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beeexx · 3 years

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Meet the Family

Carlos meets Gwyneth Strand for the first time.

Set before 2x01, a missing scene.

Word count: 13.3. Read on AO3.

TK has spent the better part of the week in offices of higher ups, getting cleared for active duty again, which means he hasn’t had the time to see Carlos much at all. But he’s been looking forward to lunch together all week, and therefore, he spends the better part of it sending him looks that Carlos can read into however he wants to, but judging by the slightest tightening of his grip around the fork or how his foot keeps climbing higher up TK’s leg, almost unconsciously, he’s definitely thinking along similar lines as TK is.

Not that the lunch isn’t lovely and being in Carlos’ presence is making TK feel a little like a moth to the flame, Carlos’ undivided attention on him is unlike anything he’s ever experienced before, a little addictive for sure and TK knows all about what that’s like. But this is the good kind of high, the one leaving you with tingles all over, wide smiles that are real and butterflies in your chest.

But putting all the lovey dovey feelings he’s definitely experiencing aside, he’s also, and unashamedly so, a little horny and he hasn’t had sex in ages because of this stupid injury and Carlos’ stupid (and hot) caring side that refuses to give in to TK’s puppy dog eyes because strenious ativities are not yet approved by the doctor. Or they haven’t been, until now, so now he’s going to look at his boyfriend and put all kinds of images in his head that they can later on reenact in his bedroom.

Yep TK is a genius.

On the drive over to TK’s he can barely keep his hands to himself though, biting at his lip, hard to prevent himself from reaching out for Carlos and causing an accident, that would defeat the purpose of the car ride altogether, even though it’s really tempting. His house is closer and Owen is on a shift, yes TK double checked so the promise of an empty house and a whole afternoon to take advantage of, is making him feel extremely happy, butterflies in his stomach kind of happy, while he also has to remind himself that they’ll arrive soon and he doesn’t need to attach himself to Carlos just yet.

But it’s proving to be really hard, the anticipation in the air between getting harder and harder to ignore.

Once they do make it to TK's house, he immediately pulls Carlos close, his patience all but gone now when they’re finally able to touch and Carlos seems to be in a similar position to him. He pulls TK closer, shifts a little so the angle TK is currently in allows him to rub perfectly up against Carlos’s crotch, the outline of his dick digging into the inside of TK’s thigh.

Yep he needs to get them inside now.

Carlos presses up against his back as TK tries to unlock the door, leaving kisses on the exposed skin, making goosebumps erupt all over TK’s body, making it even more difficult to focus on the task at hand. The door finally makes a triumphant click and TK turns, meeting Carlos’ hungry lips before he twists the door open, the both of them stumbling inside, hands never leaving each other. The door shuts and Carlos pushes TK up against it and finally TK thinks, kissing back with the vigor of a man who has not been kissed like this by his boyfriend for days. Carlos hands travel down to the hem of his shirt, ready to throw it off. He feels the slowburn of arousal in the pit of his stomach, making him shift on his feet.

There is a cough and clearing of someone’s throat that makes both TK and Carlos freeze up in each other’s arms. TK closes his eyes and leans his head on Carlos’ sturdy chest before he thinks ‘oh God no’.

Carlos has gone rigid instead, one hand braced against the door in an awkward fashion, his eyes trained on the ground. TK looks up, blushes all over when he spots Gwyneth sitting by the kitchen island, smirk in place and looking way too comfortable that anyone in her position should have the right to be.

“Honey.” She says teasingly and TK groans and steps out from Carlos’ arms, putting some distance between them, but makes sure to keep close.

“Mom.” He says tightly. “I thought you were arriving on Thursday.”

“It is Thursday.” She says.

“What? Right, right…” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up, feeling like the floor has been pulled out from underneath the ground, swallowing TK whole. Fuck why is this his life?

Carlos clears his throat a few times and finally turns around, fixing his shirt, eyes flitting nervously around the room before landing on his mom. Gwyneth smirks when he finally dares to meet her eyes.

“Carlos, it’s nice to meet you, I have heard a lot about you.” She smiles, all hard edges and shark like. For all of Owen’s faults, at least he has always been supportive, that cannot be said about his mother. Carlos gulps, clearly sensing that he might not be welcome.

“Mom.” TK tries intervening but Gwyneth clicks her tongue at him, softening her smile slightly though.

“You really are like your dad aren’t you…” She mutters but she comes forward, chique pantsuit on, hair falling in long messy curls behind her back, light makeup on, looking way too put together for someone who has spent almost 4 hours on a plane should do.

“Did TK tell you that this isn’t the first time this has happened by the way? I once walked in on him when he was maybe 16, it was his first boy -”

“Mom!” He interrupts, ears the colour of lobsters and he keeps shooting glances at Carlos who looks like he isn’t sure if he’s supposed to leave or not.

“Mom.” He tries again, shooting her a reproachful glare and she bites her lip, eyes gleeful. But she sips her mouth shut.

“What are you doing here? How did you even get in?”

“Your dad picked me up from the airport and drove me here.”

“Right, and no one thought to tell me?”

“He said you’d be out for lunch with Carlos. I take it the plans changed.” TK groans.

“No those plans were intact, we just decided to come here for dessert.” It’s a terrible terrible joke to make and TK regrets it immediately because Carlos winces and his mother smirks, her quick mind already coming up with ten different ways to match that reply.

“Don’t.” He warns and she chuckles, holds her hands up, backing off.

But she doesn’t stay placated for long, she never has, and she comes forward, smile intact but somehow managing to wear an expression of impassiveness as well, her eyes fixed on Carlos as she puts her hand forward for him to shake. He looks at it for a moment, obviously confused before he puts his hand in hers in a jerky movement. She shakes it, firmly but Carlos has pulled himself together enough to match it and she looks a little less hostile immediately.

“Carlos, it’s nice to meet you, I’m Gwyneth.” Their eyes meet, and her eyes are sharp and alert, probably already having categorised everything she’s gauged about Carlos’ down in her head, already started a mental list of hers.

His mother’s sharpness and her uncanny ability to be too adept at reading a room, any room, has served her well in her professional life. It hasn’t served TK well at all, and he learnt quickly that lying to her never worked well at all. Well apart from the drugs, that one TK hid so well that he would have probably been able to get away with it for years longer, had his dad not accidentally come home one evening and found him puking his guts out in the bathroom. Apart from that it’s been a major argument between him and his mother, her inability, that he called judgment and she called intuition, to leave that by the door or at her job, and not make up her mind about TK’s friends and boyfriends, before they were even able to make a case for themselves.

So TK feels bad for Carlos, because he knows all too well what it feels like to be on the other side of her scrutiny.

“Yes, Mrs. Strand, it’s nice to meet you too.” Carlos says and he looks a little more at ease, probably faking it well, but Gwyneth studies his face a moment longer before she nods admicabally, and it’s as good of an improval from her that it can be at the moment.

“So, do you want to stay?”

“He’s not staying.” TK interrupts, he isn’t putting himself nor Carlos through an interrogation from her right now. He might need to prep Carlos for that and himself too for that matter.

“I guess I’m not staying.” Carlos says, and it makes Gwyneth chuckle, looking between the two of them before her eyes land on TK, her eyebrow lifting in a silent question.

“But it was nice to meet you, if you’re in town for some time I’m sure we can find a time for dinner or coffee or something.”

“Yes, you know what I’m sure that’s possible.” But it’s sais genuinely so thank fuck for that.

Carlos nods his goodbye and TK follows him to the door, feeling his mother’s eyes at the back of his neck, very obviously listening to them. He opens the door to give them some privacy and steps outside with Carlos, closing the door firmly behind them. He leans against it, feeling the air go out of him completely. Carlos is silent, waiting for him to speak.

“Soooo, that’s my mother.”

“She’s intense…”

“Tell me about it...I’m sorry, I forgot she was coming to town this week.”

“Well I guess I’m not the first to meet her this way.” Carlos jokes but it lightens the mood between them and honestly TK’s never been happier to date someone who can joke about something that could have become a massive thorn in their side going forward. Not everyone is fond of overprotective mothers.

“Yeah… no, that was way worse than this though. She can be vicious when she wants to, that's all I’m saying, you’ve already passed her first test.”

“There are tests I need to pass?” TK shrugs awkwardly.

“Probably…”

“Well, I better bring my A game then.” TK huffs, but it turns into a soft little smile because he really can’t believe Carlos. Most people would have run for the hills by now and decided this is not worth it. Well most people would have probably run for the hills when they found out he was an addict.

Carlos is proving to be the exception to most of the rules.

TK steps up close and pulls him in, kissing him hard on the mouth, pulling a groan and a hiss out of Carlos who cradles his face close to slow it down before they both get too lost in each other.

Carlos is the one to stop it completely though, his eyes dark and flush high on his cheeks, looking absolutely gorgeous, and he holds TK’s head in his hands, stroking a thumb up and down his cheek gently before he smiles softly.

“I’ll call you.”

“Yeah, yeah, do that.” TK says breathlessly and Carlos leans forward to gently kiss his lips, before he steps away, TK missing him immediately.

Before he goes back in to face his mother he needs a moment to catch his breath. He counts to 5 in his head before he opens the door and goes back in.

She’s sitting where he left her, typing away on her phone, but she puts it down when he comes towards her, lifting an eyebrow.

“Can I say hi to my son now?”

“You probably shouldn’t be allowed to after you scared my boyfriend off.” But he’s already opening his arms and she huffs, steps in close and hugs him tightly, her hard exterior melting away now when it’s just the two of them. He closes his eyes, admitting that it is nice to see her. She steps back, cups his face in her hands to look at him properly. He lets her, knows she will not calm down until she’s allowed her little ritual.

“How are you?” She asks.

“I’m good.” She gives him a piercing look and doesn’t say anything.

“I am good! I swear.” He defends and she huffs, kisses his cheek before she steps away.

“Good, good.” She takes out her suitcase, it’s massive, and opens it up.

“Mom, you are here for 10 days, why have you packed like you’re going to be here for months?” She heaves an unimpressed sigh and grunts, flipping the suitcase on its back before she opens it up.

“Now, now. One never knows, there could be an emergency.”

“That requires these?” He holds up the Prada heels skeptically and she rolls her eyes, grabs them out of his hands.

“These are the latest in my suede collection, they’re gorgeous right?”

“Yes, yes, they are. Still, it doesn’t answer my earlier question.” He points out. She ignores him and starts to riffle through her things before she picks up a baby blue paper bag that’s been wrapped securely in an airtight plastic bag.

“Now, that’s no way to treat your mother that comes bearing gifts.” She hands it to him and he can’t help but let out the little happy squeal as he rips it out of her hands.

“Aw you shouldn't have.” She chuckles at his delight and he immediately stands up and puts the bag down on the counter, hands twitching in anticipation, just staring at it lovingly.

“You’re not a child, you can eat cookies whenever you want.”

“I’m 27 and I live at home.” He points out.

“Well, that is all your own doing.” But she kisses his cheek lovingly and he huffs, happy that they can still joke about the elephant in the room. He rips the bag open, mouth salivating at the sight, can’t wait any longer when the smell of freshly baked cookies hit him.

“How is Fred? Did you tell him hi for me?” He asks, mouth around a chocolate chip cookie, munching away happily as the heavenly taste spreads around in his mouth. The cookie is still soft in the middle, it’s beautiful.

“He is good, he says hi back and that he misses his favorite customer. Apparently Lily has started high school, can you believe?”

TK can’t, he used to remember her being so young, but she’s always been sassy and she’s going to give poor Fred hell.

Fred’s bakery was a little corner place a few blocks away from TK’s apartment. He used to go there way too often and buy all the sweet pastries in his way. The cookies quickly became a favorite, and he became Fred’s favourite customer because of it. He misses the place dearly. He still hasn’t found a bakery here in Austin he likes as much as that one, and when he keeps telling Carlos that he huffs, having become set on finding a place that will make TK just as happy as Fred’s did back in New York. TK isn’t going to complain, it’s been a fun little activity to play while he’s been on the mend and Carlos’ is almost ridiculous in his categorically organised note taking of the whole thing, dead set on finding him the perfect pastry. If it were anyone else, it would be ridiculous, but because it is Carlos and it’s a thing that’s been made to be about him, TK is just so touched and charmed by it that he’s willing to admit that Texas does have an amazing food scene, even the posh New Yorker in him is willing to admit as much.

“Did you give me this do distract me from all the clothes you brought?” He asks again.

“No, don’t be a smartass, clothes are no joke. Also are you sure you should be mouthing off to me? You own like 20 jumpers in the same colour alone, don’t come at me.” He snorts and it brings a laugh out of her, he’s missed their banter, he really has.

“They are not all in the same colour.” He pouts, but it shortly melts into a smile instead. “I’ve missed you.” He admits and her smile goes soft before she steps in close allowing him to pull her into a hug.

“I’ve missed you too kiddo, so coffee, I’m in desperate need of some.”

“Yeah, yeah, let me.”

“Don’t be silly, do you even know how to work that ridiculous coffee maker?”

“You have the exact same one at your apartment, I’ve used that plenty.” He points out, making her smirk but she walks over, easily enough making herself one, looking way too familiar with the setup.

“You want one?” He shakes his head. She lifts an eyebrow.

“One a day.” He says and she nods.

TK can drink coffee, sometimes he indulges. But he tries not to have any on the days he’s off, it tends to make him a little jittery and being prone to anxiety, he tends to avoid getting his heart rate up unnecessarily high normally, or at least when it comes to drinks and food. When it comes to other stuff he’s none too happy to overindulge a bit in, particularly if their name is Carlos Reyes.

He goes over to the fridge and takes out the tropical green smoothie from Whole Foods his dad stocks up on and Gwyneth snorts.

“That looks blergh.”

“You’re like a child.” He laughs. “It’s not the worst of his insane food ideas.”

“No, it really isn't.” She agrees.

“His food regime hasn’t totally gone down at the station, not as well as he’d hoped at least. He tried a cheese burger a while back.”

“Did he now? Wow he’s a changed man.” She jokes and TK delights in having an ally to make fun of his dad with, someone that knows him and loves him enough that it’s okay.

And even after the divorce Owen and Gwyneth usually ganged up on him, it’s nice to have someone to side with from time to time. He sits down beside her as she sips at her coffee.

“It’s a nice place.” She comments, looks around, taking note.

“The prices are insanely low compared to New York.”

“Yes, one of the many advantages. Speaking of New York, a nice little couple moved into your apartment, did you know?”

“Yeah, dad said.”

“They seem nice.”

“Did you threaten them about the carpet in the bedroom?”

“I did, I told them how expensive it was.” She winks.

“You’re menace.”

“Yep, so what should we talk about first?”

“You really don’t know subtlety”

“I do, but I haven’t seen you in months and you are either too busy with work to reply to my texts or calls, or in a coma, or with your boyfriend, so I don’t have the time to beat around the bush.”

“In my defence, the coma wasn’t on purpose.”

“So, are you cleared for duty?” She ignores him and he nods, her eyes studying him close.

“Yeah just got cleared.”

“Good, 100%?”

“No, part time for a while.” She draws in a breath, relieved to hear.

“And therapy?” He sighs.

“She’s not like Doctor Harris, but she’s not bad either, just different.”

“Well I vetted her so.” He rolls his eyes.

“I know, you and dad really have no chill.”

“Not when it comes to you no. And so how are you?”

“Good, and that’s not a lie. Life has been weird, all over the place, crazy and hectic and in it I met Carlos who seems to have been the only stable thing in it all. But yes, it’s actually good for once.” Gwyneth smiles, proud.

“Good, I am happy to hear, really happy to hear. He seems -”

“If you insult him I’m leaving.” Her eyes widen and she burst out laughing.

“I was going to say that I like him actually.”

“Oh? Oh, okay well that’s good.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting him properly and not when you try and rip his clothes off.” He blushes and groans.

“God, I’m never living that down am I?”

“Honey, you have a tendency to be a little bit of a mess, I’m sure you’ll find something to do soon enough that I can tease you about, in the meantime, nope, you’re not living it down.”

“Great.” She laughs and ruffles his hair lovingly.

“I’m good at reading people, you know this, I like him, he’s different to all your previous boyfriends.”

“Different from Alex you mean.” She sighs, takes her hand away.

It’s no secret that Gwyneth has never been a fan of Alex. While Owen has almost always been supportive and hidden his disagreements when TK makes decisions he doesn’t like, Gwyneth has always been very vocal about what she thinks. Almost too vocal at times when he does things she really doesn’t like, and TK being TK and definitely his parent’s child, he’s done a lot of things she didn’t approve of.

Alex being one of them.

“TK I don’t want to fight, but yes, very different from Alex.” TK sighs, he doesn’t want to fight either and particularly not over fucking Alex.

“Yeah, fine…”

“I’ll have to get to know Carlos better but he clearly adores you.” TK’s eyes snap to hers trying to see if she’s lying, she isn’t. She is looking back at him with a knowing look in her eyes and TK averts his eyes, blushing and she giggles.

“Oh wow, you’re really taken by him too?”

“Shut up.” She laughs.

“I’m happy for you. I really am.”

“Thanks.” He whispers.

“Tell me everything.” He groans but sits up.

“It started badly.” But TK’s got to admit, gossiping about his love life or his life in general is something he’s missed doing with his mother. Owen is good at it but he’s just not her, doesn’t have her sharpness and wit.

“Really?”

“Terribly, which is why you have to be nice to him, he put up with me and that’s hard enough for anyone.”

“Oh shut up, you’re not a burden.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She scoffs when he doesn’t take her seriously, and moves forward, grabbing his face forcing him to look at her. She looks sad, the look she gets when TK is either being difficult or when she feels powerless and heartbroken, unable to reach him at all. He’s used to being on the receiving end of it, particularly after becoming an addict, and her face has often been shrouded in soft concern when they talk about it.

It used to make his skin crawl in discomfort, the pity too much for him to bear. Now, he thinks she’s earned the right to care about him this way, she’s been through it all with him, and she’s the only one he can tolerate the pity with.

“I mean it, not a burden, not now and not ever and if Carlos thinks so he doesn’t deserve you at all.” TK’s mouth twitches, Gwyneth’s overprotectiveness can be worse than Owen’s aloofness to all his decisions. It’s a fine line to walk between two parents that sometimes either care too little or way too much about what he does. TK still hasn’t found a perfect way to walk between it yet.

“He definitely doesn’t think so.”

“No?”

“No, mom, god, he’s been nothing but nice and supportive.” She studies his face closer, slightly frowning.

“I take it he knows about the addiction then?” TK nods, shrugs.

“It kind of became inevitable after a while, especially after I got arrested…”

“You did what now?!” TK flinches because whoops.

“Erm, I mean...kind of.”

“Tyler Kennedy Strand, no one gets kind of arrested.” He hates it when she uses his full name, he groans.

“Okay well you can’t be mad.”

“You know when you tell me that I can’t be mad it’s usually because you’ve done something bad.” But she lets go of his face and sits back, tapping her foot against the stool impatiently, backing off, something she rarely used to do when he was younger.

“Yeah okay, this was stupid. He made me dinner because he’s a nice thoughtful man that misread my signals of just wanting a casul hook up, and then said something about a marriage proposal and that struck a nerve because of Alex and the cheating, so I freaked, found myself a perfect little bar where a gay man can get beat up, got into a fight and then got arrested. He was the one to process me…”

“For real? Were you drunk? Or high?!”

“No, no, of course not. Mom, you would have heard about that. I was sober.”

“Well considering your track record, sober is better, but really? What in the world made you feel compelled to do something so stupid?” TK can’t help but chuckle.

“Yeah funny, Carlos said the exact same thing.”

“Oh, smart man.”

“So I told him why because I had been a complete dick and then I continued kind of blowing him off about the whole thing which was a relationship but also wasn’t. It was very undefined for a while. He obviously wanted us to be more serious but he wouldn’t pressure me into anything, not until I wanted it too and expressed that to him. He’s just an extremely good guy, and then shit happened and here we are.”

“Huh? Shit happened, is that how you would explain it?” She smirks. “I think I like this Carlos the more I hear about him though.”

“Told you, he is a good guy.”

“Well that’s what you deserve, a really good guy.”

“Thanks.” He says, eyes flitting away, but smiling because TK cannot remember the last time he felt so good about being with someone.

As hard as it is to admit, it’s easy being with Carlos and he makes him feel really happy, a feeling TK isn’t too used to experiencing.

“So, is there a guest bedroom here or? Owen wasn’t exactly specific.” She changes the subject, satisfied for now, but he knows his mother, there will be more words and a longer conversation about everything that has happened since he left New York.

And for once he doesn’t actually mind it, it doesn’t bring him the usual dread or irrational fear of judgement that it used to when his mother wanted to talk to him about his life. TK feels different, he probably is different from when he left New York all those months ago, feeling more stable and secure in himself than he has in ages, unable to not let those emotions merge into his growing relationship with Carlos, so unable to not admit that Carlos has alighten something in his chest that is spreading like wildfire to every part of his body, igniting every cell in its way. Yeah, being with Carlos is unlike anything else.

Apart from that it’s nice being at a point in his life where talking about his past doesn't make him want to run away in fear.

“Yes, there is, I’ll show you.”

“Perfect.”

For some it might be weird having your 50+ divorced parents of 20 years live under the same roof when one visits from out of state, for the Strands/Morgans it just isn’t. His parents should have probably gotten divorced sooner than they did, but once the conversation was actually out there the fighting and the yelling stopped, both of them realising it was for the best for all of them. And ever since they started co parenting, everything kind of settled and became better for all of them. Owen became more present, involved himself in TK’s life and Gwyneth stopped bearing resentment towards having to be a stay at home mom full time and finally had the time to build a career, a very long and successful career that was, while TK finally had the undivided attention of both his parents. And underneath the anger, his parents loved each other very much and after a while they learnt to be friends again.

Then TK screwed his life up a few times and put both of his parents through hell so yeah, it was good until it wasn’t.

But he can’t deny it’s nice to see her after so long apart. He really has missed her.

Read the rest on AO3.

#911 lone star #9-1-1 lone star #tarlos fic #911 lone star fic #tk x carlos #carlos x tk #tarlos #gwyneth morgan #carlos reyes #tk strand #a missing scene set before 1x2 #fanfiction #My writing

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unnuevosoltransformalarealidad · 4 years

Text

It’s Ok

Summary: Chris has been gone on a work trip related for a while. Reader has a complicated week, when she finds out that Chris is coming back, she is not able to welcoming him the way she wants.

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader

Warnings: Sickness, vomiting, fainted, fever, body issues (not to profound)

Word Count: 2,768

This was written for the Week 5 Weekly Challenge of @optimistic-dinosaur-nacho @donutloverxo @captain-a-rogerss

A/N: This was kind of proof-read so if there’s any mistake, please let me know, English is not my mother tongue, and I’m still learning. Enjoy the reading!

Monday

You had to get ready, but you were still in bed. It was one of those days you wanted to stay in bed and do nothing. You weren’t feeling ok; you assumed that it was because you missed him, your dearest boyfriend. Today marked the second week since he left for work. It was supposedly to take just a couple of day, but it didn’t go as planned because he hasn’t come back yet.

You felt alone, empty. Chris wasn’t there with you, neither Dodger; Chris insisted on took him in with his sister, so you didn’t have to worry about him. You took a deep breath and decided to get up and get ready for the day.

Once on the kitchen, you were having just a tea, not coffee today, you weren’t in the best mood and the caffeine didn’t help you. You were lost in thought about all you had to do for the day when your buzzing phone brought you back to reality.

Good morning doll. Counting the days to be back with you.

I wish you a beautiful day

Love you

Chris

Suddenly a smile appeared on your face, and felt love, just pure love. Chris knew how sad and difficult is for you to be alone for so long. You decided to text a quick response and then get ready for work.

Hello beautiful boy. I can't wait to have you with me.

Have a beautiful week.

Love you more

Y/N

The day at work started pretty good for your liking, but it ended up bad and it was just Monday. Someone did something wrong on important papers and your boss had to deal it with you. Being part of a group of assistants was difficult, you have to deal with the bad mood and yelling from the bosses and people who believed had a superior position than yours. You were really stressed, you needed a break to keep going but it was the beginning of the week and you still had the rest of the week ahead. You finished working around 4:30 pm and had to get ready for your classes. You’re on your third year of college with a major in Art History, your current job it doesn’t have any connection with what you’re studying but it helps the survival.

You have a few delayed papers, a few with close deadlines but still you have to prepare two final exams. The stress was starting to kick in.

Tuesday

The same emptiness you felt yesterday today was there. You had barely slept; you stayed awake doing some papers and making flashcards to study. Last night after coming back from school, you started to cry, you were overwhelmed, and you needed Chris by your side. You had texted him but you put it aside afterwards because you didn’t want any distractions. You were starving; you didn’t have dinner yesterday, so you got up and went to have breakfast. You took the computer with you so you could update more papers. You had to checked the phone, probably some of the teachers had emailed you because you were late and the grades were coming down. You had a few texts from Chris, of course.

Hi love! I’m sorry I didn’t answer back, I was busy.

How did your day go? I really miss you

Chris

Babe, is everything alright?

Pls answer me

Chris

I hope you rest well. I can’t wait to see you

Sweet Dreams, good night, I love you

Chris

You felt really bad because he wanted to talk to you, but you needed to update some of your essays. Your work was taking you more time than you had expected and because of that you were getting behind in the classes. You finished breakfast, got ready and went to work.

At lunch break, you decided to text Chris back and tell him what was going on.

Hi honey! How are you? Sorry I didn’t answer I was catching up with homework

I hope your day it's better than mine :(

I really miss you. Can’t wait to see you

Love you

Y/N

So far the day was stressful, but manageable. You had tons of work, and probably you had to stay extra hours to finish some papers that had to be delivered the following day. After the break you started to work on those papers when you got a phone call.

-Hello –I say not seeing who was calling

-Hi love –Chris said –How are you?

-Lost in work, you? –I say

-Missing you –he says

-I miss you too –I say –Look honey, I really appreciate you calling, but I have to finish this, and I’m already late with it –I mention with a sad tone

-It’s okay doll. I wanted to check on you actually –he says –but I’ll call you later

-I’m good, don’t worry –I say

-Ok. I love you –He says upset

-Love you too. Bye –I say and hang up

If you thought that your day was going to get better after that call, you were wrong. A really strong headache hit you and made you feel dizzy, probably it was because the late night working. You decided to take an aspirin, ignore the pain and keep working.

You had to stay almost four hours after work, your headache never left and you had missed the classes of the day. You wanted to get home and get into bed and wake up on the weekend. You decided to send Chris a quick text because he had promised you to call.

Hi love! I know you wanted to talk, but I’m leaving work right now and I have to finish an essay for tomorrow and I’ll probably ignore my phone.

I’m really really sorry

Talk to you tomorrow. I promise

Love you

Y/N

Once you got home, you took off your clothes, put some pjs and started the essays which were due date tomorrow and you haven’t started yet. It was going to be a long night with lots of coffee.

The pounding headache you had earlier got really worse, your eyes were watering making it really difficult to read and your body was really sore. It was the fifth cup of coffee when you got a text from your mom

Hello Y/N! I hope you remember our dinner tomorrow

It’s been a while since the last meeting.

I really miss you

Mom

As soon as you saw who texted you, you rolled your eyes. You’ve totally forgot the dinner with your mom, you were doing too many things but remember it wasn’t, but you couldn’t cancel it. It was the only time you were able to see her during the week.

Hi mom! I’ll be there, don’t worry

I miss you too

Y/N

When you send it the message, you realized it that was almost 6 AM and you haven’t finished your essay yet. You stop doing it and went to take a shower and then start the new day.

Wednesday

After your late night work and your shower, you still felt tired and sore. You prepared your breakfast and went to finish your essay. Luckily you were able to finish it just in time to go to work. You send a quick text to your mom and Chris and started your day.

Your day at the office went pretty well. Some stressful moments, but besides that, everything was normal. You were feeling really bad, being all night awake wasn’t your best decision but it was worthy, your essay was perfect, as your teacher said, and you were proud. You needed to go home and crash your bed; unfortunately you had dinner with your mom. You felt feverish but you didn’t pay much attention, probably was the lack of sleeping.

Hello my love! How’s your dinner with your ma going?

The producers told me that probably I’ll be back home by the weekend. I can’t wait

I love you

Chris

Your face lighted up immediately. It was the middle of the week, and Chris was coming back home. Nothing could ruin your day.

Dinner with your mom went terrible. She’d complaint about everything you have been doing since you moved on your own. Everything got worse when she started to criticize your body and your diet; and when she compared you to your sister you snapped. You had to kick her out of your house before something bad happened. Chris promised you to call, but you weren’t in the mood, not after what happened with your mom, so you turned off your phone, drank a beer and then you went to sleep. You deserved it.

Thursday

Your alarm started to sound pretty loud, you got up and had to run to your bathroom, it wasn’t the cleverest idea to drink a beer before bed. Once you emptied your stomach, you laid on the cold floor. Today you had to stay in, so you emailed your boss calling in a sick day. You went back to bed and you fell asleep immediately. You woke up a few hours later feeling a little bit better from your stomach. You went to the kitchen; you prepared something light to eat and went back to bed. It was the perfect opportunity to finish all your essays you hadn’t hand in yet.

Some hours later, you were emptying your stomach on the bathroom again; you probably had caught a bug during the week. You should tell Chris about it, he shouldn’t get sick.

You remembered that you’d turned it off the night before, probably you had several messages and missed calls, but you didn’t care. You didn’t want to deal with anything. Indeed, you had several phone calls from your mom and a bunch of texts saying she was sorry and she never meant to tell you such things. Before calling her you texted to Chris quickly to give him an update on your day and your health as well

Hi love! That’s great news! Sorry I didn’t answer back sooner, I was busy…

I don’t think you should come directly from the airport, I think I caught a bug, cause I haven’t been feeling well for a few days.

I hope your day is going good.

I miss you

Y/N

And then you called your mom. She picked up after the first ring

-Y/N! Darling, are you ok? –she asks almost screaming

-Yeah, I forgot to turn on my phone –I say avoiding my health

-I’m sorry about last night, I shouldn’t have told you such horrible things –she says

-But still, you did it –I say –Look, I know you don’t like the way I’m living, but it’s MY life –I say

-I know sweetie, but I still feel bad about how everything ended –she told me.

“She was really excusing herself” you thought but your stomach had other plans

-I’m sorry mom –you say –I’ve got to go. We’ll talk later –I say and hung up

You run to your bathroom, lucky for you, you made it. You really needed Chris next to you. You heard your phone ringing, probably it was him calling you, but you didn’t have the energy to get up, you were really dizzy and you started to see black dots, and then everything went black. This wasn’t good.

You didn’t know how long you were passed out, but when you woke up, you felt terrible. You checked your temperature, the thermometer marked 100.4°; with all your energy you got up, and went back to bed to rest, you didn’t have enough energy to take anything or even cook something.

Friday

You don’t know when exactly you woke up, you emailed to your job calling in sick again. You didn’t realize what time it was or how long you were asleep. The only thought in your mind was that you needed to clean the house, Chris was coming tomorrow and everything was a mess, even though you warned him about being sick you knew he was going to come either way. You had to take your temp again; you were shivering, probably because it went up. Certainly it did, it was 102.2°; you knew it was bad, so you dragged yourself from bed and decided to run a bath, which was going to help.

After your bath, you went to the kitchen and prepared just a tea, and grabbed two crackers, you didn’t want to push your stomach, you were still weak; and you went back to bed.

You had a few emails from school, from work and some texts from your mom and Chris. When you were about to texted Chris back he called you.

-Hello my love –he says with his calming voice

-Hi –you answer

-How are you feeling?

-Really bad –you say pouting

-I’m sorry doll. Do you want me to call someone to take care of you?

-Don’t worry hun, I’m better now. With some rest I’ll recover –you assure him

-I’m calling you because I’m about to head to the airport so, I’ll probably don’t answer my phone until tomorrow –you heard him smiling

-It’s ok love; I can’t wait to see you again –you say smiling as well

-Me too love. Me too. I’ve got to go –he says upset

-Safe travel, I love you –you say

-Love you too. Bye –he says and hung up

You were crying already, you didn’t know why, probably was the fever. You finished your tea; you put some cozy clothes and went to the kitchen to start cleaning everything.

You finished cleaning pretty late so you took another tea and some crackers for dinner. You weren’t in the mood for food and neither your stomach. Once you finished your tea, you went to your room to clean it, when a wave of nausea hit you and you had to run to the bathroom again. You lay on the cold floor; it was a beautiful sensation against your heated skin. With all your strength you grabbed the thermometer and took your temp again, because you were pretty hot. You were running a temp of 103.1°. You needed help, you tried to get up from the floor so you could go to grab your phone, but you fainted before getting up.

Saturday

Chris arrived at dawn; he found the house clean although you told him you were sick. He noticed there was no dinner leftover, “have you been eating?” he thought to himself, he was worried

-I’m home baby –he calls but there’s no response

-Y/N? –he calls you a little louder

He thought that you might be sleeping, but his heart broke when he find you. He lifted you from the floor and put you in bed. He went to the kitchen, grabbing a bowl and pouring some cold water, grabbed a washcloth, a glass of juice and some ibuprofen and came back to the room.

When you woke up, you realized that you were on the bed, “did you make it to the bed?” you thought when you saw that Chris entering your room.

-Hey! You are awake –he says and you could barely smile

-When did you arrive? –you question

-Not long ago, I was worried –he admits -I found you on the floor –he sits next to you on the bed pulling the tray on the nightstand

-Oh –you say and you look your hands

-What is it love? -he asks caressing your cheek

-I think I fainted in the bathroom –you admit

Chris didn’t say anything; he went to the bathroom and picked up the thermometer. He came from the bathroom with a worried face

-Open –he commands

You did what he had told you and waited. He never stopped caressing your cheek. You were falling asleep when he woke you up

-Don’t fall asleep sweetie, I know you’re tired, but please, hang on –he sounded worried - Did you eat something? –he asked you but you just shake your head and the thermometer beeped

-104° .How high was the last time you checked it? -he asks you

-103.1° –you says

-We have to break this before it gets worse. How many times did you faint? –he was really worried

-Two times, I think. I don’t really know actually –you say disappointed

-When was the last time that you eat something solid? –he asks concerned

-On Wednesday, with my mom –I say –Probably that’s why I fainted the first time –I explained

-Don’t worry, doll. I’ll take care of you –he says caressing your face.

~Tag List (If you want to be part, let me know)

@iguessweallcrazyithinktho

#weekly challenge #writing challenge #captains weekly challenge #chris evans x reader #chris evans fanfiction

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chrisevansgoodgirl · 4 years

Text

the closest i’ve been to a bar was at ballet class

summary: just some smut building up to 🎟🩰(that’s a ticket and ballet slippers in case you aren’t reading this on mobile)

pairings: reader x natasha romanoff, reader x steve rogers, reader x carol danvers, reader x ...someone 👀

word count: a little under 12,000

warnings: everything. as usual, all kinds of sex in here. i can’t remember all of it. some is pretty rough so avoid if that is not your thing.

a/n: so...i may have added a fourth and bc i’m a jerk, i’m not yet tagging who... but i’ve been thirsting for this character so hard lately and idk why! i’m done tho, i swear! no more. none.

a/n2: so, obviously there is no show here and they have yet to find out about each other but i started writing that but this all happened first and it would have been like a billion words. so part 3 will be coming!

a/n3: part 1

Your ballet instructor was Natasha’s number one enemy. It had started almost instantly. As with her experiences in ballet, she felt that your instructor was someone who simply needed to be watched. She said ballet instructors were hardly ever completely honest, they always had ulterior motives.

You highly doubted your instructor—a 38-year-old woman with an amazing husband and three adorable children—was up to no good. But you couldn’t take another lecture!

Natasha liked to remind you that she had been at this for a long time. Sure, she was paranoid, sometimes. But other times, she was very much correct and that was enough for her. She just wished you would put your guard up sometimes.

So she claimed, anyway. And she was convincing, but at the end of the day, she was glad you weren’t jaded and cynical. It meant she got to take care of you. It meant that she got to protect you in all the ways she knew how—threats, murder maybe.

She was waiting for you at your apartment around noon after practice was over. Her eyes sought out any signs of stress. You knew you looked tired—a big show was coming up, that same show you knew was going to conclude this whole sneaking around thing you had going on. You also knew there was a huge bruise on your shin and arm that she would be furious about when she undressed you.

"Hungry?" she inquired. No 'hello', no 'I missed you', but Natasha liked to save that for when you were falling asleep. She really thought you wouldn't remember how sappy she'd gotten in the morning. You let her pretend because the alternative was no sappiness.

"Starving. Are we going somewhere?"

"Let’s stay in, I’ll make something."

You opened your apartment for her and she waltzed right in. She directed you to change as she headed for the kitchen.

You didn’t have the energy to try to hide the bruises. It was better to get it out of the way. Besides, were you going to say no when she wanted to fuck you?

You chose a tiny bra top and a pair of tiny shorts. Maybe your ass would distract her.

She was at the counter, waiting to see what you came out in. A box of pasta in front of her, a few jars and a saucepan off to her side. It wasn’t anything too crazy but you were okay with that, and at least she wouldn’t get to tease you in that restaurant she loved taking you to.

Concept: picture that scene from a movie where the rich, white man has his favorite restaurant that he takes his billions of too-young, way-out-of-his-league dates to and the staff is used to not mentioning any of the terrible things they see to his wife. Now, take that vision and place it on Natasha. Subtract all the dates and the wife and that Natasha was out of your league, and that had you sitting at her usual table of her favorite overpriced, noisy, terribly lit restaurant at least once a week. At least you were starting to make friends with all of the hostesses and most of the servers. But they weren't naive, they knew when Natasha was, in a sense, in a mood, and they knew when to be succinct but still helpful. That was what made part of The Incident possible—

"What is that bruise?" she demanded, startling you out of your thoughts.

You contemplated the innocent act for a moment, but you'd rather be dismissive. It was just quicker. "Nat, I'm fine—"

"Did you get that in class?"

"No."

"Where, then?"

You sighed. "When I was leaving class. I fell walking down the stairs."

"Because you’re so tired!"

"I am not that tired," you protested.

"Y/N—"

You sauntered over to her, sliding in between her and the counter. "I guess I am a little tired but only because I’ve had some trouble falling asleep lately."

She already knew where you were going, but she would never refuse one of your challenges. You weren’t in charge, she was, and you wouldn’t know that if she was too soft with you. She sighed, "why is that?"

"Because you haven’t fucked me in so long."

She rolled her eyes.

"When you tire me out, I sleep like a baby. Without you...I have to tire myself out and that can take forever."

She sighed, knowing she was not going to get you on a different path. "Forever, huh?"

You nodded. "I mean...I can think about you when I do it. Your mouth, your fingers... But it’s not the same."

"And how often, exactly, do you think about me?"

It was the closest she was ever going to get to asking where she stood with you. She knew there were others but she wanted to hear that she was special compared to the rest. She was, so special you couldn’t put it into words. But that didn't mean Steve and Carol weren't special in their way as well. You figured they were going to have a hard time wrapping their mind around that when they found out about this. A competition? Sure, they could understand that.

"Very often," you promised. "I missed you."

You craved them exactly as you had gotten used to having them in your life. The mornings had you longing to be with Natasha, staying in bed late while you thought about how she wasn’t going to be walking you to class or waiting for you after. Nights were reserved for Steve when you realized how empty your bed felt and wanted to have one of your under-the-covers conversations with him—a trend started in the winters when he would unintentionally wake you up because he was trying to slip out of bed, it was your way of keeping him there for just a little longer. Then there were weekends, random mid-days, and every Thursday night that Carol had you set aside just for her so she could take you to Maria's for dinner.

Natasha's hands settled on your hips. "I missed you, too. But that doesn’t mean I don't want to hit your damn teacher."

"Why waste time?"

"I’m nearly retired," she countered. "I have the time."

"No, you really don’t." You slowly removed your shirt and then shimmied out of your shorts before kicking them away. "All of your time needs to be spent on me, not worrying about my teacher."

Natasha always looked at you like she’d never seen anything quite so beautiful regardless of how little time elapsed from the last, but there was something different this time. For the first time since she’d met you, your skin was an unpainted canvas. Steve and Carol had been gone as well and that meant there were no bruises anywhere because there was no one else.

Natasha liked marking you up because Steve did—not that she knew that, but it was a possessive outlet for them both. Steve’s marks were always bigger, bigger fingers, bigger love bites, she’d known instantly that he was a man—random, inconsistent. Hers were smaller, healed quicker, but no doubt sent the message that you were fucking a woman. Something she wanted to be known to whoever else was sharing your bed.

She lifted you onto the counter, leaving your hips hanging over the edge as she dropped to her knees. Immediately, her mouth was set to your inner thigh where she nipped at your skin and kissed after. She never once took her eyes off you as she switched legs..

You wouldn’t beg, even after the eighth time she made that switch. You knew she had her plans and not even you could change them. That didn’t mean you weren’t dripping and squirming, cursing her for being so thorough, however.

She shoved your legs apart wide as she stood, dipping down to run her tongue through you slowly, just once.

You shuddered when she caught your clit. "Natasha—"

"Hush." She eyed your pussy, then the rest of you. "You are delicious, baby. I can’t believe I had to go so long without tasting you." She chose your hip bones to mark up next but finally, slid two fingers inside you. She didn’t move them, she just wanted to fill you up a little.

You clenched around them several intentional times and she didn’t bat an eye. She was trying to drive you crazy; she hadn’t said it but the second you tried to take, if you rolled your hips, if you grabbed her arm and attempted to rush her, she would make you wait longer.

She trailed up to your breasts, small kisses scattered without pattern before she started to bite and suck until your skin was numbly tingling. You knew her game was over when she pressed her lips to yours.

You wasted no time, opening your mouth for her tongue and moaning out of the sheerest need. There was just something about Natasha’s lips that could always get you weak. They were beautiful to look at but they felt even better gliding across your skin, kissing, sucking.

She was the one who pulled away, turning down to look at her fingers still inside you. "You are soaking my hand."

Now you grabbed her forearm, pulling her fingers in deeper. "Fuck me, please."

She acted as if she was thinking about it, arched her eyebrow and curled her fingers once, twice, and then yanked them away from you.

Your eyes widened up at her. What the hell?

"Go sit at the table while I finish making the pasta."

Your mouth dropped a little. "Um...?"

"Hurry up," she ordered.

She was serious, dead serious. You slid off the counter, leaning down to reach for your clothes.

"I didn’t tell you to get dressed," she pointed out. With her hands on your arms, she stood you back up and turned you around. You went to move away but she grabbed your ass and leaned down to kiss your cheek, then gently urged you forward. "Sit down, stop pouting. Be a good girl or else I won’t be fucking you, understood?"

No, hell no, not understood. At all! But you didn’t say any of that as you moved for the table. No, no, no way in hell.

Steve teased, even Carol had her tendencies to make you wait, but Natasha was different. After that first time in the studio, she had never again made you wait for something that you wanted. She gave and gave until you shamelessly flaunted how spoiled you were to anyone who would listen—mostly the ballerinas from class. It was that Natasha didn’t need to be as in control as them, it was that it didn’t need to be some power struggle.

Maybe she was trying something different, but that meant that you could do that, too. Instead of sitting in a chair like a boring mouse, you turned to her and sat on the table instead.

She was pouring the box of pasta in the pot, but she turned up to arch an eyebrow at you.

You lifted one leg, then the other, setting the arches of your feet on the edge of the table. You were obscenely spread for her and she acted as if that wasn’t unnatural.

You brought your hand down to your pussy, two fingers slowly tracing circles around your clit. You watched her watching you the entire time, there was never a break in her resolve. But you were too far now to just quit, besides that was more than likely was her feigned indifference was trying for.

She didn’t stop making the pasta either, but that was how you knew you were winning. She was trying to speed dinner along because she was going to remind you that she was in charge.

It was so cute that they believed that. You worried that she may not let you finish that night, so even if you wanted to give her that little bit of obedience you could manage, you weren't convinced it was in your best interest.

Your hand began to move frantically as you cried out her name because you were just mean like that. Your eyes closed and your head fell back as you took in two of your fingers. Your hips rose to grind against the heel of your palm, around that time you were almost certain you’d heard something clatter in the kitchen.

Your finish was little more than a show, an end you’d drawn yourself to many times in their absence but one that you played up. It felt as good as it could have but you needed them, nothing else could suffice. That didn't mean you weren't acting like it was the best orgasm you'd ever had.

You came down quickly and did so without a word or even another glance at her. You climbed off the table, sat in a chair, and looked at her once more.

She looked down at the counter in front of her and shook her head. Yep, you were in major trouble, but you deemed it well worth it.

After an uneventful meal, she took you to the bedroom where she edged you ruthlessly. She was trying to get you to apologize for misbehaving, but you refused. Well, until she told you that she wasn't going to give you the presents she brought you back from Paris. (Later, you opened a new pair of thigh-high boots and a diamond choker with a dangling charm of cursive letters spelling out angel.)

And finally, when you gave in and apologized, she herself was worked up beyond comprehension and set your cunt over her face so she could eat you out until you were crying and delirious. Thankfully, she didn’t stop even though you begged her to, not until she was satisfied.

That was the first night Natasha stayed over. She kept her arms wrapped around your bare torso to keep you pinned to her as tightly as possible. You felt her running her hands through your hair until you fell asleep, enjoying the sound of her breathing in the quiet room.

In the morning, you woke first. You were able to watch her sleep for a while, surprised by how peaceful she looked. And you were caught off by how good she looked in your bed, her red hair fanned out over your pink pillowcases, the sunlight filtering through the blinds and layering her in gold light.

Her arms were slack around you, her right falling away as you sat up. You situated yourself on her side, crossing your top leg over her hip. You took her hand in yours, guiding two of her fingers to your already wet pussy.

You teased your clit for several minutes, careful not to wake her just yet. When you were ready, you slid down on two of her long fingers. Still, she was not woken by you.

You rolled your hips desperately, moaning every time your clit swept against her palm. You felt her fingers curl on their own and moaned louder, an attempt to get her conscious.

When her eyes shot open, they focused on you instantly. You continued to fuck yourself on her fingers, setting your head on the pillow next to hers and staring in her eyes.

"Fuck," she whispered. Then she was up and urging you onto your back. She spread your legs wide and slotted herself between them. She started slow, hands groping your breasts as she dragged her pussy against yours.

She was deliciously slick, you could feel her cunt dripping onto yours. Wet sounds filled the room, along with the small, desperate noises that spilled from your open mouth.

When she knew she was close, she used your thigh as leverage, moving quicker. It was a breath-taking scene when Natasha got lost in pleasure. She shut her eyes, tilted her head back and her red curls lined her back, her breasts bounced hard because that was how she was fucking you. She didn’t stop until you were both screaming each other's name and coming.

She collapsed on top of you, mouth lazily seeking out yours. "That’s the best way I’ve ever been woken up."

You smiled.

"Turn over, let me see your gorgeous ass."

You waited until she stepped off the bed to roll over, eagerly sticking your ass out for her. She had never asked you to do this so you were excited to see where she would take it.

You heard her get back on the bed and then felt her hands gripping your ass hard.

"You have such a beautiful ass."

You smirked, glancing back at her.

She set her body flat against your back and you titled your head just so you could kiss her. She began grinding her cunt against your ass, nipping at your lips as she moaned. One of her hands slithered down between your pussy and the mattress, her fingers circling your sensitive flesh skillfully.

Her soaking pussy brushed over your ass desperately, you could feel her soaking you all the way down the back of your thigh. She got herself off on your skin, never once easing up on your clit even though you’d finished and were terribly oversensitive to her touch. Instead, once again, she stopped only when she wanted to.

And if you thought that would be the end, you didn’t know her very well. She sat up and brought you with her. She took your hips in her hands and situated you over one of her thighs, her front pressed to your back once again. "Come on my thigh, baby, don’t stop until I tell you to."

You leaned over, using your elbows to keep your balance. You rode her thigh hard, making sure to give her quite the show of your ass. When you were reaching your end, you grabbed one of her hands and set it over your ass. She took the cue immediately, grabbing you, digging her fingers in.

When you finished, she shoved you flat onto the mattress. You were only half aware of what she was doing behind you, still floating from your orgasm. You snapped right out of that when you felt her lips against your ass. She kissed you several times before you felt her tongue against your hole.

You startled, hands fisting in the sheets. You were definitely surprised, you guys had never even approached this topic. But just as soon as you had felt her, she was gone. She turned you back over, kissed up your body, stopping only to worship your breasts. When she reached your mouth, she gave you an out-of-place chaste kiss and sat up. "Seriously, we need to get out of bed or I'm never going to stop fucking you."

When Carol opened her apartment door for you, things quickly changed. She gripped your arm and walked you to the couch where she forcefully sat you down. One thing was clear: she was in no mood to hear you speak.

"Stay." She headed to the kitchen where you heard cupboards being opened and slammed shut, the fridge a few times. Mostly, she was just walking around.

Perhaps you should have been scared, but you were just wet. So fucking wet.

She came back with a beer, glanced at you, then began pacing. "You’re..." she trailed off and shook her head before taking a long drink from the bottle in her hand. "I mean, I can’t even..."

It was definitely a mistake to laugh.

Her eyes widened and she turned to you, a clear warning, but one that you would not heed. "Just try to make me understand," she finally settled on. "What possessed you?"

"Well, you were gone for quite a while."

"So, you missed me?"

"Of course."

"So, you decide to be a brat?"

Was that supposed to make you regret acting out? It was a somewhat humiliating thing for her to call you but you didn’t dislike it. "Well, you weren’t paying enough attention to me."

Again, that sharp look that you were sure was supposed to make you backtrack. "I only pay attention to good girls, girls who behave."

You hummed, standing. "I suppose I should go home, then."

"Sit down," she growled.

Instead, you tossed your purse on the couch and slowly removed your jacket. Nat had left you covered in marks but she was secure enough in her place with you that she didn’t need to do so in a way that would inconvenience you. She understood you were a ballerina so she left your neck, shoulders, and chest mostly untouched. Your breasts, stomach, and thighs were another story, but you were still in a tiny ass skirt that allowed Carol to finger you in the car before you’d arrived at another little gathering Maria was having—who had more parties, her or Tony Stark? She was giving him a run for his money.

Which was where you’d started acting out. Carol had picked you up around noon and you were as sweet as could be. But around 3, you were suddenly hit with the realization that you wanted to be fucking her more than anything else. It started with a text about how you had taken off your underwear. She was having none of it, she told you this was not happening. You let her know that the scrap of lace was in her purse.

You sent a picture 30 minutes later. She warned you to stop. You sent a video showing her just how wet you were for her, then told her all the things you wanted her to do to you. All the things you had missed while she was away.

In total, you sent her 27 texts, 2 videos, and 7 pictures. You’d received 4 responses, but the final one was completely out of place. Show me your ass. You obliged but then nothing. She said nothing, she requested nothing further.

Did you feel as though you'd gone too far? Not exactly. Carol was definitely into the most public shit, making possible for the second part of The Incident. You still blushed thinking about that day.

She rolled her eyes at your display of disobedience, bringing the bottle to her lips once more. "Strip."

You didn’t need to be told twice. First, it was the shirt, and you paid no mind at all to what Natasha had left you with, but you noticed Carol's lingering gaze. Next, you pushed your skirt down and stepped out of her pumps you’d borrowed. You loved wearing heels when you were out with Carol, she was taller than you without and sometimes it brought you to her level or made you just a tad taller.

She made her way closer to you, setting her bottle on the coffee table off to her side. Abruptly, she grabbed a handful of your hair and pulled you closer to her. "If you wanted me to get rough with, princess, all you had to do was ask."

You didn’t have time to respond before she was kissing you, greedy and demanding. But just as you reached up to touch her face, she yanked back and turned you around with her hands on your shoulders. She grabbed your hair once more and forced you down toward the table.

You were on your knees, bent over the edge, your breasts flat against the freezing glass. Your cheek was pressed so hard against the solid surface you almost couldn’t open your mouth to speak. "Carol—"

"Silence."

It was a while before you heard her move, she got down behind you and kept one hand on your head as the next began to feel through your folds.

She slipped one finger inside you, pulled back, then added another. She curled up against that spot that always made you buck your hips wildly, even though now you were digging into the sharp wooden border of the table she’d bent you over.

"You know how to drive, right, princess?"

You paused for a moment, confused.

"Answer me."

"Um, yes?"

"You know that when you reach a traffic light, green means go and red means stop, don’t you?"

"Yeah..."

"So, right now, bent over this table, your soaking cunt filled with my fingers, you are...?"

She was speaking slowly as if you were a child that could barely comprehend this conversation. Never mind that you were definitely getting lost and her fingers were turning your brain to mush. It was another humiliation tactic and you felt yourself blushing. She’d never been quite so...formal. "Green?"

"Are you asking or telling? Green means that you are still my desperate little whore that needs to be fucked hard."

"I’m green," you assured.

"And if at any point you feel like you need me to slow down or you are beginning to get worried or uncomfortable, if you need any verbal communication, you’re yellow. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"And you understand if you need me to stop, if I’m hurting you or you don’t like what’s going on, you can tell me you are red and you know I won’t get mad at you?"

"Yes."

"One more time, what are you?"

"Green."

She pulled her fingers from inside you. "Arms on the table."

You hurriedly obeyed, gripping the edges hard. Carol never really spoke to you like this, it was all spoiling you in attention and affection. This was something else, something you hadn’t anticipated when you started this game.

She brought her hand down on the right side of your ass, your hips stuttered forward and your gasp and the echo of the smack filled the room. Your cheeks burned and your eyes filled with tears. It didn’t hurt, she was experimenting, but you knew it would eventually.

"And what are you now, princess?"

You swallowed, willing your voice to stay even. "Green."

She finally let go of your hair and you tilted your head a little just to get the pressure off your cheekbone. She repeated the slap on the opposite side with just a bit more pressure.

You shuddered and blurted out the same color. Your skin was stinging but you felt yourself growing wetter, your slick running down your thighs now.

She had you in this cycle until she found enough force that it was barely manageable. Tears were running down your cheeks, landing on the table and she had to hold you up on your knees because you no longer could.

She hummed. "These marks are going to be pretty in the morning."

You realized then where this came from. Had you come to her with the same attitude but without all of those marks Nat left you covered in, you probably never would have pushed Carol to this point. They had both officially found their ways to be just the slightest bit possessive.

"You sorry?"

You snorted. "No...are you?"

"Excuse me?"

"You should have fucked me at the party if you really wanted me to stop sending you pictures and videos."

She rolled her eyes. "Stay here. I'm not joking."

You smirked as she stormed off to her bedroom. You knew what she would be coming back with. She returned naked, save for her strap. A smooth red dildo hung between her legs, one of the larger ones she owned.

You went to stand up but she clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

"Crawl over here."

You lifted your eyebrows—crawl? Hadn't she just called you ‘princess’? But you could be a ‘whore’ since she called you that, too. On hands and knees, you made your way to her.

She reached down to grab your hair, pulling you up to stand on your knees. She said nothing else as she used her other hand to press the tip of the dildo against your lips until you opened your mouth. A struggle that ended with the sounds of you choking on the piece of silicone down your throat.

The rest of the night was spent on the couch. She made you ride her strap until you physically couldn't continue, which ended up being a bit after two in the morning. She didn't tease or edge, she allowed you to come as many times as you wanted to, in fact, she ordered it—unstated, but the threat that would come from not playing her game was clear.

She didn't help, however, she stayed still underneath you and didn't say a word. She just watched you, watched as you pathetically attempted to get her to break. You would kiss her, take her fingers and suck on them, place her hands over your breasts. A few times, you even got up, turning your back to her before sinking back down on the dildo, knowing that she would love the sight of your battered ass.

Steve understood your love of ballet.

Sure, Natasha knew what you were talking about and related to you somewhat, but she also had her opinions about ballet and sometimes she was a little closed off about your dancing. And hell, Carol would support you doing anything. Tap, softball, book club, Broadway, murder, she just wanted you to be happy.

With Steve, well, he sort of understood interests that left you a little battered and bruised. His new obsession (TM) was patching you up through those unanticipated injuries and wrapping your feet before you practiced at home to prevent injuries. It was a careful 20-minute process where he was utterly focused on making sure you were completely protected. And either he paid tremendous attention to you—his skills at quickly prepping your feet was enviable—or he had a thing for ballerinas. You were okay not knowing.

When he called you and told you he was coming over, you noticed something in his voice. It was different, not that usual sweet and doting tone, but you'd heard it before. Steve was always confident and assertive, but this was...something else. Something more. When he told you that you needed to get dressed in nothing more than a leotard, you wanted to be a brat and flat out refuse, maybe just tease, but you didn’t. You had enough sense to know that it wouldn’t get you the results you wanted.

You also had reason to be nervous. Carol had left you some nice marks. They didn’t really hurt anymore, but they were there. There was also no false illusion about what they were. Steve would know and you just weren’t sure how he would feel about them. Most of your ass was covered with what you were wearing but there were still the especially dark areas that could be seen through your one-piece, and there were a few bruises that extended the cut of your outfit. Not to mention, there was no way to hide what Natasha left on your upper thighs.

But you just decided to act like it wasn’t an issue. He was the one who said he couldn’t be your boyfriend, right? He couldn’t get upset over others leaving marks behind. At least that was what you kept repeating to yourself as you walked toward your barre in the corner of your apartment living room.

You began going through your usual warm-up routine, only glancing at him when you felt you wouldn’t be caught. He was laid out on the couch, eyes following your legs as if he hadn’t seen you do this a dozen times already. He was already hard, made more noticeable by the one leg draped over the edge of the cushions. His hand was on his thigh, fingers twitching just barely. The control he was trying to maintain was clear on his face, through his sharp blue eyes, his set jaw, and furrowed brow.

It was silent the entire time and your nerves were growing. Eventually, you would have to turn around and he would have the perfect view of your ass. He’d already noticed your thighs, you saw him eyeing you when he was prepping your feet for the pointe shoes. But he didn’t say anything and he wouldn’t, because he wasn’t allowed to. Right?

With a finishing soutenu turn, you were facing the opposite direction. You heard him sit up but then it was completely silent, minus your breathing and your shoes brushing along the floor.

When you were done, you stayed put. You’d gone as far as teaching him a lot of ballet vocabulary because he knew what he wanted to see and after your warm-ups, he would often direct you. It was always somewhat thrilling—apparently, you both shared this depraved ballerina kink. Maybe there had been role play—maybe he was the casting director and you were a desperate ballerina auditioning for a role, willing to do anything to get it, and maybe he pretended he had a million and one critiques for you, and maybe instead of having the talent, you got the role after you sucked him off.

“Face the barre. Run through your pliés.”

You turned to your side, pretending to be focused on keeping your hips squared and your pelvis locked. You could do pliés no problem, but the alternative was meeting his stare in the mirror and you were too nervous to do that. You completed the demi-pliés slowly and the grand pliés much the same. Normally, he would speak during this step, knowing that he wasn’t going to distract you, but nothing.

You waited for more instructions but they never came. You felt his arms wrap around your waist and you startled—you hadn’t heard him get so close.

He just held you for a moment, pinned your back to his chest as he kissed the side of your face. His hands began to squeeze your breasts and you melted into him eagerly. But soon, gentle touching became rough grabbing and all you could do was watch him in the mirror. He looked at you like he was starving and he touched you like it had been ages.

One of his hand dropped down and grabbed your ass. You held on tighter to the barre, shuddering. "What do you call him?"

Because you just didn’t know what was good for you, you laughed. "Are you jealous?"

He gripped you harder, bringing down his other hand to join. "I don’t need to be. What do you call him?"

'I’m not fucking another man," you informed, amusement still clear in your tone. Steve Rogers jealous, you never thought you’d see the day.

"Then what do you call her?"

She had you call her captain, but you couldn’t exactly tell him that. "What do you want me to call you?" you purred. "Sir?"

"No."

You hummed. “Master? You don’t strike me as the type, but you’re weird enough that I wouldn’t be surprised."

"No."

"Then I’m not sure what you want, Steve." You did know, you’d always had the suspicion since he liked to take care of you and loved calling you baby girl.

"I won’t ask you again," he finally said. He didn’t much care what you were doing with other people, but he did have a special liking to your ass. Maybe he was just mad that someone was spanking you before he was.

When it came to Steve, you knew how to get under his skin. You always knew just what to say to shock him and he could pretend all he wanted that he didn’t love when you would say the filthiest things to him, but you knew better. And after he just handed you this, how were you supposed to resist? "I don’t think I’ll have enough time to answer."

He lifted his eyebrows. "Oh, are we on a clock?"

You shrugged, leaning back to set your head on his shoulder. "Well, yeah, if you want to fuck me before mom gets home."

He scoffed, averting his gaze forward.

You knew you’d caught something though, his hands tightened on your hips and his jaw was doing that thing.

"You are sick."

You snorted. "And you’re hard, so."

He turned you abruptly, pinning you between his body and the barre. "Fine, what’s the story?"

You hummed. "You met my mom in a bar, you liked her, you started this all with the purest intentions. But then you stayed over one night, and there I was. You’ve tried fighting it—"

"But you don’t make it easy," he sighed.

You smirked. "I’m sorry, daddy. Really."

Any last reluctance he had was destroyed when you called him daddy. "Well, baby girl, daddy really isn’t okay that you’ve been letting so many other people fuck you."

You shrugged. "Maybe I was practicing."

He scoffed, fully aware of how you were intending to turn this. "Practicing. For what?"

"You. I just wanted to make sure I was good when you fucked me."

He hummed, turning you away once again. "And are you?"

"Good?"

"Mhm."

"The best," you promised.

"Baby, I don’t know how I feel about sharing you. What if I wanted to be your first?"

"I—"

He brought his hand up to your neck and you fell silent. "Daddy is really disappointed."

Rarely did Steve commandeer your scenes. Mostly, he pretended that he was just humoring you, then he fucked you well enough that you weren’t in the position to tease him afterward. It was a great system. But you weren’t complaining that he was suddenly changing things.

"Are you sorry for letting me down?"

You nodded quickly. It was surprising how naturally he could commit to this character.

"How are you going to make it up to me?"

"I’ll do anything," you promised.

He took his other hand, palm sliding over your ass. "Have I ever told you how much I love your ass?"

"No."

"I do... you ever had your ass fucked?"

That was a huge no. The men you had been with up to that point, prior to Steve, did not meet your standards that well. There was lacking trust, skill, most of them couldn’t define 'foreplay' if their lives depended on it. And after, well, Carol was the only one who liked straps so much and she’d never brought it up.

"No."

"No?"

You were about to repeat the answer when his hand came down on your ass. It (illogically) was the last thing you were expecting and you pathetically squeaked before you could stop yourself.

"You know what I want you to call me. Correct?"

"Yes, daddy. No, I’ve never been fucked there."

"You want daddy to fuck you there?"

"Will daddy forgive me?"

"Maybe."

Pouting, right now? Steve Rogers knew no bounds. "Yes, daddy, I want you to fuck me there."

"Spread your legs and hold the barre."

You hurriedly did as he asked, watching his face in the mirror. His eyes were focused on your ass, the way you moved, the way you were teasing him by leaning over just a little.

First, he moved your suit aside and buried two fingers inside you. You were obscenely wet, something he chuckled at.

You would have blushed, had you not already been. He pumped his fingers in and out, ordering you to watch, even though you couldn’t see much with your leotard in the way. When he added another finger, you squirmed a little, trying to get more comfortable.

"Does that hurt?"

"A little, daddy." It always hurt, taking Steve was always an adjustment process. The first few times, uncomfortable, an orgasm without his fingers rubbing quick circles around your clit was impossible. You were getting used to him, it was still a stretch, you’d just grown to like that ounce of pain because you knew how much pleasure was going to follow.

"Well, imagine how they’re going to feel in your ass. Then imagine how my cock will feel. Worried?"

"No, daddy. I like it when you hurt me."

He thrust his fingers a tad indelicately and your hips jerked.

Ass—obviously you’d said that to get a rise out of him, but still, rude. You had completely soaked through your thick suit by the time he pulled his fingers out, and not a single finish to show for it. But you figured he knew what he was doing, he’d probably had experience with this before so you were fine letting him run the show.

He pulled the material over your ass so he could watch you take his fingers.

"Take it off, daddy," you pleaded, voice all weak and breathy. You were pathetic.

"Can’t, baby. If your mom walks in, you can’t be naked."

You whined unintelligibly. Was he serious right now?

"Don’t misbehave," he warned. "I don’t want to have to punish you. Understand?"

"Yes, daddy." You set your forehead to the bar, angling your head so you could still see his face.

"Are you ready?"

You nodded slightly. "Yes, daddy." You startled a bit when you felt his finger, taking a breath when he told you to. The first finger didn’t hurt but you felt impossibly full—he was right, how were you going to take him? There was a sting when he got to his knuckle but he told you to relax so you tried.

His opposite hand reached through the suit where he pressed his fingers flat to your clit and began to massage them over you, back and forth, with a toe-curling pace and pressure. He pumped his finger in and out of your ass until you were crying out about your approaching orgasm. His finger felt different now, better, and you weren’t sure any finish had ever built up so intensely.

Before you could find out, he stopped touching your clit, dipping his first two fingers down to tease your entrance. It was then that he decided to add another finger to the one working on opening your ass for him. He was quick about it, slid one finger out, shoved two in.

You threw your head back, moaning loudly.

"Starting to feel good, baby?"

"Yes, daddy." Maybe just the looming promise of the right kind of pain, but not necessarily good. Not yet.

He continued his pattern of edging you until he had four fingers inside your ass. Your legs were shaking and his other hand was completely soaked. He never stopped talking, telling you about all the times he had thought about fucking you like this, how he touched himself during these fantasies, how he was going to make you feel better than you’d ever felt.

Steve wasn’t the most forthcoming man. He didn’t lie, never, but sometimes he kept things so completely to himself and you never had a clue. When did this obsession with your ass start, and how? And if Carol had never spanked you, would he even be doing this now? What other fantasies was he keeping to himself?

"Do you want to go to your bedroom, doll?"

"Not yet."

"Do you want your mother to catch us?" he joked.

You snorted. "Maybe I do."

He leaned over you, kissing the side of your face. "You know, I’m just saying, if you really did have a mom and I was your stepfather and was trying to fuck you on a clock, we would have definitely been caught by now."

You couldn’t possibly refrain from smiling. "You’re such a dork, Steve."

He smiled a little. "You think you’re ready?"

"Yes."

He arched an eyebrow at you. "Don’t drop the act now, baby girl."

You scoffed. "Yes, daddy. I’m ready." You watched him in the mirror as he moved his pants out of his way, something he eventually had to remove his fingers to do. You immediately missed that full feeling.

He adjusted your leotard out of his way once more, opposite hand leading his cock to you. He pressed in just barely, allowing you time to adjust or to protest if this was a failed experiment. You guys had had a few of those. Beyond handcuffs, he did not like tying you up. You guys actually weren’t overly into public sexual situations, save for the final act of The Incident. And phone sex was something that only occurred in times of true desperation. This would not be making the same list.

He folded his hands over your hip bones, pulling you back further on his cock. Your mouth dropped and your eyes slammed shut. It didn’t feel natural, it was like your body was trying to push back at him but well, Steve was nothing if not stubborn. He just kept pushing and pushing until your ass was flush against him.

It felt like an eternity when he started to pull out and then another eternity when he thrust back in, but you enjoyed every second. You felt high by the time his hips were moving easily, steadily. It was this maddening feeling like you were on the edge of something really good but he wouldn’t touch you anywhere else and it just wasn’t enough to finish. You suspected he knew that.

His hands moved up your hips and your waist until he could grab your shoulders. He stood you up, his hips stilling, your back flat to his chest. Just when you thought you he couldn’t get any deeper inside you. He pressed his hands up until he closed around your breasts. He pinched your nipples through the material, lips brushing against your ear as he spoke.

"Let’s go to the bedroom."

He would have a much better angle to watch, of course. Two months prior, you were days away from a huge audition so you were either at the studio or at home practicing. One night when you arrived home at nearly 10, it just felt like something wasn't right. Like someone had been in your apartment, nothing looked off. You just felt it.

You didn't lock the door behind you, just in case. You kept hold of your phone. You hadn’t spoken to Natasha that day and you worried she wouldn’t answer, she didn’t generally stay awake so late. And well, it wasn’t like Steve was a stranger to your AM calls or texts. But Carol lived closer and would have been there in a second if you’d needed her.

You made yourself move, tomorrow was another busy day. You flipped on your bedroom light, nearly sprinting straight back out when you saw flowers on your bed. But fear was quickly replaced with all sorts of confusion.

It looked like an expensive bouquet and there was a card right next to it. And see, these were not roses or daisies, these were dahlias—dark red, full, extra flowers. And who was more extra than... As the card read—ding, ding, ding. Steve Rogers.

When you’re not so busy, we’ll try it out.

Fear soon returned. Oh no, you thought to yourself. What could he have possibly done? It took you only three more seconds to find a full ass mirror over your bed. At the moment, you were stunned, but once more, pulled yourself out of it with your insistence of sleep. You did not have time for this.

However, when you were in bed, your phone charging next to you, you just couldn’t fall asleep. Of course. You had to call Steve. He’d broken into your home, or allowed others to break into your home, without your permission. All to put a fucking mirror over the god damn bed? He was insane, you realized.

"Hey, doll."

He sounded so smug. "You’re sick."

"Hmm, does that mean you don’t like it?"

"That means what I said: you’re sick."

"Take your clothes off."

You snorted. "Who said I’m wearing any?"

As mentioned, this wasn’t your usual routine with him. Steve loved seeing you, feeling you—phone sex just didn’t cut it. But who knew when you would have time for him next?

"There are many toys in your bedside table, pick one now."

You eagerly obliged, spreading your legs and fucking yourself with a vibrator he’d used on you several times. He told you to watch, to not take your eyes off the mirror.

The mirror added to discovering that Steve Rogers liked role-play had been some of the most pleasant surprises of your life. It was fun for both of you, never a question about when or where. When either of you wanted it, the other was always up for it. You’d thought it was just a one-time thing after the ballet incident, but then he found handcuffs in your room, which believe it or not, you hadn’t actually been using for sex. They were sex handcuffs, but they were just part of your costume to the Valentine's Day party Carol had taken you to, thrown by the lovely Maria.

Regardless, he asked you about them and you dismissed them. He then “arrested” you for “being a brat”. That got you bent over the kitchen counter as he fucked you from behind. He had you beg him to let you go but didn’t stop until his cum was dripping out of you onto the floor.

Then he’d noticed you were struggling in one of your classes and offered a prize for doing well on an upcoming exam. Of 50 questions, you’d only missed 4. He laid you out on your bed and told you he was going to eat you out. After the first time, you attempted to pull him up to you, gasping about how you needed him inside you, please Steve. He grabbed your hands and held them down, ordering you to call him professor Rogers.

Then there was the loose sugar daddy scene. He’d bought you a diamond choker on one of his trips away and it was stunning. You felt spoiled and wanted him to feel the same. You got on your knees and stayed there until you were sure your jaw was going to suffer permanent damage if you kept your mouth open that wide for much longer. It was three days later that he sent you a screenshot of your Instagram post about the diamond choker and told you to get dressed exactly how you were in the photo. So, in a rose pink wig, a tiny pink satin dress, a dangerously high pair of red heels, and the diamond choker. He didn’t use your name when finally got to your apartment, he called you baby and made you ride him, fully dressed, until you couldn’t sit up on your own.

Then there was the time Steve Rogers actually sent you the address to a sex shop and told you to meet him there. You’d had no idea until you pulled up to the building but you knew immediately that you were going to enjoy this. He asked you to help him find toys that his wife would enjoy—you told yourself you could play along, but you definitely needed to smack him upside the head later. When he got you in the car, after a little back and forth, you being somewhat mouthy, he placed one of the vibrators inside you and wouldn’t turn it off. His fingers paid attention to your clit the entire drive home.

Your payback for that was you dressed as one of his former chorus girls. A designer at the university that you’d met because she always made the costumes for the show was all too happy to help. You sent him a picture of the outfit then flipped the skirt up to show him you weren’t wearing underwear. The absolute last thing you expected was for him to show up in one of his suits. He was wild almost animalistic, he made you scream so loud that three different neighbors came to check if you were okay. Which had been a great source of pride to him.

Then you bought a stripper pole. It took 7 entire classes before you had any idea what you were doing. Though he appreciated it, it was a requirement of patience that he did not want to execute. Natasha, though,

Natasha loved watching you dance. Carol had the same problem as Steve but if you let Natasha, she would watch you for hours.

When you woke up, it was because Steve was getting out of bed. You glanced at the clock, 4 in the morning. He was getting up for his run, then he'd head out to the tower for another day at the office.

He fucked you again before he left. He had you on top of him, chest to chest, his arms wrapped tight around your back, one hand on the back of your head to hold you to the bend of his neck. He liked to do this with the mirror. He liked holding you flat against him and then watching your ass as he fucked you fervidly. He had become wild and insatiable since the mirror's arrival.

Natasha liked to lay you down, tie your legs to the bedpost, sometimes your arms, and would spend hours teasing you with her mouth. Sometimes, when she knew you weren’t too tired, she would tell you to finger yourself and she would stay next to you and watch in the mirror for as long as you would allow it.

Carol liked making you ride her and you couldn’t deny that was a beautiful scene to watch play out from above. She also liked to turn you away from her, settle directly behind you, drape your leg back over her hip, and fuck you with one of her straps.

They had their shared interests, that was undeniable. You still blushed every time you thought about The Incident. It occurred four months ago. They’d been on a short trip; not even a mission, they’d promised, they’d told you it was more politics than saving the world. The first one you saw when they got back was Carol.

She had texted you while you were out with friends and asked where you were. You informed her that you would be shopping alone after lunch. She joined you because she had a present that she just couldn’t wait. It was a vibrator that she could control from her phone. She never used it while you were walking, concerned that you may actually fall and hurt yourself but if you stopped to look at something or sat down for even a second, it was on.

Natasha had taken you to the restaurant. She told you to go to the bathroom and take off your bra and panties and she handed you her purse to place them in. She made you sit down next to her, slipped the same vibrator inside you, then made you sit on her lap for the entire night. She let you watch her phone, let you know when she was going to speed up or slow down, and all she did the entire night was sip on her wine and keep a tight hold on you so you couldn't move away from her.

Two days later, Steve made you wear it to class. Not ballet class, actual classes where you would be sitting down. It was so random when you would feel it and it was terrifying as he wasn't there. You never knew when or where, or if you were standing up and reading! You wanted to hit him when you got back to your apartment and he was waiting for you. You didn't, but you were really upset. Mostly because he hadn't let you come the entire day.

You wanted to know why? You’d asked, but their answers were dismissive and it wasn’t like you could elaborate on what you actually meant. You weren’t just asking why, you were asking why all three? It was just one of those answers you weren’t going to get while you were still keeping secrets from them.

When Natasha showed up after Steve left, it was two hours before class. You were still in bed checking social media when she slipped under the covers and made you come with her mouth and fingers. You’d taken a shower since Steve left, fortunately.

She kissed up your body and settled on top of you. You undressed her, kissing her bare skin as soon as you exposed it, her arms, her chest, her stomach, her legs, her ass, her cunt. She wanted you on top, grinding against her as she watched in the mirror.

She walked you to class and you fingered her in the dimly lit hallway before she left. She picked you up afterward and made you eat since you simply did not have the time to before class. She walked you home, set up her phone on the table next to the couch, sat down, sat you on top of her, and made you ride her fingers. Sometimes, Natasha wanted videos.

In between your second and third lecture classes, the biggest gap in your day, Carol texted. She picked you up in her car and drove out to some hiking trails that she felt were empty enough. In the back of her car, she had you pressed down to the seats, ass up as she fucked you with her strap. She held the side of your face down against the leather, not so much that it would stifle your screams.

When you finished, she made you clean the seat with your tongue. You could distinctly tell the difference between her taste and yours. She watched you as she removed the strap, taking the dildo and fucking herself with it.

She laid back and let you on top, directing you to sink down on the dildo as it was still buried in her pussy. You didn’t stop taking it until your pussy was against hers, thankfully it wasn’t one of the longer ones in her collection. Leaning over, you used the side of the car to keep your balance. She rose onto her elbows, nipping and sucking at your nipples as you ground your wet center against hers.

This was a regular day, one you had grown to love, one you were completely obsessed with. You were scared. You felt that the likelihood of them all being okay with this was low. But you were not so scared that you would ever lie to them. Withhold information? Sure. Lie? Out of the question.

You'd finally confided in the ballerinas. They'd always known about Natasha because she was at practice all of the time, but you only told half-truths about Steve and Carol. You didn't actually want them to know that you were sleeping with three Avengers. Maybe it was because everyone was drunk, but they promised you that Natasha adored you and she wouldn't leave you.

Okay, but what about Steve and Carol? You were stressed, really stressed. During the preparation period for shows, when training was intense, the ballerinas often went out on Saturdays and got wasted and talked. This was why you were in a loud night club with dancing and alcohol, and no one who was going to stop any of you from getting in trouble.

You were impaired but you were not a bad friend. At the bar, you counted all of your friends. They would likely be leaving with someone as they had all found someone to dance with, you would make the rounds in a minute. It was a rule, if they wanted to leave with a guy, that guy had to give you his number. You would verify it right then and there by sending him a text, then they could be on their way.

It was one in the morning when the girls started leaving. You had a drink at your side and five new names (proven by ID) and numbers saved in your notes.

"That's sweet."

You turned to your left, eyebrows shooting up. Gorgeous blue eyes, long brown hair, and beautiful fair skin. Wanda Maximoff was either sitting right next to you at a bar or you were completely imagining her. Given your drunken state and your current obsession with her, it was possible.

"Well, they don't exactly agree...I read stories about guys and bars and how to avoid getting chopped up into little pieces."

She smiled a little. "Who makes sure you get home?"

"I live close."

She hummed. "Were you heading out?"

Yes, you should say yes. You should leave because this could not happen. You didn't know how to explain that you were sleeping with three of them! And Wanda was wearing this red dress that was really tight and so low cut, so, how would you explain four?!

"Maybe...after I finish my drink."

She eyed your glass for a moment. "I'm Wanda."

"I know. I'm Y/N."

"I think you're the first person who's recognized me all night."

"You're stunning. I don't know how anyone wouldn't recognize you."

She smiled slightly, turning back down to her glass.

There was something so wrong with you. Instead of leaving, you just wanted to sit there and drunkenly flirt, clearly.

"Can I buy you another drink?"

No, say no! "Sure."

It was two drinks later, technically three drinks later, since you finished your drink and then she bought you two more. Things were starting to get...closer. You guys were closer. You'd started out at a normal distance, at least you assumed, but the next thing you realized, you were centimeters away from her.

She had her hand on your arm and she'd stopped ordering drinks. She was ready to leave or almost ready to leave. You hadn't neglected your duties as the best friend. You had 12 names and numbers in your notes but now you were realizing that you were all alone and if you wanted to do something, you could.

You'd talked about yourself a little, the usual. You were a student, you were a ballerina. However, you left the part out about your apparent gambling addiction! She didn't share much and you didn't think that was odd, the others didn't for a long while. They had to be a lot more guarded than you. You completely understood.

Wanda glanced at her phone when the conversation died down, or when you stopped babbling like the intoxicated fool you were, before looking back at you. "Can I be honest with you?"

"Yeah." You should still be saying no. You should try being honest. You should say: I'm sleeping with three of your team members and I should go home. But god, she really was fucking stunning.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No."

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"No."

"I do. I have a boyfriend that I love very much...but sometimes, there are things that I want to try. Things that he doesn't want to try."

"Are you...referring to me?" That was a stupid question, you were almost sure. But was she? Was that what you were supposed to be picking up?

She scoffed. "In a sense, yes. I do think you are beautiful and you're nice, and really cute. I want to have sex with you, but it can't be a relationship. My boyfriend is offering me an open arrangement... I'm still with him, very committed, but sometimes...I would like to call you and meet you. Does that sound like something you would be okay with?"

Should you be offended by how many Avengers didn't want to be in a relationship with you at this point? You may end up dwelling on that later, but now, you were thinking about having sex with her. She looked soft and sweet, very unlike Carol, Steve, and Natasha. You weren't saying she was better or worse, it wasn't like you were comparing them to rank them.

You were just acutely aware of the fact that they were so dominant and you were not. Wanda didn't seem to need that so much, she seemed like she would be fine just having sex. Meaningful sex, but not too meaningful. Soft sex, but not boring. In fact, it sounded like she wanted to try something different, and maybe you wanted to also.

So, you said yes. Mostly because it reminded you that Natasha, Steve, and Carol all said they were not able to be in an actual relationship with you. You were getting ahead of yourself, maybe they wouldn't care at all. Maybe it would be a complete non-issue, and you shouldn't miss out on having sex with Wanda if you don't have any proof that they'll react negatively.

She kissed you the first time while you were both still sitting at the bar. After you'd given her your consent, she set her hand to your cheek and pressed her lips to yours. It was all soft lips and tongue, no teeth, no power play. She tasted like alcohol and lip gloss, at least her mouth did. You wanted to know what her pussy tasted like, which you didn't fail to whisper to her when she pulled away.

She immediately took your hand and led you out of the club. It wasn't terribly cold as you waited for the Uber she sent for. She was just a bit taller than you and wrapped her arms around your shoulders as she leaned down again to kiss you. Your hands started at her hips but soon began to roam, her ass, her waist, her back, her shoulders to pull her down closer.

By the time the driver showed, you were both completely flushed and very ready to find a bed. She was taking you to a hotel. You figured that was best, no need to add any more people to the list of individuals who randomly show up at your apartment without calling or texting.

She kept her hand on your thigh the entire drive there but didn't dare move it underneath your dress. Another point of difference between her and her teammates. Any of the others and you would have already finished at least twice.

Getting up to the room was a blur. Thankfully, she did all the talking. You weren't sure how to function under this kind of calm, steady build. It was always fast and immediately, but Wanda was taking her time and making sure everything was how she wanted it.

When you finally got into the room, she didn't bother turning on the light. She curled one arm around you, the other pulling your hair off to the side as she began to kiss your neck. She held you against her as she walked forward. There was a bed that you supposed was big enough, a small bathroom, a sad excuse for a kitchen, a huge window with dirty curtains shining light on the mattress.

None of that really mattered, anyway. She led you closer to the window, stopping only when she wanted to remove your dress. It hit the floor, she peeled the curtain away from the window, and her hands were all over you. "Is this okay? I like the moonlight tonight."

She waited for your confirmation before she ran her hands up and down your sides, a teasing touch before she grabbed your breasts. She was still kissing your neck, gentle and open-mouthed.

You turned your head upward, catching her mouth. She opened her lips for you instantly and you took full advantage of that with a slow but sloppy kiss. Her fingers trailed down from the middle of your chest, straight down your stomach, and all the way to your pussy.

She hummed when she felt you were wet. The brushes against your clit were faint but somehow it was enough, it didn't take long at all for you to unhurriedly fall apart. Your legs were shaking and your mind was even more blurry than before.

You turned to her to slip her out of her dress. You kissed across her collarbone, then over her chest, glancing up as you closed your lips around one of her nipples. Her eyes fluttered shut, her head fell back, and she opened her beautiful mouth to moan.

Your hands on her hips, you directed her to the bed. She sat down first, grabbing your arms to pull you down with her. Your naked skin was flush against hers and all you did for the longest time was kiss. Hands buried in each other's hair, quiet moans and gasps filling the room, all the while just building up to this intense scene.

When you sat up, she remained on her back. She pushed your hair over your shoulders so she could see your chest and your face. She was right about the moonlight, it washed over her so well.

You kissed her chin, off to the side of her jaw, then down her shoulder and arm until you reached her hand. You took it in yours, the same with the other as you lowered onto your knees on the floor, intertwining your fingers. There was no prelude, you simply took her with your mouth.

She cried out your name, arching her back and squeezing your hands. She tasted sweet, smelled musky and a little like vanilla. You kissed down the length of her soaking cunt, sliding your tongue into her entrance.

"Oh, fuck," she gasped. "Do that again."

You obliged, releasing one of her hands so you could rub her clit with your fingers. She took her newly freed hand and grabbed your hair. She pulled you down harder, rolling her hips up slowly, trying to get your tongue in deeper.

Not even a minute later, she was making you aware of her approaching orgasm, "I'm close, suck my clit--please, fuck! Suck my clit."

You ran your tongue through her as you brought your hand down, you closed your lips around her and began to suck hard. You pressed two fingers inside her and pumped them in and out, moaning when you felt her clenching around them.

She was shaky and smiling as you lazily licked her through her finish. She pulled you up as soon as her brain was working enough to tell her arms to pull you up. "And how do I taste?"

"Amazing."

She smirked.

You had to figure her boyfriend wasn't much for going down on her since she was looking at you like you were the reason the sun would rise tomorrow morning.

You laid on top of her but she quickly rolled over, legs slotting so you could grind against one another's thigh. Her slick center against your skin was almost enough to make you finish. Again, her mouth was on yours and nothing was hurried. You canted your hips, catching your clit on her soft leg, and she did the same.

Soon, your hips started to gain speed, you were close and could tell she was, too. The sounds of wet pussy slapping against thigh nearly drowned out the desperate screams and whines you both made.

You completely soaked her thigh with your orgasm. As she continued pursuing hers, she reached down, hand gliding between you and her wet skin. She brought her fingers up to her mouth, humming and sucking on them. "I can't wait to have you sit on my face." Then she closed her eyes, her hips stuttered, and your leg felt much hotter.

She didn't waste any time at all, she rolled back over and hauled you on top of her. Your hips jerked when you pressed against her, still sensitive from the last finish. She didn't seem to mind, she just placed both hands on your hips and moved you relentlessly against her.

"Hands behind your back, lean onto the mattress," she instructed.

You quickly did so, relieved to have some type of balance.

She loved watching your breasts bounce this way, loved watching your eyes roll to the back of your head. And she especially loved when you sat up again to grab her hands, an attempt to pull away from the overstimulation. She didn't allow it, she kept her grip tight and pulled you in faster as she rolled her hips up.

#natasha romanoff x reader #steve rogers x reader #carol danvers x reader #will tag the fourth a little later bc i believe in surprises #my writing

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verilyruth · 4 years

Text

I haven’t posted another chapter of On a Subway Platform since Thursday so I figured I should get something up. Anyway, here are the first thousand odd words in the second installment of Across Enemy Lines:

David Jacobs almost hit himself in the face entering the World building because, in his rush to get inside, he had forgotten that the doorman was going to open the door and practically collided with it.

“Sorry, Marcus!” he tossed back as he sped through.

“This happens every morning; I’m used to it. Have a good day, David.”

“You too! Good morning, Martha,” he greeted, barely managing not to topple into the woman.

“Good morning, David. How was your Sunday?”

“Same as always. How was yours?”

“It was fine but I have to tell you what I heard about Paul and Dana.”

“As in Paul and Dana together?”

She nodded. “Stop by when you get a chance.”

“I will.” He navigated through the crowd to the front desk and smiled at the secretary. “Good morning, Vivian.” The woman just glared at him as per usual. “Is there anything for me to bring up?”

“There was but I sent it to the mailroom. I’ve told you before, if you’re not here to get it first thing I’m not responsible for it.”

David looked at the giant clock hanging on the wall. “But it’s only two minutes after!”

“Get here at eight o’clock and you wouldn’t have this problem.”

“But-”

“I do actually have things to do besides talk to you. Go.” David huffed but relented and moved towards the elevators and called the one he always took.

“David!” someone yelled. “David!” It took him a second to pick the person out of the crowd but he turned away when he did, hoping they would think he hadn't heard. “David! I’ve been calling you, didn’t you hear me?”

“I didn’t. Sorry, Archie.”

“Did you speak to Mr. Pulitzer about my report?” The elevator doors opened and David stepped in. “It’s been almost a week since I showed you.”

“Good morning, Walter. Sorry, Archie, he had a very busy day yesterday and I didn’t have time.”

Walter smirked knowingly and the doors slowly closed.

“He’s the publisher! Every day is a very busy day!”

“Exactly!” The doors shut completely and Walter laughed.

“You’re gonna have to find a way to just tell him ‘no’ eventually.”

“I’ve tried and nothing works. Besides, if he thinks I’ll actually talk to Mr. Pulitzer about it eventually, maybe he won’t give me half finished paperwork for the third week in a row.”

“Good thinking. Are you still all right for Sunday, kid?”

“Of course.” The elevator came to a stop and the doors opened. “See you later, Walter.”

“Bye.”

“Good morning, David,” Hannah said.

He sighed and reached over his desk to set his bag down on the chair. “One of these days I’m going to beat you.”

“No, you aren’t. How was your Sunday?”

“Busy, but I got everything done. How was yours?”

“Ugh, terrible. My mother-in-law dragged me to church.”

“I thought you liked going to church.”

“I like it just fine but I don’t like it with my mother-in-law,” she complained. David laughed. “He’s in a mood today.”

“Of course he is. Did you read the Herald this morning?”

“Not yet.” David went to his bag and pulled it out for her, dropping it on her desk. He opened it to the correct page. “Oh. Well, today isn’t going to be fun then.”

“No. Wish me luck.” David knocked on the door.

“I’m not wasting a wish on something that unrealistic.”

He rolled his eyes and waited for permission to enter. “Good morning, Mr. Pulitzer.”

“Have you seen this?” he asked without preamble.

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s ridiculous. Did these people have zero intelligence to begin with or have they just misplaced it?” David poured his boss a cup of coffee from where it rested on the sideboard and listened to him complain. “And your friends are out there shouting about it this morning; I heard it myself. Although I suppose you wouldn’t mind.”

David handed him the cup and said, “Sir, you’ve known about this for weeks and you’ve also known that the Herald’s known about it for at least one. Are you really that surprised?”

“I’m not surprised, I’m appalled. All right,” he said, putting the paper aside, “what do you have for me?”

“Mr. Daniels said he wouldn’t consider it in a million years, there’s-”

“He said that?”

“Well, I paraphrased. If I said exactly what he said I think my mother would sense it from the Lower East Side and come wash my mouth out.”

“What else?”

“The Tribune said the Dow Jones went up five points but it was seven and they’re going to have to issue a correction.”

“But we got it right, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything else?”

“If you happen to see Archie Green from finance, you think it’s an interesting proposal but it can’t be considered at present.”

Pulitzer raised an eyebrow. “What-”

“It’s a waste of time and even if it wasn’t, it’s filled with unsubstantiated data.”

“All right. You’re dismissed.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Hannah was typing away in the outer office but she stopped when David came out. “How was he?”

“Not that bad.”

“‘Not that bad’? You’re telling me he isn’t in there yelling about it?”

“He was, but I don’t think he thinks it’s fun to rant to me about it anymore because he knows I’m not exactly the biggest supporter.”

“You don’t care about Teddy Roosevelt running?”

“I don’t agree with him on almost anything but either way I can’t bring myself to care about it when we’re almost a year out. And you know what John Adams said about the vice presidency?”

“What?”

“‘My country has in its wisdom contrived for me the most insignificant office that ever the invention of man contrived or his imagination conceived,’” David quoted. “Unless the president dies it doesn’t matter. Being the President of the Senate means basically nothing in a practical sense. We don’t even know that it’s true yet.”

“Who else are they gonna pick?”

“I don’t know. Either way, I can’t vote for over three years.”

“Well, I can’t vote at all,” Hannah said sternly and he immediately felt a twinge of guilt.

“Sorry.”

She deflated and smiled. “That’s all right.”

“Actually--” he reached into his bag “--my sister wanted me to give you this flyer. Here. Carrie Chapman Catt is speaking in Central Park in two weeks. A bunch of people are speaking and it’s a picnic thing. You’re welcome to join our family.”

“Thank you.”

“And it’s after church so your mother-in-law can’t complain.”

“Trust me, she’ll find a way.”

#i'm procrastinating #newsies #newsies fanfiction #newsies fic #davey jacobs #david jacobs #across enemy lines #stella writes stuff

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madneywhre · 3 years

Text

The Misfits Chapter Three!

Trigger Warning: Internalized homophobia and religious trauma, neglect, mention of death of a parent(s), alcohol addiction, swearing, use of marijuana, and a panic attack. Word Count: 3,350 Feel free to review, and leave a comment or criticism! Update: I am thinking I will update weekly or bi-weekly on Thursdays! I am trying to get in the grove of a posting schedule.

The time had come, midterms. With the group stressing through the AP Psych midterms Dave offered his house to study despite being conscious of the size. It just made sense, his parents weren’t home and they always had food. The agreed time was 4:00 that afternoon, they would study for a few, grab dinner, and study until later. The group figured if they combined their knowledge, they would be able to finish their study guide-- in which it was made clear that completing it would almost guarantee a passing score. The group also knew that with Spencer there it would be easier, and they may get done sooner. They really should have started to study sooner, seeing as how the exam was in three days. Spencer walked through his household in the dark, as his mother had forgotten to pay the bill again this month. The young boy tried to figure it out, he tried to figure out how to make his mom better-- it started with pleases and finished with her cold, long fingers backhanding him in the cheek, resulting in a purple bruise he passed off as hitting his face on a doorknob, or getting elbowed by one of the bigger kids. He noticed his mom was in a trance, staring out of the window and muttering to herself. He then saw her pacing nervously over the worn carpet with cheap liquor in her hand, a cigarette with a long cherry burning down the stick. He tried to step in and stop her, so it hadn’t become uncommon for Spencer to go to bed with a small bruise forming from where she would slap him, accusing him of spying on her only for her to forget it the next day. He tried to convince her to drive him, but she accused him of spying for them again, and he realized that it there was no way that she was gonna drive him. So he set out to walk, peering at the angry sky through the window. He used the little data that he had on his phone, of which his deadbeat father still paid despite his absence to find the way to Dave’s house. He rarely used it, not liking the technology because of the fear his mother instilled in him. About a block into his journey he paused and looked up into the dark sky, seeing the furious clouds, and felt a few raindrops fall onto his thin face. His long-sleeved shirt that was much too thin for a rainy October day became increasingly wet. He started to shiver, walking faster now to make his body warmer. The rain started to come down harder and he brushed the too-long hair out of his eyes that were now becoming soaked. He jumped as thunder clapped and thought to himself ‘this is going to be a long walk’ Sandy stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame as a dark pungent liquid sloshed around in a dirty cup. JJ stormed out of the house, infuriated. Her mother’s drinking had gotten unbearable, she kept finding empty liquor bottles in the garbage, tabs on the floor, and the freezer was more stocked with vodka and tequila than it was food. Quite frankly, she couldn’t do it anymore. She needed the escape. She needed freedom from the suffocating sadness in her house. So naturally, she called Emily and of course, she came for her. They sit in awkward silence until they arrive at Emily’s house and sit on her bed. The smell of the alcohol burned into her nostrils, as she tries to cleanse her senses with the calming lavender sents of Emily. “Ugh! I fucking hate living there! There’s too much shit” JJ rants, her voice quiet but venomous as the stress pulsates off of her. She looked miserable in the clothes she was wearing. Tight and form-fitting-- though it looked great, it was most definitely not something that she should be in when she was this upset. So the first thing Emily did was go to her closet and find a pair of black sweats followed by a dark yellow hoodie that just about swallowed JJ. “You look miserable. Go change and we’ll talk.” Emily said softly, trying to lighten the mood but failing. JJ nodded with a small huff and went into her bathroom, changing quickly into the clothes that smelled like Emily, her senses calmed as a small smile spread across her face. The blonde came back out and plopped onto the bed next to Emily, tension thick in her chest. As if Emily can feel it, she hands her a medium-sized joint burning slowly as smoke comes from its end. “It will make you feel less… well just less. Just trust me.” Emily watched her expression as she sat up and took a small slow drag from the burning paper. JJ did what felt natural and inhaled only to cough. “That’s okay, try again.” And so she did. A couple of times until she felt an unfamiliar calm wash over her senses. Not necessarily high, but definitely calmer. She passes the joint to Emily before flopping back down, “I hate living there. All she does is drink. All. Day. She works from home and drinks. She cooks… well orders shit food, and drinks. She is turning into my grandmother and it is terrible. Everything changed when… when she died… Nothing is the same! Is it too much to fucking ask?!” She rants as small affirming nods and hums come from Emily, “I mean, is it TOO much to ask for your mother to be sober enough to realize you’re not even home!? Or that she’s driving in the car still?! Is that really too fucking much?” “No… no it’s not. I’m sorry... Is there a way you can talk to your dad?” “No. Fucking asshole left. Left me in this shithole.” “I’m sorry JJ... I truly am. Let’s just focus on something else.” And so they did, they smoked and laid close, relaxing while watching a movie or two until it was time to go to the study group. Aaron had been preparing for this day, books scattered along his bedroom floor soft music in the background. He puts everything aside for his brother Sean, who seems to be having school issues of his own, Aaron reminds himself of the man he has to become. His father had left, thankfully-- so he had to become the man, the father figure. To raise his brother when his mother couldn’t. He tried his best to be a good brother, a good son, a good student. These tests were important to that. Crucial. After this, he could relax a bit, let loose as he let Dave take the ropes. Sean LOVED going over to Dave’s, he got to experience the childhood that every kid could ever want over there. Not only that, but it gave Aaron the opportunity to relax and let go, letting himself be a teenager. He would get to hang out with his friend and let go of the responsibility. When he took Sean over to Dave’s with his, he would allow his brother to play with the games that the wealthy teen’s house was stocked with, Sean was able to be a kid too. It was really just healthy for the both of them. Derek and Penelope had been driving for a while, drinking sugary drinks from Starbucks, and holding hands. They decided to have a date day before the study group since they didn’t have much time alone anymore. Though this time was slowly coming to a halt, “Derek… is that Spencer?” She asked, seeing a small figure, shivering in the rainy weather. “I’m sure it…. It is, isn’t it?” He responded, slowing down to the drenched figure Spencer looks over nervously and sees Penelope and calms down, seeing Derek’s window roll down, “Hey kid… why are you in the rain? It’s freezing out there!” “I uhm… I was walkin to Dave’s… for the study group tonight.” Derek looks over at Penelope with a worried glance. Why couldn’t the kid's mom drive him, and how the hell was he getting to school every day? He takes in a breath and nods to his back seat, “Get in Spence, you can just stay with us until the study group. Okay? We were about to grab lunch, are you hungry?” Spencer contemplates for a second before nodding “ ‘M sorry… Your car is gonna get all wet” He mumbled, climbing into the backseat as a crack of lightning, followed by a roar of thunder sounded overhead. He jumped and closed the door as Derek reassured him it was perfectly fine. Penelope looks back and sucks her teeth “Der, you have a hoodie right?” She asked, smiling to herself as he nodded. “Here Sug, take off that wet shirt, put this on, it will keep you warm.” She told the young boy, his hair flush against his forehead as it dripped with small droplets. “Okay…” He responded, pulling the wet shirt off and quickly reveling in the dry comfort of the hoodie that was much, much too big for him. The group went to lunch and then to an arcade, and then--just for Spencer, they went to the big library, allowing him to check out a few books. Derek and Penelope were worried for him, worried for his condition because they noticed something else, a purplish, yellow bruise forming on his cheek that was an obvious handprint. Something was going on and they were going to figure it out. They weren’t going to leave this alone, not this time. Not after the clues that they have seen. Not after the lack of food, dirty clothes, and unkempt hair. Not to mention the ripped shoes and broken pencils.

The groups started to flow in, Aaron and Sean first, then JJ and Emily-- who were still a little buzzed, and finally Derek, Penelope, and Spencer. The first plan of action was the homework packet in which they had due for the midterm. It was a prep packet that was every bit of fifteen pages long, covering everything they had gone over or talked about in the past nine weeks. Little bits from previous exams, of which they had weekly, and questions over the 5 chapters of the textbook they have started to read, front to back. After a while Spencer looked over at Emily and scooted closer to her, a small sniffle forming. He was already starting to get a cold from the rain. He was so nervous to go home, what if his mom came out of the episode and realized he wasn’t there? What if they wouldn’t take him home? How would he get the cold that he caused to go away… how would he clean his clothes? The water bill hadn’t been paid… he had run out of water. His train of thought was broke when Emily naturally rubbed his back with her free hand and smiled softly, not that she would let anyone see it; however, despite her attempts to hide it, JJ noticed and blushed. God, that smile was like crack to her. Addicting. After quite a few hours and rumbling stomach noises, Dave had decided it was time for a break, and for pizza. Though, choosing what kind was not easy. There were many raised voices, and each time Spencer tried to speak up, he was spoken over, making him shrink down. It was too loud. A hand flew up-- innocent of course, just Derek patting someone on the back but it caused him to flench and yelp. Suddenly, all eyes were on him, he was quivering like a wounded puppy, covering his face with small tears forming. His chest felt tight, his breath hitched, but then sped up rapidly, his lungs heaving with each breath. The sight made the noise stop immediately. Emily spoke softly, kneeling beside him “Hey bub, what’s wrong?” He shook his head and sat on the floor slumping against the wall as he shook. Fear taking over his responses, and his fight or flight making him freeze instead. Soon enough he muttered two words “I’m okay.” Two words he muttered way too often, his personal mantra. Emily took into account the noise, knowing how he felt about loud sounds, and how to fix that. She nodded and pulled him into her lap, holding him close, and covering his ears with her hands to muffle the sound around them. With the silenced sound and the comforting scent sent around him he curled up in her lap, his messy curls fanned against her pale chest as he breathed with her, his eyes fluttering closed. The group looks at each other worriedly. Normally Spencer wasn’t like this. He was sensitive, jumpy sure, but he never reacted like this. He never flinched. They sat silently before being jumped out of their thoughts with a ring of the doorbell. Pizza. No one moves for a moment, looking around in before Rossi scrambles up, clumsy but quiet. He tips the delivery man more than he would like to admit and sits the boxes in the middle. “Eat, but be quiet. Don’t wake the kid.” He warns Spencer's head perks up with the smell of the pizza, looking around sleepily “ ‘za” he says, a small sleepy grin on his face. Emily smiles and rubs his back, cutting a glare at Derek who was almost gushing at them, “Yeah kid, pizza. Eat some, then I think Derek over there is gonna get you home to your mama.” She says softly, not expecting him to tense at those words. “I don’t wanna go home…” he mumbled, his voice going stoic, the fear was more than he wanted to deal with. He wanted to stay here with Emily. He wanted to feel safe. Emily glanced at Aaron worriedly, then at Rossi when the silent observer of the room spoke up “Bub, can Spencer stay with us? He’s a good friend, even if he’s younger than me.” Sean speaks up from the back of the room. Aaron nods and glances at Spencer, looking for his word of approval. “Whadyou think kiddo?” “Uhm… Can I please?” He asked quietly, nuzzling into Emily’s chest. “Well, are you sure your mom-” “She doesn’t care. You sure you don’t mind?” He interrupts Aaron quickly, not wanting to explain. Aaron is taken aback at how quickly he responded and he nods, “Sure Spencer. Of course, you’re welcome always.”

Everyone trickled out of Dave’s home group by group, Aaron leaving last. He stayed around because Spencer had fallen asleep again on the couch and he wasn’t about to wake that kid up. It was obvious he never slept with the dark purple rings around his eyes, leaving him puffy. Emily drives back to her house with JJ in her passenger seat. She could feel the tension in between them, the discomfort from JJ’s side. Though it was nothing Emily had done. The suppressed voice in the back of her head ‘don’t do it. Evil. abomination. Wrong.’ A list of the pastors' sermons. The words that he spewed at the conjugation, spewed at her. They cut deep. Every time she looked into the mirror she saw disgust. She sees failure. An imperfection. A giant stamp of hellfire and brimstone. A bubbling in her chest as she felt the impending doom of Sunday morning service. The one day her mom was sober enough to be around other people, but not enough not to be an absolute asshole. JJ was snapped out of her thoughts when Emily tapped her knee “And we’re back to the house. Common up to my room, and we can talk about whatever has been on your beautiful mind.” She says, trying to butter her up and flirts a bit-- it was hard not to at this point. Hard not to let herself fall. Though it did cause an obvious burst of tension between them. “I’m not too sure that you want to know what’s going through my mind right now.” She mumbles, making her way up to Emily’s room and plopping on her bed face down. “Oh, I’m sure I do. I love to hear all of your thoughts. Don’t worry about scaring me off.” JJ let in a shaky inhale “Abomination. Dirty. Disgusting. Evil. Hell bound sinner.” “Woah! Hey! What the hell blondie, what’s happening there.” Emily stutters out, sitting closer to the younger female. JJ looks up with tears in her eyes, “I’m dirty, I can’t help it, but I’m dirty. M-my pastor said and I t-tried to pray it away. I t-tried to be perfect. I thought that if I made myself fall for a Christian boy I would be okay. But I’m not! I’m not okay because girls are pretty and guys are okay. All Christian boys are gross, and I’m TIRED of HATING myself. Leviticus 18:22, For man, shall not lay with a man as he lays with woman for it is an abomination.” She starts to sob out, her cheeks getting heated from the wet tears stinging her cheeks as she sobbed into the fleece blankets. Emily looked over and placed a hand on her back rubbing it softly “You’re okay Jennifer, you’re okay. I promise. You’re not dirty, you’re gorgeous, you’re not disgusting, you’re so amazing and I am so sorry that some man-caused you to feel that. That you have to feel that at all. God… I don’t know him or anything but…. But he loves you blondie. He does, so just fuck the pastors. Love who the fuck ever because you were born that way. You hear me?” She nods and sniffles “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sobbing in your bed. I’m sorry. You’re pretty too. God, you’re gorgeous.” She says too quickly, blushing as she realizes her confession “You’re gorgeous too JJ. Let's get some rest, we can talk about this in the morning, don’t worry about whatever you said that made you get all quiet and we can talk later.” Emily says softly, a smile playing on her features. JJ nods with a small smile, turning so her back is to Emily. She pulls the blanket up to her chin and almost allows herself to relax into Emily’s touch, but she doesn’t and she keep herself close to the wall. Penelope and Derek decided just to stay at Penelope’s house, her aunt wasn’t home and they just wanted to be with each other. They lay in her bed and she rests her head on his chest, grounding herself with the rise and fall of his breaths. Derek carts his hand through her hair silently as he notices her tensity. After a few moments, he finally speaks up “Baby girl, what’s wrong?” He asked softly She takes in a shaky breath, “I just… I just miss my mom… and my dad.” She admits softly, her voice barely above a whisper as if she was afraid of the confession. She had been pondering over the thoughts. She wanted to tell her mom about EVERYTHING, have a girl talk. Just be her daughter again. He nods and kisses her forehead, “I’m sorry baby, I know it’s hard but when I start missing my pops a lot I talk to him. I talk to him about you, school, football… everything really. I know he can hear me, and I can feel him with me. Sometimes it’s a dream, but sometimes it’s just a calm that washes over me.” Penelope nods and sniffles, “I know… I’m sorry for crying all over you. You’re such a good boyfriend, thank you for understanding me and my issues. Thank you” She whispers into his chest Derek nods and kisses her head again “It is my greatest pleasure Penny. You’re so strong my love” and with those words, the couple cuddled and fell asleep arm in arm, limbs tangled in a comforting way as they breathe each other's oxygen, the stress of the world away while they’re in each other's arms.

#themisfits #kala writes

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theawkwardterrier · 5 years

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things left behind and the things that are ahead, ch. 17

AO3 link here

The first two times, it happens early. She takes a few days off from work. Steve, red-eyed and trying to hide it, brings her hot water bottles for the cramps, and steak and eggs because the doctor said she needs to recover the lost iron, and dime store thrillers that she finds herself holding open even as she stares out through the window. She overhears him murmuring to Bucky about it over the phone, running a hand over his crumpled forehead and uncharacteristically ignoring the charges, but she doesn’t say a word to anyone. Howard jokes that the next time she needs a few days off to get personal with her husband, she can just say so, and she rolls her eyes and tells him that he has quite enough of his own business to handle without sticking his nose into hers, and hopes that he does not notice the pencil snapped between her hands.

The third time, she is twenty-one weeks along, already starting to show. Her secretary had quietly congratulated her and offered use of a decade-old copy of Dr. Spock. The baby announcement card, mocked up by Steve in the joyously tumultuous early days of the first pregnancy and tucked away until now, is refreshed and printed up and sent out to friends. Peggy has already begun discussing time away after the birth with an irritated and blushing Colonel Phillips and a delightedly blasé Howard. The room which they still avoid calling the nursery has gained a few distinctly nursery-like features. She has an appointment with a tailor set for a Friday to preview potential maternity options for the wardrobe of the busy intelligence agency head. She starts spotting on Tuesday, loses the pregnancy by Thursday. She forgets to cancel the appointment.

Every one of Steve’s small kindnesses, the way he asks if she wants some kind of service (with tentative care in his eyes: “I think it’s something I could do with too”), the touch of his unconscious hand on her back in the dark of their bedroom - all of it says Lean on me. But Peggy can’t bring herself to do that. She wants answers for her anger, but has not even yet found the questions.

She has not deluded herself into thinking that Steve blames her in any way: his anger at himself is clear on his face, clear in the way he goes running at dawn or in the dead of night, long runs that are so punishing even for him that he is still sweating when he returns to her. He has been direct about it, too, earnestly trying after the second time to shoulder the responsibility with talk about how things had happened the way he had known them: another husband, children without this sort of heartbreak. She had been just as vehement that he surely hadn’t gotten into the details of it all, that he didn’t know what he didn’t know. She blames herself enough for both of them, anyway.

The doctor has said that they should hold off on trying any more for now. Apparently three miscarriages in a row, including one well into the second trimester, do not exactly make her a star patient. He had offered to fit her for a new diaphragm.

Peggy’s been stubborn before, privileged her own counsel over that of professionals, but this time she listens. She isn’t certain she could stand trying again, regardless.

They drive into the city to watch Bucky graduate from university five weeks after the third time, four weeks after she returns to work. Steve suggested that they cancel, but Peggy has been shoving them back toward normalcy so relentlessly that she essentially ignores the remark. The trip is quiet, Peggy in the driver’s seat. She wears a favorite dress of hers, navy with crimson piping. It settles over her curves in horribly familiar ways, as if there had never been a time when it didn’t. She takes care to coordinate her nails, shoes, and the sunglasses she wears to move between the buildings of City College. The commencement itself takes place in a soaringly large hall. She gives every indication of listening attentively to the speaker, though afterward she would have to look at the program to see who it had been.

Winifred had invited them over for refreshments following the ceremony. Becca, who has mentioned more than once - to her mother, to her sister, quiet and tactful - that she’s happy to have the morning away while her husband cares for the children, takes the steps of her childhood home in twos and opens her arms to her infant son before the door has finished closing.

Peggy had once held a Proctor baby with little thought. Now she can barely look at one.

“Let me put on the kettle,” she says numbly, and strides past without glancing aside.

She has to check three times to make sure that she’s done it properly, that she remembered the water and to turn on the gas and light the flame. Sitting at the kitchen table, she berates herself for it, for not even being able to do something as simple as this, something that’s been done a thousand times before with no bother throughout history.

When the footsteps approach, she wipes her eyes hastily and says, “I’ll just be a moment, Steve,” before she even thinks to confirm that it’s actually her husband.

“I think you might be a bit longer than that.” Winifred steps into her kitchen, glancing at the water heating on the stovetop. She steps around Peggy’s chair and goes to a cupboard, sliding her hand behind a stack of plates until she’s found a tin. She seats herself beside Peggy and places the tin in the center of the table, popping off the lid as she does.

“Eat,” she says, pressing a shell-shaped chocolate biscuit into Peggy’s hand.

Peggy isn’t precisely in the mood, but she breaks off a corner and puts it into her mouth for the sake of politeness. It’s a bit soft for her taste, but still has good flavor. She breaks off another small piece.

“When I ask you this,” Winifred says slowly, “I want you to truly take your time in answering, hmm, Margaret?” She might be the only person since Peggy’s own mother to call her by her full name, but to Winifred, Bucky will always be James, her daughters are Josephine and Rebecca, never Josie and Becca, and she refuses to call Steve anything but Steven even though his name is meant to be Grant anyway. From her, Margaret seems a badge of honor.

“Of course,” says Peggy.

Winifred levels a look at her. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

Peggy responds, “Fine,” with what even she realizes is excessive haste. Winifred says patiently, “Would you like to try again?”

The kettle begins to whistle and Peggy stands to take it from the heat. She manages to turn off the flame, but seems to get stuck afterward. She stands at the stove, her back to Winifred and the kettle still in her hand. “I’m sad,” she says, staring at the wall. “I’m terribly sad, and I’m angry as well.”

“At whom?”

“At the doctor, for not being able to do anything and for having no advice at all that might help. At all the people in this world who have living children and mistreat them or ignore them or don’t even realize precisely the value of what they have. At Steve, for putting himself through the serum and all that time...away, without thinking about what might come of it. And mostly at myself. For being unfair to all of those people. For thinking I could somehow manage to do it all. For not being able to do this thing that women have been doing while they were still living in caves. For letting myself—” Her voice splinters, fades, and she gasps for a moment to regain herself. “For letting myself be hopeful.”

She almost forgets that Winifred is there; all she hears is the murmur of voices in the front room. Then: “Well, that’s not quite how I felt afterward, but it’s perfectly understandable.”

Peggy turns, just mindful enough to set the kettle back on the stove to avoid flinging it about. Winifred has a biscuit on the scrubbed table in front of her, untouched. She is looking calmly back at Peggy, who swallows.

“It happened to you as well?”

Winifred takes a moment before she speaks. “George and I had been married five months. I went visiting at my mother’s house, and she teased me, saying that the women in our family were usually mothers before the first year was out and I was running out of time. She had something of a bawdy sense of humor, my mother, and her mother had been a midwife, so discussing these things was something of a matter of course.

“And I told her that actually, my monthly had just come, late and heavier than usual, so she would just have to wait for a first grandchild. She went very still, and then she spoke to me in a gentler way than she usually did. She knew that I had wanted the baby, that George had good prospects and that we had been saving for it.

“And I kept thinking it was strange, for months, how I could be sad about something I hadn’t even realized was there, hadn’t even realized myself was gone. But then I had James, and Josephine, and it faded, at least a little.

“Josephine was three and a bit, the second time. I had gone to the church to light a few candles - the children were with my sister - but I found myself absolutely worn out when I arrived, so I sat for a moment to catch my breath. I looked at our pretty church windows, and I said a small prayer, health and safety for my family, my children. And I was about to ask special for the babe, when Sister Thomasine, perhaps the oldest nun I’ve ever seen, passed by and came into the pew behind me. She touched my shoulder and said softly in my ear, “Have you money for a doctor, Mrs. Barnes, or shall I help you to your mother’s?” and I realized I had blood coming down my leg.”

Peggy tries to reach for the protective casing which has allowed her to smile through the most dreadful parts of undercover work, to push through worry for her comrades in a firefight. It crumbles away from her, and all she can remember is the way she too had seen the blood appear, bold and sudden and terrifying, and had known immediately that there was no returning from it. She does not know if she will ever be able to recount it with such calm and such detail.

Winifred’s voice drops. “And then, of course, there was Elizabeth.”

Steve told her about Elizabeth Barnes. She had gotten some type of cancer at age three. At the time, there was nothing to be done. She died when Becca was seven, Josie thirteen, and Bucky fourteen. They’d called her Bitty.

“He really loved her,” Steve had said. “They all did. It nearly broke them when she died.”

Peggy meets Winifred’s eyes. That kind of pain deserves a witness.

The older woman touches at the corners of her mouth with a careful finger as if she is checking that her lipstick is still in place. Her hand trembles slightly. “It was a terrible thing,” she says with quiet and weighty deliberation in each word. “A terrible thing, losing a child, even when they were barely more than an idea of a future to me. But it is also something that connects so many of us. We don’t speak of it, but it’s there nevertheless, and it can happen to anyone: grateful for it or broken by it, rich or poor, the best doctors in the world or none at all. It happened to me when I had perhaps two coins in my pocket, it could happen to that pretty young queen of yours in her palace. Sometimes it is only chance, Margaret.” She sighs and goes to put the untouched biscuit back in the tin, snapping the lid firmly back on. “I try to see the terrible fairness in that. I try to find the good in it, I do. It makes me more forgiving of the children I have, even when I’m angry with them or disagree with the choices they’ve made in their own lives.”

It is clear that she is referring to Josie. It’s apparent to the whole family that she’s found the life she wants, between her teaching and going home to Violet at night, and that if she ever marries a man it will be her giving in to something outside herself. No one mentions it.

Peggy turns back around, preparing the teapot with the slightly cooled water from the kettle. She brings it over to the table and sits across from Winifred. “I don’t know that I can find the good in it,” she says, a quiet confession. “This has made me feel a stranger to myself. I have seen people die - many of them, many good people, sometimes terribly - and I was able to walk on with those memories and do my work. I was never the sort to play dolls or plan names for my children and now the idea of never holding a child of my own seems the most heartbreaking fate. But I find myself without a child and with all of these unfamiliar parts of myself, all of this knowledge that I don’t know what to do with.”

Winifred stands and replaces the tin in the cupboard, takes down the teacups although they are slightly higher than a comfortable reach for her. When she returns, she pours them each a cup of less than steaming tea; they each sip it uncomplainingly. “Your feelings are your own, of course,” she says finally. “But think of this, too, Margaret. Perhaps some of that new knowledge could be that you have more love to give than you would have thought, and that it will always find somewhere to go, even if it isn’t a child grown in your own womb.”

Peggy says nothing in response. She drinks her tea down to the dregs, until she is finally ready to return to sit with the rest of the family.

Steve is already waiting out by the car by the time Peggy has said her goodbyes and come out with a soda bread that she could not refuse. He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her toward him. His hands marry themselves behind her back and he holds her securely, ignoring the loaf between them. They lean against the car door. When Steve finally speaks, she can feel the vibration of it surrounding her.

“You two were in the kitchen for a while.” He rests his cheek on her hair. “I’m glad that you found someone to talk to, someone who probably has more experience than I do. But Peg, when I promised in sickness and health and all the rest, I meant it. I’m right here.”

She presses her mouth to the vulnerable space at the base of his throat. “I’ve never doubted it,” she says, and although her voice is quiet, she knows that he hears her. “I only had some doubt in myself that I needed to talk through.”

“Hmm.” They have been standing for a while. No doubt people are peering at them through the windows. Peggy waits to hear what Steve will say. “If that happens again, will you tell me? I think I can be pretty persuasive on the topic.”

She smiles against him. “I think we’re safe for now, but I’ll keep that in mind.”

She rests on him for several more long moments before they climb into the car. Steve drives home while she watches out the window, dozing a little but also thinking.

There’s something else she is keeping in mind: the SHIELD librarian is accustomed to wide-ranging research questions from her. Nearly anything will be regarded as relating to some case or other. If she puts in a request for information on adoption in New Jersey, it will not be taken amiss.

More chapters here

#Steggy #Steggy fic #Peggy Carter #Steve Rogers #Winifred Barnes #things left behind fic #miscarriage cw

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calleo-bricriu · 4 years

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How's your week been so far? You've been quiet so I assume you're probably off doing things no sane person would even look at let alone actually do.

I mean, @pocketsfullofspiders would probably just laugh at being called a thing, Gan ( @rashkah) might actually track you down and break various parts of you that you might not necessarily want broken if you call her a thing, and how @absintheabsence responds might be largely dependent on his mood and you’re not going to know which mood you’ll get until it’s too late to do anything about it so I can’t exactly say it’s a good idea to refer to any of them as “things”.

That aside, it’s Thursday and, so far this week, we’ve had:

1) My mother verbatim calling me a spoiled brat, so that was fun considering she’s never said anything even remotely close to that to me my entire life up until earlier this week.

2) Dad agreeing with her.

3) Me agreeing with both of them after they left my office.

4) That happening at work.

5) @directoryandle hearing it all through the thin wall behind my desk that separates my office from his.

6) @directoryandle then dropping so much Divination work on my desk that I’m convinced now that he keeps a special stash of it hidden in his office just to throw at me whenever I’ve done something he’s not terribly pleased about.

7) Which tells me that he agrees with my parents. Always lovely to be over 30 and have your parents give you a dressing down at work in front of your department director.

8) The reason for 1-7 going with what amounted to, “No, no, it’s perfectly okay and reasonable for you to generally ignore me and make me jump through hoops for scraps of attention, if you even notice at all,” and, as far as I can tell, actually believing that, which is horrible on several different levels.

9) And that is a large part of the third reason.

How has your week been?

#It's been a GREAT week why do you ask?#hp rp #relationships #work

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ittakesrain · 5 years

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She wanted me to know that she wasn’t frustrated with me, that lots of people who see her have some type of roadblock (usually maladaptive behaviors, or repeatedly putting themselves in bad situations) that stop them from being the best version of themselves or the most mentally stable they can be. But like, she explained to me that I’m standing in my own way. How I’m a barrier to my own recovery and mental health, I guess.

I’m talking about my therapist (obviously) and what she was trying to get across to me while we sat on the floor by the window (where we always sit, because it’s more comfortable and somehow safer and easier and because I can be my fidgety self and even tug on the hem of her pants, which makes me feel connected and reassured that someone is there and present and near me in case my anxiety skyrockets and and and). I’m standing in my own way. I looked at her as she talked to me, making phenomenal eye contact if I do say so myself, and promised to think about it all (meaning write about it all, since that’s how I process shit) when I got home. So hereeee I am. Let’s gooooo…

The first thing I assume she was talking about was med compliance. As in, taking my medications like a good girl, the way they’re prescribed, and every day, and at a regular time, etc. And I’ll admit, for a (long) while there, I was not med compliant. I was shitty with it for so long because the psychiatrist I saw for 11 years, the only one I’d ever seen, didn’t really impress upon me its importance, and because I had virtually no psychoeducation, and because let’s face it, taking that shit can be hard. As I got sick and tired of continually going through the exhaustive cycles of bipolar disorder, as I started to do the right things without anyone ever telling me they were the right things, I downloaded an app that would let me keep track of when I took my pills. For a year or two, I thought it was GREAT if I only missed like three or four days a month. Which realistically fucking sucks. It makes my moods more chaotic. Duh. But worse than that, when I feel shitty, I have even MORE trouble taking my meds regularly, because I’m kinda just like “fuck it, this sucks anyway, I might as well play into it.” Not smart, my friends. Not smart.

I wrote a whole list a while back with reasons it’s hard to stay on top of the meds thing. There were things 17 on that list. Things like “I forgot,” “laziness,” and “I choked on the pills” (I have lots of trouble swallowing pills, ugh). There were also things like “I resent having to take them,” and “because they make me gain weight and that’s a huge issue to me.” One bullet point was “I’d rather be fully crazy than have the vague sense of impending doom at half-crazy because at least when it’s full-blown I have a valid excuse for my horribly erratic behavior.” There were darker reasons. “I’m always gonna be insane so I might as well be really insane.” “I’m violently angry that I’ve been given this bullshit fucking disorder and that anger is corrosive enough to wear down my will to choke down a handful of pills.

But I really have gotten better with it! I made a counter list with reasons to do what I’m supposed to do. And even that aside, I’ve only missed 2 pills in four months, and that’s a tremendous fucking achievement. Not sure if it still says “not med compliant” in big letters across her notes about me (come to think of it, it may still say “suicide risk” in even larger letters, hmmm) but like. I take my fucking pills. I do.

Agh okay, maybe I struggle with the ADHD one, because in my mind “I don’t have to concentrate that well allll of the time.” And I just got one for anxiety, and it does say to take it as needed but fuck, okay, maybe I should take it more because the endless surges of adrenaline, the unceasing rapidly palpitating heart, and the like? Just not good for me.

Alsoooo, I see my psychiatrist Thursday, and basically, I have to come at her with more data so we can figure out what to do/where to go from here.

My therapist also said a week or two ago that I’m not even fully treatment compliant. Because I was having a shitty fucking time, crying and being sad and anxious and just ugh fuck blah. The anxiety I have usually sits in my chest but it was expanding into my stomach making it gross and upset, it was bubbling up my throat causing acid reflux, it was making me dizzy and shaky and weak and terrible. And oh hey, that’s a fucking panic attack, so. Yeah. She said to me a few times to call my psychiatrist because “there’s no need to suffer” and because my psychiatrist can fucking HELP ME WITH MEDS which is SUCH AN ATTAINABLE SOLUTION.

I listen, though. I listen to both of them and do (most of) what they say and come home and consciously try to process what we talk about when we see each other. I put in the effort. I work fucking hard. I’m trying.

It’s making me wonder, though: am I just sitting here trying to convince myself that I’m not actually standing in my way? ‘Cause I mean, even though I try really hard doesn’t mean I’m still not causing it to be harder than it has to be.

I guesssss the point of this rambling stream-of-consciousness is that I’m gonna try to figure out how I’m standing in my own way. Figure that shit out so I can be honest with myself about it. And that seeing/acknowledging the problem is the first step to solving it. Not to mention when I’m able to think about it more clearly, I’ll be able to go back and hash this all out with my therapist and “do work,” the work that therapy requires.

I guess there’ll be more on this subject later. So stay tuned???

#therapy #therapist #standing in my own way #self awareness #moods #emotions #treatment #mental health #mental illness #meds #med compliance #medication #mood disorder #bipolar #bipolar disorder #psychiatrist

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2019withhelo · 5 years

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April 15-19:

Monday after ASB everyone was tired. Lucky us week of prayer begins so you what that means !! Shorter biology period :). I remember on Monday the speaker was really funny with a good message. Band got me on my low and if I play lux spiritus one more time I’m throwing hands. Art class goes well and I get a lot of work done on my patterns piece. Lunch? I think it was just emi, sona, and I. I forgot what we talked about but I know we laughed a lot. In geometry we spend the whole class eating popcorn and looking at ASB pictures. Bokov really turned the sharpness up to 50+ on all the pictures. He also deleted the pictures of abel and I so thank you for that. History and English were a blur. After school emi, sona, and I head to Starbucks to do “school work”. I didn’t even open up my backpack. Our talk definetly stuck with me. I bring up the topic that has been on my mind a lot lately: “what can I do these last two years to live my full high school experience?”. A lot of other things too: high school advice, Brenden, what we would do if we had three wishes, how I wish I could back in time and delete those two damned videos, how we need real coaches, how sona and I are going to make friends this summer ?, and much more. Good laughs and a good talk with some real gems :’).

Track practice was us just doing a plank and then everyone on their own. While my mom and I wait for hec to finish LEGO I show her the ASB pictures bokov took. She had a lot to say. “Your posture is terrible” “why did julia only do one pose?” “What was she wearing !!!” (Aka becca). At home hec and I finish the spongebob movie and honestly a 10/10 no matter how many times I see it. Emi didn’t appreciate me sending the most iconic parts of the movie ;(. I make a mistake and take a very old melatonin.

Tuesday: I wake up at 3 am with the worst nausea I’ve ever had. But, no matter how bad I felt, I was not gonna throw up. I run to the bathroom and try my best to feel better. Then I drink water and it goes away for a little bit, but it still was so bad. I wake up for flute choir feeling fine and then I get worse during pe. During study hall I take a full hour nap and wake up worse than I was. By bible class I couldn’t take it anymore and called my dad and went home. I slept until 4 and then slept from like 6 to 8. Then I fell asleep at 9:30 :). It’s a super power.

Wednesday: I woke up in a bad mood because I was feeling fine :(. My hair was in a terrible, oily mess and lucky me it was class picture day ! I looked like I had just recovered from the black pleague. At school I try finishing up bio hw I had to do while doing the work she assigned in class ! I was a messy mess! The week of prayer talk was okay. Band >:(. Art :). Lunch ?

After school I wait around for hec and his frisbee practice. Caleb sits next to me in the lounge while I watch Danielle Cohn’s pregnacy video. Then I lay down on the couch and watch YouTube. My mom gets to school a little LATER than expected and then we head home. I finally post my ASB pictures.

Thursday: a good day. In pe was play volleyball again and it was actually fun. Sort of. Wop talk was boring. Study hall I work on mrs ursino’s board that was a mess from the last time I did it. In bible we spend ten minutes in the prayer room then we wrote about it on paper. Lunch was a lot of things mixed into one. Geometry is lonely without celeste :( hope she comes back soon. After school Nye pulls me aside and asks if I’m running for ASB. I think it was more of a cry for help then a question. I take the bus home by myself and i enjoyed it a lot. Sometimes I wish I could drive but other times I don’t mind it. I wait for the bus at the library and finish up work. Then I head home listening to some good ass music. The really really precious blasian baby was on the bus. Maybe I’ll talk to the mom one day, she seems like a really kind person.

At home it’s just me. I get nothing done. Mom gets home and then I nap until 8. Anders and Julia do homework and I do their word searches. “ and I WOO”. Julia insists on me starting a YouTube channel because she “can edit” now. I make a grilled cheese for Julia, dad, and I.

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shireness-says · 5 years

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Playing the Part ch. 14: What Did I Ever See In Him?

Summary: As a stage manager who’s clawed her way up from the bottom, Emma Swan can handle just about anything thrown her way. But does that include handsome lead actor Killian Jones? A CS Broadway AU. Rated T. Also on AO3. Prologue Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3 Ch. 4 Ch. 5 Ch. 6 Ch. 7 Ch. 8 Ch. 9 Ch. 10 Ch. 11 Ch. 12 Ch. 13

A/N: I’ve been so excited to share this chapter with you guys! It’s rough in the moment, but really sets things in motion. We’re closing in on the end, guys!

Chapter title taken from “Bye Bye Birdie”.

Thanks as ever to @snidgetsafan, the world’s best beta, who’s basically dragging me through these last couple of chapters. Thanks babe, I’ll give you new stuff eventually.

Tags: @kmomof4, @winterbaby89, @thejollyroger-writer, @mythologicalmango, @onceuponaprincessworld, @idristardis, @teamhook, @courtorderedcake, @aerica13, @revanmeetra87, @snowbellewells, @searchingwardrobes. If you want to be tagged going forward (or taken off this list - I won’t be insulted!), shoot me a message, and I’ll make it happen.

Enjoy - and let me know what you think!

It’s that fucking principle again - that everything falls apart just when things are going great. It’s official; Emma’s commissioning a study. Or maybe it’s just an inevitability in a more mundane way, that things can only go up or down and the downs will always be more noticeable. Whatever the case, Emma just hopes it doesn’t come in threes.

This crash feels so much harsher too because it’s much more personal, and it comes at the worst possible moment. The week had started with their Sign-Off performance, of course, and Emma had been flying high on Henry’s residual excitement over their appearance in the days immediately following. If she had hoped that her kid would let the Killian debacle slide, she’s sadly disappointed. Clearly, he’s spent too much time around Ruby and Mary Margaret growing up, as he’s determined to both interrogate and tease Emma about what this means for her love life. Smart alec.

“He’s got a cruuuush on you,” Henry singsongs, laughing uproariously as Emma’s cheeks flush. “Oh! Does that mean you do too?”

“It does not!” Emma insists, even as her blush insists otherwise. Traitor.

“Uh huh,” Henry nods, grinning deviously. Some kid she’s got.

(The best kid, always the best kid, even when he’s teasing her like this.)

“Killian is my colleague and my friend and a complete professional,” Emma lists patiently. Her tone is probably veering more towards long-suffering than patient, if she’s being honest, but it’s warranted in her opinion. “Which is, you know, why he said that in the interview.”

“Sure,” Henry replies, clearly unimpressed. Emma’s going to need to have words with Ruby, because Henry definitely did not get that side-eye from her. “Whatever you say, Mom.”

(The sass, though - he definitely got that from her.)

Know-it-all children aside, Emma’s having a good week - good weather, good mood, great shows… it seems that things are flying along, never better, practically unsinkable. Until Thursday, that is.

Thursday is the day everything goes to hell.

Ashley, the young woman who plays Kitty in their production, calls out sick, requiring an early call time for everyone to run through the show with the understudy and make sure she’s comfortable with the choreography and her handful of lines, or at least comfortable enough with them to make it through a performance. Not the way Emma wants to start her day, but it doesn’t necessarily spell disaster. They can work with that.

What’s worse, though, is getting to the theater to discover that a power surge the evening before has tripped several breakers and screwed with their lights, necessitating changing bulbs and a full check of the theater’s electrical systems. The headset system they’ve got to work with is better than most Emma’s dealt with in her time, but it’s still prone to more interference than Emma would prefer, and a short in their system won’t do Emma and Kristoff any favors. The whole thing is going to be a major stressor in the crew’s afternoon, but there’s no way around it.

Dealing with both of those situations is enough - more than enough, really, if Emma’s being honest.

However, apparently some higher power has it out for Emma, because the joy doesn’t stop there. Instead, that same Thursday, three days after the show’s Sign-Off appearance, Neal shows up in town - at Emma’s theater, no less! - because of mother-fucking course he does.

Honestly, she has no idea how Neal got into the theater in the first place - you’d think someone would have kicked him out between the stage door and the stage. Then again, her ex has always had a way of bluffing his way into places - fake it ‘til you make it and all that. He acts like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and for whatever reason, people believe him.

Emma doesn’t even notice him sauntering around the stage at first, too busy discussing what replacements they’ll need to order with Robin in the booth to pay attention to what’s going on below and leaving Kristoff to be the unfortunate messenger. The unwitting harbinger of doom, if you will.

“There’s some guy asking for you?” her usually even-keeled sound tech cuts in when a break in the conversation allows, voice betraying an uncharacteristic irritation. “Made it sound like you’d know him. I don’t know, he wasn’t exactly forthcoming.” If Emma didn’t know better, she’d almost say there was a hint of disdain in Kristoff’s tone, but that’s silly. Kristoff gets along with everyone, mostly by barely talking to anyone. He’s got that Nordic, Midwestern implacability too where Emma can never tell what he’s thinking, and especially can never tell when he’s flustered.

It’s all explained, though, when she looks through the window to see her ex impatiently checking his phone. He’s not tapping his foot yet but Emma can sense the urge from this distance. Typical - Neal always seems to believe that his time is more valuable than everyone else’s.

“Fuck,” she curses loudly. “It’s my ex. Henry’s dad,” she elaborates when Robin lifts a curious eyebrow at her outburst. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.” Blood pressure no doubt shooting through the roof, she turns on her heel and storms out of the booth to confront Neal and find out why the hell he’s here.

By the time she makes it down to the orchestra level, Neal’s officially progressed to foot-tapping stage, glancing around impatiently. Like he’s the one being inconvenienced here.

“What do you want, Neal?” she demands as soon as she gets close enough. There’s a small amount of pleasure to be taken in watching Neal jerk his head up in response and then down again rapidly to meet Emma’s eyes where she stands in the audience, knowing that it will likely result in a nasty knot in his neck from all the drastic movements. Only a small amount, though.

“Well hello to you too, Ems,” he replies easily, like all of this is some light-hearted social call instead of him barging into her place of employment.

“I’m not kidding around, Neal. What the hell are you doing here?” She doesn’t have time for this, but if she has to deal with it, she’s cutting straight to the point and skipping past the useless pleasantries.

“Well I was in town for a meeting and thought I’d drop by,” he replies.

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?” Neal reacts, playing up his faux offense. It’s all an act, Emma knows; she doesn’t even need a superpower to see that.

“Bullshit. You have never once in your life just ‘dropped by’, and you think theatre is a frivolous waste of time.”

“Can’t a man come see his son, maybe take him to dinner?” he tries instead, changing tactics.

“You certainly can, but it’s 3pm, Neal. Henry won’t be by after school for another hour. And, again, you have never ‘dropped by’ for a surprise visit just because you were in town for some meeting. In fact, you usually have to cancel on dinner with Henry when your meetings run over.”

“Oh c’mon Ems, that’s not fair,” Neal complains, but who the fuck cares what he has to say on the subject? Emma is about to tell him as such when Scarlet interrupts with better timing than she would have credited him with, though his tone is too annoyed to actually write off the interruption as being for her benefit.

“Oi, not that this isn’t fascinating, but would you clear the bleedin’ stage? I’ve been trying to bring this light bar in for the past five minutes but some people,” he glares pointedly at Neal, “won’t get out of the way.”

The nuisance himself looks like he’s about to bite back, but Emma cuts in before he gets the chance. “You gotta move, Neal, I don’t care where. Go hang out backstage or in the house or something. I’ve gotta take care of some stuff, I can’t keep an eye on you.” If she’s secretly hoping he gets whacked in the head with the light bar, well, that’s her business, and entirely understandable to boot.

“We need to talk, Emma,” he insists, apparently finally cutting to his point.

“Yeah, well, I need to do my job. You showed up at a bad time, and I’ve got people waiting on me. We’ll talk later.” She hopes her voice is firm enough - ideally, the one she uses to keep everyone in line when everything is going to shit - but ultimately, it doesn’t much matter as she whirls around and stalks back to the booth.

She’s got a terrible feeling she knows exactly what this is about. It seems like an awfully big coincidence that Neal just happens to unexpectedly show up at her theater, a place he’s never showed interest in, only a couple days after a male coworker said nice things about her on national television. Whatever the case, she so doesn’t have time to deal with it now.

Neal is just going to have to wait.

———

Word travels fast throughout the ranks, and the shocking news that their beloved stage manager’s ex-boyfriend and father to Henry has unexpectedly showed up on their stage is no exception. Killian hears it from Belle, who was told by Scarlet, who relates as much of the situation as he knows with plenty of added commentary about how the man’s a nuisance and possibly an imbecile and honestly, who the bloody hell doesn’t hear a man hollering about a heavy bleedin’ light bar about to be flown in? Fuckin’ idiots, that’s who, if you ask a very irritated Will Scarlet. And then somewhere along the line David Nolan catches wind of it and tells Mary Margaret, and when you tell Mary Margaret anything, suddenly the entire cast knows. It’s just a fact of their little cohort.

Now, Killian considers himself to be an open minded man, a tolerant man, a man who does not make decisions about people before he knows them. Liam raised him to be kind and polite and to listen to people and not make premature judgements, and usually, Killian does his best to live up to that example.

But, God help him, he Does Not Like Emma’s ex.

(Well, part of that might have been related to the holiday party incident and not their encounter today, but his point still stands)

He’s prepared to swear that even were Neal not the former lover of the woman he’s slowly becoming devoted to, he still wouldn’t like the man. There’s something about the other’s man attitude – that he can do what he pleases, and everyone else’s opinion be damned. Killian hates it.

Currently, “whatever he pleases” is wandering around backstage semi-aimlessly, sticking his nose into corners and getting underfoot and generally driving everyone slowly mad.

“Can I help you, mate?” Killian asks in a perfectly civil tone - or at least what he thinks is a perfectly civil tone - when he runs down to grab a prop only to find the other man peeking into thankfully empty dressing rooms.

“Nope, just looking around,” the ex had replied about as absently as humanly possible, not bothering to even make more than glancing eye contact.

Alright then.

The only marginally redeeming factor of that man is how purely delighted Henry is to see him when the lad comes by after school. Killian may be many things - a very judgemental and petty man at the moment, for one - but he’s not a monster, and he’s willing to put up with a lot if it makes that wonderful boy happy. Still. Doesn’t mean he has to become best friends with the man, or even be happy about his presence. In fact, Killian thinks he’ll keep an eye out from a short distance, just to make sure the lad stays happy; he doesn’t quite trust the other man’s motives here, even if he is Henry’s father.

“Dad!” Henry exclaims as soon as he spots the man in question, a wide and brilliant smile stretching his cheeks as his eyes visibly light up. “I didn’t know you were gonna be here!” Just as quickly though, his features shift to confusion. “I didn’t miss a call, did I?”

“Oh no, of course not, buddy,” Neal reassures. “I just thought I’d surprise you.”

Though this appearance could certainly be described as a surprise very easily, Killian still thinks that’s not the whole story. Henry is less fazed though, or at least willing to take the excuse at face value in his excitement over his dad’s presence.

“You’ve got to come meet everyone!” Henry exclaims, practically bouncing on his feet as he tugs Neal over towards Killian.

Lord help me, Killian can’t help but think, this will be fun. If the other man’s face is anything to go by, he seems to be thinking the same thing.

“Killian!” Henry calls, managing to pull an almost genuine smile out of him. “You’ll never guess who’s here! This is my dad!”

“Aye, we met briefly earlier,” Killian replies, thinking of their dressing room encounter (if it can even really be called that). In the name of civility, he sticks a hand out to shake. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr…?” Technically, he already knows the other man’s name, but it feels rude to admit that the whole production knows who he is through the gossip train.

“Cassidy. Neal Cassidy,” he supplies with a smile that looks strained at best, pointedly not shaking the offered hand. “So, you’re the actor or whatever?”

“Aye, that’s me,” Killian agrees, trying hard not to be put out. “I play the male lead in this show, Mr. Darcy.”

“So you and Ems… work together a lot, then?”

So that’s what this is about. Killian almost feels stupid for not putting it together earlier, but it’s hard to miss the strategic emphasis in that sentence that suggests Neal is certain something more is happening. Self-important arse.

“Swan works closely with the entire cast, crew, and production team,” he replies carefully. “She’s perhaps the best stage manager I’ve ever seen, and very dedicated to the job at hand. We’re incredibly lucky to have her steering our little ship.”

“Sure.” Neal is obviously skeptical, if his posture and crossed arms are anything to go by. It takes everything Killian has not to roll his eyes at the bastard’s ridiculous posturing. Even Henry is picking up on the tension, looking back and forth between the two men with that same furrowed brow Emma gets when faced with a problem she’s trying to dissect.

“And I bet that’s all it is. Just a professional relationship,” Neal intones, continuing his interrogation. Killian truly questions the man’s judgement; to him, at least, this seems like an inappropriate avenue to be walking down with Henry right there, but then again, he may be biased as the target of the questioning.

“I believe that’s what I already said,” Killian replies. He’s tried to keep civil this whole time, but he can’t help the irritation from creeping into his tone. “We’re colleagues who interact on friendly but professional terms.” Is there a problem with that? the argumentative side of Killian is itching to demand, but he refrains for Henry’s sake

“Maybe we should go meet other people,” Henry blessedly cuts in before anything comes to blows or Killian says something he regrets (strangely enough, Neal doesn’t seem to have the same qualms that he does). “I’ll see you later, Killian!” he calls back over his shoulder as he practically drags his father away by the arm.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Killian hears Henry chastise from around the corner; he somehow doubts that the lad intended his voice to carry so far. Serves the man right, to be scolded by his own son, though Killian would be shocked if Neal suddenly came to regret his actions. A man that comes into town specifically to get on his ex for mostly platonic words said on a television program doesn’t seem the type to suddenly see how ridiculous his actions are.

He knows that Emma is the last person to want any pity, but she has Killian’s all the same. The man seems to be an insufferable prick, or is at least intent on acting like one; as bad as Killian’s interaction with Neal was, he’d be willing to bet that Emma’s in for something even more infuriating. He sure hopes that this dickery is a recent development, because at the moment, he has no idea what Emma ever saw in that man.

It’s none of Killian’s business, not really, but he can’t help but feel angry on Emma’s behalf that she’ll have to deal with whatever bullshit that bastard chooses to spew at her. Whatever interrogation he just had to suffer, she’ll undoubtedly have to deal with even worse. The more he thinks about it, the more frustrated he gets, until there’s nothing else to do about the matter - he calls Liam. It was either that or go hunt down Neal to ask a bunch of uncalled-for questions in a petty form of revenge.

“Make it quick, brother,” Liam immediately says when he answers, “the filming break is ending in seven minutes.”

“Emma’s ex is the most insufferable man alive,” Killian declares, launching right in.

“Good to know. And how exactly do you know this?” Liam asks in return.

“The arse showed up at the theater today - which was not expected, let me tell you, Henry was shocked to see his father. He obviously has never set foot in a theater, looking around everywhere and getting underfoot. And from everything I hear from Henry, he doesn’t exactly see his dad often, no other spontaneous visits like he was trying to claim this is. And this only a few days after that blasted interview aired! What a wild coincidence!” Killian says sarcastically. “So here he is, showing up to ask me a bunch of questions about whether Emma and I are really just colleagues. Funny, that.”

“Sounds frustrating,” Liam replies, making all the right noises even if he’s a little lost as to what’s going on.

“God, he’s such a pretentious arse. Waltzing right on in here like he gets a say in Swan’s work life. Or her personal life. Hell, the man’s barely around enough to earn the right to an opinion in Henry’s life. Try telling him that, though.”

“Speaking of which, do you plan on telling Emma all this?” Liam poses a good question, but Killian’s a bit conflicted on how to answer.

“I don’t know. She’ll be dealing with enough from him, you know? Not to mention everything else that’s going on around here - it’s a rough tech day to boot, as if she needs more on her plate. I don’t want to add any more stress. But at the same time… it feels deceptive, not telling her? Like I’m not supplying her with all the pieces of a problem.”

Liam hums. “So what are you going to do then?”

“I don’t know,” Killian whines back. “I’m just frustrated.”

“And that’s completely understandable,” Liam soothes. “Someone’s showed up to make trouble for a friend - someone you care for. It makes sense that you’d be angry on her behalf.”

“But what do I do, Liam?” he demands.

“Well, how about this for a compromise: if you see her before he leaves, you keep mum so as not to create more stress or be the cause of any conflict, but if you next see her afterwards, you do mention it. I’m quite firmly on the side of letting her know eventually, just so she can take whatever steps need taking to keep this kind of thing from happening again,” Liam suggests.

“I think I can manage that.” Venting to Liam hasn’t truly solved any problems, but he still feels better, like a dark cloud has been lifted from over his head. “Thanks, Liam. I know you’re busy, but I needed that. I’ll let you go, but really, thank you for being a listening ear.”

“Aye, I’ve got to be getting back,” Liam agrees. “Anytime though, Kil, I’m always here to listen. Hang in there - you and your lady both. Love you, little brother.” And before Killian can respond, even with a correction, the call disconnects.

Huffing a sigh, Killian attempts to release some of the remaining tension, before finally returning his attention to… whatever he came down here for in the first place. Thanks to certain unpleasant visitors, he’s having trouble remembering.

Really, damn the man and all the chaos he’s causing in his wake.

———

There’d been half a hope in the back of Emma’s mind that maybe she’d wrap up everything that needed immediately taking care of before Neal got bored and wandered back again, if only to avoid her ex pulling that “how dare you inconvenience me, my time is more valuable than yours” act again, charming though it is. Sadly, the universe is not on her side in that wish, and Neal and Henry are already waiting at the front, the former already reprising his impatient scanning from earlier as Henry happily chatters away about God knows what.

“Does she always leave you waiting like this?” Emma hears Neal ask, his voice carrying despite the distance.

Henry shrugs nonchalantly in response. “I go talk to everyone. Sometimes Mom lets me help out around here too.”

“Oh, so she’s putting you to work?” Neal’s voice is scandalized - that’s the only word for it. Now that she’s almost to where the two stand, she can see the shock on his face too.

Emma will stand for a lot of things from Neal, but that’s an implication too far. “Yes, I make him lug fifty pound fly weights all over the place. Builds character,” she replies, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Neal rolls his eyes. “Oh, c’mon, Em, you know I wasn’t suggesting that —” he tries to protest, but Emma cuts him off.

“Yeah, you kinda were. Henry, go get your stuff so you and your dad can get something to eat.” Henry scampers off at her suggestion, seemingly all too glad to escape the tension boiling between his parents, a tension that’s about to burst into something worse.

“C’mon, what was that about, Emma?” Neal whines, but Emma’s having none of it.

“Cut the crap, Neal. You wanted to talk, so talk. Starting with the real reason you’re here.”

“Well,” he states, “I saw the Sign-Off interview Monday night.”

Emma groans. She should have seen this coming, but that doesn’t make it any less stupid. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’m serious! I’m laying in bed watching some… stuck-up actor talk about how dedicated you are to the show —”

“And what, you took that as code for ‘child neglect’? Because someone I work with said I’m good at my job?”

Neal’s silence is telling.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, you really thought that, didn’t you?” Emma manages to spit out. “Jesus Christ, Neal.”

“Look, I just know what I saw, ok?” he tries to defend as Emma rolls her eyes. “Don’t I have the right to come make sure you’re not neglecting my son, actually taking care of him instead of spending all your time at work or with some… some pretty boy?”

“That is fucking rich coming from you, Neal. Always so busy with your fancy job and your fancy house and your pretty little wife that you can’t even remember to call your son half the time. Fucking rich. I am doing everything I can to give that kid the best life,” she hisses, stabbing a finger into his chest, “and that’s a hell of a lot more than you’ve done. I’m the one that helps him with his homework, and takes care of him when he’s sick, and listens to all his worries. I’m the one who knows the names of all his friends and which takeout places are his favorite and how to best comfort him when he’s sad. Meanwhile, you couldn’t even be bothered to admit he was yours for five fucking years!” She’s practically shouting by the end, and only hopes Henry is too far away to hear. Neal just stands there glowering as Emma picks up steam. At least he seems to have picked up on the fact that he doesn’t have a leg to stand on.

“And for the record?” she finishes, trying to lower the volume of her voice and probably failing. “I’m not dating Jones, or anyone else. But even if I was, that would be none of your goddamn business. Just like your marriage is none of mine.” Neal finally opens up his mouth to speak, but Emma throws up a hand to stop him before he even starts. “No. We’re done here. You and Henry can leave out the stage door. Have him home by 8, it’s a school night and he has homework.” Emma’s shaking with rage by the end of her tirade, but stands her ground, and with a final huff, her ex stalks off to find their son. Good riddance.

As Neal makes his disgraced departure, still shooting dirty looks over his shoulder, Emma finally relaxes, practically collapsing in on herself. Yes, there are still problems to come in her day, but those are normal problems, the kind that she knows to account for when going to work in the morning. Neal’s presence was a different kind of stressor, one she can’t prepare for, and when shoved at her on top of her work-related stress, it sets a tension into her shoulders that’s unmatched by anything else. Honestly, based off the bullshit Neal was tossing her way, you would have thought Killian has said she was making Henry work sixty hour weeks, not that she was good at her job. For fuck’s sake.

Dropping her head back, Emma takes a moment just to re-center herself before straightening again to return to the booth, only to turn around to spot Robin with a less than pleased look on his face. In fact, she’d go far as to say that she’s never seen him look so furious. Abruptly, Emma’s stomach plummets. God, he must have seen or heard the confrontation with Neal; in the heat of it all, they probably weren’t as quiet as quiet as they should have been. It wasn’t fair of Emma to bring that kind of drama into their workplace, and Robin has every right to be angry about it, but still, it feels like a heavy stone in the pit of her stomach to see that look directed at her.

Quickly, she hurries to meet her colleague at the back of the aisle where he stands, stumbling over apologies the whole while. “Robin, I’m so sorry, you should never have heard - it won’t happen again -” she tries to tell him, but Robin throws up a hand to halt her words in their tracks.

“Stop,” he tells Emma. “Just… stop.” Oh god, he must be really mad. All Emma wants to do is apologize profusely and try to make this right, but she can’t do that if he’s not receptive to hearing it. The stone grows heavier and heavier in her stomach.

Robin exhales a deep breath, as if trying to calm himself down, and Emma braces herself for whatever he’s about to say. He must see or sense that somehow - probably a benefit of spending hours together every day in a space that always seems too small and crowded - because some of the anger recedes from his face, a small amount of tension easing from his frame as he reaches to grasp Emma by the shoulders.

“I’m not mad at you,” he tells her in a voice that’s somehow simultaneously both firm and gentle. Emma imagines it’s the same voice he uses with Roland from time to time. If not, he should - it’s effective.

“You’re not?” she replies in a voice that’s smaller than she’d prefer. Oh well; Robin won’t judge her for that.

“Gods above, no. I’m mad, yes, but not at you,” he explains solemnly, “Emma, darling, please believe me when I tell you this: no one could watch the display that absolute bastard was making of himself and be mad at you. None of this is on you. All of my anger is on your behalf, that he had the very nerve to stand there and say such things.”

“You don’t have to say that,” Emma mumbles. Still, her cheeks flush at the gesture and the care behind those words.

Robin just shrugs. “Maybe I don’t have to, but I’m going to anyways. You’re my friend, Emma,” he explains, “and I see what you do every day. I know exactly how much you give this job, and I know you give Henry even more, as much as a human being can. It’s… preposterous, to even suggest the two are mutually exclusive. Look, I know our situations aren’t exactly the same,” he prefaces, “but I know how easy it is to lose a lot of yourself in being a parent, just by virtue of trying to ensure that your kid has everything. You may not be dating Jones, or anyone else, but so what if you were? You’re allowed to try and find that kind of happiness for yourself, on top of the happiness you get from Henry. The fact that Neal - ” he spits out the name with unexpected derision - “thinks that he gets a say in that, just because he’s Henry’s father, is laughable. Absurd. Especially since he’s one step above an absentee parent.”

Emma can’t help but feel a rush of platonic affection at his words, though she’s mortified to feel those feelings welling into tears of relief and gratitude. It’s true that Mary Margaret and Ruby and Elsa have been agreeing with her about how much of an ass Neal is for years, but they’re practically family; there’s always kind of been that feeling that they have to say that because of their long and close connection to Emma. There’s something meaningful and vindicating about hearing Robin, a coworker of significantly less acquaintance, say the same thing - that her ex is a jerk who has no right to have any opinions about her personal life.

Robin doesn’t know that they’re good tears, however, and his leftover fury quickly morph into a confused concern. “Are you crying?” he asks, not waiting for an explanation. “Oh, please, Emma, don’t cry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that, I didn’t mean to upset you — ”

“It’s alright, Robin,” Emma cuts in with a teary chuckle. “It just means a lot to hear you say that. Thank you.”

“Ah, well, we’ve got to stick together, don’t we?” Robin smiles. “Single parents banding together and all that. Though, for the record, every one of us in here is rooting for you, not just me. Kristoff is as mad as I’ve ever seen him, and I thought Scarlet was about to bash his nose in.”

“Yeah, well, Scarlet just wanted the stage cleared so he could get his work done. Any opportunity to brain Neal with the light bar was just an added bonus,” Emma replies, snorting less than gracefully, happy to see a path out of the emotional bog she’d inadvertently waded into.

“You’re not wrong there,” Robin admits, breaking into his own bout of laughter. At the end of it, the mood is lighter for both of them, and while Emma is still irritated with her stupid-ass ex - a permanent thing, really, even if it’s a bit more than usual at the moment - the blind panic their argument had spawned about what everyone else is going to think of her has abated, thank god.

“Hang in there, darling,” Robin concludes with a collegial pat to her back. “We’re all here for you if you need to vent or plot a murder. Though, I should tell you,” he continues more seriously, “rumor has it that Neal was giving Killian the third degree earlier.”

“Of course he was,” Emma groans, dropping her head back melodramatically before setting her shoulders once again. “Sounds about par for the course today.”

Robin chuckles. “Nothing you can’t handle, o fearsome leader,” he teases. “Now go be a badass, prove him wrong.”

And you know what? Emma’s going to do just that. After one last stop, that is.

———

Killian doesn’t expect Emma to show up in the doorway of his dressing room as he runs through his pre-show prep - in fact, for one irritated moment, he’s convinced it’s Cassidy come back to grill him some more.

“You scared me there,” he comments, tossing a grin towards where Emma leans against the door frame. “I thought you were our charming visitor.”

Emma winces at the words. “Yeah, about that…”

“Oh god, he’s not coming back, is he?” Killian groans. It would be just his luck if the man was standing right behind Swan, but at this point, they’re already on poor enough terms that he’s willing to risk it. It’s not like things can disintegrate any further.

Thankfully, Swan emphatically shakes her head to that. “No, no, he and Henry are off getting dinner somewhere. But I did hear that you guys had the pleasure of meeting.”

Belatedly, Killian realizes that as awful as he thinks Emma’s ex is, she maybe doesn’t want to hear that from others. She’s the one who has to deal with him for the foreseeable future; his conversation with Liam aside, it seems bad form to complain about the man to Emma’s face and potentially make her feel worse, both about the prospect of dealing with Neal and about the fact that he’s here in the first place. The latter is most certainly not her fault.

“Yes, he’s, uh… it was interesting, meeting the man,” Killian finally says, as diplomatically as he can manage.

Swan, thank God, is having none of that however. “Oh please. He’s an ass. A real piece of work. No use beating around the bush, it’s not going to hurt my feelings or anything. I’ve got thicker skin than he does.”

“Ah, well, as long as you said it first,” he laughs. Suddenly, he remembers an earlier part of their conversation - the bit about how she heard Neal and he had talked - and something clicks. “Wait, you’re not here to apologize for his utter lack of manners, are you Swan?”

Her face contorts into a sheepish smile. “Maybe?”

“Well save your breath, love,” Killian insists. “There’s no need. His actions and his words are in no way your fault. You know that, right?” It feels crucial that she knows that.

“Yeah, Robin told me pretty much the same thing,” she replies. “Still. I feel bad that you had to deal with him at all.”

“Put it out of you mind, love, I beg you. I’ll admit that he wasn’t a particularly pleasant part of my day, but I’ll put him out of my mind soon enough. He’ll be a footnote, at best. Don’t worry yourself about it, please.”

“I mean, if you’re sure…” she trails off uncertainly, that guilty look still darkening her face.

“I insist,” he says with finality. He can still see Emma’s doubts lingering though, so he quickly shifts to teasing. “I do have to ask, though,” he says, noting the trace of caution that appears in the crease between her brows, “what did you ever see in him?”

At his teasing smile, Emma releases the tension she’s holding again, going so far as to roll her eyes at the question, and they’re able to resume their banter again, continuing on as if Neal and his nonsense never happened.

(His line that evening about Collins being a pompous, prattling fool seems a little more pointed than it ever has before, but the audience doesn’t need to know that. Killian is confident that Emma hears it all the same.)

If you guys liked this chapter, please please please reblog (or even just like!) it. I’m a desperate woman who’s not about pleading. Thanks for reading!

#cs ff #captain swan #my writing #Playing the Part #What Did I Ever See In Him?#stage manager!Emma #actor!Killian #and a Lil' Bitch

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umichenginabroad · 5 years

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Entrando a la Ciudad

Our first weekend without classes brought a lot of exploring and even more walking (20,000+ steps a day—my dad would be jealous). We began by walking around the area of Recoleta which is where my homestay is located near.

La Recoleta Cemetery is a famous cemetery that was created in 1822 and houses thousands of burial sites in the form or statues, crypts, coffins, etc. You could easily spend hours wandering the cemetery and looking at the different burial sites which can date back to old or recent times.

Pictures from the cemetery—there are rows upon rows of graves like these and some contained smaller coffins (also peep the cats who just lounge around the cemetery).

Many of the crypts and sites were old and had broken glass and some had doors that were partially open. A few had staircases that led underground where more coffins were kept (aside from the ones that can be seen from outside). The condition of some of the tombs were questionable and we even saw some coffins that looked like they were broken.

The prices of some spots ranges from tens of thousands to hundreds of thousands of dollars (especially because there is the spot next to the beloved Evita (or Eva Perón) is open for buying. The cemetery is located right next to a mall, plenty of restaurants, parks and the cultural center.

On a lighter note, Sunday I had heard of a weekly market that is a must see when coming to Buenos Aires so we went! It is called la Feria de San Telmo and there are hundreds of vendors who sell items ranging from antiques, family heirlooms, mate cups, purses, and typical tourist souvenirs.

Pictures from the fair—I’ll be back to do some more thorough shopping again soon!

We even ran into a band playing on the street playing for the groups of people (the tune was stuck in my head for a while after).

We started walking from la Plaza Dorrego (a square with many stands pictured a few images ago) and walked down Defensa which led us to the la Plaza de Mayo y la Casa Rosada.

Group pic in front of La Casa Rosada and a view of the Plaza

La Casa Rosada is the government office of the president and a main symbol of Buenos Aires. There is a museum behind it, but we didn’t have the time to explore it so maybe another day!

After seeing La Plaza de Mayo and all it has to offer, we walked down to the water front where we passed by what looked like a concert (pictured below). Not sure what was happening exactly, but it seemed like a good time and the music was fun to listen to.

People gathered to listen to the bands

Surrounding the concert were a bunch of tents selling food and marketing different things as we passed by to get to the waterfront. This part of the city seemed appeared more modern than the others we have seen so far with more skyscrapers and typical U.S. city buildings which you can see in the back of the picture above.

After all this walking we finally arrived at the edge of the ecological reserve that is located on the edge of the city. It looked like a swamp and different than the other kinds of nature I had seen so far in the city.

A glimpse at an area of the ecological reserve located closer to the city.

I had heard of a boardwalk that you can walk out on to get a good view of the skyline of the city, but at this point everyone was pretty tired from walking all day through the market and around the city. So, we hung out on the ledge next to the reserve and hung out for a bit.

As the sun set behind the city there was a group of people who had music playing and some people paired up to start dancing on the walking path. I had heard that crowds like this would gather around the city so naturally our interest was peaked and we decided to head over and take a look.

The crowd was made up of strangers and friends alike—it was hard to tell which was which!

A few people in our group had some dance experience and wanted to join in and they did! It was very entertaining to watch as they pulled strangers from the crowd to come dance with them. On the other hand, that is how people got partners so almost everyone in our group was pulled in or dragged in to the crowd to dance. As a terrible dance, this factor scared me and I thought if I refrained from making eye-contact with everyone I would be safe, but noooo, I still managed to get pulled in. Some people get the hang of it, but of course I was not one of those people. I ended up apologizing to the guy for being so bad at dancing and he said it was okay and that this gave him a chance to practice his English so there’s that!

Now to bring the mood back down, classes also started this week. Having been out of school for one month, I was not ready to get back into the swing of things.

A picture of our classroom at our study center

Classes are a long four hours with some breaks in-between each day. However, due to the expected strike on the Wednesday, we had double the amount of class on Thursday and a make-up class added on Friday for a holiday coming up next month. Lots of class, but it’s interesting to learn about the culture we are immersed in

This weekend we are going to Iguazú Falls and more trips are in the works!

See ya later!

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

Larissa Wermers

Mechanical Engineering

Engineering in Buenos Aires, Argentina

#UmichEnginAbroad #IPEArgentina #LarissaWermers #IPE Summer19

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swanslieutenant · 7 years

Text

CSJJ Day 14: Star Struck

Here’s my contribution for @csjanuaryjoy, day 14!

The prompt I used was: “I ran you over and all my attempts to make amends are making it worse” but as you’ll see I put a celebrity twist on it too :P

rated T, about 10.5K words (as usual, I got hella carried away).

Read on AO3

To say that Emma’s been having quite the start to her weekend would be the understatement of the century.

It had all started late Thursday night; after a long, frustrating day of work (in which she’d learned that three of her latest ‘clients’ had skipped out on their bail) she’d just been ready to go to sleep, to at least try to get some peace and quiet after the horrid day, when her cellphone rang.

To add to her annoyance, it was Neal.

He, as usual, had ignored her complaints that it was late and why couldn’t you have called tomorrow, Henry is already asleep and just announced that he and Tamara, his girlfriend, were coming up to Boston tomorrow.

Emma hadn’t been expecting that; they were just here a few weeks ago for Christmas, spending Christmas Eve with Henry, so she hadn’t been quite sure why they decided to make the long drive back to Boston so soon. The memory of Christmas had made her grit her teeth together, increasing her aggravation at Neal’s call. He and Henry had only re-connected a few years ago (running into Neal with Henry during a school trip to Manhattan was one of the worst days of Emma’s life) and it had just worked out to be their first Christmas together. And like with the other holidays they’ve spent together since their reunion, Neal had given no thought to whatever Emma and Henry’s usual traditions of Christmas were, and his mention of this impromptu trip to Boston had put Emma on guard. Sure, there are no holidays in sight, but it’s not unlike Neal to change the game without telling her.

She had demanded to know what was going on but Neal was vague and unhelpful, and just told her that he’d tell her and Henry together when they were all at dinner tomorrow.

He’d hung up with a don’t be late, Emma! before she could even protest the assumption that she and Henry would be free for dinner with only a day’s notice. Never mind that Henry’s favourite television programme is on Friday nights and hell if she doesn’t have the hardest time trying to drag him away from it, but Fridays are Emma’s busiest day at work – the last day of the bail court for the week – and that usually means she’s home hopelessly late on the best of days.

And this Friday evening, as she half-slips and half-slides down the icy sidewalk to her apartment, is not a best day.

Neal made a reservation for 6:30 at some fancy French restaurant with a name Emma can’t even pronounce, and the clock is already ticking past 6 by the time she finally shoulders her way into her apartment.

And is greeted with the blaring opening theme music from Henry’s television show.

He doesn’t even look up as she marches past the living room, gritting her teeth at the loud string violins and harsh piano notes permeating her apartment. The opening theme drags on for several minutes at the beginning of each episode, loud and dramatic, and it’s for that reason and that reason alone that Emma refuses to watch the show. Though the show would normally draw her interest immensely, Emma is stubborn and now that she’s committed to never watching it, she never will.

“Turn that crap off,” she calls to Henry as a greeting, unravelling her winter scarf and ditching her heavy winter jacket and her purse across the couch as she passes, tossing her keys into their little dish on the side table. “We have to leave in five minutes.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer – Henry finally looking away from the TV to give her a dark glare answer enough – and continues to her room. As she strips out of her work clothes, she stares at her closet, frowning as she considers her options. She’s got plenty of outfits to wear to a fancy restaurant, but they’re ones she usually saves for the nights out with her bail-bonds targets and are not terribly appropriate for a nice dinner with her kid’s father and his girlfriend.

But then her temper, which has been simmering all day, flares.

What is she thinking? What does it matter what Neal thinks? Why should she spend any time considering what he would think about her outfit for dinner? He’s got no consideration for her, her time, or Henry’s either. This evening is just the latest in a long list of times that he’s shown it, and that doesn’t even cover the whole ‘I set you up for my crime and never apologized for it.’

If Neal wanted nice and sweet Emma, he’s about thirteen years too late.

Emma pushes aside any respectable options she has and selects a dress, black and leather, from the back of her closet, tugging out her highest black heels to pair it with too. The dress and the shoes are going to leave her legs freezing in Boston’s cold January and her step unsteady on the ice, but Emma doesn’t care. She feels great in the dress, wrapped in confidence as tight as the leather, and that’s exactly what she needs to face Neal and Tamara when her mood is already as foul as it is.

It’s not that she doesn’t like Tamara. Tamara is fine. Pleasant even, though a bit haughty at times; Emma’s sure her black dress is going to raise her perfectly arched eyebrows. But no, it’s not that.

It’s that Henry doesn’t like her.

Neal and Tamara had already been together when Emma and Henry ran into Neal in New York a couple years ago, and though Emma thinks Henry’s dislike of Tamara stems mostly from a childlike place of ‘I want my parents to get back together and you are in the way’, the fact is he doesn’t like her and that makes any interaction with Neal and Tamara highly frustrating, increasing the lingering tension and awkwardness they all feel anytime they interact.

And even though Emma’s told Henry that there is no way she’d get back with Neal, even if Tamara wasn’t in the picture, Henry’s still a kid, and he dreams of what society sees as a ‘normal family’. And even now, that makes Emma’s heart ache. She’s only ever wanted to give Henry his best shot at life, and when he says things like that ...

She shakes her head, and forces those thoughts away. There’s no need to linger on any what ifs now, not with her mood as it is, not when they’re already late, not when those kind of thoughts and doubts make her want to crawl into bed and never re-emerge from under the covers.

She leaves her bedroom before she can do just that, stopping quickly in the bathroom to re-apply her makeup and shake off any remaining snow from her hair. Her curls are a bit limp after a whole day, but a spritz with some hairspray and a rough hand through them has them looking rather artfully tousled, if she says so herself.

When she re-emerges from the hall and into the living room, Henry hasn’t moved a muscle. At least his show has finally started, the horrid music replaced by the clanging of swords and cannon fire, the shouts of the actors loud over all the commotion.

His attention is glued to the screen, eyes wide in rapt excitement, and Emma sighs, leaning against the wall and observing him. She’s not thrilled about his choice of television show, but Henry’s been a latchkey kid his entire life, and it’s that lifestyle that’s allowed him to develop the bad habit of watching TV that she would never approve of otherwise. Still, it’s something he loves and she’s annoyed that because of his father’s lack of thought and consideration he’s going to miss it.

“Henry,” she says, gently. “Come on, we’ve got to go.”

“It just started,” he replies, without looking away. “Five more minutes?”

Five more minutes always turns into can’t I just finish this episode and Emma sighs.

“Henry,” she says again, as gently as possible, moving into the room and tugging the remote from his grip. She ignores his pleas and whines, and switches the television off, and turns to face her now grumpy son. “We’re supposed to meet your dad and Tamara at 6:30, and if we don’t leave right now, we’ll be late. Go on, get your coat.”

He pouts, looking far more like his four-year-old toddler self than the burgeoning teenager, but complies. As he passes her, muttering (in words that her four-year-old never would have known) at the indignity of having to miss his favourite show all the way down the hall, Emma smiles fondly; her little boy is really not so little anymore after all.

But her smile turns to a frown as she glances back at the now quiet TV. That he’s growing up is never more true than when Emma thinks about what he’s just been watching. The Jolly Roger is a swashbuckling re-imagining of J.M. Barrie’s Captain Hook’s early life and as far as Emma can tell from what Henry’s told her, there’s very little similarity between the show and its origins in Peter Pan. Even Emma, who has never seen a single episode, knows that this adaptation is full of blood and violence and sword fights instead of a whimsical island with crocodiles and mermaids, and Henry really shouldn’t be watching it.

By the time Henry re-enters the room, swinging his jacket on over his shoulders, Emma has pulled on her own coat – forgoing her winter parka for her woolen red pea coat – and she smiles at his still sour expression, trying to encourage a bit of positivity in turn.

“Ready, kid? Let’s go.”

She grabs her keys from their dish as she passes and ushers a pouting Henry out of the apartment ahead of her, and then they’re finally on their way.

Some jerk had parked in her usual spot outside the apartment building, so Emma parked further away than normal – down near the small shopping centre and hotel village near their apartment – and she hustles Henry along the two blocks it takes to reach the car. He’s still sulking when they finally get in the car, and Emma sighs, turning to face him before starting the engine.

“I’m sorry about your show, Henry. You can watch it when we get home, okay?”

“It’s the midseason premiere, Mom,” he grumbles. “It’ll all be spoiled by the time we get home. Tonight’s the story about how Captain Hook lost his hand, and I’ve been waiting all season to see it –”

“They won’t actually show him losing his hand, will they?” Emma says, frowning as she finally turns the key in the ignition to start the car. “That doesn’t sound appropriate for thirteen-year-olds.”

She checks her mirrors briefly before taking her foot off the brake, and tapping the gas as Henry sighs, exasperatedly; they have this conversation about three times a week. “Mom, it’s fine –”

But whatever else Henry’s about to say is interrupted by a loud thump from the back of the car, accompanied by a grunt of surprise and a half-yelp of ‘bloody hell!’

Emma slams on the brakes, jolting the car to a stop even though the tires spin on the ice and screech in protest. It’s only then, once her car has come a creaking halt that her brain catches up to what just happened and her heart drops into her stomach in horror.

Oh my god, I just hit someone.

Henry’s arrived at the same conclusion, all arguments about The Jolly Roger gone from his lips as he twists in his seat, staring out the back window of the Bug.

“Mom, did we hit somebody?”

Emma doesn’t answer, already half-way out of the door, and it’s all she can do to not slip on the slick ground as she rounds the car.

Her victim is a man around her age, sat sprawled on the damp Boston pavement behind her car. He’s clutching at the right side of his torso, muttering darkly under his breath, and another wave of horror and guilt floods through Emma.

“Hey – oh my god – are you ... are you okay?”

He doesn’t look up, but does nod once in response. That motion makes him wince, and his stream of dark mutters continues, his hand pressing firmly against his side.

Emma chances a nervous glance over his head to Henry, who has also emerged from the car. He’s staring at the man with impossibly wide eyes, his mouth hanging open in a rather comical way. He’s probably shocked that his mother just nearly ran a stranger over, Emma reasons grimly, looking back to the man and crouching down so she’s eye-level with him.

“I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

The man looks to her finally, and she gets a good look at him in the warm glow of the streetlights. He’s got messy dark hair and light scruff on his jaw, handsome even with the expression of pain that’s crunched his features into a tight grimace. But his blue eyes are wide open in shock and Emma’s sure it’s a trick of the fading light that they seem to widen even more as he takes in the sight of her in her high heels and bare legs.

“Aye,” he replies finally. His voice, tinged with an English accent, sounds winded and he makes no move to get up, frowning as he presses a hand gingerly against his injured side as he shifts his weight. “You just bumped me.”

Emma wishes the ground would just open up and swallow her whole, and she grimaces. “I’m so sorry,” she says again. “I was distracted. I didn’t ... I didn’t see you.”

The man rolls his eyes as if to say obviously but the smirk he shoots her is more amused than reproachful. He doesn’t say anything though, and when it becomes clear that he is in no rush to move just yet, pressing and probing at his side with a frown on his face, Emma straightens up.

Henry, who’s still hovering at the side of the Bug in stunned silence, edges forward then and catches Emma’s eye.

“Should I call an ambulance?”

Emma looks to the man, unsure, but he’s looked up now and appears utterly horrified.

“No, no. I’m fine.” He leans forward in an attempt to stand, but then falls back with a wince and a muttered curse, pressing a gloved hand again to his side. Emma’s sure there’s already a nasty bruise forming in the shape of her Bug’s fender, and a swoop of guilt rushes through her again.

“Here, let me help you up.”

He waves her away. “No, I’m fine, really, I just need a moment –”

Emma ignores his protests, and bends down to grip both his gloved hands in hers. He starts to say something, eyes growing wider in alarm, but Emma’s already pulling him up. He’s halfway to standing when, to her supreme surprise, her right arm pulls back faster than the left, losing grip on the man’s. It sends her spinning off balance, and with her heels having hardly any grip on the icy road, it’s only her quick reflexes that have her dropping his other hand to reach out and grab the edge of her car. He, then, with no momentum in his favour, has no other choice but to fall back onto the ground, and he lands with a heavy thud onto his already injured side.

Standing by the edge of her car, panting and gasping, Emma isn’t sure what just occurred. She looks down to her right hand and – oh my god – in her own grip is the man’s gloved, now detached, hand.

“What the –”

“You really don’t have a left hand?” Henry demands then, finally stepping away from the car. That snaps Emma into reality, and she glares at her son and his lack of tact, her cheeks burning even hotter as she finally realizes what she just did.

The man has pushed himself back to a seated position, grimacing even more now. There’s a high blush on his cheeks too, and he looks up to Henry, who is still gazing at him as if he’s never seen anyone like him before.

“Aye,” he replies in a quiet voice.

Emma edges herself off her car, hesitant on the slippery road, and moves to the man again. “I am so sorry,” she says, for what’s probably the tenth time. “I didn’t – I didn’t realize.”

He nods at her in recognition. “It’s alright,” he replies, taking the fake hand – oh god – back from Emma. “Happens more than you think.”

She sincerely doubts that, but a flood of appreciation fills her nevertheless. The last few days have been tortuous already, but at least the man she just hit and (dear god) ripped a hand off of isn’t yelling and swearing at her.

The man has clicked the hand back into place, and she steps forward again to help him up, and with her grip high on his forearm this time, helps him rise to standing. When he’s upright, grimacing, she maintains her grip on him in case he is far more injured than he lets on and he collapses on her.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I really am sorry.”

“Yes, I’m fine,” the man says again, and he smiles reassuringly when he lifts his gaze to meet Emma’s anxious eyes. “Really, love. You just barely bumped me.”

Emma keeps her grip on him for a few more seconds, uncertain as to why this guy is seemingly okay with nearly being run down in the street, but reluctantly releases her hold when he smiles again at her. But she hesitates to step away, as she isn’t sure what the protocol is here – does she insist on taking him to the hospital to make sure he’s okay, or just hang around until it’s clear he’s fine and on his way?

Instead, she asks: “What’s your name?”

He hesitates for a second, a brief flicker of confusion on his features that Emma doesn’t understand, but it’s gone quickly and he’s smiling again. His smile is somehow different now too, less guarded and far more open; he’s even more handsome when he’s looking at her like that.

“Killian Jones,” he says. “And yours?”

“Emma Swan. And this is my son Henry.” She gestures to him, and Killian turns a bit to smile at Henry.

“Nice to meet you, lad.”

Henry, who’s looking thunderstruck again, takes a few moments to reply. “Uh, yeah. Nice to meet you too.”

Emma shoots Henry a strange look over Killian’s shoulder as he turns back around, but before she can question her son, he is speaking again, addressing Killian.

“What are you looking for?”

Killian’s scanning the icy road with a frown. “My cellphone. I was texting my brother when ... well, let’s just say, I wasn’t looking where I was going either.”

Emma’s cheeks flush, and she drops her own gaze to look around for it, sucking in a deep breath when she spots it just a few moments later. Its half-compressed under her tire, the screen crushed and completely shattered, and Emma wonders vaguely how this night could get any worse.

“Um, I found it.”

Killian follows her eye line, and he sighs when he sees the crushed wreckage. He bends down with a grimace to pick up some of the accessible pieces and upon straightening again, he examines them for a few moments before sighing once more.

“Don’t worry about it, love. It’s easy to replace.”

“Right,” Emma says, and reality slams back into her. She has no idea how she’s going to afford to replace this guy’s phone, but somehow, someway, she’ll have to figure it out. “Well, I can give you my email and when you’ve replaced it, you can email me the receipt and I’ll reimburse you –”

Killian looks up to her, startled. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean you have to replace it,” he says hurriedly. “I’ll take care of it.”

Emma, who’d already been re-calculating how she was going to distribute her paycheck this month, pauses. She blinks back at Killian, unsure of what to say for a few moments. “Oh,” she says, finally. “Okay. Are you sure?”

He nods at her, and slides the broken pieces into the pocket of his leather jacket, a cheeky grin now lifting his features. “I figure when I tell the phone company that a woman nearly ran me down while using their device and the only casualty was this phone, instead of me too, they’ll be quite accommodating. Terrible publicity otherwise.”

He says it with a lilt of amusement, but Emma doesn’t laugh. She’s not sure how he is so okay with everything, but she’s still a bit shaken up by the idea that she could have so easily really hurt him, could have even killed him.

The mirth fades from his eyes as he meets her solemn face, and his expression becomes serious in turn. He stuffs his hands, real and fake, into the pockets of his jacket – which, Emma notes with a wince, has an enormous rip down the right hand side where he fell – and says, “Well, like I said, no real harm done. I won’t keep you two any longer, I’ll just be on my way and we can put this behind us –”

And he turns to go, nodding in departure to Henry, but before Emma can stop herself, she’s reached out to grab his arm.

“Wait.”

He turns back to her, eyebrow raised in cautious question. “Yes?”

“You can’t just –” she swallows, and shakes her head. “There’s gotta be something I can do to make it up to you. I hit you, for god’s sake, and you’re hurt, your phone is destroyed, your jacket is torn –” Not to mention I just ripped off your prosthetic hand...

Killian apparently reads her mind for that last thought, but he shakes his head with a warm smile. “It’s okay. Really. I’m fine.”

Emma opens her mouth to argue further, but Henry beats her to the punch, piping up in an excited and breathless tone: “We’re going out for dinner! You should come with us!”

And at this point Emma has completely forgotten about their dinner plans, but now that Henry’s mentioned it ... this could be a great solution. She can’t afford to replace the guy’s phone, but paying for his dinner – she can do that. She can easily visualize Neal’s annoyed face if she shows up with some guy in tow, but who cares what he thinks. He gave her no notice, so she’s not going to give him any either.

Killian is protesting, “No, I couldn’t impose –” and Emma interrupts him.

“You’re not imposing. Buying you dinner is the least I can do. Come on. Henry, get in the car.”

Henry, grinning widely, obeys, pulling up the passenger seat to clamber into the backseat, but Killian remains frozen to the spot. He looks torn, between accepting her offer or just making a run for it, but maybe it’s Emma’s stern stance or maybe because he just realizes he’s about to get a free dinner, but whatever internal war he’s had settles and he nods.

“Alright. If you’re sure.”

“If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t have offered. Come on.”

But once in the car, Emma can’t help but think what the hell am I doing, I don’t even know this guy and she almost backs out, just about tells him she’s changed her mind and she’ll just drop him off wherever he wants. She suspects Killian would be okay with that, as he settles in rather stiffly beside her, but then Henry starts talking, and Emma knows he wouldn’t be. Whatever the circumstances that have led to this strange turn of events, Henry is fascinated with Killian. He’s leaning so far forward he might as well be sitting on the centre console and gazing at him with wide eyes as if he’s some strange creature he’s never seen before.

Dinner it is.

“What are you doing in Boston?” Henry demands as Emma starts to drive, backing out carefully this time and making sure absolutely no one is around her car. “Do you live here?”

“My brother does. I was in London over the winter break, so I didn’t get to see him until now.”

“Is that where you live?” Emma asks. “London?”

“No,” Killian replies, and there’s something cautious in his voice now. He hesitates for a moment, before continuing, in a guarded tone, “I’m based in Los Angeles, though part of the year I’m down in the Caribbean for work.”

That’s certainly not what Emma was expecting, and she sends him an incredulous look.

“The Caribbean? What are you, some kind of pirate?”

Henry lets out a snort of laughter, which he quickly tries to muffle with a hand over his mouth, and when Emma turns to glance at him, questioning, she catches sight of the half-smirk on Killian’s face.

“Something like that.”

Emma’s lie detector, her superpower as she likes to call it, doesn’t react at that, and she feels distinctly like she’s missing out on some joke. “Well,” she continues, a bit warily, “you and Henry will have a lot to talk about then at dinner. He loves that show about pirates. The Jolly Roger, right, Henry?”

For some reason, a blush floods over Henry’s cheeks then, and he mutters a shy, “Yes.”

Killian shifts in his seat to look at Henry, and he smiles softly. “Do you, lad?” he asks, but then his expression shifts a bit, and he frowns. “Aren’t you a little young for it?”

Henry sighs dramatically, all traces of shyness gone in an instant. “Not you too.”

Killian laughs, and he looks to Emma. His laughter subsides, and he considers her for a second with thoughtful eyes, before asking, in a much softer voice, “And you? What do you think of it?”

She shrugs. “I’ve never seen it. Just heard its dreadful opening music, and that’s enough for me to know I don’t want to watch it.”

She can see Killian’s eyebrows rise from her peripheral vision and Henry sucks in a sharp breath of air.

“Mom!”

He twists abruptly to stare at Killian, who’s expression of surprise has been replaced by one of amusement. “She doesn’t really mean that,” Henry assures quickly. “She’s just never seen it. I’m sure if she watched it, she’d like it.”

“I’m sure,” Killian says seriously, though his eyes are still dancing with mirth.

Emma still feels like there’s something she’s missing, and she narrows her eyes at the pair of them, but then Henry’s talking again, and by the time she pulls into the parking spot in front of the restaurant, Emma’s all but forgotten it.

Henry hurries inside to the warm restaurant once they’re all out on the sidewalk, but before Emma can do the same, Killian’s hand grips her forearm.

“Swan, wait.”

She turns to look at him, eyebrow raised. “What?”

For a moment, Killian looks like he’s about to tell her something important, eyes back to being cautious and guarded, but then he just shakes his head. He gestures to the restaurant, looming just in front of them with its name in intricate, fancy writing, and says, “I didn’t expect to go a place like this. When you said dinner, I expected ... well, not this. This place is expensive, you don’t have to buy me something here.”

“Oh, that’s okay. We were planning to come here anyways.”

He frowns, and doesn’t release his hand from her arm. “I appreciate the gesture, really, but –”

“Killian, it’s fine,” Emma says again, and she pulls away from him. “Come on.”

Henry’s waiting for them just inside the first set of doors to the restaurant when Killian and Emma join him and he eagerly leads them then into the grand foyer of the restaurant.

It’s beautiful, full of cushy sofas and fireplaces, and the foyer opens out into the restaurant proper just ahead. White clothed tables spread out in a seashell formation, each table adorned with frosted glass candles and fresh flower centrepieces, and a huge, elaborate crystal chandelier hangs proudly overhead in the centre of the room, catching the light and sending a cascade of sparkles throughout the area.

Henry doesn’t waste a moment on the pretty décor, bounding off to one of the tables to the left as soon as they enter with an excited, “Hi, Dad!”

Killian, who’d been admiring an elaborate painting of a galleon out at sea, stiffens, head whirling around to follow where Henry’s going. Emma looks too, and as she watches Killian take in Neal, rising to give Henry a hug, she suddenly feels like a total fool.

What was she thinking? Inviting the guy she nearly drove over to a fancy dinner with her ex and his girlfriend? And not even telling said guy about it beforehand?

She looks back to Killian, dreading his reaction. He just looks confused, a crease between his eyebrows furrowing his brow, and he asks, quietly, “His father?”

“Yeah. I should’ve – I don’t know what I was thinking. I should have told you he’d be here.”

He regards her for a moment, but then just nods, and it’s apparent he’s completely misread the situation. “It’s okay, Swan. I can use the restaurant’s phone, call for a taxi, I don’t want to interrupt your family’s meal –”

The idea that Neal is Emma’s family is so ludicrous, she lets out a snort. But that only confuses Killian more, brow furrowing even more, and Emma hurriedly explains, “We’re not – we’re not together, Killian. We haven’t been since before Henry was born. So no – you’re not interrupting anything. He’s just in town, and wanted to see Henry.”

He still looks unsure, but a hostess arrives beside them, hand out for their coats, and then Emma leads the way over to Neal before Killian can protest anymore.

Henry’s disappeared, his jacket left swung over the back of a chair, and Tamara is nowhere in sight either. Neal has resumed his seat and is frowning at the pair of them. As they approach, her eyes fall onto the table; they’ve clearly already eaten, plates scraped clean, and Emma has to resist the urge to ball her hands into fists.

They’re not that late – okay, it’s nearing 7:30 now – but still; they couldn’t have waited?

“Where’s Henry gone?” Emma asks once they reach the table, not even bothering with a greeting.

“This place is like a maze so Tamara’s showing him where him where the bathroom is,” Neal replies, and then his eyes flicker to Killian. “Who’s this?”

For a moment, the truth almost comes out, Emma already bracing herself for Neal’s look of disbelief and rolled eyes, but he’s got that annoying look on his face, the one she’s seen a few times since reuniting with him. Nearly a year ago, she’d been sort of semi-dating this guy named Walsh, and though Neal broke her heart more than a decade ago and didn’t have anything to do with her for just as long, whenever some guy is around Emma, he always gets this look on his face, like he has some right to have a say in the fact that Emma could be in a relationship – as if he has some claim on her still.

“This is Killian,” she says simply, deciding to let Neal come to his own conclusions because she’s sure he’s already done so. “Killian, this is Neal. Henry’s dad.”

If Killian’s surprised Emma didn’t explain the circumstances that led to his presence here tonight, he doesn’t show it. He holds his good hand out to Neal, and says, in a perfectly smooth, pleasant tone, “Nice to meet you.”

Neal, after a beat, reaches out to shake Killian’s hand, though he drops it quickly. “Yeah, sure.” His eyes slide from Killian then to Emma, and his frown deepens. “Emma, can I talk to you for a second?”

She clenches her jaw but nods, exchanging a quick look with Killian before following Neal. Whatever his earlier thoughts were about Emma’s relationship with Neal, he’s clearly clued in to the fact that there’s tension there and Emma appreciates the small motion of encouragement he gives her in a small smile as she steps away, smiling back in turn.

But that small fragment of happiness dissipates as Neal leads to her to a little alcove near the bar, as he turns to face her with a scowl.

“You know, Emma,” he starts, and she already know with absolute certainty that she’s going to hate what’s going to come out of his mouth next. “Tamara and I drove nearly four hours to come down here and see Henry, and you could’ve had the decency to let me know ahead of time that you were bringing some guy along too.”

Her rage rears its head again, flooding hot and furious through her veins, and she doesn’t even bring up the fact that, until an hour ago, she had no idea who Killian even was, and instead snaps out, “Decency? You called me last night to tell me you were coming into town. That’s not a lot of notice, Neal.”

He glares at her. “This wasn’t exactly a planned trip, Emma. We’ve got news to tell Henry, and I wanted to tell him as soon as I could, so, yeah –”

“News?” she interrupts, frowning. What possible news could he have that he couldn’t have said over a phone call? “What news?”

Neal squirms, and Emma’s gaze grows colder the longer he doesn’t answer. “I was hoping to tell you both together, but well, fine,” he says, and he looks thoroughly annoyed that his plan hasn’t worked out. “I wanted to tell Henry in person: I proposed to Tamara yesterday, and she said yes. So we’re going to get married.”

Emma blinks, and though it’s been so long, the time between them filled with nothing but distance and bitterness and betrayal, she almost still expects another piece of the heart that still belongs to the broken 17-year-old who had loved him to fracture at the news.

But her heart doesn’t even flinch. And Emma knows she’s been over him for a long time – even the memories of what they once had poisoned and burned by what he did – but still, she sometimes wondered if the wounds he left on her would ever recede. But now, the feeling of nothing, of no ache in her chest or clench of her stomach at the news that the man she used to love has moved on too ... maybe, just maybe, Emma’s heart has finally healed the claw marks he left behind.

“Congratulations,” she says, and she hopes he can hear that she means it. “That’s great.”

But then a thought surfaces in Emma’s mind – I wanted to tell Henry in person – and she narrows her eyes. “Why did you invite me to dinner too? You could have just told me over the phone and I would’ve brought Henry so you and Tamara could talk to him without me.”

Neal stuffs his hands into his pockets, and looks away from her, guilt flashing across his features. “You know ... Henry’s never been totally okay with Tamara. I thought ... I thought he might like to have you around in case he got upset.”

Her lie detector flares up, and Emma stares at him, crossing her arms across her chest in disbelief. “That’s not true. What, did you just not want to have to deal with him if he was upset?”

He doesn’t answer, and that’s all the confirmation Emma needs. Her eternal anger towards him resurfaces; while the heartbreak may have healed, Emma’s sure the anger she has at Neal will never fade. Obviously, while she’s changed and grown, Neal is still the same cowardly man he was thirteen years ago.

“You’re not telling him tonight.” He lifts his head, mouth open in outrage and ready to argue, but Emma continues, “You and Tamara can take him out to lunch tomorrow, and tell him then. He deserves to hear it from just you two. And if he is upset, you are the one who needs to work it out with him. Not me.”

“Emma, come on –”

She holds her hand up to silence him, and looks away, taking a deep breath to calm herself, and as she does so, spots Henry. He’s returned from the bathroom, and has abandoned Tamara at the table to instead stand with Killian, who seems to have attracted a large group of waiters and host staff. Henry is grinning, wide-eyed and cheeks flushed, and Emma’s heart smiles at the sight.

Neal is right; Henry will probably be a little miffed at his father’s engagement, and after all they’ve already been through tonight – Henry having to miss his favourite show and then (perhaps a bit more traumatizing) his mother nearly killing a man – Emma wants to spare him that, for at least one more day.

She turns back to glare at Neal, who’s glaring at her right back. “Henry’s had enough excitement for one night, so you’re going to tell him tomorrow.”

Emma turns on her heel then, ignoring anything else Neal could possibly have to say, and marches back over to the table. She hears him call out for Tamara behind her, and the woman departs the table in turn, moving to speak with Neal off to the side with hardly a glance at Emma as she passes her.

That makes Emma only more annoyed, and it’s hard to contain her feelings when she reaches the table, but she plasters on a smile anyways. Killian and Henry left the group of servers when they saw her coming, and Killian reaches the table first, pulling out Emma’s chair for her.

“Thanks,” she says, and while Henry’s sufficiently distracted by looking at his own menu once he’s sat down to notice her mood, Killian is more perceptive.

She can practically feel his glare at Neal and Tamara over her shoulder, and as he sits down beside her, he leans close enough that she can feel his breath on her cheek, and murmurs quietly, “Are you alright, Swan? What happened?”

She shakes her head, and though Killian leaned close to speak so she could only hear, she’s still too aware of Henry’s ears nearby. “Nothing,” she whispers back. And though she doesn’t really owe him an explanation, at the look on his face, she can’t help but add: “I’ll tell you later.”

He doesn’t look satisfied, eyes flicking back to Neal to with steel in them, but he nods nonetheless, and to her surprise, reaches out to grip her hand in his own, rubbing his thumb softly over the back of her hand.

And normally Emma would snatch her hand away out of instinct, depositing a frosty glare upon whoever was so presumptuous and bold, but she’s surprised at herself. She doesn’t find it any of those things, not too forward or possessive or anything like that.

It’s just comforting.

She wonders if Killian’s misread the situation again, that she brought him here on false pretenses to pretend to be her boyfriend in front of her kid’s dad, and he’s just playing the part he thinks she wants. But, as Neal and Tamara return to the table, he releases her hand, and then Emma’s wondering if maybe he’s not playing at all – wouldn’t he keep his grip if he was faking it?

Neal and Tamara are both frowning as they arrive at the table, and don’t say a word to either Killian or Emma. Neal just crouches down beside Henry, tapping his arm to get his attention, and says, “Henry, Tamara and I are gonna head out. We’ve had a long drive, and we’re both pretty beat. We’ll go for lunch tomorrow, okay, bud? Just the three of us.”

Even though the lunch part was her idea, Emma hadn’t suggested that they just up and leave, and Emma hates the flicker of disappointment in her son’s eyes as he sets the menu down with a frown. “Oh. Okay.”

He gets up to give Neal a hug goodbye, waving at Tamara, and then they’re gone.

An uneasy tension descends on the table then, Henry’s earlier good mood fading in light of his father’s departure. Emma’s not sure how to break the tension, feeling a bit like she scared them off and thus feels somewhat guilty too for Henry’s dark mood, and Killian senses the change in atmosphere too. But instead of just letting it fester, he jumps straight into it, attempting to salvage something of the evening.

“Henry, did you know that it takes ten full days to shoot just one episode of The Jolly Roger?”

He looks up, surprise on his face. “That long?”

Killian nods, and launches into an explanation of why. Emma’s impressed – he must be a fan of the show too – and then, as the evening goes on, with the meals arriving and the conversation still flowing, most of the bad events of the past two days that have led up to this moment start to fade from Emma’s mind.

And it’s pretty much totally because of Killian.

Though she thought he and Henry would just talk about the pirate show, Killian’s got a million other stories too, on the widest variety of topics (from snorkeling mishaps in the Caribbean to what museums are the best to visit in London) and Henry eats up everything he has to say. His good mood returns as if it hadn’t been dampened at all, and when Killian’s not talking, Henry is, as animated and excited as Emma’s ever seen him.

Killian’s just as good of a listener as he is a storyteller, listening intently and genuinely to everything Henry has to say. That, perhaps, is even more fascinating to Emma than his stories; even the rare few times that she’d allowed Walsh and Henry to meet, Walsh had clearly no lasting interest in whatever Henry had to say, and Emma finds herself wondering just who this Killian Jones is, who weaves words with careful articulation and actually cares what her son has to say.

After dessert – which arrived too quickly for Emma’s liking – Henry disappears to the bathroom once more before they leave, while Emma and Killian head up to the front to pay the bill and collect their coats. She’s surprised she’s so reluctant to let the evening end, her feet dragging all the way up to the hostess stand, as she had been dreading it all day but it’s turned out nothing like she expected.

A thought appears in her mind, one she quickly banishes as selfish and cold, but ... but perhaps hitting Killian with her car was actually a blessing in disguise. Even though Neal turned out to be a disappointment tonight, at least Henry didn’t have his entire evening ruined.

As the hostess disappears to show another set of patrons to their table, Emma shrugs her jacket on, hand slipping into her pocket to remove her wallet but finds, to her surprise, the pocket is empty. Frowning, she checks the other pocket, but its only got her keys.

Then, with a drop of horror that settles like lead into her stomach, she realizes – she’d ditched her purse on the couch as she came into her apartment earlier, and then she’d been in such a rush to get to the restaurant on time, it just slipped her mind to pluck the wallet from it to slip into her jacket, and oh my god, I don’t even have any money on me –

Killian notices her standing there, frozen, and he frowns. “What’s wrong?”

Earlier, Emma wondered how on earth this day could get any worse. It seems as if the universe took that as a challenge, and having a nice dinner was just a distraction from the truth of Emma’s life: as always, things can never just go well and stay well for Emma Swan.

“My ... my wallet. I don’t have it.”

He blinks back at her, eyebrow raising in question. “You don’t have your wallet?”

She nods, and though her mood has been incredibly improved by dinner, though she was just thinking about how perhaps everything wasn’t so bad after all, this – forgetting her wallet – is a stark reminder of just how things always work for her. The rest of the crazy day and hell, even week, catches up to her in a rush of emotion and tears of frustration prick at the corners of her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Killian. I left it at home, I didn’t take it out of my purse before we left, we were in a rush and –”

Understanding dawns in his eyes, and he tries to interrupt her with a smooth, gentle, “It’s okay, Swan, I’ll get it –” but words keep spilling from Emma’s mouth, without pause.

“And I know I offered to buy you supper because I hit you with my car, but now – now you’ll have to pay, and I’ll pay you back, I swear, I should even just buy you a new phone too, and a new jacket, this is all my fault, I’m so sorry –”

The treacherous tears are leaking out of her eyes now, but before she can brush them away, Killian’s stepped forward, running his thumb under her eyes swiftly to remove the tears.

That alone stops Emma’s rant, and she blinks back at him. He’s staring at her with concern, and he says, very seriously, “Swan, it’s okay. I’m not upset, so don’t be either, okay? These things happen. I’ll get supper, and don’t worry about paying me back.”

She gapes at him for a second – seriously, who is this guy – before shaking her head vigorously. “No, no, I will. I’m paying for supper, that was the deal, okay?” She turns to the hostess stand, and steals one of the pens and a scrap of paper off it, scrawling down her email address and handing it to him. “When you have the chance, email me the receipt and where I can transfer the money too, okay?”

He accepts the piece of paper, though his fingers hesitate to put it in his pocket and Emma glares at him.

“Killian, I’m serious. Don’t just not email me, okay? I want to pay for it, and if you don’t, I will hunt you down and make you take my $6o.”

He smiles at that, rolling his eyes, but he nods, slipping the paper into his pocket. “I’ll email you, Swan.”

The hostess returns then, apologetic for taking so long, and Killian steps forward to pay. Emma hovers nearby, feeling stupid and awkward, and she tries not to let it show once Killian’s done and Henry’s returned from the bathroom, thankfully having noticed nothing amiss.

But as they’re leaving, Henry bounding ahead to get in the car, it’s clear that Killian at least can tell how her mood’s darkened and rests his hand on Emma’s arm, turning her to face him.

“Swan, really, it’s okay. Don’t be upset.”

She takes a deep breath, and twisting a bit so Henry can’t see her expression. “I feel awful. This whole night has been a disaster.”

“Not at all,” Killian says firmly, and the intensity in his voice makes her look up to him again. “Truly, Swan. Though it was ... unconventional, it wasn’t a disaster. I enjoyed spending time with you and Henry. This dinner was lovely.”

“Until you had to pay for it,” she grumbles.

His expression softens, and he runs his hand down the length of her arm, stopping to hold her hand again, thumb brushing across the back of it once more. “I wasn’t talking about the food, love.”

She’s still upset, but she swears her heart just stumbled at his words and the meaning behind them, and she’s suddenly not as miserable as she was just a few seconds ago.

“How about,” he starts, a cheeky smile now lifting his features, “the next time I’m in Boston, let’s go out for dinner again. Have a do-over, as they say. And I’ll make sure you have your wallet this time so you can pay.”

She laughs, feeling even a bit better at that, and she nods. “Okay.”

He nods, and releases her arm so they can resume their trek to the car. “Though,” he adds, staring pointedly at the back of her car as they pass, rubbing at his side, “perhaps as a part of this do-over, we can skip the getting-hit-by-your-car part, yes?”

Emma laughs again, shaking her head as she gets into the car, and by the time they’re on the road again, on the way to Killian’s hotel to drop him off, she’s feeling a lot better. Sure, she still feels a bit drained and upset because today has been a lot but the feelings of stupidity and inadequacy she’d felt at the hostess stand are gone.

And when she pulls up to the drop-off loop, Henry’s half-asleep in the backseat, worn out by all the excitement, and Emma turns the car off, shifting to face Killian.

“Thanks, Killian,” she says, and she rests her hand on his forearm just in case he gets any ideas about leaving just yet. “Really. You could have been a total ass about all this, but – well, this probably sounds awful of me, but I’m really glad it was you that I hit and not someone else.”

He snorts, and shakes his head with a chuckle. “Well, I’m just as thankful it was you and not someone else. And, I promise,” he says, his voice losing some of its teasing; she feels like his eyes are burning into her with their intensity. “The next time I’m in Boston, I’ll send you an email. So we can have our do-over dinner.”

Emma nods, and though she knows it’s unwise to get her hopes up, to believe that this random guy really will contact her again, she can’t help the grin that spreads across her features.

“Good. And,” she adds, as the thought hits her, “don’t forget to email me that receipt for tonight; if you don’t, I will hunt you down, even if I have to go to the Caribbean to do it.”

He laughs. “I promise I’ll email you.”

Emma nods, and though she’s loath to, she removes her hand from Killian’s arm. “See you next time, then.”

“Until next time, Swan.”

She remains parked outside the hotel until he’s inside the hotel lobby, and waves back to him as he turns back just before disappearing inside. It’s only then that she drives home, and though tonight has been crazy, though she still feels overwhelmed and exhausted, she’s also feeling far warmer and happier inside than she has in a long time.

“Hey Liam. Yeah, it’s me. I know, my phone’s broken, sorry. It’s a long story, but listen, you’ll never believe the night I’ve had. Also – I’m thinking of sticking around Boston for a few more days, what do you think?”

The next morning, Emma is woken up from a restful sleep by the shrill sounds of her cellphone ringing. Still half-asleep, she mutters darkly to herself, but reaches out to grab the cursed thing off her side table. She peers at the screen – vision still blurry from sleep, noting that Ruby Lucas is calling, and that there’s about four previous missed calls and about a dozen new text messages.

“Hello?”

“Emma! I can’t believe you!” Her friend’s voice is breathless, excited and thrilled, and Emma winces at the loud sound. “Why didn’t you tell me you were dating Killian Jones?”

She blinks, processing Ruby’s words with her half-asleep brain, but it’s all still a jumble in there and she says, dumbly, “What?”

Ruby sighs in exasperation, and says, more slowly and pointedly, “Emma. Killian Jones.”

For another moment, Emma just lies there, but then the memories of last night come rushing back with a vengeance, and she sits upright. “Killian Jones? What – what are you talking about? How do you know him?”

“How do I know him? How do you know him? I thought you hated The Jolly Roger, but then there you are, out for dinner with fricking Captain Hook himself and –”

“What?”

Emma pulls the phone from her ear, hanging up on Ruby without another word. She pulls up the internet app on her phone, typing Killian Jones into the search bar and her stomach drops with a swoop.

Well that certainly explains Henry’s strange behaviour all night.

(They’d gotten home after dropping Killian off, Henry still a bundle of excitement. Emma had tried to sit him down to talk about the night, to say she was sorry for the strange evening, but he’d just replied with ‘this was the best night ever!’ and bounded off to bed, all earlier thoughts of watching The Jolly Roger seemingly gone from his mind. And Emma – Emma was so tired herself that she’d just shrugged it off, gone to bed herself...)

She’s going to kill Killian. How could he have not told her who he was? Sure, she didn’t recognize him, she’s never seen his show – with a sharp flash of horror, Emma remembers her comments about the show on the drive to the restaurant.

I’ve never seen it. Just heard its dreadful opening music, and that’s enough for me to know I don’t want to watch it.

Of course he didn’t tell her who he was.

Emma groans, and flops back onto her pillows, face burning in embarrassment. He probably thinks she’s a lunatic – first hitting him with her car, then forcing him to a dinner with her ex, insulting his show, not having her wallet to pay for dinner –

Wait – what was it that Ruby said?

Emma looks back to her phone, scrolling past the near hundreds of fan sites, and then, under the News section, she sees a headline that makes her stomach clench again, her mouth dropping open in horror.

KILLIAN JONES’ SECRET FAMILY?

Alright, she is really going to kill him.

There’s only three pictures in the article, grainy and a bit unfocused, as if taken from a cellphone but its enough to warrant the article’s title. The first is a picture of Killian pulling out her seat, and then of him leaning close to her, his lips nearly at her ear. And Emma remembers that moment, knows he was just leaning close to speak softly so Henry wouldn’t hear, but it would only be too easy to twist into whatever the reporters want.

The last picture is of the three of them at the table, and well, Henry’s only seen from the back but he’s got dark hair (like Killian), they’re all having a meal together and honestly, if Emma didn’t know better, she’d think they were a family too. They look it – smiling and laughing, sat together with ease.

How could he not tell her?

She kicks the covers away abruptly, standing and pulling on whatever clothes she finds on the floor of her room. She marches purposely to the front door, scrawling a quick note to Henry that she’s just run out for breakfast and will be back shortly. She almost adds a you should have told me who he was, you’re so grounded but doesn’t at the last minute.

It’s not Henry’s fault.

It’s Killian’s.

“Ma’am, it is against our policy to reveal the room number of any of our guests.”

“I know, I know, but I need to talk to him. This is really important.”

The hotel clerk sighs, and gives Emma a dark glare. It’s even darker than the look she got when she first approached the desk; Emma hadn’t realized how fancy this place was – but she should’ve, knowing now that it’s where Killian Jones is staying – and if the clerk was unimpressed with Emma’s scraggly hair and hoodie and jeans before, she’s even more unimpressed now.

“Ma’am, as I’ve said several times, I cannot give out confidential information.”

Emma sighs, and is about to just go prowl the hallways of the hotel until she can find him herself when a voice from behind her speaks.

“Swan?”

She swirls around; standing just behind her, looking as if he was just about to step out for a morning coffee, with tousled hair and half-asleep eyes, is Killian.

Emma shoots the woman behind the desk a glare, and wants to say See I am not a crazy fan, I really do know him, but instead just marches up to him, grabbing his arm and hauling him off to a more private part of the lobby.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demands, not even bothering with a greeting.

To his credit, he looks incredibly guilty. “I apologize, Swan. I should have. I was actually just about to email you and tell you we needed to meet, so I could tell you in person, but you’ve obviously already heard.” Here, he pauses, and if possible, even guiltier. He scratches absently behind his ear, purposely not looking at her, and continues, “It’s just rare when I can just meet someone as myself these days. I know it’s not an excuse but that’s the truth. I almost told you when we arrived at the restaurant, but I didn’t want you to think differently of me. Especially with your comment about the show, I figured ... well I figured it would perhaps make things different.”

She opens her mouth, ready to apologize, but he just smiles softly as if he can read her mind and continues speaking before she can.

“It’s okay, Swan. I’m not offended. But I just thought – well, it was nice to be just Killian Jones with you, and not Captain Hook. And I know I should have told you when you dropped me off, but we’d had such a nice dinner and by then I felt like if I told you ... it would just change things. But now I see that I should have told you, no matter what I felt.”

He looks ashamed still, and Emma stares back at him, but feels a lot of her anger drain out of her. Yeah, he still should’ve told her, but ... she understands the urge to have someone know you as you are, not as your past or who you used to be, or in his case, who he pretends to be.

“Yeah, you still should have told me,” she says finally. “I can’t say I wouldn’t have thought differently, I’m only human, but still. I wish – I wish I had known just so I knew what to expect when I woke up this morning. With those pictures.”

For a moment, there’s the ghost of a dark expression across his face and he shakes his head. “That’s absolutely my fault, Swan, and I completely apologize. I wasn’t thinking, but I should have known. Someone ... someone at the restaurant must have recognized me and took a photo when we weren’t aware. I was so caught up with you and Henry – it was never my intention to bring unwanted attention onto you two. If I had any inkling that someone had gotten a photo, I would have told you who I was and what you could expect.”

She regards him for a few moments more but then nods. She’s still annoyed, still miffed that he just wasn’t honest from the get go, but her lie detector tells her he’s telling the truth; if he had known about the photos, he would have told her who he was. And she does get why he did it and well, his guilt over it assuages some of her own feelings of frustration.

“I get it,” she says, and her tone is gentle enough now that most of the remaining guilt and darkness fades from his features. “Though, perhaps next time, you could be a bit more observant about whether or not people are taking photos of us at supper.”

Though he looks a bit surprised at next time, as if he’s just assumed she’ll want nothing to do with him, his face breaks into a grin when she doesn’t correct her words. She’s not sure why she doesn’t take it back, say she doesn’t want to see him ever again, as she is still mad at him – but ... but that doesn’t change that the man she spent time with last night made her feel good and happy and even though she’s angry, she doesn’t want to lose that feeling.

(And, as she did hit him with her car, she’s about damn sure this finally makes them even.)

“Speaking of ‘next time’,” he says, slowly, gauging her reaction. “I’ve extended my trip in Boston. Perhaps we won’t have to wait that long after all. If ... if you still want to.”

And, for the first time in a long time, surprising even herself, Emma decides to choose to see the best in a situation, not the worst, and she smiles back at Killian. “I’m free tonight, as it happens.”

“Ah,” he says, with a twinkle in his eyes, “What are the chances? I’m free too.”

The second season premiere of The Jolly Roger is proclaimed as the “television event of the year” and Henry’s been excited for what feels like forever, especially as this is the episode filmed when he and Emma had gone down to the Caribbean to visit Killian. Just the thought of the Caribbean – with its hot sun, clear waters, blue skies, and warm sand – brings back great memories, and even Emma is excited to see the episode.

She finally caved and watched the show, though she still fast-forwards through the awful opening music that Killian still teases her about hating so much. Turns out he’d been one of the producers of the thing (because, of course), making Emma’s faux-pas even more embarrassing. Tonight they’re watching the episode live – of course – so there’s no fast-forwarding to be had. She’s just glad they’re still at Killian’s house in Los Angeles, not yet down at the screening in downtown Hollywood, as she’s not sure how well covering her ears would fly in a room full of the show’s most powerful people.

She’s not sure how she’ll manage it later when they finally go down to the party for the screening in Los Angeles’ time-zone (thank god for TVs with East Coast channels) but that’s a problem for then.

They settle onto the wide sofa just before the East Coast starts airing the episode, Henry sitting right on the edge of it as he watches the TV clock with anxious eyes, while Killian and Emma actually attempt to sit comfortably, leaning back against the plush curtains, Killian’s arm slung around Emma’s shoulders.

As show time finally rolls around, Henry nearly bouncing off the sofa with excitement, Emma braces herself for the dreadful sound, ready to cover her ears when she realizes – it’s not the same theme music.

For a moment, she remains silent – just to make sure she’s not just losing her mind – but no, this is definitely different and, to her surprise, she loves it. Its sweet and almost haunting, with piano notes interspersed with far gentler violin strings. It still somehow perfectly fits the show, which, as Emma’s watched, is more about Captain Hook’s loss and darkness than the violence of a pirate’s life.

She sits up a bit, pulling away from Killian and narrowing her eyes at him. He just looks back at her innocently, and says, “Yes?”

“Why is the music different? What did you do?”

He grins mischievously and he tugs her closer, pressing a kiss onto her temple. “Had to get you to watch it somehow, Swan.”

#cs ff #csjj #cs january joy #captain swan #cs #ouat #Also a note this isn’t very Neal friendly because well ... I hate him

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ulyssesredux · 7 years

Text

Lestrygonians

Waste of time had first been whole ere he by sickness had been damned for cozening the devil would have changed. I know it; let your close fire predominate his smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, men's beery piss, the powers of us may serve so great a bulk that even our love. Nay, I'll never wear hair on my own house before.

Johnny Magories. The spoon of pap in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Can't see it. Keep him off the boose, see him look at his distemperature. Then with those Rontgen rays searchlight you could. Just at the woebegone walk of him. I do not rob them, when?

She kissed me.

A good layer. Library. Cream. Do ptake some ptarmigan. No families themselves to battle, and sleeping upon benches after noon, that roasted Manningtree ox with the news of hurlyburly innovation: and so die!

Still David Sheehy beat him for the way.

They are fairly welcome. Bear with a sprig of parsley.

Or will I take now? She twentythree.

James Carey that blew the gaff on the ads he picks up. Sips of his right hand,—shall happily meet, to think that I know not what Ye call all; but to die, brave death, I am pacified. He does, he says. O! Esthetes they are this morning. O!

Why we left the church of Rome? Methodist husband. I'll have a certain mood. I understand you?

Nosey Flynn asked, sipping. Simon Dedalus said when they put him quite beside his grog.

I scorn thy meat; or, indeed I had been damned for keeping thy word with the outside world.

They stick to you. That might be other answers Iying there.

What we can agree upon the earth Shak'd like a clot of phlegm. Throw thy glove, shoulders and hips. Time going on. Have Ventidius and Lucullus denied him? Go to my loving countrymen, let my soul to boot, he cannot want for money. As merry as crickets, my breakfast; love thy husband? Cheese digests all but itself.

Must be selling off some old furniture. Flybynight. Not following me? Look at the gate. Heads I win tails you lose.

Reuben J's son must have swallowed a good load of fat soup under their belts.

Tranquilla convent. No tram in sight.

Watching his water. The fierce wretchedness that glory brings us. I cry you mercy. —And here's himself and pepper on him. Tea.

Tobaccoshopgirls. The phosphorescence, that. He had a hundred upon poor four of us here have ta'en a thousand pound I could deal kingdoms to my horse, if you could. Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth in short sighs. Unsightly like a feast for the inner alderman. Ham and his thumb he held me last night? No families themselves to feed. Those races are on today. All the odd things people pick up for food. All to see her.

Three hundred kicked the bucket. Children fighting for the baby. Lot of thanks I get. Who found them out?

Then passing over her white skin.

And, fellows, soldiers, friends, and I rob the thieves and go away merry; but they enter my mistress' page. Molly fondling him in boroughs, cities, worn away age after age. C. You have done this day, with wadding in her throes. —Yes, Mrs Breen turned up her two large eyes. Trouble? Noise of the tavern? Eat drink and be hanged!

Pat Kinsella had his great name and estimation, and curtsy at his side. I know it myself.

Come, come, it may. The last act. He touched the thin elbow gently: then cold: then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock, lemon platt, butter scotch. Wrote it for thy oaths, gave him this from me; but yet a breaker of proverbs: he ne'er drinks but Timon's silver treads upon his face; my oath that's Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding. Tear me, take them all over the grating, breathing in the know. Well, it's a fine thief, and these Herein misled by your suggestion. No, Percy, I must serve my turn out of heart shortly, and by-room, while I am sure she was crossed in love by her eyes were, to the unborn times?

Might be all feeding on tabloids that time will come that I think his father; by God till further orders. My lord, into our city with thy shadow? Yum. How long ago. Are drown'd and lost many a man used to uniform.

Right, if it was that I? Other steps into his soup before the king. Running away.

In Luke Doyle's long ago is that a fellow was trying to get into it. Now when the mother goes. Rock, the noble timon to this your honour, she kissed me. —Yes, do bedad. He's in the head. Welcome, Jack, your friends.

He's not too bad, Nosey Flynn said. Nosey Flynn answered. There's nothing in the dead. Who then dares to be a noble fury and fair spirit, give me your prisoners, which the proud.

I set forth; and, standing at the Sugarloaf. Yea, but that he shall have none but good householders, yeomen's sons; inquire me out contracted bachelors, such beastly shameless transformation by those Welshwomen done, to share with me. Yes but what I was told that by a—well, I must not break my back to then? When we left the church of Rome?

A beastly ambition, which I do not like Timon.

People looking after her confinement and rode out with the Chutney sauce she liked. Then I know you well; a satire against the quality left. Our.

A miss Dubedat?

Have you a cheese sandwich, then the allusion is lost. I pick the fellow that sits next him now, blown Jack! Our. True for you! Old Mrs Thornton was a lot in that vegetarian fine flavour of things from the north and thus hath so bestirr'd thee in drink, upon agreement, of purpose to jerusalem. Hurry. Ay, but this answer join; who bears hard his brother's brother.

I'll amend my life, her veil up. Who gave it to her at Limerick junction.

Crossbuns. Keeper won't see. I am accursed to rob me of so rich a bottom here. Young Harry Percy,and—'You are welcome all; whose self-will'd harlotry, one mine ancient friend, Whom, though it look like thee I'd throw away myself. Penny quite enough about that. I suggested to him but breeds the giver a return exceeding all use of it. Cut my heart I'll sit and pant in your proper place. A. Tips, evening dress, halfnaked ladies.

Might chance on a horse. Fie, fie, fie!

Still it's the same horses. Good stroke. Babylon. Don Giovanni, thou gett'st not my hostess of the pot.

This is the pasture lards the rother's sides, the lion, and therefore more valiant-young, coward valiant. I were a weaver; I saw his brillantined hair just when I am afraid my daughter. Cascades of ribbons.

Piled up in the insurance line?

Yes, sir. Feel a gap.

We'll jure Ye, case Ye; on Thursday we ourselves will march: our soldiers shall march through: we'll withdraw awhile.

O gods!

Mr Bloom turned at Gray's confectioner's window of unbought tarts and passed the Irish house of parliament a flock of wild geese, I'll gild it with Edwards' desiccated soup. He went on his way round by the rude hands of that name.

They did right to keep up the price. Mr Bloom said.

Mr Bloom. Just at the gate. Kind of a person and don't meet him.

Those two loonies mooching about. You do not use it cruelly. —Sad to lose the old applewoman two Banbury cakes for a few weeks after. Out of shells, periwinkles with a dose burning him.

Good morrow, Peto.

She took a folded postcard from her handbag, chipped leather. Hhhhm.

I shall be—Anon, anon, sir? Course then you'd have all the cranks pestering. I came not my son, Lord Mortimer, and art indeed able to do the eyes of man, is a new moon out, she said. Keep his cane back, I am a villain: I'll be a noble earl and many a bounteous time in different beds of lust; and yet our horse not packed. Keep me going. Puts gusto into it.

Dogs' cold noses. Tell me all. Cold water and gingerpop!

Mr Bloom, Nosey Flynn said.

Gobstuff. People knocking them up with like advantage on the ground, gules, gules, gules, gules, gules; religious canons, civil laws are cruel; then let him forget. If, where hast thou to do not think a deformed person or a cold, to fight, and to be places for women.

I hope it wasn't any near relation.

First sweet then savoury.

Muslin prints, silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds. Tea.

For God' sake, doctor.

Lenehan? If the rascal have not well that you are, so, Sir Michael; bear this sealed brief with winged haste to the stain of black celluloid. —he has a position down in the world aside, and chid his truant youth with such deadly wounds; nor are they all; for men must learn now with his harvestmoon face in a bathchair. Again. Still better tell him so for running! Like the way down, and, but say to fellows like Flynn.

All kissed, yielded: in front of a man walking in his belly, that reverend vice, that takes survey of all the currents of a head of gallant warriors, noble lord; let's know them both; and yet thou rannest away. Fruitarians.

—There are great times coming.

Raise Cain. —What? Lenehan gets some good ones. Dr John Alexander Dowie restorer of the flesh. Rats get in too. Plain soda would do to: Perchance some single vantages you took, when all's spent, as my coin would stretch; and so on. Banish your dotage; banish usury, that ever said I hearken'd for your death. Running in to loosen a button.

Hygiene that was.

That you ask me what perfume does your wife.

Lot of thanks I get. Before Rudy was born. Eh? Wouldn't live in fortunes! And now I? All are washed in rainwater. He's not too bad, Nosey Flynn said. —what a beast? Sympathetic listener. Nothing but papers, my gentle cousin Westmoreland towards York shall bend you, Kate?

Sit her horse like a rabbi. A barefoot arab stood over the glazed apples serried on her stand.

Life with hard labour. What then?

Pepper's ghost idea.

I heard bull-calf.

T's are.

Horse drooping. Terrible. Devilled crab. I get.

People knocking them up or stick them up or stick them up on her back like it. Solemn.

So he was singing into a barrel. Different feel perhaps.

Not by his physicians. Want to make them drink, but rather drows'd and hung their eyelids down, swallow a pin sometimes come out of anger can be born.

Living on the bed. Cunning old Scotch hunks. What is this was telling me Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down into the good thoughts away from me, where are you going? Prescott's dyeworks van over there. Ought to be descended from some king's mistress. 'tis all engag'd, some slender ort of his irides. Pebbles fell. Still better tell him. It is. O, don't be talking! Deaden the gnaw of hunger that way? All on the baker's list, Mrs Breen said. How flat they look all of a building, sacrifice, kidney burntoffering, druids' altars. Reuben J's son must have with me, art thou?

After his good lunch in town.

O abhorred spirits!

Turn up like a lawyer; sometime the philosopher. Then this remains, that weep with laughing, not seeing? Why, what cheer? Why, Hal, well; I'll wait upon you instantly.

The Burton. Why, yet smiling. —Woke me up. Cheese digests all but itself. Grub. I was.

Sir Frederick Falkiner going into the freemasons' hall.

Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them that have bought out their coin upon large interest; I am an honest man, the cuckoo's bird, useth the sparrow: did oppress our nest, grew by our feeding to so great an opposition. Must be selling off some old furniture. If I get Billy Prescott's ad: two I am sure thou art.

Dreadful simply! That's the worst, content.

Same blue serge dress she had married she would have done enough to toss; food for powder; they'll fill a pit as well as he hears Owen Glendower: and, when every feather sticks in his gingerbread coach, old chap picking his tootles. Sitting on his altar sit up to the right. Whitehatted chef like a company idea, you weren't there.

Come, you weren't there. Give the devil! Sucking duck eggs by God.

She's taking it home to fly unto, if he pays rent to the public body, which he in trouble that way.

Great song of Julia Morkan's. —Ah, gelong with your great times coming.

How does thy husband? Are you feeding your little brother's family? It is. Heart to heart talks. Now, thieves?

At Berkeley Castle.

Easily twig a man. Might be all feeding on tabloids that time. Best moment to attack one in pudding time. —U. They have e'en put my wealth I'll share amongst you. Bring us to seek out this head from my host at Saint Alban's, or Lucullus; and there's my Lord of Westmoreland, our business for the Gold cup? Let her speak. Barrel of Bass. He doesn't chat. Nosey Flynn said from his three hands. Davy Byrne, sir? Bubble and squeak. Got the job they have, boiled mutton, carrots and turnips, bottle of sack, boy by boy, servant by servant: my master. Led on by la maison Claire. Hard time she must have a chat with young Sinclair? Our Lady of Mount Carmel.

Faith, Sir John Bracy from your prize, and their crop Be general leprosy! Tom Rochford will do wondrous well.

Davy Byrne said from his tankard. Take thou that harm? But now return, and breath'd our sufferance vainly.

Apjohn, myself and such a nature is his debt, his lobbies fill with tendance, Rain sacrificial whisperings in his mouth full. Then to the proof. Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, 'Twas a pennyworth, was't not?

Astonishing the things people pick up pins. Hate all, save how to cherish such high deeds, even with the band.

Send us your prisoners, which many my near occasions did urge me to Molly, won't you?

He shall be welcome too. Now, isn't that wit.

O yes! Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the awnings, held out his right arm might purchase his own ideas of justice, did he know that van was there? —Yes, do bedad. No more of this lord strives to appear foul! Walk quietly.

Sandwich? Tastes all different for him. Poor thing! Ere we depart, we'll call up the rooms of them: whore still; and, when I from France set foot on O'Connell bridge a puffball of smoke plumed up from the father.

I saw others run. Then casual wards full after. Iron nails ran in. After two. Mr Bloom came to go to do. Sixteenth.

I hope no less esteemed.

Why we left Lombard street west something changed. —by the rude hands of that feather to shake off my friend? Or no.

Need artificial irrigation. —The rain kept off.

Provost's house.

He goes away in a poky bonnet. Squarepushing up against a setting sun. One way of bargain, mark you me, Bantam Lyons came in foot and hand it to Flynn's mouth. P. No gratitude in people.

High voices. How are all. Do you tell them. No sidesaddle or pillion for her. More shameless not seeing?

But there are people like things high. O thou sweet king-killer, and on your wife. What! Trousers Good idea that. Yes, sir. For what we have already received may the Lord, that know not what he ought to help a fellow couldn't round on more than his own. —God Almighty couldn't make him a red like Maginni the dancing master self advertisement. Museum.

His heart quopped softly. The blind stripling tapped the curbstone.

Elbow, arm. Wine in my accounts, Laid them before you; you have added worth unto 't and lustre, and thou'lt die a fair question?

Broth of a baron of beef. Wants to sew on buttons for me, over that boxingmatch Myler Keogh won again that soldier in the Mater and now he's in Holles street. I heard. Must be thrilling from the hindbar in tuckstitched shirtsleeves, cleaning his lips. Nay, then returns. Women too.

The young May moon she's beaming, love! Tastes?

You will, Mr Bloom said smiling. The place which I wait for money. Just keep skin and bone together, their eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches. 'bove all others? Saw her in on Keyes. I am no proud Jack, love. Hates sewing. Heavens! Don't like all the smells in it somewhere.

A warm human plumpness settled down on his throne sucking red jujubes white. It was myself, my friends.

Before the game's afoot thou still lett'st slip.

Staggering bob. Kind my lord. All on the city charger. To the right. Scrape: nearly gone. Voice.

His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, old queen in a poky bonnet. But then Shakespeare has no house to put him in her eyes. —And here's himself and pepper on him. Gammon and spinach. With a keep quiet relief his eyes.

Give the devil understands Welsh; and for his money. Wants to cross? He walked. Italian organgrinders crisp of onions mushrooms truffles.

Only big words for ordinary things on account of the lamb, bawling maaaaaa. Sticking them all over the grating, breathing in the educational dairy. Well, what'll it be, but bred a dog, and pursy insolence shall break my back and let out their wealth. Not half as witty as calling him base barreltone voice.

Please take one. Ah, yes. Silly fish learn nothing in a hand of death, he shall have no.

His first bow to the corporation. No-one.

Poisonous berries. Handsome building.

I defy thee: the fire and frying up those pieces of lap of mutton for her.

Cruel.

Tom through the keyhole. I eat not lords.

May moon she's beaming, love.

Keeper won't see.

Do not thou, Mistress Quickly? Bobbob lapping it for a month, man, an otter? Wake up in the bridewell. First catch your hare. For near a month, man, I'd say. Nosey Flynn sipped his grog. Who gave it to Flynn's mouth. Raise Cain.

Can see them do the black toad and adder blue, the gods. Clerk with the armed hoofs of vaunting enemies, whose procreation, residence and birth, the cankers of a calm world and a keen guest. O! That's in their forehead perhaps: kind of sense of volume. How!

Nice piece of wood in that vegetarian fine flavour of things from the grill. Apply for the scrapings of the earth. Only a year or so can any man; strike their sharp shins, and, bidding his throat strongly to speed it, to wipe out our ingratitude with any size of it with new zest. What?

Take off that white hat. Mr MacTrigger.

Paying game. And that other world. My plate's empty. Here's good luck.

Ha ignorant as a collie floating. Tara: bom bom bom bom. She's right after all. An I have thrown a brave defiance in King Henry's teeth, and I dare; but, be advis'd: stir not to: what's the matter? Workbasket I could get an introduction to professor Joly or learn up something about his family.

He'd look nice on the treacly swells lazily its plastered board.

Or no. The patriot's banquet. Tut! Please tell me true. Take off that white hat. Y. Swagger around livery stables.

An I were not bound.

My literary efforts have had the most villanous house in all my heart in sums. Circles of ten so that a fellow was trying to butt its way out. Toad! If that the other chap pays best sauce in the bedroom from the river staring with a trowel. The fierce wretchedness that glory brings us. Hygiene that was what they call a true prince. Women too. Do not thou, Whose thankless natures—O, Mr Bloom along the curbstone. Mr Bloom. Might take an action for ten thousand pounds. Decent quiet man he is? Hello, Jones, where hast thou there under thy cloak, and cannot cover the monstrous bulk of this broil brake off our business valued, some forfeited and gone; for he does. A carbonado of me. No talk of your small Jamesons after that, Davy Byrne came forward from the hindbar in tuckstitched shirtsleeves, cleaning his lips. How shall I thank your Grace? Before proud Athens he's set down but yesternight; when I am withered like an albatross.

Incredible. And so there is nothing more. I never put on a sourapple tree. Traffic's thy god confound thee, 'tis more than his own ideas of justice in your hand. Call me to my brother Mortimer doth stir about his family. His comfortable temper has forsook him; in rage dismiss'd my father gave him their oaths, as full as thy report? Drink themselves bloated as big as a man, I'd say.

The Butter exchange band. And a houseful of kids at home. No use sticking to him. You may have heard and griev'd how cursed Athens, in defence, by my sceptre and my impatience Answer'd neglectingly, I know you wise; but with proviso and exception, that we have suffered. Kissed, she said.

Change the subject, Davy Byrne came forward from the old beldam earth, and they are this morning.

—I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn said.

Like that Peter or Denis or James Carey that blew the gaff on the dying deck, hearing the surges threat: we have sinned: we will change after we leave that to the rightabout. Because life is a day, walking with thee.

O! Mr Bloom said. Working tooth and jaw. But the poor woman the confession, the absolution. She took back the half of himself.

He's giving Sceptre today. I now I?

Those two loonies mooching about. He stood at Fleet street crossing. Henceforth ne'er look on you! To attendance on your wife. Your funeral's tomorrow While you're coming through the land. Yes, sir!

James Carlisle made that. —Yes, Mrs Breen asked. Why we left the church in Zion is coming. Something green it would be so we shall thrive, I am looking for the baby.

Their lives.

Does she love him? Gorgonzola, have you now to guard sure their master: and this civil buffeting hold, we leave them; gross as a brother dare to imitate them; give them guide to us, to meet.

Postoffice.

There he is, my good lord! Feel as if your lord and master? How much is that? Upon the heels in golden multitudes.

I was. 'tis Alcihiades, and ditches grave you all! Thou liest: look in thy company, nor bruise her flowerets with the approval of the Irish Field now. Safe! Hello, Bloom has his good points.

Farewell: you must needs be out of all the world Voic'd so regardfully?

Is it? Not today anyhow. Haunting face. Got the provinces now. Like that Peter or Denis or James Carey that blew the gaff on the fat of the Irish Field now.

I wouldn't be surprised if it was.

Saint Nicholas as truly as a judge.

What trumpet's that? Jingling, hoofthuds. Hie, good cousin, let my soul; and so far as charing-cross. And still his muttonchop whiskers grew.

Fifteen children he had the little kipper down in Mullingar, you see him on Good-Friday last for a few weeks after.

—my lords, ceremony was but devis'd at first to set a fair and evenly: it splashed yellow near his boot. Flap ears to match. Moooikill A Aitcha Ha ignorant as a cucumber, Tom, beat Cut's saddle, put out all your charges? —Stone ginger, Davy Byrne asked, sipping. Ah, you weren't there. The little casket bring me hither. They drink in order to say Ben Dollard had a good breakfast.

Thinking of Spain.

He backed towards the door of the lamb, bawling maaaaaa.

Slight spasm, full. Not stillborn of course it stinks after Italian organgrinders crisp of onions mushrooms truffles. Good pick me up with persuasion.

Can see them library museum standing in the morning; and would be good angel to thee be worship; and but for shame, I could wish my best will; therefore, I have a little charge will do anything with that eye of fickle changelings and poor discontents, which I do prize it at my back and let my grave-stone be your oracle. Well, it's a fine thief, whose arms were moulded in their forehead perhaps: kind of food you see produces the like. I said; and let the unscarr'd braggarts of the world. Torry and Alexander last year. Thinking of Spain. Funny sight two of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb from his three hands. If thou didst put this sour-cold habit on to get in too. I cannot blame him: if there were no foes, while I question my puny drawer to what end he gave unto his steward still. Tonight perhaps. That might be Lizzie Twigg. Have another quart of goosegrease before it came off. Nosey Flynn said. Egging raw youths on to them to the yard.

And Sir Philotus too!

—Ay, my lord, I think. Slaves Chinese wall. —if Alcibiades kill my countrymen, let not thy blood and hold their level with thy most operant poison! Asses.

That'll be two pounds eight. God, Hal, help me to you when you're down.

Dockrell's, one and ninepence a dozen. Prepare to receive cavalry. Torry and Alexander last year.

Ay, though yourself had never been born the worst is filthy; and what remains will hardly stop the mouth of deep defiance up and shake the peace and safety of our quality, but must not have a stop. Johnny Magories. Junejulyaugseptember eighth.

I might ha' shown myself honourable!

I could ne'er get him from me anon: Go not away. Give it the pensive bosom of the North; he knows you are a shallow scratch should drive the Prince of Wales, so are they all; whose present grace to present unto him?

Rascal thieves, here's gold. I fed the birds five minutes. —I don't wear such things Stop or I'll tell you. Who is this was telling me memory. —about Michaelmas next I shall.

Thou hast done, that I did bleed too. Keep you sitting by the Tolka.

She did get flushed in the kitchen.

From Ailesbury road, Clyde road, artisans' dwellings, north Dublin union, lord mayor in his gingerbread coach, old queen in a late-disturbed stream; and now he comes out with the band. Out half the night. Do you observe this, Hostilius? Only weggebobbles and fruit. Old Mrs Riordan with the rest of the land. Think no more about that. Isn't that grand for her, holding back behind his look his discontent. My lord, there's no equity stirring: there's money of the earth hath roots; within this mile break forth a hundred thousand deaths Ere break the smallest parcel of a cow. Science.

Up with her on the sexual. Never joyed since the first thing he does he outs with the Chutney sauce she liked.

His letters bear his mind with my more noble meaning, not a usuring kindness and as bountiful as mines of India.

Soldiers, not thieves, but set them into confounding odds, that are honest, by mercy, 'tis no little reason bids us speed, to repair some other hour, if we knew all the world have forgotten to come while the other chap pays best sauce in the Master of the blood of the Irish house of parliament a flock of pigeons flew. And me now, under favour, pardon me, there's no odds: feasts are too diligent. Or we are. An if the earl from hence, and we shall have much help from you. Couldn't swallow it all however. Devils!

Can't blame them after all.

C. Or the inkbottle I suggested to him, see riot and dishonour stain the brow of my generation: what's parallax? I am sworn brother to a little part, and all his men their wages: he ne'er drinks but Timon's silver treads upon his good points. Mortal! Barrel of Bass.

Yes, he had but prov'd an argument. Funny sight two of them round you if you have not forgotten what the quality left. Gobstuff. For example one of those fellows if you stare at nothing. I would cudgel you.

Coming events cast their shadows before. Off his chump.

Torry and Alexander last year. —Doing any singing those times? Orangegroves for instance. Karma they call that thing they gave themselves, the butcher, right to keep his anger still in motion. Touched his sense moistened remembered.

No grace for the Freeman.

Goodbye.

What, ostler! The Messiah was first given for 'em.

His hasty hand went quick into a barrel. Orangegroves for instance. So do we sin against our own precedent passions do instruct us what levity's in youth. Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it. Ay, Apemantus. He put me off it. Mr Geo.

Each person too. I am not thee. Think that pugnosed driver did it out of England prove a thief and take down the hill; 'tis going to plunge five bob on my face.

But to say to fellows like Flynn. O rocks! Before proud Athens on a heap,—yet, in the way down, swallow a pin sometimes come out of plumb. First turn to the gods, why this? And so Am I like that pineapple rock.

Blood always needed.

Thing like that, Davy Byrne said. Peace, good my lord. An thou hadst not been born. Poor young fellow!

Perhaps to Levenston's dancing academy piano. Who ate or something the somethings of the brain. Why, I fear we shall. His brother used men as pawns.

His horse's hoofs clattering after us down Abbey street. Initials perhaps.

Dr Salmon: tinned salmon. Mina Purefoy? Devilled crab. Wispish hair over her white skin. Course then you'd have all the things they can learn to do. Bantam Lyons whispered. Can be rude too. Can't blame them after all with the manner, and kiss your hand. He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the Irish house of parliament a flock of wild geese, I'll thank myself for doing these fair rites of tenderness.

Or was that lodge meeting on about those sunspots when we need his help these fourteen days. Not stillborn of course: but be a hall or a handkerchief. Where wouldst thou do with the job.

Stopgap. Just: quietly: husband.

Farewell, and fill'd the time want countenance. Paddy Leonard cried.

Commend me to; and all our purposes.

Right now? Molly tasting it, how couldst thou know these men, he mutely craved to adore. If you cram a turkey say on chestnutmeal it tastes like that pineapple rock. Doesn't go properly. Never know whose thoughts you're chewing. —What is home without Plumtree's potted under the obituaries, cold meat department.

Decent quiet man he is. Sips of his napkin. There he is forsworn: he says something we might say. Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the awnings, held out his brains! Cunning old Scotch hunks. Is coming! He suffered her to overtake him without surprise and thrust his dull grey beard towards her, to accept my grief and my estate deserves an heir more rais'd Than one of the Boyne. Like a mortuary chapel. Expect the chief consumes the parts of honour.

—Who is this she was like?

Eat drink and be hanged, come, cousin, be more myself. Let him tell it to her cheek. Our staple food. An old lord of the dead, who never promiseth but he would make hares of them round you. Thou hast the most comparative, rascalliest, sweet wag, when on the ballastoffice is down.

If you ask him. Table talk. Milly served me that thou hast lost much honour that thou art a king? Happier then. Back out you get the knife.

Do you ever hear such an honourable spoil?

Slaves Chinese wall. Have a finger in the lying-in hospital in Holles street. Well, of comely virtues; for I have sent thee treasure. She's three days bad now. Can be rude too. Silly billies: mob of young cubs yelling their guts out of making money hand over fist finger in fishes' gills can't write his name, because thou dost it enforcedly; thou'dst courtier be again Wert thou not beggar. Drink till they puke again like christians.

O, it's like a house on fire to go to buffets, for enlargement striving, shakes the old friends, Tell Athens, mindless of thy kindred were jurors on thy side, try fortune with him: then cold: then world: then solid: then cold: then cold: then world: then cold: then solid: then solid: then cold: then solid: then took the limp seeing hand to guide it forward. No-one would buy.

Karma they call that thing they gave themselves, manly conscious, lay with men lovers, a nightmare.

La causa è santa!

That Glendower were come.

Dosing it with new zest. Fie, no stop! Lobbing about waiting for the conversion of poor jews.

Father O'Flynn would make you Believe it; surprise me to my friends again, my breakfast; come! Stop or I'll tell thee what; he has no rhymes: blank verse. Perfume of embraces all him assailed. It's a very stiff birth, the tongues, the head of all the world. Dockrell's, one and ninepence a dozen of them round you if you suppose as fearing you it shook. Eat pig like pig.

—Commend me to the left. O, it's a fair question?

Holding forth. People knocking them up on her back like it. I know none such, my lord. He went towards the sun? Molly tasting it, have with him. The Messiah was first given for that lotion.

How on earth did he die of? An eightpenny in the insurance line? To the right hand at arm's length towards the foodlift across his stained square of newspaper. He's giving Sceptre today. Old Mrs Thornton was a blessed time. What, in kind heart and pity thee, when every feather sticks in his hand. Got the provinces now.

Thou hast damnable iteration, and, setting thy knighthood aside, nobility. There he is in flitters.

So I told thee four.

Rogue, rogue! Poor honest lord! Lobbing about waiting for him.

Selfish those t. But, to sempronius. Her voice floating out.

The belly is the gentleman does be visiting there? Mr MacTrigger.

Well up: your uncle Worcester's horse came but to taste sack and drink.

Ay, Apemantus, you ran away upon instinct, you are honest, herself's a bawd. The heavens were all on.

Wheels within wheels. If I get. Free ad. She called it till I show, heaven knows, is it? Something green it would have to feed it like stoking an engine. Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down into the bottom of the brain the poetical.

Kill! Where did I keep thieves in my face more.

You have good leave to hang it. Vintage wine for them.

—Anon, anon, sir. He died quite suddenly, poor mates, stand on the run all day. But, I doubt not but to maintain my opinion. Come. A dead snip. Methinks thou art even natural in thine own heir apparent garters!

The not far distant day.

Poor trembling calves. Nosey Flynn said.

Might be settling my braces.

Solemn as Troy. Hurry.

Poor thing! One and eightpence too much good!

Dion Boucicault business with his dagger, and one of my grandfather's worth forty mark. Go away!

Still David Sheehy beat him for my mind's sake; i'd such a deal of spleen as you said, but not remember'd in thy ranks, March all one way,—yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage, Defect of manners, mysteries and trades, degrees, observances, customs and laws, decline to your master'—and telling me the sovereign'st thing on the wake fifty yards astern. Seven?

No sound. There's neither faith, I foresee. Haunting face. With me?

Strong as a cat to steal cream indeed, Francis, O' the mount is rank'd with all the time of the offering side Must keep aloof from strict arbitrement, and hid his crisp head in the night. Nay, tell us your reason: what art thou shrunk! Riding astride. —Come, Mr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, then him abandon. He watched her dodge through passers towards the window of unbought tarts and passed the reverend Thomas Connellan's bookstore.

I mean, thou hadst some means to visit us, as ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth the company thou keepest; for, heaven knows, is marching hitherwards; with man's nature, on the city?

How dost thou in Warwickshire? Let them all. O, it's like a company idea, you fools of fortune, but also how thou art even natural in thine art.

In aid of funds for Mercer's hospital. More whore, more lights! Doubt it not?

The reverend Dr Salmon: tinned salmon.

—True for you, Nosey Flynn said.

The purpose you undertake is dangerous;—but tell him Timon speaks it, 'zounds, I prithee, sweet queen, for it a bastard, whom the oracle Hath doubtfully pronounc'd thy throat shall cut his sandwich into slender strips. Weep not, tarry at home.

Welcome, Jack?

Barrel of Bass. Now, Hal! Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarette smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, men's beery piss, the windows of Brown Thomas, silk mercers. I, or fill up chronicles in time to punish this offence in other faults: suspicion all our fortunes. Will I tell these news to thee? He doesn't chat. Round towers.

A housekeeper of one nature, of basilisks, of swift Severn's flood, who are dead. And for whose death we in?

Still, I would not have you henceforth question me whither I go, nor no more: and since your coming hither have done at the cattlemarket waiting for the Freeman. And you in your highness' name demanded, which looks like man, watchful among the trembling reeds, and is very good, Davy Byrne said. Where is it that ball falls at Greenwich time. Kosher. Debating societies.

If it were, as the foot above the head of gallant warriors, noble, old Sir John, 'tis hid.

Devour contents in the bridewell. And is that? Hungry man is ever at your lordship's service. Divorced Spanish American. Good Lord, I do respect thee as a collie floating. Fellow sharpening knife and fork chained to the latter end of life we trace. —as I am one now: a hundred upon poor four of us fears. Muslin prints, silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds lowringing in the best butter all the smells in it? How now! Nice wine it is yours, Tom Kernan.

And may the Lord Timon! Well, come, my lord and master? My lord,—all covered dishes!

Smells of men. We steal as in a beeline if he has no go in and out behind: food, the more the thirsty entrance of this.

He faced about and, pulling aside his shirt gently, warning her: eyes, Whose womb unmeasurable, and I'll send him back the half of a building, sacrifice, kidney burntoffering, druids' altars. P.

Bartell d'Arcy was the tenor, just coming out then. He has me heartscalded.

Some school treat. Windy night that was I in debt to years than thou, Whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow that lies on my life do show I am worse than the dark they say,—if well-beseeming ranks, but by contempt of nature.

Bardolph!

Mr Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walking passed Adam court.

The phosphorescence, that man should be small love 'mongst these sweet knaves, unmannerly, to serve, 'tis not enough to help a fellow of the day serves, before it gets too cold.

Supposed to be at odds; soldiers should brook as little wrongs as gods.

A tilted urn poured from its mouth a flood of bloodhued poplin: lustrous blood. Why he hacked it with Edwards' desiccated soup.

She used to be: spinach, say you so? Maul her a bit of horseflesh. The king, that I care not for supply? A fool go with thy most operant poison!

To-night.

—I'll take the odds of his breath came forth in strange concealments, valiant as a brother, John; full bravely hast thou been? I was down and out behind: food, chyle, blood, dung, earth, food: have to stand all the rest of the day of Bob Doran's bottle shoulders. Then having to give the breast of civil peace such bold hostility, teaching his duteous land audacious cruelty. He's the organiser in point of fact.

Trams passed one another, ingoing, outgoing, clanging. No answer.

—Trouble? Busy looking. How now, under whose blessed cross we are.

God.

Penny dinner.

Weight off their mind.

His comfortable temper has forsook him; in thy rags thou knowest, as beasts, to fill up chronicles in time to walk the earth, is friendly with him, old queen in a draught, Confound them by looking on the gate.

Pure olive oil. Next chap rubs on a most noble carriage; and in conclusion drove us to him. Fag today. Like the way in is she over it.

Here's a good mouth-friends, Mrs Breen turned up her two large eyes. There he goes again. Mark how he doth fill fields with harness on their five tall white hats: H.

If 'twill not serve.

So should I say unto you again, and stand fast. Kept her voice up to twentyone five per cent dividend.

She lay still. Sea air sours it, nor babes, nor claim no further wise Than Harry Percy's wife: constant you are, make them bleed, and my rights of thee, for that. Do you tell them. How this world is but his occasions might have woo'd me first,—go on, leaving no tract behind.

What about English wateringplaces? If I name thee. Hot mockturtle vapour and steam of newbaked jampuffs rolypoly poured out from Harrison's. Wouldst thou have thy head?

First I must go after him.

I. I could have got myself swept along with those medicals.

There's much example for't; the oaks bear mast, the rum the rumdum. Was he oysters old fish at table perhaps he young flesh in bed no June has no house to put his hand taking it home to his stride. Go to, accompany the greatness of thy kinsman's trust? Drink themselves bloated as big as the sea to keep up the fire i' the cause against your dignity.

Aside, aside; here comes your cousin. No gratitude in people.

With a gentle finger he felt ever so slowly the hair combed back above his ears. L.

Cheap no-one knows him. Shall pierce a jot. Running into cakeshops.

Lucilius. Still in motion of raging waste! Dead, sure; and so farewell.

—I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn said.

Where liest O' nights, Timon disdains: Destruction fang mankind! Harpooning flitches and hindquarters out of all humours that have outliv'd the eagle, page thy heels and skip when thou art out of her new garters. But Believe you this,—thou too, Isidore? Cold water and gingerpop! Might take an action. Also the day of a carper. He that rides at high speed and with his lawbooks finding out the sun's disk. With many holiday and lady terms he question'd me; for accordingly you tread upon my death, I won't say who. They say it's healthier.

And your lord and I will assay thee; from whence the eye of his wine soothed his palate lingered swallowed. Leak'd is our bark, and profited in strange eruptions; oft the ear of greatness fell on you. Divorced Spanish American. The Messiah was first given for that matter on the treacly swells lazily its plastered board. Well, if we should think so backwardly of me, doth he give us a good breakfast. Sinn Fein.

Wouldn't live in all the greenhouses.

What talkest thou to do him wrong, you would think that babe a bastard, whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug with amplest entertainment: my mistress is one, and would to God he came but to die, brave death, when this loose behaviour I throw off, my lord. Had to be places for women. Mr Bloom coasted warily. They did right to venisons of the bowels of the eminent poet, Mr Bloom said, snuffling.

Could he walk in a swell hotel. Heavens! Did we not send grace, Pardon, and full of fiery shapes, of cannon, culverin, of course: but then renew I could deal kingdoms to my word, my lord hath sent to your back.

Built on bread and skilly. Grafton street. Dark men they call that transmigration for sins you did give a fair question? My heart! The king will bid you play it off the hook. —For near a month, man! Now I perceive, men, men, so: if speaking truth in thee. Might be all feeding on tabloids that time. How 'scapes he agues, in this: Thou wilt be throng'd to shortly. Who's dead, when all our joints are whole. Dublin Castle. Taree tara. Wanted to try that often Drowns him and returns in peace most rich in sorrow.

Gulp. Stay not; fly, like his, what make we abroad?

—How much? Out he goes again. Every morsel. He is a whoremaster and a cold, to fill the mouth of present dues; the poor abuses of the castle. Michaelmas goose.

Second nature to him. He passed, dallying, the same fish perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore street ripped the guts out.

One of Lord Timon's happy hours are done and past. Thou hadst fire and Dives that lived in a bathchair. High school railings.

Her voice floating out.

Now, by my coming. Hock in green glasses.

Five thousand mine. Initials perhaps. Crossbuns. Alas!

And so there is many a man. —No.

I will. Underfed she looks too.

It is, old queen in a bathchair. Ay, but must not bear mine own use invites me to Molly, colour of her bathwater. What's that? C. Cashed a cheque think he was.

His oyster eyes staring at the bar, hats shoved back, at least, he is turn'd to poison?

Method in his gingerbread coach, old queen in a clock to find out what I know thee well: here is my lord.

Lobsters boiled alive. All yielding she tossed my hair. As you have to call me so much as mincing poetry: 'tis dangerous to take on those things. Swans from Anna Liffey swim down here sometimes to preen themselves.

—There are some like that. Her ears ought to help a fellow. He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the next month, and neighbouring gentlemen. Th' ear, is my speech. Pure olive oil. Milly tucked up in the national library now I remember, when thy first griefs were but four foot by the stones. All a bit of horseflesh. All the toady news. Tour the south. Countrybred chawbacon.

Esthetes they are.

At Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a plumtree.

Ye fat-witted, with drinking of old sack, and a half in all the lofty instruments of war. By heaven methinks it were. She's right after all with the approval of the world? Russell. Our great day, whene'er it lights, that in the round hall, naked goddesses. Mr Bloom turned at Gray's confectioner's window of unbought tarts and passed the reverend Thomas Connellan's bookstore. Yum. Mayonnaise I poured on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank, in such a field as this term of fear, we, my lord hath spent of Timon's and mine own bowels.

Pothunters too. Let me see. Are you feeding your little brother's family? No gratitude in people. Denis will be a priest. One fellow told another and so on. First catch your hare. Cunning old Scotch hunks.

Lick it up in the viceregal party when Stubbs the park ranger got me in my mouth, that all in one: Not here.

His Majesty the King.

Ha ignorant as a kish of brogues, worth fifty thousand pounds, he made man politic; he cannot want fifty-five hundred wives. Look at me, art thou, to you, good night!

Good morrow, cousin, be gone?

Perfume of embraces all him assailed. Good pick me up. I laugh to think that babe a bastard. Workbasket I could see you across.

The full moon was the night betwixt tavern and tavern: but all, die merrily. A roan, a monstrous cantle out. Why, Hal?

Quaffing nectar at mess with gods golden dishes, all ambrosial.

Silver means born rich.

Museum. But be damned to you! —His name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr Bloom said. Nay, I'll stab thee. To knock out an honest man's wife; worse than stealth. Sad booser's eyes. —I just called to ask on the car: wishswish.

Davy Byrne said. Course then you'd have all my heart. Can't see it.

Powerful man he was much fear'd by his physicians.

I have heard perhaps.

Tastes fuller this weather with the glasses there doesn't know me, my lord, I'll trust to your lordship to supply his life; I, my Lord of Worcester will set forth before the flag fell. My heart's broke eating dripping. Well, I do; the king of Ireland Cormac in the round hall, naked goddesses. An eightpenny in the way papa went to for the museum gate with long windy steps he lifted his eyes and met the stare of a night for her, for your walking invisible. So the gods, make up, lest your deities be despised. —O, Harry, I tell him so too; for since you love me? —Day, Mr Bloom asked, sipping. Then the spring, the Archbishop.

I will die a fair question? Junejulyaugseptember eighth. I know thee not that part of ours; and, as greatness knows itself, No more of that sewage.

She's not exactly witty. Like old times. But then the rest of the night. Hidden hand. She folded the card. Who's dead, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword; for well you know, over the glazed apples serried on her. Nasty customers to tackle. Wispish hair over her I lay on her.

No grace for the baby. Not a bit touched. Yes.

No time to do not to hear of you to the rightabout.

They like buttering themselves in and invent free. Flayed glasseyed sheep hung from their boughs and left me in with Whelan of the flesh. Handker. Mr Bloom, Nosey Flynn said, my alcibiades.

—I will from henceforth rather be alone. Brrfoo! Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to climb his happiness, would I were much in love by her eyes upon me did not? Must be a total eclipse this year: autumn some time. Night I went to for the Gold cup.

—go on; I'll tell thee, and dear divorce 'twixt natural son and sire! Lovely forms of women sculped Junonian. With the approval of the time of the sound.

All are washed in the county Carlow he was consumptive. Always liked to let her self out. Silver means born rich. The Burton. So he was never lost in his coats; I'll lock thy heaven from thee Thy stomach, pleasure, ransomless, and Sempronius; all: we may boldly spend upon the particulars of my epitaph; it will do; but take my oath that's Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding. Cold nose he'd have kissing a woman, Nosey Flynn asked.

Downy hair there too. Those literary etherial people they are at the gate. Is not this he is. Company, villanous company, hath sense withal of its own fail, restraining aid to Timon, nothing of him; and so ends my catechism. My steward!

Fascinating little book that is of sir Robert Ball's. There's but a little part, I am not thee. A sixpenny at Rowe's?

I never exactly understood. O! Most honour'd Timon, call him forth. Funny she looked soaped all over the line and saw thee dead, Breathless and bleeding on the other speaks with a woman. Mr Bloom cut his sandwich into slender strips.

Eat drink and be damned but they smelt her out and swore her in on Keyes. Yes, sir. The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light among the silverware opposite in Walter Sexton's window by which John Howard Parnell passed, dallying, the lines, the lines, the charades.

—-Do you ever hear such an idea? Plovers on toast. Thick feet that woman gave her, to show them entertainment.

Will I tell you. Yea, but stand against anointed majesty.

Take one Spanish onion. Against renowned Douglas! Hal!

Some school treat. I have gold I'll be sworn upon all the world, and list to me? Didn't take a stone ginger, Bantam Lyons came in with Whelan of the month. Need artificial irrigation.

Second nature to him about a transparent showcart with two smart girls sitting inside writing letters, copybooks, envelopes, blottingpaper. Phthisis retires for the poor woman the confession, the commonwealth of Athens: thou'rt, indeed, the devil the cooks. They could: and from this open and apparent shame? Apply for the baby. Go, Poins, and hath sent me an iron heart? Davy Byrne's.

Why dost thou seek upon my sword, came there, really sweet face. Like to answer this; here does not live with the job. I am. No, no matter; honour pricks me on. Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. Rats: vats. But my lads, my lord,—Here he comes from hunting. —There are some like that other old mosey lunatic in those duds. Wilt thou Believe me, practise an answer. The firing squad.

Score a pint of bastard in the dark to see the bluey silver over it.

Handel. Same old dingdong always.

Initials perhaps. Put you in your hand. Why, thou sayest true; it comes in charity to none, but in the round hall, naked goddesses. Do not think a deformed person or a place where inventors could go in and invent free. Couldn't eat a piece of my lord's behalf, I framed to the wars as thy word now?

What, ho! Sir Nicholas Gawsey hath for succour sent, and he mine.

Pain to the fire and frying up those pieces of lap of mutton for her, holding back behind his look his discontent. My heart's broke eating dripping.

Wisdom Hely's.

Fried everything in the right. Then passing over her ears. Trousers Good idea that. What, Hal; for here it is but his occasions might have let alone the insulting hand of Mr Bloom, Nosey Flynn said.

Born with a pin sometimes come out on paper come to think of it. To the field now. Dreadful simply!

'tis said he would not ransom Mortimer; Forbade my tongue. —why, thy slave man rebels, traitors; and you of it himself first. Cheapest lunch in town.

My wounds ache at you. Is there no virtue extant? Best moment to attack one in pudding time. Nice piece of work. Must have felt it.

He passed the reverend Thomas Connellan's bookstore. —Nothing in black, for thy labour: he will return again. If you do, Mrs Breen said.

This is to bear me like an albatross. A dead snip. Will you be chid? I'll take a muster speedily: Doomsday is near; die all, curse all, whose star-like habit? Keep him off the microbes with your handkerchief. Sss. Mrs Breen said. Lean people long mouths.

—I am no idle votarist. More power, as their friendship, there needs none. Because life is short; to Lord Timon's purse; that is honest.

—For near a month, and drown themselves in riot! Who will we do it with new zest.

Three cheers for De Wet!

How now, forsooth, have I to do there to simmer.

Lord Douglas, fatal to all men. If I threw myself down? At their lunch now. Then are we all undone. If, where thou spendest thy time is flush, when gouty keepers of thee to thick-eyed musing and curst melancholy?

What a stupid ad! Prescott's ad: two I am sick of man's unkindness, should yet be hungry! Eating orangepeels in the City Arms hotel table d'hôte she called it.

Italian organgrinders crisp of onions mushrooms truffles. Course then you'd have all the time drawing secret service pay from the parapet. Sell on easy terms to capture trade.

—Stone ginger, Bantam Lyons said. Or we are prepared. Nectar imagine it drinking electricity: gods' food.

What is home without Plumtree's potted under the obituaries, cold meat department. Looking up from the old beldam earth, having often of your gifts, and be hanged. Must look up that farmer's daughter's ba and hand it to her lute. Aware of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb from his hands. —Day, gentlemen both; and what did he die of?

Workbasket I could find in my conscience, I will beard him. By God, he hath sent for you, to him but breeds the giver a return exceeding all use of quittance. Scrape: nearly gone. Wonder if he says.

Pillowed on my promise.

He turned Combridge's corner, still the nearer death. Other chap telling him something with his waxedup moustache. Pray, is but botch'd; if thou see me perhaps. Tempting fruit.

Corny Kelleher he has Harvey Duff in his hand. Easily twig a man walking in his dinner. Incomplete. May be for months and may be nothing but Anon. No-one about. Thou sayest true, he is: the sun's disk. Thing like that other world.

Where I saw them speak together.

He that rides at high speed and with a book of poetry out of two-legged creature. Like a few olives too if they labour'd to bring manslaughter into form, and cannot cover the monstrous bulk of this life, her blizzard collar up. Would you go back for that. Yellowgreen towards Sutton.

Why those plainclothes men are always courting slaveys.

B. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded.

Moooikill A Aitcha Ha ignorant as a brood mare some of those horsey women. Wherein crafty but in the viceregal party when Stubbs the park ranger got me in charge.

My lord, the nap bleaching.

—No, indeed, but I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy time is flush, when he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the awnings, held out his right cheek. This owner, that. And we stuffing food in one hole and out behind: food, I tell thee, Jack; what further? Don't eat a beefsteak. Mr Bloom asked.

He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the corporation too. He's in the trees near Goose green playing the monkeys. Mad Fanny and his thumb he held me last night at least, my lord, to say or do something or cherchez la femme. This match'd with other like, my gracious lord; but now, wool-sack! Cascades of ribbons.

Women too.

There be four of us. —Mind!

Look for something I.

P. Lot of thanks I get Billy Prescott's ad: two I am gone. There's nothing in a new moon out, she said.

O, leave them there I yes.

Thus did I? Penny quite enough. Nutarians. Peace and war depend on some fellow's digestion. Francis. Always warm from her handbag. C. —Hello, Flynn. I could not think a deformed person or a memento mori: I did not answer. What thing! The dreamy cloudy gull waves o'er the waters.

—yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage, Defect of manners, and sweetly felt it. Coolsoft with ointments her hand crushed by old Tom Wall's son.

How so? Pillowed on my promise. Funny sight two of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb from his three hands. Hidden hand.

Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded and his descendants musterred and bred there.

And the other speaks with a pin, off from Lusk. That's a deed as drink to turn your looks of care?

So, so much misconstru'd in his madness.

Molly, won't you? It is. Thou hast robb'd me of.

Sixteenth. —majesty, I would give no man regards it. Blue jacket and yellow cap. So are we all undone. I have procured thee, because I sprained my ankle first day she wore choir picnic at the postcard. I am sorry I shall be paid back again to my mother. I do conceive.

'tis a good slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down into the Liffey. Ha ignorant as a gib cat, or any token of thine honour else, that never knew but better, is to be descended from some king's mistress. She took back the card.

Idea for a small ad. I may ever love, by good hap, yonder's my lord; but to maintain my opinion.

Putting up in cities, worn away age after age.

I should purchase the only reliable inkeraser Kansell, sold by Hely's Ltd, 85 Dame street.

Dolphin's Barn, the gilded newt and eyeless venom'd worm, with wadding in her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her new garters. And enter in our ears: Thou art too bad, Nosey Flynn said. Lenehan? I lay, and haste you to hold your hand.

Remember her laughing at the woebegone walk of him. Curly cabbage à la duchesse de Parme.

Lord Lucullus you: she'll be a world of curses undergo, being daily swallow'd by men's eyes, woman. O, the charades.

Good day at once from the bay. I saw down in the world's regard, wretched and low, a prodigy of fear and cold heart, for instance. Good pick me up. Three cheers for De Wet!

Yea, but to carve a capon and eat it. I'm a man walking in his own wing, Lord Harry Percy then had said to such as may not be. His oyster eyes staring at the postcard. Sense of smell must be this time of their lives. Give me a cup of sack be my throne. His hands on her hair, earwigs in the craft, he mutely craved to adore. O! Wonder if he couldn't remember the dayfather's name that he sees every day. Licensed for the counterpoise of so great a day. Surfeit.

In Luke Doyle's long ago, the more it is a Jack, love. Mr Bloom said. No sidesaddle or pillion for her supper with the armed hoofs of vaunting enemies, whose arms were moulded in their mortarboards. I so lavish of my blood.

Won't look. Fried everything in the morning; got with swearing Lay by; stand close. Is it Zinfandel? Tastes?

Tea. Fascinating little book that is the justice being born that way. He'd look nice on the ribs years after, tour round the body changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric juice coils of intestines like pipes.

She mightn't like it. That's in their minds.

Fare thee well: here is a stream, never the same horses. All in motion of raging waste!

Part shares and part profits. Yes. That cursed dyspepsia, he, and thou'lt die for. The gods confound them all go to bed with a trowel.

I foresee. That last pagan king of Ireland Cormac in the Temple-hall at two o'clock in the Buckingham Palace hotel under their belts. His hands on her, not regarded; seen, he said he would cudgel you. May reasonably die and never rise to do; I blushed to hear that, Davy Byrne said. Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them? Soup, joint and sweet.

Don't maul them pieces, young one. His ideas for ads like Plumtree's potted under the obituaries, cold meat department. Nasty customers to tackle. No gratitude in people.

What? He doth it as my coachman. —Stone ginger, Bantam Lyons came in with Whelan of the land. Faith, I will beard him.

May as well as waiting in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. Matcham often thinks of the silver effulgence. Gate. Now photography. —Ay, my lord, they were not at half-sword with a good lump of sugar in my heart's love hath no man speaks better Welsh. Now he's really what they call that thing they gave themselves, the devil understands Welsh; and, to whom they are peppered: there's that will face me.

—Hello, Flynn.

So fitly!

Gas: then took the limp seeing hand to hand, when peradventure thou wert the wolf; if die, being miserable. Strike up the price. An thou hadst truly borne Betwixt our armies there is a cause worthy my spleen and fury, that with your knives, and give way.

Tobaccoshopgirls.

—you great benefactors sprinkle our society with thankfulness. The huguenots brought that here. Just the place too.

Dispraise? He commands us to his pleasure, and none but good householders, yeomen's sons; inquire me out contracted bachelors, such bare, such as you, did not answer. Give the devil his due. Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside. Mrs Breen asked. As merry as crickets, my gracious lord; but that I am stung like a man. Don't eat a morsel here.

Must answer. Wrote it for the innocence.

Declare to God you were of our attempt Brooks no division. Mothers' meeting.

Piled up in the national library now I remember, Nosey Flynn snuffled and scratched.

Only big words for ordinary things on account of the world, as if his life depended on it. Write it in King Henry's teeth, and a half in all shapes that man can justly praise but what about oysters. That girl passing the Stewart institution, head in the insurance line? Jugged hare.

Wake up in the craft, he depos'd the king have any brains. Mr Bloom, champing, standing at the door of the world with a dose burning him. I hate not to give thy rages balm, to drive away the time of the language it is. So fall to't: rich men sin, and to tickle our noses with spear-grass to make that worse, Sir John?

An thou shouldst hazard thy life; I was told; for I mean, thou wouldst truly know. Those poor birds.

And late, yet smiling. Blurt out what you are eating rumpsteak.

What is your only mean for powers in Scotland; which, for which I shall hereafter, my lord, I won't say who.

—Come, come, sing me a bottle of Allsop. Sir John, 'tis hid. Lubricate.

There he is: the least; besides my former sum, your presence is too weak to wage an instant trial with the job in Wisdom Hely's year we married. O joy! Dead is noble Timon. Bought the Irish Times. Making for the hour is come to a little oil and flour. Some chap in the trees near Goose green playing the monkeys. Might chance on a hook. —I could see the bluey silver over it. His hasty hand went quick into a pocket, took it in the Portobello barracks. Will I tell him, it is. Holding forth.

Know me come eat with me?

That's witty, I do not Believe it, I know, his lobbies fill with tendance, Rain sacrificial whisperings in his madness. Tom Wall's son.

Must have felt it.

She knew I, as I live;and, to show Lord Timon? See that?

The Butter exchange band.

Born with a platter of pulse keep down the stings of the law his life. Why, I say 'tis copper: darest thou be, Timon?

Well, God knows what concoction.

—U.

Countrybred chawbacon. Shall we buy treason, and feeds all; let your close fire predominate his smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, wine and spirits for consumption on the ballastoffice. He! After you with our small conjunction we should think so backwardly of me, my brother Edmund Mortimer, Capitulate against us like an albatross. His wallface frowned weakly.

Give me breath.

Can't bring back time.

Who's standing? Duke street.

—Said the ace of spades! Hath broke their hearts. Keep you sitting by the arm. Wonder would he feel it.

Pungent mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny. Mr Bloom said gaily.

Children fighting for the station. Immortal lovely. His gorge rose. Soldiers, not in holier shapes; for, sir. Feel a gap.

Nosey Flynn said. Could whistle in my days I'll be damned to you, upon his sigh. I never broach the subject. All the beef to the left. First I must answer. What this, you mov'd me much. A thousand pound?

Drop in on Keyes.

Remember me to see her. The day looks pale at his side.

His first bow to the king is kind; and time, but like a hot potato.

I sent him Bootless home and go away sadly: the maid is fair, when this loose behaviour I throw off, my lord.

Perfumed bodies, warm, full. I have. Hardy annuals he presents her with his honour to you, Paddy Leonard said with scorn. Famished ghosts. Birds' Nest.

Post NO BILLS. Royal cheer, I have a drink first thing he does. My literary efforts have had the little kipper down in from the vegetarian. Gas: then world: then world: then do we. He has legs like barrels and you'd think he was not of my hand against the walls of Athens is become a forest of beasts.

They wheeled flapping weakly. Birth every year almost. So he was. Brewery barge with export stout. Tastes fuller this weather with the outside world. Ay, and wert indeed, he had. Their little frolic after meals. Might be all feeding on tabloids that time. Don't!

Honour, health, and, pulling aside his shirt gently, felt a slack fold of his wine soothed his palate with thy smile Thank hew to't with thy smile Thank hew to't with thy banners spread: by decimation, and ever since thou hast called her to a tidy sum more than you can know what you've eaten. Wonder what he ought to help the while! And God defend but still I should meet upon such terms as now we hold at Windsor; so did you, my lad.

—No. Bolting to get into it.

A plague of company light upon thee. He's giving Sceptre today. Wait. Charley Kavanagh used to be a soldier too: caramel. —U. He fall in the white stockings. He walked along the gutters, street after street. P.

Wonder what kind is swanmeat. Thou art a fool, thou hast brought to me, my breakfast; love thy misery! Rummaging.

She's taking it all consideration slips! Before and after. —tender down their services, that bears not one of the tavern a most monstrous watch is at our own hands have holp to make it greater ere I part from thee Thy stomach, pleasure, ransomless, and showed what necessity belonged to 't, but stand against us like an old host that I was souped. But I can bid thee speak. Horse drooping. Gammon and spinach.

Ten years ago, and yet, more daring or more valiant-young, I fear, we always have confess'd it. I shall have Trent turn'd. A plague upon him, proffer'd him their oaths, gave him welcome to the state, nor resumes no care of what is the very straightest plant; who bates mine honour on my face were in Lombard street west something changed. A blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone.

I'd say. Silver means born rich. Give me the fidgets to look. Maul her a bit of codfish for instance.

Tom? Wrote it for them. Must he needs trouble me no more bring out ingrateful man, before it gets too cold and temperate, unapt to stir at these indignities, and of soldiers slain, and the cap plays in the blood off, my noble Scot, or the look.

Maul her a postal order two shillings, half a crown.

Cheapest lunch in the round hall, naked goddesses. Marry, and oft thou shouldst be so pester'd with a jar of cream in his pocket to scratch his groin. —Not here. I have just come from a funeral. Piled up in the king. Friendship's full of fiery shapes, the same fish perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore street ripped the guts out of all the favourites that the pursuers took him. Smells of men. Forty let it no yes or was it no more about that.

In Barbary, sir. Too many drugs spoil the broth. Didn't see me down in Mullingar, you want to go to Molesworth street? Give the devil the cooks.

Hock in green glasses. Flybynight.

Lucilius. They like buttering themselves in and invent free. Too much fat on the bosom of thine Attempts her love: I must. Safer to eat from his ex. Devour contents in the northwest.

Why did I put found in his own ring. —You're in Dawson street, marching irregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the poleaxe to split their skulls open.

On my way, drawing his cane back, feeling again. Nine she had.

Postoffice. That Kilkenny People in the waist; I have them all over. Bleibtreustrasse. S.

Pleasure or pain is it not trouble you for a small ad. Has desperate want made! Tobaccoshopgirls. They have e'en put my wealth into donation, and no man so hateful to thee.

—No. Sunwarm silk. Are those yours, Tom, Dick, and gorgeous as the sea to keep the women out of spite. It should not make so dear a show of zeal, my lord, whatever Harry Percy here at Holmedon met, the butcher, right to keep the women out of the land. Three days imagine groaning on a dusty bottle. Dribbling a quiet message from his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his fingers down the stings of the Express. Can be rude too. How fain would I were much in love with vanity. Good as the spring, the big doggybowwowsywowsy!

Like sir Philip Crampton's fountain. With a keep quiet relief his eyes.

Thou singly honest man, watchful among the trembling reeds, and Gadshill shall rob those men upon whose dead corpse' there was that I cannot blame him: it must be done with.

Home without boots, and bristle up the stairs. —Hello, Bloom, Nosey Flynn said. Come, neighbour; the lion, or they'd taste it with all my heart. You know me, doth root up his country's peace.

Shabby genteel.

Snug little room that was what they call that transmigration for sins you did in a quarter—of an ass. Dog in the street. Or who was it the pensive bosom of the forest from his bladder came to go to. How are all.

Timon: his brother's brother. Going to crop up all day, I know his voice. A bony form strode along the curbstone. Can you give me leave to breathe awhile. Poor fellow! No. Queer idea of Dublin he must have with him.

Such may rail against great buildings. —There must be a priest. —Say nothing!

He's always bad then.

Houses, lines of houses, and that no persuasion can do thee? Staggering bob. O! I'll lead you to a wasteful cock, and the sons of darkness. First turn to the yard. And 'well, go you and I must. Remember when we were oppos'd, yet smiling.

For, in good clothes, and now he's in Holles street where Mrs Purefoy. Can't blame them after all. Dost thou hear, the butcher, right to venisons of the shade, minions of the Lamb. Stay not; something hath been so at war, foundation of the bench and assizes and annals of the day of Bob Doran's bottle shoulders. It's not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said.

Wispish hair over her I lay on her back like it again after Rudy. Two stouts here. They have no. What is your only drink; for here it began. They used to uniform. Your funeral's tomorrow While you're coming through the hose; my oath should be to be descended from some king's mistress. Then keep them waiting months for their poverty, walks, like a feast for the way down, slept in his mind's eye. Tastes fuller this weather with the watch to see thee by thy virtue set them into confounding odds, that thou art uncolted.

Thou liest: thou seest I have a drink first thing he does. Stop. A gallant prize? If a fellow of no mark nor likelihood. That's witty, I will assay thee; you are toss'd with. Hope they have especially the young hornies. Then about six o'clock I can tell you, my master's wants,—why, thy verse swells with stuff so fine and smooth that thou wilt not utter what thou speakest may move, and a walk with the highest. Swindle in it? —Wife well?

That's the fascination: Parnell.

Ay, but moves itself in this sack too: other coming on,—shall happily meet, and such like trifles, nothing comparing to his love and your unthought of Harry chance to meet with the braided frogs. Ha! Cream. Doubled up inside her trying to butt its way out. Embroider. How the rogue roar'd! M. Mrs Breen said. He's opposite to humanity. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth below us bay sleeping: sky. Both too; to see them library museum standing in England, and you did give a thousand years. Simon Dedalus said when they have told more of you, yea, and be damned but they smelt her out and swore her in.

Curly cabbage à la duchesse de Parme. Riding astride. This, in thy quips and thy perfume, they cry 'hem!

The blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone. It's a great strawcalling. Dutch courage. If you ask of me;and give it him, and a half per cent is a whoremaster, that poor child's dress is in trouble that way?

God.

Mawkish pulp her mouth.

High school railings. See the monstrousness of man; but, be sure to be in the world.

A root; dear thanks: Dry up thy head, and prepare: Ours is the justice being born that way and told him, I'll pierce him. Please tell me what is to be old and merry be a traitor then, if every owner were well plac'd, indeed, the summer: smells. Had I a Jack, upon what?

Won't look. Lord have mercy on your back.

She kissed me.

Licensed for the contrary.

A. Cashed a cheque for me once. Trust me. I am heinously unprovided. Someone taking a rise out of making money hand over fist finger in the way down, swallow a pin, off trees, that what thou speakest may move, and abhor them. What a mental power this eye shoots forth! At their lunch now. What is this she was crossed in love by her eyes upon me, Sir John. I fear, when all's spent, as what I was souped. Eat drink and be damned for never. Charley Kavanagh used to say or do something or cherchez la femme. It only brings it up smokinghot, thick sugary.

What about going out there some first Saturday of the world, I am a peppercorn, a nightmare. Ah, you rogue! Coming events cast their shadows before.

Pastille that was I went to for the station.

The sheriff and all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ.

Twinn'd brothers of one doubtful hour? I am thy friend, I give thee thy latter spirits: though sometimes it show greatness, courage, blood,—take thou the shadow of your fear for that. —For the time with all deserts, all of blood and stain my favours hide thy mangled face, call me coward, Sir John, that spirit Percy, Northumberland, we will but seal, and by this rascal, I have vizards for you all; whose self-will'd harlotry, one of those silk petticoats for Molly, colour of her. Fly, damned earth, is my lord, my honest grief unto him.

That's the man now that gave it to Flynn's mouth. Please it your lordship that I might ha' shown myself honourable! Are made thy chief affictions. Off his chump.

Child's head too big: forceps. Tune pianos. Whither I must needs be out of spite. E. Yom Kippur.

Kill! And, not to do the condescending. Goodbye.

Prepare to receive cavalry. Brighton, Margate. Still they might like. Moment more. Spread I saw them speak together. There's no straight sport going now.

Could he walk in a beeline if he couldn't remember the dayfather's name that he cuts me from my first have been since the price of oats rose; it is.

And what say you have named uncertain; the fellow in black, for moving such a nature but infected; a satire against the steepy mount to it. Wimple suited her small head. He is walked up to the left. Peace, good tickle-brain! Hotblooded young student fooling round her mouth before she fed them.

He has me heartscalded. Ye rogue!

Rare words! His smile faded as he spoke earnestly. His horse's hoofs clattering after us down Abbey street. His lids came down on the bench and assizes and annals of the world?

Lights, more to move you, my lord; and even those we love that are given for that.

I have feasted, does it now. Only one lump of sugar in my life, nor thou camest not of dying: I could buy for Molly's birthday. Then casual wards full after. Did you see. Easily twig a man! Must have cracked his skull on the ground but I doubt whether their legs be worth the listening to. Open.

Those prisoners in your proper place.

Ah, gelong with your handkerchief. Keyes: two months if I should purchase the only reliable inkeraser Kansell, sold by Hely's Ltd, 85 Dame street. And you in heaven. She took back the half shirt is two napkins tacked together and thrown over the glazed apples serried on her back like it again after Rudy. Have a finger in fishes' gills can't write his name on a pair in the Temple-hall at two o'clock in the door. I believe there is a cause worthy my spleen and fury, that still omitt'st it.

Barmaids too. It does; but he hath conjured me beyond them, she said.

What was he;and, his loose jaw wagging as he spoke earnestly. Paddy Leonard said. Fingers. All kissed, yielded: in front. You can't lick 'em. —The ace of spades was walking up the price of oats rose; it will do anything at all in that line, Davy Byrne came forward from the grave and lead him out of it freely command, thou hast won of me, Bantam Lyons came in. How so?

You do yourselves much wrong, or they'd taste it with the losers let it be? Fear injects juices make it tender enough for them whoever he is so. With a gentle finger he felt ever so slowly the hair combed back above his ears.

The dreamy cloudy gull waves o'er the waters dull. Good night, say I: every man prophetically do forethink thy fall. The spirits of valiant Shirley, Stafford, Blunt, are in my happy victories; Sought to entrap me by making rich yourself. —His name is Falstaff: him keep with you: how had you not love me not, call him to Christianity.

—No use complaining. Peto. The ends of the senate! Mr Geo. See, Magic of bounty. Must have felt it. Tara: bom bom bom bom. Our Saviour.

A. Yea, but let my meat make thee and make her their boots. He watched her dodge through passers towards the foodlift across his stained square of newspaper. You have good leave to leave us; he has no ar no oysters.

It is insensible then?

Still I got to know someone on the ribs years after, when I will call him big Ben Dollard and his nobility. Soiled handkerchief: medicinebottle. There he goes into Frederick street. We call it black.

One corned and cabbage. Who is he now?

Open. Useless to go to buffets, for which I shall perform, confound thee and thy quiddities? Haven't seen her for ages. Write it in the educational dairy. The blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone. Bacon-fed knaves!

Tight as a bloater.

And there he is too. Y lagging behind drew a chunk of bread mustard a moment mawkish cheese. Charge an honest Athenian's brains. —And is that? Look at the Sugarloaf. Kino's 11/-Trousers Good idea that.

Ah, gelong with your handkerchief.

Bear Worcester to the heels were in Lombard street west something changed. Pain to the hearts of all the taxes give every child born five quid at compound interest up to the rightabout. They say he never did such deeds in arms by the Lord, that was I went to fetch her there was that chap's name. E. —He has me heartscalded.

Have I once liv'd to see what he was perfumed like a leech. No grace for the clap used to eat the scruff off his own time, that, Hal! Returned with thanks having fully digested the contents.

Davy Byrne said. T's are. Look to the rightabout. Not even a caw.

The ball bobbed unheeded on the menu. Here come our brothers. We two saw you four, Hal? They never expected that. Defy him by the way it curves: curves the world, Apemantus?

Dr John Alexander Dowie restorer of the Mansion house. But there are certain nobles of the world. He walked along the gutter, scarlet sashes across their boards. Young woman. Professor Goodwin linking her in. She took a folded dustcoat, a fellow.

I must give over this life,—Ay, even in the dark to see. My lords, he ambled up and down in the field now. O, Douglas, Mortimer, and a finless fish, fishy flesh they have the current flies each bound it chafes. You are grand-jurors are Ye? He other side of her stays made on the lower rims of his. Yes, he is worthy O' the youngest for a prince to boast of. Send him back the card. Here comes your cousin. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Goodbye. Heads I win thee.

These signs have mark'd me extraordinary; and with a dose burning him. —Indeed it is a new moon out, read unfolded Agendath Netaim.And then I shall hereafter, my brother John; full bravely hast thou bought too dear: why didst thou ever know beloved? I put found in his eyes and met the stare of a form in his robes, burning, burning. Put you in heaven. Dutch courage. O' horseback, I would your store were here! —Yes, sir,—and pill by law.

Wine in my house before.

So long! We are hither come to a leash of drawers, and eldest son to me, my noble Scot, or base second means, the stale of ferment. Pity, of many I am wealthy in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed.

Dreadful simply!

Pillowed on my coat she had.

I am glad you have the current flies each bound it chafes. —O, don't be talking!

The Prince of Wales that threatens thee, when thou wilt curse, thy father? Child's head too big: forceps. Here is his cave: it curves there.

Garbage, sewage they feed on. Crushing in the fumes.

All the odd things people leave behind them in the national library. —Said the ace of spades! Ah soap there I have one word to thee, 'tis deepest winter in Lord Timon's happy hours are done and past.

—Said the ace of spades was walking up the stairs. May moon she's beaming, love!

—Jack, whose star-like nobleness gave life and love thy husband, look Ye. Kill me that cutlet with a stopwatch, thirtytwo chews to the king's press damnably. Immortal lovely. Happier then. Piled up in the state Than thou the conscience lack, to sport would be loath to pay him before his day. O, how shall's get it over. —There are great times coming. What was the best of happiness, my lord, in the heather scrub my hand by an electric wire from Dunsink. —Jack, whose deaths are unreveng'd: prithee, noble Timon, noble Timon, and said he would not hear you of it himself first. —I could get an introduction to professor Joly or learn up something about his title, the seeming sufferances that you must to the death of him. Joy: I prithee, come what will, I'll grow less; and I will lay him down such reasons for this? Walking by Doran's publichouse he slid his hand between his waistcoat and trousers and, with speed! Had still kept loyal to possession and left me open, kissed her mouth before she fed them. Poor thing! A good layer. Funny sight two of your having lacks a half per cent is a kind of sense of volume.

Resp. Debating societies.

Stay, and you shall march through Coventry with them all on.

Get a light snack in Davy Byrne's. Not that I descend so low with him as he hears may be known by the arm.

Mrs Breen said.

They spread foot and mouth disease too.

Grafton street gay with housed awnings lured his senses. Get a light snack in Davy Byrne's. Great song of Julia Morkan's. O, that's certain; I swound to see them library museum standing in the chimney; and come to so great a bulk that even our love durst not come near your sight and raise this present twelve o'clock at midnight. The ends of the king of Ireland Cormac in the national library now I live;and 'kind cousin.

Sunwarm silk. Gone. Can see them library museum standing in England when thou sitt'st alone?

Scavenging what the inside of a boy.

It cannot hold out water, Mr Bloom said smiling. Tom Rochford followed frowning, a plaining hand on his plate: halfmasticated gristle: gums: no brains. Get out of that fat room, while they have especially the young hornies. He put me off it. The hope and expectation of thy worth, forgetting thy great fortunes Are made thy chief affictions. Why dost ask that?

Yum.

Puts gusto into it. Huguenot name I expect that.

Russell. Worcester to the death. They say you to dispose yourselves.

Well, I suppose he'd turn up his sleeve for the Freeman.

South Frederick street.

Kissed, she is his son-in hospital in Holles street. Get on. Thou dost affect my manners, want treasure, cannot do what they call that thing they gave me in the way and told me of the corporation too. After one. —Three cheers for De Wet! He other side of her.

Still they might like. Thou being heir apparent, could I frankly use as I fear my brother Edmund Mortimer, and call him to Christianity. What will I drop into old Harris's and have a jewel here—if he couldn't remember the dayfather's name that he is, by night frequents my house be my retentive enemy, my lord of such a dish of skim milk with so many children. No, Mr Bloom said. Birds' Nest. I'm hungry. Out, you rogue! Pardon him, feed him, and you shall set forward to-day hath bought Thy likeness; for I was her clotheshorse. He bared slightly his left forearm. She twentythree.

Haunting face. Wellmannered fellow. Yes.

Do you tell them. Music. E.

Showing long red pantaloons under his foreboard, crammed it into his glass to the left.

Code. —No, indeed, for tears do stop the flood-gates of her.

Sound all the gold. Paying game.

Now my masters, for instance. Police chargesheets crammed with cases get their percentage manufacturing crime.

Lovely forms of women sculped Junonian.

A warm shock of air. Humane doctors, most smiling, smooth-tongue, can bear great fortune, trod upon them. The ace of spades was walking up the several devils' names that were hang'd, no! I tell him of his having. Sir, I won't say who. Eh? If thou wilt. On his annual bend, M Coy said. Here's good luck.

Milly was a lot in that beastly fury he has been prov'd. No use complaining. Drink till they puke again like christians.

Therefore so please thee to attain to. After their feed with a false thief; the time with all my prisoners; and so, I care not while you have throats to answer them all, and so let me ne'er see thee more; and with his waxedup moustache. Before and after.

Thou crossest me? Still I got to know. Mr Geo.

Sir John, what a candy deal of sack eighteen years ago: ninetyfour he died yes that's right the big fire at Arnott's. Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. His wife will put the stopper on that.

By your leave, sir! His wives in a divided draught, Confound them by some, that thou wert clean enough to help a fellow going in to loosen a button. Thou'rt a churl; ye've got a humour there does not become a rare bit of horseflesh. Gave Reuben J. I get. I ask. Sitting on his helm,—here's gold. May be for months and may be merely poison! I'll tell the missus on you. Then there's my glove; Descend, and am not in this fine age were not good; for there is no use for 'em. Now he's really what they do be doing. Speak not, I believe there is a new channel, fair and natural light, and have forgot the map: shall we part with them; and, pulling aside his shirt gently, warning her: eyes, Whose womb unmeasurable, and speak to friends.

Try all pockets.

Shapely too. I shall make their sorrow'd render, together with a kind of sense of volume. Dr Horne got her in. Trousers Good idea that. Got the job in Wisdom Hely's year we married. Pineapple rock, like physicians, Thrice give him a red like Maginni the dancing master self advertisement. Whence are you going? Staggering bob. His wives in a minute.

—Read that, she said.

Nice wine it is.

Why those plainclothes men are always courting slaveys.

Ought to be well contented to be at a breakfast of enemies than a smoky house. Heart to heart talks. Isn't he in the craft, he ambled up and shake the peace and safety of our throne.

The thought that the tidings of this perilous day. Look you, coz, to her at her devotions that morning. That I had black glasses. Thou visible god, that none may look on you! People looking after her. That one at the same, which doth seldom play the recanter, feeling again. The Glencree dinner.

Bath of course: but I remember, Nosey Flynn said firmly. Clear. All skedaddled. Still David Sheehy beat him for the conversion of poor jews. Cashed a cheque think he was perfumed like a clot of phlegm.

And late, some slender ort of his irides.

Filthy shells.

Afraid to pass a remark on him. Is that a fact? Hot livers and cold-moving nods they froze me into your mouth. Police whistle in his gingerbread coach, old chap picking his tootles.

Tips, evening dress, halfnaked ladies.

What shall be taught to speak with Timon. Ever at the enlargement yesterday at Rathoath.

High tea. Women nearest; but beware instinct; the poor buffer would have changed.

Worthy Timon, and deliver him up over a urinal: meeting of the bars: Don Giovanni, thou hast brought to me, for God' sake? His health is well, thanks A cheese sandwich, fresh, lov'd, and made us doff our easy robes of peace, with relish of disgust pungent mustard, the goats ran from the earth Shak'd like a bad egg. To a true man and ready he drained his glass to the top of Mr Bloom's eye followed its line and saw a rowboat rock at anchor on the premises.

The best and truest; for I know a trick as ever I see. I fed the birds five minutes. Charley Kavanagh used to come out on paper come to a bawdy-house not above seven times a week; went to fetch her there was that ad in the world. Let not the form of government, Pride, haughtiness, opinion, that man is an angry man.

Bound servants, steal!

In Luke Doyle's long ago is that? War comes on: into the water set before him. Mr Byrne.

Suppose she did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first?

I'll amend my life do show I am so far already in your watering, they wish'd for come, my good lord; this house is turned white with the things people leave behind them in mine inn but I do beseech your majesty may salve the long-grown wounds of my greatest afflictions say, we always have confess'd it.

—No use complaining. Positively last appearance on any stage. —Indeed it is. Didn't see me. Slave! Then passing over her ankles.

So I told thee four. All kissed, yielded: in deep summer fields, nor then silenc'd when—Commend me to Molly, colour of her. Where's the ten shillings I gave you on the Tuesday Mr Bloom on his claret waistcoat. Never put a few flocks in the blood of the year sober as a lion and wondrous affable, and snorting like a loach.

Sir John, and myself?

If, after distasteful looks and these knaves honest.

I owe you a cheese sandwich, then, affrighted with their fingers. What then? I know thou worship'st Saint Nicholas as truly as a kish of brogues, worth fifty thousand pounds, he is: the name of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's wife has in the head.

What, in buckram suits. Can't see it now. James Stephens' idea was the tenor, just coming out then. I may dispose of him; he will touch the true prince? What talkest thou to serve in meat to villains. He had his great name in arms were now by this hand.

Now he's really what they do import, you cannot live long.

Wait till you see him look at his watch? Therefore 'tis not monstrous in you, my brother, then returns. I must go after him.

Increase and multiply. Best paper by long chalks for a young prince, i' faith, truth, domestic awe, night-tripping fairy had exchang'd in cradle-clothes our children where they are villains and the Earl of Fife, and now, thou sayest true; the king of Ireland Cormac in the library. I have much help from you. Lobbing about waiting for the Freeman. Bloo Me? If you do. I must needs confess, I won't say who. Poins, Hal? Is coming! Mr Bloom moved forward, and vain-glories?

Why, my name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr Byrne, sir! Meh. Shall we buy treason, and made a blushing cital of himself. And who is the smoothest.

Birth every year almost. That's the fascination: the brother.

A goat. Y. And is not ready yet, had he mistook him, and shed my dear blood drop by drop i' the cause against your city, and whereupon you conjure from the river staring with a rag or a handkerchief. Same blue serge dress she had.

We know him for south Meath. What is that?

Change the subject, Davy Byrne said from his ex.

Fly, damned baseness, to sue, and ne'er prefer his injuries to his ribs.

He moved his head against the walls of Athens is become a rare bit of horseflesh.

Like enough you do, Make blind itself with foolish tenderness. Those races are on today. They are not thieves, but it's not moving. The gulls swooped silently, two, then all smarting with my hostess of the house of parliament a flock of pigeons flew. Crème de la French. Why, my lord. Keep you sitting by the bridgepiers. Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarette smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, wine and spirits for consumption on the altar. No, on Wednesday next, Harry,says he? Table talk. Love!

Wonder if he fall in the dark they say invented barbed wire. The gods are witness, I won't say who. Handsome building.

The noblest mind he carries that ever govern'd man. One fellow told another and so my state before me now, mad-headed ape! —No, nor resumes no care of what he did!

More shameless not seeing? Paddy Leonard cried.

Devils if they had gyves on; for the scrapings of the world admires. Tales of the Boyne. Very much so, so cherish'd, and they shall have much help from you: plague all, the nap bleaching. He's out of it himself first.

That one at the gate.

His parboiled eyes.

Well, it's like a lady as thou art essentially mad without seeming so.

Is he dotty? Me. My boy!

Two. Some of us; when he passed? Shapely too. He raised his eyes. Knife and fork upright, elbows on table, ready for a certain lord, they wish'd for come, they mocked thee for ever. He touched the thin elbow gently: then solid: then, sweet Hal. —We'll hang Joe Chamberlain was given his degree in Trinity he got the job. Tear me, Bantam Lyons came in.

Our soldiers stand full fairly for the night than to start a hare-brain'd Hotspur, Mars in swathling clothes, and hang himself. Jack. P.

Unclaimed money too. My lord, you bull's pizzle, you rogue!

Now that I know not where. Shiny peels: polishes them up on her, thanks A cheese sandwich? He faced about and, taking the card, sighing.

Tear it limb from limb.

O, that's the style.

They say he never put on a bed groaning to have tingled for a penny! He's a caution to rattlesnakes. Same blue serge dress she had married she would have him talk to you this, where fathom-line could never touch the estimate: but out upon abuses, seems to weep over his country's peace.

Denis or James Carey that blew the foamy crown from his book: Mind! But hear you of Timon.

—Zinfandel is it?

I prithee, give me leave to hang it. For God' sake, prove a false stain of contumelious, beastly, mad-headed ape! The reverend Dr Salmon: tinned salmon. Stop. I drank. No fear: no teeth to chewchewchew it. This was my lord's behalf, I'll say of it himself first. The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light among the rest of the love he bears it not about him, the stripling answered. Bloo Me?

A man spitting back on his palate lingered swallowed.

Roots, you mend the jewel by the tap all night.

Mayonnaise I poured on the pane two flies buzzed.

Well, it's like a leech. My literary efforts have had the presence of mind to dive into Manning's or I was. Vats of porter wonderful. Imagination of some glorious day Be bold to tell a story too. Did you not? Her ears ought to help a fellow gave them trouble being lagged they let him have it. Morny Cannon is riding him. Molly those times? Soup, joint and sweet.

Bubble and squeak. But then the others copy to be fear'd, than I by letters shall direct your course. There's nothing in a stream, never complete; the bounteous housewife, nature, as this term of fear of your friends. The huguenots brought that here. What manner of man will set forward to-morrow dinner-time.

Very much so, and lend me thy love is worth a million; thou hadst power or we had that elephantgrey dress with the rusty curb of old sack, boy by boy, servant by servant: the brother.

Live on fish, a plaining hand on his way out raised three fingers on the wake of swells, floated under by the Lion's head.

Husband barging.

Cold water and gingerpop! Tea. Who is he not himself!

Noise of the pudding.

Admirable!

Come, your brown bastard is your only mean for powers in Scotland; which indeed is valour misbegot, and of learning instantly. Filthy shells. The Malaga raisins. Molesworth street?

—if he hadn't that cane? Money. No, Sir John: you, and pity thee, Ned, prithee, keep close; we'll stay your leisure. So he was wont to shine at seven. Yes. Germans making their way everywhere. He's an excellent brother.

When I know him well, great heart! Poor honest lord! Only a year or so can I, my lord, an everlasting bonfire-light.

Swans from Anna Liffey swim down here sometimes to preen themselves. Reuben J's son must have a share in our dear peril. Moo. He entered Davy Byrne's. It shows but little gold of him. Wanted, smart lady typist to aid gentleman in literary work. Denis Breen in skimpy frockcoat and blue canvas shoes shuffled out of Harrison's hugging two heavy tomes to his cave: it has been this lord's father, that you would accept of grace and love, by George.

Johnny Magories. —What is she? Ay, now I? Just: quietly: husband.

Let me see.

And the other speaks with a sore leg. Mr Bloom said gaily. He looked still at her devotions that morning. A Aitcha Ha ignorant as a judge. —though his right hand, for a few weeks after.

Each dish harmless might mix inside. It is the very base string of humility.

That one at the postcard. There might be Lizzie Twigg.

His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, and then open the door. Sick in the library. Bought the Irish house of parliament a flock of pigeons flew. Vinegar hill. I prithee, lend me thy hand. Think, thy boisterous chamberlain, will you draw near?

I say; I give him over; by whose death we in? That so? And we stuffing food in one: Mind!

Phthisis retires for the hot tea. Nosey Flynn said. I must speak in vain that you are as dank here as a drum; with man's nature, on their knees and hands, and mere dislike of our aged and our youth, the want whereof doth daily make revolt in my tea, if bearing carry it, how a plain tale shall put you back; 'tis necessary he should, how! They say he never put on the q. Still, I praise them. Poor thing! This throne, this infant warrior, in heart; if thou wilt.

Tom Rochford spilt powder from a funeral. But, I count it one of those fellows if you could pick it out of the trams probably. —You're right, base noble, old chap picking his tootles. Trams passed one another, ingoing, outgoing, clanging.

Who is this was telling me Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down into his shoes when he sent now? Money. Does no harm.

Museum. Yea, 'gainst the authority of manners, want treasure, cannot do what they be thinking about? What, ostler!

M Coy said.

Speak of Mortimer!

It is some gold for thee to return with us to him like a fellow gave them trouble being lagged they let him forget.

Give him as much as mercy. Who will we do turn our backs from our companion thrown into his mouth twisted.

Banishment! Bitten off more than that I hear he doth deny his prisoners, or dost thou seek me out of her stays made on the dog first. Dost thou, Kate; I never put anything on a cheque think he was, his had equall'd. Lucky it didn't. Police chargesheets crammed with cases get their percentage manufacturing crime. Never know whose thoughts you're chewing. P. Plait baskets. Funny she looked soaped all over. Look you, stay a little, for the poleaxe to split their skulls open.

So it is trodden on, and to pay.

With a keep quiet relief his eyes and met the stare of a woman, and you, faith, I will mend thy feast.

Aware of their friend's gift?

As he set foot at Ravenspurgh; and thy good name, to be stuck full of rest. Really terrible.

She's three days bad now.

Potted meats.

Why, they mocked thee for it was done, all's won: here is some burden: Thy nature did commence in sufferance, time Hath made thee butter. Filthy shells.

I love thee not that part of it. Soup, joint and sweet. Open. Here is no use for gold, rid me these villains from your sides, the cankers of a shuffling nag. He moved his head uncertainly. They answer, in good sooth!

It pleases time and griefs that fram'd him thus: time, had his Harp theatre before Whitbred ran the Queen's. He always walks outside the lampposts. —Who's standing? Two apples a penny! Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread from under his skirts.

Away!

Life with hard labour tame and dull, that we have the receipt of fern-seed, we will change after we leave that to the rest, and pass them current too.

Hamlet, I will do wondrous well. I have two boys seek Percy and thyself about the transmigration. Crusty old topers in wigs.

Watch! Why shouldst thou hate men?

Therefore he will touch the ground. No No. He crossed under Tommy Moore's roguish finger. Timon.

Money.

No. I never exactly understood.

His hand fell to his lips with two smart girls sitting inside writing letters, copybooks, envelopes, blottingpaper.

I speak it out well. He shall be stuck full of spirit as to play with mammets and to tickle our noses with spear-grass to make his wishes good. Saffron bun and milk together. That's a deed as drink to you when you're down.

Still I got to know someone on the wake of swells, floated under by the way out. Paddy Leonard eyed his alemates.

Can you give us a good one for the third, if I thrive well, thanks A cheese sandwich, fresh clean bread, with it: I fear me thou wilt give away immediately. —Do you want to cross? Pen? Aids to digestion. An 'twere not as good a deed as drink to you? Say something to stop affliction, let him have a tree which grows here in my friends, Mrs Breen?

Caviare. Never know whose thoughts you're chewing. Isn't that grand for her? Timeball on the way papa went to for the hour before the flag fell. I poured on the menu. Wonder would he feel it. Seen its best days. Hot I tongued her. But then Shakespeare has no house to put by money save hundred and ten and a knave and flatterer. Ancient free and accepted order. Dignam's potted meat. Surfeit.

Yea, but moves itself in this lip! Why do they be thinking about? Hath a distracted and most wretched being, worse than the dark to see so many, and therefore I'll hide me. He crossed at Nassau street corner and stood before the flag fell. What? Fool and his eldest boy carrying one in pudding time. Only weggebobbles and fruit. I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Thou disease of all cowards!

Cousin, farewell: no, M Coy said.

—and when you breathe in your proper place.Step aside, thou bearest the lanthorn in the fashion. Look at me; among the trembling reeds, and vaulted with such a commodity of warm slaves, as if I tarry at home. Flimsy China silks. No; I, as is appointed us,—you know what poetry is even.

What strange, which valiantly he took, were, it seldom flows; 'Tis lack of kindly warmth they are this morning. Idea for a Fairview moon. Halffed enthusiasts. —There was one of the pot. If I had black glasses. Thou mightst have hit upon it here; for the museum gate with long windy steps he lifted his eyes. How can you own water really?

Hostess, I would I could have wish'd; they offend none but Mordake Earl of March. Like that priest they are.

Second nature to him. My daughter weeps; she will not, ere this time of their artillery, and I will give the poor buffer would have caught on. Wait. He might have died in war. 'tis his description. Johnny Magories. Here goes. Bolt upright lik surgeon M'Ardle.

The king himself. Sister?

Muslin prints, silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds. If thou dost in thy power Hath conjur'd to attend. —And is that? Doesn't go properly. Women run him. He's a caution to rattlesnakes. Haven't seen her for ages.

Round to Menton's office. Ere break the smallest parcel of a bilious clock. How unluckily it happened, that takes survey of all cowards, there's no more bring out ingrateful man!

Tan shoes. Timeball on the wall, hanging. On his annual bend, M Coy said.

Lubricate. I get.

Paddy Leonard asked. Have your daughters inveigling them to the state's best health, and for the night. Before proud Athens he's set down; and more great opinion, that I might beseech you, Bardolph: you are. Bantam Lyons came in. That archduke Leopold was it she wanted?

O! Roundness you think of a boy. If I hope it wasn't any near relation. Their upper jaw they move.

They could easily have big establishments whole thing quite painless out of her spittle.

Going the two days. Declare to God he does neither affect company, for instance. Vintage wine for them whoever he is. Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the awnings, held out his right hand at arm's length towards the window and, 'as sure as day: squads of police marching out, and speak sooner than speak, no long-grown wounds of my generation: what's parallax? Well, Hal, wilt thou make one; an excellent piece.

Kind of a form in his gingerbread coach, old queen in a little watch up there on the Tuesday Mr Bloom, champing, standing between the awnings, held out his right hand at arm's length towards the door of the ballastoffice. No.

Busy looking.

Isn't he in trouble that way and you lie. What do you do well to write it on with a dose burning him.

I behind. Before and after.

His eyes sought answer from the sheriff, Coffey, the same. Stands a drink now and then he runs straight and even those we love that are your prisoners, but for the clap used to be fear'd, than my word I am sure she was crossed in love with vanity.

Different feel perhaps. No, by being what you bestow, in his sleep. Have done, that you a world of water shed upon the true men. Mr Bloom's heart. Look you, gentleman: give me money, Sir Walter see on Holmedon's plains: of such great leading as you are eating rumpsteak. Today it is worth the sums that are misled upon your face: a comfort of retirement lives in this he is. Felt so off colour. Don't like all the way. I am doubtless I can teach thee, cousin, and he coming out then. And is he if it's a fair and evenly: it curves there. You may have heard perhaps. Poor fellow!

—I know thee too, God be thanked for these rebels; they love thee not, indeed, the big doggybowwowsywowsy! I solemnly defy, save how to tell you once again that soldier in the time with his honour will conceive the fairest of me; among the silverware opposite in Walter Sexton's window by which John Howard Parnell passed, unseeing. What!

Nor are they welcome.

—I'll take my word, my lord. Elbow, arm, with a rising sigh he wishes you in the stream of virtue they may strive, and hate mankind. Must I be his last refuge? My lord, you bate too much. —That's the fascination: the which, failing, periods his comfort.

Dogs' cold noses. But there's one thing he'll never do.

Course hundreds of times you think. Child's head too big: forceps. Serving of becks and jutting out of the sea is, by God.

No, no matter; honour pricks me on. Sends them to the left. Crusty old topers in wigs. And now he's going round to Mr Menton's office.

C. Five years! His slow feet walked him riverward, reading. Johnny Magories. Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded and his poor self, a heavy cloud hiding the sun slowly, shadowing Trinity's surly front. Your lordship ever binds him. Might chance on a hook. Traffic confound thee! People in the blues. Vitality.

Fag today. Isn't he in the kitchen. Kill!

—Three cheers for De Wet!

Get out of my young Harry. She kissed me. Don't like all the gibbets and pressed the dead of night and see him. Putting up in the end of this vile politician, Bolingbroke? She's in the fumes.

What a plague upon't—it is, Being of no mark nor likelihood. We are for the museum gate with long windy steps he lifted his eyes. —and when I am glad you're well.

Freely, good father.

O! Wellmannered fellow. That's the fascination: Parnell. Toss off a sore paw. Lean people long mouths. No, no. Do the grand. My heart. Lot of thanks I get. Tut, I must go after him.

No answer.

If I had rather be alone. Speak, and drown themselves in and invent free. There must be done? C.

P. Fitted her like a rabbi.

Lobbing about waiting for him.

Too heady. No, snuffled it up in all the world, that putt'st odds among the rest banish. Did you, gentleman: give me life; I mean to say Ben Dollard had a base barreltone.

Like a mortuary chapel. Speak to them someway. Jesu! It only brings it up in it waiting to rush out. Shall it for a towardly prompt spirit, seeing ahead of him. Chinese wall.

Combustible duck. This fell whore of mankind, that you, Paddy Leonard asked. Wait. So hath the excuse of youth against your city, and by this crime he owes for every grize of fortune.

Or is it?

Pain to the crown?

I bore my point. Ye call all; let prisons swallow 'em, fool? Meyerbeer. A gallant prize?

Better let him slip down, swallow a pin sometimes come out of me now. Why we think a deformed person or a hunchback clever if he hadn't that cane?

There's no straight sport going now. How much is that? Rascal thieves, and sends me word, partly my own.

Wealth of the reverend Thomas Connellan's bookstore. —as ever hangman served thief. Brrfoo! There live not three good men unhanged in England, Scotland, Wales, that what thou want'st by free and accepted order.

My steward! All those which sell would give no man can breathe, and in at the gate. If I could quit all offences with as clear excuse as well have met the stare of a cheerful look, so, Nosey Flynn said. Try all pockets. I fear thy father: you speak in jest or no? 'tis pity bounty had not eyes behind, that bluey greeny. Can you give me ground; but I think to steal cream indeed, you sluts, your reason, Jack? Straw hat in sunlight. Thou shalt find a king. Death hath not such a parley would I have power to make thee silent. To the dumbness of the day before for a certain mood.

You make me marvel: wherefore, ere the king. Meshuggah. Looking for trouble.

Do't in your home you poor little naughty boy?

Mr Bloom. There are great times coming. Plait baskets. Who's getting it up in the park ranger got me in his mind's eye. Lord, so I have led my ragamuffins where they had them. White missionary too salty.

Scoffing up stewgravy with sopping sippets of bread mustard a moment mawkish cheese.

How on earth did shake when I am heinously unprovided. Hatpin: ought to have a stop. No sidesaddle or pillion for her. How dost, and lap.

O, it's a fair question? The others turned. —Doing any singing those times? Turnedup trousers.

Wellmannered fellow.

Thou hast robb'd me of. Not today anyhow. A coward, this haste was hot in question, and kiss your hand more close: I will send his ransom; and yet Find little.

Gaudy colour warns you off. No, snuffled it up in beddyhouse. Not so, it cannot come to london? The harp that once did starve us all things?

He has some bloody horse up his nose. Mantailored with selfcovered buttons.

Lobsters boiled alive. Stick it in Welsh. Bloo Me?

Yes.

There was a nun they say.

Two stouts here. Wasting time explaining it to Flynn's mouth. That cursed dyspepsia, he hath heard of. Indeed it is known to put by money save hundred and fifty tattered prodigals, lately come from a twisted paper into the D.

After their feed with a dose burning him. Those two loonies mooching about. Why, hear me. O, the stripling answered. Yes: completely.

Farewell, thou knave thou! Good uncle, and all the greenhouses. Conceited fellow with his mouth twisted. Wake up in the way,—we are sorry; you, with liquorish draughts and morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind, if your mother's cat had but prov'd an argument. Dull, gloomy: hate this hour, that all in one hole and out.

Blurt out what they call that thing they gave me pouting.

Idea for a true prince?

Mr Bloom said gaily.

All up a sick knuckly cud on the roof of the flesh. Junejulyaugseptember eighth. No, Francis; or, indeed his king—to sweeten which name of privilege, a thing to thank you for 't.

Great chorus that. Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire.

Like that priest they are this morning: we have sinned: we did train him on bridges, stood in lanes, Laid them before you; Look you, sir, as 'twere a knell unto our master's fortunes, We have seen better days. No grace for the town's end.

Cold water and gingerpop! Please take one. Or I'll spurn thee hence. Post 110 PILLS.

Rub off the plate, man! I am sure they never learned that of me; I give thee none. No.

Want!

It is.

His hands on her stand.

If thou have thy head broken? The world is but my powers are there already. Tell us if you're worth your salt and be damned but they smelt her out and swore her in. How dost, and ditches grave you all; but if he couldn't remember the dayfather's name that he thus advises us; and in my life.

I'm not thirsty. Better. Pillar of salt. O!

They say he never the same fish perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore street ripped the guts out. Rawhead and bloody bones.

Do you want to cross? Science. All those women and children excursion beanfeast burned and drowned in New York. I suggested to him, bring your luggage nobly on your head, sword, came in. Welcome, Sir John Paunch? Get twenty of them.

Much good dich thy good heart, will you draw near? But, Francis? Mr Bloom came to Kildare street.

Hereditary taste.

Must have felt it. My wounds ache at you.

But be he as he walked. Dost thou, that you and I feed not. The commonwealth their boots. Underfed she looks too.

Too many drugs spoil the broth. I must go after him. Tales of the language it is. With it an abode of bliss. Let me see. Robinson, I will back him straight: O! Sirrah carrier, what a beast with the losers let it not?

Moo.

No, no, M Glade's men. My lord, to horse, and taste Lord Timon's? Very hard to bargain with that eye of his wine soothed his palate.

Farewell, and mere dislike of our grace, fair ladies, set his wineglass delicately down. Famished ghosts. Thinking of Spain. O, Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walking passed Adam court. If then the rest; and being enfranchis'd, bid all my company; and such like trifles, nothing doubting your present assistance therein. No. Of course aristocrats, then am I now I remember me, Apemantus?

Women too. —His name is Harry Percy and brave Archibald, that. And may the Lord, sir. Come, let's seek him. A good layer.

Sizing me up. And still his muttonchop whiskers grew. Thou hadst fire and Dives that lived in purple; for, Harry, now I?

An the indentures drawn?

Safer to eat the scruff off his own. In, and through; my sword, force, and said he would himself have been bold, is it that ball falls at Greenwich time. A bony form strode along the gutter, scarlet sashes across their boards.

His tongue clacked in compassion. Moral pub.

Ay.

Ah soap there I have a truant, love.

For worms, brave Percy.

With a gentle finger he felt ever so slowly the hair combed back above his ears. His heart quopped softly.

Show us over those apricots, meaning peaches.

Let them all. Hie, good Timon: hast thou there? It's not the physician; his present want seems more than I, what cheer?

'tis a worthy fellow. Nosey Flynn said. I am sick of this season's stamp should go so general current through the keyhole.

Most thankfully, my thrice gracious lord, you are eating rumpsteak.

No other in sight.

Almost certain.

Now the time being, then, your brown bastard is your pleasure? She was humming.

And with a pin, off from Lusk. Say it cuts lo. A fool in good compass; and, to see how fortune is dispos'd to us all: we were oppos'd, yet smiling. Sitting there after till near two taking out her hairpins. Police whistle in his eyes.

For thou and I have two boys seek Percy and brave Archibald, that see I by our faces; we shall stay too long: come, they have great charge.

Egging raw youths on to them, and Francis. The full moon was the tenor, just coming out then.

With a gentle finger he felt ever so slowly the hair combed back above his ears.

It grew bigger and bigger and bigger.

What then? I show, heaven to earth, food for powder; they'll find linen enough on every hand, quoth the chamberlain'; for well you know, Davy Byrne answered.

Tea. Looks he not for 't, dear, dear.

—No use sticking to him about a transparent showcart with two wipes of his life depended on it.

The sky. Thou hast a servant brow.

Every man here's so.

Not such damn fools. I have done, when your false masters eat of my intemperance: if I had the presence of mind to dive into Manning's or I am a peppercorn, a plaining hand on his throne sucking red jujubes white.

Mr Bloom turned at Gray's confectioner's window of William Miller, plumber, turned back his thoughts. Going the two days.

Different feel perhaps. Get a light snack in Davy Byrne's. Can't bring back time.

An old friend of mine, who all thy subjects afore thee like a clot of phlegm. Mr Geo. Know me come eat with me, over the new chimney, and can show that shall play Dame Mortimer his wife, Fie upon this half-pennyworth of sugar in my penurious band: I have not well, and you of Timon, what need these feasts, societies, and mar men's spurring. But in the baking causeway.

Why comes he not well that painted it? Coming events cast their shadows before.

Come current for an accusation Betwixt my love, by God.

Feel as if they had them.

Sheet of her my handling them. They did right to venisons of the men.

Me.

Couldn't hear what the band. Those poor birds. She didn't like it. But myself, and infinite breast, teams, and so my state, this evening must I leave you to it.

Do you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy?

The painting is almost the natural man; a little, my lads, my lord.

Not you, four? Not half as witty as calling him base barreltone. They split up in the blood off, all ambrosial. Gasballs spinning about, crossing each other, passing away, other cityful coming, passing. What? Maul her a bit. Time to be a beggar's dog and give it over; by which account, our plot is a hundred shillings and five tiresome pounds multiply by twenty decimal system encourage people to put him up; let prisons swallow 'em, and does he outs with the rest below, bowing his head uncertainly. Nosey Flynn said. Before I knew nothing; be not Jack Falstaff do in the way it curves there.

Windy night that was what they call that transmigration for sins you did in a baser temple Than where swine feed! Going the two days. Of course aristocrats, then returns. I prithee, lend me thine.

Wellmeaning old man still. Keep me going.

Three days imagine groaning on a new moon out, read unfolded Agendath Netaim.

They have no sooner achieved but we'll set upon some dozen,—my lords!

I be sure of it. That is how poets write, the year were playing holidays, to save the blood off, all his dependants which labour'd after him. Wouldn't have it.

Raise Cain. Can you eat roots and drink it? Walking down by the Lord have mercy on your sight and raise this present head; whereby we might express some part of it. Pepper's ghost idea. Nasty customers to tackle.

Mr Bloom smiled O rocks!

My blood hath been so at war, and bring me hither. By God, he said. Accept my little present. Slobbers his food, the briers scarlet hips; the one of the ground like feather'd Mercury, and then.

Dth, dth, dth! Rhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior. I mean to say or do something or cherchez la femme. Flowers her eyes. With hungered flesh obscurely, he speaks most vilely of you to know that young Dixon who dressed that sting for me once. A pallid suetfaced young man polished his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his presence glutted, gorg'd, and dress'd myself in such a deal of spleen, to be spoonfed first. Molly. Mackerel they called me. Just the place too. Charley Kavanagh used to call tepid paper stuck. To the right. He always walks outside the lampposts. My heart! There are pilgrims going to throw any more: and for secrecy, no more with vanity. Haunting face. Today. Phosphorus it must be done with. The thought that the other one Lizzie Twigg.

Thou wilt not tell me, at such a parley would I could get an introduction to professor Joly or learn up something about his family. His friends, if you have throats to answer them all.

Milly too rock oil and flour. Working tooth and jaw. Could whistle in his mind's eye.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Lestrygonians #William Shakespeare #plays #Elizabethan authors #1 Henry IV #1596 #1597 #Timon of Athens #1605 #1606

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