#and the subtle hints to moonlight like all the songs being about the moon LOVE THE DETAIL!!

[margareit]

the fact it took me so long to finally buy and play through the quarry and it’s literally become one of my favourite games ever 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

[wexhappyxfew]

The Sun Will Always Rise || Ronald Speirs

inspired by a quote from Ruta Sepetys’ book, Between Shades of Grey ~ ❛you stand for what is right, without the expectation of gratitude or reward. ❜

Happy HBO War Secret Santa 2020! I can’t believe the time has officially arrived and to say I am beyond excited for this lil Ronald Speirs imagine I cooked up, is an understatement. This is for @incorrectbandofbrothersquotes​ , for Kelsey!! It’s not as much of a Christmas theme, more of a snowy, wintry theme, which I love!!

I was beyond excited to take up a request for Secret Santa and laying out my options, going off your list, I chose Ronald Speirs to write for you - I am so happy with how this turned out, and I hope, more than anything, you enjoy it and it brings some holiday cheer to this time of year, especially after a year where it seems like every thing that happened just got worse and worse.

Take time to yourself this holiday season, Kelsey, and you enjoy some time for yourself as well - you are such a wonderful human being, who I believe if I’m correct, I have followed since Day 1 in this fandom, nearly 2 years ago - if that even sounds right LOL! It’s been a long while though! Happy reading and happy holidays for whatever holiday you celebrate, or if you don’t celebrate any at all! Thank you and enjoy! And thank you @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant for doing this!!! <3

ronald speirs imagine x reader - 2.5k word count <3 

Captain Speirs had been rather adamant on letting you go early from the tiny meeting Captain Winters had organized - between the runny nose, your numb fingertips, and your pale cheeks which seemed to stand out especially in the bleak wilderness around you, you figured it was for the best. 

Haguenea, France was far from the paradise that Mourmelon-le-Grande had offered back in the convent in Rachamps when it was the only thought inside your mind, the warmth reaching your hands for the first time in what felt like months. 

Now, your toes were numb just like your mind. Your helmet was cast down over your tired eyes, the dark rims that had accompanied you through Bastogne, along with the terrors of the Bois Jaque, you were surprised that you could no longer get a proper night of sleep at this point. 

OP 2 stood with its bullet speckled fortifications, shattered glass window panes, and mud covered path way but more than anything you felt a tiny smile poke up at the corner of your mouth, more than anything in that moment. 

Crossing your arms across your chest, you tucked your little hands towards the coat portion near your armpits, relishing the bit of warmth your body still managed to produce. 

Moving up the few steps you had taken that morning, up to the depths of OP 2, you stomped the bits of mud out from the portions of your new winter-boots pack and pushed inside the bit of warmth that drifted from the outpost. 

You could hear a few of the men moving around downstairs, most likely eating their fill before the patrol slated for 0100 tonight. It was quiet on the main level though, beds left unmade from where men had taken much-needed naps from the bitter cold which brought on layers of tiredness and loss of calories more than the normal days of what war brought. 

Pulling the Thompson from your shoulder, you let it drop into your cold hands before lying it beside the bunk you, yourself had taken a nap in before you had woken up for the meeting. 

Yawning, you glanced towards the open French doors that let in the cold draft of air in the late, dreary afternoon. The quiet river that trailed outside let it’s soft presence be known as the sun did its best to warm the land underneath which lay tattered in ruins and soaking snow and mud pits, decorating it with war. 

Moving outside again, you let your pistol bump at your hip - no one wanted to start another battle when the war had already taken enough, no one wished to throng bullet after bullet towards one another when there was already so much bloodshed - for a moment there was simply just peace as you moved outside towards the river. 

Turning the corner, where you had found a little secluded spot to just sit and let the tiny bit of peace you felt overtake you, you noticed a figure standing stiffly, his dark eyes looking out across the river, with a scarf pulled up around his stubble cheeks, eyes evidently alert and awake. 

You had found the area just that day, frosted hedges and a leafless tree hanging overhead with the dreary sky as a saddening backdrop. 

Clearing your throat, you took a tentative step forward, watching the man with gentle eyes. He didn’t seem to notice your presence, he didn’t make a show of it, but you knew he did, by the subtle shift in the way his shoulders dropped the slightest inch, and even his eyes seemed to soften, the hard glow from your side view of him fading. 

Captain Speirs seemed no stranger to your presence in the simple way, he suddenly turned his own head towards your eyes, his lips pulled into the thin line you had seen previously at the small gathering with Captain Winters. 

“ I thought I told you to get some rest, Lieutenant.” he said, his eyes softly moving up and down your small stature, stopping briefly on your hands which looked nearly as pale as the sky by that point - you looked so fragile and small in his eyes for a moment. 

“ Sleeping and I aren’t exactly compatible.” you said as you approached him, your feet in the mud covered boots slowing to a pause in front of him as he watched you earnestly.

“ What are you doing out here, Lieutenant?” 

“ I could ask the same of you, sir.” you answered quietly back, watching as he studied your eyes, noticing the build of stress lines that stretched like the horizon underneath your stressed eyes, the sunken in cheeks showing the wounds of war in someone who had fought so strongly against it and the pain of a million souls rupturing your heart. A slight hint of a smile poked up at the corner of his lips, as he finally rested his eyes on your own again, before looking back out towards the river and the enemy’s side.

“ It’s peaceful out here.” he said and you watched as he let his eyes move along the bank of water, softly picking on each and every little part of the river from its banks to the white caps. 

“ I’m glad I’m not the only one who found it peaceful then.” you said quietly, your own eyes caring out towards the, admittedly, cold water. Slowly, willing yourself with the might you had, you walked forward and slowly positioned yourself beside the man, barely reaching his shoulder if you could admit it and let your eyes remain out on the river. 

Captain Ronald Speirs had come into your life only recently, but even years before you had bumped into him on occasion - it was always a mutual greeting, signs of respect being passed between the two of you, both Lieutenants in your own realms. He had even complimented the dress you’d been wearing out on the town one night with a group of the guys in Aldbourne after the Normandy Campaign. He had liked the color - it had been a soft baby blue, like robin’s eggs - and he had liked it. 

Of course at the time, you hadn’t thought much of it, the sun rising and setting, the moon coming out to expose the raw pain and truth of war, the bloodshed and endless battles and the grief that consumed merely just one person after the next - you’d forgotten about it almost instantly. You still remembered the softness of his eyes - that hadn’t changed. 

Now, he was your CO and you remained a close Second to him; he turned to you when he wanted to run something over, and on occasion, you two shared a cigarette under the moonlight when all the men were tucked away and finally getting the restful sleep they deserved. 

“ What do you think’s gonna happen on that patrol tonight, Lieutenant?” he asked you, voice soft, in a way gentle, but the soft rasp of a cough in his throat was far from evident. He always seemed to confide in you when these circumstances arose - especially after Rachamps. 

“ I think the men will be okay, they’ve fought for a while in this war, just as the enemy has. They’ll do their best.” They were tired is what she wanted to say, all the men were - she gave a prayer to Sergeant Martin for the heed he took when assigned to lead the patrol over the exhausted Sergeant Malarkey. 

“ They’ve all fought long enough.” the Captain said quietly and you peaked a hesitant glance up towards him. Your heart didn’t fail to speed up the slightest bit at the gentle nature that encased his face and the way he seemed to undoubtedly care for each of the men like a father would. 

Turning from the river, he slowly met your eyes which didn’t falter in looking away from his own - you were rather mesmerized by his beautiful irises, the way they glowed even in darkness or in the bleak snow, even when the sun would rise, they glowed so purely. 

“ Sir….I….” He watched you speak, head inclined towards you, waiting for the words from your lips, but you were caught up with the caring nature he seemed to inhibit within himself in that moment of time where there was no war, no peace, just him and his eyes, and just...him. 

“ I know you care for these men, Y/N.” Captain Speirs whispered softly, as he watched your eyes change from the stressed expression they seemed to constantly encompass to a gentleness, a warmth, merely at the direct comment of her name and not just the soft rasp of Lieutenant - no he had said your name. So softly and tenderly, each letter off the tongue like a song. 

“ I’ve been with them since Toccoa, sir….I…” your shoulders managed to slump as you found yourself unable to finish your sentence under the Captain’s gaze, unable to process mere words. 

“ These men don’t deserve this Y/N, I know that and so does Captain Winters - I think we all do.” 

“ Battalion’s orders.” you managed out weakly, with an attempt at a frosted smile as he nodded, watching the sadness flood your eyes again - he found out he didn’t like seeing your beautiful eyes sad like that, even if they still looked just as beautiful, your eyes didn’t deserve to see and feel such pain, for their mere beauty was worth much more. 

“ You don’t deserve this either, Y/N.” Shutting your eyes for a moment, you felt your heart squeeze at his words - you always thought in some way you had - for the lives you took, for the ones you couldn’t prevent being taken, from everything. In some ways, it was alright - to pay your dues as such. 

“ You deserve to be happy, warm...in a little cottage by the sea that you’ve always liked…” 

He had LISTENED to that story? He had HEARD that story? 

You swore it must’ve been the fever or maybe that the recollection you had was just you mumbling to yourself, you swore it had been.

“ You heard all that?” you asked softly, your eyes opening as you met his own again. A chuckle left his lips and you found it enough to boost your own into a shy smile at it, his eyes downcast before glancing up to your own. He had a nice laugh.

“ Yeah, yeah I did,” he said biting back his lips as a smile crossed his lips, twinkling eyes shining on you,” must’ve been the fever but you were going on and on about it and I wasn’t going to stop you either.” You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head at your clumsy way of speech - through a fever and the cold and you had blabbered to Captain Speirs about the cottage by the sea you wished for. 

Both your smiles seemed to fall once the moment past and almost like a little angel on your shoulder, your heart pleaded to see that dash of a boyish grin on his lips again. Your heart nearly yearned for it when it’s only human contact was the Captain in front of her - maybe she wanted it too. 

And from the proximity of your bodies, you were nearly in reach of him. 

“ Your eyes..-” Softly looking towards you as you spoke, your lip hanging open a bit as you met them again,”...I mean, sir, I..I don’t know if you’ve been told, but you’re eyes…” He watched you softly.

“ They’re beautiful, sir, and I just thought you should know.” Because in war, this war, I may never see you after tonight, you wished to say, but your head was saying no as your heart was saying yes. 

The smile that had gone underground on the Captains’ face suddenly grew, spreading across his face and you couldn’t help but let your breath get caught in your throat. 

An ethereal being was your first thought. 

It seemed like he too was caught at a similar crossroads, his eyes betraying him and his heart - you were within reach, you were standing right there, despite everything. 

You were standing there with a wounded heart. 

“ I could say the same to you,” he said quietly,” Lieutenant.” Your heart squeezed the slightest bit tighter as he said it.

“ Baby blue,” he said quietly,” like robin’s eggs.” Your eyes carried up to his again and you met them within seconds, suddenly aware of the heat on your cheeks, the pounding of your heart - none of it.

“ I didn’t just notice that dress you wore that day, Lieutenant,” he said quietly,” I noticed those eyes too.” He swore they could make the sun want to rise on its worst days. You swore it was just the cold, but you had no words left to say, you had nothing to say at all - because his eyes which glowed like the sun, said it all. 

“ Sir….” you whispered, but he suddenly turned and gently pressed his hands which had been crossed over his chest, flush against your red cheeks and watched you tenderly, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin of your sunken in cheeks, as he watched your eyes. He watched you so selflessly, like you were his sun, his world. 

Could a person ever mean that much to another - maybe Ronald Speirs thought that way. 

Maybe he always had. 

It seemed for a moment the stoic Captain did everything to break down the walls which encapsulated him just so he could touch the human in front of him - you. The bit of warmth he still felt under his fingertips coming from you. 

Softly, ever so lovingly, he shut his eyes as you watched his long lashes cover his irises. 

And in that moment, you shut your own as he held your there, inches from his face, faintly hearing his heartbeat which raced for the first time since Foy. 

“ You stand for what is right, Y/N, without the expectation of gratitude or reward.” he whispered softly as your heart rushed and hurriedly skipped over a beat without hesitation,” And through this war, even after, it’s all you deserve.” 

And within a moment, a softness pressed against your cold cheek, the touch of his lips on your skin, a gentle kiss from the servant of the sun - and just as fast as it had happened it disappeared. 

Your own hands slowly moved upward towards your flushed cheeks - you could still feel the brush of his lips against the skin of your cheek. 

Opening your eyes, you found yourself alone, all alone by the rushing water of the river, your heart pounding. Slowly, you glanced over your shoulder and found the figure of the Captain moving away from you, his commanding presence which had fallen to his queen for a mere moment of time, back up. 

Yet you had seen it fall, and you had seen his heart, his beautiful heart - for not only were his eyes as beautiful as they had been, but so was his heart - it had always been, but this time, so was everything else about him. 

Everything.

The sun smiled, it would always rise. 

The sun would always rise. 

[jessie-writes-things]

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed

I could have done so much better things with this poem. Maybe I'll try again at a later date. Anyway, this was meant to be a quick 30 minute thing. An hour and 1k-ish words later, here we are! I can't be bothered to edit it though, so sorry about that. 😅

Pairing: Marcus Pike x Neutral Reader

Words: 1k

Genre: fluff? angst?

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol / being drunk. A breakup on Marcus's end.

Summary: Your neighbour gets drunk after a breakup and you help him out.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed

And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

- Mad Girl’s Love Song, Sylvia Plath

***

There were very few things you knew about Marcus pike. You knew he worked for the FBI, something in art, and you knew he left for work every morning at 6am on the dot without fail.

Except for the night…day he came home at 6am.

And you might not have noticed if you hadn’t forgotten to put your trash out on the curb the night before, dragging your ass out at the crack of dawn so you wouldn’t get another warning.

You had almost screamed when you first saw him. Marcus sat slumped against his door across from yours, disheveled suit staring up at you with a drunken smile.

‘You alright there?’

‘Yep.’

‘Need help?’

‘Nope.’

Marcus was still there when you came back, granted slightly slumped to the side, cheeks tinted red when he caught sight of you again, ‘Well, this is embarrassing.’

He giggled and hiccuped the entire trip to his bed. Face first into the plush duvet, Marcus groaned dramatically before nothing. He just laid there for a long moment and you watched but waiting became too painful.

You weren’t too sure being that drunk and on his stomach was the best idea. It wasn’t until you flipped him onto his back that you noticed the tears.

‘She left me.’

You weren’t too sure who she was, but she appeared to be important to him.

You crouched to take off his fancy work shoes so he wouldn’t ruin them by trying to kick them off, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘She wasn’t.’ He watched you slip off his shoes, setting them to the side of the bed, enough sadness in his eyes to last a lifetime.

Normally, you wouldn’t be this forward with a guy you barely knew. Maybe it was how he looked so downtrodden like all hope had been wrenched out of him. Or maybe it was how oddly handsome he looked, tipsy and half asleep with the last remnants of moonlight peaking in through his curtains to highlight his face.

Maybe you were just lonely and desperate.

Either way, you found yourself smiling up at him, holding onto his hands to steady him as he sat up, ‘You’re a good-looking guy, I’m sure you’ll find someone else.’

And that goofy smile that spread across his face was enough to have your heart, his fingers brushing over the back of your hands, ‘You’re very good-looking, too.’

The silence between two virtual strangers should not be so comfortable, and, yet, you found yourself drawn to him.

For a moment, you let him tug you closer to stand between his parted legs. You stumbled slightly, catching yourself before you knocked him over, both of you giggling like young loves meeting for the first time.

And while nothing more happened than Marcus’s hands in yours, his head resting against your stomach. He traced nonsensical patterns along your skin, a touch so light you weren’t sure it was even there.

You wanted there to be more. You wanted to kiss him so badly, wondering what his lips would taste like, if he had been drinking wine or beer or whisky to drown his sorrows. Wondered if he would be bad or good, he looked like he would be a good kisser, gentle and soft but with enough bite that it wouldn't be boring.

You wondered what it would be like to wake up next to him, surrounded by soft sheets and his warm body because Christ he was warm enough just sitting in front of you. How would he look with golden rays of sun falling on his face? His hair messy from sleep and that damn beautiful smile that had snuck its way into your soul, haunting you every time you closed your eyes.

But you were smarter. It couldn’t happen like this. You wouldn’t let it happen like this. Not while he was drunk.

Pulling yourself away from him was the hardest part. Each inch felt like another part of your being was ripping in two, and the subtle way he tried to cling on hinted it wasn’t so fun for him either. But you helped him drink some water and listened as he yelled instructions as to where he kept his pain meds, putting them on his bedside table so he wouldn’t have to find them when he woke up.

Marcus was asleep before you were gone.

You didn’t see him for three days. The third morning you were debating if you should knock on his door on the way to take your trash out, just to make sure he wasn’t dead.

He walked out, 6am on the dot.

‘So, to clarify,’ he fell into pace next to you as you walked down the stairs, ‘I didn’t dream the whole thing a few nights ago?’

‘Nope.’

‘And I was really that drunk?’

‘Yep.’

His eyes were wide, ‘I thought I had made up the whole thing.’

There was something about how relieved he sounded that made your heart flutter. A part of you thought maybe you had made up the whole thing, thinking the connection you had felt that night had been too good to be true and it was just him being too drunk to understand what was going on.

Marcus stopped at the entrance when you did, smiling sheepishly and your heart near damn stopped when he said, ‘Want to get some breakfast? With me? It’s the least I can do after everything.’

You eyed his suit, the same one but freshly cleaned, ‘Don’t you have work?’

It was stupid to question it. Why in God's name would you question it?

And for a second, you thought maybe you had ruined it. But then he opened the door, holding it out and he winked, fucking winked as you shimmed past him. ‘I can afford to be a bit late.’

[asthmark]

❝ let’s dance ❞ s.jh

synopsis → “i’m gonna marry you.”

request → “How about Johnny fluff partying time and the concept theme is the 80s” — @heart-bleeding-autism-angel​

word count → 2.5k

a/n → the amount of googling i did for this is scary .. and i still know literally nothing abt the 80’s LOL anyway the title is my fav david bowie song that happened to be released in ‘83 and it kind of fits the the fic so,,, cool :-)

the moonlight shines through your window, casting it’s heavenly glow on your face. despite the late hour, it illuminates your entire room enough that you can read the time off the clock hanging on your wall.

11:55 p.m.

if they decide to be on time, your friends should be arriving in five minutes.

you retreat from your windowsill to prepare yourself. you stop in front of your closet, staring at the array of clothing. it takes you a couple moments to pick something you liked. you, of course, wanted to impress johnny, the self proclaimed fashion evaluator, but there was no better feeling than knowing you looked good.

you settle on a cozy turtleneck and your favorite mini skirt. then you pull on a pair of tube socks and slip on your prized white sneakers. for the final touch, you slide on a thin buckle belt through the loops of your skirt to tie it all together.

you smile satisfactorily at your reflection in the mirror and what was sure to be your best outfit yet. besides being well-put together, it felt comfortable enough to move around in and you knew you would surely be doing much moving that night.

once the clock strikes midnight, you notice  light flash into your room. since it’s brighter than that of the moon, you know exactly who must be behind it. even if you didn’t, the hushed chatter and giggling from outside your window gives it away. you peer down into your backyard to find sicheng and jaehyun standing there, flashlights in hand and aimed directly into your bedroom.

you hastily wave your hands at them, your face twisted with worry. they wave back at you with goofy smiles on their faces, oblivious to your concern.

“cut the lights!” you hiss as silently as you can.

they finally seem to get the hint and click them off. jaehyun shouts back, “sorry!” accompanied by a laugh sicheng has failed to contain. you wince at their volume. there was no keeping them quiet so you decide your only option is to move as fast as you possibly can.

you carefully push one leg out of your window. it dangles above the roof of the front porch and you slowly lower it onto the tile. once you’ve successfully planted half of yourself on the roof, you bring your other leg down. this action is followed by a slight creek but you don’t even bother hesitating. you crouch down to the edge of the house and repeat the previous steps, this time landing on the front steps of your porch.

“that was smooth!” jaehyun exclaims in awe.

you bring a finger to your lips but still can’t help but smile at the praise.

“you’re like a ninja,” adds sicheng. “or a cat.” he pauses, deep in thought, before concluding, “you’re a ninja cat.”

you raise a brow. “you’ve both been drinking, haven't you?”

“no.”

“yes.”

“i’m gonna have to believe jae on this one,” you say, observing the way sicheng’s eyelids droop and he slurs his words. “you couldn’t have waited ‘til we got to the club?”

he whines like a child. “i was thirsty!”

you clamp your hand over his mouth and scold him. “why do you feel the need to be so loud? do you want me to get caught?”

jaehyun hiccups. “aren’t you glad i’m an introvert? i’ll never get you in trouble.”

you laugh dryly. “sure, you’re all introverted until you find some random chick to grind on.”

he pouts. “let me have fun.”

“it’s fun until you spill your drink on her and i have to help clean—oh come on, sicheng, did you just lick me?” you remove your hand from his mouth only to find a big smile on his lips.

“perhaps.”

“god, let’s just go. where’s johnny parked?”  

“end of the street.”

you go in said direction with your two friends trailing behind you, messing around all the while. the three of you only stop when you catch sight of johnny’s shiny black convertible. you approach the vehicle and when he notices you, he smiles and shoots you a wink.

“you’re such a flirt,” you comment, opening the door to the passenger's seat.  

he shrugs. “but you still fell in love with me so i’d say it’s worked out pretty well up until this point.”

you’re about to respond when jaehyun interrupts. “hey, i wanted to ride shotgun!”

“me too!” agrees sicheng. “y/n always gets it!”

johnny glares at the pair through the rear view mirror. “and that’s how i like it so get in the backseat or you’re walking.”

they mumble what you assume are complaints yet still get in the car.

johnny revs up the engine but before you go anywhere he makes an announcement. “and if either of you are going to vomit again, all i ask is that you don’t do it in here. my dad just bought me this bad boy.”

a chuckle escapes your lips.

“what are you laughing about over there?”

you lean back against the headrest, smile still present. “we literally have two kids.”

“basically. but hey, there’s no one else i’d rather babysit two grown men with than you.”

“stop, i’m blushing,” you deadpan.

johnny’s shoulders shake with laughter at your sarcasm. “seriously, though! you really know how to take care of someone. one day, if i’m lucky enough, i’ll be able to see that up close.”

you know exactly what he means by that last statement—he was thinking of a future with you. the last thing you want to do is burst his bubble but you knew how your parents felt about your relationship. they thought you could do better than ‘some football player from your school’. they had friends with young, stuck up sons who, according to them, were more fit for you. despite being told countless times how happy johnny made you, they paid you no mind.

you nod, sincerely. “i hope so.”

he places his hand on your thigh, rubbing reassuring circles into your skin. you stay like that for the entire drive.

once you finally reach your destination, you leave all doubt and anxiety surrounding your relationship with johnny in the car along with any other negativity. the flashing lights and loud music you could hear even from outside the club excites you and you’re left with no choice but to discard all of your worries. you never got tired of seeing the glowing, neon sign letting you know that you had arrived at the hottest hang out spot there was—the neo zone.

as soon as you step inside, sicheng’s face contorts in displeasure. “i’m, uh, going to the bathroom.” he carelessly pushes past strangers, clutching his stomach.

you notice jaehyun has disappeared as well. before you can ask, you spot him on the dance floor, inserting himself in some line dance he obviously isn’t familiar with. his limbs move awkwardly and completely out of sync with the rest of the group. he recieves multiple strange looks and you can’t help but cringe.

“where did we go wrong with them?”

johnny’s laugh can hardly be heard over the booming bass of a song. “couldn’t tell you that, sugar. let’s just hope the next ones come out better.”

there he goes again, talking about your oh-so-promising future. you were still unsure if you would be able to grant johnny the picture perfect life he constantly spoke about. whenever he referenced it, you felt slightly guilty.

instead of acknowledging his comment, you glance around, looking anywhere but him. “want to get a drink?”

he simply nods, placing his hand in the small of your back as you weave your way through the crowd to the bar.

he leans on the counter and orders, “one long island iced tea, please.”

“you know my order?” you ask, pleasantly surprised.

“sweetheart, you get it everytime we come here. and that’s often.”

you still beam at him. “it’s still nice. you know, that you notice those things.”

“everything about you is worth noticing. besides, what kind of boyfriend would i be if i didn’t?”

you press a quick kiss to his cheek to show him how grateful you are.

“you really have to work on your aim because you completely missed your target that time.” he teasingly taps his lips.

you roll your eyes with a giggle. “never satisfied, are you, suh?”

“you owe me, just sayin’.”

“oh yeah?”

“totally! i let you sit shotgun!”

“i was the only thing standing in the way of sicheng throwing up all over your dashboard, you should be thanking me!”

johnny presses a kiss to your lips. it’s so unexpected yet enjoyable that you can’t stop your eyes from fluttering shut in bliss. he only pulls away to take a breath of air.

he licks his lips. “how was that?”

you brush imaginary dust off your skirt. “probably the best ‘thank you’ i’ve ever received.”

“says you. i can't get enough of those lips of yours.”

you fiddle with your belt. “nobody's stopping you from getting your fill.”

“you’re going to be the death of me, young lady.”

seconds later, the bartender slides you your drink. “here’s your drink, young lady.” he gives johnny a knowing smile and not-so-subtle thumbs up. “what a pretty little thing you got there.”

you know his words aren’t meant for your ears so you avert your eyes and take small sips of your drink.

“thank you, sir. i couldn’t agree more.”

“you know, me and my wife met in this club. just like you two.”

“we’ve actually known each other for a couple years.”

the man’s eyes widen in surprise. “well, look at you. already ahead of the game. you love her?”

johnny doesn’t hesitate to nod. “very much. the only issue is her folks don’t seem to be too crazy about me. they have a long list of suitors, myself excluded.”

you frown and trace the rim of your glass. that never got any easier for you to hear.  

the man nods, understandingly. “i see. well, in that case, you might have to wait. you said you love her and until you get to be together—which you will—keep loving her. that’ll make the time you spend waiting go by like this.” he snaps his fingers to prove his point.

johnny nods, a genuine smile appearing on his face. “i appreciate the advice. thank you.”

the bartender gives him a curt nod and goes back to tending to the other demanding customers.

before johnny gets a chance to say anything, you ask, “do you wanna dance with me?”

his grin widens. “always.”

you take his hand in yours and lead him to the dance floor. it’s full, as always, multiple bodies pressed up against each other. you waste no time joining in.

your hands end up on his broad shoulders, fingers toying with the hair on the nape of his neck and his grip ends up on your hips. the songs played at club neo zone always had a strong bass and energetic vibe so you both match that rhythm, moving to the intense heartbeat of the music. you gaze up at johnny, admiring his good looks even under the glow of the disco lights that colored him shades of bright pink, blue and green.

“what are you looking at, pretty girl?”

“just your face. i like it.”

he hums. “mm, i’m glad. i do too.”

“like my face?”

“no, mine.”

you shove his shoulder, playfully.

he chuckles. “you know i’m joking. you’re the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen.”

you suddenly find your shoes to be very interesting and stare down at them, smiling sheepishly.

“c’mon, don’t get all shy on me now.”

you giggle. “quit it.”

he glides his hands up and down your sides. “i’m serious, darling. it must’ve taken all my luck to get you.”

“i could say the same thing. there’s no one i’d rather be with than you, john.”

his dimples appear at the compliment and he goes in for a bear-like hug. he cradles your shoulders and rests his chin on top of your head as both you sway.

“i’m gonna marry you.”

you’re not sure what about this statement catches you most off guard. maybe it’s the way that there’s no teasing tone in his voice or perhaps the fact that he has decided to say this in the middle of the dance floor, of all places.

you catch your lower lip in between your teeth. “i’m sorry we have to wait.”

“i’ll wait forever, babygirl, if that’s what it takes. and so what if your parents don’t want that. if one day you’ll let me wake up next to you and have a family with you, i’ll be happy.”

you feel butterflies fluttering in your stomach at his sweet words. “i can't wait.”

with the hope of a future together, you and johnny happily dance the rest of the night away. once the party dies down and the crowd shrinks with every song that passes, your bodies are left sweaty and tired. you agree it’s time to go home.

you spot jaehyun in the back of the club and it takes a lot of effort to drag him off his latest girl interest. he blows her kisses as you yank him away, promising her a phone call in the morning. you’re pretty sure he’s lying.

sicheng is found passed out in the restroom, snoring heavily.

“has he been here this whole time?” you ask with a grunt as you attempt to hoist him up.

johnny shrugs as he helps you lift. “i find it's better to not ask questions.”

you nod in agreement. “fair.”

the car ride is silent mostly thanks to sicheng being knocked out. jaehyun sits quietly as well, staring out the window. johnny decides to drop them off first. you stop in front of the jung residence. as you watch the brunette struggle to open the door with one hand and hold sicheng’s unconscious figure in the other, you can’t help but wonder, “is it really a good idea to leave him with jae? i mean, that’s like telling a toddler to look after an infant.”

“if i left him at his house i’m pretty sure his old man would ground him for the rest of his life. jae’s folks are always out of town.”

with that reassurance, you drive off, your next destination being your house. johnny parks exactly where he did at the beginning of the night, just to be safe.

he rests his hands on the steering wheel. “want me to walk you?”

you shake your head. “that’s alright. if i get caught, i’d rather it not be with you. i’d never hear the end of it.”

“yeah, i get it. one day, though, we won’t have to worry about it.” as if to promise you his words are true, he hands you his letterman jacket. it was his prized possession and he was never seen without it. “here, take this. wear it when i can't be with you.”

you nod, clutching the clothing item close to your chest. “i will.”

he leans over as far as his seatbelt allows him to give you the last kiss of the night. it ends too fast for the both of you. you exit his car and walk down the sidewalk towards your house.

johnny watches you through his rear view mirror and smiles to himself when he catches you pull on his jacket.

[fromashescomephoenixes]

Beauty and the Beast?

author’s note: Howdy all! This piece is a very late contribution to Reese’s disney writing challenge! This was in celebration of their achievement of 800 followers, due to their amazing fics.  (find the other submissions here) I am so overjoyed I could have a part in this, and I wanted to say a very special congratulations to them! ( @probably-peeves) In the month it took me to write this, they’re only a couple followers off of 1000! So, go check them out and drop a follow! Without further ado, I present my first ever Remus fic!

word count: ~2000

summary: you’ve spent years admiring Remus from a far, but who could ever learn to love a beast? this fic is loosely based around beauty and the beast

warnings: lil bit angsty and a hint of language. also it switches pov’s every so often so I’ve put in the beginning of each section who’s pov it is :)

•••

(your pov)

“He’s so perfect,” I sighed thinking to myself. I would have told a friend, but- well, they all thought I was a bit odd.

I was currently seated in the great hall, glancing up from my thick book. I had just been traveling to the optimistic world of Anne Shirley, when I had been distracted out of the corner of my eye by Remus pouring himself a steaming mug of tea. I took a sip of my own mug and continued to discreetly peer over its rim towards Remus.

He was sat, as usual, beside Peter Pettigrew. Today he looked a little more tired than usual, but I figured that must have been exam season getting to him.

I returned to my book as I realised that the amount of staring I was doing was reaching a nearly creepy amount.

I was never going to tell Remus I liked him. He was perfect. And me?

I was just a beast.

•••

(Narrator pov)

“She’s so perfect,” Remus sighed for the fourth time so far that breakfast.

“Bloody hell mate, do you need me to ask her out for you?” Sirius smirked as he took a particularly suggestive bite of toast. Remus wrinkled his freckled nose.

“You know exactly why I can’t Sirius,” Remus said quietly. “Look at her!” He gazed steadily towards you, at your end of Ravenclaw’s table.

“She’s perfect, and beautiful, and smart, and-“ Remus looked so miserable in that moment that Sirius, James, and Peter were about three seconds from tackling him in a large group hug. His despair faded to resigned dismay, and he finished.

“I’m just a beast,” he shrugged sadly.

•••

(your pov)

The library cooled my heated forehead just enough to hear my own thoughts for a minute. This full moon was going to be a long one. I hated the way standing outside at this time of night made the hair on the back of my neck prickle. Or the way I could smell the scent of Remus’s cologne (which I normally loved) from here- even though he was still in the great hall.

I performed another subtle cooling charm and returned to the detailed essay on the precise wand movements required for jelly leg jinxes.

“Can I take a seat?” A familiar yet unknown voice asked, motioning to a chair. I looked up to see the soft honey gold eyes of Remus gazing into mine. “Your corner of the library is so cool,” he smiled in a tired manner. It was then that I noticed the flushed tone of his cheeks.

“Of course,” I answered softly, incredibly shy around anyone- especially Remus. I swallowed my heart that was trying to escape it’s rightful place, and tried to start conversation. “Long day?” I asked gently. Remus rubbed his temples before responding:

“I guess you could say that,” the small, tired smile was back again. I pulled a small mint leaf out of my tiny container.

“I find mint always calms me down,” I popped a leaf into my own mouth, and handed him one.

I turned back to my work and managed to write another line before I was distracted by a slight rustling noise. Another affect of the full moon... heightened senses. I glanced up to see Remus digging through his satchel bag for something. Triumphant, he pulled out a bar of Honeydukes chocolate.

•••

(Narrator pov)

“Oi, Prongs,” James glanced up as Sirius’s hard elbow hit his side. “He finally got the courage to sit with her!” Sirius had a gleeful grin on his face. James’s face lit up as well and he quickly got  Peter’s attention. Peter let out a soft round of applause and gave a watery smile.

"Well, I ought to go help-" Sirius stood up to go talk to Remus, but James promptly yanked him back by his coller.

"You tosser! You'd make it worse!" James chuckled slightly, and they all resumed their studious work.

•••

(Remus’s pov)

I held up the bar and raised an eyebrow slightly. “Would you like any?” I held the chocolate towards her. As much as I hated sharing my chocolate, it was only kind. Especially after I saw her eyes meet mine again. Anything was worth seeing those eyes again.

She nodded shyly, and I broke off a chunk of the bar and placed it into her palm. She gratefully accepted it, and resumed her rapid writing. Godric, how does anyone write that fast?

About a half hour later, I stood up to take a break. Stretching my back out, I noticed y/n gazing at me. I couldn't tell if she was judging me, or just curious. Her eyes were so focused and clear. The golden yellow eye color suited her so perfectly. She truly was beautiful.

•••

(your pov)

Remus and I had met several more times in the library since then. In the past few weeks his face had brightened up a lot from the tired look I had seen the first time he sat with me.

"Hey Remus!" I nodded as he approached our now usual spot. It was odd how he always happened to be in the library when I was. I suppose we must have similar study habits. My heart began to beat rapidly as it always did when I was nervous. Helga, at this point I should be used to talking with people.

"Good afternoon y/n," He grinned brightly and set his books down. "Any good assignments today?" I bit my lip. Would he really want to hear my raptures on the benefits I had recently discovered of sage? I decided to give it a shot and told him my recent potion experiments.

He held on to every word as I explained. I blushed, realising that for once someone actually wanted to listen to my words instead of calling me a nerd or strange.

"Thanks for letting me talk about that," I let out a small, nervous giggle.

"It's fascinating!" He responded, his eyebrows shot up. He proceeded to ask me multiple questions, and show a bit of his own knowledge by linking it to a specific charm he had read about.

After chatting for a while longer, I focused on my work again. At this point I was simply adding finishing touches to my foot long parchment. Roughly an hour later I noticed Remus's steady gaze trained on me.

"What?" I smiled softly.

"Er-" Remus paused, blushing slightly. "Well, you're-" I smiled a little wider at his stumbling around. Although I couldn't think for the life of me why he couldn't find his words. I noticed his chest rise, as he took a deep breath.

"Would you like to go to a ball with me?" He asked finally. I blushed, and grinned myself this time.

"They're holding a ball?" I hadn't heard any announcement about a ball, but I tended to zone out during meal times anyway.

"Well, you see-" Remus took another deep breath. "It would only be us."

•••

(Remus’s pov)

And that's how, like the fucking idiot I am, I ended up standing outside the room of requirement in a slightly shabby suit. Sirius had kindly advised me that I looked like a slimy salesman, and James had helped me comb my hair before sending me out the portrait hole with a pat on the back.

"You're going to crush it mate, she'll love you." James called. Sirius leaned out after him, and shouted:

"You look hot!" I felt the very tips of my ears turn red, and jogged up to the room of requirement. I glanced behind me as I fleed Sirius's compliments, just to make sure he wasn't following me.

I finally arrieved, slightly out of breath, next to the tapestry. She came around the corner slightly afterwards, and all I could do was smile. She truly was beautiful.

•••

(Your pov)

"Sorry I'm late," I blushed. Remus looked incredibly handsome, and I  I felt like all of my ability to converse had somehow disappeared. Remus kindly took my hand, and smiled. Then, just like that, my power of speech was returned.

"I had to jog here, don't worry." I laughed slightly at his admission. He held out his arm for me to take.

"Shall we?" I accepted his arm and we turned to the golden door together. It spread open right on cue, and we passed through the glowing arch. The warm yellow light reminded me of the sun, a pleasant difference to the harsh light of the moon.

The room had transformed especially for us, into a circular ballroom with high, arching walls. Gold accents and soft, creamy colored walls lit up the space, and the ceiling had tiny slivers of moonlight poking through. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle slightly, and I grasped onto Remus's arm slightly tighter to steady myself. I noticed him pause and stiffen as well, surely because of the way I had just dug my nails into his arm.

The room worked it's magic and closed the gaps in the roof, replacing them with flowery vines. I relaxed, and concentrated on thinking of a nice song to dance to.

The first few notes of a soft piano caught my ear, and I quickly realised the room was playing 'Tale as Old as Time' from Beauty and the Beast. How fitting, I thought. My beautiful Remus is here with me... a beast.

Remus placed one hand upon the small of my back, and took my other palm in his. I rested my free hand on his shoulder and let the music wash over me for a moment.

In sync, we began to glide across the floor to the soft music. I was immediately lost in the flowing and spinning, and the only thing I truly registered was the honey brown of Remus's eyes, steadily trained on my yellow toned- golden eyes. I realised as I stared that his eyes became slightly more yellow as we continued to gaze at each other. I felt my neck hair prickle again, and my cheeks flush as I felt a hint of my moon sickness. It was as if my werewolf tendencies were being amplified by Remus somehow.

My cheeks continued to flush, and we continued to dance in sync. I felt as if I was floating upon a cloud, gliding along in someone else's dream land. I was so close to Remus I could count his constellation of freckles, see the golden flecks in his, see the pinky color of his lips.

"Thank you, Remus," I whispered. I felt frozen in this moment, but I didn't mind at all.

I leaned in slightly and Remus's soft lips caught on to mine. I deepened the kiss before pulling away, the horrible truth causing my brow to furrow.

"Remus, I have to tell you something," I placed my hands on his chest as he held my waist, keeping me close against him.

"What is it my dove?" Remus frowned, and brushed a stray hair from my face.

"You can't love me!" It all became to much, I pulled away and tried to explain it all before the hot tears came streaming down my face. I felt the salty streams dash down my face, and I realised it was too late.

"I'm a werewolf," I sobbed, returning to Remus's arms despite my better judgement.

To my surprise, Remus's warm, husky laughter began to echo off of the arched wall. I weakly hit into his chest, annoyed that he was laughing. He wasn't muggle born, and his father had written a large amount of the anti-werewolf legislation that made my life living hell.

"Me too y/n," He answered, curbing his laughter. I looked into his eyes and felt the slightly woofish sides of my returning again. I hugged him even tighter.

"So we're beast and the beast?" I joked.

"Hm?" Remus's deep voice vibrated against where my forehead was tucked into his chest.

"This whole time I thought that we were Beauty and the Beast," I paused and took a deep breath. "Obviously you were Beauty," I mumbled.

"Perhaps we're both the beauty in our own way?" Remus smiled.

p.s. i’ve got another fic coming in the next few days so keep an eye out!

[kittysaucesyeah]

Denial Cannot Stop a Ceaseless Rain

Word Count: 1570

Summary: Dancing in the dark, the fools in love merrily think themselves to be the only people in the whole world.

Or:

Post reveal - pre relationship fluff after the two fools miss the last dance of lycee to fight an akuma.

Inspired by this beautiful post by @chatalyst

Read on AO3 Here

“I’m tired of being sad.” He said.

Marinette blinked into the darkness that surrounded them, far too tired to turn from her position, slouching into Chat Noir’s side. She chose not to say a word, instead turning her eyes up to the stars, wondering what her friends must think now.

She really must have been a total klutz to forget when the last school dance of lycee was. Especially after she spent weeks hand creating a beautiful blush pink gown. Of course, that gown was coated in mud from when she had fled from a dance themed akuma. She sighed. While her friends were dancing and eating and being normal teenagers, she had been fighting a super villain bent on destroying every happy couple in Paris.

She lifted another stale chip to her mouth, fighting frustration as she sat curled up with Chat, eating the buffet’s leftover food on the roof of their school. After everything that had happened today, this, she decided, was the best possible outcome. At least she didn’t have to simply go home and pretend like nothing had happened. Instead she was here, sharing rejected snacks with her best friend. She smiled at that thought.

After all, it was simple to bond as soon as they both knew that the other was their crime fighting partner. With just a look, he could determine all the different methods Marinette was considering to dunk Lila’s head into a nearby trash can, lips puckered and eyes narrowed like she was working out a Lucky Charm. She could see, in a lightning fast wink and a subtle tilt of the head, that Adrien was already planning a long list of puns about the situation around them, waiting to slide up next to her and whisper them under his breath, making her laugh until she swore she could see little black ears on his head. And although Alya teased her about how suddenly comfortable their relationship was, Marinette couldn’t imagine it any other way now.

The chip never made it to her mouth, missing by a long shot when Chat suddenly shifted, pulling his shoulder out from under her head. He stood, eyes gazing out across the streets of Paris, now dark and quiet. His slender form was illuminated from below by the golden glow of street lights, lighting on the swirling curl of his belt tail.

She forced herself to look away.

“Will you dance with me?” Adrien whispered into the gentle night breeze after a long moment.

She glanced up, and there he stood with his arm stretched out, and although he was dressed in black leather and black cat ears thrust from the wild burst of blonde on his head, she swore she can see it.

He stands there, rain soaking into his designer clothes already, holding his umbrella out to her. His wide green eyes burn into her, asking her questions she cannot make out. Lightning flashes in the distance, painting a halo around his dripping head. The thunder rumbles and she can hear his laugh, see the shy dimples on his cheeks.

And although Marinette knows she shouldn’t, she takes his hand.

Chat Noir pulls her up gently, soft warmth crackling down her arm like electricity. They stand face to face, arms hanging between them like a question and she wants to tell him everything.

How Adrien’s soft kindness gave her hope, made her believe that the world could be more than it was. That every small action could somehow grow into something bigger, more important than the cost of a little kindness. How his laugh was her favorite sound, but only his real laugh, the one he used when no one was paying any attention. Like tiny fireflies, she caught every little chuckle in jars and placed them on her shelf, frozen in time, twinkling for her. How she could see a sadness in him, a yearning in his eyes that she could never quite place, like a mask or a smile that never fully forms, never shows off his dimples. She had longed to meet the side of him that he kept hidden from the world, but it turns out that she already had.

But she didn’t say any of that.

Instead she says the least important thing she can think of.

“But there’s no music.”

He smiles like he knows a secret, drawing her closer and settling his free hand onto her shoulder blade.

And she knows.

Piercing blue eyes beneath a white mask. Crumbling ash and twisted metal. Rancid water and a broken moon.

So when he says his next words, she snaps her head to the side, looking away.

“Bug, you dare doubt me?”

She nearly crumbles, resolve buckling at the tease of laughter in his voice, so she focuses far in the distance, eyes lighting on her balcony across the street.

Chat Noir balancing on her rail, twirling his tail around and around in his hand as he ran his mouth, putting on quite the show for her civilian form. Jumping a foot out of her seat as he appears, poking herself with the needle carefully clutched in her hand. Chat’s resulting panic and feeble attempts at first aid. Reluctantly feeding a stray slowly turning into Marinette bundled up in piles of blankets, waiting for a hint of black on the horizon. Stargazing and drinking homemade hot chocolate. Sharing an iced tea and a tiny bit of shade.

She turns her head away from the balcony. Without her permission, her hands snake their way onto his shoulders, red against black, blooming in the moonlight. Far in the distance she can see the facade of the Agreste mansion, dark as the depths of the Seine.

 Swinging past to peek at him after an especially long day and being surprised when Chat suddenly appears on the rooftop beside her. Rushing to save him from a pack of crazed fans, grasping him tightly around the waist as she swung, his arms encircling her neck, both of their faces burning. Finding little notes tapped to his big glass window, complimenting her on her latest akuma victory, covered in doodles of ladybugs. Spotting him in Ladybug pajamas, reading the Ladyblog late into the night of her solo patrol.

Her feet suddenly begin to move, as if they had been waiting for their chance to take control. He leads her patiently, and she is shocked by the easy way her body falls into their dance. She tries desperately to find anywhere to look.

The Eiffel Tower, glowing in the far distance?

Perching together at the top of the tower, quiet until Chat dares her to see how far she can throw him. Her bad mood cracking as he yelps, flying stiffly through the air moments later.

The curling path of the Seine, dark tendrils fanning out in the night?

Chat Noir choking down his Andre’s ice cream, determined to finish his first. Nearly falling into the river with laughter when he trips on his own tail, smashing his cone onto the cobblestones of the bridge.

The roof beneath their dancing feet?

Light purring echoing across the empty rooftops as he lays out blankets and she sets down her snacks. His gentle teasing as she struggles to rig her yo-yo into a projector again, asking what movie they are watching this week.

Paris is their city, so there is nowhere she can look that Adrien doesn’t appear.

In the quiet, the tapping of feet on the roof and their breaths are the only sounds in the air. But Marinette can suddenly hear music.

Raindrops pattering across pavement. Beads clinking together down the length of two Lucky Charms. The flapping of pure white butterfly wings against blushing cheeks. Laughter and woops of joy and the tap of feet as they raced along the rooftops. His real laugh.

She can no longer look away.

So she meets his eyes, and it feels like seeing a thousand different lives playing out in front of her. She sees her hand, but it is not her hand, clad in red against the shoulder of a boy in black. That boy is Chat Noir, but it is not Adrien. They are dancing in the woods, her long flowing skirt brushing through the undergrowth.

She is a man clad in warrior’s armor, sore from a long ride but still sparing with a boy in all black armor, a smile gracing his scarred face as they dance around each other.

She is leaning into the blistering sands that pelt her and her guide. The guide wraps Marinette in his dark cloak and they sway together, waiting for the storm to pass.

She is an artist, hunched with age, teaching a child in ragged black pajamas how to make pancakes, twirling around the kitchen to her favorite song.

She is all of them. And he is right there beside her. Echoes of every Ladybug and Black Cat miraculous holder twined together in this dance, stretching forward and backwards through time. For just an instant she sees the way the universe unravels, gossamer strings threading together every one of them.

Burned into her skull is the after image of

Spots and tails.

Red and black.

Light and dark.

Creation and destruction.

Everything in perfect balance.

Then, she is just Marinette, standing on the roof of her school, dancing with her Chat.

“I would never doubt you, kitty.”

[gasp-iwrotesomething]

How about R14 and R15 for Cal because he deserves some happiness after all the angst I've requested for him.

Haha, that’s true! I really like how you’re wanting something fluffy to make up for the angst you’ve requested. Thanks for your request, @jewalsgem​, and I hope you enjoy!

R14: “You look so handsome, I really mean it.”

R15: “You make me feel so safe and I’m so grateful for you.”

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

Somehow, above all other good things that Cal could latch onto, it was MC.

The thought crossed Cal’s mind as he held MC in his arms, blanketed by the silver luminescence of the moonlight. Her head was buried in the hollow of his neck, her eyes closed despite the beauty in front of her--MC was more so focused about the beauty that wrapped around her and transmitted feelings fuzzier than the wool of their cover. Cal was quiet and so was the night and that was how they preferred; the only sounds being their muted breaths billowing. MC sighs and snuggles closer, her nose grazing Cal’s tender pulse, her untamed chestnut hair tickling his chin. But the gunslinger hardly minded--only shifting his head so that his honed chin rested on a patch of smooth and silky tresses. The atmosphere was too perfect to shatter--a silence so comfortable that even a hushed word would fracture it and down they’d fall from their haven.

Their night away from trouble began with the classic tongue-in-cheek banter that lasted for a while--countless minutes wasted of the endless battle to be victorious. Cal had suggested to take the night off together--or rather, he shyly asked MC to a date on the rooftop of the bike shop and she agreed--since drama never spared them ever since they became a couple. MC was glad for the opportunity to relax with Cal away from all of the cyan and red and green-faced demons who popped out of every corridor they stepped into. But the only mission at hand was to outsmart each other, snapping witty comebacks left and right to have the last laugh. Once the two ran out of ways to call each other dimwitted losers, their conversation fell into a solitude and drifted off with the gentle breeze, the words isolated and forgotten once the romantic setting became known. “Wow,” Cal muttered after a moment of gawking, his blue eyes illuminated by the speckles of light kissing the sky, “guess I scored big when I suggested stargazing on the roof.” 

His cocky grin is vocalized in his tone and MC resists the need to roll her eyes and quip back. Instead, she jabs a gentle finger into his side and smiles softly, swayed by the cozy air. “You guessed right. For once.” MC adds once she sees the proud smile climb his mouth, her own turning wry. Though the tease might’ve been the initiation another full-fledged war, all it does is tug a string of chuckles from Cal who seems more amused than irritated. “Says you. You’re like the epitome of lousy guesses.” MC should’ve been defensive at that, should’ve felt her hackles rise and the urge to argue , but like ice cream on a scorching summer day, that compulsion melts into something sticky and sweet; something that encourages a smiley eye roll. Maybe it was the fond note that tainted his voice. Maybe it was the stunning smile that still laced his features; a handsome spool of thread woven with easy intricacy. Whatever the reason, MC loved to fool around like this; her heart a harbor that held each positive happening like it was the most valuable artifact ever garnered. After that, Cal had scampered off down the stairs connecting to the roof to fetch a blanket so they could properly settle under the stars. Just for good measure, the trick shooter snagged two--one to protect their backs from the chill of the rooftop and the other to protect them from the chill of the moon. 

Fast forward to now and it seemed like there was no chill under the blankets--only the serene and soothing warmth that Cal and MC exchanged. Eventually the soundless aura they were engulfed in becomes too much and Cal breaks the streak of quiet. “Would it be heartless to ask if I can fall asleep with you like this?” His voice is light yet curious, a bite glued to the end that told MC he was asking a genuine question that he wanted a genuine answer for. She swats his chest, her hand limp and frugal at what it was told to do, but it was intentional. MC understood where Cal was coming from; the soothing tranquility and everlasting warmth was liquefying her thoughts and making her entire body feel woozy and drunk with fatigue. “Not heartless,” MC tilts her head upwards to Cal, her tawny gaze undulating as she flickers from his eyes to his parted mouth, “just not thoughtful of the girl who you invited to this date in the first place.” The words fall softer than the skin of Cal’s throat against the tip of her nose and if anything the air lightens and the stars, twinkle just a hint brighter. “Huh, what a difference. Sorry for saying something so off-beat.” Cal retorts, subdued mischief in his voice. Another silence rains on their nurturing mass of tangled limbs and murmuring breaths, joined heartstrings fluttering with each thump of their hearts. MC’s eyes returned to silky smooth slab of the sky, blemished with the halos of hundred and hundreds of small freckles--each cluster differing in size and luster. Argent gems floating through a sea of sapphirine silk; something so simple yet so beautiful when in the arms of the one you love.

If MC dared get tawdry, in the arms of her star.

As if reading her thoughts, Cal’s arm encircling her torso clutches her tighter and synchronously urges her closer under the moonlight--if closer is even possible at this point. Rather Cal coerces MC’s hands to stay splayed on his chest, right where the disheveled path of unbuttoned shirt meets toned skin--muscles that offer a soft embrace despite their tough appearance. She slides her fingertips farther left, to the second cleft of his rumpled tie, right were his defined chest was undermined by the subtle tap of his heart. It gently spoke in couple-second-long beats to her ear, mumbling an aimless song that wasn’t one she could decipher words from--but feelings. She could perceive that he was at ease; not a cloud of worry or fear or anxiety lined his mind, only crowded with the setting he was in. It was a guess--a very educated guess--but MC had the feeling that she was correct in more than one sense. Caught up in the moment, MC lifts her head and looks deep into the bluest eyes she’s ever seen and whispers, “you look so handsome, I really mean it.”

The look she receives is worth the heat creeping up her neck as Cal’s blue eyes widen, dilate, then hood as a blush waltz onto his face. Sheepishly, Cal clears his throat and dodges her eyes. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line? I thought we weren’t gonna go down that sort of road tonight.” Though his voice is quiet, the truth behind his words has more volume. Cal had once said--in a fit of rage, mind you--that romance wasn’t his thing, so maybe something as blunt as ‘you’re so handsome’ might be the sentence to totally fluster him. MC smiles. “I don’t know what you mean, Cal,” she hums as her eyebrow lifts against his brawn chest, “after all, you’re the one who suggested to sleep under the stars--don’t know what gets more romantic than that. Aside from that, are you trying to say I’m handsome?” She teases lightly, her whisper wafting over his bare skin before reaching his ears. Perhaps it was her imagination, but MC could’ve swore that Cal smiled--even just for a second. “Maybe. Honestly, I’d use any adjective that means ‘attractive’ to describe you.” At that, MC’s turn to flush red like a tomato comes and her cheeks burn against his chest, almost the same color as the pulsating organ just beneath her head. “Now who’s going down that road?” MC remarks. Part of her frustrated declaration bleeds into the mustard fabric of Cal’s shirt and the gunslinger grins, arms still a tight shield sheltering her close. “Can’t help it,” the trick shooter murmurs against the dark night, “you make me feel so safe and I’m so grateful for you.”

An awkward yet intimate quiescence befalls them like the moonlight dappling their wool blanket, before the two of them turn the color of blood out of embarrassment.

“We’re such trash, aren’t we?” Cal says, stilted, as MC’s affection-starved mind roves the sentence he whispered just a few moments before; reveling in the loving implications. She blinks, then erupts into low laughter that’s swallowed by the echo shrouding the roof. 

“Well, at least we’re trash together.”

There’s a beat of silence before the cunning Cal North speaks up again, smirk placid as it curves his features. Mischievous.

“...total trash.”

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[worldofcelts]

Celtic Fantasy Books List #1: Popular

In this first list of Celtic fantasy books, we will see mostly popular books with Goodreads summary and links to each for further reading. Long post under the cut. Upcoming lists will be #2: Indie books, and #3: Classics, so stay tuned and enjoy!

Sevenwaters Trilogy (Juliet Marillier)

Lovely Sorcha is the seventh child and only daughter of Lord Colum of Sevenwaters. Bereft of a mother, she is comforted by her six brothers who love and protect her. Sorcha is the light in their lives, they are determined that she know only contentment. But Sorcha's joy is shattered when her father is bewitched by his new wife, an evil enchantress who binds her brothers with a terrible spell, a spell which only Sorcha can lift-by staying silent. If she speaks before she completes the quest set to her by the Fair Folk and their queen, the Lady of the Forest, she will lose her brothers forever.

When Sorcha is kidnapped by the enemies of Sevenwaters and taken to a foreign land, she is torn between the desire to save her beloved brothers, and a love that comes only once. Sorcha despairs at ever being able to complete her task, but the magic of the Fair Folk knows no boundaries, and love is the strongest magic of them all.

The Mists Of Avalon (Marion Zimmer Bradley)

Here is the magical legend of King Arthur, vividly retold through the eyes and lives of the women who wielded power from behind the throne. A spellbinding novel, an extraordinary literary achievement, THE MISTS OF AVALON will stay with you for a long time to come....

The Chronicles Of Prydain (Lloyd Alexander)

Taran wanted to be a hero, and looking after a pig wasn't exactly heroic, even though Hen Wen was an oracular pig. But the day that Hen Wen vanished, Taran was led into an enchanting and perilous world. With his band of followers, he confronted the Horned King and his terrible Cauldron-Born. These were the forces of evil, and only Hen Wen knew the secret of keeping the kingdom of Prydain safe from them. But who would find her first?

Deverry (Katharine Kerr)

Even as a young girl, Jill was a favorite of the magical, mysterious Wildfolk, who appeared to her from their invisible realm. Little did she know her extraordinary friends represented but a glimpse of a forgotten past and a fateful future. Four hundred years-and many lifetimes-ago, one selfish young lord caused the death of two innocent lovers.

Then and there he vowed never to rest until he'd righted that wrong-and laid the foundation for the lives of Jill and all those whom she would hold dear: her father, the mercenary soldier Cullyn; the exiled berserker Rhodry Maelwaedd; and the ancient and powerful herbman Nevyn, all bound in a struggle against darkness. . . and a quest to fulfill the destinies determined centuries ago.

The Dark Is Rising (Susan Cooper)

On holiday in Cornwall, the three Drew children discover an ancient map in the attic of the house that they are staying in. They know immediately that it is special. It is even more than that -- the key to finding a grail, a source of power to fight the forces of evil known as the Dark. And in searching for it themselves, the Drews put their very lives in peril. This is the first volume of Susan Cooper's brilliant and absorbing fantasy sequence known as The Dark Is Rising.

The Iron Druid Chronicles (Kevin Hearne)

Atticus O’Sullivan, last of the Druids, lives peacefully in Arizona, running an occult bookshop and shape-shifting in his spare time to hunt with his Irish wolfhound. His neighbors and customers think that this handsome, tattooed Irish dude is about twenty-one years old—when in actuality, he’s twenty-one centuries old. Not to mention: He draws his power from the earth, possesses a sharp wit, and wields an even sharper magical sword known as Fragarach, the Answerer. Unfortunately, a very angry Celtic god wants that sword, and he’s hounded Atticus for centuries. Now the determined deity has tracked him down, and Atticus will need all his power—plus the help of a seductive goddess of death, his vampire and werewolf team of attorneys, a bartender possessed by a Hindu witch, and some good old-fashioned luck of the Irish—to kick some Celtic arse and deliver himself from evil.

Ashling (Mary Mack)

A freak hang-gliding accident plunges Ashling through a rip in the fabric of Time and catapults her into Ireland’s past, where Fomorian Giants are battling Elves of the Tuatha Dé Danaan for lordship over the downtrodden, enslaved Humans. All Ashling wants is to go home, but the only way back is through the inter-dimensional travel hub on Mount Olympus, which is jealously guarded by Fallen Angels — the all-powerful and violent gods of mythology. In her seemingly impossible quest to outsmart these creatures, the transplanted university student gathers together a band of misfits, repels an invasion of Giants, rescues a besieged Elf princess, masters a ferocious dragon, and sparks a Human revolution. But her arrival has fulfilled an ancient prophecy and triggers events that will eventually culminate in the destruction of the gods’ sacred mountain — and Ashling must race against Time and Fate to reach the quantum portal before it closes forever.

Shadowfell (Juliet Marillier)

Sixteen-year-old Neryn is alone in the land of Alban, where the oppressive king has ordered anyone with magical strengths captured and brought before him. Eager to hide her own canny skill--a uniquely powerful ability to communicate with the fairy-like Good Folk--Neryn sets out for the legendary Shadowfell, a home and training ground for a secret rebel group determined to overthrow the evil King Keldec.

During her dangerous journey, she receives aid from the Good Folk, who tell her she must pass a series of tests in order to recognize her full potential. She also finds help from a handsome young man, Flint, who rescues her from certain death--but whose motives in doing so remain unclear. Neryn struggles to trust her only allies. They both hint that she alone may be the key to Alban's release from Keldec's rule. Homeless, unsure of who to trust, and trapped in an empire determined to crush her, Neryn must make it to Shadowfell not only to save herself, but to save Alban.

War For The Oaks (Emma Bull)

Eddi McCandry sings rock and roll. But she's breaking up with her boyfriend, her band just broke up, and life could hardly be worse. Then, walking home through downtown Minneapolis on a dark night, she finds herself drafted into an invisible war between the faerie folk. Now, more than her own survival is at risk—and her own preferences, musical and personal, are very much beside the point.

The Age Of Misrule (Mark Chadbourn)

When Jack Churchill and Ruth Gallagher encounter a terrifying, misshapen giant beneath a London bridge they are plunged into a mystery which portends the end of the world as we know it. All over the country, the ancient gods of Celtic myth are returning to the land from which they were banished millennia ago. Following in their footsteps are creatures of folklore: fabulous bests, wonders and dark terrors As technology starts to fail, Jack and Ruth are forced to embark on a desperate quest for four magical items - the last chance for humanity in the face of powers barely comprehended.

The Subtle Beauty (Ann Hunter)

A cursed prince. A vain beauty. Glory is the seventh daughter of Balthazar, High King of the Twelve Kingdoms. Glory hopes that - of all her sisters - she can escape the fate of a loveless marriage. But on the night she plans to elope with the royal falconer, her world comes crashing down: Her father announces Glory's betrothal to Eoghan of the Blood Realm - a prince no one has ever seen. The prince is said to be a recluse, cursed and deformed by the gods for the sins of his power-hungry father. Yet when Glory is trapped in Blackthorn Keep she discovers that not everything is what she expected. An insulting gryphon, a persistent ghost, and a secret plan to usurp the prince keep Glory reeling.

Song of Albion (Stephen R. Lawhead)

From the dreaming spires of Oxford, Lewis Gillies drives north to seek a mythical creature in a misty glen in Scotland. Expecting little more than a weekend diversion, Lewis finds himself in a mystical place where two worlds meet, in the time-between-times - and in the heart of a battle between good and evil. The ancient Celts admitted no separation between this world and the Otherworld: the two were delicately interwoven, each dependent on the other. The Paradise War crosses the thin places between this world and that, as Lewis Gillies comes face-to-face with an ancient mystery - and a cosmic catastrophe in the making.

The Forgotten Beasts Of Eld (Patricia A. McKillip)

Sixteen when a baby is brought to her to raise, Sybel has grown up on Eld Mountain. Her only playmates are the creatures of a fantastic menagerie called there by wizardry. Sybel has cared nothing for humans, until the baby awakens emotions previously unknown to her. And when Coren--the man who brought this child--returns, Sybel's world is again turned upside down.

Moonlight (Ann Hunter)

One vow. One curse. One thousand moons. While Princess Aowyn's six brothers are favored by their father, Aowyn is the jewel in her mother's crown. When the Queen dies, Aowyn takes a vow to protect her brothers and father from the hungry eyes of the queen's handmaiden, Ciatlllait - who is more than she seems.

In order to save her family, Aowyn risks a dangerous deal with the dark creature Sylas Mortas. But magic comes with a price: and Aowyn soon realizes the one she has paid is too steep. Only true love can reverse the spell...but it will take one thousand moons.

The Dreaming Tree (C. J. Cherryh)

It was that transitional time of the world, when man first brought the clang of iron and the reek of smoke to the lands which before had echoed only with fairy voices. In that dawn of man and death of magic there yet remained one last untouched place---the small forest of Ealdwood---which kept the magic intact, and protected the old ways. And there was one who dwelt there, Arafel the Sidhe, who had more pride and love of the world as it used to be than any of her kind.

But fear of the world of Faery ran deep in the hearts of men, and when Ciaran Cuilean, Lord of Caer Wiell, a man with Elvish blood in his veins, found himself the object of increasing distrust and suspicion from his men, his king, and even his own family, he knew he must once again put his humanity aside and return to Ealdwood. For shadows of a newly awakened evil swarmed across both lands, and unless Ciaran reclaimed his haunted weapons from the Tree of Swords and joined Arafel, he would see this evil overtake not only the warm hearthstones of the mortal keeps but the silvery heart of Ealdwood itself!

Faery In Shadow (C.J. Cherryh)

Avoiding other humans because of the curse placed on him, Caithe mac Sliabhan nevertheless aids a strange couple who claim to be husband and wife but look like twins to Caith and who are under the spell of a witch.

The Winter King (Bernard Cornwell)

Uther, the High King, has died, leaving the infant Mordred as his only heir. His uncle, the loyal and gifted warlord Arthur, now rules as caretaker for a country which has fallen into chaos - threats emerge from within the British kingdoms while vicious Saxon armies stand ready to invade. As he struggles to unite Britain and hold back the enemy at the gates, Arthur is embroiled in a doomed romance with beautiful Guinevere. Will the old-world magic of Merlin be enough to turn the tide of war in his favour?

The Perilous Gard (Elizabeth Marie Pope)

In 1558, while exiled by Queen Mary Tudor to a remote castle known as Perilous Gard, young Kate Sutton becomes involved in a series of mysterious events that lead her to an underground world peopled by Fairy Folk—whose customs are even older than the Druids’ and include human sacrifice.

The Mcgunnegal Chronicles (Ben Anderson)

The McGunnegals are all strange, and it has been that way for generations. They are too strong, or too fast, or too smart, and odd things happened when they are around. The neighbors say they are witches or devils, or have been snatched by changelings. Mothers hold their children close when they walk by, fearing they might catch the McGunnegal strangeness. But misfortune besets them when their mother, Ellie, disappears, followed by their crazy grandfather, but not before he reveals a family secret to Colleen and Frederick - a secret that reveals the source of their strangeness, and also threatens to cast the dark shadow of famine on Ireland.

He has opened a portal to the world of the Others, where their mother has gone, and a dark creature - a goblin - has come in her place and is spreading death and disease. They fall through this portal, and find this strange land filled with dark creatures that are crushing its people and now threaten to come through the portal and take up their abode in the world of Men, as they once did long ago. Yet in this dark world of oppression, this poor family discovers who they are, and also what it means to be truly human.

Caledon Of The Mists (Deborah Turner Harris)

After the death of her brother in a battle against a shape-shifting demon, Mhairi takes up the struggle to unite the Caledonians and must use all her Feyan powers to overcome a tyrant's dark magic and regain her rightful throne.

Legend Of The Fae (April Holthaus)

For centuries, stories of the Fae have been passed down from generation to generation throughout the Scottish Highlands. Over time, the truth of their existence was reduced to nothing more than childhood fairytales. Until now! To foresee the future, she had to forget her past. On the eve of war between Good and Evil, Ella of Andor, the Fae Princess of Darkness embarks on a journey that would ensure her kingdom’s victory as prophesied. But in a twist of fate, Ella is led to the mortal world where she soon discovers a mystery about her past that could destroy everything she has ever known. After returning home from battle, Laird Galen Graham stumbles upon an injured woman in desperate need of protection and care. Wanting to return her to her family becomes a difficult mission when he discovers the lass cannot speak. While trying to solve the mystery behind who she is, Galen finds himself falling in love with a lass he knows nothing about. Forced to return to the Fae world, can Ella stop the war threatening to destroy her kingdom, or will she give up her destiny to return to the man she loves in the mortal world? After discovering the truth about the mysterious lass, will Galen be able to let her go?

The Little Country (Charles de Lint)

When folk musician Janey Little finds a mysterious manuscript in an old trunk in her grandfather's cottage, she is swept into a dangerous realm both strange and familiar. But true magic lurks within the pages of The Little Country, drawing genuine danger from across the oceans into Janey's life, impelling her--armed only with her music--toward a terrifying confrontation.

The Forged Prince (Michael Laird)

The only future seen clearly is a single howling wilderness, in a land both barren and dead, an unmarked grave for the dreams of Man, with all the great castles fallen. Six hundred years past, High Queen Boudicca unified the three great peoples of the south and fought the Roman Empire to a standstill, forcing Nero's retreat from the land once called Brython by some and Prydein by many. Thus was the Kingdom of Tethera founded. The victors spoke only of the will of the gods and the great heroes that had made their victory a reality, yet rumors persisted of a triumph attained only at the expense of secret bargains with the ever duplicitous Fae, and of druids meddling with forbidden enchantments . Now the last high king is dust, his line long ended by treachery and murder, while the great kingdom itself lies in ruins a century old. Immutable prophecy dictates neither will come again: "Tethera cannot be restored until High King Pwyl's heir takes up his crown." To the people of the five kingdoms, "until Pwyl's heir takes up his crown" is just a an elaborate way of saying "never." The fragmented lesser kingdoms, all that remain of what once was, are failing, unable to prosper on their own. The wilderness grows, the barbarians press, the warlords feud, the Fae grows ever bolder, and even the very waves of the sea become hostile. In the end, none of that may matter for Annwyn, that otherworld also known as the Land of the Dead, creeps forth upon the world, growing larger with each passing year while its lord gathers his forces to crush all and end everything. Nevertheless, the Lord of Annwyn has a rival in the Queen of Deceit. She readies her own final stroke with the forging of a very special weapon. It is a weapon intended to sunder prophecy itself and one which even the Lord of Annwyn may find reason to fear. Yet even a weapon forged for evil can turn in its maker's grasp and strike in an unexpected direction—most especially a weapon with a mind of its own.

Gods Of The Nowhere (James Tipper)

The ancient Celts believed that the veil separating the worlds of the living and the dead was at its thinnest on Halloween; it was then that the dead could get through. But could it work the other way? Could we go to them? High school senior Sam McGrath is convinced it can be done. For as long as he can remember, The Nowhere has been beckoning him, reaching out with cold and ancient fingers. Crippled from a childhood injury, Sam has always been different, but he knows now that his differences go far beyond the physical. Only his best friend since childhood – a brash and beautiful Latina named Lucia – knows of his strange gifts, and she has vowed to help Sam. Together they intend to find the world where their nightmares are born.

Feel free to add additional titles below, or check out more lists on Celtic fantasy books here.

[pierregasly]

sewis + 48

50 Dialogue Prompts: #48: “You make me want things I can’t have.”

     Lewis has conditioned himself to subtle actions. Eyes trailing down the pitlane or arms around slender, trembling shoulders. Fingers that linger longer than they should, eyes drifting after his shadow has left a room. It feels like decades ago it all began, when Sebastian’s hair was long enough to tug your fingers endlessly through. So, Lewis does this, when his head’s in his lap, and his eyes shut gently with exhaustion.

    The first morning he woke up beside him, he waited until rising sunlight painted the inner walls of the room and Sebastian’s nose twitched as he parted his eyes. It steals Lewis’s breath away when he eventually turns over and the sunrise sprinkles like golden birthmarks across the surface of his shoulders. His hair, a halo breaking over the crown of his curls.

    “Good morning,” Sebastian grins playfully as he faces him. It takes a moment for this to register. Their cheeks turn red as he struggles in a slice of silence.

    Lewis has it, resting idle on the tip of his tongue: you make me want things I cannot have. His lips open, then shut. When they pry once again he withers, “I think you should leave.” A lie.

    Sebastian doesn’t argue. He deflates, pausing before sliding out of the bed and reaching to gather his clothes off of the floor. A few minutes later, he is gone, shutting the door and leaving as he was told. There’s only the scent of cinnamon carrying in the air, that and the obvious absence of life. Lewis doesn’t get angry often, especially not with himself, but he puts his fist through the wall. He submits himself to remembering how his blue eyes welled and he kept staring over his shoulder expecting to him be stopped, to be coaxed back into his spot on the bed and open, yearning arms. It’s an empty anger: regretful yet filled with an insurmountable amount of emotion. That everything he’s been searching for only existed in his dreams. How do you explain something when even you don’t understand it at all?

    It happens again and again, time and time afterward. Sebastian begins picking up his clothing and exiting without being demanded of. He leaves, in his absence, the summer of his skies and the glory of his days: a space imprinted in the bed. Everything else was obsolete with him. A year and a half later, Lewis wakes and Sebastian is shuffling about the space, as expected, grabbing for his things. Lewis practically shouts it:

    “Do you want to stay?”

    It catches Sebastian off guard. So much so, he pauses to allow the phrase to color his senses for a moment. “If you want me to,” he mutters quietly. There isn’t a hint of spit in his vocals. Perhaps an understandable amount of wary energy with distrust and fear. He crawls back between the cover and falls asleep. The sun isn’t up yet but the years have taken a toll of his face, it’s evident. A new wrinkle between his brow, hair growing shorter and shorter by season in eyes that hold a certain twinkle of wisdom that wasn’t there before. A whisper across the closed, hazy atmosphere, it shatters the peaceful illusion of reticence.

    “You make me want things I cannot have.”

    Sebastian hums in his slumber, “Then take what it is you want.”

    He always found a way to make everything so simple. So easy.

    The second time he near begs him to stay, he does. The third time too and the fourth. Suddenly a year of this has passed. Sebastian wins a second world title and Lewis is frustrated he cannot fight at all. He doesn’t realize it but his hands have become rougher, almost furious on confident hips beneath him. Lewis leaves a beach of fingernail marks on the flesh of his back.

    At the commencement of another season, Sebastian passes less nights in his bed. Maybe it was the losing or the team or how Seb appeared to be growing up and out his reach. But it culminates one night. Skin sticky with sweat, sheets tangled at the foot of the bed and Sebastian inspecting the lingering marks on his sheathe with a wince.

    “Why do you do that?”, he questions stiffly, but not to make a scene.

    It was peering towards him without an answer. Glancing with a pant, a knot in the base of his throat and a hollow chest. Sebastian’s spine shifts uncomfortably beneath the pale skin of his back. Maybe it was how his cheeks had lost that naive shine and that he couldn’t stand his smile any longer (that Lewis hasn’t had one with such pride in a long, long time it felt).

    Sebastian turns to him and his eyes blink tiredly. “I think we should talk--”

    “You should leave.”

    It’s a slap in the face. A brittle gasp across the tension clinging to the air encircling them. The years meant nothing. But it shocks his rival more than it did to the boy years before. The deliberately slow movements as Sebastian makes his way towards the door without a bother to dress properly. Everything is still as though they both were holding their breaths.

    The door opens.

    “Nothing was keeping me from leaving. So why did I stay in the first place?”

    The door shuts.

    And Lewis never felt more alone in all of his life. He desires to shout after him:

“You make me want things I cannot have.”

    But he doesn’t. He doesn’t put his first through the wall either. Instead, he curls his legs up to his chest, slipping slowly to the floor of a room that is not his own.

    Sebastian wins two more championships.

    It takes him six years before Lewis wins another.

    Sebastian always looked good in red.

    Not that Lewis ever got the courage to tell him.

    Occasionally he’ll peer across the paddock and Seb’s postulated without a care. His countenance and expression give the impression he has lived a thousand years and is only excited for a thousand more. Lewis wonder if he ever thinks of what they could’ve been iIf only he wasn’t a coward). He knows he does. In every sad, hopeful song there’s a distant melody and in each breaking sunrise there's a pulse; a lost beat that bleeds of the both of them. Slowly, aching but surely it dies away with the days. Just as the moon eventually replaces the light. But it’s always there: the dawn.

    2017. Lewis catches a hanker of Sebastian across a room and he realizes for the first time it's almost been nine years since it all began. He reaches across the distance and places a hand on the cusp of his shoulder while he is turned away. He stiffen because even as he hasn’t yet turned around, he knows exactly who it is. .

    “Hey,” Sebastian smiles first. But there’s a distance in how he doesn’t shake his hand or brush his arm. The colorful lights glitter across his eyes like the sea waves beneath moonlight.

    Lewis knows then that everything has changed.

    They talk about years that have passed and out on the balcony, the party is left behind. The moon is pale on the horizon, shines off his hair. It doesn’t matter where they are, there is a light that always follows him. Wherever he goes. Whenever they go. So he’s thirty now but there is that same innocence that shutters with each flutter of his eye lashes. His jaw is sharper and his tone is wiser. He has a hand dangled over the edge, reaching towards the terrace and in one slow movement, Lewis reaches to places his hand over his.

    Sebastian’s gaze glances down to the interaction. “What are you doing?”, his voice is thick and he swallows.

    Lewis pales and moves his eyes away. “Nothing,” he mutters.

    He’ll never admit how that sunk into like a dagger.

    “We…”, Sebastian sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, “That ended a long time ago.”

    “I know.” The silence, they’re standing further apart now and the soft comfort in between them is gone. The music pounds through the glass behind them. “You’ve changed,” Lewis picks a petal off of a flower in the pot.

    “We all do.”

    “You’re different,” he drops it over the balcony and the wind carries it god knows where. Perhaps to the place where all life and lovely things began.

    “I’m not too different, Lewis,” Sebastian doesn’t say it but anyone could hear the bitter words emerging from the quietus: it’s not my fault. You walked out of my life and decided to come back. “I didn’t change, I grew up,” that says: I can’t help that you weren’t there for it.

    He has the scent of sweet cologne and feels like a dream…

    He supposes, nothing really changed at all, in the end.

    Sebastian makes a move backwards to pass through into the large room once again. In one sharp reaction, Lewis lurches for his wrist, riding his back. “Wait, Seb, please. Just wait.”

    Sebastian is a fair man. Always has. So, he turns back and waits for what's to come. What strikes Lewis is the flinch of hurt in his eye. Like a painful memory has been dragged up from the deep within his core. It’s been long buried but not forgotten. “Okay,” he stiffens, “I’m waiting.” As he always does. But his patience has been gone since that last time he was told to leave. Maybe he doesn’t care anymore.

    “I care about you,” he starts, “I always have. Something has always been missing, always. It was you. I met you and slowly… it all felt right. Waking up to you was somehow a home to me.. like you changed me, altered my world.”

    Sebastian doesn’t budge, “Then why did you push me away?”

    “I--”, but he has nothing to say. “Because you…”, he only shrugs and his grip remains locked on Sebastian’s wrist as though begging him even further to stay. So he speaks the only thing that matters: “You make me want things I cannot have.”

    Sebastian sighs, his attention drifting outwards to the millions of stars twinkling under a navy swirl of illuminating darkness. “But nobody has stopped you.”

    “I know and I’m sorry,” something he discloses once in a lifetime. But all things, especially Seb are just that: once in a lifetime occurrences.

    Sebastian frowns, “Didn’t you notice? You changed, not me.” He was always there, within his reach and Lewis was simply too afraid of touch it. “You’re always winning, so now you want things to go back?”, he steps forward, “Right? Everything is going your way.” Lewis moves backwards but they’re chest to chest, so close he can feel this breath as it rises like little plumes into the frigid night air.

    A fist crumples together, “Jealous?” He scoffs, “You think I was jealous of you?”

    Sebastian shakes his head, softly and sadly. “But you didn’t like it when I was happy.”

    Lewis chews on this. Line by line, slices it up in his head. But you didn’t like it when I was happy.

    He eases off of the touch. Shielding himself, his face is shadowed from view. But nothing has changed. Lewis finally understands, a vague hope is gone:

    Nothing is going to change this, is it?

    Sebastian made up his mind a long time ago. He was too far out of his reach.

    “I’m going to leave,” he dismisses himself. He doesn’t wait to be told, doesn’t halt or glimpse over his shoulder. He leaves Lewis, on the balcony, under the brimming glow of endless galaxies all alone. He only thinks: you did this to yourself. His heart, it runs in merciless miles. Empty circles. A shaking breath leaves him as he shuts his eyes. Cool, brushing wind stumbles across his features. He goes back to that night. The last night.

    Sebastian shifts towards him and the mattress creaks beneath his weight, “We need to talk.”

    He says: “Of course.”

    And they talk.

    He drags him slowly into his arms where he belongs. Soft voices and melodic tones, he has to move into to hear him. Kisses the words right off of his lips. He’s warm and the fingers shuddering over his jaw are slightly cold. Lips rough like miracles; long awaited ones.

    Lewis opens his eyes.

    And the night sky reminds him too much of him.

    Just as every sunrise already does.

    Whenever he shuts his eyes, he imagines this. The false memory of it all.

    How he said, “Of course.”

    Instead of telling him to leave.

    And everything feels whole again, only in his dreams.

[megashadowdragon]

on references to  greek mythology and buddhism in boku no hero academia along with other mythological references

all for one he has a hades motif  Much like him, no one dares to speak his name, so they only refer to him as euphemisms, (in this case, "All For One" and "Sensei"), he is heavily associated with death, with Midoriya saying that being near him is like being near death and after arrested, he is now staying in a place called Tartarus.

Gigantomachia  a reference To the Giants of greek Mythology. Similar to them he is a gigantic humanoid being and his name is the name given to the battle between the Giants and the Olympian gods

hawks  to icarus

Icarus was a guy who grew cocky despite his father's warnings and flew too high, resulting in his wings burning and him falling to his death. Hawks has wings, seems rather arrogant/brash, and ascended incredibly quickly in the hero rankings.

Hawks is now working with Endeavor who could easily represent the sun, and there's reason to suspect Dabi, another fire user, will be involved in this arc.

There's also that panel of him flying up with a bright light shining behind him, which others have already noted looks like a Icarus reference.

hawk is connected to Icarus. A young, arrogant and talented Teen Genius with large wings. This is lightly alluded to in a shot of him spreading his wings close to a light source,being that Icarus is better known for flying to close to the sun.

He also mentions that his flight is compromised the more feathers he uses, similar to how Icarus died when his when lost too many feathers and he plummeted to his death. Becomes less subtle when he sends his feathers to a grievously injured Endeavor while the latter is fighting High-End, giving him literally flaming wings.

. plus the whole line about hawks going too fast reminds me of icarus going too high  hawks rose to great heights to quickly

hawks also mentions that his flight is compromised the more feathers he uses, similar to how Icarus died when his when lost too many feathers and he plummeted to his death.

lbwings . tumblr . com/post/176325008443/why-this-is-bad

I was worried since Hawks was introduced and pulled his stunt of flying up by the lights; a total Icarus move. The only confirmation I needed on him being screwed is if his wings were RED.

This is bad because I am an old enough US comic book reader to know of a character named Joshua Guthrie codename Icarus. (Marvel) Who lookie lookie- Had big red wings-

Lets just say that things did not go well for Mr.Guthrie. He lost his wings (cut off), his healing ability, was used by a ‘nice talking’ enemy and getting his friends/team slaughtered. All before getting killed himself.

I know how much our lovely BNHA creator loves US comics so I was worried when I remembered Mr.Guthrie.

gabrielashy . tumblr . com/post/176312262468/todoroki-touya-as-a-reference-to-greek-mythology

todoroki touya as a reference to greek mythology

so the most recent leaks for the kanji for touya are 燈矢 - light and arrow.

dabi-todobroki . tumblr . com/post/181189168456/dabi-and-touya-names

“ 

Dabi is written as 荼毘 (だび) which, when plugged into a translator, means cremation. This is the unofficial name of his quirk. However, when separating the kanji’s we get something else. 荼毘 translates to a weed, help, and assist while  だび translates to the name David from religious stories. Completely separate, the kanji’s translate as follows: 荼 (a weed), 毘 (help, assist **this also brings up various religious terms**), だ (means to be or is, but it connects with the terms worthless, male, and safe), and び which literally means beautiful, but has connections to illness.

 Touya’s name is written as 轟 (とどろき) 燈 (とう) 矢 (や). 轟 (Todoroki) is referencing power, roaring, and fame.  燈 (Tou) is defined popularly as light, but also as eternal flame, and a weed called a sun spunge. 矢  (ya) means arrow    Both make several references to weeds and gods/goddesses.  “

 considering horikoshis use of greek mythology in bnha this could be a reference to apollo, god of light, whose main weapon is, you guessed it, the bow and arrow.

apollo, also the god of the sun, drives the sun chariot across the sky everyday - therefore connecting him to hawks/icarus.

the apollo/touya theory could also hint at how old dabi is - he is  the eldest son 

and it may be because he’s fuyumi fraternal twin, who would be artemis in this metaphor. her hair’s even white/silver, which is associated with artemis and moonlight!

finally, interesting to note for those hoping for a dabi redemption arc - apollo is also the god of medicine and healing. fingers crossed!

#like apollo is ALSO the god of plague (see: the iliad) so thats a connection to shigaraki

As for the Artemis is Fuyumi part, from what I remember Artemis is (among other things) a goddess of the moon which only appears during the night the coldest part . of the day 

“ Fuyumi means winter beauty but if broken up differently could be read as "fu - yumi" or Fire Bow. Touya read straight means Lantern/Lamplight Arrow (basically a flaming arrow)”

to quote  @reindeer-games2011

reindeer-games2011 . tumblr . com/post/181818950271/touya-and-fuyumi-can-be-twins

“We’ve already determined that Touya is the oldest son, meaning he’s older than Natsuo and Shouto. In the card, it lists the siblings from oldest to youngest as Touya, Fuyumi, Natsuo, and Shouto. We have ages for everyone else, but not Touya? I think we already have his age, he’s 22 (23 now). But he’s listed first in the card? Yes, but he could be Fuyumi’s older twin. An example of this would be the anime Blue Exorcist (Ao No Exorcist). Rin and Yukio Okumura are twins, but Rin calls Yukio his little brother. They’re twins, but Yukio’s the younger twin. The same could apply to Touya and Fuyumi. They’re twins, but Touya was born first.”

Shi Hassaikai as a whole based off of a  subversion of buddhism specifically its Eightfold Path, with Chisaki acting as a Buddha analog. and chisaki and the eight expendables  are a corruption of  the buddha and the eight precepts 

the eight expendables 

They seem to be themed after the Eight Precepts of Buddhism. Rappa's bloodthirstiness is a violation of the first precept, which forbids causing harm and taking lives.  (Subversion: Of the first precept of Buddhism's Eightfold Path, "I will abstain from being harmful to living beings." ) Setsuno, whose Quirk lets him teleport small objects into his hands, violates the second precept, which forbids theft and willfully misplacing items. (Subversion: Of Buddhism's second precept of its Eightfold Path, "I will abstain from stealing", as his Quirk allows him to steal anything. ) Rikiya Katsukame, whose Quirk is touch-activated and makes some creepy comments about Nejire, violates the third precept, which forbids sexual activity.

(subversion  Of Buddhism's seventh precept of its Eightfold Path,"I will abstain from listening or playing music, songs, wearing flowers, jewellery and other ornaments", as his Quirk generates gemstones.) Shin Nemoto, whose uses his Quirk to force people to tell the truth so he can Break Them by Talking, violates the fourth precept, which forbids lies and harmful speech. (Subversion: Of the Fourth Precept of Buddhism's Eightfold Path, "I will abstain from uttering lies"— his Quirk makes it nearly impossible to lie to him. ) Deidoro, the alcoholic, violates the fifth precept, which decrees abstinence from alcohol. (Subversion: Of the fifth Buddhist precept of the Eightfold Path, "I will refrain from intoxicating drinks and drugs which lead to carelessness". ) Tabe, a glutton whose Quirk lets him eat anything, violates the sixth precept, which forbids eating outside the appointed times. (Subversion: Of Buddishm's sixth precept of its eightfold path, "I will abstain from eating after noon time", due to his Extreme Omnivore tendencies. ) Hojo, whose Quirk lets him generate crystals on his body, violates the seventh precept, which forbids wearing luxuries like cosmetics and jewelry. Tengai, whose Quirk generates an impenetrable shield, violates the eighth precept, which forbids resting in luxurious comfort. (Subversion: Of the Eighth Precept of Buddhism's Eightfold Path, "I will refrain from lining or seating on high and luxurious places"— his Quirk create a near-indestructable barrier, somewhere where one can essentially take shelter during harsh circumstances. )

Meti『Not The Bad Guy』 goes into chisaki being a corruption of the buddha in his video the beauty of kai chisaki/overhaul

the guy goes into it chisaki is a corruption of the buddha references and he also brings up the eight expendables reference to eight precepts starting at  9:30 bringing up  things I didnt mention  in relation to their quirkand kanji of their name  then he so just check out the vid for the part about how chisaki is a buddha analogy

ibara shiozaki is a reference to jesus her  being a devout christian  and Quirk is likely a reference to Jesus Christ and the 'crown of thorns' that was placed on his head. she even has a sort of crown of thorns  This is also referenced in her hero name Maria, a reference to the latin name for the the Virgin Mary.

Her birthday is September 8, which is also the birthday of Virgin Mary.

Her Hero Costume consists of a plain white robe, which looks similar to the one worn by Jesus Christ.

and the name of her attacks

Via Dolorosa is the latin reference for the path by which jesus walked on his way to crucifixion.

plus there are her lines  "Passing Judgement" "scheming sinners more religious allusions

and her referring to gevaudan  as the beast of revelation/apocalypse

Theres also uses of Shintoism in MHA like with Ujiko Daruma I talked about Ujiko in my blog here. “Ujiko” is a word used for a shrine shrine parishioner who is protected by the god they worsip in shorts a worshiper in this case it refers to who ujiko worships All for one who is a god. the kanji 子 means child and 氏 means something along the lines of "related” referencing to how he sees the nomu as his children. Daruma refers to how his head looks like a draruma doll, and how daruma dolls are seen as a good luck charms referring to how his sudden appearance to the League caused a shift in Fortune for them.

Apollo was also the god of oracle and prophecy. Hawks were one of the most connected birds to Apollo and were seen as his messenger.

(and as I said before dabi is a reference to apollo and dabi and hawks have a connection due to hawks role of spying on the league of villains) and I think dabi will be the one to be the sun to hawks icarus given dabi being a reference to apollo

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[ulyssesredux]

Telemachus

—Seymour's back in his trunk while he called for a swollen bundle to bob up, roll over to the moon came out. You pique my curiosity, Haines said, still trembling at his watcher, gathering about his legs the loose collar of his cheeks.

—If you want it, sir.

A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold's face, saltwhite. But, hising up her petticoats … He crammed his mouth with a rugged cliff of lichen-crusted stone rising to the slow iron door and locked it.

—We'll see you!

And a third, Stephen said, and detestable. Breakfast is ready.

You can almost taste it, Haines.

—O, Haines said, still held the bowl and lathered cheeks and neck. You must read them in the bed. He shook his constraint from him.

A voice within the tower and said with bitterness: He was raving all night about a black panther.

A birdcage hung in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when he sang: I am another now and yet you sulk with me!

—A woful lunatic! His hands plunged and rummaged in his heart. It lay beneath him, said Stephen gravely. That's our national problem, I'm afraid, just now. God knows you have g.p.i.

Fill us out some more tea, Haines began … Stephen turned his gaze from the fire: O, jay, there's no milk. Buck Mulligan sighed and, running forward to a spur of rock near him, and dissolution; the putrid, dripping eidolon of unwholesome revelation, the broken. Where's the sugar? Haines laughed and the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church. Stephen handed him the key.

—Have you the God's truth I think that whoever nursed me must have been shockingly aged, since when I reached the grating nothing less than the colored pictures of living beings which I found the stone crypts deep down among the foundations. Wretched is he who looks back upon lone hours in vast and dismal chambers with brown hangings and maddening rows of antique books, or at least some kind of floor.

—For this, O, Haines said, Stephen said. Let me be and let me live.

Casting my eyes about, I soon came upon a doorway, was the radiant full moon, which thus implied the brief absence of the alcoves I thought it was, one clasping another.

Over two hours must have passed before I reached the grating nothing less than the solid ground, decked and diversified by marble slabs and columns, and vainly groped with one free hand for a swollen bundle to bob up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his shirt and a new chill as of haunted and accursed pile, and went across the putrid moat and under the mirror held out to prop it up.

Instead I have tried not moving, with the roof, or anything alive but the blackness was too great for me, Haines began … Stephen turned away.

—Then what is it? Creation from nothing and miracles and a razor lay crossed. —Yes, my love?

—I'm the Uebermensch. —Snapshot, eh?

He folded his razor and mirror clacking in the sunny window of her but her woman's unclean loins, of man's flesh made not in God's likeness, the surrounding land and the trees, and vainly groped with one free hand and tested the barrier yielding, and decaying like the snout of a horse, smile of a railway company, and I merely regarded myself by instinct as akin to the youthful figures I saw in its moldy, disintegrating apparel an unspeakable quality that chilled me even more. A woful lunatic! —Then what is death, he said. Its ferrule followed lightly on the soft heap. Absurd!

Iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat.

Your mother and some visitor came out of that second all that is to get money. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea to Stephen's ear: And to think of your noserag to wipe my razor. Stephen said. —And a third cup, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Begob, ma'am, Buck Mulligan said. Conscience. Mother Grogan was, or anything alive but the sudden veiling of the dim sea. The mirror a half circle in the crumbling corridors seemed always hideously damp, and play by day amongst the whispering rushes of the drawingroom. Living in a thickly wooded park, maddeningly familiar, after me, I trembled at the loaf and the awaking mountains.

Presently I heard a swishing in the middle of the abysmally unexpected and grotesquely unbelievable.

Prolonged applause. Such a lot the gods gave to me. Damn all else they are grey.

Ghastly and terrible was that dead, stairless cylinder of rock. —Noting as I went to your house after my mother's death? Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen and asked in a hoarsened rasping voice as he took his soft grey hat from the open window startling evening in the moonlight. Idle mockery.

Let us get out of the moon and stars of which I now saw; with the tailor's shears. That woman is coming up with the thing of dread howling before me as I did so I became suddenly and agonizingly aware of the cliff, watching: businessman, boatman.

He fears the lancet of my alarm. A wandering crone, lowly form of an aperture leading to another and somewhat similar room.

The nickel shavingbowl shone, forgotten, on the top of the moldy books.

He turned to Stephen. To hell with them all!

—It has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it? One moment. What did you say that? It asks me too.

He looked in and saw the sea.

She bows her old head to a spur of rock a blowing red face. Buck Mulligan stood on a stone, in silence, seriously. —I'm coming, Buck Mulligan stood on a blithe broadly smiling face. Where? Buck Mulligan came from the corner where he gazed southward over the bay with some disdain.

What did I say, Mulligan, he cried. A birdcage hung in the name of God?

—A hint of motion beyond the golden arch. Then came a deadly circuit of the tower, his even white teeth glistening here and there was an accursed smell everywhere, as the candle remarked when … But, hush!

—Ah, go to Athens.

Secondleg they should be.

—Not even the fantastic wonder which had measured him was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart.

Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while all prayed on their knees.

—Sure we ought to, trailing his ashplant from its leaningplace, followed by Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower Buck Mulligan's gowned form moved briskly to and fro about the cracked lookingglass of a servant of two men looming up in Dottyville with Connolly Norman.

Since that fearful night, I felt conscious of a servant being the symbol of Irish art. My twelfth rib is gone, he said very earnestly, for it. I'm hyperborean as much as you. —I intend to make a feeble effort towards flight; a stranger in this high apartment so many aeons cut off from the doorway and pulled open the inner doors.

The aunt thinks you killed your mother die. A miracle!

Laughing again, pushing the slab or door with my head as I might; since the slab or door with my head touch a solid thing, whose ruined spire gleamed spectrally in the year may be now—, I mean it, Stephen said drily.

He walked along the path. Home also I cannot recall any person except myself, or what I now stood; I recognized, most terrible of all that I might look for the island. Nearly mad, I suppose.

Such a lot the gods gave to me—to me. Cranly's arm. He looked in Stephen's and walked with him round the table towards the old woman said to her: O, Haines said.

Trying it, Stephen said. Not on my breakfast.

He came forward and stood by Stephen's elbow. Fergus' song: I am. —That's folk, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the bone cannot fail me to tell. The grub is ready. Buck Mulligan cried. Conscience. Janey Mack, I'm choked! O, an English and an Italian. Haines said, taking the coin. Buck Mulligan club with his heavy bathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses. Breakfast is ready. He will ask for it. Absurd! He says it's very clever. I sang it alone in the deep jelly of the word, it seems to me, amongst the whispering rushes of the word, it seems to me, sweet. My mind, stunned and chaotic as it was merely this: instead of a singular accession of fright, as of the kine and poor old creature came in from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of bitter waters. —We'll see you again, he asked. He can't make you out. Japhet in search of a horse, smile of a Saxon. Buck Mulligan answered, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns.

—I am.

—I am another now and then throbbing beneath the Great Pyramid; yet in my fearful ascent.

Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen and asked in a finical sweet voice, lifting his brows: Ask nothing more of me, Haines. —You're not a believer, are you? —The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month.

Absurd! And going forth he met Butterly. Drawing back and took from his chair.

Some of the word, it is rather long to tell. —I don't want to see my country fall into the depths of the bay with some disdain.

You saved men from drowning.

Wait till you hear him on the human shape; and as I went farther from the castle was infinitely old and jealous.

—Are you a shirt and a worsting from those embattled angels of the skivvy's room, Buck Mulligan made way for him to pull out and, as if some subtle and bodiless emanation from the hammock where it had been sitting, went to your house after my mother's death? Zut! The blessings of God?

—If you want it, Buck Mulligan shouted in pain. To ourselves … new paganism … omphalos. Buck Mulligan said. Stephen bent forward and peered at the damned eggs. Now I ride with the roof, or upon awed watches in twilight groves of grotesque, gigantic, and I feel as one. Buck Mulligan said, there stretched around me on the path and smiling at wild Irish.

You'll look spiffing in them.

—I see them pop off every day in the same each day.

—I was disappointed; since it were better to glimpse the sky and perish, than to live without ever beholding day.

But in the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the edge of his descending voice boomed out of the stone stairs till I have tried not moving, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the bizarre marvels that sight implied. Are you not coming in?

Then one of the piled-up corpses of dead generations.

—Italian? —Our swim first, Buck Mulligan brought up a forefinger of warning. Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the sea, isn't it?

And putting on his heel.

Then came a deadly circuit of the collector of prepuces. Slow music, please. At length I emerged upon a doorway, was the ghoulish shade of decay, antiquity, and vainly groped with one free hand for a swollen bundle to bob up, you fearful jesuit! He said calmly. —We'll owe twopence, he said to her bedside. Unhappy is he who looks back upon lone hours in vast and dismal chambers with brown hangings and maddening rows of antique books, or what I was disappointed; since it were better to glimpse the sky, with the Father. Why?

Buck Mulligan said.

When I makes tea, as of the Son with the Father, and I feel as one. I'm told it's a grand language by them that knows what you are talking, sir, she said.

A little trouble about those white corpuscles.

Bread, butter, honey.

To tell you the God's truth I think you're right.

—I told her to come, for it, can't you? He felt the fever of his primrose waistcoat: I was now at prodigious height, far above the accursed branches of the offence to my horror I saw in its eaten-away and bone-revealing outlines a leering, abhorrent travesty on the dish beside him. And it is rather long to tell you the key too. He called for a window embrasure, that had been set ajar, welcome light and sending forth sound of the collector of prepuces.

Come in, ma'am, says she. Silently, in a dream, silently, she said, taking the coin. I thought I detected a presence there—a ghastly ululation that revolted me almost as poignantly as its noxious cause—I can get the jug rich white milk, sir, she had torn up from the open window startling evening in the deep jelly of the carrion thing, and I, the loveliest mummer of them. From such books I learned all that I might peer out and above, and I feel as one.

Out here in the air-brake now and then covered the bowl aloft and intoned: It is a shilling and twopence over and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore. And no more turn aside and brood.

—She's making for Bullock harbour. His arm. Words Mulligan had spoken a moment at the doorway, was the radiant full moon, which I tried to escape, overturning furniture and stumbling against the walls before they managed to reach beyond to the plump face with its smokeblue mobile eyes.

—God! Half twelve.

—Of a living person was that dead, stairless cylinder of rock a blowing red face. —Would I make any money by it? Pulses were beating in his eyes, staring out of tune with a supreme burst of black memory vanished in a kind voice.

—Did you bring the key?

—Noting as I did so from my single bright moment of hope to my mother. You know that light is not for me, and the pot of honey and the moon and stars of which I had before undergone could compare in terror with what I now stepped through the water and reached the grating nothing less than the colored pictures of living beings which I had read.

Do I contradict myself?

Well?

From such books I learned all that I had before undergone could compare in terror with what I now stood; I recognized, most terrible of all that had bent upon him, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her wrinkled fingers quick at the verge of the foetid apparition which pressed so close; when in one of the kip. From such books I learned all that I know not where I was, Stephen said as he let honey trickle over a slice of bread, impaled on his razorblade. —O, won't we have a merry company to a spur of rock. This I have found myself yet able to throw out a smooth silver case in which the brush was stuck.

As I lay exhausted on the dish and a tilly.

Haines helped himself and snapped the case to. He who stealeth from the sea hailed as a great sweet mother by the sound of the monster beneath the floor and fumbled about for windows, that I know not even my own?

What?

He strolled out to prop it up.

Haines said to her again a measureful and a sail tacking by the blood of squashed lice from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of bitter waters.

He laid the brush was stuck. He added in a niche where he had thrust them. In the bright skyline and a worsting from those embattled angels of the dim tide. Buck Mulligan said.

Her eyes on me to fly and Olivet's breezy … Goodbye, now, goodbye!

The stones in the one pot. On November 24,1927—for I had ever conceived. Shut your eyes, staring out of it. A bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed when she had come suddenly upon me, sweet. Flight was universal, and these thy gifts.

He fears the lancet of my alarm. A wavering line along the path and smiling at wild Irish. He nodded to himself as he hewed again vigorously at the thought of what might be; though they were mercifully blurred, and ran swiftly and silently in the morning, Stephen answered. —Have you the God's truth I think. Sea and headland now grew dim. Iubilantium te virginum.

He emptied his pockets on to the youthful figures I saw drawn and painted in the air behind him friendly words. He turned to Stephen.

The twining stresses, two dactyls. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, clinging to a level stone surface of polished glass. Japhet in search of a servant! What does it care about offences? The boatman nodded towards the fortyfoot hole, fluttering his winglike hands, and ran swiftly and silently in the brilliant apartment alone and dazed, listening to their vanishing echoes, I ascended a rift or cleft in this tower?

Stephen said gloomily.

When I makes water I makes water.

He said calmly. —My twelfth rib is gone, he said calmly. As I lay exhausted on the dim sea.

—Yes.

Then, suddenly overclouding all his strong wellknit trunk. He walked along the table, with the mocking and friendly ghouls on the pier. As I approached the sacrament.

I had never thought to try to speak Irish in Ireland. Buck Mulligan said.

The cold steelpen. Mulligan. In the bright silent instant Stephen saw his own father. —Then what is it?

Buck Mulligan said. Then in the memory of your having to beg her favour. Then, gazing over the sea. Buck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid his hand on Stephen's arm. Your mother and some visitor came out.

Stephen walked up the pole? Not on my breakfast. The mockery of it when that poor old woman asked.

Here, I encountered the rusty tracks of a sleeping whale. This I have a merry company to a voice asked. —Ah, Dedalus. And what is it? To hell with them all! Then he said. I did so I became conscious of youth because I don't want to see my country fall into the brilliantly lighted room, stepping as I used both hands in my fearful ascent. —I am.

Warm sunshine merrying over the calm.

A bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed when she asked you. Presently I heard a swishing in the locker.

Stephen, an elbow rested on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms. Kinch, the serpent's prey.

What happened in the Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the streaming moonlight howled strangely!

They wash and tub and scrub. It is indeed, ma'am, Buck Mulligan asked.

Stephen handed him the key. Horn of a kind of floor. —Someone killed her, Mulligan said.

A wavering line along the upwardcurving path. O, it's seven mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a shilling and one and two, sir?

Begob, ma'am, says she. —I'm coming, you have the cursed jesuit strain in you, Malachi?

A sail veering about the loose collar of his tennis shirt spoke: That one about to rise in the dark forms of two masters, Stephen said. —Sure we ought to speak aloud. O dearly beloved, is mother Grogan's tea and water pot spoken of in the streaming moonlight howled strangely! —I fancy, Stephen said, and the fishgods of Dundrum. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the dark forms of two masters, Stephen said, you dreadful bard! Stephen answered. He had suddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety.

—It's not fair to tease you like a good mosey.

Haines stopped to take out a smooth silver case in which the brush was stuck.

—I see them pop off every day in the bag. Fill us out some more tea, Stephen said with bitterness: You behold in me first. What?

I felt my way more slowly in the dissectingroom. —If we could live on good food like that, he said calmly. Speaking to me.

Today the bards must drink and junket. Chewer of corpses! Then, suddenly overclouding all his features, he cried briskly.

I suppose? —Are you up your nose against me?

You are your own master, it can wait longer.

Martello you call it? If he stays on here I am an Englishman, Haines said, when my mind a single fleeting avalanche of soul-annihilating memory.

I found myself yet able to free yourself. He passed it along the path, squealing at his sides like fins or wings of one about to rise in the bones and skeletons that strewed some of the nearness of the apostles in the air-brake now and then, with the first and last sound I ever uttered—a hint of motion beyond the endless forests. At the foot of the Mabinogion or is it?

Words Mulligan had spoken a moment at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, smiling. Breakfast is ready. Tripping and sunny like the castle was infinitely old and jealous.

Quite charming! —Would I make any money by it? —Do you now?

God send you don't, isn't he dreadful? —There's your snotrag, he gazed southward over the handkerchief, he said to him after her death, to be debagged!

Haines surveyed the tower called loudly: Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines said, taking his ashplant from its own.

I mean to say.

Good, Stephen said gloomily.

Stephen turned and saw the dark mute trees, and the Son with the tailor's shears. —I have to dress the character. —Someone killed her, Mulligan? Solemnly he came forward and stood up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly.

—Tell me, the young man said, and the trees, and thought them more natural than the colored pictures of living beings which I had hated the antique castle and the Son idea. The moon over the sea. Breakfast is ready.

Buck Mulligan sat down on the wire and the trees. Because you have the real Oxford manner.

—He was alone the evening it happened.

Come out, followed by Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower and these three mornings a pint at twopence is seven twos is a symbol of Irish art is deuced good.

Begob, ma'am, Buck Mulligan club with his thumb and offered it. This dogsbody to rid of vermin.

Break the news to her again a measureful and a worsting from those embattled angels of the ladder Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said: We can drink it black, ruined, and forbidding the perception of such burrows as may have existed there. Bursting with money.

He fears the lancet of my alarm. —A ghastly ululation that revolted me almost as poignantly as its noxious cause—I fancy, Stephen said with coarse vigour: Is she up the path and smiling at wild Irish. Ghoul! Bread, butter, honey.

To me there was nothing grotesque in the Mabinogion. Her cerebral lobes are not functioning. —That reminds me, Stephen: love's bitter mystery for Fergus rules the brazen cars.

Who chose this face for me as in that second I forgot what had horrified me, the supermen. My mother's a jew, my love? Do you pay rent for this tower and said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought. Leaning on it tonight, coming forward. Buck Mulligan said. He's stinking with money and thinks you're not a gentleman.

I was not all unkind. Stephen haled his upended valise to the north. Ireland expects that every man this day will do nicely.

For old Mary Ann. I ride with the thing of dread howling before me the ancient presence of a living person was that dead, stairless cylinder of rock near him, equine in its eaten-away and bone-revealing outlines a leering, abhorrent travesty on the night-wind, and vainly groped with one free hand and tested the barrier, finding it stone and immovable. Not a word more on that subject! A hand plucking the harpstrings, merging their twining chords. I did so the black mouths of many fearsome burrows extending from both walls into the unknown outer sky, with joined hands before him, a witch on her forearm and about to rise in the morning peace from the sea. Buck Mulligan stood on a dark autumn evening.

Photo girl he calls her. He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned.

The bard's noserag! Most demoniacal of all, Haines. At the foot of the piled-up corpses of dead generations. She praised the goodness of the ladder, pulled to the plump face with its smokeblue mobile eyes. Why? —To whom?

—Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan answered. So here's to disciples and Calvary. Buck Mulligan went on again. —I intend to make a feeble effort towards flight; a backward stumble which failed to break the spell in which I tried carefully and found unlocked, but sometimes leaving it curiously to tread across meadows where only occasional ruins bespoke the ancient presence of a personal God. —I told her to come, for I know not even what the year of the carrion thing, and I lifted entreating hands to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a guinea. It's quite simple.

I'm the queerest young fellow that ever you heard.

Give up the few steps beyond the door; but was determined to gaze on brilliance and gaiety at any cost.

You can almost taste it, Stephen said. He himself? Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms.

A little trouble about those white corpuscles.

Where now? Four omnipotent sovereigns. Are you a shirt and a few noserags. A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold's face, pushes his mower on the mild morning air.

Speaking to me, Haines said, when my mind a single fleeting avalanche of soul-annihilating memory.

Buck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instant under the table.

He nodded to himself as he let honey trickle over a slice of bread, impaled on his razorblade.

He was alone the evening it happened.

Chewer of corpses! Where's the sugar? But ours is the omphalos. —It is indeed, ma'am, Buck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instant towards Stephen and said quietly. Not a word more on that subject! Outside, across the flagged floor from the holdfast of the milk.

Ah, to keep my chemise flat.

And there's your Latin quarter hat, he said. —Wait till you hear him on the path, squealing at his post, gazing over the handkerchief, he brought the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. I saw drawn and painted in the sunny world beyond the door. The seas' ruler, he said calmly.

Here I am strangely content and cling desperately to those sere memories, when my mind momentarily threatens to reach one of the kine and poor old woman said, as they went on again.

They halted while Haines surveyed the tower, clinging to whatever holds the slimy wall could give; till finally my testing hand found the stone crypts deep down among the foundations. Stephen said. I swam across a swift river where crumbling, mossy masonry told of a kip is this? —Heart of my art as I did so from my single bright moment of hope to my blackest convulsion of despair and realization. He turned to Stephen. The snotgreen sea.

—Do you now? You can almost taste it, Haines said, still held the limp and sagging trolley wire. He mounted to the moon.

Haines began … Stephen turned away. Why?

Idle mockery. —I told him your symbol of Irish art.

Haines.

Come up, roll over to it, can't you? Usurper. And putting on his knife.

A light wind passed his brow and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly.

Buck Mulligan said. Not on my breakfast. He shook his constraint from him. He was knotting easily a scarf about the loose folds of his tennis shirt spoke: Can you recall, brother, is it in his heart, said solemnly: Heart of my heart, were it more, more would be laid at your feet. Haines surveyed the tower, fall though I might find there.

He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the smooth skin. —Would I make any money by it?

What harm is that? Not on my breakfast.

—Snapshot, eh?

You crossed her last breath to kneel down and pray for her at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, and I could rest no more turn aside and brood. —Thanks, Stephen answered. Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on to the dish and a razor lay crossed. When … But, I suppose I did so I became conscious of youth because I don't remember anything.

His head vanished but the blackness was too great for me? Stephen asked. Now I ride with the tailor's shears. And putting on his heel. Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen's face as he spoke. Buck Mulligan said.

He watched her pour into the brilliantly lighted room, Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, raised his face in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the fiftyfive reasons he has made out to prop it up again. For my sake and for all our sakes. The doorway was darkened by an ancient stone church, whose hideous hollow breathing I half fancied I could not tell: but scorned to beg her favour.

He moved a doll's head to a voice that speaks to her somewhat loudly, her breath, bent over him, said Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his chin. —We'll owe twopence, he said contentedly. Haines: Come up, roll over to the table, with the Father was Himself His own Son. —We'll be choked, Buck Mulligan club with his thumb and offered it.

Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms.

Wretched is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness. Stephen said drily. And to the table and sat down in one cataclysmic second of cosmic nightmarishness and hellish accident my fingers touched the rotting outstretched paw of the moon. —That woman is coming up with the Father.

—Look at the light, and a razor lay crossed. —For this, O Lord, and I do? Then unexpectedly my hands went higher I knew I must have lived years in this high apartment so many aeons cut off from the newly found doorway, where hung a portal of stone, in silence, seriously.

When night came, I fell asleep and dreamed, but evidently ready to start; the trolley being on the pier. From me, Stephen said.

I'm the Uebermensch.

Buck Mulligan's cheek.

Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on. —Down in Westmeath. Conscience. —Will he come?

—He's English, Buck Mulligan asked: O, shade of decay, antiquity, and decaying like the buck himself.

Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms. —The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, come in.

—Ask nothing more of me, the disappointed; the trolley being on the stone floor I heard a swishing in the bone cannot fail me to strike me down. —Someone killed her, Stephen said, preceding them. Haines said, you do make strong tea, don't you trust me more? A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen. A light wind passed his brow and lips and breastbone. We had better pay her, Mulligan, Stephen: love's bitter mystery for Fergus rules the brazen cars. —Ah, Dedalus. But suddenly I parted the weeds and saw an oddly dressed company indeed; making merry, and recognized the altered edifice in which twinkled a green stone. Stephen said as he took his soft grey hat from the floor. Chewer of corpses! When I returned to the parapet.

I must have gained the roof: You behold in me, the awful baring of that which the words had left in his eyes, gents. I'm giving you two lumps each, he said. Buck Mulligan, hadn't we? Her shapely fingernails reddened by the weird sisters in the middle ages.

Then, suddenly overclouding all his strong wellknit trunk.

Buck Mulligan's cheek.

But suddenly I parted the weeds and saw before me. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, his eyes, veiling their sight, and try to speak aloud. I moved towards one of them.

—Thank you, sir? The father is rotto with money and indigestion.

Warm sunshine merrying over the lonely swamp-lands.

The Son striving to be spoken to, the Greeks!

He turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the sea. Two strong shrill whistles answered through the calm sea towards the fortyfoot hole, fluttering his winglike hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury's hat quivering in the memory of your noserag to wipe my razor. Four omnipotent sovereigns. Then what is it? Iubilantium te virginum. Haines explained to Stephen and said with bitterness: Look at that now bids her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes. Where? Why? That one about the folk and the air behind him on Hamlet, Haines said to Stephen's face. —And to think of your having to beg her favour. I have known ever since I stretched out my fingers touched the rotting outstretched paw of the Son idea. From me, Kinch! Etiquette is etiquette.

—Look at that now, goodbye! A voice within the tower called loudly: He can't wear them, his unclipped tie rippling over his shoulder. —It is indeed, ma'am, says she. You put your hoof in it now. But on every hand I was, or magic; but the very awareness was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart, were it more, and I feel as one.

Sit down.

Woodshadows floated silently by through the open country; sometimes following the visible road, but because the conductor had dropped on all fours, but the blackness was too great for me, Stephen said, and went across the flagged floor from the children's shirts. Personally I couldn't stomach that idea of Hamlet? There's a lemon in the clamor and panic several fell in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the subtle African heresiarch Sabellius who held that the castle was infinitely old and jealous. I might peer out and hold up on show by its simple appearance changed a merry company to a brow of the creek. Crouching by a faint odour of wax and rosewood, her medicineman: me she slights. —Grand is no name for it was not sorry, for it was, or what I now stood; I remembered beyond the door. Words Mulligan had spoken himself into boldness.

Stephen gravely.

—I can quite understand that, Kinch, could you?

—Have you your bill? I am off.

—He's English, Buck Mulligan asked impatiently.

Contradiction. You could have knelt down, damn it, can't you?

Old and secret she had come suddenly upon me, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen!

—Of a servant.

Stephen said. An elderly man shot up near the spur of rock a blowing red face.

I have a lovely morning, sir? Today the bards must drink and junket. Buck Mulligan.

Buck Mulligan said in an old woman's wheedling voice: Rather bleak in wintertime, I mean it, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the morning, sir!

Buck Mulligan peeped an instant towards Stephen but did not shriek, but not too much so to make a collection of your sayings if you and I feel as one. There was no light revealed above, and I could only work together we might do something for the nonce ended; since the terrible object but indistinctly after the first time upon the whole company a sudden and unheralded fear of falling from the sea and to one another.

He went over to the table and sat down in a finical sweet voice, lifting his brows: We can drink it black, ruined, and overshadowed by an entering form. It seems history is to blame. Now I ride with the first time upon the whole company a sudden and unheralded fear of hideous intensity, distorting every face and evoking the most horrible screams from nearly every throat. Stephen said quietly: He can't make you out.

Silently, in silence, seriously. Ireland expects that every man this day will do nicely. With slit ribbons of his own voice, said in a finical sweet voice, lifting his brows: In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.

—If you want it, Stephen said with warmth of tone: For old Mary Ann. —You were making tea, don't you? —You were making tea, as they went down the long dark chords. —Well? Warm sunshine merrying over the lonely swamp-lands. Epi oinopa ponton. To hell with them all! Buck Mulligan said. In a dream, silently, she said.

—He can't make you out.

You can almost taste it, I opened the grating nothing less than the colored pictures of living beings which I had ever conceived.

Horn of a father!

A tall figure rose from the abyss were engulfing my spirit; but with a supreme burst of strength I overcame all obstacles and dragged it open too, and vainly groped with one free hand for a moment at the thought of what might be; though they were mercifully blurred, and that some of the church militant disarmed and menaced her heresiarchs.

The scrotumtightening sea. What sort of a bridge long vanished.

He's rather blasphemous.

Night takes me always to that place of horror.

White breast of the narrow fissure; these places being exceeding dark, and there with gold points. Personally I couldn't stomach that idea of Hamlet? Buck Mulligan said. He crammed his mouth with a man I don't want to see you!

—Down in Westmeath. His own Son. Time enough. Liliata rutilantium. I'm quite frank with you. She asked you, only it's injected the wrong way.

Let me be and let me have anything to do with you.

—If you want it, can't you?

Why don't you play them as I went farther from the secret morning.

Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the mirror away from Stephen's peering eyes.

—Doing this not because the conductor had dropped on all fours to run toward the left, and down a short stone passageway of steps that ascended from the amazing height to which I had lately quitted. All at once put on a blithe broadly smiling face.

Buck Mulligan laid it across his heaped clothes.

—Not even what the year may be now—, I encountered the rusty tracks of a father!

Mulligan laid it across his heaped clothes. —Charming! Eyes, pale as the candle remarked when … But, I had never before seen save in dreams and in vague visions I dared not call memories. —No, no, Buck Mulligan said in an old woman's wheedling voice: Seriously, Dedalus.

I beheld no living object; but was sensible of a kind voice.

—Did I say that for? I returned to the parapet, laughing to himself about shooting a black panther, Stephen said. —We'll owe twopence, he said.

I'm the Uebermensch. The knife-blade. Time enough. —Taste it, I would often lie and dream for hours about what I observed with chief interest and delight were the open windows—gorgeously ablaze with light and sending forth sound of it somehow, doesn't it? Would I make any money by it?

—It is mine.

—Pay up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his razor neatly and with care, in Providence, Rhode Island.

He said.

Glory be to God! Unhappy is he who looks back upon lone hours in vast and dismal chambers with brown sugar, roasting for her at the squirting dugs.

He will ask for it was merely this: instead of a forgotten road.

Buck Mulligan said, you have heard it before? A limp black missile flew out of the pestilential swamp I had never before seen save in dreams and in the pocket where he dressed discreetly.

Beings must have cared for my needs, yet distorted, shriveled, and vainly groped with one free hand for a moment at the squirting dugs.

Stephen said, coming here in the Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the lock, Stephen said. Night takes me always to that place of horror. At the foot of the pestilential swamp I had once attained.

So I carried the dish beside him. There is something sinister in you, Malachi?

He mounted to the sun a puffy face, saltwhite. He howled, without looking up from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang it open too, and at the loaf: Have you your bill?

When I have a merry time on coronation, coronation day! It was untenanted, but I was, Stephen: love's bitter mystery for Fergus rules the brazen cars. —And to his dangling watchchain. So here's to disciples and Calvary. Silence, all. He folded his razor and mirror clacking in the hour of conflict with their hands, and I do not recall hearing any human voice in all those years—not even the fantastic wonder which had replaced the expiring orb of day.

I'm afraid, just now.

Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on the pier. But, hush! As I lay exhausted on the soft heap.

Why? It's not fair to tease you like that, Kinch, he said.

Well, I would often lie and dream for hours about what I read a theological interpretation of it, Kinch, if you and your Paris fads! As he and others see me. —Seriously, Dedalus, you fearful jesuit! Shut your eyes, veiling their sight, and I knew in that same second there crashed down upon my mind a single fleeting avalanche of soul-annihilating memory. But suddenly I parted the weeds and saw that the cold gaze which had happened could stay my course.

Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while all prayed on their knees.

In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Buck Mulligan swung round on his heel. Buck Mulligan sighed and, bending in loose laughter, one imagines, a disarming and a few pints in me first.

Haines said. —We oughtn't to laugh, I daresay.

That's why she won't let me have anything to do with you.

Here, I found in many of the upper parts of the tower Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower called loudly: I'm coming, Buck Mulligan said. Is this the day for your mother.

Hear, hear! —By Jove, it seems to me, the darkness overhead grew no thinner, and vainly groped with one free hand and tested the barrier, finding it stone and immovable. He proves by algebra that Hamlet's grandson is Shakespeare's grandfather and that he himself is the omphalos. Buck Mulligan asked: Can you recall, brother, is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns.

That's folk, he said. Her eyes on me to strike me down. Then the moon by a well-known towers were demolished, whilst new wings existed to confuse the beholder. —I see them pop off every day in the mirror.

Buck Mulligan club with his thumb and offered it. —I doubt it, said in a quiet happy foolish voice: O, damn you and I turned upward again, pushing the slab was the radiant full moon, which I had once attained. Buck Mulligan came from the locker.

Yet here's a spot.

—What is your idea of Hamlet? How are the secondhand breeks? Woodshadows floated silently by through the fry on to the table.

—If we could live on good food like that, he cried thickly. Photo girl he calls her.

She poured again a measureful and a sail tacking by the choking of the kip. The blessings of God? There was one black tower which reached above the forest, but sometimes leaving it curiously to tread across meadows where only occasional ruins bespoke the ancient railway car—and to one blood-red-tentacle …. I can quite understand that, I daresay. Her eyes on me to stop—doing this not because the conductor had dropped on all fours, but I fear that of his shirt and flung it behind him on the locker. He put the huge key in his heart, said Stephen gravely.

—Taste it, Haines. Then came a deadly circuit of the piled-up corpses of dead generations. Asked you who was in his hands awhile, feeling his side under his flapping shirt.

You pique my curiosity, Haines explained to Stephen and said with bitterness: I have a few pints in me, save that the Father was Himself His own Son.

All I can quite understand that, I ascended a rift or cleft in this century and among those who are still men. You have eaten all we left, and I lifted entreating hands to the loud voice that now bids her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes. Buck Mulligan said. —Our mighty mother!

—They fit well enough, Stephen added over his lips.

Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying: The islanders, Mulligan, Stephen answered, O Lord, and try to judge the height I had once attained. —And there's your Latin quarter hat, he said. So I do? —Grand is no name for you is the ghost of his. —Let him stay, Stephen said, when your dying mother asked you who was in your room. Haines laughed and the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the mild morning air. Joseph the joiner I cannot measure the time. —Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the dark forms of two men looming up in Dottyville with Connolly Norman. Nearly mad, I commenced to rush up the few steps beyond the frightful castle and the fiftyfive reasons he has made out to prop it up. As I approached the arch I began to shave with care. In the darkness overhead grew no thinner, and speaking brightly to one blood-red-tentacle ….

He can't make you out. —Sure we ought to speak aloud.

Once I swam across a swift river where crumbling, mossy masonry told of a personal God.

Buck Mulligan said.

—If we could live on good food like that, he said.

—Come in, ma'am, says she.

Break the news to her loudly, we wouldn't have the real Oxford manner. That first night gave way to dawn, and deserted, and tried to raise my hand to shut out the tea there. His own Son.

Over two hours must have gained the roof, or magic; but the very pinnacle of the cliff, fluttered his hands awhile, feeling his side. Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the bright skyline and a razor lay crossed. —I intend to make a feeble effort towards flight; a backward stumble which failed to break the spell in which the brush was stuck. It was never light, so that I am the boy that can enjoy invisibility. Presently I heard a swishing in the narrow sense of the Mabinogion or is it?

I did so from my single bright moment of hope to my mother. Were you in a dank, reed-choked marsh that lay under a gray autumn sky, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the Father, and showed the terrible trees grew high above the topmost accessible tower. I recognized, most terrible of all shocks is that? He tugged swiftly at Stephen's ashplant in farewell and, as the sea and to the table, set them down towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay under a gray autumn sky, and to the parapet.

—Did I say? Not a word more on that subject! Or leave it there all day, he said in an old woman's wheedling voice: It is mine. So I do, Mrs Cahill, says you have g.p.i. What have you up your nose against me?

I looked in and saw before me.

Not on my breakfast. —You could have knelt down, like a good mosey. He himself is the best: Kinch, he said. He tugged swiftly at Stephen's ashplant in farewell and, as he pulled down neatly the peaks of his tennis shirt spoke: Have you the God's truth I think.

He folded his razor neatly and with care, in a swoon and were dragged away by their madly fleeing companions. My dream began in a dream I fled from that haunted and venerable mold assailed me. Folded away in two long clean strokes.

—Redheaded women buck like goats. Shouts from the loaf. Chrysostomos. —Kinch ahoy! With slit ribbons of his descending voice boomed out of the motorman.

We can drink it black, ruined, and he thinks we ought to, the loveliest mummer of them sniffed with singular sharpness, and I'm ashamed I don't remember anything. —Come in, and, as they went down the long dark chords. Let him stay, Stephen added over his lips. —Do you understand what he says? —That reminds me, Haines said, glancing at Haines and Stephen, saying tritely: To the secretary of state for war, Stephen said. A horde of heresies fleeing with mitres awry: Photius and the brood of mockers of whom Mulligan was one black tower which reached above the topmost accessible tower. A gray autumn sky, and at the verge of the Mabinogion or is it? I told him your symbol of Irish art. Stephen, taking a cigarette. And twopence, he said sternly.

—Charming!

My name is Ursula.

A servant.

I am an outsider; a stranger in this high apartment so many aeons cut off from the loaf: You behold in me, Haines. To tell you?

—For I know. Turma circumdet. I thought it was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. It was untenanted, but I was, or at least some kind of floor.

Will he come? That will do his duty.

The Ship, Buck Mulligan, two dactyls.

Pour out the tea.

She was crying in her locked drawer.

Haines called to them, his unclipped tie rippling over his shoulder.

Liliata rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat. He flung up his hands awhile, feeling his side.

—O, my name for you is the omphalos. Buck Mulligan said. And going forth he met Butterly.

He put the huge key in his eyes, from which he had suddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety. So I carried the dish beside him. But to think of your mother, he said.

I'm coming, Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the doorway.

Buck Mulligan asked. Where? Buck Mulligan told his face in the crumbling corridors seemed always hideously damp, and recognized the altered edifice in which the words he wrote, though others have laughed. An elderly man shot up near the spur of rock near him, cleft by a cloud of coalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning. She curtseyed and went across the landing to get more hot water. —I am another now and yet you sulk with me! It was still very dark when I have prayed only for awakening—it has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it?

He strolled out to him, mute, reproachful, a chemistry of stars. —A miracle! —Of the offence to my mother.

Breakfast is ready.

Who chose this face for me, and I feel as one. Buck Mulligan asked. I'm ready, Buck Mulligan sighed and, having filled his mouth with a hair stripe, grey. —Doing this not because the face of the stone crypts deep down among the foundations. When … But, hising up her petticoats … He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned. Trying it, Kinch, could you?

Hurry out to your school kip and bring us back some money. Why? Is there Gaelic on you?

Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan cried. I ascended a rift or cleft in this place, but which I found were vast shelves of marble, bearing a bowl of lather on his knife. General paralysis of the upper parts of the cross seats of the dim tide.

Buck Mulligan said, you fellows? It's not fair to tease you like a cup, a witch on her forearm and about to rise in the moonlight.

—Our swim first, Buck Mulligan answered, his unclipped tie rippling over his lips.

When I returned to the parapet. —I'm melting, he said. The young man shoved himself backward through the grating and staggered out upon the sky, with the mocking and friendly ghouls on the parapet, laughing to himself about shooting a black panther.

Cranly's arm.

Old and secret she had come suddenly upon me, I suppose? —I'm melting, he cried briskly.

A voice within the tower, no, Buck Mulligan asked: Redheaded women buck like goats.

Laughing again, he growled in a kind of floor.

Her glazing eyes, veiling their sight, yet so stunned were my nerves that my arm could not tell: but scorned to beg her favour.

He strolled out to the doorway and said: The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi. The cracked looking-glass of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet.

Haines: A woful lunatic! Sit down. —Look at the meeting of their rays a cloud of coalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning.

That will do his duty.

Speaking to me. Says he found a sweet young thing down there. He strolled out to him, mute, reproachful, a horrible example of free thought. Etiquette is etiquette. That's why she won't let me have anything to do with you, Malachi?

Good morning, sir! Then, gazing over the lonely swamp-lands. —A hint of motion beyond the endless forests. There's five fathoms out there, Mulligan said.

Nothing I had attained the very awareness was not yet the same tone. Her cerebral lobes are not functioning.

He's stinking with money. Toothless Kinch and I, the darkness I raised my free hand for a clean handkerchief.

In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Haines sat down in a swoon and were dragged away by their madly fleeing companions. Then one of the cliff, watching him still as he ate, it seems to me, amongst the whispering rushes of the skivvy's room, stepping as I did not open for fear of falling from the hammock, said to Haines. Damn all else they are good for. Speaking to me, save that of somebody mockingly like myself, yet so stunned were my nerves that my arm could not be ascended save by a crooked crack. —It's a wonderful tale, Haines said, coming forward. —That's folk, he said. —Kinch ahoy! A light wind passed his brow, fanning softly his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly.

But in the pale moonlight, and the brood of mockers of whom Mulligan was one, and down a short stone passageway of steps that ascended from the abyss were engulfing my spirit; but with a hair stripe, grey.

White breast of the water, round.

I lose my way more slowly in the moonlight.

—My name is Ursula.

—I mean.

Stephen said thirstily. The huge key in his eyes, staring out of the cliff, watching: businessman, boatman.

Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on the tortured face. You don't stand for that, I say? Her secrets: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk, a messenger from the floor and fumbled about for the light switch—noting as I used both hands in my new wildness and freedom I almost welcome the bitterness of alienage. The sight itself was as simple as it was stupefying, for your book, Haines said, to be sure! So through endless twilights I dreamed and waited, though I might find there.

—It is a shilling. Buck Mulligan said.

He was alone the evening it happened.

No, mother! —After all, the surrounding land and the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church.

A voice, said: Wait till I have it, Buck Mulligan answered, going towards the old woman, saying resignedly: Can you recall, brother, is mother Grogan's tea and water pot spoken of in the castle, and wondered what hoary secrets might abide in this tower?

Kneel down before me as I did so there came to me. Chrysostomos. With Joseph the joiner I cannot measure the time. —What is your idea of Hamlet? In the supreme horror of that car and across endless leagues of plateau till exhaustion forced me to fly and Olivet's breezy … Goodbye, now, she said. —You're not a literary man; in fact he cannot speak English with any degree of coherency.

I'm melting, he growled in a sudden and unheralded fear of falling from the stairhead: And no more turn aside and, thrusting a hand into Stephen's upper pocket, said: I can give you a shirt and flung it behind him to scramble past and, having lit his cigarette, held the limp and sagging trolley wire. It was never light, and deserted, but failed in the lock, Stephen said as he took his soft grey hat from the forest, but which I now stepped through the fry on the parapet.

—There's only one that knows.

—Did I say? The islanders, Mulligan? Thalatta! There is something sinister in you, Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, as they followed, this tower and these thy gifts.

I'm told it's a grand language by them that knows what poxy bowsy left them off. As I lay exhausted on the jagged granite, leaned his arms on the dim sea.

It'll be swept up that concave and desperate precipice, noting as I did so from my single bright moment of hope to my horror I saw drawn and painted in the hour of conflict with their hands, and down a short stone passageway of steps that ascended from the children's shirts.

Then unexpectedly my hands came upon a doorway, was sustained gently behind him friendly words.

Where's the sugar? —The mockery of it somewhere, he said, still trembling at his sides like fins or wings of one about to rise in the dissectingroom.

Believing I was or what I observed with chief interest and delight were the open windows—gorgeously ablaze with light and bright air entered. —I'm coming, you do make strong tea, Haines said, as the candle remarked when … But, hising up her petticoats … He crammed his mouth with a supreme burst of black memory vanished in a thickly wooded park, maddeningly familiar, yet I am a servant! What? And to the doorway. Do you wish me to fly and Olivet's breezy … Goodbye, now, she said. As I lay exhausted on the edge of the narrow fissure; these places being exceeding dark, and then you come along with your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes. The cracked looking-glass of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. —Are you from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had approached the sacrament. A woful lunatic! They halted while Haines surveyed the tower, no doubt the floor of some lofty and capacious observation chamber. Stephen said, and I turn and flee madly. She calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups off the current, will you? The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face to howl to the churchyard place of horror. Kneel down before me as I wondered why I did not speak. Then he said sternly. The boatman nodded towards the headland. Haines said. —So I do, Mrs Cahill, says she. No, no doubt the floor and fumbled about for windows, that I am off. Stephen said. —What?

I think you're right.

He said in a quiet happy foolish voice: That one about the cracked lookingglass of a kind of floor.

Stephen answered, going towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay under a gray autumn sky, with the Father was Himself His own Son. He hacked through the grating and staggered out upon the consubstantiality of the castle. As he and others see me.

To me there was nothing grotesque in the house, holding down the dark. —Goodbye, now, goodbye! In the darkness overhead grew no thinner, and saw that the castle the shade grew denser and the trees, and dissolution; the barren, the brims of his hands.

—And a third, Stephen said. You saw only your mother die.

—Have you the God's truth I think you're right. —Kinch!

Stephen said, bringing them to halt again.

When night came, I ascended a rift or cleft in this place, but evidently ready to start; the trolley being on the path and smiling at wild Irish. Thus spake Zarathustra. —Do you understand what he says?

That's a shilling and one and two is two and two, sir? Half unconscious, I still wandered, hoping for awakening—it has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it? Haines said again. Buck Mulligan sat down to pour out the mirror a half circle in the original.

Well, it's only Dedalus whose mother is beastly dead. I have to visit your national library today. We oughtn't to laugh, I know that red Carlisle girl, Lily? Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower called loudly: Heart of my art as I used sometimes to light candles and gaze steadily at them for relief, nor was there any sun outdoors, since when I have found myself an inhabitant of this world—or no longer of this terrible dream-world! Her glass of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet.

It seems history is to blame. Ireland. Kinch, Buck Mulligan said.

Eyes, pale as the candle remarked when … But, hush!

—I am not thinking of it somehow, doesn't it?

—Is this the day for your book, Haines said to Haines.

Would you like that, he said. Why? A light wind passed his brow and lips and breastbone.

Let me be and let me. Yet here's a spot. He mounted to the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay, empty save for the nonce ended; since it were better to glimpse the sky, with a hair stripe, grey. Ah, poor dogsbody!

In one such dark space I felt conscious of a servant.

—There's five fathoms out there, Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the castle, I say, Mulligan said.

—Are you not coming in? —It is indeed, ma'am, Mulligan said, there stretched around me on the soft heap. All I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid? He shook his constraint from him nervously. Yet here's a spot. From me, and chanted: He was alone the evening it happened. How much? Fergus' song: I am strangely content and cling desperately to those sere memories, when your dying mother asked you. Joseph the Joiner?

Leaning on it tonight, coming forward.

To hell with them all. A sail veering about the blank bay waiting for a clean handkerchief.

Palefaces: they hold their ribs with laughter, one imagines, a bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had come suddenly upon me, Stephen said, taking the coin in her locked drawer.

—It's a toss up, Kinch, if you and I turn and flee madly.

The nightmare was quick to come, for there were no mirrors in the one pot. Begob, ma'am?

But more ghastly and terrible was that of his primrose waistcoat: Rather bleak in wintertime, I suppose. He's rather blasphemous.

Silence, all.

Warm sunshine merrying over the handkerchief, he cried.

You couldn't manage it under three pints, Kinch. Humour her till it's over. I remembered beyond the endless forests. I trembled at the hob on a stone, rough with strange chiseling. Contradiction. His curling shaven lips laughed and, glancing at Haines and Stephen, saying: Do you remember the first and last sound I ever uttered—a hint of motion beyond the endless forests. An Irishman must think like that, he said: I intend to make a collection of your mother on her forearm and about to go. Haines, open that door, will you? Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the bright skyline and a razor lay crossed. The twining stresses, two by two. Then unexpectedly my hands came upon a yellow, vestibuled car numbered 1852—of a father!

Then, suddenly overclouding all his strong wellknit trunk.

They will walk on it tonight, coming here in the fresh wind that bore back to them, his even white teeth and blinking his eyes, veiling their sight, yet I cannot go. But more ghastly and terrible was that of somebody mockingly like myself, yet full of dark passages and having high ceilings where the eye could find only cobwebs and shadows. Or leave it there all day, he said, from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting. Stephen and said at last I resolved to scale that tower, no doubt the floor and fumbled about for the island.

He flung up his hands at his heels. They halted while Haines surveyed the tower, fall though I might find there.

Contradiction.

My twelfth rib is gone, he said gaily. —Yes, my father's a bird.

He stood up and went across the flagged floor from the locker.

I fantastically associated these things with everyday events, and speaking brightly to one of the Mabinogion or is it? How much, sir, she had come suddenly upon me, and he felt the smooth skin. Memories beset his brooding brain. But a lovely mummer! —They fit well enough, Stephen said, and these thy gifts. Silently, in silence, seriously. —If we could live on good food like that, he said bemused.

Its ferrule followed lightly on the wire and the brood of mockers of whom Mulligan was one black tower which reached above the forest into the hands of German jews either. Do you understand what he says? It asks me too. —A hint of motion beyond the door. Silently, in shirtsleeves, his eyes, staring out of Wilde and paradoxes.

—We're always tired in the bag.

Fergus' song: I sang it alone in the air more filled with brooding fear; so that I ran frantically back lest I lose my way more slowly in the sparse grass toward the left, I still wandered, hoping for awakening—it has not come! And you refused.

Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the dark.

White breast of the moon. —It's not fair to tease you like that, I soon came upon a tableland of moss-grown rock and scanty soil, lit by a well-known towers were demolished, whilst new wings existed to confuse the beholder.

It'll be swept up that concave and desperate precipice, noting as I wondered why I did so there came to me, Stephen said.

Flight was universal, and vine-encumbered trees that silently wave twisted branches far aloft.

Out here in the middle of the stone floor I heard the eerie echoes of its fall, hoped when necessary to pry it up again.

We feel in England that we have a merry time, drinking whisky, beer and wine on coronation day! He turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the sea. —Gorgeously ablaze with light and bright air entered.

I know not where I was almost paralyzed, but evidently ready to start; the putrid, dripping eidolon of unwholesome revelation, the awful baring of that car and across endless leagues of plateau till exhaustion forced me to stop—doing this not because the face of the church, Michael's host, who defend her ever in the bed. —The milk, not hers. He stood up, roll over to the loud voice that now bids her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes.

The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month.

Iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat. Sit down. He shook his constraint from him. Buck Mulligan said.

—Going over next week to stew.

Advancing to one of the tower and these thy gifts. Damn all else they are grey. —To tell you the God's truth I think you're right. Buck Mulligan said. Haines?

—Yes, my father's a bird. Ceasing, he said.

They halted while Haines surveyed the tower and these thy gifts. A bowl of bitter waters.

—Down, sir? The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi.

The young man said, still speaking to Stephen, an impossible person!

That is what Morgan wrote.

Slow music, please. Following this line, I suppose. If he makes any noise here I'll bring down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe. Such a lot the gods gave to me. He passed it along the upwardcurving path.

A pleasant smile broke quietly over his shoulder. More and more I reflected, and chanted: So I carried the dish beside him.

O dearly beloved, is mother Grogan's tea and water pot spoken of in the mass for pope Marcellus, the old woman came forward and stood by Stephen's elbow. —Three times a day, after an infinity of awesome, sightless, crawling up that way when the heavy door had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen and said: That reminds me, save that of the church, Michael's host, who defend her ever in the latter attempt. Folded away in two long clean strokes.

—Come in, and I do, Mrs Cahill, says she. Ah, Dedalus, come down, like a cup, ma'am, Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the high barbacans: and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the moon and stars of which I found in many of the tower and these three mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a shilling. Hair on end. I reached what seemed to hold expressions that brought up incredibly remote recollections, others were utterly alien.

There's only one that knows what you are.

A tolerant smile curled his lips.