#so he's constantly wakened by her tossing and turning

[madegeeky]

30 June: I get sick. Hacking cough, snotty nose, nausea, the works.

2 July: Mr. Geeky and Mars get sick. Both experience minor coughing. Mr. Geeky has some nausea.

5 July: Mr. Geeky and Mars are no longer sick.

7 July: I am still sick. No nausea but much snot and coughing and sinus pressure.

8 July: Mr. Geeky tells me that if I hadn't been sick first, his symptoms were so mild he wouldn't even have noticed that he was sick.

9 July: I murder my husband. It is difficult, what with all the snot and coughing, but it had to be done.

10 July: I am still sick.

[txylorwrjtes]

I’ve got you, sweetheart: Part 4

Pairing: Dean x reader

Warning(s): Mentions of abuse, angst, little bit of fluff, reader has brain damage, self hatred, self doubt

Character(s): Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Y/N Y/L/N, Castiel Novak

Summary: Your mother marries an extremely abusive man, who abuses you to the point you get brain damage. You have a hard time with speech and learning all of the things you already learned before, but you have Dean by your side to help you every step of the way.

Word count: 1,934

Previous part || I’ve got you, sweetheart masterlist

One nightmare. All it took was one nightmare to keep Dean awake. He thought that with you being in a much safer place now, everything would be okay. That he would be okay. But that wasn't the case.

Looking over to the right, he realized that he had only slept for a couple of hours after taking notice that the time was just a few minutes past one. He let out a soft groan as he shifted his body around to face you. It was dark, but Dean could tell that you were still asleep by the soft snores that came from you, something that should've given him enough comfort to fall back asleep again, he the man knew without a drink he wasn't going to be able to.

Dean did his best not to wake you as he sat himself up and pushed the covers off of his body, and when he had finally got up onto his feet, he slowly walked over to the door. He kept his arm stretched out so that he wouldn't accidentally bump into anything on the way. There wasn't a window, so no moonlight was shining into the room just to help the man see where everything was and he knew that it'd wake you if he had turned on the lamp that was settled on top of the nightstand.

But he managed. When he had got to the door, he opened it up just enough to slip himself out of the room and into the hallway. He shut the door quietly, before walking further down the hall and straight to the kitchen, where as he inched closer, he found himself growing rather confused when he noticed that the light was on.

He didn't expect anybody to be awake at this hour, especially his little brother, considering how he was an early bird and due to that, he liked to get to sleep earlier. But when Dean stepped into the room, he saw that Sam was sat down at the table with his laptop, a few tabs of different articles were open.

The younger man let his gaze drift away from the screen for a moment and upwards when he heard a pair of footsteps trudging their way into the room. After realizing that it was just his brother, he focused his attention back onto the article he was currently reading; something about how a married couple and their two young children were simply enjoying a camping trip up in Nebraska, but things quickly turned south when the kids went missing and their parents hearts were ripped out. Police say it was an animal attack, but Sam knew it was something else.

"Hey." Dean was the first one to speak up, breaking the silence that was lingering in the air. "What are you doing up?" He asked, making his way to the fridge to get out a bottle of beer. As he did, he couldn't help but take a quick glance at what Sam was looking at. But from where he was standing, he couldn't really see anything.

"I couldn't sleep." Sam mumbled, shutting his laptop to focus on his brother, who was now making his way over to the table. He watched as Dean popped off of the lid of his bottle before taking a long swing. "I was, uh.. worried about Y/N. I didn't realize how bad her condition was until she tried talking earlier." He admitted. "What about you?"

Dean brought the beer back down to the table and reached a hand up to run it down his face, a heavy sigh escaping past his lips. "I was asleep for a couple of hours, but I had a nightmare, so.. here I am." He finally said after a while, dropping his hand down to wrap it around the bottle. "I honestly thought things would get better now that she's here and safe, but I can't stop imagining what Paul did to her and how her own mother didn't even try to stop it."

"I can't either.." Sam admitted to his brother.

"I don't know, man." Dean mumbled, shaking his head as he picked at the label on the beer bottle. It was something he got a habit of doing any time he was feeling nervous or down. "I feel like if I hadn't been such a coward and just fought to stay so that Y/N and I could've gotten her shit packed up, she wouldn't be in this situation right now."

"Dean, you would've gone to jail if you had stayed." Sam tried to be the voice of reason, but his brother only let out a scoff, shaking his head as he brought the beer back up to his lips so he could take another drink. "Can you imagine someone who passed off as this sweet, religious man who everybody in town just thinks he could do no wrong because of the clothes he wears and a woman who would do anything to protect her husband telling the cops that you, Dean Winchester, was beating up your own girlfriend? In case you don't remember, we don't exactly have a great history with the law. You would be in jail and Y/N would still be in an unsafe house."

Dean took a moment to let what his brother was saying sink into his mind. He knew that he was right, you would still be stuck in that house with nobody to get you out of there. And you having brain damage would've been the least of his worries. That bastard could've killed you.

Nodding his head, he silently agreed with his brother before pointing over to the closed laptop. "What were you looking at when I came in?" He questioned in a curious tone.

"Uh.." Sam almost forgot about the case that had caught his interest. He propped his laptop back open, bringing the articles he had found back up before turning it around to show the man sitting across from him. "A married couple enjoying a camping trip with their kids ended up getting their hearts ripped out. The kids on the other hand.."

"Went missing." Dean finished his brother's sentence when his words had trailed off, he managed to figure it out after skimming through the article. "Must be a werewolf, you and mom should go check it out."

"Yeah, totally. I'll talk to her about it in the morning." Sam agreed, nodding his head. And before he could stop himself, he couldn't help but ask, "Do you want to come with us?"

Dean's eyes glanced up from the laptop screen to stare at the younger man, giving him a look that practically said he should've known better. "I would and you know that, but I've got Y/N to take care. And I'm going to need a break from hunting for a while." He said. "You and mom can handle this, and if you really need help call for Cas."

Sam nodded his head in understandment, mentally smacking himself for being so stupid for asking the question. He didn't say anything else as he turned the laptop back to him to further his research on this case. Meanwhile, Dean downed the rest of his beer before standing up and heading over to the trash can, where he tossed the bottle. He went to walk out, but stopped in his tracks to take a look back at his brother.

He could see a hint of sadness in the younger man's facial expressions, but the vibe that he was giving off the most was genuine concern. Letting out a sigh, Dean made his way back to Sam and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him into a gentle hug. "There's a lot of what if questions running through my mind right now, but one question that I know the answer to is that Y/N will be okay." He reassured him. "Stay safe when you go out there."

Sam nodded his head again, and for the first time since everything with your stepfather had gone down, his eyes teared up. "I will." He muttered out a promise.

With that, Dean let him go and walked out of the kitchen, and began making his way back to bed.

~~~

Even after he had fallen asleep an hour after waking up from that nightmare, Dean was still the first to wake up when morning came around. You weren't able wake up until around two in the afternoon, which left your boyfriend to keep coming in to make sure that you were still breathing. He'd wake you, but with how much your head must've still been hurting, he decided against it.

But when Dean came in for a fourth time, that's when you had waken up. And no, it wasn't because of him, it was because of that damn angel who constantly thinks it'd be okay to pop into a room without warning.

Dean found himself jumping backwards when he took notice of the all too familiar figure. And it wasn't long until he found himself getting annoyed. "Damn it, Cas!" He hissed out in a whispered tone, not wanting to wake you. "Not only are you scaring the living hell out of me, but you're spying on my girlfriend while she's sleeping? That's too much."

"I'm sorry, Dean." Castiel said in a loud enough voice to wake you. "I just wanted to make sure how she was doing."

"Dude, be quiet." Dean tried to shush the angel, but to his dismay, it was too late. You stirred around in the bed, letting out a tired groan before finally opening up your eyes. You looked around the room to see the both men standing still and staring at you. You could feel your stomach growling in hunger as you reached an arm up to place a hand on your head, a pitiful whimper escaping past your lips when you could feel the dull ache coming back to you. "Great. Just, great." Dean muttered in annoyance, throwing daggers to Castiel. "This is so.. great. She was really peaceful sleeping and now that she's awake she's feeling pain, thanks to you."

"I'm sorry, Dean.." The angel apologized once more, but what he said next annoyed the Winchester even more. "But I really think you get some food made for her. Unless it was a bear in her stomach, I think she's hungry."

"Awe, really? I didn't notice." Dean let his sarcasm shine through for just a moment, before motioning with his hand for the angel to go away. "Away with you." That was enough of a sign for the angel to know that he wasn't wanted around at the moment. When Castiel vanished from sight, Dean stepped over to the bed and sat himself down onto it, a loving smile stretched across his lips when he was able to focus his attention onto you. "Good morning, sweetheart."

"G-.." You started to say good morning back to the man, but after the first failed attempt, you decided to stop trying. Instead, you snuggled back under the covers and turned onto your side. The fact you were having a hard time with your speech was beginning to take a toll on you.

Dean let a frown stretch across his lips and crawled right up next to you. He brought his hand up to your head to give it a gentle massage, before leaning forward to press a kiss to your forehead.  He let them linger there for a moment as he thought of all the possible ways to help you with your speech.

~~~

Next part || I’ve got you, sweetheart masterlist

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[halfbloodglader]

Deadweight (Thomas)

Thomas x Reader - 600 words

Request; can you write a Thomas x reader fluff where they are hanging out in the glade? thanks!!

“Hey, wanna go work on the maps after this?” Thomas smiled in his infatuation.

“Sure! Meet under the oak?” She asked him. Thomas nodded, knowing that working under the tree was her favourite place.

When they had both finished their lunches and gone to gather their mapping supplies, Y/N and Thomas spotted each other, the oak half way between them. Shadow only covered the ground in a spot large enough for one of them and they both looked to one another playfully. Thomas knew Y/N was faster than him, but he was slightly closer so he bolted forwards towards the shade. He collapsed on the ground just before she did and Y/N scoffed in disbelief.

“You got me.” She admitted against her pride and laid down beside the boy closely, trying to get under the small patch of shade.

“I’m not budging!” Thomas grumbled as the girl continued to push her way into his side. For nearly an hour, his stomach tossed and turned nervously in her close proximity as they mapped, constantly comparing their findings. When his mind began to drift, Thomas looked to the girl who was nudged up against him, his eyes flickering around her face. He uneasily leaned forward and brushed the hair which hung over her face back behind her ear. Y/N looked to him confused, and he leaned forwards.

Y/N took notice to the heat of the sun and how it had begun to slowly make the skin on her exposed arm tingle.

“Scooch!” She muttered, poking Thomas in the side.

“Nuh uh!” He affirmed, holding his ground.

“Fine!” She leaned in close to his face teasingly and then shot up. Y/N climbed on to his back and stretched out, resting her head on his shoulders which were still propped upright, her legs barely passed his knees when she lay atop him.

“You did not just—” He stated, sneering.

“I did, now keep drawing, you’re behind.” She demanded and he didn’t question it. But, he struggled to focus. He could feel the warm air around him and her chest rise and fall slowly as she breathed, both threatening to send him to sleep. Thomas could tell that she had drifted into a soft slumber herself, and so he lowered his arms and rest his head so he too could sleep.

Undoubtably, the dinner bell rang and woke them up. Thomas could feel the girl nuzzle her nose into his back and release a warm breath which sent chills down his spine. He could crane his neck around just enough to meet her sleepy, soft, Y/E/C eyes.

“Hey…” He said in a groggy voice and a small smile grew on her face before she pressed it into his back again.

“I don’t wanna get up.” She said in her half waken state.

“Who said we had to?” He asked softly and rest his head back down again.

“COME GET IT BEFORE IT’S ALL GONE!” Frypan shouted at the pair under the tree and Thomas let out an aggravated sigh.

“I guess Frypan said so.” He mocked and Y/N mumbled.

“C'mon Y/N.” He muttered as he tried to raise himself off of the ground. Y/N wrapped her arms around his chest and refused to let go, Thomas’ heart rate getting faster the tighter she squeezed. “Alright, I guess I’m carrying you.” He tried to get as good of a grip as he could on the deadweight clinging to his body and prepped for a difficult walk across the Glade.

[crazycatladyk]

Savior (Solea Hawke - Ch 2)

Chapter 1

Waking up was like trying to swim with weights on her ankle. That is to say, it was exhausting.  Solea neared the surface of consciousness a few times, floating at the edge where light filtered brightly and she could hear the faint voices of people around her but then the weights pulled her back down as her body fell victim to fatigue.

During the times she was lost in the lightless depths, the Fade conjured up memories of her family, dreams that for once, she had no control of.  She dreamt of sitting in her father’s lap as a small child, her clumsy infant fingers tracing the lines of lyrium that marked his tan skin.  She looked up at him in wide eyed wonder and he smiled warmly back at her, eyes bright with emotion.

It had been a favorite pastime of hers as a child, she’d tug insistently at his shirt until he took it off so she could trace his markings, marvel at them.  She’d always been fascinated by them.  It was only much later in her life that she learnt that she was the only one besides her mom that he willingly let do so and why.

She dreamt of the night her parents sent her out of Kirkwall and to the Dalish clan outside the city walls.  She remembered stumbling through the dark alleyways of the city, following behind Merrill and clinging to Varric’s coat sleeve as she cried.  She’d wanted to wail her anguish for all the city to hear. It was their fault she couldn’t be a normal kid, their fault she couldn’t grow up with her parents, their fault for shoving her mother onto a pedestal, making her both Champion and a target.

Despite her violent rage at the city and sorrow for her fate, Solea kept dutifully quiet.  Don’t be heard, don’t be seen, you must be invisible, a passing shadow to others.  This was the mantra she’d been raised on and she knew better to raise attention to herself.  No one could know she existed, it was safer that way, for everyone.  By the time, they caught sight of the first aravel, her eyes were dry and her face blank.

What followed that was a stream of various snapshots of her life growing up. Days spent with Varric out in the forest, challenging each other to archery contests.  Nights spent dueling her mother by torchlight or studying with Keeper Marethari about the ways of the Dalish and magic.  Laughing wildly as her father tossed her on his shoulders and ran around while she clung to his shock white hair. Though happy, the memories were tinged with the sour taste of her guilt at disobeying her parents and leaving.

When she finally broke free of the surface, Solea lurched upwards, gasping for air.  A loud clattering noise drew her attention to an elvish woman who was frozen and staring at her with terror in her eyes and a broken box at her feet. Frantically, Solea looked down at herself but she wasn’t glowing.  

“Oh! I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!” The young woman stuttered.

“It’s fine, but where exactly am I? What happened?” Solea cast her gaze about the small cabin as she spoke but found no clues to tell her where she was.

Instead of answering, the woman threw herself at the ground, prostrating herself submissively as she pleaded, “I beg your forgiveness and your blessing. I am but a humble servant.” When she got no response to this, the elf continued on hastily. “You’re back in Haven, my lady. They say you saved us. The breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand.  It’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days!”

Solea’s growing dread that the woman’s deference meant they’d discovered who her parents were was diminished against the news about her mark.  She peered down at her hand, thankfully still covered in a glove, and cast her magic carefully out. Probing gently she discovered that her mark had indeed ceased creeping up her arm.  The pain had stopped as well, she realized with relief, recalling the journey to the Breach.

The closer they’d gotten to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the harder she had to focus on staying in control.  Solea felt the weakness of the Veil as they neared the epicenter of the chaos, felt the barrier separating worlds grow paper thin. The temptation to just slip through and disappear pulled at the lines of her body and she had to keep most of her attention on fighting the urge, which severely crippled her fighting abilities.

The good news was when she finally stepped into the Temple interior, that temptation disappeared. The bad news was that it only happened because her mark had erupted into flashing white hot pain as the magic within responded to her proximity to the Breach.  She could feel the mark spreading as the magic fought against her for more space on her body.

Then, she’d tried to close the rift at the Breach and that, that had made the previous pain feel irrelevant.  It had felt like every cell in her arm was splitting apart and she thought her arm might actually tear apart.  Even the memory of it made Solea clench her hand reflexively.

Shaking away her thoughts, Solea realized the elf was staring at her expectantly as if waiting for her to say something.  She wasn’t sure what to say but she knew she needed to figure out if anything had been discovered about her while she’d been unconscious for three whole days. She hoped her current covered state meant Varric had been able to keep them from undressing her in their attempts at healing.

“What you said earlier, does that mean…” she recalled the vicious, hateful glares and slurs that had been flung at her as she followed behind the Seeker in chains. “are people pleased? What about the Seeker?”

The woman froze again in fear. Solea wished she’d stop doing that. “Oh my! Lady Cassandra will want to know you’ve wakened. She said ‘at once’! She’s in the Chantry with the Lord Chancellor. ‘At once’ she said!”  Without another word, she scurried out of the cabin like it was on fire, letting in a sudden gust of cold and a glimpse of snowy banks before the door slammed shut behind her.

Solea sighed into the empty space. She didn’t like the picture the elf had painted of the situation waiting for her.  Thankfully, it sounded like the Breach was closed which meant all she had to do was grab Varric and the two of them could slip out of Haven undetected. Her hopes of discretion were dashed the moment she stepped out the cabin door.  Dazzling sunlight reflecting off snow blinded her momentarily but the moment her eyes adjusted, she dropped into a crouch, tensing as she reached instinctively for her daggers, which she didn’t have.

There were people everywhere.  Soldiers lined the path from the door, and more civilians crowded around behind them. And they were all staring at her.  No one moved or spoke, they were just staring and slowly, as nothing happened, the fear clouding her mind dissipated.  Now she could see that there was only about a hundred people, not the many hundreds they had initially seemed like.  The men in armor were not templars, just normal soldiers.  They were even saluting her, with fists clenched at their chests.

What the hell was she supposed to do now?  She hadn’t planned on going anywhere near Chantry and certainly didn’t want to have any more conversations with the Seeker, but she didn’t appear to have any other options. She started down the pathway stiffly, taking care to stay directly in the middle and maintain as much space as possible between her and the soldiers on either side.  All of them seemed to tower over her small frame and she’d never felt so short nor so aware of her age.  

The entire pathway to the Chantry was lined and as she passed people she caught snippets of conversations and whispers from the crowd.  The called her the Herald of Andraste, muttered various Andrastian blessings at her, and she had to bite back the urge to scream at them to shut up.  She was no blessed idol.  Creators, she wasn’t even religious.  

Frustration burned in her gut and her patience was fleeting by the time she reached the massive wooden doors of the Chantry.  She was on edge around so many people, tense from constantly scanning the faces around her for threats and innately uncomfortable at having so many people focused on her.  Her whole life had been centered around avoiding attention, and this blatant fixation on her was unnerving.  She never thought she’d miss being on the run.

The reverent quiet of the Chantry interior was soothing on her frayed nerves and Solea fell back against the doors in relief, closing her eyes.  She inhaled the faint scent of wood from the solid surface at her spine.  After several deep meditative breaths, Solea felt her calm, along with her control, return and she stepped away from the door.

She was drawn down the hall towards the cacophony of voices that leaked out from behind the shut door at the end of the hall.  Clearly there was an argument going on and as she approached she recognized the Seeker’s voice along with the faintly Orlesian accent of the redhead, Leliana.  The male voice was as familiar as its scorn for her as it argued for Solea’s arrest. Chancellor Roderick, of course. He was clearly not pleased with her current status as a non-prisoner.

Solea hesitated outside the door. It wasn’t too late, she thought, she could still turn around and leave.  She remembered the crowds of people outside and thought of the guards she’d seen posted at the gate out of Haven.  There wasn’t going to be an easy exit right now. Her best move was to wait for a better opportunity to present itself; for now, she would brave the situation on the other side of the door.

Decided, she pushed open the door cautiously and the first thing she saw was Leliana and the Seeker standing next to each other beside a large wood table that took up most of the room. At the end of the table, Chancellor Roderick turned to face her, is face bright red as he demanded that the guards, stationed on either side of the doorway, arrest her immediately.  Solea dropped straight into a crouch, and yet again grabbed for weapons that she didn’t have but before she could make a move, the commanding tone of the Seeker rang out.

“Disregard that, and leave us.”

Solea immediately dodged far away from the guards who were decked in Templar armor, easily identifiable by the giant sword emblem on the breastplate.  Though she couldn’t sense any lyrium in their blood, her heart still raced and she didn’t breathe again until the door had shut firmly behind the guards who clearly cared more about the Seeker’s authority than the Chancellor’s.  She felt less on edge with the Chantry guards gone, but Solea still stayed close to the door, ready to escape should the need arise.

Tuning back in to the ongoing argument, Solea caught Leliana’s curious gaze focused on her.  There was a sharp intellect in the woman’s eyes that made her uneasy and something told Solea that not only had Leliana noticed her reaction to the guards but that she was analyzing every bit of it as well.  Her first instinct was to avert her eyes, avoid attention, but her frustration from earlier had not entirely abated and so she glared back challengingly while noting mentally to keep an eye on the redhead.

Eyes glittering, Leliana broke away first, interjecting into the conversation that Solea realized she should probably pay attention to considering they were talking about her. “Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others - or have allies who yet live.”  At this, Leliana looked pointedly at the Chancellor who looked aghast.

“I am a suspect? But not the prisoner?”

“I heard the voices in the temple.” Cassandra argued. “The Divine called to her for help.”

Chancellor Roderick scoffed. “So her survival, that thing on her hand, is all a coincidence?”

Cassandra shook her head. “Providence. The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour.”

Solea laughed out loud, startling everyone in the room who turned to her in surprise. She looked at the Seeker incredulously, “You think your beloved Maker sent me, an elven child, to be your savior?” She chuckled again and remembering the importance her cover story, added a mumbled. “You shem really are crazy.”

“I will not pretend to understand the will of the Maker but you are exactly what we needed when we needed it.”  The resolute faith in the coal dark of the Seeker’s eyes mirrored the steel in her voice it sent shivers down Solea’s spine.

[agentunwin]

Shawn blurb about him coming home from tour in the middle of the night and just cuddling into bed w her

request a blurb for shawn blurb night!

You tossed and turned around in your king sized bed that you share with Shawn, however it feels like it’s been years since the other side of the bed wasn’t cold. 

The sheets and pillows that used to smell like him had slowly gone back to their original scent, and then all you had of him was the little texts he’d send you with occasional Facetimes.

You’d try to tell yourself that there’s only two more days- Only two more days until you can hold him in your arms again. However this happiness was mixed with a great deal of anxiety. You were scared that when he got back, things wouldn’t be the same.

Over the 5 months he’d been gone you were constantly on your toes, keeping up with the latest drama surrounding him. You were never one to indulge in rumors but you couldn’t help feeling jealous when you saw pictures of him with other women. You never confronted him as you didn’t want to jump to conclusions and start an argument, but these thoughts were always at the back of your mind.

They’re part of the reason you were awake at that moment.

It was 2 a.m. and just like other nights, you willed yourself not to cry at the thoughts floating in your mind. 

Just 2 more days.

You had finally managed to fall asleep only to be waken an hour later, groaning loudly when you felt someone touching your arm. Since you’d just waken up, nothing really registered in your mind, so you didn’t realize what was happening until you heard his voice.

“Honey? Wake up.”

It was that groggy, warm, familiar voice that finally galvanized you, causing you to jolt up and rub your eyes to make sure you weren’t dreaming. When you opened them once more, there Shawn was, a tired smile on his perfect lips.

You screamed and tackled him from your position on the bed, forcing him to drop his bags to hold you up. He let out a booming laugh and all you could do was cry into his neck as he held you and shushed you, leaving light and loving kisses along your shoulder blade. 

“W-What are you doing here!?” You sobbed, craning your neck upwards to look at him. “You’re supposed to be back in 2 days and oh my god, I think I’m gonna explode.”

Shawn’s eyes squinted as he smiled widely, sitting down on the edge of the bed with you still attached to him in his lap. “Figured I’d surprise my girl. It’s been way too long.”

“I love you so much,” You cried out again, burying your face in his chest.

He pet your hair gently and repositioned the two of you so that he was laying on the bed with you curled up on top of him. He wrapped his arms around you tightly, making you the feel the safest you’ve been since he left.

“Love you too, baby.” He whispered, his heavy eyes shutting. “Now get some sleep, we have a lot of lost time to make up for tomorrow.”

And that night, you slept the best you ever had knowing that you had the love of your life by your side.

[akitokihojo]

Plain as Day

Alright, here comes my first ever one shot! It is, in no regards, related to Father’s Day. I just finally had a peaceful moment to myself last night/this morning to finish the damn thing.

Be kind!

------------------------------------

The early morning air was crisp, the slight chill bringing his attention down to the sleeping woman beside him. Sometimes he didn't believe it. It was still fresh. Still new to have Kagome sleeping next to him in the small hut Miroku had helped him build just before the twins were born, but never thought he'd actually use.

Inuyasha propped himself up with his elbow and pulled the blanket around her shoulders to make sure the chill of the new season didn't bother her, gently brushing a strand of her raven hair off of her cheek. It had been a little over a month since her scent reappeared after three years and sent him flying through the forest trees to meet her at the well, and he'd never admit it out loud but he was still afraid, even after this long, that he'd wake up to find out it had all been a dream. Kagome knew. Of course, Kagome knew. Nothing got passed the girl. She'd told him they'd just have to enjoy the time they get with each other, sure enough sharing the same fear. It was all a load of cheesy shit to him if he was being honest, and he hated thinking about it. He'd be damned if he'd ever be without his Kagome again.

The dark-haired girl shifted in her sleep, unconsciously scooting her body forward until she was pressed against Inuyasha's chest, the icy tips of her fingers brushing along his bare waist and settling at his hip. He tried not to shutter, the cold causing a small trail of goosebumps to follow her touch. Instead, he relished in the feeling of her slender, sleeping body curved into his own. A feeling he wasn't sure he'd ever agree he actually deserved but would selfishly soak up for as long as he could.

Weeks ago, Inuyasha had planned a visit to his mother's grave. He preferred to go while everyone was preoccupied with other business and his absence for the day wouldn't be noticed. He didn't like being hounded with questions of where he'd taken off to, and there was no way in hell his visits to his mother wouldn't stay private. But it never happened. A couple of days before he felt it would be safe to escape, Kagome came back. And the thought of leaving her behind for even an hour was unfathomable.

The guilt was beginning to weigh on him now, though. The last time he visited her grave was nearly a year ago, and the only reason for that was because Sango was with child and this pregnancy was harder on her body than the last. Only a month or so after Miroku and Sango found out about their new baby, Kaede put her on bed rest saying she could lose her child if she continued to strain herself. And while Inuyasha frequently went with Miroku and Sango on demon exterminations, he stepped in permanently to take Sango's place.

Kagome's fingers twitched slightly against his skin and she adjusted herself once more, sighing into his chest. He couldn't help the smile that flicked across his lips, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her closer. The thought of leaving her behind caused a physical ache in his lungs. So, he'd just have to drag her along.

Dipping his head down to the side of her own, his lips gently grazed her temple as his fingers threaded their way through Kagome's hair.

"Hey," Inuyasha whispered, placing a kiss just above her ear. "Wake up, Kagome."

She responded with a groan, tucking her head further into his chest.

"Wake up, we've gotta go." He whispered again, brushing his nails through her dark strands, being careful not to pull at any possible tangles.

"Go where?" Her voice was almost a whine, triggering her arm to wrap fully around his waist as if to prevent him from leaving her alone on the futon.

"You'll see." He kissed her forehead as she unfurled, fluttering her big, brown eyes open at him. "Get ready. It's a long trip."

"But-"

He shot her a look, eyebrow quirked upward. A look that said no more questions. A look Kagome was all too familiar with yet hardly listened to. He was lucky she was still half-asleep. She released her hold on him and crawled her way to a seated position, blinking the sleep from her eyes and attempting to tame her bed hair by smoothing her fingers through it and picking out the small knots she came across. From her peripherals, which were still unfocused and unreliable, she watched her hanyou leave her side and make his way across their hut to retrieve his kosode and suikan. She noticed the darkness of their home, turning her head to watch him shift around until he found the clothing he was looking for, taking note of the lack of shadow in the definition of his broad back and shoulder muscles as he tossed her own kosode on the futon before he had even finished pulling an arm through a sleeve.

"Is it morning?" Her raspy voice didn't help her sound as awake as she tried to appear, shimmying out of her night robes, not even slightly worried that her half demon wasn't already facing the wall out of respect, and slipping her arms through her kosode from where she sat.

A small, breathy laugh escaped his nose. "Yeah. It's morning. Just early. Hurry up."

"What's the rush?" Kagome huffed, crawling her lower half out from under the covers to pull on her hakama that was folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

Another look.

Seriously? Kagome sighed, tying the final knot of her clothing tight and standing into a pencil stretch in an attempt to fully waken up her muscles and ready herself for this mysterious and long journey Inuyasha was about to take her on. Whatever it was, she figured it was important to him if he opted out of talking about it. He never talked about anything important. Usually, she was lucky to be intuitive enough to figure it out on her own. This time, though, she had no clue what he had planned.

She remembered back in the day, back before Naraku was defeated and everyone had settled down, the only sudden and important trips Inuyasha would take he would take alone. She remembered waking in her sleeping bag those mornings, little Shippo cuddled up in her arms, to find Inuyasha gone without a trace. Neither Miroku nor Sango knew where he'd go whenever he pulled those stunts, and they'd have to sit and wait however long for him to return with nothing but a hunch as to what could have possibly been so important for him to take off on them. Sometimes training, sometimes Kikyo, sometimes for privacy to figure out his next move.

Kagome couldn't help but feel at least a little excited to be included on this one.

Inuyasha slid the door shut behind them, the sunlight just beginning to peak over the mountains.

"Should we let Miroku and Sango know we're leaving in case they come looking for us?" She asked, turning to face him. The soft curve of her lips sent a flutter through his abdomen, causing him to close the insignificant distance between them just to see how wild the fluttering could get, his fingers cradling the crook of her jaw and placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"Nah. They'll live without knowing where we are for one day." The hanyou replied, tilting her head back just enough to give him easier access to her lips, brushing a kiss against them and sighing to calm that tickling sensation he'd mistakenly excited that was quickly becoming far too much to handle.

It hardly worked. Not with the way her hands gripped at the front of his robes, or with the way she smiled into his kiss, or with the way she broke it far too soon just to give him another chaste kiss, brushing the tip of her nose against his. He could feel his cheeks grow warm, a common effect brought on by anything she did to him, no doubt a pink flush blemishing his face. Son of a...

In an attempt to hide it from Kagome, he quickly turned around and kneeled down, willing her to climb onto his back. "C'mon. We've uh... Got a ways to go."

One slender leg straddled his back, then the other. He gripped the back of her thighs firmly, giving a bit of a gentle bounce as he stood up straight to make sure she was secure and her weight was distributed evenly, then jumped into the nearest tree heading northeast.

He found himself subconsciously stroking Kagome's thigh with the pad of his thumb at some point, the cloth that separated his fingers from her smooth, pale flesh growing irritating and bringing his attention to what he was doing. Inuyasha had no idea how long he'd been doing it for, but the unenjoyable, tingling sensation he had from rubbing his thumb back and forth over clothing tells him it may have been a while. He used to do it all the time on their journeys in the past, all unintentional of course. The first time was after Kagome had gotten kidnapped by that Hakudoshi kid. After he'd rescued her from the evil, little shit's attempt to manipulate and control her for her powers, he carried her unconscious body back to Kaede's village. It was perfectly evident that she was harmed and he hated himself for letting that happen to her, and on his slow trek back to the village he found himself stroking her thigh with the padding of his thumb. As if to comfort her or something. Ever since, it had occurred more and more frequently. He'd caress, he'd notice, he'd stop. Wash, rinse, repeat. A vicious cycle that he couldn't put an end to because, frankly, he didn't want to. And Kagome never said anything about it, so why should he? Especially now.

He didn't take the time to enjoy the silky feel of her skin enough while he had the chance. The scratchy hakama that dressed her long legs snatched the pleasure away from him, making Inuyasha realize just how much he missed that short skirt she used to wear. He never understood how she fought battle after battle in the thing without her ass popping out, an art if you think about it, and constantly wished she'd just wear pants for once in her life because he'd have been damned if the accident occurred in front of that stupid, scrawny wolf... But if there was ever a time he found it absolutely acceptable for her to wear that skirt, it would be while she was hitching a ride on his back.

The sun was high in the sky, a few clouds drifting by and creating patches of shadows on the trail Inuyasha stopped on. He crouched down allowing Kagome to climb off and stretch her limbs, exhaling a blissful sigh and taking in a deep breath of the nearby field of flowers.

"It's so pretty out here! Have we ever been out this way before? I don't recognize it!" Kagome asked, pushing a stray strand of black hair the breeze blew in her face behind her ear. She turned and walked a little ways ahead, heading into the large field of colorful flowers.

"I have." Inuyasha responded flatly, wanting to smile at how her first reaction to the overly fragrant plants was to twirl around, pick a few, then twirl around some more, but finding it difficult to curl his lips out of the flat line they were pressed in due to the anxiety of the grave that sat just about a half mile or so up the grassy hill. He hadn't realized he was staring off in that direction until Kagome's soft voice broke his thoughts.

"You okay?" She had a handful of yellow daisies. Just the yellow ones. Always just the yellow ones. He'd never asked, and she'd never said, but if he had to guess her favorite flower that'd be it.

"Hm? Oh... Yeah. Fine. W-what are you-"

"Just relax." She was perched on her tippy toes, arms reaching above his head to stick a flower in his hair to the side of an ear, giving the appendage a little attention by rubbing it in between her fingers before rocking back on the heels of her feet to stand at her normal height. "There! You're as cute as ever, Inuyasha!"

"Feh! Demon's aren't cute." He huffed, quickly grabbing the daisy from his head and holding it in front of her clutched bouquet.

"Yes, but you're half demon. So that makes you half cute." Kagome smiled, reuniting the blossom with the others in her hands.

The hanyou rolled his golden eyes, holding his clawed hand out for Kagome to take, feeling that fluttering feeling in his stomach return when her small fingers laced perfectly with his calloused ones.

"C'mon, it's just a little bit further."

"Will you tell me where we're going yet?" She asked, giving his hand a tender squeeze and sending a wave of heat directly from his palm to his cheeks like a lick of flames traveling through his veins. He couldn't say why merely holding Kagome's hand made him nervous, but it did. Holding hands was the absolute lowest bar on the spectrum of intimacy and it still made him red in the face. Was it something he was proud of? Fuck no. Did he feel pathetic? Hell yes he did! Was he ever going to hold himself back from touching her in any which way he possibly could for as long as he lived? Over his dead body.

He dodged those dark brown eyes that no doubt saw the shade of pink he tried to hide and stared off in the opposite direction as they began their slow ascent up the hill.

"Just be patient, would ya?"

She squeezed his hand again as if to acknowledge what he said. It was a little quirk she did. Instead of saying "okay," if they were holding hands, she'd give a quick squeeze. Sometimes while taking a walk around the village, or even laying in their bed late at night after a long day, they'd be hand-in-hand some way or another and she'd give three firm squeezes. He still hadn't figured out what they meant yet.

"What do you plan on doing with those daisies?" Inuyasha asked, approaching the top and curving around the trail.

"I'm not sure. Maybe make some flower crowns for the twins. Maybe even give a few to Kaede to thank her for the training she's giving me." She shrugged lightly, eyeing the scenery ahead, taking in the sight of the large mountains in the distance and the grassy fields that spread far and wide. There was nothing this beautiful in her time. Not that she'd seen, at least. All she knew back in Tokyo were buildings, trains, people, and noise. Sure, Kagome was used to it and there was a level of domestic beauty to it, but compared to the serene, undisturbed nature that stood before her there was no competition. Feudal Japan won by a long shot.

She felt a tug on her hand as she fell behind, Inuyasha leading the two of them off the path and towards a small gathering of trees. She stayed quiet, noticing the uneasy features that scrunched his eyebrows together and had his lips just slightly curving downward. She felt his grip against her fingers tighten, felt the muscles of his arm tense, saw him stand up straighter as they walked through the trees, noticed the rise and fall of his chest constrict to the point that she was certain he was holding his breath.

Kagome followed the hanyou's line of sight, locking her eyes on an oval-shaped slab protruding from the ground just ahead. Small patches of green moss made their way up the sides of the slab, the lettering on the front faded and hardly legible. The stiff body beside her stopped completely several feet away, the curiosity building so intensely that, on impulse, she removed her hand from his own, closed the gap, and kneeled down in front.

Still, she couldn't make out the name, running the tips of her fingers along the carvings down the face of the stone.

"Who-"

"Izayoi..." Inuyasha breathed, his voice gruff and thick, strands of silver hair blowing across his chest with the breeze. "Her name... Was Izayoi."

He knelt down next to her, giving a small bow to the stone that Kagome sloppily copied from not being able to peel her eyes away from her hanyou, and met her with his golden gaze.

"Kagome, this is my mother."

Her lips parted to speak, but no words formed. She wasn't sure how to react. Should her shoulders have sunken like they did? Was that right? How about the way her own breath hitched in her throat? That couldn't have been right either. Instead she continued looking at him, even after he'd turned his attention back to his mother's resting place, a warm sensation coursing through her body from head to toe and pooling in the pit of her abdomen.

Kagome couldn't help the way her brain slowly wrapped around the information Inuyasha had given her. She was sitting in front of his mother's grave. She was sitting in a place she'd never even considered possible, not from lack of knowledge of its existence, because Myoga had briefly shared that Inuyasha visited it from time-to-time some years ago, but because she was well aware of how much Inuyasha cherished his privacy when regarding his mother.

They sat in silence for a moment, her brown eyes drifting from his calmed expression, to the old stone in front of her, to the old vase holding dry, withered flowers just off to the left. Without a second thought, Kagome took the dead flowers out, parts of them crumbling from her touch, and replaced them with her entire batch of yellow blossoms.

"You didn't have to do that." The hanyou mentioned.

She shook her head, placing a hand on the balled up fist in his lap. "I'm happy to, Inuyasha."

"I've never brought anyone here before." His clawed hands slowly opened up, welcoming her slender fingers to slide their way between his own. "I never even thought there'd be someone I wanted to bring here. But you... I... I wanted you to be a part of this, because this is a huge part of me."

Kagome felt herself subconsciously giving Inuyasha's hand three slow, firm squeezes when he abruptly gripped hers back, his golden eyes meeting her own once again.

"What does that mean?" He asked, eyebrow arching in curiosity.

"W-what?"

"That hand thing you always do. What does it mean?"

Kagome froze. Did she do it that often? She never once considered that he'd notice, and even if he did, she never thought he'd call her out on it.

"I-uh... It's just... I..." She could feel the searing heat hit her cheeks, her heart thumping as erratically as it did the day she returned to the feudal era. "It means... I..."

"Kagome-"

"Love you."

It was his turn to freeze, eyes wide, ears at attention.

"Enough about that!" Kagome laughed loudly, flicking her other hand up and down as if to dismiss the conversation, something she'd always done when she was nervous or flustered. "Listen, Inuyasha..."

She was changing the subject. And he was letting her. Albeit, unwillingly. He still couldn't figure out what to say. It were as if his brain forgot how to fucking talk, and he was just gaping like a damn idiot.

"I can't tell you how happy it makes me that you wanted to bring me with you. It means more to me than you'll ever know. And... well, I want you to know that you don't have to talk if you don't want to. Whenever my family would visit my dad's grave, I preferred to sit in silence. You know... Kind of just to spend my time with him instead of focusing on idle chit chat. We didn't get to visit often. It was always hard on my mom. But when we were able to, it was quiet and peaceful and I was happy after. So, I understand if you'd like the same." She smiled sweetly, cocking her head to the side slightly and giving his hand a small squeeze before taking it away and standing. "I'll give you a moment with her."

He wanted to ask where she was going. More importantly, he wanted to stop her. He hadn't said what he'd wanted to say yet. He hadn't figured out what he'd wanted to say yet.

What the hell was wrong with him?

She returned a half hour later, a circle of yellow daisies knotted together in her hands. Yellow. Always yellow.

"Hi!" She smiled, noticing his knee bobbing up and down impatiently from where he sat.

"I was about to go looking for you, Kagome."

"Oh, come on, I wasn't gone that long." She rolled her eyes, sitting close enough that their legs were touching to stop his knee from continuing that irritating bouncing motion, and swept her dark hair behind her ear before the breeze could blow it in her face. "Besides, I made this flower crown. I thought your mom would like it!”

"Y-you made that for her?" He wondered, watching as she placed the tiara at the foot of the headstone, fluffing the flowers out around the sides.

"Mhmm," she responded, sitting back and admiring her work. "I hope that's okay."

"Of course it's..." He stopped, finally understanding the answer. Finally feeling like he knew what to say to the raven haired woman that sat at his side. That would always sit by his side. Even through the hardest times all those years ago, she was by his side, and he realized almost too late that he wouldn't want it any other way. It was there in front of him the entire time, plain as day.

Why did it take him so long to figure it out? Was he really that stupid?

Kagome watched his expression harden, brows furrowing together, jaw setting. His ember eyes suddenly bore into her, the flames inside his irises glowing fiercely. She couldn't help the sudden and heavy thump her heart gave behind her ribcage, or the look of question that she was sure was evident on her face.

"Inuyasha?"

"Kagome, I-"

She watched him swallow, watched him unfold his arms from over his chest and remove his hands from his red sleeves, watched as his fingers curled into tight fists over his knees and how the muscle in his jaw twitched.

Her heart gave another heavy thump, her palms beginning to sweat at how intense his stare was.

He took a deep breath, lips parting once more.

"I want to marry you."

[latte-to-go]

The One Who Holds Your Heart » Prince Adam

Request: Can u do a pre-cursed imagine of the reader and prince Adam? I don’t really have a plot I just love pre-cursed Adam:)))

Pairing: Prince Adam x Reader

Fandom: Disney + Beauty and the Beast

Words: 1770

Summary: Adam is in love with you despite you being a maid.

A/N: Okay, so I really want to write a part two to this story and I will! [Name] won’t remember Adam and we’ll go on from there. Anyways, I hope you guys like this!

Part Two: The One Who Breaks The Curse

Prince Adam liked pancakes, eggs, bacon, toast, and freshly squeezed orange juice in the morning. It was what you prepared almost every morning for him and it’s what he’s always liked. You quickly set everything down on the tray and even added tea with three sugar cubes on the side.

You wheeled the cart into the west wing and said hello to the other servants as you walked by. Once you stood in front of Prince Adam’s room, you gave three sharp knocks so he’d know it was you before you opened the door and walked. “Good morning, my Prince,” You stated as you pushed the cart to the end of the room before walking over to the large blinds.

You pushed them open and let the sunlight in. Prince Adam groaned from behind you as he rubbed his eyes. “You’ve waken me too early, [Name],” He muttered as he rubbed his eyes. He sat up in bed and yawned slightly.

Prince Adam had always been kind to you despite the fact that you always disturbed his peaceful slumber. He constantly shouted at the other maids and butlers but quieted down when he spoke to you. You don’t even remember the last time he scolded you. Perhaps, it was because of the fact that you and Adam had grown up together.

Your mother used to be a maid at the castle before she passed away a few years ago. She used to take care of the queen and Adam while you helped. You spent most of your childhood with Adam and there was some sort of friendship there.

“You have quite a bit to do, my Prince. Your ‘To-Do’ list is a long one. Let’s not forget about the ball tonight,” You said as you placed the tray in front of Adam and he began to eat.

“Don’t remind me, [Name],” He said before he took a sip of his tea. He sighed as he glanced towards the window before he looked back at you. “Have you eaten yet?”

You shook your head. “No, my Prince, but I shall eat with the others shortly. I wanted to make sure that you had your breakfast first.”

“Always so kind, [Name],” He said as he took a piece of toast and handed it to you. “Take it. I won’t eat everything anyways.”

You gingerly took the piece of bread and took a bite. “Thank you, my Prince.”

Adam glanced away from you and towards the picture of him, his mother, and his father that hung on the wall. Adam was a lot younger back then and a lot happier. You missed the days of childhood when everything was less complicated.

“[Name]!” You jumped when you heard the head maid shout your name. You looked towards Adam who gave you a concerned look.

“I should go,” You quickly said as you exited the room, not letting Adam say a word as you rushed off. Without realizing, you bumped into Madame Jennifér, the head maid who gave you stern look.

“Where the hell have you been?” She shouted as she glared at you. You stared up at her with wide eyes. This woman terrified you to no end and she was responsible for almost every bruise on your body.

“I was giving the Prince his breakfast, Madame,” You whispered as you avoided the wicked woman’s gaze.

“It takes about two minutes to give him breakfast and you spent almost ten minutes in there!” She narrowed her eyes down as she eyed you up and down.

“I’m sorry, Madame, but the Prince–”

“I don’t care what the Prince wants! You are to report to me right after your duties! Since you failed to do that today, you will get none of your meals!” She shouted as she grabbed your upper arm causing you to wince.

“What’s going on here?” Adam’s loud voice sounded causing Madame Jennifér to flinch. He was wearing a robe now rather than being shirtless like before.

“[Name] wasn’t following her duties, my Prince,” She tried to explain but Adam just held his hand up.

Adam narrowed his eyes as he watched her stutter. You were glad that none of that anger was directed towards you. You glanced down at your hands as Adam began talking. “What I’m seeing right now is that you’re not doing any of your duties either. I should fire you.”

“No, my Prince! Please, I’ll have nothing to feed my children with!” She begged and you slightly pitied her.

He sighed as he slightly rolled his eyes before dismissing her. “Tell me if she bothers you again, [Name],” He told you and you nodded slowly. “I should go. I have work to do.”

You took in a deep breath as you kept walking. The other servants were preparing for the ball tonight and you were supposed to be helping with the decorations. You quickly headed downstairs where the other maids were and started to help them hang the banners.

“We heard the ruckus, [Name],” Madeline, your friend, whispered as she handed you a bouquet of flowers. “The Prince was defending you again.”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” You whispered as you put the pink and white flowers in a nearby vase.

Madeline gave you a small smirk. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that Prince Adam was in love with you. There’s a reason why Madame Jennifér gets mad when you spend so much time with him.”

You huffed as you shook your head. “Please, Madeline. Don’t say that. I need this job.”

Valentine, another maid, rolled her eyes as she glared at you. “You live in the castle, [Name]. You have your own bedroom for fuck’s sake. You get paid a lot better than us and it is obvious that the Prince cares about you.”

You glanced down at the flowers, trying to ignore the protests of the other maids. Nobody save for Madeline really liked you. They were always jealous of how much time you spent with Prince Adam.

“It doesn’t matter,” Valentine muttered with another roll of her eyes. “The Prince will never marry someone of your status. You’re a peasant like us. It’s all we’ll ever be. So, get to work, [Name]. You’ll be serving the Prince’s wife and children in no time.”

Tears sprang in your eyes, but you quickly blinked them away. You began to water the flowers. Tonight was the ball and there was a lot to do.

-

You listened to music that played in the main hall. All you wanted to do was go dance to your heart’s delight, but instead, you brewed up drinks for the Prince’s guests. All the maids were dressed up in white dresses with white peacock feathers that adorned the bottom half of the dress. Your dress was slightly different than the other maids. The top half of your dress was covered in white jewels that looked a lot like diamonds. You wouldn’t put it past Adam to actually doing that.

“[Name], can you take these drinks outside? The guests are getting antsy,” Madeline mumbled as she handed the tray of drinks to you. “Oh, you look beautiful. Go on, love.”

You gave her a small smile as you took the tray outside. You maneuvered around the guests, some of them taking the drink while others ignored you. By the time you reached Adam, you had one drink left.

“My Prince,” you whispered softly as you bowed slightly as you put the tray out in front of you.

Adam smiled slightly as he took the drink. “Thank you, [Name]. You look beautiful tonight.”

You glanced up at Adam and all the makeup that covered his face in intricate designs. You preferred him without the makeup, but he looked as handsome as he did before. His eyes still popped out. “You look just as well, my Prince.”

Adam was about to say something when the doors flew open causing the lights to go out. Lightning flashed outside causing the figure by the door to illuminate. You jumped slightly, dropping the tray.

“Who goes there?” Adam asked loudly as he narrowed his eyes at the figure.

The figure looked up to reveal an elderly woman with a face that looked like a walnut. She was clearly very old and wet from the storm outside. She slowly held up a single red rose. “Please, I need shelter from the storm. I can pay you with a single rose.”

Adam took the rose from her before tossing it to the ground. You watched as he began to laugh. “A rose? Who the hell do you think I am, old hag?”

You glanced back as the guests began to laugh at the poor woman’s expense. “Prince Adam, please,” You whispered softly as you took a couple of steps towards Adam, but he was preoccupied.

“You shouldn’t laugh, boy. Beauty comes from within, not the outside,” the old woman warned, but Adam just rolled his eyes.

“Get out of my castle or I’ll have the guards drag you out,” Adam threatened, but the old woman began to laugh.

“You will learn,” She simply whispered before she burst into a large light. You shut your eyes to shield them from the light when you opened them, Adam was on the floor begging the beautiful woman. She floated above the ground as a bright light surrounded her.

“Please,” Adam begged as he put his hands together. “I’m sorry! Give me another chance!”

“I cast a spell on you, young man,” She whispered and you watched as a bright light slowly surrounded Prince Adam. “I see that there is no love in your heart, Prince Adam. You must be taught a lesson. Until you learn the true meaning of love,” She whispered as her eyes wandered towards you. The rest of guests had rushed off while you stayed.

“Please, let him go!” You shouted as you took a few steps toward him. “There is love in his heart! I swear!”

The Enchantresses’ eyes narrowed before she looked back at Adam. “I shall transform you into a hideous beast and for the one who holds your heart, she’ll forget all about you. Until she learns to love you again, you will remain a beast… forever.”

Adam’s loud screams echoed throughout the castle as he felt himself transform into the beast. His screams shortly turned into roars. “Adam!” You screamed as you tried to rush towards him, but a blast of light spread through the castle causing you to fall unconscious. The last thing you heard was another growl from the man that held your heart.

[star-trekkin-across-theuniverse]

Word Count: 2710 Author’s Note: The request came from @eenterprise a while ago: “I was wondering if you could do a piece about BonesxReader where Bones is sick which means he’s like 100x more stubborn but the reader keeps taking care of him because they still think he’s cute when he's sick. (Love your fics by the way!)” Thank you! I might have strayed from what you were expecting, but I kinda like how this turned out. Warnings: Allergic reactions and the goo that goes with them.

It started so innocently. You’d been assigned to an away team to first assess the plant life of the planet you’d just discovered, and then, provided the plant-life was non-sentient, collect samples to bring back to the Enterprise. It had been a fun assignment. The plants were absolutely just plants, with no hidden complex civilization, and you’d gathered a number of samples to study further on board the ship.

One of the plants, a fern-like thing, with heavy, drooping fronds laden with spore-like seed pods on the underside of its leaves, had dropped pollen on you in what you could only suspect was some sort of defense mechanism designed to guarantee its continued propogation. You’d tried to shake the pollen off, but the weird seedpods clung to your uniform, giving you a somewhat speckled look.

On the shuttle ride back to the ship, you started sneezing, and realized you were having some kind of allergic response to the plant. Once you’d docked, you handed off your samples to Spock and between sneezes excused yourself to MedBay for an antihistimine hypo. You hoped Doctor McCoy wasn’t on duty. The man made you melt into a puddle of goo. There was something about him. It wasn’t just his physical perfection, although that was definitely part of it. It wasn’t the way his medical tunic fit him just right. It wasn’t the eyebrows that betrayed his every thought, or the beautiful hazel eyes beneath them. It was definitely all of those things, but there was something else you couldn’t quite put your finger on that reduced you to a babbling idiot in his presence.

After checking in with the nurse, you pushed yourself up onto the BioBed to wait for him to attend you. Of course Doctor McCoy was working today. Of course he was. Because you had been rapidly reduced to a disgusting mess of snot, and red swollen eyes and sneezing. He picked up a scanner has he approached you and raised an eyebrow. As you sneezed into the handful of kleenex you were holding, his eyes widened, and he backed up a little.

“You appear to be covered in some sort of pollen or spore,” he commented, keeping his distance. Your very delicate response was to sneeze. Again. This time you blew a hole in your tissues and grimaced at the dampness on your hands.

“It does appear. Can you pass me that box of tissue?” You asked. He nodded, reaching over and flicking the tissues in your direction. You raised your eyebrow in question. “I thought you were supposed to be a doctor?”

“I am,” he laughed. “You are a revolting mountain of damp tissue and snot, all manner of questionable contagions rolling off you with each sneeze. I know better than to get too close. That’s what med school teaches you.”

“Antihistimines. That’s what I need. It’s a textbook allergic reaction, Doctor.” You placed a heavy emphasis on the word, and his eyebrow shot up again. He turned away and prepped a hypo, not even warning you before he administered it. It stung and you found yourself cursing without realizing it.

“Lay back and relax, and we’ll see if that helps.” He turned back to the nurse’s station, and got about three steps away from you, stopped, and sneezed. He spun around and glared, stalking back to the hypo, priming it, and injecting himself. “Thanks, Y/N.” He pursed his lips and stalked away.

You laid back, and felt the discomfort of your sinuses draining down your throat, gagging you, and sat back up. Sitting up made the sneezing start again. You finally found a somewhat comfortable position after playing with the controls on the BioBed, sitting yourself at about 45 degrees. High enough to let everything drain without choking you, low enough that you weren’t constantly sneezing. You closed your eyes and let yourself drift.

When you wakened, it was because Doctor McCoy was waving a scanner over you. The bright light triggered another sneeze and you weren’t quite quick enough to cover it before spraying a fine mist over his hands. He grimaced and turned away, sneezing himself before turning back to you. “You appear to be responding to the antihistimine. Good diagnosis.”

“You should come around in about twenty minutes yourself then, right?” You winked. At least, you tried to wink. Your eyes still felt puffy, and you’d given up on any hope of McCoy thinking of you as anything other than a pest after the first time you’d sneezed on him. At this point, you were just hoping he didn’t launch you out of the airlock.

“If I don’t, you’ll be the only person allowed to take care of me,” he retorted. “On account of already having been exposed.”

“I’m not a doctor,” you protested. “And I’m not nice enough to be a nurse.” His response was another sneeze. And if you were completely honest with yourself, you thought he was looking worse, not better.

It had been five and a half hours. Five and a half hours and while you were feeling significantly better, Doctor McCoy’s eyes were barely slits in his red, puffy face. His nose was a constant faucet, and even forcing him to sit on the BioBed at the same angle you’d found relief was only making him sneeze the same amount, but project the spray further as it aerosolized up before covering everything in a fine mist of allergen-induced snot.

Nurse Chapel came to about six feet away from you both and gestured to you. “You need to get him out of here, he’s completely useless like this.”

“I’m not a nurse, Christine,” you argued.

“I will be available to you by comm, or PADD whenever you need me, but take him back to his quarters. He’s not delirious, so he can either give his own meds, or step you through them. But he shouldn’t be alone in this condition in case he gets worse. Anaphylaxis can kill quickly,” she explained.

“And he can’t stay here under your care?” You challenged.

“I can’t risk the entire nursing corp going down with whatever reaction this is. We may be lucky, and respond like you. Or we may wind up like him. I can’t take that risk if we’re already down a doctor,” she explained. “You’ll be fine. Like he said, you’ve already been exposed.”

“Damnit, Chris,” you complained. “I’m a botanist, not a doctor!”

“People aren’t much different than plants if they’re sick enough,” she winked. “Now get him out of here.”

You turned back to the man who normally made your legs turn to jelly. He was a mess. He was red, swollen, snotty, moist with perspiration, and scowling with every step you took toward him. “You heard your nurse,” you started. “Let’s get you back to your quarters.”

“Don’t you think about touching me, you damned plague bringer.” He yanked his arm away from you and nearly toppled from the bed. “I can get my own damn self off to my room.”

“You said yourself you’d need monitoring,” you countered. He scowled as he pushed himself to his feet.

“Fine. But hurry up. I’m not going to have some damned botanist dawdling along behind me,” he grumbled, swaying on his feet. You arched an eyebrow and brought your hand under his elbow.

“Maybe you could help me then, Doc,” you commented. He glared at you, but allowed you to hold his arm, leading you down to his quarters. Christine handed you a clear box full of supplies as you passed her.

You weren’t two feet inside McCoy’s quarters when he spun on you. “Get that uniform off,” he demanded. Your eyes widened.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Get it off. Get it off, and throw it in the laundry chute. Even better, into the incinerator. I want as much of the damn allergen out of here as we can manage. Once you’re stripped down, go take a shower. I’ll leave some clothes out for you. My ration code is 8278. Scrub until you’re pink,” he said, stripping his own clothes off. Your eyes widened and you looked away. “I’m not kidding, Y/N. Strip, or I’ll strip you.”

You hastily stripped off your uniform, and after pulling your insignia off, tossed it in the incinerator. You didn’t want to risk the spores getting into laundry and contaminating the entire ship. You felt awkward, standing in your underclothes and boots, but reminded yourself the poor man could barely see out of his eyes as you headed to the bathroom to take a shower.

The scent of the man who you’d been pining after for months clung to your body after your shower, feeling intimate and sensual. The feeling was made worse by realizing that while you’d showered, he’d stolen into the bathroom, and switch your undergarments out for a pair of his pajamas. His clothes rubbed against your bare skin. It was a good thing his sight was impaired. You were flushed again, this time not from the allergic response, but arousal.

McCoy was sitting on the couch, a facecloth over his eyes. “I need you to hit me with the antihistimine hypo again.” He held up the device and you sighed, padding toward him.

“You need to tell me what to do.” You took it, and held it against his neck, approximately at the spot they were always placed when you received one. He shifted you hand just millimeters.

“Good landmarking,” he commented. “Now just press the button.” You realized that the angle you were holding the hypospray at wasn’t one he could have managed on his own as you injected the med. Remembering how much the thick medication had hurt going into your shoulder, you massaged the tissue of his neck after injecting it. He initially tensed up, and then relaxed a little under your ministrations.

“You hungry?” You asked. “I’m starved.”

“I could eat,” he nodded. You stepped toward the kitchenette, and keyed in your access code to pull up your saved recipes. You altered the recipe for your mom’s chicken soup just a touch, and ordered it. The aroma of warm chicken soup filled the room and your stomach growled loudly. You brought Doctor McCoy his first.

“Here you go, Doc,” you offered. “I put some crackers on the side, but I think it’s more important to eat the soup. It’s my Mom’s recipe. It’ll pretty much fix anything,” you explained. He raised his eyebrow, and when you looked carefully, you thought the swelling might be a little improved. You collected your soup and sat beside him.

“Garlic,” he commented, taking a spoonful.

“Garlic is good for you,” you retorted. He made a huffing noise that might have been a laugh if he wasn’t so congested.

“I know that. This is good. Your mama’s a good cook,” he commented, glancing sideways at you. His eyes opened just a touch wider. “Been a long time since I’ve seen someone wearing my pjs. You could probably call me Leonard considering I know your knickers are in the incinerator too.”

“I liked your body wash,” you offered, suddenly feeling awkward. He smirked.

“You smell damn near good enough to eat,” he commented. And then groaned, slapping his forehead. “Sorry, darlin’, it slipped out.”

“Uh, tea? Maybe a cup of tea would help clear your sinuses?” You changed the subject and sprang to your feet. He suddenly coughed and you turned back to him, alert.

“I’m fine, damnit,” he grumbled, and seeing you wince, softened his tone. “I think the soup is helping.”

“Maybe you should have a shower too? In case some of the spores are left on you from when you treated me?” You suggested. He was still sitting in his undershirt and boxer-briefs. He nodded.

“We’re going to have to isolate whatever it is that is causing the histamine response and synthesize a targeted anti-toxin for it as soon as possible,” he began, rising from the couch, and pulling his shirt off. He tossed it in the incinerator, and carefully made his way over to his closet, pulling another pair of pajamas out. He walked back to the incinerator and pulled his underwear off, and you yelped, turning your back. “Sorry. I forget that not everyone is immune to the human body. I’m sure it’s nothing you haven’t seen before, Y/N.”

“That’s not the point, Leonard.” His name felt foreign on your tongue.

“It’s all just anatomy.” His voice was getting closer. You tensed up, feeling your jaw tighten, and your spine stiffen.

“With all due respect, it’s your anatomy,” you managed, through clenched teeth. You saw him in your peripheral vision and turned away, closing your eyes. “Please just go shower.” You heard him sigh, and his footsteps retreated. You sat down and finished you soup, and replicated tea for both of you while you waited. As you pulled the tea from the replicator, you realized he’d left his pajamas on the kitchenette counter and sighed. Picking them up, you walked to the bathroom and listened for the water to stop before knocking on the door. He opened it, just holding a small towel in front of him and smiled. The shower had done wonders for him, and his eyes weren’t nearly as puffy. His face wasn’t as swollen, and fresh out from under the spray, you couldn’t tell that he’d previously been snot and sniffles. You tried not to gape as beads of water trailed down his pecs to his abs, and failed miserable.

“You’re staring, Y/N,” he commented. You thrust the pjs at him.

“Your anatomy is really fucking damp,” you managed and spun on your heel, escaping across the room in mortification. You picked up your PADD and pretended to be engrossed in a journal article when he finally emerged from the bathroom. He sat down beside you. Too close, if you were honest, and you had to fight the urge to scoot away. He leaned over to read over your shoulder, and the heady scent of his freshly washed body was intoxicating. You dragged a breath in, shaky and slow.

“This is interesting,” he commented. You glanced at him, and realized he didn’t mean the article on the history of genetic engineering and its application to crops intended for space, specifically Quadrotriticale and Quintotriticale.

“It’s an article about wheat seed,” you commented, hoping your tone was dry and dismissive. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. He’d put his pajama pants on, but not his shirt, and you could smell the dampness on his skin.

“I’m not talking about germination, darlin’. And you know it,” he commented. You snuck a glance at him, and flinched. He was a fucking god, even with the swollen eyes. The shower seemed to have helped with the sneezing and runny nose, thank god. He caught your jaw with his hand and turned you to face him.

“I’m not sure that -” You started.

“Me either,” he interrupted.

“Really? What was I saying?” You shot back. He smirked and leaned close enough that you could smell mint and garlic on his breath.

“You aren’t sure that we’re in our right minds. We’ve both had a strange reaction to a mysterious allergen, and neither of us are one hundred percent. But I’ve seen you, Y/N, for as long as you’ve been on the ship. This isn’t the right time, but it’s as good a time as any.” He leaned closer and brushed his lips against yours. It was tentative, light. “I mean, in the last six hours we’ve shared more body fluids than most lovers do in months.”

You cringed at the reality of what he was saying, but before you could reply, he pressed his lips against yours again, and you felt the tension slipping from your shoulders. “I thought it was inappropriate for a doctor to get involved with a patient?” You murmured as you pulled away.

“I believe if we double-check the record, Y/N, I am currently the patient,” he countered. “Which means you’re the doctor violating your oath.”

“Good thing I’m not that kind of doctor then,” you smiled, letting him take control of the kiss again.

[ulyssesredux]

Calypso

Must be without a certain vacant spot on the smooth railing.

—O, look what I look like to her. You are my lookingglass from night to morning. Heigho!

The maid was in.

A speck of dust on the floor was a heightening and acceleration of the beldame over the brink of the bed. Those mornings in the irregular wall and the Nyarlathotep of the jakes and came forth from the monstrous visions. In his dream-picture of the month? Fifteen multiplied by.

The kettle is boiling. On quietly creaky boots he went down the page from him with a horribly anthropoid forepaw which it sucked like a shot. Nudging the door. She turned over and the balance in yearly instalments. That was what she said.

Forgotten any little Spanish she knew. Two of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. Better where she is, he said. He knew his room had been walking past the mouth of a tower? Better remind her of the city traffic. Nothing she can jump me. At their joggerfry.

What are you singing?

Hand in hand. Now, he felt in his countinghouse. He pulled the steel-like from a slip in her right hand could reach. Of his own rising smell.

Reincarnation: that's the word. Elwood wrote his part of three-dimensional sphere or spheres he dared not try to think. Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. A sleepy soft grunt answered: What? On the boil sure enough: a homerule sun rising up in an angry jet from a lesser distance the old Witch-House—that must have been shod, since shoes as well as older rat-poison everywhere. Thin bread and butter: three, four: right. Hand in hand. He drank a draught of tea now. Curious, fifteenth of the cheap metal crucifix hang idly from a dream-picture of the vague shrieking or roaring in those lighter, sharper dreams which prefaced his plunge into unknown abysses, and by noon he had seen Brown Jenkin … and now it was not as bad as actual nearness and several possible sights would have fallen to the right. Or hanging up on the hallfloor. Or kind of music that last night. Chap you know what I'm going round the Kish. They are lovely. Height of a bore. —Some of metal, poisonous foggy waters. —Objects whose shapes, materials, types of workmanship, and he sings Boylan's I was just thinking that moment. He waited till she reached the word.

He tossed it off the kettle is boiling. Three pounds, thirteen and six.

I pass. Three and six. He carried the tray in and set it sideways on the humpy tray. He did not believe anything would be concentrated all the people that lived then. A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him.

Opening the door open with his eyes he knew he did so its comparative lightness. Matcham often thinks of the bones of rats in the air. Desrochers, Mazurewicz, after a while was keeping Joe Mazurewicz quiet; for was it not through certain angles that she claimed to have been half drunk when he was. Of these categories one seemed to know nothing about it. The cat mewed hungrily against him. Wonder what I found in professor Goodwin's hat! Tell him silly Milly sends my best respects. Or hanging up on the corridor to see first thing in the bare hall: Good day, Mr O'Rourke?

I couldn't go in that corner there. Brimstone they called it raining down: the cities of the world. When the doctor, for people shunned it both on account of its obscure, relentlessly inevitable fluctuations. Three pounds, thirteen and six. Its hump bumped as he chewed, sopping another die of bread into her cup held by nothandle and, stubbing his toes against the whines of the two youths sat drowsing in their own dimensional sphere or spheres he dared not try to keep track of the whole place. How much would that tot to off the bridge that gave a view of the singular angles described by the neck. That a man's soul after he dies. While the kettle, crushed the pan, sizzling butter. Heigho! Jolly old woman and the Black Man of the kinship of higher terraces towered aloft as far as he changed position, and he thought that someone fumbled clumsily at the cattle, especially when they are fed on those oilcakes. Seem to like it.

Dignam's soul … —Did you finish it? All dead names. Who's he when he's at home? No use disturbing her. In another column it was by no means impossible that Keziah and her shapeless brown garments were like the window open a little. She is, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and received payment of three pounds, thirteen and six I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke. Get another of its old reputation and because of the knife from the cattlemarket, the white stone stands in a flash of delirium and a blaze of unknown shape and nature were ranged at short intervals little figures of grotesque design and exquisite workmanship. Explain that: homerule sun rising up in a dead land, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters. —To the landing. Perhaps the ex-landlord's rat-hole in the Greville Arms on Saturday. Citrons too. Well, I am here now. Wanted a dog to pass the time? The loft above the slanting floor—was the first. 9.23. Useless to move now. Agendath Netaim: planters' company. Wait till I'm ready. Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry. Its hump bumped as he chewed, sopping another die of bread into her cup held by nothandle and, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the flooring were certainly vastly unlike the average prints of the bedstead jingled. In another column it was associated. Quite safe. 9.20. The sting of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his breast.

Good puzzle would be vibrating, and Gilman put it in his mathematics, and he seemed to take notice of him and was constantly whining and muttering about spectral and terrible powers—the muddy alley and the small, furry, sharp-toothed, bearded human face; but seemed to be companioned by the townspeople Brown Jenkin had come to a tee with his eyes and walked out into the till.

I left off.

Thanks: new tam: Mr Coghlan: lough Owel on Monday with a salt cloak. Cup of tea, fume of the organic things struck him variously as groups of bubbles, octopi, centipedes, living Hindu idols, and Elwood canvassed the local whispers about Keziah's persistent presence in the track of his bowels. Of course it might.

That was what she said. Sound meat there: like a shot. As he bathed and changed clothes he tried to call out and waken him. There he is, he says. Perhaps Frank Elwood for help. What time is the funeral. He carried it upstairs, his preternaturally sharpened hearing seeming to steady him slightly.

No. Did Roberts pay you yet? Wonder is it? In every quarter, however, matters were reversed; for they never understand. Creaky wardrobe. Gilman.

What's that, a twisted grey garter looped round a leg of the union. —Here, she said. Mr Beaufoy who had curtailed his activities before, but oddly enough they did not even fit the vacant places reserved for probable elements in the XL Cafe about the long-stopped egress he doubted greatly.

How long would it last? The cat went up in the hand, the once-sealed spaces; for the purpose of those instruments what do you? Is that Boylan well off? She was reading the card, propped on her woollen vest against her full wagging bub. Swurls, he continued up to the dresser, took the spiky thing and staggered downstairs to Landlord Dombrowski's quarters. She swallowed a draught of tea, tilting the kettle is boiling. Voglio e non vorrei. He watched the lump of butter slide and melt. Another time.

He was pulled out of bed and into the house from outside. Just what had killed the ancient house. Quietly he read the letter again: twice. Hope no ape comes knocking just as I'm. Household slops. Elwood scarcely dared to touch him but it was something quick and neat. His eyelids sank quietly often as he moved about the funeral? Farmhouse, wall round it, by the shoulders, yanking him out of. The dreams were wholly beyond the table, and he had the landlord. Why?

O, rocks! The shadows of the chookchooks. He went in, thank heaven, and a picnic of it. Gone. Then thin of the hours. She understands all she wants to. No sound. Denizens of some gigantic neighboring prism-clusters. Reclaim the whole place over, scabby soil. Probably not a hint of vast, leaping shadows, of a spear. He scalded and rinsed out the teapot. Just before he dropped the kidney he detached it and received payment of three-dimensional sphere or spheres he dared not try to protect the child, but nothing definite would crystallize in his mind on his studies of space and the descriptions of the jakes. Then he girded up his trousers, braced and buttoned himself. What does that mean? Hallstand too full. Which? Mullingar. However, he failed in Calculus D and Advanced General Psychology, though with all his clothing in place in the crown of his hypothetical illustrations caused an increase in the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's seaside girls. Grey. Specially in these black clothes feel it more. Probably not a good rich smell off his breath dancing.

He had, for his eyes screwed up. Old Keziah, and only with tremendous resolution could Gilman drag himself into the garden. Listening, he said.

Better find out in the Greville Arms on Saturday. Then he cut away dies of bread and butter: three, four, sugar, spoon, her cream.

Now, he said, is what the ancient slanting ceiling. His back is like that Norwegian captain's. Good house, however, for the frame. She lapped slower, then black. Come, come to a peak just above his head under the dimpled pillow.

Wait before a door sometime it will open. Heigho! The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the lovely birthday present.

Dislike dressing together. Say ten barrels of stuff you read: in the streets. He looked in every corner for brownish drops or stains, but he also found himself, the beasts lowing in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung, the title, the dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the month too. That bee or bluebottle here Whitmonday. He tossed it off the platform. On the doorstep he felt something bite at his ankle, and Gilman waited up for help.

To what extent could the laws of sanity, and he fell dizzily and interminably. And one shilling threepence change.

Pleasant evenings we had then. —Mn. Better remind her of the bed.

Chap you know what? That we live after death, that we lived before on the floor to a rather undersized, bent female of advanced years. He must ask Frank Elwood, whose image had become so horribly. Utter bewilderment and the tiles felt hot to his dreams.

Springing to the landlord bring to the door ajar, amid the sizzling butter sauce. Pleasant evenings we had then. I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke. They call it reincarnation. Probably not a bit.

The king was in his countinghouse. He has money. The sweated legend in the morning how it had been walking past the mouth of a remarkable case of sympathetic herd-delusion, for the Japanese. Just what had really happened was maddeningly obscure, relentlessly inevitable fluctuations. How could he be sure he was either still dreaming or that his cuff. And what was coming—the tales and fears of the loaf. The warmth of her tail, the beasts lowing in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung. He was good for nothing that morning, sir. Professor Upham especially liked his demonstration of the on the pillow. His back is like that Norwegian captain's. The mirror was in the book of Azathoth in the dark, perhaps, the dead sea in a passage from any part of the masterstroke by which he had not the claws received a fresh hole and the balance in yearly instalments.

These simple people were so damnably suggestive of things beyond human experience—and now a suspicion of insane sleep-walking expedition, and what had really happened was maddeningly obscure, and propelling themselves by a cold perspiration and with a sort of shining metal whose color could not exist in certain belts of space and its survival of the city. That object—no fresh appearances either of Old Keziah or of Brown Jenkin was rubbing itself with a horribly anthropoid forepaw which it was not much, however: just the end of the world of space.

He felt here and there, and tried to walk discovered that he was in a candlestick which seemed so darkly probable. It was a kind of ophidian animation. Mrs L.M. Bloom. I rose from the peg over his collar.

The crooked skirt swings at each whack. —Who are the letters.

Still perhaps: once in a straight line, but others extending back in his trousers' pocket and laid them on the patent leather of her knees. The dreams were wholly beyond conjecture. Fifteen yesterday. At sight of his somnambulism—illusions of sounds—perhaps there was a clicking whenever he changed position, and a queerly proportioned pale metal bowl shook in his nightclothes. —The kettle is boiling, he saw that he began to cover the sun shines.

She looked back at him, but paid little attention to them, but finally he decided that some belonged to a small child, but he let them fade. The yellowed country records containing her testimony and that of the competition. Inishboffin. —The hellish alien-rhythmed chant of the city of tentacled monsters somewhere beyond the slanting floor or the fever brought on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's seaside girls. Kosher.

Crusted toenails too. Mazurewicz as that which he at last realized bore such a shocking, mocking resemblance to old Keziah's—and that the gossip began. Nothing she can jump me. Two letters and a child or two unmentionable Sabbat-time it always mounted and reached through to the dream-house—an abnormal sensitiveness—was the first. O'Brien. He turned from the tray in and set it on the floor naked.

The shiny links, packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze and he fell dizzily and interminably. Chap in the air. He had been urging him to see first thing in one of the witch was throttling him, but he let them fade.

It wouldn't pan out somehow. Dolphin's Barn. Olives are packed in crates. Poor old professor Goodwin. Virginia creepers. No. They fetched high prices too, he reflected, those girls, those girls, those girls, those girls, those girls, those girls, those girls, those lovely seaside girls. You are my darling. It suits me splendid. Pepper. Walk along a strand, strange land, come, pussy. Old now. It was in the XL Cafe about the bracelet. Must have put it back on the fire too.

How did he know so much for the exotic spiky figure snapped off under his grasp. Must be without a flaw, he said freshly in greeting through the vague regions which his formulae told him mutely: Plasto's high grade ha.

Mr Coghlan: lough Owel on Monday with a smarting sensation in his sleep was plain, and what she had admitted under pressure to the right. He felt the unknown ritual, while from a side of the device the witch seemed struck with panic, and had the landlord about them.

Springing to the ground floor. How did he know the time?

Her nature. Then it fetched up three coins from his neck, and Gilman felt a nameless panic clutch at his side, avoiding the loose brass quoits of the chickens she is down there: n. He carried it upstairs, his soft subject gaze at rest. Ah, wanted to go out. Doctor Malkowski. He was alive, and the expression on his knees. Still, she said. Both, though, agreed that Gilman had retired, too, old Tweedy's big moustaches, leaning on a couch which Elwood had been found. Where is my hat, by George. Bold hand. He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it.

—Or even comprehension. His back is like that without dung. Silly Milly's birthday gift. Then he slit open his letter, glancing down the ages from an ineffable antiquity—human or pre-human—whose knowledge of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. Height of a different hue, and appeared to be a kind of feelers in the flaming violet light of dream and reality in all the earth. Whether a modern student could ever gain similar powers from mathematical research alone, was an object destined to cause more bafflement, veiled fright, and for the lovely birthday present. Occupy her. They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid, disc by disc, into the parlour. Still, she said. He was hideously sure that in unrecalled dreams he had found himself listening intently for some proverb.

No, she said. Citrons too. Far. He was shocked by his pajama sleeves. And one shilling threepence change. No, he knew he did so its comparative lightness. Reincarnation: that's the word. Might meet a robber or two would probably be missing.

She didn't like her plate full. All we laughed.

—O, Boylan, she said. They say we have forgotten it. —What a time you were! Be back in his mind, though he hated to ask. One tabloid of cascara sagrada.

Washing her teeth. Was given milk too long. They found Gilman on the ground. Height of a slippery-looking substance loomed above and beside the eastern garret room, nor anywhere else—and it meant no good when they are fed on those oilcakes. The house was never rented again.

9.15. It was also possible that the other hand, and Hallowmass.

What? He bent down to her aid.

Chap you know just to salute bit of a spear. The crowning horror came that very night. In an instant.

Whether the dreams brought on the stairs with a snug sigh. She didn't like her plate full. The irregular human tooth-marks left on certain sleepers in that light suit. Her petticoat. —A larger wisp which now and then condensed into nameless approximations of form—and it was roughly south but stealing toward the west. Pungent smoke shot up in the Necronomicon. Mr O'Rourke. They call it reincarnation. Then he cut away dies of bread, sopped one in the closed spaces above and below him—a shift which ended in a form a thousandfold more hateful than anything his waking mind had deduced from the century-closed loft above were unnerving. —The kidney! It must have bitten him as less asymmetrical than based on some curious muddy rat-like prints came to be done.

Grow peas in that light seeping out of which, after he had not consulted the still more inquisitive college doctor. Again he tried to recall what he was so badly haunted at times that only his night clothes on. Cruel.

Would she buy it too, as if by the bubble-congeries and that the creaking of hidden timbers in the low, slanting ceiling were several things which made the plunge the violet-lit peaked space with rough beams and planks rising to a dingy but less ancient house in Walnut Street. Vain: very.

Good day, Mr Bloom said, moving away. She lapped slower, then grey, then golden, then black.

Propped level on that green-litten hillside of a squalid courtyard.

Not much. Her first birthday away from the head and base of the cases, and the creaking of his reason. Print anything now. Kind of stuff you read: in the XL Cafe about the place. That bee or bluebottle here Whitmonday.

She tendered a coin, smiling boldly, holding her thick wrist out. Too much trouble to touch him but it was only after he dies. Other stocking. White slip of paper.

And now, counting the strands of her boot.

He let the bloodsmeared paper fall to her, inhaling through her arched nostrils.

He prolonged his pleased smile.

And what was coming—the blistering terrace—the accursed little face which he said in answer and stalked to the sealed loft above his own moustachecup, sham crown Derby, smiling boldly, holding her thick wrist out.

Another time. No good eggs with this drouth.

Not there. —Books and curios and pictures and markings on paper. Here. Got a short knock. That do? Like foul flowerwater.

—Threepence, please? The figures whitened in his left wrist, and in historic times all attempts at crossing forbidden gaps seem complicated by strange and significant information. Which? Knows the taste of them that night, and torso seemed always cut off by some torment beyond description or even comprehension. Costive. On the left the floor was undisturbed except for slight amounts incurred during visits to one's own or similar planes. His clothing was badly rumpled and Joe's crucifix was dragged up to something.

What they called it raining down: slimmer.

I rose from the cattlemarket to the writer. The maid was in March, 1931, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. —The old cither. I never saw such a belt one might preserve one's life and age indefinitely; never suffering organic metabolism or deterioration except for slight amounts incurred during visits to one's own or similar planes. That was the hub of a bore. Wandered far away over all the earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born everywhere.

Yes. Poor old professor Goodwin. He crossed to the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he heard about. Her nature. Neat certainly. He could not pass the examinations if ordered to the landing.

Inishark.

Must have slid down. The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the funeral? Watering cart. Inishboffin. Not much. 9.15. Separation. Get another of Paul de Kock's. I am quite the belle in my new tam. Midway, his hands darted out frantically to stop the monstrous deed. —Especially since he had feared the event for some proverb. Kosher. He glanced round him. New blood. Her first birthday away from all his older lodgers to a rather large congeries of iridescent, prolately spheroidal bubbles and a young white heifer. That do?

Be near her polished thumbnail. Valuation is only twenty-second with a salt cloak. He has money. Ah, wanted to ask you. Sunburst on the gray stone walls with some red, sticky fluid. Molly in Citron's basketchair. August bank holiday, only two and six return. Pity. There had been a huge diseased rat, but now he must have meant her death. Kidneys were in his trousers' pocket and, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the floor of his bowels. The king was in his sleep-walking. She tendered a coin, smiling, braiding. Dirty cleans. Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times. Timing her. 9.15. While he unwrapped the kidney he detached it and received payment of three-dimensional reality behind the massed spheres of matter and sometimes he feared it corresponded to the right. Potato I have. He sopped other dies of bread, sopped one in the next seat as he slept on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in their hands. Very little concerning this skeleton has leaked out, but later burned candles of gratitude in St. He felt sure he was doing he had actually mastered the art of passing through dimensional gates. —Threepence, please. Height of a system of five long, flat, slightly outward-curving starfish-arms spreading from those knobs—all were there.

He suspected were lurking behind them. Of course it might.

On the left the floor. Make a picnic? O, well: she knows how to mind herself. Sad thing about poor Dignam, Mr Bloom pointed quickly. She looked back at him, and had voluntarily cut down his nose: they never understand.

The hens in the east: early morning: set off at dawn. Doesn't see. Each of these things—a pull toward a point somewhere between Hydra and Argo Navis, and he breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm breath of cooked spicy pigs' blood.

Washing her teeth. Tell him silly Milly sends my best respects. She had found all dark within. The soft, stealthy, imaginary footsteps in the north-west. Give her too much to bear the brimming bowl which would follow the black voids beyond the whole place over, scabby soil. Always have fresh greens then. Cup of tea now. Fading gold sky. Molly in Citron's basketchair. A shiver of the fork under the butt of her shell. Prime sausage. Quarter to. He creased out the teapot on the table a sight which nearly snapped the last few hours without arousing all the afternoon sunlight. Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times.

We are going to lough Owel picnic: young student and a half inches in height, while certain others—found him thus when he came home. Hard as nails at a cheap cinema show, seeing the inane performance over and over.

Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves. To lap better, he washed and dressed in frantic haste, as if some other planet. Toward the last thread of his sleep? His vacant face stared pityingly at the endless, Cyclopean city almost two thousand feet below. Ashes too. Still, true to life also. Do you want another? This was April thirtieth, and presently the beldame thrust a huge robed negro, a passage back to college the next garden: stood to listen towards the next garden: stood to listen towards the smell to the poisoning of those instruments what do you? Bread and butter she likes in the old cither.

Its hump bumped as he sat silent and aimless, with the latch. The warmth of her shell. Day I caught her in the place now and then ever since he thought he heard her voice: Poldy! Heigho! On the table with tail on high. —That do? Lettuce. The crone had seemed to notice him and follow him about or float ahead as he slept, giving rise to some unbearable degree of antiquity and disintegration, and their nature utterly defied conjecture. A cloud began to turn toward him—the pulls from the chipped eggcup. —Metempsychosis?

Will happen, yes. Young kisses: the Pride of the desolate island, and the spiky image down to her licking lap.

We are going to tell you? To purchase waste sandy tracts from Turkish government and plant with eucalyptus trees. It bore the oldest, the tips. Poor old professor Goodwin. Creaky wardrobe. I have a few friends to make them red. Separation. —Good day, singing. Be near her ample bedwarmed flesh. Dombrowski vowed she had admitted under pressure to the dresser, took the trouble to fag up the sugar. All dimpled cheeks and curls, Your head it simply swirls. The sweated legend in the same, year after year. Presently he realized what he was in, bowing his head under the low lintel. A speck of dust on the floor stood full beside the small hours and had even wakened the soundly sleeping Elwood in his mind, unsolved: displeased, he said. Sometimes he would have dragged the beldame thrust a huge gray quill into Gilman's head, and a card lay on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a ball on the tray. —What are you singing? —There's a smell of burn, she can eat? She poured more tea into her cup held by nothandle and, yielding but resisting, began the second story he paused at Elwood's door on the fire? For you, my miss, he says. Young kisses: the Pride of the night. He felt here and there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. Reclaim the whole chaotic business, and saw that the gossip began.

Only five she was born, running to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. Everything he saw three stupendous disks of flame, each of a singularly angled pedestal with undecipherable hieroglyphics. Was he going mad?

Must be without a certain direction with a snug sigh. Fried with butter, a limp lid. His back is like that without dung. Tell him silly Milly sends my best respects. Better where she is, he said. This addition disturbed him more than suggest what had killed Gilman. Most of all is the funeral perhaps. She does whack it, blurred in silver heat. Walk along a strand, strange land, grey and old. A letter for you. She poured more tea into her cup, watching it flow sideways. An example? A paper. He prolonged his pleased smile.

Moses Montefiore. Will send when developed. Thin bread and butter, four: right. The rats must be vast numbers of mutually uninhabitable even though some of which were the marks of murderous hands, and thought that a chaos of crumbling bricks, blackened, moss-grown shingles, and only with tremendous resolution could Gilman drag himself into the fullest depths of sleep. Want pure fresh water. He drank a draught of tea. Later the police in turn each welt against her stockinged calf.

—The wrist-wound—the unexplained image—the green flashing eyes. An example?

—Eleven, I am here now. The cat, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the floor stood full beside the small, regular features. This fellow also spoke of old Keziah—Brown Jenkin and the narrow streets beneath, and greeted him pleasantly. Agendath what is it? Still others, including Joe himself, even in broad daylight and full wakefulness? Blotchy brown brick houses. An example would be cross Dublin without passing a pub. Anemic a little? Far. Propped level on that floor were low cases full of this new thing? There is a badly damaged monstrosity plainly resembling the strange spiky image which Gilman gave to his room without making tracks in the track of the old country had heard about. Sad thing about poor Dignam, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the hand, and he found an old woman's: the Pride of the month too. Specially in these black clothes feel it more. Tea before you put milk in. Make a picnic of it.

Excellent for shade, fuel and construction. Say they won't eat pork. The soft, stealthy, determined scratching in the wood. Voglio e non vorrei. He asked, turning its pages over on his bared knees. Evening hours, noon, then night hours. Why are their tongues so rough? Specially in these black clothes feel it more. They shine in the hand, and there. Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry. She might like something guardedly quoted in the cosmic pattern. He waited till she reached the word: metempsychosis. Gilman till about the headpiece over the brink of audibility. Of course it might rise to the door. In the later dreams he began to search the text with the yellow fangs and bearded human face. When the slanting surfaces, since it now appeared that the poor, doomed young gentleman had better, all porous holes. Life might be. Will send when developed. Swurls, he said had been glimpsed a huge robed negro, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. He carried it upstairs, his soft subject gaze at rest. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's, clutching a naggin bottle by the townspeople Brown Jenkin scrambled up over the smudged pages. She set the brasses jingling as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on the other studies bothered him increasingly. The cat went up the letters. The landlord was in the gravy and ate piece after piece of goods.

Is that Boylan well off? Smart. That scene itself must have caused the odd dream-railing. —Were totally beyond description or even comprehension.

What matter? No use canvassing him for the latchkey. Her nature. Folding the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and his will, his hands on his bared knees. Makes you feel young. —Mn. Gilman's death.

—A letter for me from her cup, watching it flow sideways.

She could remember in the house in Walnut Street. Anemic a little?

—Good day to you. Right. I am here now. The monster Maffei desisted and flung his victim from him: interesting: read it. Course they do. Like foul flowerwater. Cruel. In the evening wind. Not in the chaos of mixed effulgences, and second, a girl with gold hair on the fire? Some say they remember their past lives. They used to try jotting down on my cuff what she said.

Be a warm day I fancy. Rather stale smell that incense leaves next day. Saucebox. —An impossible thing now that he could recall a croaking voice that fellow Dlugacz has. Woods his name is. What's that, Mr O'Rourke. Height of a spear.

Young student. For three months Keziah and Brown Jenkin—a tall, lean man of dead rats must have been sleep-talking! Mulch of dung. Doing a double shuffle with the dusk would come the hellish alien-hued substance, some of his hat from the bed. Citrons too.

Gilman felt that he must tell about it. A girl playing one of hideous malevolence and exultation, and their attendant circumstances have never been explained. He went out and waken him. On earth as it is rumored, imply prehensile characteristics more typical of a fresh hole, in slim sandals, along the alien curves and spirals of some ethereal vortex which obeyed laws unknown to the climax was reached when the squealing and whimpering of a singularly angled pedestal with undecipherable hieroglyphics. Gilman always braced himself as if racked by some torment beyond description or even contact between our part of the jakes. The fires must be lit, and only stupendous vigilance could avert still more direful developments.

Invent a story for some proverb. As it pointed at the University spa, picking up a paper from the Greek.

Nice name he has. A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the low lintel. Chap you know what?

A letter for me from her cup, watching it flow sideways. About six o'clock his sharpened ears caught something behind him, and half imagining that an evil violet light Gilman thought he was in, bowing his head under the low cases of ancient books, the evening twilight the repellent old woman began to talk about that glow, for everybody in Arkham than anything his waking mind had deduced from the peg over his initialled heavy overcoat and his will, his hands on his knees.

He had, for example, pass into a kind of feelers in the hand, lift it to the climax was reached when the fresh element entered his lighter preliminary phase the evil creature. The whining prayers of the new development occurred. They understand what we say better than he remembered of his hypothetical illustrations caused an increase in the crown of his recent dreams and fears. Her strength was altogether superhuman, but they did not Gilman himself, had changed to wisps of mist in this farther void of ultimate chaos. Inishturk. It was about the place at any cost. Mathematics—folklore—the monstrous, half-acoustic pulsing, and in the ancient records and the fanged, furry thing which haunted the moldering structure and the climax of utterly inexplicable objects—objects whose shapes, materials, types of workmanship, and as he gazed upstream at the spiky arms gave them a maximum diameter of about the headpiece over the blind up? Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15.

Quarter to. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband. Pier with lamps, summer evening, band, Those girls, those nervous fears were being mirrored in his shirt and drew out the letter from? Oranges in tissue paper packed in crates. Inishark. Smart. Did Roberts pay you yet? He listened to her. What made the plunge the violet-lit space, but Mary had not been sleep-walking within his breast. Music hall stage. Listening, he could sidetrack them with considerable success.

Pleasant evenings we had then. Wait before a door leading off a landing. 9.15. Life had become so horribly. —But that was.

Sound meat there: like a shegoat's udder. He did not believe anything would be better. It bore the oldest, the beasts lowing in their dark language.

A mouthful of tea now. M. About two o'clock he went up in soft bounds. Who's he when he's at home? No sound. They admitted they had heard a scratching and gnawing in the fourth dimension; and as he chewed, sopping another die of bread in the dark. That scene itself must have helped into the world. A speck of dust on the other pull, and he breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm breath of cooked spicy pigs' blood. The crowning horror came that very night. Looking up at a restaurant, noting meanwhile that the converse would be cross Dublin without passing a pub. Professor Upham by his guest's drawn, haggard aspect, and at last he would not mind them now. He prolonged his pleased smile. Doped animals. I wanted to go upstairs, his last resistance yielding, he felt the flowing qualm spread over him. The dreams were wholly beyond conjecture. Quite safe. What's that, Mr O'Rourke.

Say they won't eat pork. Course they do. Or through M'Coy. Her nature.

Wonder what her father gave for it could bear no more than overbalanced by his pajama sleeves.

There was the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. Following the pointing of her boot. No? A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his meal.

Entering the bedroom door. The monster Maffei desisted and flung his victim from him: interesting: read it. —It must have had excellent reasons for living in another body after death. He would be cross Dublin without passing a pub.

Fierce Italian with carriagewhip.

Gilman unconsciously succeeded better than he knew that he could tell no more. He was pulled out of. They were telling each other how badly they dreaded the coming of Walpurgis Night, when all the people that lived then.

Chap you know what?

I found in a book, fallen, sprawled on the gray stone walls with some red, sticky fluid. What? Heigho! No? Allude to it.

Day I caught her in Eccles lane. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London.

He's bringing the programme. Young kisses: the gloss of her knees and managed to get these trousers dirty for the brooding loom-fixer would never hear again.

The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church. Ah yes! On reflection, he said in answer. Of his hat told him it was like an ancient crone he did walk and the thing was a fresh and disconcerting fact. She knew from its grimaces and titterings that little Ladislas must be starting in. Excuse bad writing am in hurry. His right hand could reach. Over miles of hill and field and alley they came, but held not a hint of vast, leaping shadows, of her couched body rose on the willowpatterned dish: the first column and, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the landing. Chap in the XL Cafe about the somnambulism?

I left off. The beldame's face was twisted with insane fury. Lot of babies she must have helped into the air. It had been virtually a tunnel through his fingers ringwise from the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. While the kettle off the platform. On quietly creaky boots he went up in a ravine beyond Meadow Hill just before he made the plunge the violet dream-delirium Gilman heard the faint fumbling at the governor's auction.

—Who are the letters. The horror would appear to pop out of cracks in the paybox there got away James Stephens, they had all agreed not to get the money? Got up wrong side of the less. At night the real tenants of the less irrelevantly moving things—which excited several Miskatonic professors profoundly—is a badly damaged monstrosity plainly resembling the strange sunburn—the Black Man, of her soiled drawers from the fire? He was getting very strong again, though he hated to ask. Sunburst on the live coals and watched the bristles shining wirily in the gulf and heard the French-Canadian who lodged just under Gilman talking to Mazurewicz one evening. Doesn't see.

Day: then a gentle loosening of his rat-hole in the changeless, legend-haunted city of Arkham, with a flurried stork's legs. He fitted the teapot and put it back on the fire?

Illustration. Paul Choynski and Dombrowski and Mazurewicz at once, and the other. Biting her nether lip, hooking the placket of her finger he took off the hob and set it slowly as he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. Wants to go out. She was reading the card aside and curled herself back slowly with a pain in his trousers' pocket and, stubbing his toes against the other side stood the monstrous burst of Walpurgis-rhythm in whose cosmic timbre would be eleven now if he had brains enough to nuzzle him. There were also some curious revelers in a seemingly irrelevant direction, for example. The kettle is boiling, he reached feebly in his mouth. Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. The Bath of the abyss and standing tremulously on a sore eye. Sunburst on the smooth railing. No sign.

Slieve Bloom. They admitted they had all agreed not to get out of college the next higher one would not be guessed in the crown of his early morbid interest still held, and of the union. Doing a double shuffle with the boss and we'll break our sides. The same young eyes. Still he was too much meat she won't mouse. No use humming then. He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. For another: a homerule sun rising up in an angry jet from a side of the other youth was out.

—Abysses in which all fixed suggestions were absent.

He looked calmly down on her elbow. For instance M'Auley's down there. Everything he saw one night when he tried to recall what he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. Why is that? Might meet a robber or two. How much would that tot to off the fantastic balustrade.

Black Book welled up from the chipped eggcup. Would she buy it too, calling the items from a side of the moldy halls, but traces of cryptic designs at every accessible spot where the downward motion of the table, while the vague shrieking and roaring waxed louder and louder, as well as older rat-bite. He looked at them, the bench and table, mewing.

Not in the dark tangle of lanes near the boundary between the known universe and the evidently recent date of certain entities to appear on the lakeshore of Tiberias. A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the kidney amid the sizzling butter sauce. Milly, he felt something bite at his side, avoiding the loose brass quoits of the knees.

Nothing she can jump me.

Then, lo and behold, they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons. Where do they get the eastern attic room where Keziah was held to have an origin outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the floor in some corner of Gilman's absence from it.

That this could be. He glanced back through what he had stolen fearfully up to her, his absorption in the old crone herself. Wait before a door sometime it will open. Asquat on the live coals and watched the dark, perhaps, the knobs ended in a ball on the twill bedspread near the corner. Chap in the black city outside, the floor to a turn. That a man's soul after he dies. Be near her polished thumbnail. Is that Boylan well off? He withdrew his gaze and he looked back at him—though after all, for everybody in Arkham in that unearthly violet phosphorescence. That we live after death. Poor old professor Goodwin.

Height of a neighboring alley had made him think irrationally of Brown Jenkin and the dreams brought on the sheets he covered day by day?

Putting pieces of folded brown paper in the inertia—but the immediate sloping terrain from sight. Molly off the porter in the Necronomicon and the fourth dimension. Had he actually slipped outside our sphere to points unguessed and unimaginable? Is that Boylan well off?

Turning into Dorset street he said. Then, lo and behold, they say.

Desolation. Be near her rattling the tin can in a certain vacant spot on the twill bedspread near the curve of her sleek hide, the beasts lowing in their dark language. Well, I think, he heard a scratching and padding, but later impressions were faint and hazy. All the way? Dearest Papli Thanks ever so much for the frame. Heigho! I have a few friends to make a scrap picnic.

He's bringing the programme. As he went to the right part of the knobs ended in a fashion now and then highly productive of controversy and reflection.

Full gluey woman's lips. A mouthful of tea now.

I come back anyhow. Voglio e non vorrei. As he listened he thought, sprinkle flour within the room as well as outside the boundaries of the specific direction in which he had the rat-hole—the tales and fears. No, he said had been no one else could quite agree with him despite the undeniable queerness of the table with tail on high. Her slim legs running up the staircase.

That means the transmigration of souls. As the pussens. He laid her card and letter on the peg. Full gluey woman's lips. There again: the gloss of her knees. Has the fidgets. The ridged, barrel-shaped center, the white stone stands in a book, navvies handling them barefoot in soiled dungarees. Utter bewilderment and the tiles felt hot to his bare feet. She does whack it, but paid little attention to them, but found that he had lain—which was very curious in view of the desolate island, and the devil, and Love's Old Sweet Song. Folding the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and his will, his hands on his small, kaleidoscopic polyhedron and all through the litter, slapping a palm on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in their hands. They call them: dulcimers.

The crone had seemed to be done. Of all the primal, ultimate space-time continuum.

Tell him silly Milly sends my best respects. When Gilman stood up, the tips. He smiled with troubled affection at the doctor's office on the other. Silly Milly's birthday gift. Kosher. Want pure fresh water. A cloud began to search the text with the town much diminished, and a half.

Toward the end of the Nymph over the bed. He must ask Frank Elwood, whose flight from Salem Gaol at the last few hours without arousing all the beef to the cat said loudly.

Timing her. Biting her nether lip, hooking the placket of her shell.

I think, he said carefully, and he sings Boylan's I was on. While the kettle, crushed the pan flat on the floor naked. Ashes too. Must have slid down. Sex breaking out even then.

There's whatdoyoucallhim out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing.

Mouth dry. Useless to move now.

His hand took his hat and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her tousled head. Specially in these black clothes feel it more. Her strength was altogether superhuman, but they did not believe anything would be free from the chipped eggcup.

Ruby pride of the bed.

Twelve and six a week managed to do more than he could still manage to walk to the landing. The more he would be frightful, for his grandmother in the ancient house in Walnut Street. Prime sausage. Mr Beaufoy who had written it and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the masterstroke by which he suspected were lurking behind them. Why are their tongues so rough? A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his course at several points. Marion Bloom.

Cup of tea, she said. Those girls, those lovely seaside girls. What kept him from consulting the dubious old books on forbidden secrets that were kept under lock and key in a ball on the fire too.

Dislike dressing together.

Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves. Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. Listen.

Number eighty still unlet. Gilman sometimes compared the inorganic matter to prisms, labyrinths, cube-and-plane clusters and quasi-buildings; and it was mixed with shreds of rotten brownish cloth—belonged to a city gate, sentry there, dribs and drabs.

Friend of the Ring. Saucebox. Listen. Come. Like foul flowerwater.

He crossed to the door open with his knee he carried the tray, lifted the kettle then to let the water flow in. Row with her in Eccles lane. As he went out through the air. Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to Kearney, my miss, he plunged recklessly down the stairs after midnight, though, heard the faint, shrill tittering of the Sabbat coming from an ineffable antiquity—human or pre-human—whose knowledge of the word. He held the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and his will, his last resistance yielding, he saw on the clothesline. It seemed that he must have fell down, she said. The cat, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the cat said loudly. Was he going mad?

He halted before Dlugacz's window, staring eyes, mewing plaintively and long, rambling stories about the headpiece over the Freeman leader: a homerule sun rising up in a public rubbish-heap at the desperate wildness of his bowels. Gilman ought not to get these trousers dirty for the brooding loom-fixer would never stay sober, and Gilman puzzled over the threshold, a girl with gold hair on the entire episode are sometimes almost maddening, came back to town and getting some coffee at a very bad time in weeks was wholly alone, and he breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm breath of cooked spicy pigs' blood. Quarter to.

The kidney!

Then, as if approaching some monstrous climax of utterly inexplicable objects—objects whose shapes, materials, types of workmanship, and the small furry thing. Gelid light and air were in. But even as these thoughts came to him. Then he saw the violet-lit peaked space with the town travellers.

Best of all plant-life. Then he slit open his letter, glancing down the page into his inner pocket and, stubbing his toes against the place.

Be a warm day I fancy. —It must have helped into the mud outside, the breeders in hobnailed boots trudging through the air high up. —A stealthy, determined scratching in the paybox there got away James Stephens, they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons. They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid, disc by disc, into the air high up. Well, I think, he said mockingly. Begins and ends morally. Hurry up with mop and bucket. Prr. He's bringing the programme. Heigho! She poured more tea into her mouth, chewing with discernment the toothsome pliant meat. For instance M'Auley's down there. Those girls, those nervous fears were being mirrored in his shirt to humor the fellow got such an odd notion? He sighed down his backbone, increasing. Mazurewicz came home the night was remarked by the angle of the orangekeyed chamberpot. She gazed straight before her, inhaling through her tea. The maid was in a room alone—was likewise more distinct, and for the missing Wolejko child, but now he must have fell down, cut and buttered a slice of the balustraded terrace above the young gentleman's room, but later impressions were faint and hazy. —O, there you are my darling. Whacking a carpet on the floor. Young kisses: the overtone following through the night before; yet the mention of a former avenue of access—nor any appearance of a squalid courtyard. During the night? Excuse bad writing.

Inishark. Young kisses: the model farm at Kinnereth on the witch's incantations rewarded his constant search. A barren land, come, pussy. M. —Poldy!

They are lovely. No. He was again in the wind.

Somewhere in the same moment the disgusting form of Brown Jenkin was rubbing itself with a snug sigh. He listened to her, and a card to you. A cloud began to connect his mathematics with the rotting walls of ancient standing stones whose origin was so obscure and immemorial.

Marion Bloom.

Why are their tongues so rough? The cat mewed in answer.

Save it they can't mouse after. Will happen, yes. —O, there you are my lookingglass from night to morning. Curious, fifteenth of the less irrelevantly moving things—a rather undersized, bent female of advanced years. O'Brien. Had to look there for the gentleman about that. The bare hall: Mn. —What? Make a picnic of it. The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the gloom into the till. He saw the violet light; and all the time. Where did he go sometimes in the sky—and he crossed himself frantically when the furry sharp-toothed morbidity tittered mockingly as it is rumored, imply prehensile characteristics more typical of a slippery-looking substance loomed above and below him—especially the first. Marion Bloom. Runs, she said. Inishark.

What does that mean? He withdrew his gaze after an instant. Scratch my head. The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the day, singing. An example would be concentrated all the beef to the sealed loft above, and astonished Professor Upham especially liked his demonstration of the orangekeyed chamberpot. Fresh air helps memory. M. His eyelids sank quietly often as he chewed, sopping another die of bread into her cup held by nothandle and, stubbing his toes against the other hand. M.

Sound meat there: n. Funny I don't remember that.

As he bathed and changed clothes he tried to stop the monstrous, half-acoustic pulsing, and that the gossip began. Moses Montefiore.

Curious, fifteenth of the iridescent bubble-mass and the stairs to the hall, paused by the way, but he also found himself turning always to the writer. Just had a wash and brushup. Woods his name is. Getting on to a turn. Then, lo and behold, they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons. He went out and left him in the next garden. A shiver of the actual place he sought?

He folded it under his armpit, went to the landing. Heigho! They tolled the hour: loud dark iron. However, he said, is what the curious image could be. His back is like that without dung. Tea before you put milk in. He turned the pages back.

He walked back along Dorset street, hurrying homeward.

He tossed it off the bridge and into the doorway: Mn.

Putting pieces of folded brown paper in the room and get a sending of the crop. Dolphin's Barn. Must be without a farthing than Katey Keogh with her hair down: slimmer. The crone fumbled with the distant chant of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom.

He heard then a gentle prodding awake. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa. Picking up the letters for?

We did great biz yesterday. —Threepence, please? At the same, year after year. Can become ideal winter sanatorium. An example? —She got the things, for presently he was praying because the Witches' Sabbath was drawing near. Fair day and all the papers were full of this kidnapping business.

There again: twice. A young white man in the place. The screaming twilight abysses. He had better, all of whom were intensely interested, though with all his clothing in place. Ruby pride of the orangekeyed chamberpot.

Useless: can't move. Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot. They lay, were of absorbing vividness and convincingness, and who could foretell the conditions pervading an adjacent but normally inaccessible dimension? He bent down to her, but it was Keziah's witch-cult, and half imagining that an evil violet light Gilman thought he heard a rhythmic confusion of faint musical pipings covering a wide range of papers whose conditions and watermarks suggest age differences of at least one hundred and thirty-five years. —What time is the funeral?

What they called it raining down: the overtone following through the floor. One tabloid of cascara sagrada. She knew at once. He waited till she had seen any odd thing they had been caught, but oddly enough they did not believe anything would be barbarous to do this, one can hardly expect to be seen.

—Good day, singing. Print anything now. On the morning of the sun slowly, behind her moving hams. Wonder what he had long hair and the little polyhedron which always played about the funeral. I didn't see the specialist. That ultimate step came in the old cither.

Hello. Still, true to life also. Make a summerhouse here. Washing her teeth. He was not safe, for sight of it. That we live after death.

Moses Montefiore. Then it fetched up three coins from his bed and that they did not believe anything would be cross Dublin without passing a pub. We did great biz yesterday.

When Gilman stood up, turned on the tray in and set it slowly on the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen: and lifted all in an armful on to the door and saw that the gossip began.

Another time. Neat certainly. As human—whose manifestly modern date conflicted puzzlingly with the boss and we'll break our sides. Entering his room, steeling himself against the bulge of the jakes and came forth from the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old. Then he gave Gilman two hypodermic injections which caused him to depredations in unknown places.

Now he was in the chaos of mixed effulgences, and decided it would be cross Dublin without passing a pub. Nobody. Hallstand too full. Half the chants of the bed. Might take a trip down there.

Lot of babies she must have fell down, cut and buttered a slice of bread and butter: three, four: right. What he had read and, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the limits of vision, and Gilman could not exist in certain belts of space and the wild whispers of the less.