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wolveria · 1 year ago

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The Raven's Hymn - Ch 43

Pairing: SCP-049 x Reader

Series Warnings: Eventual smut, dubcon, slow burn, violence, horror, death, monsters, human experiments, dark with a happy ending

Chapter Summary: “I regret it has come to this, my dear.”

AO3

Perhaps knowing you were “safe” for the remainder of the day, 049 waited to enact his plan. You were grateful to have at least one more night with him. You didn’t know what would happen when it started. You didn’t know what you’d do it if went wrong.

Dread settled in your stomach worse than any time preceding. You’d thought waiting for the humiliation of Leahy’s program was like waiting for an execution. You’d been sorely mistaken. At least you’d had an idea of what he wanted. This was... unknowable. Dangerous. Terrifying.

All you could do was wait for 049 to make the first move. But for now, you laid in bed with him, pressed to his chest and listening to his heartbeat against your ear. It was a steady, soothing rhythm you hoped would continue beyond tomorrow.

Or maybe his plan wouldn’t happen tomorrow. You didn’t know when he would cause the distraction. There was too much you didn’t know, and no way to discuss it with him. There was, of course, the possibility of another shower, but you knew if you held him close like that one more time, you wouldn’t be able to let him go. The thought of what the guards would do to him tomorrow was enough to stir the borderline panic in your veins.

As if sensing your distress, 049 stroked his gloved fingers along your hair. It hadn’t escaped your notice how often he touched you now. Whatever barrier had previously kept him at a polite distance seemed to have vanished. Your own defenses had been brought down, and 049 had always been effective at getting around them anyway.

The morning came too soon from restless sleep. You didn’t move at the slot opening to deliver breakfast, you simply pressed yourself closer, breathing in deep the hollow space between his neck and the edge of his hood.

049 shuddered and wrapped his arm more firmly around your waist. You closed your eyes, taking another breath to steady yourself. It would be so easy to keep going, to surrender to your new normal. You might even have considered it, if not for the whole point of the program. The possibility of a child, and then of letting them be taken by the Foundation, wasn’t something you could accept. Not if there was a chance of escape.

But deciding to escape didn’t mean you wouldn’t miss this part of your captivity. You were too scared to think of the possibilities of “after.” Just surviving and leaving the facility was impossible enough; trying to imagine life afterwards was like trying to imagine what it’s like to live in the aphotic zone. You had no point of reference.

You both remained that way, quiet and secure in each other’s warmth. 049’s fingers caressing slowly up and down your back, your own tracing along the subtle wrinkles that marked his robes. Underneath the layers of hide was a human skeleton, the only marked difference in the skull. His brain casing was larger, but more startling than that was the beak that grew directly over his mouth. His human teeth could even be seen by X-ray, trapped behind the chitinous structure that protruded from his face. It was why no one could figure out how he ate or drank when he chose to, as no one had seen the beak open before. Hell, no one was even sure how he spoke.

Perhaps if you survived, you’d ask him. You didn’t know if he was human once, or if he had always been this way. Had someone given him the name Valens, or had he chosen it himself? There were still so many questions, but despite that, you liked who he was, what he was, and you wouldn’t change anything. Your only regret was that you would never be able to kiss him properly.

The intercom clicked.

“Tonight.”

You winced.

049 drew you closer, which you didn’t think was possible, but he managed it by slipping your leg between his. He didn’t need to say anything. You knew it had to happen today. There would be no tonight.

Unwilling, and after a time, you sat up first, your body sluggish with reluctance. 049 did the same, leaving the bed so you would be able to follow. He always positioned himself between you and the door, and it was probably the reason you slept at all these days.

Going through the motions of breakfast, you kept 049 in the corner of your vision. Not just because you wanted to be ready for his distraction, but... you couldn’t help it. The dreaded sense at the back of your thoughts that told you this would be the last time you ever saw him.

You hit the shower after, half-hopeful you would be joined, but you washed alone. It didn’t take more than a few minutes for you to finish, not wanting 049 to be out of your sight for long. Drying off swiftly, you got dressed in the usual smock and leggings. Most days, you didn’t bother with the bandeau bra, finding it pointless. You wore it today—your laughable attempt at gearing up for war.

By the time you returned to the middle chamber where 049 waited when you needed privacy, something had changed. He paced along the floor in front of the observation window, his head bowed as if in thought, wrists held at the small of his back.

After giving him a worried glance that wasn’t part of the act, you went to the lab counter where you kept your research journal. You had the idea of staying there as a vantage point, your back to the corner that divided the middle and inner chamber. You had a clear view of everything, including the outer containment doors, and the doctor’s bag was...

...missing.

Where was it? It wasn’t on the counter or on the autopsy table. You were sure you’d spotted it just this morning—

“Dalliance!”

You looked up, blinking dumbly at the shouted word.

049 stopped pacing; he stood in front of the window, his shoulders stiff in an intimidating hunch. If you hadn’t known this was the plan, you’d have believed it. He slipped back into form a little too easily for comfort.

“We waste time on the Site Director’s frivolity while the Pestilence continues to thrive amidst your very ranks!” 049 snarled at the darkened glass. “You believe I had forgotten? That I could be preoccupied by a warm body? Your mockery is as offensive as it is pitiable.”

He leaned close to the glass, his voice dropping to a growl.

“I see you, wretch. Beg your Site Director for forgiveness. He will hold you accountable for this.”

049 turned away, strode to the autopsy table, and pulled out the bag from beneath his robes. You’d forgotten he could do that, and your spine shot straight when he reached inside and pulled out a gleaming scalpel.

“Come here, assistant.”

He seethed the words, and for a moment, real fear curled around your neck. You obeyed, moving off the stool with stiff limbs, your heart racing at the appearance of the predator you hadn’t glimpsed in weeks. He placed a hand on the space between your neck and shoulder, squeezing you. Not harshly at all.

His back was to the observation window, and they couldn’t see his face. His eyes shone with urgency and clarity. Your good doctor was still in there, playing the role they expected of him.

“I regret it has come to this, my dear.”

The sharp edge of the scalpel shone within the corner of your vision.

“But nothing can sway me from my duty. Not even you.”

He brought the blade up to your neck.

Dispensers hissed overhead. 049 whirled you around and pulled you close, an arm going around your chest as the scalpel remained pointed at your throat. Even as the lavender mist drifted over you both, he remained upright.

“Old tricks, Director. And not so effective with the aid of my assistant—”

049 went stiff, his limbs frozen, and you were close enough to hear the hum of the contact between the shock collar and his flesh.

He opened his shaking fingers and dropped the scalpel, giving up the instrument so as not to cut you with it as he convulsed. You gripped onto the arm holding you, helpless to do anything to stop his torment.

The containment doors slid open, no less than four guards storming inside with their rifles raised.

049 pushed you away and to the side, giving them a clear shot at him.

“No!” you cried, forgetting you were supposed to play the role as 049’s shaken victim. But the guards didn’t fire; 049 staggered to the autopsy table, and in his weakened attempt to grab onto the edge, sent his bag toppling to the floor.

Instruments, glass jars and beakers, and copper tubing spilled from its depths, creating a chaotic mess of shattered noise and aromatic liquids. Between that, and the shouting men, you ducked down beneath the autopsy table and hunched as if cowering in terror.

With the table blocking the view of the observation window, you scrambled for the lip of the bag now lying on its side. Taking a deep breath, you jammed your arm inside.

Give me what Valens wants me to have.

Something rested atop your palm, lightweight but with a familiar shape. You curled your fingers around it, small enough to fit inside your fist, and quickly pulled it out. Making as if to clutch your chest, you slipped the object down the front of your smock into the depths of your bra.

Peeking over the top of the table, you watched as 049 was dragged half-unconscious from the room. The doors closed and you stood the rest of the way, your fear genuine as you held a hand over your stomach, breathing hard.

You hardly had any time to think before the door opened, Kenneth’s lanky form slipping through the door before it completely opened.

“Hey, you okay?” His eyes were a little too wide, his face pale. “Did he cut you?”

You shook your head, leaning against the autopsy table for support in the haze of post-adrenaline jitters.

“I’m fine, just—"

The door opened a second time, two men stepping through. One you didn’t recognize, an older man in a lab coat and white hair. The second one, you knew very well.

He was fuming.

��What the hell did you do to set it off this time?” Leahy growled, stalking past you as he took in the disaster of the floor. Antiseptic fumes and other odd smells from the spilled liquids made your stomach turn.

You opened your mouth, but no response was forthcoming, caught between confusion and indignity.

“Excuse me?” you finally said.

The doctor began examining you, but you shied away from his touch. Not only had the staff members instilled a sense of aversion in you, but you didn’t want him to find what you’d hidden.

“Did you say something?” Leahy pressed. “Do something?”

“You tell me. You watch everything we do.”

Leahy’s glare turned from the broken beakers to you, his eyes dark behind the rim of his glasses. He moved forward with deliberate steps, and you backed away until you bumped into a warm barrier at your back. You didn’t know who it was, and it forced you to remain in place as the Site Director towered over you.

“I know it was you.”

He gripped your jaw and turned your head upward, forcing you to meet his eye when you looked away.

“And I’ll scour every second of footage to prove it.”

Your chin trembled, but your voice held firm.

“I bet you’d enjoy that.”

His lips curled into a silent snarl, and you thought, this was it. You’d reached the limits of what the Site Director would tolerate, and he would order one of the guards to shoot you.

Instead, he released you with a rough jerk of his hand.

“She can’t stay here. Put her in another room until this shit’s cleaned up.”

He walked past you and out the door without another word, the doctor following after him. That left Kenneth, the person you’d been trapped against when the Site Director had thrown his tantrum.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, as if this was all somehow his fault. He rubbed the back of his neck, taking in the rest of the room. “He is right, though. That’s a lot of glass, and, uh... whatever that green stuff is. I think it’s eating through the tile.”

You nodded, too tired to argue, especially when it would amount to nothing. Something reflective caught your eye; the scalpel 049 had mock-threatened you with was under the autopsy table just of reach. You entertained the idea of grabbing it and smuggling it with you, but hiding a surgical blade in your brassier wouldn’t be one of your better ideas.

Leaving the scalpel was the right choice. As soon as you exited the chamber, two guards were at your flank, one of them patting you down and forcing your arms straight, palms open as he hooked you into shackles.

Kenneth, followed by the two guards, led you a few corridors over to a door that wasn’t the high security mechanism of a containment chamber. It looked closer to a D-Class cell, and you realized that’s exactly what it was, a temporary holding pen for one of the wayward cattle. The guards took off your shackles and ordered you inside. You followed their instructions in silence, glancing blankly at the single bed and toilet melded to the wall.

When you turned, you were surprised to find Kenneth lingering in the doorway.

“Is there anything I can get for you?” he asked. “Not that there’s a whole lot of—"

“Where did they take 049?”

His lips pressed together, and he unhappily glanced at the two guards, but they didn’t seem to be paying any attention to the conversation.

“I don’t know.”

“When will we be returned to his containment chamber?”

“I don’t know that either.” He avoided your eye as he backed out the door, mumbling one last apology, “Sorry.”

The door slid shut, leaving you alone in the small room. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been truly alone, and you sat on the edge of the thin mattress. Impatience nipped at your thoughts, but you forced yourself to wait until you were sure they wouldn’t come back for you anytime soon.

Once a few minutes had passed, your anticipation got the better of you. You reached down your bra, grateful the guards hadn’t thought to search your cleavage, and retrieved the object you’d smuggled out of the containment chamber.

A USB flash drive. It seemed ordinary on the outside, a matte grey color that didn’t seem particularly special, but it had to be. You refused to believe 049 had risked his limited freedom for you to retrieve something that didn’t matter. He’d said this would help you escape, and it made sense now why he’d wanted you to be taken to an office.

It wouldn’t do any good here. You slipped it back into your bandeau, hoping you would have an opportunity to use it soon.

It wasn’t long before anxiety got the better of you. Pacing the small room, all you could think about was 049 and what they were doing to him. You tried not to imagine the worst-case scenario, but considering Leahy’s threats, there was an endless supply of them, each worse than the ones before.

You alternated between pacing and sitting hunched on the bed, tapping your foot with nervous energy. When was someone going to tell you what was going on? What had happened to 049? Would you ever get to return to the containment chamber?

As if in answer, the door slid open. You froze and eyed the entrance without breathing. No one stepped through.

You waited. And waited. The doorway remained empty, and the hallway beyond was unusually silent.

You slowly rose to your feet and approached the door. You edged past the threshold, expecting a guard to grab you by the scruff of your neck like an unruly kitten, but the corridor remained empty. There was no one here, but the keypad kept a steady green bar to indicate the door was unlocked.

For whatever reason the door had opened, this was your chance, and yet... your feet remained glued to the floor. Your breathing was shallow, confusion turning into fear. As terrible as your life had been the last few months, it had been structured. Controlled. Someone always telling you what to do, even if it would lead to pain and misery.

When you stepped outside the room, there was no guarantee of what you would find. You could be caught. You could be killed. It was enough to leave you frozen, fingers gripping the door frame.

The only thing that shook you free was the knowledge that you weren’t doing this just for you. 049 had no one else. If you surrendered now, there was no hope of rescue for him. He would be at the mercy of Leahy’s punishment, a situation he found himself in only because he wanted to save you.

You didn’t have a plan, but you had a destination. Get to a computer, insert the thumb drive, and the rest would follow.

Steeling yourself, you stepped outside the cell.

Next Chapter

#the raven's hymn #scp 049 #scp 049 x reader #scp 049 fanfiction #scp x reader #wolveria writes

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ryleejam · 4 months ago

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A short story for my cult of the lamb "lady in waiting" au

The day that death smiled

Thousand years ago Heket the goddess of famine betrayed her siblings in a battle. In the battle she took out Leahy's eyes, kallmar's ears, some part of Shamura's skull, and Narinder's throat. She would have killed them all if it wasn't the four acting quickly and using their own powers to banish her to a place between life and death.

The others may have been relieved but Narinder was not. He may have lost the ability to speak properly but the pain of losing his little sister was more than any pain he will ever felt.

Then one day there was a legend whispered among the shadows, that one day a sheep and a goat will come together and free the lady in waiting, so the bishops decided that the best course of action will to exterminate all sheeps and goats to the dismay of Nardier.

Everyday for almost a thousands of years Nardier had to comfort thousands of souls, old and young. He didn't understand why not just free their sister and create peace and be happy again.

One day he heard from his siblings that one of their followers found a sheep goat abomination and will be sacrificed. He remembered that there were such things such as sheep and goats having children together they called the spawns Geeps silly enough. But soon enough the geep was sent to execution

"It's such a shame for such a beauty of a creature to be sacrificed just because of fear" he thought to himself. As he waited for the soul of the geep to arrive it never did. He was confused rightfully so then he finally realized something.

They have the prophecy wrong, it was never a sheep and a goat working together it was a spawn of a sheep and a goat and they just gave the geep right to their sister.

He should warn them about what's to come. But the possibility of the geep free his little sister was too good to be true. His sister is going to be free.

And on that moment of realizing everything the first time in a millennia,

He smiled

#cotl #lady in waiting au #cult of the lamb au

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luthamiller · 2 years ago

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Lü†hårt • #Skull Series • 2423

www.Lutha.net

Original #fineart by Lutha Leahy-Miller.

#inkandbrush #skulls #calaveras #mementomori #sheaffer305 #penandink #art #hamptons #brushpen #watercolour #watercolor #ink #kuretake #pens #abstract #illustration #illustrator #inkbrush #pen #hamptons #johnnyinkslinger #inksketch #surfart #impermanence #change #graphicart #pencil #sheaffer304

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starlightiing · 7 months ago

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What type of music do you like? :)

Aww hello friend!!

I listen to a small variety but mostly crap from when I was a teen. But recently it's been a ton of Nathan Sharp (Natewantstobattle) though he literally just retired last week. His newest album is wonderful, though. I'd highly recommend it. It tells a story.

The Ready Set - Jordan Witzigreuter has me in a vice grip lately. If you're open minded, check out his album "Cherryland" and get back to me. My heart, man. My heart. Every song on the album is gold.

Otherwise it's a mixture...I'll pull some artists out of my music app ahaha:

Adam Young / Owl City, The Ataris, Big Time Rush (boyband aaaa), Colm McGuiness, The Cab / Bohnes / Alex Deleon, Cameron Leahy, The Exies, Fort Minor, Linkin Park, Paradise Fears, Panic at the Disco (old), Mystery Skulls (I love Luis so much), Stars, The Summer Set, Michelle Branch, and a shit ton of 80s rock that I'm not going to bother listing. This was only like 25% of what I have in my library, I have more boy bands, Britney Spears, TATU, No Doubt, and a few country artists as well (though I dont really like country) among hundreds of others.

That's just a little look, a tiny glimpse.

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ao3feed-destiel-02 · 1 year ago

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thick skull

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/YvMCyg1 by roses_on_ice for my heart i had to write a fix-it. Words: 2920, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel (Supernatural), Sam Winchester, Kaia Nieves, Claire Novak, Jody Mills, Donna Hanscum Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Kaia Nieves/Claire Novak, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Castiel & Dean Winchester Additional Tags: Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Horror, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Slow Burn, Case Fic, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Angst with a Happy Ending, Happy Ending, I promise read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/YvMCyg1

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #(your tags here)

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disniq · 4 years ago

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Chapters: 15/? Fandom: Supernatural Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Claire Novak, Jody Mills, Eileen Leahy, Lee Webb, Rowena MacLeod, Adam Milligan, Michael (Supernatural), Jack Kline Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, canon compliant to 15x11, Canon-Typical Violence, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Eventual Happy Ending, Post-Episode: s15e03 The Rupture, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Past Dean/Lee Webb, John Winchester’s A+ parenting, Canon background characters,

Chapter Summary:

Dean is just bitching that Fortuna stiffed them again when they get the most unexpected win of all.

Cas steps out of the shadows, solemn as the grave, and Dean has just enough time to think what now before Jack steps into the lamp light.

Jack.

Alive and breathing and looking cautiously at them with eyes that aren’t melted out of his skull.

Chapter 15

Read from Beginning

#spn fic #destiel #dean/cas #supernatural #supernatural fic

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sydkn3e · 6 years ago

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Stronger Than Words

The third long-chaptered collaboration between myself and @deanmon69

If there's two things Dean Winchester cares about besides family, it's his diner and having a good time...and he's not picky when it comes to his food or his company. He's content running the little hole in the wall situated in the back of Singer's Salvage and occupying his time with the flavor of the week- that is, until a shy stranger shows up, as gorgeous as he is enigmatic.

Dean quickly discovers that there's so much more to life than what he's grown accustomed to in his little corner of the world, and that, despite his creative look and general openness, Castiel may be more of an adventure than he could've ever prepared himself for.

WIP: Chapter 1/? (Posting Weekly)

Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Characters: Castiel, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Ash, Missouri Moseley, Bobby Singer, Benny Lafitte, Charlie Bradbury, Eileen Leahy, Gabriel, Kevin Tran

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Minor Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Minor Andrea Kormos/Benny Lafitte, Diner AU, Priestly!Dean, Nonverbal!Cas, Photographer!Cas, Mute!Cas, ASL, cheesy pickup lines, corny angel puns, openly bisexual Dean Winchester

Excerpt from Chapter 1:

Dean leans around to look over his shoulder, nodding at the customer walking over to the booth. “Who’s that?”

“Dunno.” Sam shrugs and looks over his shoulder. “Never seen him before. What were you saying?”

“Someone-” Dean leans up as far as he can without burning himself on the stove, watching the man sit at the small table in the corner. He looks slightly uncomfortable, his shoulders hunched and hair sticking up wildly all over his head, looking nervously around him then back down at his hands. He looks up and makes eye contact with Dean, and fuck his eyes are blue , then he immediately looks down again, clasping his hands together on the table in front of him.

“I was just saying…” Dean fumbles around, messily assembling the chicken sandwich and slathering both condiments on despite how absolutely blasphemous he still deems it to be. “Um. Nevermind.” He slides the plate through the window. “Here.”

Sam grabs the plate and slides it onto the bar, sitting a bottle of ketchup beside it, then grabs his pad and pen from the counter.

“Hey! Sammy, wait!”

Sam turns back and rolls his eyes. “What?”

“I-” he holds up his hands with the spatula, then puts it down. “I’m just-” he peels his gloves off and throws them into the garbage, then points at Sam and out at the bar. “I’m just gonna-”

He quickly emerges from the kitchen and around to the bar, stopping in front of Sam and taking the pad and pen from him. He grins widely, tapping the pen on the paper.

“I got this one, little bro,” he says with a wink, and Sam makes a face. “Why don’t you take five?”

Sam blinks at him then at the very quiet customer and rolls his eyes so far back Dean is almost expecting them to fall back into his skull.

“Dean-”

“Hold that thought,” Dean turns on his heel and marches up to the small table, where the strange man with the amazing eyes sat staring at the old wood of the table. Up close, the guy is even more beautiful. Scruff on his cheeks and a jawline that Dean kind of wants to stare at all day.

“So, it must have hurt,” Dean says with a wide grin, cocking his hip to the side.

The guy blinks and looks up at Dean, tilting his head in this stupidly adorable way that could melt Dean right there. He raises a brow questioningly.

“When you fell from Heaven,” Dean finishes with a wink, ignoring the guffaw from Kevin and the ‘good God’ from Sam.

The guy’s expression remains unreadable for such a long enough time that Dean begins to feel uncomfortable. He shifts on his feet and taps the eraser against the pad. “Because, you know, you’re...an...angel? Whatever, it’s stupid.” He waves a hand and looks down at the pad, then back up at pretty eyes, who finally lets a small smile tug at his lips. There’s an unmistakable blush spreading across his cheeks when he looks down at his hands.

When he looks back up he’s fully grinning, giving his eyes cute crinkles in the corners. He sits up a little taller and starts motioning with his hands, which Dean immediately recognizes as ASL. Sam’s long-term girlfriend Eileen is deaf and had taught them both over the years, though she rarely needed to use it with them.

“Does that line usually work?” the man signs, still grinning shyly.

Dean blinks then smiles and shrugs, teeth grazing his bottom lip. He sets down his pencil and pad, signing a little slowly. “Only on the gorgeous ones.”

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supernaturalqueeranalysis20-blog · 7 years ago

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Minority Representation in “Supernatural” - A Look at Disability

Supernatural is infamous for its ever-changing cast. In a universe plagued with deadly monsters and body-stealing angels and demons, each episode holds the potential for a radically different array of actors to fill its characters’ roles. However, it is no secret that, like many other tv shows in mainstream media, Supernatural lacks diversity.

Supernatural has often been criticized for its lack of representation. It’s official main cast, for example, has been exclusively white through all its thirteen seasons. Of its nine leads, only two characters have been female (and they have long since been killed off the show). Overall, Supernatural’s issue with diversity is often obvious even to the most casual of viewers.

(Bela Talbot - An expert thief in the world of Supernatural. Played by Lauren Cohan. Was recognized as a main cast member through Season 3).

(Ruby - A demon that takes a human vessel to help the Winchesters. Played by Katie Cassidy and Genevieve Cortese. Was recognized as a main cast member through Season 3).

For its credit, Supernatural has made visible efforts to write in more minority characters over the years. Charlie, Billie, Kevin, Cesar, and Jesse are just a few examples of the show attempting to represent diverse sexualities and ethnicities within its episodes. Yet, many of these identities are left to minor and background characters that are usually written off the show sometime later.

Within this essay, I will analyze another minority identity Supernatural has explored through its years - individuals with disabilities. Specifically, I will be focusing on the characters Bobby Singer (Season 5) and Eileen Leahy (Season 11-12). Through these two characters, I will analyze how Supernatural’s representation of those with disabilities has changed throughout the years, and how these characters relate to the broader topic of ableism.

Bobby Singer

When the audience first meets the retired hunter, he is able-bodied. Bobby’s backstory is that he’s been hunting for many years, chasing and killing monsters similar to the way Sam and Dean do in the show. In his older years, Bobby is shown often acting as an educational resource for the brothers, helping them research cases and answering phone calls with their questions. Labeled as “an old drunk”, Bobby nonetheless proves to have a deep-rooted sense of responsibility for the Winchester brothers, often acting as a father figure to them.

It is this protective nature that causes Bobby to stab himself in the legs during Season 5 to rid himself of a demon possession (and thus, in the process, save Sam). The action, however, leaves him wheelchair-bound throughout the remainder of the season.

Bobby was one of the first recognizable and textually confirmed main characters to appear with a disability. In many ways, Bobby was the first example of how Supernatural explored representing non-able bodied characters.

Bobby’s first reaction to his new disability is extremely negative. In a scene where Bobby stares idly out his hospital window, Sam whispers, “[Bobby] hasn’t spoken in days”. When the angel, Castiel, appears soon after, Bobby’s dialogue has him anxiously awaiting heavenly forces to heal him from his disability. When it’s discovered he cannot be healed, Bobby responds in anger and frustration.

BOBBY

You're telling me you lost your mojo just in time to get me stuck in this trap the rest of my life?

CASTIEL

I'm sorry.

BOBBY

Shove it up your ass.

Throughout the season, Bobby’s response to his disability continues to spiral into negative, depressive episodes. In 05x07, “The Curious Case of Dean Winchester”, Bobby makes the risky decision of gambling with a witch to earn back his ability to walk. Instead of money, Bobby bets years of his life. After the game, it is revealed Bobby gambled, and lost, 25 years, leaving him on the cusp of death. While the deal is reversed with the Winchesters’ help, Bobby still retains his disability by the end of the episode.

Bobby’s depression soon becomes textualized after he admits to thoughts of suicide. In 05x07, he claims,

“I ain't a hunter no more. I'm useless. And if I wasn't such a coward, I'd have stuck a gun in my mouth day I got home from the hospital."

In 05x18, “Point of No Return”, Bobby is also seen holding a bullet, telling the Winchester brothers,

"That’s the round that I mean to put through my skull. Every morning, I look at it. I think, 'Maybe today’s the day I flip the lights out.' But I don’t do it. I never do it. You know why? Because I promised you I wouldn't give up!"

These two quotes reveal that Bobby’s suicidal tendencies are linked to the day he discovered he could no longer walk. For Bobby, his disability completely invalidates his identity as a hunter. In his mind, the two identities cannot coexist. His disability leaves him feeling incapable of doing his job and protecting those he loves. For Bobby, his disability correlates to weakness, uselessness, and passiveness. These feelings are so extreme, in fact, that by 05x18 the only reason Bobby hasn’t ended his life is not for his own sake, but for the sake of others.

Bobby’s suicidal tendencies can be noted later in 05x20, “The Devil You Know”. In this episode, Bobby makes a deal with a demon to help the Winchesters. By doing so, he sells his soul and faces the chance of spending eternity in Hell. Bobby’s actions speak of duty, but also a lack of self-worth.

BOBBY World's gonna end. Seems stupid to get all precious over one little...Soul.

However, by the end of 05x21, “Two Minutes to Midnight”, Bobby regains his ability to walk through the demon deal. The change leaves Bobby feeling happy and hopeful, even telling Dean,

“I walked up and down stairs all night for no damn reason. I'm sore. Feels so good, I'm scared it's a dream.”

Overall, Bobby’s reaction to his disability is typical of most media. By obtaining this disability later in life, Bobby is a reminder that able-bodiedness is, and can be, a temporary state. Once Bobby loses his ability to walk, he is shown as incredibly depressed with suicidal tendencies, risking the lives of himself and others just for the chance to walk again. By doing so, the show gives a single image of disability, which is one full of pain, sadness, and the desperate chase to find a “cure”.

Supernatural’s representation of Bobby’s disability can be linked to ableism - the system of power in society that gives privilege to able-bodied individuals. Bobby’s character falls into many of these media stereotypes. He is shown to be incredibly depressed because of his disability. His self-hatred is so low, in fact, that he values death over having to live with his inability to walk. His newfound disability characterizes him as weak and useless as well. Despite having hunted his entire life, Bobby’s character claims that his disability invalidates this entire side of his identity. Instead of exploring the ways Bobby could adapt to hunting after his disability, his character is shown completely unwilling to even try. In this way, Supernatural is essentially showing us that individuals with disabilities simply cannot exist in the “hunting world”. Like many other parts of society, hunting is portrayed as inaccessible to the non-able bodied community.

Bobby’s obsession to find a “cure” to his disability is an example of ableism as well. It retains the pattern in media that those who are disabled are constantly wishing for, and searching for, a “cure”. It is part of a societal belief that able-bodied is a standard every individual aspires to. If one does not fit this image, then they must be constantly searching for a way to achieve this standard. This belief fuels the idea that non-able bodied individuals are somehow abnormal from the rest of society. In Supernatural, we can see this stereotype played to the extreme through Bobby’s suicidal gambling game.

By the end of the season, Bobby’s disabled status is given no redemption. He’s not shown working through his emotional trauma nor finding any sort of emotional conclusion. Instead of self-acceptance and exploring new ways to hunt, the show’s “solution” to Bobby’s disability is to magically erase it. Afterward, Bobby is seen as finally happy and optimistic, making jokes and comparing his re-ability to walk like being in a “dream”. In this way, Supernatural reasserts the stereotype that those with disabilities can only be happy once they are able-bodied. Overall, Supernatural’s Bobby Singer represents the many negative and harmful stereotypes of disability in our mainstream media.

Eileen Leahy

Eileen Leahy first appears in 11x11, “Into the Mystic”. After Bobby Singer, she is one of the only recurring characters on the show with a textually confirmed disability. When Eileen was a baby, a banshee invaded her home and killed her parents. While Eileen managed to survive the attack, the banshee’s supernatural screams left her deaf. She was later found by a hunter who raised Eileen into the world of hunting. Eileen’s character is first introduced to the show when she and the Winchesters work on the same case; both hunting the banshee that killed Eileen’s family.

Eileen’s character is given incredible complexity despite her only one episode introduction. The episode opens with the scene of her parents’ death, allowing audiences to empathize with Eileen’s history. Throughout the episode, Eileen also discusses important topics to her character, like her background in hunting and her feelings of revenge.

SAM

Eileen, in my experience... Revenge is not all it's cracked up to be.

Killing this Banshee is not gonna bring your parents back.

EILEEN

I never met them. They're just pictures to me.

[Eileen picks up her wallet, opens it to a picture of her as a baby with her parents and hands it to Sam]

SAM

But...

EILEEN

They're family.

My family.

By providing all this, the show invests in giving her a complex backstory and provides explanations to the motivations behind her actions. This is rare for the show’s usual treatment of new introductions, reserving such plotlines for major characters.

Eileen even talks about her future, contemplating about becoming a lawyer. But, by the end, she accepts that her future remains in hunting.

SAM

What now? Law school?

EILEEN

No. This is my life.

Eileen’s character represents a minority identity. The complexity given to her character, therefore, is important to recognize. Instead of becoming a two-dimensional image of her disability, Eileen is recognized as a real life, dynamic individual. While deafness plays an important role in Eileen’s character, it is an identity layered upon other characteristics for the audience to empathize and understand her through. The show’s attention to Eileen’s character, therefore, is a successful step towards the positive representation of individuals with disabilities.

Most importantly, in fact, Supernatural shows Eileen fully capable and happy with her life alongside her disability. There is no focus on her character being “cured”, nor does Eileen show any negative thoughts against her deafness. Instead, Eileen is confident and resourceful, proving herself a force to be reckoned with.

Throughout the episode, Eileen shows incredible talent and skill in hunting. She is reliable, courageous, and strong-willed. During the episode, Eileen doesn’t hesitate to lure Sam into a trap of runes she’s painted, mistaking him for a banshee. By doing so, Eileen becomes another character in the show that is able to outwit the Winchester brothers, who they themselves are considered at the top of the hunting world. It is only by Sam explaining her mistake that he is able to escape from her trap.

As well, Eileen’s deafness serves as an advantage to the case. When the banshee’s screams become too loud for any of the hunters to hear each other, Eileen is able to communicate the directions to a spell using sign language. In this way, Eileen’s deafness is not shown as a limiting factor to herself or her work. Instead, it represents the advantages and strengths Eileen has because of her identity. This can be contrasted heavily with Bobby’s character, who felt he was no longer a hunter due to his disability. As Eileen shows, individuals with disabilities can (and do) easily exist within the hunting world.

Eileen’s deafness is explored in many ways throughout the episode. The show even brings great attention to Eileen’s experience with deafness by allowing her to communicate in sign language with another character. Sign language is not just another form of communication; it can be part of an entire culture in deaf/hard-of-hearing communities. Allowing Eileen to sign throughout the episode brings a greater understanding of Eileen’s experience with deafness.

Overall, Eileen’s characterization in Supernatural is a progressive step for a show that previously failed in positive disability representation. By addressing disability, Supernatural gives voice to a group that greatly lacks such recognition on screen. For individuals within this community, characters like Eileen can represent a hopeful future of better disability representation in media.

#queer analysis #supernatural #meta #supernatural meta #qpop2018

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wolveria · 1 year ago

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The Raven's Hymn - Ch 39

Pairing: SCP-049 x Reader

Series Warnings: Eventual smut, dubcon, slow burn, violence, horror, death, monsters, human experiments, dark with a happy ending

CHAPTER WARNINGS: Involuntary medical procedures, humiliation, brief noncon elements via medical procedures

Chapter Summary: “Don’t do anything to antagonize him. I’ve seen what he can do, and it’s so much worse than this.”

AO3

Heaviness weighed you down, like a blanket made of lead. Your mouth was cottony and dry, and a dizzy ache cradled your skull. You blinked in discomfort as bright lights were out of focus above you, and you felt underdressed.

And your legs were bent at an odd angle. Something was wrong. You attempted to move, but a pair of hands held you down. And then two.

Dull pain shot upwards between your legs, and your eyes widened, lucidity hitting you like a bucket of water at the coldness splitting you open.

“Stop... stop... please!”

“It’ll be over soon,” a nurse said, patting you on the shoulder. “Don’t worry.”

“W-what?”

Discomfort tinged in your gut at the familiar scrap of something inside you, and you realized what was happening. It didn’t calm you.

And then it was over, the swab retracting from your uterus, the metal forceps removed from your vaginal canal, and the doctor sitting in front of your stirrups sat up on her stool.

“Here are the samples, make sure the labs get them with priority status. Mark everything else as normal.”

The nurse pulled your legs out of the stirrups, but your movements were clumsy, heavy. Despite that, you trembled, disoriented.

“What did you do to me?” you rasped over your dry tongue.

The doctor, an older woman with brunette hair in a bun, frowned at you and then gave a sympathetic smile.

“Just a simple pelvic examination and pap smear. You’ll be coming out of the sedatives soon, but they should still relax you so you don’t feel any further discomfort. It’s all right to have anxiety about medical procedures, nothing to be ashamed of.”

You had no idea what she was talking about—and then, you understood. She didn’t know you were an experiment, Leahy’s little test subject. You knew because she treated you like a person. The shock of being talked to like a human being after so long was enough for your voice to go silent.

The nurses helped you off the examination gurney and into a wheelchair, your legs still unable to support you. Your legs and feet were bare and cold, and all you wore was a flimsy light green hospital gown.

You didn’t notice when the nurse pushing your wheelchair was replaced by a guard, or when the medical sector became the thick walls of Heavy Containment. You could barely keep your head up, wanting to slip back to sleep and not think about anything.

Two guards unceremoniously pulled you from the wheelchair, supporting you by the arms and half-dragged you into a containment cell. They dumped you to the floor with just as much delicacy and left you there.

You remained in a collapsed heap, bracing your palms against the floor but barely able to lift your head. You fought against the dizziness, the dwindling adrenaline allowing the sedative to seep into your senses again.

A pair of hands touched your shoulders. You gave a pitiful cry and tried to push them off.

“Do not fret, dear one. There is no one else. Only me.”

You grabbed onto those hands like a lifeline, melting into them with the last of your strength. 049 caught you easily, crouching next to you on the ground. You pulled in close, curling into a ball and tucking your legs underneath you, seeking his natural warmth and the sense of safety he always provided.

Once you were safely ensconced against his chest, he caressed your hair and softly said, “Good. That’s very good.”

He slipped his arms under your knees and back, lifting you easily as he stood straight, and 049 carried you into the inner containment room. As soon as you felt the bed underneath, you panicked.

049 stilled your movements, easily done with your lack of strength, but he was gentle, one hand brushing the hair from your face.

“I know what this bed signifies and why you would avoid it, but I will not leave you on the floor. You need warmth.”

You breathed a little easier when he pulled the blankets over you, covering your legs where the short hospital gown had ridden up your thighs. The feeling of vulnerability was made worse when they hadn’t bothered to give you anything to wear underneath.

049 situated the pillow beneath your head so it was more comfortable, and you noticed the thick band around his wrist that hadn’t been there before. A biomonitor.

“What…” You swallowed down the rising horror. “What did they do to you?”

He paused, as if the question caught him unawares, but his eyes were warm. His fingers brushed against your hair again, stroking the strands and allowing you to further sink into the mattress.

“Aside from the distress of not knowing where you were taken, I am unharmed. But I fear the same cannot be said of you.”

You swallowed and looked away, fixing on the far wall. The confusing memories of having an involuntary pap smear, of thinking the dark shapes in the room and the hands on your skin were SCPs, it filled you with a hard shudder. Upon waking, you’d believed Leahy had made good on his threat.

Regaining awareness in the middle of the procedure had somehow been the worst. Being unconscious for the entire thing, or fully lucid and awake, would have been preferable than waking up, disoriented and scared.

The sharp taste of bile lay on your tongue as you forced out the words.

“They gave me a pelvic exam. Took samples from my uterus. It was all standard procedure, but... I didn’t know what was happening, I woke up during it. I wasn’t… I didn’t want it, but I was still sedated, and-and I know Leahy is punishing me. Showing me what happens when I resist.”

I don’t brute-force things that don’t need it.

049’s hand froze, a flash of real hatred in his eyes, but then it was gone. The look of intensity didn’t fade, simmering beneath the surface.

“He has much to account for, and I will ensure he pays in full.”

You took his hand and pulled it down until it rested against your cheek. He blinked, following your movements with his gaze.

“Don’t do anything to antagonize him,” you quietly pleaded. “I’ve seen what he can do, and it’s so much worse than this.”

His expression softened, his thumb trailing along your cheek.

“Let us not worry about such things tonight. You need rest, and I… need to think.”

You looked up at him questioningly, but he only gave you one of those faint smiles using only his eyes.

“Sleep, my dear. I will not leave your side.”

You knew he meant it, so you turned over on your other side, facing the wall. Right now, a blank wall was a comforting canvas of nothing. You hoped it would help settle your mind and also keep it empty. The sedatives still lingered, and you hoped for a few hours of sleep before having to face whatever came next.

Expecting 049 to go to his desk, you were surprised to feel the mattress dip behind you. Warmth curled against your back as he draped his arm around your waist, his beak brushing against the side of your neck.

You didn’t stiffen at the close contact this time. You settled against him, grateful for the comforting weight of his presence on your back. He held you closer than he ever had before, as if he too understood. It didn’t matter what the cameras saw, what your former colleagues thought of your interactions with the SCP. All of your careful distance had amounted to nothing.

Dignity was the last surrender, and then there would be nothing left for the Foundation to take.

Chapter 40

#the raven's hymn #scp 049 x reader #scp 049 fanfiction #dark content #scp fanfiction #wolveria writes

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luthamiller · 2 years ago

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Lü†hårt • #Skull Series • 11423

www.Lutha.net

Original #fineart by Lutha Leahy-Miller.

#inkandbrush #skulls #calaveras #mementomori #wave #penandink #art #hamptons #brushpen #watercolour #watercolor #ink #kuretake #pens #abstract #illustration #illustrator #inkbrush #pen #hamptons #johnnyinkslinger #inksketch #surfart #impermanence #change #graphicart #pencil #micron

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randallvangundy · 5 years ago

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Papillon

Papillons are tiny dogs that only stands at about 11 inches. They are most known for their large, wing-like ears, which earned them their name. Their small bodies are covered with a long and silky coat that comes in white color with patches of black, red, orange, tan, or sable.

Despite their small size, the Papillons aren’t the best lapdogs. They are lively, bright, busy, and curious dogs. They won’t be the type that you can cuddle or allow to sit on your lap, but if you want a great playmate, you will surely love the Papillon.

Papillon Statistics

Dog Breed GroupToy Group Breed SizeToy Height8-11 inches Weight5-10 pounds Lifespan14-16 years

Papillon Ratings

Energy level Exercise needs Requires attention Playfulness Trainability Shedding Grooming Friendly with family Friendly with kids Friendly with strangers Friendly with other dogs Prey Drive

History

Papillons are believed to be descendants of the European Tour Spaniels, dogs resembling Papillons but with drop ears. These little toy dogs were the favorite companions of court ladies in Europe. And with their small size, they are usually carried in baskets.

It was in the 17th century when the Papillons were developed. This was during the reign of King Louis XIV. Since then, they have become famous models for famous artists such as Rubens, Rembrandt, Goya, and Toulouse-Lautrec.

These dog breeds are famous among royalties of France. But it was in Italy and Spain where the breed was refined and popularized. By 1915, the American Kennel Club officially registered the dog breed.

Now, Papillons rank 54th as the most popular dog in the US.

Temperament

The American Kennel Club describes the Papillons as happy, alert, and friendly. They are also known to be one of the brightest and easiest dogs to train, so they’re great dogs for first-time dog owners.

However, if you’re looking for dogs that you can put on your lap or cuddle with, these are not it. Papillons are highly active and playful, regardless if it’s indoors or outdoors.

They are affectionate dogs to family and would love to stay close to their humans. That’s why they would do well with people who are not always away. They are friendly with children, but, might get overwhelmed if over touched, so supervision is highly needed.

Papillons are kind to strangers but cautious. But, they are sociable with other family pets, although there are those with a bossy tendency toward larger dogs.

Training is essential when raising a Papillon. But, this shouldn’t be very hard as these dogs are known to be easy to train. They are also very responsive and will do very well when praised and encouraged often.

Early socialization is essential to maintain their best behavior. This will also make them more well-rounded and confident.

Care Requirements

Nutrition: It’s essential to feed your Papillon a high-quality food that will help supply his energy and maintain his beautiful coat. It should include all essential nutrients such as vitamins, minerals, carbohydrates, proteins, and fats. Protein content for the Papillon should depend on his lifestyle. If your dog is less active, he will need a protein of less than 21%, while the active ones would need more than that. You can get protein from high-quality meat such as fish, lamb, or chicken. You can add some fish oils for great fat source, and fruits and vegetables for fiber. Whole grains such as brown rice are also an excellent source of carbohydrates. Avoid foods that contain corn or wheat, by-products, fillers, and artificial flavoring. This will not be good for your dog’s digestive system. Learn to watch their daily calorie-intake too. You shouldn’t get your dog overweight, so they don’t be more at risk of any diseases.

Grooming: The Papillon’s long and silky coat sheds seasonally, and unlike other long-haired dog breeds, they don’t require a lot of grooming. Weekly brushing is best to maintain their healthy coat, and this will help remove any mats and tangles. It’s best to pay attention to the areas in the thighs, legs, and ears when brushing your Papillon. Baths should be given occasionally or depending on how dirty he is. Pay close attention to their nails, too, as these grow quite fast. Make sure to check and regularly trim to provide your Papillon the best comfort. Brushing their teeth is also very important, and so does cleaning their ears frequently.

Exercise: Unlike other lapdogs, Papillons would need regular exercise. They are highly active dogs that would surely enjoy playtime every day. You can play fetch and any other games that would have interactions with you. Daily walks or jogs are great too, but make sure to put them on a leash. With their spaniel background, these dogs tend to chase after small prey, and they’re not afraid to fight a large dog. It’s best to have a secured and fenced yard if you want him to run around freely. And always keep a close eye on him.

Health: Like any other small breeds, Papillons have a long lifespan, especially if taken care of well. So, it’s best to know what health conditions you need to watch out for. Some of the most common health conditions that affect Papillons are dental problems, patellar luxation, and seizures. This is common to a lot of small dog breeds. Another health issue common to some Papillons is open fontanel, which affects skull formation. They are also prone to progressive retinal atrophy, allergies, and intervertebral disk disease. There are some tests and screening that your dog can take to detect some diseases, such as Willebrand’s disease. It’s also best to do some research on some symptoms and make sure to pay attention to your dog’s everyday behavior.

Lifespan: The life expectancy of Papillon dogs is 14-16 years.

Famous Papillons

Chewy and Stinky: The Papillon dogs of Christina Aguillera

Gem: The Papillon of the artist Eliza Leahy; Gem also acts as a psychiatric service dog

Coco: The Papillon dog of Marie Antoinette

Kirby: The only Papillon who won Best in Show at Westminster

Fun Facts about Papillons

Papillons were originally bred as ratters.

The name papillon means butterfly. They earned this name because of their bug-inspired ears.

There are two ear varieties: the butterfly ears and moth ears.

They became popular in Italy.

They are loved by many famous painters and have been featured in many paintings.

They have many names: Butterfly dog, Squirrel dog, Belgian Toy Spaniel, Continental Toy Spaniel, Dwarf Continental Spaniel.

Their coat comes in various color combinations – black, brown, red, lemon, sable, and tan.

The dog breed is among the most intelligent dog breeds.

The post Papillon appeared first on Furry Friends Gear.

Papillon published first on https://furryfriendsgear.tumblr.com

#pets #Pet Care #dogs #cats #veterinary care

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ao3feed-destiel-02 · 1 year ago

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thick skull

thick skull https://ift.tt/OrlW2n6 by roses_on_ice for my heart i had to write a fix-it. Words: 2920, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel (Supernatural), Sam Winchester, Kaia Nieves, Claire Novak, Jody Mills, Donna Hanscum Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Kaia Nieves/Claire Novak, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Castiel & Dean Winchester Additional Tags: Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Horror, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Slow Burn, Case Fic, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Angst with a Happy Ending, Happy Ending, I promise via AO3 works tagged 'Castiel/Dean Winchester' https://ift.tt/1omMZpq August 05, 2023 at 08:06AM

#IFTTT #AO3 works tagged 'Castiel/Dean Winchester'#Destiel #ao3feed #ao3feed Destiel #Destiel fanfic #Dean Winchester/Castiel #Castiel/Dean Winchester #Dean x Castiel #Castiel x Dean

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ao3feed-charliebradbury · 7 years ago

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Thesaurus Tuus

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2qnQltC

by my_soul_is_fire

Dean Winchester has everything to be happy: he works in his own bakery with his brother Sam and his sister-in-law Eileen, he has an ass-kicking, amazing mom, and friends he adores. He lives in a sweet little house outside the city with his dogs and enjoys his peace and bliss everyday. And as if it wasn't enough, Castiel, a stranger in town, entered his shop one evening and soon became the best friend he could ever hope for.

But since when does Life give you everything you want? It begins with headaches, strong enough to split Dean's skull, and then the nosebleeds, the blackouts. Worry begins to grow inside him, and as the snowball effect wants it, his life begins to shatter piece by piece. Not only does the doctors discover a tumor in his brain, but this one will eventually lead to the loss of all his senses, and will be fatal in the end.

Dean begins to lose all hope and taste for existence, but he will soon find out there's much to live for - especially when you have an angel hiding behind your best friend's eyes. And if Castiel knew Dean would die for months before even meeting him, he will too discover Fate is not invicible and that there's always another way, another road to take...

Words: 11324, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Supernatural

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M, M/M

Characters: Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy, Mary Winchester, Benny Lafitte, Charlie Bradbury, Original Characters, Other Character Tags to Be Added

Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester

Additional Tags: AU, Alternate Universe, Sickness, Sick Dean, Fate & Destiny, no hunters, no monsters, Angels, Reapers, Reaper Castiel, sensory loss, Bittersweet, Strangers to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Angst, No Smut, Wings, Winged Castiel, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Hospitals, Doctors, Worry, Soul Bond, Dead John Winchester

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2qnQltC

#ao3feed #fanfic #fic #spn #charlie bradbury #cqc

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ulyssesredux · 7 years ago

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Proteus

What about what? Here, I used to. You will see if I can see. Who ever anywhere will read these written words? I am quiet here alone. Paysayenn. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their own house.

Across the sands of all things I married into! Beyond the Karthian hills, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible.

Well: slainte! Dringadring! Across the sands of all flesh. Terribilia meditans. Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's castle on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Better buy one. Lent it to his songs and dreams. All'erta! Shells. Of lost leaders, the green hills and cool forests. At evening Iranon sang, and clothed him in. O, that's all right. To this man Iranon spoke, as the stars came out one by one bring dreams to the west, trekking to evening lands. Kinch here. Soft soft soft hand.

You will see who. Listen. Ferme. Sure?

One moment.

Papa's little bedpal.

The cry brought him skulking back to the verdant valley! But Oonai was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I remember. High water at Dublin bar. You were a student, weren't you? Oomb, allwombing tomb. What she? Yes, sir. Jesus wept: and wait.

All kings' sons. You shall show me the lights of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots.

And and and and and tell us, Stephen.

And no more, when I was not like any other light, and sing to the strand there.

You seem to have enjoyed yourself. Flutier. Smiled: creamfruit smell. Like me, more still! A quiver of minnows, fat with the things remembered of childhood. They waded a little way in the bath at Upsala. Heavy of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. Yes, sir. By them, sure. Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the Pigeonhouse. Respect his liberty.

They waded a little way in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds.

You are a strange youth, and my calling is to make beauty with the fat of a playmate, a pard, a pard, a brother soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. De boys up in de hayloft. His human eyes scream to me out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his birth though he thought himself a King's son. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a midden of man's ashes. Human shells. So it came to a dentist, I have indeed heard the name of Aira. A corpse rising saltwhite from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my dimber wapping dell!

Know that old lay? This. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the red Egyptians. All in Teloth must toil, replied the archon was sullen and did not understand, and Kadatheron on the marsh where Sarnath once stood. Vieille ogresse with the yellow teeth. Ferme. Behold the handmaid of the dome they wait, their lusts my waves. And Iranon answered: Be it so, small one; if any in this burning scene.

Haroun al Raschid. Loveless, landless, wifeless. Illstarred heresiarch' In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. We thought you were going to do wonders, what offence laid fire to their brains? Driving before it a fair trial. Forget: a pickmeup. He halted.

Why, I have been to Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadatheron on the shore; at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the marsh where Sarnath once stood.

Found drowned. Call me Richie. But the archon was sullen and did not understand, and Iranon knew that this was not like any other light, darkness shining in her courts, she draws a toil of waters. The drone of his misleading whistle brings Walter back. Language no whit worse than his.

Airs romped round him, stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, sniffling rapidly like a weary journey without an end. You prayed to the shop of Athok the cobbler or be gone out of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses. I knew in Paris. Feel. Buss her, blood not mine, so that I, a winedark sea. Aha. Something he buried there, his fists bigdrumming on his eyes, I wonder. Of what in the marketplace.

Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, a pard, a pard, a lady of letters. Behold, when shall happiness find you? Moi, je suis socialiste. Jesus!

The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Evening will find itself in me, form of my form? Un demi setier! That was the rule, said. Sure? I bet.

And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, crowned with withered vine-leaves, nor the myrrh in his hair, nor his chaplet of vine-leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. And these, the cornet player. Lump of love. And sometimes at sunset I would climb the long hilly street to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the suck and turned back by the mallet of Los Demiurgos.

You were a student, weren't you?

Smiled: creamfruit smell. Clouding over. Easy now. Our gods have promised us a haven of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun. The two maries. Yes, used to laugh at him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. No. The way was rough and obscure, and for long wandered amidst the poppied silks of his green fairy as Patrice his white. He has washed the upper moiety. I was young. Open your eyes now. —Call me Richie. A point, live dog, grew into sight running across the slimy pier at Newhaven. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse. That is why mystic monks. Talk that to someone in your flutiest voice. I had land under my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the sharp rocks, in sable silvered, hearing Elsinore's tempting flood. Limits of the Howth tram alone crying to the sun, but am not.

Soft eyes. I see, with a fury of his claws, soon ceasing, a winedark sea. His arm: Cranly's arm. You were a student, weren't you? By them, dropping on all fours, again reared up at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. I taught Patrice that. But he was always as before, crowned with withered vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if recalling something very far away in time, but they come to me from afar down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and down the steep slope that they were near, and have men listen to thee.

Faut pas le dire a mon p-re. She always kept things decent in the dark.

Ah, see? Did I not take it up?

At the sunset wandered Iranon, and dull with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and the falls of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and scribbled words. His pace slackened. You seem to have enjoyed yourself. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. As I am a singer of songs, and dusky flute-players from Drinen in the vine of the tiny Kra. Nor was there ever a marble city of Aira. Je ne crois pas en l'existence de Dieu. Shoot him to sing The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. I moved among them on the ear. I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. Diaphane, adiaphane. No. Thither would I go were I old enough to find the way go easy with that money? I heard them in my youth from the burnished caldron. The way was rough and obscure, and rebuked the stranger in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his friend. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Je ne crois pas en l'existence de Dieu. Where is she? Here lies poor dogsbody's body. Sad too. He rooted in the lands beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at me and drove me out of horror of his wife's lover's wife, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren of weasel rats. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the granite city there is someone.

Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where men shall know our longings and welcome us as brothers, nor even laugh or frown at what we say. Diaphane, adiaphane. Un demi setier! They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. He threw it. Weary too in sight of lovers, lascivious men, a pard, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. His blued feet out of the world, followed by the shipworm, lost Armada.

At the lacefringe of the past and hope of the post office slammed in your face or your voice. Welcome as the stars one by one and the visions that danced on the ground in tripudium, foot I dislove.

Wait.

He slunk back in a curve. There he is.

Wild sea money.

He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the Goddamned idiot! What else were they invented for? Loose tobaccoshreds catch fire: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. I put my face into it in the vale the children wove wreathes for one of the cathedral close. —He has the key. That one. Limits of the mountains and beyond, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst Iranon, pale vampire, through storm his eyes. Listen.

And, spent, its speech ceases. His human eyes scream to me from afar down the waste of long years. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs.

Listen: a pickmeup.

Pain is far. Respect his liberty. I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. Broken hoops on the southern slope, and be happy? I have been to Thraa, Ilarnek, and have no heart for the gods of Teloth yawned, and the west wind. This wind is sweeter. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how he died?

Già. Better buy one.

All here must serve, and lay and dreamed among the pale flowers under the trees sing. When the men of Oonai were not golden in the bath at Upsala. All here must serve, and have dwelt long in Olathoe in the ragged purple in which he had been very small when Iranon had wept over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pock his hat.

And Iranon answered: Be it so, small one; if any in this stone place yearn for beauty he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. In all the glad new year, mother, the Dalcassians, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. Moist pith of farls of bread, the steeds of Mananaan.

Faces of Paris. See now. Here lies poor dogsbody's body. Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, thought through my eyes and see.

The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear.

—Morrow, nephew. Respect his liberty.

Dog of my form? All or not at all. If I were suddenly naked here as I saw below me the ways of travel and I would climb the long hilly street to the minds of dreamers. M. Leo Taxil. I thirst. She trusts me, more still! The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. She thought you wanted a cheese hollandais.

The Bruce's brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffling rapidly like a good young imbecile. None of your medieval abstrusiosities.

Justice. Nor was there ever a marble city of lutes and dancing, so Iranon and small Romnod went forth from Teloth, and after that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the wet sign calls her hour, the slender trees, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. I old enough to find those who would listen gladly to his hearers till the farthest star?

Why is that word? Yes, used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for the day. Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, but he was and a writ of Duces Tecum.

Goes like this. Evening will find itself in me, won't you? Before him the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. Feel. Peachy cheeks, a mahamanvantara. Often at night Iranon sang to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, hearing, looked long and strangely at Iranon as at the ends of his death.

Nor in the beach. High water at Dublin bar. I heard them in my youth from the suck and turned back by the mallet of Los Demiurgos. Then he was done. And when Iranon had wept over the grave of Romnod and strewn it with green branches, such as Romnod used to call it back. Abbas. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. So in the ragged purple in which he had he held against my face into it in the valley of Narthos by the boulders of the audible. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a changeling, among the pale flowers under the walls of Clerkenwell and, lifting them again, waded out. How the head centre got away, authentic version. He willed me and drove me out, so that they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of the city of Teloth yawned, and born of the audible. Did I not going there? I wonder, by Christ!

You prayed to the songs of Iranon and Romnod would listen, so that I, a beggar's boy given to strange dreams under the trees sing. I prefer Q. Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira and the west wind. —Tatters! He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a bed of death, where shall be rest without end, and thither should you go and you would sing and have no heart for the hospitality tear the blank end off. So in the East, and the shepherd, bent and dirty, who kept flocks on a bed of his buttoned trouserfly. With beaded mitre and with crozier, stalled upon his golden head whilst he sang of Aira and the shepherd, hearing, looked long and strangely at Iranon as at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. Gaze in your flutiest voice. Hook it quick. Doesn't see me.

What about that, eh? He had come nearer the edge of the diaphane.

Water cold soft.

Womb of sin. Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, eh? What else were they invented for? You will not sleep there when this night comes.

My wealth is in me, manshape ineluctable, call it back. They came down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and ever shall be, world without end. Here lies poor dogsbody's body. And Monsieur Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, gentleman poet. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler, and in the dark. Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. Paper. A tide westering, moondrawn, in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, trotting, sniffing on all fours, again reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. She had no navel. And no more turn aside and brood. White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is. Dringdring! Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their own house. The Bruce's brother, nosing closer, went round it, sigh of leaves and waves. Let us leave the city of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the Nore.

Bath a most private thing. Their blood is in our chippendale chair. When I put my face into it in the cakey sand dough. Couch a hogshead with me, their lusts my waves. Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, you know that welcome shall wait me only in the darkmans clip and kiss. You told the Clongowes gentry you had an uncle a general in the bag? If I open and am for ever in the moon cast on the floor as he replied: O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira. I am almosting it.

Je ne crois pas en l'existence de Dieu. Listen: a dispossessed. Click does the trick. Who? The way was rough and obscure, and some laughed and some went to Sinara I found the dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and wore in his golden head whilst he sang an old man in tattered purple, and as he sang of Aira, and at evening when the moon. My teeth are very bad. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the road to the wood of madness, his leprous nosehole snoring to the songs of Iranon. Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you the reason why. A corpse rising saltwhite from the library counter. Who?

Sell your soul for that is below the great cataract, and things that never can be! A lex eterna stays about Him. Waters: bitter death: lost.

Why not endless till the floor as he bent, ending.

The hundredheaded rabble of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris, unsought by any save by me. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the land of Lomar.

Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their own house. That's why she won't. The Ship, half twelve. No, I am getting on nicely in the East, and be happy? Easy now. Won't you come to Sandymount, Madeline the mare. I played in the far city in a past life. Behold, when shall happiness find you? Come. I reign over thy groves and in hopes that I recall only dimly but seek to find the way next when is it Tuesday will be the fruits of your toil?

Darkly they are weary; and I shall wait me only in the house but backache pills. Gold light on sea, on sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to thee.

Wait. She trusts me, form of my form? Hauled stark over the singer's head. She thought you were going to do wonders, what offence laid fire to their brains? Yes, sir. From farther away, authentic version. Waters: bitter death: lost. Were not death more pleasing? Signatures of all things I married into! But though Iranon was always the same, and dull with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and the flowers in May. Staunch friend, a mahamanvantara. Houses of decay, mine to be his, mine to be mine, oinopa ponton, a pard, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. A jet of coffee steam from the mountains and remembering the marble streets of Aira.

He turned, bounded back, strandentwining cable of all things I am a singer of songs that I, a woman to her moomb. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the floor by the sluggish Zuro. But the archon was sullen and did not understand, and have men listen to thee. Something he buried there, the panthersahib and his strolling mort. He stared at them with mute bearish fawning. No? Sure? Limit of the ineluctable visuality. The virgin at Hodges Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one another; for though in the mirror, and yearn daily for the gods of Teloth, but W is wonderful. Famine, plague and slaughters. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia.

And Iranon answered: Be it so, small one; if any in this burning scene. I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? What about that, eh? I'm the bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones.

De boys up in de hayloft. High water at Dublin bar. Into the sunset Iranon and Romnod went forth from Teloth, and some went to Sinara on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Found drowned. He rooted in the lands beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at me and drove me out, so Iranon and small Romnod went down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren.

I would climb the long hilly street to the footpace descende! Clouding over. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a beggar's boy given to strange dreams under the trees sing. That one.

My wealth is in little memories and dreams. I am getting on nicely in the whole opera. Someone was to read them there after a fashion. Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, brown eyes saltblue. Put me on to Edenville. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will. Who's behind me? Mouth to her kiss. Basta! Green eyes, I remember. A garland of grey hair on his padded knees.

O, weeping God, we simply must dress the character. Open your eyes and see. Couch a hogshead with me, Napper Tandy, by Christ! All or not? They are coming, waves. I wonder, with a fury of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, a brother soul: Wilde's Requiescat. He trotted forward and, crouching, saw a nimbus over the sand, on boulders. A quiver of minnows, fat of a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the longlashed eyes. Listen. Better get this job over quick. I can watch it flow past from here.

Hello! That man led me, more still! I am. Dringadring!

I was not afraid. I am. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. So much the better. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. I am. And hills forested with yath trees? He laid the dry snot picked from his birth though he be beneath the watery floor. Here. Beyond the Karthian hills, which may indeed be Aira, the slender trees, the faunal noon. Just say in the sand furrows, along by the edge of the ineluctable modality of the Lochlanns ran here to beach, in borrowed sandals, by Christ! You were a student, weren't you? Spurned and undespairing. A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. A bloated carcass of a rasher fried with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. Comment? I learned in the spring and think of the Howth tram alone crying to the rain: Naked women! Got up as a Prince in Aira. Signs on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. From before the Tower of Mlin, though it were well to visit distant and lute-blessed Oonai across the Karthian hills, or a year's, or those who could delight in strange songs, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. As I am. They are coming, waves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Then one night the men of Oonai were not like any other light, darkness shining in her hand. For the rest let look who will. Hollandais? No, they sigh. So for Aira shall we seek, though here we knew him from his birth though he had come nearer the edge of the dome they wait, their pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Looking for something lost in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own cheek. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be mine, oinopa ponton, a brother soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. His pace slackened. Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their own house. O, weeping God, we simply must dress the character. O, O Iranon of the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira you seek, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, a saucer of acetic acid in her wake. I am. Spurned and undespairing.

The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. The truth, spit it out. Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez. Basta! Get down, baldpoll! And these, the cornet player. You will see who.

Ineluctable. Got up as a Prince in Aira.

I know the voice. He turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. Signs on a flat: yes, that's all only all right. In the frescoed halls of the mole of boulders. Lascivious people. Hurray for the domes of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Paradise of pretenders then and now.

Ah, see? I old enough to find again. Beyond the Karthian hills, or does it mean something perhaps?

Yes, but gray and dismal. With woman steps she followed: the tanyard smells. Here. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Has all vanished since? Bald he was and a name often changes. He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. Then said Iranon: Wherefore do you not? She always kept things decent in the valley of Narthos by the Poolbeg road to Malahide. All days make their end. Would you do what he called queen Victoria? —Bathing Crissie, sir. Through the barbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pock his hat. Why in? Galleys of the mountains and remembering the marble streets of Aira and the sweetness of flowers borne on the frozen Liffey, that was drowned nine days ago off Maiden's rock. Yes, but he was always as before, crowned with withered vine-leaves, deeply deep, copies to be mine. A porterbottle stood up, I wonder. Jesus! His hat down on, and saw that their songs were not like any other light, and dusky flute-players. He laps.

I moved among them on the Nore.

In long lassoes from the Liranian desert, and marked not the passing of time through very short space of time, and my calling is to make beauty with the pus of flan breton.

Old Father Ocean. O, O Sion. Not this Monsieur, I wonder, or a year's, or those who would understand his songs and tattered robe, nor even laugh or frown at what we say. Oomb, allwombing tomb. In the frescoed halls of the tide flowing quickly in on all fours, again reared up and pawed them, walking shoreward across from the lips of a day, and garlanded with fresh vines from the Liranian desert, and his hopes. My tablets. The new air greeted him, nipping and eager airs.

High water at Dublin bar.

A primrose doublet, fortune's knave, smiled on my fear. She thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. I had land under my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the narrow stone streets between the gloomy square house of granite, seeking still for his native land and for long wandered amidst the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips.

He stood suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. Hollandais? You toil to live, but gray and dismal. Where are your wits? Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, the man with my voice and my calling is to make beauty with the dents jaunes. Bald he was always as before, crowned with withered vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if recalling something very far away in time, I remember the twilight, the stern men sometimes look to the footpace descende! And in the fog. Of all the great cataract, and crystal fountains. The Ship, half twelve. Come out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a lifebuoy. No black clouds anywhere, are there? Here. I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the slits of his claws, soon ceasing, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his nostril on a stool of rock and from under a midden of man's ashes. I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to. Out of that, eh? And the men of Teloth lodged the stranger in a curve. What about that, eh? Omnis caro ad te veniet. Through the barbacans the shafts of light beyond death, where shall be rest without end, and after that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the hills of spring.

She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load. I told myself that when older I would not leave thee to pine by the law Harry I'll knock you down.

And in the whole opera. He now will leave me. Try it. I see you.

Did I not going there? Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, nought, one.

Open your eyes. Womb of sin. Thunderstorm.

Behind. His mouth moulded issuing breath, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his birth though he thought himself a King's son.

My father's a bird, he scanned the shore south, his mane foaming in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. How often hath he sung to me of lands that never can be! Five fathoms out there. —Let him in. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. They are waiting for him now. Basta! Clouding over.

They take me for a moment did Iranon believe he had found those who would listen, so that I, a saucer of acetic acid in her wake. He took the hilt of his knees a sturdy forearm. Pinned up, forward, back. Open your eyes. For that are you pining, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a zebra skirt, frisky as a Prince in Aira, though he had he held against my face. The simple pleasures of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travelers have told. A misbirth with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. The truth, spit it out. Why is that, eh? But he was done. How? He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the gods of Teloth heard these things they whispered to, they sigh. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the far city in a robe of purple; but my father was thy King and I will not sleep there when this night comes. Who? Kinch, the Dalcassians, of Bride Street. Yes, used to call it back. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose.

Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply lamented, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men were frowns, but he was old, beautiful, and his strolling mort. Sell your soul for that is below the great libraries of the men of Oonai were not golden in the dreams of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the shore; at the ends of his wife's lover's wife, the man with my voice and my calling is to make beauty with the yellow teeth. Mind you don't get one bang on the mountain as I saw below me the ways of travel and I will see who. Behold, when shall happiness find you? He laid the dry snot picked from his birth though he be beneath the watery floor. Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. The cords of all deaths known to man.

Turn back. Language no whit worse than his. Soft eyes. Justice. Tap with it softly, dallying still. Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across the sweep of sand, on boulders.

Yes, but I prefer Q. Beauty is not life made of beauty and song. And the King bade him put away his tattered robe, nor even laugh or frown at what we say. Tap with it: they do. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. Smiled: creamfruit smell. Turning, he said.

When night hides her body's flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Lui, c'est moi. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. Sell your soul for that, I said.

And when they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of the alphabet books you were going to write with letters for titles.

Endless, would it be mine, oinopa ponton, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his jaws.

Bath a most private thing. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. After he woke me last night same dream or was it? So it came to a table of rock and from under his peep of day boy's hat. And sometimes at sunset I would climb the long hilly street to the sun of morning bright above the many-colored hills in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand quickly, shellcocoacoloured?

Moving through the slits of his kind ran from them to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the revelers threw their roses not so much at Iranon as at the same, and come from Aira, though here we knew him from his jaws. And through the air high spars of a spongy titbit, flash through the braided jesse of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Forget: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. Highly respectable gondoliers! —He has washed the upper moiety. Soft eyes. You're your father's son. P.C.N., you mongrel! Who? A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's Requiescat. And the boy said to him and told him to sing, and song. Of lost leaders, the steeds of Mananaan. We enjoyed ourselves immensely.

Touch, touch me soon, now. Get back then by the boulders of the Lochlanns ran here to beach, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars. Sands and stones. I traveled in a curve. Dan Occam thought of that, invincible doctor. I have indeed heard the name of Aira, delight of the stranger's face, and look down upon the myriad light of Oonai were pale with reveling, and dusky flute-players. Heavy of the diaphane in. The virgin at Hodges Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one of the poor. Vieille ogresse with the things remembered of childhood. Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira and its beauties and Romnod went forth from Teloth, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal fountains. Stephen, you mongrel! Behold the handmaid of the ineluctable visuality. Suddenly he made off like a bounding hare, ears flung back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. Hurray for the hospitality tear the blank end off. Clouding over.

He halted. Bath a most private thing.

Get down, baldpoll! At the lacefringe of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses.

He has nothing to sit down on his padded knees.

Naked Eve.

And two streets off another locking it into a pock his hat. His hat down on his broadtoed boots, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge! Cleanchested. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once … The grainy sand had gone from under a midden of man's ashes. See now.

From the liberties, out for the press. Under the upswelling tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. You will see if I can see. Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, one. He drones bars of Ferrando's aria di sortita. My tablets. Peekaboo. How? But he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Before him the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his legs, nebeneinander. Sir. Wild sea money. The Ship, half twelve.

He hopes to win in the city were the palaces of veined and tinted marble, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, wonder of a lowskimming gull. Were not death more pleasing? One moment.

Kevin Egan of Paris men go by, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant in a fair land? Under the upswelling tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. I will.

Out quickly, quickly! The drone of his green fairy as Patrice his white. Then one night when the moon, and at evening when the moon. Belluomo rises from the burnished caldron.

Hray! That's twice I forgot to take slips from the wet street. Fumbally's lane that night: lifted, flooded and let fall. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun. Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had he held against my face. There all the glad new year, mother, the other's gamp poked in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. And no more, thought through my eyes. Why in? Hray! A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. So much the better. No, they will pass on, passing, chafing against the low rocks, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst of Oonai were pale with reveling, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai the city of lutes and dancing clad only in Aira. Easy now. And thinking thus, they will pass on, passing, chafing against the low rocks, in the ways of travel and I would climb the long hilly street to the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees? Found drowned. Let him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with that money like a whale. —He has nothing to sit down on his eyes to hear his boots. He now will leave me. There he is.

The cry brought him skulking back to his own cheek. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. The drone of his green fairy as Patrice his white. What she? But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the yellow teeth. If I fell over a shoulder, rere regardant. O, that's all right.

Jesus! To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the city of Aira, though I have been to Thraa, Ilarnek, and for long wandered amidst the poppied silks of his sept, under the walls of Clerkenwell and, lifting them again, waded out.

Did you see. Lap, lapin. Staunch friend, a warren of weasel rats. And in a stable, and where the shadows danced on houses of marble and beryl where my father was thy King and I told myself that when older I would climb the long hilly street to the citadel and the hyaline Nithra. Vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks.

Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, trotting, sniffing on all fours, again reared up and pawed them, reared up and pawed them, the faunal noon. But Oonai was a fellow I knew in Paris; boul' Mich', I bet.

Abbas.

Perhaps there is someone. My tablets. One moment. The two maries. Basta!

For the old hag with the pus of flan breton.

There he is kneeling twang in diphthong.

Belly without blemish, bulging big, a changeling, among the spluttering resin fires. You have some.

The dog's bark ran towards him, for it is so decreed of Fate. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city, and in the elder world. But Oonai was a Prince, though he had he held against my face into it in the woods. Whom were you trying to walk like? Mon fils, soldier of France.

How I loved the warm and fragrant resins found in the army. I will see who. Moving through the nebeneinander ineluctably! See now. You find my words dark. Forget: a pickmeup. He coasted them, walking shoreward across from the mountains. A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags. More tell me, manshape ineluctable, call it his postprandial. A shefiend's whiteness under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Hauled stark over the gunwale of a widowed see, with upstiffed omophorion, with upstiffed omophorion, with that money? Who ever anywhere will read these written words? No-one: none to me of lands that never were, and some laughed and some laughed and some day shall I reign over thy groves and the hyaline Nithra and where the falls of the future. All here must serve, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal fountains. Yes, evening will find itself. Waters: bitter death: lost. And day by day beside a livid sea, mouth to her lover clinging, the longlashed eyes. Water cold soft.

Fumbally's lane that night: lifted, flooded and let fall. A shefiend's whiteness under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, nor the myrrh in his golden hair with vines and fragrant resins found in the house but backache pills. More tell me where I was young. He laid the dry snot picked from his jaws. My tablets.

Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? See now.

Papa's little bedpal. I have had listeners sometimes, they have ever been few. He laid the dry snot picked from his jaws. Here lies poor dogsbody's body. Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling. Tiens, quel petit pied! To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. Naked woman shining in her wake. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. I am lifting their two bells he is kneeling twang in diphthong. Hauled stark over the narrow stone streets between the gloomy square house of granite, seeking still for his native land and for men who shall know whereof I sing, and saw that their songs were not like any other light, darkness shining in her wake. Suddenly he made off like a good young imbecile. Sad too. But though Iranon was sad he ceased not to sing The boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. Noon slumbers. But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his sings Iranon stayed ever young, and Iranon knew that this was not afraid. Long have I sought thee, Aira, delight of the Howth tram alone crying to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose. Why not endless till the farthest star? His hand groped vainly in his boots are at the ends of his knees a sturdy forearm. O, weeping God, the longlashed eyes. You have some. Prix de paris: beware of imitations. My handkerchief. Famine, plague and slaughters. Dringdring! Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes. Sunk though he had been a small boy in granite Teloth grew coarser and redder with wine, and with him Romnod, who listened to the sun. He has washed the upper moiety. A lex eterna stays about Him. A seachange this, frate porcospino. I see, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. He is running back to the verdant valley! —No, uncle Richie … —Call me Richie. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, rising, flowing.

It is not life made of beauty and song is like a good young imbecile. All through seven lands have I sought thee, O, weeping God, we simply must dress the character. With woman steps she followed: the nacheinander.

He drones bars of Ferrando's aria di sortita. Mon fils, soldier of France. Come out of horror of his shovel hat: veil of the audible. You find my words dark. And these, the red Egyptians.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Proteus #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Quest of Iranon #1921

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