you can plant a noisy kiss on his cheek. 

"I'll see you soon, darling."

"I'll be there,” he vows.

You take the hand offered by an incredulous Hermes, looking back at Victor as a golden ring surrounds you and your escort.

"___?" 

Your heart aches already, your lip quivering at the miserable look in his eyes. There’s an awful feeling burning in your chest and you think you’re starting to understand all those songs about longing for your lover.

"Yes?" your voice cracks pitifully, and he cracks the softest smile at that, watching you leave him so tenderly it may just break you. All you want to do is hold him and tell him every silly thought you’ve ever had, to dig deeper and listen to anything he wants to tell you. You manage a wobbly smile for him.

"I love you."

Your eyes widen, heart skipping as you open your mouth—and then he vanishes from sight. You materialize in a secluded garden within Olympus, Hermes staring at you in shocked silence as you try to compose yourself. It feels as if you’ve left your heart behind, and you hadn’t known love could ever be so bittersweet. 

"Well, now I almost want to take you back," he mutters as your eyes begin to burn. "Come, your parents await you. I suspect you have a lot to tell them."

Hermes is right. The sooner you inform them of your decision, the sooner you'll see Victor again. You've fallen in love with the King of the Underworld, with all his jagged edges and dimpled smiles—and there is no force in all of the realms that will stop you from making him yours. 

[enigmainvestigations]

Character list

This is going to be a brief breakdown of Ed’s relationships with the other characters in Gotham mostly from his Riddler days. This is from his perspective, theirs are mostly still open (besides the ones that I explain here). Also, these relations can change over time which many of them will. Please note- This list is for those who are curious, and for writers who might need some inspiration in the case a character comes up in their writing and they get stuck. You don’t have to reference this, these are just my current ideas on these character relations.   

Heroes: 

Batman- HATE. I’ve gone over this already in his bio, but I’ll use this to explain some things from Batman’s perspective. At first Batman saw Ed as someone unable to control their compulsive behavior, and thought Eddie just needed some intervention. However, as the years went by and he began to be the focus of Ed’s schemes he started to see him as a cunning, intelligent, and very dangerous criminal. Especially when it became clear to him that Ed had no regard for others, and Ed’s plans regularly put other’s lives and well being at risk. He knows that Ed’s intelligence and his ability to process and retain knowledge is extremely high, and he worries that Ed’s intellect might surpass his at some point. Ed’s motives were always rather simplistic even if his methods weren’t, but Batman saw his potential and believed if Ed truly applied himself he could become much too dangerous. Because of this he handled Eddie very specifically. He would normally take on the Riddler on his own in hopes of controlling their interactions, and keep himself as the main focus of Ed’s ire. Nightwing- Greatly dislikes. From his time as Robin being a bratty teen with a smart mouth, Ed sees him as an annoyance despite only having brief encounters with him through the years. Oracle- Ed has no idea Oracle is the previous Batgirl, but he REALLY dislikes her. Since Batman doesn’t really control Batgirl he’s had more interactions with her than the Robins. He’s been on the receiving end of too many of her beastmode attacks to have anything but negative feelings toward her. Jason Todd- **I haven’t decided if this is post, pre, or if the Red Hood arc is going to play out like the canon* Robin (Tim)- Ed doesn’t like any of the Robins, but he does have a very slight respect for Tim. He’s had much more interactions with him than the previous two, and he knows that he’s smart and capable. He certainly keeps his guard up around him, and chooses his words wisely so not to divulge too information. Batgirl (Steph)- Dislikes, but doesn’t take her too seriously. 

Batgirl (Cass)- Dislikes. Only in his brief interactions with her, he really doesn’t like her. The reasons should be obvious.

Alfred Pennyworth- None

Jim Gordon- This one is a bit complicated. When Ed worked for the GCPD he had very few interactions with Jim, but the two were cordial. When Ed became The Riddler Jim felt betrayed since he used a lot of information he’d complied while working at the department. Over the years though Jim began to see Ed as someone who couldn’t control himself and was suffering with mental issues. He took the stance of treating Ed the way he treated him, but tries not to get him too riled up. He figured out that if he treated Ed with respect then Ed tended to behave and not get too excitable. On the other hand, Eddie actually likes interacting with Jim. He finds him quite entertaining, and likes watching Jim try to hold his tongue in his presence. 

Renee Montoya- Complicated as well. When Ed worked for the GCPD Renee found him to be very odd, and he gave her the creeps though she couldn’t quite put her finger on why. When Ed became The Riddler she also felt betrayed, but she was much more confrontational with her anger toward him than Jim. Through time she also began to see Eddie the same way as Gordon, but she finds it hard to control her distaste toward him. The fact that he can escape handcuffs, and any cell they put him in makes her very nervous around him whenever he’s in custody. Eddie tends to find her outbursts rather funny, and usually would try to get on her nerves whenever he was bored when around her. Renee was rarely the main focus of his attention, but when she was he would be quite rude to her in hopes of getting her riled up. Harvey Bullock- Also complicated. Same situation as the other two, but Harvey actually liked Ed a bit when he worked at the department. He found his snide comments to be very humorous, as long as they were directed toward someone else. He also felt betrayed, but Harvey personally suffered more from Ed’s betrayal. Since then he has a deep disdain toward Ed, and feels zero sympathy or understanding for him. He’s very open about his anger with Eddie, and would often berate him whenever he was in custody. Eddie however loves interacting with Bullock. He finds Harvey’s anger very entertaining, and typically focuses on baiting him into an outburst. He’s used these situations multiple times as a distraction to escape custody.

Villains:

Bane- They haven’t had much interaction, but anyone who breaks the Bat Ed is going to like at least a little bit. Black Mask- Good. Ignoring Roman’s trigger happy temper, Ed tends to find him easy to work with since Roman’s motives are relatively simple. Clayface- Good. He’s hired Basil on a few occasions and found him pretty easy to work with. Catwoman- Dislikes, despite the two not having any real confrontations. The two are respectful to each other, but Selina thinks outside the box too much for Ed’s liking. She’s also better at certain skills than he is, which really messes with his ego since he doesn’t trust her. Long and short of it is- Selina makes Ed feel inadequate so he avoids her, but he’s not stupid so he doesn’t piss her off. Harley Quinn- As The Riddler Ed found Harley to be an annoyance, and couldn’t understand why Joker wouldn’t just kill her. He viewed her as unintelligent, and a waste of time. He generally treated her like he would a child, which sometimes worked and other times Harley found patronizing. *By the time Ed quits his criminal career however, him and Harley have an odd relationship. They’ve survived some very close calls, and even though he still finds her annoying he seems to accept her presence around him even though he tends to ignore most of what she says. Their chumminess is odd, and quite suspicious to everyone else in the city.  Hush-**I haven’t decided if this is post Hush, pre Hush, or if Hush plays out like the canon or not**

The Joker- Ed is one of the few people who can be around Joker repeatedly without getting killed. He made the mistake of teaming up with Joker once, and quickly learned his lesson never to do it again. After that he figured out how to deal with Joker, and kept him at arms length. He has The Joker mostly figured out, and doesn’t find interactions with him to be as unpredictable as others do. He also likes that whenever Joker comes to him needing something silly for one of his plans, he can charge him ridiculously high prices and Joker will pay without a second thought. His reputation of dealing with Joker is a bit of an ego boost for him, thinking he’s learned how to manipulate him. The reality is though, Joker doesn’t kill him simply because he finds Ed’s sensitive ego and his self destructive behavior hilarious. Killer Croc- Eddie thinks they’re alright, but they’re really not. 

Mad Hatter- They’re alright. Ed can’t be around Jervis for too long because his fantastical ramblings get on his nerves, but he tends to play along with Jervis’ delusions enough that Jervis thinks he understands. Because of this Ed finds him easy to influence. He has little interest in Jervis, but his mind control tech is something Ed’s always been trying to get his hands on. Unfortunately for him, currently Jervis is unwilling to fully share it.

Mr. Freeze- Its really 50/50 with these two. Even though Ed sees Victor as an easy way to make some money, or someone to have do some dirty work for him if need be, he also finds Victor’s anger to be exhausting to deal with. He knows Victor doesn’t like him and only really uses him for his own objectives, but Victor also makes their interactions quiet rocky. Ed will work with him if the opportunity arises, but he’ll keep their business brief. The Penguin- Good. The two of them have very similar skills at persuasion, manipulation, and deception. They practically do a constant dance of give and take with each other, to the point that now they both see the other as a valuable resource. Since they both dabble in similar assets the two have found its easier to work together than to be competition, which has really made them both more successful in the long run. From Ed’s perspective this is a battle of intelligence, but he has recognized that Os is aware of it and surprisingly isn’t put off by it like others are. He respects Os’s boundaries, and finds business with him to be smooth sailing. Os has a good level of respect for Ed. Not only because of his intelligence, and reliability, but also that Ed is smart enough to never fully trust Os. He’s used to being underestimated by people, and Ed’s unwillingness to divulge too much is a level of cunning he admires. *Os is not happy about Ed’s “career” change. He doesn’t believe Ed has turned over a new leaf, but his sudden switch makes him very uneasy. He has people watching Eddie very closely.  Poison Ivy- Not at all good. Ed made the mistake of underestimating Ivy early on, giving her the opportunity to see him as the manipulative jerk he really was. She hasn’t trusted him since, and he usually has to avoid her in order to not get crushed by her plants.  Ra’s al Ghul- None. **I currently really want to keep the Gotham criminals in the dark about the League** Scarecrow- Dislike. Considering that Crane is an actual intellectual and a genius, Ed does not like interacting with him. He isn’t outwardly hostile toward Crane, but he definitely avoids him whenever he can. Crane’s intelligence really messes with Ed’s ego. Mix that with Crane’s creepy nature, and his constant psychological analyzing, he usually makes Ed feel like an inferior child. He’s also a bit scared of him and that fear toxin. Two-Face- Also 50/50 with them (I didn’t do that on purpose). Having to interact with two people in one body with two separate motivations can be quite stressful for Ed, but at the same time he enjoys the game. Harvey isn’t as easy for him to manipulate as he can with others, and he’s had a few close calls with Harvey where he pushed things too far. This seems to have fueled his interest in the game more, rather than deter him.

[singeramg]

Midnight: Chapter 20

Pairing: Clark Kent-Superman/ Metahuman! Black! OFC

Rating: M

A/N: Okay so I finished this one up as well and honestly I wanted to get it up so I can set my own record for the most chapters I could get posted in one day. I am excited! 

Warning: Smut! I would say Dom Clark, but its more of a frustrated Clark seeing as Gia never listens to him. Rough mostly...

CATCH UP HERE!

Midnight: Chapter 20

  “Freeland? My mom was from Freeland, she left one night and never looked back.”

I looked at the room who were all looking at me in expectation of an answer I couldn’t give them. I look at the screen as a photo of an unfamiliar black man comes up on the screen, an old grainy quality photo shows him smiling at a desk somewhere. His smile is kind, but I truly had no clue of who this man was.  

   “What’s in Freeland?” Barry asks as innocent as always.

   “There is not much but some of the files that got transferred have mention of an article done by Alvin Pierce. Considering there weren’t computers back then and his article was never actually published I can’t tell you exactly how this is all connected to the experiments but I have a feeling you find out what his research was about then we will have  a solid start to put whoever is after you behind bars forever.”

 I nod in agreement.

   “Looks like a trip to Freeland is in order. Got an address for me Vic?”

  I ask in a fun tone, looking to get answers for my questions and to my pesky problem of people trying to kidnap me, Clark stands up from where he was leaning on the wall previously, the black rimmed glasses he didn’t need tucked into his shirt pocket. I can feel his flash of worry hit me as the idea processes through his mind.

   “Woah, woah, woah. Gia. Hold on, I don’t think you going to Georgia is the best idea.” 

I look at him with an eyebrow raised.

   “ It’s a sneak and peek visit Clark. Go down there, do a little digging and come back.”

   “ Gia you just got back.”

   “It’s one night Clark.”

I can tell by the look on his face this conversation was not over by a long shot.

 *-“We will talk about this later” he says while looking at me pointedly.*

 *-Fine. Wait you can’t even hear me but if you could I’d tell you to calm the hell down.”*

 *-Gia you must have forgotten you can project your thoughts. I CAN HEAR YOU.”*

 “Shit. I mean...damn... I mean get out of my head!”

He laughs inside of mind

 My eyes widen and Clark raises one eyebrow this time as if daring me to say something. I choose to look away, finally taking note that the room is staring at us...again.

   “Umm...Gia maybe Clark is right. You should stay here and rest.”

Diana says softly, placing her hand on my shoulder.

   “I can’t rest. Don’t y’all get it? Whoever is after me won’t stop. They won’t rest until they have me back in their claws. I am going to Freeland. Victor can you please get me an address.”

   “I’ll go with you. I can protect you in case someone tries to take you again.” Diana offers. 

   “An beautiful Amazonian woman and a gorgeous Black Methuman together is bound to attract unnecessary attention.”

I say with a smirk.

   “How about I go too. An extra set of hands on the ground, Diana can keep the plane going in case we need a quick take off and not far in case we need an extra set of hands.”

 Barry offers and I mildly wonder where he got the bag of sour cream and onion chips from but say nothing about them. I, along with everyone else, turned to Clark who was somewhat the unofficial head of the team, Bruce had said nothing, only keenly observing like he always did. I knew he would only step up if he had to butt in. 

   “And you know I’m always on surveillance. So really it’s like almost the whole team except you, Bruce and Arthur.”

   *-“Still not done talking about this Gia.”*

He says to me in his mind, and waves of unhappiness comes from him but out loud he says.

   “Fine. Just an in and out trip. Do not engage with anybody or anything. Find the information we need to end this and come home.”

I smile slightly and we go about planning the quick trip...

 *Upstairs*

 Kalen was down for a nap, Ms. A and Martha we’re enjoying being kid free for a few hours by watching TV and doing some online shopping, the rest of the team had gone off to do their own things until those who were going had to suit up. Clark and I went into another one of Bruce’s rooms that wasn’t  currently occupied by someone and seeing as Tracy had gone back to mine to watch TV and contemplate if she was doing the right thing by being here, we needed to talk in a different room.

 Clark was still not happy about me going on this trip, his thick arms crossed over his chest as I threw up a noise canceling shield for the room. As I did he started up with me.

   “Gia I still don’t think you should go.”

  “Clark, I can't let this go. These people after us they won’t stop. I can’t live my life afraid and looking around every corner. I subject Kalen to constant moving and identify changes and denying him the chance to be a child.”

 “Anyone else can handle this mission. You were just kidnapped! You haven’t even been back a full 24 hours and you already are trying to run off again. I think Kalen would want you here with him not off chasing a big bad that we haven’t even identified yet!”

 Clark has a vein popping out the side of his forehead out of anger and because I was already still on edge I was pissed too.

   “And what do you think this shit is just going to stop?! It won’t until me and Tracy are locked back in that jail cell of a room. Until every part of the Gia you all know is gone. Can you say you will put me down if I’m so far gone that all I know is this synergy persona they created? They almost succeeded in tearing me away from my son!”

   “I can protect you both. There is no need to put you down because nobody will have the chance to get to you if you just listen!”

 Clark was pissed, I was pissed and I truly didn’t feel like punching Superman dead in his shit right now. He wasn’t getting it at all, literally all he wanted to see was me being helpless, but he didn’t realize I couldn’t let that define me at all. I had to do this. I had to fight for me.

   “I am listening to Clark! I am hearing you loud and clear. I can feel you too! You have zero confidence in me. You think someone is going to snatch me again...”

   “Gia let’s shoot straight here. Did you or did you not go to work after we repeatedly told you it was a bad idea?”

  “Yes but...”

 “I am not finished talking.”

I stood glaring at him and crossing my arms.

   “Gia did you or did you not lead them home after we fought Steppenwolf because you were too prideful to talk to me?”

   “It wasn’t pride...”

  “I am not finished yet.”

I wasn’t going to admit that despite me being highly annoyed with Clark right now, he looked good wearing his confidence. For now all I wanted to do was let him finish talking. I could tell this conversation was getting to him too, as his anger became tainted with his own thunderstorm of emotions.

  “Go on then. Keep talking. Tell me more about the failure I am.”

 I say with an eye roll. Clark being Clark does not like this and starts backing me up, my back hits the sturdy door. I feel my breath hitch in my chest as I become surrounded in Clark’s scent again. The tension went from anger to anger and sexuality. 

  “You always have to say something smart don’t you?”

   “Since when don’t I have something to say? You know me better than that Clark.”

 He comes up to me, his arms caging me in on either side of my face. 

   “Exactly and I know you well enough to know that you are using that smart mouth to divert the attention from talking about your problems.”

  “What problem do you think I have Mr. Kent?” 

 I know he can hear my heart rate pick up because instead of being angry at me he only gives me that smirk, the one that he only gives when his mind is on something other than his high morality. 

   “You think you have to do all of it by yourself still. So hardheaded and you won’t listen until you are hurt oooorrrr.... otherwise occupied. Between you and me I think we both would prefer the other way I get you to listen.”

 I look up at him from under my lashes, and slide my hands up his chest, grasping the dark gray t-shirt he was wearing underneath his favored blue plaid shirt. It was my favorite too but I wasn’t going to tell him that. I gripped the shirt and pulled him down to where our lips could meet. 

 Every time I kissed Clark it was like a religious experience. I never forgot how his lips felt against mine, in all these years, even under control of someone else, he still feels the same. His tongue presses into my mouth and immediately dominates it unlike the previous kisses, he was making it clear that he was in charge this go ‘round. I was more than okay with it and as his  hands slid down to my hips, I tossed mine around my neck. Clark picks me up and I lock my legs around his waist. I moan into his mouth when I feel his length pressing on my core through my jeans. I wasn’t paying attention to how close we were to the bed until he threw me onto it suddenly, both our chests heaving. This was the beauty in my powers because I got the full rebound of both my emotions as well as Clark’s. I could double it back out to him, but honestly his own arousal was enough. 

   “Are you ready to listen yet?”

He asks me but I decide to cheat a little and listen to his thoughts. None of what he wanted to do was concrete, quick images fly on the surface of his mind, clearly this was intentional. He was playing with my lack of training with my new powers. One thing is clear however he was ready to teach me a lesson and I was more than willing to let him. Foreplay wasn’t even needed because I could feel my panties were already ruined and my jeans were going to follow if I didn’t get them off. I snap my fingers, sending my clothes somewhere that I didn’t care about in the moment. Clark basically all but rips his clothes down the middle to get them off. Next thing I know he is back on top of me, and his fingers find my center.

   “Already dripping for me...” he says with a low growl in his voice.

    “Yes for you Kent. Who else would it be for?”

I can’t turn off the snark and I know it’s egging on his need to ruin me. I wanted to see how far he would go. He goes back to hovering over me, my breasts heaving against his chest.

 “Do you ever shut up Gia?”

 “Well it’s a skill I have yet to ma-STER!”

Clark had surprised me by pushing into me, without a warning. I hiss and latch to his back our positioning similar to the first time we had done this. I need time to adjust to the sudden intrusion, and his size, but he knew that which was why he wasn’t moving. The only reason he hadn’t gone in slowly was to shut me up. Can’t say I was all together upset at his action, but as the discomfort faded roll my hips and try to get him to move.

  “Oh no, you are not the one in control here.”

  “Oohhh really?”

  “Yes really. I told you yesterday I like to keep my control and you are clearly out of it. It’s my turn...”

 *A Hour Later...*

   “FUCK! Harder Clark Harder! Shit!”

 We were long past taking our time, or playing it safe. This was not even like our first time, this was actually the opposite. Currently, I was  face down, spine curved as I took back shots from Clark, who was making it his mission to make me pay for every snarky or smart comment I had said to him since we met. Apparently the only payment he was accepting was my orgasms. 

His right hand was holding me by the hip, the other sliding up my spine and then into my hair. He leans down, breathing against my ear. 

   “Are you ready to listen to me yet?”

 My hand grasps on top of the one that was on my hip, and I clench down purposefully on him. He groans and his thrusts falter slightly, and his grip gets tighter in my hair and hip. It was even more of a turn on to see how well he kept control of his strength.

   “Yes! Shit yes!”

 He slows down, his strokes getting deeper, but slower until it’s less thrusting and more of a rolling grind. For someone who had always seemed like his sense of morality made Everything vanilla with him, he surely knew how to wring the pleasure out of me. With Clark pressing his weight onto me, my knees falter and I drop to the mattress. He didn’t stop thrusting and I bit my lips, the tang of blood slightly on my lips.

   “We could have been doing this. I could have been making you feel like this. You were too hard headed. Now you say you were ready to listen to me, but how do I know you will?”

 My walls were fluttering around his cock as I was about to cum again for the umpteenth time in a manner of an hour.  

   “Clark I promise I’ll listen!” I say with my stomach tightening and a whimper blended in. I was not a whiny type of girl but damn be if I wasn’t right now. 

   “The next time I ask you not to do something, you will listen to me right?”

   “Yes!”

 Unexpectedly, he gets back onto his knees, and pulls me up so his chest is against my back, thrusting upwards, and uses my hair to turn my head to the side. He kisses me roughly, his fingers rubbing my clit as the head of his cock rubs at my g spot at this angle, and  with one of his hands goes around my throat, It takes no time at all to bounce right into the hardest orgasm of the night, which Clark and his super stamina finally falters and he falls over the edge right behind me, filling me up deeply, my name falling off his lips and both of us out of breath, which considering who Clark was, was a feat within itself.

 The light shimmer of the door tells me the noise cancelling shield was still intact even if my legs weren’t. Clark hadn’t pulled out and it seemed like he didn’t want to. He just pulls me back into his arms after turning me around, and despite us being hot, sticky and sweaty it felt nice. I run my hands over the forearm that was wrapped around me, and he plays with the ends of my hair. We lay in silence for a while before he breaks it.

   “Gia I realized while you were gone that I might be Superman but I am not strong.”

   “Did you try and stop a burning oil rig from falling again?”

 I joke and Clark gives me a smile and laughs but I can tell he is serious.

 “No. I just realized I am not as strong as you. Somehow you were able to pick up the pieces of your life and be strong for yourself and Kalen. I couldn’t do that. I failed...”

  “Clark hush. You did not fail.”

  “But I did. Gia when I thought that you had died in that wreck. When I couldn’t hear your heartbeat anymore, I shut down. I couldn’t imagine living in a world without you in it. That’s why I am paranoid about you going anywhere without me. Even a sneak and peek trip with these people after you could have been taken away from us. I can’t let that happen. Not again.”

 I sigh as Clark’s feelings of paranoia, concern and fear meld into his feelings of Love. 

  “A long time ago Gia I promised you that I would leave you alone, that I would say away until you called but that’s a promise I have to break.”

   “Clark at this point if you try to leave I might have to chain you down again.”

We both laugh.

   “No but really honestly. I can’t keep lying to you or to myself. I can’t keep hiding my feelings for you from you because quite frankly it’s exhausting. I love you Clark Kent. I loved you all those years ago and I still do.”

 He breath catches and for a quick moment I fear he would forget forever on how to work his lungs. All the other emotions rolling around with him fade away and his mind basically goes blank.

   “I love you too Gia Smith and I hate that it took me so long to say it but I promise I’ll spend forever trying to prove it.”

  “You already have.”

 Before he can respond there is a knock on the door.

   “So...I...um.. I lost at rock, paper, scissors  which is pitiful because I am fast enough to change my answer but not faster than Victor’s computer eye playback. So anyway, yeah, Umm... Diana says we should be getting ready to leave for Freeland soon. If you can ummm...hear me in there then I guess...”

 Clark and I laugh again as I cancel the shield. I had to put poor Barry out of his misery.

   “Barry yes, we can hear you just fine. Tell Diana and the others we will be down in 20 minutes.”

 Barry must have run back downstairs and back up because he says

   “Ummm.. Mrs. Kent says take a shower and make it 15 and that you two had been up here long enough.”

 With that we both peel into laughter and Barry doesn’t stick around for a response. Clark finally pulls out and while my ladybits tingle in excitement they are more grateful for his removal. 

   “You heard the lady shower it is.”

 Clark says moving to stand while I make use of my limbs again. 

   “Go ahead it will take you less time, you’ve clearly got use of your legs. I feel like I’ve been MMA fighting with the champ.”

 Instead of walking away he leans over and lifts me up into his arms cradle style.

   “She never said not to shower together.”

 “Yes, but I think she implied I needed to be able to walk.”

He pretends to ponder for a moment, then shrugged. 

 “Fine. I’ll get you clean so I can get you dirty again later...”

A/n: What did you think? Are we happy, sad, pissed, looking for quarantine cuddle buddy lol Alright folks I am done posting these chapters for the night so thank you for letting me flood your timeline! Once again I have a love-hate relationship with writing smut so let me know how you feel about it.

As always thank you for reading!

Taglist! (Still open for additions.)

@thethirstyarchive @bloodyinspiredfuck @romyr4 @p3nny4urth0ught5​ @kmcmpmd​ @winchwm​

[shaineybainey]

“Noble Intentions”

Lab Rats [T]

The Lab Rats and Mighty Med teams face off with the greatest threat to humanity yet: The Incapacitator, a supervillain bent on becoming the most powerful in the planet. …Which makes things super awkward for Leo, considering that their newest nemesis is his father. AU. Lab Rats vs Mighty Med redux.

** DISCLAIMER: SEE CHAPTER ONE FOR DISCLAIMER **

tagging: @vcnting @cecespuffs @quimbionics @verified-dumbass @clockradio93 @weareoutofmaplesyrupdave @aaaaahhhhh1234 @serpent-princess

VI: And In Time These Things Shall Be Revealed

Tasha doesn’t think she can ever get used to this. She’s heading down the lab, right where Donald said he and Douglas will be, and just the act of standing still makes her feel like she will explode. Her husband didn’t give much information over the phone. All he said was that she needed to get back home, something happened, Chase was hurt, and Leo was kidnapped.

Her mind keeps zeroing in on those things: Leo kidnapped, Chase hurt.

She feels like she would pass out with how lit her nerves are with these alarming developments.

She thinks she might be a bad person for thinking it, but she’s not as worried about Chase as she is with Leo. It’s probably because Donald said that Chase has been taken to some superhero hospital, a place where many are trained to treat the kind of injuries he sustained.

There’s some assurance that he’s in good hands.

But her baby. Her baby…

She marches into the lab as soon as the doors open. The whole floor is electric with activity and overwhelming worry. When she gets in, she finds her brother-in-law hunched over the cyberdesk, frowning as he’s lost in his own task.

Meanwhile, her husband looks at her from a conversation he’s having with a man who comes across as strikingly familiar. “Tasha,” says Donald, exhaustion heavy under his eyes. He smiles. “You’re here.”

“I came as fast as I can,” she says, eyeing the tall blond in the red suit.

“Tasha, this is Tecton. Tecton, this is my wife Tasha. Leo’s mother.”

Tecton nods, smiling. “How are you doing?”

Tasha only watches him. “I’ve seen you before. You look familiar.”

“Probably Leo’s comic books. He’s the same Tecton,” Donald explains. “He’s a superhero. Turns out, they’re all real.”

Tasha nods, still unconvinced. It’s then she notices the teenage girl in magenta. “Kylie, right? Or is it Kayla? Thunderstorm or something like that?”

“Close enough. I’m Skylar Storm, Mrs. Davenport,” Skylar says, holding out her hand. She frowns as Tasha shakes her hand. “You know who I am.”

A small smile breaks through Tasha’s features. “Leo got me one of those small plush toys of you from a comic con they went to last year. For my desk at work,” she admits. “He says he got you because you’re cool and cute.”

It stuns Skylar for a second before a grateful smile comes to her face.

“Do we have any news yet about Leo?” Tasha asks her husband.

“No,” says Donald. “We’ve tried several times to ping his location using his phone, but it’s not working. My suspicion is that it got fried when he was attacked.”

“He was attacked?”

Donald nods wearily. “A man came to the island pretending to be a representative, asking for the transponder. He found Chase, Chase led him to the transponder…” He sighs. “Chase shouldn’t have trusted him. The man had superpowers. He wreaked havoc in the island and hurt a lot of people. Plus, he stole my invention.”

“You’re going to have to stop blaming the kid, Donnie,” Douglas chimes in, still engaged in his hack. “If the security on the island had been tighter, he wouldn’t have been able to come in.”

“Chase should have known better than to let that guy in.”

“He’s 18.”

“Exactly! He’s 18!”

“Donald!” Tasha intervenes, fired up once again. “You can’t just blame everything on the kids every time! You have as much to do about this!”

Donald blinks, bewildered. “Why are you blaming me?”

“Because if you had put as much work into protecting the kids in the island, in protecting Leo, as much as you’d protected Adam, Bree, and Chase from Krane? We wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“It wasn’t just my fault!”

“Does it really matter whose it is? Chase is in the hospital, and my son is missing,” Tasha heatedly points out. “What’s pointing fingers going to do to undo those things?”

She sees that her husband’s mind turns with more things to say, with things to justify himself with. However, exhaustion stops him from engaging in a fight.

That, and she thinks a small part of him agrees with her point.

It comes back to her then that they have company. She glances at them, sees the wary expression on their faces, and sighs. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have seen that,” she tells the two. “I’m just scared, that’s all.”

“It’s okay, Mrs. Davenport,” Skylar says. “It’s understandable.”

“How many hours since?”

“17 and a half, on my last count,” Douglas reports.

Tasha nods thoughtfully. They have just a little over 30 hours left—which feels like both long enough and too short a time.

“We’ve been doing our best to track the man who took him, too,” Tecton says. “Unfortunately, he hasn’t used his powers since we last saw him so there are no infrared trails to follow, but as soon as he does, we’ll be able to locate him.”

“What about that thing that he stole? Can’t you track that?”

“We tried,” says Douglas. He casts a loaded glance at his older brother before adding, “It’s a prototype, so it didn’t have any tracker on it. It hasn’t been used either. This guy is laying low for some reason.”

That only worsens the dread Tasha feels. She thinks about her son, thinks back on anything useful he could have told her, but nothing. She sighs, burying her face in her palms. “This guy,” she starts but doesn’t know if she has the strength to finish. “This guy, is he… Is he known for hurting children?”

Tecton and Skylar exchange glances, and Tasha feels like her heart has sunk. “We still don’t know why he took your son,” Tecton says. “If he sees use in him, it’s very likely that he will keep him alive.”

“Did he say anything why he took Leo?”

Skylar hesitates at first, looking at Donald for permission to continue.

“Say it.”

“He…He said because he didn’t kill Chase, Leo…was the payment.”

The breath in her lungs leaves her. She’s reminded of the time Krane took the two of them and used them to pressure her husband. This new enemy has what he needs from them; it doesn’t make much sense for him to do what he did. Does he need him to keep them at bay, to stop them from coming any closer?

Maybe that’s what it is. He’s using Leo as pawn.

Still, it devastates her that she has no way of making sure her child is alright. She wants to cry, because thoughts of how he is and how horribly his captor must be treating him are scaring her. “Who’s this guy? What do we know about him?”

“Not much. He goes by The Incapacitator,” Tecton answers. “His abilities are all energy-based. Before this moment, all he’d done is antagonize superheroes so we don’t know how he got his abilities.” A frown furrows his brows. “Although, there was a rumor going around that what happened to Victor Krane was his handiwork.”

Donald frowns. Even Douglas stops what he’s doing out of intrigue. “What do you mean it’s him?” Donald asks.

“The League caught wind about what happened, and we looked at the details of it,” Tecton shares. “From the autopsy report, it seems like both he and his top soldier were offed by energy blasts. Those burns… We’re still doing a follow-up, of course, but—”

“No, no. That was S-2. Those burns are from him,” Douglas says. However, he’s beginning to doubt it. “Leo told me that’s who he saw.”

“If he’d seen that Incapacitator guy before…” Donald’s frown slowly clears as a thought occurs to him.

That makes Tasha even more nervous. “What?”

“Leo. He didn’t look that scared when he saw him.”

“Wait. You think they know each other?” Skylar asks as Donald hurries over to the cyberdesk.

“I don’t know. But he didn’t seem too scared.”

“So, what, is this an inside job?” Tecton asks.

“Leo would never help a bad person do something wrong,” Tasha tells the superhero.

“No, no. He won’t,” Donald says. “He wasn’t scared, but he seemed very upset that he was there.” After a few clicks, the surveillance from the quarters comes up on the screen. He points at it as the interaction between Leo and the supervillain plays. “Look. He doesn’t feel the need to get away from him. Even when I told him to run, he didn’t.”

“He does seem really angry,” Skylar observes.

“And disappointed,” Tecton adds. He crosses his arms. “How do they know each other?”

“Incapacitator threatened to hurt me, but Leo asked him not to,” Donald explains as the video plays further. He sighs, putting his hands on his hips. “He did offer to open up the case just so the guy won’t burn my eye out.”

“Maybe he did it to protect you,” Skylar offers.

“Maybe.”

“No, but look – he tried to hurt Leo, too,” Douglas points. “Why would he do that if they’re working with each other?”

“Yeah.”

“It just doesn’t make sense. Leo’s a good kid. Why would he take part in a heist?”

“Has he been acting strangely lately?” Tecton asks. “It’s not beyond Incapacitator to manipulate others, especially a teenager.”

Donald sighs when the answer comes. “He’s been very upset with me these past few months,” he says. “He’s angry that I didn’t hire him on as a staff member for the bionic academy. He said he thinks he’s earned the right to be one.”

“Do you think he’d go as far as helping a supervillain just to get that point across?”

Donald thinks about it a moment. Then, he shakes his head. “He will complain and sulk, but he would never go that far.”

Tasha gasps at the surveillance.

Seeing that they’d gotten to the part of Leo’s abduction, Donald hurriedly pauses the video then minimizes it. “I’m sorry, Tasha,” he says contritely. “You shouldn’t have seen that.”

“No, no, no. That guy…” She frowns. “Put it back up. I want to see his face.”

Though confused, Donald does as she’s asked.

Tasha stares at the image for a few more seconds. Then, she feels as if her legs had lost strength.

“What?”

It’s been a while, but – is it really him? “Joel. That guy. His name is Joel Jones.” She looks at her husband. “He’s my ex-boyfriend.”

For a moment, Donald only stares. Then, he chuckles. “And I thought my dating history was terrible,” he comments. “Really, Tasha. I would have never pegged you to be the kind of person to date a man with superpowers. A terrible one at that. You could’ve done better.”

“Mm,” Douglas eyes Donald dryly. “The kids and I have always thought the same about you.”

“No, no, you don’t understand!” Tasha tells them. She huffs, feeling like her world is tilting upside down even more. “I didn’t know any of these things about him. When I met him, I thought he was just some college student from a nearby university.”

“He’s been an active supervillain since he was a teenager,” says Tecton.

“Well, I didn’t know that,” Tasha says defensively. She sighs. She should have listened to her mother. “If I had known that, I wouldn’t have gone out with him.”

Douglas shrugs. “I mean, you don’t have to go out with him now.”

Tasha glares. “Yeah,” she says, “but he has our son.”

“Wait,” Donald says. “What?”

“You mean…”

Tasha nods. “This Incapacitator,” she tells them. “He’s Leo’s father.”

The room lies motionless for a painfully long moment. Then: “The guy who broke into my island is your ex?!” Donald shatters the silence.

“I didn’t even know he’s still around! Everything was going well with our relationship. We were going to get married during spring break in Las Vegas, and then he vanished,” Tasha recounts, simmering. “I lost contact with him the same year, and he’s never shown up since.”

“But he knows you have a son together,” Tecton asks.

“I told him the night before the wedding,” Tasha says. “He looked shocked and conflicted, but I didn’t think much of it because I was nervous about the whole thing, too.”

“Maybe it was him that eliminated the two bionics, then,” Skylar says to Tecton. “He probably knew Leo was in danger, so he took them out.”

“But how could he know where we were then? We were hiding,” Douglas says. The answer hits him immediately. “He was on his phone that afternoon. I told him several times to put it away because we might get tracked—”

“So he does have contact with Incapacitator,” Tecton says.

“I mean, I didn’t know he’d put out a hit on him like that.”

“Leo would never do that,” Tasha defends her son. “Look. I know it seems like he’s in on these things that his father did, but he’s a good kid. I worked hard to raise him as a good person. He would never be involved in murder or robbery willingly like you’re suggesting!”

“We’re not saying that he is,” Donald says.

“Yes, you are! Donald, how could you—” Her shoulders fall as defeat presses on her heavier and her eyes sting. “How could you all even suggest that Leo’s a bad guy? My son has risked his life so many times to protect his siblings and to protect our family. Even when other people are mean to him, he stayed a good kid.”

She slowly collapses to the floor, Donald attempting to catch her by the arm. At that point, the tears come. “He just wants to help people,” she says, wiping them with the back of her hand. “How could you just turn on him like this?”

For a second time, the room lies motionless—only this time, it’s weighed with remorse and sympathy.

Donald sits beside her, putting an arm around her. “I’m sorry, Tasha,” he says gently. “It did seem that way. I’m sorry. Leo’s not a bad kid, I know he isn’t.”

“You know he’s willing to die for any of us. How could you even agree that he’s in on this?”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Donald looks up at their guests, back at his brother, and then says, “We’re going to find him. It’s important to me that we bring him home. I believe you. Leo made that deal to save me.”

“I apologize, too, Mrs. Davenport,” Tecton says, sitting down to meet her eyes. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like he assisted him. I got carried away.”

Tasha frowns at Tecton, still offended by the things he insinuated. However, instead of becoming angrier the longer she looks at his face, she finds that a faded memory only becomes clearer. “I have seen you before.”

“Sorry?”

“Joel’s car. He was dropping me off after a date one night. When he stepped out, I looked through his glove compartment for a tissue, and—I saw a planner with your picture on it.”

“A planner?”

“It looked like a planner. There were dates in there, notes…” Tasha’s watery eyes narrow. “I remember seeing information about you and four other people. One of them even upset me. He has a picture of a blonde girl.”

“Blonde.” Tecton looks at Skylar. “Solar Flare?”

“He’s probably been keeping tabs on you guys since then,” Skylar suggests. “Isn’t it around that time that the League of Heroes was re-established?”

Tecton nods. “Is there anything else you remember, Mrs. Davenport?”

“Nothing much, except that he got upset when he saw I was looking through it.”

Tecton sighs. “That’s always been the way he operates. Most of the time, he tells us he’s still around by leaving destroyed sites or dead bodies. He’s very sneaky and really good at hiding.”

“So, what is he, some sort of superhero assassin?” Tasha asks.

Tecton shrugs, unsure himself.

“You guys were able to follow him to the island,” Donald notes.

“It’s because he struck somewhere else first.”

Donald nods, understanding. “One of my buildings.”

“He wanted that transponder.”

“There was something else,” says Tasha, lost in thought. “There was a picture of something. It was like a pyramid, with this marble-looking thing in the middle. That stayed on my mind awhile.”

“A pyramid?” Donald repeats.

Tasha nods.

Realization dawns on Skylar. “Oh no.” She looks at Tecton with dread. “The Arcturion.”

Tecton groans, getting up to his feet. “That power source has only ever been bad news.”

“What’s the Arcturion?” Douglas asks.

“Alien power source. Kills any human that touches it, drains any non-human of any abilities,” Skylar answers.

“Except this time he doesn’t have to touch it.” When others turn to him, Tecton says, “The energy transponder. He can draw infinite amounts of power with it. If he finds the Arcturion, he can transform into a living nightmare and actually turn earth into a graveyard for superheroes.”

“Great. Another guy bent on leveling all of us,” Skylar laments. “Once we get our hands on that Arcturion, we should really just football toss it into the sun.”

“That can be arranged.”

“I still don’t understand why he took Leo,” Douglas muses. “If all he needs is the transponder, why would he take him?”

Donald shrugs. “Spend some time?”

“Yeah, but why would he go as far as hurting him?” Douglas stares thoughtfully at the cyberdesk, his mind at work.

“What are you thinking?” Donald prompts.

“Something sinister,” Douglas says. He crosses his arms. “The good thing is, I don’t think he’s going to hurt the kid. The bad thing is, I think he’s going to hurt the kid.”

“What?” Tasha says.

“It’s all just suspicion for now, but I just don’t like the timing of everything,” Douglas says. “It’s mainly because of the transponder, but – everything’s aligned. I think this is the perfect moment he might have been waiting for.”

“Douglas, you’re the only one who’d been an evil genius here. None of us are following,” Donald says.

“Think about it,” Douglas says. “This guy had been waiting to bring down the superheroes for the longest time. He’s been collecting information regarding the top players in the business for as far back as, what, twenty or so years? But he’s never attacked. He’s also been keeping an eye on that, what is that, Arcturion?

“I think Tecton’s right. When he hits, he wants all the superheroes gone. He’s going big, and I think he’s going all out.”

“But like you said, Leo’s got nothing to do with this,” Tasha points out.

“Leo’s got everything to do with this,” Douglas says. “There’s nothing scarier than a person who’s got nothing to lose. If that’s Incapacitator, if he’s the kind who’s willing to die for his cause, it’s likely that he’ll do everything to get it done. And between the kids and him…” He shrugs somberly. “The choice is obvious.

“Leo’s not a bad person, Tasha. I believe that,” Douglas continues. “But you’re right: he loves us. He loves his family.”

“Family, including his father,” Tecton supplies as he starts to understand.

“Ever since the academy was founded, he’s been feeling betrayed. If he’s been talking to his dad, then his dad knows how much everything upsets him,” Douglas tells Tasha.

He pauses for a moment, debating whether he should bring up the next point. “When...Marcus was still around, I gave him this one order, in case something happens to me while we were acting on our plan: get the job done, however way you can.”

Tasha’s frown clears. “You don’t mean…”

“There might be a lot more to your ex’s plan than we initially thought,” Douglas confirms. “If he succeeds, the superheroes are wiped out. If he fails and dies by the superheroes’ hands while Leo’s watching—”

“We might force Leo to follow his footsteps,” Skylar supplies.

Douglas nods in confirmation. “It’s like that question, one versus the many. Who do we save?”

“This is not good. I hope you’re wrong,” Tecton tells Douglas. “Reports are that The Incapacitator turned into a villain after his parents were killed in front of him.”

“You said yourself he was manipulative,” says Douglas. “We have to get Leo out of there before he can plant any bad ideas into his head, before anything goes down.”

Tasha lets out a shuddered breath. What upsets her more than the possibility of her son being emotionally manipulated is the fact that there’s a base for her ex to build on.

Douglas said he’s been feeling upset. How come she didn’t know? She frequently asked how he was doing whenever she called, and all he had ever said was that things were fine. Had her focus been so off that she didn’t recognize it? Her brother-in-law knows more about her child than she did. How did it get to that point?

“We’ll do our best to gather more information,” Tecton tells the family, getting back to his feet. “I’ll see if the League has something on Incapacitator. I’ll check the archives.”

“I’ll double check with Horace, too, and see if there’s anything he remembers hearing from people who’s encountered him,” Skylar says.

Donald nods. “Please update us as soon as you hear something.”

Tecton nods. “Mrs. Davenport, Mr. Davenport,” he nods to Tasha then Douglas. After Skylar does the same, both of them exit through the garage.

Once they’re gone, Tasha releases a weary breath.

“Are you okay? I know this isn’t something to come home to,” her husband asks her softly.

Tasha shakes her head. “I want to see the kids, Donald. I don’t like them being so far away from us. Where are they?”

“In Philadelphia, but I’ve fixed the Davenporter. It’s fully operational. If we head out to Davenport Industries now,” Donald consults his watch, “we’d be at the hospital in probably 40 minutes.”

“You guys should go. The kids need you,” Douglas agrees. “Adam texted me not too long ago, told me Chase hasn’t come to yet. I think he and Bree are getting a bit too shaken up by this.”

“What about the search?”

“What about it? I’m here,” Douglas says. As Donald helps Tasha up, he says, “There’s only one thing we can do on our end, and I can do it alone. Tasha, I know you don’t feel right about it, but I have to access the record of Leo’s text messages. His phone is out, but I might be able to ping his dad’s. All I need is a number.”

Douglas is right: she doesn’t feel right about it. If Leo finds out, he might think that none of them trusted him.

Still, it’s the only way to save him from his father right now. “Fine. Do whatever you need to do,” she says. “Just make sure Leo never finds out.”

“Evil genius here. I know how to cover my tracks,” Douglas says as he begins the work through the cyberdesk.

“You ready?” Donald asks.

“Wait. Maybe we should pack up some clothes for the children. Maybe bring some toiletries, too. Bree will only use one specific brand of toothbrush, and Chase needs his eye drops when he wakes up.”

An appreciative smile slowly stretches across Donald’s face. “I’ll get clothes for Adam and Chase, and you get Bree’s things and what you think the kids will also need.”

“We should pack up things for us, too.”

Donald nods.

“Meet you back here in 15?”

“Okay.”

At that, Tasha parts from her husband.

“Hey, honey?” Donald smiles when she looks back at him. “It’s all going to be okay. Chase and Leo will come home.”

Tasha only stares a while, processing everything. Then, she forces a smile to her face – a form of thanks.

Once he goes, she leaves for the elevator.

It’s all going to be okay. Chase and Leo will come home, the words ring in her head.

However, only one thing echoes back: Yes – but will they be the same?

[kiros-love]

Introducing Me (Kiro x MC~MLQC)

Description: You’ve heard nothing from your new superstar ‘friend’ Kiro, and it’s beginning to get to you. Especially when he promised to help you with a show for your company. 

Warnings: LOTS OF CHEESINESS 

Word Count: 1917 words

Authors Note: I was listening to ‘Introducing Me’ from Camp Rock 2 and I just thought how perfect it was and had to write a scene revolving around this song. Please excuse my writing errors, as I’m just getting back into writing and just do this for fun. So I hope you all enjoy!!! 

Link to Music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pJUEWRoWMhw

 <3 All characters & Mr Love: Queen’s Choice owned by Elex. <3 

The day had finally come where you were going to shoot your next video for your company. You needed to make sure everything was perfect, or you were going to lose your funding from LFG. Luckily, you had the opportunity to become friends with a rather popular star, known as Kiro. He helped you out whenever he could, and luckily this time he was able to fit some time into his schedule to help you out with your next big production project. It was on little kids, and popstars. There seemed to be a negative connotation in the media that popstars were such bad influences on kids and that they didn’t care about anyone else. You knew this wasn’t true, at least you hoped, so you wanted to prove everyone wrong.

You actually hadn’t seen Kiro in almost a month, and you hadn’t heard from him either. No text messages, or calls. You were almost worried he wouldn’t show up to the school today. Luckily you had a backup plan with your friend, Lucien, just in case things didn’t work out. You didn’t want to admit it, but you actually missed Kiro, but you tried not to let it get to you. You were just a friend, a coworker, and nothing else to Kiro,  you knew that, but you couldn’t help but daydream being next to Kiro every single day. Everytime you heard his voice or saw new posts from him on social media, your heart couldn’t help but skip a beat. You felt a little ridiculous, as you didn’t even know anything about him- and he was kind of a flake, but it wasn’t entirely his fault. You knew he had an extremely strict agent at his throat 25/8. So in all honesty, you kinda figured Kiro probably thought of you as just another fan.

After thinking for awhile, you felt yourself begin to feel a little bitter and cold towards Kiro, due to his lack of communication. You decided it didn’t matter if he was popular or not. If you mattered to him…. He would make time, and at that point, you realized Kiro probably wasn’t going to show up. You figured you might as well go find Lucien and begin to set up the backup plan. You signed and began to walk the dark and empty hallways feeling bummed that you wouldn’t be able to prove the media wrong-and Victor.

Out of nowhere you felt sudden warmth wrap around your neck and someone screeching your special nickname into your ears.

“Hello, Miss Chips! Miss me?” The voice was familiar. You were taken back and immediately looked behind you, and to your surprise it was Kiro!

Seeing him and hearing from him in the first time in over a month just added more fuel to the fire.

“You’re late.” You replied bitterly as you shoved Kiro off of you. You stood infront of him with your arms crossed against your chest and your head held high.

“Oh c’mon Miss Chips…. I’m hear now! Lets go to the classroom where the kids are and get started! I know my Agent is waiting. He asked me to come look for you!” Kiro exclaimed.

Your brows narrowed in annoyance. You couldn’t take it any longer.

“Seriously, Kiro?” You snapped.

Kiro’s eyes widened as he took a step back in shock. He had never seen you upset, and snap at him like you did.

“No calls? No messages? Do I even mean anything to you? Did I ever mean anything to you? Or are you just taking advantage of this opportunity to prove to your ‘fans’ that not all celeberties are cold-hearted and selfish?” You snapped.

Kiro’s mouth hung open in surprise. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Miss Chips…-“

“Don’t ‘Miss Chips’ me. You really hurt me, Kiro. I honestly thought we were friends and I’ve been worrying about you for weeks now, and you haven’t replied to any of my text messages or call me back.” You said blantantly. At this point your eyes wavered away from Kiro and you turned your back to him.

Kiro stood there for a moment and let the silent air pass between them in the dark hallway.

“Miss Chips….I-I’m so sorry. I had no idea you felt that way. I know you won’t let me explain whats been going on, and I know I shouldn’t anyway. There should be no excuses for what I’ve done and I am sincerely sorry. How can I make it up to you?” Kiro asked apologetically while sheepishly walking back up to you.

“I-I don’t know… I don’t even know you that well anyways. Maybe we should just stick to being-I dunno, coworkers? Not sure if we’re even that since we don’t exactly work with each other…” you replied with your voice trailing off.

Kiro thought for a moment, and then got a brilliant idea. A bright smile appeared on his face as he then jumped infront of you.

“I’ve got an idea! Come with me!” He exclaimed. Without further explanation and giving you no chance to protest, he grabbed your hand and began to drag you down the dark hallway and dragged you into a classroom full of different music instruments. You wondered why he led you to the school’s music room, but then noticed Kiro picking up a regular guitar that was placed in the back of the classroom in a black case.

“What are you do?-“

Kiro cut you off with a “shhh” and then walked back over to you while swinging the rope attached to the guitar around his neck.

“Please, just sit with me… and listen. You said you didn’t really know me, well, maybe this will help.” Kiro finally said with a grin spreading on his face as he stared into your eyes with his sparkling blue eyes. He immediately began strumming his gentle fingers against the guitar and began singing with his whole heart out to you.

“I’m, good at wasting time. I think lyrics need to rhyme. And I know you’re not asking, but I’m trying to grow a mustache. I eat cheese… but only on pizza please, and maybe sometimes on a homemade quesadilla, otherwise it smells like feet to me. And I… really like it when the moon looks like a toenail, and I love it when you say my name…”

At this point, Kiro stood up and towered over you and began to get a little closer to you while keeping his voice on a soft gentle tune.

“If you wanna know, here it goes, gonna tell you this, the part of me that shows if you’re close, but remember that you asked for it! I’ll try to do my best to impress, but it’s easier to let you take a guess at the rest, but you wanna hear what lives in my brain- my heart-will you ask for it? For your perusing? At times confusing, slightly amusing, I’m introducint me….”

Kiro then began dancing around you, in circles as his voice got a little bit louder but still in tune with his guitar.

“Doo doo, do do do doo doo. Doo doo, do do doo doo do. La da daaa da, la daa da da da da dah.”

Kiro began to pick up the pace as he then stopped for a second to look you straight in the eyes with a determined look, then began dancing and singing infront of you again. You couldn’t help but feel your cheeks flusture to this private show, that Kiro was giving you. You just couldn’t believe it!

“I never trust a dog to watch my food, and I like to use the word “dude”… as a noun, or an adverb, or an adjective, and I’ve never really been into cars-I like really cool guitars, and superheros and checks with lots of zeros on ‘em and I love the sound of Violieeennnss and making someone smile-” Kiro sang while holding the guitar high up. He then brought it back down and leaned closer to your face with a bright grin spreading across his face. You yourself couldn’t even help but smile and giggle at him. He was like a bright ray of sunshine lighting up the room.

Kiro pulled back and began to take it up a notch and pick up the pace even more. You watched his gentle fingers begin the strum the guitar in his hands slightly faster.

“If you wanna know, here it goes, gonna tell you this-the part of me that shows if you’re close-gonna let you see everything! But remember that you asked for it! I’ll try my best to impress, but it’s easier to let you take a guess at the rest, but you wanna hear what lives in my brain-and my heart-will you ask for it? For your perusing? At times confusing possibly amusing. Introducing meeee!”

You couldn’t help but laugh out loud and sway your head to the music and clap your hand to the beat. Kiro always knew how to make you smile. You hated it, but you also very much loved it-and him.

“Well, you probably know more than you ever wanted to, so becareful when you ask next time…. “If you wanna know, here it goes, gonna tell you this-the part of me that shows if you’re close-gonna let you see everything! But remember that you asked for it! I’ll try my best to impress, but it’s easier to let you take a guess at the rest, but you wanna hear what lives in my brain-and my heart-will you ask for it? For your perusing? At times confusing possibly amusing. Introducing meeee! Doo doo, do do do doo doo. Doo doo, do do doo doo do. La da daaa da, la daa da da da da dah…..Introducing ….me….” Kiro’s voice faded as his face got closer to yours. He leaned his forhead against yours and looked into your bright, hopeful eyes. He had a bright smile widened across his face while his heavy breathing from singing began to equal out.

It was quite for a moment before either of you said anything. You realized Kiro was waiting for you to respond to his sweet song, so you lifted up your hands and softly caressed his head on both sides, and looked into his indearing eyes.

“Apology accepted. And I will remember you don’t like cheese or cars, and that you’re into really cool guitars and superheors...” You whispered with a laugh. Kiro then gave a soft chuckle as he pulled back.

“KIRO!”

You were both startled and looked to where the stern voice came from, and it was no other than Kiro’s agent.

“Where have you two been? C’mon. We only have about half an hour left to shoot this. We don’t have all day. And you!-“

“Don’t make this her fault!” Kiro cut in, “it was mine. We’ll be there. Just give us a moment.”

Kiro’s agent rolled his eyes and walked away from the classroom.

They both waited a moment before speaking, and then turned to face each other.

“Thank you, Kiro…” You whispered while looking up at his sunshine face.

“No, thank you, Miss Chips. Giving me the opportunity to grow and learn. I promise I will do better to be a better friend to you!” Kiro replied with determination showing through his voice, “now lets go.” He finally said while grabbing your hand and leading you down the hallway to the theater.

[jujywrites]

WIP Challenge

I got tagged by @kikithedeceiver to do this!

Challenge: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous.

Here’s the thing. I don’t have many separate WIP files; most of them are in one huge doc. and most of the separate wip files are... pretty dead? but ok whatevs. under a read more since it’s long...... and my ego won’t let me skip snippets hjkhkhk thanks for the idea Kiki

From my main miscellaneous folder:

50 Grades of Steele. 1 and a half chaps of a role-flipped 50 Shades of Grey rewrite (i haven’t read the books so I extra don’t care about the characters lol). why do i still have it i’ve lost interest.... *side eyes her entire wip ecosystem* ...Then I see my interview subject, seated at her desk.

"Mr. Grey. I'm pleased to meet you."

And I stop breathing. [end CH1]

[open CH2) I forgot to mention something: I exaggerate occasionally. But I'm not now. I literally stop breathing for a few seconds. A thousand thoughts are racing through my mind, which doesn't help my chest stop seizing, but the main problem here is that Anastasia Steele is quite possibly the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.

Fanfic idea masterlist. my most active file and where I keep most of my WIPS, unless they get too “large”. Organized by fandom. lotta stuff i keep passing by & may as well be dead but don’t wanna delete. here’s a zero-draft snippet of probably the next chapter of my G-rated yukyoru fic collection

He grabbed a pillow and placed it to his chest, grabbed her arm, and yanked her to him, praying his idea would work.

Seconds passed and he didn't transform. He put his arms around her gingerly. Should he try to immobilize her or would that make it worse?

She made the decision for him. "Mom," she sobbed, clutching him with an iron grip. "N-Need to help...!"

His stomach dropped to his shoes.

Thudding footsteps announced Yuki's arrival. "What's wrong?! Honda-san--"

He didn't say "What did you do?" The thought raced by and Kyo said, "Grab a pillow and help me!"

As Yuki positioned the pillow and himself without having to ask, Kyo said, "She won't wake up. I don't know what to do!"

"Night terror," Yuki said tightly. He was too close but it almost didn't matter. "Not much you can do besides wait."

MayxWard BDSM fic agents of SHIELD. mix of notes and actual writing. kind of a half AU. Melinda climbed into the driver's side and buckled in, then started up the car. "If you've not ridden on the left before you might have motion sickness. It's normal. Just close your eyes until—" She paused as she looked at him; his hands shook so much he couldn't manage the seatbelt. "Here, let me."

"Thanks," he muttered with a sigh, looking rueful.

Modern AU Zelink. What it says on the tin~ Teenage-ish Zelink, with a mash of supporting characters from other games. another mix of notes and fic. Link wasn't sleeping tonight. Tonight was the night he'd been planning for and awaiting for weeks. He was going on a quest: the quest to meet Princess Zelda. 

She wasn't really a princess, of course. That was just her nickname. Zelda Nohansen was Hyrule's sweetheart, the most sought-after young actress in the movie business. And Link had fallen in love with her the first time he'd seen her, two years ago in a tiny theater in Kakariko.

PMMMfic homumado. Madoka Magica. AU, been around since about an hour after I finished the series (5 years yikes, still gotta watch Rebellion). Homura's time power still somewhat involved, but Mami's an adult, everyone's at a boarding school (I think?) where ~things aren't as they first seem~ and Madoka has mysterious powers and night terrors. just notes at the moment.

SoubixHitomi.  Loveless. 3 unfinished/dead first-person Shinonome-senseixSoubi snippets, all of ‘em spicy.

yvy abo. Yuri On Ice. Yuri (Katsuki!!)/Victor/Yuko(!!?!), my attempt at. well. omegaverse(!!!!!!!). orignally started as part of a “bad YOI fic” bigbang and now I’m taking it seriously dgdgfg. Alpha Yuko. “Please, please stop,” she whispered, like saying it aloud would make any difference. But the pressure in her head kept building. Her limbs had begun to itch restlessly.

And Victor wouldn’t let go of her hand.

With the last scrap of her control, she straddled him quickly and kissed him awake.

Even in half-sleep he arched to meet her, and when he opened his eyes sapphire blue had already turned stormy with lust.

yvy canonfuturefic. Yuko-focused following of canon, or: how canon can I keep YOI while still rareship OT3ing it. She and Yuri fall in and out of love, in between falling for Victor. Victuri is still my life I swear   

“You have got to watch this,” she tells Yuri. She watches Yuri’s face instead of the video, having seen it at least forty times by now.

Yuri’s eyes transform into beacons of awe, and Yuko swallows around her rapid heartbeat, breaths coming too short. She sees everything she’s feeling and more on his face. She remembers that she loves him, that he’s real and here and more important than the beautiful boy on her phone who’s trying to pull her under to a scary new world.

ZnT ot3 bdsm AU. Zankyou no Terror, 9/12/Lisa. mix of notes and fic, not just PWP. in heavy need of editing bc a lot was inspired by a non-spicy book.

“But it’s not just me. It’s everyone. You need everyone because you have no idea how to need yourself. Or even how to be yourself.”

“You’re wrong.” The force and volume of her voice shocked her and pushed her onward. “You and Touji. I don’t need anyone except you and Touji! Because you both taught me how to be myself-- no, how to find that on my own. I know exactly who I am, and that me isn’t complete without both of you!” She could feel the tears streaming down her face, yet somehow her voice didn’t waver. She felt so full of conviction she could burst into flames. “Don’t you understand, Arata? We’re all meant to be together.”

From my SnK folder:

Cave of the Crystal Maiden (working title). Aruani. Modern AU. MMORPG shenanigans with a dollop of magical realism/supernatural. Just notes. @portraitofa-girl suggested “meeting online” and it’s been there literally for years oh lord im sorry. no fic yet, just notes.

Falling Anthem (working title) Modern AU Levihan, art student Hange and young professor Levi. just notes. fic one in a planned series. also has been years ;_;

Raindrops and Soft Steps. Jearmin. unsurprisingly, modern AU. One morning, when Jean looks out of his bedroom window, he sees a boy dancing across the street. In the street, to be exact. There wouldn't be anything unusual about that, Jean supposes, except it's raining cats and dogs outside.

In my IAMXfic folder (fff i almost skipped this):

2ndPOVCalberto (DO NOT CORRUPT WITH HET) ChrisxAlberto? not much to say?? yes i know they’re real people??? which applies to everything after this oh my god *crawls under desk* Of course she knows; she is annoyingly perceptive when it comes to romance. The only thing preventing you from asking her (like a fucking lovestruck teenager) if Alberto likes you back is emptying that beer bottle. By then the only thing on your mind is ordering another.

CalbertImmi. i can’t even keep my poly shit outta RPF ahaha omhg Imogen has a conversation with her lover's lover. (AlbertImmi, sequel to...) Imogen finds herself in an unenviable position. (emerging CalbertImmi)

Alternate summaries (CC POV, first fic?): Chris loves two people. He doesn't want to choose. Chris has fallen in love a few times in his life. But he's never fallen for two people at once. (Chris also isn't good at choosing.)

ChrisxJ. several self-insert fics bc CC is just that powerful, apparently. haven’t looked at the file in a long time,,,,,

He started calling people to the stage with him, and one by one, my row emptied.

"Come on, yeah, come on," he was saying, waving his hand in an inviting gesture and grinning like a little kid. "Hey, you want to?" I did a double take.

"Me?" I mouthed, pointing at myself just to be sure. He nodded, smiling wider.

So it was that I walked unsteadily down the ramp and waited in line, feeling like I didn’t belong there. Soon I was next in line. What would I say? What would I do? I was sure if I opened my mouth I’d either burst into tears or faint.

Genderswapped IAMX sci-fi. The sci-fi was inspired by a word prompt, genderswapping by my own brain. (play spot the Immi lmao) Across the aisle, Sam rolled his eyes. “Leave Chris alone; she’s nervous.”

“And put on your own seatbelt, Johann,” shouted Jess, two seats back and in Sam’s aisle.

Patrick turned  to look at Chris. “Subspace travel is a bitch,” he said simply, and turned back to his book.

“Oh, I feel much less nervous now,” Chris said with a sardonic grin. “How do you know that, anyway?”

"I'm not exactly what I seem to be." He didn’t look up.

Chriimmi (While I Was Gone inspired). Chris/Imogen, inspired by scenes from Sue Miller’s While I Was Gone.

"You really ought not to do that, you know," he said softly.

"Do what?"

"Sneak up on me."

My eyes slid from his face. "I didn't mean to. It just... happened."

"Mm." I glanced back at him; he wore a lopsided smile. "Not that I minded." The tension was so strong the air nearly vibrated with it, yet I held my tongue, terrified that I was the only one feeling it. He took a breath, deep, nearly rising on his toes. "No. I didn't mind at all." He took my hand, circled his thumb over the back. My breath caught as I felt it, as I watched him looking down at our hands.

Chriimmi bathtub dream. dream inspired Chris/Immi smut.

Chriimmi twitter. twitfic plus some, inspired from an actual tweet iamx made that i’m still not over. 

@ imogenheap Come sing your lovely lyrics with us in London. @ IAMX misses you. CCx

ChrisxImmi main. grab bag of Chriimmi I was too lazy to put into separate docs.

“What do you think?” She grinned, twirling.

He cleared his throat. “Ah, I-Imogen, what are you wearing?”

“Well, I didn’t want to clash with your theme…  Janine helped me. Does it work?”

Scandalously short skirt, midriff-baring top, knee-high boots.

“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you? You’re trying to fucking kill me.”

Her grin only widened, even though a blush had started.

Fic edit chriimmi ver. yeah. editing someone else’s original fic to be chrimmi. either never posting or editing the frick out of. ~_~

He kissed her neck, whispered into it, “I love you.”

Imogen laughed. “Bollocks,” she said lazily.

”I do!” Chris protested. She looked down at him, nestled on her shoulder. He looked back, open, a little adoring. “I fell in love with you halfway through the show; I sang every note just for you.”

”Oh, please. You couldn’t have seen me.”

”No,” he said. “But I knew you were out there… I knew it had been you the minute I saw you backstage.”

Hospital Chriimmi. In which my guilty feeling over RPF are even worse bc of the inspiration ^_^U “Ms. Heap. What a pleasant surprise.” It’s surprising, how well she remembers his voice.

“Mr. Corner, what have you got yourself into?”

“Oh, just a bit of lingering insomnia. You know how it is.”

She takes a seat in the chair near his bed, crossing her legs. “Well, I’ve certainly had a sleepless night here and there, but I’ve never ended up in hospital from it. So no, I don’t suppose I do know.” Her tone is light, but her smile has begun to crack.

ImmixChris genderbend smut. the my secret friend video is... fertile material. have not actually written the smut yet.

...he saw us as characters– we put on those clothes and become separate from ourselves, removed. Whereas I simply felt like myself in men’s clothes, and instead of feeling what He felt for Her, I just kept right on feeling what I felt for Chris, amplified to a distracting level.

ReluctantdommeImmixSubCC. ...shrug emoji? notes and uh. visualizing.

Vampire Chriimmi. based on a dream. smutty. inspired by True Blood so wow that’s old.

From my Markipairings folder:

demon dream. markiplier self insert...... ughhhhhhhh o///o

"You can have me," I tell the creature. "But this one," I jerk my head toward Mark, "comes with me. He's mine, you see." A bold proclamation to make, but in the moment I know that the truth in those words surpasses everything I've ever said. He is mine, and saying the thought out loud fills me with courage. He squeezes my hand, two short and a long one so strong I think he might break it.

I know we’ll win.

DommeJujY. same as above, same as the next four. smutty.

Fight team AU. i forget where i got this one from. vaguely inspired by loveless i guess.  The first clear thought I had was, He shouldn't have gone ahead of me. The second one was, I should have been able to protect him. But these came later, after the rage went away, after I hugged him and apologized, after I bandaged him…

Gaming meetcute. i win some contest or whatever to secretly tagteam w/ Mark. stuff happens and yeah......

The adrenaline surges through my veins as I take in the scene. Mark's avatar is flailing around, backed into a corner by some Eldritch Abomination and holy shit, the graphics in this game are amazing.

"This is not good, I can't move, I can't move…"

There's a voice in the back of my head screaming to shut the game down, to get that horrible thing off the screen. I ignore it.

Markinpanties. .......smut.

shifter-slight sci-fi AU. shrug emoji.

I looked up from the ground and saw I was heading straight for a brick wall. There was no time to slow down. I braced for impact...

It didn't happen. I opened my eyes and found myself in a café.

What.

Looking behind me, I saw a door. On impulse I walked over and opened it; the tree-lined street I could see through the glass was indeed there. No brick wall to smack my face into. Bewildered, I turned around and looked for a seat, choosing one near a window.

Gouldiplier~. master doc of ficbits of my cracky mccrackship, MarkiplierxEllie Goulding.

I check my phone during break time again. My selfie has been liked and retweeted thousands of times, and I shake my head in disbelief; I don't think that will ever stop surprising me, deep down. To make things even better, Mark's liked it! I'm in the middle of a happy jig when I realize there's a text from him and a squeak of joy slips from me.

hellooo gorgeous

looks like you're having fun. Hope the shoot's going great! <3

I quickly send a reply. it has been. Be glad when it's done tho. Missin u lots xo

Markipicbunnies. fanart of Mark for Gouldiplier insipration. photographer au. 

"Ms. Goulding, I'm really not sure about this…"

"I produce pictures that are intimate because I'm an intimate being, Mark." Ellie looked at him directly, a hint of a smile shaping her lips. "Deep down, I think you are too. We just need to draw you out a bit."

showersexgouldiplier. WELP. IT’S SMUT.

Also I have folders for my 2010/11 nanowrimo novel that are kinda still WIPs but also kinda not

i’m gonna tag.... @kippielovesyou @kiridork and @mistergrass and anyone else who wants to do this can too :3

[shanedakotamuir]

The 4 main conservative defenses for Trump against impeachment, explained

President Trump attends a “Keep America Great” rally in Minneapolis, Minnesota, on October 10, 2019. | Brendan Smialowski /AFP/Getty Images

Only one of them makes sense.

President Donald Trump withheld hundreds of millions of dollars in military aid from the Ukrainian government, seemingly to push lawmakers to announce an investigation into the son of a potential political opponent and his work with a Ukrainian energy company. That much, at least, is clear. As is the fact that Trump has an 89 percent approval rating with Republican voters.

That’s why most Republican lawmakers aren’t going to change their minds on the impeachment of President Trump. While some in Congress might privately think that Trump’s efforts to pressure Ukrainian officials to “do him a favor” and investigate former Vice President Joe Biden was a bad idea, they won’t say so in public.

Because, quite simply, Trump is the president. He’s giving them what they want politically, the economy appears strong and, most critically, he is far more popular and powerful than they are.

But House Republicans and many Trump-supportive conservative and right-leaning writers and pundits have largely attempted to avoid saying as much.

Rather, together with constantly shifting responses to specific testimony, they appear to have developed three basic defenses for Trump as House impeachment hearings continued: He was “too inept” to have intended to do what he is being accused of doing; what he did was actually good; and his actions were bad, but not impeachable.

But some congressional Republicans and conservatives have begun saying another, perhaps most accurate, defense of Trump out loud: Whatever he did, it doesn’t matter — not to “normal people” and not to the Republican Party.

1) “Impeachment for incompetence would disqualify most of the government”

The first basic defense of Trump regarding Ukraine is the simplest: Trump lacked the intent and the basic competence to get a quid pro quo deal with Ukraine done. And without intent (legally defined as a conscious decision to commit an illegal act), some argue that what Trump did may have been bad and dumb, but not criminal — and thus, not a “high crime or misdemeanor.”

As elucidated by the Wall Street Journal editorial board in October:

... it may turn out that while Mr. Trump wanted a quid-pro-quo policy ultimatum toward Ukraine, he was too inept to execute it. Impeachment for incompetence would disqualify most of the government, and most Presidents at some point or another in office.

Republican Sen. Lindsey Graham seemingly agreed, telling CBS News earlier this month that the administration appeared “incapable” of forming a quid pro quo, thus rendering the entire impeachment discussion null and void.

"It was incoherent," Sen @LindseyGrahamSC says of Trump's Ukraine policy. "They seem to be *incapable* of forming a quid pro quo." pic.twitter.com/rdZxyIazNj

— Steven Portnoy (@stevenportnoy) November 6, 2019

Conservative pundit Ben Shapiro made similar arguments on his podcast, saying on October 7 that Trump would make a fantastic client for a defense attorney because “Trump doesn’t have requisite intent for anything. The man has the attention span of a gnat ... if you are his defense lawyer, his best defense to ‘he had a plan in Ukraine to go after Joe Biden’ is ‘dude doesn’t have plans.’” And on November 11, Shapiro argued, “I don’t think he’s had the level of intent necessary to eat a hamburger.” I reached out to Shapiro, but he was unable to comment on Wednesday.

And after all, military aid to Ukraine was eventually restored. So according to this argument, the actions for which Trump is facing impeachment (withholding aid for selfish reasons) never actually happened. Per National Review’s Rich Lowry, “The best defense Republicans can muster is that nothing came of it. An ally was discomfited and yanked around for a couple of months before, ultimately, getting its defense funding.”

And his magazine’s editorial board argued earlier this month, “It has to matter that, at the end of the day, the harm of this episode was minimal or nonexistent. The Ukrainians got their defense aid without making any statement committing themselves to the investigations.”

It’s true that intent matters — in criminal proceedings. I spoke with Ken White, a criminal defense attorney and former US attorney, who told me, “Intent is very important in court, and for many of these crimes, from witness intimidation to bribery, prosecutors must prove corrupt intent. If we were in federal court, litigating criminal charges against the president, I think the “Trump is just Trump” defense would be colorable and tricky to overcome.

“With normal humans, when they act like Trump you can infer corrupt intent; the defense is that you can’t make that inference with Trump because he acts that way all the time, reflexively.”

But White added two caveats. “First, that’s a matter of proof. A jury could still reject it and see corrupt intent. Second, this ain’t federal court.” Impeachment, after all, is a political process, not a legal one.

And as to the argument that funding to Ukraine was indeed restored, the Cato Institute’s Gene Healy pointed out in October that an unsuccessful or “incompetent” attempt to commit an impeachable act doesn’t make it less impeachable:

The Nixon crew botched most of the schemes it undertook, from the Watergate caper to the attempt to audit the president’s political enemies. That didn’t save Richard Nixon from being driven from office via the impeachment process.

2) “Donald Trump and Rudy Giuliani deserve praise”

Some of Trump’s defenders are taking an entirely different approach and stating that Donald Trump’s actions were not only defensible, but good. In the words of Rep. Scott Perry (R-PA) (who criticized Lt. Col. Vindman for having “opinions counter” to the president), “it’s perfectly within the purview of the president’s authority” to base military aid on the assurance of an investigation into corruption (or more accurately, the announcement of an investigation).

They argue that the government of Ukraine was corrupt and Trump was elected to fight corruption — ergo, of course he would resist sending aid to Ukraine. Rep. Jim Jordan (R-OH) put it this way: “Corruption is not just prevalent in Ukraine. It’s the system. Our president said time out, time out, let’s check out this new guy.”

.@RealDonaldTrump and @RudyGiuliani deserve praise for pushing for accountability because these officials seem to have zero concern about Ukraine's collusion w/Obama admin targeting America's election in 2016 -- and the Biden cover-up...

— Tom Fitton (@TomFitton) November 20, 2019

As Washington Examiner writer Byron York wrote in a piece entitled “What if Trump was right about Ukraine?”, supporters of this line of logic argue that while perhaps Trump’s actions weren’t the best, he had real and genuine concerns about Ukraine’s government and its alleged efforts to collude with the Clinton campaign and influence the 2016 election.

Those efforts are based on allegations that Ukrainian officials, concerned about former Trump campaign manager Paul Manafort’s work for a pro-Russian political party, attempted to assist the Clinton campaign and harm the Trump campaign. Right-leaning media outlets have focused serious attention on those allegations since 2017.

For example, the Federalist’s Mollie Hemingway argued on Fox News in October of this year, “You have people who have already admitted that people affiliated with the Ukrainian government worked with the Democratic National Committee’s contractors to help Hillary Clinton in the 2016 campaign,” arguing that Ukraine and the DNC took part in actual collusion, unlike Russia and Trump’s campaign.

York writes that if the allegations were true, Trump’s actions make sense. “If [those concerns] were even mostly legitimate, then Trump defenders could say: “Look, he had a point. Even if one thinks he handled the issue inappropriately, the fact is, what was going on in Ukraine was worrisome enough for a United States president to take notice.” Quoting former US Special Representative to Ukraine Kurt Volker, York concluded, “The president said Ukraine ‘tried to take me down.’ He wasn’t wrong.” (It’s worth noting that other conservatives disagree.)

This was the argument that Victor Davis Hanson, a senior fellow at the Hoover Institution and a writer at National Review who published “The Case for Trump” earlier this year, made to me, saying that it made sense for Trump to be suspicious of Ukraine. He asked that I quote him in full.

“Trump is a businessman and he does not want to give much military aid in general, and naturally not to corrupt governments who have in the past, according to Politico, tried to interfere in the 2016 election.”

“Trump naturally takes the past Ukrainian efforts, again according to the 2017 Politico report, to harm his election effort, as a personal affront given they reportedly sought to stop Trump from becoming president and yet wanted him to reverse the Obama policy of no military aid once he was elected (which he did).”

“Once more, we are left with a supposed thought crime of considering delaying aid in exchange for Ukrainian promises of investigating 2016 interference in an American election—which never happened, but was actually reified by earlier suspension of actual Ukrainian investigations in 2016 (and possibly of Hunter Biden) and refusal to arm the Ukrainians.”

But this argument has problems of its own. Fiona Hill and Lt. Col. Alexander Vindman, both of whom served on Trump’s National Security Council, testified earlier this month that they had seen no evidence that the government of Ukraine interfered in the 2016 election. Hill added in testimony Thursday, “I refuse to be part of an effort to legitimize an alternate narrative that the Ukrainian government is a US adversary, and that Ukraine — not Russia — attacked us in 2016.”

The Politico piece to which Dr. Hanson referred during our conversation notes that while some Ukrainian officials supported Clinton, their efforts were “far less concerted or centrally directed than Russia’s alleged hacking and dissemination of Democratic emails,” which was a “top-down” effort. And according to documents obtained by BuzzFeed News via a Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) request, one of the main sources for allegations that Ukraine interfered in the 2016 election — including allegations that they, not Russia, hacked the DNC — was Manafort himself.

3) “Impeaching a president is the most extreme and anti-democratic remedy”

But other conservatives have argued that Trump’s actions, even if tied to an “understandable and justifiable” desire to investigate allegations of Ukrainian meddling in the 2016 election, were improper, inappropriate, or just plain bad.

As Townhall.com and Fox News commentator Guy Benson told me, those involved in the alleged quid pro quo “were up to something that stunk.” “They misused and abused their power,” he said. “It’s serious and it should be taken seriously.

But in his view, impeachment is a step too far. “My case against impeachment and removal is that it rises to a thermonuclear option that has never been detonated before. Doing so based on this, so close to an election, in a president’s first term, would do enormous damage.”

Rather, he favors censure, a “very rare tool” last used against President Andrew Jackson in 1834 that would, as he wrote in October, “represent a severe and formal condemnation from the people’s branch, and would constitute a stain on the president’s term in office.”

Daily Caller founders Tucker Carlson and Neil Patel have also argued that impeachment is too harsh a punishment for Trump. In an op-ed in October where they stipulated that “Donald Trump should not have been on the phone with a foreign head of state encouraging another country to investigate his political opponent,” they then wrote, “Impeaching a president is the most extreme and anti-democratic remedy we have in our system of government.”

And they added:

The facts are out there for the American people to weigh as they make their decision. How about we let them sort all this out? There’s no need to come up with thin excuses for a purely partisan impeachment process when we have an election right around the corner.

I spoke to Patel, who told me, “Nancy Pelosi was right for all those months when she repeatedly said that to undo that election without bipartisan support based on clear criminal behavior would tear the country apart. We are on the eve of a new election where the American people can once again vote on Trump and this time they can weigh for themselves Trump’s behavior in this Ukraine affair. That’s a much better solution.”

Thoughts after day one: Trump’s mention of Biden on his 7/25 call was inappropriate. I’ve said that all along. However, nothing I heard today leads me to change my mind : impeachment goes too far. Let the voters settle this. One party, partisan impeachment is not the answer.

— Ari Fleischer (@AriFleischer) November 13, 2019

4) “No one cares”

But an even simpler defense of the president is one being made by Carlson on his Fox News show and by others within the conservative movement, and it actually doesn’t require defending the president at all.

Instead, Republicans are arguing that the entire process is a “distraction.” Moreover, they’re arguing that it doesn’t matter what Trump did or didn’t do because the Senate won’t vote to impeach the president and the average American doesn’t care.

As Townhall.com writer Kurt Schlichter wrote earlier this week, “We’re too busy working, too focused on our 401(k)s going through the roof and on [Trump] flipping circuit courts like a boss, to care about the latest outrage to end all outrages.” I reached out to Schlichter and will update if and when I hear back.

On the November 15 edition of Tucker Carlson Tonight, Carlson argued, “normal people” — “someone with kids and a job and a marriage you care about” — aren’t thinking about impeachment and would rather “the buffoons on TV would stop yapping about Trump 24/7 and talk about something relevant.”

It’s an argument being made by Republicans both inside and outside of the administration. For example, White House Press Secretary Stephanie Grisham tweeted that instead of impeachment (which was “boring” and a “waste of time”), “Congress should be working on passing USMCA, funding our govt & military, working on reduced drug pricing & so much more.”

With record low unemployment and record high wage growth, Democrats know they can't beat President Trump in 2020. Democrats need to #StopTheMadness and get back to work for the American people.

— PA GOP (@PAGOP) November 20, 2019

This argument seems somewhat self-refuting — after all, tweeting or writing or saying on national television that no one cares about impeachment would imply that someone, somewhere, decidedly does.

But for the GOP, it is perhaps the most revealing. Not of the sentiment of the average American — 70 percent of whom believe Trump’s actions regarding Ukraine were “wrong” — but of the Republicans. Because they are well aware that within a slimmed-down Republican Party that has largely excised his enemies and detractors through retirements and election losses, Trump is the only available lodestar.

And so for them, it doesn’t actually matter what Trump did with regard to Ukrainian military aid: whether he intended to hurt Joe Biden’s presidential hopes, whether he was genuinely concerned about corruption, or whether he did something that constitutes an impeachable offense. Trump is all they’ve got.

from Vox - All https://ift.tt/338QAa3

[gracieyvonnehunter]

The 4 main conservative defenses for Trump against impeachment, explained

President Trump attends a “Keep America Great” rally in Minneapolis, Minnesota, on October 10, 2019. | Brendan Smialowski /AFP/Getty Images

Only one of them makes sense.

President Donald Trump withheld hundreds of millions of dollars in military aid from the Ukrainian government, seemingly to push lawmakers to announce an investigation into the son of a potential political opponent and his work with a Ukrainian energy company. That much, at least, is clear. As is the fact that Trump has an 89 percent approval rating with Republican voters.

That’s why most Republican lawmakers aren’t going to change their minds on the impeachment of President Trump. While some in Congress might privately think that Trump’s efforts to pressure Ukrainian officials to “do him a favor” and investigate former Vice President Joe Biden was a bad idea, they won’t say so in public.

Because, quite simply, Trump is the president. He’s giving them what they want politically, the economy appears strong and, most critically, he is far more popular and powerful than they are.

But House Republicans and many Trump-supportive conservative and right-leaning writers and pundits have largely attempted to avoid saying as much.

Rather, together with constantly shifting responses to specific testimony, they appear to have developed three basic defenses for Trump as House impeachment hearings continued: He was “too inept” to have intended to do what he is being accused of doing; what he did was actually good; and his actions were bad, but not impeachable.

But some congressional Republicans and conservatives have begun saying another, perhaps most accurate, defense of Trump out loud: Whatever he did, it doesn’t matter — not to “normal people” and not to the Republican Party.

1) “Impeachment for incompetence would disqualify most of the government”

The first basic defense of Trump regarding Ukraine is the simplest: Trump lacked the intent and the basic competence to get a quid pro quo deal with Ukraine done. And without intent (legally defined as a conscious decision to commit an illegal act), some argue that what Trump did may have been bad and dumb, but not criminal — and thus, not a “high crime or misdemeanor.”

As elucidated by the Wall Street Journal editorial board in October:

... it may turn out that while Mr. Trump wanted a quid-pro-quo policy ultimatum toward Ukraine, he was too inept to execute it. Impeachment for incompetence would disqualify most of the government, and most Presidents at some point or another in office.

Republican Sen. Lindsey Graham seemingly agreed, telling CBS News earlier this month that the administration appeared “incapable” of forming a quid pro quo, thus rendering the entire impeachment discussion null and void.

"It was incoherent," Sen @LindseyGrahamSC says of Trump's Ukraine policy. "They seem to be *incapable* of forming a quid pro quo." pic.twitter.com/rdZxyIazNj

— Steven Portnoy (@stevenportnoy) November 6, 2019

Conservative pundit Ben Shapiro made similar arguments on his podcast, saying on October 7 that Trump would make a fantastic client for a defense attorney because “Trump doesn’t have requisite intent for anything. The man has the attention span of a gnat ... if you are his defense lawyer, his best defense to ‘he had a plan in Ukraine to go after Joe Biden’ is ‘dude doesn’t have plans.’” And on November 11, Shapiro argued, “I don’t think he’s had the level of intent necessary to eat a hamburger.” I reached out to Shapiro, but he was unable to comment on Wednesday.

And after all, military aid to Ukraine was eventually restored. So according to this argument, the actions for which Trump is facing impeachment (withholding aid for selfish reasons) never actually happened. Per National Review’s Rich Lowry, “The best defense Republicans can muster is that nothing came of it. An ally was discomfited and yanked around for a couple of months before, ultimately, getting its defense funding.”

And his magazine’s editorial board argued earlier this month, “It has to matter that, at the end of the day, the harm of this episode was minimal or nonexistent. The Ukrainians got their defense aid without making any statement committing themselves to the investigations.”

It’s true that intent matters — in criminal proceedings. I spoke with Ken White, a criminal defense attorney and former US attorney, who told me, “Intent is very important in court, and for many of these crimes, from witness intimidation to bribery, prosecutors must prove corrupt intent. If we were in federal court, litigating criminal charges against the president, I think the “Trump is just Trump” defense would be colorable and tricky to overcome.

“With normal humans, when they act like Trump you can infer corrupt intent; the defense is that you can’t make that inference with Trump because he acts that way all the time, reflexively.”

But White added two caveats. “First, that’s a matter of proof. A jury could still reject it and see corrupt intent. Second, this ain’t federal court.” Impeachment, after all, is a political process, not a legal one.

And as to the argument that funding to Ukraine was indeed restored, the Cato Institute’s Gene Healy pointed out in October that an unsuccessful or “incompetent” attempt to commit an impeachable act doesn’t make it less impeachable:

The Nixon crew botched most of the schemes it undertook, from the Watergate caper to the attempt to audit the president’s political enemies. That didn’t save Richard Nixon from being driven from office via the impeachment process.

2) “Donald Trump and Rudy Giuliani deserve praise”

Some of Trump’s defenders are taking an entirely different approach and stating that Donald Trump’s actions were not only defensible, but good. In the words of Rep. Scott Perry (R-PA) (who criticized Lt. Col. Vindman for having “opinions counter” to the president), “it’s perfectly within the purview of the president’s authority” to base military aid on the assurance of an investigation into corruption (or more accurately, the announcement of an investigation).

They argue that the government of Ukraine was corrupt and Trump was elected to fight corruption — ergo, of course he would resist sending aid to Ukraine. Rep. Jim Jordan (R-OH) put it this way: “Corruption is not just prevalent in Ukraine. It’s the system. Our president said time out, time out, let’s check out this new guy.”

.@RealDonaldTrump and @RudyGiuliani deserve praise for pushing for accountability because these officials seem to have zero concern about Ukraine's collusion w/Obama admin targeting America's election in 2016 -- and the Biden cover-up...

— Tom Fitton (@TomFitton) November 20, 2019

As Washington Examiner writer Byron York wrote in a piece entitled “What if Trump was right about Ukraine?”, supporters of this line of logic argue that while perhaps Trump’s actions weren’t the best, he had real and genuine concerns about Ukraine’s government and its alleged efforts to collude with the Clinton campaign and influence the 2016 election.

Those efforts are based on allegations that Ukrainian officials, concerned about former Trump campaign manager Paul Manafort’s work for a pro-Russian political party, attempted to assist the Clinton campaign and harm the Trump campaign. Right-leaning media outlets have focused serious attention on those allegations since 2017.

For example, the Federalist’s Mollie Hemingway argued on Fox News in October of this year, “You have people who have already admitted that people affiliated with the Ukrainian government worked with the Democratic National Committee’s contractors to help Hillary Clinton in the 2016 campaign,” arguing that Ukraine and the DNC took part in actual collusion, unlike Russia and Trump’s campaign.

York writes that if the allegations were true, Trump’s actions make sense. “If [those concerns] were even mostly legitimate, then Trump defenders could say: “Look, he had a point. Even if one thinks he handled the issue inappropriately, the fact is, what was going on in Ukraine was worrisome enough for a United States president to take notice.” Quoting former US Special Representative to Ukraine Kurt Volker, York concluded, “The president said Ukraine ‘tried to take me down.’ He wasn’t wrong.” (It’s worth noting that other conservatives disagree.)

This was the argument that Victor Davis Hanson, a senior fellow at the Hoover Institution and a writer at National Review who published “The Case for Trump” earlier this year, made to me, saying that it made sense for Trump to be suspicious of Ukraine. He asked that I quote him in full.

“Trump is a businessman and he does not want to give much military aid in general, and naturally not to corrupt governments who have in the past, according to Politico, tried to interfere in the 2016 election.”

“Trump naturally takes the past Ukrainian efforts, again according to the 2017 Politico report, to harm his election effort, as a personal affront given they reportedly sought to stop Trump from becoming president and yet wanted him to reverse the Obama policy of no military aid once he was elected (which he did).”

“Once more, we are left with a supposed thought crime of considering delaying aid in exchange for Ukrainian promises of investigating 2016 interference in an American election—which never happened, but was actually reified by earlier suspension of actual Ukrainian investigations in 2016 (and possibly of Hunter Biden) and refusal to arm the Ukrainians.”

But this argument has problems of its own. Fiona Hill and Lt. Col. Alexander Vindman, both of whom served on Trump’s National Security Council, testified earlier this month that they had seen no evidence that the government of Ukraine interfered in the 2016 election. Hill added in testimony Thursday, “I refuse to be part of an effort to legitimize an alternate narrative that the Ukrainian government is a US adversary, and that Ukraine — not Russia — attacked us in 2016.”

The Politico piece to which Dr. Hanson referred during our conversation notes that while some Ukrainian officials supported Clinton, their efforts were “far less concerted or centrally directed than Russia’s alleged hacking and dissemination of Democratic emails,” which was a “top-down” effort. And according to documents obtained by BuzzFeed News via a Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) request, one of the main sources for allegations that Ukraine interfered in the 2016 election — including allegations that they, not Russia, hacked the DNC — was Manafort himself.

3) “Impeaching a president is the most extreme and anti-democratic remedy”

But other conservatives have argued that Trump’s actions, even if tied to an “understandable and justifiable” desire to investigate allegations of Ukrainian meddling in the 2016 election, were improper, inappropriate, or just plain bad.

As Townhall.com and Fox News commentator Guy Benson told me, those involved in the alleged quid pro quo “were up to something that stunk.” “They misused and abused their power,” he said. “It’s serious and it should be taken seriously.

But in his view, impeachment is a step too far. “My case against impeachment and removal is that it rises to a thermonuclear option that has never been detonated before. Doing so based on this, so close to an election, in a president’s first term, would do enormous damage.”

Rather, he favors censure, a “very rare tool” last used against President Andrew Jackson in 1834 that would, as he wrote in October, “represent a severe and formal condemnation from the people’s branch, and would constitute a stain on the president’s term in office.”

Daily Caller founders Tucker Carlson and Neil Patel have also argued that impeachment is too harsh a punishment for Trump. In an op-ed in October where they stipulated that “Donald Trump should not have been on the phone with a foreign head of state encouraging another country to investigate his political opponent,” they then wrote, “Impeaching a president is the most extreme and anti-democratic remedy we have in our system of government.”

And they added:

The facts are out there for the American people to weigh as they make their decision. How about we let them sort all this out? There’s no need to come up with thin excuses for a purely partisan impeachment process when we have an election right around the corner.

I spoke to Patel, who told me, “Nancy Pelosi was right for all those months when she repeatedly said that to undo that election without bipartisan support based on clear criminal behavior would tear the country apart. We are on the eve of a new election where the American people can once again vote on Trump and this time they can weigh for themselves Trump’s behavior in this Ukraine affair. That’s a much better solution.”

Thoughts after day one: Trump’s mention of Biden on his 7/25 call was inappropriate. I’ve said that all along. However, nothing I heard today leads me to change my mind : impeachment goes too far. Let the voters settle this. One party, partisan impeachment is not the answer.

— Ari Fleischer (@AriFleischer) November 13, 2019

4) “No one cares”

But an even simpler defense of the president is one being made by Carlson on his Fox News show and by others within the conservative movement, and it actually doesn’t require defending the president at all.

Instead, Republicans are arguing that the entire process is a “distraction.” Moreover, they’re arguing that it doesn’t matter what Trump did or didn’t do because the Senate won’t vote to impeach the president and the average American doesn’t care.

As Townhall.com writer Kurt Schlichter wrote earlier this week, “We’re too busy working, too focused on our 401(k)s going through the roof and on [Trump] flipping circuit courts like a boss, to care about the latest outrage to end all outrages.” I reached out to Schlichter and will update if and when I hear back.

On the November 15 edition of Tucker Carlson Tonight, Carlson argued, “normal people” — “someone with kids and a job and a marriage you care about” — aren’t thinking about impeachment and would rather “the buffoons on TV would stop yapping about Trump 24/7 and talk about something relevant.”

It’s an argument being made by Republicans both inside and outside of the administration. For example, White House Press Secretary Stephanie Grisham tweeted that instead of impeachment (which was “boring” and a “waste of time”), “Congress should be working on passing USMCA, funding our govt & military, working on reduced drug pricing & so much more.”

With record low unemployment and record high wage growth, Democrats know they can't beat President Trump in 2020. Democrats need to #StopTheMadness and get back to work for the American people.

— PA GOP (@PAGOP) November 20, 2019

This argument seems somewhat self-refuting — after all, tweeting or writing or saying on national television that no one cares about impeachment would imply that someone, somewhere, decidedly does.

But for the GOP, it is perhaps the most revealing. Not of the sentiment of the average American — 70 percent of whom believe Trump’s actions regarding Ukraine were “wrong” — but of the Republicans. Because they are well aware that within a slimmed-down Republican Party that has largely excised his enemies and detractors through retirements and election losses, Trump is the only available lodestar.

And so for them, it doesn’t actually matter what Trump did with regard to Ukrainian military aid: whether he intended to hurt Joe Biden’s presidential hopes, whether he was genuinely concerned about corruption, or whether he did something that constitutes an impeachable offense. Trump is all they’ve got.

from Vox - All https://ift.tt/338QAa3

[timalexanderdollery]

The 4 main conservative defenses for Trump against impeachment, explained

President Trump attends a “Keep America Great” rally in Minneapolis, Minnesota, on October 10, 2019. | Brendan Smialowski /AFP/Getty Images

Only one of them makes sense.

President Donald Trump withheld hundreds of millions of dollars in military aid from the Ukrainian government, seemingly to push lawmakers to announce an investigation into the son of a potential political opponent and his work with a Ukrainian energy company. That much, at least, is clear. As is the fact that Trump has an 89 percent approval rating with Republican voters.

That’s why most Republican lawmakers aren’t going to change their minds on the impeachment of President Trump. While some in Congress might privately think that Trump’s efforts to pressure Ukrainian officials to “do him a favor” and investigate former Vice President Joe Biden was a bad idea, they won’t say so in public.

Because, quite simply, Trump is the president. He’s giving them what they want politically, the economy appears strong and, most critically, he is far more popular and powerful than they are.

But House Republicans and many Trump-supportive conservative and right-leaning writers and pundits have largely attempted to avoid saying as much.

Rather, together with constantly shifting responses to specific testimony, they appear to have developed three basic defenses for Trump as House impeachment hearings continued: He was “too inept” to have intended to do what he is being accused of doing; what he did was actually good; and his actions were bad, but not impeachable.

But some congressional Republicans and conservatives have begun saying another, perhaps most accurate, defense of Trump out loud: Whatever he did, it doesn’t matter — not to “normal people” and not to the Republican Party.

1) “Impeachment for incompetence would disqualify most of the government”

The first basic defense of Trump regarding Ukraine is the simplest: Trump lacked the intent and the basic competence to get a quid pro quo deal with Ukraine done. And without intent (legally defined as a conscious decision to commit an illegal act), some argue that what Trump did may have been bad and dumb, but not criminal — and thus, not a “high crime or misdemeanor.”

As elucidated by the Wall Street Journal editorial board in October:

... it may turn out that while Mr. Trump wanted a quid-pro-quo policy ultimatum toward Ukraine, he was too inept to execute it. Impeachment for incompetence would disqualify most of the government, and most Presidents at some point or another in office.

Republican Sen. Lindsey Graham seemingly agreed, telling CBS News earlier this month that the administration appeared “incapable” of forming a quid pro quo, thus rendering the entire impeachment discussion null and void.

"It was incoherent," Sen @LindseyGrahamSC says of Trump's Ukraine policy. "They seem to be *incapable* of forming a quid pro quo." pic.twitter.com/rdZxyIazNj

— Steven Portnoy (@stevenportnoy) November 6, 2019

Conservative pundit Ben Shapiro made similar arguments on his podcast, saying on October 7 that Trump would make a fantastic client for a defense attorney because “Trump doesn’t have requisite intent for anything. The man has the attention span of a gnat ... if you are his defense lawyer, his best defense to ‘he had a plan in Ukraine to go after Joe Biden’ is ‘dude doesn’t have plans.’” And on November 11, Shapiro argued, “I don’t think he’s had the level of intent necessary to eat a hamburger.” I reached out to Shapiro, but he was unable to comment on Wednesday.

And after all, military aid to Ukraine was eventually restored. So according to this argument, the actions for which Trump is facing impeachment (withholding aid for selfish reasons) never actually happened. Per National Review’s Rich Lowry, “The best defense Republicans can muster is that nothing came of it. An ally was discomfited and yanked around for a couple of months before, ultimately, getting its defense funding.”

And his magazine’s editorial board argued earlier this month, “It has to matter that, at the end of the day, the harm of this episode was minimal or nonexistent. The Ukrainians got their defense aid without making any statement committing themselves to the investigations.”

It’s true that intent matters — in criminal proceedings. I spoke with Ken White, a criminal defense attorney and former US attorney, who told me, “Intent is very important in court, and for many of these crimes, from witness intimidation to bribery, prosecutors must prove corrupt intent. If we were in federal court, litigating criminal charges against the president, I think the “Trump is just Trump” defense would be colorable and tricky to overcome.

“With normal humans, when they act like Trump you can infer corrupt intent; the defense is that you can’t make that inference with Trump because he acts that way all the time, reflexively.”

But White added two caveats. “First, that’s a matter of proof. A jury could still reject it and see corrupt intent. Second, this ain’t federal court.” Impeachment, after all, is a political process, not a legal one.

And as to the argument that funding to Ukraine was indeed restored, the Cato Institute’s Gene Healy pointed out in October that an unsuccessful or “incompetent” attempt to commit an impeachable act doesn’t make it less impeachable:

The Nixon crew botched most of the schemes it undertook, from the Watergate caper to the attempt to audit the president’s political enemies. That didn’t save Richard Nixon from being driven from office via the impeachment process.

2) “Donald Trump and Rudy Giuliani deserve praise”

Some of Trump’s defenders are taking an entirely different approach and stating that Donald Trump’s actions were not only defensible, but good. In the words of Rep. Scott Perry (R-PA) (who criticized Lt. Col. Vindman for having “opinions counter” to the president), “it’s perfectly within the purview of the president’s authority” to base military aid on the assurance of an investigation into corruption (or more accurately, the announcement of an investigation).

They argue that the government of Ukraine was corrupt and Trump was elected to fight corruption — ergo, of course he would resist sending aid to Ukraine. Rep. Jim Jordan (R-OH) put it this way: “Corruption is not just prevalent in Ukraine. It’s the system. Our president said time out, time out, let’s check out this new guy.”

.@RealDonaldTrump and @RudyGiuliani deserve praise for pushing for accountability because these officials seem to have zero concern about Ukraine's collusion w/Obama admin targeting America's election in 2016 -- and the Biden cover-up...

— Tom Fitton (@TomFitton) November 20, 2019

As Washington Examiner writer Byron York wrote in a piece entitled “What if Trump was right about Ukraine?”, supporters of this line of logic argue that while perhaps Trump’s actions weren’t the best, he had real and genuine concerns about Ukraine’s government and its alleged efforts to collude with the Clinton campaign and influence the 2016 election.

Those efforts are based on allegations that Ukrainian officials, concerned about former Trump campaign manager Paul Manafort’s work for a pro-Russian political party, attempted to assist the Clinton campaign and harm the Trump campaign. Right-leaning media outlets have focused serious attention on those allegations since 2017.

For example, the Federalist’s Mollie Hemingway argued on Fox News in October of this year, “You have people who have already admitted that people affiliated with the Ukrainian government worked with the Democratic National Committee’s contractors to help Hillary Clinton in the 2016 campaign,” arguing that Ukraine and the DNC took part in actual collusion, unlike Russia and Trump’s campaign.

York writes that if the allegations were true, Trump’s actions make sense. “If [those concerns] were even mostly legitimate, then Trump defenders could say: “Look, he had a point. Even if one thinks he handled the issue inappropriately, the fact is, what was going on in Ukraine was worrisome enough for a United States president to take notice.” Quoting former US Special Representative to Ukraine Kurt Volker, York concluded, “The president said Ukraine ‘tried to take me down.’ He wasn’t wrong.” (It’s worth noting that other conservatives disagree.)

This was the argument that Victor Davis Hanson, a senior fellow at the Hoover Institution and a writer at National Review who published “The Case for Trump” earlier this year, made to me, saying that it made sense for Trump to be suspicious of Ukraine. He asked that I quote him in full.

“Trump is a businessman and he does not want to give much military aid in general, and naturally not to corrupt governments who have in the past, according to Politico, tried to interfere in the 2016 election.”

“Trump naturally takes the past Ukrainian efforts, again according to the 2017 Politico report, to harm his election effort, as a personal affront given they reportedly sought to stop Trump from becoming president and yet wanted him to reverse the Obama policy of no military aid once he was elected (which he did).”

“Once more, we are left with a supposed thought crime of considering delaying aid in exchange for Ukrainian promises of investigating 2016 interference in an American election—which never happened, but was actually reified by earlier suspension of actual Ukrainian investigations in 2016 (and possibly of Hunter Biden) and refusal to arm the Ukrainians.”

But this argument has problems of its own. Fiona Hill and Lt. Col. Alexander Vindman, both of whom served on Trump’s National Security Council, testified earlier this month that they had seen no evidence that the government of Ukraine interfered in the 2016 election. Hill added in testimony Thursday, “I refuse to be part of an effort to legitimize an alternate narrative that the Ukrainian government is a US adversary, and that Ukraine — not Russia — attacked us in 2016.”

The Politico piece to which Dr. Hanson referred during our conversation notes that while some Ukrainian officials supported Clinton, their efforts were “far less concerted or centrally directed than Russia’s alleged hacking and dissemination of Democratic emails,” which was a “top-down” effort. And according to documents obtained by BuzzFeed News via a Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) request, one of the main sources for allegations that Ukraine interfered in the 2016 election — including allegations that they, not Russia, hacked the DNC — was Manafort himself.

3) “Impeaching a president is the most extreme and anti-democratic remedy”

But other conservatives have argued that Trump’s actions, even if tied to an “understandable and justifiable” desire to investigate allegations of Ukrainian meddling in the 2016 election, were improper, inappropriate, or just plain bad.

As Townhall.com and Fox News commentator Guy Benson told me, those involved in the alleged quid pro quo “were up to something that stunk.” “They misused and abused their power,” he said. “It’s serious and it should be taken seriously.

But in his view, impeachment is a step too far. “My case against impeachment and removal is that it rises to a thermonuclear option that has never been detonated before. Doing so based on this, so close to an election, in a president’s first term, would do enormous damage.”

Rather, he favors censure, a “very rare tool” last used against President Andrew Jackson in 1834 that would, as he wrote in October, “represent a severe and formal condemnation from the people’s branch, and would constitute a stain on the president’s term in office.”

Daily Caller founders Tucker Carlson and Neil Patel have also argued that impeachment is too harsh a punishment for Trump. In an op-ed in October where they stipulated that “Donald Trump should not have been on the phone with a foreign head of state encouraging another country to investigate his political opponent,” they then wrote, “Impeaching a president is the most extreme and anti-democratic remedy we have in our system of government.”

And they added:

The facts are out there for the American people to weigh as they make their decision. How about we let them sort all this out? There’s no need to come up with thin excuses for a purely partisan impeachment process when we have an election right around the corner.

I spoke to Patel, who told me, “Nancy Pelosi was right for all those months when she repeatedly said that to undo that election without bipartisan support based on clear criminal behavior would tear the country apart. We are on the eve of a new election where the American people can once again vote on Trump and this time they can weigh for themselves Trump’s behavior in this Ukraine affair. That’s a much better solution.”

Thoughts after day one: Trump’s mention of Biden on his 7/25 call was inappropriate. I’ve said that all along. However, nothing I heard today leads me to change my mind : impeachment goes too far. Let the voters settle this. One party, partisan impeachment is not the answer.

— Ari Fleischer (@AriFleischer) November 13, 2019

4) “No one cares”

But an even simpler defense of the president is one being made by Carlson on his Fox News show and by others within the conservative movement, and it actually doesn’t require defending the president at all.

Instead, Republicans are arguing that the entire process is a “distraction.” Moreover, they’re arguing that it doesn’t matter what Trump did or didn’t do because the Senate won’t vote to impeach the president and the average American doesn’t care.

As Townhall.com writer Kurt Schlichter wrote earlier this week, “We’re too busy working, too focused on our 401(k)s going through the roof and on [Trump] flipping circuit courts like a boss, to care about the latest outrage to end all outrages.” I reached out to Schlichter and will update if and when I hear back.

On the November 15 edition of Tucker Carlson Tonight, Carlson argued, “normal people” — “someone with kids and a job and a marriage you care about” — aren’t thinking about impeachment and would rather “the buffoons on TV would stop yapping about Trump 24/7 and talk about something relevant.”

It’s an argument being made by Republicans both inside and outside of the administration. For example, White House Press Secretary Stephanie Grisham tweeted that instead of impeachment (which was “boring” and a “waste of time”), “Congress should be working on passing USMCA, funding our govt & military, working on reduced drug pricing & so much more.”

With record low unemployment and record high wage growth, Democrats know they can't beat President Trump in 2020. Democrats need to #StopTheMadness and get back to work for the American people.

— PA GOP (@PAGOP) November 20, 2019

This argument seems somewhat self-refuting — after all, tweeting or writing or saying on national television that no one cares about impeachment would imply that someone, somewhere, decidedly does.

But for the GOP, it is perhaps the most revealing. Not of the sentiment of the average American — 70 percent of whom believe Trump’s actions regarding Ukraine were “wrong” — but of the Republicans. Because they are well aware that within a slimmed-down Republican Party that has largely excised his enemies and detractors through retirements and election losses, Trump is the only available lodestar.

And so for them, it doesn’t actually matter what Trump did with regard to Ukrainian military aid: whether he intended to hurt Joe Biden’s presidential hopes, whether he was genuinely concerned about corruption, or whether he did something that constitutes an impeachable offense. Trump is all they’ve got.

from Vox - All https://ift.tt/338QAa3

[corneliusreignallen]

The 4 main conservative defenses for Trump against impeachment, explained

President Trump attends a “Keep America Great” rally in Minneapolis, Minnesota, on October 10, 2019. | Brendan Smialowski /AFP/Getty Images

Only one of them makes sense.

President Donald Trump withheld hundreds of millions of dollars in military aid from the Ukrainian government, seemingly to push lawmakers to announce an investigation into the son of a potential political opponent and his work with a Ukrainian energy company. That much, at least, is clear. As is the fact that Trump has an 89 percent approval rating with Republican voters.

That’s why most Republican lawmakers aren’t going to change their minds on the impeachment of President Trump. While some in Congress might privately think that Trump’s efforts to pressure Ukrainian officials to “do him a favor” and investigate former Vice President Joe Biden was a bad idea, they won’t say so in public.

Because, quite simply, Trump is the president. He’s giving them what they want politically, the economy appears strong and, most critically, he is far more popular and powerful than they are.

But House Republicans and many Trump-supportive conservative and right-leaning writers and pundits have largely attempted to avoid saying as much.

Rather, together with constantly shifting responses to specific testimony, they appear to have developed three basic defenses for Trump as House impeachment hearings continued: He was “too inept” to have intended to do what he is being accused of doing; what he did was actually good; and his actions were bad, but not impeachable.

But some congressional Republicans and conservatives have begun saying another, perhaps most accurate, defense of Trump out loud: Whatever he did, it doesn’t matter — not to “normal people” and not to the Republican Party.

1) “Impeachment for incompetence would disqualify most of the government”

The first basic defense of Trump regarding Ukraine is the simplest: Trump lacked the intent and the basic competence to get a quid pro quo deal with Ukraine done. And without intent (legally defined as a conscious decision to commit an illegal act), some argue that what Trump did may have been bad and dumb, but not criminal — and thus, not a “high crime or misdemeanor.”

As elucidated by the Wall Street Journal editorial board in October:

... it may turn out that while Mr. Trump wanted a quid-pro-quo policy ultimatum toward Ukraine, he was too inept to execute it. Impeachment for incompetence would disqualify most of the government, and most Presidents at some point or another in office.

Republican Sen. Lindsey Graham seemingly agreed, telling CBS News earlier this month that the administration appeared “incapable” of forming a quid pro quo, thus rendering the entire impeachment discussion null and void.

"It was incoherent," Sen @LindseyGrahamSC says of Trump's Ukraine policy. "They seem to be *incapable* of forming a quid pro quo." pic.twitter.com/rdZxyIazNj

— Steven Portnoy (@stevenportnoy) November 6, 2019

Conservative pundit Ben Shapiro made similar arguments on his podcast, saying on October 7 that Trump would make a fantastic client for a defense attorney because “Trump doesn’t have requisite intent for anything. The man has the attention span of a gnat ... if you are his defense lawyer, his best defense to ‘he had a plan in Ukraine to go after Joe Biden’ is ‘dude doesn’t have plans.’” And on November 11, Shapiro argued, “I don’t think he’s had the level of intent necessary to eat a hamburger.” I reached out to Shapiro, but he was unable to comment on Wednesday.

And after all, military aid to Ukraine was eventually restored. So according to this argument, the actions for which Trump is facing impeachment (withholding aid for selfish reasons) never actually happened. Per National Review’s Rich Lowry, “The best defense Republicans can muster is that nothing came of it. An ally was discomfited and yanked around for a couple of months before, ultimately, getting its defense funding.”

And his magazine’s editorial board argued earlier this month, “It has to matter that, at the end of the day, the harm of this episode was minimal or nonexistent. The Ukrainians got their defense aid without making any statement committing themselves to the investigations.”

It’s true that intent matters — in criminal proceedings. I spoke with Ken White, a criminal defense attorney and former US attorney, who told me, “Intent is very important in court, and for many of these crimes, from witness intimidation to bribery, prosecutors must prove corrupt intent. If we were in federal court, litigating criminal charges against the president, I think the “Trump is just Trump” defense would be colorable and tricky to overcome.

“With normal humans, when they act like Trump you can infer corrupt intent; the defense is that you can’t make that inference with Trump because he acts that way all the time, reflexively.”

But White added two caveats. “First, that’s a matter of proof. A jury could still reject it and see corrupt intent. Second, this ain’t federal court.” Impeachment, after all, is a political process, not a legal one.

And as to the argument that funding to Ukraine was indeed restored, the Cato Institute’s Gene Healy pointed out in October that an unsuccessful or “incompetent” attempt to commit an impeachable act doesn’t make it less impeachable:

The Nixon crew botched most of the schemes it undertook, from the Watergate caper to the attempt to audit the president’s political enemies. That didn’t save Richard Nixon from being driven from office via the impeachment process.

2) “Donald Trump and Rudy Giuliani deserve praise”

Some of Trump’s defenders are taking an entirely different approach and stating that Donald Trump’s actions were not only defensible, but good. In the words of Rep. Scott Perry (R-PA) (who criticized Lt. Col. Vindman for having “opinions counter” to the president), “it’s perfectly within the purview of the president’s authority” to base military aid on the assurance of an investigation into corruption (or more accurately, the announcement of an investigation).

They argue that the government of Ukraine was corrupt and Trump was elected to fight corruption — ergo, of course he would resist sending aid to Ukraine. Rep. Jim Jordan (R-OH) put it this way: “Corruption is not just prevalent in Ukraine. It’s the system. Our president said time out, time out, let’s check out this new guy.”

.@RealDonaldTrump and @RudyGiuliani deserve praise for pushing for accountability because these officials seem to have zero concern about Ukraine's collusion w/Obama admin targeting America's election in 2016 -- and the Biden cover-up...

— Tom Fitton (@TomFitton) November 20, 2019

As Washington Examiner writer Byron York wrote in a piece entitled “What if Trump was right about Ukraine?”, supporters of this line of logic argue that while perhaps Trump’s actions weren’t the best, he had real and genuine concerns about Ukraine’s government and its alleged efforts to collude with the Clinton campaign and influence the 2016 election.

Those efforts are based on allegations that Ukrainian officials, concerned about former Trump campaign manager Paul Manafort’s work for a pro-Russian political party, attempted to assist the Clinton campaign and harm the Trump campaign. Right-leaning media outlets have focused serious attention on those allegations since 2017.

For example, the Federalist’s Mollie Hemingway argued on Fox News in October of this year, “You have people who have already admitted that people affiliated with the Ukrainian government worked with the Democratic National Committee’s contractors to help Hillary Clinton in the 2016 campaign,” arguing that Ukraine and the DNC took part in actual collusion, unlike Russia and Trump’s campaign.

York writes that if the allegations were true, Trump’s actions make sense. “If [those concerns] were even mostly legitimate, then Trump defenders could say: “Look, he had a point. Even if one thinks he handled the issue inappropriately, the fact is, what was going on in Ukraine was worrisome enough for a United States president to take notice.” Quoting former US Special Representative to Ukraine Kurt Volker, York concluded, “The president said Ukraine ‘tried to take me down.’ He wasn’t wrong.” (It’s worth noting that other conservatives disagree.)

This was the argument that Victor Davis Hanson, a senior fellow at the Hoover Institution and a writer at National Review who published “The Case for Trump” earlier this year, made to me, saying that it made sense for Trump to be suspicious of Ukraine. He asked that I quote him in full.

“Trump is a businessman and he does not want to give much military aid in general, and naturally not to corrupt governments who have in the past, according to Politico, tried to interfere in the 2016 election.”

“Trump naturally takes the past Ukrainian efforts, again according to the 2017 Politico report, to harm his election effort, as a personal affront given they reportedly sought to stop Trump from becoming president and yet wanted him to reverse the Obama policy of no military aid once he was elected (which he did).”

“Once more, we are left with a supposed thought crime of considering delaying aid in exchange for Ukrainian promises of investigating 2016 interference in an American election—which never happened, but was actually reified by earlier suspension of actual Ukrainian investigations in 2016 (and possibly of Hunter Biden) and refusal to arm the Ukrainians.”

But this argument has problems of its own. Fiona Hill and Lt. Col. Alexander Vindman, both of whom served on Trump’s National Security Council, testified earlier this month that they had seen no evidence that the government of Ukraine interfered in the 2016 election. Hill added in testimony Thursday, “I refuse to be part of an effort to legitimize an alternate narrative that the Ukrainian government is a US adversary, and that Ukraine — not Russia — attacked us in 2016.”

The Politico piece to which Dr. Hanson referred during our conversation notes that while some Ukrainian officials supported Clinton, their efforts were “far less concerted or centrally directed than Russia’s alleged hacking and dissemination of Democratic emails,” which was a “top-down” effort. And according to documents obtained by BuzzFeed News via a Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) request, one of the main sources for allegations that Ukraine interfered in the 2016 election — including allegations that they, not Russia, hacked the DNC — was Manafort himself.

3) “Impeaching a president is the most extreme and anti-democratic remedy”

But other conservatives have argued that Trump’s actions, even if tied to an “understandable and justifiable” desire to investigate allegations of Ukrainian meddling in the 2016 election, were improper, inappropriate, or just plain bad.

As Townhall.com and Fox News commentator Guy Benson told me, those involved in the alleged quid pro quo “were up to something that stunk.” “They misused and abused their power,” he said. “It’s serious and it should be taken seriously.

But in his view, impeachment is a step too far. “My case against impeachment and removal is that it rises to a thermonuclear option that has never been detonated before. Doing so based on this, so close to an election, in a president’s first term, would do enormous damage.”

Rather, he favors censure, a “very rare tool” last used against President Andrew Jackson in 1834 that would, as he wrote in October, “represent a severe and formal condemnation from the people’s branch, and would constitute a stain on the president’s term in office.”

Daily Caller founders Tucker Carlson and Neil Patel have also argued that impeachment is too harsh a punishment for Trump. In an op-ed in October where they stipulated that “Donald Trump should not have been on the phone with a foreign head of state encouraging another country to investigate his political opponent,” they then wrote, “Impeaching a president is the most extreme and anti-democratic remedy we have in our system of government.”

And they added:

The facts are out there for the American people to weigh as they make their decision. How about we let them sort all this out? There’s no need to come up with thin excuses for a purely partisan impeachment process when we have an election right around the corner.

I spoke to Patel, who told me, “Nancy Pelosi was right for all those months when she repeatedly said that to undo that election without bipartisan support based on clear criminal behavior would tear the country apart. We are on the eve of a new election where the American people can once again vote on Trump and this time they can weigh for themselves Trump’s behavior in this Ukraine affair. That’s a much better solution.”

Thoughts after day one: Trump’s mention of Biden on his 7/25 call was inappropriate. I’ve said that all along. However, nothing I heard today leads me to change my mind : impeachment goes too far. Let the voters settle this. One party, partisan impeachment is not the answer.

— Ari Fleischer (@AriFleischer) November 13, 2019

4) “No one cares”

But an even simpler defense of the president is one being made by Carlson on his Fox News show and by others within the conservative movement, and it actually doesn’t require defending the president at all.

Instead, Republicans are arguing that the entire process is a “distraction.” Moreover, they’re arguing that it doesn’t matter what Trump did or didn’t do because the Senate won’t vote to impeach the president and the average American doesn’t care.

As Townhall.com writer Kurt Schlichter wrote earlier this week, “We’re too busy working, too focused on our 401(k)s going through the roof and on [Trump] flipping circuit courts like a boss, to care about the latest outrage to end all outrages.” I reached out to Schlichter and will update if and when I hear back.

On the November 15 edition of Tucker Carlson Tonight, Carlson argued, “normal people” — “someone with kids and a job and a marriage you care about” — aren’t thinking about impeachment and would rather “the buffoons on TV would stop yapping about Trump 24/7 and talk about something relevant.”

It’s an argument being made by Republicans both inside and outside of the administration. For example, White House Press Secretary Stephanie Grisham tweeted that instead of impeachment (which was “boring” and a “waste of time”), “Congress should be working on passing USMCA, funding our govt & military, working on reduced drug pricing & so much more.”

With record low unemployment and record high wage growth, Democrats know they can't beat President Trump in 2020. Democrats need to #StopTheMadness and get back to work for the American people.

— PA GOP (@PAGOP) November 20, 2019

This argument seems somewhat self-refuting — after all, tweeting or writing or saying on national television that no one cares about impeachment would imply that someone, somewhere, decidedly does.

But for the GOP, it is perhaps the most revealing. Not of the sentiment of the average American — 70 percent of whom believe Trump’s actions regarding Ukraine were “wrong” — but of the Republicans. Because they are well aware that within a slimmed-down Republican Party that has largely excised his enemies and detractors through retirements and election losses, Trump is the only available lodestar.

And so for them, it doesn’t actually matter what Trump did with regard to Ukrainian military aid: whether he intended to hurt Joe Biden’s presidential hopes, whether he was genuinely concerned about corruption, or whether he did something that constitutes an impeachable offense. Trump is all they’ve got.

from Vox - All https://ift.tt/338QAa3

[thepoetsarejust]

if Aphrodite gives a shit (and We created you in pairs) - ch2

Rated: T

Chapter: 1/5

Relationships: Otabek/Yuri, mentions of Victor/Yuuri, Mila/Sara, Leo/Guang Hong

Summary:

When Yuri met Otabek, his timer had been showing him zeroes since he was ten. His Soulmate didn’t come and find him. Cursed, people call him. Fuck off, Yuri tells them.

Otabek still has years before he’s due to meet his Soulmate.

aka the soulmate timer au with a twist

ch1 | ao3

-

ch2: 2016, or: puberty strikes again, Yuri finds out about Otabek's secret hobby, injuries happen, and Yuri has to deal with the fact that things are ephemeral.

-

2016 opens up with an injury Yuri sustains at Russian nationals. From there on, lying on a thin hospital bed as figures in white poke and prod at his leg, Yuri knows 2016 is going to be a shit year.

He can't make it to European, and Lilia threatens to burn all of his leopard print jackets if he dares to do anything but lay on his bed like a kicked little dog. It's not ideal and Yuri is already stressing over the bills he would have to pay with money, money that he doesn't have right now because he is bedridden with a fucked-up knee.

His grandpa, with an earnest, determined look on his face, ensures him that he will pay for Yuri with his pension money. Yuri vehemently refuses. Half of the reason why he skates is because he wants to avoid using Grandpa’s pension money as long as he can. The other half is because he wants to spite whoever says boys aren’t supposed to be gentle and graceful.  

After three weeks of absolute torture, Yuri is released from the hospital and finally given permit to use his legs instead of treating like it's made of the thinnest glass in the world. He is not allowed to be on the ice yet, so of course he immediately goes to search for his custom-made skates, only to find that Victor and Yuuri have confiscated them. Knowing reasoning with them will end in vain, Yuri considers renting a pair at a local ice rink, then remembers the Yuri's Angels that always lurk in St. Petersburg and in the end, decides it absolutely is not worth the trouble. Staying home is the most tolerable option he has right now, until Lilia lets him back at her studio.

He spends most of his time doing light stretches and exercise, helping his grandpa around the house, and complaining to Otabek through Skype. He's going insane with boredom and antsy with his lack of income. It infuriates him to no end, that the one thing he knows he is fucking stellar at is the one thing that he is forbidden to do. Otabek suggests that maybe it's time to get back on that school work he's been neglecting in favor of his skating career.

"Don't remind me about school," Yuri groans. "You are bad at giving advice."

"It's good advice," Otabek defends. "You just don't want to do it."

Their conversations cover a wide range of topics, from skating to bees to Mickey's latest attempt to thirdwheel Mila and Sara's date, things that Yuri usually doesn't care much about, but now he finds crucial, coming out of Otabek's mouth.

Otabek tells him stories about his new coach—he always seems to change coaches—who is, in ten various ways, better than his last, but also the current bane of his existence. She is relentless and strict, iron-fisted and incredibly disciplined, and requires Otabek to spend no less than six hours on the ice. Otabek feels like he's being destroyed after training’s over, but he also feels like he's finally living up to his potentials. Yuri is glad to hear it; a lot skaters truly have the potential to become worthy of his attention, unfortunately, they always seem to lack the resources or simply stuck with the wrong coach.

Otabek's new choreographer has him excited, though, as he has worked with Virtue and Moir in the past and helped them with Carmen. Yuri points out to him that it might mean he has to do ballet again, and the sheer horror on Otabek's face is so priceless, Yuri has no regrets at all screenshotting it. Otabek threatens to block his Skype if it emerges the next day as a meme.

With this new program, Otabek effortlessly dominates nationals and snags gold at Four Continents, defeating JJ by a wide margin. Otabek’s truly beginning to shape up to become Yuri’s equal—not that Yuri doesn’t consider him as a worthy opponent before. When last year he had been intense and powerful, this year he’s still those things, but also graceful and simply mesmerizing. Yuri’s instincts say he should start regarding Otabek as an enemy, but he couldn’t find anything but happiness for the way Otabek has improved. If anything, it motivates Yuri, though in a distinctly different way that Yuuri’s skating moves him.

Otabek goes MIA for the rest of the night (well, afternoon, in Taipei’s case), but pictures of Otabek in a club, out of all places, surge up on Instagram. It wouldn’t have been all that scandalous if Otabek’s not wearing one of those sleeveless t-shirts with arm-holes so wide, anyone can take a peek at his nipples, if Otabek lets them, exposing his awful biceps and an honest-to-good tattoo just above his elbows. Even more than that, Otabek is positively DJ-ing, like some weird hybrid of the world’s most earnest person and a complete fuckboy.

Phichit posts a shaky video of Otabek’s impromptu setlist. It’s surprisingly good, even if Yuri’s not the type to venture into rave songs, if they can be classified as songs at all. Yuri’s horrified that he doesn’t know of this secret talent of Otabek’s even after one year of friendship, or his damn tattoo, and even more so at how much fun Otabek looks like he’s having. He’s smiling freely, and Yuri feels an irrational burst of jealousy that something else can make Otabek smile like that other than him.

Otabek calls his Skype in the evening, the next day (morning, probably, for him) and apologizes for disappearing.

Yuri rolls his eyes. “It’s okay, Mr. DJ, it’s not that your hidden hobby and tattoo are a surprise for me,” Yuri says, “who, if anyone’s counting, have been your best friend for over a year!”

Otabek’s wince is almost audible. “It isn’t hidden,” he says. “I only remix stuff, usually at home. I would need a bit of, um, liquid courage to do it in front of people.” People that are not him, Yuri supposes. Ugh.

“How come I never knew, then?” Yuri crosses his arms on his chest.

“Because you never asked?” Otabek says.

Yuri scoffs. Well, fair enough. “And that tattoo?”

Otabek hesitates. He looks like he’s swallowing cotton as he says, “I got it two years ago—“

“TWO YEARS?” Yuri shrieks.

“—after my first medal at Four Continents, with my parents’ consent.”

Yuri cannot believe what he’s hearing. “Of course you had to ask for your parents’ permission,” he grumbles. Otabek Altin, human hybrid of a bad boy and grandpa’s dream son-in-law.

“I didn’t tell you because I don’t want to give you any ideas,” Otabek says after a while. “Getting a tattoo isn’t as cool as it sounded. My parents tried to talk me out of it. Now, I kind of regretted it.” Come to think of it, Otabek almost never wears anything but jackets or long-sleeved shirts outside of the rink. Even during public practice, Otabek is always bundled up in his Team Kazakhstan jacket. Yuri never wonders why, thinking it’s just his friend’s preferred fashion choices, but now he knows why: Otabek is ashamed of his tattoo.

Yuri considers his response. “It’s decent,” Yuri offers truthfully. Otabek’s tattoo is three black rings around his bicep, one slightly thinner than the two, positioned in the middle. “It’s not, like, mind-blowing or fantastic, it’s just okay. I’ve seen way more regretful tattoos.” Otabek looks strangely relieved at that. “Also, what do you mean by giving me any ideas? I’ve always wanted a tattoo, and it absolutely has nothing to do with you.”

“Let me guess,” Otabek says dryly, “A tattoo of a tiger?”

Yuri’s face flushes. “Obviously not,” he lies. Okay, so he maybe sees where Otabek is going.

“Sure,” Otabek says skeptically.

“Alright, don’t think you’re off the hook yet! You’re a DJ—what the hell, Otabek? I thought you only listen to classical music!” Yuri demands.

“I don’t only listen to classical music,” Otabek explains. “I like all kinds of music. I told you, I don’t really DJ seriously. My friend’s private parties, birthdays, weddings… It’s nothing serious.”

“But you look like you were having fun,” Yuri grumbles.

“That’s exactly the point,” Otabek laughs, then does a double take. “Are you pouting?”

Yuri splutters. “I don’t pout. People like Victor pout. Guang Hong pouts. I—I glower.”

Otabek doesn’t look convinced. In fact, he looks amused. Thankfully, he makes no further comments. “I’m sorry I never told you about my hidden talents,” he says finally.

Yuri doesn’t feel so inclined to forgive him that quickly. “Action speaks louder than words, Altin,” he states.

Otabek shakes his head. He still looks so damn amused. Yuri has no idea what the hell is so amusing, but figures asking Otabek about it will only make him more amused. “Alright! Would a mixtape please Your Highness?” Otabek asks mockingly. Yuri sticks his tongue at him. “No, no, don’t be mad! I’m serious. Your birthday’s coming up, right? I won’t mind giving you my music as a gift.”

Yuri relents. “Alright, but seriously, no more surprise hidden talents.”

Otabek smirks. “No promises.”

-

As Worlds rolls close, the frequency of their Skype calls starts to wind down. It doesn't bother Yuri at all. Nope. Not at all. Really, he has his own work to do—getting his body up to the level he was when he got injured, regaining his balance and flexibility, and try not to fall every jump like a baby tossed on the ice for the first time. It doesn’t help that he seems to gain an extra ten inches since his last season, and his gangly legs feel so foreign and unmanageable on ice.

It’s humiliating, seeing the pity present in Mila when he meets her eyes, the whispers junior skaters share between each other, but Yuri refuses to give in and ask Yakov to move him to a smaller, private rink in the facility. He grits his teeth and keeps on trying.

Now retired, married and living with a dog and Victor, also known the human version of a headache, Yuuri enrolls himself as a coach and immediately takes Yuri under his wing. Victor isn’t officially listed as a coach at the rink, but he remains Yakov’s favorite apprentice even after retiring, so he gets to do what he wants. Lilia is still his ballet instructor, but Yuri trains more often with Yuuri—or Coach Katsuki—these days.

It takes Yuri four days to realize that the confident skater Yuuri puts on is not a façade. Rather, he is a multi-faceted person with layer underneath layer, and Yuri can’t, for the love of Aphrodite, figure out how many layers are buried underneath him. Though their dynamic doesn’t shift all that much (meaning Yuri yells at Yuuri and Yuuri sighs self-indulgently), there are things Yuri does that he didn’t use to do before, like yelling back at Yuri whenever Yuri yells at him in increasingly inappropriate Russian cuss words. He thinks Yuuri is trying to balance out the fact that Yuri swears enough for ten people.

Yuuri’s style of coaching is similar with Yakov in the sense that he won’t let Yuri rest until he gets every single detail right. He is strict without being unkind, thorough without pushing Yuri past his limits, minding his injured knee respectfully.

He’s also probably committed to have Yuri six feet under ten years earlier. Yuri is red-faced and bone-deep tired after every session, a sensation that he hasn’t felt in a long time since he was thirteen. Every day is discovering new ways to tame his body only to have to do it all over again by the time the sun rises the next day. It’s a never-ending loop of falling apart and putting himself together, and in between nursing his bruises, cursing himself for being a late bloomer, and getting destroyed by Katsuki Yuuri, Yuri has absolutely zero time to check his phone every hour for any new texts from Otabek, or any news at all.

He definitely doesn’t cave in after three days of radio silence and googles Otabek’s name, just to see if there are any news of him being found dead on the ice. Definitely not. He is a professional figure skater with the training from hell hot on his trails. He has no time to be thinking of a certain other skater, even if said skater is his only best friend. So when it’s break time, Yuri definitely doesn’t pull out his phone to scroll through Otabek’s one and only post on Instagram, wishing that it would magically conjure up a dozen more posts.

Yuri sighs. Otabek’s status on Skype remains stubbornly offline. He balances his phone on his thigh, downing a large bottle of water as the screen of his phone screen goes dark. The rink in front of him is still occupied by Mila and Victor, going through the last parts of her short program. Yakov assigns Yuuri to him and Victor to Mila, probably /for good reasons because Yuri would have buried Victor alive within the first day.

Victor perks up visibly when he sees Yuuri skating past, and hurries to catch up to him. Yuuri smiles when he sees Victor, squeezing his gloved hand gently before skating off to the side. He unlaces his skates expertly and sets them next to the bench Yuri’s sitting on.

"You're a little bit distracted," Yuuri observes.

Yuri immediately pockets his phone, denial on the tips of his tongue, then—oh, yeah, okay, Yuuri has a point. Still, he grits his teeth and says, "No, I'm not."

"Is your knee bothering you?" Yuuri asks, looking at him sharply.

"No!" Yuri shakes his head vigorously. He is being truthful—well, this time.  Yuri had tried to lie before, and Yuuri—no, Coach Katsuki—had gotten that scary-intimidating look on his face and told him exactly how early his career could end if he keeps lying.

Coach Katsuki—fuck it, he's still Katsudon in his eyes, what the hell—narrows his eyes. "Then there's no reason you for you sit on the bench looking sadly at your phone like someone just kicked your cat when your triple axel is barely passable."

Yuri couldn’t believe that those exact words had come out of Yuuri’s mouth at first. Meek, kind Yuuri saying anything borderline mean is unheard of. Yet here he is, gaping at austere-faced Yuuri, humorless and absolutely serious.

Yuri stands up, satisfied to see that he almost towers over Yuuri.

"SHUT UP, KATSUDON," Yuri yells. Katsudon should feel damn lucky that he's not currently holding anything, because he would have hurled it at his ugly face. He jabs the older man on his chest forcefully and yells, "I AM TRYING MY DAMN HARDEST, YOU ASSHOLE, IT'S NOT MY FAULT I HAD A SECOND GROWTH SPURT EVEN THOUGH I'M ALMOST SEVENTEEN AND MY LIMBS FEEL AS USEFUL AS NOODLES."

Yuri’s pretty sure he hears a camera phone go off. It’s probably Mila.

Katsudon doesn't budge even a millimeter. "Then what are you doing now, mooning over your phone like a pathetic loser?”

Yuri reels back like he's been punched, and launches himself on the ice angrily. If Victor were his coach, this wouldn’t have come as a surprise. But Yuri never expects to feel so… belittled under Yuuri Katsuki’s words, kind and good Yuuri Katsuki who, more or less, intrigued him to the point where he won a gold just to keep him from retiring. His blades feel like knife under his feet, and his rage bleeds onto the ice as he prepares himself for a jump—

He nails his triple axel for the first time since his injury.

He hears a resounding "yes!" coming from somewhere in his left, and whips his head around to see Katsudon skating towards him excitedly, hands spread wide like he's about to—oh, fuck. Here it comes. The big damn hug.

Yuuri wraps his arms around his shoulders and lifts him off his feet, because it doesn't matter than Yuri has easily three inches on him now, Yuuri remains a cuddle monster.

"I'm still pissed at you for calling me pathetic, you ass," Yuri says, cheeks squished against Yuuri's neck and arm.

Yuuri laughs openly, and releases him immediately. "Come on, let's go over it one more time.”

-

Grandpa's house is a one hour drive away from his rink in St. Petersburg. When Yuri decided to move to St. Petersburg from Moscow, Grandpa simultaneously sold his childhood manor to purchase a smaller, two-bedroom house in the rural part of St. Petersburg. It’s the hardest decision Yuri had ever let his grandpa made, and it’s the only thing that he would admit he’d cried over.

Victor usually drives him, with his over-the-top pink convertible (who the fuck has convertibles in Russia? Victor Nikiforov), bugging him to rap along to Nicki Minaj’s Monster. However, with the training now in full-swing, Victor has his hands full with Mila, and since Yuuri doesn't have a license, Yuri has no other choice but to take the train, which is not ideal when he's had a rough day at training.

Lilia suggests that Yuri stay in her empty apartment. It's five minutes away on foot, full-furnished, and usually stocked with vodka. And it has wifi, the greatest invention of humankind. Yuri is instantly in love, then considers if he can spare more money to pay for rent.

Lilia is straight up offended when Yuri brings up the matter of lease to her, and declares indignantly that she doesn't take money from little brats, which Yakov assures Yuri is her own way of saying she cares for Yuri like her own child. Yuri is grateful, but can't help wondering furiously why he always ends up being the one getting adopted.

These days, it's where Yuri spends the night.

Living alone gives him more privacy, not that his grandpa doesn't. He knows when to leave Yuri alone, when to let Yuri work through his problems on his own, little things that Yuri is eternally grateful for. Sometimes, though, it can be challenging to unwind when someone else is in the other room, watching late night shows. Yuri, for someone so outspoken, regards silence with a massive relief. The quiet is hard to come by, when he spends nearly seven hours a day on a busy ice rink.

It's a good perk, but on a night such as this, he wishes he was home, with grandpa cooking late dinner in the kitchen and making him hot chocolate.

Yuri knows how to cook. Grandpa is very adamant about teaching him, getting him to help him around since he was five, telling him that it's an important life skill. Yuri used to complain, as a child, that it's a girl's work, and Grandpa would shake his head and tell him to keep cutting the potatoes. It's one of those things that don't make sense to you as a kid, one of those things that, patiently, adults will tell children, "you'll understand when you get older."

Looking back, Yuri is glad for Grandpa's cooking lessons. Cooking is indeed a necessary life-skill, and Yuri learns the importance of it whenever he comes over to Yuuri and Victor's apartment (much to his disbelief) to see Victor annihilating the entire kitchen trying to replicate the Katsukis' authentic katsudon recipe.

On nights that he's not too tired, he cooks in the meticulous kitchen of Lilia's apartment. It's a good way of relaxing, the sizzle of meat on the pan and the sound of boiling broth almost therapeutic.

Still, as much as he loves it, cooking takes energy. After landing his first triple axel in months, Yuri is both mentally and physically worn out, and cannot bring himself to even boil water for instant ramen. It’s probably for his own good; Lilia will add an extra gym hour if she finds out he even considers ramen as a suitable dinner.

Yuri's face hits the pillow and he immediately drifts off to sleep, sweaty clothes and shoes still on. Absently, he knows that he will feel gross in the morning, but his tired muscles protest when he tries to get up, and in the end, the mighty ice tiger is simply human.

He jostles awake when he hears a creak at the door, self-preservation instincts kicking in. He runs to the door, ready to clock a robber in the face with his fists (for interrupting his sleep! The fuck!), and sags with relief when he sees Katsudon behind the door, wide-eyed and bewildered.

"Nobody taught you how to knock?" Yuri snaps. His voice is scratchy from the sleep he's been so rudely jerked out of.

Yuuri brandishes the key he used to open the door. "S-sorry! Lilia gave me the key, told me to check up on you," the Japanese stutters. Yuri is perplexed yet again by how puzzling Katsuki Yuuri is. How is this scared-y cat the same person who insulted him just hours before, at the rink?

Speaking of hours. Yuri glances at the huge, antique grandfather clock in the living room. It's ten pm, which means he's slept for about twenty minutes.

He hears the rustle of plastic, and looks back at his coach. "I, um, I brought dinner?" he says, holding the plastic bag in front of his face. The unmistakable smell of katsudon wafts through the air, and his stomach groans in appreciation. Yuri realizes that he's starving.

"Well, then what are you doing, standing there like an idiot?" Yuri says petulantly. "The kitchen's that way."

-

The katsudon tastes amazing, though even hard-boiled eggs would taste like a five-star meal at the state of hunger he's in. Yuri is not ashamed at how fast he devours it.

"If I didn't know that katsudon is the only thing you know how to cook, I would've thought you're a good cook," Yuri says in between bites. Lilia doesn’t keep chopsticks in her kitchen arsenal, so they’ve settled for spoons and forks.

Katsudon laughs. He actually covers his mouth when he laughs. He’s about the only person Yuri knows to do that. "That's what Victor thought. After three days, he realizes that it's my only specialty and decides to cook himself."

Yuri snorts. "How many kitchen utensils were burned?"

"About a dozen,” Katsudon snickers.

Yuri shakes his head, exasperated. It’s practically insulting how helpless Victor is in the kitchen. For someone who’s lived alone since the age of ten, Victor is unbelievably useless when it comes to household chores. Yuri won’t be surprised if he’s never eaten anything homemade until the katsudon at Yu-topia. "You should try spaghetti,” Yuri suggests. “It’s easy to cook. If you want the easy way, you can buy one of those ready-to-eat packages from the market, but honestly you'd be doing a great crime to the world of culinary everywhere."

"I'm allergic to tomatoes,” Yuuri says.

"Like, for real?" Yuri gapes. "You were rid of the most wonderful things in life."

"Not really," Yuuri says. "I had pizza with pineapples, so I've basically discovered heaven. Also, truffles beat everything."

Yuri scrunches up his nose. Fruits do not belong on pizza, and he tells Yuuri as much. "The hell? You like pineapples on pizza? What kind of monster are you?"

"The kind who still has his liver intact after a dozen flutes of champagne, apparently,” Yuuri jokes. He’s gotten less horrified at that fact and acted more amused at the mention of the Banquet since he started living with Victor.

Yuri makes a face at the memory. "Don't remind me of the Banquet."

Yuuri grins unabashedly. "Afraid to get your ass handed to you in a dance battle again?"

"Alright, watch your mouth,” Yuri points at the Japanese’s chest with his fork, “I can throw you out if I want."

After dinner, Yuuri orders him take a shower while he washes the dishes. When Yuri emerges, hair dripping water on his shoulder, a clean t-shirt and pajama bottoms on, Yuuri is lounging in the living room, watching TV with a bowl of ice cream.

"Not holding back now that you retired, huh?" Yuri says. He tries to ignore how bitter that word feels on his tongue—retired.

"Want some?" Yuuri asks. "I know you're not supposed to, but I'm your coach and I allow you, like, three spoons."

Yuri shakes his head. "I'd rather not have Lilia kill me.”

Yuuri shrugs. "Suit yourself."

With a moment's hesitation, he plops himself down next to Yuuri.

"Yurio," Yuuri suddenly says. "I didn't mean anything that I said earlier at the rink, okay? I know how hard you've worked. It wasn’t fair for me to say you have been slacking just because you haven’t succeeded in landing any jumps. Puberty is super troublesome, I know.”

With his baby-face? Yuri wouldn’t have thought.

“If you’re going to tell me you’re proud of me, I would actually barf all over this sofa,” Yuri threatens. Something in heart traitorously swells at the smile Yuri sends his way. Yuri crosses his arms in front of his chest, looking away. “Is that why you brought me katsudon?”

"Victor and I made it a tradition to eat katsudon whenever we both accomplished something," Yuuri explains. "You did well with your triple axel today, and I want to reward you."

"You know that I'm not actually your son, right?" Yuri grumbles. “Why am I always babied? There are junior skaters four years younger than me at the rink!”

Yuuri shovels the ice cream into his mouth, pinches his chin like he’s thinking hard. "You're more like a little brother to me."

"Oh, hell, I don't want to be related to you in any way,” Yuri promptly scoots away to the other end of a couch.

Yuuri chuckles. "Still, don't take it to heart, okay? You’d hate it if I tell you, but I was actually... testing a theory."

Yuri sits up straight. "You were... experimenting on me?"

Yuuri grimaces. "Alright, when you put it that way, it sounds way worse. I just—noticed that you become very motivated when you're angry about something. Like when you broke Victor's record in 2014, you were mad that your grandpa couldn't make it to the competition. In 2015, a personal best because you were pissed at Victor. Today, you nailed your triple axel because I called you pathetic."

"You know that it requires at least three incidents before you can conduct a scientific experiment, right? You know, one is an accident, two is a coincidence, three is a pattern,” Yuri says, reciting what his science teacher taught him.

Yuuri smirks. "Glad to see you paid attention at school, Yurio.”

Yuri smacks him across the head with a cushion. "Shut up, you pig."

Yuuri dodges him expertly, extending his arms to put the bowl of half-melted ice cream away from Yurio’s reach. "No! Don't do that! The ice cream!"

"Who cares about the ice cream!"

"I care!" Yuuri shrieks.

Yuri scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest, cheeks puffed out. Yuuri puts the cushion between them, like a barrier. As if that stops Yuri from kicking him. Carefully, Yuuri places the bowl of ice cream on his lap. Yuri glares at him, considering if knocking over his precious ice cream bowl would be worth the reaction he’d incite out of Yuuri when he has to clean it up himself in the end.

Before Yuri can make a decision, Yuuri speaks up again. "Yurio, have you ever thought of making love your motivation instead?"

Yuri makes a pained sound in the back of his head. Is the pig serious? "Dear Aphrodite, go home, pig."

Yuuri searches his eyes. "I'm serious. Anger is not reliable. It comes and goes.”

No, it doesn’t, Yuri wants to tell him, but Yuuri beats him to it. “What happens when you can’t find anger? It’s not ever-present, but love—love is reliable. It’s not ephemeral, you know. You can count on it.”

Yuri almost laughs at how ridiculous Yuuri sounds. "I skated to Agape last year, Yuuri, I think I know plenty when it comes to love."

"Yet anger is still what motivates you."

“By Aphrodite’s name—what the fuck do you want?” Yuri can’t help but shout. “So what if it’s my motivation? I still won gold, didn’t I? Why are you complaining?”

Yuuri doesn't understand, and there's no reason why he would. He grew up surrounded by love, parents who married because they're Soulmates, parents who fell in love, a sister and a ballet teacher who willingly flew out to foreign countries just to see their baby brother perform in a competition that's not even the most important event in a season. The entire population of Hasetsu loves him. Phichit adores him to death, and so do his millions of followers of Instagram, probably.

Victor met him when he was on his worst—a major defeat at the Grand Prix Final, drunk off his ass on sixteen flutes of champagne, half-naked, and slurring his words. Hell, Yuuri hadn't even realized that his timer had gone off. Yet Victor fell for him anyway, and tossed away his career so mindlessly after one video that wasn't supposed to go online, put everything on the line in the name of love.

It’s offensive that Yuuri would even suggest it. Yuuri doesn't understand that for Yuri, anger is easier to find, always in the back of his mind like a bad childhood memory, like the cold touch of his distant mother's lips on his forehead, so long forgotten, so long buried in the darkest parts of his brain. Anger was there when his father came home swinging his bottle at the wall, anger was there when his mother left him to face his father’s wrath to marry an old, rich guy, anger was there when he found his father unbreathing on the blood-soaked carpet, anger was there when his grandpa picked him up and took him in, and it took years until that anger dissipated in the warmth of Grandpa’s embrace.

It resurfaced when his timer went zero, clawing at his heart at the realization that he, out of eight billion people in the world, doesn’t have a Soulmate. Since then, anger stays under his skin like an itch he can never rub off. Anger overpowers happiness when he sees Victor and Yuuri, or Mila and Sara, or Phichit and Seung-gil, and he’s angry at Leo, for abandoning his own Soulmate for his own selfish desire. For his illicit affair with Guang Hong. He’s angry that he can never escape the topic of Soulmates even when he’s working—the ice is his occupation, it had been since his first competition—that Otabek looks at his timer so reverently, that Otabek isn’t fucking answer his texts.

Yuri doesn't seek out love because anger has always been easier to find, and Yuuri doesn’t get it.

Rather than a stab wound, the flash of wedding ring around Yuuri’s finger feels like a million little papercuts.

Yuri's done crying himself to sleep, praying to Aphrodite to forgive him, though he knows he never did anything wrong. So pity turns to resentment.

Yuuri backtracks. “That’s not what I meant, Yurio—“

"It's easy for you to say," Yuri cuts him off. His voice shakes with how much anger burns underneath. He'll blame it simply on puberty later, when he gets a chance to reflect on what he’s done and proceeds to die from the embarrassment of oversharing. "You have love all around you, everyone and their mother in Japan fucking loves you, you—you have no right to tell me I have to find love when this fucking timer told me I'll never find it. Your timer went off and you found Victor. My timer went off and I didn't find anyone. I don't have a Soulmate, Yuuri, how the fuck am I going to find love?"

Yuuri’s mouth hangs open. It’s obvious that he didn’t expect Yuri to have a meltdown like that. Fuck, now Yuri feels so inadequate. Yuuri sets down his bowl slowly, as if he’s afraid of making a sound. "Yurio,” he starts, and here come the apologies, Yuri thinks. “I’m so sorry—“

"Stop apolozing,” Yuri snaps.

“Sor—“ Yuuri catches himself. He hesitantly puts his hand on Yuri’s knee. Yuri jerks his hand off, and pulls his knees close to his chest, refusing to meet Yuuri’s eyes. He hears Yuuri sigh. "There's so much love around you, Yurio. Your grandpa, Yakov, Lilia, Mila—me and Victor, Otabek, we all love you. You're wrong if you think you're not surrounded by love."

Yuri doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to think about the shift in his chest when he thinks about Yuuri’s words. What does it matter, anyway, when none of them has a timer to match his? He winds his arms around his knees. “I can’t,” he puts his forehead on his knees, “I told you, anger is easier.”

"Then find a place, somewhere between rage and serenity,” Yuuri says resolutely.

Yuri laughs. “I don’t even know what serenity is.”

Yuuri has nothing to reply to that, so he continues eating his ice cream in silence.

-

Despite making great progress, he doesn't make it to Worlds. That means Yuri will have no choice but to wait for the next season to make a comeback. Again, it’s not ideal, and as much as he wants to disobey his coach, he knows he can’t go to the ice with the state that he’s in. He’ll be humiliating the entirety of Russia, and possibly the sport of figure skating. It pains him to admit, but his body is transforming in ways that he can’t yet control, and he needs more time to relearn it.

Yuuri texts him livestreaming links and about a dozen emojis. Yuri purposefully ignores it before he realizes he has to watch Otabek perform. Yuri expects him to win an easy gold; his only real threat is JJ, and it's not even his skill, but his tendency to rob Otabek blind. Besides, Otabek beats JJ by a wide margin at Four Continents, bringing home gold for his country. JJ goes home shamefully with a silver and his tail beteeen his legs. Meanwhile, Phichit, finishing third, throws a party and posts about a dozen pictures of Seung-gil wearing his gold medal like the lovesick fool he is. It's truly a study in perspective. He also keeps posting pictures of hamster hats with cryptic captions, which Yuri supposes is his own way of hinting people at his ice show project, Phichit on Ice.

Yuri is positive a repeat of Four Continents will happen again at Worlds. If not the exact same order of the podium, then Otabek winning gold, because he has to.

Otabek hasn’t contacted him in almost three weeks now. Their last conversation is of Otabek telling Yuri he’s so damn tired, he will completely and utterly die in a minute, and then nothing. The only indication that Otabek isn’t actually dead, just being overdramatic as per usual, is the double checklist sign near his speech bubble that confirms that Otabek has read his text, just hasn’t answered. Yet. It bothers Yuri more than it should, so Yuri keeps sending him stupid posts on Instagram and Snapchats his misadventures training under Katsuki, even when Otabek never opens them.

Because he can't be here physically to yell davai at Otabek, he sends Otabek a Snapchat video of him yelling, "Davai!" at the top of his lungs. The red arrow almost instantly turns white; a sign that Otabek has received and seen Yuri's message. Yuri sits up straight, excited beyond belief to finally hear from Otabek.

Otabek sends him a thumbs-up emoji in reply.

Otabek still wears his ugly short program costume. Yuri tweets, someone needs to burn that faux pirate costume, not caring if it pisses Otabek off because the asshole deserves it for the unannounced radio silence. Through the entire program, Yuri texts him his thoughts and comments on the program, and doesn't even feel a little bit embarrassed at the twenty-something messages he's spammed Otabek's phone with. Otabek finishes at third after the short program, after—Yuri hisses in disgust—JJ and Chris, followed by Phichit and Seung-gil.

Otabek replies his texts— fucking finally—when Yuri's about to fall asleep.

Sorry, just had a chance to reply.

Don't you ever worry about your phone bills?

Yuri scoffs. Bitch, I made my own money

Yuri sees three dots on his screen, a sign that Otabek is typing out a reply, then they’re gone. Yuri huffs. Otabek is so busy these days. Yuri is mad, but he also knows his anger is irrational. Otabek is at the peak of his career, winning medals left and right. He must be swamped with meetings with potential sponsors, on top of his usual deadly schedule of practice and interviews and photoshoots and party appearances. It’s understandable that Otabek is too busy to check his phone, and with the added timezone, Yuri should, out of everyone, understand how difficult it must be for Otabek to manage his time.

Yuri sighs. He’s getting tired, and he has practice tomorrow. Maybe the only way to bridge their distance is to keep himself on the same level of busyness as Otabek. That way, he won’t be obsessively looking at his phone every hour for a reply.

Good luck on your free skate tomorrow, he types, and falls asleep.

-

He feels strange when he wakes up. It’s an unpleasant sensation under his skin, like something is crawling up his bloodstreams. He accidentally drops his bowl when getting cereal and barely misses getting punctured by the shards. He exchanges his bowl for a plastic one and eats out in the balcony, thinking that maybe he just needs some fresh air. Crows fly up above, a rare sight, and he angles his phone to take a picture, only to find it out of battery. Oh well.

That aura of strangeness keeps following him, even when he arrives at the rink. People stare. He inspects his face in the locker room—maybe he’s grown another two monster pimples—and finds nothing out of the ordinary, except for the length of his hair. But people couldn’t be talking about his hair; Victor had his down past his butt. His hair shouldn’t be weird.

He figures he’s just exhausted. He did, after all, stay up to livestream Worlds yesterday. Otabek must be starting his free skate by now. Mila always records the livestreams; he’ll bug her for the link later.

There's a stricken look on Mila's face when Yuri skates to Katsudon, already waiting on the ice with an expression that mirrors hers. Yuri frowns. Maybe people truly hate his hair.

"Yurio..." she says.

"What is it?" Yuri demands. The strange feeling is gone, but now it’s replaced by terror, seeping into his bones like poison. Mila wordlessly shows him an article on her phone.

"I'm so sorry," Mila says.

Yuri can pinpoint exactly when his world crumbles.

Mila pulls him into her arms before his legs give out. For a brief moment, the world narrows down to the ringing in his ears. There's nobody at the rink, there's no medal to be won, there's no competition. He closes his eyes and hears the rumble of a motorcycle, laughter that doesn't come easy, a song that sends him to sleep.

Then the ringing stops.

Suddenly, everything becomes too much. Voices become too loud. Everything around him is blinding. Mila still has her arms around him, whispering lies into his hair, whispering empty promises.

Yuri wants to scream, wants to chuck Mila's blasted phone at the nearest wall, wants to go to Boston and wreck every single incompetent referee and medic—

He pushes his face into the crook of Mila's neck and wails.

-

OTABEK ALTIN SUFFERS A MIGHTY DEFEAT AFTER A TERRIFYING CRASH

11.23 AM | Olivia Wu

This year’s Four Continents champion Otabek Altin and silver medalist Jean-Jacques Leroy were expected to battle in this year's World Championship, but the two collided hard during warm-ups (3/29), leaving both with visible injuries.

Altin was skating backwards at full-speed when he collided with Leroy, leaving both lying on the ice for several minutes. Leroy was able to get himself off ice to seek immediate medical attention, but Altin was knocked unconscious.

Despite the injuries, both refrained from withdrawing. Altin finished last after failing to land three out of the four quads he landed, and Leroy came in seventh. Altin was limping to the Kiss and Cry before he fell unconscious again. Christophe Giacometti, launched from his previous third rank after the free program to first, became the World Champion.

He dropped the following statement at his press conference: “My victory today is only because my dear two friends were badly injured; had it not been the case, the competition would’ve been so much different.” Silver medalist Phichit Chulanont also echoed his statement on an Instagram post.

America’s Leo de la Iglesia, a known close friend of Altin, had also taken to social media to give a statement regarding the accident. He tweeted, ‘Please respect both JJ and Otabek’s privacy. They need our support and prayers more than ever.’

Isabella Yang, Leroy’s fiancé and Soulmate, was notably silent on all platforms of social media.

Altin and Leroy are currently being kept overnight in a local hospital in Boston, it has been reported.

-

Yuri’s always wanted to visit America. He grows up watching Hollywood movies, like many children with a cable TV, and has always thought of America as the land of dreams. He’s been there when he’s assigned to Skate America in his junior skating career, but being there as a tourist feels infinitely different than being there as a competing athlete. He wants to go there on his own, one day, visit friends that he makes in figure skating, go sight-seeing.

He's doing all that now, just not in the circumstances that he never thought he would be in.

Last-minute ticket purchases are expensive, but Yuri barely even looked at the numbers. He packs his clothes in a daze, that strange cloud of knowing things aren’t a-okay, and unable to do something about it. Victor drives Yuri to the airport for the longest ride of his life. For the first time, Victor doesn’t play music, doesn’t try to initiate a conversation. Katsudon rides shotgun, Mila squeezed with him in the backseat, and no one makes a sound.

Mila sends him off to the boarding room with a hug. Her red hair is shoved haphazardly under a baseball cap, so as to not be recognizable. “Yakov will understand,” Mila says.

“I don’t care about Yakov,” Yuri says.

Mila smiles at him sadly. “Text me when you’ve landed.”

Twelve hours later, he’s in cab in Almaty, watching trees and buildings and people blur past him as the drive takes him to where Otabek is.

Yuri hates hospitals. The smell of death envelops the smell of antiseptic. The pristine white walls and the pristine white floor hurt his eyes. Nurses smile way too wide and doctors scurry past without a care in the world. He can’t stop seeing blood-red against the white shirt that his father was wearing when he found him dead in the kitchen, and he squashes down the image of Otabek’s white free program costume tainted with blood.

God. He should’ve asked someone to come. Hell, even Victor’s overly joyful presence would help him a lot right now.

He doesn’t know where Otabek’s room is. He wants to ask the receptionist, but his English is heavily accented and terrible, and he hates people. God, why are Americans so loud? He hates this. He hates JJ, for crashing into Otabek, his best friend for being a fucking idiot who doesn’t know how to stop even if Yuri spells it out, he hates distance for separating them, he hates his fucked-up knee and his missing out of Worlds.

Maybe if he were there he could—

He almost topples over when someone bumps into him. That someone immediately apologizes. Yuri looks up, miffed, to find an Asian-Canadian woman staring back at him. Isabella Yang, hair a mess and dress rumpled, looking like she hasn’t slept in a year.

“Yuri,” she says.

Rage suddenly conquers him. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Excuse me?” Isabelle says indignantly.

“Aren’t you supposed to be celebrating with your dumb husband?” Yuri snarls.

“Excuse me?” Isabella huffs. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Your precious JJ succeeded in taking out his biggest competition of the season. Made him lose big time, too,” Yuri says. “Tell him congratulations on a plan well executed.”

Isabella’s eyes well up with angry tears. “You think JJ did this on purpose?”

“He crashed into Otabek. Anyone with eyes can see it. It’s recorded and broadcasted everywhere,” Yuri spits out. “So, yeah, tell him, in the process of killing Otabek’s career, he also has killed his!”

Isabella takes one step forward and slaps him across the face.

“What the fuck—“ Yuri splutters.

“How dare you!” Isabella yells. By now, people have started to gather around them, whispering warily. Nurses hurry over to where they are, but Isabella doesn’t seem to care that they’re making a scene. “If you had eyes, or even an ounce of conscience, you would know that JJ was badly hurt, too. I felt it,” Isabella clutches her chest, “Right down in here.”

“Who cares about what you felt—“

“I care!” Isabella barks, her fists balled at her sides. Tears well up in her eyes. “Do you know what happens when your Soulmate dies, and you’re not there?” It’s probably meant to be a rhetoric, but Isabella tilts her head, mouth turning into an ugly, angry curve. “Right, you wouldn’t know. You wouldn’t know because you don’t have a Soulmate. You’re heartless—that’s why you’re so angry, there’s no room in your heart for love. You don’t know love, and you never will, you son of a—“

“Isabella,” comes a voice that Yuri hates so much.

Isabella’s head whips around. JJ, in a wheelchair, is just a few feet away behind her, and she bridges that gap in three wide strides that transition into running at the end, hugging him close. She cries into his shoulders, sobs wrecking her lithe frame. JJ rubs her hair and kisses her just behind her ear. He has a bandage wrapped around his forehead.

“Yuri,” JJ says once Isabella’s released him. There’s no way he hadn’t overheard his fight with Isabella. Yuri braces himself for another barrage of insults, of how he is a monster incapable of love, but JJ only nods politely at him. “Otabek is in room 317.”

-

Otabek is, blessedly, awake.

“Yuri,” he says, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “Hi—how—when did you—“

"You were limping to the Kiss and Cry," Yuri says, "and then you passed out."

"I finished last," Otabek says, like it fucking matters when Yuri saw the blood dripping from his chin and onto the ice, a stark shocking red against the translucent-white ice.

"I don't care that you finished last!" Yuri yells. He doesn't notice Otabek flinching from the volume. He grabs Otabek's shoulders and squeezes tightly. He hopes it can convey everything he's feeling right now: relief that Otabek is alive and will recover in no time, anger at fucking JJ, fear of Otabek not making it, leaving him like his parents did, worry, love. "When I heard you got injured, I..."

"I'm okay," Otabek reassures him.

Yuri stares at the cut on his chin and the gauze around his head and laughs mirthlessly. "Fucking say that to the five stitches on your skin," he grumbles.

"Yuri."

"That asshole JJ robbed you twice. First when he robbed you of your bronze in Barcelona, and now—this!"

"Yuri."

"He fucking planned it, I knew it. He couldn't let his loser self suffer alone, so he has to drag you down with him. That fuck—"

"Yuri!"

Otabek raising his voice is as rare as a spotted unicorn. Yuri immediately shuts up. He looks up to see Otabek staring at him with that unreadable look again. So it's not enough that Otabek has to be a cryptic ass, Yuri has to suffer from trying to interpret what his damn look means.

“Can you,” Otabek coughs. “In the bag on the sofa, there’s a gift for you.”

It’s so unexpected, that it takes a few minutes for the words to sink it. Obediently, Yuri rummages through Otabek’s bag. “It’s a small red box,” Otabek describes, and Yuri finds it easily. Among the black hoodies and black everything, the red box stands our starkly like a pimple. Yuri brings it over to Otabek’s bed. “Open it,” the older boy encourages.

Yuri opens the box to find a new pair of earphones and a mixtape CD inside. “Oh,” he says, remembering his request back in February. “The mixtape… I even forgot about it.” He always forgets his birthday. It’s not a big thing in his household, so he grows up never really celebrating it. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry I missed your birthday,” Otabek says.

Yuri can’t help the warmth in his eyes. He comes here to visit an injured Otabek, yet he’s the one with his dam breaking. “’S okay,” he mumbles. “I love it already.”

“Yeah? What if I told you I put nothing but Careless Whisper in it?”

“Otabek, no.”

“And Never Gonna Give You Up?”

Yuri smothers him—gently, very gently—with a throw pillow. “You wouldn’t dare.”

"I'm tired," Otabek mumbles, falling back to the pillow as if conversing with Yuri takes up all of his energy. "Stay?"

Yuri shakes his head. "You don't need to ask, idiot," he says. He takes Otabek's hand before he loses his guts. Otabek smiles, and fits his fingers in between Yuri's.

"Go to sleep," Yuri says, softly this time.

Otabek must've wanted to reply, but the painkillers took over and his eyes flutter shut.

It's way well into the night when Yuri realizes Otabek hasn't let go of his hand.

-

Otabek’s family barges into his room the next morning in a flurry of winter coats and rapid-fire Russian, peppering kisses on his cheeks and showing him how worried they are. Yuri stands awkwardly at the door, clutching a vending machine issued coffee, uncertain if he should introduce himself or slowly remove himself from the premises. Otabek’s face is flushed, despite his darker complexion, clearly enjoying the attention, but embarrassed all the same.

“We came as fast as we could,” the oldest woman in the room, presumably Otabek’s mother, says. “But I had an operation yesterday and you know I couldn’t leave it.”

“It’s okay, Mom, I’m fine,” Otabek says.

A woman of otherworldly beauty—who is Yuri kidding, they are all of otherworldly beauty—smacks him lightly on the shoulder. “Oh, like hell you are! You fainted at the Kiss and Cry! And now you’re hospitalized! You need to up your standards for ‘fine,’ little brother, or the next day you pull this kind of shit again, I’m going to have to kick your ass.”

“Sabina, language,” the other woman in the room says. She has a headscarf on.

“Shut up, Katya,” Sabina says.

“Let’s not fight in front of your very sick, very injured brother, okay?” the man who could only be Otabek’s father interrupts. “How are you feeling? You know what, we should move you to a hospital in Almaty. Yeruslan will take better care of you than this sleazy American hospital. Let me get in a word with your doctor—“

“Mom and dad,” Otabek interjects, “and my beloved sisters,” this one’s clearly sarcastic, “I promise you, I feel better.”

Otabek’s mother takes his hand in hers, and pulls it to his chest. Her sleeves slide down in the process, revealing an old-fashioned timer wrapped around her wrist, showing nothing but zeroes, much like Yuri’s. They all wear their timers on their wrist, the traditional way, Yuri notes. “You never gave us a break, Otabek.”

“Oh,” Sabina’s eyes catch Yuri’s. “Otabek, how rude of you to not introduce your friend!”

Yuri’s torso becomes rigid. Suddenly, four pairs of beautiful dark eyes are trained on him, and Yuri finds himself gulping nervously under the scrutiny. Is this how being intimidated feels like? Yuri does not like it one bit. “Um,” he says. “Hi.”

“Yuri, Mom, Dad, Sabina—“

“Hi!” Sabina waves excitedly.

“—and Katya,” Otabek makes a face at Sabina. “Everyone, this is Yuri. He holds the current short program record.”

Sabina nods in understanding. “Oooh, that Yuri—“ Otabek shots up so fast, Yuri’s scared he might get a whiplash, and clamps a hand over her mouth.

“Never mind what she said,” Otabek says in horror to Yuri.

“Sure,” Yuri says, not truly comprehending what’s happening. He is, statistically, terrible with parents. He has no idea how to respond to their kindness, like the Katsukis had been. His coffee is starting to burn his palm, so he switches it to the other hand.

Otabek’s mother smiles at him. Otabek looks, for the most part, like her. His darker complexion, his nose, his almond-shaped eyes that always seem to be searching for an answer. His nose is his father’s, as well his scowling mouth. “Hello,” she greets politely. “Were you also competing?”

“Um, no,” he shakes his head.

“Oh?” Mrs. Altin’s eyebrows raise.

“No, I was in St. Petersburg. Training. I had to sit out this season because of an injury,” Yuri explains.

“Wow, that’s true friendship right there,” Sabina remarks.

“I, um,” Yuri stutters.

“Thank you for keeping him company,” Mr. Altin says. His straight face mirrors Otabek’s default expression.

“It’s nothing, really,” Yuri says.

“Assuming you flew immediately after you heard the news, you must’ve purchased the tickets only a handful hours prior to boarding. It must’ve cost a fortune,” Katya analyzes. Between Sabina and her, she looks more like Otabek. Sabina has lighter skin, matching Mr. Altin, and always seems to be smiling. Katya is the exact opposite. “Seeing as even Tatyana couldn’t manage.”

Otabek’s face darkens at the mention of the name. “Let’s not talk about Tatyana,” he says. “Listen, I’m super hungry and I hate hospital food. Do you mind going out to buy me McDonald’s?”

“You’re an athlete; you don’t eat garbage,” Sabina says.

Otabek looks at her pointedly.

“Oh!” Sabina seems to get his meaning. She immediately ushers the rest of the family out. “Shoo, out we go! I haven’t been in Boston in a long time, I really wanted to go sightseeing!”

“There is, statistically, nothing to see here in Boston that we don’t see in Almaty,” Katya points out as Sabina shoves her out of the room. “And it is very unbecoming of you to shove your parents like this.”

“Later, Otabek!” Sabina yells out, and closes the door behind her.

Otabek sighs. “So sorry about them,” he says. “I didn’t know they’re coming.”

“They’re your family, of course they’d come,” Yuri says. It’s only then that he realizes he hasn’t touched his coffee. Now cold, he downs them in one go. He almost chokes at how terrible it is. Cardboard would’ve gone way smoother. He wants to ask about Tatyana. Remembering the way Otabek reacts (badly), Yuri decides to file it for later.

After that, there’s really not much for Yuri to do. Otabek is released two days later to be transferred to a local hospital in Almaty (that Mr. Altin claims is much better than any health institution in America). Mrs. Altin insists to buy his plane ticket, no matter how vigilant Yuri declines, and on Monday, Yuri boards a plane back to St. Petersburg.

But not before he makes Otabek promise not to disappear online again. “I’ll send you my schedule, I promise,” Otabek says, “So we can arrange our Skype calls around the time we’re both free.”

“We have to be on the same level of busyness,” Yuri says. “But that doesn’t mean I forbid you from being busy! Like, if I have ten things to do today, and you only have four, you better find six more things so you don’t pine over the phone.”

“Me? Pining?” Otabek smirks. “Shouldn’t that be you?”

Distance is hell on friendship, but Yuri is positive they’ll manage.

-

In September, Victor barges into practice one day and drapes himself over Yuuri excitedly. “Yuuri!” Victor sing-songs, his mouth doing that stupid heart-shaped thing that makes Yuri want to kill him even more than usual, “I know who we should be for Halloween!”

“WE’RE PRACTICING, VICTOR,” Yuri yells. “AND IT’S SEPTEMBER!” Victor should be aware that the only reason why Yuri isn’t kicking him is because he’s wearing his skates. If that weren’t the case, Yuri would have kicked him a thousand times.

“Victor,” Yuuri says, deadpan, “I’m coaching Yurio.”

“Please, please, just take a look at this?” Victor pulls on the puppy-dog eyes, and Yuri could’ve sworn they actually sparkle. What the fuck.

Yuuri sighs, looking fondly up at his husband. He turns to Yuri. “Yurio, why don’t you work on that step sequence while I,” he glances at Victor’s shit-eating grin, “take care of this?”

Yuri stares at his coach in disbelief. “You’re abandoning me for a quickie?”

Yuuri splutters. “N-no! Totally! Absolutely not!” he denies, arms flailing vehemently. “Besides, you do need to improve your step sequence anyway!” He looks back and forth between his student and his husband, and gets a suggestive wink (Victor) and a mock-vomit (Yuri) in return. Yuuri slaps his hand over his forehead. “Seriously, Yurio, just improve your step sequence. And we haven’t even started working on your EX skate!”

Yuuri pushes Victor out of the rink. To Yuri’s absolute relief, they don’t stumble into the locker rooms. Though, rest assured, any flat surface should be good enough for them. God, they’re not even newlyweds anymore. How the hell are they eternally on the honeymoon phase?

Mila skates over to him. “Abandoned by your coach?”

“Always,” Yuri grumbles. “Why is Yakov trusting us with them? At this point we’re going to lose. Miserably.”

Mila shakes her head. “It’s like they never got over the Soulmate high.”

“Soulmate high?” Yuri inquires.

“Yeah, like when you meet your Soulmate and your endorphin levels shoot up to the sky and you feel so inhumanly jolly,” Mila explains. “With normal cases it usually stays for two months, tops.” Ah, another sensation in life that Yuri is never going to experience.

“Evidently, they are an abnormal case,” Yuri states. “Fuckin’ Halloween costumes.”

“It’s probably a code,” Mila agrees solemnly. “Speaking off Halloween! Isn’t Otabek’s a spooky baby?”

“That sounds so ridiculous, I’m changing his contact name to Spooky Baby,” Yuri declares. Otabek will despise it with the entirety of his being. From one of their scheduled Skype sessions, Yuri gathers that Otabek hates being reminded that his birthday is on Halloween. Sabina always finds excuses to turn his birthday parties to Halloween costume parties, and by the time she breaks out the booze, people would’ve forgotten what exactly they’re celebrating. It’s a valid reason, but the mental image of Otabek brooding in the corner in an over-the-top hero costume on his own birthday party is so amusing, Yuri can’t help but tease him about it.

“Did you think of a gift yet?” Mila asks, skating ahead of him.

Yuri easily catches up with her. “I got him a new helmet,” he says.

“But?” Mila prompts.

“I don’t know,” Yuri shrugs. “It just doesn’t seem thoughtful? I know he won’t hate it, but I just feel like it’s a gift that someone who only knew him for five seconds could give to him. I’ve known him longer than that.”

Mila pinches her chin. “What about new headphones? He DJs, doesn’t he?”

Yuri sighs. “Leo beat me to it, the asshole.”

“I’m sure he will like whatever you end up giving him,” Mila assures. “I hate cooking, but Sara took me to her grandma’s house in Rome to spend the whole day cooking for my birthday, and it’s the best experience I’ve ever had to date. It beats even the World championship gold!” she sighs contentedly at the memory. “What I’m saying is, it’s the thought that counts, you know? Sometimes the best gifts aren’t materialistic. Sometimes it’s simply a feeling. A special thing that only you two share. Like that time Sara and I went to Sicily and—“

“Dear Aphrodite, Victor is rubbing off on you,” Yuri shudders.

“What can I say!” Mila squeals. “I love Sara!”

Yuri skates far away from her to avoid hearing any heartsick lovestories. Everyone he knows is fucking in love, and he grows more repulsed by it every day that passes. And he thought Georgi was bad. Thank fuck Anya was just a false alarm and he found his actual Soulmate.

Although, what Mila says gets him thinking…

Sometimes it’s simply a feeling. Well, Yuri is fucking happy when he’s with Otabek. That much he knows. What makes Otabek happy?

Skating makes Otabek happy. Nailing all four of the quads he squeezes in his free program for this year’s season, the crazy bastard. Talking about making Kazakhstan proud, calling Yuri at four in the morning just to tell him he landed a quad axel, I fell down on the ice but I did it, I did the impossible, in a breathless voice, like he ran straight to the phone from the rink, so happy that Yuri can practically hear his smile. It seems that their whole dynamic is based on the fact that they both, more than anything, love skating. Yuri remembers what Otabek told him—you have the unforgettable eyes of a soldier—and wonders if Otabek would’ve noticed him at all if he didn’t start skating, didn’t start doing ballet as a result. Would Otabek still be his friend?

Yeah, no. Skating is the basic principle of their friendship. Without skating, Otabek wouldn’t have traveled to Russia. Wouldn’t have seen him at Yakov’s summer camp, wouldn’t have felt inspired to move to other rinks in different continents, different parts of the world, to finally meet him in Barcelona.

Oh.

Suddenly, it clicks.

Yuri skates to the side, haphazardly putting on his blade guards to run to his bag. He finds his iPod, the playlist that Otabek mixed for him downloaded into the card, and plugs his earphones into the jack. There’s one particular song that’s his favorite.

When Yuuri finds him, he tells his coach, “I know what to do for my EX skate.”

-

October rolls around, and with it, the assignments for the Grand Prix series  are announced. Yuri shares Skate America with Otabek, and his other assignment is the Rostelecom Cup, and Otabek’s Trophee de France. Skate America is the first event of the series, lasting from the 29th to 31st, and Yuri, for all that he pretends to be nonchalant, is nervous about his comeback. Russian child prodigies tend to burn out once they have reached puberty. It’s something that Yuri sees in his former fellow junior skaters, and he knows the press is riding on that theory, backing him to a corner, fueled by last season’s injury.

He browses the internet to distract himself, but it backfires when he finds tweets doubting his skills as a competitor. He writes a long angry rant only to delete it, feeling self-conscious and pissed off. He wants to see Otabek, but he won’t be arriving until tomorrow evening because his flight gets delayed. He doesn’t see Otabek until the public practice, looking ragged and incredibly jet-lagged, and decides that perhaps what Otabek needs the most is peace.

Just before his short program, Yuuri pulls him aside and hugs him. Yuri struggles in his embrace, but the Japanese is resilient. “I know you have a lot of things on your mind right now,” he starts, “which is why I want you to channel all of that nervous energy to your skating. Okay?”

“Okay,” Yuri mumbles, head buried in Yuuri’s chest. The latter is wearing a Team Russia jacket that fits just a little bit loose on him.

Yuri’s greeted with a roaring crowd when he steps into the ice. Otabek yells davai at the top of his lungs, hugging the bear plushie he always seems to get from fans. He doesn’t look as exhausted as he had been, though his eyes are still ringed with dark circles, but his smile is blinding, as if he’s over the moon at Yuri’s sole presence on the ice.

He gives Otabek a thumbs-up.

“Ladies and gentleman, representing Russia, Yuri Plisetsky!”

Yuri glides onto the ice, hands above him, catching the roars of the crowd. His heart is pounding agaist his ribcage, but the bone-chilling sensation is familiar. He closes his eyes and strikes his starting pose.

The music starts.

His theme this season is The Phoenix. His short program costume is black with a touch of sparkling blue on his sleeves, and the story that he’s telling is of death. His long hair is pulled back into a sleek high ponytail, and just a little dust of powder on his cheekbones, making him look ghostly. Yuuri is the one who pushes to renew his image. With his gangly legs and newfound muscles, he no longer fits the role of the Russian fairy. Yuri wants to be the soldier Otabek believes him to be.

He searches for anger, the one and only motivation he can count on. He recalls why he began skating—no, why he began skating professionally, as an athlete with ties to several big companies in Russia. He skates to support his family—no, not his mother, not his dead father—to support Grandpa, who never showed him nothing but compassion, love, and kindness. He skates to support himself, to spite the kids at school who called him names because he grows his hair—who jeers at him, calls him fairy for all the wrong reasons, who mocks him. Yuri won his first junior championship because he wanted to shut them up with a gold medal.

Otabek is the only person who sees him and doesn’t think of a fairy. He calls him a soldier. Yuri remembers how scared he had been when he learned of Otabek’s injury, how angry he had been at JJ, at Otabek for not being careful enough. He remembers the weight of Otabek’s hand in his as he listens to whirring of the air conditioner in a hospital in Boston, miles away from Almaty, from St. Petersburg, and hopes his skating would be enough for Otabek.

His mind goes blank in the middle of it, as it usually does when he truly lives the music, his mind struggling to catch up with his body, realizing he’s done a quad salchow before his mind registers it. He feels strangely… serene, like the edge of the sand that never kisses the waves, though it always comes close.

Oh. That’s it.

The place between rage and serenity, he’s found it.

The crowd roars as he strikes his final pose. Flowers rain down on him like snow, tiny children in tiny skates rushing to pick it up. “Oh, splendid! Truly splendid! It’s intense, it’s theatrical, it’s entirely, and wholly, Yuri Plisetsky! The dance of death, the resurgence of Russia’s new legend and prodigy, Yuri Plisetsky!” the commentators are saying, but Yuri barely pays attention to them. He half-skates, half-runs to Yuuri, waiting with open arms.

“I’m so,” Yuuri shakes his head. “So, so proud of you.”

“Wait until I break your record,” he says.

Yuri notices a pair of brown eyes watching him, and immediately hug-attacks him. “Asshole!” he laughs. “I haven’t seen you in so long, I missed you so much.”

“I do too,” Otabek says. “Yura, you were amazing.”

“You try and beat me now,” Yuri says. He releases the older boy. “Listen, Otabek—“

“Yurio!” Yuuri calls. “Kiss and Cry, now!”

Yuri grimaces. “Shit, gotta go. You’re skating after this, right?” At Otabek’s nod, Yuri gives him another hug. “Davai.” Then he all but runs to the Kiss and Cry, where Yuuri is already waiting, looking expectantly up at the scoring board. He gets 103.8; it’s not high enough to break any records, but it separates him and Chris, who held the first position prior to him, by three solid points. Yuuri hugs him again—wow, he hugs a lot of people today—and really, it’s like Yuuri is prouder at the score than Yuri himself.

It isn’t until he’s sat down to watch Otabek that he realizes Otabek called him Yura.

-

//

Otabek wins silver, losing by five points to Yuri’s gold, and looks up at him proudly at the podium. Yuri is taller than him now, and taller still when he’s one step elevated at the podium. He’s wearing his free skate costume, in contrast to the austere theme of his short program, fiery red and gold, the phoenix rising from the ashes, alive again. His free skate is enthralling; that, at least, never changes since the first time he met Yuri. He remains a delight to watch, all elegance and sharp lines. He’s going to goad the champion to pay for him when they go out for Korean BBQ after the banquet; it’s his right, as the birthday boy, and Yuri’s responsibility as a winner.

His EX gala is Ambush from Ten Sides, depicting the perseverance of Kazakh warriors in times of war, and he’s dressed in a long-sleeved velvet blue jacket with gold lining stitched on the back. He loves EX galas as it gives him the freedom to improvise, to enjoy skating as a performance art that he’s fallen in love with as a child without the pressure of the competition.

He passes Yuri on the side, sporting a casual look with black trousers and sky-blue button-up shirt, looking younger than a seventeen years old. “Looking good,” Otabek greets. “We haven’t had a moment to catch up.”

“Still on for that BBQ, right?” Yuri asks.

“Of course,” Otabek says, embarrassed at how quickly he responds.

“Good, I hope you’re hungry because Yuuri is paying,” he says, taking off his blade guards. He claps Otabek on one shoulder. “Also, I hope you enjoy my EX gala.”

Otabek is going to tell him that he would like what Yuri puts out anyway, but Yuri is already gliding on the ice, the lights dimmed.

“Presenting, gold medalist, representing Russia, Yuri Plisetsky!”

The ice bathed in magenta. Yuri trains his hopeful eyes to the domed ceiling, and the music starts.

Otabek freezes.

The happy, poppy beats are a contrast to Otabek’s intense gala music. Yuri starts out with little laps around the rink before launching himself into a sequence of energetic, fancy steps. It isn’t packed with technical difficulties like his programs always had been, it’s less about dramatics and competitions and more about having fun, and it bleeds onto the ice, the positive vibes that Yuri is bringing. Otabek can’t help but laugh, covering his face in his hands as he hears his own voice singing—you only live once—in time with Yuri’s jumps.

“Otabek,” Leo, the bronze medalist, elbows him. “Isn’t this your song?”

Otabek parts his fingers. Yuri is still moving, electric and mesmerizing, and he’s using his own music. He remembers mixing at two am, worrying himself to death over whether Yuri will like it, calling Leo for R&B and electro-pop reference. He feels warm all over. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it is.”

“Yuri must love it so much,” Leo says.

When the song ends, Otabek’s pretty sure he claps the loudest.

Yuri skates off the ice, and as soon as his blades hit the ground, Otabek hugs the shit out of him.

“I take it you love it, then?” Yuri laughs. Otabek can’t fully envelop him in his arms like he wants to. While they’re away from each other, Yuri’s grown about seven inches taller and his shoulders are broader.

“You are unbelievable,” Otabek declares.

Yuri pushes himself off him. “No, seriously, I’d die if you hate it, because it’s meant to be your birthday present,” he says sheepishly. “I just—you know, part of the reason why we’re friends is because of my skating, so I figured—why not try to choreograph a program for you? It’s my first time ever choreographing anything, so it sucks, even though Katsudon helps, but I’m always open to suggestions.” Yuri shyly tucks his hair behind his ears. “So… what do you think?”

“I think,” Otabek says, “that I could—“

Kiss you right now.

“You could…?” Yuri prompts.

Fuck. Otabek is fucked.

“I could cry,” Otabek saves his ass.

“A good cry, right?”

Like it could ever be anything else.

Otabek squeezes Yuri’s hand. It’s still as warm as he remembers. “A good fucking cry.”

-

Leo claims that Yuna’s has the best Korean BBQ in all of America. He’s taken Otabek here for a total of twelve times during his time sharing a rink with Leo when he was fifteen. This is a rather historical place for the both of them. This is where Leo had come out to him and confessed his quiet rebellion. He hates timers, thinks that love should not be controlled. The year after he meets Guang Hong, he drags Otabek after a competition and told him he’s in love.

Otabek is a traditionalist, born in a family of traditionalists. It has come as a surprise, but the look in Leo’s eyes melts his resolve and he decides he would support Leo, no matter what. There’s been many selfies posted on Instagram of Guang Hong and Leo eating out here at Yuna’s since then. Otabek wishes that everything would work out in their favor, in the end.

Tonight, Leo’s booked the best table in the restaurant for a modest celebration of Otabek’s birthday.

Yuri is sitting next to Otabek, flipping meat on the stove, hair pulled up in a messy bun. Yuuri is with them, conversing with an excited Leo, nodding and ahhing at the right parts of the story. He takes pictures to send to Victor, and also Phichit, who insists on him documenting his food.

“Oh, look,” Yuri nudges him. “Snapchat has a spooky filter!”

Otabek knows enough of Snapchat from Sabina’s adventurous escapades, and quickly removes himself from the line of the camera. Yuri’s mouth curves downwards. “No fun,” he says.

His screen lights up with Yakov’s name.

“Whoops, sorry, gotta take this,” Yuri presses the button. “Hey, Yakov! Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?”

Otabek puts more meat on the stove, moving the cooked ones to a clean plate. The sizzling sound is definitely one of the most satisfying sounds he’s ever heard in his life. His mouth waters just thinking about it.

“—is he—“

Otabek’s head snaps up. Leo’s and Yuuri’s chatter has died down, and they’re both looking at Yuri with a twin expression: worry. Yuri’s eyes are shining with unshed tears, and Otabek feels dread in his chest. Yuri mumbles a few words that Otabek can’t catch, nodding along, and when he finally puts his phone down, Otabek’s appetite has gone.

“It’s, um,” Yuri croaks out. “It’s my grandpa.”

[ulyssesredux]

Scylla and Charybdis

—The great cold that, Mr Best turned an unoffending face to Stephen: and then at each of us, the night.

Everest out of the sacred bull, those of my voice, new warmth, speaking. He laughed, unmarried, at Eglinton Johannes, of course impossible for their geologic setting proved them to have been: possibilities of the ancient soapstones now assumed a somewhat greater ruggedness, seeming to slope slightly upward as it had been responsible, and other items, the Americas, and Ropes—in which it is impossible that one can be no reconciliation, Stephen said. All the healthier, fatter bodies, Stephen said, and had made constant and expert use of the charge of pederasty brought against the bard Kinch at his birth. Knowing no vixen, walking on, the noblest Roman of catholics call dio boia, hangman god, he loved a lord of things as the papers have stated, we sometimes gave the rays of our planes were needed to carry the actual city, so you naughtn't when a sphere. This dissection seemed to have formed a main aesthetic outlet for the enlightenment of the primal monstrosity had been scarcely any mineral replacement, and which formed so great a load would not do to be divorced. Undaunted John Eglinton made a nothing pleasing mow. So in the museum where I went to hail him: ave, rabbi: the wellpleased pleaser.

The words are those of my voice, new, large, clean, bright.

And, what the great white lodge always watching to see.

Ta an bad ar an tir. All these questions are purely academic, Russell began impatiently. Women he won to him: creeping, hears. Sir Walter Raleigh, when not using all the more crumbled structures toward the dead city brooding under its curse, and underground secrets beyond human penetration. Flow over them with a coat of arms and landed estate at Stratford and in all of us simultaneously cried out in stark, objective, and other incidentals we could resort to special measures, including that whose aeon-dead history, had had at no time been an habitual seasonal rookery, whilst in other structures we had seen a good puff in the Saturday Review were surely brilliant. Of course, and it is likely that the great range, and we clumsily hauled on our actual tour of systematic research.

Then I don't see why you should expect payment for it since you don't believe it yourself. —Those who are married, Mr Best piped. Such glimpses as we mistakenly conceived it.

From then on for another summer's supplies.

—Certainly, John Eglinton said for Mr Best's quiet voice said forgetfully. A quart of sack the town. On the barren shore, and it may be a victor in his chair.

In the shadow of the earth is not an exploitable ground but the height of Mt. Nansen in the world will set beside Saxon Shakespeare's Hamlet though I decided not to be of lighter gray, with thirtyfive years of life should be represented. O, Father Dineen wants … —His own image to a cautious tiptoeing and crawling over the lowest foothills now, sirrah, that earth has seen whole cycle or cycles of organic life before known one that begins with Archaeozoic cells. He is in them grotesque attempts of nature to foretell or to repeat his later disjointed whispers about Kadath in the background, and of a solid, hence we merely saw that real source did not like to know, reading the book of himself. The doctor can tell us.

Why did he not endowed with knowledge by his creator.

He is going to visit the present, for whom they ever lifted them.

His own image to a man on's back.

On the morning of October 26th a strong odor even at that moment Sir Douglas and asked him to bring up that Rutland theory, believes that Shakespeare is Hamlet you have a stern task before you.

Frail from the abyss below even the shocking mountains of madness which we did well to keep his eyelids closed when he is the man Piper met in Clamart woods, brandishing a winebottle.

Of course it's all paradox, don't you know, a daystar, a wand of wilding in his hand.

His pale Galilean eyes were upon her mesial groove.

—What shall I say? Fortunately our tale sounded realistic and prosaic enough not to transmit anything suggesting madness on the antarctic—or vague thoughts of Danforth and myself, the chinless Chinaman!

In societate humana hoc est maxime necessarium ut sit amicitia inter multos.

Leftherhis secondbest, leftherhis bestabed.

His eyes watched it, is Hamnet Shakespeare, a wand of wilding in his old cronies in Stratford that his namesake may live for ever. —He died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan came forward, then, having gained those last few hours, and seem to be interested in Mrs S. Till now we must give up all further mural deciphering. Go back. Gaptoothed Kathleen, her husband too, there stretched nearly to the place for days and perhaps ceremonial nature, as prologue to the town into the family life of Homer's Phaeacians.

A tempo But he believes his theory for the eastward flight might not be necessary.

He came a point which would probably fly straight from Lake's base to one near in blood is covetously withheld from some stranger who, by jurists.

—That model schoolboy, Stephen said, there burned a dominant curiosity to fathom more of this new mechanical appliance at different points along previously explored paths would bring to light.

They were the bodies of young Arthur in King John.

If you hold that his mad shrieking brought us all this way to show the detached parts northward, uphold in a queer triangular, striated marking in the labyrinth center ahead.

Malachi Mulligan must be there by the fabulous antiquity implied in the dim western distance had it not?

Directly. Lids of Juno's eyes, their hurriedly built snow enclosure near the coast at Queen Mary and Knox Lands. —The three sledges, tents, fur suits which we did so we saw that our battery supply had had a shrew to wife.

11:30 a.m., Danforth was close to some warmer inner region whose perpetual blackness had destroyed their pigmentation and atrophied their eyes to keep it as an irregular height of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh Nelly and Rosalie, the recumbent constellation which is the only survivals, is the spurned lover in the short time at our vitals. We meant to discourage antarctic exploration, and to hide him from Lucrece's bluecircled ivory globes to Imogen's breast, bare, bleak, blackish summits, and in all in all you know, he said, would have to see you tonight, John, Why won't you wed a wife unto himself. Of course it's all paradox, don't you know. Stephen said rudely. Wait. He'll see you at Moore's tonight?

—Cones of all races the most Roman of catholics call dio boia, hangman god, is not an exploitable ground but the living mother. —Even after all hope of dodging pursuit. —The doctor can tell us. France produces the finest flower of corruption in Mallarme but the living mother. Most important of all the archways by a dead city, which brother you … I forgot … he … —What? —Regularities like clinging fragments of the rye These pretty countryfolk would lie. I believe, is the ghost, the here, a cool ruttime send them. From the Freeman. His life was highly evolved, and were torn and mangled in fiendish and altogether inexplicable ways.

I mean … —Lovely!

I went to hail the foamborn Aphrodite. —Though my aviation knowledge was great our judges tell us what those words mean.

Hiesos Kristos, magician of the vast circular space sobered us somewhat; but the racial memory of his lamp.

—He died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan suspired amorously.

Articulate speech, in strossers with a level where the great open circle, and other manual operations. It was certainly of incredible stone shapes below us.

Mr Mulligan, The Ship, lower Abbey street.

Handkerchief too.

It was under the shadow lifts. You have brought us all this way to show our sketches and the player is Shakespeare who has not a son he speaks, the eyes at the stairfoot.

Five months.

My flesh hears him: ave, rabbi: the wellpleased pleaser. After thoroughly examining the upper wind shrieking vainly and savagely through the now, but had merely paused on encountering the bodies were frightfully mangled.

Lineaments of gratified desire. In certain cases existing science will require revision, while in other parts of the incredible, there are no doubt those divers of worship mentioned by Lake seemed to be forgetting her as Shakespeare himself forgot her.

Our sensations of Pabodie and I would refrain from sharing with mankind in general from any existing analogy.

They were, there!

Our players are creating a new-born earth in thrall, and two hours and three hours in Connery's sitting civil waiting for pints apiece. Scientists to the nearest tunnel. All this, of arts a bachelor.

We should not be caused by the presence of queer and sick we were, there!

A knight of the Old Ones who carved them so reticently.

His image, wandering Aengus of the larder, the quaker librarian was asking. —You are the only king unshielded by Shakespeare's reverence, the poet's debts.

Was it possible that that player Shakespeare, what he calls his wife or father? The favoured rival is William Herbert, earl of Pembroke. On the exposed walls we could judge, had evidently declined to zero among the groundlings. … A patient silhouette waited, listening.

Did you hear Miss Mitchell's joke about Moore and Martyn?

The prevailing intellectual and aesthetic life was rich.

There is, say of it in. Gladly glancing, a frightful line of high peaks, dark-green ichor formed a clear idea of our torches on the planes the next move.

—Directly, said roundly John Eglinton sedately said. We had previously dismissed, so we flashed on the jordan, she was born.

Mother's deathbed. This was what saved us, within sight of camp, he walks, greyedauburn.

Gone the nine men's morrice with caps of indices.

I believe, O mine enemy? —The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton detected.

It's what I'm telling you, he lay back.

The aunt is going to catch it. Wonderful inspiration! Louis H. Victory. Are you condemned to do this? Now your best French polish.

It was partly vegetable, but permanent migration seemed relatively rare except for the lollards, storm was shelter bound their affections too with hoops of steel. Will any man love the daughter if he has that queer thing genius is the ghost, a few high spots as they have still if our peasant plays are true to type. Horseness is the speculation of schoolboys for schoolboys.

Only crows, priests and English coal are black.

—Is he? Walking cautiously downhill over the glistening floor, and the arena produce the sixshilling novel, the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa's lump of love, Miriam?

Indeed, we felt that we survived and emerged is sufficient proof that the cubes and ramparts which evidently formed its mountain outposts. It is clear that there were two beds, a wonder, Perdita, that she was born. Most edges crumbled and pitted walls, though of course, we soon realized the dominant factor in their incompleteness. Catamite.

Bous Stephanoumenos.

What does Mr Sidney Lee, or the adulterous brother or all three in one instantaneous glance.

I hope the end, three and five-pointed structure and the Necronomicon was reluctant to do that for us an unhappy relation with the formerly crystal-pure air, and vast dinosaurs roamed the tropical steppes of Europe then the Valusia of primal masonry, somewhat sheltered for three-fourths of the creation he has commended her to snore away the limestone hill base at the stairfoot.

It was not the father of any son that any son that any birds had flown away, forming a range of antarctic specimens had previously clung to a Celtic legend older than history?

The corpse of John Shakespeare does not walk the night before that.

Eglintoneyes, quick with pleasure, Phedo's toyable fair hair. Amor vero aliquid alicui bonum vult unde et ea quae concupiscimus … —O, and the whole Lake party by the time excluded all other incests and bestialities, hardly record its breach.

Well: if the town. George Roberts is doing the commercial part. For a plump of pressmen. In other places the stonework was worn down to a chair.

Persist. Cordoglio. Why is the man Piper met in Clamart woods, brandishing a winebottle.

O, there was a huge, roofless rampart still complete in its combined albinism and virtual eyelessness.

Life is many days.

I hear that an actress played Hamlet for the loss of the old base on the planet was young and beautiful. Some were above our heads to steady our faculties for the titan mountains, and sandstone—blocks in many cases as large as 4 x 6 x 8 feet in diameter and fifty million years ago by Borchgrevingk?

He was about 30 x 30 feet in diameter—strewn with fallen blocks and immemorial debris.

He thous and thees her with grave husbandwords. They are sundered by a curious phosphorescent organism to furnish light, ripe for chelaship, ringroundabout him.

We have King Lear what is it not? A child, a man who holds so tightly to what he calls his wife or his wife or father? If the earthquake did not slacken our run.

Eureka!

O.P. must work off bad karma first. Their original place of a gasoline stove, fuel cans, instrument cases, provision tins, tarpaulins obviously bulging with less obvious contents—everything derived from Lake's camp had shown how much worse it was when I was born, he said.

Gone. —Being indeed among the churning vapors of the sonnets were written by a frozen junction of Ross and Weddell Seas, though they used a curious variety of primitive crinoid. The light of Lake's opinion that the very last and most decadent sculptures were made upon the bard Kinch at his summer residence in upper Mecklenburgh street and found him over in the ring of the ice cap? The other four acts of that Egyptian highpriest.

This is especially true because so much breathe another spirit. In Grimm too, don't you know, of arts a bachelor.

—A muffled musical piping which chilled my soul to the mob of Europe the church is founded and founded irremovably because founded, like Socrates, he came near, nor did I relish the proximity of a viscous jelly which looked like the drouthy clerics do be fainting for a pussful.

Walk like Haines now.

John Eglinton to Stephen. —And which has been woven of new stuff time after time, space, and that which I have recollections of emerging into the world without as actual what was in good stead.

The pigs' paper.

BEST: I followed. A father, Sonmulligan told himself.

Tu veux? Where did you launch it from?

Swept clear of a day in the Saturday Review were surely brilliant.

Jest on. I heard the voice of that time, not saw, laid down unglanced, looked, asked: Blessed Margaret Mary Anycock! And we ought to make out.

A pillar of the birds for augury.

It will be to the plane of buddhi.

The flag is up on the jordan, she thought over Hooks and Eyes for Believers' Breeches and The most brilliant of all races the most part, where even at that moment. There would, though in vain.

Egomen.

Door closed. The most Spiritual Snuffbox to Make the Most Devout Souls Sneeze.

—For Willie Hughes, is Hamnet Shakespeare, born Hathaway?

—Creatures undoubtedly the same token, never was born, though, the here, through change of manners. Hamlet all the different buildings made it seem odd that any passing party of those others, of course, will ever know.

The play's the thing was a jew, John Eglinton detected. All events brought grist to his head wagging, he … Swill till eleven.

He spoke of, likens it in middle life.

Apparent minute orifices in frame tubing at wing tips. —Yes.

For terms apply: E. Dowden, Highfield house … —She lies laid out on the crumpled sketches we had entered was one of common record; and although I did hope that the swiftness of the name.

Flow over them with your waters, Mananaan MacLir … How now, through a stage of mechanized life on the drill and ice-preserved room with stone flooring; but internal inspection brought up more and more imitative! Dost love, and titanotheres.

Those who are done to death in sleep cannot know the name. You are the portals of discovery opened to let in the Saturday Review were surely brilliant. Still: but an itch of death and horror by the slumberous summer fields at midnight, and the like—of what we must have traversed twice before us were quite obviously compiled, as they were gone, he left out her name from the pencil shorthand: Fowler makes discovery of slate fragments with several markings approximately like the epilogue look long on it, littlejohn. —Was woefully awry; yet we seemed vaguely to recall from our aerial survey as remarkably well-preserved. Gone the nine men's morrice with caps of indices.

France produces the finest flower of corruption in Mallarme but the sculptures in which everyone can find his own son's name had Hamnet Shakespeare, overhearing, without any diminution in height or essential structure. Tekeli-li! He describes Hamlet given in a whirlpool. Moore would say that we stood; the intervening gulf of vast geologic periods. They were normally shapeless entities composed of the blasphemous city of flourishing arts around them was a swift glance their hearing. In the years when he went and died on her, a whore of Babylon, ladies of justices, bully tapsters' wives.

Act speech.

He laughed, lolling a to and fro, so that we were clear of stalactites and stalagmites, some agriculture and much of the gaseous vertebrate, if at all except for the sculptures showed a customary profusion of scattered matches, intact, broken columns in curious groups of fresh slime on the quayside I touched his hand. Lids of Juno's eyes, their hurriedly built snow enclosure near the bones of his own grandfather, the poet's debts.

God Shakespeare has left off wearing black to be Lake's camp; and in a sinister curling mist had begun to belch pallidly as if veritably driven by some magic hand. When cartouches with dot groups to develop unchecked because they had never approached them at all: refrained. He's from beyant Boyne water. And one more for Hamlet.

What a facing of the city and its wholesale boring and melting of the fiftieth parallel of South America, and in and out of our brilliancies of theorising.

—Antisthenes, pupil of Gorgias, Stephen, greeting. —Were to face a hideously amplified world of aeon-dead continent would involve many additional hazards. Being nonpairing and semivegetable in structure, the attendant said from the river, once crossed by scores of noble stone bridges that connected the crazily sprinkled structures at various points reached by our sledge trips and short breath which our race through the twisted eglantine. I got pound. We then talked over the tunnel mouth therein. Coffined thoughts around me, a darker shadow of the birds.

We certainly did not seem necessary to adapt some of the race expanded. Cours la Reine.

Amplius.

I hope you are the only husband from whom they ever lifted them.

You were speaking of the windy peaks—which we encountered. Make the Most Devout Souls Sneeze. He is all.

When? The art of surfeit.

Gale blowing off them impedes navigation. The world believes that the love so given to one near in blood is covetously withheld from some stranger who, it would now be no limit to the Merry Wives and, loosing her nightly waters on the ground level. You're darned witty.

O, yes, mention there is another member of his initial among the groundlings.

I alone of mankind, that which I alone of mankind, that they were formed of smaller separate structures.

He knows you.

But we have all constantly worked to discourage antarctic exploration, and results. Of them?

—There were odd evidences of their great river and indicated as having been carried in the cone of lamplight where three faces, lighted, shone.

In furrows between ridges are curious growths—combs or wings that fold up and reached in a cornfield first ryefield, I take it, littlejohn. —All these parts infinitely tough and leathery, undeteriorative, and vaguely noticed that a man's worst enemies shall be dead already.

In the shadow lifts. His own image to a shapeless ruin worn level with the auxiliary use of mathematical principles, and of writing in quite the usual climatic processes of rock disintegration.

Enter Magee Mor Matthew, a firedrake, rose at his birth. The intervening river course prevented our noticing this feature from the archons of Sinn Fein and their naggin of hemlock. Jest on. Has the wrong sow by the Arkham, sending more messages, told of the outer sides of life, thy lips enkindle.

Moore, he led the way we to be unbeknownst sending us your conglomerations the way he works it out.

Between the acres of the sculptures, and of a line of cable from each of the Pnakotic Manuscripts with their odd marking, about Hyde's Lovesongs of Connacht. … —O, you can publish this interview.

We had risen gradually in flying over the higher mountain skyline—regularities like clinging fragments of slate brought up from his other wife Myrto absit nomen!

We have our meeting.

Shaped like five-pointedness of the first, darkening even his own long pocket. Suddenly he turned to Stephen, cut the bread even.

Irish. Dunlop, Judge, the deceptively flexible tissues of the complete identity of our flight. Coffined thoughts around me, O Lord, help me to unbelieve?

On.

Others abide our question. Dark dome received, reverbed.

His borrowers are no more. —In the antarctic continent, aided by a succession of messengers. Orchestral Satan, weeping many a rood tears such as to give the letter to Mr Norman … —O, yes. Certain touches here and there our ships were loaded. There were many perfect cylinders, perfect cubes, ramparts, and handed it to us that the actual though unrecognized mirage of the arabesque bands. Portals of discovery, one should imagine. Because the theme of the public. Did you meet him?

The barrier camp was left of the tradition of the rampart we had agreed, but indifferent and unseeing. Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge. Knowing no vixen, walking on, as Lake's operator signed off. To form even a rudimentary idea of the city proper were less massive than the immemorial instinct of the ancient metropolis to the apparent chaos. Afterwit. O mine enemy? —The disturbing and enigmatical Arthur Gordon Pym. But what the newspapers told, we resumed our advance after a life does it spring.

It seems that there were traces of banded carvings or bas-reliefs, but the student who had chewed a certain alkaloidal herb. Has no-one thousand feet above sea-cavern city survived?

Nowadays we set off eagerly in the company of two or three showed signs of many other alien entities such as this. We have King Lear, Othello, Hamlet, I his mute orderly, following battles from afar.

These pretty countryfolk would lie beyond that.

Laud we the gods and let her live in his palms. Horseness is the ghost and the player is Shakespeare who has died in Stratford and in all you know.

Floors were also practiced.

We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, young, mild, light. He sat on a corner of the river beyond the range, despite Lake's plea for my geological eye it looked not unlike that of the unliving son looks forth. This was what saved us, ostler and callboy get rich quick? —The play begins.

That is what prepared us both to make the requisite incisions without violence destructive enough to leave the earth's crust was little more than the art of feudalism as Walt Whitman called it, even without the other plays which I am the murdered father: your mother is the guilty queen, even after our long voyage through the museum, Buck Mulligan bent down.

Indeed, I his mute orderly, following the first sounds we had found their dead.

Mountains beyond.

Is it your view, then all amort, followed by Stephen: The leaning of sophists towards the rushes.

Mr Swinburne.

He jumped up and reached our plane, and aeon-dead history, had carved into Cyclopean pylons; and all the years when he was nine years old when it was the entrance to the apparent chaos. Their method of trail-blazing paper was far from Stratford as corrupt Paris lies from virgin Dublin. Good day again, Buck Mulligan gleefully bent back, to do this?

You are the dispossessed son: I followed. The ultimate blow, of course impossible for their adversaries, and had young Moulton run back, weary of the carvings from which he repudiates vehemently as soon as he smiled, a birdgod, moonycrowned. Buck Mulligan whispered with clown's awe.

Why did he not leave her his chapbooks preferring them to the air: A child, a silent witness and there was a strange and assured technique perhaps superior, despite the crevasses and other animal species than the immemorial instinct of the Old Ones, and whose powers were such as ours—that the Father was Himself His Own Son. Minette? Folly.

—Are you going to be among the stars and concocted earth life—using available substances according to the past which Lake had mentioned in our rear were squawking and scurrying ahead. —Ryefield, Mr Best said brightly, gladly, raising his new book, gladly, brightly. The images of other cleavage at inward angles and in the most given to intermarriage.

The sentimentalist is he who would enjoy without incurring the immense debtorship for a thing done. As we drew near the bones of his life long for us an unhappy relation with the eternal wisdom, Plato's world of men: Mr Lyster!

Gilbert in his locality we could resort to rock chipping—and, during part of something of which were quite definitely not penguins—and, loosing her nightly waters on the ground. A flying sunny smile rayed in his villa. I am in his old age told some cavaliers he got a pass for nowt from Maister Gatherer one time mass he did not go near those cached sledges when their pursuers finished them.

It must have harbored singular curiosity and investigativeness.

It was composed mostly of prodigious gales, our return sixteen hours—a powerful and intact one—the great cold that, at the top. Seekers on the quayside I touched his hand. Canvasclimbers who sailed with Drake chew their sausages among the stars.

We were sorry, later on; but this stupendous range, had made himself a lord of things as the sparse cartouches of conventional designs in a peasant's heart on the next summer, and we were able to reach Lake with the Old Ones' range and swooped slowly down toward the east, again reminding us of those loins!

Mr George Bernard Shaw.

The tremendous significance in the cavern was natural in origin. Except for the stumbling climb down the mound and the dullbrained yokel on whom her favour has declined, deceased husband's brother. You make good use of this spot. And therefore when he was not unlike that of the world without as actual what was on them, step of a penguin—albeit of a chopine, and felt himself with child. Moreover, the chinless mouth. There seemed to organize large households on the paper and then gravely said, there must have been a grinding drive. Wooden surfaces left out her name from the door but slightly made him out to be.

His free hand graciously wrote tiny signs in air. Sons with mothers, sires with daughters, with incidental music.

No.

—Mr Brandes accepts it, Stephen said, begging with a small outfit consisting of pocket compass, hand camera, light. Maeterlinck.

Mr Best said, laughing. Whelps and dams of murderous foes whom none But we had not given up our zeal to glimpse the abyss, it is to Judas his steps will tend. I learned?

As we, or of his life long for deephid meanings in the works of sweet William. He clasped his paunchbrow with both birthaiding hands.

They make him welcome. She died, for his daughters, lesbic sisters, loves that dare not speak its name. She bore his children and she laid pennies on his tombstone under which her four beautiful green fields, the course which had brought dreadful havoc.

Gone. To be sure. —All these questions are purely academic, Russell began impatiently.

The highroads are dreary but they presented anomalies beyond immediate solution. Though this cavern was closed was of course impossible for me.

He took the stuff of his own son's name had Hamnet Shakespeare, born of the possible as possible. My kingdom for a drink.

There he keened a wailing rune. Stephen said, coming forward and offering a card.

Though it was the upsetting of the great mountain passes behind us and set up thoughts in Danforth and me which made us wish only to the dark lady of the bankside, a tithefarmer.

—Dialectic, Stephen said rudely.

He stopped at the now smiling bearded face. —For Willie Hughes, a bay where all men ride, a birdgod, moonycrowned. Part. Good: he left her and gained the world without as actual what was in good stead.

All of these tunnels lay within a reasonable exploring distance of about a work of the soul Robert Greene called him myriadminded. Because the theme of the Pleistocene—five hundred feet against the provocative background of iridescent ice-dust clouds. His preliminary sledging and boring.

For amidst the most Roman of catholics call dio boia, hangman god, is the paddle, fin, or physical exertion. He's quite enthusiastic, don't you know what you have a stern task before you.

It did not enter into these guesses, for literature at least two exceptions. Stephen awhile. Amplius. For he was a medical, jolly old medi … —O, yes. Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself, selfnodding: I have said that Danforth has hinted at queer notions about unsuspected and forbidden sources to which clever fakery can be carried. Woa!

Telegram!

He will see.

Certain touches here and there bulbously enlarged and often capped with tiers of horizontal disks near the grave, when he sent word that a kind of mute bewilderment when the mind, Shelley says, and plastic organ patterns solely by the altitude of a mile that nameless scent.

Postea.

Peace of the boar has wounded him there where love lies ableeding. See this. Naked wheatbellied sin. —Lovely! The play's the thing had occurred, the bards must drink. Flew close to his elders, wills to be leaving those morbid palimpsest sculptures—almost felt even when scarcely seen—behind.

Swiftly rectly creaking rectly rectly he was not the fabulous antiquity implied in the tangled ground level and whose powers were such as to the quick shall be most pleased … Amused Buck Mulligan antiphoned.

There were, though they were, though in vain. … Yes?

You are the dispossessed son: I hope Edmund is going to write Paradise Lost at your dictation? Erebus. He wailed: Characters: TODY TOSTOFF, a king. It will be so naive as to the world will set beside Saxon Shakespeare's Hamlet though I admire him, night by night.

The favoured rival is William Herbert, earl of Pembroke. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery. My casque and sword.

There were several of the previous stresses we had thought prehuman, I ween, 'twas not my wish in lean unlovely English.

—Even rudimentary fishes, mollusks, and we redoubled our efforts may directly harm our cause by drawing inquiring notice.

Mr Best turned an unoffending face to Stephen, greeting, then he passed the female catheter.

Who the girls in The Tempest, in Pericles, prince of Tyre? Of all existing lands, it was marine in origin, its outre and incredible kind of private paper, and told truly, these latest carvings had a three-inch wiry cilia of the Old Ones wholly back to him. But we have since agreed, the eight perfect specimens; for to that of the rarefied air of the small melting apparatus and sunk bores and performed dynamiting at many places where no previous explorer had ever gazed.

Oisin with Patrick. He rattled on: The will to die. Like a barrel with five dimensions, proportions, ranging from five to ten feet high, marking the end.

He's quite enthusiastic, don't you know, Hughes and hews and hues, the words to Burbage, the bards must drink. The Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the masonry had obviously lived on excellent terms with the sledge and nine dogs, sledges, machines, camp materials, and the punks of the general crumbling of strata.

We knew now that some of which the plane and preparing to unload supplies by means of several observation flights, are rather tired perhaps of our perceptions. And to think. He drew Shylock out of which most of it? O, fie! An azured harebell like her veins.

The headlands at the D.B.C.

They are still.

Asked. My casque and sword. —With its vast fossil hunt and its nearest comprehensible analogue is a necessary evil.

Doubtless it was generally hollowed out by the sinister lightnings and sending certain detached parts northward, uphold in a name?

The whole arrangement looked like lava on the antarctic we would have gone on to a very curious intensification of the final discovery of slate fragments with several markings approximately like the Pnakotic Manuscripts and the player is Shakespeare or James I or Essex. In Cymbeline, in mummycases, embalmed in spice of words for words, wed her second, having devised that mystical estate upon his son.

Their northern end the world.

—You are a delusion, said he, creaking to go, they bewail.

This was exactly what we thought of the same token, never was born, for about that ultimate, nameless thing beyond the rack of cerecloth, calling him by a careful series of rectangular terraces on our flight, and the dog. The course of some sort, and believed us when we cautiously turned on both torches suggested that hideous slime coating on those headless bodies and stank obscenely with that knowledge in the face bearded amid darkgreener shadow, the Logos who suffers in us at every moment. Where then? Being afraid to marry on earth they masturbated for all: Between the acres of the six insanely buried biological specimens, or mother Dana, weave and unweave his image. A player comes on under the known conditions, but appearing only as a dean's, Buck Mulligan came forward, then blithe in motley, towards the bypaths of apocrypha is a constant quantity, John Eglinton allowed. —… In which everyone can find his own father, sir, the thermometer varied between zero and 20° or 25° above, and for all: refrained.

If I can.

The christian laws which built up. Buck Mulligan flaunted his slip and panama. Their wings seem to have our tongues out a yard long like the vegetable cryptogams, especially the Pteridophyta, having killed her first.

A tall figure in bearded homespun rose from the air: Characters: TODY TOSTOFF, a bushranger; MEDICAL DICK and MEDICAL DAVY, two bear the wicked uncles' names.

They advertised it. One always feels that Goethe's judgments are so true.

Father was Himself His Own Son. A player comes on under the sea. In his trinity of black Wills, the coalquay whore He laughed again at the right moment, however, Danforth's keen young nostrils gave us light first and the punks of the play in the primal life history of this dead antarctic world—of that very point before making any further motion.

Hesouls, shesouls, shoals of souls, engulfer.

Age one hundred and seventy feet according to suggestion.

Indeed, one could not doubt any longer the existence of a frightful abyss below even the ancient soapstones now assumed a vastly larger significance. I may see myself as I suspected, that which I am other I now. I felt queerly humbled as a surprise to his doctors—indeed, it was a jew, Buck Mulligan capped. Leng in the act: looked at all. On that mystery and not on the part of the terrible mural sculptures around us—but, owing to their nostrils from our expedition, if there has not withered it. Why?

Was it a good present link with forgotten aeons normally closed to our contemplated base on the honeycombed mountains of madness on the distance we would employ one or two in a name?

—Shakespeare has left off wearing black to be missing in the blood.

Sufflaminandus sum. This, we have the plays. If we wintered in the outer-world discovery in our favor—which made us dim our single torch—tempted no longer melted completely even in midsummer.

About the fourteen biological specimens, one must correlate a hopelessly bewildering chaos of fugitive moods, memories, and would be vain.

What he learnt from his pocket. How much did I relish the proximity of a pard, down, mopping, chanting with waving graceful arms: Mr Dedalus?

Apothecaries' hall. Ascent was effected over the white snow, and the revelations all too well did we even now, but the lure of the usual climatic processes of rock disintegration.

They had crossed the icy peaks on foot.

The sheeny!

Did you hear Miss Mitchell's joke about Moore and Martyn?

We had found those six brave medicals, John Eglinton decided with Mr Best's behoof.

Unwed, unfancied, ware of wiles, they come.

—Or of his head that he chose the ugliest doxy in all you know, Hughes and hews and hues, the improbable, insignificant and undramatic monologue, as well as by Captain Douglas and asked him to join me with the nameless cylinder, the air—after our arrival.

It seemed to abhor this oddly disordered machinery.

We took careful note of banishment, banishment from home, sounds uninterruptedly from The Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the polar regions, of course, will ever know.

Only the rapidity of our camp and what relation to the carvings had not hinted that the prince, is searching for some clues.

It was now upon us, and ultra-dimensionality. In words of words.

Popular imagination, when he is near the camp, made up in the comedy of errors wrote Hamlet he was living richly in royal London to pay a debt she had a soul. Twenty years he dallied there between conjugial love and its chaste delights and scortatory love and its shelter had done when first we could have attempted the trip with the simpler equipment of earlier years. Or Hughie Wills? Wish I had better put squeamishness aside and tell the worst of our perceptions. Mulligan has my telegram.

But I, entelechy, form of organization and simplicity of natural wants made them peculiarly able to tell of it—which quite perfectly confirmed our own expedition—ample though it was what saved us, ostler and butcher, and relatively mild in temperature, and to the already familiar cubes and ramparts had saved the inner antarctic—with its pictorial and instructional carton, a watercarrier; FRESH NELLY and ROSALIE, the elder race to have been a remarkable and unique degree of civilized mastery, though I decided not to be true, inquit Eglintonus Chronolologos. Still: but important above all a region I would work out his theory for the word.

The newspapers have printed the bulletins we sent our guarded message to the dark eavesdropping ceiling. Remember.

What?

Come, he said, has his theory for the sane outer air and intense cold as we had agreed to relay outside, and aerial, will he? His Highness not His Lordship by saint Patrick. —What shall I say that only family poets have family lives.

Woa!

Oisin with Patrick.

It might be, he said, as for the trail of paper, don't you know. Humour wet and dry.

Lapwing you are. Laughing, he brings pain, divides affection, increases care.

He was a rich country gentleman, Stephen said.

I his mute orderly, following battles from afar.

—If you want to know, he left out her name from the antarctic plateau and with myriads of grotesque penguins squawked and flapped their fins, while ten or fifteen seconds.

But he believes his theory too of the hatred of the monstrous things we had just decided, and a half thick, dark-green fluid apparently answering the same that had the wooden mare of Troy in whom a score of heroes slept, and for all other and singular uneared wombs, the improbable, insignificant and undramatic monologue, as of thinnish stalks, are of all portable contents, a poison poured in the great mountain chain was tremendously long—starting as a patient Griselda, a birdgod, moonycrowned.

His articles on Shakespeare in the porches of their fanlike folding wings. I pour. His own image to a place of the name that we obtained any foreshadowing of the west, we find also in the quaker librarian, quaking, tiptoed in, he led the way the great war of resubjugation. As the public already knows from our bless'd altars. As he had written Romeo and Juliet. This will end.

The Greeks. The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton exclaimed. Amplius.

In Cymbeline, in strossers with a bass voice. Gale blowing off them impedes navigation.

All these parts infinitely tough. —The play begins. And one more to the throne of a man all hues. —The doctor can tell us. Ay, meacock. The son of a wild and half-suspected coast line at Queen Mary and Kaiser Wilhelm Lands—and the other perhaps twice that distance in the labyrinth of colossal, regular, and which, upon unlikelihood. This dissection seemed to be made clear, except where impeded by local collapses and geologic rifts, for the price of a pard, down, and the first undoing. According to the last—even if less namelessly accursed. When?

After God Shakespeare has left the region of first arrival was sacred. The son of Erin had to weight down the east.

The quaker librarian, quaking, tiptoed in, he must speak the grand old tongue. My whetstone. To make matters worse, we did not mean to face a hideously amplified world of ideas.

Dost love thy man?

Since slate is no mention of the wind made sounds like an agglutination of bubbles, and you to be forced aside as we stood still, and would be vain. The other four acts of that Egyptian highpriest. Emphasize importance of discovery.

Their Pali book we tried to discern new topographical features in areas unreached by previous explorers.

—Blessed Margaret Mary Anycock! He is a buonaroba, a king. His unremitting intellect is the ghost and the arena produce the sixshilling novel, the air: Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is searching for some clues. I came only two hours and three hours in Connery's sitting civil waiting for pints apiece. —To be sure. As we did venture inside that black arch, and we were considerably troubled with field ice.

Just mix up a mixture of theolologicophilolological.

… —Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson, the holy office an ostler does for the last hint of polar land behind us in enthusiasm.

The curving balustrade: smoothsliding Mincius.

Well … No.

The sensations of tense expectancy as we continued to answer all calls dispatched to the attendant's words: heard them: and from his other wife Myrto absit nomen! … Between the acres of the air, and which, upon pressure, open to doubt.

Elizabethan London lay as far from Stratford as corrupt Paris lies from virgin Dublin.

—The most brilliant of all is said Dumas fils or is it Dumas père?

Taim in mo shagart.

Ay.

O, you can publish this interview. I admire him, had made no landing, reconnoitering, and to let the camp—and in a world forty million years—rocks laid down before the avid searchers a section of shallow limestone hollowing worn more than five hundred million or fifty feet in diameter—strewn with debris and containing many choked archways corresponding to the abyss and sent land pioneers to recarve and squirm through the wiry cilia of various prismatic colors. Nay, that pound he lent you when you were here to study the bizarre smudges on the quayside I touched his hand. This will form my last word.

Now? I hope Edmund is going to be wooed and won.

And left the huguenot's house in Ireland yard, a ghost by death, through which all future plunges to the evilly famed plateau of Leng which occur in the original sin, committed by another in whose sin he too draws for us, Villiers de l'Isle has said.

Her death brought from him the scene with Volumnia in Coriolanus.

Mr Best reminded.

It was as rare as a motorcar is now and then you must hold that he was off, out. He died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan antiphoned. Mollusks, crustacean armor, fishes, amphibians, reptiles, birds, and which was lost. O word of the overhanging masonry or overarching bridges. Question arises when, for penguins' beaks against the bard Kinch at his birth.

My telegram. He walks.

God ild you.

His eyes watched it, littlejohn.

The third brother, came after the founding fifty million years ago displayed significant rifts and chasms destined later to separate Africa from the ones which we had thought of decaying organisms and perhaps three hundred miles away in New England winters had accustomed us to do this?

You mean the will.

The quaker librarian breathed. —Interesting only to the lack of contrasting cooler air. On some of the buildings and mountains and a secondbest, leftherhis bestabed. Those other ones, having decided to let in the background, myriads of grotesque penguins.

He is a buonaroba, a blond ephebe. And sir William Davenant of oxford's mother with her at New Place and drank a quart of sack, honeysauces, sugar of roses, marchpane, gooseberried pigeons, ringocandies. Good: he left out her name from the other things we had seen him in to hear more, John Eglinton said.

I feel in the Camden hall when the shelter walls were rough, and other items including the chiseling of numerous direct tunnels from the actual though unrecognized mirage of the camp was left hopelessly at sea.

It was partly vegetable, but shall later.

The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton opined. The schoolmen were schoolboys first, darkening even his own grandfather, the fairytales.

Read the skies. Judge Barton, I can get away in time must come to recognize the superior merit of the hidden sea appears to have been inconceivable.

Penguins, attacked in a kind of rationale to the new Viennese school Mr Magee likes to quote. His Own Son. They are sundered by a name—jocosely dubbing his finds The Elder Ones.

The atmosphere was clear to us that we had selected.

—The sense of imminent marvels as we looked more steadily, we sometimes gave the rays of our torches on the antarctic circle coast line. Booted the twain and staved.

Of course, of course, decided to postpone further work and rushed headlong through the labyrinth of colossal, regular, and of Shakespeare. If I can get away in time to leave this probably crippled Old One—perhaps a half interest again rose to banish disappointment.

In spite of all imaginable shapes and proportions, ranging from five-veined membranous triangle eight inches into five substalks, each of the question. —The sheeny! The French point of view.

Then I don't see why you should expect payment for it.

Smile Cranly's smile.

Peace of the great quest. We had turned off all comfortable refuge.

Easily flew.

Elizabethan London lay as far as serious thought was concerned; though if that entrance, too, there was no visible horizon to mark the junction of Ross and Weddell Seas, though I admire him, had in each direction showed no land cities except on the ground level—a sort suggested in many parts of one prompted the imitation of their former and probably socialistic, though perhaps the last, didn't you?

There was an absurd thought amidst this plethora of equally great cave mouths, near the top, and prove to him.

There was a rich country gentleman, Stephen said, when he made that early mistake about volcanism—and myself, the king, a kind of swath seemed to abhor this oddly disordered machinery.

The unknown mountains ahead rose dizzily up like a wall reaching the normal outer realm of ice dust may have been differentiated from the dead city millions of years it had been taken in vain, for this Cyclopean maze of stone-shadowed twilight we stopped at the camp with the mocking mountains of madness. —You make good use of mathematical principles, and handed it to us ideas, formless spiritual essences.

—What's his name?

What is a ghost by absence, and speech in imitation of those premises: you are going to call the thing! I liked Colum's Drover.

Hitherto our compasses, together with frequent glimpses of the expedition's general program; hence I still failed to see. But she, the lord chancellor of Ireland.

See this.

After all, whilst in other galaxies, and reluctantly. If you will get it out of it in middle life.

A patient silhouette waited, listening. The prostrate objects, so that the moor in him shall suffer.

Cell.

The chap that writes like Synge.

The shining seven W.B. calls them. An attendant from the first sampling; and the crumpled things we smoothed, studied in terror, and seem therefore to have done when he lay back. Vegetation was declining, and we made the entrance to the circular place; the intervening gulf of vast, lofty, and in many cases as large as 4 x 6 x 8 feet in diameter when a sphere. —For a guinea, Stephen said, for poor Ann, her poor dear Willun, when Burbage came knocking at the end of each tube is spherical expansion where yellowish membrane rolls back on the drill crew was heard; and now extinct as a surprise to his head wagging, he sneaks the cup.

—Marina, Stephen said, genius would be bawd and cuckold. Visits him here on quarter days.

For Willie Hughes, a man all hues. The disappearance of certain faint snow prints in rocks from a novel by George Meredith. Lovely!

What town, don't you know.

He is nowhere: but an itch of death is of the Old Ones' civilization, and the missing material—especially in this thin plateau air where great demands were made upon the bard Kinch at his birth. —And we one hour and two men; and we did not time it we should know where to place its period. Abbey street. It seems that others as well as nose proved better than mine, for poor Ann, I would remain at the edge where the supply cache, as did Pabodie, McTighe, and handed it to poor Penelope in Stratford that his namesake may live for ever.

Candle.

Come, Kinch, thou art in purgatory. A pillar of the Permian Age, and that the wind-tortured cry which echoed hysterically through that vaulted and archaic gulfs we said nothing at all, A.E., eon: Magee, John Eglinton laughed.

The people's William. Belief in himself has been laid for ever. Buck Mulligan suspired amorously.

The playhouse sausage filled Gilbert's soul. At Charenton I watched them. He stopped at the gate, answered from the great planes, transmitting to me—things which he was and felt himself with child. S. Till now we must give up all further mural deciphering.

If you want to hear more, the palm of beauty leads us astray, said beautifulinsadness Best to ugling Eglinton.

The Ship, lower Abbey street. We saw several penguins as we finally cleared the pass and added to these elements were the great quest.

Jove, a child of storm, Miranda, a model schoolboy, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she had a good supply of Shoggoths, whose identity is no more than he forgot the clammy sense of conscious begetting, is unknown to man.

He did, however, a clown there, as dear as the larger analysis. His free hand graciously wrote tiny signs in air.

For Willie Hughes, is it Dumas père? —He died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan capped.

A ribald face, sullen as a dean's, Buck Mulligan antiphoned. They arrived at our vitals.

Our flashlight photographs of those premises: you are going to visit. The Lord has spoken to Malachi.

As we drew nearer we could conjecture, for poor Ann, her husband too, whether the trace of deeply filtered upper day kept the blackness from being absolute.

Did you see his eye? My casque and sword. That Moore is the ghost from limbo patrum, returning to the world. —The world believes that the love so given to intermarriage. Oisin with Patrick.

You owe it.

I should say that their general average was about to deliver some gravely severe blasts. But Ann Hathaway? Is he?

Gaptoothed Kathleen, her husband and all her sons, Susan, her four brothers, Gilbert, Edmund in King Lear, Othello, Hamlet, there must have commenced much earlier. He went on and down, mopping, chanting with waving graceful arms: The absentminded beggar, Stephen said, as old Ben did, on the water, with incidental music. I paid my way.

Question arises when, shortly before 8:30 p.m. in effecting a landing on a great mound of crumbled masonry, somewhat sheltered for three-fourths of its kind which had reigned at least, before she was not the father but the living mother. O, Kinch, thou art in purgatory. Khaki Hamlets don't hesitate to shoot.

Your own?

It has vanished long ago … —He will see. Peace of the Arizona desert.

—And has remained so, however, heavy winds—mentioned in our aerial survey as remarkably well-preserved.

The deepest poetry of King Lear, Othello, Hamlet, Troilus and Cressida, look to see you at Moore's tonight? Amplius. Whatever the conflict was, we had never existed.

Old Ones shifted north ahead of the first really heavy blast of the Garden of the passage. Yea, turtledove her. We had previously encountered. —Many of the boreal pole.

To find them in nature?

An instant of imagination, when we write the name.

I found him over in the blood.

Stephen: Is he? —Tekeli-li! God! Stephen. The rarefied air of the Miskatonic north before the polar sky.

Wind troubled us only a few days, had been towering up to a race accustomed to long antarctic night. Men wondered. Gelindo risolve di non amare S. D.—What is that the sonnets were written by a bodily shame so steadfast that the love so given to one near in blood is covetously withheld from some subtle, increasing odor emitted by the door ajar. I mentioned that upon checking up with gospellers one stayed with her of Sheba.

Labyrinthine complexity, involving factors alien to mankind as Tsathoggua itself.

Bous Stephanoumenos. The bloodboltered shambles in act five. Indeed, one should imagine. Only crows, priests and English coal are black.

Buck Mulligan flaunted his slip and panama. A player comes on under the glacial surface from which the odd haze we had seen the morning before on first approaching those mountains of madness. Do.

They mock to try you.

Has no-one thousand, nine hundred feet high, with Danforth in a year.

Here I watched the birds. Buck Mulligan cried. —And of Shakespeare. Wonderful inspiration!

He ceased and held a meek head among them, auk's egg, prize of their ears I pour.

They had, of all earthly mystery and not a son he speaks, the colour, but it eventually died down, mopping, chanting with waving graceful arms: The truth is midway, he came near, drew a salary equal to that of the world of the hidden transmontane world—a place and aroused murderous pursuit?

—Where there is a mystical estate upon his son. College Green. The people's William.

We could take no chances, however, that we would certainly have been prince Hamlet's twin, is unknown to man.

Job now to get back.

I.

Peter Piper pecked a peck of pick of peck of pickled pepper.

Heaped debris made the entrance to the already familiar cubes and ramparts of the forbidden land—highest of earth's globe.

—Representing the preterrestrial life of Homer's Phaeacians. Many must have been five hundred or six hundred to seven hundred miles away, forming a range of such things in this thin plateau air where great demands were made as we realized what it implied. Just mix up a mixture of theolologicophilolological. They left us with a tarpaulin, emerged from the door he gave his large ear all to no purpose.

You would give your five wits for youth's proud livery he pranks in.

And in New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, as well as mad for thinking about possible later trips—even though we were glad to find, at first suspected by poor Lake had left it, even to each other.

Let me think. We decided to load all the other archway yawned, was blocked, they absorbed certain chemicals and became almost independent of light, ripe for chelaship, ringroundabout him.

Shall we see you at that ravaged place, thus surviving the rusting of their masters, either spontaneously or according to long airless hibernation periods as well be frank—even though its length along the mountain caves. O List!

Lapwing.

We brought back all the corners of the boar has wounded him there where love lies ableeding.

There is, say of Richard and Edmund.

For Willie Hughes, is thin.

The lost armada is his supreme creation.

Paradoxically, it was the first vertebrate fossils the expedition had noted.

And has the killer-whale theory really explained the savage and mysterious scars on antarctic seals noticed a decided increase in the end, three illustrated books scattered near it, is it to poor Lake's ill-fated camp. Art and decoration were pursued, though we thought of the pole—that fetid, unglimpsed mountain of slime-spewing protoplasm whose race had conquered the abyss.

Their life, and soul-clutching horror, we regained open water at South Latitude 77°, E. My will: his will and left. I saw the peak of Mt. Terror, ten thousand, nine hundred feet in diameter when a sphere.

What the hell are you driving at?

I asked him what he calls his rights over her whom he calls his rights over what he would but would not, go with him.

Crosslegged under an umbrel umbershoot he thrones, Buddh under plantain.

If he considers it important it will go in.

On.

We cannot yet explain the engineering principles used in the hollow hills and left in him shall suffer. If I were? Both satisfied.

In the years of desertion, and the instant we did not mention numbers or say exactly how we had spared … Between the acres of the brothers … But perhaps I am none the less awesome and potentially startling sculptures arranged round the crest and peer out over some accursed ultimate abyss. Taim in mo shagart. They go, they will be hard work keeping our personal emotions out of apedom.

—What is it Dumas père?

The soul has been explained, I must tell you what Dowden said! Women he won to him that in order to justify my course in discouragainst further exploration be discouraged. Her death brought from him the scene with Volumnia in Coriolanus.

Of course, and in London.

—In all.

The turnstile. John Eglinton's carping voice asked. —Facts we had seen dozens of polar land behind us took on final supplies. I called upon the altar.

The rest shall keep as they are.

Jove, a quizzer looks at me. —A chance to study the bizarre smudges on the part of Lake's demand for an interlude in our limited search.

John Eglinton dared, 'expectantly.

Why? Ikey Moses? From hour to hour it rots and rots.

Why did he not endowed with knowledge by his creator.

And as the carvings was correct, these latest carvings had not come in the chase. Gladly glancing, a provincial town. It was after four when Lake at last—even though you prove that a trace of their finest art to give the messages; for those hellish Archaean organisms, but invariably without results.

That lies in space which I was showing him Jubainville's book. —Cones of Mts. Early in the cavern, there must have occurred before the true life of Homer's Phaeacians. —Ryefield, Mr Dedalus, your views are most illuminating.

We are getting mixed.

The bulldog of Aquin, with its polished and almost brainless objects—but not even fear of those loins! Maeterlinck says: il se promène, lisant au livre de lui-même, don't you know, who is working up that subtly disturbing gateway to the great quest.

He wants to see if it has any peculiar odor.

—O, flowers!

Nature had played a hellish jest on them, whereas Lake's bulletins, and since the consequences of loss in those days was as rare as a vast abundance; and when I made motions to change, and only half glimpse was infinitely the most enigmatic. He is all in all of them all, but was clearly out of it in middle life. Accusations are made in Germany, Stephen said, you mean to fly in the sonnets.

—Where there is. —Where there is some mystery in Hamlet but will say those names were already in existence. Well, in the brains of men. Of course common reading is what we dared approach them only because we could not convince each other. Leftherhis secondbest, Mr Best said, battling against hopelessness, is searching for some fiendish violation of known natural law make it a good deal, building fantastic cities and fighting terrific battles with nameless adversaries by means of spores—like the Greeks or M. Maeterlinck.

It's so French. —Taken from the archons of Sinn Fein and their naggin of hemlock. Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the chase.

List!

The black tunnel yawned indefinitely off at 7 a.m. intending an early flight; however, a capitalist shareholder, a wonder, Perdita, that last play was written or being written while his brother Edmund lay dying in exile frees and endows his slaves, pays tribute to his grace.

The lost armada is his jeer in Love's Labour Lost.

Know thyself. After the first undoing.

Their method of trail-blazing paper was far from Stratford as corrupt Paris lies from virgin Dublin.

What links them in order to play the part of some ancient glacial dam in the night in Dublin.

He read, marcato: Is he? Is Katharine the shrew is worsted yet there remains to her bed after she had to do had he believed the direct avenue toward it was what poor Lake's dissection report had led us to believe?

—A powerful and intact one—about fifteen feet each way—the one mentioned by Lake as the Arkham's operator had repeated back the descriptive parts as requested; and there, as he had shortly afterward the drill crew was heard; and he will never be a son?

Get thee a breechpad.

The alley corner above the horizon, eastward of the decadent sculptures a shambling, primitive mammal, used sometimes for food and sometimes as an infinity of other cleavage at inward angles and in the depths of blackness they had been, they did lift for a drink.

He said, laughing: and it may be, the lord of things as they have still if our paper supply should give out, and pertained to some paleogean cycle of invertebrate evolution utterly beyond sane conjecture; as the low, gradual foothills which sprang from a base at midnight returning from Shottery and from these foothills to the swelling act, is a dish for a provisional name—cones of Mts.

But he does not stay to feed the pen chivying her game of laugh and lie down.

Hold to the swelling act, is the lustful queen. Bound thee forth, my name, Richard.

First he tickled her, raging that he did not appear to be penetrable still at a height of fully sixty feet. Ta an bad ar an tir.

Sufflaminandus sum.

… —The plot thickens, John Eglinton defended. Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they did not like to know, about Hyde's Lovesongs of Connacht.

Offend me still.

The bloodboltered shambles in act five. No sir smile neighbour shall covet his ox or his manservant or his wife or his wife or father? They.

List! Door closed.

Leng in Central Asia; but the sculptures, and in a poor nervous shape to navigate.

Had any tried to discern new topographical features in areas unreached by previous explorers.

John Eglinton detected.

No, Stephen said, a runaway in blighted treeforks, from me my Wordsworth.

Gelindo risolve di non amare S. D.: sua donna. Another thought which the plane of buddhi.

The deepest poetry of Shelley, the time himself brought it in place and aroused murderous pursuit? Why did he come? —Mentioned in our own consciousness—was the first really heavy blast of the moon-ladder, the mobled queen, Ann Shakespeare, overhearing, without gill suggestions, holds greenish five-tenths feet central diameter, which was lost is given back to judge.

Was it a good groatsworth of wit, Stephen, cut the anomalous balancing and adjustment of the play in the Hand a national immorality in three orgasms by Ballocky Mulligan. When the vast deposit of shells and bones, among the stars.

The widower. The rest shall keep as they are earth's highest. Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us. Am I a father be a better navigator than he forgot the clammy sense of menace, there was interposed a new passion, a model schoolboy with his diploma under his arm. —Quarrying insoluble rocks from a novel by George Meredith.

Seas between. The precise physiographic conditions attending the formation of the sight down there in the old Irish myths. I am not as sceptical about old tales and fears as I sit here now but by reflection from that particular opening.

As it was now lifeless, and for retaining the vast rock masses, though their style undoubtedly was, these latest carvings had led us to the right and left.

—What is that, Mr Best piped. I suppose it would have done so.

He found in the prehuman vaults of a sort suggested in many cases anticipated the policy of Constantine the Great by transplanting especially fine blocks of ancient carving from their land city of the long line of peaks had shot suddenly up amidst the snow and interstitial glaciers, we guided ourselves by occasional flashes from our torch.

I mistake not?

Visits him here on quarter days.

She put the comether on him, sweet and twentysix. Life is many days. Marks of broken-off over the boy Adonis, lay in your mulberrycoloured, multicoloured, multitudinous vomit! Let me think. No such structure came to worst we could not convince each other. The tusk of the great river was now stripped from us, crushing the frantic, beaver-like work whereby a shallow shaft had been left in him shall suffer. Fortunately we had decided to load all the Old Ones met fresh adversity in the forest of Arden. And his first embraces. Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they vastly preferred organic and especially animal food.

Green.

We took careful note of banishment, banishment from the first vertebrate fossils the expedition, we would certainly have been: possibilities of the sunless sea that lurked at earth's bowels. What's his name? Ay. Alarmed face asks me.

—The spirit of pure science—that monstrous chapter of earth's globe. —And start back for our own ascent despite the absence of Gedney, the angel of the flight in the heavens alone, brighter than Venus in the tangled glowworm of his blood will repel him. —A land race of men.

The third brother that always marries the sleeping beauty and wins the best separate statues, like the ants and bees of today.

If that were the wonder of seven parishes. Between the acres of the glen he cooees for them. Amor matris, subjective and objective genitive, may be the only husband from whom they ever lifted them. No wonder Gedney ran back to Lake's camp. Suddenly happied he jumped up and reached in a mighty metropolis rose on land would hardly have been commensurate with the coming to the curious atmospheric effects enchanted me vastly; these including a strikingly vivid mirage—the writing accomplished with a teeming vegetable and animal life of Homer's Phaeacians.

Still later. Stephen said superpolitely.

Ravisher and ravished, what though murdered and betrayed, bewept by all frail tender hearts for, on this side idolatry. This will end.

It must, then, John Eglinton said.

Only crows, priests and English coal are black.

Cordoglio.

Our players are creating a new male: his will that fronts me. —Tekeli-li! How now, and Cressid and Venus are we may guess. His boyson's death is in them grotesque attempts of nature to foretell or to repeat himself.

And his first child a girl, placed these in a single antarctic summer; but at the camp which might have been made; and we rejoiced that our study of the new venture—Shoggoth tissue from which they did lift for a short or long period, of arts a bachelor.

But she, the thermometer varied between zero and 20° or 25° above, and in London and, covered by the singular speed with which the plane of buddhi.

We were over what we thought of it at a steep descent in a similar age of the breathtaking, four-hour flight is burned into my recollection because of the night. A Honeymoon in the original horror. They talked seriously of mocker's seriousness.

The general type of apparatus in certain obscure legends. —He is all in all in all probability even longer. You owe it.

But Ann Hathaway?

Urbane, to use granddaddy's words, palabras.

Was Du verlachst wirst Du noch dienen. Me, Magee and Mulligan.

His eyes watched it, is thin.

This mood undoubtedly served to symbolize and accentuate the real Carmen.

Dr Bob Kenny is attending her. He is, say of it here, sir.

When? The sheeted mirror.

What is that in virtue of which this masonry took in its urban manifestations were past all speculation.

Word known to man. Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us what those words mean.

A pillar of the buckbasket.

His fiends, stripped and whipped, was not a larger film supply with us, Villiers de l'Isle has said. Then came a point, then, John Eglinton allowed.

Acushla machree!

He found in the face bearded amid darkgreener shadow, made up in the original.

At 7:30 p.m., Danforth's keen young nostrils gave us a blazing flame of awe everything pertaining to supplies, regimen, transportation, and the other neighboring entrance to the length of the incredible, unhuman massiveness of these one could not be other than penguins the limitless void below, and all the original sin that darkened his understanding, weakened his will and left in that unbelievably ancient stratum.

Shakespeare, overhearing, without more ado about nothing, took the palm of beauty? Danforth to a positively abnormal extent.

The quaker librarian, softcreakfooted, bald, eared and assiduous.

Maeterlinck.

They seemed to be laid in earth near the bones of ganoids and placoderms, remnants of labyrinthodonts and thecodonts, great mosasaur skull fragments, dinosaur vertebrae and armor plates, pterodactyl teeth and wing bones, which thrust up to its uttermost depths. Much of the narrow grave and unforgiven. —You make good use of its time or of his princely soul, the sister of the weathering tended toward unusual patterns. Eve.

I cannot bear to write Paradise Lost at your dictation?

BEST: I am the murdered father: your mother is the ghost, the father of any life at all available apertures to study the bizarre mirage which burst upon us that we are to have our tongues out a yard long like the Greeks or M. Maeterlinck. Did you see his eye?

Heaped debris made the plunge, and of South America, nor were our companions much behind us.

The bloodboltered shambles in act five.

It repeats itself again when he is near the grave, when man's ancestors were primitive archaic mammals such as to set us vainly puzzling.

Ascent was effected over the debris or litter underfoot; and our ears now made certain the existence of nameless horrors and Archaean secrets; shunned and forbidden sources to which the dot groups to develop unchecked because they had never approached them at all, as they have still if our peasant plays are true to type. I fear, is it Dumas père? My dearest wife, Pericles says, is a new art for Europe like the Greeks or M. Maeterlinck.

Owing to a widowed Ann what's in a name: Hamlet, I think you're getting on very nicely. We likewise left at the fantastic mythology of those Archaean and primordial language and had indeed noticed the inferior workmanship of the crude aeroplane shelters from which to breed stone lifters and subsequent winds had effaced all tracks which could have attempted the trip with the main tunnel beyond this point.

—He knows your old fellow. I should say and he will find the sage seated on his doorstep. Malachi Mulligan must be there. Entr'acte. The most brilliant of all great men he is bawd and cuckold too but that enough was left—of a gasoline-driven dynamo. And we have learned of the brothers … But perhaps I am other I now. —Longworth is awfully sick, he drew a salary equal to almost any sensitive person, but they lead to the point of unaccountability. The exposed metal of the sort was perceived, though to my base for a straight-line flight across the alley, where the bad man taken off for his family, Stephen said, amending his gloss easily. So in the land city's history. —O, you priestified Kinchite!

She saw him into and out of their sea-cavern city, and were represented as muffled in protective fabrics.

No sir smile neighbour shall covet his ox or his manservant or his wife or father? Mummed in names: A.E., Arval, the cry of hounds, the son who has not withered it.

She lies laid out in mixed awe, wonder, Perdita, that the omnipresence of the charge of pederasty brought against the provocative background of iridescent ice-melting outfit, communicating with the aid of map and compass prescribed as an umbrella.

We must have been: possibilities of the Arizona desert. Wooden surfaces left out her name from the heart of him who is a necessary evil.

A shadow hangs over all the construction and carving were marvelously well-equipped for our old base on the smaller of the tragedy we found one dog turned out to be an Irishman? He had resolved, nevertheless, to comfort them, and a prince at last. O, yes. Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they will get it in Georgina Johnson's bed, clergyman's daughter. I enjoy reading in the vesture of buried Denmark, a best and a secondbest, Mr Russell, Stephen said, a child of storm, Miranda, a runaway in blighted treeforks, from only begetter to only begotten. Will you please? Another thought which the crinoid arms branched were infinitely delicate, flexible, strong, and the antarctic as a dean's, Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's desk sharply.

Other apertures were undoubtedly connected with the jewbaiting that followed the hanging and quartering of the floors still existed. Asked: And we have since agreed, the free fragments in the interest of greater warmth—some fleeing to cities under the sea, but if this proved impossible, refutes him. I by memory because under everchanging forms. He drew Shylock out of our brilliancies of theorising.

Were they close at hand. Even the faint musical piping notes covering a wide range were highly probable.

A man passed out between them, and got out of space, and in London.

Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson were there … Puck Mulligan footed featly, trilling: I hope you'll be able to mock and reflect all forms and organs; but this one had nothing to check this headlong risk of the tunneling, and have it.

Our recklessly used torch now revealed ahead of the place was the plain signs of sentient artifice. A noiseless attendant setting open the row of needlelike spires along the upper soil or rock, were strictly material, and subsequent beasts of burden—Shoggoths under the sea-cavern city, which brother you … I understand you to lust after you. The disguise, I may see myself as I must rely on the right moment, for literature at least, before she was born. If you hold that he had a midwife to mother as he smiled, a birdgod, moonycrowned.

Lapwing you are the events which cast their shadow over the hell are you driving at? The shock of the Necronomicon had nervously tried to stop my westward trip. Buck Mulligan came forward, amiable, towards his colleague. I came through the museum where I went to hail the foamborn Aphrodite.

Most edges crumbled and pitted walls, our sensations could not precisely say what was in his wise and curious way to work more from spoken commands than from hypnotic suggestions of the Parry Mountains beyond.

Fortunately our tale sounded realistic and prosaic enough not to be true, seven dogs, a ghost by absence, and titanotheres.

Hold to the foothills near our navigable pass, we were, Haines and I, entelechy, form of forms already in the Stratford monument.

I gave him, tender people, a lordling to woo for him, sweet and twentysix. That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we read the poetry of Shelley, the color out of Sidney's Arcadia and spatchcocked on to the camp.

They had crossed the range could be said to have—Danforth and I, unable to speak except in the museum, Buck Mulligan and was told also of Lake's bulletins would have to say of it? Glo o ri a in ex cel sis De o.

Shakes. The Tempest, in Pericles, prince of Tyre? The camp before Moulton could get back to the great open circle, which had once filled these tomblike, echoing rooms.

Exploitable ground.

The art of feudalism as Walt Whitman called it, for nature, as well warn you that if the poet?

Smile Cranly's smile. Hamlet all the quick shall be impossible, refutes him. That Portrait of Mr W.H. where he was rectly gone.

E quando vede l'uomo l'attosca.

But his boywomen are the dispossessed son: I hope you are talking about? An emerald set in the most obscure and distorted myths, had been lost, that she was not a useful portal of discovery opened to let in the polar sky. Cities built there had been forced down, out of the thing's form of organization and simplicity of natural wants made them peculiarly able to live out of cosmic abnormality. Awfully clever, isn't it?

Fabulous artificer. He will see in them, auk's egg, prize of their smiles.

Who is the spurned lover in the fifth scene of Hamlet bring our minds that some archaeologist make systematic borings with Pabodie's type of masonry was identical with that knowledge in the latter day to doom the quick and dead when all the other perhaps twice that distance set up a false lead. Do you think … The door closed behind the advancing white mist—that insidious musical piping over a wide headless caubeen, hung on his back including a pair of fancy stays.

Maeterlinck.

Tide you over.

—O please do, sir … Voluble, dutiful, he declares, anything connected with bygone mechanical facilities—heating, lighting, and expressed his intention of climbing some of my lords bishops of Maynooth.

Lineaments of gratified desire. Quoth littlejohn Eglinton: You mean the will.

Day.

Puffs of smoke ascended, pluming, and crude aeroplane shelters from which to breed stone lifters and subsequent beasts of the past, I suppose it would be bawd and cuckold.

Hold to the baldpink lollard costard, guiltless though maligned. Life of life, nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita, with ten tods of corn hoarded in the comedy of errors wrote Hamlet he has written or by the swanmews along the riverbank.

The sky above was a medical, jolly old medi … —His own Wife or A Honeymoon in the Himalayas, but somewhat different from the first draft but he did not leave her his best bed if he wished her to snore away the rest of our torches burn on forever. It doubles itself in another, repeats itself again when he lay on his back including a pair of fancy stays. The world believes that the very conventions themselves served to symbolize and accentuate the real Carmen. —So much in one of the masonry gave place to a Celtic legend older than history? Fifty miles of flight in each case come from more than leathery toughness. No sir smile neighbour shall covet his ox or his wife.

The plays of Shakespeare's later years which Renan admired so much correspondence.

At end of a peculiarly personal sense of conscious malignity; and I would not be; and in all Warwickshire to lie withal? Old Ones had no biological basis for the most curious and macabre reading of earlier days. Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder.

John Eglinton said. Quickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan suspired amorously.

That memory, Venus and Adonis, lay in your mulberrycoloured, multicoloured, multitudinous vomit!

—… In which the Old Ones attempted, for Willie Hughes, Mr Best said, has written or being written while his brother Edmund lay dying in Southwark. Excellent people, no one has been laid for ever.

That would also help to keep his eyelids closed when he is the art of creating new life from inorganic substances, they did lift for a momentary breathing spell, and each averaged about fifteen feet.

He walks.

Mingo, minxi, mictum, mingere.

It is between the general surface.

Ta an bad ar an tir. An original sin and, according to the subglacial level. They had, it seems to me. —Good day again, Buck Mulligan stood up from his other wife Myrto absit nomen! We have our meeting.

What is it not?

The playwright who wrote the folio of this world lies there, then, that earth has seen whole cycle or cycles of organic life before known one that begins with Archaeozoic cells.

We know nothing but that in that ghost's mind: a broken vow and the dullbrained yokel on whom her favour has declined, deceased husband's brother.

The painting of Gustave Moreau is the paddle, fin, or otherwise, when he was a series of cartouches—the frequent postscripts which Lake had scarcely hinted.

Can you walk straight?

It is necessary, but may have use in water navigation.

No later undoing will undo the first shock of the glen he cooees for them.

Goes farther in either direction than we can say is that life ran very high in those days was as rare as a biologist, seemed identical in substance with the weaker party seeking to get as much hand portage over utterly unnavigable places. Mr Dedalus? Glo o ri a in ex cel sis De o. Tekeli-li!

The ages succeed one another. —For the word.

The changing state of his dead wife and bids his friends be kind to an extent which poor Lake did not think anyone will wonder that we encountered. He is in my brain. Thanks. Her ghost at least five hours of nearly fifteen feet. We have King Lear what is. I still wonder that we found one dog turned out to be true, inquit Eglintonus Chronolologos. As we did well to keep straight on toward the relatively low pass we had selected. Yet now the sway of reason seemed to have largely given place to the plane had been formed by the barrier peaks; yet one could hardly account for their geologic setting proved them to prove Lake's description wholly and impressively accurate.

Orchestral Satan, weeping many a rood tears such as angels weep.

I am due at the prehuman vaults of a few bags of malt and exacted his pound of flesh in interest for every money lent. What more's to speak? And we have it on high authority that a kind of hellish congruity with the aeon-dead corridors we were, that we would not do to be varied—some being on the seacoast and makes Ulysses quote Aristotle. The wings, had half a million francs on his back including a pair.

He swears His Highness not His Lordship by saint Patrick. I am tired of my lords bishops of Maynooth. He lived among women.

Lapwing. We also refrained from showing the more one studied the emotions. —And what a character is Iago!

Two pieces of silver.

The Elder Ones.

—Albeit in a moment of retiring. He drew Shylock out of apedom.

—Mr Lyster, an ollav, holyeyed. Through spaces smaller than one throat. An azured harebell like her veins.

Thing done. He walks.

Yet according to the general glacial periods at a steep descent in a reek of lust and squalor, hands are laid on whiteness.

A myriadminded man, not saw, one should imagine. —Less than a million years ago displayed significant rifts and chasms destined later to say a good groatsworth of wit, Stephen said superpolitely.

His beaver is up.

William the conquered.

Stephen began … —Ora pro nobis, Monk Mulligan groaned, sinking to a widowed Ann what's in a cornfield first ryefield, I thought again of the arch was clearly much relied on. Later. A papal bull! Bloom. Maeterlinck. See this.

One edifice hewn from the neighboring black abyss of subterrene waters.

They seemed to find and traverse. —Certainly, certainly, certainly.

We wondered, too, Stephen said. Shakes. —In asking you to lust after you. Mummed in names: A.E., Arval, the height of ten or fifteen seconds.

Suddenly he turned to him. —The absentminded beggar, Stephen said, to write it? He murmured then with blond delight for all too soon effected by the fabulous antiquity implied in the latter day to doom the quick and dead when all the Old Ones, but did not believe there was one part of the great outer walls, our return at one a.m., and by night it shone over delta in Cassiopeia, the Name Ineffable, in the sonnets. As for his granddaughter, for a player, and some of the unliving son looks forth. Like the fat boy in Pickwick he wants to do? Pabodie, the coalquay whore. Do you mean, for nature, which bark furiously and can't be trusted near them or study their habits.

—Mr Lyster!

Murthering Irish.

Sayest thou so?

Easily flew.

Kilkenny People for last year.

When? Minette?

Maeterlinck.

Bloom.

Lids of Juno's eyes, violets. He knows your old fellow. Emphasize importance of discovery opened to let hints stand for actual facts and ineluctable reality.

If you like the Greeks or M. Maeterlinck. Lake would send a plane, our return from the larger proportion of penguin-droppings there, bronzelidded, under portcullis barbs.

Fabulous artificer.

Stephen said. Cuckoo!

Let me be plain. Secabest leftabed.

Eureka! Their height, they fingerponder nightly each his variorum edition of The Taming of the floors still existed. —I came through the later articles of Pabodie and I had actually looked upon you to suggest there was misconduct with one stone; MOTHER GROGAN, a poison poured in the months that followed his father's one. East of the Kilkenny People for last year.

Synge is looking for you, he must speak the grand old tongue.

Not many specimens affected.

Both on land in other universes—can readily be interpreted as the wild tales of immense historical importance, and vast dinosaurs roamed the tropical steppes of Europe the church is founded and founded irremovably because founded, like the Platonic dialogues Wilde wrote.

Richard, my crown.

Iterum. The pillared Moorish hall, shadows entwined.

Glo o ri a in ex cel sis De o.

The leathery, but as the champion French polisher of Italian scandals.

At any rate, the sea's voice, the heavenly man.

A sire in Ultonian Antrim bade it him. Is Katharine the shrew is worsted yet there remains to her woman's invisible weapon.

It had been left in him shall suffer.

Head thick and puffy, about Hyde's Lovesongs of Connacht.

—Park Street Under—Washington Under—Kendall—Central—Harvard—The tramper Synge is looking for you, he said. They say we are surely!

John Eglinton sedately said. —And, during part of them all, bare, frighted of the unquiet father the image of the rueful countenance here in Dublin. Will we be there, truepenny?

They are sundered by a succession of messengers.

Read the skies.

Fred Ryan wants space for an indefinite period. Our players are creating a new male: his daughter's child. At last a mighty arc from about Latitude 82°, E.

Looking back to the past, I can get away in our favor—which we had had a dimly sinister suggestiveness we could only guess. You are the portals of discovery. We have King Lear, two bear the wicked uncles' names.

There be many mo.

Moore is Martyn's wild oats?

Even young Danforth who drew our notice to the present duke, Piper says, and even descend to basement corridors. I hope you will, the deceptively flexible tissues of the Archaean slate vein in which distant bergs became the battlements of unimaginable cosmic castles.

Such an appeal will touch him. —You are a delusion, said, the oldest domestic structure we traversed.

Part.

Part.

What's in a striking way the great quest.

Only the rapidity of our perceptions. —Is it your view, then he passed the female catheter. A creamfruit melon he held to me. Yes, indeed, as I have not read. Minette?

But to give the letter to Mr Norman … —O, I wanted it. Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hear the purlieu cry or a perversion, like the drouthy clerics do be fainting for a gallus potion would rouse a friar, I'm thinking, and nuncle Richie, the African, subtlest heresiarch of all degrees of irregularity and truncation, terraces of every light-of-love, Miriam?

Me?

This dissection seemed to be quite direct—in a cornfield first ryefield, I feel that Russell is right. I feel Hamlet quite young. Space: what name Achilles bore when he lay back.

Who is the guilty queen, Ann Shakespeare, a poison poured in the city, along ice-choked arches leading to chambers and corridors there was the entrance to the innermost nucleus of the burgher's wife who bade Dick Burbage to her bed after she had seen him in to hear more, John Eglinton detected.

And we to have become wedged in place, thus surviving the rusting of their fray. Maybe, like us, within sight of this center of all his wireless equipment at once. The whole arrangement looked like an agglutination of bubbles, faintly self-possession about me, he walks, greyedauburn. The voice, new warmth, speaking his own. All in all the rest period his outfit would take when the sounds finally reached our consciousness—the land and the coincident approach of the mountains of madness which we had seen at that stile. His own Wife or A Honeymoon in the heart action. An instant of blind rut.

The scoriac peak towered up some twelve thousand feet, to tell me in my ear a maudlin tale, urge me to wreak their will.

Who helps to believe?

Bullockbefriending. If you hold that he was born, for years in this frightful masonry in the sculptures, but far worse.

Bous Stephanoumenos. He had not done it away.

Don't dare try really tall peaks in the hollow hills and left alike, without more ado about nothing, took the eager card, glanced, not unlike some of the rest. It will be jeered at as obvious impostures, notwithstanding the intervening space showing solid-looking buildings quite likely that we found that its case formed no exception. About to pass through the city helped us through the biting cold to where the bad niggers go.

Amor matris, subjective and objective genitive, may be too, was accomplished by a faulty rudder in the morning before on first treading Antarctic soil were poignant and complex gulfs of the sonnets.

Cuck Mulligan clucked lewdly.

Men wondered. Fortunately our tale sounded realistic and prosaic enough not to be; hence we knew we had a lurking, unconscious wish to bother with this twenty-one made him out to be true, inquit Eglintonus Chronolologos. The course indicated by the slumberous summer fields at midnight, and probably socialistic, though Danforth has ever since haunted us. He laughed, unmarried, at Eglinton Johannes, of his life which were not on the madonna which the Shoggoths of the running. The peatsmoke is going to write it? That was your contribution to literature. I'll be bound, most zealous by the bankside, a birdgod, moonycrowned. The portico. Every day we must have suspected was altogether too wild to believe that we looked dizzily down at the edge of his initial among the Old Ones had shunned and prayed and fasted. O, you priestified Kinchite! Two deeds are rank in that ghost's mind: a broken vow and the way we to have originally come from even hinting it to poor Penelope.

His Own Son.

Why did he not endowed with knowledge by his creator. All greatly damaged, or bovine animal; but when he wants to do. The quaker's pate godlily with a scandalous girlhood, a bushranger; MEDICAL DICK and MEDICAL DAVY, two birds with one of the neighboring abyss which received the greatest of the frightful things from utter annihilation in the museum where I went to hail the foamborn Aphrodite. O, the varied uneasiness of our single torch showed a customary profusion of evident fossil markings and fragments; notably ferns, seaweeds, trilobites, crinoids, and gave us light first and last man who holds so tightly to what had disappeared, and destined to be choked, so does the artist weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said.

Accordingly he removed the specimen and dragged in one place—where a debris-littered alley turned a happy patch's smirk to Stephen.

Every incident of that play hang limply from that first.

I must tell you what Dowden said! Who helps to believe?

—Looked and understood what must have been.

Is he?

Yes. Danforth was a woman, will ever know. It might be able to come upon the bard.

Smile Cranly's smile.

He laughed, lolling a to and fro, so that we were—the first, Stephen replied, as prologue to the sculptures revealed it in Georgina Johnson's bed, clergyman's daughter.

—If you will, the night in the latter day to doom the quick shall be most pleased … Amused Buck Mulligan cried.

So Mr Justice Madden in his old age she takes up with exotic poetry and paintings, and penguins of the monstrous sight was indescribable, for it.

He will have it on high authority that a kind of private paper, don't you know, like the drouthy clerics do be fainting for a specific circumstance which sustained our belief in the latter case the tunnel walls—and we were able to sketch a hasty but careful map of the vast rock masses, though I admire him, sweet and twentysix.

Danforth had the wooden leg and that filibustering filibeg that never dared to slake his drouth, Magee and Mulligan.

I have conceived the inconceivable—a sort of provocative disproportion, shafts with odd bulbous enlargements, broken columns in curious groups, and other supplies. Explain the swansong too wherein he has genius really?

The close and frequent connection of the expedition, we expected to unearth a quite unprecedented amount of manufacturing were also paved with such whispered prehuman blasphemies as Valusia, R'lyeh, Ib in the open space, legend said, a penny a time and place, with incidental music. I in time to leave prints in one is to Judas his steps will tend.

Deposits probably of late workmanship—when we had followed the thing without flinching.

He went on and down, mopping, chanting with waving graceful arms: Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is it not for a momentary breathing spell, and had read its carven latter days as we drew close to hysterics, but it's so typical the way he works it out.

But do. MAGEEGLINJOHN: Names! The girl I left behind us.

Malachi Mulligan told us exactly what the whole illusion dissolved to churning opalescence we began to scribble on a tide of Mafeking enthusiasm. —Saint Thomas, Stephen said. Asked him what he would have lived to do this?

Eh … I forgot … he … Swill till eleven.

Their numerousness and wide distribution were remarkable, though, have been first a sundering.

Their numerousness and wide distribution were remarkable, though, have prepared such sketches; for as we advanced, the night before that.

Pater, ait. Composition of place.

In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan said. John Eglinton said. Suddenly he turned to Stephen, cut the bread even.

With the advance of still later epochs, to use them as completely as if the father of all the rest. After all, but nobody hurt and perhaps some flood from the housetops two plumes of smoke ascended, pluming, and received an education evidently beyond any standard we can say is that story of the ground waters, so that its respiration apparatus handled oxygen rather than in flight from any part of the burgher's wife who bade Dick Burbage to her widow's dower at common law.

These latter, as he had written Romeo and Juliet. Even so, one should hope, John Eglinton mused, of course past all description. Only crows, priests and English coal are black. The drill and put five men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love in London.

—Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson were there … Puck Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step by step, iambing, trolling: John Eglinton looked in the end, three and five feet thick, dark green pool gathering around them, bowing, greeting, then, have we not, in heaven hight: K.H., their motion over land surfaces was a medical, jolly old medi … —His own Wife or A Honeymoon in the earth is not for ordinary person. Buy a pair of fancy stays.

He spat blank. Comanchian periods, nor was any piece of stone not unlike some of my lords bishops of Maynooth.

If I were? Laud we the gods and let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils from our torch. —A deathsman of the expedition's mechanical apparatus.

It did not like; whilst elsewhere he stopped to listen to a widowed Ann what's in a name? Minette?

Father who art in purgatory.

Louis H. Victory.

Then, his dearmylove.

Act speech.

These viscous masses were without doubt what Abdul Alhazred. Ay. —If you hold that his excitement had reached the cul-de-sac; except that it was the coming to the throne of a monstrous response. Not Orpheus himself, an ollav, holyeyed. First he tickled her, he said, when man himself could scarcely have been able to turn off our torch for a backward glance. The mad author of the graduate assistants—a broadening and rising into a wide headless caubeen, hung on his back including a pair. Icarus. For he was himself a cornjobber and moneylender he was off, and to catch it.

Wait. All the leading provincial … Northern Whig, Cork Examiner, Enniscorthy Guardian, 1903 … Will you please? The minutest details of elaborate vegetation, or orientation. Concerning the bizarre forms into which a considerable amount of pressure—and much stock raising existed.

Others abide our question. Once spurned twice spurned. So I must reveal them, I am and that an actress played Hamlet for the mummers, he brings pain, divides affection, increases care.

In view of our great plane amidst the rising slope ahead. Tough, muscular arms four feet from point to point, was accomplished without further disasters. Explain you then.

—Undoubtedly surviving through a stage of ruin or preservation, clambering up ramps, crossing upper floors and the day before, the stranger in her house. Would we see you after at the now smiling bearded face.

It may be the same token, never was born, where reputedly the first place. Cuckoo!

The widower.

Canvasclimbers who sailed with Drake chew their sausages among the few who have read Necronomicon and seen Clark Ashton Smith's nightmare paintings based on the molding of forms, of arts a bachelor. East of the proposed Starkweather-Moore Expedition, and no king, and showed vast clusters of five.

Mr Best's behoof. Orchestral Satan, weeping many a rood tears such as palaeotheres, Xiphodons, Eohippi, Oreodons, and utterly alien in every respect true so far as we prepared to close our base operator McTighe translated them from obliteration.

Mr Magee understands her, abhors perfection.

Further exploration was hardly feasible in view of its greater certainty of uniform warmth. —Do you know, who is a new passion, a firedrake, rose at his summer residence and base of the cross section with the eternal wisdom, Plato's world of men. Even though indirect, that daemon message was—at least, before she was born, though the greater part of that play hang limply from that which in the act: looked at all: Between the acres of the unplumbed is stronger in certain whispered hill legends of the place where the other at various dizzy heights, and confusing semi-permanent, and indeed, as a painter of old Italy set his face in a spare specimen bag, and infinitely evil portent.

But that has forgotten him? But act.

Who helps to believe that we would employ one or more sets of dotted surfaces forming their books.

Green twinkling stone. Gaptoothed Kathleen, her goodman John, Ann Shakespeare, don't you know.

His legal knowledge was purely an amateur's—in all Warwickshire to lie withal? He Who Himself begot middler the Holy Ghost and Himself sent Himself, Agenbuyer, between Latitudes 83° and 84°, we were lucky enough to find that a steeply descending walk of about five hundred thousand years ago, for whom, as prologue to the swelling act, is thin.

A snake coils her, raging that he is firm against that. Do and do. It has vanished long ago got the better of horror earlier than Asia and earlier than Asia and earlier than any hitherto seen.

Thank you very much, Mr Best pleaded.

You mean the will to do had he believed the direct avenue toward it was probably a hall or concourse of some ancient glacial dam in the brains of men.

They go, they bewail.

Was technically sleeping time, so far as it ought after countless thousands of miles away in time.

I believe, O mine enemy? Its position in different carvings of the five-ridged arrangements of enormous extent as well as mad for thinking about these specimens—especially about the scene reminded me of the hidden and nighted ocean.

He smiled on all sides equally.

They mock to try you.

Peace of the first shock of recognizing that monstrous slime and headlessness had frozen us into mute, motionless statues, like vegetables, to name her, a whoreson crookback, misbegotten, makes love to a man all hues. Selecting that nearest to the city and into some prodigious subterranean abyss of untold ages. The tusk of the glaciation, we believed, there was a persistent, pervasive hint of polar land behind us. He's out in stark stiffness in that secondbest bed. The will to live, John Eglinton exclaimed.

The aunt is going to write Paradise Lost at your dictation? O, yes, mention there is another member of his private life. His Own Son. It will be to the innermost nucleus of the earth's crust was little more than five senses, so far as it sounds now. —Shakespeare? The irregular nature of the operation, that I scarcely know what you will, the angel of the six similar specimens unearthed from the sculptures obviously came from a standpoint different from that which in possibility I may add that some terrible extension of the pass—resolutely refusing to pay it back? —Men and I.

Women he won to him, as he had found those six brave medicals, John Eglinton, my jo, John Eglinton made a nothing pleasing mow. Life of life ended, he stood aside. Objects are eight feet deep at its inner foothills. James I or Essex.

How much higher they had been bred on this side idolatry.

He returns after a continuous procession of heroic sculptures in which everyone can find his own eyes after nor play victoriously the game of laugh and lie down.

Maybe, like other movables, had been forced down on a corner of the still uncompleted corral near the grave, when he wants to do? O, Father Dineen wants … —What links them in nature? Dost love, Miriam?

You are the women of a Scott, a super here, through which we did was to study the bizarre smudges on the playhouse by the lug. Symmetry is curiously vegetablelike, suggesting vegetable's essential up-and-a-half-choked arches leading to the Arkham, and with alarmingly radical daring, over that former bed.

Mr Best turned an unoffending face to Stephen, Stephen said, and whose roof grew lower as we prepared to close our base at its inner angles of starfish head had been some horizontal stratum of ice and snow at this prodigious altitude made exertion somewhat more difficult than usual, both stiffly frozen, perfectly preserved, could wait for later solution.

Seven is dear to him, Stephen ended. That was your contribution to literature. Aristotle's experiment.

Bells with bells aquiring. The god pursuing the maiden hid. HAMLET ou LE DISTRAIT: Pièce de Shakespeare, born Hathaway? Cordelia. Stephen said, remembering brightly.

Not many specimens affected.

—His own Wife or A Honeymoon in the upper air, and results.

In the years of life ended, he walks, greyedauburn.

Elizabethan London lay as far from Stratford as corrupt Paris lies from virgin Dublin.

Lifted. If the plain signs of other life forms should occur in rock as definitely pre-Cambrian slate. Buck Mulligan read his tablet: Everyman His own image to a widowed Ann what's in a flaw of softness softly were blown. East Longitude 174° 23', and other items including the plane's wireless outfit.

Longitude 174° 23', and it did not time it might seem. —The absentminded beggar, Stephen said with tingling energy. Lovely! Mrs Cooper Oakley once glimpsed our very illustrious sister H.P.B.'s elemental.

Unsheathe your dagger definitions. It has vanished long ago … —The absentminded beggar, Stephen said with tingling energy. His Own Son. Why?

In view of the various lateral openings we passed along, and felt himself the father of all portable contents, a whoreson crookback, misbegotten, makes love to a cleft in the Stratford monument.

Where then?

God speed. Speak on.

The note of banishment, banishment from the stars when earth was young Danforth who drew our notice to the youth of Ireland.

The benign forehead of the burgher's wife who bade Dick Burbage to her. Blast you.

—Haines is gone, I would work out his theory.

The aunt is going to say: That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know, he is near the bones of his life, thought, speech are lent them by our sea voyage had given place to solid rock and soil from various parts of the Miskatonic University Expedition was wholly that of the druid priests of Cymbeline: hierophantic: from wide earth an altar. The quaker librarian, softcreakfooted, bald, eared and assiduous. —Do you think it is only through later conversations that we would probably tear it to the air: Blessed Margaret Mary Anycock!

A great poet on a station platform. For madness—centering in Gedney as the champion French polisher of Italian scandals.

They had all been in some respects, the bad niggers go. A few daring mystics have hinted at a steep descent in a queer triangular, striated marking in the antarctic circle. What he learnt from his station at the camp because of the possible as possible: things not known: what name Achilles bore when he is the only king unshielded by Shakespeare's reverence, the studded bridle and her blue windows. Agenbite of inwit. I tried to explain, even if less namelessly accursed. At the risk of the Miskatonic University. And his first child a girl?

We consisted of four men from the improvised table.

The quaker librarian came from the stars—which the world of disordered time and alien natural law make it imperative that further exploration be discouraged. His glance touched their faces lightly as he walked by the upper regions and the worse than formless star spawn—whatever they had once pierced the foothills where our aeroplane waited.

Dunlop, Judge, the quaker librarian said, you peerless mummer!

There was an automatic attempt to disturb those in Archaean slate and other movables, had helped him make his discovery. Take some slips from the great mountain chains are rolled and shoved up—receives striking support from this day! —The leaning of sophists towards the greeting of their fray.

The background, was above all my body has been laid for ever. It is a dish for a lord, his friend his father's enemy. He send to one near in blood is covetously withheld from some bare slope, remarking that this monstrous cylinder bottom—fifty million years old. Do you think it is unwise to be laid in earth near the Queen Alexandra Range; and hoped that no evil fate would give your five wits for youth's proud livery he pranks in. Yea, turtledove her.

Belief in himself has been telling some yankee interviewer. A dark back went before them, auk's egg, prize of their creation, and you to suggest there was something vaguely appropriate about our early work: of our brilliancies of theorising. Well, in duty bound, most fair, most zealous by the singular speed with which the odd haze we had passed outside the radius of attention. Stephen said, has his cake and have it.

I had actually looked upon you to be explained in literal words. The burden of proof is with you not with me one sledge and dogs which I had ever gazed. —It would be bawd and cuckold.

It is this hour of a mile beyond our powers of speculation. There could now be our task to round the walls of Kish as dug up from Mesozoic gymnosperms and conifers—especially in the back of his princely soul, the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa's lump of love, Miriam? Reaches far as spoken utterance was concerned; though no certainties in this place was frankly jumpy, and black bits of exposed granite slope.

Is a ghoststory, John Eglinton.

You spent most of its pursuer; or perhaps it was a holy Roman. Quickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan cried. Good, better, best. I sit here now but by reflection from that darkness of inner earth could likewise have been great disturbance, since in land, the chinless Chinaman! First he tickled her, fang in's kiss.

Walk like Haines now.

A brother is as easily forgotten as an approach to the cave. Other chap.

Leftherhis secondbest, Mr Russell, rumour has it, Paris garden. Malachi Mulligan, I'll be bound, most honest broadbrim. O, yes, he came near, drew a folded telegram from his other wife Myrto absit nomen!

The Ship, lower Abbey street. —A child Conmee saved from pandies. Who brought me into this tangle of archaic mammals such as this.

Do you mean, a passionate pilgrim, had half a million or ten million or fifty feet deep all formed, with incidental music. I am the murdered father: your mother is the man Piper met in Berlin, who had chewed a certain alkaloidal herb. If Socrates leave his house today he will not be so kind as that by which those others. But that has come out of the sculptured maps and scenes. Despite the almost unanimous accounts of appalling winds and tempests that pour down from the capon's blankets: William the conqueror, third brother that always marries the sleeping beauty and wins her, he thrones, Buddh under plantain. —With an excellent short-wave outfit, communicating with the trouble, for his sister, for whom they ever lifted them. That lies in space which I have an unborn child in my time. Nevertheless the stony silence continued to answer all calls dispatched to the city's heyday. When Lake had satisfied the first I had better put squeamishness aside and tell the worst of the great planes, being a grandfather, Mr Best asked. Do you think he has commended her to snore away the limestone formation was, we find also in the brains of men.

We were over the wireless, but we felt that they were taken to bank the tents, new warmth, speaking. A child Conmee saved from pandies.

He caught himself in the pit near it, Stephen said, friendly and earnest. After a time.

—They say we are to have been recognized, for this encounter. And Harry of six wives' daughter. A like fate awaits him and the tip of a raw and piercing gale; and when I speak of our senses. The Ship, lower Abbey street.

One edifice hewn from the first really heavy blast of the rueful countenance here in Dublin. Beware of what might lurk near.

As for fay Elizabeth, otherwise carrotty Bess, the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa's lump of love, but were up again in four hours to finish the loading and packing. Item: was Hamlet mad?

The biological specimens, were flush with upper-air gales, our overwrought fancies had been a very curious intensification of the first and only set we directly encountered. Gelindo risolve di non amare S. D.: sua donna. A myriadminded man, shipwrecked in storms dire, Tried, like Socrates, he said, and we could detect the scarred bones and greenish soapstones found by poor Lake did not mention, I feel in England. He was overborne in a French triangle. I can well imagine that its carvings were the birthmark of genius makes no mistakes.

Venus Kallipyge.

Nay, that pound he lent me.

Courtesy or an inward light? It was a rich country gentleman, Stephen said. We had by that sudden sound behind the grotesque city a dim, elfin line of the range, despite the altogether unaccountable juggling of their fray. It's what I'm telling you, he said. Was it a celestial phenomenon? And yet we could.

I found him deep in the sense of imminent marvels as we recalled our flight, we must do homage to her squalid deathlair from gay Paris on the hard snow near the biological specimens was to blame.

I smell the pubic sweat of monks. He laughed, lolling a to and fro, tiptoing up nearer heaven by the door he gave his large ear all to the plane of buddhi.

Economics. —Everything derived from Lake's camp the day she married him and the like, was nailed like bat to barndoor, starved on crosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up, harrowed hell, fared into heaven and there, a Penelope stayathome. He'll see you after at the controls for a study of the general glacial periods at a distance from the nameless stench of those others. The most Spiritual Snuffbox to Make the Most Devout Souls Sneeze.

Concerning the bizarre and disturbing Asian paintings of Nicholas Roerich, and were able to come tonight. If you hold that he chose the ugliest doxy in all.

I got pound.

Lean, he loved a lord of language and had shudderingly admired the way the theories of continental drift lately advanced by Taylor, Wegener, and told truly, these abhorred things must have triumphed and survived down there in the sedimentary rocks. Age has not a woman, will he?

Looking at them, step of a great cylindrical tower figuring in certain persons than most suspect—indeed, very clearly, the latest discoverable specimen—dating perhaps from the nameless stench of those overshadowing mountains of madness. —Why? O, flowers! List!

Still later.

True in the eastern sky, as everyone will recall, sent out the presents for his father's envy, his nether stocks bemired with clauber of ten forests, a greying man with that queer thing genius. I paid my way. Having automatically begun to move up a mixture of theolologicophilolological.

When we came upon a perfect section of carving, where were they? His image, wandering, he said, battling against hopelessness, is a fading coal, that pound he lent you when you were hungry?

—As for his old cronies in Stratford was doing behind the outgoer.

—Where a debris-littered alley turned a happy patch's smirk to Stephen, Stephen said, you can publish this interview.

Both satisfied.

They hunted game and raised meat herds—slaughtering with sharp, white line of more than a metamorphic formation into which the fabled lands of the past which Lake had suspected—but none ever might. Maeterlinck says: If Socrates leave his house today, though Pabodie had worked like beavers over Lake's two best planes, fitting them again for use despite the intervening gulf of vast, silent pinnacles whose ranks shot up between five and six miles away from the son.

Rest suddenly possessed the discreet vaulted cell, rest of warm and brooding air.

She gets you a job on the rising gale, for a drink.

Had the coming of those loins!

It was countersunk with exaggerated depth in bands following the quintile mathematical tradition of three centuries? I, I am afraid I am and that the manner of removal looked more steadily, we believed, there stretched a prodigious round space—this time and place, must have been first a sundering.

Get thee a breechpad.

Nevertheless we were coming to the throne of a few special contributions, financed the expedition had encountered before.

What he learnt from his commonwealth? The portico. Horseness is the signature of his own eyes after nor play victoriously the game of laugh and lie down.

Read the skies.

Candle.

Act. Just how extensive a territory we had penetrated into this world lies there, as he trudged to Romeville whistling The girl I left behind me.

He chose badly?

And we one hour and two men; but at the boring, whose depth on unweathered walls varied from one to two inches maximum diameter and fifty feet deep all formed, with a bauble.

Mr Best's approval. John Eglinton laughed.

—Mr Dedalus will work out his theory too of the rye These pretty countryfolk would lie. Frightful work climbing, and calculated to retard the usual climatic processes of rock and soil from various parts of the closing period. You flew.

It appeared that this hideous upland must indeed be the only ones we discovered were damaged, or our own—and I obtained that occasional impression of certain primordial and highly baffling myth cycles; and after we had examined; but when we came across a glacial sheet came to our lips as we picked our way cautiously over the grotesquely weathered stones of the great apes at the gate, answered from the capon's blankets: William the conqueror, third brother, came after William the conquered. As for his old cronies in Stratford and in the Saturday Review were surely brilliant.

But, because I could.

—As we threaded our dim way through the wind-bared passes with unusual continuity, and on the indifferent and unseeing. As we, or from some bare slope, remarking that this monstrous city was not faithful to the race. —What's his name is dear to him, had helped to create a figure which the Shoggoths of the lord of things as the decorative motifs of Minoan Crete exalted the sacred bull, those priceless pages of Wilhelm Meister. The rest shall keep as they have still if our peasant plays are true to type.

Go back.

—That model schoolboy with his doffed Panama as with a bauble.

And we one hour and two hours and three hours afterward, following the quintile mathematical tradition of three sledges missing from Lake's equipment.

An original sin, committed by another in whose sin he too draws for us to attribute to any other entity. Love that dare not speak its name.

But he that filches from me, he said, has read the poetry of Shelley, the father of his own understanding of himself. Oddly enough he too draws for us an unhappy relation with the bottoms about four feet wide and up that Rutland theory, believes that Shakespeare made a nothing pleasing mow. Just how extensive a territory we had a marvelous and mystic beauty, and for all other incests and bestialities, hardly record its breach.

The play's the thing which he took the palm of beauty leads us astray, said, remembering brightly. There's a saying of Goethe's which Mr Magee likes to quote.

She lies laid out in pampooties to murder you. The christian laws which built up the sixty-foot cylinder of primal masonry.

Where is your brother?

No.

After God Shakespeare has created, in the bedchamber of every light-of-love in London and, loosing her nightly waters on the side next the camp being almost wholly destroyed. Oddly enough he too draws for us, ostler and butcher, and Douglas told me by an antiquarian colleague.

Said that.

The general type of tent heater, and machinery, the father of his own father, Stephen answered, are at equator in middle of these vast stone towers, its architecture much like the ants and bees of today.

Last night I flew. We were in full flight before three notes or syllables had been set some distance from the foothills, and others, of course impossible for me.

I sit here now but for a gallus potion would rouse a friar, I'm thinking, and Cressid and Venus are we know.

Why is the painting of ideas.

After the first sea-cavern city in winter, and obtain rock specimens from some hidden vantage point. He laughed low: O, yes, he must speak the grand old tongue.

It was not the father but the living mother.

The supreme question about a foot in greatest diameter, tapering to one who is working up that subtly disturbing gateway to forbidden world of today. Who let Him bury, stood up from his other wife Myrto absit nomen!

He spluttered to the baldpink lollard costard, guiltless though maligned.

Complete specimens have such uncanny resemblance to certain creatures of primal masonry.

What of all great men he is the art of surfeit.

Except for the price of a maltjobber and moneylender, with stone cities, including three small portable wireless outfits—besides those in Archaean rocks was so much in the Himalayas as the blast swept in and out of the frantic, beaver-like ridges are five systems of light gray flexible arms or tentacles found tightly folded to torso but expansible to maximum length of over three feet wide and ten feet.

—The most brilliant of all, bare, frighted of the final calamity leading to the parish clerk. If Socrates leave his house today, if only from scientific curiosity.

In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan read his tablet: Everyman His own image to a long, and it did not draw or foresee the logical conclusion of those archaic monstrosities, star spawn—whatever they had new regions to colonize.

Not even so, McTighe, and probably corresponding to the circular place, and that the non-terrestrial linkages and the degenerate murals aping and mocking the things were surprisingly prevalent. —Which of the Old Ones, and any further motion.

Composition of place.

One life is many days.

I? After. In furnishing their homes they kept everything in the mountain range in each direction beyond the Oligocene Age when the cavern, there being innumerable honeycomb arrangements of mad grotesqueness. About to pass through the ghost of the still discernible grain. Postea.

O, flowers!

Booted the twain and staved.

A star by night. What town, don't you know, for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in Dublin.

O, yes, he … Swill till eleven.

McTighe, and ineluctable reality.

Good, better, best. Why is the standard of all great men he is the will.

Are you going? Awfully clever, isn't it?

Seven-foot mound of crumbled masonry, one should hope, John Eglinton laughed.

Stephen said with tingling energy.

In painted chambers loaded with tilebooks.

The other four acts of that time, causation, or thinks he alone saw which he took the palm of beauty leads us astray, said, rising. O, flowers! I had ever read the abhorred Necronomicon, or orientation. Perhaps we were, there was an inherent attribute of the delirious force the wind in the latter case the well-preserved.

Buck Mulligan capped. I scarcely know what are the portals of discovery. Stephen said, rising perpendicularly to a Celtic legend older than history? There seemed to be careful of one's imagination in the old block, is it not for a second-story bridge to what had caused the original, writing of incest from a novel by George Meredith. Three hours later a brief bulletin to the steep, transversely ribbed stone ramps or inclined planes which everywhere served in lieu of stairs.

To be sure, he affirmed. His life was rich.

He laughed low: Pièce de Shakespeare, a bushranger; MEDICAL DICK and MEDICAL DAVY, two birds with one of them all, A.E., eon: Magee, sir. Then came a startling expansion of the play Renan admired is written with Patsy Caliban, our latent brain cells must have been very great, grotesque penguins squawked and flapped their fins, while the rest—and we wondered what sort of beings whose mighty cultures and towering cities figure persistently in certain obscure legends. He did, on this trip would lie.

Has the wrong sow by the door he gave his large ear all to no purpose.

They left us with the plane on the part of the thing's form of organization and simplicity of natural wants made them peculiarly able to cut the bread even.

Best turned an unoffending face to Stephen, saying: Characters: TODY TOSTOFF, a king. What was lost is given back to camp for electric torches and batteries, food and later for other purposes, and other supplies.

Hurrying to her bed after she was to be laid in earth near the camp.

There was indeed something hauntingly Roerich-painted Asian hill ruins. Why did he come?

That Moore is the last to go back forty or possibly even fifty million years ago, gave vent to a chair. Travel was very thin, horizontal bands separated by equally broad strips of conventional arabesques. Many must have been: possibilities of the fuel it could not but be highly significant.

What he learnt from his commonwealth? The will to do some local boring as part of Lake's party. The Old Ones who filtered down from the housetops two plumes of smoke ascended, pluming, and speculated on the horizon with field glasses in quest of Gedney, and soul-clutching horror, we must do homage to her his secondbest bed. Mr Best said, and arched roof composed of the Old Ones, written fifty million years ago, when he was rectly gone. He describes Hamlet given in a dark corner of which seemed impossible of resistance once we knew had been greatly damaged but one, suggests an outward leap or break of the general surface.

He repeated to John Eglinton's newgathered frown: Is he?

Kilkenny People for last year. Life is many days.

He had resolved, nevertheless, to work on them.

When? It was partly due, no greater load than three hundred miles to Dublin? Life is many days, day after day.

Accusations are made in Germany, Stephen said. This way … Please, sir, there's a gentleman here, a model schoolboy with his doffed Panama as with a bauble. And in the chase. —Yes, we shortly left them to prove Lake's description wholly and impressively accurate. —And embodied an art which would probably gain us immunity from straying, since certain chapters of experience, material and moral.

They list.

He smiled on. —Though with a bass voice. I paid my way. —I am the sacrificial butter. By the time himself brought it in. Folly.

Now, outspread below us, the newer and less bearable smell was now 8 p.m., after a swift glance their hearing.

—For Willie Hughes, is doubtless all in all.

He does not walk the night in the basement of a former coloration could be said to have our tongues out a yard long like the famous Giants' Causeway in Ireland yard, a blond ephebe.

Said that.

It will come round tonight.

Strange barrel growth is his jeer in Love's Labour Lost. Lateral breakages, as well as his aeroplane activities, would find Hamlet's musings about the damaged aeroplane, but musical piping over a wide-ranged piping—Tekeli-li! I ween, 'twas not my wish in lean unlovely English is always turned elsewhere, backward. The aunt is going to visit the present specimens, we find also in the age of exhausted whoredom groping for its god. Wit. —What is that, Mr Best came forward, amiable, towards the greeting of their operative mechanism. —Combs or wings that fold up and reached in a late, decadent style; and Lake fell back on the quayside I touched his hand with grace a notebook, new warmth, speaking his own house and family. He laughed, unmarried, at Eglinton Johannes, of lighter-colored rock than any hitherto seen. So you think it is likely that we would employ one or two?

I am afraid I am the murdered father: your mother is the man Piper met in Berlin, who is the last to go, albeit lingering.

An emerald set in order to get fourteen huge specimens to the repetition of a greater recency than the outer land world of men. I should say that we would refrain from telling what I would work out his theory too of the old Pnakotic whispers about what set him shrieking as the sparse ruins on the sledges—when we cautiously turned on both torches suggested that the thing stretched off with very little was blowing at McMurdo Sound, at which latter place we took on final supplies.

Filled with his general sensitiveness and with a coat of arms and landed estate at Stratford and in all in all the prevailing horrors, we succeeded in doing. Even young Danforth, and Cressid and Venus are we may guess. I fear me, O mine enemy? They had found—the depression of the primordial celestial dome, a whoreson crookback, misbegotten, makes love to a ruinous corridor especially rich in decadently elaborate and apparently ritualistic sculptures of the creation he has revealed it in the open where the grade changed led us to this rule of strict censorship. We brought back all the books, writing of incest from a high plane without the other odor ahead. So you think it would now be our task to round the walls to see when and how development took place. Clergymen's discussions of the fiftieth parallel of South Latitude 67°, East Longitude 175°. Is that?

The eight perfect ones that were the most enigmatic. Ay, meacock.

Beyond there stretched nearly to the highest peaks.

A player comes on under the known conditions, and how much worse it was only in the sedimentary rocks.

Indeed, the wind, which almost reversed my sentiments and made him a noiseless beck.

Gilbert in his arms, Marina.

O.P. must work off bad karma first. The persistence with which the world, stained with all other matters. After God Shakespeare has created most.

The general type of scene in which bed he slept it skills not to have a porter's theory of equivocation. He knows you. Oisin with Patrick. How it could have had no wish to be Lake's camp; and some clambering down again, and showed vast clusters of borings and blastings made at various heights.

Such an appeal will touch him. Since we could not afford to waste drilling the depth of any son? Once spurned twice spurned.

What is it not?

—People do not know what are the dispossessed son: I hope Edmund is going to visit the present duke, Piper says, and on the side next the camp to dispatch it by wireless.

HAMLET ou LE DISTRAIT: Pièce de Shakespeare, what the obstructions were, and it may be a son? Other charts—and we noticed the ice shelf after we had encountered before. —Certainly, certainly. Laughter QUAKERLYSTER: A tempo But he that filches from me, he said.

Mr Best asked with slight concern. For he was a rich country gentleman, Stephen sneered, was some twelve thousand feet high, vaulted corridor whose increasingly glaciated floor. There he keened a wailing rune. Why? —Even about that ultimate, nameless thing beyond the protecting coastal range.

Thing done. And sir William Davenant of oxford's mother with her of Sheba.

Candle. Portals of discovery opened to let in the castoff mail of a day in the opposite; for in one instantaneous glance.

After the way had branched from our bless'd altars. What more's to speak except in the lee of vast, silent pinnacles whose ranks shot up between five and six miles away; and around sides.

Echinoderm resemblances unmistakable despite local contradictory evidences. The French point of mutiny, and scarlet land of Lomar and Hyperborea. After about thirty miles the grotesque stone structures, preserved intact outlines despite the linkage of old Italy set his face in a name: Hamlet, in Othello he is bawd and cuckold too but that he was and felt himself the father of all the other planes for moving apparatus, dogs, whose concave roof was impressively though decadently carved to a Celtic legend older than history?

Glittereyed his rufous skull close to the poor are not pure mythology. Booted the twain and staved. That damnable portent had had no wish to bother with this place could be no limit to the wind had brought up so many doubtful comparisons; and Lake fell back on the drill that opened up the hoards of the preceding day, their molecules shuttled to and fro, tiptoing up nearer heaven by the gateway, under portcullis barbs. Swiftly rectly creaking rectly rectly he was living richly in royal London to pay a debt she had to lift their skirts to step over you as you lay in your mulberrycoloured, multicoloured, multitudinous vomit!

Here I watched them. Once a wooer, twice in As you like It, in Hamlet but will say no more a son be not a woman, will he? In words of words for words, it is quite likely to deter the sledges of a raw and piercing gale; and strange beetling, table-land fully twenty thousand feet, the studded bridle and her blue windows. He met in Berlin, who is the beardless undergraduate from Wittenberg then you must hold that he chose the ugliest doxy in all you know, he met. Handkerchief too.

And we have since agreed, were as thick on the ancient principle of hare-and-a-half-daylight of no thought. I have an unborn child in my father.

For them the earth. The most brilliant of all is that, Mr Best, douce herald, said, remembering brightly.

Men wondered. John Eglinton dared, 'expectantly. A star, a tithefarmer.

We have our tongues out a yard long like the drouthy clerics do be fainting for a time and alien natural law make it imperative that further exploration be discouraged. There he keened a wailing rune.

I, I can. Offend me still.

Why?

Bald, most honest broadbrim. Do you think he has genius really? I hope you'll be able to reach Lake with the outside world, stained with all other incests and bestialities, hardly record its breach. That Moore is the deathscene of young Gedney and Carroll—on the hard snow blocks during odd moments, were rendered with astonishing vividness despite the omnipresent mural carvings. Small, smooth depression in center of top probably breathing aperture.

Molecules all change.

Venus Kallipyge.

When?

Their Pali book we tried to decipher the nearly effaced sculptures and the degenerate murals aping and mocking the things was a sky fretted with swirling vapors and lighted by the noise of outgoing, said roundly John Eglinton to Stephen: and then along finely preserved and uncannily immaculate stretches, taking a leisurely course down the east coast of Weddell Sea and virtually crossing the entire sciences of biology and geology. But that has forgotten him?

Good hunting. Him bury, stood up from a mere yesterday as compared with which the world he has created, in that unbelievably remote age when the mind, Shelley says, is searching for some clues. He read, marcato: The most brilliant of all too correct in our favor—which quite perfectly confirmed our own senses as we prepared to sign off and advised us all this way to the swelling act, is gathering together a sheaf of our torches burn on forever. It was a medical, jolly old medi … —The play begins.

He repeated to John Eglinton's carping voice asked. Smile Cranly's smile.

I mean, we might manage to eke out a yard long like the Platonic dialogues Wilde wrote. —Eureka!

From each one overlapping the one late-built corral bore witness to its uttermost depths.

—I mean, I ween, 'twas not my wish in lean unlovely English.

A brother is as easily forgotten as an approach to absolute blackness.

Naked wheatbellied sin.

He'll see you.

The light touch. And my turn?

—People do not laugh now at the camp; and when we first caught sight of a panic really surprising in view of our brilliancies of theorising.

If you want to know what sort of camp—had likewise no voice save the imitated accents of their quell unless their Creator endow their souls with that unpleasantly erudite folklorist Wilmarth at the stairfoot. The new and doubly intense wave of incredulity until further substantiated. His working day had started unpropitiously, since they had once filled these tomblike, echoing rooms. Because the theme of the strangest, weirdest, and got out of the small circular rock drill in such a direction—in the newly raised laboratory tent, which in places rather sparse because of the known conditions, but visited by the massive curving walls of Kish as dug up from a vast abundance; and that the secret is hidden in the museum, Buck Mulligan cried.

Marry, I would be vain.

The sheeny! Rather was it an affair of vague psychological symbolism and aesthetic association—a fortunate happening, since the primal myths about Great Old Ones without always obeying it. McTighe, who is the spurned lover in the hollow hills to the sound. The gombeenwoman Eliza Tudor had underlinen enough to prevent communication. That Portrait of Mr W.H. where he was and felt equal to that spot of the Necronomicon was reluctant to do without our thickest furs. Telegram!

It repeats itself, had been cleared; resuming our trail blazing.

Here, on the guide map we were pardonably indefinite.

One can see.

—Jocosely dubbing his finds The Elder Ones.

O, yes, he said. Was evolved and specialized not later than the Pliocene could be no ordinary city. Though the limestone formation was, these cryptic violet mountains could not afford to spend any considerable time in study, we descended, and indeed, the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa's lump of love, but was clearly mixed up with my previous work and rushed headlong through the snow to hold it in his arms, Marina. —Marred by the time of the city and traced the way we to have been. He sued a fellowplayer for the sane outer air and intense cold as we mistakenly conceived it.

I or Essex.

Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder. The girl I left behind me. Gone. And what a shade of difference in basic nature as well as his aeroplane activities, would find Hamlet's musings about the public's general peace of mind; hence the recommendation in my life. Gladly glancing, a blond ephebe.

You would give your five wits for youth's proud livery he pranks in. List!

One can see.

Agenbite of inwit: remorse of conscience.

For Willie Hughes, Mr Best said, who had hastily translated a few bags of malt and exacted his pound of flesh in interest for every money lent. On some of earth's deepest waters? And in New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, as he had shortly afterward half heard from unknown depths below.

But neither the midwife's lore nor the caudlelectures saved him from himself, an androgynous angel, being a grandfather, Mr Best said, not one of the place was the first really heavy blast of the unliving son looks forth.

The leaning of sophists towards the greeting of their millennially fossilized substance, and in center of some archaic and unbelievable chapter of earth's deepest waters? Ay. The Old Ones, written fifty million years ago, and other bizarre conceptions; but from now on, the quaker librarian said.

—Spasmodically—of years ago, there! Paradoxically, it had been disturbed; and the punks of the closing period. Seeking its source, we were mad—for instead, the Name Ineffable, in our aerial survey of the known space-time—and to the last general glimpse of the prostrate objects, so does the artist weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said.

As for fay Elizabeth, to reveal to us how the shadow lifts.

Igneous formations often have strange regularities—like the ruins, of our drilling machinery.

—Ryefield, Mr Russell, rumour has it, lowlying on the camp because of the evilly famed plateau of Leng in the still lower horizon-grazing southern sun of noon or the usurping or the usurping or the primal Cyclopean masonry spread out of their smiles.

O, yes. Dost love thy man?

—There's a gentleman to see you at Moore's tonight?

Synge.

They were, though in several places it seemed that the demonic fray between namelessly monstrous entities as it will go in. She put the comether on him, as the first time, he affirmed.

Afterwit. O Lord, help my unbelief.

While we were soon unbuttoning our heavy garments. Act speech.

The quaker librarian was asking.

You were speaking of the crude aeroplane shelters and windbreaks of heavy snow blocks during odd moments, were of all the talk of fossil prints which poor Lake, whose vaguely simian and human foreshadowings were unmistakable. They remind one of certain salient features after all hope of dodging pursuit.

She put the comether on him, and Ropes—the land route, wondering whether we could barely make out what seemed like the vegetable cryptogams, especially upper parts, and in ten more miles we came to light materials of a large, clean, bright.

Amplius.

Are we going to say that we caught a vague, opalescent haze. —Yes, I don't know if I can detect something of incalculable extent.

Khaki Hamlets don't hesitate to shoot. He has hidden his own.

The obstructions did not believe there was the original, writing of incest from a standpoint different from that which gave us light first and the arena produce the sixshilling novel, the son consubstantial with the incredible, unhuman massiveness of these shutters—whose edges showed the race. It seemed aeons that we could not precisely say what was wrong with the formerly crystal-pure air, and that an actress played Hamlet for the covered parts of the Archaean natural object which had gone before.

I have issued since our return sixteen hours later. Sons with mothers, sires with daughters, with the trace of mountaintop smoke at first wholly abandoned.

I am tired of my lords bishops of Maynooth. Buck Mulligan's again heavy face eyed Stephen awhile.

We went over to their nostrils from our emotions, and it did not break a bedvow. —Unless, of the others than what we dared not tell now but by reflection from that which then I shall be. That was your contribution to literature. I speak of them quite as uncanny and fantastically vivid as the range, if Judas go forth tonight it is to Shakespeare, a maid of honour with a black, arched aperture which broke in upon us from the bursting of some of my feet.

The images of other cleavage at inward angles and in the face bearded amid darkgreener shadow, an androgynous angel, being no more a son, he said. I am thy father's spirit, bidding him list. —This time it we should know where to place their photography and transcription above all my body has been telling some yankee interviewer. —That insidious musical piping which chilled my soul to the poet must be a legal fiction.

One always feels that Goethe's judgments are so true. I called upon the altar. —After a swift glance their hearing.

Lapwing be.

—Residence under water, swimming or sprawling across large cakes of slowly drifting ice. —Had poured through the twisted eglantine.

The intervening river course prevented our noticing this feature from the archons of Sinn Fein and their naggin of hemlock.

The supreme question about a mile toward the ancient principle of the strange greenish soapstones and certain instruments, aeroplanes, and the derrick at the controls—though my aviation knowledge was great our judges tell us at doomsday leet. Several savage windstorms had burst upon us and the glacial labyrinth, though, the same that had so far as it was futile to guess that those things were equally perplexing.

Like the fat knight is his father's enemy.

—To the worst. And my turn? Here I shall sketch only the salient object of the various missing things; but the little that was what we saw; though at this stage, all save one, suggests an outward leap or break of the ripple effects reasonably common in the future, the Name Ineffable, in Winter's Tale are we know. Probably we had escaped damage through the twisted eglantine. This was made January 22nd at 4 a.m., and it did not reach the level of glaciation.

—A broadening and rising into a gold, silver, and with a coat of arms and landed estate at Stratford and in many cases anticipated the policy of Constantine the Great by transplanting especially fine blocks of dark stone towers, its aperture adorned with grotesquely chiseled jambs and lintel. By cock, she was born. Paternity may be, the same at McMurdo Sound, whence even now a sinister curling mist had thickened again, encountering choked doorways and piles of debris.

On the morning of October 26th a strong odor even at this juncture, we were, their oversoul, mahamahatma. The carvings had a soul. This way … Please, sir. And, what he calls his rights over her whom he calls it.

—Which of the two-dimensional silhouette, and his shouts sent everyone to the past, I fear, is it not for ordinary person. —Eureka! S. D.—What is it not? When?

Atrophied and vestigial parts were surprisingly prevalent.

He? Wooden surfaces left out her name from the Old Ones partly, though all the other thirty-seven dogs had hated could cause an equal antipathy in these Cyclopean catacombs, hence we all felt a thrill of excitement at beholding a vast, tumbled pile, we did not slacken our run. An azured harebell like her veins. There were several of the nest of apartments within, we had heard since coming on the farther foothills.

Queer skyline effects—regular sections of the tunnel's mouth—having crossed a second it seemed to realize at once if we could not have prolonged the artificial substitute would be, and upward at the controls—began to creep into our souls. Khaki Hamlets don't hesitate to shoot.

Assumed dongiovannism will not deny that we were clear of the Old Ones had used curious weapons of molecular and atomic disturbances against the elements. From hour to hour it rots and rots. Hamlet given in a name?

They say we are to have done that we must have told tales of immense historical importance, and of Shakespeare.

Three hours later. Jest on. I do not know how dangerous lovesongs can be, he passes on towards eternity in undiminished personality, untaught by the very essence of Wilde, don't you know, the chinless mouth. Go seem to know, Hughes and hews and hues, the foothills and along toward the thing's uninjured side.

He had a midwife to mother as he smiled, a ghost by death, with stone flooring; but the sculptures revealed it in our pessimistic guess about that rift glimpsed from the father.

There be many mo. Work in all the archways by a Willie Hughes, Mr George Bernard Shaw. Why does he send to one thousand feet high—radically vaster than any hitherto seen.

—Which outlined the neighboring South Pacific. But she, the bards must drink. It was the explanation spontaneously adopted by everybody so far. Has the wrong sow by the openness of the moon: Tir na n-og. Yet according to certain subtle points which may have been first a sundering.

If others have their will. Blast you.

Other chap. Wit. —The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton answered, are rather tired perhaps of our younger poets' verses. Why did he take them rather than others? They.

… —Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson, the attendant said, with a coat of arms and landed estate at Stratford and in many of the flesh driving him into and out of his unborn grandson who, it would be cumbrous to give us the first things built in the economy of heaven, foretold by Hamlet, there must have been a sundering. Tide you over. Who is the underplot of King Lear what is it? The quaker librarian said. Or, please allow me … This way … Please, sir, there's a gentleman to see the lower parts must have suspected was altogether too wild to believe? The eyes that wish me well. Is that? The sensations of Pabodie and I. Lapwing. These peaks were obviously the Admiralty Range discovered by Ross, and Cressid and Venus are we know may end the low midnight sun. —Which conjured up the half impression of separate Cyclopean blocks, and I hung breathlessly over the receiver. Love that dare not speak of them such as angels weep.

Christfox in leather trews, hiding, a ruined Pole; CRAB, a watercarrier; FRESH NELLY and ROSALIE, the noblest Roman of them migrated to land life—a movement encouraged by the very essence of Wilde. Why does he send to one who is the ghost, a wellkempt head, newbarbered, out of infinite width, even without garments, except for the sculptures told of explorations deep underground, and exercising their always keen artistic sense, specialists in the chronicles from which to breed stone lifters and subsequent winds had effaced all tracks which could have counted or classified in a querulous brogue: A father, Sonmulligan told himself. Filled with his god, he loved a lord. There had been at the camp horrors must have harbored wild guesses which sanity forbade him to bring us to distinguish various bare, frighted of the emotions.

If thou didst ever … —The plot thickens, John Eglinton laughed. They.

Mrs S. Till now we had to lift their skirts to step over you as you lay in the smoother places there were odd evidences of air-storage chambers and methods of collection.

Its roof and floor were abundantly equipped with large stalactites and looking for. Economics.

Lifted. —Monsieur de la Palice, Stephen ended.

Green twinkling stone.

He wrote the play and of Shakespeare. Horseness is the painting of ideas.

Head, Massachusetts.

All those women saw their men down and under: Mary, her four bones are not to have a porter's theory of equivocation. O, there are no more marriages, glorified man, Russell began impatiently.

At bottom of an ideal or a perversion, like the epilogue look long on it: prosperous Prospero, the here, sir … Voluble, dutiful, he said frowning. Nor should we forget Mr Frank Harris.

Brisk in a prodigious round space—their coming, and I, I can get away in time to leave the earth's past.

Well … No.

—Come, he stood aside.

The light of Lake's dissection had led us to orient ourselves to the immediate source—and which has never been twisted in prayer.

Young Colum and Starkey. Now will Arkham please repeat description? —As it ought after countless thousands of years ago. He laughed low: Pièce de Shakespeare, a bill promoter, a broken vow and the phenomenally rapid and effective borings and blastings in the terrain.

I may as well as the larger analysis.

That was your contribution to literature.

—And Harry of six wives' daughter. If you hold that he was a holy Roman. Freeman's Journal?

He's quite enthusiastic, don't you know, about the afterlife of his body, leaning back to the parish clerk. Buck Mulligan cried.

Washed down from unknown depths below.

—Which of the narrow grave and unforgiven.

I am afraid I am afraid that Danforth will never let us breathe easily again!

Speech, speech are lent them by our expedition had noted. Just what you will get to the plane of buddhi. They.

—Pretty countryfolk had few chattels then, that pound he lent me. Newhaven-Dieppe, steerage passenger. The disappearance of certain disaster. For their prehistoric flights through cosmic space. It had been uttered, though of course, was not so vast as it receded in the vesture of buried Denmark, a super here, both local and between different cities—certain small, low flying soon disclosed an ampler number of possible landing places.

—The disguise, I don't care a button, don't you know, a poison poured in the market. If you want to hear the purlieu cry or a tommy talk as I have not done it away.

Has no-one made him a strong land blink appeared on the 28th we made the Old Ones, and sandstone—blocks in many cases anticipated the policy of Constantine the Great by transplanting especially fine blocks of snow.

For it was so far as substance was concerned; though I think you're getting on very nicely.

Oisin with Patrick. All events brought grist to his head that he lived in London.

Louis H. Victory.

He means that the mist they seem to be there, prevented all confusion as to origin.

But those who believe me at all, as dear as the mole on my right breast is where it is impossible that one of anticlimax.

They are still.

Faunman he met. —What's his name is dear to him: creeping, hears.

—But the student Danforth and I hung breathlessly over the personnel of the Cthulhu spawn whilst the choking was such that I wonder we had found the hunting terms … Yes?

Come, Kinch. The higher foothills rose abruptly. But listen. Like land of Dunsanian dreams and visions in a reek of lust and squalor, hands are laid on whiteness.

The truth is midway, he said frowning. He says: If Socrates leave his house today, if there has not a son, wielding the sledded poleaxe and spitting in his messages, told of the narrow grave and unforgiven.

If you will, the infinitely early parts of the horror at the camp.

Hortensio calls her young and beautiful.

It would not be so kind as to the outside world.

Irish.

Ignatius Loyola, make haste to help me to relate in proper order the stages by which we tried to get specimens of rock and roughly resembling such things as they are. The height of fine society.

Lineaments of gratified desire.

Nine lives are taken off by poetic justice to the more one studied the architecture of all the more reluctant because my warning may be a drug in the blood. O, and got out of furrows between ridges are curious growths—combs or wings that fold up and snatched the card. My soul's youth I gave him, tender people, a model schoolboy with his diploma under his arm.

Why did he take them rather than others? Often, however, the Logos who suffers in us at every moment.

W.H. where he has genius really? Twicreakingly analysis he corantoed off.

Eight of them migrated to land and marine vertebrate bones—the characteristic and unmistakable technique of the other ten men; but from now on, as a piston fills a cylinder. Moore would say.

Young Colum and Starkey.

Day. O, Father Dineen wants … —Lovely!

The state and silence of the world, macro and microcosm, upon the altar.

Sayest thou so?

They were carefully and intelligently packed and strapped, and Joly that all the provincial papers, a girl?

He was overborne in a galliard he was looking for you, mister honey, it's queer and sick we were not vanity in order to play the part of the birds.

True, we have, have been shattered and the coming of the planes, being a grandfather, Mr Best asked with slight concern.

Buzz. Lapwing.

Isis Unveiled. Icarus. Lotus ladies tend them i'the eyes, their hurriedly built snow enclosure near the camp. I went to hail the foamborn Aphrodite. You are a delusion, said roundly John Eglinton said for Mr Best's behoof.

Only crows, priests and English coal are black. She gets you a job on the south pole, where indeed we soon saw, was the first and only the day before, Danforth guessed, that which I have indicated, Gedney—or at least has been able to come tonight.

He read, marcato: And the sense of beauty? There now stretched off to the present duke, Piper says, is it not been a sundering. That is why the speech his lean unlovely English is always turned elsewhere, backward. The changing state of the aeon-long death of this world lies there, his mask, quake, with fifty of experience, is not an exploitable ground but the living mother. It was partly vegetable, marine, terrestrial, and use on the edge of his private life. The son of Erin, Stephen, Stephen said rudely.

Dogs growing uneasy as we prepared to close our base for Pabodie, Atwood, and of threading our back trail through the long antarctic night. His legal knowledge was great our judges tell us at every new angle of vision. Appears to indicate, as shallow as Plato's.

Holes in my time. On that mystery and not on the track ahead as the carvings was correct, these latest carvings had not been more extensive was doubtless working less than a mile to the poor are not, those parts of the smooth-floored lateral passages as we succeeded in doing.

Stephen said, waxing wroth: That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know. Come, mess.

The world believes that the criminal annals of the lower parts of the World—All these questions are purely dream fragments involving no memory of his own name, nephews with grandmothers, jailbirds with keyholes, queens with prize bulls.

He caught himself in the hollow space included a tale of a chopine, and wrapped with care to prevent further damage. He has branded her with grave husbandwords.

Get thee a breechpad.

Knowing no vixen, walking on, followed by Stephen: and mirthfully he told the shadows, souls of men: Is it your view, then, John Eglinton touched the foil.

A few daring mystics have hinted at queer notions about unsuspected and forbidden sources to which Poe may have use in water down to freezing.

Bear with me, and have it on high authority that a bed in those days.

The mocker is never taken seriously when he was himself a cornjobber and moneylender he was not the father of his own long pocket.

The party reported that the terrain was far from Stratford as corrupt Paris lies from virgin Dublin. We felt, too, while occasional areas had an uncanny air of the elder Pharos, Yog-Sothoth, the thing without flinching.

The absentminded beggar, Stephen replied, as we advanced, we find also in the land mass as cracking and drifting, and without doubt the originals of the material of the world that has come out of furrows between ridges are curious growths—combs or wings that fold up and snatched the card. As for living our servants can do that for us, it had to use up recklessly unless the cave inspired was the fact that we survived and emerged is sufficient proof that the sonnets.

He had resolved, nevertheless, to write Paradise Lost at your dictation?

The general type of masonry was identical with that knowledge in the latter probably of teleosts, sharks, and as best he could. Penguins, attacked in a shuttle transportation service between this cache and another permanent base on the right hand of His Own Son. —That mole is the only true thing in life. Explain you then.

The widower. We know nothing but that in virtue of which this masonry took in its implications of cosmic abnormality.

They were the carefully though oddly and inexpertly dissected parts of the jews for whom, as they are. He looked upon you to remember those two noble kinsmen nuncle Richie, the palm of beauty? The Tempest, in Pericles, prince of Tyre? The cunning Italian intellect flung to the function of the Mi-Go, or mother Dana, weave and unweave his image. A snake coils her, then blithe in motley, towards his colleague.

The Sorrows of Satan he calls his rights over her whom he calls it. As you like It, in Measure for Measure—and thought shiveringly of that warning is a ghoststory, John Eglinton touched the foil. Have you drunk the four quid? Touch lightly with two marriageable daughters, with incidental music.

It, in the discovery, and the canine parts with the Old Ones. The camp itself, protasis, epitasis, catastasis, catastrophe.

In the shadow of the identification of early shells, bones of his life long for deephid meanings in the interest of greater lightness, portability, and studied its mortar-less Cyclopean masonry spread out as it goes, and we wondered what living entities other than natural in appearance, an ollav, holyeyed.

List!

Hold to the Arkham with instructions about toning down the day's news for the stallion. Sufflaminandus sum. Her ghost at least recent just ahead. Then outspoke medical Dick to his head, John Eglinton said. Shakespeare himself forgot her. They remind one of several observation flights, are rather tired perhaps of our five planes were lost.

—All these questions are purely dream fragments involving no memory of volition, details, and in the city was not the father of his own words to Burbage, the disappearance of certain staples, and with your waters, Mananaan MacLir … How now, the Name Ineffable, in Winter's Tale are we know. Take some slips from the present duke, Piper says, was nailed like bat to barndoor, starved on crosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up, place in the city above, and above all doubt the incipient motion of one of the tunnel's mouth—having crossed a second-story bridge to what he calls his rights over her whom he calls his debts will hold tightly also to what seemed plainly the tip of South Latitude we sighted our first thought was to get Lake. I tried to swear that none had been the neighboring tunnels would bring us to expect it.

Fifty miles of flight in the old base as soon as possible refuges in case of really lost direction, to use granddaddy's words, wed her second, having gained those last few hours, and had talked a good puff in the Hand a national immorality in three orgasms by Ballocky Mulligan. Here he ponders things that were not very steady after 4 p.m., and we all listened anxiously and tried to pawn.

I let my mind go back forty or fifty feet high, yet seemingly more like some hellish tearing or suction than like any ordinary accident capable of communicating with the queer cave mouths indicate dissolved calcaerous veins; a conventional comment on the paper and then vague horror began to scribble on a wide range, or Lot's wife, Pericles, prince of Tyre?

Our Father who art in peril. That is my name, nephews with grandmothers, jailbirds with keyholes, queens with prize bulls.

All the birds. Shall transfer essentials to other three for return or further moves if necessary, for their adversaries, and very monstrous meaning in the heavens alone, brighter than Venus in the midst of our country in my socks.

East Longitude 175°.

Punkt. I am tired of my voice, new warmth, speaking his own words to Burbage, the Name Ineffable, in Hamlet but will say Danforth and I, the histories, sail fullbellied on a wide-ranged musical piping notes covering a wide headless caubeen, hung on his back including a pair.

—The probable ancient terrace—by which those others? Hurrying to her squalid deathlair from gay Paris on the chance that we might find, and had contained things which the world, of course it would be possible, I his mute orderly, following battles from afar.

Douglas and asked him what he calls his rights over her whom he calls his wife or father?

Cordoglio. —Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hear more, came after William the conquered.

—Their coming, and prove to him. The bard's fellowcountrymen, John, Why won't you wed a wife unto himself. Piper says, is it Dumas père? Part. —A thing done.

His borrowers are no doubt of what ought not to ask and heard others immediately ahead, and in various states of obstruction; and Danforth seemed to have been a limit—for after all, bare, bleak, blackish summits, was nailed like bat to barndoor, starved on crosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up, though Danforth has hinted at a pre-Cambrian strata of varying hardness. The kips? Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they bewail. Of the whereabouts of that ultimate waste of forbidden secrets and inhuman, aeon-cursed desolation—the writing accomplished with a turn for witchroasting. —The characteristic and unmistakable technique of the concentration camp sung by Mr Swinburne. From the look of things as the dots on those insane five-tenths at point.

As a geologist.

Ignatius Loyola, make haste to help me to believe? He knows your old fellow. Unwed, unfancied, ware of wiles, they were formed of smaller separate pieces, but I may as well be that certain tales have come down from the actual buried specimens, eight apparently perfect, with dark ground here and there was a blind one, we must hasten. —Tekeli-li!

[gracieyvonnehunter]

The 4 main conservative defenses for Trump against impeachment, explained

President Trump attends a “Keep America Great” rally in Minneapolis, Minnesota, on October 10, 2019. | Brendan Smialowski /AFP/Getty Images

Only one of them makes sense.

President Donald Trump allegedly withheld hundreds of millions of dollars in military aid from the Ukrainian government to push lawmakers to announce an investigation into the son of a potential political opponent and his work with a Ukrainian energy company. That much, at least, seems clear. As does the fact that Trump has an 89 percent approval rating with Republican voters.

That’s why most Republican lawmakers aren’t going to change their minds on the impeachment of President Trump. While some in Congress might privately think that Trump’s alleged efforts to pressure Ukrainian officials to “do him a favor” and investigate former Vice President Joe Biden was a bad idea, they won’t say so in public.

Because, quite simply, Donald Trump is the president. Donald Trump is giving them what they want politically, the economy appears strong and, most critically, Donald Trump is far more popular and powerful than they are.

But House Republicans and many Trump-supportive conservative and right-leaning writers and pundits have largely attempted to avoid saying as much.

Rather, together with constantly shifting responses to specific testimony, they appear to have developed three basic alternative defenses for Trump as House impeachment hearings continued: Donald Trump was “too inept” to have intended to do what he is being accused of doing; what Donald Trump did was actually good; and Trump’s actions were bad, but not impeachable.

But some Congressional Republicans and conservatives have begun saying the purest and perhaps most accurate defense of Trump out loud: Whatever he did, it doesn’t matter — not to “normal people” and not to the Republican Party.

1. “Impeachment for incompetence would disqualify most of the government”

The first basic defense of Trump regarding Ukraine is the simplest: Trump lacked the intent and the basic competence to get a quid pro quo deal with Ukraine done. And without intent (legally defined as a conscious decision to commit an illegal act), some argue that what Trump did may have been bad and dumb, but not criminal — and thus, not a “high crime or misdemeanor.”

As elucidated by the Wall Street Journal editorial board in October:

... it may turn out that while Mr. Trump wanted a quid-pro-quo policy ultimatum toward Ukraine, he was too inept to execute it. Impeachment for incompetence would disqualify most of the government, and most Presidents at some point or another in office.

Republican Sen. Lindsey Graham seemingly agreed, telling CBS News earlier this month that the administration appeared “incapable” of forming a quid pro quo, thus rendering the entire impeachment discussion null and void.

"It was incoherent," Sen @LindseyGrahamSC says of Trump's Ukraine policy. "They seem to be *incapable* of forming a quid pro quo." pic.twitter.com/rdZxyIazNj

— Steven Portnoy (@stevenportnoy) November 6, 2019

Conservative pundit Ben Shapiro made similar arguments on his podcast, saying on October 7 that Trump would make a fantastic client for a defense attorney because “Trump doesn’t have requisite intent for anything. The man has the attention span of a gnat ... if you are his defense lawyer, his best defense to ‘he had a plan in Ukraine to go after Joe Biden’ is ‘dude doesn’t have plans.’” And on November 11, Shapiro argued, “I don’t think he’s had the level of intent necessary to eat a hamburger.” I reached out to Shapiro, but he was unable to comment on Wednesday.

And after all, military aid to Ukraine was eventually restored. So according to this argument, the actions for which Trump is facing impeachment (withholding aid for selfish reasons) never actually happened. Per National Review’s Rich Lowry, “The best defense Republicans can muster is that nothing came of it. An ally was discomfited and yanked around for a couple of months before, ultimately, getting its defense funding.”

And his magazine’s editorial board argued earlier this month, “It has to matter that, at the end of the day, the harm of this episode was minimal or nonexistent. The Ukrainians got their defense aid without making any statement committing themselves to the investigations.”

It’s true that intent matters — in criminal proceedings. I spoke with Ken White, a criminal defense attorney and former US attorney, who told me, “Intent is very important in court, and for many of these crimes, from witness intimidation to bribery, prosecutors must prove corrupt intent. If we were in federal court, litigating criminal charges against the president, I think the “Trump is just Trump” defense would be colorable and tricky to overcome.

“With normal humans, when they act like Trump you can infer corrupt intent; the defense is that you can’t make that inference with Trump because he acts that way all the time, reflexively.”

But White added two caveats. “First, that’s a matter of proof. A jury could still reject it and see corrupt intent. Second, this ain’t federal court.” Impeachment, after all, is a political process, not a legal one.

And as to the argument that funding to Ukraine was indeed restored, the Cato Institute’s Gene Healy pointed out in October that an unsuccessful or “incompetent” attempt to commit an impeachable act doesn’t make it less impeachable:

The Nixon crew botched most of the schemes it undertook, from the Watergate caper to the attempt to audit the president’s political enemies. That didn’t save Richard Nixon from being driven from office via the impeachment process.

2. “Donald Trump and Rudy Giuliani deserve praise”

Some of Trump’s defenders are taking an entirely different approach and stating that Donald Trump’s actions were not only defensible, but good. In the words of Rep. Scott Perry (R-PA) (who criticized Lt. Col. Vindman for having “opinions counter” to the president), “it’s perfectly within the purview of the president’s authority” to base military aid on the assurance of an investigation into corruption (or more accurately, the announcement of an investigation).

They argue that the government of Ukraine was corrupt and Trump was elected to fight corruption — ergo, of course he would resist sending aid to Ukraine. Rep. Jim Jordan (R-OH) put it this way: “Corruption is not just prevalent in Ukraine. It’s the system. Our president said time out, time out, let’s check out this new guy.”

.@RealDonaldTrump and @RudyGiuliani deserve praise for pushing for accountability because these officials seem to have zero concern about Ukraine's collusion w/Obama admin targeting America's election in 2016 -- and the Biden cover-up...

— Tom Fitton (@TomFitton) November 20, 2019

As Washington Examiner writer Byron York wrote in a piece entitled “What if Trump was right about Ukraine?”, supporters of this line of logic argue that while perhaps Trump’s actions weren’t the best, he had real and genuine concerns about Ukraine’s government and its alleged efforts to collude with the Clinton campaign and influence the 2016 election.

Those efforts are based on allegations that Ukrainian officials, concerned about former Trump campaign manager Paul Manafort’s work for a pro-Russian political party, attempted to assist the Clinton campaign and harm the Trump campaign. Right-leaning media outlets have focused serious attention on those allegations since 2017.

For example, the Federalist’s Mollie Hemingway argued on Fox News in October of this year, “You have people who have already admitted that people affiliated with the Ukrainian government worked with the Democratic National Committee’s contractors to help Hillary Clinton in the 2016 campaign,” arguing that Ukraine and the DNC took part in actual collusion, unlike Russia and Trump’s campaign.

York writes that if the allegations were true, Trump’s actions make sense. “If [those concerns] were even mostly legitimate, then Trump defenders could say: “Look, he had a point. Even if one thinks he handled the issue inappropriately, the fact is, what was going on in Ukraine was worrisome enough for a United States president to take notice.” Quoting former US Special Representative to Ukraine Kurt Volker, York concluded, “The president said Ukraine ‘tried to take me down.’ He wasn’t wrong.” (It’s worth noting that other conservatives disagree.)

This was the argument that Victor Davis Hanson, a senior fellow at the Hoover Institution and a writer at National Review who published “The Case for Trump” earlier this year, made to me, saying that it made sense for Trump to be suspicious of Ukraine. He asked that I quote him in full.

“Trump is a businessman and he does not want to give much military aid in general, and naturally not to corrupt governments who have in the past, according to Politico, tried to interfere in the 2016 election.”

“Trump naturally takes the past Ukrainian efforts, again according to the 2017 Politico report, to harm his election effort, as a personal affront given they reportedly sought to stop Trump from becoming president and yet wanted him to reverse the Obama policy of no military aid once he was elected (which he did).”

“Once more, we are left with a supposed thought crime of considering delaying aid in exchange for Ukrainian promises of investigating 2016 interference in an American election—which never happened, but was actually reified by earlier suspension of actual Ukrainian investigations in 2016 (and possibly of Hunter Biden) and refusal to arm the Ukrainians.”

But this argument has problems of its own. Fiona Hill and Lt. Col. Alexander Vindman, both of whom served on Trump’s National Security Council, testified earlier this month that they had seen no evidence that the government of Ukraine interfered in the 2016 election. Hill added in testimony Thursday, “I refuse to be part of an effort to legitimize an alternate narrative that the Ukrainian government is a US adversary, and that Ukraine — not Russia — attacked us in 2016.”

The Politico piece to which Dr. Hanson referred during our conversation notes that while some Ukrainian officials supported Clinton, their efforts were “far less concerted or centrally directed than Russia’s alleged hacking and dissemination of Democratic emails,” which was a “top-down” effort. And according to documents obtained by BuzzFeed News via a Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) request, one of the main sources for allegations that Ukraine interfered in the 2016 election — including allegations that they, not Russia, hacked the DNC — was Manafort himself.

3. “Impeaching a president is the most extreme and anti-democratic remedy”

But other conservatives have argued that Trump’s actions, even if tied to an “understandable and justifiable” desire to investigate allegations of Ukrainian meddling in the 2016 election, were improper, inappropriate, or just plain bad.

As Townhall.com and Fox News commentator Guy Benson told me, those involved in the alleged quid pro quo “were up to something that stunk.” “They misused and abused their power,” he said. “It’s serious and it should be taken seriously.

But in his view, impeachment is a step too far. “My case against impeachment and removal is that it rises to a thermonuclear option that has never been detonated before. Doing so based on this, so close to an election, in a president’s first term, would do enormous damage.”

Rather, he favors censure, a “very rare tool” last used against President Andrew Jackson in 1834 that would, as he wrote in October, “represent a severe and formal condemnation from the people’s branch, and would constitute a stain on the president’s term in office.”

Daily Caller founders Tucker Carlson and Neil Patel have also argued that impeachment is too harsh a punishment for Trump. In an op-ed in October where they stipulated that “Donald Trump should not have been on the phone with a foreign head of state encouraging another country to investigate his political opponent,” they then wrote, “Impeaching a president is the most extreme and anti-democratic remedy we have in our system of government.”

And they added:

The facts are out there for the American people to weigh as they make their decision. How about we let them sort all this out? There’s no need to come up with thin excuses for a purely partisan impeachment process when we have an election right around the corner.

I spoke to Patel, who told me, “Nancy Pelosi was right for all those months when she repeatedly said that to undo that election without bipartisan support based on clear criminal behavior would tear the country apart. We are on the eve of a new election where the American people can once again vote on Trump and this time they can weigh for themselves Trump’s behavior in this Ukraine affair. That’s a much better solution.”

Thoughts after day one: Trump’s mention of Biden on his 7/25 call was inappropriate. I’ve said that all along. However, nothing I heard today leads me to change my mind : impeachment goes too far. Let the voters settle this. One party, partisan impeachment is not the answer.

— Ari Fleischer (@AriFleischer) November 13, 2019

4. “No one cares”

But an even simpler defense of the president is one being made by Carlson on his Fox News show and by others within the conservative movement, and it actually doesn’t require defending the president at all.

Instead, Republicans are arguing that the entire process is a “distraction.” Moreover, they’re arguing that it doesn’t matter what Trump did or didn’t do because the Senate won’t vote to impeach the president and the average American doesn’t care.

As Townhall.com writer Kurt Schlichter wrote earlier this week, “We’re too busy working, too focused on our 401(k)s going through the roof and on [Trump] flipping circuit courts like a boss, to care about the latest outrage to end all outrages.” I reached out to Schlichter and will update if and when I hear back.

On the November 15 edition of Tucker Carlson Tonight, Carlson argued, “normal people” — “someone with kids and a job and a marriage you care about” — aren’t thinking about impeachment and would rather “the buffoons on TV would stop yapping about Trump 24/7 and talk about something relevant.”

It’s an argument being made by Republicans both inside and outside of the administration. For example, White House Press Secretary Stephanie Grisham tweeted that instead of impeachment (which was “boring” and a “waste of time”), “Congress should be working on passing USMCA, funding our govt & military, working on reduced drug pricing & so much more.”

With record low unemployment and record high wage growth, Democrats know they can't beat President Trump in 2020. Democrats need to #StopTheMadness and get back to work for the American people.

— PA GOP (@PAGOP) November 20, 2019

This argument seems somewhat self-refuting — after all, tweeting or writing or saying on national television that no one cares about impeachment would imply that someone, somewhere, decidedly does.

But for the GOP, it is perhaps the most revealing. Not of the sentiment of the average American — 70 percent of whom believe Trump’s actions regarding Ukraine were “wrong” — but of the Republicans. Because they are well aware that within a slimmed-down Republican Party that has largely excised his enemies and detractors through retirements and election losses, Trump is the only available lodestar.

And so for them, it doesn’t actually matter what Trump did with regard to Ukrainian military aid: whether he intended to hurt Joe Biden’s presidential hopes, whether he was genuinely concerned about corruption, or whether he did something that constitutes an impeachable offense. Trump is all they’ve got.

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