A/N:
AHGH!
I'm so unbelievably sorry. D:
This chapter would probably have taken a lot longer to write if I hadn't gotten the lovely encouragement from these two people right here:
Dream'sRealm
and MistroStrings
Thanks for the confidence boost, guys, it means a lot :D. And all of your reviews are apprechiated and read. They make me feel SO good. :]
Just so everyone knows, this is a dark chapter. Some people don't seem to realize that this is a dark story, and its only going to get crazier from here. I mean come on, this is Sweeney Todd, right? Right. :D Please tell me if I should adjust the rating, I'm still not sure on some stuff.

IMPORTANT A/N AFTER THIS LONG CHAPTER, PLEASE READ.

And without further ado !(because ive taken so long to update t-t)

.ivory.


chapter xi

Pretty Daisies.

It was his idea to build the chair.

And her faith to use the bodies.

His was a brilliant notion, one only the barber could possibly dream up with his forceful way of thinking. Violet commended him for it, of course; the determination that drove him to such heights was admirable. When he wanted something, he fought for it and would do anything to see it through to the bloody end.

He was determined to finish it quickly, but his mindset was as passionless and blunt as ever, teeth gritted even in silence.

For two days Mister Todd suspended business, taking the risk of losing a few precious customers so he could work on the chair, his device child in a sort. And for two nights, Violet fell into the routine of burrowing herself beneath her pillow, breathing in the smell of decay as the sounds of hammering came from beyond the walls. Sawing, heavy breathing, and the occasional creaking of rusty metal kept her up until the early hours of the morning. Though she found she didn't mind much, since it seemed to lessen his furious behavior towards the occupants of Fleet Street.

When he wasn't busy, he snapped at Nellie, and irritable towards Toby when he dared speak up. The poor boy had seemed to have grown fearful of the man, and she couldn't blame him. As for Violet, he avoided her whenever possible and seemed it a great inconvenience when he was forced to speak to her. Quickly, the hope that he didn't wish her dead vanished from her mind completely. At any moment he seemed ready to slit her throat. And as a result she rarely left her room or the sitting area below when she could manage to slip past him without his poisonous glares following her back.

The florist couldn't help but feel that her foolish actions of the previous night had affected his foul mood.

In fact, of that Violet had no doubt.

In response to his choleric attitude, she could feel only bitterness. It was not as if she did not realize her mistake; no, that she could only pressure into herself. Better to feel anger towards him than those soft and feminine cravings that caused other women to blush and primp until their fingers bled. Much like Isabel and her burgundy cheeks: but if anything, Violet could only see red in response to the kiss, heightened by his rage.

But to distract herself from his biting mood, she worked to escape the gloomy barber shop.

The florist found herself once again, back with that spade in her hand and skin gritted with dirt. This was her idea, her plan, her conception. Her contribution to the devilish plan that the trio had mastered over the past weeks. No longer did she feel useless and weighted; a purpose to her existence had been born, it kept her hands working and her mind occupied from the things that gave her nightmares.

Nellie had clapped her hands in approval when the subject came into consideration, a grin on her face as she concluded that Violet was 'good to get her hands dirty.' Sweeney had frowned in thought, mulling it over in the back of his mind: considering consequences, actions, and her capability in the matter. But eventually she'd persuaded him to accept it, but part of her wondered if he'd agreed only to stop her talking.

Funny; when he seemed to want her gone so badly did she try her best to prove herself useful. It seemed even her subconscious still fought against his every whim.

And she labored through the night.

Violet had heard of farmers using blood and bone marrow to strengthen their crops. But then it couldn't have been humans that they supplied. But then again, these were desperate times as Mister Todd had put it so classically. But believing that the scattered and crushed remains of flesh had once been men made it so much more real. Men with beliefs and thoughts and actions. But ultimately in death they were presented the same as a cow or a pig; just another bag of bones.

This was all so mad. What monsters had they so willingly become?

It had been dreadfully hard in the beginning, to stop herself from recoiling from the remains. A human instinct resembling Isabel cringed at her sickening deeds. But it had to be forgotten, she couldn't keep clinging to that half of herself.

Mustering through the madness of her task, she mixed the remains with the moist soil and was surprised to find it was almost indecipherable from the dirt. Hopefully, she thought, once the flowers start to bloom and they began to grow, their scent would cover up the smell. Or perhaps she could pass it off as a special type of fertilizer? Yes, of course she could, Violet mused, sprinkling bits of water over the pots around her.

And she realized, for the first time in years she was enjoying herself.

Isn't that what the Fisherman had wanted?

"I brought you th' spade an' th' shears so you could make flowers again... Be happy again! I only want you to be happy…"

She supposed that in a skewed way… the man had gotten what he wanted.

How filthy they were becoming.

But even as Violet and Sweeney labored away on the upper floors of the shop; Eleanor and Toby were busy in the bake-house. Nellie's business had increased immensely over the past few weeks, reaching to two or three faithful customers that came as the sun rose in the morning. Though there weren't many hungry Londoner's pouring through their doors as of yet, she was sure their popularity was catching like wildfire. And as Violet paused, she could hear the sounds of laughter and raised voices filter from below.

"Toby! Ale over there, love."

"Yes, M'um!"

Violet watched from the window in amusement as the boy bounced from table to table, a white cloth thrown over his arm as he cleaned up pie plates and empty glasses of alcohol. His dark brown hair had become untamed and stuck out at odd angles, his cheeks pink from exercise. A small smile curled her lips as he joked with one of the men, taking his empty plate as he called for seconds, and perhaps thirds for his friend. How hurriedly they devoured their meat. She prayed the boy would never find out what he served with such zest.

Toby really was an adorable little boy, she thought idly, completely devoted to Nellie in every aspect, hanging on her every word with 'Mum', rolling so easily off his tongue. He saw her as his savior from the Italian and from the workhouse where he'd spent most of his orphaned life. What a dark past he must have, yet so joyful and carefree in the way he performed his daily tasks; and she found herself glad that Mr. Todd hadn't harmed him. Eleanor in turn adored the little boy, and though she tried to hide how much she loved him, it was obvious in the kind words she gifted him with. She cared for him like the son she never had.

Violet sighed, feeling the jealousy slowly eating away at her heart…

It wasn't a motherly affection she felt for Toby, she only associated with him when necessary. He made her uncomfortable with his complete loyalty for the baker. No, not uncomfortable: but an aching feeling she'd get in the pit of her stomach when he would suddenly run forward and hug Nellie around the middle. And the way she would smile in return, gently patting him on the head.

A sour taste would flood her mouth and she'd look away in regret. If only Nate had lived, they could have had a boy of their own. Or perhaps a little girl… she would have loved that…

A child…

Gritting her teeth and forcing back a choke of regret, Violet lifted her spade and dug it into the soil, beginning what would be another sleepless night…


After a few days of silence, Violet rose early in the morning to see exactly the something she'd been praying for. The heads of tulips that sprouted from the dirt were fresh and brimming with life. Perhaps it was the years of darkness, or the unusual addition to the soil, but she couldn't remember the last time she'd seen anything so green.

A smile broke out on her lips with the utter bliss that spread through her body. It seemed that she still was capable of something. She could remember this feeling from before, in the days when this was a daily occurrence; but it had never felt so rich before. Like someone had cut away the rotten parts of her for only a minute in order to let something fresh and sweet to linger on her skin. And suddenly she was caught up in the emotion that she needed to tell someone of her accomplishment, anyone really. Someone to share in this little success was all she wanted.

Violet rushed to the door, the ridiculous grin still spreading on her lips; she, who was so blind with elation, stepped right into Sweeney's open path.

Apparently he'd been leaving his room at the same time, and tripped on her boot, hands slamming themselves against the wall in order to regain his balance.

Violet squeaked and backed up in surprise, an apology spilling out her mouth.

Mister Todd stood there a moment, palms pressed against the wallpaper, seething anger coiling off of him like black smoke. She'd forgotten his rotten mood, and would pay for it dearly.

"You are prone to clumsiness, Ms. Blackwell." He grumbled, hands balling up into fists as he pushed himself away from the wall. With this disgruntled offense on her character she folded her arms defiantly. He frightened and angered her all at once; but she was so tired of his anger. Tired of his avoiding her at all costs. This foolish man would be the death of her, she knew, but that wouldn't stop her stubborn response from crawling out her lips.

"If you were not in the way so often, perhaps I would not be so clumsy, Barber."

Perhaps she should have stayed silent.

He shot her a dark glare, his teeth audibly grinding together out of his suppressed rage. Violet wanted to shrink away from his expression immediately, looking as if he wanted to either laugh or maliciously strike her until she bled. She didn't look away from him, mirroring his gaze with a glare of her own; she couldn't let him see how frightened she was. How close she thought he was to slitting her throat and ending her pathetic existence.

In a small way, it would be a blessing; an act of Hate greater than any sort of Love.

After a long time of glaring at one another, he gave a frustrated sigh and turned away, stomping down the hallway and back into the shop. Had she really won that stand off? She stared after him, the glare falling away from her eyes, and followed silently.

Love? Where had that thought come from? If the florist knew anything, it was her knowledge that she didn't love this man. In fact the thought made her want to spit. But where had that bizarre and distasteful thought spawned?

A moment of hatred.

A moment of fear.

Both can be so much stronger than any sort of companionship that the Barber and Florist could surmise. For them both, there was no way to ever create anything of the sort again. Love… Love came with death, sadness, and longing. A terrible sort of feeling that seemed to cause more grief than happiness. But because it was gone was a reason to avenge it; it left scars on them. Nothing can go deeper or taste as sweet as Love's thorns.

Violently shoving these thoughts away, Violet forced herself to focus on the barber shop. It was cleared of slates of wood and cogs and other such tools that Mister Todd had been using for his invention. But now that she thought about it, where had he gotten those appliances in the first place? The thought of him down in the square again, tugging away the tools from some unsuspecting mason wandered in her head. It was almost a reason to laugh or back away in fear. She decided she'd rather not know the truth.

"Did you complete the chair?" she asked hoarsely, gesturing to the seat in the center of the room.

It was larger, with plush cushions and a high back, curling wooden arms made of rich dark wood. But the gears and levers cleverly placed just beneath the cushion took away any normalcy the chair might have had. That, and the legs were bolted to the floorboards. On the ground, working away from the mechanisms was a metal outcropping; Violet was reminded of the sewing machine she'd seen from a shop window in America. The foot petal that kept the needle working over the fabric: aside from that, she'd never seen anything quite so intricate and modern as this device before her.

In demonstration, he stepped on the outcropping and the whole bench tilted backwards, a large sliding panel in the floor opening into the bake house below. If a man had been seated in the chair, he'd have tumbled backwards, smacking headfirst into the stone floor just beneath their feet. Right next to the oven.

Extraordinary.

The man was an enigma.

"For the most part." He muttered, wiping his hands along the sides of his trousers, as if he wasn't aware of his genius. "Mrs. Lovett insists on sewing a small curtain to hang around the underside to hide the mechanisms."

Her mouth was open, and she shut it immediately, hoping he hadn't noticed. How he had even conceived such a devilish, and albeit brilliant, device escaped her.

"That is clever of Eleanor," she allowed, trying to seem unimpressed and failing entirely, "she is lovely that way."

He nodded slowly, not really listening. And within a moment, he was back in that strange world of his, where only he existed. Violet watched him carefully, fascination edging its way into her expression. But then she realized what she was remembering what she was feeling, and bit her lips harshly to pull herself back to reality.

"How is the… gardening progressing?" he asked suddenly, eyes still trained on the chair that had taken up his last few days.

"Oh…" she frowned in thought, how had she completely forgotten? "I have the beginnings of roses and tulips. I've never seen anything so …" she struggled for a moment, hands knotting together, "alive."

He nodded again, and she felt a short jab of disappointment; her proposition had not been as impressive as his. Once again he had bested her without even trying.

"Good."

She felt the urge to sneer at his uncaringly cold words and the feeling that he knew exactly what to say to needle away at her. Nothing of interest or obligation in his voice, only the tired look in his eyes that seemed to grow deeper every moment. But after a moment, her frown melted away.

It was then that she realized the quiet, and was amazed that they had gone this long without hate seeping into their words. But as the silence lengthened to uncomfortable means, so deafening it was that she felt the urge to cover her ears in hope she'd go deaf. Silence allowed thought to enter, and her hands weren't moving to distract her any longer. And soon the memory of the last time they were alone bled into her mind like a virus: the musty smell of his cologne, and the cold feeling of his surprised mouth against her urgent lips...

A sting of guilt and anger whipped through her at the recollection; something that would never fade from her mind as long as she lived. Accompanied by those fresh feelings of longing: for a child, for Nate, for the barber's company against her lonely flesh… And what scared her more, was her longing to feel it once again.

Everything had been ripped from her aching fingers, and she'd never had the chance to indulge in them for longer than a moment.

Indulgence.

It seemed even when Richard wasn't there he persisted in poisoning her mind.

Her hands pressed themselves to her eyes, as if she could slap away the anger; make everything she'd ever done go away. The action had been so harsh that Mister Todd was ripped from his train of thought. He opened his mouth to say something, but before she gave him the chance she muttered,

"Have you ever done anything you regret?"

Sweeney looked up at her in surprise, one of the emotions she'd come to enjoy most about him. Eyebrows lifted a few centimeters and mouth parted slightly; it was amusing to see him so dumbfounded. But at this moment, even that couldn't sway her.

Her question hovered in the air for quite a while, neither daring to look away from the other.

Eventually his lips came back together to form a hard line. He wasn't going to answer, but who was she to ask? His entire life was regret, was it not? What right did she have to question him, when her own past was just as dark and unwelcoming? What he must think of her... the ridiculous annoyance that came with every recollection of her grief ridden features. Shame caused her to drop her hands to her sides. Violet turned to leave, mumbling a quiet, "…Forgive me."

"Johanna."

The florist paused in the doorway, turning at his unexpected words. He wasn't looking at her, eyes glued to the floor. Had she heard wrong?

"… Pardon?"

"My daughter… Johanna." His voice was soft and harsh all at once, it gave her quiet shivers of uneasiness. Something endlessly tragic about his words had affected her so inhumanly it hurt. Slowly, she took a tentative towards him; wanting him to continue as he'd never opened up to her before. She'd wanted a way into his mind, and now she hoped he was giving her an invitation of welcome.

"My dear… little Johanna," he continued," has been locked in that Judge's home for so long. Alone. I left her there to rot with him; all those years trapped in those stone walls… I should have been there to prevent that from happening. Should have taken my family away before any of this had happened. And my wife to be so lost that she'd swallow arsenic to escape her life." A hand reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut.

"...And yet, I cannot help but wonder… if she looks like her."

Violet knew immediately who he was referring to. Who else but Lucy? If she had pale glowing skin, or long yellow hair that spilled down her back in waves of sunlight. If she was delicate and pixie-like, with ocean blue eyes that seemed to take in everything at once and find it infinitely sad. Violet herself could almost see the girl, a shadow of her mother, with only inflections of her father.

"I'll reckon she does." She heard herself whisper.

Was it comforting? She couldn't be sure, Violet had always been rubbish at comfort. Funny that she should be the one to ease the Demon Barber into a better mood.

Again he looked up at her with curiosity, an ironic smirk spreading across his thin lips that portrayed his better side perfectly, "You never cease to intrigue me, Miss Blackwell."

A surge of pleasure flowered in her chest at his compliment, but not small enough to realize it to be the first praise he'd ever gifted her with. His mood swings were uncontrollable, and at the same time, one of his best qualities. She smiled at him, lips cracking slightly, "And you barber, never cease to cause me grief."


The piano music that filtered through the air was high and cheery, unfamiliar to Isabel, but that only made it more entrancing. She smiled at it, allowing her eyes to flutter shut for a fraction of a second, if only to enjoy it more. Slowly she leaned her head out into the corridor, calculating from which of the dozens of doors the music could be coming from.

It really was a beautiful estate, she thought, stepping out onto the plush red rug that ran lengthwise down the hallway. The walls were of a dark wood, portraits of unfamiliar family members lined them; unsmiling Turpins' from years past staring down at the florist with something of contempt in their brooding eyes. Was she so wrong to them?

No matter how many times Isabel visited, they never seemed to see her welcome.

She paused in front of one of the bedroom doorways, the entrance hanging open to reveal the source of the bewitching music.

Nathaniel sat with his back to her, his fingers stroking the keys of a highly polished Grand Piano, positioned near a large glass window. The rare sunlight that streamed in through the glass lit up his dirty blonde hair that lay uncombed and messy from sleep. He was wearing a gray duster, covering up his night clothes that were surely underneath. How charming he could be without even trying, she thought in amusement.

Isabel smiled at the scene and how calm it appeared to be. To a stranger, it might have been a Christmas Morning, or perhaps a few days into a Honeymoon, or maybe the day of a child's birth. No one could have guessed it to be the day of a funeral.

He must have heard her, because suddenly the music stopped, leaving her hanging and leaning on the balls of her feet. He turned on the bench in surprise, and she confirmed the light blue sleepwear that he wore underneath the large coat. He broke into an uneasy smile, "Good morning, Isabel."

"Morning…" she mumbled, padding her way awkwardly into his bedroom. It was a comfortable place, with clothes lying about and books stacked in uneven piles around his unmade bed. Her parents would have been horrified of her walking into a man's bedroom in a nightgown; but at the same time it made her smile to know that his mother must hate his general untidiness to begin with.

"Did you sleep well?"

She nodded fervently, "Thank you so much for allowing me and my mother to spend the night. We cannot pay-"

He stood up, chuckling a little as he ran a hand through his already messy hair, "Don't do that to me, Isabel; you know me better than to ask for your money. We couldn't have left you in that house with-"

His voice cracked at the end of his statement, and he found himself unable to continue. Bewildered, he stared down at his feet, cheeks growing steadily red. Isabel bit her lip, at a loss as to how to comfort him; nothing she could say could blunt the blow of her father's death.

"Funny," he said, smiling grimly, "you should be the one who mourns and yet I am the one who cannot speak a word…"

Miss Redwood struggled to answer him yet again, only able to look at him sadly.

"Isabel…" he went on, taking slow steps towards her, "Have you ever… Have you ever done anything you regret?"

She frowned, walking forward and wrapping her arms around his thin waist, cheek resting against his chest, "…Yes." She whispered, "I have done many things I regret. But why are you asking me this?"

He was silent for a long time, even after leaning his cheek against her forehead, breathing in her midnight scent. What could have him so ruffled; as far as she knew, he hadn't been particularly fond of her father. And he definitely resented Nathaniel. But perhaps it was the idea of death that caused him discomfort. She thought he wouldn't answer, so she began to pull away, but felt him only tighten his grip around her waist. And his words spilt so quickly out of his mouth she could barely catch them,

"Isabel, please listen to me, I don't know if you will hate me after this but I cannot keep my confession to myself." He took a deep breath, as one might before submerging themselves in water. "Last Tuesday, when you and your mother went to market and your father was at home in his study…still alive… I came and spoke with him."

She tried to wrench backwards, but he wouldn't let her, arms like bars against the flesh of her back. What? She hadn't heard of this before.

"Please believe me when I say that I didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't want him to think any different of me. You see, when I arrived at your home he was already… intoxicated; must have been at least halfway through the bottle on his desk. But I still felt that I should ask him. 'Perhaps even in his state he might understand,' I thought, 'if I asked properly for your hand in marriage." He chuckled lowly, stumbling over his words now.

Her mind was blank, every word he spoke taking meaning only in a small way. Emotions on the brink of tumbling over as she tried to make sense of his troubling words.

"He said no, of course, I knew he would. And that was why I brought the pistol, to show him that I was capable of taking care of you."

She forced herself away from him, mouth open in horror as what he said seemed to slide into place. This could not be! Hurt flashed across his boyish face; but he continued, his voice raising in pitch.

"He yelled at me, saying how immature and incapable I was. And…" he pressed his hands to his eyes, as if wishing he could block the whole world out, block out the terrified expression of his fiancé. "And I told him that I could take care of you better than he had. He had this sad sort of look in his eyes… as if he believed me. And before I could stop him… he took the revolver from me and … and Isabel he took his own life!"

Nate turned away from her, collapsing onto the piano bench and burying his face in his hands.

There was a long and painful silence. Emotions and heat wafted through the air like a noxious gas, knowledge of her fiance's sin had opened a seed inside her heart. One of repentance and sorrow that was far too much to compare to that of her mother's.

"…I forgive you." She whispered.The hurt was so fresh in her bones that the words uttered were so painful it caused her to wince.

He looked up at her in disbelief, his mouth partly open, as if he was sure he'd heard her wrong. "It wasn't your fault Nate…" Isabel knelt at his feet, her hands resting on his thighs as he avoided her eyes at all costs. "It is true that I feel no remorse for my Father's death. And if you hadn't had a gun… I am sure he would have done it in some other fashion. I forgive you, my darling."

She hugged him then, burrowing her face in the crook of his neck and breathing in as much of him as she could. Trying to convince herself as much as Nathaniel, and praying that it would work, "I forgive you."


Henry was smart.

People perhaps didn't realize it, because he was poor and couldn't feed himself every day. Because he sometimes took shelter in the church alleyway, where he could hide behind his beliefs, and only rarely took strangers pocket money. But he was clever, and saw things regular Londoners on the street wouldn't count as important.

Like the large black carriage tarrying outside of the Turpin estate.

Henry mused at its appearance, readjusting the cap on his head so his red curls wouldn't hang in his eyes. The carriages for the Turpin's were usually a dark brown color, with the family seal embossed on the side door. But this one was much larger and inky black with yellow tassels hanging from the curtains, he could tell, even in the darkness of night.

This could have been a family member, or someone visiting from the Justice Building, but the boy knew better. On this side of London, there was only one place where the business sported black carriages.

As Henry watched, the Beadle pushed open the front door of the house, dragging the girl towards the carriage. Despite the dim gas lamps lighting the walkway, he could tell it was the pretty lady with yellow hair. He'd seen her from the window. But her beauty was marred by her screams of protest as she was forced head first into carriage.

Henry gasped, dropping one of his bibles into the puddle at his feet. What were they going to do with her?

"Let me go!" she shrieked, and he could hear the Beadle's laughter as he slammed the door shut and climbed into the driver's seat. The Judge appeared in the front door, watching grimly as the carriage pulled away from his tall figure and rumbled down the cobblestone road. Henry shrunk at his appearance, hiding himself behind the corner of the building.

God in Heaven, hear my prayer, don't let him see me.

"Johanna!" A boy ran out from somewhere along the street, long blond hair flitting about his handsome face as he dashed after her screams. It was the sailor boy, the one who'd taken mercy on him only this morning; sparing a few cents from his bag. Henry knew, because he never forgot the face of someone who'd shown kindness.

But the sailor was too slow, and settled for the Judge, rage ripping out his throat, "Tell me where you're taking her or I swear I'll-"

"You'd kill me boy! Here I stand!" Turpin spat, spreading his arms at his sides, "Let her ponder her sin of leaving me, for you will never find her! If I cannot marry her, neither shall anyone else in this God Forsaken city!"

The shipmate shook his head in anger and disbelief, leaving the man behind so he could run after the carriage, "Johanna!" he yelled, disappearing down the road. He'd never catch it.

Where were they taking the girl? He watched the Judge saunter back inside the estate, slamming the door behind him. The seafarer was too slow to catch up, and he didn't know the owners of the carriage like Henry. They would hurt her where they were taking her, he knew, and he didn't want the pretty girl to be hurt.

Gritting his teeth in determination, Henry dropped both the bibles into the dirt and chased after the sailor, begging his Father in Heaven to grant him light feet.


A/N:

Yeah... I'm not too sure how I feel about this chapter. I know not a lot happened, but I think we needed a cool down after the last crazy chapter x]. But i needed to put something up after so long, so this is what you get. I need to answer some questions here that you guys were asking, so please bare with me, kay? :D

Reader: "WHY DID IT TAKE YOU SO LONG TO UPDATE, IVORY?"

Me: "Well, I hope you'll forgive me for this lame excuse, but I am having to move from my current location. I had to box things up and write this chapter in my spare time, which was far and few between. I should be actually leaving in a week or so, but I will try to write when I can. I swear. :l."

Reader: How romance-ee is this going to get?

Me: Well if you're looking for strictly steamy stuff, this isn't the place to find it, folks. :P. Yes there will DEFINITELY be more romance in the future, I can assure you of that, dear readers. But this fic isn't going to turn into one of THOSE fictions. Mr. Todd is not lovey-dovey and fluffy and cute. He's gritty and dark and his heart is broken. He's not going to fall in love with Violet straight away. And the same with her, although I'm steadily following that path.

Reader: Do you always write things that are so dark and scary?

Me: Quite the contrary. Razors and Thorns is the darkest thing Ive ever written. I am a fan of Tim Burton and his works, but no not everything is so bloody and sad. If you'll check out my profile page, you'll see some of the things I love. I'm planning on having a poll when I'm finished with this story so you guys can vote on what I write next :D.

Anyways, hope this answered some of your questions, and PLEASE review. I really REALLY love to know what you guys are thinking. Even if you think your review would be pointless and not worth your time, please know that it really helps me. I read all of them. And I'll answer ANY PM's that are thrown my way.
Because, heck, I love you all ;D.
.ivory.