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pickl-o · 3 months ago

Note

Oop, forgot to put my signature. Anyway, CHAPTER 1

Loomings

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago–never mind how long precisely– having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off–then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs–commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there.

Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?–Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks glasses! of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster– tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?

But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand–miles of them–leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues,– north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither?

Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries–stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.

But here is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the valley of the Saco. What is the chief element he employs? There stand his trees, each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were within; and here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his cattle; and up from yonder cottage goes a sleepy smoke. Deep into distant woodlands winds a mazy way, reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in their hill-side blue. But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this shepherd’s head, yet all were vain, unless the shepherd’s eye were fixed upon the magic stream before him. Go visit the Prairies in June, when for scores on scores of miles you wade knee-deep among Tiger-lilies–what is the one charm wanting?– Water there is not a drop of water there! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand, would you travel your thousand miles to see it? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two handfuls of silver, deliberate whether to buy him a coat, which he sadly needed, or invest his money in a pedestrian trip to Rockaway Beach? Why is almost every robust healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea? Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.

Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I begin to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my lungs, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a passenger. For to go as a passenger you must needs have a purse, and a purse is but a rag unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers get sea-sick– grow quarrelsome–don’t sleep of nights–do not enjoy themselves much, as a general thing;–no, I never go as a passenger; nor, though I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore, or a Captain, or a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction of such offices to those who like them. For my part, I abominate all honorable respectable toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind whatsoever. It is quite as much as I can do to take care of myself, without taking care of ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and what not. And as for going as cook,–though I confess there is considerable glory in that, a cook being a sort of officer on ship-board–yet, somehow, I never fancied broiling fowls;–though once broiled, judiciously buttered, and judgmatically salted and peppered, there is no one who will speak more respectfully, not to say reverentially, of a broiled fowl than I will. It is out of the idolatrous dotings of the old Egyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse, that you see the mummies of those creatures in their huge bakehouses the pyramids.

No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before the mast, plumb down into the fore-castle, aloft there to the royal mast-head. True, they rather order me about some, and make me jump from spar to spar, like a grasshopper in a May meadow. And at first, this sort of thing is unpleasant enough. It touches one’s sense of honor, particularly if you come of an old established family in the land, the Van Rensselaers, or Randolphs, or Hardicanutes. And more than all, if just previous to putting your hand into the tar-pot, you have been lording it as a country schoolmaster, making the tallest boys stand in awe of you. The transition is a keen one, I assure you, from a schoolmaster to a sailor, and requires a strong decoction of Seneca and the Stoics to enable you to grin and bear it. But even this wears off in time.

What of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down the decks? What does that indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who ain’t a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may order me about–however they may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way– either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other’s shoulder-blades, and be content.

Again, I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make a point of paying me for my trouble, whereas they never pay passengers a single penny that I ever heard of. On the contrary, passengers themselves must pay. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable infliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us. But being paid,– what will compare with it? The urbane activity with which a man receives money is really marvellous, considering that we so earnestly believe money to be the root of all earthly ills, and that on no account can a monied man enter heaven. Ah! how cheerfully we consign ourselves to perdition!

Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome exercise and pure air of the fore-castle deck. For as in this world, head winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate the Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the Commodore on the quarter-deck gets his atmosphere at second hand from the sailors on the forecastle. He thinks he breathes it first; but not so. In much the same way do the commonalty lead their leaders in many other things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it. But wherefore it was that after having repeatedly smelt the sea as a merchant sailor, I should now take it into my head to go on a whaling voyage; this the invisible police officer of the Fates, who has the constant surveillance of me, and secretly dogs me, and influences me in some unaccountable way– he can better answer than any one else. And, doubtless, my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand programme of Providence that was drawn up a long time ago. It came in as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances. I take it that this part of the bill must have run something like this:

“Grand Contested Election for the Presidency of the United States. “WHALING VOYAGE BY ONE ISHMAEL.” “BLOODY BATTLE IN AFFGHANISTAN.”

Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage managers, the Fates, put me down for this shabby part of a whaling voyage, when others were set down for magnificent parts in high tragedies, and short and easy parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces– though I cannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all the circumstances, I think I can see a little into the springs and motives which being cunningly presented to me under various disguises, induced me to set about performing the part I did, besides cajoling me into the delusion that it was a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill and discriminating judgment.

Chief among these motives was the overwhelming idea of the great whale himself. Such a portentous and mysterious monster roused all my curiosity. Then the wild and distant seas where he rolled his island bulk; the undeliverable, nameless perils of the whale; these, with all the attending marvels of a thousand Patagonian sights and sounds, helped to sway me to my wish. With other men, perhaps, such things would not have been inducements; but as for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts. Not ignoring what is good, I am quick to perceive a horror, and could still be social with it–would they let me–since it is but well to be on friendly terms with all the inmates of the place one lodges in.

By reason of these things, then, the whaling voyage was welcome; the great flood-gates of the wonder-world swung open, and in the wild conceits that swayed me to my purpose, two and two there floated into my inmost soul, endless processions of the whale, and, mid most of them all, one grand hooded phantom, like a snow hill in the air.

CHAPTER 2

The Carpet-Bag

I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked it under my arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific. Quitting the good city of old Manhatto, I duly arrived in New Bedford. It was on a Saturday night in December. Much was I disappointed upon learning that the little packet for Nantucket had already sailed, and that no way of reaching that place would offer, till the following Monday.

As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling stop at this same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it may as well be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For my mind was made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft, because there was a fine, boisterous something about everything connected with that famous old island, which amazingly pleased me. Besides though New Bedford has of late been gradually monopolizing the business of whaling, and though in this matter poor old Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket was her great original– the Tyre of this Carthage;–the place where the first dead American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket did those aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes to give chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Nantucket, too, did that first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with imported cobblestones–so goes the story– to throw at the whales, in order to discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the bowsprit?

Now having a night, a day, and still another night following before me in New Bedford, ere I could embark for my destined port, it became a matter of concernment where I was to eat and sleep meanwhile. It was a very dubious-looking, nay, a very dark and dismal night, bitingly cold and cheerless. I knew no one in the place. With anxious grapnels I had sounded my pocket, and only brought up a few pieces of silver,–So, wherever you go, Ishmael, said I to myself, as I stood in the middle of a dreary street shouldering my bag, and comparing the gloom towards the north with the darkness towards the south–wherever in your wisdom you may conclude to lodge for the night, my dear Ishmael, be sure to inquire the price, and don’t be too particular.

With halting steps I paced the streets, and passed the sign of “The Crossed Harpoons”–but it looked too expensive and jolly there. Further on, from the bright red windows of the “Sword-Fish Inn,” there came such fervent rays, that it seemed to have melted the packed snow and ice from before the house, for everywhere else the congealed frost lay ten inches thick in a hard, asphaltic pavement,–rather weary for me, when I struck my foot against the flinty projections, because from hard, remorseless service the soles of my boots were in a most miserable plight. Too expensive and jolly, again thought I, pausing one moment to watch the broad glare in the street, and hear the sounds of the tinkling glasses within. But go on, Ishmael, said I at last; don’t you hear? get away from before the door; your patched boots are stopping the way. So on I went. I now by instinct followed the streets that took me waterward, for there, doubtless, were the cheapest, if not the cheeriest inns.

Such dreary streets! Blocks of blackness, not houses, on either hand, and here and there a candle, like a candle moving about in a tomb. At this hour of the night, of the last day of the week, that quarter of the town proved all but deserted. But presently I came to a smoky light proceeding from a low, wide building, the door of which stood invitingly open. It had a careless look, as if it were meant for the uses of the public; so, entering, the first thing I did was to stumble over an ash-box in the porch. Ha! thought I, ha, as the flying particles almost choked me, are these ashes from that destroyed city, Gomorrah? But “The Crossed Harpoons,” and the “The Sword-Fish?”–this, then must needs be the sign of “The Trap.” However, I picked myself up and hearing a loud voice within, pushed on and opened a second, interior door.

It seemed the great Black Parliament sitting in Tophet. A hundred black faces turned round in their rows to peer; and beyond, a black Angel of Doom was beating a book in a pulpit. It was a negro church; and the preacher’s text was about the blackness of darkness, and the weeping and wailing and teeth-gnashing there. Ha, Ishmael, muttered I, backing out, Wretched entertainment at the sign of ‘The Trap!’

Moving on, I at last came to a dim sort of light not far from the docks, and heard a forlorn creaking in the air; and looking up, saw a swinging sign over the door with a white painting upon it, faintly representing a tall straight jet of misty spray, and these words underneath–“The Spouter Inn:–Peter Coffin.”

Coffin?–Spouter?–Rather ominous in that particular connexion, thought I. But it is a common name in Nantucket, they say, and I suppose this Peter here is an emigrant from there. As the light looked so dim, and the place, for the time, looked quiet enough, and the dilapidated little wooden house itself looked as if it might have been carted here from the ruins of some burnt district, and as the swinging sign had a poverty-stricken sort of creak to it, I thought that here was the very spot for cheap lodgings, and the best of pea coffee.

It was a queer sort of place–a gable-ended old house, one side palsied as it were, and leaning over sadly. It stood on a sharp bleak corner, where that tempestuous wind Euroclydon kept up a worse howling than ever it did about poor Paul’s tossed craft. Euroclydon, nevertheless, is a mighty pleasant zephyr to any one in-doors, with his feet on the hob quietly toasting for bed. In judging of that tempestuous wind called Euroclydon,” says an old writer–of whose works I possess the only copy extant–“it maketh a marvellous difference, whether thou lookest out at it from a glass window where the frost is all on the outside, or whether thou observest it from that sashless window, where the frost is on both sides, and of which the wight Death is the only glazier.” True enough, thought I, as this passage occurred to my mind–old black-letter, thou reasonest well. Yes, these eyes are windows, and this body of mine is the house. What a pity they didn’t stop up the chinks and the crannies though, and thrust in a little lint here and there. But it’s too late to make any improvements now. The universe is finished; the copestone is on, and the chips were carted off a million years ago. Poor Lazarus there, chattering his teeth against the curbstone for his pillow, and shaking off his tatters with his shiverings, he might plug up both ears with rags, and put a corn-cob into his mouth, and yet that would not keep out the tempestuous Euroclydon. Euroclydon! says old Dives, in his red silken wrapper–(he had a redder one afterwards) pooh, pooh! What a fine frosty night; how Orion glitters; what northern lights! Let them talk of their oriental summer climes of everlasting conservatories; give me the privilege of making my own summer with my own coals.

But what thinks Lazarus? Can he warm his blue hands by holding them up to the grand northern lights? Would not Lazarus rather be in Sumatra than here? Would he not far rather lay him down lengthwise along the line of the equator; yea, ye gods! go down to the fiery pit itself, in order to keep out this frost?

Now, that Lazarus should lie stranded there on the curbstone before the door of Dives, this is more wonderful than that an iceberg should be moored to one of the Moluccas. Yet Dives himself, he too lives like a Czar in an ice palace made of frozen sighs, and being a president of a temperance society, he only drinks the tepid tears of orphans.

But no more of this blubbering now, we are going a-whaling, and there is plenty of that yet to come. Let us scrape the ice from our frosted feet, and see what sort of a place this “Spouter” may be.

CHAPTER 3

The Spouter-Inn

Entering that gable-ended Spouter-Inn, you found yourself in a wide, low, straggling entry with old-fashioned wainscots, reminding one of the bulwarks of some condemned old craft. On one side hung a very large oil painting so thoroughly besmoked, and every way defaced, that in the unequal crosslights by which you viewed it, it was only by diligent study and a series of systematic visits to it, and careful inquiry of the neighbors, that you could any way arrive at an understanding of its purpose. Such unaccountable masses of shades and shadows, that at first you almost thought some ambitious young artist, in the time of the New England hags, had endeavored to delineate chaos bewitched. But by dint of much and earnest contemplation, and oft repeated ponderings, and especially by throwing open the little window towards the back of the entry, you at last come to the conclusion that such an idea, however wild, might not be altogether unwarranted.

But what most puzzled and confounded you was a long, limber, portentous, black mass of something hovering in the centre of the picture over three blue, dim, perpendicular lines floating in a nameless yeast. A boggy, soggy, squitchy picture truly, enough to drive a nervous man distracted. Yet was there a sort of indefinite, half-attained, unimaginable sublimity about it that fairly froze you to it, till you involuntarily took an oath with yourself to find out what that marvellous painting meant. Ever and anon a bright, but, alas, deceptive idea would dart you through.– It’s the Black Sea in a midnight gale.–It’s the unnatural combat of the four primal elements.–It’s a blasted heath.– It’s a Hyperborean winter scene.–It’s the breaking-up of the icebound stream of Time. But at last all these fancies yielded to that one portentous something in the picture’s midst. That once found out, and all the rest were plain. But stop; does it not bear a faint resemblance to a gigantic fish? even the great leviathan himself?

In fact, the artist’s design seemed this: a final theory of my own, partly based upon the aggregated opinions of many aged persons with whom I conversed upon the subject. The picture represents a Cape-Horner in a great hurricane; the half-foundered ship weltering there with its three dismantled masts alone visible; and an exasperated whale, purposing to spring clean over the craft, is in the enormous act of impaling himself upon the three mast-heads.

The opposite wall of this entry was hung all over with a heathenish array of monstrous clubs and spears. Some were thickly set with glittering teeth resembling ivory saws; others were tufted with knots of human hair; and one was sickle-shaped, with a vast handle sweeping round like the segment made in the new-mown grass by a long-armed mower. You shuddered as you gazed, and wondered what monstrous cannibal and savage could ever have gone a death-harvesting with such a hacking, horrifying implement. Mixed with these were rusty old whaling lances and harpoons all broken and deformed. Some were storied weapons. With this once long lance, now wildly elbowed, fifty years ago did Nathan Swain kill fifteen whales between a sunrise and a sunset. And that harpoon–so like a corkscrew now–was flung in Javan seas, and run away with by a whale, years afterwards slain off the Cape of Blanco. The original iron entered nigh the tail, and, like a restless needle sojourning in the body of a man, travelled full forty feet, and at last was found imbedded in the hump.

Crossing this dusky entry, and on through yon low-arched way– cut through what in old times must have been a great central chimney with fireplaces all round–you enter the public room. A still duskier place is this, with such low ponderous beams above, and such old wrinkled planks beneath, that you would almost fancy you trod some old craft’s cockpits, especially of such a howling night, when this corner-anchored old ark rocked so furiously. On one side stood a long, low, shelf-like table covered with cracked glass cases, filled with dusty rarities gathered from this wide world’s remotest nooks. Projecting from the further angle of the room stands a dark-looking den–the bar–a rude attempt at a right whale’s head. Be that how it may, there stands the vast arched bone of the whale’s jaw, so wide, a coach might almost drive beneath it. Within are shabby shelves, ranged round with old decanters, bottles, flasks; and in those jaws of swift destruction, like another cursed Jonah (by which name indeed they called him), bustles a little withered old man, who, for their money, dearly sells the sailors deliriums and death.

Abominable are the tumblers into which he pours his poison. Though true cylinders without–within, the villanous green goggling glasses deceitfully tapered downwards to a cheating bottom. Parallel meridians rudely pecked into the glass, surround these footpads’ goblets. Fill to this mark, and your charge is but a penny; to this a penny more; and so on to the full glass– the Cape Horn measure, which you may gulp down for a shilling.

Upon entering the place I found a number of young seamen gathered about a table, examining by a dim light divers specimens of skrimshander. I sought the landlord, and telling him I desired to be accommodated with a room, received for answer that his house was full– not a bed unoccupied. “But avast,” he added, tapping his forehead, “you haint no objections to sharing a harpooneer’s blanket, have ye? I s’pose you are goin’ a-whalin’, so you’d better get used to that sort of thing.”

I told him that I never liked to sleep two in a bed; that if I should ever do so, it would depend upon who the harpooneer might be, and that if he (the landlord) really had no other place for me, and the harpooneer was not decidedly objectionable, why rather than wander further about a strange town on so bitter a night, I would put up with the half of any decent man’s blanket.

“I thought so. All right; take a seat. Supper?–you want supper? Supper’ll be ready directly.”

I sat down on an old wooden settle, carved all over like a bench on the Battery. At one end a ruminating tar was still further adorning it with his jack-knife, stooping over and diligently working away at the space between his legs. He was trying his hand at a ship under full sail, but he didn’t make much headway, I thought.

At last some four or five of us were summoned to our meal in an adjoining room. It was cold as Iceland– no fire at all–the landlord said he couldn’t afford it. Nothing but two dismal tallow candles, each in a winding sheet. We were fain to button up our monkey jackets, and hold to our lips cups of scalding tea with our half frozen fingers. But the fare was of the most substantial kind–not only meat and potatoes, but dumplings; good heavens! dumplings for supper! One young fellow in a green box coat, addressed himself to these dumplings in a most direful manner.

“My boy,” said the landlord, “you’ll have the nightmare to a dead sartainty.”

“Landlord,” I whispered, “that aint the harpooneer is it?”

“Oh, no,” said he, looking a sort of diabolically funny, “the harpooneer is a dark complexioned chap. He never eats dumplings, he don’t– he eats nothing but steaks, and he likes ’em rare.”

“The devil he does,” says I. “Where is that harpooneer? Is he here?”

“He’ll be here afore long,” was the answer.

I could not help it, but I began to feel suspicious of this “dark complexioned” harpooneer. At any rate, I made up my mind that if it so turned out that we should sleep together, he must undress and get into bed before I did.

Supper over, the company went back to the bar-room, when, knowing not what else to do with myself, I resolved to spend the rest of the evening as a looker on.

Presently a rioting noise was heard without. Starting up, the landlord cried, “That’s the Grampus’s crew. I seed her reported in the offing this morning; a three years’ voyage, and a full ship. Hurrah, boys; now we’ll have the latest news from the Feegees.”

A tramping of sea boots was heard in the entry; the door was flung open, and in rolled a wild set of mariners enough. Enveloped in their shaggy watch coats, and with their heads muffled in woollen comforters, all bedarned and ragged, and their beards stiff with icicles, they seemed an eruption of bears from Labrador. They had just landed from their boat, and this was the first house they entered. No wonder, then, that they made a straight wake for the whale’s mouth– the bar–when the wrinkled little old Jonah, there officiating, soon poured them out brimmers all round. One complained of a bad cold in his head, upon which Jonah mixed him a pitch-like potion of gin and molasses, which he swore was a sovereign cure for all colds and catarrhs whatsoever, never mind of how long standing, or whether caught off the coast of Labrador, or on the weather side of an ice-island.

The liquor soon mounted into their heads, as it generally does even with the arrantest topers newly landed from sea, and they began capering about most obstreperously.

I observed, however, that one of them held somewhat aloof, and though he seemed desirous not to spoil the hilarity of his shipmates by his own sober face, yet upon the whole he refrained from making as much noise as the rest. This man interested me at once; and since the sea-gods had ordained that he should soon become my shipmate (though but a sleeping partner one, so far as this narrative is concerned), I will here venture upon a little description of him. He stood full six feet in height, with noble shoulders, and a chest like a coffer-dam. I have seldom seen such brawn in a man. His face was deeply brown and burnt, making his white teeth dazzling by the contrast; while in the deep shadows of his eyes floated some reminiscences that did not seem to give him much joy. His voice at once announced that he was a Southerner, and from his fine stature, I thought he must be one of those tall mountaineers from the Alleghanian Ridge in Virginia. When the revelry of his companions had mounted to its height, this man slipped away unobserved, and I saw no more of him till he became my comrade on the sea. In a few minutes, however, he was missed by his shipmates, and being, it seems, for some reason a huge favorite with them, they raised a cry of “Bulkington! Bulkington! where’s Bulkington?” and darted out of the house in pursuit of him.

It was now about nine o’clock, and the room seeming almost supernaturally quiet after these orgies, I began to congratulate myself upon a little plan that had occurred to me just previous to the entrance of the seamen.

No man prefers to sleep two in a bed. In fact, you would a good deal rather not sleep with your own brother. I don’t know how it is, but people like to be private when they are sleeping. And when it comes to sleeping with an unknown stranger, in a strange inn, in a strange town, and that stranger a harpooneer, then your objections indefinitely multiply. Nor was there any earthly reason why I as a sailor should sleep two in a bed, more than anybody else; for sailors no more sleep two in a bed at sea, than bachelor Kings do ashore. To be sure they all sleep together in one apartment, but you have your own hammock, and cover yourself with your own blanket, and sleep in your own skin.

The more I pondered over this harpooneer, the more I abominated the thought of sleeping with him. It was fair to presume that being a harpooneer, his linen or woollen, as the case might be, would not be of the tidiest, certainly none of the finest. I began to twitch all over. Besides, it was getting late, and my decent harpooneer ought to be home and going bedwards. Suppose now, he should tumble in upon me at midnight– how could I tell from what vile hole he had been coming?

“Landlord! I’ve changed my mind about that harpooneer.– I shan’t sleep with him. I’ll try the bench here.”

“Just as you please; I’m sorry I cant spare ye a tablecloth for a mattress, and it’s a plaguy rough board here”–feeling of the knots and notches. “But wait a bit, Skrimshander; I’ve got a carpenter’s plane there in the bar–wait, I say, and I’ll make ye snug enough.” So saying he procured the plane; and with his old silk handkerchief first dusting the bench, vigorously set to planing away at my bed, the while grinning like an ape. The shavings flew right and left; till at last the plane-iron came bump against an indestructible knot. The landlord was near spraining his wrist, and I told him for heaven’s sake to quit–the bed was soft enough to suit me, and I did not know how all the planing in the world could make eider down of a pine plank. So gathering up the shavings with another grin, and throwing them into the great stove in the middle of the room, he went about his business, and left me in a brown study.

I now took the measure of the bench, and found that it was a foot too short; but that could be mended with a chair. But it was a foot too narrow, and the other bench in the room was about four inches higher than the planed one– so there was no yoking them. I then placed the first bench lengthwise along the only clear space against the wall, leaving a little interval between, for my back to settle down in. But I soon found that there came such a draught of cold air over me from under the sill of the window, that this plan would never do at all, especially as another current from the rickety door met the one from the window, and both together formed a series of small whirlwinds in the immediate vicinity of the spot where I had thought to spend the night.

The devil fetch that harpooneer, thought I, but stop, couldn’t I steal a march on him–bolt his door inside, and jump into his bed, not to be wakened by the most violent knockings? It seemed no bad idea but upon second thoughts I dismissed it. For who could tell but what the next morning, so soon as I popped out of the room, the harpooneer might be standing in the entry, all ready to knock me down!

Still looking around me again, and seeing no possible chance of spending a sufferable night unless in some other person’s bed, I began to think that after all I might be cherishing unwarrantable prejudices against this unknown harpooneer. Thinks I, I’ll wait awhile; he must be dropping in before long. I’ll have a good look at him then, and perhaps we may become jolly good bedfellows after all–there’s no telling.

But though the other boarders kept coming in by ones, twos, and threes, and going to bed, yet no sign of my harpooneer.

“Landlord! said I, “what sort of a chap is he–does he always keep such late hours?” It was now hard upon twelve o’clock.

The landlord chuckled again with his lean chuckle, and seemed to be mightily tickled at something beyond my comprehension. “No,” he answered, “generally he’s an early bird–airley to bed and airley to rise–yea, he’s the bird what catches the worm. But to-night he went out a peddling, you see, and I don’t see what on airth keeps him so late, unless, may be, he can’t sell his head.”

“Can’t sell his head?–What sort of a bamboozingly story is this you are telling me?” getting into a towering rage. “Do you pretend to say, landlord, that this harpooneer is actually engaged this blessed Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning, in peddling his head around this town?”

“That’s precisely it,” said the landlord, “and I told him he couldn’t sell it here, the market’s overstocked.”

“With what?” shouted I.

“With heads to be sure; ain’t there too many heads in the world?”

“I tell you what it is, landlord,” said I quite calmly, “you’d better stop spinning that yarn to me–I’m not green.”

“May be not,” taking out a stick and whittling a toothpick, “but I rayther guess you’ll be done brown if that ere harpooneer hears you a slanderin’ his head.”

“I’ll break it for him,” said I, now flying into a passion again at this unaccountable farrago of the landlord’s.

“It’s broke a’ready,” said he.

“Broke,” said I–“broke, do you mean?”

“Sartain, and that’s the very reason he can’t sell it, I guess.”

“Landlord,” said I, going up to him as cool as Mt. Hecla in a snowstorm–“landlord, stop whittling. You and I must understand one another, and that too without delay. I come to your house and want a bed; you tell me you can only give me half a one; that the other half belongs to a certain harpooneer. And about this harpooneer, whom I have not yet seen, you persist in telling me the most mystifying and exasperating stories tending to beget in me an uncomfortable feeling towards the man whom you design for my bedfellow–a sort of connexion, landlord, which is an intimate and confidential one in the highest degree. I now demand of you to speak out and tell me who and what this harpooneer is, and whether I shall be in all respects safe to spend the night with him. And in the first place, you will be so good as to unsay that story about selling his head, which if true I take to be good evidence that this harpooneer is stark mad, and I’ve no idea of sleeping with a madman; and you, sir, you I mean, landlord, you, sir, by trying to induce me to do so knowingly would thereby render yourself liable to a criminal prosecution.”

“Wall,” said the landlord, fetching a long breath, “that’s a purty long sarmon for a chap that rips a little now and then. But be easy, be easy, this here harpooneer I have been tellin’ you of has just arrived from the south seas, where he bought up a lot of ‘balmed New Zealand heads (great curios, you know), and he’s sold all on ’em but one, and that one he’s trying to sell to-night, cause to-morrow’s Sunday, and it would not do to be sellin’ human heads about the streets when folks is goin’ to churches. He wanted to last Sunday, but I stopped him just as he was goin’ out of the door with four heads strung on a string, for all the airth like a string of inions.”

This account cleared up the otherwise unaccountable mystery, and showed that the landlord, after all, had had no idea of fooling me– but at the same time what could I think of a harpooneer who stayed out of a Saturday night clean into the holy Sabbath, engaged in such a cannibal business as selling the heads of dead idolators?

“Depend upon it, landlord, that harpooneer is a dangerous man.”

“He pays reg’lar,” was the rejoinder. “But come, it’s getting dreadful late, you had better be turning flukes–it’s a nice bed: Sal and me slept in that ere bed the night we were spliced. There’s plenty of room for two to kick about in that bed; it’s an almighty big bed that. Why, afore we give it up, Sal used to put our Sam and little Johnny in the foot of it. But I got a dreaming and sprawling about one night, and somehow, Sam got pitched on the floor, and came near breaking his arm. After that, Sal said it wouldn’t do. Come along here, I’ll give ye a glim in a jiffy;” and so saying he lighted a candle and held it towards me, offering to lead the way. But I stood irresolute; when looking at a clock in the corner, he exclaimed “I vum it’s Sunday–you won’t see that harpooneer to-night; he’s come to anchor somewhere–come along then; do come; won’t ye come?”

I considered the matter a moment, and then up stairs we went, and I was ushered into a small room, cold as a clam, and furnished, sure enough, with a prodigious bed, almost big enough indeed for any four harpooneers to sleep abreast.

“There,” said the landlord, placing the candle on a crazy old sea chest that did double duty as a wash-stand and centre table; “there, make yourself comfortable now; and good night to ye.” I turned round from eyeing the bed, but he had disappeared.

Folding back the counterpane, I stooped over the bed. Though none of the most elegant, it yet stood the scrutiny tolerably well. I then glanced round the room; and besides the bedstead and centre table, could see no other furniture belonging to the place, but a rude shelf, the four walls, and a papered fireboard representing a man striking a whale. Of things not properly belonging to the room, there was a hammock lashed up, and thrown upon the floor in one corner; also a large seaman’s bag, containing the harpooneer’s wardrobe, no doubt in lieu of a land trunk. Likewise, there was a parcel of outlandish bone fish hooks on the shelf over the fire-place, and a tall harpoon standing at the head of the bed.

But what is this on the chest? I took it up, and held it close to the light, and felt it, and smelt it, and tried every way possible to arrive at some satisfactory conclusion concerning it. I can compare it to nothing but a large door mat, ornamented at the edges with little tinkling tags something like the stained porcupine quills round an Indian moccasin. There was a hole or slit in the middle of this mat, as you see the same in South American ponchos. But could it be possible that any sober harpooneer would get into a door mat, and parade the streets of any Christian town in that sort of guise? I put it on, to try it, and it weighed me down like a hamper, being uncommonly shaggy and thick, and I thought a little damp, as though this mysterious harpooneer had been wearing it of a rainy day. I went up in it to a bit of glass stuck against the wall, and I never saw such a sight in my life. I tore myself out of it in such a hurry that I gave myself a kink in the neck.

I sat down on the side of the bed, and commenced thinking about this head-peddling harpooneer, and his door mat. After thinking some time on the bed-side, I got up and took off my monkey jacket, and then stood in the middle of the room thinking. I then took off my coat, and thought a little more in my shirt sleeves. But beginning to feel very cold now, half undressed as I was, and remembering what the landlord said about the harpooneer’s not coming home at all that night, it being so very late, I made no more ado, but jumped out of my pantaloons and boots, and then blowing out the light tumbled into bed, and commended myself to the care of heaven.

Whether that mattress was stuffed with corncobs or broken crockery, there is no telling, but I rolled about a good deal, and could not sleep for a long time. At last I slid off into a light doze, and had pretty nearly made a good offing towards the land of Nod, when I heard a heavy footfall in the passage, and saw a glimmer of light come into the room from under the door.

Lord save me, thinks I, that must be the harpooneer, the infernal head-peddler. But I lay perfectly still, and resolved not to say a word till spoken to. Holding a light in one hand, and that identical New Zealand head in the other, the stranger entered the room, and without looking towards the bed, placed his candle a good way off from me on the floor in one corner, and then began working away at the knotted cords of the large bag I before spoke of as being in the room. I was all eagerness to see his face, but he kept it averted for some time while employed in unlacing the bag’s mouth. This accomplished, however, he turned round–when, good heavens; what a sight! Such a face! It was of a dark, purplish, yellow color, here and there stuck over with large blackish looking squares. Yes, it’s just as I thought, he’s a terrible bedfellow; he’s been in a fight, got dreadfully cut, and here he is, just from the surgeon. But at that moment he chanced to turn his face so towards the light, that I plainly saw they could not be sticking-plasters at all, those black squares on his cheeks. They were stains of some sort or other. At first I knew not what to make of this; but soon an inkling of the truth occurred to me. I remembered a story of a white man–a whaleman too– who, falling among the cannibals, had been tattooed by them. I concluded that this harpooneer, in the course of his distant voyages, must have met with a similar adventure. And what is it, thought I, after all! It’s only his outside; a man can be honest in any sort of skin. But then, what to make of his unearthly complexion, that part of it, I mean, lying round about, and completely independent of the squares of tattooing. To be sure, it might be nothing but a good coat of tropical tanning; but I never heard of a hot sun’s tanning a white man into a purplish yellow one. However, I had never been in the South Seas; and perhaps the sun there produced these extraordinary effects upon the skin. Now, while all these ideas were passing through me like lightning, this harpooneer never noticed me at all. But, after some difficulty having opened his bag, he commenced fumbling in it, and presently pulled out a sort of tomahawk, and a seal-skin wallet with the hair on. Placing these on the old chest in the middle of the room, he then took the New Zealand head–a ghastly thing enough– and crammed it down into the bag. He now took off his hat– a new beaver hat–when I came nigh singing out with fresh surprise. There was no hair on his head–none to speak of at least– nothing but a small scalp-knot twisted up on his forehead. His bald purplish head now looked for all the world like a mildewed skull. Had not the stranger stood between me and the door, I would have bolted out of it quicker than ever I bolted a dinner.

Even as it was, I thought something of slipping out of the window, but it was the second floor back. I am no coward, but what to make of this headpeddling purple rascal altogether passed my comprehension. Ignorance is the parent of fear, and being completely nonplussed and confounded about the stranger, I confess I was now as much afraid of him as if it was the devil himself who had thus broken into my room at the dead of night. In fact, I was so afraid of him that I was not game enough just then to address him, and demand a satisfactory answer concerning what seemed inexplicable in him.

Meanwhile, he continued the business of undressing, and at last showed his chest and arms. As I live, these covered parts of him were checkered with the same squares as his face, his back, too, was all over the same dark squares; he seemed to have been in a Thirty Years’ War, and just escaped from it with a sticking-plaster shirt. Still more, his very legs were marked, as if a parcel of dark green frogs were running up the trunks of young palms. It was now quite plain that he must be some abominable savage or other shipped aboard of a whaleman in the South Seas, and so landed in this Christian country. I quaked to think of it. A peddler of heads too–perhaps the heads of his own brothers. He might take a fancy to mine–heavens! look at that tomahawk!

But there was no time for shuddering, for now the savage went about something that completely fascinated my attention, and convinced me that he must indeed be a heathen. Going to his heavy grego, or wrapall, or dreadnaught, which he had previously hung on a chair, he fumbled in the pockets, and produced at length a curious little deformed image with a hunch on its back, and exactly the color of a three days’ old Congo baby. Remembering the embalmed head, at first I almost thought that this black manikin was a real baby preserved in some similar manner. But seeing that it was not at all limber, and that it glistened a good deal like polished ebony, I concluded that it must be nothing but a wooden idol, which indeed it proved to be. For now the savage goes up to the empty fire-place, and removing the papered fire-board, sets up this little hunch-backed image, like a tenpin, between the andirons. The chimney jambs and all the bricks inside were very sooty, so that I thought this fire-place made a very appropriate little shrine or chapel for his Congo idol.

I now screwed my eyes hard towards the half hidden image, feeling but ill at ease meantime–to see what was next to follow. First he takes about a double handful of shavings out of his grego pocket, and places them carefully before the idol; then laying a bit of ship biscuit on top and applying the flame from the lamp, he kindled the shavings into a sacrificial blaze. Presently, after many hasty snatches into the fire, and still hastier withdrawals of his fingers (whereby he seemed to be scorching them badly), he at last succeeded in drawing out the biscuit; then blowing off the heat and ashes a little, he made a polite offer of it to the little negro. But the little devil did not seem to fancy such dry sort of fare at all; he never moved his lips. All these strange antics were accompanied by still stranger guttural noises from the devotee, who seemed to be praying in a sing-song or else singing some pagan psalmody or other, during which his face twitched about in the most unnatural manner. At last extinguishing the fire, he took the idol up very unceremoniously, and bagged it again in his grego pocket as carelessly as if he were a sportsman bagging a dead woodcock.

All these queer proceedings increased my uncomfortableness, and seeing him now exhibiting strong symptoms of concluding his business operations, and jumping into bed with me, I thought it was high time, now or never, before the light was put out, to break the spell in which I had so long been bound.

But the interval I spent in deliberating what to say, was a fatal one. Taking up his tomahawk from the table, he examined the head of it for an instant, and then holding it to the light, with his mouth at the handle, he puffed out great clouds of tobacco smoke. The next moment the light was extinguished, and this wild cannibal, tomahawk between his teeth, sprang into bed with me. I sang out, I could not help it now; and giving a sudden grunt of astonishment he began feeling me.

Stammering out something, I knew not what, I rolled away from him against the wall, and then conjured him, whoever or whatever he might be, to keep quiet, and let me get up and light the lamp again. But his guttural responses satisfied me at once that he but ill comprehended my meaning.

“Who-e debel you?”–he at last said–“you no speak-e, dam-me, I kill-e.” And so saying the lighted tomahawk began flourishing about me in the dark.

“Landlord, for God’s sake, Peter Coffin!” shouted I. “Landlord! Watch! Coffin! Angels! save me!”

“Speak-e! tell-ee me who-ee be, or dam-me, I kill-e!” again growled the cannibal, while his horrid flourishings of the tomahawk scattered the hot tobacco ashes about me till I thought my linen would get on fire. But thank heaven, at that moment the landlord came into the room light in hand, and leaping from the bed I ran up to him.

“Don’t be afraid now,” said he, grinning again, “Queequeg here wouldn’t harm a hair of your head.”

“Stop your grinning,” shouted I, “and why didn’t you tell me that that infernal harpooneer was a cannibal?”

“I thought ye know’d it;–didn’t I tell ye, he was a peddlin’ heads around town?–but turn flukes again and go to sleep. Queequeg, look here–you sabbee me, I sabbee–you this man sleepe you–you sabbee?”

“Me sabbee plenty”–grunted Queequeg, puffing away at his pipe and sitting up in bed.

“You gettee in,” he added, motioning to me with his tomahawk, and throwing the clothes to one side. He really did this in not only a civil but a really kind and charitable way. I stood looking at him a moment. For all his tattooings he was on the whole a clean, comely looking cannibal. What’s all this fuss I have been making about, thought I to myself–the man’s a human being just as I am: he has just as much reason to fear me, as I have to be afraid of him. Better sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.

“Landlord,” said I, “tell him to stash his tomahawk there, or pipe, or whatever you call it; tell him to stop smoking, in short, and I will turn in with him. But I don’t fancy having a man smoking in bed with me. It’s dangerous. Besides, I ain’t insured.”

This being told to Queequeg, he at once complied, and again politely motioned me to get into bed–rolling over to one side as much as to say– I won’t touch a leg of ye.”

“Good night, landlord,” said I, “you may go.”

I turned in, and never slept better in my life.

CHAPTER 4

The Counterpane

Upon waking next morning about daylight, I found Queequeg’s arm thrown over me in the most loving and affectionate manner. You had almost thought I had been his wife. The counterpane was of patchwork, full of odd little parti-colored squares and triangles; and this arm of his tattooed all over with an interminable Cretan labyrinth of a figure, no two parts of which were of one precise shade– owing I suppose to his keeping his arm at sea unmethodically in sun and shade, his shirt sleeves irregularly rolled up at various times– this same arm of his, I say, looked for all the world like a strip of that same patchwork quilt. Indeed, partly lying on it as the arm did when I first awoke, I could hardly tell it from the quilt, they so blended their hues together; and it was only by the sense of weight and pressure that I could tell that Queequeg was hugging me.

My sensations were strange. Let me try to explain them. When I was a child, I well remember a somewhat similar circumstance that befell me; whether it was a reality or a dream, I never could entirely settle. The circumstance was this. I had been cutting up some caper or other– I think it was trying to crawl up the chimney, as I had seen a little sweep do a few days previous; and my stepmother who, somehow or other, was all the time whipping me, or sending me to bed supperless,– my mother dragged me by the legs out of the chimney and packed me off to bed, though it was only two o’clock in the afternoon of the 21st June, the longest day in the year in our hemisphere. I felt dreadfully. But there was no help for it, so up stairs I went to my little room in the third floor, undressed myself as slowly as possible so as to kill time, and with a bitter sigh got between the sheets.

I lay there dismally calculating that sixteen entire hours must elapse before I could hope for a resurrection. Sixteen hours in bed! the small of my back ached to think of it. And it was so light too; the sun shining in at the window, and a great rattling of coaches in the streets, and the sound of gay voices all over the house. I felt worse and worse– at last I got up, dressed, and softly going down in my stockinged feet, sought out my stepmother, and suddenly threw myself at her feet, beseeching her as a particular favor to give me a good slippering for my misbehaviour: anything indeed but condemning me to lie abed such an unendurable length of time. But she was the best and most conscientious of stepmothers, and back I had to go to my room. For several hours I lay there broad awake, feeling a great deal worse than I have ever done since, even from the greatest subsequent misfortunes. At last I must have fallen into a troubled nightmare of a doze; and slowly waking from it–half steeped in dreams–I opened my eyes, and the before sunlit room was now wrapped in outer darkness. Instantly I felt a shock running through all my frame; nothing was to be seen, and nothing was to be heard; but a supernatural hand seemed placed in mine. My arm hung over the counterpane, and the nameless, unimaginable, silent form or phantom, to which the hand belonged, seemed closely seated by my bed-side. For what seemed ages piled on ages, I lay there, frozen with the most awful fears, not daring to drag away my hand; yet ever thinking that if I could but stir it one single inch, the horrid spell would be broken. I knew not how this consciousness at last glided away from me; but waking in the morning, I shudderingly remembered it all, and for days and weeks and months afterwards I lost myself in confounding attempts to explain the mystery. Nay, to this very hour, I often puzzle myself with it.

Now, take away the awful fear, and my sensations at feeling the supernatural hand in mine were very similar, in their strangeness, to those which I experienced on waking up and seeing Queequeg’s pagan arm thrown round me. But at length all the past night’s events soberly recurred, one by one, in fixed reality, and then I lay only alive to the comical predicament. For though I tried to move his arm– unlock his bridegroom clasp–yet, sleeping as he was, he still hugged me tightly, as though naught but death should part us twain. I now strove to rouse him–“Queequeg!”–but his only answer was a snore. I then rolled over, my neck feeling as if it were in a horse-collar; and suddenly felt a slight scratch. Throwing aside the counterpane, there lay the tomahawk sleeping by the savage’s side, as if it were a hatchet-faced baby. A pretty pickle, truly, thought I; abed here in a strange house in the broad day, with a cannibal and a tomahawk! “Queequeg!–in the name of goodness, Queequeg, wake!” At length, by dint of much wriggling, and loud and incessant expostulations upon the unbecomingness of his hugging a fellow male in that matrimonial sort of style, I succeeded in extracting a grunt; and presently, he drew back his arm, shook himself all over like a Newfoundland dog just from the water, and sat up in bed, stiff as a pike-staff, looking at me, and rubbing his eyes as if he did not altogether remember how I came to be there, though a dim consciousness of knowing something about me seemed slowly dawning over him. Meanwhile, I lay quietly eyeing him, having no serious misgivings now, and bent upon narrowly observing so curious a creature. When, at last, his mind seemed made up touching the character of his bedfellow, and he became, as it were, reconciled to the fact; he jumped out upon the floor, and by certain signs and sounds gave me to understand that, if it pleased me, he would dress first and then leave me to dress afterwards, leaving the whole apartment to myself. Thinks I, Queequeg, under the circumstances, this is a very civilized overture; but, the truth is, these savages have an innate sense of delicacy, say what you will; it is marvellous how essentially polite they are. I pay this particular compliment to Queequeg, because he treated me with so much civility and consideration, while I was guilty of great rudeness; staring at him from the bed, and watching all his toilette motions; for the time my curiosity getting the better of my breeding. Nevertheless, a man like Queequeg you don’t see every day, he and his ways were well worth unusual regarding.

He commenced dressing at top by donning his beaver hat, a very tall one, by the by, and then–still minus his trowsers– he hunted up his boots. What under the heavens he did it for, I cannot tell, but his next movement was to crush himself– boots in hand, and hat on–under the bed; when, from sundry violent gaspings and strainings, I inferred he was hard at work booting himself; though by no law of propriety that I ever heard of, is any man required to be private when putting on his boots. But Queequeg, do you see, was a creature in the transition state– neither caterpillar nor butterfly. He was just enough civilized to show off his outlandishness in the strangest possible manner. His education was not yet completed. He was an undergraduate. If he had not been a small degree civilized, he very probably would not have troubled himself with boots at all; but then, if he had not been still a savage, he never would have dreamt of getting under the bed to put them on. At last, he emerged with his hat very much dented and crushed down over his eyes, and began creaking and limping about the room, as if, not being much accustomed to boots, his pair of damp, wrinkled cowhide ones– probably not made to order either–rather pinched and tormented him at the first go off of a bitter cold morning.

Seeing, now, that there were no curtains to the window, and that the street being very narrow, the house opposite commanded a plain view into the room, and observing more and more the indecorous figure that Queequeg made, staving about with little else but his hat and boots on; I begged him as well as I could, to accelerate his toilet somewhat, and particularly to get into his pantaloons as soon as possible. He complied, and then proceeded to wash himself. At that time in the morning any Christian would have washed his face; but Queequeg, to my amazement, contented himself with restricting his ablutions to his chest, arms, and hands. He then donned his waistcoat, and taking up a piece of hard soap on the wash-stand centre table, dipped it into water and commenced lathering his face. I was watching to see where he kept his razor, when lo and behold, he takes the harpoon from the bed corner, slips out the long wooden stock, unsheathes the head, whets it a little on his boot, and striding up to the bit of mirror against the wall, begins a vigorous scraping, or rather harpooning of his cheeks. Thinks I, Queequeg, this is using Rogers’s best cutlery with a vengeance. Afterwards I wondered the less at this operation when I came to know of what fine steel the head of a harpoon is made, and how exceedingly sharp the long straight edges are always kept.

The rest of his toilet was soon achieved, and he proudly marched out of the room, wrapped up in his great pilot monkey jacket, and sporting his harpoon like a marshal’s baton.

CHAPTER 5

Breakfast

I quickly followed suit, and descending into the bar-room accosted the grinning landlord very pleasantly. I cherished no malice towards him, though he had been skylarking with me not a little in the matter of my bedfellow.

However, a good laugh is a mighty good thing, and rather too scarce a good thing; the more’s the pity. So, if any one man, in his own proper person, afford stuff for a good joke to anybody, let him not be backward, but let him cheerfully allow himself to spend and to be spent in that way. And the man that has anything bountifully laughable about him, be sure there is more in that man than you perhaps think for.

The bar-room was now full of the boarders who had been dropping in the night previous, and whom I had not as yet had a good look at. They were nearly all whalemen; chief mates, and second mates, and third mates, and sea carpenters, and sea coopers, and sea blacksmiths, and harpooneers, and ship keepers; a brown and brawny company, with bosky beards; an unshorn, shaggy set, all wearing monkey jackets for morning gowns.

You could pretty plainly tell how long each one had been ashore. This young fellow’s healthy cheek is like a sun-toasted pear in hue, and would seem to smell almost as musky; he cannot have been three days landed from his Indian voyage. That man next him looks a few shades lighter; you might say a touch of satin wood is in him. In the complexion of a third still lingers a tropic tawn, but slightly bleached withal; he doubtless has tarried whole weeks ashore. But who could show a cheek like Queequeg? which, barred with various tints, seemed like the Andes’ western slope, to show forth in one array, contrasting climates, zone by zone.

“Grub, ho!” now cried the landlord, flinging open a door, and in we went to breakfast.

They say that men who have seen the world, thereby become quite at ease in manner, quite self-possessed in company. Not always, though: Ledyard, the great New England traveller, and Mungo Park, the Scotch one; of all men, they possessed the least assurance in the parlor. But perhaps the mere crossing of Siberia in a sledge drawn by dogs as Ledyard did, or the taking a long solitary walk on an empty stomach, in the negro heart of Africa, which was the sum of poor Mungo’s performances– this kind of travel, I say, may not be the very best mode of attaining a high social polish. Still, for the most part, that sort of thing is to be had anywhere.

These reflections just here are occasioned by the circumstance that after we were all seated at the table, and I was preparing to hear some good stories about whaling; to my no small surprise nearly every man maintained a profound silence. And not only that, but they looked embarrassed. Yes, here were a set of sea-dogs, many of whom without the slightest bashfulness had boarded great whales on the high seas–entire strangers to them– and duelled them dead without winking; and yet, here they sat at a social breakfast table–all of the same calling, all of kindred tastes–looking round as sheepishly at each other as though they had never been out of sight of some sheepfold among the Green Mountains. A curious sight; these bashful bears, these timid warrior whalemen!

But as for Queequeg–why, Queequeg sat there among them– at the head of the table, too, it so chanced; as cool as an icicle. To be sure I cannot say much for his breeding. His greatest admirer could not have cordially justified his bringing his harpoon into breakfast with him, and using it there without ceremony; reaching over the table with it, to the imminent jeopardy of many heads, and grappling the beefsteaks towards him. But that was certainly very coolly done by him, and every one knows that in most people’s estimation, to do anything coolly is to do it genteelly.

We will not speak of all Queequeg’s peculiarities here; how he eschewed coffee and hot rolls, and applied his undivided attention to beefsteaks, done rare. Enough, that when breakfast was over he withdrew like the rest into the public room, lighted his tomahawk-pipe, and was sitting there quietly digesting and smoking with his inseparable hat on, when I sallied out for a stroll.

CHAPTER 6

The Street

If I had been astonished at first catching a glimpse of so outlandish an individual as Queequeg circulating among the polite society of a civilized town, that astonishment soon departed upon taking my first daylight stroll through the streets of New Bedford.

In thoroughfares nigh the docks, any considerable seaport will frequently offer to view the queerest looking nondescripts from foreign parts. Even in Broadway and Chestnut streets, Mediterranean mariners will sometimes jostle the affrighted ladies. Regent Street is not unknown to Lascars and Malays; and at Bombay, in the Apollo Green, live Yankees have often scared the natives. But New Bedford beats all Water Street and Wapping. In these last-mentioned haunts you see only sailors; but in New Bedford, actual cannibals stand chatting at street corners; savages outright; many of whom yet carry on their bones unholy flesh. It makes a stranger stare.

But, besides the Feegeeans, Tongatobooarrs, Erromanggoans, Pannangians, and Brighggians, and, besides the wild specimens of the whaling-craft which unheeded reel about the streets, you will see other sights still more curious, certainly more comical. There weekly arrive in this town scores of green Vermonters and New Hampshire men, all athirst for gain and glory in the fishery. They are mostly young, of stalwart frames; fellows who have felled forests, and now seek to drop the axe and snatch the whale-lance. Many are as green as the Green Mountains whence they came. In some things you would think them but a few hours old. Look there! that chap strutting round the corner. He wears a beaver hat and swallow-tailed coat, girdled with a sailor-belt and a sheath-knife. Here comes another with a sou’-wester and a bombazine cloak.

No town-bred dandy will compare with a country-bred one–I mean a downright bumpkin dandy–a fellow that, in the dog-days, will mow his two acres in buckskin gloves for fear of tanning his hands. Now when a country dandy like this takes it into his head to make a distinguished reputation, and joins the great whale-fishery, you should see the comical things he does upon reaching the seaport. In bespeaking his sea-outfit, he orders bell-buttons to his waistcoats; straps to his canvas trowsers. Ah, poor Hay-Seed! how bitterly will burst those straps in the first howling gale, when thou art driven, straps, buttons, and all, down the throat of the tempest.

But think not that this famous town has only harpooneers, cannibals, and bumpkins to show her visitors. Not at all. Still New Bedford is a queer place. Had it not been for us whalemen, that tract of land would this day perhaps have been in as howling condition as the coast of Labrador. As it is, parts of her back country are enough to frighten one, they look so bony. The town itself is perhaps the dearest place to live in, in all New England. It is a land of oil, true enough: but not like Canaan; a land, also, of corn and wine. The streets do not run with milk; nor in the spring-time do they pave them with fresh eggs. Yet, in spite of this, nowhere in all America will you find more patrician-like houses; parks and gardens more opulent, than in New Bedford. Whence came they? how planted upon this once scraggy scoria of a country?

Go and gaze upon the iron emblematical harpoons round yonder lofty mansion, and your question will be answered. Yes; all these brave houses and flowery gardens came from the Atlantic, Pacific, and Indian oceans. One and all, they were harpooned and dragged up hither from the bottom of the sea. Can Herr Alexander perform a feat like that?

In New Bedford, fathers, they say, give whales for dowers to their daughters, and portion off their nieces with a few porpoises a-piece. You must go to New Bedford to see a brilliant wedding; for, they say, they have reservoirs of oil in every house, and every night recklessly burn their lengths in spermaceti candles.

In summer time, the town is sweet to see; full of fine maples– long avenues of green and gold. And in August, high in air, the beautiful and bountiful horse-chestnuts, candelabra-wise, proffer the passer-by their tapering upright cones of congregated blossoms. So omnipotent is art; which in many a district of New Bedford has superinduced bright terraces of flowers upon the barren refuse rocks thrown aside at creation’s final day.

And the women of New Bedford, they bloom like their own red roses. But roses only bloom in summer; whereas the fine carnation of their cheeks is perennial as sunlight in the seventh heavens. Elsewhere match that bloom of theirs, ye cannot, save in Salem, where they tell me the young girls breathe such musk, their sailor sweethearts smell them miles off shore, as though they were drawing nigh the odorous Moluccas instead of the Puritanic sands.

CHAPTER 7

The Chapel

In this same New Bedford there stands a Whaleman’s Chapel, and few are the moody fishermen, shortly bound for the Indian Ocean or Pacific, who fail to make a Sunday visit to the spot. I am sure that I did not.

Returning from my first morning stroll, I again sallied out upon this special errand. The sky had changed from clear, sunny cold, to driving sleet and mist. Wrapping myself in my shaggy jacket of the cloth called bearskin, I fought my way against the stubborn storm. Entering, I found a small scattered congregation of sailors, and sailors’ wives and widows. A muffled silence reigned, only broken at times by the shrieks of the storm. Each silent worshipper seemed purposely sitting apart from the other, as if each silent grief were insular and incommunicable. The chaplain had not yet arrived; and there these silent islands of men and women sat steadfastly eyeing several marble tablets, with black borders, masoned into the wall on either side the pulpit. Three of them ran something like the following, but I do not pretend to quote:

SACRED

TO THE MEMORY

JOHN TALBOT,

Who, at the age of eighteen, was lost overboard Near the Isle of Desolation, off Patagonia, November 1st, 1836.

THIS TABLET

Is erected to his Memory

BY HIS SISTER.

SACRED

TO THE MEMORY

ROBERT LONG, WILLIS ELLERY, NATHAN COLEMAN, WALTER CANNY, SETH MACY, AND SAMUEL GLEIG,

Forming one of the boats’ crews OF

THE SHIP ELIZA

Who were towed out of sight by a Whale, On the Off-shore Ground in the

PACIFIC,

December 31st, 1839.

THIS MARBLE

Is here placed by their surviving SHIPMATES.

SACRED

TO THE MEMORY

The late

CAPTAIN EZEKIEL HARDY,

Who in the bows of his boat was killed by a Sperm Whale on the coast of Japan, August 3d, 1833.

THIS TABLET

Is erected to his Memory

HIS WIDOW.

Shaking off the sleet from my ice-glazed hat and jacket, I seated myself near the door, and turning sideways was surprised to see Queequeg near me. Affected by the solemnity of the scene, there was a wondering gaze of incredulous curiosity in his countenance. This savage was the only person present who seemed to notice my entrance; because he was the only one who could not read, and, therefore, was not reading those frigid inscriptions on the wall. Whether any of the relatives of the seamen whose names appeared there were now among the congregation, I knew not; but so many are the unrecorded accidents in the fishery, and so plainly did several women present wear the countenance if not the trappings of some unceasing grief, that I feel sure that here before me were assembled those, in whose unhealing hearts the sight of those bleak tablets sympathetically caused the old wounds to bleed afresh.

Oh! ye whose dead lie buried beneath the green grass; who standing among flowers can say–here, here lies my beloved; ye know not the desolation that broods in bosoms like these. What bitter blanks in those black-bordered marbles which cover no ashes! What despair in those immovable inscriptions! What deadly voids and unbidden infidelities in the lines that seem to gnaw upon all Faith, and refuse resurrections to the beings who have placelessly perished without a grave. As well might those tablets stand in the cave of Elephanta as here.

In what census of living creatures, the dead of mankind are included; why it is that a universal proverb says of them, that they tell no tales, though containing more secrets than the Goodwin Sands! how it is that to his name who yesterday departed for the other world, we prefix so significant and infidel a word, and yet do not thus entitle him, if he but embarks for the remotest Indies of this living earth; why the Life Insurance Companies pay death-forfeitures upon immortals; in what eternal, unstirring paralysis, and deadly, hopeless trance, yet lies antique Adam who died sixty round centuries ago; how it is that we still refuse to be comforted for those who we nevertheless maintain are dwelling in unspeakable bliss; why all the living so strive to hush all the dead; wherefore but the rumor of a knocking in a tomb will terrify a whole city. All these things are not without their meanings.

But Faith, like a jackal, feeds among the tombs, and even from these dead doubts she gathers her most vital hope.

It needs scarcely to be told, with what feelings, on the eve of a Nantucket voyage, I regarded those marble tablets, and by the murky light of that darkened, doleful day read the fate of the whalemen who had gone before me. Yes, Ishmael, the same fate may be thine. But somehow I grew merry again. Delightful inducements to embark, fine chance for promotion, it seems–aye, a stove boat will make me an immortal by brevet. Yes, there is death in this business of whaling–a speechlessly quick chaotic bundling of a man into Eternity. But what then? Methinks we have hugely mistaken this matter of Life and Death. Methinks that what they call my shadow here on earth is my true substance. Methinks that in looking at things spiritual, we are too much like oysters observing the sun through the water, and thinking that thick water the thinnest of air. Methinks my body is but the lees of my better being. In fact take my body who will, take it I say, it is not me. And therefore three cheers for Nantucket; and come a stove boat and stove body when they will, for stave my soul, Jove himself cannot.

CHAPTER 8

The Pulpit

I had not been seated very long ere a man of a certain venerable robustness entered; immediately as the storm-pelted door flew back upon admitting him, a quick regardful eyeing of him by all the congregation, sufficiently attested that this fine old man was the chaplain. Yes, it was the famous Father Mapple, so called by the whalemen, among whom he was a very great favorite. He had been a sailor and a harpooneer in his youth, but for many years past had dedicated his life to the ministry. At the time I now write of, Father Mapple was in the hardy winter of a healthy old age; that sort of old age which seems merging into a second flowering youth, for among all the fissures of his wrinkles, there shone certain mild gleams of a newly developing bloom– the spring verdure peeping forth even beneath February’s snow. No one having previously heard his history, could for the first time behold Father Mapple without the utmost interest, because there were certain engrafted clerical peculiarities about him, imputable to that adventurous maritime life he had led. When he entered I observed that he carried no umbrella, and certainly had not come in his carriage, for his tarpaulin hat ran down with melting sleet, and his great pilot cloth jacket seemed almost to drag him to the floor with the weight of the water it had absorbed. However, hat and coat and overshoes were one by one removed, and hung up in a little space in an adjacent corner; when, arrayed in a decent suit, he quietly approached the pulpit.

Like most old fashioned pulpits, it was a very lofty one, and since a regular stairs to such a height would, by its long angle with the floor, seriously contract the already small area of the chapel, the architect, it seemed, had acted upon the hint of Father Mapple, and finished the pulpit without a stairs, substituting a perpendicular side ladder, like those used in mounting a ship from a boat at sea. The wife of a whaling captain had provided the chapel with a handsome pair of red worsted man-ropes for this ladder, which, being itself nicely headed, and stained with a mahogany color, the whole contrivance, considering what manner of chapel it was, seemed by no means in bad taste. Halting for an instant at the foot of the ladder, and with both hands grasping the ornamental knobs of the man-ropes, Father Mapple cast a look upwards, and then with a truly sailor-like but still reverential dexterity, hand over hand, mounted the steps as if ascending the main-top of his vessel.

The perpendicular parts of this side ladder, as is usually the case with swinging ones, were of cloth-covered rope, only the rounds were of wood, so that at every step there was a joint. At my first glimpse of the pulpit, it had not escaped me that however convenient for a ship, these joints in the present instance seemed unnecessary. For I was not prepared to see Father Mapple after gaining the height, slowly turn round, and stooping over the pulpit, deliberately drag up the ladder step by step, till the whole was deposited within, leaving him impregnable in his little Quebec.

I pondered some time without fully comprehending the reason for this. Father Mapple enjoyed such a wide reputation for sincerity and sanctity, that I could not suspect him of courting notoriety by any mere tricks of the stage. No, thought I, there must be some sober reason for this thing; furthermore, it must symbolize something unseen. Can it be, then, that by that act of physical isolation, he signifies his spiritual withdrawal for the time, from all outward worldly ties and connexions? Yes, for replenished with the meat and wine of the word, to the faithful man of God, this pulpit, I see, is a self-containing stronghold–a lofty Ehrenbreitstein, with a perennial well of water within the walls.

But the side ladder was not the only strange feature of the place, borrowed from the chaplain’s former sea-farings. Between the marble cenotaphs on either hand of the pulpit, the wall which formed its back was adorned with a large painting representing a gallant ship beating against a terrible storm off a lee coast of black rocks and snowy breakers. But high above the flying scud and dark-rolling clouds, there floated a little isle of sunlight, from which beamed forth an angel’s face; and this bright face shed a distant spot of radiance upon the ship’s tossed deck, something like that silver plate now inserted into the Victory’s plank where Nelson fell. “Ah, noble ship,” the angel seemed to say, “beat on, beat on, thou noble ship, and bear a hardy helm; for lo! the sun is breaking through; the clouds are rolling off– serenest azure is at hand.”

Nor was the pulpit itself without a trace of the same sea-taste that had achieved the ladder and the picture. Its panelled front was in the likeness of a ship’s bluff bows, and the Holy Bible rested on a projecting piece of scroll work, fashioned after a ship’s fiddle-headed beak.

What could be more full of meaning?–for the pulpit is ever this earth’s foremost part; all the rest comes in its rear; the pulpit leads the world. From thence it is the storm of God’s quick wrath is first descried, and the bow must bear the earliest brunt. From thence it is the God of breezes fair or foul is first invoked for favorable winds. Yes, the world’s a ship on its passage out, and not a voyage complete; and the pulpit is its prow.

CHAPTER 9

The Sermon

Father Mapple rose, and in a mild voice of unassuming authority ordered the scattered people to condense. “Star board gangway, there! side away to larboard–larboard gangway to starboard! Midships! midships!”

There was a low rumbling of heavy sea-boots among the benches, and a still slighter shuffling of women’s shoes, and all was quiet again, and every eye on the preacher.

He paused a little; then kneeling in the pulpit’s bows, folded his large brown hands across his chest, uplifted his closed eyes, and offered a prayer so deeply devout that he seemed kneeling and praying at the bottom of the sea.

This ended, in prolonged solemn tones, like the continual tolling of a bell in a ship that is foundering at sea in a fog– in such tones he commenced reading the following hymn; but changing his manner towards the concluding stanzas, burst forth with a pealing exultation and joy–

The ribs and terrors in the whale, Arched over me a dismal gloom,

While all God’s sun-lit waves rolled by, And lift me deepening down to doom.

I saw the opening maw of hell,

With endless pains and sorrows there; Which none but they that feel can tell– Oh, I was plunging to despair.

In black distress, I called my God, When I could scarce believe him mine, He bowed his ear to my complaints– No more the whale did me confine.

With speed he flew to my relief, As on a radiant dolphin borne;

Awful, yet bright, as lightning shone The face of my Deliverer God.

My song for ever shall record

That terrible, that joyful hour; I give the glory to my God,

His all the mercy and the power.

Nearly all joined in singing this hymn, which swelled high above the howling of the storm. A brief pause ensued; the preacher slowly turned over the leaves of the Bible, and at last, folding his hand down upon the proper page, said: “Beloved shipmates, clinch the last verse of the first chapter of Jonah–‘And God had prepared a great fish to swallow up Jonah.'”

“Shipmates, this book, containing only four chapters– four yarns–is one of the smallest strands in the mighty cable of the Scriptures. Yet what depths of the soul does Jonah’s deep sealine sound! what a pregnant lesson to us is this prophet! What a noble thing is that canticle in the fish’s belly! How billow-like and boisterously grand! We feel the floods surging over us, we sound with him to the kelpy bottom of the waters; sea-weed and all the slime of the sea is about us! But what is this lesson that the book of Jonah teaches? Shipmates, it is a two-stranded lesson; a lesson to us all as sinful men, and a lesson to me as a pilot of the living God. As sinful men, it is a lesson to us all, because it is a story of the sin, hard-heartedness, suddenly awakened fears, the swift punishment, repentance, prayers, and finally the deliverance and joy of Jonah. As with all sinners among men, the sin of this son of Amittai was in his wilful disobedience of the command of God– never mind now what that command was, or how conveyed– which he found a hard command. But all the things that God would have us do are hard for us to do–remember that– and hence, he oftener commands us than endeavors to persuade. And if we obey God, we must disobey ourselves; and it is in this disobeying ourselves, wherein the hardness of obeying God consists.

“With this sin of disobedience in him, Jonah still further flouts at God, by seeking to flee from Him. He thinks that a ship made by men, will carry him into countries where God does not reign but only the Captains of this earth. He skulks about the wharves of Joppa, and seeks a ship that’s bound for Tarshish. There lurks, perhaps, a hitherto unheeded meaning here. By all accounts Tarshish could have been no other city than the modern Cadiz. That’s the opinion of learned men. And where is Cadiz, shipmates? Cadiz is in Spain; as far by water, from Joppa, as Jonah could possibly have sailed in those ancient days, when the Atlantic was an almost unknown sea. Because Joppa, the modern Jaffa, shipmates, is on the most easterly coast of the Mediterranean, the Syrian; and Tarshish or Cadiz more than two thousand miles to the westward from that, just outside the Straits of Gibraltar. See ye not then, shipmates, that Jonah sought to flee worldwide from God? Miserable man! Oh! most contemptible and worthy of all scorn; with slouched hat and guilty eye, skulking from his God; prowling among the shipping like a vile burglar hastening to cross the seas. So disordered, self-condemning is his look, that had there been policemen in those days, Jonah, on the mere suspicion of something wrong, had been arrested ere he touched a deck. How plainly he’s a fugitive! no baggage, not a hat-box, valise, or carpet-bag,–no friends accompany him to the wharf with their adieux. At last, after much dodging search, he finds the Tarshish ship receiving the last items of her cargo; and as he steps on board to see its Captain in the cabin, all the sailors for the moment desist from hoisting in the goods, to mark the stranger’s evil eye. Jonah sees this; but in vain he tries to look all ease and confidence; in vain essays his wretched smile. Strong intuitions of the man assure the mariners he can be no innocent. In their gamesome but still serious way, one whispers to the other–“Jack, he’s robbed a widow;” or, “Joe, do you mark him; he’s a bigamist;” or, “Harry lad, I guess he’s the adulterer that broke jail in old Gomorrah, or belike, one of the missing murderers from Sodom.” Another runs to read the bill that’s stuck against the spile upon the wharf to which the ship is moored, offering five hundred gold coins for the apprehension of a parricide, and containing a description of his person. He reads, and looks from Jonah to the bill; while all his sympathetic shipmates now crowd round Jonah, prepared to lay their hands upon him. Frighted Jonah trembles. and summoning all his boldness to his face, only looks so much the more a coward. He will not confess himself suspected; but that itself is strong suspicion. So he makes the best of it; and when the sailors find him not to be the man that is advertised, they let him pass, and he descends into the cabin.

“‘Who’s there?’ cries the Captain at his busy desk, hurriedly making out his papers for the Customs–‘Who’s there?’ Oh! how that harmless question mangles Jonah! For the instant he almost turns to flee again. But he rallies. ‘I seek a passage in this ship to Tarshish; how soon sail ye, sir?’ Thus far the busy Captain had not looked up to Jonah, though the man now stands before him; but no sooner does he hear that hollow voice, than he darts a scrutinizing glance. ‘We sail with the next coming tide,’ at last he slowly answered, still intently eyeing him. ‘No sooner, sir?’–‘Soon enough for any honest man that goes a passenger.’ Ha! Jonah, that’s another stab. But he swiftly calls away the Captain from that scent. ‘I’ll sail with ye,’–he says,–‘the passage money how much is that?– I’ll pay now.’ For it is particularly written, shipmates, as if it were a thing not to be overlooked in this history, ‘that he paid the fare thereof’ ere the craft did sail. And taken with the context, this is full of meaning.

“Now Jonah’s Captain, shipmates, was one whose discernment detects crime in any, but whose cupidity exposes it only in the penniless. In this world, shipmates, sin that pays its way can travel freely and without a passport; whereas Virtue, if a pauper, is stopped at all frontiers. So Jonah’s Captain prepares to test the length of Jonah’s purse, ere he judge him openly. He charges him thrice the usual sum; and it’s assented to. Then the Captain knows that Jonah is a fugitive; but at the same time resolves to help a flight that paves its rear with gold. Yet when Jonah fairly takes out his purse, prudent suspicions still molest the Captain. He rings every coin to find a counterfeit. Not a forger, any way, he mutters; and Jonah is put down for his passage. ‘Point out my state-room, Sir,’ says Jonah now, ‘I’m travel-weary; I need sleep.” “Thou look’st like it,’ says the Captain, ‘there’s thy room.’ Jonah enters, and would lock the door, but the lock contains no key. Hearing him foolishly fumbling there, the Captain laughs lowly to himself, and mutters something about the doors of convicts’ cells being never allowed to be locked within. All dressed and dusty as he is, Jonah throws himself into his berth, and finds the little state-room ceiling almost resting on his forehead. The air is close, and Jonah gasps. Then, in that contracted hole, sunk, too, beneath the ship’s water-line, Jonah feels the heralding presentiment of that stifling hour, when the whale shall hold him in the smallest of his bowels’ wards.

“Screwed at its axis against the side, a swinging lamp slightly oscillates in Jonah’s room; and the ship, heeling over towards the wharf with the weight of the last bales received, the lamp, flame and all, though in slight motion, still maintains a permanent obliquity with reference to the room; though, in truth, infallibly straight itself, it but made obvious the false, lying levels among which it hung. The lamp alarms and frightens Jonah; as lying in his berth his tormented eyes roll round the place, and this thus far successful fugitive finds no refuge for his restless glance. But that contradiction in the lamp more and more appals him. The floor, the ceiling, and the side, are all awry. ‘Oh! so my conscience hangs in me!’ he groans, “straight upward, so it burns; but the chambers of my soul are all in crookedness!’

“Like one who after a night of drunken revelry hies to his bed, still reeling, but with conscience yet pricking him, as the plungings of the Roman race-horse but so much the more strike his steel tags into him; as one who in that miserable plight still turns and turns in giddy anguish, praying God for annihilation until the fit be passed; and at last amid the whirl of woe he feels, a deep stupor steals over him, as over the man who bleeds to death, for conscience is the wound, and there’s naught to staunch it; so, after sore wrestling in his berth, Jonah’s prodigy of ponderous misery drags him drowning down to sleep.

“And now the time of tide has come; the ship casts off her cables; and from the deserted wharf the uncheered ship for Tarshish, all careening, glides to sea. That ship, my friends, was the first of recorded smugglers! the contraband was Jonah. But the sea rebels; he will not bear the wicked burden. A dreadful storm comes on, the ship is like to break. But now when the boatswain calls all hands to lighten her; when boxes, bales, and jars are clattering overboard; when the wind is shrieking, and the men are yelling, and every plank thunders with trampling feet right over Jonah’s head; in all this raging tumult, Jonah sleeps his hideous sleep. He sees no black sky and raging sea, feels not the reeling timbers, and little hears he or heeds he the far rush of the mighty whale, which even now with open mouth is cleaving the seas after him. Aye, shipmates, Jonah was gone down into the sides of the ship– a berth in the cabin as I have taken it, and was fast asleep. But the frightened master comes to him, and shrieks in his dead ear, ‘What meanest thou, O, sleeper! arise!’ Startled from his lethargy by that direful cry, Jonah staggers to his feet, and stumbling to the deck, grasps a shroud, to look out upon the sea. But at that moment he is sprung upon by a panther billow leaping over the bulwarks. Wave after wave thus leaps into the ship, and finding no speedy vent runs roaring fore and aft, till the mariners come nigh to drowning while yet afloat. And ever, as the white moon shows her affrighted face from the steep gullies in the blackness overhead, aghast Jonah sees the rearing bowsprit pointing high upward, but soon beat downward again towards the tormented deep.

“Terrors upon terrors run shouting through his soul. In all his cringing attitudes, the God-fugitive is now too plainly known. The sailors mark him; more and more certain grow their suspicions of him, and at last, fully to test the truth, by referring the whole matter to high Heaven, they all-outward to casting lots, to see for whose cause this great tempest was upon them. The lot is Jonah’s; that discovered, then how furiously they mob him with their questions. ‘What is thine occupation? Whence comest thou? Thy country? What people? But mark now, my shipmates, the behavior of poor Jonah. The eager mariners but ask him who he is, and where from; whereas, they not only receive an answer to those questions, but likewise another answer to a question not put by them, but the unsolicited answer is forced from Jonah by the hard hand of God that is upon him.

“‘I am a Hebrew,’ he cries–and then–‘I fear the Lord the God of Heaven who hath made the sea and the dry land!’ Fear him, O Jonah? Aye, well mightest thou fear the Lord God then! Straightway, he now goes on to make a full confession; whereupon the mariners became more and more appalled, but still are pitiful. For when Jonah, not yet supplicating God for mercy, since he but too well knew the darkness of his deserts,– when wretched Jonah cries out to them to take him and cast him forth into the sea, for he knew that for his sake this great tempest was upon them; they mercifully turn from him, and seek by other means to save the ship. But all in vain; the indignant gale howls louder; then, with one hand raised invokingly to God, with the other they not unreluctantly lay hold of Jonah.

“And now behold Jonah taken up as an anchor and dropped into the sea; when instantly an oily calmness floats out from the east, and the sea is still, as Jonah carries down the gale with him, leaving smooth water behind. He goes down in the whirling heart of such a masterless commotion that he scarce heeds the moment when he drops seething into the yawning jaws awaiting him; and the whale shoots-to all his ivory teeth, like so many white bolts, upon his prison. Then Jonah prayed unto the Lord out of the fish’s belly. But observe his prayer, and so many white bolts, upon his prison. Then Jonah prayed unto learn a weighty lesson. For sinful as he is, Jonah does not weep and wail for direct deliverance. He feels that his dreadful punishment is just. He leaves all his deliverance to God, contenting himself with this, that spite of all his pains and pangs, he will still look towards His holy temple. And here, shipmates, is true and faithful repentance; not clamorous for pardon, but grateful for punishment. And how pleasing to God was this conduct in Jonah, is shown in the eventual deliverance of him from the sea and the whale. Shipmates, I do not place Jonah before you to be copied for his sin but I do place him before you as a model for repentance. Sin not; but if you do, take heed to repent of it like Jonah.”

While he was speaking these words, the howling of the shrieking, slanting storm without seemed to add new power to the preacher, who, when describing Jonah’s sea-storm, seemed tossed by a storm himself. His deep chest heaved as with a ground-swell; his tossed arms seemed the warring elements at work; and the thunders that rolled away from off his swarthy brow, and the light leaping from his eye, made all his simple hearers look on him with a quick fear that was strange to them.

There now came a lull in his look, as he silently turned over the leaves of the Book once more; and, at last, standing motionless, with closed eyes, for the moment, seemed communing with God and himself.

But again he leaned over towards the people, and bowing his head lowly, with an aspect of the deepest yet manliest humility, he spake these words:

“Shipmates, God has laid but one hand upon you; both his hands press upon me. I have read ye by what murky light may be mine the lesson that Jonah teaches to all sinners; and therefore to ye, and still more to me, for I am a greater sinner than ye. And now how gladly would I come down from this mast-head and sit on the hatches there where you sit, and listen as you listen, while some one of you reads me that other and more awful lesson which Jonah teaches to me, as a pilot of the living God. How being an anointed pilot-prophet, or speaker of true things and bidden by the Lord to sound those unwelcome truths in the ears of a wicked Nineveh, Jonah, appalled at the hostility he should raise, fled from his mission, and sought to escape his duty and his God by taking ship at Joppa. But God is everywhere; Tarshish he never reached. As we have seen, God came upon him in the whale, and swallowed him down to living gulfs of doom, and with swift slantings tore him along ‘into the midst of the seas,’ where the eddying depths sucked him ten thousand fathoms down, and ‘the weeds were wrapped about his head,’ and all the watery world of woe bowled over him. Yet even then beyond the reach of any plummet–‘out of the belly of hell’–when the whale grounded upon the ocean’s utmost bones, even then, God heard the engulphed, repenting prophet when he cried. Then God spake unto the fish; and from the shuddering cold and blackness of the sea, the whale came breeching up towards the warm and pleasant sun, and all the delights of air and earth; and ‘vomited out Jonah upon the dry land;’ when the word of the Lord came a second time; and Jonah, bruised and beaten–his ears, like two sea-shells, still multitudinously murmuring of the ocean– Jonah did the Almighty’s bidding. And what was that, shipmates? To preach the Truth to the face of Falsehood! That was it!

“This, shipmates, this is that other lesson; and woe to that pilot of the living God who slights it. Woe to him whom this world charms from Gospel duty! Woe to him who seeks to pour oil upon the waters when God has brewed them into a gale! Woe to him who seeks to please rather than to appal! Woe to him whose good name is more to him than goodness! Woe to him who, in this world, courts not dishonor! Woe to him who would not be true, even though to be false were salvation! Yea, woe to him who as the great Pilot Paul has it, while preaching to others is himself a castaway!

He drooped and fell away from himself for a moment; then lifting his face to them again, showed a deep joy in his eyes, as he cried out with a heavenly enthusiasm,–“But oh! shipmates! on the starboard hand of every woe, there is a sure delight; and higher the top of that delight, than the bottom of the woe is deep. Is not the main-truck higher than the kelson is low? Delight is to him–a far, far upward, and inward delight– who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self. Delight is to him whose strong arms yet support him, when the ship of this base treacherous world has gone down beneath him. Delight is to him, who gives no quarter in the truth, and kills, burns, and destroys all sin though he pluck it out from under the robes of Senators and Judges. Delight,–top-gallant delight is to him, who acknowledges no law or lord, but the Lord his God, and is only a patriot to heaven. Delight is to him, whom all the waves of the billows of the seas of the boisterous mob can never shake from this sure Keel of the Ages. And eternal delight and deliciousness will be his, who coming to lay him down, can say with his final breath–O Father!– chiefly known to me by Thy rod–mortal or immortal, here I die. I have striven to be Thine, more than to be this world’s, or mine own. Yet this is nothing: I leave eternity to Thee; for what is man that he should live out the lifetime of his God?”

He said no more, but slowly waving a benediction, covered his face with his hands, and so remained kneeling, till all the people had departed, and he was left alone in the place.

CHAPTER 10

A Bosom Friend

Returning to the Spouter-Inn from the Chapel, I found Queequeg there quite alone; he having left the Chapel before the benediction some time. He was sitting on a bench before the fire, with his feet on the stove hearth, and in one hand was holding close up to his face that little negro idol of his; peering hard into its face, and with a jack-knife gently whittling away at its nose, meanwhile humming to himself in his heathenish way.

But being now interrupted, he put up the image; and pretty soon, going to the table, took up a large book there, and placing it on his lap began counting the pages with deliberate regularity; at every fiftieth page– as I fancied–stopping for a moment, looking vacantly around him, and giving utterance to a long-drawn gurgling whistle of astonishment. He would then begin again at the next fifty; seeming to commence at number one each time, as though he could not count more than fifty, and it was only by such a large number of fifties being found together, that his astonishment at the multitude of pages was excited.

With much interest I sat watching him. Savage though he was, and hideously marred about the face–at least to my taste– his countenance yet had a something in it which was by no means disagreeable. You cannot hide the soul. Through all his unearthly tattooings, I thought I saw the traces of a simple honest heart; and in his large, deep eyes, fiery black and bold, there seemed tokens of a spirit that would dare a thousand devils. And besides all this, there was a certain lofty bearing about the Pagan, which even his uncouthness could not altogether maim. He looked like a man who had never cringed and never had had a creditor. Whether it was, too, that his head being shaved, his forehead was drawn out in freer and brighter relief, and looked more expansive than it otherwise would, this I will not venture to decide; but certain it was his head was phrenologically an excellent one. It may seem ridiculous, but it reminded me of General Washington’s head, as seen in the popular busts of him. It had the same long regularly graded retreating slope from above the brows, which were likewise very projecting, like two long promontories thickly wooded on top. Queequeg was George Washington cannibalistically developed.

Whilst I was thus closely scanning him, half-pretending meanwhile to be looking out at the storm from the casement, he never heeded my presence, never troubled himself with so much as a single glance; but appeared wholly occupied with counting the pages of the marvellous book. Considering how sociably we had been sleeping together the night previous, and especially considering the affectionate arm I had found thrown over me upon waking in the morning, I thought this indifference of his very strange. But savages are strange beings; at times you do not know exactly how to take them. At first they are overawing; their calm self-collectedness of simplicity seems as Socratic wisdom. I had noticed also that Queequeg never consorted at all, or but very little, with the other seamen in the inn. He made no advances whatever; appeared to have no desire to enlarge the circle of his acquaintances. All this struck me as mighty singular; yet, upon second thoughts, there was something almost sublime in it. Here was a man some twenty thousand miles from home, by the way of Cape Horn, that is– which was the only way he could get there–thrown among people as strange to him as though he were in the planet Jupiter; and yet he seemed entirely at his ease; preserving the utmost serenity; content with his own companionship; always equal to himself. Surely this was a touch of fine philosophy; though no doubt he had never heard there was such a thing as that. But, perhaps, to be true philosophers, we mortals should not be conscious of so living or so striving. So soon as I hear that such or such a man gives himself out for a philosopher, I conclude that, like the dyspeptic old woman,

-🍒🚬

....

mods jfk his ass

#picklo askers #but actually pls dont do this again :(

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betweenthetimeandsound · 3 months ago

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Love All Around Me

The first thing Adrian caught about the girl was her long, dark brown hair, sweeping across one side in a cascade of waves. The girl played with those loose strands with her fingers, picking off any split ends.

As that girl walked across the sidewalk, Adrian’s gaze fell onto her perfectly tanned legs, cruising across the sidewalk like a supermodel. He noted the high-heels, the black contrasting against her bright skin; the suede against the slight hairs on her leg.

His first instinct was to grab his camera, an expensive one he bought a month ago, and take a picture of this beauty. Everything in this scene was so perfect; it could be portrayed with excellent precision behind the lens, even if it was black and white. The cityscape, the dark and light between the safety of the café and the harsh glare of the real world, contrasted together well, with the girl walking across, minding her own business. There was so much life in this photo, it seemed immortal.

Leaning his arm against the table, stroking the camera, another thought came onto Adrian’s mind.

She’s hot. He smiled as the girl passed him, her hair nearly brushing his cheek, an aura of heat surrounding him. I really want her.

Abandoning his table, he sprinted towards her, clumsily stumbling along the way who casually looked at a window of an unknown store nearby. She dreamed of getting the latest pair of jeans, to satisfy herself from her own day to day attire. But to Adrian, even in those boring clothes, she made it look like it came out of those fashion magazines she read. She brushed her hair off her forehead, and Adrian tapped her shoulder.

She took a glance at him, almost confused. “Yes?”

Adrian simply stared. “Yes,” he muttered. He then cupped her shoulder with his hand.

The girl twisted her lips, and her heart rate increased pulled back, but Adrian didn’t budge. He pulled her tighter towards his chest, and dragged her towards the table. She struggled against him, trying to escape his strong grip.

“No,” she yelled, backing away from him.

Adrian returned to his seat as she and Adrian took their seats, underneath a large, green umbrella. Around them, people were serving food, eating, drinking, and talking. “No,” she repeated herself, but Adrian didn’t listen to her.

Quickly afterwards, Adrian took notice of her features. He started at her eyes, dark and wide, bringing him into a world of intense lust. He touched her lips with his fingers. They were perfect, pink, and innocent. He saw beauty before, but he never got to completely experience it beyond the lens of the camera. Compared to the cold, beauty-hunting mission he goes through all the time, he could feel the heat between them.

The girl blushed; her cheeks glowed pink against her tanned skin. She smiled, but it was very small, cautious about what Adrian would do next. She grazed her fingers against her sleeveless, coral pink cashmere top, picking off any flaws and tossing them onto the table. She stared across the distance, analyzing everything people were doing—inside and out.

Adrian smiled. The last girl he had been in love with was not a girl, but a woman ready to join the army. When he had lunch with her, she was solemn, knowing her life could end very soon. He usually saw a rosary in her left wrist, under her denim jacket—not unlike the ones he prayed with frequently. She would frequently thread its delicate beads, asking God if this war was meant for her and if she was prepared to fight for her country. In comparison, this girl in front of him smirked at him playfully, despite resistance from him earlier. She smiled and played with his hands, almost analyzing them. Nothing suggested she would fight some battle abroad, or even in her heart. Instead, she beamed like a ray of sunshine, tapping her feet beneath the table.

Ready to make a move, Adrian went over to another table and grabbed a menu. He quickly skimmed over it, and then offered it to her.

She nodded. “Yes,” she replied, and then took it. As she read the menu, Adrian stroked his camera. He got the girl where he wanted her to be, and prepared for the shot.

Lifting her head, the girl noticed. “No,” she exclaimed, putting her hand on the camera. Adrian put it down, almost shocked she said that. She called out a waiter, and told him her order.

Adrian stared at her, almost falling off of the chair from lust. He picked himself off, almost embarrassed, and dusted off his camera. She looked across from her seat at the cars up ahead, brushing a few curls off her face. She got up, and noticed a bunch of roses nearby—deep red, velvety roses, eclipsed by the shade. She picked one, and then returned to the table, handing it to Adrian with a smile.

Before he knew it, Adrian grabbed the camera and snapped that photo, happy with her offer.

“Yes,” he replied as he took the rose from her. He took a deep breath, investing in the emotions, the substance this flower had. He threaded through the velvety pedals. The only flowers he had saw from day to day were the ones he captured between the lenses, analyzing the colors the light shot through when he managed that flash, trying to control the multitude of weather conditions and lighting in order to get the image he wanted.

Soon enough, the girl’s order came: a caramel milkshake. Adrian observed, and almost laughed, because he was shocked how a high-maintenance girl like her would take in such an indulgence.

She left again, and got another straw alongside her own—an invitation?

“Yes?” she asked as she placed her own straw inside the milkshake.

“Yes,” he said, and started drinking the milkshake. While he continued to enjoy the shake, she pulled off and wiped the whipped cream from her mouth. She reapplied her lipstick—a fresh, innocent pink, and smiled.

She pointed at herself. Adrian turned his head,

Adrian nodded, and then continued drinking the milkshake.

“I’m Juliana.”

“Yes…” Adrian smiled, recognizing her face. He touched it, letting it warm him. He puckered his lips, ready to get the kiss he wanted for so long. But as he slid his hand down her neck, she put her finger up.

“No,” she whispered. She took another sip of the milkshake, focusing on Adrian’s dark hazel eyes. She offered her hand in turn and felt the brush of lips.

Author's Note: This is a short story I've written several years ago. I thought of extending it, but I felt like it's as nice it could be. What do you think?

#flash fiction #my writing #writers on tumblr #creative writing #writeblrcafe #love all around me #love #crush #innocence #memories

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flurrys-creativity · 2 years ago

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Crazy, Stupid, Perv

Pairing: Jung Yunho (Ateez) x Fem!Reader; Genre: Roommate AU, heavily suggestive - borderline smut, slice of life; Rating: nsfw, 18+ (gonna be safe with this one), MDNI; Warnings: pervert!Yunho, indicated underwear stealing, smelling and licking said underwear, thoughts of Yunho’s tongue and places it could be, swearing.. like twice, mentions of sex, kissing and heavily making out; Wordcount: 594

Summary: With a roommate as hot as Yunho, you weren’t surprised to fall for him eventually. Yet you still tried to ignore it, provoking some drastic measures from Yunho as he wanted you just as bad.

“You smell so good”, Yunho murmured beside you, sending a wave of desire through your whole body.

You swallowed heavily and licked over your lips, feeling suddenly nervous to face your long time room mate. You swallowed again, staring blankly at the tv screen in front of you. Out of the corner of your eye you saw his lap - or more precisely his thighs that were barely covered by his basketball shorts.

Ever since you moved into the apartment he drove you crazy. Yunho was incredibly good looking, impressively tall and the sweetest but also most teasing human being you ever met. It didn’t even take a week for you to develop a crush on him.

With a deep breath you turned towards him on the couch. A frown appeared on your face as you noticed he sat a few feet away from you. How could he possibly be able to smell you? Your eyes switched between him and yourself, unsure whether you should check if you smelled or not.

That’s when you noticed Yunho holding some sort of fabric in his hand. Your eyes zoomed in on it as you tried to figure out what it was.

Yunho moved his hand back up to his face, inhaling deeply right over the fabric. His eyes fluttered closed and a soft smile spread over his lips.

You stared at him, feeling the desire pool inside of you. It took you several heartbeats before your mind came back to the fabric, recognising the familiar pattern. “Yunho”, you said in a low tone, shifting on the couch once again.

He took another deep breath and hummed softly, indicating he was listening.

“Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.” You swallowed again, trying to fight your lust-ridden thoughts inside of your mind. You didn’t even wait for him to answer, continuing immediately: “How did you get my underwear? No, scratch that! WHY are YOU sniffing MY underwear?”

Yunho pried his eyes open to look at you, mischief glistening within them. “‘Cause you smell so good.” He shrugged with his shoulders. “Do you think I could still taste you on these panties?” Yunho’s tongue darted out and swept over the fabric with a slow and sensual motion, before he pulled it back into his mouth with a satisfied groan.

You froze on the spot, staring at him with wide eyes. Even though you wanted to be mad at him or snatch your underwear out of his large hand, you could only picture him between your legs doing magic with his tongue. “Pervert”, you whispered without any malice behind it, watching how he wrapped his tongue around the fabric and pulled it between his lips, sucking on it with another loud groan. “Fuck me.”

Yunho’s eyes snapped to you as he halted his motions. He slowly pulled your underwear out of his mouth, a smirk spreading over his lips before he moved closer to you. “Is that an invitation?” He eyed you closely, hoping you’d say yes. After all it took him some drastic measures to finally get you to notice how much he wanted you.

Your gazes locked and you felt yourself slowly losing your sanity. You wet your lips as you nodded. “Yes, please.” Before you could even comprehend your words, you got pushed down on the couch and Yunho hovered above you with his body between your legs and his crotch pressed against your core.

“Fucking finally”, he growled playfully and kissed you deeply, rolling his hips against your body.

Yunho definitely drove you crazy.

Taglist: @xavi-in-kpopland @songsoomin

#pirateeznet #kwritersworldnet #kdiarynet #wkcnet #kvanity #jung yunho #ateez #ateez yunho #drabble #crazy stupid perv #kpop #idol

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thekinkyleopard · 1 year ago

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Hot for Teacher

A Non-Canon Remi x Levi Fic Series

Pt.4

⚠️Content Warning⚠️

Smut, and like idk….alcohol abuse?

Author’s Notes: Okay we turnin’ up the heat this chapter…took me a minute to figure out what I wanted to do for this one buuuut, yuh. Some sexy for ya. Finally. 4 parts in. LMFAO. Slow burn I know. I love it though, really this series is a lot of fun for me. Hope you enjoy! Art and Remi by @aller-geez 🫶🏻

Description: Levi is a newly divorced English Professor, at his local community college. Recently, he’s had a new student that clearly lacks boundaries. Can he maintain his purity as a responsible educator to society? Or will he submit to the taboo…

It was finally the start of spring break and Levi was so excited to finally have two weeks of freedom. He’d felt so worn down, grading papers, assignments…building lesson plans that kept the class engaged. Sometimes, he really wondered if it was worth it, if any of them would retain what he was doing in that classroom. He sighed kicking his feet up onto the coffee table in his living room.

*Ding* New Text Alert!

Levi picked up his phone and saw the name he had become so familiar with, in said device.

Mr. Connors: Hey there, Happy first day of Spring Break, Professor. ;)

His heart skipped a beat as the wonky face sent through. They’d texted a few times here and there, most of the time Remi tried to keep it…professional. Though he couldn’t help throwing his flirtations around, and sometimes…Levi would oblige. However, it was mostly innocent. Nothing wrong with some flirtatious banter between professor and student…right? Well…those previous pictures too…but it was just that once! Surprisingly, Remi hasn’t asked since. Which made Levi slightly nervous…did he not like them? ‘No…no he’s simply just trying to respect the boundaries you’ve put in place, clearly, Levi.’ Shaking his head, he started a reply up.

Levi: And to you, Mr. Connors. I hope you rest well and enjoy yourself :)

There we go. Simple, clean, precise. Nothing wrong with that. The educator thought to himself, it was around 4:30 in the evening, it had been a while since he even socialized with someone his own level. Though a new text from the student came through, Levi was too busy searching his contacts, ah yes, his best friend Draeko, he hadn’t even caught up with him in so long. Pressing the call button without hesitation to ring up the man in question.

“Hey there, Lee!” He heard that familiar chipper voice behind the line. It comforted him, they’d been friends for a long time, since college. He had always been able to depend on the mutt for a good time, even if it was just indoors.

“Hey Dee! I was thinkin…you wanna come over split a couple bottles of wine I got in the fridge? Catch up?” He sounded slightly nervous, unsure if he was dropping a load on a busy friend, but it was immediately washed away when he heard the other’s excited cheer on the other end.

“Heck yes! I’m so down, you want me to come over now or…?” The cat could hear the mutt already fiddling with a set of keys. Such a down ass friend, that guy.

“Absolutely! Want me to order a pizza?” Levi could practically feel himself jumping around in his seat at the idea of actually spending time with someone.

“Oh my god, yes! Can we do pepperoni?” Draeko asked already getting his shoes on, and heading out the door.

“Consider it done! See you soon! Drive safely~” They exchanged their giddy goodbyes and Levi sprung into action already grabbing wine glasses, and digging through the cabinets for snacks. His phone chimed for a second time, reminding him of his unread text. “Oh shit, right,” he said out loud scrambling over to his cellular device. He opened up the message and immediately gasped, his face turning bright vermillion. The man had sent him a casual mirror pic of him in a sleek pair of black swim trunks, but god…it always caught Levi off guard to see the strikingly handsome man, so bare.

Mr. Connors: *New Picture Message* Goin out to the lake with a buddy of mine…hope you enjoy your day today, Professor hot stuff. Text me later if you get bored ;)

Levi bit his lower lip trying his best to remain level headed as he typed out his response. He did find it peculiar that the man was going out to the water almost close to sunset. Who was he to judge though? He had decided, it would somehow make it less weird if he sent a casual selfie back. Pulling back his camera he fixed his hair and made sure his light blue t shirt didn’t have any imperfections…smiled and snapped the photo. Send. “It’s normal for a professor and student to exchange selfies…right?” He asked himself curiously, shaking it off. “Right, it’s harmless,” he smiled his attention back on to crafting a smorgasbord of goodies.

Levi: *New Picture Message* I too am spending the day with a friend! Wine and gossip! Lake in the evening sounds strange, hope you don’t catch a cold! 🤧 Be safe!

After creating a lovely spread of cheese, crackers, deli meats, chips, and setting out the glasses, Levi tapped into his phone to quickly order a pizza. “Nice that’s on it’s way…and..” then his phone chimed. New message.

Mr. Connors: Yeah we like to drink and light up a bonefire out there. You should could some time ;)

Rolling his cerulean eyes at the other’s bold invitation. He was just short of sending another response when he heard an enthusiastic knock at the door. Shoving the cell into his pocket he quickly threw open the door to meet his best friend. “Dee!” He was already met with the mutt’s arms swinging around him.

“Lee!! It’s been too long!” He sighed with a reminiscent expression stepping through the threshold of the door. He and Levi made their way into the kitchen where Draeko set down his backpack of things.

“I know! It’s been crazy since the divorce, and I’ve really just been sad but lately I’ve been working on home decor and getting this place back to feeling like me,” he sighed grabbing a chilled bottle of white wine from the fridge and popping it open.

“I did notice the sudden array of plant life in here,” the hybrid giggled looking around at the slight changes his friend had made. “You been putting yourself out there at all?” He asked grabbing a glass and waiting for the cat to fill it. As Levi turned to pour the liquid in, he shrugged gently, not trying to throw off the balance of the bottle.

“No, that’s ridiculous, do you know how polluted the dating pool is?” Shuddering with the haunting knowledge of what he’s read online from other single folks, as well as strategically hiding the fact he currently did have a crush. It just wasn’t very appropriate to share.

“You’re not wrong…someone definitely pissed in it,” they both giggled together before clinking now full glasses. “To single life!” Raising the glasses up as if they were at a fancy dinner party before each male took a swig. “Oh this is really nice,” Draeko pulled the glass back to observe the wine before taking another soft swig.

“Right?? It was on sale for 50%! So I got two, just haven’t had the opportunity to break them open til now!” Levi giggled happily as he chugged through more than half his glass, only to fill it once again.

“Okay, bitch, get into it I guess,” Drae laughed at Levi’s persistence to get through his glass.

“Sorry, it’s been so long since I’ve relaxed…” nervously chucking as they grabbed the stuff and set up out in the living room now.

4 1/2 Hours Later

“No, no cause…” Draeko gasped in between laughs “Cause like…I wasn’t even expecting his dick to be that big…” they both fell into a fit of laughter throwing themselves back onto the couch.

“So what did you do??” Levi gasped clutching his half full, wine glass number 6. His head fuzzy and he felt like he was floating above the couch while they exchanged conversation.

“What do you think? I had to see it through! And let me tell you Levi, the hype about a big dick, is justified when they know what to do with it,” he smirked taking the last sip of his glass, setting it down onto the coffee table with a sigh.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Levi let out another laugh before he too finished his own glass. “You wanna watch a movie??” He asked him casually with a slight slur in his voice, already reaching for the remote, moving too fast and causing his head to swirl violently. “Oh god…” he grumbled. Draeko hiccuped silently before blinking his eyes a few times and shaking his head.

“I think, I’m gonna catch an Uber home…I’m in desperate need of a hot bath and sleep…” the mutt giggled with a tired yawn to follow, running his fingers through his dual colored hair.

“Alright, alright, sounds good, make sure to take some of the pizza with you…I won’t be able to finish the rest by myself….” Levi touched his full stomach, rubbing it in circles.

“Fair, I’ll eat the rest of the box when I wake up around 2am for no apparent reason besides my brain sucks,” giggling In unison as Levi helped him pack up the food and whatever else he might be at risk of leaving behind. Draeko quickly ordered his Uber and stood up from the couch, stretching his limbs with another loud, long yawn.

“Hey, thanks for coming over, I really needed the company,” pulling Draeko in for a hug now, wrapping their arms around each other, Levi could feel the effects of the alcohol any time he was still for too long.

“Anytime! Seriously! Call me more,” smiling now with sincerity at his best friend before his phone began to vibrate urgently. “Ohp, I gotta go! Take care of yourself, okay Lee?” The cat nodded, returning a gentle expression as he lead his friend out the front door and waved him off when he watched him get into the car and drive away.

“Later, Dee!” He shouted out before closing the door behind him, locking it securely. Now left with the emptiness of his house, the leopard sighed, fishing his phone from his pocket. He opened up his texts as his legs carried him through the halls and into his own bedroom, plopping himself comfortably down onto the bed. He realized he hadn’t responded to Remi’s earlier text…eh it probably didn’t matter, he’d just send one now.

Levi: Heyyyy :)

That was a little out of character, not his usual method of communicating with the student but he didn’t feel like wearing that stupid professional mask. He just wanted to be real for once.

Mr. Connors: Lol Hey there, so informal of you 😏

Levi chuckled to himself, rolling his hazy ceruleans before rotating onto his stomach, feet kicking like a giddy college girl in the air.

Levi: I jsut wannt to pretsnd like we judt regulsr people tinugut 🤪

The leopard could barely keep his vision straight on the keyboard, frustrated that his phone couldn’t keep up with his obnoxiously bad texting.

Mr. Connors: Oooohhh you’re wasted, aren’t you 😂?

Shit, he caught onto him. No it’s fine he could play this off.

Levi: Uhhh noooo milt tasks! Nfot drnuk:)

That should be convincing right? He was just doing multiple things at once…but then why would he be texting Remi this late if he were doing other things? It’s fine, Levi was a college educated Professor! Alcohol couldn’t take that away from him.

Mr. Connors: Let me call you? Reading your texts is…painful, no offense.

Ouch. Maybe he wasn’t pulling this together the best he could. A phone call? That’s jumping a huge leap…suspicious to be calling a student past 8…however, he really, really missed the gruff tone of his voice. His eyes squinted trying to focus on the screen of his phone as he clicked one of the buttons to call the wolf, not realizing he hit FaceTime.

“Hello? What the hell am I looking at?” Levi heard an amused voice from over the device. Looking at? Confused the cat pulled the phone away from his ear to surprisingly, see two faces looking back at him. His own, and that of Remi. Shirtless, laying in bed with messy hair cascading around his face, emerald orbs staring at him through the bright screen.

“Oh…hi!” He blushed nervously, looking down at his phone, now subconsciously fixing his hair, brushing it around. He could hear a deep chuckle from the other end and suddenly froze. “S-Sorry…” he muttered.

“Trying to look cute for me?” Remi asked his toxic greens staring deep into him through the camera. Levi rolled his eyes, but couldn’t fight the obvious smile that spread across his face.

“You think you know everything don’t you?” Sticking his tongue out playfully towards his phone.

“By the way you’re deflecting, the answer to my question was yes, and for that, I am flattered,” flashing that dangerously charming smirk he always did. Levi, in his drunken state, almost forgot what they were doing and just stared at him, mesmerized by the wolf’s beauty, biting his lower lip lost in thought. “Hello? Anyone alive in there?” The wolf chuckled bringing Levi to shake his head, regaining his sense of reality.

“Yeah, sorry, I got a little spacey,” he giggled. “I had some wine with my friend, he just went home,” he turned over again, on his back now, looking up at his phone, hair splayed wildly around him. Remi unable to stop himself from noticing how adorable the educator is, and there was a strange flash of light that beamed over the wolf’s grin. “What was that?”

“Nothing, don’t worry about it,” his attention turning back to the video call, Levi squinted his blue orbs at the camera and shook his head.

“No, I will worry about it, what’d you just do??” Huffing and puffing, Remi could only roll his own eyes at this point before he smirked again.

“I took a screenshot okay? You looked cute, whatever,” the educator blushed deep vermillion and then covered his face with his free hand to try and hide it. “Don’t do that…I like seeing your face,” slowly Levi pulled his palm away and rolled his eyes yet again, still blushing deep red.

“You really are too much, Remi,” the wolf groaned playfully, biting his lower lip before he waggled his eyebrows.

“I like hearing my name come out of your mouth, it’s like a special treat,” he chuckled eyeing the smaller down, and Levi could only feel like his skin was getting hotter.

“Stooooooop,” he wiggled his body back and forth with a carefree giggle, kicking about his feet. “You say these things and they just make me….crazy,” huffing with exasperation through his nostrils.

“What kind of crazy?” He cocked an eyebrow, wiping some stray saliva from his lip with the pad of his thumb. So visibly…Levi had been in just the right position….suddenly a flash of light danced across the leopard’s flushed freckled face and Remi burst into laughter. “Did you just screenshot me?!” The other’s eyes turned wide and he started to stutter.

“I-Uh N-No! It wa-was an accident! Ha-ha! Yeah, no I meant to turn the volume up, silly me I didn’t even realize I was holding the other button!” He tried so uselessly to get out of it and not a single bit of it was being bought by the man on the other line.

“It’s just us here, be honest…you took a screenshot,” his shining emeralds narrowed now to look deep through Levi’s soul. He swallowed a lump that formed in the back of his throat before he nodded simply.

“Yes, I did…okay? Happy?” Grumbling slightly and losing another battle by a huge margin.

“What made you do it?” The student’s undying curiosity driving this conversation, and due to Levi’s current intoxicated state of mind, he wasn’t opposed to it. Sober him, would avoid it like the plague, but the alcohol locked away all those silly fears, loosening him up.

“The way your thumb touched your lip…the screen light against your chest…are you really going to make me admit what we both know, here?” He tilted his head with raised eyebrows, almost as if to say ‘seriously?’

“I am,” replying simply with a dangerous edge to his tone. They stared each other down, blue eyes never leaving that harsh green gaze, it didn’t take him long truly, caving under the pressure.

“Oh come on! You know you’re basically sex on legs, that’s not fair! I know it, you know it, the world knows it, I see the way the girls look at you, you can have anyone you want!” Blurting it out like a bad case of diarrhea. Oh no…he didn’t mean to say it like that! The wolf fell into another fit of laughter, he couldn’t handle how adorable it was to see the man behind the Professor. He’d only ever get glimpses in between conversations, but this was unlocked.

“I did not know that, actually….but, regardless of what anyone else thinks….it’s your opinion I value the most,” he shined a sincere toothy half smirk, melting the educator’s heart.

“You know, you don’t even know me, you just lust me…and I don’t wanna just be lusted,” he huffed, giving the other a hefty side eye.

“You don’t know what I know,” his face twisting with confidence. Levi swallowed once, deciding to let it go, he fanned himself with his hand.

“Man, s’hot in here…” he muttered toying with the collar of his shirt his gaze averting to the side now, feeling the familiar insecure voice begging him to tone it down.

“Take off your shirt then, you’re home aren’t you?” Slicking his lower lip with the tip of his tongue slowly.

“I mean..yeah? Right? I’m in the safety of my own home, we’re two grown men, no biggie,” he blushed once again, setting his phone down, perched up against a pillow. He sat back, legs crossed together before he slowly slid his shirt off his body, Remi now fully seeing the educator without a shirt for the first time. Boy was it a sight to see. Placing his hands in his lap he looked back and forth nervously, before his eyes centered back on the camera ahead of him. Another flash of light beamed over the wolf’s confident face, Levi furrowing his brows again.

“Hey! You stop that!” Incapable of fighting off the half smile he broke into. Remi laughed, it was a genuine sound, angelic almost.

“Never, you’re a fool to think I wouldn’t take advantage of this,” shrugging simply before he rest a hand across his bare stomach.

“You’re cheeky,” Levi stuck his tongue out at the other who really could only chuckle in response. He was just so cute, he couldn’t believe they were even this comfortable. Since the moment they kissed, Remi has been desperately searching for the same high. Nothing and no one else can provide to him what the white and black haired man did.

“Maybe so…but only for you,” his voice spoke so simply, so sure of himself. It was impressive to Levi how easily he let things flow out of his mouth unhinged without a second thought.

“You’re making it…really difficult to keep this professional…” Levi bit his lower lip, doing what he could to fight the sinful thoughts the crept in the back of his mind. His drunken mind slurring as he felt like he could float away from the bed.

“Then don’t…just give in tonight,” the dark haired man’s voice echoed through the inside of the leopard’s brain and he took a slow deep breath. No one could know right?

“Okay…” he said seriously, their eyes connecting as silence fell over them. Remi could only smile at him through the camera, finding the other very amusing in such a state.

“So, would now be a good time to say you look incredibly hot right now?” Cocking his lips in a half crooked toothy grin. The cat blushed profusely and looked to the side, too embarrassed to meet the other’s hungry gaze.

“….You’re not so bad yourself….” He muttered back, clearing his throat and running a dainty hand through his messy hair.

“Oh? Was that…flirting?” Raising his eyebrow in the slightest to observe the other with amusement written on his face, Remi chuckled.

“You act like I haven’t been flirting with you this whole time,” scoffing as the cat leaned back comfortably against his giant Stacy squid squish.

“I mean…It’s very hostile flirting I’d say,” the wolf laughed a bit as his gaze continued to bore down on the educator through the screen. Who looked rather surprised to hear this.

“Oh…I suppose it’s just hard..fighting with that…voice inside my head that keeps telling me this is a bad idea…” biting his lower lip sensually, his eyes now avoiding the other as he looked down at the comforter on his bed.

“Then stop…give me the control tonight,” the man said with a dangerous tone, it caused Levi’s already flushed face to glow brighter as he considered the idea. He sucked in a quick anxious breath of air. “Well?” Raising a black brow, challenging the smaller.

“Okay, you’re in control then,” his voice was almost silent, it felt like he was releasing a 15 ton backpack off his shoulders. Would he regret it? Possibly but tonight, in these circumstances, he didn’t care, he wanted to be a little selfish, needed to.

“Good…now that I’m in control, allow yourself to get comfortable..and take those stupid jeans off, it’s night time, why are you still wearing those?,” he spoke to the small leopard, dominant, but still laced with a playful attitude. Levi looked like a deer in the headlights by this sudden request. Slowly he leaned back, stretching out his slender legs, unbuttoning and zipping the torn up jeans he was wearing, sliding them off his delicate hips. He now sat in his light blue boxer briefs. Swiftly, and slyly, Levi folded his arms against his lap to hide the fact he was being effected by the sudden control. He couldn’t imagine how he would react to this sort of situation if they were in person. Probably melt into a puddle of himself. He couldn’t deny how distractingly attractive the larger male was. “Good…isn’t that much better? Don’t look so frightened…I know exactly what you need…I’ll take very good care of that need,” he spoke with a serious, but seductively laced tone that brought the cat into full body chills.

“Y-yes…Sir…” he spoke softly, nodding his head.

“Are you hiding something from me? Sit back against your head board, and spread your legs, I wanna see you,” the leopard let out a small squeaked sound, trying to hold in a sultry moan at the demanding order given by the raven haired man.

“I-it’s embarrassing…” he stuttered sliding himself back, his phone still propped up perfectly to catch a full view of Levi gradually sliding into position according to instruction.

“Don’t be embarrassed, you’re beautiful…” those toxic green eyes shining brightly over him like a neon sign in the darkness of Remi’s dimly lit room. “And I like your body affirming me…look at how excited you’re getting…” he sucked in an excited gasp of air, swallowing it while he watched carefully. Levi moved his hands to the side, showcasing the now pitched boxer front he had tried not to disclose. Levi’s hands rested on each side of his hips, flat against the bed as he sat there legs bent up and spread, a blush on his face. “God…Look at you…” another bright light flashed across the man’s face through the screen. Levi knew he had yet another lewd photo stacked inside Remi’s phone.

“W-What now?” His voice was shy, almost like he was uncomfortable being put in this situation, but his whole body was on fire despite it, between their dynamic and such an intimate setting he’d never been in with a man before...it was all building so fast.

“Touch yourself…nice and slow though, don’t rush it…I want to savor it,” he licked his lips deliberately, mouth pulled into a devilish grin while he waited for the male to follow orders. Levi’s breath caught in his throat as he slowly brought his hand over to the base of his groin and began to rub himself tenderly, his lips falling open with pleasure as his length started to fully harden now. He watched the screen, his eyes making direct contact with the camera to look fully into the wolf’s face, causing Remi to roll his eyes once at the site before a bright light flashed against his face, screenshotting again. Knowing the man would soon hold a stack of nefarious photos, turned him on and worried him all at once.

“Mmm…I want to see more,” the larger male said in a deepened, sultry tone, the hairs on the back of the cat’s neck stood up at all ends, whimpering gently as his slender fingers slipped through the hole of his boxers, before he heard the other man clear his throat. “Aht…take them off,” he commanded the shy leopard who in turn, sucked in his lip and slowly slid the boxers off his delicate hips. “Such a good kitten…” he licked his teeth hungrily as he watched the smaller obey him so easily now.

“Y-you’re really enjoying this, arent y-you?” He murmured as he began to re-spread his legs to present his full hardened, twitching shaft, and the bottom of his perfectly polished ass cheeks as well from this angle.

“Oh you have no fucking idea…” groaning harshly as one of his hands disappeared to pull down the waist band of his pants just enough to spring forth his own hard cock. Levi could see it from the bottom of the screen, wanting so desperately to be there in person. The things he would do. Slowly the man tilted his camera via still from the bottom angle as Remi’s heated, hungry gaze never left the screen. He spit once, quickly in the palm of his hand and gripped the base of his shaft before slowly starting to pump the organ calmly, letting out a slow strangled groan. “See…now…hah~ you won’t be…nnng..alone…” his face turned red against his cheeks.

Levi couldn’t believe what he was seeing, it was enough to make his length twitch needlessly, he took it in his shaking hand. “Y-you’re…really perfect…” the cat said with a huff that followed into a sensual whimper.

“Mmm…I really wish you were here…” Remi gasped back, his hand slowly picking up a faster pace as he watched the leopard pump himself to a matching rhythm of his own. His thumb teasing the ridges of his tip, before sliding over his leaking hole and back down squeezing the full girth once more.

“I wish I was there too…” Levi mewled again, his head loosely falling to the side, resting against his shoulder as he panted harshly. His hand slipping lazily, and sporadically over the aching, swollen organ. “I wish I could feel you…in my hands…in my mouth…” cerulean orbs half lidded as they stared down at the wolf in the screen.

“Fu..ck..” Remi choked as his hips flinched involuntarily. “I wanna see you stuff that needy little hole of yours…imagine it’s my cock fucking you…” the shine behind his eyes almost crazed as he watched intently, his palm still cupping, and massaging his thick dick with fervered pace. Nodding his head slowly Levi took his free hand up to his mouth and stuck three of his fingers past his lips, slicking each one slowly and cautiously with his saliva. Small trails dripped down the sides of his mouth and down the rest of his hand.

“Why is everything you do so insanely hot?” The wolf let out a breathless chuckle, slowing his motions back a few notches to enjoy the show in front of him. The other man could only blush in response before he gently, slid himself further up his back to give a better angle of all his precious goods, splayed out in front of Remi like a thanksgiving meal. The man groaned low in his throat, enjoying the deliciously lewd sight of his professor in this current moment. “My eager little kitten…you really do want this cock don’t you?”

Levi was almost incapable of going back now, his mind swirling with a million filthy thoughts as he plopped the wet digits out of his mouth now only to bring them up to his waiting entrance. “Y-Yes…I’d give..anything..” he whispered between struggled gasps, slowly slipping the fingers past his restrictive ring. “To feel you inside me…” The other hand in a painfully slow jerking and rubbing motion, played with his own needy cock.

Remi couldn’t help but let his head fall back lazily as he thrusted upward into his tightened palm. Fueling himself on the soft moans and whimpers before he brought his gaze back down to the screen. Using every cell of strength in his body to keep hold of the device. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hear that…” panting through his tightened jaw watching as Levi was now starting to pump two fingers in and out of him at a steady pace, whimpering, mewling, his body squirming under his own touch.

“This is so naughty…” he whispered shyly with a followed whimper, through his pumping and stuffing, baby blues switching between watching Remi’s fast twist and facial responses to the pleasure of his hand, and the cock he was tugging. “I can’t believe we’re doing this…” he admitted as he continued to rub his thrusting fingers against the tight, craving walls of his ass.

“I can’t believe we didn’t do this…sooner,” Remi managed between rough tugs of his length, he could feel the pressure slowly building within his lower abdomen, it wasn’t going to be long before he came if he kept going at this pace. “Tell me…how long…” almost desperate for the answer.

“H-how l-hah-long?” Levi asked between pleasuring himself to clarify what the other might mean by that exactly.

“How long..have you been craving me?” Voice suddenly much darker, deeper, almost bone chilling as Levi continued to stare down at his phone he knew there was no disobeying at this stage of the game…

“First day…” he admitted, almost completely embarrassed by this confession. This would truly expose just how full of shit he was through every rejection. However, this was more than good news, this validated to the student that he wasn’t insane to chase the other, it WAS instant. There was no denying how they felt about each other and how they always have.

“Tell me again,” he lifted his lips in a tired, charming smile that could only leave Levi instantly finding himself obeying.

“I’ve wanted you the instant I laid my eyes on you…so badly…Remi..you have no idea how hard it is to stay away from you…” their eyes connected through the cameras, not the screen as Levi panted between pleasures. Though it wasn’t even real true eye contact, it felt incredibly intimate as such. Levi’s hand tightened around his cock, throwing himself into a synced motion between the two actions of pleasing himself, legs spread wide, but crooked upward to give Remi the best view. It was only fair, as he gazed over the man’s slowly glistening form, the slight shake of the camera as he continued to jerk himself to the image of Levi’s dirty obedience. They were both lost in a transit of lust, the only thing separating them from full devour being distance.

“I’m going to fucking cum…you look so fucking sexy..” shaking his head slowly as he glared down at the sweating, splayed leopard. “More, I know you can get more than two fingers in there, slut,” readily licking his lips. In response, the leopard melted, mewling softly as he did exactly as he was challenged to do, stuffing a third, and his pinky inside, though struggling to find the right position at first, eventually his digits pushed together in a congregated group, inside his gripping hole. Throwing his head back unable to keep it stable any longer, he let out a sultry cry.

“Remington…” whispering hotly before his pumping hand quickened, with a desperate pace he continued to thrust his length in and out of the tight space of his palm. “I’m going to…” he cried again, low and long as his seed spilled across his naked stomach.

“Fucking…perfect…god I love watching you come undone for me…” he grunted roughly before he aggressively threw his hips into his own hand, pumping erratically while his haunches did most the work, just wishing he could be buried inside the educator. “Grab a tie…I know you got one,” he huffed aggressively, Levi was already spent, but not willing to disobey, he gently pulled his fingers out and quickly scrambled off the bed to grab the clothing accessory.

“Okay…?” His chest rising and falling at an explosive rate trying to catch up his breath from the rock sold orgasm he just experienced.

“Put it on, and tether it to the pole of your head board,” Remi’s motions on his own length slowed, trying to starve off the impending orgasm, he wanted more, before he blew his lid off. Levi slowly tied the accessory around his bare neck, then carefully tying the other end to his bed, there was very little slack as it pressed against his wind pipe.

“Good boy…now you’re going to allow yourself to hang, carefully…and touch yourself again…” the aura Remi exuded through the phone alone was already bringing Levi’s cock to life for round 2, shit how many times was he going to make him break? Letting himself drop lower, the fabric of the tie tightly clinging against his throat and applying pressure perfectly against the sides of his neck. The leopard let out a strangled gasp as his hand began to caress and rub his twitching cock. “Feels good doesn’t it?” Remi huffed between jerking his cock and watching the display before him.

Levi’s clouded blues looked down at the screen, his shaft back to life, keeping a vice tight chokehold against it. Tugging almost violently, he sunk lower, increasing the pressure bit by bit, his face turning red, unable to take his gaze off those hypnotic emeralds, even while the edges of his vision started to blacken.

“You look so delicious like this….” Remi gasped, hand working his length at a faster rate watching Levi’s pale flesh change colors.

“R-R-….em…i..” he choked out in a raspy whisper before his eyes rolled into the back of his skull, lifting his hips to match each strangling twist against his now leaking length. “C-cl…ose…” he tried to cry out but the grip of the tie on his neck only made it more difficult to be heard. Remi on the other hand was currently sweating the more he watched and worked himself.

“S’right kid…just pretend it’s my hands on your body…restricting your breath…it’s all me..picture me…” gruff voice ringing through Levi’s already fuzzy drunk head filled with sinful thoughts, but the permission, was too sweet. The white hair man’s mouth hung open wide as his body shook wildly, the lightheaded feeling causing a surge of dopamine to course through his entire body. Soon enough, Levi found himself spilling over the second brink of ecstasy.

“Shiiiiiii…..t…” Remi gasped passionately before he found himself trembling and hips stuttering only to cum, and paint over his own stomach now as well. The line went relatively silent minus the struggled gasps of the two men trying to catch their breath, post orgasm. “That….was so hot…” panting still, he could now be seen reaching over to his bed side, the gentle woosh of removing tissues from a box was heard before the wolf sat back again to clean himself off. Taking this bit of lull time, Levi untied himself from the accessory tethering him to his bed.

“Yeah….wow…can’t even imagine…the real thing..” the educator huffed loudly between words as he finally laid spent on his bed, unmotivated to even get up to clean himself off.

“God, don’t get me thinking about it, I’ll get hard again,” the raven haired man laughed breathlessly, stuffing his limp cock back under the band of his pants. Levi giggled with a huff, slowly turning his head to the side in order to view the screen of his phone again.

“You’re seriously going to get me in trouble…” the grin wrapped around his features was playful, but his words were incredibly serious. This was now beyond crossing the line of their dynamic, this was fully breaking the rules. He wasn’t sure if it really mattered anymore, maybe if they kept it like this…maybe then it wouldn’t be such a big deal. He couldn’t make that promise anymore though, he wasn’t sure how he was going to react from here on out whenever the two should be alone, and possibly in any precarious situations.

“Promise, I’ll do my best to make sure that doesn’t happen…really…I don’t want you to lose your job because of me,” this was probably the first time Remi had ever said something sincere about their dynamic, and the educator felt thankful for that. Truly, Levi was constantly feeling impressed by the other, he’d grown in such a short time and it wasn’t going unnoticed by him whatsoever. It was clear to the cat that Remi genuinely wanted to impress him, and make a difference in his future to do that.

“Thank you…I appreciate you being conscious of that…because despite how much I’ve been fighting it…I really fucking like you…” the leopard finally confessed, leaving the green eyed wolf to feel extremely flushed, blushing brightly across his cheeks happily at the sudden vulnerability the other was now displaying to him.

“Of course…I feel the same…” they sat there smiling at each other with goofy grins spread across their faces, the silence almost peaceful amongst the two of the as they continued to silently observe one another.

“I should get cleaned up and head to bed…” mumbling tiredly, Levi yawned blinking his ceruleans several times to try and keep himself from passing out where he was.

“Okay well…want me to let you go?” Remi asked despite the entire fact he wasn’t ready to hang up yet.

“Um..actually..would it be weird if I asked you to….stay on the line all night?…it’s okay if not! I know it’s weird…I just…” suddenly he was cut off by the other’s boisterous laugh.

“You’re way too cute…I’d love to stay on the line,” his lips lifting into a side smirk, seriously how adorable could this guy be? Levi felt more than relieved as excitement filled him, slowly he crawled out of bed, grabbing his phone and taking it with him to the bathroom, propping it up on the sink.

“Good…now I need to clean all this off,” Levi chuckled turning on the water and looking around for a clean wash rag.

“Yeah you do, you made a big ol’ mess,” playfully teasing the smaller male, who could only blush brightly, snagging a rag and dipping it under the warm water.

“Hush…you…” grinning back at the camera while he wiped the substance off his skin, rubbing in gentle circles. Remi watched intently behind his screen, getting a bit comfortable with his phone propped up now on his night stand while the wolf laid up on his side. Once the cat had finished cleaning himself up, he picked up the phone again only to be shrouded in darkness once he scurried into his closet.

“Sure is dark in here,” Remi chuckled, causing Levi to let out his own carefree giggle.

“Yeah, honestly the bulb in my closet went out and I’ve just been too lazy to fix it, but I plan on it,” he responded sheepishly, slipping on a fresh pair of boxers now. Didn’t take him much longer before he too was snuggled up in bed now. Leaning forward through the camera, Levi made sure to balance his phone also on his night stand perfectly so he could be in the view of the camera without having to hold his phone up in bed.

“You know, if you lived with someone like me…I’d make sure all that stuff was taken care of for you,” the gesture was sweet, Levi could feel himself melting within his mattress. No one has ever cared about doing anything for him, let alone household projects.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” his lips pulled up into another sweet, soft smile, Remi could tell that the cat was getting sleepy as his eyes lidded and glossed over from the other side of the screen.

“I hope you do,” responding with a tired yawn at the end of his sentence. For a while they both just laid there staring deeply into each other’s eyes, just taking in and enjoying the company of one another.

“I’m so tired…but I don’t want to close my eyes…” Levi whispered into the darkness, the only thing illuminating their faces being the brightness of their cellulars.

“Go to sleep, Kitten, I’ll be here in the morning,” despite feeling a burst of energy within his chest, Levi knew that Remi was right, he should sleep. He was incredibly tired and it’s not like he wouldn’t be able to see the man in the morning and have the opportunity to ogle over him some more.

“Okay…” answering faintly before it was followed up by another strong obnoxious yawn.

“Sweet dreams, Professor,” he smirked with his own tired emeralds fighting a losing battle.

“Sweet dreams….” The cat mumbled before his eyes slid closed and he drifted comfortably into sleep.

To Be Continued…

Author’s Notes: Sorry this part took so long! I’ve been on a week long trip in Michigan so writing has been hard to get to but I have MANAGED to do it! Yay! Hope y’all enjoyed 🫶🏻

#oc #remixlevi #original character #writer #fic writer #art #smut #my character #ficseries #fic series

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dogmomwrites · 2 years ago

Text

Find the Words

Catching up on a new wave of these! Thanks for the tag, @the-finch-address! I'm passing it along with soft tags to @jjm-blogspot, @nightlylaments, @verba-writing, and @wildswrites, as well as an open tag for anyone else to join!

Your words will be depth, physical, trivial, maintain, and companion. If you can't find one, leave a fun fact about your WIP, OCs, or writing process!

My words were ring, pause, scatter, cup, and fit. I took these all out a neglected WIP I'm calling What Lies in the Shadows

Ring It was an odd request, but she didn’t feel like questioning or laughing at it. Placing her finger against the runes carved around the ring, she looked over at the trees and waited for something to happen.

A light laugh made her look back to him. “You’re not drawing the energy out, my dear. It’s not quite as simple as tapping a button. Try closing your eyes and feeling the rune—not just with your finger. Feel it with your soul.”

Marisa closed her eyes despite that she had no idea how to feel something physical with her soul. After a second, she peeked one eye open and saw he was fighting back a smile.

“Clear your mind and think of blackness. Nothingness. Now reach out into it.”

Pause “Why would I turn down the ability to boss everyone around? McKinley, fetch me a glass of water with precisely two and a half ice cubes in it! Katarin, fetch the marmalade; I’ve a need to put it on my face! Liam, I should very much like to throw more cat food at you, so stand still, there’s a good chap.”

Through his laughter, Haytham told him, “That’s not the bossing around you’ll get to do, I’m afraid, Patrick. Besides, those are things you say to them anyway.”

“Yes, but if I were leader of the base, they wouldn’t be able to refuse like they do now. Except Katarin, that is. She found it amusing.” He paused to grin again, then added in a more serious tone, “I do have to wonder though…”

Scatter The den, usually so neat and tidy, was a mess. The glass window that looked out over the backyard and swimming pool had been shattered, the shards of glass scattered in a wide berth around it. Gouges covered the rich wooden floor, as if something large had raked claws along it. Even the ceiling, eight feet above the floor, bore matching scratches. Small pools of dark liquid dotted the floor.

None of this registered with Marisa. For a long moment, she stood in the doorway, unable to move. Her fingers still rested lightly on the door from when she’d pushed it out of her way.

Cup From the kitchen came the familiar sound of a microwave. It sounded at once bizarre and amusing in such a wonderfully old style dining room. Again, she had to hold back a smile.

The tall woman with the Mediterranean accent came in with a cup of herbal tea. Setting it down in front of Marisa, she said, “In case you decide you’ve accepted too much sweetness. It will help to clear your palate.”

“Thank you, that’s a very kind gesture,” Marisa said. The delicate teacup was warm to the touch and there was a thin curl of steam from it.

Fit “Cam?” Marisa called as she walked away from the register.

Cami had said she’d be returning clothes from the dressing rooms, but that had been an hour ago. Over an hour. Usually she’d hang out around the register with Marisa to chat, or bring over a dress for them to try on. As she thought about the hours they’d whiled away by trying on different outfits and taking pictures, she found herself smiling.

The memories held a strange nostalgia, despite that they weren’t from all that long ago. It felt like it. Marisa looked up and down the aisles as she walked, but there was no sign of Cami. Or Eugene, for that matter. Concern blossomed in the pit of her stomach, growing when she called for her friend again to no reply.

#find the words #find the word tag #tag game #writer games #open tag #open to everyone #my writing #yavs writing #what lies in the shadows

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allegedlyfunny · 4 months ago

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Moby-Dick by:Herman Melville

CHAPTER 1. Loomings

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time tozz get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there.

Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster— tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?

But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand—miles of them—leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues,— north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither?

Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries—stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.

But here is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the valley of the Saco. What is the chief element he employs? There stand his trees, each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were within; and here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his cattle; and up from yonder cottage goes a sleepy smoke. Deep into distant woodlands winds a mazy way, reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in their hill-side blue. But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this shepherd’s head, yet all were vain, unless the shepherd’s eye were fixed upon the magic stream before him. Go visit the Prairies in June, when for scores on scores of miles you wade knee-deep among tiger-lilies—what is the one charm wanting?— Water— there is not a drop of water there! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand, would you travel your thousand miles to see it? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two handfuls of silver, deliberate whether to buy him a coat, which he sadly needed, or invest his money in a pedestrian trip to Rockaway Beach? Why is almost every robust healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea? Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.

Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I begin to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my lungs, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a passenger. For to go as a passenger you must needs have a purse, and a purse is but a rag unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers get sea-sick— grow quarrelsome—don’t sleep of nights—do not enjoy themselves much, as a general thing;—no, I never go as a passenger; nor, though I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore, or a Captain, or a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction of such offices to those who like them. For my part, I abominate all honourable respectable toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind whatsoever. It is quite as much as I can do to take care of myself, without taking care of ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and what not. And as for going as cook,—though I confess there is considerable glory in that, a cook being a sort of officer on ship-board—yet, somehow, I never fancied broiling fowls;—though once broiled, judiciously buttered, and judgmatically salted and peppered, there is no one who will speak more respectfully, not to say reverentially, of a broiled fowl than I will. It is out of the idolatrous dotings of the old Egyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse, that you see the mummies of those creatures in their huge bake-houses the pyramids.

No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before the mast, plumb down into the forecastle, aloft there to the royal mast-head. True, they rather order me about some, and make me jump from spar to spar, like a grasshopper in a May meadow. And at first, this sort of thing is unpleasant enough. It touches one’s sense of honour, particularly if you come of an old established family in the land, the Van Rensselaers, or Randolphs, or Hardicanutes. And more than all, if just previous to putting your hand into the tar-pot, you have been lording it as a country schoolmaster, making the tallest boys stand in awe of you. The transition is a keen one, I assure you, from a schoolmaster to a sailor, and requires a strong decoction of Seneca and the Stoics to enable you to grin and bear it. But even this wears off in time.

What of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down the decks? What does that indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who ain’t a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may order me about—however they may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way— either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other’s shoulder-blades, and be content.

Again, I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make a point of paying me for my trouble, whereas they never pay passengers a single penny that I ever heard of. On the contrary, passengers themselves must pay. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable infliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us. But being paid,— what will compare with it? The urbane activity with which a man receives money is really marvellous, considering that we so earnestly believe money to be the root of all earthly ills, and that on no account can a monied man enter heaven. Ah! how cheerfully we consign ourselves to perdition!

Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome exercise and pure air of the fore-castle deck. For as in this world, head winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate the Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the Commodore on the quarter-deck gets his atmosphere at second hand from the sailors on the forecastle. He thinks he breathes it first; but not so. In much the same way do the commonalty lead their leaders in many other things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it. But wherefore it was that after having repeatedly smelt the sea as a merchant sailor, I should now take it into my head to go on a whaling voyage; this the invisible police officer of the Fates, who has the constant surveillance of me, and secretly dogs me, and influences me in some unaccountable way— he can better answer than any one else. And, doubtless, my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand programme of Providence that was drawn up a long time ago. It came in as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances. I take it that this part of the bill must have run something like this:—act them thither?

WHAT THE FUCK MAN 😭😭😭

#squawking through text #asks #\silly #long post #IS THAT #THATD YHE WHOLE FIRST CHAPTER

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afyermain · 1 year ago

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But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand—miles of them—leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues,— north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither?

Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries—stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.

But here is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the valley of the Saco. What is the chief element he employs? There stand his trees, each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were within; and here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his cattle; and up from yonder cottage goes a sleepy smoke. Deep into distant woodlands winds a mazy way, reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in their hill-side blue. But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this shepherd’s head, yet all were vain, unless the shepherd’s eye were fixed upon the magic stream before him. Go visit the Prairies in June, when for scores on scores of miles you wade knee-deep among tiger-lilies—what is the one charm wanting?— Water— there is not a drop of water there! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand, would you travel your thousand miles to see it? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two handfuls of silver, deliberate whether to buy him a coat, which he sadly needed, or invest his money in a pedestrian trip to Rockaway Beach? Why is almost every robust healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea? Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.

Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I begin to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my lungs, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a passenger. For to go as a passenger you must needs have a purse, and a purse is but a rag unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers get sea-sick— grow quarrelsome—don’t sleep of nights—do not enjoy themselves much, as a general thing;—no, I never go as a passenger; nor, though I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore, or a Captain, or a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction of such offices to those who like them. For my part, I abominate all honourable respectable toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind whatsoever. It is quite as much as I can do to take care of myself, without taking care of ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and what not. And as for going as cook,—though I confess there is considerable glory in that, a cook being a sort of officer on ship-board—yet, somehow, I never fancied broiling fowls;—though once broiled, judiciously buttered, and judgmatically salted and peppered, there is no one who will speak more respectfully, not to say reverentially, of a broiled fowl than I will. It is out of the idolatrous dotings of the old Egyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse, that you see the mummies of those creatures in their huge bake-houses the pyramids.

What of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down the decks? What does that indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who ain’t a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may order me about—however they may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way— either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other’s shoulder-blades, and be content.

Again, I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make a point of paying me for my trouble, whereas they never pay passengers a single penny that I ever heard of. On the contrary, passengers themselves must pay. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable infliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us. But being paid,— what will compare with it? The urbane activity with which a man receives money is really marvellous, considering that we so earnestly believe money to be the root of all earthly ills, and that on no account can a monied man enter heaven. Ah! how cheerfully we consign ourselves to perdition!

Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome exercise and pure air of the fore-castle deck. For as in this world, head winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate the Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the Commodore on the quarter-deck gets his atmosphere at second hand from the sailors on the forecastle. He thinks he breathes it first; but not so. In much the same way do the commonalty lead their leaders in many other things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it. But wherefore it was that after having repeatedly smelt the sea as a merchant sailor, I should now take it into my head to go on a whaling voyage; this the invisible police officer of the Fates, who has the constant surveillance of me, and secretly dogs me, and influences me in some unaccountable way— he can better answer than any one else. And, doubtless, my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand programme of Providence that was drawn up a long time ago. It came in as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances. I take it that this part of the bill must have run something like this:—act them thither?

#kpop #genshin #genshin impact #fortnite #barbie #dantdm #the seven years war

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rainywerewolfmoon · 1 year ago

Text

Rule of Fairyland

Ao3 link here Rule of Fairyland - Chapter 9 - Princessmh9 - Multifandom [Archive of Our Own]

Chapter 9: Heeling and Fears

{As Genevieve dismounts from Shadow Kendra pulls Steel to a stop as she dismounts as well, and Hanner approached with a warm smile, his hands outstretched to take the reins from their grasp.}

{Hanner} Did you manage to find all the traps?

{Kendra} Yes, we did even if we did take a casualty.

{She looks at Genevieve's left leg that was clotted with dried blood and her right arm in the similar state only a bit bloodier.}

{Hanner gasps at this} What happened your highness?

{Genevieve} I walked into a trap.

{Hanner's expression shifted from warmth to concern as he took in Genevieve's injuries. He moved closer, his experienced eyes assessing the damage.}

{Hanner} Oh dear, those look painful. We need to get you both inside and tended to right away.

{Kendra helped support Genevieve, who winced slightly as she put weight on her injured leg}

{Kendra with a deep cut on her forehead and her hands had burns that looked like from pure cold iron.} We should have been more careful, Hanner. It was my fault too.

{Genevieve} Just take care of Steel and Shadow please Hanner. They deserve a treat after today.

{Hanner's experienced hands patted the horses' necks as he led them toward the open stable doors.}

{Hanner} I'll make sure they get a good rubdown and some oats. And then I give them some Peppermint Flowers as a treat. These two deserve it indeed.

{As Hanner leads Steel and Shadow to the stables Kendra helps Genevieve to the servants' quarters where a Fae called Martha was hanging out the washing when sees Kendra and Genevieve. She gasps as she turns her head to a window nearby.}

{Martha} Holly get Reed. Kendra and Princess Genevieve are injured.

{She then rushes up to them and supports the other side of Genevieve.}

{Martha} Don't you worry your highness the royal heeler is coming.

{Genevieve managed a weak smile.}

{Genevieve} Thank you, Martha. I didn't expect to be causing such a commotion.

{Martha's eyes were filled with concern as she gently guided them inside.} Your safety is our utmost priority, Your Highness. Let's get you settled.

{With careful maneuvering, they led Genevieve to a comfortable chair, where she could rest her injured leg. Kendra eased herself onto another nearby seat, wincing slightly as she did so. Just as they settled, Reed arrived, his experienced eyes assessing their injuries. His attire and demeanor bespoke his role as the royal heeler, skilled in both mundane and magical healing arts.}

{Reed} Holly said we have two brave souls in need of my attention.

{Kendra nodded, offering a faint smile despite the pain} That would be us. We managed to stumble into a bit of trouble.

{Reed's hands began to glow with a soft, healing light as he approached.} Well, I'm here to make sure you're back on your feet in no time.

{Reed's focus shifted to Genevieve's injured leg, his gaze intent as he gently examined the wound. His touch was both precise and gentle, his fingers seemingly attuned to the subtle shifts in her body's energy.}

{Reed} Seems like quite the scrape you've got here.

{Genevieve} I stepped into a foot trap. The dam thing came spring up and entrapped my leg while another trap sprang down and got my arm. Kendra came over to try and release me but was burned by the cold iron and got knocked on the head by the arm trap when she got my arm free.

{Genevieve's explanation painted a more detailed and harrowing picture of the incident they had faced. Reed listened attentively, his expression shifting to a mix of concern and determination to aid them. Reed's hands began to emit a soft, healing glow as he turned his attention to Genevieve's injuries. He worked methodically, his touch gentle yet purposeful as he assessed the wounds on her leg and arm.}

{Reed his voice a mix of empathy and understanding} That sounds like a dangerous and intricate trap setup. And the use of cold iron complicates matters further. But luckily you are human Princess so that's a good thing unlike poor Kendra here who it isn't so lucky.

{He starts to pull some stuff out of the pouch he was carrying and starts to put some leaves and ointment on a bandage and starts to wrap Genevieve's leg up in it. Reed's words conveyed his understanding of the gravity of the situation, his empathy evident in his tone. He continued his healing work on Genevieve's leg, his touch measured and precise.}

{Genevieve} Yes, being human certainly has its advantages in this scenario.

{Kendra's expression reflected a mix of gratitude and wistfulness.} It's true, cold iron has a way of complicating things for Fae like me. I just counting my stars lucky that Puck isint here. He would never let this go.

{Genevieve} Knowing him he probably will find out.

{As Reed tended to her leg, Genevieve watched his actions with a mixture of curiosity and appreciation. The careful way he prepared the bandages and applied the healing ointment showcased his experience and expertise. Reed's hands moved with a practiced grace as he wrapped the bandage around Genevieve's leg, securing it in place.}

{Reed} This should help with the healing process and prevent any further irritation. Now for your arm.

{Reed's attention turned to Genevieve's injured arm once more, his healing expertise guiding his every movement. His hands emitted a soft, soothing glow as he began to prepare the necessary treatment. Genevieve watched his actions with a sense of appreciation, understanding the meticulous care he was taking to aid her recovery. The combination of healing ointment and bandages would provide the necessary support for her injured arm.

Reed's hands moved with a practiced grace as he applied the ointment and began to wrap Genevieve's arm in the bandage. His touch was gentle yet firm, a testament to his experience and knowledge.}

{Reed his voice steady and reassuring.} The ointment will help promote healing and prevent any further complications.

{Genevieve's arm began to tingle as the healing magic worked its way into the injured area. She sighed softly, feeling the relief that came with the magic's soothing touch. Reed's attention remained on his work as he continued to wrap the bandage around Genevieve's arm.}

{Reed} Just like with your leg, the bandage will provide support and prevent any irritation.

{Genevieve offered a small smile} Your expertise is truly invaluable, Reed. Thank you for your care.

{Reed's lips curved into a gentle smile} It's an honor to be of service, Your Highness.

{As Reed finished with Genevieve's arm, he stepped back to assess his work.} There, your arm should be well-supported now. Remember to rest and be mindful of any changes or discomfort.

{Genevieve flexed her arm, feeling the support of the bandage} I will, Reed. Thank you for your guidance.

{Reed bowing his head} Of course your highness. There is just one thing I would like to do and that's check on your baby {he says nodding to her stomach.}

{Genevieve's attention shifted to his mention of her baby, a smile gracing her lips at the reminder of the new life growing within her.}

{Genevieve gently placed a hand on her stomach, her expression filled with warmth} Thank you for remembering, Reed. I appreciate your concern.

{Kendra, who had been observing the scene, chimed in with a playful grin.} It's not just Genevieve's well-being we're concerned about now, but the little one's as well.

{Reed's nod held a mixture of understanding and care.} Indeed, it's important to ensure the health and safety of both mother and child.

{With a gentle step forward, Reed extended his hand in a non-intrusive gesture, his healing magic tingling with an aura of soothing energy} May I?

{Genevieve nodded, her smile growing.} Of course, Reed. I trust your abilities.

{Reed's hands emitted a soft, warm glow as he gently placed his palm over Genevieve's stomach, his touch a combination of healing and reassurance. His magic worked its way through her, offering a sense of calm and well-being.}

{Reed softly} You and your baby's energies are intertwined, connected in a unique way. My magic allows me to sense their well-being and provide any necessary support.

{Genevieve closed her eyes, feeling the comforting touch of Reed's magic and the connection it established with her unborn child.}

{Genevieve} It's a remarkable gift you have, Reed.

{After a few moments, Reed withdrew his hand, his expression serene} Both you and your baby seem to be doing well. But do remember to take care and prioritize your health as you recover.

{Genevieve's smile was radiant as she thanked him.} I will, Reed. Thank you for checking on both of us.

{Reed nods at this as he turns to Kendra} Ok Kendra. Your turn. Let's see how bad those cold iron burns are.

Kendra nodded in acknowledgment as she extended her hands, the burns from the cold iron evident on her skin. Reed's experienced gaze focused on her injuries, his hands emitting a healing glow as he prepared to tend to her burns.

{Reed's touch was gentle yet purposeful as he began to examine Kendra's hands. The healing magic's warmth spread through her skin; its soothing effect immediate.}

{Reed his voice carrying a mixture of empathy and determination} But I'll do my best to alleviate the pain and promote the healing process.

{Kendra nodded, her gratitude evident in her eyes} I appreciate your efforts, Reed.

{As Reed continued his work, he applied the healing ointment and wrapped her burned hands with soft bandages. The cool sensation of the ointment brought relief to her burns, and the bandages offered a comforting support.}

{Reed reassuring} The ointment will help soothe the burns and encourage healing. And the bandages will protect the area and prevent any further irritation.

{Kendra sighed softly, feeling the magic's effects taking hold} It's already feeling better. Thank you, Reed.

{Reed's hands continued their careful work, his touch guided by both skill and compassion} Just remember to keep the bandages clean and dry. It's crucial for preventing any infection.

{As Reed finished the treatment, he stepped back, assessing his work with a thoughtful gaze} There, your hands should be well-supported for healing. But remember, rest is essential.

{Kendra flexed her fingers, a sense of relief washing over her} I will, Reed. Thank you for your care.

{Reed} Now let's have a look at that cut on your forehead. It looks nasty.

{Reed's attention turned to Kendra's cut forehead; his tone concerned yet determined as he prepared to address her injury. Kendra nodded in acknowledgment, her hand gently touching the area as she braced herself for the healing process.}

{Kendra} Softly. Thank you, Reed.

{Reed's hands emitted a soft, healing glow as he approached Kendra, his touch gentle as he began to examine the cut on her forehead. His expertise was evident in the way he assessed the wound and began the process of treating it.}

{Reed his voice carrying a mix of empathy and professionalism.} Cuts on the forehead can be tricky due to their visibility and potential for scarring.

{Kendra chuckles at this} I don't mind I have plenty of scars so another one won't hurt me.

{Kendra's lighthearted chuckle filled the room, a testament to her resilient spirit and ability to find humor even in challenging situations. Reed's smile mirrored her sentiment, appreciating her positive outlook.}

{Reed with a note of respect} Your attitude is admirable, Kendra, Scars can tell stories of battles fought and victories won.

{Kendra nodded, her grin unyielding} Exactly! And each scar is a reminder of the journey.

{Reed's healing magic had already begun to work its soothing effect on the cut, the salve aiding the process of healing} Well, with this treatment, we'll do our best to ensure this particular scar is a testament to your courage and the care you've received.

{Kendra's gaze softened, touched by Reed's words} Thank you, Reed. Your healing touch and kind words mean a lot.

{As Reed finished tending to Kendra's cut, he stepped back with a nod of satisfaction.}

{Reed} You're most welcome, Kendra. Remember, you're not alone in this journey to recovery.

{The room was imbued with a sense of camaraderie and support, a reminder of the bonds that held them together in both times of adversity and triumph. With a renewed appreciation for the strength of unity and the healing touch of magic, Genevieve, Kendra, and their companions settled into a more peaceful atmosphere. The healing process wasn't just about addressing physical wounds; it was about embracing the journey and finding strength in the connections they shared.

Reed's actions conveyed a sense of organization and preparedness as he put away his healing supplies. His words about returning to check on their wounds reassured Genevieve, Kendra, and their companions that their recovery was his priority.}

{Genevieve offered a grateful smile} Thank you, Reed. Your care and attention mean a lot to us.

{Kendra nodded in agreement} Yes, we appreciate your dedication, Reed.

{Reed's smile was warm and genuine as he looked at both of them} It's my duty and privilege to ensure your well-being. I'll be sure to return and make sure your wounds are progressing as they should.

{As he finished packing his pouch, Reed's gaze swept over the room, his expression thoughtful} In the meantime, focus on rest and taking care of yourselves.

{Genevieve and Kendra both nodded, their appreciation evident in their eyes.} We will, Reed. Thank you.

{Kendra added with a playful grin} And don't worry, we won't go near any more traps anytime soon.

{As he finished packing his pouch, Reed's gaze swept over the room, his expression thoughtful.}

{Reed} In the meantime, focus on rest and taking care of yourselves.

{Genevieve and Kendra both nodded, their appreciation evident in their eyes.}

{Genevieve} We will, Reed. Thank you.

{Kendra with a playful grin} And don't worry, we won't go near any more traps anytime soon.

{Reed chuckled softly} That's good to hear. Until our next meeting, take care.

{With a final nod, Reed made his way to the door, leaving the room bathed in a sense of camaraderie and healing. The bonds between friends, the guidance of skilled healers, and the power of magic had come together to guide them through a challenging moment and towards a path of recovery.}

{Genevieve sighing} I guess I can't hide this from Ash. He is going to hate to see me injured.

{Kendra's brow furrowed in thought} But I thought Ash doesn't usually worry when you get injured. He knows you're capable of handling yourself.

{Genevieve's gaze turned slightly distant, a hint of sadness touching her features} Normally, yes. Ash has always trusted my abilities, and he knows that I'm no stranger to danger. But things have changed now.

{Kendra's curiosity was piqued as she studied Genevieve's expression} Now that you are expecting.

{Genevieve nodded, her expression thoughtful} Yes, now that I'm expecting a child, things have taken on a different perspective. Ash and I are not just responsible for ourselves anymore; we have a life to nurture and protect. And we been getting on each other's nerves.}

{Kendra} Puck told me and Apricot about you and Ash's fight about the third castle.

{Genevieve} He did?

{Kendra} Yes, he overheard you two.

{Genevieve's surprise was palpable} He did? I can't believe he eavesdropped on us.

{Kendra chuckled softly} Puck has a way of being everywhere and nowhere at the same time. His curiosity knows no bounds.

{Genevieve shook her head, a mix of amusement and exasperation in her expression.} That fae always manages to find his way into the most interesting situations.

{Kendra's grin was infectious} Well, he did share some of the details with Apricot and me. He seemed to find the whole thing quite entertaining.

{Genevieve sighed, a hint of resignation in her tone} I can only imagine. It wasn't one of our finest moments.

{Kendra's understanding gaze met Genevieve's} It's natural for couples to have disagreements, especially when facing significant changes. And becoming parents is a big change.

{Genevieve's shoulders relaxed as she absorbed Kendra's reassurance} You're right. It's just that we've always navigated challenges together, but this feels different.

{Kendra nodded in agreement} Parenthood adds a new layer of complexity. Decisions become more crucial, and emotions can run high.

{Genevieve's smile was appreciative} Thank you, Kendra. Your understanding means a lot.

{Kendra's tone was supportive} You and Ash have a strong bond. This is just another chapter in your journey together.

{Genvieve sighing} Well it's no use sitting around here I guess it's time to face him.

{Kendra worried} Do you want me to come with you Princess?

{Genevieve's expression softened as she appreciated Kendra's concern}

{Genevieve} Thank you, Kendra. Your offer means a lot to me.

{Kendra's gaze was filled with empathy} If you ever need me there, just let me know. I'll be right by your side.

{Genevieve's smile was warm and genuine} I know you would, and I'm grateful for that.

{As Genevieve wobbled onto her legs, her determination was evident. Kendra's concern remained, but she trusted Genevieve's judgment.}

{Kendra worried} Are you sure you'll be alright, Your Highness?

{Genevieve's tone was confident} I'll be fine, Kendra. Sometimes, we have to face challenges head-on.

{Kendra nodded; her support unwavering} Just remember, you're not alone in this. Ash cares for you deeply, and he'll understand.

{Genevieve's steps were steady as she moved towards the door, Kendra's reassuring words resonating with her.}

{Genevieve} Thank you, Kendra. Your friendship gives me strength.

{The room seemed to hold the essence of their bond, a testament to the understanding and unity that had grown between them.

As Genevieve prepared to face Ash and mend their understanding, she carried with her the comfort of friendship and the knowledge that, together, they could overcome any challenge that came their way.}

...................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

{As Ash made his way to their bedroom, a smile graced his lips, carrying with it a sense of anticipation and warmth. The thought of surprising Genevieve with a carefully crafted cradle, born out of his dedication and love, filled him with a sense of purpose and excitement. He knew that despite the demands of her responsibilities, he wanted to show Genevieve that he was with her every step of the way.

The image of the cradle he envisioned was clear in his mind—a testament to his skill and the care he held for their growing family. The forest excursion, the search for the perfect tree, and the plans to carve the cradle were all reflections of his determination to create a meaningful gift for the woman he loved.

Ash's thoughts drifted to Genevieve's responsibilities, acknowledging the weight of her duties and the effort she was investing in her role. He understood the demands she faced, the need to catch up on matters that would shape her future as a potential queen. His admiration for her dedication was unwavering, and he held a deep respect for her commitment to her people.

As he entered their bedroom, the sight of the space they shared filled him with a sense of comfort and belonging. With each step he took, Ash's heart swelled with affection for Genevieve. He knew that their paths were intertwined, and he was determined to support her in every way possible, to be a partner in both the joyous moments and the challenges they faced.

As Ash stepped out onto the balcony, the tranquil scene before him caught his attention and brought a gentle smile to his lips. He observed Genevieve sitting on the ground, engaged in conversation with a fawn. The sight was a reminder of her innate connection with nature, a quality that had always endeared her to him.

The soft exchange between Genevieve and the fawn painted a serene picture, and Ash's smile grew as he approached, appreciating the moment for its tranquility. He walked closer, eager to join in the peaceful scene that unfolded.

However, as his gaze shifted from the fawn to Genevieve, his expression shifted from joy to concern. Horror crossed his features as he noticed the bandages that adorned her left leg and right arm. His heart clenched with worry, and he froze in his tracks, momentarily stunned by the sight.

The realization hit him like a jolt. His immediate instinct was to rush to her side, to ensure that she was alright. The thought of her being injured, especially after his plans to create a cradle for their child, stirred a mix of emotions within him—concern, guilt, and a fervent desire to protect her. Swallowing his shock, Ash quickly moved forward, his steps more determined as he reached Genevieve's side.}

{Ash worried and kneeling next to her} Genevieve, what happened? Are you alright?

{Genevieve smiling} I am ok Ash and before you ask so is the baby.

{Ash his voice carrying a mixture of gratitude and concern} Thank the stars that both you and the baby are okay.

{However, his worry was far from alleviated, and he pressed on with his questions, seeking to understand the circumstances that had led to her injuries.}

{Ash} What happened, Genevieve?

{Ash's gaze was focused on her, his desire to protect her and their unborn child evident in his eyes.}

{Genevieve calmly} I walked into a trap.

{Ash's expression shifted from worry to a mix of shock and anger. The idea of Genevieve being caught in a trap, especially when she was pregnant, ignited a surge of protective instincts within him. He clenched his jaw, his hands balling into fists as he struggled to contain his emotions.}

{Ash} Thats it Genevieve. I hate to do this, but I don't want you to do anymore Warrior duty's until you one moon recovered from the birth.

{Genevieve shocked} Ash you can't do this to me. You don't own me. I may be your wife and Princess, but I am not something you own.

{The private garden seemed to carry the weight of their emotions, each word spoken echoing with their feelings and the complex dynamics that defined their relationship. Ash's protective nature clashed with Genevieve's desire for agency and autonomy.}

{Ash's expression reflected the inner struggle he felt, torn between his deep love for her and his concerns for her safety.}

{Ash sighed his tone much gentler} Genevieve, I'm not trying to own you. I just want to make sure you're safe, especially during this time. You've always been strong and capable but carrying our child changes things.

{Genevieve's eyes held a mix of frustration and understanding} I know you're worried, Ash. And I appreciate that. But I can't simply stop doing what I've been trained for. Being a warrior is a part of who I am.

{Ash taking a deep breath, his voice carrying a blend of sincerity and pleading} Genevieve, I understand that being a warrior is a part of you. I've always admired your strength and skills. But this is different. I can't bear the thought of something happening to you or our child.

{Genevieve's standing form radiated anger, her voice carrying the weight of her emotions.} But that's it, Ash! I had Kendra with me. We are fine.

{Ash's anger matched hers, his own frustration and worry evident in his tone.} Well then, it's Kendra's fault.

{Genevieve's anger flared further, her voice rising as she defended her friend.} Don't you dare blame Kendra. This isn't her fault! It's the Wild Hunt's fault!

{Ash's voice took on a sharper edge as he responded, his own frustration escalating.} Well, look at what that did to you.

{Genevieve's voice cracked as she shouted back, a mixture of anger and hurt in her words.} I can take care of myself, Ash! I've faced dangers before, and I'll face them again.

{Ash's voice boomed with a mixture of frustration and desperation as he shouted, his emotions reaching a boiling point. The intensity of the situation had pushed him to a breaking point, and his words reflected his deep concern for Genevieve's safety.} No, you can't, Genevieve!

{Ash's tone was sharp, filled with a sense of urgency and fear. His love for her, coupled with the fear of losing her, had ignited a fierce determination within him. He was willing to take drastic measures to ensure her safety.}

{Ash his voice wavering between anger and sadness} You need to stay put, and if that means grounding you to the castle and not seeing Shadow, then that's what I will do.

{The garden seemed to echo with the weight of his ultimatum, underscoring the depth of his emotions and his willingness to do whatever it took to keep her out of harm's way. Ash's anger and fear had driven him to a point where he was willing to enforce his decision even if it meant restricting Genevieve's freedom.

Genevieve's response was a mixture of shock and defiance. The thought of being confined and restricted clashed with her fiercely independent nature.}

{Genevieve her voice a mixture of frustration and a determination to assert her autonomy.} Ash, you can't do that, I won't be caged, even if it's for my safety. I understand your worry, but I won't lose who I am in the process. What is wrong with you Ash. I demand as a Princess an answer NOW!

{Ash's voice wavered, his frustration giving way to a vulnerability he rarely displayed.} I... Genevieve, I'm sorry, I just can't bear the thought of anything happening to you or our child. The idea of losing you is... unbearable.

{Genevieve's shock deepened as she looked at Ash, her hand instinctively moving to the newly made scar on her side. The scar was a vivid reminder of the fierce confrontation she had faced with the Unseelie Princess Dala. The memories of that heated battle surged to the forefront of her mind, each detail etched with pain and determination.

In the midst of that confrontation, Dala had refused to back down, holding onto Excalibur and the Heart of Lumina that were embedded in the hilt. Genevieve had been forced to fight her, driven by the need to reclaim the powerful artifacts for the sake of her kingdom and her people.

The battle had been fierce, each strike a testament to their determination and power. And in the midst of that intense struggle, Dala's blade had found its mark, striking Genevieve's side near where her unborn child was growing.

The shock of the wound, the pain, and the immediate concern for the safety of her child had been overwhelming. Genevieve's grit and determination had carried her through, and she had emerged victorious, Excalibur and the Heart of Lumina returned to their rightful place.

But the scar remained—a visible reminder of the danger she had faced, the sacrifices she was willing to make, and the strength she had found within herself. It was a reminder that both she and the child were fortunate to have survived the ordeal.}

{Genevieve's voice softened as she looked at Ash, her heart aching at the pain he was clearly feeling.} Ash... why didn't you tell me sooner?

{Ash's tears fell freely, his voice breaking as he responded with a heavy weight of emotion.} Because when I saw you faint from the blood loss, I thought I lost you. And you were, are pregnant, and I didn't know back then. So, I could have ended up burying you and the child I wouldn't have known about.

{The revelation hit Genevieve with a profound sense of understanding, a realization of the depth of Ash's fear and the sacrifices he was willing to make to protect her. The truth of his words cut through any lingering frustration, leaving her with a profound empathy for his perspective. Her own tears welled up as she reached out and gently cupped his face, her touch a tender reassurance.}

{Genevieve crying} Ash... I'm so sorry. I didn't know you were going through all of that. I didn't know you were thinking of me and the baby.

{Ash's shoulders shook with emotion as he looked at her, his voice a mix of pain and love.} I couldn't bear the thought of losing you. And I know now that I should have trusted you more, trusted in your strength and resilience.

{Genevieve's thumb brushed away a tear from his cheek, her heart heavy with a mixture of regret and affection.} And I should have communicated better, Ash. We're in this together, and we should have shared our fears and concerns.

{Their exchange was marked by a profound sense of vulnerability, a stripping away of defenses to reveal the depth of their emotions. The garden, once a place of tension, had transformed into a sanctuary for their shared truth. Ash's arms wrapped around Genevieve, pulling her close as he buried his face in her shoulder.}

{Ash weeping} I love you so much, Genevieve. I don't ever want to feel that fear again.

{Genevieve held him tightly, her own tears mingling with his as they clung to each other in a silent embrace.} I love you too, Ash. We'll face whatever comes together, with open hearts and trust.

{Their tears and their embrace were a testament to the healing power of honesty, empathy, and their unwavering love. In that moment, the garden bore witness to their growth as a couple—the way they confronted their fears, communicated their vulnerabilities, and found strength in each other's arms.

The garden seemed to cocoon them in a world of shared emotions and understanding. The weight of their past disagreements and concerns had given way to a deep connection—one that was fortified by their willingness to open up to each other.}

{As their tears subsided, Ash pulled back slightly to gaze into Genevieve's eyes. His expression held a mixture of sincerity and determination.} Genevieve, I promise to trust you more, to share my fears and concerns with you, no matter how difficult they may be.

{Genevieve's heart swelled with affection as she looked back at him, her voice gentle yet firm.} And I promise to communicate better, to let you in on what's happening, and to never underestimate the strength of our partnership.

Their words formed an unspoken pact, a commitment to face the challenges of their roles and responsibilities as partners and future parents. The garden, once a place of conflict, was now a symbol of their growth and resilience as a couple.

They lingered in the garden, their embrace a reflection of their unity and love. The air was charged with a sense of renewal—a newfound understanding that had come from their willingness to confront their fears and share their vulnerabilities.

With each passing moment, their connection grew stronger, a testament to the power of love to mend even the deepest wounds. The garden, a silent witness to their journey, held the promise of many more shared moments, conversations, and memories to come.}

#the fairyland

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