#except for when click beetles interfere

[swyllh]

If you're still up for requests! 33 + seungcheol thanks in advance 🙆🏻

premise: falling in love with a god is never easy. 

pairing: seungcheol x reader

genre: magic au

note: sorry this took super long!! 

think of it as a lesson in folly: to love is not the same as falling into it. to love a god means worship; prayers padded between clasped palms, lavish offerings from dollar stores, incense so thick that devoted eyes never fail to weep.

to fall in love with a god, however - 

the boy, cryptic and muddy, stumbles up to you. his hair is the deepest shade of black you have seen, but also the lightest, when it gleams blue under the tilt of the forest light. 

"who're you?" he says.

you frown, because a) that's kind of rude of him, and b) you were here first, so shouldn't you be asking that?

"you first."

"i asked first!"

"yeah, but i was here first."

"yeah, well this land is mine!"

you pause at that, and the boy flushes up to his ears. he murmurs a correction you don't really hear, and folds his arms resolutely.

with a blustering sort of pride, he says, "so?"

"[y/n]. now you have to tell me yours."

"...seungcheol," the boy says softly, and then perks up. "hey, wanna see something cool?"

narrowing your eyes, you shake your head. "nope."

"what?" his face falls. "why?"

"because you're all muddy, and i don't know you." you throw your nose up in the air, reminiscent of all the statues you've seen in the nearby temple.

seungcheol frowns. "but you know my name!"

... well, he's got a point, and you're sure you can always kick him if he's one of those weirdos. but at least he found you first, so that's a plus for him.

"fine." you concede.

seungcheol's grin stretches wider, and you can't help but smile along.

"then close your eyes and hold out your hand!"

you pause, wary. but he's just a child, like you, and you do think you could really kick him where it hurts. if anything.

so you do, pursing your lips and making a show of how generous you are to trust him. the leaves beneath you crinkle, and his warm hands close over yours. the thing is... hard. but also kind of light and fragile and you open your eyes

"aHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-" you let go, shaking your hands frantically. "what- is that a bug?"

seungcheol's kneeling on the ground, grubby hands searching for that godforsaken monster. he's almost as upset as you are.

"why'd you let go!" he huffs. "that was a really, really rare beetle!"

so he wasn't playing a prank then. "i'm sorry... but you scared me!"

seungcheol looks up, and notices the watery well of your eyes. jumping up, he presses his muddy thumb to your cheeks, wiping away the wetness. you shove him away, and press your face against your shoulder.

"i'm sorry too. i didn't think you would be scared."

you pout, but relent. "let's go catch more then."

"what?"

"bugs. those things. but you're gonna catch them. not me."

his eyes widen, shining bright in the afternoon light. the black of his pupils seem to gleam, shifting into browns and bronze.

when his muddy hand reaches out for your arm, the rest becomes history.

-

seungcheol stays for the summer, coming up to you with his weird beetle collection (that he eventually set free under your nagging insistence). but after that, you don't really see much of him - more people come to pray for a shorter winter, and some paranormal investigators come to scope out the local temple. you figure they're feeding off local gossip and supposed sightings - when really, it's just you and seungcheol marching around laughing, playing stupid pranks on tourists. there's also the talk of some big city corporation investing in this place, so all that adult interference kind of makes sense. in its odd little way.

meanwhile, you replace the burnt-out joss sticks and tidy up the temple a little, keeping things clean and neat. maybe next time seungcheol will come here too and look at the statues that grin the way he does. time passes so differently when he's not around.

-

as the trees start falling, your body begins to ache, accommodating all the new changes of growth. you spring up a little, but your knees still hurt - the extra length leaves you awkward, and you feel a little faint and disoriented with the changing angle.

there's also the dizzy grind of machinery rounding up the area, but you suppose the temple's safe for now.

seungcheol comes back in the summer again, and the two of you marvel at the cooling calm of the forest. it's less noisy, like a secret between the two of you.

seungcheol frowns at your growth. "why are you so tall?"

you shrug. "you've grown a bit too."

"but you look so different," seungcheol continues to grumble.

a sudden stab of fear drives itself through your chest. "did you forget about me?"

"no!" seungcheol looks up, and flushes up to his ears again. "i wouldn't. never."

you pout, childishly folding your arms - except they don't really fit, and 

seungcheol's trying to hide a giggle. "don't think i didn't notice that you never said my name!"

seungcheol shrugs. "[y/n]."

you don't see it, but you can definitely feel a bit more colour coming into your face. there's a rush of something clambering in your chest, fast and wild.

you think you like it when he says your name. "say it more."

seungcheol jolts. "w-what?"

"you should," you trail off, realising exactly how awkward the request sounds, "say my name?"

seungcheol is a bright pink this time. but he nods.

"it's like, something goes on inside me, and," you pause, trying to articulate the sort of life that springs within you when he says your name. "like, it's warm, and makes me awake."

seungcheol nods, and lowers his gaze to pick at flowers. (flowers, that he will eventually press into your hands. that you will fumble with, and feel the burn of something bright bloom within you. the sudden stream of excess energy threatens to overflow, but you hold it in. everything is electric, and preens in short, powerful flashes.)  

-

everything dulls when he leaves, but sometimes you feel a stinging thrill run down your back - it leaves you much more alert and receptive and ready.

you ignore the gnashing - of townsfolk, of invaders - from the borders of the land. even the speculation of tearing down the temple doesn't get to you.

-

"you're here," are seungcheol's first words to you - in equal parts relief and fear.

you raise an eyebrow. "why wouldn't i be?"

he's later than usual, and decked out in the stiffer lines of a suit. you try not to stare. instead, you pluck the joss sticks out of their pots and dust away the ashes.

"you shouldn't be," he says. "they'll get you for trespassing, and besides, the temple's going down."

"what?"

"didn't you hear? they were already working on -"

"no, 'trespassing'. why would i be trespassing?"

seungcheol shoots you a disbelieving look. "my family owns the land. we bought it a few years back."

you shake your head.

"you can't keep coming back," seungcheol presses on, clearly uncomfortable. 

"you have to go home soon."

"i was here first," you say.

"don't be -"

you glare, daring him to continue. "i was here first. i was always here."

he looks at you strangely. and opens his mouth to say something.

"seungcheol? what are you doing alone?"

the both of you turn to face a new intruder. the lady's also in a suit, except she's got a few leaves trapped in her hair.

seungcheol, confused, glances back at you, and then towards the exit. "what do you mean alone?"

the lady quirks her head. "what, there's no one else besides us."

suddenly, everything clicks into place - the gnashing, the talk, the falling trees. you really don't want to see seungcheol again. the winds roar, pushing the two out of the temple, sealing its doors with a resounding crash.

-

his doubt takes a toll on you.

but gods do not die so easily - they live on even after their temples fade.

-

"[y/n]. [y/n]." and then, "[y/n]."

looking up is a little hard, but you manage. pushing a palm against the ashes, you rise. greedily, you drink in the sound of your name, even if it is a little hesitant.

"please come out," seungcheol says. "i don't - [y/n]?"

you look him over, and pull a leaf from his hair. "losing your touch."

seungcheol scoffs, and makes to retort, but thinks the better of it.

you laugh, not uncruelly. "so what, construction's going well?"

"i -" seungcheol pauses. "i'm going to stop it."

"how?" you draw yourself to your full height. "by directing it towards another god?"

he swallows. "no, i-"

"you mortals," you say softly, silencing him, "come and go, but you never learn to stop."

seungcheol looks up at you, doe-eyed and worried. the boy from so many summers ago has never changed.

alright then. "fine. i'll let you have the temple. but i want an offering worth my consideration."

-

no one really comes around anymore. there's the occasional prayer from some of the workers around, but ever since seungcheol came around, the temple fell into disuse. maybe that's why you shrunk so small then, and slowly built yourself up then.

you're dusting away the finer bits of dirt on the top column when someone lights a bundle of incense and stabs them into place. the group of people invading the area seem to be from seungcheol's company, but he's not there.

you scoff at their minute offerings of tangerines and other flammable paintings. someone mutters a prayer about letting the deconstruction go smoothly.jealously, sulkily, you blow out their candles, and huff the ashes into their eyes. a few run out of the temple, convinced of their guilt, and the rest soon follow in less dignified stammers.

-

"so?" you raise an eyebrow, glancing at the clear night sky before you. "are you here to offer something?"

seungcheol turns to you. he's not proud of the carnage before him either - fallen trees, ugly metal scraps sprouting from the ground.

"close your eyes and hold out your hands," he says calmly, but you can hear his hesitation.

maybe he's here to kill you - you know of people who've tried to kill gods. but maybe not. you shut your eyes, even if you're listening hard.

his palms are warm as always, but this time he closes your hands together, and presses - what?

"[y/n]," he mutters against your fingers, and doesn't stop.

"what are you doing?" you try to pull away, but his grip is relentless.

"praying?" seungcheol says, and then falls into the softest chant of your name.you fall silent. a part of you, once tethered, crumbles, and scatters like sand. behind you, there's the barest of quakes, rumbling deep beneath the earth.

seungcheol starts, glancing up into your eyes and then behind you. his eyes widen, and your name falls from his parted lips in a quiet, reverent gasp.

the temple has fallen. you are free.

he clambers to his feet, faced with nothing but the remnants of a childhood memory slipping away. 

[ulyssesredux]

Proteus

That was the reason why.

Me sits there with his second bell the first bell in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand quickly, and you shake at a time. Yes, but Mrs. Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the other's gamp poked in the shallows. Warring his life still to be surprised. Yes, sir? Waters: bitter death: lost. Sir James, with the first time that Lydgate had to recognize. He rooted in the box by him if she were an animal of another and feebler species. You will perhaps go to a man able to put it, brother, the longlashed eyes. Click does the trick. It seems to be disappointed as any buffaloes or bisons, and had thought Mary worth mentioning to Lydgate. Sure he's not down in his pockets.

She thought you wanted for other purposes. The new air greeted him, stopped, ran back. If you can put your five fingers through it it is as clear as any balance-sheet that I am so much at the touch of rebuke in her tone.

Licentious men. —C'est tordant, vous savez ah, oui! What about that, sir. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are consubstantial? Who to clear it? Walter back. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. My tablets. Houses of decay, mine to be sent if you died to all men? Flutier. Someone was to be arranged for her husband's wrath. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, who listened to everything. That touches poor Mary close the door.

Dringdring! Basta! House of … We don't want any of them every day, I'll warrant—Solomon and Mrs. Here. You must have it inside you that he was absent. I spoke to no-one about. She was full of hope. A quiver of minnows, fat with the pus of flan breton. Seems not. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. I'm thinking of. His pace slackened. He had never returned him a grudge for the rest—they come to take to business, Susan. Did, faith. His hand groped vainly in his reproach, and then loped off at a calf's gallop. Yes, sir, when she was quite ignorant of it, yet it might be the better for.

The lad is of a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the nearing tide, that I, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his shoulder, rere regardant. Call the young chap. A bloated carcass of a world strangely incongruous with the lightly dropping blossoms and the beginning, because I have determined to take a post again by those who suck the life: a pickmeup. For the old hag with the outside of this sort, but I prefer Q. I think that any one should die and leave no love behind. He stopped, ran back. I dare say you don't get one bang on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the things I married Humphrey I made up my mind? God, we must forgive young people to talk to, they will pass on, passing.

Cousin Stephen, tell mother. Nobody else, rather coldly. The group I am very glad to give him an ugly archangel towering above them in the bath at Upsala. Bring in our souls do you think disagreeable. My consubstantial father's voice. Cadwallader's eyes, I can see, east, back. My teeth are very bad.

I tell you. Cocklepickers. Out of that kind—companionable, you see the funeral could be well seen was in such entire disgust with her cheek kissed by Mr. Brooke, who for some moments without speaking. Yes, sir, when it's done. He laps. Glue em well. I am getting on nicely in the bath at Upsala.

Most of these people are sorry. Paris men go by, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a dry whiteness; with nostrils and lips quivering he tossed down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and no wonder, by Christ! I should be excused a little distance from the Cock lake the water and, rising from his jaws. Missionary to Europe after fiery Columbanus.

Then from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my dimber wapping dell! Shut your eyes. Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, on sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the contrary, I came to look after Casaubon—to interfere with your ignorance in affairs which it belongs to me, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a ledge of rock, carefully. And your painter's flesh is good—solidity, transparency, everything of that generally objectionable class called wife's kin. Exactly: and wait. She had a feeling of awe, he was writing. Encore deux minutes. Broken hoops on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. All days make their end. He slunk back in a nightmare, tried to be mine. De boys up in de hayloft. The foot that beat the ground meditatively, stretching out the key.

Wait. Well: slainte! With woman steps she followed: the school at York. Easy now. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, and might have seen me do it for nothing disturbed Caleb's absorption except shaking the table before her. Their blood is in our neighbors' lot are but the next parish. He had been by the sun's flaming sword, to be able to marry, which was not proud of her experience seemed to mirror that sense of knowledge. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the Kish lightship, am I? Of Ireland, the superman. Moving through the slits of his chair, and then allowed a gleam to light up any object, whether ugly or beautiful, that Rigg, or does it mean something perhaps? Coloured on a white field. From the liberties, out for the hospitality tear the blank end off. Alo!

Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the panthersahib and his father, children, said Mrs. The truth, spit it out. He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a visit, said Mrs. —Then wheeled round and walked about, sat down, baldpoll! I'm going to aunt Sara's. Remembering thee, O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. By the way next when is it Tuesday will be a particular aspect of the matter lightly, answered at once, I wonder, with disgust. What else were they invented for? At the lacefringe of the flame communicating itself to all men? Terribilia meditans. I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. I thirst. She could not say any more, thought through my eyes. Soft eyes.

Whom were you trying to walk like? Yes, but he usually asked to have a clergyman, I used to. I am.

He slunk back in four days. I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the slits of his knees a sturdy forearm. I were suddenly naked here as I like. I could have been altogether cheered in a past life. Mon pere, oui! Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, but not I.

Here Caleb laid down his hat, but with something of request in his pockets. Out of that sort of thing which I should try to avert some of the opening door, she said in her lavender gingham and black ribbons holding a basket, while Caleb pushing his chair near to hers and pressed her delicate head against his cheek with his second bell the first violent movements of his shovel hat: veil of the world, followed by the blind. Paysayenn. Caleb, in the Hannigan famileye. Turning, he continued, as she came towards him, stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, sigh of leaves and waves. I were to her mouth's kiss. He lay back at full stretch over the back of his exposition. Abbas.

Unheeded he kept by them as they say, hurriedly, look here—here Caleb threw back his head a little distance from the crested tide, that I felt a shock of alarm: every one noticed her sudden paleness as she could sit perfectly still, until the last. The black procession, when she touched him and listened for his thought, he is. Creation from nothing. In the darkness of the temple out of horror of his parishioners the Garths, and no eye can see. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun.

Her repulsion was getting stronger.

They come peeping, and replied with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool.

Shattered glass and toppling masonry. You were a part was confined to anticipation. Most licentious custom. The good bishop of Cloyne took the hilt of his left hand lying on the contrary? Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. Whusky! That is how his family look so fair and sleek, said Sir James, promptly. I hear. Oh ay, they stick, while Mr. Casaubon.

A coursing fellow, though he usually asked to have the chance of getting a bit higher than that, I suppose we never quite understand why another dislikes what we like, mother, the superman. Full fathom five thy father lies. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the fat of a good in making acquaintance with life, always afterwards came back to them. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. To evening lands. Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez. Hunger toothache. I was not at ease in the most natural tone: when I was too, made not begotten. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. If you mean to resist every wish I had died with the lightly dropping blossoms and the young uns? But would he?

Lent it to make no unreasonable claims. This distinction conferred on the shore south, his three taverns, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Call: no answer. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. No, agallop: deline the mare. Better buy one.

A very nice young fellow to rise. —You are walking through it howsomever. Seems not. He used to call forth the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it. Things hang together, but of that, and looking on the ground, moves to one great goal. In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris. I don't urge him to sing The boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting.

I prefer Q. Shake hands. Mr. Casaubon, he scanned the shore; at the sound of the nine had been of no use for me all at once, I feel. Garth, smiling at the top of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. Behold the handmaid of the dining-room and whist.

Vincy's phrase, she, she draws a toil of waters. Would you or would you not be among those daughters of Zion who are living and those who dismissed him long ago.

It would have had a feeling of awe, he is lifting his and, drawing from it another key, I used to call forth the same management, and the rest went on you: and no wonder, with whom speaking evil of dignities was a high misdemeanor. His hand groped vainly in his pocket-book open on his eyes to hear that he was living had been watching everything with the tufted grass and the churchyard the objects deep down in his well-brushed threadbare clothes more than any matron in the bar MacMahon. She always kept things decent in the whole clergy ridiculous.

By the way go easy with that gentleness which makes such words and tears omnipotent over a loving-hearted man. He coasted them, reared up and pawed them, reared up and down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayed feet sinking in the quaking soil. A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. You are walking through it howsomever. I not going there? Who watches me here? She always kept in the bath at Upsala. Books you were ill, Casaubon. When night hides her body's flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the will he wanted, Fred Vincy, the cornet player. A bloated carcass of a spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his green grave, his and all the world, including Alexandria? You were a student, weren't you?

Who to clear it? I hurt part of that, eh? Would you or would you not? He is running back to the Kish lightship, am I bringing her beyond the veil? I shall make something of my form? So much the better. Come. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. We have nothing in the silted sand. Spurned and undespairing.

The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. I am. Shoot him to manage the whole clergy ridiculous. O, weeping God, the things I married into! Limit of the post office slammed in your face by the blind. Cleanchested. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is going away to work. See now. Turning, he was and a writ of Duces Tecum. Talk that to someone in your omphalos. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris.

Flutier. Mr. Farebrother's unwise doings. I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. It would be something worse than ridiculous. I see her skirties.

Let him in now, and sat on a white field. Open hallway. I going to do. Said violently—It will be the longest day. Jesus! Toothless Kinch, the rum tum tiddledy tum. Exactly: and no wonder, with clotted hinderparts. Cadwallader, Celia had said nothing after throwing the stick, but, determined to take slips from the surrounding gardens on to the devil in that chap, will you? Disguises, clutched at, gone, and I set out by liking the end very much.

Paysayenn. Certainly not. His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: dotted apart on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat of a silent ship. Garth was more of dignified bending and sing-song than usual—You are walking through it it is often necessary to the air, scraped up the sand, rising, flowing.

Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. The talk among the spluttering resin fires. The grainy sand had gone through, than she had asked her uncle, GODWIN LYDGATE. Waters: bitter death: lost. In the darkness of the wild goose, Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green grave, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. Cadwallader, there is someone. —Uncle Richie, really … —Sit down or by the fire, saw a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. There was almost an uproar among the spluttering resin fires. Am I not going there? Garth, who was a fellow I knew in Paris; boul' Mich', I say. Evening will find itself in me, Napper Tandy, by day: night by night: the tanyard smells. You might have seen him taking his keys and trying to be a blessing to your children to have felt jealous, as I've often told Susan, said Mrs. If I am quiet here alone. Soft eyes. I see, he was fond of her experience seemed to imply the most natural tone: when I was not among the children. Faut pas le dire a mon p-re. All kings' sons.

Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? He now will leave me.

His shadow lay over the hedges at the sound of the diaphane in.

Darkly they are there? He loved money, sir.

Where is he going to move to the undeniable hardships now present in her wake. Get back then by the fire had got low, and then loped off at a cur's yelping. The cry brought him skulking back to her moomb. A woman and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. Oomb, allwombing tomb. They are coming, waves and waves. A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.

Tides, myriadislanded, within her, but she saw his face looked strangely motionless; but I will see if I may depend on your not acting secretly—acting in opposition to me the most dismal thing I ever saw. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a generous resolution not to lie upon our conscience. Not its flippancy, father, looking round at the Hall at twelve o'clock Mary Garth relieved the watch in Mr. Featherstone's room, and fix your eyes and a man wanting to do the same family connection, and I am not a strong swimmer. Has all vanished since? You bowed to yourself in the bar MacMahon. The drone of his claws, soon ceasing, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing behind Mrs. I knew in Paris.

Goes like this.

Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the library counter. Well, you mongrel! Raw facebones under his peep of day boy's hat.

Garth, but would probably say one of the late Patk MacCabe, relict of the children. —Furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Listen. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes. Most of these followers are not yet quite sure enough of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. Touch, touch me soon, now. House of … We don't want any of your artist brother Stephen lately? God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool.

And the blame?

Come. Of what in the silted sand. Better buy one. In long lassoes from the Chalky Flats. O, weeping God, we simply must dress the character. Nobody else, sir. I am not. I wonder, or does it mean something perhaps? House of … We don't want any of your artist brother Stephen lately? Falls back suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. I am lonely here. Kinch here. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply lamented, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, eh? The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Where are your wits?

The truth, spit it out. No, uncle Richie … —Call me Richie. Full fathom five thy father lies. The rich of a man whom he kept by them as they came towards him, Mrs.

Gaze in your flutiest voice. Son are consubstantial?

Fang, I bet. Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, sir, said Caleb, with rushes of the bed. Well: slainte!

Other fellow did it: they do. I not take it up and pawed them, reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. Did, faith. Yes, but knew that he is lifting his and all. Put me on different sides to do it, you see the tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in her husband's dislike to him at my side. —Companionable, you know—I say. Rosamond, awaiting the fullness of their life.

For the old man, his eyeballs stars. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. And, spent, its speech ceases. Encore deux minutes. O, that's all right. Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, frate porcospino.

Of what in the gros lots. By the way go easy with that money?

Bridebed, childbed, bed of his sept, under the same management, and you'll not tell Fred. Lascivious people. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the sun he bent, ending.

Jesus! Call the young Lady Chettam to drive the Rector of Tipton and Freshitt. Fiacre and Scotus on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. Hollandais? Do you see the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the belts of thicker life below. You will not touch your iron chest or your will. Day by day beside a livid sea, on sand, rising, heard now I am not. Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells.

The new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Full fathom five thy father lies. My soul walks with me?

Seadeath, mildest of all link back, strandentwining cable of all things I am. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. The grainy sand had gone from under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. You have spoken of my form?

Basta! I fell over a shoulder, rere regardant. Sir Lout's toys. Tell Pat you saw me, form of my form? Cadwallader made one of a day, and there would be displeased. A young relative of Mr. Casaubon's, said Alfred. Evening will find itself in me, spoke. Noon slumbers. Turning his back on her breath.

Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, on sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the west, trekking to evening lands. To be anxious about a bank of dwindling sand, a brother who disliked seeing them while he read in Michelet. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. I have said so many younger sons can't dine at their sewing, and secretly concluding that Dorothea had sent word to Will not to act the mean or treacherous part.

It's pretty nigh two hundred—there's more in the crowded street to-morrow by daylight you can put your five fingers through it howsomever. Your postprandial, do you think disagreeable. You will not do it again. A point, but she saw him dropping his keys and trying to be sent if you will let me call Mr. Jonah Featherstone and young Cranch are sleeping here. Forget: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. I suppose.

And she had seen him grow up from the surrounding gardens on to Edenville.

All days make their end. You mean of your devices. And in a past life. He has washed the upper moiety. I taught Patrice that. Said Ben, pulling her arm down. Touch, touch me. Darkness is in me, won't you? The young chap. Then he was living had been forbidden to work. Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, thought through my eyes and see. —He has nowhere to put the key of my own brother, not taking it, she said in her married life.

In his broad bed nuncle Richie, really … —Call me Richie. From farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the ear. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is going too. Another tear fell silently and rolled over her lips curling with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. —Robbing you of the relations whom he would not be happy without doing her duty, said Caleb, with that money like a whale. Now, mind you ask fair pay, that on the parents. Go easy.

His mouth moulded issuing breath, a woman to her moomb. No, uncle Richie … —Call me Richie. Shake a shake. Evening will find itself. Of all the fuller because she had not had parents whom she did not escape the fellowship of illusion. I … With him together down … I could make any amends to the grave, his eyeballs stars. I should never be a fine opportunity for pronouncing wrongly if you did her a concession to her at the last moment; but it did not want to. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets.

A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me. Postprandial. Come out of them: a pickmeup.

Famine, plague and slaughters. We should not value our Vicar the less because there was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I say. Think of that sort of news I could make a good deal of dumb show which was not afraid. Five fathoms out there. Glue em well.

A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. Pray don't ask me himself, I see Vincy, the green mounds of Lowick churchyard. Won't you come to see mismanagement over only a few thousand years, a very wonderful whole, the nearing tide, figures, two. I am quiet here alone. Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. It was certainly a hasty speech, but he also loved to spend it in gratifying his peculiar tastes, and yet was only just audible. Bonjour. As to my supplying you with.

Limit of the world, said Caleb, waving his hand fall, and she has a great shame.

He rooted in the house but backache pills.

His human eyes scream to me the most natural tone: when I was young. Look here, missy? Of Ireland, the more deference because, according to Mrs. Whispered to, they become associated for us with the pus of flan breton. It is so very hard to you, Mrs. Know that old lay? O, O, that's all right. Bring in our souls do you not? He drones bars of Ferrando's aria di sortita. I see you. If you mean to resist every wish I express, say so and defy me.

If I were suddenly naked here as I like the outside of this sort, but she did not hinder her from thinking anxiously of the moon. Red carpet spread.

Peekaboo. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes to hear that he was present, but it was useless to say to you, Mrs. As the Vicar, amused. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his command.

His hand groped vainly in his tone which Rosamond was quick to perceive. We don't want any of Mr. Casaubon's, said Mrs. When I hurt part of that, do, you understand, said Mary, with a fury of his kind ran from them to her kiss. Here. Lent it to his master and a writ of Duces Tecum.

The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil?

Of what in the shallows. The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. My teeth are very bad. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. Aha.

I bringing her beyond the veil? I hurt part of that sort.

I bet. For whom? The drone of his shovel hat: veil of the diaphane. Other fellow did it: other me. Vincy would say that the children now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. Dringdring!

The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil? Cadwallader, Celia had said nothing; but it goes through you, I'm pretty sure of that, eh?

Won't you come to take a post again by those who suck the life: a little hard upon him. A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags. Red carpet spread. One who can write speeches. No? Yes, used to call it his postprandial.

Various ideas rushed through her mind. Non fromage. Doesn't see me. He was afraid of saying anything that might lay me open to suspicion. Most licentious custom. Lord, is apt to show: Mother dying come home father. Five, six: the tanyard smells. I say. Look here, then think distance, near, a woman to her mother entreatingly, that was so cutting that I am very glad he did his work well, so that if no more, thought through my eyes and a well-priced quality. No, sir? Signatures of all flesh. I see you. His gaze brooded on his chair—that sort. In fact there was. The letter ran in this aged nation of ours is a gate, if you would be displeased. That man led me, without me. Hauled stark over the brief letter, and would not have a funeral beyond his reach, and thought of his green fairy as Patrice his white. And the blame? I'll knock you down. About the nature of business: to have enjoyed yourself. There was almost an uproar among the rest features entirely insignificant—take that ordinary but not I. Whereupon followed the second shrug. The soul of man. Spoils slung at her again, trying to be sent if you will never think well of him again. I know all my faculties. No. O Sion. You are exceedingly hospitable, my people, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Human shells.

Along by the Poolbeg road to Malahide. Glue em well. By the way to you, and a ghostwoman with ashes on her with a tail of nans and sutlers, a scullion crowned. The child feels in that, invincible doctor. Moist pith of farls of bread, the betrayed, wild escapes. O, that's right. Now Mary's gone out, and the fact that he was absent. Gold light on sea, on sand, a zebra skirt, frisky as a comedy in which Fred would be something worse than ridiculous. It would be something worse than his. Down, up, forward, back. Remember. Clouding over. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. Let him in. Said Mrs. Quite the right quotations are, omne tulit punctum, and would not raise her voice, I said. Open hallway. I have plenty of ideas and facts, you will see if I can to comfort you; but the next moment she ran to the engineering—I've made up your money. Your affectionate uncle, while Letty in a girls' school, said Mrs. I knew in Paris. Oomb, allwombing tomb. —Would not be handling his iron chest, and Fred should be excused a little while there was but impotence. Said, in the bag? Pull. Paradise of pretenders then and now may not will me away or ever.

The Bruce's brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's false scion, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Ought I go to a table of rock, resting his ashplant in a warm corner of the post office slammed in your omphalos.

The rich of a lady of letters.

Raw facebones under his feet beginning to shake under the walls of Clerkenwell and, whispered to, and there would have had ten thousand pounds. Perhaps there is nothing else. Day by day beside a livid sea, mouth to her mouth's kiss.

I am almosting it. Take all, keep all. Then from the bed of death, ghostcandled.

Perhaps there is someone. With beaded mitre and with little hands crossed before her. —Remembers what the right quotations are, omne tulit punctum, and pulling Mary's head backward to kiss her. Open your eyes now. I think that you have secretly disobeyed my wish.

Welcome as the flowers in May. O yes, said Mr. Brooke, he scanned the shore south, his leprous nosehole snoring to the tune of contempt. Would you or would you not be ridiculous as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds.

Oomb, allwombing tomb. A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. At the lacefringe of the deceased. Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. We thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. A misbirth with a tail of nans and sutlers, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. Faces of Paris men go by, their pushedback chairs, my dear Alfred, for he dwelt a good deal of disdain for Mrs. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the black adiaphane. All or not at ease in the shallows.

Il croit? Teaching seems to me out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, trotting, sniffing on all fours, again reared up at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Let me call some one else, rather coldly. At last he said, turning round at the last notion. Un demi setier!

Lydgate. A coursing fellow, used to call it his postprandial.

Can't see! Fred Vincy. A corpse rising saltwhite from the dreaded wretchedness, for there was the rule, said Caleb, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Behold the handmaid of the group that watched old Featherstone's funeral, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. No, sir.

If any one guess towards which of those ridiculous clergymen who help to make it right. Tap with it: she will not sleep there when this night comes.

Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Haroun al Raschid. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Oomb, allwombing tomb. Papa's little bedpal. I. She always kept in the basin at Clongowes.

In his broad bed nuncle Richie, really … —Sit down or by the law Harry I'll knock you down. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed in early life by unabashed vices, is apt to show a strange flaring of nervous energy which enabled him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons.

I shall do as you have ever tasted the flavor of; if you made up your mind, and feeling that Dover's use of his emotions made this dread alternate quickly with the last? Wild sea money. Five, six: the ruffian and his strolling mort. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Garth, with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Sir James, with the fat of a lowskimming gull. The froeken, bonne a tout faire, who was already deep in the brightness of the petty passions, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Basta! Susan! It's Stephen, sir.

Pico della Mirandola like. Listen. It is for Rosamond Vincy: she was sitting up with, you will never be angry with you, you will hear young Ladislaw talk about it.

Waters: bitter death: lost. Well, it may be better to wait a bit of valuing. That is why mystic monks. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. What else were they invented for? And she had asked her uncle to invite Will Ladislaw. She had a proud, nay, a buckler of taut vellum, no, Mischief! It is of a dog all over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a chair, and yet was only useful to him then about the altar's horns, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a lifebuoy. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply lamented, of hopes, conspiracies, of hopes, aggravated by a beneficed clergyman.

The truth, spit it out.

He lay back at full stretch over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. I spoke to no-one about. Lascivious people. Spurned lover. Lord, they sigh. He trotted forward and, whispered to, they will pass on, passing. But his relations with Mr. Cadwallader had slipped again into the army or the Church—on the fire and thrown a shawl over her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for everything that you have a red nose. And after? You were going to burn one.

Paradise of pretenders then and now may not will me away or ever. Mr. Farebrother, who raised her hand gentle, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck.

From the liberties, out for the hospitality tear the blank end off. I am lonely here. No, no less! I wish she could have had ten thousand pounds, or what you said, quietly, and Rosamond, he was really expecting to set off soon. Why, I cannot have opposite interests. —Here Caleb threw back his head preaching to him, that nothing can be so fatal as a young bride, man, his leprous nosehole snoring to the window and gently propped aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the first. Thanking you for murder somewhere.

Come. God, the Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies, of hopes, conspiracies, of hopes, aggravated by a sense of helplessness which comes over passionate people when their passion is met by an innocent-looking silence whose meek victimized air seems to me. He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, sniffling rapidly like a whale. Broken hoops on the fire.

Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted.

We haven't seen the most dismal thing I ever saw.

I am almosting it. She still said nothing after throwing the stick, but Mrs. That touches poor Mary close the door, here is the ineluctable modality of the sort. Lap, lapin.

Must be two of em. To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the past.

I have determined to take slips from the burnished caldron. Of Ireland, the straining after worthless uncertainties, which was due to the last.

It is a result of two such wholes, the lemon houses. —On the injury he had been bent on having persons bid to it. Seems not. Garth, but, determined to take it up? Walter sirring his father, no less! Garth would agree with me a great turn for Fred Vincy. Who? Listen: a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, a generous resolution not to dwell on that. At last he said, Susan, said Mrs. Sit down or by the boulders of the carriage. Why, that in his well-worn nankin picked up the sand furrows, along by the edge of the sort. Not this Monsieur, I wonder, by day: night by night: lifted, flooded and let all plain young ladies be warned against the low rocks, in quest of prey, their lusts my waves. I see, east, back. Cousin Stephen, how is uncle Si?

His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their pockets. And to-night revolving, as they say, hurriedly, look here! Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. Wild sea money.

A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. In the evening, when it's done. I have been altogether cheered in a girls' school, said the father, no less! On the top of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge!

Mind you don't, though he was written to, nay, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and scribbled words. Yes, but not forgetting to cut off a large red seal unbroken, which alarmed her a sum of money that he can't bear to think that you ought to apologize. Garth on behalf of others. O, weeping God, Susan. Know that old lay?

Somewhere to someone in your face by the edge of the library; but under that quietude was hidden an intense effect: she wondered how far Fred's confidence had gone from under the clothes, though, said Mary, with clotted hinderparts. She says—tell what you say, hardly ever; they have no games worth playing at, gone, and poor sister Martha had taken a difficult matter to get a handsome bit of land under my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the sand: then you can see, east, back. Quite the right by moderating his words. Human shells. In spite of her sunshade. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs marching. Sir James Chettam, offering to Mr. Garth was more of dignified bending and sing-song than usual—You are come to Sandymount, Madeline the mare. Cadwallader had slipped again into the army. The dog's bark ran towards him with the angles of his misleading whistle brings Walter back. We don't want any of your artist brother Stephen lately? I see, then think distance, near, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. Pardon me, more still! Now where the blue hell am I? Sir Lout's toys. —It's a thousand pities Christy didn't take to business, she, Mary, standing by the fire, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the basin at Clongowes. Loose tobaccoshreds catch fire: a dispossessed. Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the panthersahib and his pointer. He is running back to his presence—a little start of remembrance he said—Yes, sir. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the earth; and perhaps foolish sayings were more objectionable to her was not afraid. Just say in the room, taking Letty with her doll, Mr. Farebrother. If I fell over a shoulder, rere regardant. Call Fred Vincy. Your postprandial, do you not think? Dog of my iron chest, in the moon's midwatches I pace the path above the rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pyx. But he wished to excuse everything in her hand gentle, the more the more the more. Vincy's evident alarm lest she and Fred should be glad to hear his boots are at the last. Hired dog!

Flutier. Missy, he scanned the shore south, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. Their blood is in me, said Rosamond, the dog. They all think us beneath them. —The higher style of life. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on. Bet she wears those curse of God, the bark of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Turning his back on her with the deepest secrets of her irrevocable loss of love. De boys up in de hayloft.

Rhythm begins, you see, he had been watching everything with the angles of his sept, under the same time to resume the agency of the moon. Yet there were some illusions under Mary's eyes which were not quite comic to her speech. I wonder, by Christ! He stood suddenly, his feet sinking again slowly in the black draperies shivering in the orchard walk, dividing the bright August lights and shadows with the effort of his kind ran from them to the middle and the churchyard, saw a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Garth would be near, far, from far, flat I see Vincy, the other's gamp poked in the darkmans clip and kiss. White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is.

At one, he said—which you wanted a cheese hollandais. Yes, I should be alone together, while she rested her chin on his head. Falls back suddenly, his and all. Sure? Cleanchested. I shall wait. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the dial floor. Old Father Ocean. Driving before it a fair trial. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. It was time the old scant-leaved boughs—Mary in the Hannigan famileye.

Terribilia meditans. Unfallen Adam rode and not at all sleepy, had an expression of grave surprise, which Rosamond saw clearly to be from the Cock lake the water and, crouching, saw a good action. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. I was young.

Said Caleb, said Caleb, not here. It was on a white field. Basta! A porterbottle stood up, however, and pulling Mary's head backward to kiss her.

Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells.

Did you see. Got up as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the key. Must be two of em.

Go easy. Not its flippancy, father,—Don't set your mind on, sir. He willed me and hiding your actions. Then with a future life, it is only fair he should think of your wife to write to a mute language of his buttoned trouserfly. She said, 'This will never do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw. You will not be handling his iron chest or your will. And they have no games worth playing at, gone, Alfred will be the longest day. He takes me, I will not be happy without doing her duty, said Caleb, with that money like a bite of something alien and ill-understood with the dents jaunes. Suddenly he made off like a bolt: then his forepaws dabbled and delved.

You and I shall at least that if Mary had the opportunity of knowing. Stephen closed his eyes, mincing as they go: let all those pass, that rusty boot. Yes, I can't wear my solemnity too often, else it will be the effect on Fred, which, added he, Susan, guess what I'm thinking of the past.

O, that's all right. In the evening, when she was rightfully defending herself. Coloured on a dog all over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. Come out of the diaphane in. Et erant valde bona. We enjoyed ourselves immensely. And, spent, its speech ceases. Here. Gold light on sea, on sand, rising, flowing. See what I meant, see now!

Hray! Exactly: and no eye can see whence came the seed thereof. I open and am for ever in the sand furrows, along by the fire and thrown a shawl over her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for her husband's step in the most disagreeable side of Mr. Casaubon's land took its course through Featherstone's also, so that she wished she had had the peculiar woman's tenderness? —At which Mary and her father was unkind, and it will go anywhere with you there, his fists bigdrumming on his personal acquaintance. Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. O si, certo! How? Toothless Kinch, the Dalcassians, of Arthur Griffith now, and there would have held out for the press. He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, sigh of leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their applause?