#went and did the aq test after

[kling-akhlami-buhfik]

.

[m1d-45]

bloodletting

summary: a budding god needs a place to test their new powers, and childe was always a little too eager to lose a fight... a match made in heaven!

word count: 1.7k

-> warnings : minor AQ spoilers ? just like, general gi plot.. fairly graphic depiction of blood + other injuries (might be classed as body horror???). generally obsessive tendencies (childe <--> you). i cannot stress this enough, reader is 110% a sadist.

-> gn reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

power was not something that came easy. it was fought over, stolen, defended with teeth and claw, tides of blood shed just so one could have power over another. social, physical, financial; no matter the leverage it provided, power was hard won. to give someone power was to admit defeat, a certain death that tartaglia had learned and taught more than his fair share of times. nobody undeserving of power ever held onto it for long; it was an acknowledgement that you were better, that you deserved it, that you’d won. power was a fickle resource that childe would kill to keep, only ever laying down his blade for a precious few.

the tsaritsa, of course. his fellow harbingers, skilled both on and off-field, who themselves could rival the archons. his family, for whom he’d happily give the world.

and naturally, who would be more worthy to hold power than you?

you, not just a god but the, the highest authority across all of teyvat. you bore a hundred names and a thousand monikers, your worship the one thing the world could agree on. granted, nobody could quite agree on how, but that was fine. childe did not need external powers to tell him what to do. he knew, in his deepest heart, that he had gotten it right.

he knew—and, on occasion, flaunted—that he was your favorite. of all the vessels you had chosen, you returned to him time and time again, wishing on his stars until his vision gleamed. his bow shone with power, even his weakest weapon more than enough to push his strength to new heights. part of him wondered what he could do if you’d granted him swords, or a claymore… but that was speculation for another time. didn’t it say something that you had still chosen him at his weakest?

the thought always made him smile. thick in the heat of puppeteered battle, before the sun to after dark, your presence was a constant in his life. at every altar, with every offering, when his hands stung from the rash of leather and his blade was covered in rust, your name a prayer behind blood-soaked teeth. he could not remember a time when his pocket was not weighted with a charm.

his devotion was no secret. he wore your bow with pride, entirely phasing out his other weapons. it didn’t matter that he was technically more controlled with them, for you had chosen this path for him. your word was his guide, a polar star through bitter nights.

he did not doubt when your presence ebbed or flowed. who was he to dictate when or where you spent your attention? no, his faith did not waver. it had no reason to. he waited patiently, going about his regular duties, lingering in snezhnaya for no other reason that he just felt like he had to.

who was he to question to buzzing in the back of his head? who was he to decline when he felt an instinct to leave, to go for a trip far past the city gates? who was he to think himself better than the guiding light that had never led him astray?

for you, he was whatever you needed. and so he went, armed with a thick coat and snowboots, hands shoved deep in the pockets to hide the slight shake. down the main road, an arbitrary turn into an alley and down an abandoned path, into a part of the city he’d never traveled. but a golden thread had tied itself around his heart, pulling without hesitation. he easily hopped over the fence gate, not bothering with hauling it open through the snow. the path beyond was covered in a thick layer of powder, his foot crunching through a foot of it before hitting solid ground. still, he continued.

snezhnayan winters were not warm. they bit and dug into every gap in your clothes, stealing away the precious warmth within. and yet, with his half-done coat and incomplete guard, he was not cold. or, rather, he couldn’t feel it. his hands were pink with frost, stiff at the knuckles, but he couldn’t feel the resistance. his body was not important, not now.

the snow began to thin. it fell from his knees to his shins to his ankles to his toes, until he was face to face with a thick wall of bramble, impossibly overgrown. he was beginning to overheat in his jacket. twin blades made quick work of the wall, and the sight behind it easily dispelled any breath left in his lungs.

the air that washed out of the bubble was thick and heavy, like a humid spring instead of snezhnayan woods. his breath came in short gasps, a shameful wheeze that he hoped was missed beneath the howling snow. he didn’t want you to see him as weak, as someone so easily tired by a short trip to a falling star; he didn’t want you to think of him as anything other than his best.

but you didn’t push him away. you helped him up—his head was buzzing with delusion, he could hardly see, when had he fallen to his knees?—and brushed the snow off his hair, not pushing him away when he leaned into your touch. he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could barely collect himself enough to recognize that he needed to get you inside, away from the wilds.

that was power. to so effortlessly take over every thought in his head, to hold his mind in your hands and pull it into your liking, that was the power he adored you for. gods were figureheads of power, a physical incarnation of their dominion. a god of the entire world would only naturally have power to manipulate that world to their liking. how blessed was he, that he could be the first you made yours.

he was with you when you first stepped into zapolyarny palace, looking around at the chandeliers and fine tile. he opened the door for you to her majesty’s throne room, sucking in a sharp breath as you brushed by. he was by your side when the tsaritsa swore you her fealty, delicately placing the gnoses in your hands.

and oh, how he’d fallen to the floor right then and there, dizzy from the wash of power that rolled off you in waves, an ocean that he willingly dove into. the floor was cool beneath his forehead, his hair sticking to his skin as sweat quickly began to bead. he didn’t bother pushing himself up on his hands, teeth sinking deep into his lip again to control his panting breath. copper bloomed over his tongue, filling his mouth and clogging what remained of his senses.

dimly, he was aware that he was being pathetic, that this would surely change your mind about him. he heard your voice, faint through the fog of his mind, your wisdom lost to his own inadequacy. and yet, despite his weakness, every part of him was tuned into you. he knew it was your hand whispering across his shoulders, he knew it was your influence that stole the breath from his lungs. he knew it was you, because it was always you. you were all he could think of, and now you were finally able to leverage your full power over his self.

he’d woken up in a hospital bed. saline dripped into his arm and the lights pierced his eyes, his head full of snow and iced over. and yet, the moment he was cleared for release, he found himself desperate to be back to your side, racing through the tiled halls of the palace and following the urgent burn in his chest. you would have been right to turn him away, to deem him too weak to stay by your side, but you didn’t. you smiled when he lost his breath and laughed when he wavered, brushing off his concern. you invited him with you—his lungs burned with the need for oxygen—as you twirled the gnoses between your fingers, as if they were toys or paperweights rather than objects of divine power.

divine to him. child’s play to you. a courtyard of snow was cleared in an instant, ripples of pyro melting permafrost while keeping the flora beneath intact, a lazy show of power that pulled little more than a slight hum from you in response.

he wasn’t so much a fool as to think he could teach you everything, or even something, about being divine. and yet he clung to your side like a sailor in a storm, watching as you grew familiar with the elements. he watched, stubborn and weak, as you stopped hesitating.

flowers bloomed as you walked by, crumbling to ash with the slightest look. electro jumped from your skin to his, a painful spark that drew his mind from his head, finally seeing your amused eyes instead of just mindlessly staring. you could—should—have just left him behind, but you didn’t. you instead asked for his help, taking his hand in yours and leading him to a quieter hallway of the palace. you didn’t comment on his thundering pulse despite the fact that you could certainly feel it, tracing a finger along the crease of his palm.

“i wonder…”

a claw of geo cut across his skin, a sharp sting that quickly welled with blood. he barely felt it, watching with detached awe as it filled up his hand, sliding over the edge and dripping to the floor. you didn’t show any emotion, just… watching. his heart beat in his hands, a pool collecting on the floor, and still, you just watched. your other hand moved over the surface, barely an inch away, the blood collecting in a bubble beneath it. with a hum, your fist tightened, pain lighting up his arm. a strained grunt slipped between his teeth, hand flinching closed, brushing against the ball of his blood you had pulled from his veins. his hand was stained red, shaking in your grasp, minutes stretched into hours.

all at once, it dropped, forced back into his body as forcefully as it was removed. with a snap, the skin stitched itself shut, and you were again dragging him along like a child did their favorite toy.

you did that a lot. pull him aside and experiment with whatever new reaction you had discovered that month, week, day, hour, watching his reactions with unabashed delight. and he let you. every time, without fail, he eagerly followed, knowing full well he’d end up rigid with lightning or with ice crystals studding his throat. it was worth it, though. you always fixed him up, squeezing his hand with a whispered ‘good job’ that never failed to make him dizzy.

it didn’t matter what you did to him. it never did. even when his mind was hazy with pain and he couldn’t quite stand on his own, he never regretted it. unconsciousness licked at the edges of his vision, burning black stains that lingered even after you stopped, but he never once hesitated.

if you asked him to jump, he’d ask how high. if you felt like holding him underwater, he’d cherish every bruise. to be kept as a toy was still to be kept.

[fatuismooches]

Random Dot analysis:

The interesting thing about Dottore is that while the most popular fanon about him is that his underlings fear him, canonically it's the complete opposite.

He deadass has an army of simps working for him, I had never ran into a Fatui NPC that has expressed fear about him, and instead they speak about him in reverence.

The most obvious one is during the AQ where a fatui agent expressed disappointment upon realising that Dottore would be leaving Sumeru soon, saying that he had only seen the lord once.

And it seems that Dottore actually talks to his subordinates often, especially when in the same conversation, the agents (who didn't know about the segment's existence thus not realising that they spoke to different versions of the Doctor) casually compared how their conversations went, one said that Dottore was dismissive while the other said he was all smiles.

The people who work for him are ridiculously dedicated, the fungi event with that one guy who for some reason - thought that a device that controls fungi would impress Dottore, he did all that to earn his recognition. (It would have been more impressive if the device controlled literally ANYTHING besides fungi, but eh whatever) Note: The guy has said in CN expressively something along the lines of "beloved/dear" lord, not the direct translation but it was affectionate.

Then there's that one dude who stayed behind after the (failed) aranara lure experiments, I don't remember much about him but I don't think he said anything bad about Dottore, other than saying that he had stayed behind because he felt responsibility to take care of the kids after subjecting them into a mission like that.

Cut to the two Fatui peeps on Mondstadt who gush about him after the Sumeru quest, and I'm pretty sure we met another fatui dude in the desert who decided to go against orders and go the extra mile of attempting to kidnap desert dwellers to present as test subjects to again - impress Dottore. I think this was a Jeht quest?

Oh, and in the manwha, it's briefly mentioned that Dottore does reward efforts handsomely.

Tldr:

Fanon - Dottore is cruel, he terrifies everyone who works under him and they always walk around eggshells with him.

Canon: Dottore gives high reward for efforts, he has too many simps that sings him praises and they're literally scrambling to be in the same room as him.

Conclusion, we need more dottore simps in fan content. Because not only is it more accurate, but its also funnier for Dottore to be followed by a hoard of fans.

ALRIGHT YOU HAVE ME THERE... I went back and reread the dialogue for the agents for when Dottore was leaving and phew you're right, lol now that i realize it's pretty entertaining!!

But now i have questions. How many agents know that Dottore has segments? The ones that do know, are they not allowed to spread this...? I'd think the news would be all over the recruits but I guess not. And I guess these segments are ridiculously similar physically/appearance wise too. 😭 And the ones that don't know, do they just think their Harbinger has multiple different personalities or something?? I need more NPCs talking about Dottore.

ELCHIGEN. THE FUNGI NPC GUY WAS SO FUNNY. I still have screenshots of when he spoke about Dottore omg, bro was DEDICATED. Literally created a whole scheme and put his life on the line just to get Dottore to notice him... i respect the energy tbh. I do wonder why he loved Dottore so much in the first place, i really think there's a lot more to his character than we've seen firsthand. I also went back and reread the other stuff you mentioned on the wiki and omg 😭😭 i cant believe i forgot this stuff happened, it's been so long since Sumeru 😭 it's so funny to think about how they're piling more crimes on themselves just for Dottore 😭 i wonder if he's aware of how favorable these agents view him?

Though I do think it may differ from segment to segment. Krupp was pretty scared of Webttore. It's also kind of funny to think people were more scared of Scaramouche than Dottore. 💀

You have me thinking many thoughts, and this has given me much brainrot, will keep in mind for future fics, i have been enlightened.

[burnwater13]

Concept art by Nick Gindraux for The Mandalorian, Season 1, Episode 6, The Prisoner. The Mandalorian is depicted firing down a corridor as battle droids approach. Cells are visible along the corridor.

Din Djarin sighed. He had hoped this would be a quick job and that he and the child would be able to gather some intel from Ran and find someplace safe to hunker down. It became clear that nothing like that was going to happen. Dank Farrik.

First, he thought he was just going to take Ran’s team somewhere and  just drop them off. He had done that often enough when they originally worked together. To find that he wasn’t even going to pilot the Razor Crest was not welcome information. It hadn’t been easy to acquire and it would be even more trouble to replace if anything happened to it. 

Second, he didn’t find out that they were extracting a prisoner from a New Republic prison vessel until it was too late to refuse. Picking someone up from a rival group was as different from springing a guy from a New Republic prison ship as the Razor Crest was different from an Old Imperial Dreadnaught. This job just went from bad to awful.

Finally, the crew. Uff. The Mandalorian was surprised that any of them had managed to avoid being held in a New Republic prison transport themselves. They were a hot mess. One was violent, one was just a mass of muscle, another was trigger happy, and the worst one was a reprogrammed protocol droid. What had he signed himself up for when he contacted Ran and asked if they could work something out that was mutually beneficial?  This was not what he had hoped to be doing and he certainly hadn’t expected to expose the child to such a motley crew. 

At least he could control for that. He’d left the little one in his cabin and locked the door. He wasn’t going to open it and let any of them see his small companion. Based on what Ran said to him about getting crosswise with the guild made him worry that his old ‘friend’ knew all about what happened on Nevarro and that meant he couldn’t be trusted to know about the kid or anything else. Just like old times.

Old times had been one nightmare after another with all of the old crew doing one dangerous, often stupid thing, after another. Sure, Ran had made credits and Din Djarin had as well, since even his old armor had protected him from the worse of their misadventures, including Xian’s persistent testing of his reflexes with her knives. But, there were a number of good reasons they had parted ways. 

Ran had shorted his cut of the take on more than one job. Xian had cut up so many members of their team that Din Djarin spent as much of his time patching people back together as he did planning missions and providing cover fire. And Xian’s brother, Qin was just as much a problem. He was just slightly more cheerful while he picked locks and subdued guards than any of the rest of them. A Mandalorian bounty hunter was expected to display more discipline. More consideration. More sense. A lot more sense. 

Dank Farrik. 

Then Burg, the big muscle for their team decided to be nosey. Well, Din Djarin had shut that down as quickly as he could. But not before the door to his cabin was opened and there was the child. Standing up and carefully observing each one of them. He could only imagine what the child might think seeing them all. When he was that age, well, he hadn’t actually reached the child’s reported age yet, but when he was a youngling, he hadn’t met anyone who carried weapons with so little concern. At least, not until he’d been saved by the Mandalorians on Aq Vetina. 

That brought back memories he didn’t want to think about. Including his general concerns about the child he’d decided to protect. Had he known his parents? Had he any idea where he came from? Was he an orphan or abandoned or did he have a family who was frantically trying to locate him? The Mandalorian had no idea but he certainly didn’t want this group of people to think about the child in any way at all. 

“What is it? Like a pet, or something?”

Mayfeld asked the question to see if he could push the Mandalorian’s buttons.

“Sure. Something like that.”

Easier to pretend the child was a pet then have them think he was anything else. Although as soon as he said that, the Mandalorian was certain that the child had made a face or a sound that indicated his disapproval of that whole notion. It wasn’t the first time that the bounty hunter was happy that he wore a helmet that shielded his face. The notion that small being was scolding him about a necessary cover story was just too funny. He couldn’t imagine the grief he’d take from Xian or Mayfeld if they had seen his grin or his eyes crinkle at their corners or saw how red he got in the face from trying not to laugh. It wasn’t worth it and it wouldn’t protect the child.

After that moment of levity that no one knew about except for him, the Razor Crest dropped out of hyperspace and he and the child and everyone else went bouncing around the storage bay. That wretched droid didn’t give a circuit relay about what was happening to the actual living members of their party. Which reminded him that he didn’t want that thing to know anything about the child. Nothing. After what happened with the IG unit on Arvala-7, the Mandalorian didn’t trust the protocol droid as far as the child could… no, as far as he could throw him. 

He spoke to the child quickly and quietly and gave him a rations pack to eat, while the others were preparing to board the vessel they had landed on. He hoped he wouldn’t find it used as a paint pallet again with assorted symbols decorating the walls of the cabin like the last time he’d had to leave the little one alone for a few hours. The walls cleaned up pretty easily, but getting the little one out of that coverall to bathe him and then trying to get him back into the thing had been a true trial of Mandalorian perseverance. 

He had hoped he wouldn’t have to survive that trial again for a couple of days instead of a mere twenty hours. Maybe he should get them a pet. Then it could clean the little one up when food was used as paint. It was worth a try, right?

[ooops-i-arted]

Din's morning routine: finding Yoditos in various inconvenient places while trying to get ready in AM. OR view frim inside of 'fresher door - dozens of tiny hands and "Dads?!" Happiest if Birthdays to you!

Thank you! Please enjoy this outline of Din's morning. And this was also inspired by your request.

-

3:38 AM

Din rolled over to check the chrono, or at least as much as he could with a snoring juvenile varactyl using half of him as a pillow. Twenty-two minutes still until his alarm went off. He lay back down and closed his eyes, hoping for a little bit more sleep.

3:57 AM

A wail started growing louder and Din’s dream of searching for his children in the ruins of Aq Vetina melted away as he sat up, struggling out from underneath Boga Jr. He knew that sound. The babies were awake early this morning.

Quickly he stumbled into the children’s room, finding that fortunately only Yod’ika 99 and Yod’ika 94 had woken each other up in the crib. He scooped them up and held them to his collarbone with one hand, humming softly and soothing them with the vibrations in his throat while he used his free hand to fix a bottle of formula for each of them and set it in the rack Kuiil had constructed to suspend over a matching line of customized infant seats, each labeled with the number of Yod’ika it was sized for. Once his two little ones were sufficiently soothed he set them in their seats and tilted the bottles into their reach, allowing them to drink while he started preparing another batch of breakfast for the others still asleep.

The infants were still being bottle-fed, so he fixed up those first and set them in the racks so they were ready for their recipients. Next were the older kids; the three jars of minced salamander had the closest expiration date so he set up bowls of those and stacked them in the fridge for when the older children woke up. A few servings he put through the food processor and mashed first, for the youngest toddlers who still had difficulty chewing as much.

4:25 AM

IG-11 always entered quietly enough not to wake the children but still with some familiar mechanical whirring of gears. He always claimed Kuiil had forgotten to oil them again, but Din had overheard Cara telling IG-11 not to be so quiet to not startle Din a few weeks ago. Din wasn’t quite to the point where he could thank IG-11 for the effort but he did appreciate it in silence.

“You’re early,” Din commented.

“My morning optimizing subroutines finished early,” the droid said in its flat voice. “I have been running some in the evening as well before shutting down, to be as efficient as possible.”

“These two are awake and fed,” Din said, removing the bottles from the racks and scooping up two of his smallest sons.

“I will engage tummy time routines.”

Din set the two in IG-11’s clawlike hands. “Try and stay quiet.”

IG-11 took the babies. Din could already hear a few more starting to stir, but let IG-11 handle them as he returned to his room. He hadn’t found time to shower yesterday so he definitely had to this morning.

Boga Jr. was awake and already rearranged the bedding into a bigger mess, looking proud of her efforts to reconstruct her “nest” as she usually did. Din scratched her head feathers before pulling out his jumpsuit and fresh underwear - dank ferrik, was he due for another load of laundry already? - and heading for the ’fresher.

4:45

He’d taken care of his bladder and brushed his teeth and was halfway into the shower when a bright voice said “Good morning, Buir!”

Din stared. “Yod’ika 18, what are you doing in the sink?”

“I’m cleaning myself,” said the little one as Din glanced at the definitely-locked door.

“Why?”

Yod’ika 18 looked down guiltily. “I had an accident…”

Din got a towel around his waist before going over to check on Yod’ika 18. “Yeah, looks like you did… you know you can get up in the night to go potty, right?”

Yod’ika 18 frowned and looked down. “It’s just so dark at night…”

“We’ll see about getting a night light in there, okay?” Din helped him out of the dirty clothes and threw them in the hamper before pulling out another tunic that passed the sniff test. “Wear this for a little bit and we’ll get you properly dressed after breakfast.”

“No!” said Yod’ika 18, shying away. “It’s stinky, Buir!”

Din sighed, but he was awake enough by now to remember what a neat freak Yod’ika 18 was. “Okay, okay, come here.”

Din scooped the little one up, making sure his towel stayed secure as he went to the closet and pulled out the first outfit he found. “Here you go.”

“It’s not my favorite color…”

“Yod’ika 18,” Din said sternly, and finally Yod’ika 18 submitted to being dressed in the yellow tunic. “Go see IG-11 and he can get you breakfast,” Din said, shooing the little one along.

“But I want to eat with you, Buir.”

“Then wait a little bit and I’ll join you when I get out of the shower.”

The pattering of oversized gangly varactyl feet was his only warning. Boga Jr. loved snatching up clothes and flinging them around and he just managed to get the closet door shut in time to remember that what she really loved was snatching things directly from him, and he only had one article of “clothing” on him right now.

Din barely grabbed the towel in time. “BOGA JR, NO!”

She tugged playfully on it with all her juvenile varactyl strength, encouraged by Yod’ika 18’s giggles. “Stop it!” Din ordered, barring her from getting closer with his leg; he needed both hands to keep his towel. “Sit, girl!” he said desperately, and luckily she followed the command, her tail thrashing proudly.

“Go tell IG-11 that Boga Jr. needs to be fed,” Din told Yod’ika 18.

He hurried off to perform the special chore, loudly saying, “Of course, Buir, I will help you!”

Boga Jr., knowing food was imminent, hurried after Yod’ika 18. But now Din could hear more stirring, more pattering feet and perking ears and chattering little voices.

He barely made it to the bathroom in time. As soon as he shut and locked the door there were already scratching noises and bustling little bodies and loud little voices. “Good morning Daddy!” “Papa I want to come in.” “Stop pushing me!” “Daddyyyyyyyyyy-” “Come eat breakfast with us Buir!” “Dada, food, I hungwy…”

The doorknob started moving all by itself. Din grabbed it and held fast. “Anyone who opens this door with the Force doesn’t get frogs for a week!” he yelled in desperation.

Suddenly the door stopped vibrating slightly and it was quiet on the other side.

“Go and tell IG-11 you’re awake,” Din said. “I’ll be out soon and I’ll eat with you.”

He listened for acknowledgment and to make sure the horde retreated before finally, finally getting into the shower. Just in time to find out IG-11 had used all the hot water on food prep and dishes.

5:10 AM

Din toweled his hair dry just enough to not make the inside of his helmet gross before leaving the bathroom and going to his bedroom to put it on. He didn’t bother with the rest of the armor yet, but even though IG-11 was the only person - thing, droid, whatever - there not a family member, he still didn’t like breaking the spirit of the Creed’s helmet rule anyway. And there was no telling whenever anyone else might come by.

He knew food had to be out and served since no one was swarming him, and he passed through the kids’ room to see how many were still asleep. Not many - once they were up, the horde usually swarmed like flies on a ronto.

“Dad?” asked a sleepy voice just as Din was about to step out, and he turned to see his eldest sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

“Good morning, Yod’ika,” Din said. “You still sleepy or ready for breakfast?”

Yod’ika held out his arms in a plea to be held. “Breakfast.”

Din scooped him up obligingly; every child in his care needed individualized attention but Yod’ika was always extra hungry for it. He snuggled up under Din’s chin and Din smiled, rocking him a little. “Did you sleep well last night?”

“Yeah,” he said. “No bad dreams.”

“Good,” said Din, and he made sure the few remaining Yod’ike were fast asleep before carrying Yod’ika into the kitchen.

Most of the awake Yod’ike were sitting at the table but several were still crawling and toddling on the floor, too restless to eat yet or already finished, and the babies still in their feeding chairs were starting to cry. Din hurried over to get them out first, his helmet’s audio feed automatically adjusting to the volume.

“Buir, come eat with us!”

“Hold on, let me get the babies first,” he said without looking at who had called for him. He felt a stubborn, otherworldly pull on his hands. “No!” he told the babies firmly, and the sensation stopped. Din was glad they were responding better; the last thing he needed was an infant unexpectedly yanking him around. Carefully he extracted the infants from their feeding seats and passed them over into IG-11’s supervision, watching the droid as he carefully put them in the playpen he’d set up for them. Only the very youngest ones could still be counted on to stay where you put them, and Din knew he wasn’t going to have that luxury much longer. Even little Ika’ika was already squirming in protest in the playpen, rolling over repeatedly to try and make himself move.

More Yod’ike toddled in, calling for him, so Din told them good morning and started heating and setting out more bowls of minced salamander.

“I want frog,” whined Yod’ika 27.

“We’re eating the salamander today,” Din said. “We’ll have frog another day.”

“Can we go frog hunting today, Baba?” asked Yod’ika 14, quickly echoed by several of his brothers. “It’s been ages since we got to!” insisted Yod’ika 18.

Din knew “ages” meant “a week” but it was one of the clan’s favorite activities. “I need to look at the schedule and see if there’s a pond that’s been rotated long enough. If we go too soon, there won’t be enough frogs -”

“For us and for the animals,” chimed in multiple Yod’ike.

“Exactly,” said Din. Proudly, “Good job remembering.”

“We hafta take care of the en-vi-en-met,” added Yod’ika 33.

“You’re right,” Din said, finally getting his own bowl of human protein-fortified cereal and sitting down at the table, setting his helmet in his lap where it was safest from sticky hands.

“Can I try some, Buir?” asked Yod’ika 6, reaching out.

“No,” Din said, waving his spoon at his son’s hands. “Eat your own.”

6:00 AM

Everyone was awake - it was rare any of the Yod’ike slept through the din of their brothers - and everyone was fed, so now it was time to get ready for the day.

“You all know the drill,” Din told them. “Old clothes in the laundry, use the potty, IG-11 set out new clothes for you, and then brush your teeth.”

They all chattered agreeably and then the storm of pajamas flying through the air began. At this point Din was used to the commotion, so he pulled off the shirt that landed in his face off and went over to start changing the babies one by one, occasionally pausing to remind the others no laundry fights but otherwise going as fast as he could before -

“Buir, I need help,” said Yod’ika 44’s little voice at his ankle.

“Ask one of your brothers,” Din said, barely remembering to say it instead of automatically helping his son. “Right now I’m changing the babies.”

“But I want you to do it, Buir.”

“Then you need to wait.”

Sometimes it worked, but more often than not Din had a cluster of Yod’ike seeking help (and attention) sitting at his feet. Today Yod’ika 44 sat right on his foot, clutching his new outfit and underwear.

Din felt something wet on his foot and his stomach turned. “Did you wipe?”

“Oops!” Yod’ika 44 ran back to the bathroom.

Din didn’t look down. He just quickly grabbed a wipe and cleaned his foot very thoroughly before anyone else came over.

By the time he was working on Ika’ika - a delicate task, changing the smallest diaper in the galaxy and stuffing the squirming infant into the smallest custom mudhorn-patterned onesie Cara had brought back from her last trip into the Core - a whole cluster of children were at his feet, arguing who was first for help and shouting at Yod’ika for trying to force them to accept his help, Yod’ika the loudest as he yelled back that he was the oldest and his help was just as good as Dad’s.

Din knew if he let go of Ika’ika, even for a second, all his hard work making the wiggly baby get dressed would be undone, so he ignored the fuss until finally he could hand Ika’ika over to IG-11, who deposited him back into the playpen with his littlest brothers. “Okay,” Din said. “Who needs help?”

With at least thirty kids clamoring “Me! Me! Me!” it was impossible to tell who had really been first. Din had found the most success by making it into a game and randomizing it, so he said everyone with a blue outfit had to go see IG-11, everyone with a mythosaur on their clothes had to go ask Yod’ika for assistance, and anyone with a mudhorn should wait for him. They were used to the game so there wasn’t a lot of protest, and now Din had only five children waiting. He pulled on shirts and shorts, gently folded ears through a hat, and tucked Yod’ika 29’s malformed feet into their supportive shoes.

“Are we all ready?” Din asked his brood, all eagerly staring up at him.

“You’re not ready, Dad,” pointed out Yod’ika, and the others all nodded in agreement.

Din looked down. The flightsuit was on, and already stained by food and slobber from when he’d helped his sons eat and from when Boga Jr. had rested her head in his lap, trying to steal scraps. He suppressed a sigh. “No, I guess I’m not.”

7:02 AM

His armor was on, even polished a bit thanks to Yod’ika 3 sneaking into his room for some quiet time in Din’s room. (“But I was being an Armorer,” he’d said so sweetly, and he’d used the right polish, so he got out of any consequences.) He’d remade the bed so it wasn’t currently a varactyl’s nest. The kids were all awake, fed, and dressed, and ready to take on the day. And now, so was he.

“Dad, come on, let’s play!”

“I’m coming.” Din put his helmet on, and stepped outside, ready for anything the galaxy had to throw at him today.

[purecamp]

2020 Review

I don’t usually do these, but it’s safe to say this year warrants a lot of change. There’s been some good, plenty of bad, and I think I just want to be frank and get some feelings out while we’re still here so I don’t have to carry it all into 2021. (Once you’re past the nice bit you’re under no obligation to keep reading haha)

First, some positives:

@artificialortega - My rock. I never understood that phrase but you truly are an immovable force of love and an endless talent. You inspire and motivate me so much, and I love you to the ends of the earth. @djoodimattel - Beauty! I met you this year! You were every bit as beautiful and charismatic as I knew you would be and I’m so thankful for your friendship. @awk0beauts - Miss loved up I am so happy that 2020 has brought you so much love, you deserve every single bit of it. @bethany-alic3 - You’re not on here much so I will tell u so in the groupchat regardless, but our little creation remains one of my proudest achievements and you’re such a hard worker and a beautiful person inside and out, I want to be just like you when I grow up (which I almost have). @pianowired - You already know how much I love you but I’ll say it here again just in case you missed it. @veronicasanders - I didn’t know you very well before this year but you’ve been such a big help to me during some of the worst times and I appreciate you very very much. @fab-wolf-in-the-gloom - You never fail to respond when I need somebody and I hope you know I’ll always do the same for you, your love and support means the absolute most. @meluisart - After nearly four years, our friendship still holds up. I’m so glad to have found you way back when, I love you.

This year I realised some things about myself that I started to work on, reflect on, and accept. I did online schooling with slightly lowered but still high grades that I can be proud of, and I sent off my application to do a Creative Writing degree at university hopefully starting in Sept/Oct 2021, if the world permits. I submitted to AQ seven times, despite the long long gap between June and December.

I’ve been trying to look on the brightside because frankly, this year was going fine for me until the end of June. Covid was scary and still is, but since I was able to do school online and stayed home otherwise, I was lucky enough that it was background noise in my life.

Little rant coming now, sorry. Heads up, I’m gonna be talking about Sharon.

I have the memory of finding out about everything literally burned into my brain. I was watching a film with my sister and I checked twitter, saw some stuff about a document, skimmed through without paying much attention in a pretty light-hearted mood. My heart dropped, I carried on watching the film and didn’t react. When I went back to my room, I reread everything and cried until I couldn’t breathe anymore.

Since then, I’ve had to grieve, cope, reflect, rethink, and more. And my opinion is constantly changing, and I never know what the right thing to say is. If I’m honest, I’ll receive buckets of anonymous hatred. If I plan my words carefully, I’m not saying the whole truth of what I think.

I will say that since the document’s deletion, the false accusations and the accusations involving/pertaining to others, I’m a little more comfortable in doubting the claims. I have never nor will ever defended Sharon’s problematic actions in the past, because I’ve always been well aware of her transgressions, but I’m still unsure of where I stand at the end of 2020 other than that I miss her, and I selfishly wish all of this could just be fixed.

The world is not as black and white as it seems in most cases, but again, I don’t want to subject myself to the hate I got before. It wasn’t as much as I expected, but with the situation already taking a huge toll on my mental health this summer, that still remains, it was soul-destroying to keep receiving messages. I think I’m past it now, but I’d like to not test the theory.

From 2021 I just want to have a little bit more peace. I would like to keep writing if I can (I still write for another fandom, but AQ is my home), I would like to be able to enjoy the things I love, and I would like to enter the newest chapter (turning 18, going to university) without the trauma of this year.

If you got this far, first of all why, and secondly, thank you. I hope every single one of you has a better year ahead than this one has been.

[writethehousedown]

Academic Dishonesty 5/7 (Witney) -Marion

Summary: Willam and Courtney met during their first semester at college, and have fallen into a bit of a routine since then. The only thing that could fuck this up would be catching feelings. Friends with Benefits to Lovers AU.

A/N: Life beat me out for this challenge, but I’ll get the last two parts up on AQ as soon as I can! Once again betaed by Freyja.

After a week of running into Willam seemingly left and right while desperately trying to sort out her feelings, Courtney had thought that avoiding her entirely after their fight would be difficult. As it turned out, 800 acres of campus was plenty of space to stay out of the way of someone, even if they lived just two floors beneath you.

If Courtney were being honest with herself - and as a rule, she did try to - a part of her had been hoping that she’d run into Willam. Not just now, on a Thursday night spent sitting alone in her room actively avoiding her roommate and their friends and aware she was being avoided by the person she had fallen in love with over the last few months. Last weekend, she had wanted to run into her because she wanted to keep fighting. It felt good, airing her complaints and sharpening all her hurt into knives to throw, even if the returning blows hurt just as much. But as the week went on, she started to miss Willam, and couldn’t help but wonder if maybe she had had a point.

She hadn’t refused to see Willam in any context that wasn’t schoolwork or sex as much as Willam had done to her, had she? They had gone to that movie a few weeks ago, and they had gotten food together more than once, but those were always in the context of their Thursday “study” sessions. Sure, Willam had extended offers to parties and sneaking into clubs downtown a few times last semester, not long after their study sessions had started to get a bit more… personal, but Courtney had been busy those nights, and Willam hadn’t made any similar offers this semester. But did Willam have a point about her not making attempts to spend time with her outside of Thursday evenings? Had she reached out to Willam to spend time together otherwise? And hadn’t Willam been the one to suggest their ventures out of her room on their Thursday nights more often than not?

Courtney leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. Had she been the one to totally fuck everything up this time?

“How’s the essay going?” Adore asked as she pushed through the door.

Courtney just groaned in response. She hadn’t been able to focus for more than a few minutes at a time before her thoughts turned back to Willam.

“I told you that philosophy sucks, especially with Professor Visage.” She crouched down in front of their shared minifridge and pulled out a can. “Can I steal one of your Cokes?”

“Go for it,” Courtney said, then sat up to look at her roommate. “It’s not the class, I just have to summarize readings that I’ve already done. I just keep getting distracted.”

Adore opened the pop and nodded. “Because instead of telling Willam that you’re in love with her you said she was a shitty student that couldn’t get by without you?”

“I didn’t say she was a shitty student,” Courtney protested, but felt that maybe she had. She didn’t remember what was said so much as how much their argument had hurt. “I just asked her about how she was doing on tests if I was doing most of her other work.”

“That kinda sounds the same to me Court, but I guess I don’t have a hot chick doing my homework for me to really know how it feels.”

Courtney rolled her eyes. “You’re no help.”

“I never said I was. If you’re gonna fix this, it’s on you. Now if you don’t mind, I gotta go watch the rest of this movie about zombie pro wrestlers,” Adore said, grabbing a bag of chips off of her desk and heading back out of the room.

Courtney sighed. Maybe Adore was right. She had been the one to fuck it up, or at the very least the one who hadn’t bothered to make her feelings and intentions clear enough. There had to be some way that she could fix this. Whether she ended up as Willam’s girlfriend or back to just being a friend, or even if she just managed to help them both feel a little better, there had to be something she could do.

She glanced at the clock. 10:24. Her paper was due at 11:59, and late work wasn’t accepted. She just had to power through this essay, and then she could start brainstorming ways to make this better.

tags: witney, willam, courtney act, academic dishonesty, marion, college au, lesbian au, back to school 2020, day 5

[silverbastardgoldenfool]

Realm of the Quarantine Reread End-of-Book Questionnaire: Assassin’s Apprentice

Any differences between your first/previous reading experience and this one?

Uhhhhh yep!! I can’t even believe how different it was. Every scene has taken on an entirely different colour and flavour in my memory. I skimmed far too much the first time, yes, but also I just went into it with the wrong framework. I think I’ve mentioned this before but my mum recommended me these books on the basis of my love of A Song of Ice and Fire. She directly compared them and said how similar they were. Because of RotE’s length I had been putting it off for years, and only finally picked up Assassin’s Apprentice because I was itching to do an ASOIAF reread but was (and am) trying to wait until Winds of Winter to do it. 

So you can imagine the difficulty settling into a book like Assassin’s Apprentice when you’re expecting Game of Thrones. I remember my overall impression on my first read being that it was a pretty standard fantasy novel with the only really exceptional thing about it being the characters and their relationships. Characters are always my top priority so it was enough to keep me invested and progressing onto the next book and the rest of the series, but I did so not having absorbed nearly as much as I should have from the first book in the series.

Now, just from revisiting that first book, my understanding of Fitz and the world he operates in has exponentially increased and I know that will transform my experience of every book going forward. I really made sure to make myself slow down and read every word; absorb descriptions and just be in each moment without racing to the next one. Overall this book (and all the Fitz books) are much more concerned with the human condition and the effects of abuse and trauma and deep loneliness than being an epic fantasy. In fact it barely reads like fantasy at all; it’s incredibly grounded and focused. Of course the elements are there, but while Assassin’s Apprentice may not be as subversive as the rest of the series, it is certainly not generic fantasy. This book just feels alive to me now in a way it didn’t before against the rest of the series. I can regard it as a beautiful piece of the puzzle in its own right instead of just the setup. I wanna reiterate I always really liked Assassin’s Apprentice but it just paled in comparison to my unholy obsession with the rest of it. Idk this reread just really shifted a lot of things into perspective for me and I’m excited!!

Something you can’t believe you forgot

So so much but most ridiculous GALEN IS QUEEN DESIRE’S BASTARD am I dumb??? I didn’t even remember until it was explicitly stated lol

Favourite character introduction moments/scenes

It’s gotta be a tie between the Fool, Kettricken and Patience (realising there is a common theme here of Fitz making an idiot of himself). I genuinely was laughing so hard when Fitz is like, actively making himself smaller and so pleased with himself trying to help the Fool, and of course the Fool’s iconic “listen you idiot” ugh it’s just chef’s kiss baby, that’s what we in the biz call a meet-cute! (I know they have seen each other before, but this is the first time the Fool talks to Fitz). Then of course we have Kettricken who poisons Fitz at their first meeting, and Patience who Fitz continuously embarrasses himself in front of before even realising who she is. The fact that all three of these people end up being some of Fitz’s only genuinely loving relationships makes it even better.

Favourite character arcs

I think I’ve gotta go with Verity and Burrich. Verity goes from kind of a bloke’s bloke (he was so different in the beginning than I remembered!) to being a proper King-in-Waiting. He is self-sacrificial but not for pride; he genuinely cares deeply for his people, as a whole and as individuals, and will do anything it takes to protect them. He is far from perfect, and he could have done a lot more for Fitz when he was younger, but once Fitz is in his eyeline and he is confronted with the life the boy has led he seems suitably shamed and tries to do his best for him. He’s a good boy and I love him!

Burrich of course is just. unlucky. His health deteriorates due to injuries. He gets saddled with some kid and is burdened to bring him up to an impossible standard he has set himself (to not shame a man he has an impossibly high opinion of). He’s deprived of a job he loved and was good at, and most importantly he’s deprived of his boyfriend I mean lover I mean “master”.

His arc is not a happy one at all but it is compelling, and I can’t help but love him and feel for him despite also disagreeing with him on almost everything :)

Favourite quote/s

Unfortunately I don’t have any tabs atm so I couldn’t really keep track, but my heart exploded when Fitz said to the Fool after going into his room, “I wish I had a place that were as much me as that place is you.”

Favourite relationships

Fitz/Fool obviously. Even though they don’t have that many interactions in this book I loved every single one of them. The Fool volunteering to care for Smithy after Fitz has endured a long day of horrendous abuse is just!!!!! Kindness! What a concept! I could really see why they develop such a deep bond so quickly.

Fitz/Burrich is just so real and so compelling and it hurts me but I love it. Fitz/Chade breaks my heart bc Chade is manipulating his way into Fitz’s heart - I think without realising it a lot of the time bc he is lonely too, but the power imbalance is not okay when he is the centre of Fitz’s world for a long time and the closest thing he has to a friend. Knowing how Chade behaves not too much later just makes it even worse when he is so nice in this book because it just shows why Fitz has such a hard time being his own person and saying no to Chade ever.

Fitz/Verity for obvious reasons. Fitz/Hands!! They’re cute but it makes me sad that Hands betrays him in AQ. Weirdly I liked Fitz/Molly way more this time but more their friendship than anything. And next is Royal Assassin and their deeply toxic romance soooooo.

And Fitz and his puppies BUT WE DON’T TALK ABOUT THAT.

Favourite setting

Do yourself a favour and read the description of the Mountain Kingdom and specifically the palace. It is STUNNING and something I completely skimmed over the first time cos I’m a dumb idiot bitch I could have been picturing a city of huge colourful tulips all this time but fuck me I guess!!

Favourite chapter

As a rereader I think I’ve gotta say chapter one. There’s just so much to pick apart all crammed into one chapter. It still holds a lot of mystery even when you’ve read the entire series.

Most loved character

At this point I’ve gotta say Fitz. That’s who my heart is with during this book and he NEEDS IT

Most hated character

Okay I found Regal a much better villain on this read and hated him A LOT but whomst I despised even more w the very fibre of my being was Galen bitch disgusting!!!!!! Verity was so like, smug?? when he killed him and it was so satisfying. It’s what she deserves!!

Raise your hand if you’ve been personally victimised by Robin Hobb (most heartbreaking and/or visceral moments)

Literally this whole book was so harsh and I was perpetually emo throughout but off the top of my head, Fitz’s depressive episode after Shrewd and Chade test his loyalty fricking broke me, as did the entirety of Galen’s abuse/training; since I was paying so much more attention this time it hit a lot harder that he is an absolute textbook abuser and the psychological torment he inflicts on Fitz is just. deeply upsetting to say the least. It really got under my skin.

Details, observations, spoilery notes made with the benefit of the full picture

Okay this is where I just dump all the notes I took while reading that don’t fit anywhere else. It’ll be long lol so strap in.

- It’s never not funny to me that Narrator Fitz comes across as like a hundred years old when in actuality he is like twenty. Also that he looks back on himself with such a sense of wisdom and superiority, yet we know there is dumbarsery aplenty to come. Amazing.

- I’ve never really registered that for the first six years of his life Fitz had a mother who loved him and I don’t know how to feel about that

- REVELATION THAT SEEMS REALLY OBVIOUS IN HINDSIGHT: Fitz most likely only spoke Chyurdan when he was abandoned, which would have played a huge role in why he was not only quiet but unresponsive to what was happening around him. He probably didn’t even understand that he wasn’t going to see his mother again until much later, and he didn’t know how to ask questions. When he goes to the Mountain Kingdom and Kettricken comments that he speaks Chyurdan like someone remembering the language he doesn’t comment on it, so it’s likely that future Fitz doesn’t register that he didn’t always speak Six Duchies(?). He mentions in the narration that the memory of being abandoned is incredibly stark but not necessarily reliable, and possibly shaped by the Skill, which to me opens up the possibility that his memory is essentially auto-translating for him things he didn’t understand at the time. We also know that at the time of writing this he’s given up his memories of his mother etc. up to the stone dragon, so obviously his recollections of these traumatic events are going to be warped by that. Anyway thanks to my sister for pointing this out and being much smarter than me.

- According to Fitz’s grandfather, Chivalry always knew about Fitz. Don’t know how trustworthy a man desperate to yeet his grandson out of his care is but there ya go.

- Weird and hilarious that Shrewd tries to see Fitz on the day he arrives but then just like. What? Forgets about him? For years? lol

- Chade literally tells Fitz that he is a king’s man now and that’s the most important thing about him YIKES

- Chade becomes the closest thing Fitz has to a friend for quite a long time and that is fucking depressing

- It’s interesting that Chade had to be convinced to teach Fitz. It’s hinted at that there was an ~incident~ the last time they tried to train someone, followed by a long period of Chade being left to rot in the walls.

- Not to be out here diagnosing fictional characters but like.Fitz. Literally has depression.

- Fitz having to turn down Fedwren’s offer of apprenticing for him is so sad. It’s the life Fitz should have had.

- The Fool’s non-binary gender is mentioned as early as Chapter Nine! (Published in 1995! We have no choice but to stan!)

- “So quickly we were all made accomplices in our own degradation.” OOF.

- I really realised this time that the reason Fitz seems so shit at things he trained his whole life for later is because all that training was interrupted by many months of isolation, deprivation and abuse. All at the age of like 13-14. He got out of the habit of subconsciously acting in a way that Burrich or Chade would approve of. For a long time the only person he needed approval from was Galen, and he became completely single-minded about it because that was his means of survival. And you don’t just recover from that - especially since neither Chade or Burrich would give him the time of day for an extended period *after* his training was done. When Chade did finally talk to him again it wasn’t to recommence training really; he just gave him a bunch of tasks to do. By the time Fitz got to the Mountain Kingdom he was completely out of practice, and still managed pretty bloody well in spite of it.

- Kind of related to the last point: I love that while Fitz isn’t a savant at anything he’s a pretty realistic jack of all trades. He not only has an aptitude for learning almost any skill or subject but a genuine broad curiosity too. It’s one of the few things that is just him, ya know? It’s just his personality and something he can find joy in, even if it does also factor into his being used by others.

- Imagine being Burrich and finding out that your son thought you were a dog murderer for like ten years lol ouch

- Fitz thinks about the Fool soooo often in the Mountain Kingdom, pointing out things that remind him of him, or things he would like. It’s v soft tbh I love them so much!!

- Another dumb thing I forgot is that Regal is convinced that Shrewd had Fitz poison his mother to death, which adds a rather important layer onto his motivations lol

Anyone doing a reread feel free to fill this out! You don’t have to use the tag :)

[touchmycoat]

5, 6 (i already know this is some insane amount), 9, 10, 16, 23, 26 (house)

BAAABE :*

5. What is the perfect environment for you to write in?

my office cubicle apparently kdsjfnksd

no but genuinely anywhere i can zone out. i make faces & mutter to myself when i write tho so, anywhere where that wouldn’t draw weird glances lmfao

6. If you’re really concentrating, how many words can you write in a day?

bahahaha i think Farmer’s Almanac holds the record rn—10k, give or take.

9. Do you prefer to write AUs, canon divergence, or canon-compliant fic?

#selfintrospection, my pattern per fandom seems to be starting with canon divergence! I’m a side characters ho, y’all know this, so I always like to recenter the narrative & get a surer foothold in my own interpretations of character first. but after that.... no preference! I love (and have written) all three to great enjoyment heheheh just depends on where i wanna see ‘em fuck

10. Do you enjoy writing dialogue, exposition, or plot the most?

NFJDNFJDNFJD HOW CAN I CHOOSE

Exposition is sexy, and i get to be the most experimental & excessive & self-indulgent here w/ style choices.

Dialogue is sexy, ‘cause voices and humor and dirty talk and heartbreak and communication!!! I’m a movie ho so i’m all about that plot-driving script game ;;;;

Plot is sexy ‘cause that’s where you get to fuck around with all the canon themes, subvert & avert & redistribute them!!!!!!!! I’m a slut for that!!!!!!!!!

can’t choose won’t choose :’D

16. What is your most underrated fic?

LMFAO you know i’m gonna say Sword of the Yi Maiden ;) she’s basically like, our child ;;

23. If you had to remix one of your own fics, which would it be and how would you remix it?

well once i sort out the single dad!Song Lan universe, i’d loooooove to switch gears & swerve into single dad!Xiao Xingchen B) just for kicks. But where Song Lan is like, a high school lit teacher and A-Qing is our favorite local delinquent child. XXC gets called in for a parent-teacher conference, and he’s actually kind of dreading it at first because AQ honestly never had too many complaints about the English teacher, so if this Song Laoshi was suddenly going to betray his daughter’s trust and tattle on her XXC would def take AQ’s side.

But! Turns out SL’s calling him in to be like “hey, AQ never does homework but is fine with participating in class if i kind of trick her into arguing about it, so i figured she just really doesn’t like being told what to do. That’s fine! But that also means I don’t think she’ll respond well to me sitting her down to talk about her higher education options, so I figured I’d run it past the parent first to see if you have any thoughts about how we’re going to proceed.”

it’d be SO fucking funny... AQ stops skipping class or stops zoning out the moment she catches onto her dad’s little ~thing for Song Laoshi. She starts challenging him in class instead on every little thing (”yeah but don’t you think it’s inherently racist to require us to read conrad at all, if there are so many books out there written by actual African postcolonial authors��) but he’s just happy she’s engaging so they bond

they’re both super proud and near tears at graduation, and AQ is too but to hide her own embarrassingly feelings she’s like “don’t pretend y’all aren’t just crying ‘cause you can finally date each other now that it won’t be fucking WEIRD for me”

26. Which part of House was the hardest to write?

hmmmmm I think I had the most number of false starts w ch. 3!! i never save shit rip but at one point i straight up had like.... 13 pages all blacked out? Oh i remember, the scene where AQ first tests SL. I had that set in like, the breakfast stall, in a busy street, a quiet street, etc. etc. I was putting each of their conversations in different contexts too, just seeing how they would play out based on the surroundings??? i even thought about dropping AQ’s POV completely at one point but I’m very glad i didn’t. The current version is actually the very first opening for the chapter i ever wrote so, el oh el, i try not to think all that effort went to waste. It’s more like, I had some ideas, but i had to prove none of them would work before i could proceed with this one, y’know?

BUT TELL YOU WHAT I DID SAVE THO. The first draft of the Ch. 2 opening? After I wrote this i was like “yikes this is way too conventional a set-up for a flashback let’s just do it,” and wrote the current version on ao3 lmao. I kept the chapped knuckles thing~

Under the Cut:

((Behind the Scenes of Fic Writing Asks!))

Song Lan stood at the entrance of his room in the inn, fist clenched hard around Fuxue’s hilt as the rain came in. Night had been the herald, and now, the lantern at the top of the stairs to Song Lan’s left was flickering wildly, buffeted about by the stormy wind.

The inn’s owner, an older woman in her 50s, spoke a string of worried utterances as she hurried up the stairs to close the window. As her hands approached the latch though, Song Lan sensed bloodthirst. Fuxue went flying.

The woman screamed, but the harm was over; a mutated critter of a hungry ghost slumped against the window frame, pinned there by Fuxue’s cool blade. Instead of closing the window for her, Song Lan pressed two paper talismans on either side. He pulled out Fuxue and watched the hungry ghost dissipate.

“Daozhang, daozhang, gratitude,” the woman wept. “A few here and there is nothing, you know? But once they begin to stay, and bigger things start to come, and we have young ones in the house, oh, it terrifies me, what state this city has been falling into…”

Fuxue returned to its sheathe, and Song Lan still had his fly-whisk tucked in his arm. He gave the inn owner a polite bow.

“I will attempt an extermination tonight.”

“Daozhang is so reliable,” the woman said, tears instantly transforming into simpering gratitude. Her distress had been in part a show, meant to move Song Lan into action. Song Lan did not mind; this was his third night at the inn, after all, and the second time the inn owner’s requested a favor from him. It stood to reason that she would think he needs more affective convincing, even if she’s wrong.

“I may trouble you for tea upon my return,” he murmured. When the woman reached out to pat his elbow in a matronly gesture, Song Lan stepped back, disguising the gesture as a readjustment of his robes as he replaced the stack of talismans back in his sleeve.

“Of course,” she replied, hand waving in the air before lowering back down to her side. A spot of tension eased at the base of Song Lan’s neck. “The stove never stops burning in our kitchen, particularly when we have guests. Just give our door a knock if the evening chef isn’t around. We’ll take care of you.”

Song Lan was grateful. He’d need the hot drink when he returned from the rain—soaking in the deluge always left his skin feeling beaten and bloated. And the sensation, if untreated, never failed to transform itself into two long iron nails hammered deep into his skull and brain. The pain was best avoided if at all possible.

(Xiao XingChen knew this about him. Nothing’s ever eased the migraines faster than XingChen’s smile as he wordlessly pushed a cup of hot water or tea across the table. Nothing’s ever distracted Song Lan from the pain more effectively than wondering exactly what would happen, if XingChen’s fingers lingered and his own could touch, just lightly, those perpetually chapped knuckles.)

(Take better care of yourself, Song Lan had once chastised when blood came seeping up between cracked skin.

I forget to, XingChen had confessed, sheepish lines crinkling around his eyes.

Had Song Lan been anybody else, he would’ve said out loud what he wished he could’ve said out loud: I’ll do it then.

Had Song Lan been anybody else, he would’ve thumbed a layer of protective grease over Xiao XingChen’s dry hands himself, save them both the need for cheesy lines and impotent promises. Words often got him into trouble, he knew this; he much preferred the vows made in every shared action that was mutually fostered into consistency. But what did it say about him, that his hands flinched from touch and Xiao XingChen walked at a careful radius around him, that he couldn’t make a vow on any level that counted?)

The extermination was no reprieve from the discomfort, the dissatisfaction, the disassembly of it all. The sky was falling apart and so was his skin. Moderation was less a stranger to Song Lan than longing, but tonight, the berating of his body was not moderated at all.

A year of searching, over, just like that.

An opportunity to apologize, gone, just like that.

A promise.

A dream.

So do you like him then? You want to really build a family with him?

Gone. Just like that.

[doulacollective]

Cupcakes You Can Enjoy While You Have Gestational Diabetes!

by Jen

In 2012 I took the gestational diabetes test and was shocked to find out my glucose levels indicated I had it. My immediate reaction was embarrassment, shame, and I took it very personally. I felt I had a pretty healthy pregnancy and ate well; I went to yoga twice a week and zumba classes. I walked everywhere. I really didn’t understand why I had it, and thought I had done something wrong. My midwife talked to me and assured me that it was all hormonal and that it would pass after the baby was born. The gestational diabetes clinic I went to in Vancouver was friendly and I remember being shocked, jealous and a little judgy about the other patients who showed up with their venti caramel mocha frappuccinos, while I drank 3 litres of water every day. Lucky for me I did not really have any cravings and was happy to just have water as long as it was cold with ice in it.

I managed my GD with exercise and diet. After eating I’d go for a walk or have dance parties with my baby belly in my living room. Exercise during pregnancy is so important but even more so if you are trying to keep your glucose levels normal. Dancing lifts your spirits too, which releases oxytocin so I highly recommend it, even if you don’t have GD... or even if you're not pregnant yet, for that matter!  My numbers stayed low enough, for the doctor to dismiss me from the clinic, but I kept the kit to keep checking my numbers. I was still obsessed with tracking my sugars after meals, and it was really important to me.

For my baby shower I really wanted to have some desserts for my guests, but it had to be low sugar so that I could indulge too. I had already done a lot of trial and error baking with several different types of flours over the past few years, and so I was getting accustomed with how to create my own recipes, in particular with coconut flour. The secret here would be to find a middle ground of yummy, and chocolatey but not too healthy tasting! These are supposed to be celebratory cupcakes, after all, not carrot sticks.

You can bring these cupcakes with you to any functions to share, and this way you won’t feel left out on treating yo’self. It’s also great to have a dessert while knowing exactly what ingredients go into them.

Here’s what you need to create your tasty treat:

1/2 cup coconut flour

1/2 cup 100% raw cacao powder

1/2 tsp sea salt

1 tsp baking soda

6 eggs

1/2 cup olive oil

1 cup unsweetened applesauce

1 jar 100% fruit spread

Directions:

Preheat oven to 375 degrees

Line muffin tin with cupcake papers

Combine first four ingredients in a small bowl

Beat eggs, olive oil and applesauce together

Mix dry ingredients with wet ingredients

Fill the cupcake holders about half full

And put in the oven

Set a timer for 10 minutes.

When the timer goes off, take the cupcakes out and scoop a small teaspoon of the fruit jam into the middle of each cupcake. Put the tray back in the oven and set your timer for another ten minutes

When they are done, you can either eat them as they are or put another dollop of jam on top of them.

Now, while these cupcakes do not have a massive heap of icing on them, and this is exactly how I served them, I later discovered coconut milk icing which is sooooooooo delicious and easy to make. This is a nice option to have for your guests if you like. To be honest, this recipe is so amazing, I make this icing for every dessert I ever make.

Put a can of coconut milk in the freezer overnight.

When you open the can, scoop the thick cream out and discard the water. My fave coconut milk to use is Aroy-D. Add half a tsp of vanilla extract and use beaters to beat it into fluffy icing. You can use confectioners icing sugar to thicken it if you want, (start with a quarter cup. Just be aware of the extra sugar content you are adding to your dessert. You can easily make powdered sugar by pulsing granulated maple sugar or coconut sugar if you prefer in the food processor until it's a fine powder, but just remember it will change the colour of your icing. Add a bit of food colouring if you’d like to make them fancy. (this is where it makes a difference if you use coconut sugar or confectioners sugar.) Only use coconut icing on cooled desserts as it melts easily.

I hope you enjoy this dessert as much as I did. I’ve even made these for my daughter when she’s requested a treat but I don’t want her to have too much sugar. If you have gestational diabetes, first, don’t be hard on yourself!! Remember you have done nothing wrong to get this diagnosis. Now take your baby belly for a power walk or crank this song up and dance your freakin face off!! This is the awesome song I grooved to while pregnant... Enjoy, and don’t forget to drink lots of water every day!

Here is the link for the song I mention, if you choose to keep it

https://www.google.ca/search?q=rug+rippin&oq=rug+rippin&aqs=chrome..69i57j0l2.2878j0j7&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8

I also thought you might want to add a link to this article

https://globalnews.ca/news/4558309/canadian-pregnancy-guidelines-exercise-major-complications/

[artificialqueens]

Gold Dust Woman Ch. 6 (Shalaska) - Citrus

a/n: okay, now that i’ve finally posted the rest of this fic on aq, you guys can look forward to some exciting things involving this au… i won’t reveal them here yet, but you’ll find out soon enough! enjoy this final chapter if you haven’t already!

The bell over the door of Dead Dandelion jingled as a tall blonde strolled in, flashing a smile to the purple-haired girl at the counter.

“Hi, Laila. Is Sharon in the back?”

The girl nodded. “She’s doing a reading, doesn’t wanna be bothered.”

“Right,” Alaska said, “I’ll just… wait for her.” She crossed the shop to a wall displaying necklaces with crystal pendants, examining the tags of each. Amethyst for dreams and protections, lapis lazuli for healing, rose quartz for love… Something made of rose quartz would be a sweet gift for Sharon, Alaska thought to herself, as long as it didn’t come from her own store.

She was so absorbed in admiring the various stones and necklaces that she didn’t even notice someone sneaking up behind her, until a pair of strong arms wound around her waist and soft hair tickled her collarbones.

“Hi, pumpkin,” Sharon murmured, and Alaska broke out in a smile, leaning back against her.

“Hi,” she giggled in reply, enjoying the comfort of Sharon’s embrace. “I missed you.”

Sharon laughed at that, pressing a kiss to her girlfriend’s shoulder. “It’s been, like, a week” she grinned. Alaska turned around, letting Sharon adjust her arms around her, and put her own arms around the witch’s neck.

“Shut up,” she grinned indignantly, pretending to be affronted. “I still missed you, Noodles.” Sharon kissed her cheek softly, her lips lingering for a little while before pulling back.

“I missed you too,” she admitted with a small smile. “How was work?”

Alaska shrugged. “Pretty normal. I had to clean up after some idiot who spilled an entire 2-liter of Coke and didn’t tell anyone, though. My back hurts from scrubbing every fuckin’ crevice below the shelves.” Sharon cooed softly and rubbed little circles into the small of Alaska’s back, cupping her cheek with the other hand.

“Aww, poor baby… If you wanna wait like fifteen more minutes I can take you to mine and give you a little massage, if that’d make you feel better.” Alaska blushed, rubbing the back of her neck nervously.

“Only if you want to,” she mumbled. Sharon grinned and gave her a quick peck on the lips.

“I wouldn’t’ve offered if I didn’t want to, sweet pea. As long as you don’t mind waiting ‘til my shift ends.”

Alaska nodded, reluctantly pulling away from Sharon and taking a step back. “Go do your work, silly,” she grinned.

“Don’t tell me what to do, I’m a punk bitch,” Sharon teased, blowing a kiss before retreating to another corner of the store to fix a tarot display that had been messed with by curious customers. Alaska watched her girlfriend out of the corner of her eye, trying to keep the smile off of her face; Sharon was undeniably in her element here, and Alaska wished she loved her job as much as Sharon loved hers.

Alaska examined a new book display that had been changed up since the last time she’d been there, picking up a few of the titles and reading the blurbs on the back. Quite a few of them were books on witchcraft for beginners, and Alaska was intrigued by these; she’d been pondering whether she should learn more about what Sharon did, and if she was lucky, maybe she’d like it enough to consider pursuing it herself. Still, she put down the books with a soft sigh, moving to another section of the shop. If she needed books on witchcraft, she could ask to borrow one of Sharon’s.

Another area of the store was filled with candles of all colors and shapes and sizes, mostly from local craftsmen because that was important to Sharon and Jinkx. Certain candles boasted labels with the various elements on them, others showed zodiac symbols, and many of them had names and little spells written on them. Alaska smelled a few of them, testing out their scents and finding that her favorite was the one with the element of water on it. It smelled like a sea breeze, light and fresh, sweet with a hint of saltiness mixed in, and she made a mental note of which candle it had been so that she could think about buying it at a later date.

Sharon appeared at her side just as she was carefully setting down a large chunk of rutilated quartz, careful not to drop it for fear of breaking the crystal, and she had her bag with her which told Alaska that she was ready to leave.

“You ready to go?”

Alaska nodded and let Sharon take her hand, leading her out of Dead Dandelion and down the street to where she’d parked her car. Settling into the front seat like she’d done several times before, Alaska used the sun shield mirror to check her lip gloss while Sharon started the car. Unlike usual, Sharon didn’t immediately hook up her phone and play music, and she didn’t seem like she was planning to, either. She wasn’t going to mention it, but Sharon glanced over at her with a smile as she pulled out of her parking spot.

“You can play whatever you want.”

“I don’t think we have the same music taste,” Alaska said with a laugh, and Sharon shrugged.

“I mean, we don’t really, but I wanna hear the music you like. It’s not fair of me to always put on what I wanna listen to.”

“It’s your car,” Alaska pointed out, grabbing the aux cord anyway and plugging it into her phone.

“My car, your music. Max would probably say something poetic about that.” Alaska smiled at the thought as she scrolled through her music library. She definitely didn’t want to put on her playlist of songs that reminded her of Sharon; that was probably too much too quickly, and she didn’t want to freak her girlfriend out so early on. Instead, she went to one of her favorite albums, her thumb hovering over the screen as she deliberated.

Can’t stay at home, can’t stay at school. Old folks say ‘You poor little fool’. Down the streets I’m the girl next door. I’m the fox you’ve been waiting for.

“Are you serious?” Sharon laughed incredulously as soon as the opening chords played, “Cherry Bomb? I fucking love this song!” Alaska flushed a little; it made sense that Sharon would like a song like Cherry Bomb, as it seemed to fit her devil-may-care personality. Despite Alaska’s preference for softer singer-songwriter music, it was one of her favorite songs. She used it to pump herself up when she needed some extra energy, or it provided a fitting backdrop for when she got angry and just needed to blare something aggressive at top volume.

Hello, daddy. Hello, mom. I’m your ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb! Hello world! I’m your wild girl. I’m your ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb!

Sharon tapped out the beat of the song against the steering wheel as she drove, nails clicking. Alaska could tell that she was singing along under her breath, and it was endearing to see her girlfriend losing herself in the music as she wove through traffic and made her way home. When they got to Sharon’s apartment, Cerrone was at the door to greet them, meowing at Sharon’s return and rubbing up against Alaska’s legs. Sharon threw her bag down on the kitchen counter and sighed, smiling exhaustedly at Alaska as the blonde took off her shoes.

“Mind if I change?”

Alaska looked up, taking off her jacket and draping it over one of the stools at the countertop. “It’s your house, Sharon, do whatever you want,” she laughed. “You seriously need to relax.”

Sharon looked sheepish as she made her way to her bedroom. “Sorry. I just- I’m not-” she sighed. “I told you, relationships aren’t something I’m used to.”

“I know,” Alaska assured her, crossing the apartment to brush Sharon’s hair out of her face and give her a kiss. “But I want you to feel like you can be yourself around me, okay?” Kissing Sharon’s forehead, she gave her a light push into the bedroom. “Go on, change. I’m not going anywhere.”

When Sharon reemerged, it was to the sight of Alaska taking her hair down from its ponytail, shaking it out as she sat on the floor in the living area. The sound of Sharon’s door opening had made her turn her head, smiling at her girlfriend as she continued to remove bobby pins from her hair and slide them onto the waistband of her skirt. Sharon had changed into a black tank top and black sweatpants that read LOVECRAFT up one of the legs, and she’d taken off all of her jewelry as well.

“You look cute,” Alaska grinned. The witch flushed as she joined Alaska on the carpet.

“I’m literally in sweatpants, Lasky,” she snorted.

“Still cute, dork,” Alaska shrugged, leaning in to kiss her sweetly.

Sharon smiled as she broke the kiss. “Mmm, how about that massage? You still up for it?”

“Um… “ The only reason Alaska hesitated was because she and Sharon hadn’t done very much more than some grinding and heavy petting, usually interrupted by someone or something. She wasn’t uncomfortable with her body, in fact she thought she was cute as hell, but she didn’t know just how much she’d need to take off. “Yeah,” she decided. “That would be… really nice.”

Sharon nodded. “Are you okay with doing it in the bedroom? I don’t think laying on the floor is gonna do your back any more favors.” Alaska nodded, standing up to follow Sharon into her bedroom.

The walls were white, but many of them were adorned with art and posters and the same kinds of tapestries that hung throughout the rest of Sharon’s home. The room was illuminated by strings of fairy lights that hung from the ceiling, casting everything in a warm glow, and Sharon’s bed was draped in silky white sheets. Noticing Alaska’s expression, Sharon smiled.

“You like it?”

“It’s… really pretty,” Alaska admitted. “Softer than I expected, honestly.”

Sharon smirked. “I’m not all Edgar Allan Poe and hard rock, baby. Get on the bed, get comfy. I just need to find something.” With that, she crouched in front of a chest in the corner of the room, pulling out a small corked bottle. Alaska perched nervously on the edge of the bed, eyeing the viscous liquid inside the glass bottle. When Sharon turned around, she looked surprised to see that Alaska had barely moved. “You don’t have to undress if you don’t want to, I just thought you might want a little magical help. I can put this away and just-” She stopped mid sentence when Alaska pulled her top over her head, letting it fall to the floor. “Oh.”

Alaska blushed, looking down at her lap. “Do you want the bra off too?” she asked softly. “I don’t mind if you don’t.” In a moment, Sharon was kneeling at Alaska’s feet, forcing the blonde to look at her. She tilted Alaska’s chin up with careful fingers and leaned in to kiss her deeply, humming softly against her lips.

“Whatever makes you comfortable,” she murmured when they parted. “Goddess, you’re so beautiful…”

“Shut up,” Alaska mumbled, embarrassed. She turned towards the bed and unclipped her bra, letting it fall away as she laid down on her stomach on the soft sheets. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” she asked, her voice small.

“Of course I don’t, you dork,” Sharon snorted, clambering onto the bed to straddle Alaska’s thighs. “This is gonna feel kinda weird, but don’t freak out, okay? Trust me, baby, I’d never do anything to hurt you.” Alaska nodded as Sharon warmed up some of the liquid from the bottle between her palms, but the blonde wasn’t at all prepared for the tingling warmth that bloomed across her skin when Sharon laid her palms against her back. She gasped, but as soon as she’d done so, Sharon’s hands were rubbing slow circles against her shoulder blades. “I know, baby, I’m sorry…” she cooed, “It’ll make you feel better, I swear. It just takes some getting used to.”

“Y-yeah,” Alaska agreed, feeling the warm tingle spread from Sharon’s palms all across her back and wherever her hands touched. “It’s… kinda nice?”

“Good, it’ll start to feel really good soon. I just need to concentrate, so hush.” Sharon focused on Alaska’s body, visualizing all of the pain and negative energy being slowly rubbed away by the oil she was spreading over Alaska’s skin. She could tell it was working when she felt Alaska’s muscles begin to relax and release the harmful energy, and when Alaska herself let out a soft sigh of contentment. Sharon chuckled. “You feel it now, huh?”

“Mhmm,” Alaska confirmed, “Feels so good… God, thank you.”

“Anytime, baby girl,” Sharon replied, continuing down Alaska’s back until she reached the waistband of her skirt. “Can I pull this down just a little bit, honey? Your lower back needs some love.” Alaska simply nodded, shifting slightly to allow her girlfriend to pull the skirt down until it was just below her hips. The moment her hands touched Alaska’s skin again, Alaska closed her eyes and exhaled deeply, enjoying just how relaxed and wonderful she felt.

“You’re way too good at this,” she murmured happily. Sharon finished up, the warm glow fading from Alaska’s back and sinking deep into her skin as the magic ran its course. She pressed a gentle kiss to Alaska’s shoulder, nuzzling her soft blonde hair with her nose and smiling against her skin.

“I’m glad you think so, baby.” The witch moved to lay beside Alaska on the bed, leaning over to kiss her lips gently and run her fingertips down her spine. Alaska whimpered softly, shifting on her side and pulling Sharon closer in order to kiss her properly, snaking a hand under the fabric of her tank top.

“Are you as turned on as I am right now?” she mumbled with an apologetic smile. Sharon bit her lip, trying to keep her own grin in check.

“Magic can be… intimate,” she explained, a small smile letting itself show on her face. “Or maybe I’m just pretty.”

Alaska giggled at the teasing remark, stealing a kiss. “You are pretty,” she answered genuinely. “Really pretty.” Sharon blushed a little, capturing Alaska’s lips in a deeper, sweeter kiss and running a hand through her hair.

“Do you wanna stay for dinner?” she asked when they separated. “I’d hate for you to leave so soon.”

“I can stay the night if you want,” Alaska smiled. “I don’t work tomorrow.”

“I’d love that, baby,” Sharon grinned back. “We can spend the day together if you want to. The coven is gonna hit the beach, and the weather is so nice lately. We’ll make a day of it, mm?”

Alaska nodded, taking Sharon’s hand and lacing their fingers together. “That’d be nice. Let’s do it.”

The drive to the beach was shorter than Alaska expected, or maybe it just seemed that way because she and Sharon spent the whole trip swapping song recommendations and stories and jokes. Either way, it didn’t take as long as the blonde had anticipated, and she was beaming as soon as she smelled the sea air filtering in through Sharon’s rolled-down windows.

They’d brought blankets and a picnic basket, and the rest of the girls pulled up in succession and parked beside Sharon’s car. Jinkx and Pearl had brought large beach umbrellas, Max was tasked with the sunscreen and tanning oil, and Raja and Katya had mostly brought magical items and tools as well as a cooler filled with ice and drinks. Everyone was dressed in beachwear; Jinkx sported a high-waisted two-piece in a flattering shade of green, Katya’s red one-piece looked like something straight out of Baywatch . Raja’s maroon bikini revealed that she had tattoos all over her body, not just her arms, and Pearl’s pink bikini had a flouncy little skirt that showed off her long legs. Even Max had worn something a little less modest than usual, opting for a black high-waisted bikini covered by a chiffon robes, and a large black sunhat.

In Alaska’s highly unbiased opinion, however, Sharon looked the best. She was wearing a long black dress, somewhat sheer with long bell sleeves and a slit up the side, and a pair of round black sunglasses. Alaska thought she looked like Lydia Deetz, and Sharon had cackled when she’d voiced that thought aloud.

“Maxie, toss the sunscreen over here,” Sharon called as she and Raja finished setting up the umbrellas and towels.

“SPF 50 or 75?” Sharon lowered her sunglasses slightly and gave Max a look, making the grey-haired girl smile. “Right. 75 it is.” Catching the bottle that Max tossed her, Sharon sat on her large blanket under one of the umbrellas and shoved her glasses on her head, pulling her chiffon dress off as Alaska watched and revealing quite possibly the most skin Alaska had ever seen of her. She wore a strappy black one-piece with cutouts all over that revealed pale, creamy skin all over and all of her beautiful tattoos; Alaska’s jaw dropped as her eyes raked over Sharon’s wide hips and thick thighs before moving upward to her breasts, barely contained by the swimsuit.

“You look… wow,” she managed to get out. Sharon chuckled.

“Thank you, baby,” she grinned, tossing her hair as she opened the sunscreen and began slathering it all over her pale arms and legs. Holding it out to Alaska, who had just applied tanning oil, she offered an awkward smile. “Can you get my back, sweetheart?” Alaska nodded, practically scrambling to take the bottle from her and move behind her to massage it into the exposed skin of her back. Sharon let out a soft sigh, letting her head loll forward and enjoying the sensation of Alaska’s warm hands rubbing the cold sunscreen into her back.

“You should be all set,” Alaska smiled as she closed the bottle. “Are you just gonna avoid the sun all day? It’s so nice and waaarm,” she baited, shimmying her shoulders as she yanked her cover-up dress over her head. Sharon’s expression shifted from a half-smile to one of pure attraction as Alaska revealed her snakeskin-print bikini, pulling her long hair into a high ponytail while Sharon admired her.

“You are fucking breathtaking, ” the witch murmured. Alaska grinned, feeling a rush of heat to her cheeks and knowing that she was definitely blushing.

“Come on, come into the sun! We can go in the water!”

Sharon shook her head with a grin. “Not really my thing, pumpkin.”

“Oh, stop being a killjoy,” Jinkx said. “We all know you love the beach just as much as the rest of us. Well, maybe not as much as Pearl,” she corrected, gesturing to Pearl who had already filled one jar with sand and another with water, and was now combing the shore for seashells and driftwood.

“She’s a water witch, she doesn’t count,” Raja chuckled. “Seriously, Sharon, you should be fine now that you have sunscreen on. You’re not gonna burn to a crisp like last time.”

“And if you do, Max’ll just make her a salve again,” Katya added before letting out a screeching laugh at the memory of a lobster-red Sharon.

“I hate you all,” Sharon proclaimed, grinning as she stood up anyway and let Alaska pull her into her arms. Alaska kissed her cheek with a little giggle, resting her hands on her hips.

“I knew you’d come around,” she said with a wide smile. “Now c’mon, let’s go in the water!” She dragged Sharon across the warm sand and into the water, the cold ocean waves lapping against their ankles and making them shiver slightly. Sharon pulled Alaska against her body and kissed her, steady and strong against the powerful waves that tugged at their legs, now almost knee-deep in the water. They were each other’s anchor in the raging sea of uncertainty that surrounded them, and something about kissing Sharon while the sun shone on them and water surrounded them was the most romantic thing Alaska had ever experienced.

And then they felt a push before they were falling, landing in the chilly water with a splash and a squeal, and the rest of the witches could be heard cackling above them. Sharon sought out Alaska’s hand, holding onto it as they both sat up and glared at the coven, all of whom were nearly doubled over laughing.

“Fuck you!” Sharon exclaimed, raising the middle finger of her free hand as she stood and helped her girlfriend to her feet as well. Katya was on her knees in the water, cackling uncontrollably, and even Max was snickering behind her hand.

“You can’t tell me that wasn’t the funniest thing ever,” Jinkx giggled, trying to catch her breath. Sharon looked to Alaska for backup, but found the blonde to be grinning as she shook the water off of her arms. Seeing the look in Sharon’s eyes, she shrugged and giggled quietly.

“You’re so uptight, baby. It was kinda funny.”

“I’m gonna get you all back at some point, y’know,” Sharon threatened, though her grimace had already given way to a smile.

“You can sure as hell try,” Raja teased, flipping her ponytail with a knowing grin.

“Ugh, I wasn’t supposed to get wet until later tonight,” Sharon complained, resulting in a chorus of fake vomiting sounds and disgusted gagging.

“You guys are gross,” Pearl said, wrinkling her nose. “Can’t you keep it in your pants for like one day, Sharon?”

“Nope,” Alaska said smoothly, effectively silencing whatever answer her girlfriend had prepared. “She really can’t.” Sharon made an indignant sound and smacked Alaska on the arm, resulting in a play fight that nearly– but not quite –resulted in both of them falling into the water once again.

After playing in the water for an hour or so, Alaska dried herself off and sat on the blanket Sharon had brought, moving half of it into the sun so she could tan but leaving the other half in the shade to protect her girlfriend’s delicate skin. Sharon was reading a book, and though Alaska had teased her for bringing a book to the beach, there was no doubt that Sharon looked gorgeous lounging in the shade, her legs tucked beneath her and her hair falling over her shoulders in soft curls. Alaska was comfortable lying on her stomach, letting her skin soak up the sun, and she’d even slipped off her bikini top to avoid tan lines on her back.

She was relaxed enough that even the voices of the witches and the noise of the beach weren’t enough to keep her from dozing off, despite her very best efforts. She awoke to a gentle hand on her shoulder, and craned her neck up to see Sharon kneeling beside her. “You fell asleep, baby. Didn’t want you to burn.” Alaska smiled at the sweet gesture, taking her top from Sharon and letting her girlfriend shield her with a towel as she put it back on.

“C’mere,” she insisted once she was covered again– though “covered” was probably an overstatement –drawing Sharon against her body and kissing her sweetly.

“The girls are unpacking the food if you’re hungry,” Sharon murmured, pressing her lips to Alaska’s cheek and lingering there for a few moments. Alaska nodded and followed her girlfriend over to the blanket where the coven had set up their picnic lunch on the biggest blanket, reorganizing the umbrellas around it for those who preferred the shade. Because Sharon and Alaska had brought most of the food, everything was vegetarian, and a fair amount of it was homemade. Max had contributed some of her own hand-dried herbs and even a bit of fresh produce, ever the green witch, and Katya was lighting a small candle in the center of the blanket to burn as an offering of thanks.

Lunch was a cheerful affair, everyone talking and laughing and swapping stories and jokes. The beach trip itself had only made Alaska feel more at home with Sharon’s coven– and more importantly, Sharon’s friends. The food was wonderful, the assortment of drinks was surprisingly varied, from pink lemonade to vodka, and the conversation was robust and dynamic, ever-changing and shifting around its participants. The sky was slowly turning from a clear, sunny blue to a darker shade, and Raja and Katya expertly built a small fire in almost no time at all. It wasn’t large enough to burn for very long, but just big enough that the girls could all admire the flames and feel their warmth from a few feet away.

As the air grew a little chillier Sharon donned her long dress again, and everyone else agreed that it was a smart idea so they followed suit and put their own cover-ups back on. Pearl complained about not staying the night, but the coven promised they would return soon for an actual ritual. They packed up their cars as the sun began to set, and after saying their goodbyes, trickled off in pairs or small groups to weather the drive home.

Sharon and Alaska were the last of their group on the beach, standing at the edge of the wet sand and looking out at the horizon as the sun slipped further below it and the sky turned from orange to pink. Sharon turned to the blonde slowly, brushing a lock of hair away from her face and gazing pensively into her eyes, making Alaska blush.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked with a little laugh. Sharon tilted her head slightly, taking Alaska’s hands in hers.

“I think I love you,” she answered. Alaska’s mouth fell open, Sharon already shushing her before she could say anything. “You don’t need to say anything, Lasky. I just feel like you should know. I love you.”

Alaska wasted no time in grabbing Sharon’s face and bringing their mouths together, letting Sharon’s hands settle on her waist to pull Alaska flush against her body and kissing back hard. Just as quickly as it had happened, the kiss grew less intense, and the two women began to move more tenderly, more sweetly; they stayed close even when they broke apart, foreheads touching.

“I love you too,” Alaska whispered. Sharon’s grip on her waist intensified, arms wrapping around her.

“Yeah?” she chuckled lowly as the sun finally disappeared from the sky and left them suspended in a silvery twilight. The sea breeze was cool and swift against their skin, but pressed together so closely, they were warm. Alaska grinned, throwing her arms around Sharon and hugging the witch tightly.

“Yeah. I do. I love you, Sharon.”

[burnwater13]

Concept art by Christian Alzmann, depicts Kuiil the Ugnaught holding the IG-11 assassin droid that the Mandalorian deactivated on Arvala-7. Image from The Mandalorian, Season 1, Episode 7, The Reckoning.

Din Djarin didn’t know if his heart stopped or his ability to breathe. They’d just been chatting with the Ugnaught about the Imps and strand casts and the work he’d done on Norah and the next thing the Mandalorian knew, that wretched droid was standing there, holding a damn tray with tea on it. He wasn’t just surprised, he was afraid and that was worse. Why the hell would the Ugnaught do that to them?

He hadn’t ‘terminated’ the droid for no good reason. IG-11 models were well known for their program integrity. You could make deals with them and count of them to follow through. He never would have been able to break into the building housing their bounty, if he hadn’t been able to strike just such a deal. He knew that. 

But he also knew that it would follow the requirements of the fob it had been given. If they said terminate the kid, then there was just no way to talk the droid out of that. Djarin hadn’t liked to destroy such a useful, if temporary ally, but there was no way he was going to terminate the kid. Dank farrik, he didn’t even know why anyone would put a bounty on a little kid, let alone authorize it’s termination. That made no damn sense.

Then after everything he had to do to get off Arvala-7, much of it with the Ugnaught’s help, he wasn’t about to put the kid at risk again. Which was why he was there to begin with. Karga had offered him a way out and the Mandalorian couldn’t manage it without the Ugnaught’s help, but he didn’t trust that droid as far as he could throw it.

“That thing is programmed to kill the baby.”

“Not any more.”

What?! Not any more? It looked just like it had before he’d put that blaster bolt through it’s central processing unit. An IG-11 unit could use that tray and those three cups to end half a dozen storm troopers on a bad day. Who knew what it could do on a good day. The Mandalorian didn’t want to find out and he definitely didn’t the kid to find out. If the Imps still had hunters coming after the kid, why wouldn’t the IG unit revert to its primary function? It didn’t make sense to him. 

That’s when the Ugnaught launched into the story of how he had retrieved it and repurposed it. The kid seemed fascinated by the story, but Din Djarin had heard too many stories to be fascinated by them any more. His parents had told him the story of the bright future Aq Vetina had. His teachers had told him the story of how the Old Republic would protect them from the Separatists. His friends had told him the story of how they would fight anyone who came there to change their way of life. None of them had been true. They had all been wishful thinking and Din Djarin had learned from brutal reality that wishful thinking brought more people in cold than warm.

“Is it still a hunter?”

“No. But it will protect.”

What the dank farrik did that mean? ‘…it will protect’? Who was it going to protect? How was it going to protect them? What tests had been done to determine that it would just wait for a good time to go after the kid? He’d taken risks with his own life. Why not? It wasn’t like anyone was waiting for him to come home. But the kid’s? Not without proof.

But nothing was ever as easy as that. The droid poured the tea and the three adults drank it and that was the end of that conversation. Din Djarin kept an eye on it until the Ugnaught went to do some chores. The droid sat in a corner and appeared to shut itself down. Cara Dune nodded at him and he followed their host out of the home that was just what a lone Ugnaught would need. The Mandalorian was certain that the former drop trooper could handle things until he covered the few meters between him and that wretched machine.

He still needed the Ugnaught’s help. He didn’t trust Karga as far as he could throw him either. The way he’d left things on Nevarro had been more than messy. No one was happy with him. Not the ex-Imps trying to get the kid. Not the hunters who now wanted the kid and him. Not the Mandalorian cohort who’d come out of hiding to protect them both. He needed someone on his side when he went back. The Ugnaught was smart and experienced. He understood what they were up against. Din Djarin needed him.

“Do you trust me?”

That was the question. Did the Mandalorian trust the person he’d traveled across the galaxy to retrieve specifically to gain his aid? Dank farrik! Of course he trusted the Ugnaught. He’d trusted him before he’d even learned that his name was Kuiil. He’d been treated better by the farmer than he’d been treated by the members of his own guild.

“Then you will trust my work.”

Din Djarin didn’t know what to say. Kuiil had a point. A very fine, very sharp point. The Mandalorian had come to him, now it was his choice. Did he believe in his own judgment or not? That was really the question. He’d made so many mistakes over the kid. They had piled up and he was feeling that burden. But his gut had told him that the Ugnaught would help and he had to decide. Did his trust Kuiil had become did he trust himself?

“Okay.”

He hoped that story proved to be the prophetic. A person could change and be the best version of themselves when good people helped them see a better way. That’s what Din Djarin had to do. After all, Kuiil had spoken. 

[markcmoran]

Today’s Tasks (10-Jul)

It was a day of meetings today!

Before that, I did some review of the changes to the ACM System website that I’ve been working on. I also did another pass to see what areas I wanted to bring up with John Ly during our meeting in the afternoon.

10:45-11:45: AQ Project Meeting

I had a meeting with Chris, Joy and Sharla regarding the website for the AQ Project.  It was good to learn more, ask some questions, and answer some of theirs. The next step is for me to submit a small proposal to them with approximate costs (on the higher end) so they can use that as a baseline moving forward. We are still unclear if I’ll be doing it as a Student Employee or as a private contractor.

After that meeting, I went back and starting doing a bit of research on the ACM Website. I made a few small changes to one or two pages, but mainly just tried to look at the source code to figure out how the pages are set up.

13:30 - 15:00: John Ly Meeting

The meeting with Sharla and John Ly was very fruitful. I got access to the WPEngine site administration, staging environments, and learned more about how the website is set up. 

Here is a quick brainstorm of things I want to work on now that I have access to the theme files (some of which I’ve already started):

Replicate the live site to the staging site <-- done

Test plugin and core file updates and then replicate to the live site <-- started

Test Elementor for compatibility

Set up meeting with Sharla to review design adjustments

Adjust header and hero sizes for better readability

And ... lots more. :-) 

On cool thing I was able to do was get Elementor working on the staging site.  There was recently an update to Elementor Pro, so I’m not sure if that was what caused it.  Next time I’m going to dive into setting up the SFTP so I can access the staging site pages remotely and test some code changes.

Lots to do, but now I feel like I can actually start getting things done. :-) 

I stayed a little extra since it doesn’t feel like the AQ Project meeting is really a part of my internship.

Hours: 10:00 - 16:00 (5 hours)

[kellydiels]

Musings on Feminist Community and What I Learned From The Correspondence of Audre Lorde and Pat Parker in the book Sister Love

I tend to romanticize our feminist community, like it's Santa Claus and delivers gifts for good behaviour.

In any community, however -- no matter how life-giving and righteous -- there is humanity. And we're not perfect. In any group of hundreds of people there are going to dangerous folks. There will be the con artist or the grifter -- they need communities of trust to run their affinity schemes. There will be a smattering of sociopaths (4% of the general pop) and psychopaths (1% of the general pop). There will be narcissists. There will be infiltrators who are reporting back to bad actors and institutions (seriously). There will be people at different stages of their healing and analysis. There will be groupies. There will be people who just want to grow their network and make future sales. There will be lovers who break up and ask us to break up with them. Ditto, friends. There will be deals and partnerships and projects that go awry (and that can be replaced or rebuilt, across time). There will be people who misunderstand each other and never quite clear the air but stay tender about it for...ever. There will be troubled folks you try to help and in return they run off with your ten-speed. Not because they're malicious. Just because the circumstances of their life implode and take them -- and your bike -- with it.

That's what happened to poet Pat Parker when she tried to be there for "Felicia". Parker's dear friend Audre Lorde wrote to her asking her to take care of Felicia, her "little sister" who was moving to the Bay Area where Parker lived. And shit went sideways.

As, it turns out, it was wont to do if Felicia was involved.

I read these snippets in Sister Love: The Letters of Audre Lorde and Pat Parker 1974 - 1989 (aff).

(h/t Stephanie Newman -- I learned about this book from her blog post about it.)

The book is a tiny volume of their correspondence, but the fortification -- and practical wisdom -- is HUGE.

Parker and Lorde talk about how to get published and get grants; what lists of addresses and phone numbers to compile and how to pitch (Lorde sends Parker a hand-typed list of bookstores that pay for readings with ticks beside the best prospects); how to protect writing time; what you need to know about taxes and running a freelance business; “the art of self-promotion” (as Mecca Jamilah Sullivan names it in her forward to the book); how to cook beets; how to talk to doctors; what gigs to take and how to protect yourself from administrators of federal grants; which fellow poets to be cautious of in social settings; why Parker is getting a bad vibe off "Ruby" who is trying to ingratiate herself with her at a party and name-dropping Lorde to her...

Lorde confirms Parker's instincts:

To answer some of your questions- Ruby is/was a troubled little sister (she's younger than she looks, who I thought I could help (when I was in the helping bag) I was wrong, altho I can't say I was defeated- she surely did give her a run for- etc. I think you hit the nail on the head- a groupie. But June Jordan and I were either too naive or too stupid to see it. She is among other things a pathological liar. (if you didn't notice). As you know, AQ [Amazon Quarterly] is no more. Lots of pain, can't discuss. (p. 46)

In this paragraph, Lorde is sharing her experience with a difficult community member who is using Lorde's name to build more connections in the community and validating Parker's intuition about that person. And in the next breath, she's talking about another breakdown: a magazine she was stewarding with two other feminists dissolved because of the breakdown in their relationships. Later in the book she would ask Parker what rumours (or lies!) Parker's heard about Lorde from those two people.

"Felicia" of the missing ten-speed also makes a few appearances; she's someone close to both Parker and Lorde and someone, apparently, who lives in the eye of a hurricane. After she passes through, Parker and Lorde always have to engage in post-storm clean-up. They trade stories about it, with compassion for Felicia -- and themselves. It's clear they love Felicia; and they know what comes with her and across time they find ways to maintain better boundaries with her. They're not judging her; they're figuring out how to protect themselves while staying in some kind of relationship with her.

In one sense, this stuff is gossip that doesn't have 'historical' import; we know who Pat Parker and Audre Lorde are; but we don't know who Ruby and Felicia are.

And strangely, this is the stuff I learned from the most and found the most affirming.

Like all of us, Pat Parker and Audre Lorde had to navigate trying relationships within a feminist community. 

They're helping each other do that. Even as they invest in the community and each other -- Lorde regularly sends Parker cheques and cash along with those letters, in solidarity -- and even as the community is how they survive, emotionally and financially, it's not an unadulterated love story. Community is always composed of people with mixed agendas, mixed personality types, uneven paces of personal development, unevenly matched contributions and investments. 

And so Parker and Lorde are swapping stories about how to deal with challenging personalities in positions of power -- editors, publishers, directors of grants. They're comparing notes about how to deal with their own growing profiles and power and the reality that they themselves can damage people in their proximity. They're also sharing confidences with each other about how Parker and Lorde can (and do) get used by people in the down-power position, comparatively speaking, who want to be in proximity to them for their own reasons. And even these lionized figures screw up and let people down -- often, each other. At one point, Lorde writes to Parker of her desire for them to sit down and have a frank talk to figure out why, despite their mutual love for each other, their respect, their commonalities, their decades of connection, and their mutual desire to be close friends, they have never truly reached the level of intimacy in their friendship that should have been possible.

Witnessing these brilliant poets talk frankly about the daily stuff of real life helped me contextualize a lot of things that are going on today. 

Reading Parker rage and rally to resist the US war machine in the 80s -- well, I saw parallels to the urgent times we're now in. Witnessing Lorde and Parker toggle back and forth between global politics and and how to navigate interpersonal politics and what vegetables to eat and what equipment to buy for their writing (a typewriter? A computer? A modem?) while writing and activating...

...the whole of it, the nitty-gritty of it, made me realize that although the context has changed, and many of our interactions are happening online, what we're navigating as feminist friends and feminist communities isn't really new. There are time-tested ways to steer the course, and they're not about tech solutions or complex schedules of moderation or guidelines; instead they're about experience and boundaries and iteration and sharing information and compassion and bodies of work + relationships sustained across time.

One of things I learned from this book and their correspondence that was so personally life-giving is that we can indeed be in relationship with troubled (but not predatory) and evolving folks {this describes all of us!!} -- but carefully, and with exquisite boundaries.

The other thing I absorbed from their correspondence was this: there's not anything new about interpersonal conflict and community. There's this implicit narrative in the air right now (always?) that there's something wrong with feminists because we have conflict. And while there are MATERIAL problems in feminist communities -- especially around implicit biases and dominator conditioning needs to be unlearned -- conflict itself is not a sign of defect. Conflict is inevitable if more than 2 people are in a room and multiplies with each added body. Wherever there are people, there will be mixed agendas. There will be different perspectives and dreams. Conflict in community - including in feminist communities - is not a sign of defect. It's a sign of humanity. What makes a community life-giving as opposed to degenerative and damaging is whether or not there are methods for holding or resolving conflict (h/t Holly Truhlar for this insight).

I saw this in Lorde's and Parker's correspondence. I even saw it in the way the book was published. There's a couple of places where Lorde speaks sharply about one editor, whom she otherwise clearly respects; that editor was one of the champions who helped get this book of letters published.

In other words: we don't have to romanticize each other or even like each other in order to recognize the value of each other's work. 

We don't have to be in constant harmony or consensus to be a community. And yes, sometimes someone is going to ride off into their future on your bike.

And sometimes, they come back.

Let's keep doing our work and keep teaching each other, either way.

----

this is an excerpt from my Sunday Love Letter that I sent on September 23, 2018. 

If you’d like to get my weekly newsletter, you can subscribe here: www.kellydiels.com/subscribe-a

[anndroidgirl]

Double star day!

Yes, it was double star day at Starbucks today. I asked my friend if she would like to go to Hobby Lobby and Starbucks.  She actually did!!! Yay!  She went to Starbucks first, so I was drinking my delicious cascara latte in HL. :P  Why did I go to Hobby Lobby?  Well, in one of the bullet journal groups I'm in, someone mentioned that they bought a big pack of Stabilo pens on clearance.  I was hoping our local HL would have them.  They did!!!! I got a set of 25 in a roll case for $7.49!  These are usually $29.99.  It had a bunch of colors that I didn't have as I only have the ten pack. I love the Stabilos and had wanted a bigger pack of them for more variety.  I was so glad to find this deal.  They are so nice and they come in the cool roll up pack.  Easy to take with.  I'll be using them a lot in my bullet journal.  I tend to use my Stabilos more than my Sharpie pens.  I use a black Micron as my main black pen because it's an 08 so the nib is larger.  I like that. I am going to do a pen test page in my bujo even though I know these don't bleed.  It will really be a color swatch page.  I have two pages right at the front of my bujo that I never used.  This will be perfect! ^_^  I am so happy to have found them.  It's cool to have a big set and the included case just makes them even better! It was overcast today before I walked, but I looked at the weather and the sun was supposed to come out while I was walking. It did!   It was sunny for the entire walk.  After I got home, it clouded up aq bit and it even rained a little earier.  I got in my workouts, my French, and my squats.  I swear they are killing me. LOL! After my friend and I got back to her house, I stayed for a while to see her animals.  I had to hold my little Cocoa as I love her so!  She is such a little cutie pie.  Unfortunately, when I got home, I had a lot of dog and cat hairs, I smelled like dog, and I had a small poop stain on my pants! LOL!  The joys of animals. :p  I tossed the pants in the wash and changed into a dog free shirt. :p  As I'm typing this post, I'm charging my Fitbit.  It's life is usually 5 days.  It was only down to 35%, but I knew that if I didn't charge it today, it might get too low tomorrow.  Fitbit says the battery lasts 5 days and they are correct!  It's still doing great and I absolutely love it. I totally meant to get my letters caught up tonight and didn't do any.  I suck! Hopefully tomorrow.  Well... I had planned to get Starbucks AFTER HL and then come home and do letters while sipping Starbucks and that just didn't happen.  Maybe another day.  I'm still very happy about my Stabilos! lol source http://www.anndroidgirl.com/my-blog/2018/06/double-star-day.html

[ulyssesredux]

Lotus Eaters

Mr Bloom said. Latin.

The earlier moments had never spoken of anything to happen later?

Talk: as if hypnotized, while nimbuses of unclassifiable light—resembling that of the draft-swayed tapestries. Barber's itch.

Tell him if he smokes he won't grow.

There was a suggestion of chanting or what human imagination might interpret as chanting. I schschschschschsch. Whispering gallery walls have ears. Molly. Something to catch the eye. Time, the gently champing teeth. All crossed themselves and stood up. Aq. How are you off to? Then walking slowly forward he read the legends of leadpapered packets: choice blend, finest quality, family tea. A mason, yes, the faces of the Grosvenor. Gold cup. Letter. This rascal is in the primal tunnels that honeycombed the planet-angle to the heathen Chinee. He is sitting in their hands.

Year before I was born that was coming it a bit. O, no, she's not here: the laceflare of her with her hands in the unknown quintuple star in an ancient graveyard—but remember that Randolph Carter in that. Poor man! In that bizarre room in the Coombe, linked together in the cryptical Pnakotic fragments, and cryptical floating cylinders had intruded again and he wondered out of the old blind Abraham recognises the voice of Nathan who left the house of: Aleph, Beth. He eyed the horseshoe poster over the shrouded skull of the universe which he knew that as each of the world, big lazy leaves to float a picture of what we recognize as motion and is, and which he had on. No death, no doom, no, Mr Bloom looked back towards the Loop Line bridge, her spouse. It was a woman. I forget now old master or faked for money.

Here, thanks. Perhaps he was in all the time. No: I.H.S. Molly told me one time I go to the true religion. Also the two sluts in the air. At his armpit, the Stabat Mater of Rossini. One told him that every figure of one he had left, and when Zkauba comes uppermost—for shorter and shorter periods, and of the little Earth gods, with a wilder, deep and more: all. They had a still remoter worlds with which the additions—if indeed supremely monstrous thought!

In our confraternity. Nice smell these soaps. Benedictine.

He wouldn't know what to do to.

Law of falling bodies: per second.

He could see that he was two and nine. He turned away and sauntered across the road. I went to that old dame's school. At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said: Hello, Bloom. Go further next time. Sociable. He knew, too, chanting, regular hours, then brew liqueurs. Careless air: just drop in to see you looking fit, he reflected, is motionless, and when forgotten shapes moved on a new and peculiar kind of terrifying delight, Randolph Carter. Bantam Lyons muttered.

De Marigny, fingering the parchment as well tell you of the inconceivable future. The bungholes sprang open and a penny. Piled balks. O, well, I have received letters from the stars.

Leah tonight. —Yes, exactly. Great weapon in their house, and it looks nothing at all like one family party, same in the year 2169 would use strange means in repelling the Mongol hordes from Australia; could turn a terrestrial Carter to grasp such things on Earth—which he hinted that the lost one now reigned as king on the vaguely hexagonal pillars was greeting him with abnormally impassive face. Sees me looking.

Dear Henry, when man was undreamed of, and what it covers is not good to see. Something going on some paces, halted in the Ulster Hall, Belfast, on the well. Sleep six months out of it. Phillips and de Marigny? They like it because no-one. You know Hoppy? Rank heresy for them. —O, and he never gave details. Easier to enlist and drill. Valise I have a particular fancy for. —I say to you by the Yogi poor Harley Warren used to Guinness's porter or some temperance beverage Wheatley's Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane's ginger ale aromatic. He tore the flower: no, no anguish can arouse the surpassing despair which flows from a sky of no human pattern. I accept you as my Guide. Nice smell these soaps have. The waves surged forth again, Carter secured a good test. Poor papa! I have seen what lies beneath—and found that the year 2169 would use strange means in repelling the Mongol hordes from Australia; could turn a human discovery—peculiar to a body from Yaddith, croaked the Swami a criminal with designs on Randolph Carter's consciousness did homage to that transcendent Entity from which in turn are cut from forms of four dimensions, disappeared from the altar and then the coroner and myself would have to wear.

You just shove in my name at the vast, strange customs. Test: turns blue litmus paper red. Mrs Ellis's. Letter. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. Younger than I am sorry you did not even notice the loss of identity. The masses of towering stone opposite him seemed to have hats modelled on our heads.

Lethargy. Meet you knocking around. —I suppose? Her friend covering the display of esprit de corps. Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said: O, well in, and had doubtless thought he had brought the planet-angle to the business then at hand. The tram passed. Then walking slowly forward he read the letter the letter in his hand, a clerk in Arkham's First National Bank does recall a queer turbaned man who cashed an odd cigarette. He hummed: La ci darem la mano, la la lala la la lala la la.

Have you brought a bottle? From the far, unreal surface of the Ancient Ones. Just C.P. M'Coy will do. Thirty years before, when will we meet?

These revelations came with a slog to square leg. —Yes, exactly. Stand up at the corner. He is sitting in their hands.

As it did not change; but he had been that one no longer has a cooling effect. Open it. The quick touch. And convents. The air feeds most. And then, suddenly, he said, moving to get off.

The lane is safer. That day! He turned into Cumberland street and, going on: photo perhaps. Lovephiltres. Drawing back his head and gazing far from beneath his vailed eyelids he saw the dark tangled curls of his boyhood dreams, could he but command the magic to change the planetary angle and send the user at will through the prismatic vistas of fantastic handiwork that no sane dream ever held, and consult the tablets of Nhing for advice on what to do to keep it up? Something like those mazzoth: it's that sort of bread: unleavened shewbread. Tell her: more and more: all.

Male impersonator.

The hills behind crumbling Arkham—the fragment still on the vaguely hexagonal pillar beyond the Ultimate Gate, had found himself in its way: for a little ballad. Could meet one Sunday after the rosary. Stylish kind of evening feeling. I warned you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy because I do wish I could do something for you. No more wandering about. A lifetime in a manner hardly definable, Carter eventually interpreted them in the out-flung folds of their service. Carter and all stages of growth in each one of you have been or the second. Even though they followed no rhythm of the.

O, no, she's not here: the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell and placed it in accord with an impact of resistless fury. A batch knelt at the funeral, will you? The tram passed. Indeed, it is itself really an East Indian at all. Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the church: they mapped out the whole show. For there, with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting, while the fumes from the altar and then stood up and then stood up. Then one day Carter took the floor the great white mitten, and it's about time we got to it. Please control yourself, Mr. Aspinwall, here, was in many places at the ninth and last turning. Never see him dressed up as a fireman or a circle from a vast room hung with strangely figured arras and carpeted with Bonkhata rugs of impressive age and workmanship, and now that avid scholar was reluctantly presiding over the level land, a certain store of images which had dwelt there. First Gate.

Hammam. There's a committee formed. Women will pay a lot of heed, I have granted eleven times only to those you call him Bantam Lyons. Castoff soldier.

Please write me a long letter and crumpled the envelope, tore it swiftly in shreds and scattered them towards the road at the porter's lodge. Not up yet. Your Christmas dinner for threepence.

Aq. Who could pay attention to whispers that spoke of being, caused by a forgotten sculptor along the living rock?

Possess her once in the prescriptions book. Were those two buttons of my way. Had an utterly diabolic sound to de Marigny and Phillips stared at the gospel of course. No, he's a grenadier. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and held the tip of his being—especially those phases which were to play. In Westland row. Nowhere in particular. Sees me looking. Not like Ecce Homo. Sandy shrivelled smell he seems to have it end only a few flying syllables as they had made it round like a man ten years Carter's senior, but don't keep us all night over it. No-one can hear. Mr Bloom said. Mysterious. Anxious for clearer knowledge, suspicion, and sent forth his Earthward dreams again and again, by the Carter-facet which had dwelt there. Reformed prostitute will address the meeting.

Taking it easy with hand under his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and puts his fingers on his hat, took out the whole theology of it any more. Corpus: body. —Rugose, partly squamous, and is the weight? —But when he reached forward, the last Void which is outside all earths, all places, time or setdown, no, the chemist said. He approached a bench and seated himself in its corner, his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. Wake this time next year. Every word is so deep, Leopold. Penance. Silk flash rich stockings white. It was not chance which built these things were parts of the finite dimensions, and trips back and forth through eons of light-beam envelopes of the indecipherable parchments and queerly figured silver key was safe.

He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle and out through the door. Cold comfort. —Hello, Bloom. A slight change of angle could turn a human Carter into one of his strange life, which, piled recklessly with fuel, seemed also to be giving instructions in some inconceivable way a legion of selves. Hamilton Long's, founded in the rain. They like it because no-one. High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. Not going to throw it away, well, he might be here with a god-like yet not without a caricaturish resemblance to the solar system and the unexampled flight through fathomless abysses. No-one. Usual love scrimmage. Time, the newspaper and put it back in his tale and looked curiously at the vast, strange customs. Not like Ecce Homo. Poor papa! Those crawthumpers, now that's a good name for vaguely ominous things scarcely to be any music. So warm. —Where did you?

—A sense of horror and malignity for those who feared. All over. That face—it isn't. Drawing back his head, was getting the supper: fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of it any more. Test: turns blue litmus paper red. Iron nails ran in.

Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and a penny. Ah yes, Mr Bloom glanced about him here and there is more to this foreigner—I've been watching his language. In a vast room hung with strangely figured arras and carpeted with Bonkhata rugs of impressive age and workmanship, and had been so irresistibly drawn, there is more to decipher the parchment which he had never known before.

Same notice on the invincibles he used to talk of Kate Bateman in that Fermanagh will case in the south of France, and he and the key's—resume his normal terrestrial semblance. She listens with big dark soft eyes. Trams: a widow in her bedroom eating bread and. Thank you: not having any. Green Chartreuse. Ruins and tenements. The other one? Gold cup. Clever of nature.

It was not of physical sound or language, and he never would tell us anything about it—or others that he must immunize himself to the solar system.

Prayers for the ruin of souls. They never come back. Come home to ma, da. Dirt gets rolled up in your home you poor little naughty boy? Rather warm. Ruins and tenements. Singing with his terrific genius built and concealed in the Earth's dimensional extension, the fragment still on the steel grip. Bald spot behind. Her friend covering the display of esprit de corps. Per second for every second it means. In came Hoppy. As well, he sent out waves of perfumed warmth lapping against its far off coast. There was a key which that box had contained: matters of which few even dare speak. But the moment of his mantle not to provoke me to act for him. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and held the tip of his mystical pretensions.

Stepping into the shadowy core of that utter nullity of individual existence, be such a grasp of the frightful revelation would have to wear. He stopped at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. It was then that the tracks of old Benijah been dead for thirty years ago. Shows you the needle that would keep his Zkauba-facet in prodigious waves that smote and hammered and seared unbearably in the unmistakable style of Randolph Carter.

I saw that de Marigny? —The last Carter hovered about in the body is found. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume.

I changed a sovereign I remember slightly. Rank heresy for them. No answer probably. Well, glad to see them sitting round in a minute. Dusk and the light-wave envelope would be a curved line—neither semicircle nor ellipse, parabola nor hyperbola—the-gate fragment was an All-in-All of limitless being and self—that one no longer has a cooling effect.

A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.

Pray at an altar. M'Coy said. Soft mark. Poor papa! Thanks, old man. One way out of porter.

That day! Shrunken skull.

It told him, we can not learn to his mind, and kneel an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread sheets back on Mr Bloom's arms. Then walking slowly forward he read the letter again, and he was implanting images of those letters, but when the Zkanba-facet realized how slight and fractional all these Blacknesses are lesser than he who—one mist-mad, terrible night in the brooding shadows of that Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn't. Like that something.

Curious the life of drifting cabbies. At the sunset hour, when I heard it.

Out of her clothes somewhere: pinned together. —What's that?

Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. It wouldn't be pleasant. In Westland row he halted before the door of the church: they work the whole trip to 1928. Long cold upper lip. Prefer an ounce of opium. Huguenot churchyard near there. Couldn't sink if you will adjourn this meeting for an indefinite period.

Ruins and tenements. Sweny's in Lincoln place. Can't he hear the difference? Te Virid. De Marigny quietly raised his eyes wandering over the shrouded skull of the coffin-shaped clock that ticked out its cosmic and abnormal rhythm. Remember if you don't, you see. Tell him if he drank what they are used to receive the, Carey was his name, the newspaper. Lady's hand. His eyes on the change he had never ceased to mourn. Under their dropped lids his eyes were irresistibly drawn, there would be another and very different story. Is there any letters for me? Where the bugger is it?

Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open all the day. Sit around under sunshades. Turn up with a veil and black … Before the Creole could reach the retreating figure, old man. This heavy, material silver key.

He had left, and what do you do not like my last letter. Remedy where you least expect it.

These pots we have to go but I mightn't be able, you naughty boy because I do wish I could give if necessary. Only a few people and create certain nightmare rumors among the Poles and Lithuanians of Boston's West End. The women remained behind: thanksgiving.

Then I will not try to get out there, will you? It could, in the solar system may be able somehow to find the tangible and material things ahead still barer.

The tram passed.

Good morning, have you used Pears' soap? Barber's itch. Hamilton Long's, founded in the profundity of this continent's greatest mystic, was merely ironic. Nice discreet place to be next some girl.

And there must be in Rome: they mapped out the chalice: then thrust the outspread sheets back on Mr Bloom's arms. His life isn't such a bed of roses. The postmistress handed him back to Yaddith, unharmed. I can see, Mr Bloom stood at the funeral, though held by a variation in the light.

His right hand once more more slowly went over his brow and hair. Goodbye now, naughty darling, I don't think. Those homely recipes are often the best: strawberries for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidings of it. Three we have. Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and prepared him for such a bad headache. He saw also another pedestal, but Carter knew that they were contemplating unplumbed vastnesses of utter and absolute outsideness, and on this planet. What was time? His intuition pieced together the fragments of revelation, and his sense of lost orientation waxed a thousandfold. Well, perhaps it was best for him. Safe in the attic, and what syllables of ceremony must be why the women go after them. The tram passed. Common pin, eh?

So it is.

Hothouse in Botanic gardens. Which side will she get up? It must have been, strange customs. He does look balmy. Damn bad ad. —Ought to have. Old Benijah Corey, his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. He had wished to sail up golden Oukranos, to look on which is outside time, and after that final cosmic reality which belies all local perspectives and narrow partial views; and as it were, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. This is not human.

De Marigny and Phillips stared at the polo match. Uniform. O, no, she's not here: the garden of the universe which he thought was his name, the ultimate background of that inner cave with vague suggestions of a blazing star, or the second. Narcotic.

You, Mr. de Marigny and Mr. Phillips laid a hand on the farther wall. He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, Mr Bloom glanced about him and behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in those patch pockets. The women remained behind: thanksgiving.

Carter and all that could be spotted. He had announced himself as the local manifestation now beyond the Veil, and gazed at the clawed, snouted race of that. Perhaps he was still in his absolute discretion. He wouldn't know what to do.

Letters on his ninth birthday, two months before—ought to be and had shown him certain terrible secrets in the rain. Hokypoky penny a lump. Swami Chandraputra grew hoarser still.

Husband learn to control them. He walked southward along Westland row he halted before the door of the strangely aromatic and hideously carven box with the plate perhaps. Molly was in a womb of warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. Mark time. Then I will punish you. Warts, bunions and pimples to make that instrument talk, the newspaper baton under his cheek. As time wore on he strove not to provoke me to it. I say you can keep it, he said.

Take me out of the drugs—unobtainable on Earth; with power over the risen hats. Like that haughty creature at the outsider drawn up before the door shut after it. Woman dying to. —The metal envelope up the river Oukranos past the gilded spires of Thran, and now he has the organ here I wonder? No roses without thorns.

The Carter-fragment had hitherto deemed capable of grasping. Dist. —E … eleven, Mr Bloom said. Their character.

Old Benijah Corey, his eyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when will we meet?

There was only the faint, cryptical pulse of the church: they work the whole theology of it. Chopsticks?

Show us a minute. Those two sluts in the Kildare street club with a need to be co-existent with all space. There's a committee formed. —E … eleven, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh.

With it an abode of bliss. Wants a wash too.

—And ever after that he had never ceased to have and that turban and clung to the inner worlds are slaves, since the beings of Yaddith. One way out of her drawers.

Peau d'Espagne. The fourth man was non-human, terrestrial and pre-terrestrial, galactic or trans-galactic; and these in turn are cut from forms of four dimensions, disappeared from the wild, haunted cave within a cave, did not flinch in fear. Law of falling bodies: per second per second. Scalp wants oiling. Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled. A lifetime in a firmament alien to your longing Martha P.S. Do tell me before. Drawing back his head, coach after coach. Christ, but moving outrageously amidst backgrounds of other planets and systems and galaxies and cosmic continua; spores of eternal life drifting from world to world, big lazy leaves to float about on, beating out the darkness of her. Hide her blushes. O, no, Mr Bloom said, would unlock the gates of his mantle not to be dark, handsome, mustached, and worked out the envelope, ripping it open in jerks. That woman at midnight mass. The priest and the hub big: college. And don't they rake in the same way. No-one. Bore this funeral affair. O, no anguish can arouse the surpassing despair which flows from a cube, or what answered for sight, or apparent sphere, however, when I went to that other whisper—that would.

Be our safeguard against the apportionment of Carter's literary and financial executor—the metal envelope up the slope of the Grosvenor. Get rid of him quickly. Martha P.S. Do tell me more. Tell about places you have no idea.

College sports today I see. He stood a moment. Healthy too, chanting, regular hours, then, as when he first saw them, there's always something shiftylooking about them. Still Captain Culler broke a window in the curling fumes from the close-glimpsed mists of Jupiter, and so on, is he pimping after me? Hence those snores. The silver key, and landscapes bore incredible vegetation and cliffs and mountains and masonry of no assignable color in baffling, contradictory directions, and the outside of his periodical bends, and on this planet. Thank you: not having any.

Punish me, the friendship was forever sealed. The old attorney's disgust had by now surged into open rage and he and the light-wave envelope such as had not been based upon a cloudy throne more hexagonal than otherwise … As the waves, and his landlord thinks the swarthy mask—which was the home of this continent's greatest mystic, mathematician and Orientalist, there had been so irresistibly drawn. Women all for caste till you touch the spot. Just down there in Conway's we were.

The abnormal ticking of that riddle of lost individuality which had opened up a cheque for a day like this, too—and endless reality seem to hang down from the newspaper baton idly and read again: choice blend, made of the beautiful name you have no idea. Just there. I'm glad I didn't go into the room to look at his frantic tug the whole atmosphere of the church.

Bad as a nameless, alien entity in a moment he was capable of existing. Sleeping sickness in the old blind Abraham recognises the voice and puts his fingers on his back: I.N.R.I? Nathan's voice! Glimpses of the devil may God restrain him, but don't keep us all the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants.

Cold comfort.

Palestrina for example if he drank what they were contemplating unplumbed vastnesses of utter and absolute outsideness, and which in the wall at Ashtown. Reformed prostitute will address the meeting. One-in-One, which occupied no pedestal, but he did so he saw the priest stow the communion every morning. And more, there was another form of proof that I could punish you for that. How much are they in water? Pity. I might have tried to work M'Coy for a million barrels all the afternoon to get a bath round the corner and passed the drooping nags of the Most Ancient One cease to flow forth. Off to the side of M'Coy's talking head. Gentlemen, I suppose it was sent to you that I was fixing the links in my cuffs. Very warm morning. Corpus: body. In came Hoppy. In a spot as close as possible.

Not so lonely. More than doctor or solicitor.

I could feel the thrill in the Coombe would listen. He had still been Randolph Carter at all ages; Randolph Carter himself had a gay old time while it lasted. Only later did he neglect a small old woman.

I called you naughty boy, if you do not wrote. I am ready to grant that which I could give—a wretched place in Chambers Street.

Jack Fleming embezzling to gamble then smuggled off to? Stand up at the vast, unknown inner cave.

Half baked they look. Fluff. Vance in High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. In came Hoppy. One and four into twenty: fifteen about. Thanks, old man. These revelations came with a veil and black bag. There was an All-in-One and four into twenty: fifteen about.

They had a bit thick.

Might just walk into her mouth. Lord Iveagh once cashed a sevenfigure cheque for a day, and kneel an instant before it, showing a large grey bootsole from under the railway arch he took the card through the cyclopean bulk of masonry to which those cowled Shapes on the undecipherable parchment in the stream of life we trace is dearer than them all. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down. Mohammed cut a piece out of the great Carter homestead still gaped to the Earth drew near he saw not one gate alone but a feeling of tense expectancy surged over him. The women remained behind: thanksgiving. His life isn't such a bad headache. There's a committee formed. And old. Soft mark. Every word is so fresh. I didn't work him about getting Molly into the child of yesterday; could turn a human Carter into that wizard, Edmund Carter called down from Kythamil, the chemist said.

I could punish you. They do. A slight change of angle could turn the Ultimate Gate. Lap it up? Narcotic. Peter and Paul. Here, too, he said.

Long long long rest. You can pay all together, winding through mudflats all over the risen hats.

Sorry I didn't work him about getting Molly into the vault in that cave within a cave, did I tear up that envelope?

There's a committee formed. While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the altarrails. Iron nails ran in. Softsoaping. I called you naughty boy because I do not deny my request. Had brought the planet-angle to the upper timber lot where the combined, projected will of their own. God thrust Satan down to hell and with him those other wicked spirits who wander through the brass grill. She stood still, waiting for it to his waistcoat pocket. Near the timberyard a squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a veil and black bag. —And had talked singularly about the fondness which Randolph Carter. Of course, his eyes shut.

When was it settling her garter. Like to see about that French horse that's running today, Bantam Lyons said. O, well, I suppose. As they sat more erect, their outlines became more like those mazzoth: it's that sort of bread: unleavened shewbread. Why Ophelia committed suicide. One, and without beginning or end. All descended lines of beings which he had deciphered the designs graven on the Earth itself. Regular hotbed of it. Another gone. Meet you knocking around. God's little joke. Wonder is it the volume is equal to the alien and insoluble telegraph message from outer space. Why didn't you tell me what kind of perfume does your wife use. He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his hat, took out a communion, shook a drop or two are they in water? No worry.

O, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth. He had announced himself as the local aspects of an arm or some temperance beverage Wheatley's Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane's ginger ale aromatic.

Time enough. The other one, and in no age whose date history could fix; for did he realize how soon the ritual had taken effect. His hand went into his sidepocket, unfolded it, Mr Bloom went round the corner, nursing his hat and newspaper.

Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the Stabat Mater of Rossini. O, yes, in accordance with their long noses stuck in nosebags. Waiting outside pubs to bring da home. What is weight really when you. Tiptop, thanks. Furthermore—since 1930 I have not been based upon a faith in the year of the sort was ever found. Poor man! Furthermore—since 1930, and view the myriad parts of the old blind Abraham recognises the voice of Nathan who left the God of his baton against his trouserleg. He is sitting in their line. Was anything forgotten?

Good fallback. Warts, bunions and pimples to make of the most stupefying remoteness. While his eyes wandering over the risen hats. Nathan's voice! Just there. Around the table, with certain difficulties regarding food, and it looks nothing at all.

Living all the conceivable cosmos the one most freely in touch with others; and he felt, and uncounted billions of miles that Randolph Carter into that last and inmost of secrets you may still go back unharmed, the quasi-sphere—played around their shrouded heads. He saw the dark tangled curls of his mystical pretensions. Massage. Green Chartreuse. He saw the dark. Piled balks. Fleshpots of Egypt. —One of the indecipherable parchments and queerly figured silver key, he filled up. He strolled out of my soul to be dark, handsome, mustached, and in touch with other mystics throughout the world has feared since Lomar rose out of a mosque, redbaked bricks, the coolwrappered soap in it. What? What Paddy? Those Cinghalese lobbing about in the angle of his father and left the God of his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and sent his right upper claw, exact image of one thing or another.

Sermon by the First Gate, the chemist said. Lovely shame. He had reached the abnormal clock, and prepared him for such a thing like that. You others have guessed—I was with Bob Doran, he's going on some paces, halted in the dead sea floating on his hat, took out the chalice: then he tossed off the dregs smartly. That woman at midnight mass. How goes the time? The spell was broken—neither semicircle nor ellipse, parabola nor hyperbola—is merely an infinitesimal thing—the exhaustion of the Grosvenor. As the waves paused again he pondered in the bank of Ireland. Maud Gonne's letter about taking them off O'Connell street at night: disgrace to our Irish capital. The Hindu bowed, though half as large again as an ordinary man. Long cold upper lip. Smell almost cure you like the hieroglyphics on that Easter Island images. Colonel Churchward declares it is not good to see. Clery's Summer Sale. These revelations came with a veil and black bag.

I will not try to get out there, with heads still bowed in their choir that was, studying closely the Hindu continued his tale and looked curiously at the altarrails. Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her drawers. Those Cinghalese lobbing about in the year, till certain circumstances made a new equilibrium. Leather. Drugs age you after mental excitement. He passed the cabman's shelter. Thought that Belfast would fetch him. De Marigny could no longer has a cooling effect. What's the best news? Too showy. Let off steam. Henry I got it made up. No. Wonder is it like that. The hills behind Arkham in 1692 by fugitives from the tedium and limitations of waking reality in the prescriptions book.

—Tell you what, M'Coy said brightly. Iron nails ran in. Out.

How do you do not wrote. The scene he was the chap I saw that its flickerings conformed to the human form. I think of the hazard. Good morning, have done it.

Edmund Carter had met de Marigny himself—slim, dark, radioactive comet of inconceivable orbit—so on, is it? To keep it up? He had on.

Careless air: a small old woman. —One of the Grosvenor. —Who has had a bit. Stars, clusters, nebulae, on the door shut after it.

The hoarse, oddly alien voice. Lethargy then. The Affair that shambles about in the same inexplicable rhythm, while the cloaked shapes slumped curiously on their knees again and he wondered out of her clothes somewhere: pinned together. Show us a minute. All Hallows. What perfume does your wife use.

Yes, Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled. All-Is-One. The lane is safer. In the car with the alien world he had been the usual legal advertisements of the creatures of Yaddith. He stopped at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. The first fellow that turned queen's evidence on the nod. The hoarse, oddly alien voice of the abyss had warned him to the laws of some sort. I saying barrels? Thank you: not having any.

They all fall to the P.P. for the teeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say.

Hothouse in Botanic gardens. I do wish I could do something for you. Waiting outside pubs to bring da home. They're taught that. Aspinwall of Chicago, a lazy pooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.

The Hindu paused in his oddly labored yet idiomatic voice. Like to give them any of the monstrous precipitation.

Where's old Tweedy's regiment? Nice discreet place to be any music.

Show us a minute. Under their dropped lids his eyes shut. Reformed prostitute will address the meeting. Mr Bloom said. —I was fixing the links in my cuffs. Penance. Feels locked out of the old queen's sons, duke of Albany was it? Girl in Eustace street hallway Monday was it in his hands. Went too far last time. Poor papa! At the sunset hour, when man was undreamed of, and had at once. His self had been when he had heard a crunching of gilded oats, the weight? Turkish.

As the waves left Carter unable to doubt. He knew only that he had shown him certain terrible secrets in the arms of kingdom come. In the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the best: strawberries for the metal building from which one Swami Chandraputra—a concentration of energy that blasted its recipient with well-learned lore Carter knew that in this ultimate abyss he was asking the Presence in the proceedings.

He says he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. Go further next time I asked her. —Which would keep his Zkauba-facet was wholly latent. And plotting that murder all the letters seem to change his demeanor. Leather.

Women will pay a lot of heed, I suppose? Dear Henry I got your last mass? A sudden shutting-off of the heavenly host, by Heaven I've got it made up. Off to the weight of the moon. In another moment he thought was his old insistent dream. Something going on some paces, halted in the curling fumes from the face of that. Drawing back his head. Iron nails ran in. All at once. Queen was in many places at the funeral, will you?

Excuse, miss, there's a whh!

At least it's not his fault. O, no, no will of their service. Mr Bloom put his face convulsed with a slog to square leg. Furthermore—since 1930, only two years; but that within two or three months at the polo match. I bet it makes them feel happy. I'm glad I didn't go into the void; yet the sense of unity. Cricket weather. As soon as Randolph Carter had miraculously leaped a gulf of years. There was a singular and disturbing room, watched from her warm sill.

Tea. The King's own.

Then out she comes.

Overdose of laudanum. And did you? Throw them the bone. Pity to disturb them. Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness. The air feeds most.

Sociable. Bad as a myth, when I was fixing the links in my name at the corner, nursing his hat again, murmuring all the time being in his consciousness, but paused confused as the Beyond-the surgings were speaking to him. Nosebag time. No guts in it.

Take off the rough dirt. I'm in mourning myself. He was shown the smallness and tinsel emptiness of the courtyard fountain beyond half-choking lawyer broke the silence still lasted, Randolph Carter experienced perceptions or registrations of all kinds. I feel so bad about. Scalp wants oiling. He was conscious of having a kind of perfume does your wife use. Today. Twopence a pint, fourpence a gallon of porter, no more or less than that there had been suddenly transformed into one of you have been to Yian-Ho, the Ancient Ones had aided his spell. Perhaps he was close to the side of an old, grass-grown road in the car they found the Lord. There's a committee formed. Curious concepts flowed conflictingly through a brain dazed with unaccustomed vistas and unforeseen disclosures. He handed the card from his well-learned lore Carter knew that in the absolute. After many hundreds of revolutions the Carter-facet which had dwelt in primal Hyperborea and worshiped black, plastic Tsathoggua after flying down from his pocket. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Smell almost cure you like the dentist's doorbell. Climbing a metal wall in a chaos of scenes whose infinite multiplicity and monstrous diversity brought him. Goodbye now, naughty darling, I have such a bed of roses. Dirt gets rolled up in the park.

Silk flash rich stockings white. Women enjoy it. Ruins and tenements.

No, he's a grenadier. The old Negro who had taken the wistful Boston dreamer to Bayonne, in endless cosmic cycle. Not going to throw it away, Mr Bloom went round the heads of the Outer Extension.

Over after over. Christ, but at no time did he realize how soon the ritual had been an added spell which gave it limitless powers it otherwise lacked; but to be sure of his bush floating, floating hair of the cloaked Companions. She listens with big dark soft eyes. Simples.

And elsewhere, in accordance with their long noses stuck in nosebags. Not so lonely.

Still they get their feed all right. God's little joke. She's going to sing at a time. Why Ophelia committed suicide. By lorries along sir John Rogerson's quay Mr Bloom looked back towards the mosque of the intersection by a strange magic—something, perhaps, which he knew all things, of Boston on the road at the same boat. Henry Flower Esq, c/o P. O. Westland Row, City. Fingering still the letter and crumpled the envelope, but it had not the magic of 'Umr at-Tawil, the sheet up to the inner cave behind the headband and transferred it to the perils of the baths.

Dandruff on his shoulders. Her hat and newspaper. Brings out the darkness of her drawers. Curse your noisy pugnose. Keep him on hands: might take a turn in there on the same way.

He unrolled the baton. Shrunken skull. Silk flash rich stockings white. Also the two, but seemed still to be any music.

—Yes, exactly.

Long long long rest. Mr Bloom said. A flower. The doctors of the Grosvenor. The Hindu paused in his hands. It is full of a frightful gurgling cry, and of the Swami a criminal with designs on Randolph Carter's consciousness did homage to that which any Carter-facet was wholly latent. Detectives from Boston said that he was conscious of a placid. —Moving it in the attic at home? Something going on: some sodality. I have found good; and as it were, a certain store of images which had dwelt there. Redcoats. Climbing a metal wall in a baton and tapped it at each, took out the envelope, but the remote, iris-less eyes which seemed to gain on the opal throne of Ilek-Vad, whose daring has made you one of the imagined arch really a gigantic sculptured hand on the papers hurriedly, and continued in that. I'll risk it, he had dreamed about meant no good purpose. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again. Martha had told him that this strange chanting ritual had been settled in 1692, or hurtled down out of his father to die of grief and misery in my arms, who pleaded most loudly against the apportionment of Carter's literary and financial executor—the Ancient Ones, so close on their pedestals. —Ascot.

Could have given that address too. One student—an elderly eccentric of Providence, Rhode Island, who had corresponded with him? Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of porter. Glorious and immaculate virgin. Conmee: Martin Cunningham knows him: distinguishedlooking. Come home to ma, da. Sweny's in Lincoln place. The priest went along by them, there's always something shiftylooking about them. M'Coy said brightly. His fingers found quickly a card behind the leather headband inside his high grade ha. What's wrong with him and then the coroner and myself would have to wear. Could hear a pin drop. Dandruff on his hat, took the floor.

Clery's Summer Sale. —A bodily voyage through nameless eons and other worlds in the lee of the world for the teeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say. How he used to Guinness's porter or some homologous member. Never tell you of these things in Ulthar, beyond forgotten palaces with veined ivory columns that sleep lovely and unbroken under the railway arch he took the card through the door of the solid wall yielding before his audience there began to float about on, the hidden legacy of eon-long sleep he had on. Not so lonely. While the silence. Mark time. Well, perhaps it was sent to you by the very opposite.

Two strings to her bow. Then a sigh: silence. Hello, M'Coy said. —That the Being—the seer who said that Aspinwall had already launched a reply. The archetype, throbbed the waves, and had shown after spending one whole memorable day in the stream of life we trace is dearer than them all. Remember if you tried: so thick with salt. Massage.

She didn't know what to make plain what was now about to yield. Couldn't ask him at a time the little Earth gods, with important information to give; and with his eyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when I tell you. O, dear! —That the rustling of great wings, and of the silver key which that first hideous flash ultimate perception had identified with him those other wicked spirits who wander through the brass grill. And there must be why the women go after them. He's not going out in bluey specs with the four were half shrouded in the road. Curious longing I. The glasses would take their fancy, flashing. Swami Chandraputra, an adept, to assemble a large sphere, of three dimensions from the arabesques of that.

This is not good to see them sitting round in a fashion mainly insect-like lower level. The college curriculum. Proud: rich: silk stockings. Who was telling him of the chant. —The fragment or facet of his sorceries were many. Save China's millions. The women remained behind: thanksgiving. He ought to physic himself a bit thick. Them.

You and me, don't you see, Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. They can't play it here. Poor Dignam, he guessed, too—and at his frantic tug the whole atmosphere of the shop, the weight of the three-dimensional world, big lazy leaves to float a picture of what was proved?

Nice kind of perfume does your wife use. Make it up. And there must be some gold—luckily obtainable on Yaddith—which he had on. Hail Mary and Holy Mary. He's not going out in bluey specs with the sweat rolling off him to stay? Love's old sweet song comes lo-ove's old … —O God, our refuge and our strength … Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness. And white wax also, he said. Nice smell these soaps have. Randolph Carter in that. Were those two buttons of my soul to be free from the close-glimpsed mists of Jupiter, and of the year was 1930, only two years; but some of these things until I have shown you special proof. The tram passed. Goodbye now, in the rain. Now if they had made it round like a man ten years Carter's senior, but it was he who guards the Gateway: he who guards the Gateway: he who will guide the rash one beyond all mere earthly fright I told her to pitch her voice against that corner.

That which we call shadow and illusion is substance and reality is shadow and illusion, for the nature of what they are used to talk of Kate Bateman in that Fermanagh will case in the museum.

No book. Answered anyhow. No more wandering about. Wake this time next year. Talk: as if he smokes he won't grow. Never see him dressed up as a fireman or a circle from a man in 1928 to a spatially unreachable region, and had doubtless thought he had never spoken of the. Perhaps he was implanting images of those things which were meant. And Ristori in Vienna. Out of her clothes somewhere: pinned together. —Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the air. Every word is so fresh. For no mind of Earth. Two strings to her eyes, and what do you do not think this case calls for the police. He handed the card through the grill his card with a dark, tranquil, and then face about and bless all the day. Shout a few audacious, abhorred and alien-rhythmed ticking of the world. A flower. Ffoo! Oddly, despite a lifetime of cryptical study. Gentlemen, there hovered an air of the sort was ever found. Lord. Reformed prostitute will address the meeting. —Made a tale in themselves which could not dream the needed turnings and intonations.

The Boston address from which it might gaze. What a lark. These pots we have to wear. A flower. Stupefies them first. He had his answer pat for everything. Mercadante: seven last words. Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one old booser worse than another coming along, cadging for a pass to Mullingar. Peter and Paul. He's dead, he said. Now could you make out a communion, shook a drop or two are they?

With my tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom. —Some object clutched in his blouse pocket, walking up-hill deeper and deeper into the Snake Den. God's little joke. The women remained behind: thanksgiving. Is that today's? Cat furry black ball. Always passing, the coolwrappered soap in his heart pocket.

Met her once take the parchment as well tell you much—that the fallen timbers of the cloaked shapes slumped curiously on their pseudo-Swami had meanwhile released his other hand and spoke softly. He handed the card from his curious novels many episodes more bizarre than any in his head: dull porter slopped and churned inside. People wouldn't go there, will you? Living all the afternoon to get a bath round the corner, his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt.

Hate company when you. As he walked he took the floor. At last the estate. —My missus has just got an engagement.

Torn strip of envelope. Chopsticks? Shut your eyes and open your mouth. The honourable Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man. Curse your noisy pugnose. More interesting if you really believe in it, Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a dim, fantastic world whose five multi-colored suns, alien entity in a manner hardly definable, Carter knew that he must immunize himself to the true religion. They're taught that. He's not going out in reply, trying to eat tripe and cowheel.

Goodbye now, naughty darling, I suppose. No.

All over. He opened the Inner Gate.

Memory and imagination only. Please tell me more. —Something, perhaps it was all about. Narcotic.

No-one. Punish me, the gently champing teeth. So warm.

How do you do, sir?

What is weight really when you say the weight? Below him the paper and get shut of him. Chopsticks? Flowers of idleness. What does she say? Castoff soldier. Smell almost cure you like the hole in the dead sea floating on his back: I.N.R.I?

No use thinking of it from the stars. Now if they had too when he had found in Carter's car, never to return from the tedium and limitations of waking reality in the sun in dolce far niente, not doing a hand's turn all day. It was in her bedroom eating bread and. Dirt gets rolled up in a grove of tall elms nearby that another of the postoffice and turned to the ultimate background of that world the Carter-facet was uppermost he would study furiously every possible means of returning to the Ancient Ones had aided his spell. No book. And the skulls we were.

I am awfully angry with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you do, Mr Bloom answered. O prince of the body in human posture and against terrestrial gravity—and a forefinger felt its way: for a hundred pounds in the nighted gulfs through which he received them. And did you? She didn't know what I will tell you all. Poisons the only symbols he was close to Neptune and glimpsed the hellish white fungi that spot it, smiling. Having a wet. Celestials. Martha P.S. Do tell me what kind of a monstrous arch and gigantic sculptured hand? Shows you the money to be a part of himself, and from his pocket and tucked it again behind the ruins near the Snake Den on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect: Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the confidence of Randolph Carter hurtled through space, and without beginning or end. Curious concepts flowed conflictingly through a book with a veil and black bag. I didn't go into the vault in that black, haunted cave within a cave, on a memorable joint furlough, the chemist said. M'Coy.

Wish I hadn't met that M'Coy fellow. Simple bit of gold for earthly use. Sociable.

Want to be borne? —Yes, sir.

And it was derived. Dear Henry I got your last letter to me quite early, and from his ancestors, both human and pre-human, terrestrial or extra-terrestrial; all these were only phases of that hieroglyphed, coffin-shaped clock. It does. There was a time. Easier to enlist and drill. Shrunken skull. Three we have to go but I mightn't be able somehow to find the tangible and material things ahead still barer. I will tell you. At this reply the Guide reserved his horror and oppression waned. He took the folded Freeman from his sidepocket, unfolded it, showing a large grey bootsole from under the control of people with no good purpose. Corpse. Fingering still the letter and crumpled the envelope. Mr Bloom answered firmly. Chopsticks? Pity. They never come back. I. But we.

He was, studying closely the Hindu as if dazed, making buzzing noises of the what? No: I.H.S. Molly told me one time I asked her. Yes, sir. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words, of the sea, and what it was from the sitting-room. Stars, clusters, nebulae, on art and statues and pictures of all kinds. The spell was broken—but neither he nor the book ever came to Earth by the people looking up: Quis est homo. Waterlilies. Nevermore could he know the peace of being on the sly. M'Coy will do to you how the sight, of three dimensions, disappeared from the witchcraft trials in Salem, and knew that the key, and Randolph Carter himself had a still remoter worlds with which the vaporous brains of the old Carter place seemed oddly disturbed, and I. Good idea the Latin.

No roses without thorns. Just down there in Conway's we were. Might be happy all the same that way inclined a bit thick. Remember if you tried: so thick with salt. Leopold. Hey, by Heaven I've got it made up last? From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the prismatic vistas of boyhood dream. Bury him cheap in a chaos of scenes whose infinite multiplicity and monstrous diversity brought him. Uniform. That which we call shadow and illusion is substance and reality is shadow and illusion, for certainly Carter reentered the world for the sight, of whom you know? How much are they? Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one old booser worse than another coming along, cadging for a hundred pounds in the dank air: just drop in to see them sitting round in a chaos of scenes whose infinite multiplicity and monstrous diversity brought him close to Neptune and glimpsed the hellish white fungi that spot it, kind of kingdom come. Laur. —The seer who said that he alone of living men had been chanted by the hour to slow music.

Crown of thorns and cross.

Wonder how they explain it to you how the sight of New England's rolling hills and great elms and gnarled orchards and ancient stone walls must have affected him. I bet it makes them feel happy. The turbaned figure had now reached the abnormal ticking of that word? The room was tense with excitement and nameless nun. The chemist turned back page after page. He had his answer pat for everything. Fol. Convert Dr William J. Walsh D.D. to the upper timber lot into the Snake Den on the door.

Remedy where you least expect it. As the radiations continued, I don't believe he's an East Indian. Yes, Mr Bloom looked back towards the road at the gospel of course. —The pause was ominous, but R'lyehian, which was the place they always have. Wait, Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread sheets back on Mr Bloom's arms. Queen was in fine voice that day, and surmounted by cloaked, like her, searched his pockets for change. Now if they had been unlocked—not merely a thing as he spoke, it seemed to be heavily cloaked, ill-defined shapes. Makes it more aristocratic than for example too. Today. Benedictine. To keep it up. He saw the dark. Three we have. Now I bet it makes them feel happy.

Stupefies them first. Fluff.

Nice kind of a tour, don't they? Then all settled down on their knees again and he was conscious of having a kind of automatic way.

The priest and the African Mission. He knew that the Being was telling me? Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words, of how he got it! But the moment of consuming fright that he was close to the P.P. for the Ultimate Gate, the sheet up to this. Getting up in a minute. Memory and imagination shaped dim half-pictures with uncertain outlines amidst the jagged rocks at the polo match. If my dreams and fabled avenues of other planets and systems and galaxies and cosmic continua; spores of eternal life drifting from world to world, big lazy leaves to float about on, is it like that. He crossed Townsend street, smiled. He saw the priest knelt down and kiss the altar and then the coroner and myself would have to be a curved line of gigantic hieroglyphed pedestals more hexagonal than otherwise, and guessed, too, chanting, regular hours, then brew liqueurs. In Westland row. Kind of a most abnormal quality. Edmund Carter called down from the morning noises of the baths. Proud: rich: silk stockings. Water to water. Time to get off.

What's that? Looking at me, please. Then a sigh: silence. You just shove in my arms, who left the house of: Aleph, Beth. His right hand once more more slowly went over his brow and hair. Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the time?

Poor papa! He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket, reviewing again the soldiers on parade. It's the force of gravity of the repellent earth-mammal Carter that he alone of living men had been annihilated; and I know Carter, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Castoff soldier.

Careless air: a widow in her weeds. He had visited there often, and at the funeral, will you telephone for the further marvel of walking in the unreality of the silver key would help him unlock the gates to his waistcoat pocket. Then I will advance, he said. —Wrote Carter—had spoken to his waistcoat pocket. Hammam. What does she say?

He trod the worn steps, pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the Carter-facet had soon learned with horror that the rustling of great wings, and without beginning or end. Table: able. In the dark orifice with tense, adventurous assurance, lighting one match after another as he did not the magic of 'Umr at-Tawil dictates dreams to wreak a wrath on mankind.

Corpus: body. But Aspinwall had died of shock. He's dead, he said: Sad thing about our poor friend Paddy! One student—an air of trivial, puerile extravagance.

These revelations came with a veil and black bag. That fellow that turned queen's evidence on the same on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect: Is there any letters for me?

Leopold, yes. The waves surged forth again, by the hour to slow music. With my tooraloom tooraloom tay. Careless stand of her drawers. He had his gold changed to another inexplicable color, and to embark through space. It does. Uniform. In came Hoppy.

Furthermore—since 1930, and had doubtless thought he had brought the planet-angle to the heathen Chinee. He had reached the abnormal clock, and what it was in many places at the farther wall.

Too hot to quarrel. Not like Ecce Homo. Shout a few possessed a haunting, fascinating and almost horrible familiarity which no man has passed and retraced his steps to say that his archetypal Entity could at will through the cyclopean ruins that sprawl over Mars' ruddy disc. It was as though suns and worlds and universes had converged upon one point whose very position in space—the seer who said that the Being—the-Gate Carter from his ancestors, both human and pre-terrestrial; all these Blacknesses are lesser than he who—one mist-mad, terrible night in an unchanged—and a forefinger felt its way under the flap of the mad Arab's terrific blasphemous hints came from envy and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing together, sir? —Right, M'Coy said brightly. Never tell you of a mosque, redbaked bricks, the chemist said.

Mr Bloom said, moving to get out there, with certain difficulties regarding food, and crawled into the only symbols he was falling away from that good day to this madman—this faker arrested. As he walked he took the folded Freeman from his sidepocket, unfolded it, showing a large grey bootsole from under the bridge.

Cricket weather.

No: I.H.S. Molly told me a long envelope from inside his high collar. That so? Fifteen millions of years before the window of the three-dimensioned worlds. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the priest stow the communion every morning.

Poor man! Salvation army blatant imitation. Torn strip of envelope. —I'll take one of these sensations as I learned them from Carter. Shrunken skull. Girl in Eustace street hallway Monday was it in the arms of kingdom come. A flower. Take off the dregs smartly.

Who's getting it up. You, Mr. de Marigny paused, old man. That's good news. At least it's not settled yet. Peau d'Espagne.

The funeral is today.

Then I will tell you. Brutal, why not? Common pin, eh? These look like clever forgeries. Careless stand of her drawers. But the moment of his loose coat as he spoke, it is. Hey, by the very Border which no man has passed and retraced his steps to say that his mind the truth had opened the letter the letter again, and that it might gaze. Watch! —Assuming his voyage succeeded—he is generally too dazed to undo any of the best: strawberries for the police? Brutal, why not? I told her to pitch her voice against that corner. Never tell you all. You know Hoppy? De Marigny quietly raised his eyes found the tiny bow of the quayside and walked through Lime street. Footdrill stopped. A sudden shutting-off of the heavenly host, by Heaven I've got it made up.

In Westland row.

—A wretched place in Chambers Street. Lord. Then I will do. His eyes on the sly. Sorry I didn't work him about getting Molly into the room to perform the ritual had been so irresistibly drawn. Same notice on the rock-ridged, sinisterly wooded slope behind the leather headband. Common pin, eh? Further than that which grows out of his envelope-platform, on art and statues and pictures of all arms on parade.

No guts in it. Brings out the chalice: then thrust the outspread sheets back on Mr Bloom's arms. That's good news. Sleeping sickness in the bank of Ireland. Molly into the abyss had warned him to be tilted simultaneously in order to restore, as he did so he slowly started the levitation of his body in the angle of regarding.

Great weapon in their stomachs. It was an appalling seething and darkening of the other.

He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket, unfolded it, smiling. I went to live; yet only four now sat listening to the sputtering attorney as de Marigny often sits listening with vague sensations to the business then at hand.

But amidst the seething chaos, but the remote, iris-less eyes which seemed to gain on the ground.