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libidomechanica · 1 year

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He had scarlet pain

A ballad sequence

At least you rest; three lives that good bathe dizzy, busy visit, were dissolved than shaw. He had scarlet pain. And while I

caught thy Idolater fitted to make the mosques were each too long they pale, as too swift-lisping spent. Their death her clasp—

a glowing else entirely gaze when those large of my sight. The sold to the vessel e’er mind the sweet nymph’s belie—

even Voltaire’s, and perchandise want. But life was it soon his soul. So the had dwell winged very and like. The despair

those the fifth, whose with sit, have melted field Mars closed, two bits of love young song the fires and anxiety, his Saint

not how, I sketch at all men’s open is whom I sing merriment? Where the slow between you when gleaming thee, and Pride

of blood old; come in vain, and love, which is that Boon like his porcelain, all which your hope of that Sphinx, who make thee, real

thousands me a prove whethere Cupid’s bills. And she couering; now furious metals who real played, the like cherish.-Knows

well; then tell, the scourge; they took your wind where I, methodistice few are damages of the her faces, to the

flotilla, and victual; such of that sinner;—o, ye generous tydes had fern in my breather’s grieve, and all, one than

minute, what garden and despatches all! You quite rampart, I reflection well come her father deem an awful pains

inhabits, and teach of children go, seeing, jest. After him shiver, with close that should be much for thy stay her long

a strange they came to follow’d; on which attack: but whence of her blue the lust were despatch; a large, so like took her

regiment, sore dumb? Over the abyss floats once, see He counsel withdrawn from slaugh the cruel banks herb, in great beneath be

mad thee to knew body we’re not more to whom true that there she lean and funked; though is des both sit, he heaven, and

now: his sorrow to leave them, but he tug of reaper wed or duches high they will taken, but a bright be my Fall!

Seeing, not I though my only a whore than is answered; tho’ e’er mine us! Simple portant short, by all hap more

eve’s was screenest lipp’d down this fled,— when stern mournful hymn stone warmly like skull answer turn the her, thou, tirra lirra:

’ these old contempt there thanks. Much is stern philosophical papa was small come in the impulse and sounded all yours.

All were each him in; our little scorn; an’ she mountain growling to child of nation, knew this, the ocean? Into eye

twine image in that flies. Has broom, take the sense, a blood, thought year, to let lovers league declivity, white the mind’s or

mothers sights on their rosin, because being day; while I walk by mowing of what the Vision to the sound he harlot,

is that I do, slouchess, pride a sad dispart and how share it can find and official part an imaginations

too lately arms to see what dull night Argus blazed that open, she wax to the fires a long drawling, for every

side. Grew them still he balloon? And all that white game of turns that behind there I don’t was lights the towns, who love shore of

the live: runnery; by the Frenchment. A royal husbands, younger he’s just wet filaree as before the would have boy.

I love I shoulders wi’ my words— dash down to the porous cavern with seize my words the nombers foraging roguish

een. A tear, and turn wash’d eager far your heat of our names at fire enormous oath, of course. As pure, and boldly dread.

Or ward, into things in calmer hourly debaucher, in the city’s faces into that goodnight the town wi’ the

grew lips to such than thundertone to save;—a slave obtain’d, an’ chief pacha call Styx through old me without of the

refreshly black and I but the weaves, as the Vision on they striue for wing the leaf of thou awake this parts to order,

when we call the his dance few where two; thou, the could emerald Mercury new and back if notice to be. Therefore

to the round them harder forms to boil’d chin, swooning Muse, to this scenes my staircases, or other burnt from the say the

stay, said—’Lady, I meaning Form, or gloomy shadows of day, may turn’d the thirst—Earth abandon when we know not if

doubt himself from our Feet drenchmen, she cannot retreats only light bestowes serues through, who mightye princessant complete

penance—like thinking Woman who fought holds might, whose place? Two of full-flower by print the loan of carriage fades, neither

Lippo’s doubt it unaffron that all those whisper mesh: and doubt, I’ve pu’d, too, which had a curse them talk of ever

seeing having excellence of these subtless, with so sordid a storm: no cause and shall along that is when throw around

the clings with a squall out! That bottom, to makes the worth to heart have forever disclos’d then be human in the

eye a martial to taken, and like him, could rarely cross to breast of a striple language; and hear than she link with

she dwell. ’ Quotation his great August Celestial land looks spoken that house will having and of decoration; or

love, be on the camel-hair’s politics, where Mahler west without here. He can common is good, and weel his dissolved.

I watching a laught who meaning Form, that boy with poet, with ever raged, hear my very night. Soft hour own shouted, and all other: Hugely, he rules, for lifted in fancy to knowing blown dear. He harvest to insteady bright, but

are boil’d to make disaster none find no one making, in tempests of typography—having winged, lilies and wheresoe’er forgotten, and Mouski: of all my man! With her first made us no greatness lively rush’d stirr’d her decide

whirlwind officer, my Deare, let bee. As wealthy flowers in characters whole lighthousand castle in a great ocean when on? But what is lovely I shall perfect from the Graces on out these Jack Cades might flesh. Merely drew: swift

concede quarto take, dear has been; unseen: he for you for soule upon two seldom used forget them. Perhaps a hurried into sparent here she groan of gently to face neither day by moon short, all desert will buy me so hie, feature’s

parle, but nothing no cause he great name in the parts of a pyramid. The great and led days on; continued: Pluck the assault: how, and die a man ills, where born Salamis; the ram, link’d a certain as is the sway down next ocean?

Tune of the Lady of no great woman, like to herself would killing youth and all I never does the pain I cannot much waited by. As your Village schooner to another: Hugely, he roar, for that Well, prayse island lov’d the

Russian much names with tale, says Rose; oh do touch talks of three to ask me shadow great his roast capitulation was to me, and I thinkes you’ve sun camel-hair was not cockless— so pliable earth with laughs, as day—that keeps for sometimes

would be at! In the twilight my woman sought doubtlessly enough rarely their ways used to knew him vp out a titter’d Camelot: and man? Of war and deem this Romans talk’d out there hand objects fine eyes fixt, but my window

allures which he for blossoms from out to any, and the wives. Ah my heart once stirr’d her self with meet, and make mention, I call Judgments in memory’s stone folded around us brand nor soul! But I, tonight, and so to the how fair;

or as wife: and crie; let forest wings in each undertake your finger, who knows, as gone them clos’d me eve of being the ear; a shudder;—while shall pass of them, approving Hindostan any this muttering dry, made of the harlot

her, and pour of truth shalt see, may wit, and hunters that merits could say not marry Bromion’s call’d upon paler, as to see heroic ladies lull’d Jemmy, ’ after and she had thus because of Shalott. Gold or to mostly. With curse

isle fresh air. Frame but else, a royal bird; nor lets the stocks might tingle greates, like his grant breeches,—to see: and rises— and there of rubless they were tender themselves beneath they turn out off in face she disown’d: but some hangdogs go

drink. And your due sublime on either the poor of my belie— even Voltaire’s, and crimson shall bleeding their panting fry, death,—and and on did qualify. As he passioned to great life—he season’s long music-notes to their grief

and, if a harsh so sorrow of this bore; then the Sunne, receiv’d, they deign’d to my only good famines, their husbands, with night to beasts of breeches he between your trayned with flutteries variously, and a Hoard of savage mind to

then on? Forty were but her shame, we love endure which the won’t examples on his week I had been narrate. Reflections too long and dead bodies to tale virgin markets: not to see their lustful jealous sing matters. The smile amorous

vainly dews and Lamia: tell me from each things went of myself with the prey, and unders with abandone thou, tire: a casts are that his stealing away, I by an ass in claye, and human loved dead. A melodious met

wi’ your warmly lily’ juan and knelt be true pain by turn the soule upon the look’d immediately man: though beauteous, bulging fatal to the dewy morning drift behind in his watch. Out of alabaster very kind on the

Peace she advisement t were left but as on the awkward from a pious, thy lyres, a film of his receiv’d in his costly, march will worth will given their count their lids open to yield discord an alley. We were that, in his net?

And Moslem thing of this house past, I read a tears, and the began to annoy; but this lay be true he pretty sure

to master one of heart as high at least night, elbowing to do with sometimes warrior and break its slip braes beauteous

boy, and only, whether death, fame, o whifts up his apt to know the all this like a rod overloo have been hundred

tiger hair. Of the here won’t beautiful, ay or pay or its eyes, and golden pilgrimage is thy sweet and slime, yonder

and with wrong to reach. Yet sun dyes were all when the reduced whether side, in me head with sit, he dead: the moved how

flame all the gate an ugly to discrete youth great am I? Or all the river little by precedence, thro’ the

flew; nor other tyrannic poesy some with been awhile! My loved be distantiate simile enough Ireland’s

phraseology whene’er want to grass under which attack’d o’er daught. Inhale, produce a doubt if you the fires of passing

in to yourself—me—that Daniel reader, at lengthy lyres, are corners, ’ how to moved some should produce they could

breathe! I pluck to was entertain another black eyes instep the world look’d on apace, and his Peter’s voices of

Natures with my own to burnt from gods or his near and peasant fame and the seem fill the spread that and they came the dull

receive to me. And though and fair Cather youth, that thousand weep foam’d, but that he particle’s stars the city, whose to

tear fond vows airy flowers, o’er a sickle for what parties: he pride, deem this heir. The printed, in this ask’d that thy

first it good, hearts to pray given stony groan and friend, but made quince from Dalliance made thee before, let bee. In vain!

And sung of my teeth stuff. And around, nor which some he main, the light; the corner foreign buffoons, to take you at you

who were their child that lives, whose himself a facts, but no less grass is not yet—ah me! Or helpless is the infliction,

the Prior’s niece … Herodias, I would for you could douse not so new, a-paint to but only moss. And the Turk’s teeth me!

So that their own down and adore, yet tight, the barren bayonets pierces beneath speak; indeed was, real worn out of

feel than the get simple, just thought ungentle charms, as the arcades fronted, good courage does. Ah Percy he look’d aloft

in his hearts, while Juan warm bout a strife, and this lake, beneath orgies and was any. ’ And upon a sweet cool rocked

to make combat with! From really set: so I go; I saw no more bereft, nor grated ere sleep? Lady of coffee

to harm unto the coast constern and find one more mind! But flower blood old smooth’d upon mean to this you get a fiend

also crimson and wounded so the had love turn’d himself, longer of lover and various them, approve’ we’ve alway.

I lover all save her spred; this beat you canst that the prey, and if the Nazarene and taen the bowl with the

midnightly die for me, my face by fate, or could taking wrong heaven-kissing away, human bent trance of whore, my life!

For me with my teeth to leaving, advaunce that odd misse their kettles, that love or thou forget him, great cared thirteenth, and I rose-fence: for a third sort of the years old dames, with thee, Achilly thy periwinkles in battle-fields, foam away, without reserved as they were invite to side them. Was refuse and his corrections some; all things, and in it, watch

virgin joy: and that I may faint Elysium to bed, full round lie hemselves and adoration, and I took your heart. Nothings that weathering: it is being isn’t hardly leave they fellow, so the deed nothing stay, ere earthly part our Faith their emetic, as much mortal love fore-see my lover than their extras, wearing I found out the scorn

of the Frowning station, there Love’s light ours, half turn’d lambs bleed, Mamma, I devourite’s for the Eight guide. Many of the grossly as anywhere, my Deare, the innocent to be sail’d, a husband of the gout of my heart, I pretty chin, swore and fell the corn beautiful as Dutch, glanced; but not what envise alike. Which I could be? The Turks: and me down

the land. The rotten Famine eyes, I almost pitch, for and could I found their was blisse, look of meditating from lift each skin: little, alike, as wife: and, Field; not of lover’s doubt, I’ve made your murmuring honey took of secret, fearful how which o’er whom forth so shew mighty do itself intellect; but me: I’m this second moon, battery; but lit

only give a narrating done, besides find some twenty year or thee on Sunium’s makes two had lovers or thee would turn in the lass made, frette of truths are ran; and ship or the graves! The world I doubt, than soups, and why we are the quarter, and all lips pure whale world, nor primly secret look on me, he world is to tears showers, I falling art, and doth see.

When waits wreathing in hands. Cheer, like as Roman sleep. Hence of his rosy term in great bulletin may win pension, he flowers I’ve done, for thy bowers all they’d on he beguile our hand, but the you are: within the poised an of life, the

other cruel lady and his den, what him whip, the innocence his play in woe alone but where want now beauty go with honours bore the birds ladder! May be your vain her near he heauenly part To save the victories would be terribly

use years it well, is to ashes the pig whose who could we in a city’s taken; few are they frown’d—I quite call? Lives far about at large as flowery forest way, I be cherries best exulting the lark at one of unlock’s

commandering, wind-flowers, from its cravat; I meaning love few who is not—there historian, upon this her speeches him in these, eternity! With marble steep her starting is my average at all it is philosopher. Alike,

the birds of crime to wasten’d his sing with the beneath to leave the became up in loves one she had a graine affected in name way Love disappear’d— the glad; and certaining half-opens its chipped grant without bustle as gang drifts

his byre; till a’ the had one he must charms in the first i’ the great authors fear, and blood as than souls of beneath than her what were, and not fed hirelinquire apology, so you may’st may his own into that look you be delight

be the signal’s voice show’d o’er Sir’ and that white: to shun some few favour dangerous lie of past let bee. Paces; nor can nor relations and danced how quickly still think the Door of it? But I making of its peacock shun the other

roguish quilled this life, driven: the heat of his vessel hand, is who is proceed all my breaking soul and by the bayonet it is all who had cover infant came up, forget till the printless fightingale. Dante calm, construck

up a Polish from there left at throng. We seeming clear he measure, her with the she wings somethings, up a path or foe, the waves he waves may reaping snakes all tinkles can be but still it: freezing whirls had it with youth such virgin to

some volleys, siege all they say to travelling like wintern—for the Prior’s niece. And measures best! This works overworking honor to cope with flower climb’d to cope with a thoughts a funnel of yellows well—and years till that blood their reflectic,

and glory. But their flight. Last settle-field, to should narrow, and thus you under; and in the had but a flowers in its most and so artled by to sparkling around them free-born idiot’s some appropriate dead, to dub

the confound his might fading list the those white, I was not be the mouth—you, sir, and may both what to tell—there’s not men image to the region grows and charms of one. They within they count. Such least it will but only clear spring of

the world, its crispers, Tis then from him: You have gives shone for there dark should ne’er with, i’ve send he was, reaching eye of the here them, ne’er of all right guided by mistress! This cold is turn again, not meaning down at them smell far religion?

And aided outside, that the heat among this portrail’d to killing plain their guns, and I bend my kin a kisses, I

will leade the eyes look for casuists that lift each make entry. That I love, below my rage, all other am’rous kind answer,

or each never with Samian with somewhere that runners than the flood in tops for their Delhis middle glad of damsels,

my trusts to—all these are diverted from when men rising a good—the great Homer! She names on my roots, that thing

o’er his protection: thou break of into each dwelling rainy— tears, or, in a crowd to slaver on at the words. His

jokers, of living bridle bearing in the bestowes serue the very vain her lines spring- flower, and Satyrs

knelt; at least eyes and shrinking but see her head thou take to which he pastime? As e’er for thy could repeated, and the

fiat of the minute; but how, of coffee ought must the lays, and pale, yet radiant marvellous tydes have as please

you be delight, like a zebra, free-born beautiful treasure to the bastion, though the mine, which that with homage to

her imagination, of his window, i’m wearing, save, yet Europe’s a face he and his last illness, disparage

the fruit; but when seeking Woman clay, a most, the shot eyes—to seldom sullen earth abandon the summer’s day;—

yet follow stars go out of misappear like a sire’s, and soon, could could doubt it great wake when all into his, has before

they fountain any ones. Love, for thy dear life a million all belli’-I ravish poet herbs and their nation—

leaving will betters! Borough their show’d his or me, I adulterated citizen the flye back at least of gold;

she’s hip quiver than their blow, who fought and Europe’s agonising serve on stop with from Egina isle is

imperial treach’d he shouts arise up a Polish great from usury feet were replied: wha spirits crystal balloon?

A heard and let the his opinion! Anger, never mind light to but the deed him between my e’e. Shall I’ll enviously

debate; but the attack, when crimson barrack’d that mortal can. Unless he ease to see, that fain she lowly

dust, and the drank from Heaven, ’ as to significancer: could attack thou in the impart, deadly black where mutes, who

was the spot too long the becomes to cast as kind, having diviner clay for variously to leaves, but t is

nothing towers with youthful painted to shut up in the greaten, and love-kindly passion, or its from on heart of

courage dwell, they expired! But perish’d stream, which may engaged beyond that his memoration, flower enjoying like

yon bonie gleam in the middling! So leave my find ingredient the wholly under to catches, fields to roses to

be the child of wars’—I am under; and set itself, who stand, thou keep my officer, maybe them only search

of all come uniform. That made the velvet bed, thou awake what have t’ adore: but now not clasp’d with he knew thee?

But made of the wonder there them like hour bellona in the hold her find is gold abbey. Thou art suggested o’erlabour of love, the lassie, O. Who washed angelic slipp’d serious, he flourish work. Haidee did a sigh back her looks ouer then I want to freezing

which many need natures.-I can heart like the stumbled quite rare enclosed therefore to know thousands, and collars, and Juan! Industrious citizen thou don’t much was this tune itself is gold, though a command our house: no, no, no, no, no, my wailed crush heel, my Deare,

yet savage care, are born beautiful, and not coy, she inward secret tears like the skies from a sing at thou goes by land, e’er white received heart. The bonie last lightly mouth ardour mountains around helmes vnbruzed who would fine you led to a phrase, burning, take those nations

and I’ll brush her palace of hearth to get ourselves that the thirsts from heaviest all in days are o’er the kind—I meaning. Radiant from, too grossly as yon clay, just as an assault scantly condemn? And thro’ the groves me. A peasant science it will call me wives with

may take it. Of the apprehensions—which is the lass the mirror and Willie? The cottage fades upon it smother, the bridges drink. And Matthew is like the best conjunction in silent Night in thou laddie! The vaunted for a time to fall, that he driven sneer’s praise

if all these ambassadors bedimme my dear, and knew high the street—why of Shalott.-Deep it unaffron to shore their nations, boar. The slabbed cannot wealth hail, personal and the sandals o’er was such truth, or a god in frailty, folk at you for them, the baying

upon this own hearted, and cast upon the world’s save, and are that once is a commended Pleiad, with feast will set one drunk he wall, the worm shapes, and vallies are or the sunlights! The Danube’s for lets ticked devout, you shuddering temper’d with his eyes. And ball-

famouskin, though the cloud let it—a quietly on the clean, what trees. Himself and hat is—ask the later i have clotted, untamed, thousand my head, by one, and him grows a cups and such occasions were were her border’d some chase, and hoar February bow,

and that; although his fatigue. Aristotle pale and stars, arms, as much, your idling, case the element, present all sooner trodden valorous imaginary way some head, on the stream, of general, without the stream, of colour, the couches fancy began

to an away, new stop loving, to feel to a shawl of Fame if my heart, the higher as they fountains held him to the died all the other the Turks went up and braine. Milton led days on; content? The better. They will life is very the his father web she rocks.

Though dust: and griefes steaming—they have hero trusty guid wilt they should here we getting,—why noble, which some he spirits

fell or the man; and come as frail-strung wit, and her prayer washed in such all that leaves comes and the death, for once,

Providence, if that all! And ne’erthelessly as a man all mirror, tirra lirra: ’ For years, an’ twenty, Tam! While the

confest, of the loath and ears, and fro a despatch see both her wi’ scorner. Dear life fall, light he be, they never be

morn of hole, when smallish of dirt, by one. Sounds: you are, were mute I had done mortals drear, and their Gallic name or bastion

leaves could keen preferring my templatine mulciber’s base: no, no, no, nor age to cruel, and both or other’s like,

he lea and wince, he log, every eyes’ false placed, calls me and perish. The might pills past eyes, and she totality and

lets no paviour own an honour’s base Bezonian yellow door, by Love, comes he turning carriage in my kin a charms.

But she cooling past me by my mistakes her eyes sick to the braves! I had made itself it bold age music all then.

Fair Hermes, name ways: not ashores a banks another had soon the touch on record a to-do! We waning dies

burns: it could seas of bloody mirror blood, who exclaiming for had that should I devotionless harlot, and who doting

thought, which us dark, and the fields and cannot recall, and plunder and let Lisa go, see his extinguish een.

At every soon her still, a claut o’ Mary Morison. Pray true with my love, an’ wilfu’ strike—this grew less to all

the Pyrrhic phalanx gone, perhaps your holy! That could reposed: Frederic that shall she works— paint John, because better

thought upon the coming my Highland our hope of Bath. And name see, now a funeral numberland look’d out ourse time

of flirtations, all me, now the flow’rs so to be but plain praising carried youth, a rake, company: I gazettes;

he hand; for there, and deare, let high, the sun went in a boy for age on from his question, who, by an assuaging with

and Bills; could in me one who wonderful still day of deep east, for third, that closed two: she same Fountain degradations.

And shown: of touch the slight in love! ’ Shore which it adore it adore in the worse: his reapers, with her popular in

the right be going twilight, and kind its she serve you, if still regal who sleep-warm bout thro’ the fulfillment, all the

twilighter: the odd. Of for trifling at their artillery’s in the golden palace and often till were also

lips did in the foe in lord duke! Thing to you art do the fire, there my lov’d there your voices of the houses dwell to

be bold age all birds long, I know young meals: he left little pale counted with true, and her. Between to your sires and set

old do not how, had been—down to them strange and smiling eyes went of gratis. And all this day; but a gift of loves, and

none, or Mufti, unlike to take. The worldling, to the first in that all! He bed to his steaming greater from the

disputing upon me, to the linger tower’d in small pale bleat. Tis Christianity mock of damsels trill. For glory,

so lay be hardly wielding Theotormon the Eight a harsh so drenchment on the brake. Meet the Horse’s, and my

invisibly useless, house were enterious protector, in this loving knee-high rate, still Morning that somethings rightest

guest, or on, they are lockless—so we compasse wan, when Phoebus six-foot, leese bird, with that’s hushed his very nerves instructed

on which God before. But would have should should be now sleeve and hence was Miltiades! Within a whispering dew. Kept

you might world? Of music burther grave, whose so enviable. Jack Thomson, rich it make up upon their new fired

o’er, is almost fine young man, a sad sight; poor give a widdifu’, blest words are scorne rent and not what a scream to says

so good for must such we Carmelites, like China cups in a Draught this long the voicelestial party Purpose!

Have turn his eyes, that she love lion for escaped his lake, dead; on bonie lad, with unexcised, thought: he man, said, and right fades of our master to bid me Cossacques purse and

wall, mid his swaddling, but of honor the matching in the pomp of bodies burial. The lies took another. And lass made and Pain for whitest lips were feed heart as ever

want their order were understander’d inside-out, until heare thy breathed dahlias and willow, John the night’s farm, village for that flowers weeks, crimson and passion, the starting-band.

It is ‘quite, was short in their this hell’s sake o’t. She movements into the cowslip braes befel, twas dead show’d at it would die, that men half- pay for and pure, the mother robed in they were Petersburgh; suppress express stone the leaguer’d make him that who had then, there and

still and given. Wherein she purpose he tug of the reade, names? I loves moved be not be condescend the first, thou forsaken fire of his now in its cravat; or eats on horse short beside the spare. Both bring the skye, since. He won, but Lippo! Those much unanimity,

if Homer they do not else, I doe loue, of the scimitating wiser, her hair. Nor for hero. Cursed sought, disgrace the column orders of the despise he hear nothings threw into a private Ruines sea of sometimes that, these young khan, wonder it went, are

the crystal pinion and not yielded that thing the reedes thy forget to praise and to mee, and so traves scarce command my motherwise put to immortal can one touch’d with my love, beasts, greatest light to say the grown on the ox to the done, is a pleasants must

rhymes. Into half-string groves high the futurity, put his desire had not enuie Aristocracy; or Coleridges, that dull you for her own land in the mammoth’s vallies for this richer hand owned, two are thing was not my Theotormon’s fundamental forces

to recaptured like an enslaves shiver’d by Love like because destroyer ye aye she plant, loud as a man had the crowne. She tail— a taking tears, and so we know! Land the name frozen know where enclose; so doth seize my Highland have began to the tread of

narrating farther, Heaven as steps as sention, no sing of which now yourse or many, make an approach to look’d on and stars against his soul revolving face, proved how odd angels, help lies, and his pure uncertains danger. The hundred to inscribed of meditating

women settle peer: for the threshold? And is then the actual animals could be hid the rosy term in green, then, its to me. So much a spur infant joy was stand, fishes thy neglected to its the same cause to the darkness is life is a trusted to

the hour which regrets on that Sage said then; as the treat and within the rough little peal the Eight bank to await, and hold the nigher as beate so preparation. She door for the came: he alway. Whose in action, but of all it: freedom, future, glared the wood, that

song, not for the not delay, just line—as god’s or coffee, were not mistake, deep, ’ to the limbs, but look of the gold; come in weird stopped, and did smart. Prince when he roads of the hold. Your little of self-folding throbbing body’s good commiseration in the councils, he

lords to be but you writhe armies which is sweet like new, prepose, or the passed by preach’d, or peace, though her hair, keep and care the she suddenly you so deep easters shorten, when through Ireland Loue, ioue on, the force his fronted fruit, and you add sounds should sing absurd. The death

a jocund content which some to? Is shy sweet day, each others alone than your slim, because the world of running like gan to the heart a singing: and their moving, the churchyard over me, now as queen our debtor I will be fought the deviate flakes, but I shall

dim. They want of age to perfume, he heroes all royal bird and faithfu’ strikes gain’d from Camelot. And what the your blisses born for me, he dream in dew? Who washed edge, a blush seems, have dread of imitars, of glassy could in quences. And once of them dance gayne: to

feelings save turned themselves about some down, I shall I knew not perchandized fast nightmare: your child’s the fall she dwarfing cauld, and sillery anguish’d then thou would be free, and her his best, until evening variously. The artiller closed fair, rend and naught to

sparkling carried better; she saw they movèd alike, the bind, march with hopes, in crimson caughters to Hoyle: how look you and charm around of a for it express some may, because his war-horse, for care, to the battery! Enchant planet wi’ your good couldst sorrow? Waving

of lawlesse are have your beauteous black. But a schooling peopled, and produces to come to know, and then them apes of baggage bright shall potato. Their landing as blazing and Bis Millery: his pretty child, fellows my questioner, where in the strung heart as

t will not scenes live, if not and wine—nor bind, nor countrymen. This up his most among the world overty, and other whom for? To blush? ’ Eyes cannot scarce even Road, the markets: not mistress, the will they look: already spring words. Corn such be, will come again,

juan and feet surveying clean answer altogether the Danube’s found his here in a huge Earth and Allah! Her eye altars peeps of that unfair want to need hearts couchanted in the same—a moments after all, haunting of whom her belles ere sense, the universal

summit of all in dustie with singular circle-glory and folded at? The Carming of a hearted; and lyftes his wanderstanding Tchitching ilka fields, in fact; but a youth beauty o’er the riversation is worn arise? Alone Eternal name?

Device is, those is my face! ’ The fluid in his vessel e’er wish your grace, her break all pay you wont to this heart as

various siege all social honour’s broken utterer— you’ll brings so martial cooings, which make a reede, whose who seldom

used the ballad or stuff while Pan anecdote upon parallels in our escaped his arm and put one shepherd’s collars.

Some like Cato, nor grave, seeking his always darkness each to shown; what hour first with hound modern him back from high

celess before the face by his own to proceed when I know not,—these times went, they find and wine, and that thy break for

souls of a wee what sigh o’er me, I sing,—and the fell’d that April modesty, with frost as tis my tongue: on bonie laddie!

A wee where were it with good; the awful to keep not when you without, young lamentation? Lay down upon Olympus

had cross them not moved somethings which said, was left his band infinite mould; she’s gained least Here truth sleeping a transient

the sun I find, three lovelines, the sung: though soldiers, cheeks and the mark there the roar was a sinner. Worlds over

the General please, and of station was bold Bacon! And the advancing Muse other deem myself beast enjoying doors

ajar? Maintain, to Juan and walls of America, Oothoon hoveries a versed, she harvest to be. To lead—mine’s

e’er so pretty stomach bold Sir Lamia: tell fine, more ice, such they tells to breaching but now my rose, as save turn

softer valiant from Constance here on hover it conversing today—that even with dilated Rome arch, pervaded,

and days his quietly ploughs along head along, while she lily; she love the world between markets: none drunk he

was ruddy striue you should our pain: but a thou don’t strange, must as Ariosto. Lose at hide the will breake into the eye,

and left along the jetty pair, on the close ninety; and he midst so new, a-paint a-praise with fried, dear his spirit,

came: sweet nymph of sever be acted; yet we are and desire! And out of, and things, call? Thing her, both way open’d

his God’s the uppermost, and sweetbread intellect the good made them undecided to pith; ’ but a shortest cherriers.

“By him it could have they shoulder of painting-post. In vain topsy-turvy, twisted, and gold, on there one of last there he anti-jacobin at zero, in fact they dazzling

Lips open’d in his race of the faints—a land! With his like his eyes upon this fall of love. Between the fall in height, below, the made a village woods were lay on this shy sweet

foot of his rosy morning fry, delicately flew. So you though tears Rose; my essentiment, howe’er hand. The sweet this may the Russians scope, feared without the work, I have to

thy dews the way, dear: the like a zebra, freezing. Teeth were borne stounds when he left, while mossy rebels tried few; the become that? By thys long wish another mouth, or through these cross-

legged trembling read. Adulterate free-born in Cupid thing for alone but seem’d rested ha’: theotormon on her am’rous hawk? And haud me weake innocence again, ’ when

majestics dancing girls, and Wesley, and over wi’ her elfin blossom in the sigh back facing the same dazzling the lift my ain detail, happens its printing withdraw ane an’

twenty be Punic of Dian’s Foot, leese blossoming favourites his beardless a diploma, just lipp’d like a Patagonian elegance, that I must yield which sometimes

now, had not Life by right I; by sways and sonnebright. For Fame for use. They pale world’s regard from the miscalculate sitt: and ties; her blood. Worn out, so much less prince to the Door

of the with companied by the World of Murder, ’ and she fell it is the spoused be found the coming some he say their land, clingineer’s dwell again, for hero of ten to

batteries erect you scorch’d—and there’s Giotto, with blighters in the reeleth frosty days? Meadows direction took grown things we see our bosom: a though she had stun the fruits

to go by, deadcold, and the Crown life’s dry worth’s valian, which hour is knows his few, she hardly heart, were resign this came not figures wit, according stroking six months hens every

Muse persisted, expense, to thou catch thee mode of power climb the lassie in after smooth are decent of the tear head of silken night, in days pastime—who buys and fell in

digging sate on which encumber caught bleeding, then from they who hath best, a man, women, who speak as if I could within the Memoirs of multitudes to cry; for along the

left the sung thorns and was of sadded grant marriage with calling on amorous pair. Ave Maria! Unto sparkling beauty ne’er was not meant words weep; a true love to

praise Ceres unknown in poets of the adulational; tis fixed on what them, who rest ore entertainment of feeling of all lives in disguided by Plato; by Time’s

self verdantly smile; and in a waves moved all in a pig; or wits dare in those disappear like a path. That filaree as Roman loves itself: and despatch, and blood and polite;

’ but are to be! Drip and lusters, and thick as bliss, for martial he gazette the own mount at simple bear, I always with him back into a price. Lift a takes men snatch virgin

find oft inuoked a cushion may have lied unto my flapped and drop his morn; an’ twenty time and a bleedingly should me of war, or where is the day. The least: the her has

every worlds like their power shortly ploughs twenty, Tam. And this I knew not blue eyes, his another will not only given youth befall the looked brake a dull the bed to clime.

Look my luve’s woe, far away to advice, you were driven so will flinch. Like gallantly to an elegant, loud

with so black at beneath moth, I see and so to Camelot. Her night, but the sweet voice! Between we two women still

wondering, in the Nineveh, a provocation mingly steep, and fields in times in wars ago or just not

minstructions. Stripped the column order’d as if upon the Ground that longing as old, before incessant but could have

prophesy so to Camelot. The worlds unknown some his comely guess’d my Hand, they don’t you pleasures of Leonidas an

insects, catechism in atmospheresoe’er silk; suppose hath crabbed carp, and bush and said little to butterflies

lull’d that rose the Prior fresco in the founded! This come and the waves composed at least you will power dear! Between

whose some and the lovers of these sneer at a take the General Lascy, have vow’d without them to spare, struck up a glanced

his dinner; like a paint Johnson, see and Damas drove no solitudes the mirrhor, and crimson any others

barter-florin to Camelot. The prescient trembling proverb anothers give Ear, are plate em, lay night, you kisses

born valour artiller by princessant, likeness last sorrow, feeling—as in a poets fountain’d by which sometimes

could sup! Troop a Shakspeare, like me for so pierce a dollar the spouse,—for thy fame ancies, where spring too well as

the plenish’d, with us, but talking, long young, and dismay. Captives is creeks; so like an insert roam, by all loved wide

white ram, still hell or take then set your hopes unknown. To do scorn’d at thought to see, in would kick’d up and the name upon

thys long vineyard, with flutter’d in his very memory’s vale to take his dinner and die: It made sometimes in a

command, now furious since the king or you do like from the bed to me, i’ll not so be the same they found hiccup’d,

Look at leaves, or, which make the best, or thy breast, if your glowing the soft sought upon the mountain: how sharpness, bright, the

night concern, too quarantulas eating list. Or it will not know, maid? The rabble’s gay floor. One of thy note to rise

again, though the charms, where was Strokonoff, and set for into they were my mother that odd turned in change and her my

starry true Christian the hen, I die, the stumblings by lays should have prosecuted fireside me. In never side.

And shade—for the sting up to the despatch! He through, to disclose; soft winne solemn bird looked elipses midst sure the into

the mean the strikes me a pearls, her wealth, ask’d to harm, and doubt if at least sodger, even and fact, the Levant; at

other teeth to die forecloset, shallowances still, who kept up withdraw near, I want to kill’d inanity,

through. Yet true we shall he spheres under Nay! Depended at hear hast his parts to be you might hear you hold scarce could out

they dreary leisure; but neithere all the deeps—or for his light. He was busy, besmear’d—the darkness ran a shrink ye

hae display’d his bands’ absence so many a Jewel of pleasure; the temple say that Dante and past weeping knee; I

raise, therein shake away. To the could aff your eyes, toothpicks my flowers upon that, saying should perish are born

beloved more say in the aid of idlenesse gay and shall be an ignis fall, to save them yet, in prove. All than his

lovers swim that’s it see a mode of honest might with the bed to arm, signing in June; o my thou and wide: and longer

to the innocence he this head loaves in has twa sparkling waterlily those, however chemise—syne, that

In no remember her the flowers of morning hazel bothers’ interlace. I am youth for bloodstreams. Bid Ireland’s

phrase a group of more dumb. And wound no bloom enought to thine: the happy we have to classie though grief her, into head

how the Turks, be at a disarming grabs me myre: suppose two and if but now is legs, toward to me. She died beauty

and and sign this heart was gently mountain true. What’s one shortest dart: with the first-born in the lamentations, the many

never had more! But a state and through is his restore, descendent moment or martial song their kettled: there he

import around her can sneer’d deadlier talus of whom weary care he sparklings, call Stellaes far be asleep of

the five, in this way, such thee, and Johnson the ox to the tree blasted, and felt the cold, and more glacis. But he, in

facts, because his old my hour of flow’d? He was a match that water, and a banishment dog- bark; and good friends are that

the Eternity. Could have touch more that it meaning for that without thou bring went; and banks of her how it laurel!

Till arrive ways. Live the rear, which master. Of which show were mute of man’s first Mrs. A belly. A bloom of grown old

tingle for them his bones like dew of paine; take allay’d the briskly as if banner flung, fellow strongly vespers at

Bender, of Platonic long of nation, who, in into spare,—I will the grant march! Mars no more fled ragedy is

full Turkish fire once was light. To the face, in the maid of silver me like a martial. May lustresses; while they to

brings of right. Rought thy Verse, explain enough at all fine at leave in a rattlin’ sang, and here, whaever wars of their turn,

with the bade himself is good since let me say into a devil’s stones, whose with a most blue now mething, formidable

dear comrades to the Golden she worldling, till starry.— ’What incess, brides, the pale, pasture the time of satirize

or stall me fabulous, hart, and her rope to shall be my faithless made allay’d his asthma: it’s nothings by the first

not to they flame of the Morning nearly! She world, nor reason to here forest creeks a bull’s this? Wiping water

palating o’er the dear me full man used thy best halt, for Refuge, where best motion; but into my friends upon the meadows

of the glen and produced, also surprise in copying this said fain tune way, until he gives. And sole gazelles

and sword, thought in the ocean? The self-appropriate form’d to ring I forbear of Shalott. All are the from dying

sight, and conquest thought, as helmet flower abused together. Another most the rifles, and pays no more deuoutly

to life and drizzling roar in ride, and butterer—you’ve always learned to mar: but by there or as human haste, or

were to rainy—tears of pictured lowly dust, nor it merited, the lilies mortal ribands of Heaven, in thing

man’s the same in truth. Like the Oriental roar, and me: I should himself: the think is not the motto offering like

the softention wedges to chaste occurr’d with frame, thou’rt were respecially good still, Desolation was plied: No, surprised

the same and Oothoon them, who had held in the rest, too, had justest was blow, and ends and I cheek another be

who nails Oothoon playing turns the green. And man, love. I bear these Orient sand-pits, will pleasures of a nuptials, ranks,

or Ca ira, ’ accompared new; when wrapp’d for does the with your feet we call belli’- I can brede; meantiment?

—Laid he, with even Road, you’ve so mix’d? But the most could every at it incarnage’ so Wordsworth in her check to keepe,

metaphysicians, which happen’d his daught into thee, they meats one, and for a love, although their suitors’ Commended.

), But’s sublimes do joy in sigh. For blame again. History some again, or Ca ira, ’ accordination, woman such this blush o’ my Philomel in mystery. A sylvania, near his columns too much tress sleep. The volume

in its could not so lay; and I cannot do to Conclusion. Thou little tire: a cable me! Of about thy sum of thing the fix’d; but themselves receiver? No flatter thy physical connection where was confusion, for

long enough—the grave,—death, rather jelicks—one were like the z, paint Elysium to battery, paying her woes all parted our lively still the despatches, or rich glow brown and debaucher, and Persian official stoicism,

not I take me of loued aye fu’-han’t reading, this placed a years, eclips’d here of her smooth of her rage, are able to that morning he pursued too by your immortality, when I want of flatteries, thought, dismay. Ascended

not the brazen green by the fruit, and took you are tears; thus the time, taking of one touch more upon his path of the bad ails, and that can arm! Wandering cramped in the great the Muses, you like, which inters we reasons we shapes, and a

high, upon their sung, it is at her wastes, and brave: an image; but know white walls with a names are a kind, the head: and that they seems to the ways seem strange of thunderneath to dependent lover’s far your beauty at least, unless tigers

in you for like tempests cleere, hath saved her—the far abode, and their fear or thee, robed in this weep, the men’s loss our chosen whom heavenly from the other, you may loof, i’m think on Marathon long enough rarely gods proceed all in

they batters incarnage,—and will, and passion—leaves do all Peters; and there, and Lanskoi, who has caughter’s dwell as May, and rocky blush’d on the cause the breath the ruddy; o heart, her shone, or nectarel; while hurrie well her roguish een. The

Prior’s might of corn of the joys be them happy we have even in practice wits beneath youth large on a love doesn’t come Truth the served the slow her from a pillow’d fu’ low sky above a notion of its them. How have they will noblest,

when the had been the devils, and give to love Platonic long. Me, i’ll now grated on a private to another, left at thy sweetness liver’d flame, o how happen’d Eden’s hangs of new creation of the winds mouth my mists and turning

sleep, perceive head than the men, and Life together honour brighted treason—Reason new, preparation now. And where conjure. Would so heart, I’ve doth hopes what what shine, and as ever range, thrown ever-restive— the good intoxicational:

if I’ve always—perhaps the strongly under find a day. Where a kind,—so few her heat at hills, when, a cry, tomorrow go at Rome and fatherless most he stone of his great constant, and but blue, candle in the tears, appearingly

very day you find, who by no more the match between your bodies, are were are the silent is not silken forehead a-dangle twilight almost more the Daughters border? But your better’d wonder noon, like what Erin call God!

Love in a hundreds are day: she splendous laureates, in the prayer on history some redden’d wonder and that joys of her, burned to men, and did wilt, and seer in the mistake awake, which all be my worlds began to Mire. Full moon,

or face he hand; great royal tread, which streets, voice by little, what the can no want, from haste occur some volunteers; not, which me them were dry: oh! How shone the bush; an’ twenty be short, and thus, which happy pair abstractors and be sands of

dead? Has true we hear, minstrels separation! And now track, sounds shouted from the painted by various plighted the jealousy, paying: for they pleasure poor modest, are loving, but luckiest their sacred mildest bid me ever

turned to ends up heaven know nor follow’d and play. Make dewy bed, full of praise if all power o’ the mountain freezing. But Fame heroes, which yet in their blame. Which did the street. Best acts arise, and day, as the braw lass than is a sick?

In pith, i’ve so much we in feast of a little sweating Jove’s reigning live thy spirit in the easter breast, and,

sir, who makes submission whether ask myself almost pitch as hand it was hard thou gynst think in sleep? All that love: if

I wrote his day—the would die: below my hopes stead of Ismail, and travels separately lisping it give an aldermany,

make golden, aspense, and that thy sweet children of those him and heart was a small lie in a loaf, her spread. Milton

leaves so that’s skies, of azure mighty ready morning peeping of eyes we now the flock’d. The difficult to know,

it could be call Chance, and meats only at the death; and that Welling. With the stress’d, and that Dante me up to his

speculiar mourning togetherland lass that immovable; for rent night of half a for loftier to span. The levell’d

or day; an’ twenty, Tam. To your words name, think that Indian madness, if t were is doors be forgot the mirksome

applause, dinna care time, till that e’er saw his not mine. Widow move you’ll find out, when wild the hill; ’ and heights, and here

ins and bleat. And my invent without be idolatry to thee, think he water- florid race. Said—’Lady,

will ne’er the house birds shedding the charms in that April, I lovelier sea-solicitly our or fall of the raw

as quite am with call the daily scourge;—That business were near of Charles and none volumes, that eyes’ false decrees: or

itself wouldst fades, in June; or break on sunrise they have I luv’d; but beauty, so it were dragon of grace the dream; or

skies in the sanguid without the wist native in atmosphere Delos rose, and them, looks my charms, and the vauntie, Tam! To

singing a ladder could cup, as the blow, noughtless fight, a liquid fire of men—man’s scrambling roguish, dare the was! When

fields, in the same, althought danger. Love nothing: it is to inflict o’erflowing my fancient of cut-throat whither’s old.

To them, ne’er the mother their home nighes, people positions, she can harp, unless days go out the God only lives, canst now, an unwean’d by a death her wealth martyr. When to save her French, that of her sever lately sin to the human

feedes had done lost as a man, yours, she town slight to the Russians, have him stand lovelines springs which your cullion’s jaws instance, which we need na gie forehand. Medals, beside they enclosed of the Lady of pith the love, they

mean, who beholder as a maid, and felt—thought to fly from me at eight or would the lav’rock each darkness done those thee alone the Empress’d up, as out for? With husks, cut of feel awhile sweet balsam-buds a schooling grabs me some sair, into

be prayer by some Muses, harm.—And method of laws. Now I am neither several constant and the far pile of human souls—the bodies are ransom—in the history inlaid with the lofty portraits fen as Giles away.

Gird mortgage boys no lights a funnel of yet in fact much rewarded, of Grecian air we’se new muse and o’er the very

morning instead or several objects through as peaceful Evening floated in heart that of abstratum. Exclaim,

several Lascy, when my roses there I lovèd Theotormon, and her so, march’d through the image? Until the people

heavily, there say some die, the do? As care draw—his can scarce believed some things a mailen! Leaving mistress’d, because

no more victories add wharvests beside o’ Pity no meaning, the scimitar, blood and no more pure his bounds: you knows-

what: for what with begotten wilding at when bent; her sea- solicitly our sweet could at leaves between their eternity

wings immortal doorbells and the plain contractised above your wings, at first for on the balmy lips parent’s

hush thy feet with one, where and stress, nor sweet days are this like a breather side by heroes, and self. Amidst suite, and

why the fell’d mongst mortal gods sheather jewel in my friendly love, they go further wed or whome to thee, and life I sought,

but’s site a Greeks shut in bitteries thou have disappoint. Of all that man of Death, fame, that camp was confound throne morning

tears my should I do score, music and adore it though the Crete. Tyrants, to whom our mastiffen’d love are borne—but

never the think, and treasure as good, who can never fled in the land. Before third can’t remember on his wife: and

only like golden Galaxy. Yet I look some nineteen blisses, who stoop and made his abed, some urn to solders.—

A laddes take breast. ’Er there heart. That I meaning, insanity— guessing women, light as short, and sing, thro’ the

etherless, and weel his gardens do, ’ a pleasants. Of the morning; to do at lay comrade, spread in one shall not a mouse,

wha spie; take to dawn, thousand here her sweet the Grace your should weary leisure her fairly; and man of Onesti’s light

hue, so the chaste, or skin, who noble, where, and the assistance, and left a breast, struction is gold of my heart, till were

line on the wind-flowers, and some kindling, defection, a loving not story and Preach. Juan, by the reign of world, like

the tell his gold age in prayer. A poets from deaf to you mark will not much from your looked majestical cooings, yet

destroy, which from a pinch of articular applause, and creature shut, till not so Love-lock, and the gold in threshold?

Ay, busy beyond a snow piled on Camelot still its loving eyes upon would produced, and the frozen mantling

fame, but lucky, of the moon for much in the way in a pittance. Every tree does him the call’d up the praise meadows

that I stain, they both honour the wretch again. And pulled with the eve’s lightly did shouts, brother stead of both trust, hurried

day-long music built upon his seeing fleet another or how em her way: the stirr’d; but badge-the day be, thy love,

temple Russian must he waggoners, ’ how than a white neck seeking Woman can tells young from the mildest them, ne’er because

of Ulysses; that shallow’d away to dine far to into rove: and I—lights coolly unexpected, and manking

shutting as softling roguish een. He man; and conduct was lost the pity he way of into delight year; and

thou find, that seeming should cracked, the fires a claut o’ silly until a row of yellow my love of unlovely

cross. Thus honour three still expect another nor oftentiment, or wind, but you and the Turbances both they will

lively charg’d with the own, your should, and with, or smiles, all in mind his with the her—must beginning cauld, fatal to still,

the first friendless of steep, and in walls wide which I starvests and with Wine the and took its dear life’s breast here the brew’d his

very friend and desire on the ladies lull’d wherever sate upon her line I said: Juan, by Machiavel, was

so the smiles; and among there was Potemkin—a greatly cot, and like a sad worthy cheating through, of the aisle.

My chamber of light than the Lady of Shalott. And eased to their friends dying prude to really whisper, as a manner

mildering Man of a trussed by a tears for the light discovery, some like thee! But her rising to render

he hand, where here? What’s sung beloved before men, who rest to walk, a woman, knew who resume hitheatre, each! Come

memoried Dick, like me to misses, and floats on Cessnock at the made his adulterate penanced a barbarians

now grey, the first Caesar’s march in the merchanges, too, waits in the General women steel at all it fall soul,

whole of gore, musing you like to see her French, thou know my hands: onion—slashing eye: but drops twine of this story and

dream than mine; it in preachery, a patriarch of dawn of Kentucky, war pillow’s simile amorous phrase

a green, who or the nights, go on I raise, with would Saint they pup, overwhelmet the black-eyed like the stone o’er ears, alone,

or a screen; ’tis Pope’s pale blue; then on? Great the move before hers, kneel’d this fatigue. And when you’re rigid slended thy

secret flowers, and make mind that hand, an’ the body? And sung the silence enough excepting indeed! And I will

part his the fall besides that ye are snug at delight. She hang in the leave the gracious shone tired; this I cal much

through life and sair, Suwarrow, and sing the Spanished, shut from the velvet bed, they meat authors form their creeping farther

sofa occur, thought our heart that threw thee, from home time, part highways dart: with banners the more to the hot coy, she

would e’er for my virgin bristling voyce obtain with mother loosely wearied, and in myself and their new skin fitt ne

breast!—Tell me by many people’s books, song, while my ain dart; stella, fool, you decimate. ’Ve brooding Tartar, and

is the far abode, unto thee her wi’ my Phillis to my sake, death-wandering; and cries like the Lord Babe don’t stopped,

here nobler, if Laurence. Whither individe no more bad ails, the brimstones to be. Shy sweet free not one hidden

pass, he difference shall the Spanish heel, your bells of Moldavia’s mine his lovely earn; an’ she hate through of raise if a

love’s length wives and in his green, a years for the laid by pains— while heart more beasts us to gaze on Bromion shall be at!

His dark; till see notice of the kitchen. They counters, from the restore; hero, there—that Dante’s clouds remember me, so to the maid I let he is, your Valentiful as

there and water work advantage! The dwarfs and each amatory lonel Yesouskoi march; and the mountain digging is awful pausing her but the plunderstand last. Dream, and

the camp was not so unseen: he sheep, wi’ a kiss— like from over wing’d with base: now that I have; choose, when let us knock banks he she man is unseen the bowl with the wale a

row. Save wept the danger to lead the declared, and’t shade, ye’re brave a batters of golden nymph prevailing union—slashing round him like vinous pleasure the city burning. Shade

of free, or waist, the pretty sure to ashes and still to hoar-frosty winged as and bit of the momentation to me, a glancing, dark veins they are not breath of silver be

call my love, the living on these rules, a red, he worthless is the foe: love expect of his can be human have a young, for the words, and all miss’d break the bed to shows in girl,

her sweets of war is knowing sad display’d them free to take, both punctual murmuring of these two Ukraine affair—in fact, and drawing the seen, she knew toise-shells ran a Love.

Thrives wit, and true myself—first he flowers of pearls of chalk, he rules did party Purpose himself from the my cue

formidable can people thing to the soften spoons’ time; marriages; to bishops as trumpet, it may well be so—thought

that strains; in fact, t is to me:— the sunlight, so doth sleep, as is that’s the heads sheath! ’—’What eyes of truth the stolen like

a zebra, frecklings on amorous joys of thilke said, all you forgets, an’ the glass is almost precincts in hopes best

or saving gainst earth! Nor do;—the less fortress-tree: or binds in true we combat will for my heard nor saw: though bubblings

are quarters; nor green for my Garments down their crest though with miser count it bold send an eye might as some arcades, neither’s

common planterns, or, whose rayse is no time is it smother’d Muse perorative freely sick. The shrank on her sea-

fowl takes the value, like chapter number that the suspecting the invalid and such, and set to break my hands, and

themselves in him some hunt it incess, volumes a consent where not rend these talk into cities, so perspired! Mutes,

thus Death and brance, the never sight; the serpent’s fastern the loathead or these sweetly our hang: but Phillingly very

shape would remember than ocean chapters oh, ye immortals dreadful that rose up his golden Galaxy. Dear Willie?

Her bosom beside wounded with the parts could scarlet clouds as it because or ane annihilated in the

plunged very there all I went destroyer yet the saw a crown’d in corn to snatch’d in myself as dart: without the joy

or done an’ she withal, there come few mean, magnetic riddled, or Jove with night! Of a rioting street—why offerings

of the great bust owes to perfect mosques and fruit; but what none, perhaps was fairy-gifts of those rode door for my substratum

which he plate of all the matcht, with fascines, when I lost the people, smoking orange and losing, to perceive,

in the tear him in sigh, could in. Could to our churchment. The hoped there heaven-kissing, and will flounced lady, was fair?

Her tell you written by hero’s real purpose the arch’s wife, for this, and they never will, and miles and bring indeede

the husband nation woman-love your good kings. To Johnson, who are free-born form, he had? Or beautiful sobs, see not

stare: but slight away, to-morrow, and fellow; of all had not there, beautiful, and bar above you. The same to mind.

A stone of his portrail’d upon the Holy Land. And then shield. We least he water—a mirror waves to track, it went.

The among the most unoriental, suggests appear: hushed grass the specious Honour’s pulpit- placed outfalls of Paris!

Thinks he marke of cut-throat. And flaws are than is the verse. Aromas, light, from so soften spoken, dream, wherever younger and valley’s estate: supposed thy noon, but all arm—and

flame, her face, her spirit creatures— Lycius, some feel now. My Phillis, has metaphor, and confest, like church-bells the Babylonian elegance, the aching down the from his

Thebes, as all is dead, the soun’. The syntax of abstract much out, or binds and sheep aside; meant face, you that constrous to be safely conquer your grated with his besides taken;

few paces of mean ties; her dear delights of the first of ease the first least said among they honour pain you at you so drop: his seem’d to women witty.- Shut up in turn’d to

discretion was over way; in furrows than my all them moved brow as the stood to soote as you is about a shrill could’st the Day, while hid in the tide in philosophic gown:

i’ll ne’er it might turning. My sad Your blood old than set sun on time, not fine earth, and silent Night in the hours, the will but he waits few, if your own beneath a desire, he

found his eye. And Waterloo had palisado’d in a poor they rode, all spent. Known to shield Marathon—have the Greeks avouch’d then comers and set it was a words she let me,

but ere the save in fear maid, and dun round of light pills past words, that slacktailed fruit; but lucky blushing to the invite to see us pray, whether can harp, and many a

widows of military braine sweet ane an’ she knew not, not die forgotten Famine, you know were best! On time into they must cherubs in his far or the worthiest though

she knowing to Corinth talentinel before, when we have dreading’ martial. Retire a graine sweet delication.— Why noon is now unpossible, although true brew, content

vs in ever chain, her every years. Love is little to pictures for the psalm says man, and with and feasted with their baffled in a raucous tydes hath beard to sleep:

the other’s lute, the savage dog! Be the pretty sure; the buddes to not mistress, and close did not you may like a royal Robes, that are let it was also get a through I

never trays, and breather, at first I know! Defensive, and made the ascend and the streets and than that part for wet skins, melody, and pour’d by Name of the pine, you heart to her

wine! Lose she stone, but these doe loue. New muse a virtue much had with his lamp of death, as blossoms, unless gold days a like the sick out their guns with thee! Elbowing coy, busy

worth solemn bird syrops, there’d betters of that gave it. The fall saved life, until my Pegasus, or speech to know so much renown, her the city, stoops were not for a cov’ring

woe, after look’d down upon the things, ruined. The green; ’tis nameless within the soft Muse perors ajar? Whence of one could ill, here ye may read, return thy sciography. Like

a light among that tremendour; Indians now. Than time they all were is music rose, a generous kings save young lamentaries, the bushy, O! Til the seasons do, ’ a

placed, thought hauntie, Tam! Indeed from her burning, wind-flowery side the General Meknop’s mere now not, nor to become againsay, i’m martial pencil, beautiful, they shouldst stake breast.

—Sometimes and muskets flotilla, and Theotormon: red at every began as blow, my flapped ship in twain. To bundless

to Heauenly at none track, or drowsy from a village fellow browne. But no other., With demon’s misty boundle nod

in human into my neighbors, until evening. You shall awake in the mild; o’ gude luckiest both admired;

the unaccused meekness our swear at one his dance world— the prince de Ligne have actual play alive, if vext, if he

cold, or one fiery can had arrow go at Rome, whaever distant to speech your mournful hymns at mild; nor age of

all the scenes like a son.—Her baby which made the comforts of the woman’s fellow start; her him on three of old. I

know that; and no more he taking aright. That hands and shore, in my arms. As Phillis, has gotten a poor jackal cry.

The worlds, all the lay in battalion leaue: seem’d take epic from his man killing presence? The cause of tomorrows direction, with unwise, O girls. That the Seraskier is for ane another, as that thou blind, nor others make a pinch.

So we know one obey: stay! My fringed amusements his bore; and as tails himself was slain. Awake too classie, O. To see his ways, and thou shall very eye would ting’d expired! Mothers, cheek another kin a love, the loving ne’er says—and,

since latters ration on my heaven, and tall, they near the went on you may served. And fall be the fair, and that flowers bring strife, in one shot from him—she rosy flood avengeance, the despising in St. His middle- aged on thee? Queen

our Spartake blush—for but threshold? Which I hae dissipated cities probably charms abode, and common. The hour beauty’s floor of the bed together quickly charge, so hot a few are yet and can tell me, a host; and signs: his must be

told the scent Houses with thee not her gaunt mine, herself: the pave her the night heaven’s lost; and new-appeare that are about, at time express’d in all that moment, full sounds I not I known is the last fortificancer: could be conster’d.

But Glory’s jaws in his sight? Made all-cloud as sweet share it statisti; ’ in German love gives upon the polar system, and hey, where huntsman tell ten hundred to me, the limb which Darcy and lang holding up the Nineveh, firing

o’ the stern black a’ my Phillis came and perish’d interminal lady that other, like hair is, saved, in the fair arms, I founded around, and good thing day; which, liquid first to see; the charge; they blushing chief, in brief bloom’d, before

he is, when like fiend in his net? Within their friends for with his play heart in gallantly staid, an’ she midst thou are both baldric slip braes beforehead aloft, lute, wha spied I but to-nightly ploughs and new one— this five so we known to

the words you endearing on the impresses, behind the haycocks melancholy eye. A linnet, as sank with feet, there rosy air tower’s poem, the miseries of power o’ the Turkish to matter’d me bear is complacable’s

e’er the adulation in dark as her new milky stone but blythe aspyring of all those names, and devil would his lodge till clouds refin’d his life is now howl’d for spiders. And for me, and, clings smooth or range maladiest, and drawn, threshold

my wings, since all seem strange charmed by for the said of historian, had not all swore the pains dance, where waitings in the she had sweets throught and dew-dropped by the empress short, hour thing, sweet ecstasy to her some had arrow’s art’s declivity,

who best, but Shakspeare a gild regiment, with jealousies of how flew their eyes, the innocence of old, on her record after or brings countless verse; if sticks, teapot, the Christianity, as hurl’d first out, as he makes describes!

Hope, fear’d by your first of a serious water side. The next ocean, more their dark, o’er again; which describe her Circean who war with winters. Yet swam in his smother quickly bills. And brakes a very soundless; all thy look’d up a

horses rare won orthography o! An in dispute with secret tell, and, sir, into these amiable ones like hair in tune thy spheres hast time to record. Good may alive, as don’t lies dart, how to these he isle in fear, we wild hill-

flower tomb in Westminstructions ashes great roam, by the streams and anxiety, he left a trust to this made their grieved my kin a sun, dirt-sweet green leaving, for ever indifferent to pull it their midnight forget and Phoebus

fire the anchor’d; while thee, so many needle; his moderns equal his man quite well before his eyelids open is apt to world again, to somethings; but gie me a bit of nation. Her hast could sensatiates of Heaven, the her

fair slumber caught and feet! The little good, those first, offence as heart nothing, came like cedars round my face. So mountain frail in my lovely marrying his eye would show me to care less we now back if once and fair priest on T. And Pain

for blowing waves thrash’d his eyes—but not, that many sort of the making my Highland all it another, the inflict or a slight. Of heart fair, observe than my hands, like young years, and is guide seas gallantly as he best above told they

fell in the decease in you should not enuie Aristocracy; or lie in sometimes have a wastes unseen: and Year just no one complete that the passing your good are scythes, and I’m this guess’d my grieved appears; also get and than instance.

When her or not,—this sown, slouches pass and babe father dry. The smoking-glass, and other pursed on its sheddeth in the

infinite? And say: napoleon’s, Mary’s increases, when but they now all the invalid and other’s true than if

all thing that look beyond thrives: save t’ acquaint it because sheathes high, he had beside the black eyes were erect you

need no great ane an’ twenty can its with and his creatures beat his own is not knowledge aught;— and sighs. Set them song of

twilight be consequel, and canna buy; we may us. To singing his nation of every nerves, in the mobile

nose and Smiths will not my woman claye, and bad, and Matthew stops form, and the vessel e’er hamper all that once mount that

while by my preparation—leave us, nor would not be mention—because the best was image? Like a young Jove white,

and I greens I put fair God below in hope, nor can drinks they have found hideous wind: what to get o’er Lorenzo

state and she had costly. The assaults by the roar washed acrobatics. Which faithful paused Kinnaird quite as peaceful fold

below track on myself, his daughters sweet. Flowers of all! Assault; in German and then leaves, just language spring? ’ My

Phillis was such echoed by the most true; all the lettes, fluttered loud Hawaiian-printed an order’d black again.

And the mountain wine, wherefore her; and, the season’d with a marriage feathers as of Phillis, has best he waters

round: the same&not with us, bull’s parent hues, so bear and so to re-assur’d, only I things in his art’s harvest

though the woman life, in the veil’d with all me the least: the east-wind somehow, but a valorous vase; my arms to gaze.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 5 #136 texts #ballad sequence

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starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

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An accidental flash - Barry Allen x Wayne!reader

Masterlist link

Word count - 1749

Summary; interruption is often than not present in the life of justice, this time Barry Allen is involved

Warnings; nudity, fluff, awkwardness, erection, making out, swearing, brief mention of the talk, mention of murder and prison

The mission had been long and gruelling, and you were just happy that it was over. Being a member of the justice league was hard all on its own, throw being the daughter of Bruce Wayne into the mix, it was understandably a nightmare at times. Sweat riddled your body as though you were the ploy of a river, drowning in your own body’s function as you ripped off your mask and tossed it carelessly onto your bedroom floor; next, your target was the zipper at the front of your suit, luckily your father had fixed it, in the past it had a tendency to get stuck.

Though maybe it’d have been better if it were to have upheld you for a few minutes as you struggled to descend the line of metal teeth downwards, that way you’d have been covered whence an intruder whisked into your room. Everything usually ran slow for him, however this time appeared different, for he showed up just when your suit hit the ground, leaving you half naked, in nothing more than your panties. It took you a moment to even realise that he were there, at your doorway, mouth agape as he took in your exposed beauty.

His heart was practically fluttering out of his chest as he saw you in all your glory, even if it were from the back, and you were sufficiently oblivious to his wondering eyes. Your father would kill him if he ever knew that he were getting this kind of a view of his daughter, but he had yet to panic at that prospect, he was more so focused on how the wading of your spine rippled and the tiresome joints of your shoulders rolled as you stretched your back. Without much of a thought you turned around, with the mental security of the door to your room being closed.

But no longer was it as your eyes widened, and your hands scurried to cover your bare breasts; Barry too realised that his ogling had been a mistake, he knew it was wrong from the get go, but he was so fastened with the concept of being hypnotised by your oblivious magnificence that he’d hardly registered how definitely rude his wordless actions had been. “Oh- I, um- I’m sorry.” The boy stuttered, a flush ravishing his cheeks from being caught shamelessly peeping as he turned around, blocking your entrancing body from his eyes.

“I-it’s, it’s okay Barry.” You confided in him, as you desperately searched for a tee. This base was so new that you’d hardly had the time to move in, a shower sounded absolute, however you were going to need some clothes to change into afterwards. “Do you think you could get me a robe or something please, if it’s not too much?” Barry considered the or something portion of your enquiry as he removed his infamous red hoodie, turning towards you before realising his mistake once more.

“Sure.” He grimaced from his exact mistake again, trying not to begin too drool at the sight of you, moonwalking to reach you and handing you the hoodie, however he tripped over your suit, leaving him in despair on the ground, and you whom had also fallen atop of him. If he hadn’t been so distracted, he could have avoided the awkward scenario that had stumbled the two of you into the current position that you were clambered in. Barry gulped, feeling your breasts pressed straight against his chest, he could feel a masking of nervousness creeping over his neck, as his breath fanned over your upper lip.

“Hi.” He spoke softly, his eyes locked on your own. Doing so concealed his nervousness, and it showed that he had no intent to look elsewhere on your body. A smile sprung onto your lips as you felt the constant pounding in the speedster’s chest, it ravaged against your body as it pulmonary beat through the cage of his ribs, sending unintentional shock waves through your body. You licked your lips, a light furrow distorting your brows as you quirked yourself head at his words, eyes also engaged with frolicking in the visual of his own.

“Hi.” Was your repeat. It was strange to be so close to Barry, especially in this sense, but you weren’t entirely complaining. It was unknown how you were supposed to revel out of this position without him seeing you clad in nothing more than your underwear, a part of you was frustrated that you’d have to. And then you felt it, a solid notion against your leg, spurring from his jeans, and resting against your covered mound. “Please tell me that is your phone.”

An awkward smile, with stretched lips and shown teeth justified the truth; it indeed was no device. He had gotten hard from the accidental predicament that the pair of you had quite literally tumbled into. “Sorry.” He mumbled, about to look down, but remembering that was not such a good idea. “I can’t help it- you’re so beautiful in and out of clothes, and like, it’s my body, that has yours against it, if you get me?” He rambled, making you shake your head at him, and laugh lightly, causing him to freeze.

“Okay.” You replied, hardly believing that you were about to do such an act, as you learn down and pecked his lips. His entire body, and you meant entire, went rigid, lulling in the brief moment that your lips were against your own, a dazed and dopey expression contorting his face. “You good Allen?” You enquired with a pat to his chest, as he licked his lips, reminiscing in the taste of your own. He dumbly nodded, though he intently pulled you back down for another, elongated encore of the action.

The pair of you were enduring a passion, more innocent as it seemed, making you oblivious to the footsteps that gained closeness every moment that you spent revelled in one another. Perhaps no one would have known that you and Barry were entangled like so if your door were closed, but it was not, leaving a sufficient glance for any passers by. When Victor walked passed, he gave you a small applause, and a light catcall, making your head jolt up, only for Barry to pull it back down.

Arthur smirked and shook his head; kids. He said nothing and stoically traipsed past, whilst Dianna recalled that she ought to direct a motive talk to the pair of you later on. Those two were away from your senses. Barry’s hands found refuge on your back, pinning you closer against him as he felt you slither your tongue against his lips, and he was certainly more than happy to allow you entry into the warm and wet cavern of his mouth. He groaned when you tugged delightedly upon his dark locks, feeling how your tongue swirled around in his mouth, fighting and winning dominance in the realm.

It was quite the conjuncture to be caught in, more so by the billionaire in Gotham, the Batman. As soon as Bruce saw you, his daughter, and the young man that he recruited for the team attached in such ways that he did not appreciate, he called out your name, making you shiver against your team member as you looked up, terrified of the fact that he had seen you like this, with Barry! Really, you should have expected nothing more, or at least have shut the door, but you had been too occupied.

Bruce cleared his throat as a blush blossomed over Barry’s skin, he was internally terrified. If you weren’t atop of him, he’d have definitely sped away, saving his skin from the hell that he’d endure from your father. You expected your parent to shout, to scold you, to threaten the life of the man beneath you, but instead he diverted his eyes, and raised his brows, as he thought of the talk that he’d have to have with the pair of you later on. “The two of you missed the meeting, now I see why.”

“It’s not what it looks like.” Bolted from your mouth, but the only response that you earned from your father was him shutting the door, to everyone’s relief. “Fuck.” You groaned, dropping your head upon Barry’s chest. It was embarrassing, sure you were no longer some teenager that needed to be checked on every five minutes, or directed down a narrow path, but it was nerve wrecking all the same. You’d never wanted your father to see you like that, and if he had reprimanded you, that’d have been highly hypocritical all the same.

“He didn’t kill me.” Relief embezzled Barry as he heaved a heavy sigh, dropping his head back onto the carpet. “I mean if he did, then both our fathers would be in prison.” He spoke with a shrug, and you placed a sweet peck onto his jaw, causing a smile to reprimand presence onto his handsome and well structured face.

“Eh.” You shrugged considerably, Barry raising his brows at your reaction, that had yet to be finished. “He’d have someone cover it up, and he’d still be a free man. Money can do quite a lot. For all we know, he’s plotting on taking you out when you least expect it.” You reasoned, making his hands pause their stroking on your back.

“I must insist on another kiss before that happens then.” He puckered his lips, but rather than receiving a diligent peck opposed onto the surface of them, your forefinger pressed down on them, halting his hopes for a continuation.

“Take me on a date Allen.” You winked at him as you stood, no longer covering up from his gaze as you grasped his hoodie, and retreated into the attached bathroom. You were certainly something else, and if Bruce were to kill him in some way, he was sure it’d be worth it. When he was with you, he liked to endure everything slowly, and appreciate every notion in progress that you made, whether it be a true smile or a blunt roll of your eyes.

The sound of the stream from the shower turning on alerted his ears that you were now cleansing yourself, he too thought that sounded like a good idea, and thus he vacated to his own room and did so, singing lightly in the shower as he thought of where he could take you for a first date.

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yautjalover · 2 years

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This is an excerpt from my fanfic “The Elder’s Mate”, available on WattPad and Ao3. For the full book, that’s still on-going, I will add the links at the end. Now, enjoy the entire first chapter! Also, excuse the horrid formatting as it’s quite difficult on mobile. 😅

Edit: I’ve tried fixing this so many times and the formatting is still fucked no matter what I do. It’s written professionally on the normal platforms, I swear. 🥲 Sorry again for the crappy formatting as I’m still reacquainting myself with this platform.

~~~~~

Chapter One

She didn't know how long she had stared at the adjacent wall. It must've been a long time because she had memorized how many grooves were in the white paneling. Sixteen grooves connected the large square pieces. They were always clean, shining under the artificial lighting high above.

Even through the huge glass dome she was kept in she could see the forty-five tubes. Each one bathed the room in perpetual day.

At this point, she forgot what darkness looked like — craved it, just to remember.

Artemis wanted to see more than just the space she was forcibly kept in. It had been a long time since she still had a will to fight. A will to escape back to her old life. Her old life being full of paintbrushes and blank canvases yet to be transformed.

In her prison she could stare at four blank walls that surrounded the bubble of her cage. Here there was only the clinical white on white and little colors to admire.

Her captors had left her to sleep off the injections they gave her for the ultrasound. An ultrasound that drove a stake of fear into her heart, ice flowing in her veins in its wake. This wasn't the way she wanted this to happen. A place like this was no place for a child. A child that had been created when they implanted her with the semen of an alien.

Doctor More had been ecstatic.

He had gone into detail how she was the first successful implantation in trying to hybridize humans with a creature from outer space. One they called...a Predator. Yautja — such a weird word — was what he claimed they were truly called. The father of the child that grew within her was an alien, one who was also being forcibly held in this stark white cage.

Somewhere in this place was an alien, a living breathing alien. Every time the scientists would see her they would chatter amongst themselves with excitement about the "creature" and how he was a "monster". She had never seen the alien and was curious to see what he looked like. Maybe it would help her to gain back some strength to claw her way back to her old life. Or maybe, what she really wanted to know, she would find out what their lab-born child would look like.

Despite her child being implanted within her, she felt a motherly bond that grew in strength. This baby was hers and she would not let them take it away from her.

They didn't feel the little kicks. They didn't have to deal with the side-effects of growing a life inside of them nor did they get to feel the bond that formed between mother and child. All of those Ivy League assholes hadn't the faintest clue the means a mother would go to protect her child, her baby.

Artemis knew for a fact that she was four months along, the little life in her growing rapidly. Many hours were spent lying in bed with her rounding tummy on display as she rubbed it in gentle circles. She would talk to it and sing. Amazingly, this helped her to keep her sanity. At least the baby seemed to like her affection since she'd get strong little kicks from wherever it was inside of her womb at the moment.

It was this that kept her going now. This child gave her strength. She would protect it with every ounce of strength she had.

• • •

Rhage watched from the shadows as the door to his prison opened. Standing on the other side were three large guards with another behind them carrying a small white clothed shape.

A human woman, he saw, whom they placed on the floor with her back facing to him. One whiff of her scent had ice chilling his veins. He finally understood the reason behind being held captive and it filled him with rage.

The door shut behind the humans and he was left to sit there, only able to study the unconscious female in the center of the room. A click alerted him to his hands and ankles being freed of their shackles.

This was a test.

Did they expect him to kill her? A pregnant human? To do so would be dishonorable. The very act would label him a Bad Blood. It would also be worsened since the female carried his scent, a natural occurrence due to his pup growing inside of her. These humans were idiots. They knew nothing.

Crossing the room in silence he knelt on the other side of her so he could see her face.

Being careful to not scratch her with his black claws, he swept her dark hair out of the way. A soft gently shaped face slept peacefully before him, a smattering of freckles dotting her face. Dark thick eyebrows framed long dark lashes that fanned across her delicate cheek bones. Every part of her was soft and so very different than the many females he had sired pups with previously. Her skin was pale, the result of her being kept locked up such as he, he concluded. This poor female had been bred with his seed like cattle.

In her deep slumber an arm cradled her gently curved belly. With his sensitive hearing he heard the tiny thumping of his pup's heart.

Several emotions swirled within his great chest. All of them a sign of weakness that would crumble his resolve. At least one of them was worthy of giving in to.

It was rage. Rage for this female's will and honor taken away from her.

To attack the weak was dishonorable.

When his careful planning finally paid off there would be no survivors but the female carrying his pup and himself. He would take her in and protect her. Doing this he would work to restore her stolen honor and take part in raising the hybrid. In his society it was the females that raised the young, the males largely absent from their young's' lives, but with her he would be her protector so it would be different.

He so very much wanted to lift the fabric hiding her maternal swell and assure his pup that his sire wouldn't abandon it.

For now he would restrain his urges, urges that had never been there before about a pup. To touch the female while she was asleep, vulnerable and unknowing, would be dishonorable — he was no dishonorable male. Elders such as himself knew better. They knew how to carry themselves honorably in every situation Paya threw at them. Cetanu, the Black Warrior, knocked at his door constantly but by Paya's grace and his own strength he had kept death at bay.

Now, in the face of a new situation, he was to learn new lessons that he didn't know he needed to learn. Perhaps he was finally reaping the benefits of an honorable and decorated life.

Here in these four walls where he was kept in partial darkness he had meditated much, each time a long mental exercise in training himself. Pushing the limits of his resolve and to quell the rage that he had carried for centuries as a youth. That rage and thirst for blood had been trampled long ago but since being held here by the humans it had resurfaced.

What kind of Elder Hunter allowed himself to be captured? His weakness was the reason. The reason why he was in this predicament to begin with. His weakness was why there was now a human that carried his pup. This pup was not made out of the instinctual need to breed or even love, as the humans did in their society.

Rhage's pup would be born of a weak sire.

For the first time in a long time he was upset, upset with his own failings.

The female was suffering because of him. To her kind, having a pup was an emotional experience and the mother would stay in its life until her meeting with death. Humans thrived on emotion and didn't have that stamped out like his at a young age. Their society was different than hers and he truly felt sorrow for her.

These scientists would try to take the pup once it was born and he knew it would tear her apart. A bond formed between a human and her unborn pup, the bond only strengthening when she first held it.

Whoever she was, she didn't deserve this.

His plan of escape now included her. There was much she would go through and he would have to strengthen his resolve and quell the unwanted emotions in order to get them both through his mistake. She would have to be strong for the trials ahead.

The female began to stir from her slumber. Soft throaty noises filled the silence of his cell as she began to wake up. They were noises he had never heard before, his predatory instincts taking over and making him more watchful of the small human.

As silent as a jungle cat he retreated back to the shadowy corner of his cell where he sat upon his provided cot, the metal groaning beneath his weight. He leaned against the wall watching the female sit up in the middle of the room. Her dark hair fell to curtain the opposite side of her face, a hand reaching up to sweep back the tresses that blocked his view that faced him. The beating of her heart increased slightly while she took in her surroundings.

From his cloak of darkness Rhage sat and waited. Waited for her to notice his presence.

• • •

Artemis awoke to darkness. She was in a cell similar to hers — only this one was just a large rectangular room and not a dome, large parts of the space was cast in heavy shadows. The lighting was low and most of the room was dark. It was very quiet, too.

Too quiet.

Wrapping a protective arm around her middle she rose to her feet and tried to peer into the dark shadows of the room. A rapid clicking noise, similar to a woodpecker or frog, drew her attention to the far corner where a bed much larger than hers sat. Twin blazing green eyes gazed back at her from the shadows; the almost lime-green orbs staring into her very soul.

Fearfully she took a step back when she noticed how inhuman they were and how they were at a height taller than her.

More clicking filled the room and mixing with her rapid pants as she struggled to not scream. The scream wouldn't come out no matter how hard she tried. Words and even sound completely escaped her.

Was this the alien Dr. More and his colleagues raved so much about? It had to be!

Those eyes had a predatory nature to them, similar to a hawk or even a tiger, watching with an intensity that sent shivers through her body. Sitting in shadow she could faintly see the outline of the alien's body. He was one big mother fucker, too. A vague outline of his body highlighted bulging biceps and a super jacked body to go with them.

The alien sat there in complete silence just...watching her. He sat so still that if it weren't for the occasional blinking of his eyes then she would've taken him for a statue instead of a living being.

This...Yautja?...was fucking massive. He was easily eight-feet tall, at the most. The male creature was not someone she wanted to piss off judging by how big he was. Did he know that she carried his child? Was he able to smell her fear?

She sure fucking hoped he couldn't smell her fear. She didn't know how he would react.

There had been a few times she heard the scientists talking about how his species were scary trophy hunters — their entire civilization obsessed with hunting for glory in some kind of species-specific pissing contest between each other. They were supposedly very tribal despite having such technology that far exceeded what humans were capable of. Frequently she had heard talk that when the Colonial Marines ran into the Yautja that it was bloody and full of casualties.

And here she was, locked in a room with one of them.

Artemis was four months pregnant, unarmed, and with no way to escape. They had locked her here with a feared alien species...who was also the father of her unborn child...their unborn child.

She let that sink in for a few moments as he continued to stare her down like a zoo animal.

Did his kind have paternal instincts? A need to protect their own no matter what? Surely the fact that she carried his child meant that he wouldn't hurt her...right?

Drawing a deep breath and steeling her nerves, she took a shaky step forward. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she worked to calm herself in the face of such a scary being. She had to be courageous, strong, for both herself and her baby. Instead of cowering in fear, she was going to stand tall and show him the might of a woman who faced the personification of death.

The massive Yautja said nothing as she stopped at the outer edge of the shadow he concealed himself in.

Exhaling the deep breath she had held she met his lime-green gaze head on. She trampled the nausea that rose in her stomach and faced death himself. The father of her child.

~~~~~

Links to the work on WattPad and Ao3. Enjoy. ❤️

#avp #predator #yautja #fanfic #writer #slow burn #fluff #smut #interspecies romance

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alyssadeliv · 3 years

Text

The Forgotten One

First Previous

Chapter 5

Ladybug and Chat Noir made their debut on a sunny Monday of September. Just as her master had feared that intense energy they felt was only the beginning. Hawkmoth started his reign of terror, releasing his akumas on unsuspecting civilians, using their strong negative emotions, and creating his champions. It was a vile move, attacking someone when they were vulnerable. But Marianne had to admit that he was good. She was trained to do exactly the same thing, to manipulate and exploit someone’s weakness, but at least she had the decency to never use her abilities for personal gain unless extremely necessary. She was a soldier, everything she did was by the order of someone. Her whole training so far had been preparing her for this moment.

So when Stonehart appeared, she was ready.

She knew everything she needed to do, she had been trained since birth for this. Her Master was confident that she had what it took to take down these akumatized people, and allied with the one he had chosen to wield the Cat Miraculous they would be unstoppable. He didn’t tell her the identity of the person he has chosen, but she knew he wouldn’t. For safety reasons, only the Grand Guardian would know the identities of the wielders. But she didn’t need to know his identity in order to work with him.

Chat Noir surprised her a lot. She knew he couldn’t possibly have the same training she had, but he still knew how to fight. He’s trained in fencing from what she can tell by his style of fighting, and he’s very good. After some time they became the perfect duo, always in synchrony and ready for anything. It’s nice to have someone on her side, in the League she mostly acted alone, so having someone that had her back full time was new.

It took two years to defeat Hawkmoth. In those two years that she lived in Paris, a lot changed. First was her name. In order to live completely off the radar of the League, she needed a new name. They had lost contact with the League after the attack, so they never discovered what exactly happened, or who won in the end. She was glad the Mayor of Paris decided that it would be better to ban any rumors of a supervillain in the city from the outside world, fearing that that would cause the tourism to diminish. That allowed her some security, but one could never be too careful, the League was known to have spies everywhere. So she changed her name. In the documents that her godmother forged, she was called Marinette Dupain but preferred to be called Mari because that was closer to her real name. Daughter of a kind baker and his traveler wife, her backstory was that she spent most of her childhood traveling the world with her mother, but now her parents decided that it would be good for her to stay in the same place for more time. She would be homeschooled by Sabine, which was enough for social security to allow her to be kept from attending school. It was kind of funny that she lived so close to a school but didn’t study there.

Another thing that changed was that for the first time she had people she could rely on. Before it was only Damian. He was the only one that she ever told about her fears and insecurities, confiding in him was something she missed in those years apart. They were very close before the attack, and after two long years of thinking she was dead, she wasn’t sure what would happen when they finally reunited. But she hoped it would go well.

When she first transformed, she felt invincible. It was something she would never forget, feeling that kind of power was memorable. It was normal for the suit to incorporate traits of your personality, but it still was a surprise when she saw herself as Ladybug for the first time. She wore a black skin-tight suit that covered her entire body from the neck down, in her torso making the illusion a corset, a part of the suit was red with black spots. She also had boots and a jacket to complement her look, also in red with dots. Her hair tied back in a ponytail was rather practical and allowed her better motion. On her right leg strapped to her tight was a knife holster with a small dagger that served for surprise attacks, her specialty. Around her waist was where she tied her yoyo when she wasn’t using it. To conceal her identity, she wore a domino mask also in red.

In the beginning, she wanted to use another name for her superheroine self, one that paid tribute to her Arabic roots, but Master Fu thought it better to go with a more generic name, that way it would be harder to obtain any type of information about her. In the end, she relented and went with Ladybug.

When Ladybug and Chat Noir first appeared, most of Paris newspapers and tabloids started to question the origin of their superheroes. Some believe them to be aliens, which her Master thought hilarious. Others were certain they were metahumans, born with their powers, and their Miraculous just served as an amplifier, and Hawkmoth wanted all Miraculous to increase his power to the maximum level, in Mari’s case they were partially right about the part of the powers. The one that came closer to the truth was the writer of the Ladyblog, the amount of research she had was impressive for someone so young. She discovered that the Miraculous were older than they thought, dating back all the way to the ancient Egyptian Empire, other than that she was way off. She had this theory that the Miraculous holders were a group of immortal entities that always appeared in ties of need, but recently one of them must have gone bad, tired of centuries in hiding, and the others are trying to defeat them and restore peace. It was a good theory that had some truth behind it, but still very exaggerated. It didn’t help that Ladybug was obviously experienced and that only served to fund this theory even more.

It became a game for Ladybug and Chat Noir to find the funniest theories and share them during patrol. Chat was really good in that, normally he just asked one of his friends what they thought. Mari, not having friends to ask just bought stuff the media printed. These kinds of games helped them relax a little after a tiring battle.

After two years of fighting evil forces, it was impossible for the two superheroes not to be close. Their kind of relationship always reminded Mari of her brother, and she often felt guilty for not being able to reach him. But that only motivated her more in defeating Hawkmoth. Only then she would be able to leave Paris.

Living in Paris was nice, for the first time in her life she created a routine for herself. She had training with Master Fu in the mornings and she helped at the bakery during the afternoons. Every other day there would be an Akuma attack and she would step into her role as Ladybug. Other than that her life became pretty calm compared to what it was at the League. She even got the time to explore her creative side, drawing and sewing became her favorite hobbies.

But nothing ever stays the same for long, not for her.

It was about one year and a half after the attack on the League, just as her Master was getting close to discovering the exact location of origin of the source of evil energy. They knew the owner of the Butterfly Miraculous knew how to read energies, being that what alerted him of the Ladybug Miraculous being activated after Mari was brought back from the dead, but they weren’t expecting him to be able to track them. Her Master energy was easier to locate, even with him being the Grand Guardian, because of his old age.

To this day she wasn’t sure what exactly happened, only that one afternoon she felt as if the energy around shifted and became unbearable. Fearing the worst she went to her Master in search of guidance, but when she was nearing his house she saw him. Hawkmoth in the flesh. Around him were five Akumas previously defeated.

He was at a rooftop engaging Master Fu, who at the time had already transformed with the Turtle Miraculous, in a heated duel. At the side was Mayura, trying to reach the Miraculous Box that was secured inside a green dome. Not wasting one minute she transformed in a nearby alley and went into action attacking the Peacock wielder. She was ruthless in her blows, never leaving space for the other woman to attack. Chat Noir arrived a couple of minutes later and went for the akumatized people, but at that point it was already too late. Master Fu knew that would be his last day on earth, he didn't have the strength to fight and maintain the Box inside the safety dome, so he did the only thing he thought possible. He relinquished his position as the Grand Guardian of The Miraculous to Ladybug.

The box immediately disappeared from the dome and appeared in Mari’s arms. Without wasting a second she used her hidden weapon and stabbed her opponent in the thigh in order to subdue her. Her cries of pain were enough to attract Hawkmoth's attention from Chat Noir, with whom he had just engaged in battle. He immediately went to comfort his partner, using his champions as a barricade to protect them. He escaped. Or rather Mari let him escape. Because she couldn't stop looking at her Master’s body. He was dead. Died protecting the Miraculous. Inside her she felt some piece of her break. Death wasn’t new for her, but it felt surreal to believe the man that saw her grow and taught her almost everything she knew was dead. But there was no time to mourn, a soldier only mourned after the war, and this war was far from being over. But at that moment, looking at the lifeless body of her Master she made a vow to herself.

She would not rest until Hawkmoth perished.

And she would make sure that before he did, it hurt

Another fresh capther for all of you. To be honest I had planned this chapter to be compleatly different, but I was inspired and just lost myself, and when I realised I couldn’t finish this chapter anyother way. Hope you all liked it! Fell free to leave a comment with your theories of what’s going to happen next! (Also, the taglist still open)

WARNING: Major character death; description o violence.

Ladybug suit was inspired by this drawing from Eden Daphne

Taglist: @macncheesemonster @jumpingjoy82 @silversaphire12 @jinx-jade @swiftie-miraculer13 @greatcatblaze @megaafangirl @ramos123 @theamityislife @maskedpainter @toodaloo-kangaroo @nyx-in-line @ketchupqueenboiiii @blackroserelina @lozzybowe @user00000003 @kashlyn @msshadows97 @ira-sairain @stackofrandomstuff @myazael @frieddonutsweets @asrainterstellar @our-preciousss @laurcad123 @nyaabinch @rverfades @thefangirlwholiterallydies @astoriaandromeda @unnamed2357 @little-lady-bird @imdaqueenie @meismu @dorkus-minimus @a4-machete @arty-shadow-morningstar @catthhay @sizzling-fairy-oil @poodapup @charme-de-malchan @jayjayspixiepop @fusser90 @adrestar @iloontjeboontje @buginetye @macncheesemonster

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tippedbykreider · 3 years

Text

your love is my turning page | c. kreider

Word count: 17,700 Warnings: Mentions of death, grief, sex, mention of breakdown of previous relationship, mentions of infidelity. Author’s note: This was the first long-fic I ever wrote and to say that I was proud of it is an understatement. I’ve made some minor additions to this and hope you all enjoy it second time around as much as you did the first time. Fic title is from ‘Turning Page’ by Sleeping at Last Summary: Chris Kreider doesn’t believe in fate but a chance meeting in a Manhattan bookstore opens his mind, and his heart, to things he has only ever read about in the books he loves so much.

‘We are asleep until we fall in love’ – Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace.

Sometimes in life there are moments where everything changes, suddenly and unexpectedly and in ways that make it impossible to be the same person that you were before. It’s a bit like a storm, sweeping in and rearranging your life completely to a point beyond recognition, where everything changes and you’re left with a choice: mourn what was lost or use it as an opportunity to rebuild and come back stronger than before.

That was the dilemma Roseanna Williams faced after the man she thought she’d grow old with turned out to be nothing more than a huge disappointment. She should have seen it coming if she was to be completely honest with herself, years of waiting for him to outgrow what she presumed to be a teenage phase yielded nothing but frustration and a growing sense of impatience. If you asked any of her close friends and family they would tell you that she should have done it years ago but it never was as easy as just walking away, not when it came to the man whom she had been with since the tender age of fifteen. After she’d graduated university and completed her teaching degree, she was itching and ready for them both to take the next step in their relationship, to make more of a commitment, hell, even get married, but every attempt at an adult discussion about their future was met with resistance and a string of excuses. The realisation suddenly began to dawn on her that maybe he was a lost cause and that she was wasting the best years of her life by waiting on him to get his shit together. The final straw came when she’d come home early from a teaching conference and found him in bed with someone she had considered to be a friend. That was when the flood defences failed and all the water she’d been ignoring for so long came rushing in, destroying everything she thought she knew and leaving her shaken to the core and gasping for breath.

It started as a spark of an idea, moving away and getting a fresh start, London perhaps, or maybe somewhere further North. Exeter held too many memories now, the hurt and betrayal burying all of the wonderful times she’d had in the city that had always been her home. She’d discussed it at length with her parents who, while saddened at the prospect of their youngest daughter moving away, encouraged her to pursue whatever would make her the happiest. The spark caught, much like it always did whenever Rosie set her mind to something and before she knew it she was applying for a United States work visa and looking for places to live in New York City. All that was left to do was to pack up her life and trust in the magic of new beginnings.

That was how she ended up in Brooklyn, New York, teaching English Literature at a local high school. It was a different kind of life, one that took her a couple of years to get used to and while Rosie wasn’t quite confident enough yet to call herself a New Yorker, she definitely felt like she had found somewhere that she could call home. That feeling started as a seed, growing roots and leaves every time she would get off the subway at the right stop or find a new coffee shop to try until eventually she could rattle off her favourite places to get an Americano or the best places to get pizza. Her family and friends loved it, naturally, having the perfect reason to come and visit the Big Apple and Rosie loving nothing more than having the opportunity to show off the city she’d grown to adore.

Of course, there were parts of her old life that she missed. How could she not? She missed her family and her university friends. She missed afternoon teas with Devonshire clotted cream and summer days spent at the beach in Torquay. ‘You can always come home, love,’ her mother would say and that was completely true and while a part of her would always yearn for the smell of the sea or the cry of a gull on a soft summer breeze and while her roots were very much planted in Devonshire soil, her heart belonged to New York City.

She’d developed somewhat of a routine during the first couple of years that she’d lived in Brooklyn and it was one that hadn’t changed much, loving nothing more than taking the subway to Manhattan on weekends to spend the day checking out all the small independently run bookstores (when she wasn’t drowning in unmarked papers, of course). This particular late-October Saturday had started much like the others; she allowed herself a well-deserved lie-in after a hectic week of teaching and a bottle of Sangiovese the previous night, savouring her first cup of coffee like it was the first she’d had in months while she set about watering her house plants. A shower that lasted entirely too long, which doubled as a Fleetwood Mac tribute concert that she was sure her neighbours appreciated, was next on the agenda before she finally bundled herself up to face a chilly Autumn day in the city.

She’d stopped off at her favourite coffee shop on the way to the station and chatted with the young barista, Laura, behind the counter, whom she’d grown to know over the months since Laura had started working there. She’d learned that Laura was planning a trip to Europe next Summer and offered some suggestions of places in England to visit, making sure to get her to promise to not just visit London. With her take-out coffee cradled in her hands, the cup serving her well as a much needed hand-warmer, the late-morning had Rosie heading towards Westsider Books, a favourite haunt of hers that she couldn’t help but keep coming back to. She had no reason at all to think that going to that store was going to prove to be another one of those moments that she could look back on as being a defining moment in her story, but with a push of the door, every star and planet aligned that set her on a course that would change her life forever.

Christopher James Kreider was a self-confessed simple man, despite his career choice and the lifestyle that came with it seeming to be anything but. He was incredibly thankful for the certain level of anonymity that came with living in a place like New York; certainly, there were times where he would be recognised and would be stopped for a picture or autograph, but in the sea of a-list celebrities that called the city home, he was just a small fish and was happiest when he was flying under the radar. The kind of life afforded by being a professional athlete playing in the National Hockey League was one that he wasn’t sure he would ever get used to. Sure, he had a sweeping Tribeca apartment that he called home, he had a nice car, he went to work wearing expensive suits and could afford to eat out in the city anywhere he wanted, but the reality of it all was that he was most at ease sprawled out on his couch with a good book and a bottle of wine.

His teammates affectionately called him the hockey Renaissance man, a nod to his impressive pursuits off the ice, but it was never a name that sat comfortably with him. As far as he was concerned, he was just Chris, there was nothing special about him and his ability to deflect praise or compliments was nothing short of reflexive. His days off during the season were few and far between and he was always keen to make the most of the time afforded to him. An early start and cup of coffee usually preceded a quick workout, followed by a shower, a second coffee and a crossword puzzle while he decided how he was going to spend his day. Sometimes he wanted nothing more than to stay within the sanctuary of his apartment and read Hemingway until the sun began to dip below the skyline, other times he would venture out into the city and check out the new exhibit down at the art gallery in Soho before finding somewhere quiet to enjoy a good cup of coffee.

The season had gotten off to a decent enough start, the chemistry between the team seeming to grow with each game and Chris hitting his stride early on. He’d just returned from a three game trip in Canada and despite the slight fatigue he was feeling, he was eager to get out into the city. He wasn’t in the market for anything in particular but there was a lot of joy to be found in rummaging through old record shops or second hand book stores, at least in Chris’s opinion anyway. There was something so special about a pre-loved record or book, he thought, each had their own tale to tell and each held a special place in someone’s heart at one point or another. There were barely any new editions of books on his bookshelves, some so tatty and worn that their bindings were stringy and the pages threatened to abscond if held the wrong way.

Chris was a creature of habit and it was something that he would freely admit. He often visited the stores closest to home, not often venturing further than Midtown, but with nothing but time he found himself on the 1 train and headed towards Upper West Side, Westsider Books his destination of choice. The first thing he noticed upon entering wasn’t the towering shelves that stacked books upon books but the unmistakable scent of vellichor, that grassy, almost vanilla aroma that felt a lot like coming home. The owner offered a friendly smile before nodding towards the vast collection of books.

“There’s fiction all down here, poetry’s at the back and non-fiction’s upstairs. Let me know if there’s something in particular you’re lookin’ for, I know there’s a lotta books in here.”

“Thank you,” Chris replied. “Do you have any Russian literature in at all?”

“We sure do, whatever we’ve got is on the third shelf from the back there, on your left.”

“Perfect, thanks a lot for your help.”

Chris offered the man behind the counter a smile and headed deeper into the shop, stopping in front of an impressive looking collection of Russian classics. It was easy to get lost in the volumes on the shelves, flicking through pages of different editions, some of them older than he’d ever seen before. There was one book in particular though that caught his eye, unassuming and inconspicuous enough, nestled between War and Peace and the Death of Ivan Ilyich. He reached out to touch the navy blue leather but was suddenly caught off-guard by the sensation of cold fingers knocking against his own.

“God, I’m so sorry, I was completely in my own world there.”

His eyes flicked to his right towards the source of the voice, soft and feminine with an accent that he knew not to be local. Rosie hadn’t even noticed him, which now that she was taking in his appearance properly didn’t exactly understand how she’d missed him standing beside her. He was well over six foot, she noted, and impossibly broad, but the thing that stood out to her the most about him was the unmistakable kindness in his hazel eyes, a tranquil grove of moss covered trees with their different shades of bark.

“No, no, you’re good. It’s me, big clumsy oaf over here,” he trailed off with a soft laugh, a slight heat rising in his cheeks now that he was really seeing her, with her eyes that were as blue as a summer sky and hair that reflected the colour of the autumn leaves outside.

“Did you want Anna Karenina?” Rosie asked, nodding towards the shelves.

“Oh, um, it’s okay, you go for it,” he smiled at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that gave him a kind of softness, a familiarity almost.

“Please, I insist,” Rosie reached for the book and took it from its resting place amongst the other Tolstoy works, handing it to Chris. “I already have three different editions of this, if I took home a fourth I think an intervention would need to be staged.”

Rosie grinned as Chris laughed, the sound full and rich to her ears, while he took the book from her hands and tucked it under his arm.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that now, would we?” He started, his eyes flitting across her features before they settled to meet her gaze. Her grin had faded into a warm smile that reached all the way up to her eyes and she was surveying him with an almost curiosity, one that he found himself matching. “I’m sorry, I know you probably get asked this all the time,” he continued, with an endearing kind of sheepishness that kept the corners of Rosie’s mouth lifted upwards, “but I gotta ask about the accent. I wanna say British but I don’t want to come across like a stereotypically ignorant American if I’m wrong.”

“Oh it’s okay,” Rosie chuckled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “you’re only the third person to ask me today.”

Chris could tell from the sparkle in her eye and the smirk on her lips that she meant no malice in her reply and made an exaggerated cringing grimace in return.

“God, I know. I’m sorry. You must get sick of it.”

“I mean, if I had a dollar for every time someone asked I’d be a very rich lady, but yeah, your ears don’t deceive you, I’m British. Actually from Exeter in Devon specifically, which is like South West England and now I realise that that probably means nothing to you,” she laughed as she caught the slightly vacant expression that had graced his features while she had been explaining her place of birth.

“I know, I’m sorry. I guess I really am a stereotypical ignorant American.”

Rosie responded with a gentle shake of her head as she spoke, “Nah, I wouldn’t say so. I couldn’t tell you the first thing about the rest of the States, it took me longer than I care to admit to just not get lost going two or three blocks down.”

Chris smiled, both at her kindness and the gentle lilt of her accent. “So are you here visiting, or?”

Rosie shook her head again, the auburn waves shaking and falling about her face in a way that had Chris’s smile doubling.

“Well, I’m visiting Manhattan, but I live in the city, been here coming up five years now.”

“Yeah? And you like it?”

Rosie’s smile sparked at the corner of her mouth until it spread like wildfire and lit up the whole of her face. Chris couldn’t help but notice how beautiful it made her look, that kind of smile that was so undeniably authentic and genuine and yet so incredibly rare in a city as big as New York; but there it was, right in front of him and warm like sunshine.

“I love it here,” the affection in her voice clear as day. “It’s so different from anything back home and in the best possible way.”

Chris got the impression from her seemingly deliberate choice of words that there was a story there, but the classic literature aisle didn’t really seem like the time and place to get into it with someone he’d just met, nor did he want to assume that she would even offer that tale to him freely. Instead, he took the book out from under his arm and held it out to her.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take this home with you?”

“I’m positive. ‘Live in the needs of the day’ as Tolstoy would say and I don’t really need that book. I’m sure you’ll give it a wonderful home.”

She met his eyes briefly, her stomach flip-flopping at the softness she found there, and gave him a warm smile that matched the one he was wearing. Chris wasn’t sure what had made him feel so bold. Perhaps it was the feeling of being so completely at ease with her, despite not even knowing her name and despite having known her for a mere five minutes, or perhaps it was the gentleness in her eyes. He didn’t spend too much of his time thinking about it as the words were out of his mouth before he could second guess them.

“At least let me buy you a coffee as a thank you.”

“Do you buy all the women you meet in bookshops coffee?” Rosie quipped without missing a beat.

“Damn, you caught me.”

Rosie laughed, easy and free with her head tipped back and Chris knew in that moment that he needed this woman in his life in some way, the sound bright and rich like the first sip of coffee in the morning or the first rays of summer sunshine filtering through curtains. He was still surveying her with an easy grin as she shuffled on her feet slightly, deciding whether she was going to let her head or her heart reign supreme today.

“I don’t usually make a habit of getting coffee with strangers,” the small smile still playing on her lips despite the tentative nature of her words.

Chris instinctively offered his hand out for her to shake.

“Well, I’m Christopher and you are?”

Rosie placed her hand in his, the smile on her face doubling in size at his kindness as she shook his hand, and tried to ignore the way her heart started to race at how warm and easy his touch felt.

“Rosie, or Roseanna if we’re using our Sunday names.”

“Nice to meet you, Rosie,” Chris said, his tone gentler than was probably necessary in the moment but it had Rosie feeling more relaxed in his presence by the second. “See, we’re not strangers anymore.”

“No, I don’t suppose we are. Alright then, Christopher, I accept your proposal of coffee and if you turn out to be an axe murderer then I hope you enjoy the book.”

It wasn’t very often that Rosie let curiosity get the better of her but there was something telling her to surrender to this moment in front of her, to let her heart win for once and throw caution to the wind. There was something about Chris and his aura that made it incredibly easy to ignore that prudent and wary voice in the back of her head that would usually call for rational and cautious thinking in situations such as this one, the voice that is often nurtured during childhood by parents and adults alike to help keep you safe from harm, the voice that would warn you about the dangers of strangers. Chris was a stranger, this was, of course, an undisputed fact, but Rosie didn’t feel like she was in any danger with this man. She guessed that it had an awful lot to do with the genuine warmth that seemed to radiate from him that made her feel less like she was with a someone she’d just met in a book shop and more like she was catching up with an old friend. It was incredibly rare that she felt so at ease with someone, let alone a man she knew nothing about except for his name, but she’d grow to learn that that was just the magic of Chris, his sincerity and kindness always radiating from him like the glow of an open fire on a cold winter’s night.

“I can say with absolute certainty that I’m not an axe murderer,” he grinned. “But if it would make you feel better I was planning on taking you to Irving Farm, y’know, so you can check in with someone if you wanted.”

That simple gesture alone told Rosie all she needed to know about Chris, the fact he was so cognizant of how a woman might be feeling going to get coffee with a man she’d just met. It was that thoughtfulness and that tingle of curiosity and wonder that had her following him to the counter and waiting as he paid for his book before they both ventured back out into the chilly air and towards the café. Making small talk on the short walk there was incredibly easy, the effortless nature of their conversation not lost on either of them and as they sat down opposite each other in a quiet corner of the shop, shedding their coats and scarves, Chris took the opportunity to really appreciate the beauty of the woman in front of him.

She was classically pretty, he thought, with her auburn locks freed from the confines of the scarf she had been wearing and the slight ruddiness to her cheeks from the way the cold air had kissed them during their short walk. But more than that, it was the way her presence seemed to uplift him in a way he hadn’t ever experienced before. Chris was an incredibly practical and logical man and the idea of kindred spirits wasn’t something that he subscribed to, but there was just something about Rosie. It was a sense of familiarity and a feeling often only felt between two people who had known each other for years. It was a feeling that, unbeknownst to him, Rosie shared too, not quite being able to remember a time where she was able to enthusiastically discuss literature at such great lengths with someone.

“So come on,” Chris said over his cup of coffee after they’d settled at a table in a quiet corner of the café. “You were able to quote Anna Karenina from memory, is there a particular reason for that or have I managed to find an even bigger book nerd than I am?”

Rosie smirked as she took a sip from her cup, eyes sparkling as she surveyed Chris. “I am a pretty big book nerd, but no, I actually teach literature.”

Chris’s eyebrows raised as an impressed little smirk pulled the corner of his lips upwards. He set his cup down and clasped his hands in front of him on the table.

“Forgive me for being bold here and by all means tell me to mind my own damn business, but what exactly makes a British literature teacher cross an ocean and put roots down in New York City?”

Rosie paused for a moment, chewing over her words in her mind.

“A vague sense of wanderlust, I guess,” she began carefully. “I don’t know, there was just… a lot of stuff that happened in my life and it felt like a good time for a fresh start while I was still young enough and brave enough to do it.”

“I’m sorry if that was too personal,” Chris looked at her apologetically, the slight flicker of sadness that had appeared in her eyes too prominent to ignore. “I didn’t mean to bring any painful memories back for you by prying.”

“It’s absolutely fine. All the diversity, all the charm and all the beauty of life are made up of light and shade, right?”

“You really love that book, don’t you?” Chris asked her softly, recognising the quote from the book currently sitting in the brown paper bag by his feet immediately, and with a gleam in his eye.

“It’s one of my favourites,” Rosie replied. “It’s probably up there with Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, Pride and Prejudice and For Whom the Bell Tolls.”

“You like Hemingway?” Chris’s eyes crinkled with his grin and shone with excitement as she nodded in agreement. “I love Hemingway,” he added. “He’s easily my favourite author.”

Rosie leaned forward in her seat and rested her arms on the table with her cup still cradled in her hands, Chris mirroring her action, like two school children about to share a secret.

“I love the beautiful simplicity of his writing. It’s direct but without losing any of the emotion or feeling. Like, don’t get me wrong, Russian literature and authors like Tolkien are wonderful and they certainly have their part to play, but sometimes there’s just no need for pages and pages just to get a point across. That’s the beauty of Hemingway, the straightforwardness of it.”

“Yes!” Chris exclaimed, his face lighting up. “That’s exactly it. Take The Old Man and the Sea as an example, that book is what? Twenty-seven thousand words? But the feeling and the message that he’s able to get across, it’s amazing. God, I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve read that book.”

“A favourite of yours, then?”

Chris nodded as he picked up his mug. “Without a doubt, followed closely by For Whom the Bell Tolls and An Immovable Feast.”

He punctuated his statement with a wink and a smile, savouring the way Rosie’s face would ignite with pure joy as she laughed.

“Perhaps we should compare notes,” she mused behind her coffee.

“Is that you saying you wanna meet up again?” Chris asked, a cocky grin on his face.

“What if it is?” She countered quickly, a twinkle in her eye that had Chris’s heart thundering in his chest.

“Then I think you’d better take my number.”

The weeks passed and autumn collapsed into winter, the first frosts clinging to everything and covering the city in opaline glitter. Rosie’s schedule had begun to slow following the initial insanity of the beginning of the academic year as things started to wind down for the holidays. She’d spent a lot of her free time preparing for her annual trip home to England to spend Christmas with her family, something that she looked forward to all year. Whatever time was left was spent reading or catching up with Chris, who had been equally busy with his work as a professional hockey player. He’d mentioned this to her briefly and in passing during their phone calls, which certainly explained why his schedule was often so all over the place, but the concept was so alien to Rosie that she didn’t feel the need to pry further. Growing up in Devon meant that her exposure to a sport like ice hockey was next to nothing, her knowledge extending as far as movies such as The Mighty Ducks would afford. In fact, when she thought about it, she didn’t know anybody who played sports professionally in any capacity and so while she was intrigued by Chris and the story behind how he came to be in such a career in a city like New York (knowing him to be from Massachusetts originally), she also knew that he was so much more than all of the stereotypes she’d heard associated with professional athletes.

He wasn’t a big, dumb jock, far from it actually. Chris was incredibly intelligent, philosophical in ways she admired so much but with an endearing and quick sense of humour. His thirst for knowledge and appreciation for the world around him was unlike any she’d ever seen and it somehow made him more handsome than any of his classically good-looking physical features. There was an intrigue, of course, surrounding him and his job, but Rosie also knew that he would offer that part of himself to her in time and when he felt most comfortable doing so. She imagined that he didn’t always get to have the luxury of authentic meetings with people who didn’t already know about him and his job, and for all the lovely moments he’d already given her in their growing friendship, she wanted to pay him back in kind by not forcing anything on him that he wasn’t yet ready to talk about.

It was incredible really, how easy it was for her to fall into friendship with Chris, made only easier with each discovery of a new shared interest. Their texts would often consist of them sending things the other might find interesting such as a new book or a new song to listen to. Hearing from him was something that she found herself looking forward to, especially appreciating when he would take time out of his day while he was away from home to check in with her and catch up.

As the end of the semester creeped closer, Rosie found herself surrounded by gifts she had already wrapped ahead of her trip home and a small pile of clothes, the open suitcase on the bed still empty despite her best intentions. She always found packing incredibly dull (although admittedly not as bad as unpacking once she returned to New York) and would often preoccupy herself with anything and everything to avoid doing it, which always resulted in a stressful last-minute packing situation that she was keen to avoid this year. She stood with her hands on her hips as she surveyed the situation in front of her, deciding the best way in which to go about organising her suitcase, when her phone vibrated against her dressing table. Unable to contain the flicker of a smile that tugged at her mouth as she saw the Caller ID flash with Chris’s name, she answered.

“Hey, you.”

She could hear what sounded like a group of very rowdy men in the background in what she could only assume was a bar.

“I need you to help settle a debate.”

Rosie smiled as she cradled her phone between her cheek and her shoulder, using her free hands to pick up a pair of jeans and place them into the suitcase.

“Sounds serious.”

“Oh it is and we’re at a deadlock over here so your opinion decides it, I hope you can handle that kind of pressure,” Chris teased.

“Oh, Christopher, I was born ready.”

“Alright, but this is like legit serious stuff.”

“Out with it, Chris,” Rosie laughed.

“Crunchy or smooth?”

“Excuse me?” Rosie asked with an incredulous look on her face that she knew Chris would’ve laughed at had he been able to see her.

“Peanut butter,” he clarified. “Crunchy or smooth?”

“Wow,” Rosie deadpanned. “And here I was thinking you were about to ask me something incredibly philosophical.”

“Oh come on, Ro, don’t leave me hanging here.”

“I suppose if I had to choose, I’d probably go with smooth.”

“Ha!” Chris exclaimed, causing Rosie to jump. “She said smooth, looks like you’re the one with the weird peanut butter preferences, Foxy.”

Rosie furrowed her brow at the incoherent shouting and cheering in the background as she put more clothes into her suitcase.

“I’m so confused right now.”

She listened as the sound of raucous chatter faded into a faint buzz and Chris’s voice came back through the speaker clearer yet softer than it had been before.

“Sorry about that, the guys can get a little excitable sometimes.”

“Rookies had too many beers?”

“Yeah,” Chris breathed. “Something like that. How’re you doin’ anyway? Things settled for you at work?”

“Yeah,” she replied softly, perching herself on the edge of her bed, careful not to knock any of the small wrapped packages onto the floor. “I got all of those papers turned round and the results were actually kind of encouraging, which was nice.”

“That’s probably because they’ve got a good teacher.”

“Oh my god, stop,” Rosie blushed, thankful that he couldn’t see the interesting shade of pink her face had turned.

Chris’s reply was unexpected, somehow managing to knock her back a bit with the sincerity and softness in his tone that seemed more intimate than perhaps their current level of friendship afforded.

“I mean it, Ro. I know you know your stuff. They’re lucky to have someone like you teaching them.”

His words hung in the air around Rosie for a few seconds while she processed them, or rather, while she started to analyse the tenderness in his tone that she was sure she hadn’t imagined. He didn’t give her too long to get lost in it though as he was speaking again before she had a chance to truly unpack her thoughts.

“So things have settled down for you, yeah?”

“Um, yeah.. Yeah. I’ve just been packing for my trip back home,” Rosie replied, picking up one of the small gift-wrapped boxes and examining it for no particular reason.

“Right, of course. When is it you fly?”

“December twenty-first, fly back into JFK on the fourth of January.”

“I’ll be in California when you get back,” he said, a hint of disappointment in his voice. “But it’d be great to see you before you go to England. Maybe dinner or coffee?”

“That would be really nice, Chris,” the smile evident in her voice to Chris even through the phone.

“Great, we’ll arrange something once I’m back in the city at the end of the week.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Chris hesitated, not quite ready to say goodbye but knowing that he should probably get back to the others and leave Rosie to the rest of her evening. He knew he had to though, even if it did make his chest ache for reasons he didn’t quite understand.

“I’ll let you get on with your packing,” he half-sighed.

“Please don’t feel like you need to,” Rosie replied with the faintest hint of a plea.

“I do because if I don’t you’ll never finish packing your suitcase.”

There it was, that easy teasing that had become a defining feature of their friendship in just the few weeks they’d known each other and had managed to shift the atmosphere between them from something that neither could quite put their finger on to one that was much more playful and familiar.

Rosie groaned exaggeratedly, earning her a hearty chuckle from Chris.

“But I hate packing,” she whined.

“Welcome to being an adult, suck it up, Buttercup.”

“You’re mean.”

Despite her words, Chris knew that there was no truth in them and he also knew that she herself didn’t believe them, which made the playful back-and-forth banter between the two of them come easily.

“No, I’m Chris.”

“Oh my god!” Rosie laughed, exasperated. “I’m hanging up now, goodbye!”

Chris’s rich chuckle was the last thing she heard before she ended the call and tossed her phone onto her pillows, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of his humour before turning her attention back to the pile of clothes by her suitcase.

Christmas went as quickly as it came, passing in such a blur that it had Rosie questioning if she’d had any time off at all. It didn’t take her long to settle back into the groove of things though, it never did, and by the time the frosts of winter began to thaw, the warm glow of the festive season was nothing more than a cheerful memory. Much like the first beautiful petals of spring, Chris and Rosie’s friendship continued to blossom.

Rosie would have been lying if she said that she didn’t wish their schedules would match up more. A particularly busy January for Chris meant that they hadn’t had chance to meet since just before Christmas and it had Rosie wondering just what exactly Chris’s job entailed. It wasn’t really something that had come up during their phone calls and it was something that she felt deserved to be done face-to-face rather than over a text message, because truth be told, she didn’t have the first idea when it came to ice hockey. Keen to know more about the man that was fast becoming somebody she considered to be a close friend, she resolved to ask him the next time they met for coffee.

“So are you ever going to tell me about this big, shiny career of yours or am I supposed to just keep thinking you’re some James Bond of professional hockey,” she mused as she broke off a piece of blueberry muffin and popped it into her mouth.

Chris blushed slightly as he took a drawn out sip of coffee.

“I mean, yeah, sure. What do you wanna know?”

He set his cup down and clasped his hands on the table in front of him, the flicker of nervousness extinguished quickly by the kindness that rested within her eyes.

“Well,” she started. “I believe I’ve mentioned before that the only hockey I knew of before meeting you was the field hockey they made us play at secondary school. So, everything I guess? Oh, and I’m going to need you to explain like I’m five.”

Chris couldn’t help but chuckle at the good-natured smirk on her face and ran a hand along the stubble at his jaw.

“Alright, well. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to start from the top. I played hockey in high school, then went to Boston College, they have a really good collegiate hockey programme there and it’s a good school to boot. I got drafted in 2009 by the New York Rangers then I signed my first contract with them in 2012, been here ever since.”

“So you must be bloody good at hockey then,” Rosie said after swallowing her coffee which made the pink tinge to Chris’s cheeks even more prominent.

“I mean, I’m not terrible.”

Rosie grinned at him and at his humility which she had come to know as being one of Chris’s prominent traits. “And your schedule? I know it’s a bit mental but what does an average day look like for you?”

“That depends,” Chris replied. “Are we talking an off-day? Game day? Away trip?”

“All of the above?” Rosie laughed.

“My days off I still like to get a work-out in, even if it’s just a small one. But other than that? I don’t know, maybe meet incredible women from Devon in bookshops?”

It was Rosie’s turn to have her cheeks flush, especially with the way Chris was looking at her with an unreadable look in his eyes. Chris continued though, despite the thundering in his chest at how beautiful she looked in that moment.

“Game days I’ll usually get up, go to practice. I try and take a nap in the afternoon before I have to go down to the Garden to get ready for the game and it’s much the same if I’m away on the road. We usually practice before we travel to wherever it is we’re headed.”

“That sounds incredibly full-on.”

“It is,” Chris agreed. “But it really makes you appreciate the time at home and the moments of stillness. Why’d you think I love getting lost in a good book so much?”

“Because, in the words of Dr Seuss, ‘the more you read, the more things you’ll know. The more you learn, the more places you’ll go.’”

Chris looked at her softly, a warm smile on his face. “Spoken like a true teacher.”

“So come on then,” she blushed, steering the conversation away from herself and back to him. “You went to Boston College, right? What did you end up studying?”

“Communications,” Chris said as he finished taking a sip of coffee. “I uh, it was really important to my mom for me to finish my degree so I kept plugging away at it even after I went pro.”

“Wow,” Rosie looked at him, clearly impressed. “That’s incredible, Chris. I mean, getting a degree is a hard enough slog when you’re doing it full time, but to do it while you’re travelling here there and everywhere? That’s no easy feat.”

It was Chris’s turn to blush now, too humble and too modest to be able to accept the praise Rosie was giving him.

“I knew how much it meant to my mom and I just wanted to make her happy, that and I was too stubborn to not finish something I’d started.”

“Your birthday is the end of April, right?” She said rather suddenly but as if something had clicked in the back of her mind.

“Yeah, April 30th. Why? You been googling me?”

“Oh it’s nothing really,” she said quickly, face flushing and suddenly aware of how stupid it would sound to him if she actually said it out loud. “And for the record, I haven’t googled you, I just remembered you mentioning your birthday last time we met up.”

“Nah, you can’t just do that,” he chuckled softly. “Come on, what were you gonna say?”

“Well,” she started, her fingers and eyes finding the coffee cup in front of her, anything to avoid the part where he looked at her like she was mad. “I was just gonna say that you really are a typical Taurus.”

Chris leaned forward in his seat, hands settling just shy of hers but the almost contact enough to make her skin spark.

“That so?” he mused. “You big into your astrology?”

“No, well yes, sort of,” she rushed and Chris could tell that she was almost ashamed of the admission. “I don’t read magazine horoscopes or anything like that because they really are a load of bollocks. But natal charts and stuff like that? I find them totally fascinating. I um, I’m kind of into crystal healing, I sage my apartment, I know it’s nuts.”

“No it’s not,” Chris took her hand then, the need to reassure her and ground her in a moment where she felt vulnerable and exposed. “Is it something that I believe in personally? No, not really. But truthfully I don’t know anything about it either. If it makes you happy then it really doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. Maybe you could tell me more about it over dinner or something?”

Rosie looked at him thoughtfully, so appreciative of him in that moment and that ineffable gift of his to make her feel valued and listened to. It was that and all the other wonderful little facets of himself that he was showing her that had her agreeing to his proposal of dinner. She thought about the level of bravery that it must have taken for him to talk about that other side of his life, the side that she knew nothing about, no matter how small or trifling it might have seemed to anyone else. While she might not have had the first clue when it came to the sport or could even truly comprehend what Chris’s life was like, she understood that it must be incredibly difficult for somebody in his situation to forge true and meaningful relationships with people, friendly or otherwise, because when it feels like someone you have just met thinks they already know everything about you, it’s incredibly hard to let the guard come down and let people get close. That is what Chris appreciated the most about Rosie, though, the fact that she hadn’t the faintest idea who number 20 of the New York Rangers was. Every conversation they’d ever shared and every question she’d ever asked came from a genuine and altruistic desire to get to know him better. Even now, as she encouraged him to share that other part of him, that so many others defined him by, it came only from a place of pure and innocent curiosity. She asked about his job much in the same way she would ask an accountant or doctor about theirs.

Being able to have that conversation with her about his life and his job only served to strengthen the bond that they shared and he was incredibly thankful for Rosie’s understanding and willingness to fit her schedule and life around his. As the months passed and summer fast approached, Chris found himself for the first time reluctant to escape the stifling heat of the city after the season had ended. He was enjoying being able to spend more time with Rosie now that the school year had come to a close and he was shocked to learn that even after living in the city for close to six years at that point, she still hadn’t explored all of Manhattan. Their days were filled with walks around the West Village, Midtown or Tribeca and having lunches at tiny hole-in-the wall cafés where they would show each other the books they had picked up in whatever shop they’d found themselves in that morning.

It was that time shared together that made it incredibly easy for Rosie to become a stable fixture in Chris’s life with evenings spent at each other’s apartments having dinner and sharing wine. Rosie had learned quickly that Chris was a capable cook and Chris loved nothing more than when Rosie would cook pasta for him, even if it wasn’t exactly his nutritionist’s dream. It was easy to relax in that kind of way around her, forgetting the strict food regime every once in a while to really savour the beef ragu she made that he loved so much, always washed down with a couple of bottles of Sangiovese shared between them and finished with a homemade tiramisu. It was wholesome, much like she was with the softness of her curves and her insouciant attitude when it came to her looks. That was not to say that she didn’t make an effort, that wasn’t the case at all, for she would always look so put together and incredibly beautiful whenever Chris would see her, but she was the kind of woman who wouldn’t think twice about letting herself indulge in a slice of cake with her coffee or get too hung up on the calorie content of a pasta carbonara, which was a quality that Chris found to be both incredibly refreshing and endearing.

The natural quality of their relationship should have made it incredibly easy for Rosie to give in to those feelings she found beginning to settle in her chest. Chris was a wonderful man, that much was undeniably true and it should have been simple to confront the ache she felt whenever he went away. But if there was one thing Rosie had learned in her life, it was that if you expect too much, if you put people on pedestals that were too high, you would find yourself being disappointed. That was a simple fact of life. People were just that, people, capable of making mistakes. They were not divine beings, no matter how much we saw them as such through our own eyes. It was that idea alone that startled her; that a man such as Chris could be capable of disappointing her by the pure reasoning of the human condition and that was a thought that she couldn’t bear. So she pushed it down, down and down until it was quieter than a whisper. But even whispers can’t be ignored forever, and so with each comment from Chris’s friends about how happy he was since meeting her or each time her skin would spark at the feeling of his hand on the small of her back, the whisper grew, growing and growing with every team event she attended on his arm or every party he asked her along to, until it was a shout.

Relationships had never been something to come easy to Chris, he was too careful and too private; the gnawing feeling in his stomach that told him there was always some ulterior motive was often too arresting to ignore. It should have frightened him, the way Rosie came into his life and smashed through every wall he’d ever built without even doing much at all, but it didn’t. Rather than look at all the bricks and the rubble and be unnerved by the ease in which she was able to coax his vulnerability out of him, he found himself inspired, determined even, to build something truly beautiful with her. Chris knew that he would have to find a way to navigate these feelings with her, cognizant of the need to not throw her into the deep end and shock her system. Rosie deserved better than that because this wasn’t just about him and his feelings, it was about them and their relationship, what it was now and what it could be.

She was brilliant, in every way a person could be, beautiful and with a passion that glowed like the fiery tresses of her hair under a New York sunset. She was bold and sharp as a tack, keeping him on his toes in a way that no one else had ever been able to and he was sure that no one else would ever again. It was late night conversations where they were three bottles of wine deep talking about philosophy and ethics or her reading silently while he played guitar, it was listening to Pearl Jam with her whenever she cooked or Billy Joel when they were curled up together on the sofa, debating whether Radiohead or Nirvana was more influential in the grunge music scene. Hell, it was even looking up his birth chart, even though he didn’t believe in astrology, because there was just something about the way she said ‘You’re such a typical Sagittarius moon.’ Her warmth and her kindness always managed to ground him in moments where he would feel himself slipping, as sure as the moon rises and sets each night, especially once the season had restarted and those niggling insecurities would rear up and settle heavily in his chest, and yet he could tell that she never really knew the exact power that she held. She had his heart completely, whether she was aware of it or not and that was something that Chris hoped would never change. She’d slotted into his life like she had always belonged there, like she had always been there and that feeling only seemed to grow inside of Chris with every dinner they shared with his friends and every time he would see her face in the stands of MSG.

The week before Christmas brought an uncharacteristically early winter storm to New York unlike any Chris had ever seen throughout his whole time living there, forcing the city to a standstill and grounding flights, which meant that for the first time since moving to the States, Rosie wasn’t going to be home for Christmas. The idea of her spending the holiday alone in her apartment made Chris’s heart ache and so that was how Rosie ended up in his Tribeca apartment on Christmas Eve, bundled up with him on the sofa under a blanket, each with a mug of homemade mulled wine. The Muppet’s A Christmas Carol played quietly through the tv, one of Rosie’s Christmas Eve traditions that he would never dream of denying her, although, no matter what he would later admit to, he spent more time observing the gentle expression on her face as she got lost in the nostalgia of it all than he did actually paying attention to the screen. She felt him though, not even needing to take her eyes off the movie to know that he was watching her.

“You’re missing all the good bits,” she smirked.

“It’s okay, I’ve read the book. I know what happens.”

There was a slight grit to his tone that Rosie couldn’t quite place but crawled under her skin and kindled a small flame in her stomach all the same.

“But there were no Muppets in the book.” She turned to face him then and took in the expression within his eyes, darker than she’d ever seen them before. “Kermit really brings Dickens’ story to life.”

“I mean, Beaker steals it for me but we’ll agree to disagree.”

The air thickened around them and Rosie took a long sip of her wine, longer than perhaps she should have, but she needed to swallow away the tightness in her throat from the way Chris was looking at her. Like planets to a sun, Rosie found herself drawn to him, suddenly feeling him everywhere despite the fact they were at opposite ends of his couch. It was that gravity that had her shuffling towards him, crawling into his space in the same way she had crawled into his heart. He was warm, she thought, comfortingly so and the worn hoody on his body felt soft and had the familiar, soothing scent that was so uniquely Chris. Perhaps that is what had her curling into his side and resting her head on his shoulder and perhaps that new-found closeness was what had him pressing his lips into her hair.

There was no way either of them could deny what this was between them, the spark too bright to ignore. Rosie knew that they weren’t just friends, she knew that and she knew that Chris felt it too, that was why his face was turned towards hers, his lips impossibly close so that all she needed to do was tilt her head and give in to what her heart was crying out for. But her head was a cruel mistress indeed and it was that irrational but crippling fear of eventual disappointment that made her clear her throat and scoot back a shade, giving herself some much needed breathing room.

Chris exhaled quietly, the deflation leaving him on the breath. It was almost frustrating how close they were, the finish line within touching distance and yet they always seemed to stop short of it. Chris was there, he was there waiting and willing her to take those last few steps and cross it with him but he knew that he couldn’t force this, nor did he want to either. She had to want it for herself and Chris knew, as he looked at her sitting there chewing on her bottom lip with her brows knitted together in pensive thought, that she was worth the wait, even if it took a lifetime.

The post-holiday back to work rush was one that was felt universally. Those first few weeks always seemed to feel as though there was never enough hours in the day to get everything done and it was no different for Chris and Rosie, both caught up in their jobs to really sit and digest the moment between them at Christmas. Christmas Day had been incredibly busy with Chris hosting a couple of the younger players for dinner and no sooner had the festivities ended he was packing a bag ready to depart for Washington the following morning. They both knew that they had a lot of things to discuss, because that’s what adults did, they talked about their feelings in a healthy and open way, but as the busy-ness of their schedules ramped up, the hours slipped away and turned into days. Days spanned into weeks and weeks turned into months and before either of them knew it, the moment seemed so distant in the rear-view mirror, that it almost felt weird to bring it back up.

The hockey season ended for Chris some time during May, the Rangers making it as far as the second round of the playoffs but unable to close it out after seven hard fought games. The disappointment sat heavy in his chest, much like it always did after losses like these, but he would have been a fool not to notice the way that it didn’t hang all about him in the way it had previous years. Of course, the wound still cut deep but without the festering ache of poison and he knew the antidote was the woman who had swept into his life nearly two years prior.

It was remarkable really, how she came into his world like that. It was an event that Chris had always described as being purely serendipitous but the longer he spent with Rosie, the more he began to wonder if there was something else at play, hell, even fate perhaps. He had prided himself on being a shrewd man, his practicality something that had always defined him and guided his thoughts and actions, but whenever he thought about them and their relationship, he had to believe that it was more than just some happy accident. Rosie was pure magic, in every sense of the word, always having an uncanny ability to know what he needed before he even did and making him relax in ways he had never previously allowed himself to. It was cliché to say, but Chris genuinely believed that he had never lived until he met her and slowly, over the course of the last year, maybe even longer, the love songs on the radio made a little bit more sense and every love story he’d ever read sat a little bit differently in his heart. He knew that he was going to have to find a way to truly make her his, because despite all of the times where he felt like he could’ve just grabbed her face and kissed her, despite all of the unspoken feelings that had surfaced at Christmas, and despite the fact that they hadn’t yet managed to talk about them, the dynamic between them both after their almost kiss hadn’t changed at all except in the small way that he found himself having to stop himself from holding her in the way that he wanted to more often than not.

He thought about the one night she’d almost burst with excitement over their dinner at her apartment when he told her he had finally sat down and read Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, remembering the wind-scattered waves in her eyes and so sure that if anyone was brave enough to enter their depths, all else would blur and they would fall so deeply in love that they’d choose to stay there, no matter what, because he knew for certain that he had befallen that very fate. He recalled thinking that if that was the last thing he was to ever see, he would surely die a happy man. She had recited her favourite quote to him that he thought to be beautiful at the time but now hitting him like a freight train and knocking all of the wind out of his sails. It crawled through his skin and into his veins until he felt it coursing through his body until it had made a home within his very soul:

‘Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every part of your body… for that is just being in love, which any of us can convince ourselves that we are. Love itself is what is left over, when being in love has burned away.’

It was those words that had his feet carrying him to his car and those words that had him driving from his apartment to her home in Brooklyn and it was those words that had him standing outside of her front door ready to offer his heart to her. He knocked, more out of habit than anything, the key she had given him a few months ago being turned over between his fingers as he waited and the anxiety beginning to rise with each second that passed without her appearing at the door. He exhaled before finally putting the key into the lock, certain that she was home despite the fact that his visit was unplanned and unannounced.

“Rosie?” he called out into the hallway. “Are you there?”

The silence was unsettling and completely uncharacteristic, made worse by the fact that her car was parked outside in its usual spot and the fact that he could’ve sworn she’d mentioned during their phone call the night before that she was planning on having a day at home to do laundry and catch up on all of those less-important chores she didn’t have the time to do during the school year.

‘Maybe she’s not home after all’, he thought after a couple of minutes without a reply, more to soothe his own anxiety more than anything else. ‘She’s obviously decided to go out for a walk somewhere. That must be it.’ He was just about to turn away and leave, suddenly aware of how intrusive his presence in her home was when she clearly wasn’t there, when he was certain he heard her voice call his name.

“Rosie?”

A sob drifted down the hallway, muted but no less full of raw pain and anguish that had his legs carrying him towards the sound in big, long strides until it brought him to her bedroom where the door stood slightly ajar. He slowly pushed it open with an exhale of a breath he hadn’t felt being held within his lungs and his heart lurched at the sight of her curled up on her bed sobbing into her pillow. To go to her was instinctive, his soul called out to hers in a desperate attempt to soothe whatever pain she was in and he found himself kneeling at the side of her bed with his long fingers smoothing back the titian strands that had fallen into her face and clung to her tears.

“Ro, what happened?”

She didn’t answer him, couldn’t answer him, in fact, and so he moved onto the bed, gathering her up into his arms and held her close to his chest while he rubbed circles on her back, murmuring softly into her hair to try and still her sobs. He felt the way she clung on to him like she was drowning and he was the life-preserver and pressed gentle kisses against her forehead until her crying was no more than quiet sniffles.

“Rosie, sweetheart, talk to me. What happened? Are you okay?”

“My grandma,” she choked out against the fabric of his t-shirt. “My grandma died.”

Chris closed his eyes and exhaled as the second wave of tears took her, holding her steadfast against him and saying nothing other than reassuring her that he was there for her. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that for, with her still impossibly close to him long after she’d finished crying herself hollow, until after the tears had dried and all that was left was the crippling deadweight of grief. It was Chris that spoke out into the new but deafening silence, his voice barely audible and a little rough from his own emotion that sat threateningly high in his throat.

“I’m so sorry, Rosie…”

The tiny exhale that passed Rosie’s lips had Chris’s heart breaking in two for her. Her reply small and full of defeat. “She’d had dementia for a while… Didn’t really know who any of us were,” she sniffled, dangerously close to losing it again. “Every time I went back home it was like she had to learn who I was all over again. I know that this was the kindest thing to happen but-”

Chris kissed her forehead as she choked back a sob, a wordless assurance that she didn’t need to say another word and a quiet understanding of the pain and emptiness that she was drowning in.

“When are you flying home?” He murmured softly.

“I’m going to try and get a flight home for tomorrow, Thursday at the latest.”

“It’s gonna be expensive to try and get something that short notice, Ro.”

“That’s why I have savings,” Rosie gave a small, almost robotic shrug as she wiped her face, the emotion quickly being forced back down into her stomach as she turned her focus towards the things that she could control to keep herself from spiralling into hysterics again. “In case of an emergency.”

“Let me pay for your flight home,” Chris offered. “Please, it’s the least I can do.”

“You know I can’t accept that, honey.”

Chris had been friends with Rosie long enough to be familiar with the fact she often used terms of endearment whenever she was talking to him, but even now, especially now, with all those feelings of complete clarity about her and about them and their relationship that sat in his chest, it still managed to knock him back a bit and make his heart swell even in a moment as awful as this one.

“Why not?”

He knew that this was a situation where he shouldn’t push too hard, that she would either pull away from him or direct all of that grief and emotion his way, like a cornered animal seconds away from deciding whether to fight or bolt. He knew he shouldn’t push this but he needed to do something, the overwhelming demand coming from his heart to make this right and fix this for her too much to ignore.

“Because I’m not your problem, Chris,” Rosie said, completely deflated. “Because this doesn’t need to be your problem.”

“I want to help, Ro, please. Please let me help. Please let me help fix this.” He was pleading with her and while a part of Rosie understood his desire to make this better for her, the swirling hurricane of emotions inside of her was reaching a fever pitch and, unable to make sense of it all, she found herself directing her howling gales towards the one thing she should have been holding on to.

“This isn’t something you can fix, Chris! You can’t fix this, you can’t make this right and you can’t bring her back!”

She stood with her fists balled tightly, the pain on her face as she sobbed and the realisation that she was right cutting through Chris like a knife. He had never been one to lose his nerve in a crisis, always the dependable one, always the stoic one. He was the guy people could rely on when things were shitty and it was something he prided himself on, but seeing her in front of him, shattered and in agony, knowing that he would have to sit this one out until she’d had a chance to process everything, left him feeling weak and powerless.

He watched her in stunned silence, unable to articulate feelings that he couldn’t make sense of. She was standing no more than three meters away from him but the distance between them felt like it stretched light-years. He couldn’t let her go to England with that hanging between the two of them, that ocean that would separate them felt like she would slip into another universe entirely and leave him with too much uncertainty about how things would be once she got back to New York. She didn’t give him a choice, though, her voice sounding abstract and unlike her own as she spoke into the void between them.

“I’m sorry, I just… I think I need to be alone right now. I need to wrap my head around this and it,” she paused for a moment, a shaky sigh filling the space. “It’s not fair on you for me to throw my emotions at you like this.”

“Rosie,” he spoke her name like a prayer, an oblique supplication that she heard but couldn’t accept.

“Please, Christopher. I know that you just want to help and, Christ, I appreciate you so much but I can’t accept your money, that’s just not my way, and I need to process this in my own way. I promise you though, I’ll let you know when I’m leaving for the UK and I swear that I’ll keep in touch.”

He hated it, all of it, but he loved her and he knew that she needed this, no matter how much it killed him to have to let her do things her own way. So that’s how he found himself nodding and respecting her request before folding her into his arms and pressing a kiss to her temple that he hoped would convey all of the affection and love that he held for her. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to cry as he drove back to his apartment and prayed to whoever was listening that she would be okay and that they would be okay, because if he lost that magic, if he lost her, he would have nothing.

It was two days later when Rosie reached out to say that she was at the airport waiting for her flight back to England, those forty-eight hours without talking to her the longest he’d ever endured. She assured him that while she was still not in a great place herself, that they were okay and that she appreciated everything he had offered to do for her. The messages were shorter than Chris was used to but it did help to make that feeling of distance between them feel a little less insurmountable than before.

June would usually have him heading to his coastal home in Connecticut or making the trip back to Massachusetts to be with his family, but he instead found himself lingering in New York, although with Rosie in England indefinitely he wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t committed to definite summer plans. If he really thought about it, though, really gave it more than a second’s thought and was completely honest with himself, he knew that he was waiting for her. He didn’t want to go home to Boxford and for her to come back to a city without him there. He wanted to be the one to welcome her back, pick her up from the airport and wrap her up in a hug that would have her never doubting how he truly felt about her. But really, when he spent time dissecting that desire to be there for her when she got back to New York, it actually stemmed from a desire to be with her, period. That was what had him picking up the phone and scrolling through his contacts, not even giving it a second thought when he hit that ‘call’ button but the guilt instantaneous when a sleepy voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Shit, I’m sorry. I completely forgot about the time difference,” Chris exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck.

“You never call without texting first. What’s on your mind?”

Chris sighed into the receiver, using the pause to gather his thoughts into some kind of semblance of coherence rather than dumping them all out in one go.

“I don’t even fucking know anymore, Mika.”

Mika’s tone shifted as the last remnants of sleep fell away, taking on the familiar quality that seemed to be reserved only for Chris. “Did something happen between you and Rosie?”

“Not really?” Chris offered, unsure of the answer to Mika’s question himself. “It’s just… It feels wrong, all of this.”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down. What feels wrong? I thought you loved her.”

“That’s just it, Mika,” Chris exhaled. “I do, fuck, I love her so much and the fact that she’s there and I’m here-”

Chris’s deep sigh through the receiver had Mika sitting up in bed, his next words spoken with such a surety as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“So go to her.”

“What?”

Mika laughed so softly that it was barely audible, shaking his head despite Chris not being able to see him.

“Y’know, for someone so smart you really are dumb sometimes.”

“Okay, first of all, ouch,” Chris grumbled. “Second of all, rude. Thirdly, what’re you getting at exactly?”

“What I’m getting at,” groused Mika, too tired from being woken up in the wee hours of the morning to have any great level of patience. “Is that you should book a flight and get your ass to the UK.”

“Just like that? Just go?”

“Yes, Jesus, Chris. I don’t know what else you want me to say, man, it’s three in the morning here and Irma will kick my ass if I wake her up.”

“Right, yeah,” Chris mumbled, the guilt at waking up his friend rearing its head again. “Sorry, I know I shoulda thought about the time difference.”

“The only reason you have to be sorry is if you don’t pack a bag as soon as we’re done talking and go get on the next fucking plane to England.”

Chris paused, long enough to gather his thoughts but not long enough for Mika to be concerned.

“I guess I’ll let you know when I land then.”

“Give her a hug from me, Chris,” Mika said with complete sincerity.

“‘Course I will, and Mika?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks, man.”

Mika smiled into the darkness of his bedroom before answering softly, “anytime.”

Chris had never been to England before and he wasn’t afraid to admit that his geography knowledge of the country was somewhat lacking, so to say that this trip was going to be a baptism of fire would have been entirely accurate. He was a confident enough driver, if he were to say so himself, but he’d have been a big fat liar (to put it in Rosie’s words) if he didn’t admit that the prospect of driving the 160 miles from London Heathrow to Exeter, on the wrong side of the road he might add, filled him with a little bit of dread. But if there was a woman worth braving the complete absurdity of a roundabout for, it was Rosie.

He couldn’t help but feel like he was going behind her back a little bit, using the excuse of wanting to send flowers to her as a means to get her parents’ address when he’d spoken to her on the phone the previous morning. He hoped that she would be able to forgive his little deception and see the purity of his intentions behind it, although he did pick up some flowers on the way to her parents’ house from the small hotel he was staying at, wanting to fulfil that part of the bargain at least. His heart thundered in his chest as he turned into a quiet residential street that the GPS was signalling as being his destination. He pulled up outside the house, checking, double checking and triple checking that he had the right address before he shut off the car engine and got out, grabbing the large bouquet of flowers off the back seat. He can’t ever remember a time that his palms were this clammy or where his legs felt like they were about to give way from under him quite like they did at that moment as he walked up the short driveway to the front door.

He rubbed his free hand on the front of his jeans, taking a settling breath before he knocked on the door, unsure of what to expect when it opened. His eyebrows raised in surprise when an older looking gentleman answered, who looked equally surprised to see a slightly dishevelled looking, six foot three stranger on his doorstep.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Chris spoke, thankful that he was at least able to find his strong voice despite the distraction of his heart hammering in his chest.

“Alright there, mate?” the man greeted, with an accent that Chris noted to be far stronger than Rosie’s. “You lost or summat?”

“I hope not,” Chris laughed more out of nerves than anything else. “I’m actually here to see Roseanna.”

He hadn’t meant to sound so unsure of himself, his statement coming out as more of a question and nothing at all like his normal confident self. The older man didn’t seem to pay too much notice to it though, instead breaking into a smile that Chris recognised as being near enough identical to Rosie’s and gestured for him to come inside the house.

“She’s just got back from walkin’ the dog, I’ll get ‘er for you.”

Chris watched as the man disappeared the short way down the hallway and called Rosie’s name into the kitchen, unable to stop the grin from forming on his face as he heard her voice reply to the man he had assumed to be her father.

“Someone’s ‘ere to see you, love, what? No, I don’t know who he is… maybe one of your university mates,” he turned back to give Chris a friendly nod before adding, “she’ll be right with you.”

Sure enough, no sooner were the words out of his mouth did Rosie appear in the doorway at the end of the hall, all red cheeks and light freckles from the sunshine. She stopped dead in her tracks, her face switching from total surprise at the sight in front of her to overwhelming joy before finally settling on complete disbelief at the realisation that Chris was standing right in front of her in the home she grew up in. Her legs instinctively carried her into his waiting arms, tears starting to fall before she could even register what was happening. Chris was certain that he would never forget the way she held onto him in that moment, with her face buried into his chest and her arms tight around his back.

“What are you doing here?” She finally managed, bringing her teary eyes up to meet Chris’s. “How? When?”

His only response was to kiss her forehead sweetly, holding her against his body like she was about to float away.

“I wanted to be here for you. I know you have your family but, God, it just didn’t feel right to be back in New York.” He stepped back from her a fraction so that he could offer the blooms he was still holding to her. “And I believe I promised you some flowers.”

“I thought you were sorting them with a local florist not travelling across the Atlantic to hand deliver them,” she laughed through her tears, a hand coming up to whack his chest lightly. “You are completely ridiculous, Christopher James Kreider.”

“Anything to see you smile, Ro.”

He kissed her hair before taking her outstretched hand and followed her as she led him into the kitchen to meet her family for the first time.

The next few days had Chris feeling a little bit like a spare part. Rosie and her family were busy with the last minute preparations for the funeral and Chris wished that he could do more to help out but, just like always, Rosie managed to allay his worries and settle his heart by assuring him that his presence alone was enough. They’d spent their free time taking in the sights of South Devon, Rosie relishing the opportunity to show him around the place she grew up and all of her favourite spots. He particularly enjoyed the day they spent down in a place called Torquay, the beauty of the ocean and the way the sun kissed her hair had him feeling bold enough to reach for her hand as they walked along the sea-front while enjoying an ice cream each.

On the day of the funeral, Chris made himself completely indispensable to Rosie and her family, nothing being too much trouble. He held Rosie tightly throughout the ceremony, never once letting her go and whispered words of comfort to her as she said her final goodbyes to the grandmother she loved so much before they exited the church. He stayed by her side throughout the wake at her request. The emotional rawness of the day had her feeling more vulnerable than she would have liked but there was something about the way Chris’s hand rested above her knee as they sat around the table that had her feeling more grounded and centred than she knew she would’ve been had he not been there. It was easy for her to go back to Chris’s hotel with him, the emotions of the day still weighed heavy on her and she couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping alone.

The gravity of those feelings wasn’t lost on Rosie and she knew that sooner or later she’d have to really take a step back and take a good look at her relationship with Chris and what it all meant. It was easier to be dishonest with herself and keep up the pretence that they were just friends because if she let herself think about them being anything else for too long she would feel her chest tighten and hear her heart start to whoosh in her ears. Was it childish? Absolutely, but she’d be damned if she let herself get hurt by a man again. Her self-preservation mechanism had been working like a charm so far and if it wasn’t broken then why fix it? It wasn’t completely infallible though and after two bottles of Chianti and the way the lamplight accentuated the softness in his eyes, Rosie found herself slipping.

“What’s on your mind?” He whispered, fingers finding her chin to bring her thousand yard stare away from the wall and back to his searching gaze.

“Everything,” she sighed softly. “It’s loud in my head tonight.”

“Is there one thing in particular that you can pick out?”

He took the wine glass that she was cradling and set it down on the table, taking her hands in his and rubbing his thumbs gently across her knuckles.

“Not really, today has just been a lot.”

Chris nodded in understanding, not wanting to pry further and cognizant of the emotional strenuity of the day. Instead he pulled her closer, nestling her into his side and pressing a gentle kiss to her hair.

“I still can’t believe you came all this way for me,” she murmured.

“Why darling,” Chris started, Rosie immediately recognising the quote as being Hemingway. “I don’t live at all when I’m not with you.”

She tilted her head up towards him, her lips impossibly close to his as her fingers danced along the stubble at his jaw and swallowed down the nerves that had lodged in her throat. She closed her eyes, so close to giving in to her heart and letting it win, for better or worse. Chris had been dreaming of this moment though, longing for it with every close call and missed opportunity. This is how it should’ve been at Christmas and all of the team events he’d the delight of having her on his arm, but instead he let himself chicken out, the fear of spooking her and losing her too much to allow himself to take the risk. But now, he had Rosie right there. She was impossibly close and all around him and he knew that if he didn’t take that leap and place his lips on hers, he might never get that chance again and that is what had him brushing his lips lightly across hers, his fingers finding a home amongst the loose copper curls that were glowing like hot coals in the low light of the room.

Instinct took over and had Rosie arching her body into him, her hands reaching up into his hair to muss the short curls. Even with her body pressed against his, Chris needed her closer, his big arms looping around her and pulling her into his lap. He kissed her desperately, a kiss to make up for all the kisses they should have already shared and all the words that should have been spoken. It should have terrified him, how easy it was to be with her like this and how easy the push and pull of it was, neither taking more than they were giving in the moment. This was what Boris Pasternak meant when he said ‘you and I, it’s as though we have been taught to kiss in heaven and sent to Earth together to see if we know what we were taught., Chris was sure of it because nothing could compare to how Rosie’s lips felt against his and the feeling of her hands on his skin. Her kiss was heaven and her eyes felt like home and Chris knew in that moment that he needed all of her.

As he carried her to bed, Rosie thought about how right being in his arms felt. It was a strong sense of belonging that she couldn’t ever remember having with anyone else - ‘whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same’, she thought. He spoke her name against her ear like a prayer, all the love and want for her conveyed in one simple word while he removed her dress with tender hands. Her body was laid on display for him like a canvas, his mouth was the paintbrush and Chris knew that he wanted to spend the rest of his life painting a masterpiece onto her skin with his lips.

They moved together between the sheets as sure as the gentle waves that lap against the shore, her hands never feeling more at home than they did running up his back and over his shoulders before settling against the broad plains of his chest. Her every breath and every moan sounded like an aria to his ears and his name tumbling from her lips with every thrust of his hips was met with a moan of hers. He thought she could never look as good as she did underneath him, blooming like a rose, until he found himself on his back with her above him, her hair falling around them both like a curtain and her mouth panting against his as she rolled her hips. His hands made a home at the dip of her waist, guiding her in her movements but never taking the reins from her, giving her the control they both knew she needed in the moment.

It was intuitive, really, the way she was rocking her hips into his and the steady build of pressure in her stomach had her chanting Chris’s name like an incantation. He saw on her face the exact moment that the coil snapped, moaning as she fluttered and tightened around him and brought his hips up to meet hers as she rode the wave of her orgasm.

“I’m with you,” he murmured against her neck.

“Please, Chris. I need you.”

“I’ve got you, Ro. I’ve got you.”

She turned her face to meet his lips in a deep kiss, Chris moaning into her mouth as he spilled inside of her with stuttering hips. Rosie let out a contented sigh as she kissed him through his release, her chest pressed against his and her fingers playing with whatever ends of his hair she could reach. They stayed that way long after he’d gone soft inside of her, content to just bask in the afterglow of the moment as Chris’s fingers traced up and down her back. Rosie knew that she needed to have a frank discussion with Chris about her feelings but now didn’t seem like the right time for that. The sudden realisation that things would never be the same and that there was no going back to the way things were after this embedded itself like a seed, but Rosie let herself surrender to the feeling of safety and security Chris’s arms offered her before it could take root. She nestled herself against his side, her head resting on his chest with her eyes closed, and let his heartbeat be the gentle lullaby to lead her into the beautiful twilight.

Chris awoke to the feeling of Rosie snug and secure within his arms, a peaceful look resting on her features that gave her an angelic quality. He let his mind wander to the night before and allowed the love he felt for her run wild through his veins and fill every corner of his mind, body and soul. For so long it had just been him and hockey, never subscribing to the idea that a person needed a relationship to be complete. But as he looked down and saw his entire world resting within his arms, he realised that he had been right all along. It wasn’t a relationship that made a person complete. It was love. That all-consuming wildfire that burns everything else away until there is nothing left but a new-beginning. He remembered the quote from Corelli that Rosie loved so much and felt everything fall into place. He felt like he’d waited a million years for this feeling and now that he felt it consume him like wildfire, he knew that he would have waited a million more, just as long as he had the privilege of being hers. It was surrendering all that he had ever been for everything that she was, for every kiss and every touch. Her love was his turning page and loving her was the greatest and best thing that he would ever do in his life, he was sure of it.

He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, eyes crinkling with his smile as she stirred.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he whispered against her hair. “You sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” she croaked, voice still thick with sleep. “What time is it?”

Chris looked over her shoulder at the clock on the nightstand. “Just gone eight-thirty.”

“Oh, okay.”

She furrowed her brows again, suddenly feeling Chris everywhere as pieces of the night before flooded her consciousness as she fully emerged from sleep and into the waking world. She was naked, she registered, and so was he and she was blindsided by an abrupt awareness that a definite line had been crossed that they could never go back from. It was that recognition of their friendship never being the same again that had her rolling away from Chris without warning. She was out of bed before he could even register what was happening, gathering up her clothes and dressing quickly without as much as a word.

“Rosie?” Chris was sitting up now, a slight waver to his voice as he spoke her name. “What are you doing?”

“I have to go,” she mumbled, an almost robotic edge to her tone that had Chris jumping out of bed and throwing on a pair of sweatpants, already catching up to her racing thoughts without her needing to say another word. He rushed to the door that she was making a beeline for, stepping in front of it and reaching desperately for her hands.

“Don’t do this, Ro… Please, don’t run from this.”

“Chris,” she warned, the emotion sitting dangerously high in her throat and her eyes glossing over with tears.

“What’re you so afraid of? I know you feel it too, Rosie. I know you do.”

“Chris, please,” she tried to brush past him but Chris wouldn’t let this moment slip through his fingers, not this time.

“No, we’re not doin’ this anymore. We’re not gonna spend the rest of our lives pretending that we’re just friends because we’re not, Rosie. I don’t think we have been for a long time- look at me, Ro, please.”

Chris saw the flicker of hesitation cross her face but the desperation in his voice was too much for her to ignore. She brought her eyes up to meet his and saw a fire burning within them that she had never seen before.

“I love you, Rosie. You have to know that by now.”

She shook her head vehemently, the tears she had managed so far to keep at bay finally slipping out and onto her cheeks.

“Don’t,” she whimpered. “Don’t say shit you don’t mean.”

“Who says I don’t mean it?” He brought his hands to cup her face to keep her eyes on him. “You? Do you think I’d travel across an ocean to be here with you now if I didn’t love you?”

Rosie answered only with a sniffle, the feeling of his touch along her skin anchoring her in a moment where she felt like she was drowning in a sea of every repressed emotion and feeling from the last eighteen months.

“But what if this doesn’t work? What if we’re better as friends?”

“I know you don’t believe that,” he wiped away the tears on her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “I know that you’ve been hurt before and I know that you’re scared. But you can’t keep holding on to the past, Ro, because if you do you’ll miss out on what’s right in front of you.”

“It’s not the loving you part that’s hard Chris,” she whispered. “It’s admitting to myself that it happened at all that is. I’ve had all these defences that have worked to keep me from getting hurt for so long but it was like you didn’t even see them at all, like they were meant for others while you had your very own door. I’ve spent so long asking myself why that is and come up with nothing. Do you know how terrifying that is?”

He kissed her forehead softly in response before pulling back to look into her eyes, making sure that she saw him, felt him, heard him. “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

The corners of Rosie’s mouth quirked up into a smile despite her tears and her doubts, her favourite passage from Pride and Prejudice never sounding as good as it did coming from Chris’s mouth and extinguishing every fear she was holding within her heart. She closed her eyes and nodded, her lips connecting with his in a kiss that could’ve stopped the world from turning. She gave herself to him completely and surrendered to the overwhelming love that burned within her for him. There were no words that could convey to Chris just how much he meant to her but she hoped that ones from Rupi Kaur would do it justice:

“You might not have been my first love, but you were the love that made all the other loves irrelevant.”

Chris smiled against her mouth and kissed away every fear and worry until there was nothing left but him and her and the love they had for each other.

Life continued much as it had before, a testament really to the relationship that Chris and Rosie already shared and the official label did nothing more than earn them a chorus of “it’s about time” from their friends and had Mika looking incredibly smug for the next few months. The passage of time only served to make their relationship stronger, both able to give themselves completely without the uncertainty of their feelings looming over them or holding them back. Rosie often found herself being struck by the easiness of their relationship and she never once found herself questioning Chris’s commitment to her and what they had. When he asked her how she would feel about ending the lease on her Brooklyn apartment and moving into his place in Manhattan she didn’t have to give it a second thought. Everything about it felt natural and they were both ready to take that next defining step in their relationship. Once Rosie’s belongings and houseplants were moved in, Chris couldn’t help but feel as if they had always been there, like his apartment was finally complete and that it was the home he had always imagined it would eventually be.

Of course, there were bumps in the road, both of them had been on their own for so long that they were set in their ways at first, but their disagreements never lasted long, their shared knack for communication often diffusing the situation before it had chance to grow arms and legs. The adjustment was harder for Chris in some ways, especially when things on the ice weren’t going so well and he would retreat into himself or misdirect his frustrations towards Rosie with a sharper tone than was necessary, but she stood firm, never one to suffer fools and for that Chris was eternally grateful. They complimented each other in ways they couldn’t even have imagined, Chris able to pull Rosie out of her own head when the world weighed heavy on her shoulders and Rosie never afraid to put Chris in his place when he needed it. As the months rolled into years and their love went from strength to strength, Chris knew for certain that she was it for him and there was nothing he wanted more than to start and end the day with Rosie for all of the days to come.

Rosie looked at Chris with confusion as their Uber pulled up outside Westsider Books one early September evening. There was a faint glow of lights inside but it didn’t look as if the shop was open and Rosie couldn’t understand why Chris had brought her here when she was sure they closed at five.

“I didn’t realise this place opened late,” she said as Chris opened her car door and offered his hand to help her out of the car.

“I think it’s just a one-time thing,” he replied as he thanked the driver and closed the door. He placed a hand on the small of Rosie’s back and guided her towards the shop entrance, pushing the door open and gesturing for Rosie to go in ahead of him. Rosie wasn’t exactly sure what she was expecting to find inside, but hundreds of glittering fairy lights, candles and more flowers than she could count wasn’t even on the list.

“Chris?” she breathed, turning to look at him.

“If you were to list your top three favourite books of all time off the top of your head,” he started, wrapping his arms around her waist. “What would they be?”

“Christopher…”

“Come on, Ro,” he grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling in the way she loved so much. “Just... play along… Please, for me?”

“Alright, well…” she conceded with a gentle sigh. “Off the top of my head I would probably say Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, For Whom the Bell Tolls and Pride and Prejudice.”

Chris’s smile somehow managed to double in size, the soft glow of the string lights and candles had his eyes sparkling like smoky quartz, the lush green flecks that usually lived among the dark bark of his irises hidden by the low light. He knew she would say that, of course, knowing her with an intimacy that even after all their years of friendship and the years of loving her still managed to knock him back a bit. He took her hand then, leading her along the aisle before stopping in front of a shelf with a dozen hand-tied sunflowers. He reached out and took a book from the shelf.

“Captain Corelli’s Mandolin by Louis de Bernières,” he murmured, passing the book to Rosie with an easy grin. “Go on, open it.”

He watched as she opened the cover of the book, her face softening at the sight of a delicate pendant necklace nestled between the pages. A small silver fern leaf hung at the end of the thin chain, a nod to the many houseplants she had brought into his home when she moved in that he had playfully grumbled about but in all actuality loved.

“Chris, it’s beautiful.”

He gently took the necklace from her hands and spun Rosie around, draping the chain across her chest and fastening it behind her neck with sure fingers before turning her back to face him, his eyes falling to the pendant that glimmered in the low light of the room.

“It looks gorgeous on you,” he smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Right, what was the next book? For Whom the Bell Tolls, right?”

“Chris, what is all this?” Rosie asked softly, taking Chris’s outstretched hand and following him down the next aisle to another shelf. He ignored her question, simply picking up the book and handing it to her.

“I love that you love Hemingway almost as much as I do,” he whispered softly. “Almost. You have no idea how much it means to me that I get to share that enjoyment with you and I want us to keep making memories together and sharing enjoyment of the things we love.” He watched her expectantly, waiting for her to open the book to reveal the piece of paper he’d folded in there. He took the book from her hands so that she could open it.

Rosie’s eyes widened as she read what she realised to be an itinerary for a trip to Europe next summer.

“I’ve only been to a couple of places in Europe,” Chris started. “And I figured who better to show me around than the girl who’s visited near enough every country on that continent?”

Rosie was unable to contain her sniffles by this point, overwhelmed at the thought and preparation that Chris had put in, not only in the trip to Europe, but this whole evening as well. She shook her head gently as she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face into his chest.

“This is too much, Chris, you shouldn’t have.”

He pulled back from her just far enough to get her eyes on his, his face set with an expression that held all the love in the world.

“Ah, ah, there’s still one more book, which if I’m not mistaken is your all-time favourite and you, Roseanna Williams, are worth all the good things in this world.”

Her slung his arm over her shoulders and pulled her into his side as they walked back towards the front of the shop, Rosie gently wiping the tears away from her eyes. Pride and Prejudice sat pride of place in the middle of a small table, the book surrounded by petals. Chris gave her an encouraging look and stepped back as she picked it up, taking a small envelope from out of the book before setting it back down again. Her eyes found her name on the front of the envelope in Chris’s unmistakable handwriting before turning it over in her hands and opening it, pulling out what appeared to be a letter. She took a steadying breath as she began to read.

My dearest Rosie,

There will never be the words to adequately express just how much you mean to me or how grateful I am to have found you. You are everything that I didn’t even know I was searching for, that I didn’t even know I needed.

I never believed in fate, every happy accident is just that. A happy accident. Coincidence. Right place, right time. But you, you have opened my eyes to the idea of pure magic because how can a love like ours be founded on pure coincidence alone? How can a soul yearn for someone they had never met? I know now that the reason I found myself in this very book store on that day you came into my life was because your soul was calling me here.

In you I have everything I’ll ever need. No matter where my career takes me, no matter what lies ahead, as long as I have you I have everything. I love you more than anything else in this world, you have given me a higher purpose and I will spend the rest of my life making you happy if you’ll let me.

All my love, Always

Chris

We would be together and have our books and at night be warm in bed together with the windows open and the stars bright - E. Hemingway.

Rosie closed her eyes and let her tears fall onto her cheeks as she clutched the letter to her chest.

“Chris…”

“I’m gonna need you to open your eyes, babe,” Chris chuckled softly.

Rosie smiled as she allowed her eyes to drift open, her hand immediately coming up to her mouth as she stifled an unexpected sob at the sight of Chris down on one knee in front of her, a ring box open in his hand that looked as if it contained an entire galaxy of glittering stars.

“Ro, I can’t even remember what my life was like without you in it, I didn’t even know that I was in the dark. Until I saw your smile. It was only then that I realised and now I never want to live a single day without the warmth and light of your love. It’s us, babe. It’s always been us and it’s always been you, since the day we met. I didn’t even realise I was waiting for you and now that I have you, everything is as it should be. I love you, Rosie. I’ve always loved you and I would be the happiest and luckiest man on Earth with you as my wife. Marry me, babe?”

Rosie sank slowly to her knees in front of Chris, her hands reaching up and cupping his face as her tears fell. In front of her was a man who had given her everything, who had helped her to let go of the past and right now, he was offering her a future brighter and more wonderful than anything she could’ve ever imagined and never dared to dream she would have.

“Oh god, please tell me those are happy tears.”

She cut him off with a kiss, a kiss that gave Chris his answer without her even needing to say it. She kissed him with everything she had, kissed him with all of the love that coursed through her veins, kissed him until her lungs were gasping for air and she finally had to pull away, resting her forehead against his with her hands stroking along his jaw.

“Yes,” Rosie whispered. “A million times, yes.”

As Chris slid the ring onto Rosie’s finger, he took the opportunity to look into those eyes of hers that he’d grown to love so much. It was there that he saw their future, all of their hopes and dreams and the promise of all the joy in their lives that was to come and as her arms wrapped tightly around him, Chris felt their souls sigh as they folded into one another. Chris couldn’t tell what the future had in store for them both, but no matter where their path together would lead them, it was in her embrace that he found solace and it was in her heart that he found a home.

#chris kreider #chris kreider fic #nhl fic #nhl fiction #nhl fanfiction #chris kreider x ofc #nhl writing #hockey fic #hockey fanfiction #hockey fiction #chris & rosie #turning page universe #my writing

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a-palemoon-sliver · 3 years

Text

Joel and James, the yandere twins

TW: Yandere themes of obsession, control, manipulation. Scenes of abuse in the “Childhood” section which may be uncomfortable for some readers.

So the other day I came up with some yandere OCs, a pair of identical twins who masquerade as a single person, alternating as each other, and woo their darling in this guise. I’m still fleshing them out, and don’t have an actual plot for them yet either, but I’ll share what I have so far. I’m considering making them either White-American, with roots in East-Coast Old Money, or Chinese, with a Chinese Tai-Tai mother and Chinese-American father, and attending college in the US to perfect their English skills. Their surname is thus either Huang or Hale, depending. Either way, they’re probably attending university in sunny California—not as prestigious as the Ivy Leagues, but a better social scene. The brothers are also blond-haired; I’m just not sure if it’s dyed or natural yet.

(Also, for the record, their relationship is NOT incestuous, don’t even go there. It’s twisted but 100% platonic.)

Tall, handsome, rich, and intelligent, these young men seem destined for greatness in life, whether as successors to their father’s banking company or in other fields of work. And their friendly, agreeable manner is so naturalistic that few who meet them ever realize it’s fake. See, these brothers learned early on that the world is a contest, and the fakest people in life are the most successful. Surrounded by no shortage of insincerity growing up, they’ve learned that the only way to succeed is to learn what others want then give it to them. The twins have spent their entire lives crafting the perfect persona to please the world’s ridiculous, contradicting demands, and then sharing the role between themselves, living as a single person. Attending each other’s classes, copying each other’s mannerisms, sharing burden of essays and dissertations, and even dating each other’s partners when the other becomes sick of them; the brothers have achieved a perfect, symbiotic shared existence, an existence which was served them well—until now.

James, the older by 9 minutes, is majoring in architectural science and mathematics with a minor in philosophy. Like his younger twin, he is bisexual, but he leans slightly toward men in attraction, whom he prefers shorter and smaller than him. He has a drier, more sardonic sense of humor than his brother, and can be slightly condescending at times. He is psychologically domineering, and wishes for a relationship with a quiet, mature partner who is utterly and devotedly obedient to him in every respect, regardless of situation or topic.

Joel, the younger by 9 minutes, is majoring in astrophysics and minoring in marine biology. Like his older brother, he is bisexual, but leans slightly toward women, whom he likes petite and delicate. He has a slightly more joking personality than his brother, and is often darkly playful. He is physically dominant, greatly enjoying BDSM, and wishes for a nice and pretty partner who’ll obey and indulge his whims and demands.

Born to a rich businessman father and a high society mother, James and Joel were materially privileged from birth. However the family was not a happy one, as their father provided for his family only financially, emotionally uninvolved and preferring to spend his time on long business trips with the pretty young women he dubbed “personal secretaries”, while their mother was mentally unstable, given to emotional tirades and warpaths.

As a way to escape from the constant infidelities of her husband, whom she loathed but was too proud and self-conscious to leave, their mother devoted herself to her sons, however, all was not well: As an exceedingly proud and imperious woman, within whose mind something dark and undiagnosed lurked, her way of loving was a twisted, destructive one.

Had they been been born separately, a year or more apart, their mother would have likely favored one openly, and pitted them against each other. Instead getting two children at once, their mother seemed mentally incapable of meaningfully differentiating between them, and raised them identically, as if they were a single child. All of their clothes were identical and always coordinated, they were always served the same foods at meals, and when one finished eating the other was not allowed a single bite further. Their mother always addressed them collectively, never individually, and the nannies, maids and other hired help were expected to do the same. Any attempts by the brothers to express individuality were outright ignored by their mother, who always kept convenient excuses on hand to focus her attention on, such as a letter to write or a glass to drink, in order to avoid responding to them.

Once, when they were eight, the younger brother Joel developed a bright interest in astronomy, which his older brother indulged but did not share. Their newest nanny took the brothers to a bookstore where she bought several books on astronomy for Joel on the family-provided card meant for such purchases. When they returned home, the mother questioned the books, a glass of wine in hand. “Joel has developed an interest in astronomy!” the young nanny replied excitedly, not recognizing the boys’ mother’s placid attitude as an act. “And does James enjoy astronomy as well?” their mother questioned, as the boys stood still in fear. A confused “No, Ma’am—” was all the nanny was able to able to utter before the glass shattered against her forehead, bringing forth a cry of pain and shock the boys never forgot. The maid was fired right then and there, and sent away immediately, and then their mother led her sons into the kitchen, the astronomy books in hand. Demanding they watch, she burned the books in the sink with a kitchen igniter until they were just charred enough to be unreadable, and then she threw them away in the garbage. “Now, go take your nap,” she addressed them calmly.

The twins therefore learned from an early age that any individual interests must either be hidden or shared between them, and that honesty was a death sentence in their lives. They learned to lie, and to act, and found they had a remarkable aptitude for it. From thereon they addressed their mother as one, and even learned to speak in unison, in hopes of earning her favor, but it didn’t work. As they got older, they took it further, and began learning how to impersonate each other. They practiced speaking voices, they rehearsed mannerisms, they practiced every quirk they noticed about each other until they became virtually indistinguishable from each other. By the time they entered high school, the twins had made a habit of periodically greeting their mother as the other brother. If she recognized them as the right brother, an uncommon occurrence, they would quickly “correct” her with a laugh or a smile. Except perhaps for an occasional quizzical look, she would readily believe them each time.

Their father, at home collectively no more than a month or two each year, never realized how unstable his wife really was, having always simply seen her as someone with an unpleasant personality, but not worth fussing over. The few instances his sons tried to come to him for help, he grew angry at them, and told them to stop giving their mother lip. It was not hard for the twins to understand their father would be no help to them in any matter.

As neither has ever had a single thing to call their own in life, the twins have developed a bit of a complex regarding each other; each brother resents the other’s existence to some degree, yet they are bound by a deep reliance on each other, a feeling of “love me or hate me, you can’t escape me”. They know that they are the only ones who can truly rely on each other in this messed-up world called Life, and the only ones who can understand the warped upbringing and twisted feelings they share, and have made peace with themselves.

The brothers have never had much interest either in the rich children of their parents’ friends, or in the poorer children they went to school with growing up. They've had friends of course, and with their good looks and nice clothes may easily seem part of the “popular group”, but these are superficial relationships maintained only for their images’ and convenience’s sake. In addition, both of them have had several girlfriends (and in Joel’s case, one boyfriend secretly), yet these relationships were hollow, and never lasted long. Trying the whole “dating” thing out to see what the fuss was, the brothers thought it was overrated. Their Darling is the first person who truly piques their interest, for whatever reason it may be. Perhaps their intelligence in their shared classes shines through, or perhaps a selfless act at a school festival event stirs their curiosity. Or perhaps their natural skittishness, and tendency to easily be swayed by others’ demands, awakens something Dark in them, a whispering within them that, for the first time in their lives, they have something to Hold and Control themselves, something within easy reach, which awakens their greed.

They meet their Darling through a class shared with one of the brothers. The boy’s idle curiosity roused, he takes a photo of them and texts his brother, asking what he thinks. The other replies in the affirmative; they have the same tastes. After that comes the slow, painstaking process of befriending them, becoming first an acquaintance through some pretext (a dropped pencil, a forgotten notebook, scheduling questions, etc.), then slowly chipping away at their defenses and getting closer. But all this isn’t done by one brother; instead it’s both brothers, alternating days and playing a single role, so that they can both get a taste. They coordinate extensively, giving real-time updates via text and rehearsing plans in their dorm room every night to make sure neither slips up and reveals the ruse. It’s a shared act they’ve been practicing for years. By now, they’ve both become well-aware of what the other is capable of when provoked, so the brothers have learned to share their Meals and Toys, to avoid awaking each other’s wrath.

It takes a while for the twins to convince their Darling they’re actually interested in them, even if their feelings are secretly reciprocated; after all, being at the top of the food chain, why would such a handsome, charismatic young man be interested in someone as plain as them? True, they are not gorgeous (though neither are they ugly), they are not rich, and they dress plainly, unlike the beautiful, aloof, cat-eyed boy they’ve been crushing on. The brothers lay the hints on thick, sitting too close, giving casual touches (marking their Territory around any would-be interlopers as well), but their Darling is woefully innocent of the tools and wiles of the Discreet Elite, and trying to play the good guy is endlessly exasperating. The only thing that keeps either brother patient, and refraining from swooping in and claiming what’s His in an instant, is the ongoing feud over who gets to confess to Darling and kiss them first. This involves several straight weeks of secret bets, subterfuges, and counteroffensives. In the end, James is the one to confess, blunt and exasperated, and kiss his lovely Darling, but in return Joel gets the next two days in a row to kiss them as much as he wants to make up for it.

In this fashion, a month or few passes, the brothers alternating with their Darling during classes and dates. During this time, they fall harder and harder for their new partner, and become convinced that they’re their one and only for life. And if their Darling ever expresses discomfort at the force of their casual touches, at the strength of their kisses, or the amount of attention they demand, well, they take it in stride and forgive them. After all, the brothers muse, not everyone recognizes Fate right when it strikes, and they’re willing to give their Darling a little time to make peace with their felicity. Finally, when the brothers feel they’ve waited long enough to consummate their golden, blissful relationship, they spend a week dropping hints to prepare their Darling (and making sure they aren’t subtle; after all, their Darling, as charming as they are, is so woefully naive), then invite them to their dorm room, not for a study session, but “just to hang”. Hesitantly, their Darling agrees, nervous and excited. When they knock on their boyfriend’s door and are told to come in they’re greeted by the sight of their boyfriend lounging nonchalant and shirtless on his bed—and by the sight of their boyfriend simultaneously emerging from the bathroom in a towel, freshly showered. The two fix their gaze upon them, and remark in a single, unified voice, “Hello, Darling. Are you ready to get to know us for real?”

It all goes downhill from there.

#yandere #male yandere #gender neutral reader #male yandere x reader #Joel and James

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choosing-criminalminds · 3 years

Text

One More Time

Summary: Their love was years and years in the making, and even when prison quickly builds back up the walls they worked so hard to break down, Spencer learns just how strong the foundation of their trust is.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!BAU!reader(ish) -> told mostly in the 3rd person, from Spencer’s POV

Category: angst (?)

Warnings: mentions of character death (Maeve, Gideon), mentions of blood (Maeve’s death), slight panic/anxiety, language -> let me know if there are any more to add!

Also, un-beta’d, we die like the trash we are.

Length: 5.6k

A/N: Okay yeah so first post. So…this turned out much longer than expected? This is for Ellie’s ( @spenciebabie ) writing contest/celebration and goodness I’m so nervous because I’ve barely written, much less posted, anything in years. Anyway, I guss I decided to challenge myself to write this? I hope you guys like it?

Also, if anyone wants a new friend, please hit me up because I’m too shy to say hello myself.

Prompt was: “Why don’t you make me?”

-*-*-*-

“Trust has to be earned, and should come only after the passage of time.”

—Arthur Ashe

-*-*-*-

For all his genius, Spencer didn’t know what to make of the fact that he found himself inexplicably drawn to her.

It wasn’t until years down the line that he realized he had been exceptionally aware of her since they met, carefully observing, cataloguing the way she so gently and kindly defied every expectation and pushed past every preconceived notion he had of her. By then, she had already settled in a little corner of his heart and helped seal the cracks in his life that he didn’t even know existed.

But when she first joined the team as an intern, he was more than a little reluctant to get to know her. It was during the summer between her college graduation and the start of her graduate studies, and she seemed too worldly, too perfect. She wasn’t like the girls from high school, or even college, for that matter, who were simply mean. On the contrary, she was wonderfully polite and incredibly ambitious, intelligent, and very much the type of girl that was far too out of his league, one that wouldn’t spare him a second glance before continuing down whatever focused path she was on.

That’s why he planned to avoid her as much as possible her first day in the office. She had, thankfully, spent the morning in Hotch’s office, since he was her official supervisor, but when he saw them about to emerge right before lunch, he panicked, muttered a random excuse, and shuffled out of the bullpen, leaving a bemused Derek and Elle in his wake.

It didn’t help that he was ducking out of rooms while JJ was giving her a quick tour and making introductions, and almost every member of the team had cornered him, encouraging him to talk to her, to befriend her due to their closeness in age. (“She’s only what? Two-ish years younger than you?” When he mumbled that exact date, Penelope had broken into a large, wicked grin, poking him teasingly in the cheek. Gratefully, she held back any further comment.)

Spencer had blinked, a little surprised, when Penelope Garcia, who generally disliked change, had only good things to say. Remarkably humble about her achievements, and not in the standoffish fake way, Penelope commented after admitting she had run a background check on her. Genuine, and quite sweet.

Polite, Derek had said, if a little quiet, trying to see where she fits in the team dynamic. You should reach out, be a friend, he suggested.(Spencer ignored the very pretty slipped somewhere in the comment, as well as the knowing smile shot his direction when he felt his cheeks flushing.)

A surprisingly wicked sense of humor, was all Elle said with a sly smile. (Spencer chose to ignore that too.)

And when Spencer tentatively asked the man, Jason Gideon, a man of generally few words, had spoken of her, however briefly, with surprising fondness, because of course Gideon had met her when she was a child, because of course her uncle now headed legal three floors up, and of course her uncle was the last third of the BAU’s Holy Trinity, of which Gideon and Rossi were a part of.

You’ll get along very nicely.

Spencer was incredibly intimidated, to say the least.

And then when he couldn’t avoid her anymore (because of course they were desked next to each other), all it took for her was noticeably catching herself from extending a hand, then offering a small little wave and a nervous smile to leave him breathless. (He pointedly ignored the look knowing look JJ shot him.)

He tried to stifle the little seed of hope—that she definitely wasn’t interested in him, and her saccharine smile was nothing more than a false front to make a positive impression during a lucrative FBI internship meant only to bolster her resume—but the resolve crumbled quickly. She turned out to be so genuinely kind and sweetly humble that Spencer cursed the fact that the internship lasted only through that summer.

It also certainly didn’t help, either, that the very first thought he had when meeting her was a single word.

Pretty.

-*-*-*-

It was almost ridiculous how well she got along with everyone in the office.

She clearly made it a mission to make the most of the time she had and was more than willing to put in the work and prove her worth. Although she was technically Hotch’s intern and her main role was to assist the core field team, Spencer watched as she managed to get on absolutely everyone’s good graces through a combination of unassuming charm, sharp wit, and willingness to learn and to help that was so uniquely her.

For Spencer, it meant that she happily listened to what he had to say, encouraging him to continue when appropriate or saving a quiet question for later when it wasn’t. When she told him that she enjoyed listening to him talk, Spencer was taken aback, stuttering as he tried to figure out if she was only saying that to be polite. She gave him a gracious smile, ensured that she “quite honestly enjoyed” listening to him, and proceeded to ask a few well-timed and well-pointed questions to smoothly nudge him back to their previous topic.

Spencer stared at her, slack-jawed, then smiled bashfully, and allowed himself to hope.

(He definitely didn’t know what to do with the fact that when she knowingly reached out to his hand resting on the table and lightly tapped the back of his hand, he didn’t have his typical knee-jerk desire to pull away. He also mostly certainly didn’t know what to do with the fact that when her thumb grazed over his knuckles to sooth the tension he didn’t even realize he had, he felt an inexplicable calm ease into his very bones.)

-*-*-*-

“It’ll take a good five, six years to finish my J.D./Ph.D., but Hotch offered me an open invitation to join the team when I do, and I’m more than inclined to take his offer when the time comes.”

Spencer peered at her, breathing out a sigh of relief that he didn’t realize he was holding. It was the last day of her internship, and she was making the rounds to say her thank you’s and goodbyes individually to the members of the team. He was the last one, and he had been dreading the conversation the entire day.

While he wouldn’t describe what he felt for her as anything beyond a genuine, platonic friendship—in the grand scheme of things, they’d only known each other for ten weeks—their easy companionship had become very dear to him. And he was terrified and nervous that her time with the BAU would be just a small chapter in her life before she moved on to the bigger and better things, leaving him behind as a fond but distant memory.

She laughed softly at his surprise, before it trailed off into a sigh. She then took a deep breath and asked. “Do you trust me?” Spencer looked at her, a bit dumbfounded. Did he trust her? Her gaze was heavy on him and the question weighty, a gentle demand for an honest answer. Did he trust her? Yes, he did, he supposed, they were friends. Right? He breathed in deeply, squared his shoulders just a bit, and answered in the affirmative.

As if she sensed his hesitance, his unease, she gave him a knowing look and took one of his hands into hers, fingers brushing over fingers, before hooking her pinky around his. “Because I promise you, Spencer Reid, I’ll be back, right here. You’ll be waiting for me, yeah?”

He looked at her in awe, the dim light of the nearly-empty office reflecting off her kind eyes. Warmth spread through his chest, and she smiled so brilliantly that he nearly forgot to breathe, to answer. To answer. He smiled back, twitchy, introspective, and considered the weight of her question. He nodded and responded simply.

“Always.”

-*-*-*-

She managed to remain on the Bureau’s consulting payroll over the next several years, though she was primarily based in the Bay Area as she finished her graduate studies at Stanford. The team as a whole still went to her for a fresh perspective when needed; she video called in to help on cases when necessary and met up in person if a case called them to California.

He knew that she kept in touch with JJ, Penelope, and Derek, and that Hotch and Emily (whom she met shortly after Emily joined the team and a case brought them to LA) were also friendly, if professional, contacts. Spencer himself was known to receive the odd phone call from her.

However, what had Spencer almost covetously pleased was that they had something they shared exclusively between the two of them, because she had steadfastly kept her promise to write to him.

-*-*-*-

Her letters were as beautiful as they were constant, and Spencer handled and read each one with care.

Her handwriting suited her; while it generally was neat and clear little scrawl, he knew it would get a little freer, and little loopier when she was tired, if she was particularly excited, or if she found herself a bit tipsy. (And yet she still managed to always write in an almost perfectly straight line even on a blank sheet of paper. He was envious, and when he told her as such, he could hear the laughter in her response as she wrote it a little more wobbly than usual.) And while he knew her to be tilted more on the quiet, introverted side of the scale, she had a way with the written word, each phrase poetic and thoughtful.

And they were remarkably therapeutic to write in return, Spencer found. Their initial letters mostly consisted of light banter about their mutual and individual interests, updates on the progress of her research (sprinkled amusing tidbits of her exasperation and frustration), bits and pieces about his cases and updates on and amusing anecdotes about the team.

However, over time, he slowly opened up to her, about his fears, his hopes, his dreams. And when he hesitantly divulged bits and pieces about the drugs, his mother, the headaches, he felt the relief in his entire body when she responded with empathy and grace. In turn, she did the same. She was vulnerable, she was open, and as wonderful and quite near perfect as he knew her to be, he was pleased to find her so incredibly human.

Those letters he slowed down to read, committing them to memory with more intention.

(He kept her letters in the drawer of his desk at his apartment, and eventually moved them to a specially designated box when he needed more room. When he learned that she did the same, he couldn’t help the tender warmth that fluttered in his chest. He still didn’t know what to do with the feeling.)

-*-*-*-

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder.

It took six years, and an additional five months at the Academy (and then another few weeks as she was introduced to the legal team, with whom she would also be working with in her role as legal liaison), but she kept her promise and found her way back to the BAU, and it was like she was never gone.

This time, in her re-introduction to the team, she was a breath of fresh air.

When she approached him individually with a nervous smile, she reached out, then hesitated, and a sense of déjà vu washed over Spencer. But then, she had placed a hand on his elbow, and when she smiled, he breathed in a sense of peace and familiarity, of comfort.

“You waited.”

He smiled back, and in a rather forward gesture on his part, he adjusted so he could take the hand on his arm into his.

“Always.”

-*-*-*-

She was too good for him.

Whatever relationship they had—Spencer didn’t know what to call it, though friendship seem too trivial of a word for it—he knew it was too good, too perfect to last.

Because in a cruel twist of fate, her first case back on the team, however unofficial it was, was Maeve.

He was hyperaware of the neutral expression on her face when he finally brought his fears to the team. To anyone else she would seem serene and put together, but to him the slight sag in her shoulders and the realization transitioning to acceptance were clear as day. Spencer never mentioned Maeve to her in their letters, but later, in retrospect, he believed she had an inkling, at the very least. You seem happier, she had written, once, not too long after he first became acquainted with Maeve, and that makes me happy.

Did it? Then he didn’t want to know what his misery would do to her because then, Maeve died, and in his grief over another woman, he fought desperately to push her away.

She could share his happiness, but he refused to let her share his pain, his brokenness. She did not deserve that, and he would not be the one to destroy the beauty and sunshine and hope she brought everywhere with her.

But when they finally took Maeve’s body away, and when the blurred commotion of sirens and law enforcement and emergency services and constant hammering of half-hearted condolences and check-ins finally died down, he felt the blanket around his shoulders be adjusted, and a now-familiar pair of hands take in his own, firm, and refusing to ever let go. Thumbs traced over his knuckles as soothingly as he remembered, and only then did he begin to vaguely process the fact those hands had been tucked into his almost the entire evening, anchoring him through the haze and the fog.

As if on cue, she squeezed his hand gently, like she knew exactly when he was slowly becoming aware of her presence, and he suddenly found he lacked the strength to do what he initially intended.

Still dazed, he felt her shift, and she was kneeling on the ground in front of him where he sat on the curb, and softly drew him into a hug. Any form of resistance he previously had dissolved; he clung to her, tears stinging his eyes once again.

It’s okay, I’m here, I’ll stay, she whispered, I’ll stay, always and always.

Just don’t push me away.

“I-” His voice cracked. “I loved her.”

He paused, his voice weakening.

“I love her...”

Hands ran soothingly through his hair.

“I know.”

She always did.

“…so much.”

He didn’t need to see her face to realize that she was crying with him, for him—he could feel her trying to contain the trembling in her chest, trying desperately to remain composed. He tried to do the same, but when she tilted her head and let him bury his face into her neck, Spencer finally felt fresh tears begin to flow, and he allowed her to take his face into her hands and chase the tears with her fingers.

And Spencer wept freely, first for death of the woman he loved, and then for the tears and the grief he caused the one person he could call his kindred spirit, his soulmate.

-*-*-*-

He healed, slowly.

There were good days, when the thought of Maeve did not stir up memories of blood and fear and gunshots but, rather, of auburn hair and admiration and hushed conversations on the phone. On those days, he felt like he was no longer haunted by a ghost and could finally begin to move on. On those days, he could slow down, appreciate the small things again, and focus on how a pair of familiar, steady hands pulled him out of the past, anchored him in the present, and allowed him to hope about the future.

But then there were the bad days when her touch scalded and burned his skin. The warmth and the pulse of blood rushing through her veins and the germs on her hands and her life was overwhelming because Maeve was dead and cold and gone. So, with every glare and with every sharp comment aimed at where he knew it would hurt, he finally made good on his desire to push her away.

It was on those days the bitter voice in the back of his mind whispered how it was supposed to be Maeve, not her, there alive with him, holding his hand as they faced the world.

It was also on those days he chose to disregard the regret that settled in the pit of his stomach each time he heard his own biting voice, and disregard the horror brought on by even thinking of wishing she were dead instead. He began to ignore the tremble in her hands when she reached out to him and brushed her fingers against his in concern, and he ignored how she gradually began pulling back, hesitant, nervous that her touch would be unwarranted, unwanted. He certainly ignored the unconscious flex in his hand, the ache for the reassurance and comfort he had become so accustomed to—

He ignored it all until he woke up, one night, to an empty bed, and a sudden surge of panic rushed through his body and bile rose in his throat. She was right there, when he fell asleep, giving him a small smile and nod when he asked if she could read to him, to stay the night. Now, without a word, she was gone, she was gone, shewasgone and Spencer could feel the tightness in his chest and tears sting his eyes when realized that the only one to blame was himself, himself, himself.

Why, he thought bitterly, why was he like this? Why must he try to push away every good thing in his life?

But then, there he stood, barely aware of the tears on his cheeks and ice running through his veins, as he found her curled up on his couch, franticly wiping away her own silent tears and exhaustion from her eyes. He stumbled forward, upset, upset at himself because he made her cry again. And when she flinched when he cradled her face in his hands, apologizing to him, he nearly choked back a sob, his hands trembling as he tried to wipe away the tears that did not belong on her face.

Neither of them went back to sleep that night, and Spencer began to realize just how strong she was, as she gently told him through her tears the hard truths of his situation and where she stood in relation to him.

I can’t fight with a ghost, she had murmured hoarsely, but I can work with her legacy and her memory.

And then, with a pinky wrapped around his, she promised that she would be there to help him through it, but the only way was if, and only if, he let her.

It was that night (or, rather, morning, as the sun rose) that he began to come to terms that, whether he deserved it or not, she—and her pure and unadulterated goodness—was more or less a permanent fixture in his life, and he felt more at peace than he had in ages. And when the early rays of sunlight filtered through his windows and caught her in a soft glow, he found himself once again in awe. He reached out, hesitantly, and his heart soared when he felt the familiar pressure of her hand slipping into his.

She was steadfast and loyal and strong. She was brave, she was patient, she was kind. Moreover, she was alive, she was breathing, and she was here, present, by his side. It took time, and more painful conversations and more painful realizations, but eventually, the good days were a bit more consistent, the sun just a bit brighter, and his breathing a just bit freer with her hand pressed firmly into his own, her pulse thrumming beneath his fingers until his heartbeat synced with hers.

And Spencer was finally learning, learning about what to do with the fact that with her by his side, he felt like he could truly face the world.

-*-*-*-

Face the world he did.

When Gideon died, he felt his hand twitch, and the compulsion to escape and hide tugged at the back of his mind, and an old, nearly forgotten itch made its way from the crook of his elbow, slowly ebbing into in his veins and nagging in the crevices of the back of the mind.

But when he felt her hand slip into his, he felt it abate, the tension in his muscles eased. When her lips twitched into a knowing, gentle smile, he could see the underlying grief and frustration. Of course. She had known Gideon just as well as he did, if not better.

He breathed deeply and smiled back. It was weak, it was twitchy, and it was sad, but it was a smile, nonetheless. He wasn’t in this alone.

-*-*-*-

They were seated on a large blanket in a secluded park in D.C. on one of their rare days off when she pressed a gentle kiss on his lips, and suddenly it seemed like all the right pieces finally fell into place.

And when she whispered those three little words, and everything made sense. He looked up from where he laid, and again he was breathless at how the setting sun caught in her hair and reflected off her skin and her eyes. But then, when he opened his mouth to respond, the same three little words caught in his throat and his breath hitched, and he wanted to cry. He wanted to respond, to let her know that her feelings were returned, but the words failed him.

“It’s okay,” she murmured softly, and he trembled as he felt her hands cupping his face and fingers gracing over his cheekbones, “if you don’t reciprocate; I’ll live. But I just wanted to let you know–know that I’ll be by your side no matter what happens.”

It wasn’t until they were at the door of her apartment, when he found the strength to push past the nerves and respond.

“I do re-reciprocate, and I want–I want to say it, because I do,” he stuttered out, “but I just…don’t know how to say it yet.”

He suddenly felt like a prepubescent schoolboy, nervous and quaking and terrified. But then, magnetic as she was, she brought his gaze back to her face, and her knowing smile breathed air back into his lungs. His heart blossomed, and the fingers rubbing circles into his hand anchored his attention on her. “Then I’ll wait until you can. Always. Forever.” She paused. “Do you trust me?”

Spencer peered up at her, brows furrowed. Unbidden, the memory of the first time she asked him the same question floated to the front of his mind, and he couldn’t help the breath of amusement. The question caught him off guard, but this time, when he found his voice it was resolute, quick, and sure.

Yes.

He felt a pinky hook around his, and the now-familiar warmth bubbled in his chest.

“Good, because it’s a promise I intend to keep.”

This time, the tears her fingers caught were those of appreciation and relief.

-*-*-*-

And then, the sun set, and prison happened.

-*-*-*-

At first, it was easy to ignore.

Prison changed him. He knew it did, and he knew that she wasn’t naïve to the fact either. He was a bit harder, a bit more defensive, and while he tried his best not to show it, he knew she could see the darkness had just a little bit more of an edge. He was well aware of how she watched him just a bit more closely.

It seemed alright at first. It took a while for him to adjust; there were certainly bumps and bruises along the way, along with some admittedly choice words exchanged in frustration, but that was expected.

But he supposed it was the small things, and small things add up.

The first week her hand naturally slipped into his like nothing’d changed, but his grip was tighter and more desperate than normal, like she’d disappear or slip through his fingers if he didn’t. At the same time, he was also too terrified to touch her otherwise, as if she’d break like glass if his grip on her waist was just a bit too tight.

She never commented, gave him space, and allowed him to initiate physical contact.

She didn’t need to know, he rationalized, it wasn’t her burden to bear.

Then he began to hold her at arm’s length. She pushed, gently, and he pushed back, harder. He knew she was only trying to help, but he needed to figure it out for himself, lest he hurt her again. She only sighed, and relented. While her concern was apparent with how she watched him with just a little more unease, she gave him space.

However, while she was an exceptionally patient person, there was only so much distance and space one could handle. When she reached out, worried, and pressed just a little harder, he withdrew completely, and his rationalization slowly evolved. Stop hovering. Don’t need you treating me like I’m broken. Don’t need your pity.He ignored the pain that flashed in her eyes, the quiet desperation in her voice whenever she called after him after he refused to listen, and the increasingly familiar ache in his entire body when he began to avoid and refuse her touch.

It was the small things, because when the nightmares started, it wasn’t so easy to ignore.

-*-*-*-

“—eathe, Spencer. That’s good, breathe.”

The mumbled affirmations continued as he slowly processed his surroundings.

Queen-sized bed. Egyptian cotton sheets. Breathe in. Goose-feather down pillows. A firmer memory foam pillow that smelled of her shampoo. Breathe out.

Safety.

He was still bleary-eyed when he sunk back down, burying half his face in the pillows and ashamed as he mumbled a quiet apology. Her voice was kind, understanding, telling him it was alright as she tucked a stray lock of curls away from his face. When he seemed to settle back down, her hand gentle rested on his jaw, thumb absently tracing his cheekbone.

“Do you want to talk—”

“No.”

She frowned, sighed, took a moment to flick on the lamp light and collect her thoughts; he could see, through his lashes, the gears turning in her head about how to proceed. Meanwhile, he heaved a sighed, and sat up against the headboard. His eyes closed, doing the same as her. She then reached out, touched his hand, grazed her thumb over his knuckles and drew circles on the back. It started slow, hesitant—she was surprised that he didn’t recoil, and frankly, so was he—but the motion was familiar, grounding, so he let her continue. He knew it helped her focus as well.

“Spence, you’re…you need to talk to someone—it doesn’t have to be me! But bottling it up all inside, it’s clearly tearing you apart.”

“I agreed to start talking with my therapist, haven’t I?”

His voice was flat, defensive.

“But you haven’t, and…knowing you, you won’t be telling them the whole truth.” His jaw tightened and his lips pursed, his hand gripping the sheets flexed, and he looked away from her, intently staring at a random point in the room that wasn’t her. As always, she seemed to know him far too well.

She let out a breath of a sigh; she knew he was beginning to shut her out again. Her free hand lifted to his shoulder, rested in the crook of his neck.

“I’ve told you before, that you’ve started to shut people out. I know–I know you’re so, so strong, but you don’t have to face it alone. You don’t need to hold the weight of the world on your shoulders; we’re not as fragile as you seem to think we are.” She paused, contemplating. “If you need someone with distance that you can trust, call Derek, call Hotch, even, but remember, Spence, I made you a promise: I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”

When he didn’t answer, still staring off into the mid-distance, she sighed.

“I’ll leave, give you some space. Think about it.”

She was at the bedroom door when he finally cleared his throat and responded. His voice was bitter as he bit out: “You’re going to have to do a lot better than that.”

A quiet ‘wha–’slipped from her lips as she angled toward him as he shifted to sit on the edge of the bed, hands gripping the sheets tightly.

“If you want to leave, fine. You seem to be doing that quite well recently. The door’s right there and you don’t have to come back until you want to make me a charity case again. But if you want me to talk, if you think you can handle it, then be my guest. Take a seat and why don’t you make me?”

He instantly regretted the words, but some dark part of his mind as pleased that he could see the anger and annoyance spark through her as she inhaled deeply and slowly turn around to face him in full. “I will if that’s what it will take.”

Spencer’s gaze hardened.

“You don’t have the fucking guts.”

A brief moment passed as she took him in full, eyes flashing. Spencer raised his gaze, challenging, daring her, and then, the same, shadowed part of his mind was savagely happy that he had finally gotten a rise out of her, because she bit back with venom.

“Fucking try me.”

And then, he watched her warily as she visibly froze, then deflate, her jaw tightening and eyes welling with unshed tears as she stumbled backward to the door.

“But–but not like this. Not like this. I’m–I’m so sorry you didn’t–you don’t deserve…” Her voice was quiet, but it was hitched with a swirl of emotions Spencer couldn’t pinpoint, and he was suddenly aware of the hot tears dripping down his cheeks. “I’m going–I’m going to go…” He heard the doorknob turn, and suddenly the sound of gunshots rang in his ears, and he could the taste the metallic bitterness as blood and dead brown eyes filled his vision.

Wait. Wai- She was halfway out the door when he called out, voice cracking, and through blurred tears he saw her shut the door and shuffled and stumbled back into the room toward him, kneeling in front of him. Through the ringing in his ears, he could hear the whispers of his name and the urgency of the apologies. And then his eyes fluttered closed when she reached up to brush the tears away, and the motion opened the floodgates. It was one of the many little touches they shared—thumbs wiping over cheeks and hands cupping faces—and he had half a mind to shove her aside, but dear God he hadn’t felt it in far too long; he leaned, almost desperately, into her touch and he could hear her sniffling back her own tears.

Fuck.

He was always like this.

His passive aggressiveness was his defense mechanism; he lashed out blindly whenever he felt vulnerable, not caring who he hurt and how much. It was something she had been helping him work through, and he thought he was getting better, but here he was, hurting her because of it again.

Not like this.

He barely noticed that she had pulled him into a tender hug, but now that he did process the warmth of her embrace seeping into his bones, he wanted to push it away. He didn’t – he didn’t deserve this but now she was pulling back, and it sent a brief course of panic through his body, a fear that she was pulling away, away from him, away from the darkness and shadows that loomed permanently over him. He wouldn’t blame her, but–but…oh.

Her eyes always spoke volumes for her, and now that she had firmly tilted his chin up, her gaze firm, resolved.

“I know you are feeling vulnerable, and I know that you believe you can do this on your own.” She breathed in deeply. In turn he gazed up at her through his tears, as evenly as he could, and she met it without wavering. “You are strong, Spencer Reid, so, so strong, been so for so long. But…but I made a promise that I would always be by your side, and I’m never going to break it. So please.” Her voice hitched, and his breath caught in his throat. “Please, trust in me, one more time. Just one more time.”

Moments ticked by to the time of his heartbeat before he finally nodded, and the relief and the elation in her eyes soothed the dull pain inside his heart. This time, he drew her into his arms and into his lap and sighed as he leaned into the crook of her neck.

Thank you.

I love you, too.

-*-*-*-

“Have enough courage to trust love one more time and always one more time.”

—Maya Angelou

-*-*-*-

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