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jiangchengrights · 4 years

Text

and i want to be wanted more than anything else in the world

A/N:

Based on this post

Title from “Homosexuality” by Frank O’Hara

Also available on AO3!

Marriage, Lan Wangji knows, is not about love.

He’d known this, he’d always know this; Uncle had always been very clear on that. Marriage is about duty. Marriage is about allying Gusu Lan with another sect. It is Lan Wangji’s job in this to ensure profitable trade for the disciples of the Cloud Recesses. It might even, one day, require him to move away from his home and into that of his spouse. His father had married for love and look where that had gotten him; Lan Wangji would never succumb to the same fate. So no, marriage was not about liking his spouse and being liked in return.

Though he had steeled his heart to this fate, there is a memory that he holds deeper somewhere that thumps quiet and soft with every beat of his heart. He usually tries not to think about it; it makes an old hurt flash deep in his bones, throbbing from his toes all the way up his spine to settle like a leech at the back of his neck.

He remembers kneeling at his mother’s side, small back straight, resisting the urge to lean fully into her. She had seen him though, she always had even when he hid behind a solemn face and sparse words. And so with a smile and a fond shake of her head, she had gathered him up into her arms, petting the hair out of his face and said, “My love, my light, you are still my baby.”

He hadn’t laughed exactly, but he’d smiled up at her, the corners of his lips tilting up just enough to ball his cheeks. But she had seen it, of course she’d seen it, and she’d rubbed her thumbs gently against his face, leaning down close enough that her lips brushed against his skin when she whispered, “No matter what happens outside of this house, you are loved.”

And then she’d folded him up in her arms as if he actually was a baby, resting his head on her elbow and guiding her arm beneath the hollows of his knees and swug him around sharply, teasing, enough to have him squirming away and she sang, “My baby, my baby, my baby.”

Leaning forward to grab a slice of loquat, cut perfectly to fit the shape of a small, child sized mouth, from the bowl placed gently on the table in front of them, she’d then brought it up to Lan Wangji’s mouth and said, “Open up, darling.”

And he had because she was his mother and he’d do anything for her. So he’d let her feed him tiny chunks of loquats and pet his face until finally she’d said, almost too softly, “I really hope you find someone who loves you a lot one day.”

He’d looked up at her and then relaxed into her arms even more, settling in her embrace and asked, “Enough to cut up loquats for me?”

Her laugh still sounds like music to him when he remembers it; loud and gentle all at the same time, bathing him in a joy he had yet to know, and she had laughed then, leaning down to nuzzle her nose against his and said, “Yes, baobao, exactly.”

By the time he’d wormed his way out of her embrace, she’d turned her wrath onto Lan Xichen, dragging him closer to her and laugh-crying, “My bigger baby!”

He wishes now he could remember more of that day instead of just that flash moment. Had she been sad when they left that night? Where was that night, in the span of time? How much longer did he have with her, even if he didn’t know yet that there would ever be an end in sight?

And what had she meant when she wished that for him? She had to have known what his life was destined to look like, she had to have known what kind of marriage was in his fate. And yet she wished it anyways, giving a voice to his greatest yearning, to his deepest secret. Hadn’t she known that was impossible?

Hadn’t she known it would haunt him?

There was never really any hope of her wish for him coming true.

Even when Lan Wangji was small, he’d been described as cold, frigid; his classmates had been scared of him whether it be because of his skill, his quiet, somber face, or his dedication. His all encompassing grief after his mother’s death had only served to strengthen that.

For them his kneeling, and continued kneeling, at her door had not been an act of love. They could not see the desperate pain in his eyes, the hands that shook, crying out to be held just one last time. They thought it had been a display of duty, of rigidity, of a soulless creature acting as they were meant to.

He remembers once, being fourteen and kneeling outside of his mother’s door. By then, he knew she would not return, would never return, and though his grief had subsided, was now just a throb in his throat instead of cold fire in his veins, he still owed her this. His respect, his sadness, his yearning; he owed her this and so he kneeled in her garden, muscles frozen and lips blue until Lan Xichen had hurried over, crouching in front of him and muttering one quiet, desperate, “Didi.”

He’d stood then and allowed Lan Xichen to walk him to the Jingshi, never once leaning on his brother but glad for his steady presence next to him all the same. His steps never faltered, expression never wavered, even when he heard his fellow disciples whisper his name.

Gossip is forbidden in the Cloud Recesses, of course, but some things cannot be stopped in their entirety and this is one of them. And Lan Wangji knows, even if they would never believe it, how to pick his battles. So when he hears his name called out in the shape of chapped lips and fogged breath he doesn’t flinch.

“There goes the Twin Jades,” one of the voices whispers into the moonlight.

“Jade?” the other snorts back and responds more hushed, “Maybe Lan Xichen, but the younger one? Look at him, he’s made of ice.”

“Brr,” one of them chuckles, pretending to shiver, “So cold even the snow can’t touch him.”

“I feel sorry for whatever poor girl ends up leashed to him,” the second voice continues, “You’d never see a colder marriage bed.”

Lan Wangji’s breath hitches minutely, but his strides never stutter. When he glances over from the corner of his eye, he can see the serene and utterly fake smile plastered across his face, the one he wears at meetings and particularly detestful events (and sometimes, just sometimes, when talking to Uncle), so he knows his brother heard as well as he did.

Shame courses through him and he blames the fire under his skin on the cold wind that blows around them. There, that night, he vows never to leash someone to him if he can help it and if he cannot he will remain firm but open and let them have their happiness without any regards or hindrance from himself. He will not be his father.

When they make it to his door, Lan Xichen opens his mouth to say something but Lan Wangji finds he does not have ears to hear it. He bows quickly but perfectly and says, “Goodnight, Brother,” and makes peace with that which he should have years ago.

His mother was wrong.

Wei Wuxian bounces into his life like a bomb.

He yells at Lan Wangji from across rooms and runs to catch up with him on busy walkways and laughs loud enough to hurt Lan Wangji’s ears. He throws loquats through the air and brings pornography into the library and never remembers to bow until someone else does before him and-

And.

And he gives Lan Wangji bunnies and sings to them in silly voices and says things like, “You’re so good, Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, you’re the best!”

The worst part is, Lan Wangji is pretty sure he means it.

~*-*~

“Have you ever thought about getting married?” Wei Wuxian asks him from where he’s lounging ill-mannered next to Lan Wangji.

“I have!” he continues without waiting for Lan Wangji to reply, leg jittering up and down, “She’ll be the prettiest girl out there, I just know it.”

“Mm.”

“And she’ll be an excellent cook and be friends with Shijie,” he continues, lolling his head to the side and shooting a lazy grin Lan Wangji’s way, “Obviously I can’t marry anyone my Shijie doesn’t like.

“And I’ll marry for love!” he laughs this time, one of his feet coming very close to nudging at Lan Wangji’s thigh before he moves away steadily, sending a half glare Wei Wuxian’s way, “None of this arranged stuff, uh uh, no good, I’ve seen what it does to people.

“I’ll only marry when someone stops my heart and then restarts it, when they smile and I melt, when their touch is all the warmth I need,” he laughs at the frown on Lan Wangji’s face and tries to kick him again, “Come on, Lan Zhan, I know I’m being mushy but let a guy live, will you?”

Love, Lan Wangji wants to say, does not always solve your problems.

But he says nothing and mourns the loss of his presence when Wei Wuxian stands, brushing off his already dirtied robes.

“Hey, Lan Zhan?” he asks, lip curling up wryly on one side, leaning in close as he whispers, “I think you’re pretty too.”

“Wei Ying!”

Wei Wuxian’s laughter can be heard in the courtyard outside as he flees the library pavilion.

“Quick, Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian yells and then Lan Wangji is ripping off his headband and tying it around their wrists, joining them together to stop Lan Yi’s guqin from hurting the smaller man further.

It doesn’t mean anything, Lan Wangji thinks to himself even as the handfasting takes place, binding them together, I will not leash him to me.

It’s enough to join them together, not a marriage persay, not a proper one at least, but a promise. I will protect you, the ribbon says for Lan Wangji where it rests, cradled around Wei Wuxian’s wrist, because you are my beloved.

It holds long enough to speak to Lan Yi and spit them out again and as they lay in a heap on the earthen floor, Wei Wuxian smiles down at him, lopsided, bunny teeth in full effect and yanks they’re tied wrists up to see, laughing out, “We’re connected now!”

It has Lan Wangji shoving him off, a cold chill running up his spine that has absolutely nothing to do with the ice water he’d come from, making quick work of yanking the headband off Wei Wuxian’s wrist and cradling it morosely to his chest.

“Not together,” he absolutely does not pout.

“Aw, Lan Zhan, it’s okay,” Wei Wuxian waves off, standing up and offering his hand down to Lan Wangji, “It’s just a headband.”

The relief he feels in knowing Wei Wuxian doesn’t know the meaning of what just happened is only half present, mixed with a disappointed, a longing, so intense it has his breath stuttering.

When he stands, he does so gracefully, carefully untying the headband from his own wrist to return it to its rightful place around his forehead.

He does not accept Wei Wuxian’s hand.

“I’ll have to leave you here bunnies,” Lan Wangji can hear Wei Wuxian’s voice, loud as ever, through the trees, “And you have a very important job!”

At this Lan Wangji raises an eyebrow, wondering what possible job Wei Wuxian could have for a rabbit, so instead of making his presence known he listens on as Wei Wuxian whispers conspiratorially, “Without me here to keep him company, I suspect Lan Zhan will get very lonely.”

He’s right, is the thing. Lan Wangji is sure that’s why the statement sends a jolt through him.

“Can you keep him company, little rabbits? Make sure he feels loved,” Wei Wuxian says, holding up a bunny to his face to look it in the eye, “Give him lots of nose kisses for me, okay?”

Lan Wangji turns around and leaves before he can do something stupid like grab Wei Wuxian’s hand or ask him to stay.

“Let me carry you!” Wei Wuxian says to him so earnestly that Lan Wangji is tempted to believe he actually means it. Though his leg pains him, he limps with every step, he steadfastly ignores this request, stopping only to send a familiar glare Wei Wuxian’s way.

The cave they’re stuck in now is so much darker than the previous one. The monster has been slain and Lan Wangji has spit out the bad blood that haunted his veins but all is not well. There is no cold here like there was in Lan Yi’s dwelling, a humid air seeps up from the water below, making Lan Wangji sweat in his robes.

And still, curled up next to him Wei Wuxian’s shivers and moans. His skin is so hot, Lan Wangji can feel it in the air between them and yet the man still moans, “I’m freezing, Lan Zhan, why is it so cold?”

Lan Wangji does not know the answer to this so he gathers Wei Wuxian into his arms, hands stroking slow down his back the way his mother had once done for him and said, “It’s okay, Wei Ying. We are here together.”

And then he hums him a song meant for their ears only and wishes him a peaceful sleep.

There is barely restrained fury in Wei Wuxian’s eyes when he steps forward and says, “Lan Zhan, do me a favor.”

“What’s the matter?” Lan Wangji asks, taking his eyes off the mockery in front of them to rest on Wei Wuxian, changed, sharper, but still Wei Ying.

“Let me borrow your headband,” the man in front of him says, though he doesn’t dignify it with a response. He can’t.

Because he wants to say yes.

Yes, yes, take my headband, Wei Ying, know what it means, Wei Ying, Wei Ying, Wei Ying.

Wei Wuxian is unperturbed without the headband though, he merely steps forward and unwraps his own sleeve, tying it around his eyes. His arrows are shot with the blindfold still held securely in place, each one finding home in the wooden target instead of the Wen Quishan prisoners below.

He plays it off with a smirk and a smile, a grand display of skill, but Lan Wangji can see him. Can see the fury in his gate, can see his goal; even now, in the face of people he does not know, he protects them all, bearing the brunt of ridicule on his own shoulders.

Lan Wangji finds him later, in the mouth of the woods with no one else around. The blindfold still plays around his eyes and a glance around confirms there is no one here but the two of them and Lan Wangji finds his own self control rapidly draining.

I will not leash him to me.

But Wei Wuxian’s eyes are closed and he will never know, so he steps forward, ignoring Wei Wuxian’s “who’s there?” and gently presses the man against the nearest tree, lips finding Wei Wuxian’s fast, pliant and warm. He’s there long enough to swipe his tongue across Wei Wuxian’s bottom lip, to taste the half smile that lingers there and then he’s gone just as quick deeper into the woods, completely missing Wei Wuxian’s little grabby hands and whispered, “Mm, Lan Zhan.”

“This is my A-Yuan,” Wei Wuxian says, laughing at the confused frown on Lan Wangji’s face, only adding to it when he says, “I birthed him from my own body.”

He knows Wei Wuxian is lying obviously but he accepts the child all the same, lets him cling to his leg, buys him play swords and grass butterflies and relishes in watching him play with Wei Wuxian.

Even now, Wei Wuxian grins so easily, so beautifully, it astounds him, stops Lan Wangji in his place and leaves him breathless.

“Ah, A-Yuan, don’t bother Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian complains when A-Yuan climbs into Lan Wangji’s lap uninvited, giving Lan Wangji a half embarrassed look as if Lan Wangji might really be bothered by this.

Instead he snakes his arms around the child’s waist, ignoring how right it feels, how easy it would be to imagine them at a family lunch and says, “He is fine.”

A-Yuan holds a grass butterfly up to Lan Wangji’s face and says in an obnoxiously high voice, “I like you” and then uses the butterfly to kiss Lan Wangji on the cheek, snorting with laughter as he does so.

“See?” Lan Wangji nods, hoisting the boy further into his lap, “Everything is fine.”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t say anything for once, just shakes his head and gifts Lan Wangji with the softest smile he’s ever seen.

“Wei Ying,” he pleads from the other side of the roof, “It’s time to stop fighting.”

But Wei Wuxian doesn’t stop; he plays his flute and dances across the field and ignores Lan Wangji as he skitters around him, stopping every sword meant for Wei Wuxian from finding home.

Lan Wangji fights and fights and pleads and prays with anyone listening to stop this, to help Wei Wuxian. Mother, he screams in his mind, afraid to look at the sky where he knows she must be watching over this, Mother, I love him, help, help-

But there is no help. Wei Wuxian smiles up at him with blood stained teeth and says, “Lan Zhan, let go, it’s time to let me go,” and he’s slippery and heavy but Lan Wangji won’t, he won’t-

The decision is made for him.

Jiang Cheng’s blade digs into the mountain next to Wei Wuxian’s hand, hard enough to crack the Earth around them. When it breaks and falls, Lan Wangji knows he will fall with it. He makes his peace with it in the millisecond it takes for him to realize this. But Wei Wuxian, kind and beautiful Wei Wuxian rips his hand away hard enough to startle Lan Wangji backwards and falls alone.

Lan Wangji watches, yells his name and clenches his fists at his side, looks around at the chaos around him and knows he’s been saved.

He looks at the space where Wei Wuxian had been, now lost in darkness and destruction and rubble and thinks, I’ve been saved, but for what, Wei Ying? For what?

The child is heavy in his arms as he carries him up the steps to the Cloud Recesses. He’s heavy and sick and too warm and Lan Wangji vows with everything in his being to make this boy better, to make him happy. He is Wei Wuxian’s child but Wei Wuxian is gone, the Wen clan are gone, and so Lan Wangji will protect him the way he failed to protect Wei Wuxian.

“Rich gege,” the boy mumbles into his shoulder, little hands making fists in his robes. Lan Wangji uses one hand to support him, the other to pet down the boy’s back, to comb through his hair.

“It will be okay,” he says into the air, hoping one of them will believe it.

A-Yuan, Lan Sizhui, keeps him company while he recovers. He lays flat on his stomach, ignores the ache in his chest, the sting of his back and smiles ever so slightly when Sizhui finger dances up his arm, careful to steer clear of his wounds.

“Will you be okay, Rich gege?” he asks, laying down on the bed next to Lan Wangji and kicking his feet in the air.

“Of course.”

Sizhui rolls over on his stomach, resting his chin on his hands and kicking his feet out behind him, “Okay, enough to take care of A-Yuan?”

“Will always take care of A-Yuan,” Lan Wangji says and tries not to think about how nice it would have been to have help with this, to take care of the boy with Wei Wuxian, to do this together.

“Of course he’s going to take care of you,” Lan Xichen says as he walks inside the Jingshi, carrying medicine and bandages in his arms, “But remember what we promised? You’re Sizhui now.”

“Yes,” A-Yuan nods, head bouncing seriously as he does, “I promise, BoBo.”

The look of delight on Lan Xichen’s face is almost enough to forget the loss in the room.

Almost.

Lan Wangji presents Lan Sizhui as his son to the elders. He looks at his brother and thinks, Look I have a son, I have an heir, I have brought an heir for the Cloud Recesses, I have done my part, marrying me off will bring you nothing now.

He doesn’t know what Lan Xichen is thinking, but he smiles a small, sincere smile as he always does when he’s looking at his younger brother. He nods and says, “Seeing as I have no children to call my own, I accept Lan Sizhui as the resident heir to the Cloud Recesses.”

He bows perfectly to the child who stands in front of him and delights when the child bows back.

Sometimes, not often but often enough, A-Yuan has nightmares so violent they leave him trembling in his bed. The first time it had happened, he’d been too scared to get up from his cot, only feet away from Lan Wangji’s own, so he’d simply called out into the night through chattering teeth, “Baba? Baba!”

And Lan Wangji had been there to scoop him up and carry him back to his bed, holding him tight in his arms, tight enough to will the shivers away and had said, “It’s okay, I am here.”

He holds A-Yuan against his body as his mother had once held him and begins to tell him the story of Wei Ying. Not the Yiling Patriarch or even Wei Wuxian. He tells him about a boy scared of dogs, a boy who loved his brother and sister with his whole being, who held everything close to his heart, and laughed sun rays into existence.

A-Yuan no longer remembers Xian gege, which is probably for the best. But he knows Wei Ying.

“Where did he go?” he asks one night, leaning against Lan Wangji even though he is now far too big for this; Lan Wangji wraps an arm around him anyways, pulls him in closer.

“He had to go away,” Lan Wangji replies, looking out at the full moon, “But he would’ve loved you.”

Lan Sizhui settles into sleep for the night and Lan Wangji only feels marginally bad for changing the would’ve from did.

He did love you, A-Yuan, Lan Wangji thinks, but knows enough not to say, And from wherever he is now, he loves you still.

Uncle brings up the topic of marriage once.

He reminds Lan Wangji of his duty. Reminds him of what he should be doing. But throughout the entirety of the conversation, Lan Wangji is reminded of the hole in his heart held steadily in the shape of doe eyes and a smiling mouth and a little mole. He knows he will never be able to look anyone else in the eye and call them husband or wife. There is no point.

“I have a son,” he says instead, meeting his Uncle’s eyes as he shoots down his plan, “I have brought an heir to the Cloud Recesses. I have stood for this sect and I have stood against it and paid my dues. I have nothing more to give.”

He turns away before Uncle can respond without so much as a bow. He lets his robes ripple in the air as he storms away. He wishes he had been nicer to Wei Wuxian when they were kids, when they were happy, wishes he’d let the boy hover in close.

Uncle is not always right.

He knows it's him the second he hears the song.

Wei Wuxian, Wei Ying, stands in a clearing playing their song to control Wen Ning. He wears black robes and a red hair ribbon and though his stature is different Lan Wangji knows it is him and his heart calls out to get closer, to listen more.

Wei Wuxian hides from him but that is okay. He smiles at the man’s antics, pretending to be wild to keep up with appearances, Lan Wangji lets him do whatever he wants this time, he’ll let him do anything.

But when they are alone, he pulls the mask off with gentle fingers and caresses this face, a new face to house the same soul, and says, “Wei Ying, you are back.”

And just like that Wei Wuxian’s eyes crinkle damp with tears, fingers twisting hard into the fabric of Lan Wangji’s robes as he cries, too soft to have ever come from his mouth, “Lan Zhan.”

The events at the temple are – a mess to say the least and the bolt of fear that had run a course through Lan Wangji when Jin Guangyao had held Wei Wuxian by the throat still has him feeling shaky, lost, the idea of losing Wei Wuxian again to the same cause too much for him to handle.

But he stands here now, berating their son with a smile on his face, hip cocked out to the side.

“You see that pit? You see it?” Wei Wuxian laughs, trying despite himself to look stern. Lan Sizhui’s head whips back and forth between the pit and Wei Wuxian’s pointer finger, waving around wildly in front of him. But Lan Wangji can see the grin growing on the boy’s face as he realizes what is to come next, just in time for Wei Wuxian to say, “I’ll bury you again, my little radish, don’t think I won’t!”

Lan Sizhui smiles and laughs a half sob and throws himself down against Wei Wuxian’s leg, clinging on like he’s afraid the man will disappear. Wei Wuxian steadies himself in this new hold and then reaches a hand down to comb through the top of Sizhui’s hair and says, “Oh, you silly boy. I’ve missed you so much, my A-Yuan.”

“Missed you too, Xian gege,” Lan Sizhui mumbles into the fabric of Wei Wuxian’s leg, one hand reaching up blindly to hold onto Wei Wuxian’s own. His family stands in front of him, whole and laughing and happy.

Lan Wangji has never felt more content.

It doesn’t end there, as much as Lan Wangji may wish it did.

He accepts the position of Chief Cultivator and Sect Leader in the interim that Lan Xichen remains in seclusion. He sends Sizhui, his son, off with Wen Ning to reclaim his roots. And Wei Wuxian...

Wei Wuxian looks at him one day, restless as ever, and says, “Well I should really get going.”

“Going?” Lan Wangji had asked, one eyebrow raising in question.

Wei Wuxian plays with his own fingers, bites his lip, and then looks up at Lan Wangji with a grin, “I’m on my second life, Lan Zhan! I’ve got to see the world. It’s not like I have anything holding me here, right?”

He wants to pull Wei Wuxian into his chest and hold him there for safekeeping. He wants to wrap Wei Wuxian up in all of his best blankets and say, Remember when I held you in the cave? I can take care of you now, better than I could then. He wants to comb Wei Wuxian’s hair and thread soothing oils into it and say, See? You deserve gentleness, let me be soft with you, let me, let me.

But he sees the antsy way Wei Wuxian taps his foot, the way his eyes keep flickering to the door like he’s ready to leave at this very instant. All of his belongings are already packed and lay neatly, ready to be taken up at any time. The only thing left is Lil Apple but she never needed much and Lan Wangji knows if he really wanted, Wei Wuxian could be out and into the world in half a day, Cloud Recesses a forgotten dream.

I will not be a leash, I will not be a leash, I will not be a leash.

“If you wish to see the world,” Lan Wangji says, keeping his words careful. He does not lie but he neither spills the truth, “Then nothing would please me more than to see you off. All I’ve ever wanted for you was your happiness.”

“Ah, Lan Zhan, so nice,” Wei Wuxian laughs and falls onto the bed behind him, “You really are the best.”

“Mn.”

“I’ll leave tomorrow morning,” Wei Wuxian says to the ceiling, “Get out of your hair for once.”

“Mn,” he says again and bites his tongue to keep the don’t go at bay.

When Wei Wuxian is gone the world is quiet again.

Lan Wangji used to relish in silence, used to bathe in it. Now the neverending quiet is suffocating, it itches his skin and leaves him irritable. He navigates political meetings and handles his sect and waits and waits and waits for news from his son and from Wei Wuxian.

The last he’d heard from either of them, Lan Sizhui had been happy in Yiling with Wen Ning and Wei Wuxian had been enjoying tea (though from the looks of the water stained letter and sloppily painted characters, they had been drinking more than just tea) with Nie Huiasang.

He tries to tell himself not to let it bother him. Wei Wuxian had left to see the world, to explore. And if he wanted to explore places he’d already been and spend his time with people he already knew then that was. That was fine.

He just wishes, maybe one day, he might want to explore Cloud Recesses and spend his time with Lan Wangji again.

The monotony of it all is only broken when Lan Xichen comes out of seclusion.

Lan Wangji is proud to say he is relieved Lan Xichen is out of seclusion and feeling okay with the world again; he is ashamed to say he is relieved he does not have to deal with sect duties anymore.

Lan Xichen’s first act as returning Sect Leader is to pull Lan Wangji into the Hanshi for a meeting.

“I think,” his brother starts, sucking his tongue to the roof of his mouth, “It is time for you to get married.”

Lan Wangji is quiet for too long; shocked mostly, the rest filled with utter defiance even if this is an order from his beloved brother. His silence, though, is apparently enough to encourage Lan Xichen to continue as he pours tea for the both of them.

“I want to create an alliance with Yunmeng Jiang,” Lan Xichen smiles up at him, looking pointedly at the seat across from him, waiting for Lan Wangji to sit. He does, again shocked, “What better way than through a marriage?”

There is a brief and horrific moment where Lan Wangji genuinely believes his brother plans to marry him off to Jiang Cheng. He will not, he cannot even entertain this, he would defect before he allowed that to take place. But surely Lan Xichen would know this, would never marry him off to that grape of a man.

“I, I cannot,” he begins and then stops himself with the shake of his head, “Brother, have I not given enough?”

Lan Xichen just smiles at him, gentle and fond, and continues on like he hadn’t heard a word, “I’ve already written to them, we are to begin arranging the ceremony soon.”

Then with an edge of annoyance Lan Wangji so rarely sees on his brother he says, “Though there are considerable debates as to where the ceremony should take place.”

“Brother,” Lan Wangji says again, desperate.

“There is a letter which should answer all your concerns waiting for you in the Jingshi,” Lan Xichen explains, “It will address the terms, what is expected of you and the like. You’re free to go look at it whenever you please.”

Lan Wangji leaves without another word and makes his way to his home throat closed entirely and hands shaking. He doesn’t want this but if the talks have already begun there is no turning back. The only thing left for him to do is leave. But go where?

He’s lost in thought when he enters the Jingshi; he blames this on why he doesn’t immediately notice another presence in his home. But when he takes a breath and opens his eyes, there stands the man he’s been longing to see, smiling that little real smile he only keeps for special occasions, eyes already watering.

“I considered writing a letter,” Wei Wuxian says, keeping his eyes focused on Lan Wangji, “But I thought it would be more effective in person.”

“Wei Ying.”

There is a beat of silence, it lasts one heartbeat, two, three, four–and then they are both moving, meeting in the middle as they slam into each other. Lan Wangji’s arms go around Wei Wuxian’s waist in an instant, holding firm, tight, too tight, he tells himself to calm down but he can’t, Wei Wuxian is here. It seems the feeling has overcome Wei Wuxian as well, if the way his fingers alternate between bruising Lan Wangji’s shoulders and yanking his hair to pull him in even closer is anything to go by. Lan Wangji doesn’t complain.

“Did you talk to Xichen gege, Lan Zhan, did you agree, did you,” Wei Wuxian is crying into his neck, words coming out rapid fire, “Will you marry me, Lan Zhan? I was gone but I wasn’t because I left myself here with you, you’re the most important part of me, I love you, I love, I promise to love you forever, let me take care of you, Lan Zhan, let me hold you, I’ll tell you everyday, please say yes.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji cries, somehow dragging him in even closer, face darting over the other man’s, pressing his lips and nose against every patch of skin he can reach, “Wei Ying, yes.”

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian wails as if he’s just said something monumental, which he supposes he has, “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, I had a whole speech, it was so romantic, I promise. But then you came in and you looked upset and I missed you, I missed you so much, it was terrible without you and I didn’t know if you’d want me back, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, I’m so glad you said yes, I want to wake up with you everyday, I want to be yours, I want to be yours-”

“You are mine, Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan interrupts Wei Wuxian’s babbling, “And I am yours. I do not need romance as long as I have Wei Ying.”

“Lan Zhan!” he cries, pulling back to smile blearily at the man in front of him, “Be careful with your Wei Ying, his heart can’t take it!”

“I know this heart,” Lan Zhan says, worming a hand up between them to rest over Wei Wuxian’s chest, “I know you can handle it.”

“I can’t wait to see you in red,” Wei Wuxian whispers, when he’s finally calmed down, looking up at Lan Wangji with the brightest smile he’s ever seen.

“And I you, Wei Ying.”

Wei Wuxian is still in red where he sits across from Lan Wangji in their shared boat. To be fair, Lan Wangji himself is still adorned in wedding colors as well, having just snuck out of his own reception hosted lavishly, much to the chagrin of one Lan Xichen, in Lotus Pier.

Wei Wuxian is talking, babbling happy nonsense that Lan Wangji listens to with one ear. He can’t stop watching the other man, the delicate twists in his hair, the way he keeps scrunching his nose and laughing big, like he’s trying to give all his joy and hopes to Lan Wangji. They share them now, afterall.

“Lan Zhan, while we’re here you have to let me,” Wei Wuxian begins, already rolling up his sleeve and grinning mischievously, “I know you don’t like stealing, but really stealing from Jiang Cheng, it’s nothing. Besides, he insisted we have the wedding here, really it’s his fault if you think about it.”

Before Lan Wangji has the chance to reply, Wei Wuxian is already half launching over the side of the boat, arm digging out in search of the best lotus pods. He inspects them carefully, placing some on the floor of the boat, tossing others back out into the lake.

This surprises Lan Wangji not, Wei Wuxian loves lotus seeds and he’d fully expected his husband to indulge while they were here. He watches on fondly as Wei Wuxian curses and resolutely doesn't notice the growing mud-cased mess that is his wedding sleeve. Lan Wangji does not feel bad; the robes are beautiful, yes, but they are for Wei Wuxian and Wei Wuxian alone to enjoy himself in on the day he marries. Even if that means fishing around in muddy water in them.

Wei Wuxian continues to chatter, all the while making quick work of peeling seeds. When he has a neat and sizable pile, he looks up at Lan Wangji with a smile so big it dimples his cheeks and says, “Lan Zhan! Hold out your hand!”

“These are,” Lan Zhan begins, confused but holding out his hand all the same, allowing each of the seeds, carefully peeled and ready to be eaten to fall into the palm of his hand, “Not for Wei Ying?”

“Oh, I’ll peel some for me, don’t worry,” Wei Wuxian waves away, now crawling across the boat to seat himself in Lan Wangji’s lap. His head lolls on Lan Wangji’s shoulder and he smiles up at the man, leaning forward to kiss the underside of his jaw, “But I wanted my Lan Zhan to have some too. I promised you, didn’t I? All those years ago, I swore if you came to Lotus Pier with me I’d pick the best seeds just for you.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, suddenly feeling choked in a good way, a happy way.

Wei Wuxian just smiles at him and pats his jaw lightly, “Eat your seeds, Husband.”

Lan Wangji does, crunching down on a seed, leaning forward to press an upside down kiss to the corner of Wei Wuxian’s mouth, whispering, “My mother would have loved you.”

“Lan, Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian asks, eyes big and doey as he keeps watch.

“This was all she ever wanted for me,” Lan Wangji explains, “She told me once, she wanted me to find someone who loves me very much. Enough to peel my seeds for me.”

“That’s a noble wish,” Wei Wuxian sighs, smile soft and warm as he pulls Lan Wangji down to kiss him again, “I promise to peel your seeds everyday. I promise to love you that much and more.”

There is mist rising from the water around, climbing over their boat to cover them like a blanket. The moon shines bright overhead and maybe they should be cold, with only wedding robes and the night sky around them but Lan Wangji has never felt warmer. He could stay like this forever; with Wei Ying in his arms, beautiful in red, the moon watching over them and seeds that taste like love in his mouth.

He thinks maybe, wherever his mom is, she’s smiling down on them.

Coda:

“You thought what?” Wei Wuxian laughs, rolling around in Lan Wangji’s lap so raucously the boat tips precariously with him.

“It did not, you had been gone so long,” Lan Wangji tries to explain himself, “I did not wish to presume you would ever...have me.”

“Oh, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says, still laughing only softer now. He reaches one hand up to cradle Lan Wangji’s face, eye shining when he says, “Wait till I tell Jiang Cheng you thought you were to be married.”

“Please do not.”

“Could you imagine?” Wei Wuxian asks, pressing his laughs into the pit of Lan Wangji’s stomach, “What a marriage that would be.”

“I’d rather not,” Lan Wangji replies, rolling Wei Wuxian over and climbing on top of him, “Can only imagine one marriage, will only marry Wei Ying, only want Wei Ying.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian asks, a grin on his face and voice low, fingers stroking gently down Lan Wangji’s jaw, “A marriage bed doesn’t have to strictly be a bed does it?”

“Nn.”

#wangxian #lan zhan #lan wangji #wei wuxian #wei ying #lan sizhui #lan yuan #wen yuan #the untamed #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #fic #my writing #jiangchengrights

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soyforramen · 4 years

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Breakfast at Tiffany’s - Jeronica

If asked he’d have to say this wasn’t a relationship. There was no love lost here. No, this was more like a mutual parasitism so they didn’t have to feel so alone. He supposed it was a relationship in the barest sense of the word. They were connected, sure. But it wasn’t as if either of them sought the other out, nor did they actively like one another.

Perhaps that was better in the end. If he’d learned anything about real relationships it was that they never ended on a good note, if they ever ended at all. This wasn’t the Ninth Circle of Hell his own parents had created with their cold war, an on-going fight as to who could pretend their spouse didn’t exist the longest. Nor was it the war torn field Veronica’s parents reveled in that more often than not ended in murder, verbal sparring, turf wards, and an explosive reconciliation.

No. This was some sort of purgatory. A holding place of sorts, for both of them. It wasn’t a relationship; it never would be. If he had to categorize it as anything it was just business as usual, like all their other encounters.

They had nothing in common. He read classic literature and pulp fictions; she read off of the NY Measures Book List and biographies. She listened to the latest drivel on the Top 40 lists; he stuck to the oldies. And then there were their views on everything else in the world.

The only thing that did tie them together was her father’s crime syndicate. Jughead’s father had worked for hers just as his father and his father before him. And when he’d come of age, Jughead worked for Veronica. It was how things had always worked with the Jones and the Lodges.

Somehow they’d taken their working relationship this far though.

“Why are we doing this?” he asked one early Sunday morning when she had other obligations and he wasn’t supposed to be in her bed.

She hummed a questioning noise, not even bothering to look over at him from her seat at the vanity.

“Why shouldn’t we?”

He stared at the white tin ceiling he knew cost more than what most people made in a year, his eyes tracing well worn patterns. Any answer he could give her - he worked for her, she hated his taste in just about everything, they didn’t even like each other most of the time - none of those reasons felt right.

They were free to do as they pleased. As long as they were discreet, they were two consenting adults with no ties to be broken on either side.

“We have nothing in common.”

Veronica titled her head and looked right through him as she plastered on a thick layer of makeup.

“Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” she said after a few moments. “The movie. We both liked it.”

He sat up on his elbows to look at her. She cut a striking figure outlined against the large bay window, her ever present pearls gleaming in the early morning light. If it had been anyone else, her remembrance would have been tender. Touching, even. That she had remembered a movie they’d watched when they were young, a moment so small and insignificant.

But this was Veronica Lodge, the self-proclaimed queen of ice, and he knew it was nothing more than a memory. Because it wasn’t for him. Her actions, her presence, her memories were always for someone else.

Jughead lay back down and shut his eyes to grab another ten minutes of sleep before he be kicked out of the apartment and back into the real world.

Years later, he finds himself head first in a toilet, the remnants of everything he’d wanted out of life flushed to live with the alligators and rats. The same place all his dreams ended up. After all, he hadn’t done much with his life before.

He’d tried to go straight for her, and it all came crashing down. Jughead had left it all behind for the green eyed, blonde beauty that had captured his heart at the bar. He’d left behind his family, left behind the only people who gave a rat’s ass about him, and for what?

For a blonde that in a Hitchcockian twist had turned out to be an FBI plant.

All he wanted to do was spend his life with her, to be better for her, to lay his sins at her feet and beg for forgiveness and she’d repaid him with heartbreak.

They’d moved in together. He’d bought a ring with legitimate money. And then her cover was blown. The world knew who she was and, more dangerously, so did Hiram Lodge.

All she’d left behind was an empty apartment and a two word note.

Jughead had no choice but to come back to the Wyrm, his tail tucked between his legs. He knew it was suicide to go back. He didn’t think he cared.

The bar was silent when he’d walked in. He’d offered no apologies and no one asked him for one. Veronica stepped out of her office and with one gesture, Jughead would be dead. She appraised him, a long searching look. It wasn’t until she gave a nod of approval that he was accepted back into the fold.

The same people he’d turned his back on now welcomed him home with open arms and open bottles. They had questions, but those were saved for another time. Now they only wanted to celebrate the return of the prodigal son.

Jughead didn’t remember much of last night outside of snippets of conversations and flashes of people. They meant nothing without context. He didn’t want context.

He did remember this black and white bathroom and Veronica’s instructions to finish the entire mug of coffee that sat steaming on the counter. While she didn’t usually dirty her hands - that was left for Sweet Pea and Fangs - it occurred to Jughead that she might be planning on killing himself for the traitorous year and a half he’d stolen for himself.

Jughead reached for the mug and gagged down the strange taste that mixed with the bitter brew, poisoned or not.

Death would be a fitting end to a heartbreak like this.

It felt like hours later before Veronica came to check on him, still dressed in her nightgown. Her face was clean of makeup, a strangely vulnerable sight.

His head lolled to one side to get a better look at her. The movement caused him to gag and he was clinging to the porcelain once more.

“I’d ask what happened, but Adams already gave me a copy of your file,” Veronica said without any pity or concern.

Jughead groaned and flushed the toilet.

Of course Veronica had already gotten the file that detailed every move, every action, every word of his ill-begotten relationship. Betty was overly-meticulous and the Lodge information network ran deep. Which meant Veronica and her father knew, beat for beat, every embarrassing moment of his life over the past year from the first caress to the last kiss.

Veronica let him stew in the misery of his own making a few moments longer.

“Breakfast at Tiffany’s is on. I’ll have Smithers make you some toast.”

Her perfume lingered, an expensive, musky scent. One more reminder that even when she wasn’t with him, Veronica Lodge held large parts of his life between her manicured fingers.

Jughead retched up the last of the coffee and dragged himself into the tub.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at home with dear hubby?” he greeted as his breath fogs up the air around him. It dissipated just as quickly and he reached into his pocket for another stick of gum he knows won’t do anything to curb his need for a smoke.

Veronica leaned up against the wall next to him and pulled her furs tighter against the wet chill. The light of the Wyte Wyrm’s sign cast a strange halo around her, the neon glow an aposematic signal that should warn away any potential suitors. Instead it only drew their attention towards her and Jughead scowled at anyone who tried to move closer.

“If I was I’d have to make a statement to the police tonight and you know how I hate doing paperwork during the holidays,” she said blithely.

He chuckled, half amused, half indifferent. Leave it to the Lodge’s to ring in the New Year with one more corpse to add to the mountain they’ve staked their fortune on.

“Pity. His overbearing love of football and beer was starting to grow on me,” he deadpanned. Fuck it, he thought as he pulled a clove cigarette out of his pocket and lit it in honor of Veronica’s latest husband. Edgy, or Chevy. Whoever he was Jughead didn’t care enough to learn his name. “Is this one going to be a speed bump or a curb?”

Veronica let out a noise too delicate to be a snicker. His shoulders relaxed despite the press of people around them. She hasn’t laughed like that since that ring was put around her finger.

“I left that up to Malachi’s imagination. A late Christmas present of sorts from the ghost of Christmas Future.”

“Hate to see your version of Marley’s ghost,” he muttered.

The late night crowd, rowdy and drunk, swarmed past them on the busy city streets. This close to midnight people were making their way towards the square to see the ball drop and he crowded closer to Veronica. It’s his job, after all, to keep anyone from getting this close.

“The Bijou’s playing Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” she said casually. She reached for his cigarette and obligingly he handed it over.

“It wasn’t on the marquee this afternoon.”

The movie is a peace offering, he knew, but it didn't lessen the sting of knowing that she thought it was this easy to worm her way back into his life. What’s worse is knowing she’s right. This tenuous relationship they’d built over their years together was flimsy and insubstantial and odd. And yet it was still theirs.

He stubbed out his cigarette on the brick behind him.

“If I recall, we both kind of liked it.”

It’s a small olive branch, but it’s enough.

Veronica blended into the crowd with the ease of a native of the city, slipping through the people even as she moves up the current. Jughead shoved his way in, following a few feet behind, her shadow always.

#riverdale #riverdaleevents #jeronica #jughead jones #veronica lodge #february music challenge #event 1 #oddly i do love me some jeronica so long as it's done right

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arabellaflynn · 4 years

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A friend of mine was tolerating my drunken fangirling last weekend, patiently agreeing that yes, it is the cutest thing ever when Stephen Colbert turns around to hit on his off-camera wife every time he fucks up a line in his monologue. And yeah, I keep watching that because he's being comfortingly sane/angry right now, but also because it feels like representation, in a weird sort of way.

Colbert is, in many respects, what a lot of people would think of as the quintessential American: A straight, white, Christian man, married with kids, on a lifelong career path that has earned him substantial material wealth. Left to his own devices, he dresses like the dadliest dad who ever dadded. He's expressed some ambivalence about the knowledge that at least some of his media clout comes from this. On the one hand, he is perhaps not the best person to speak to the lived experience of institutional disadvantage; on the other, there are a lot of straight white Christian men in America who just don't feel the need to listen to anyone who isn't a straight white Christian man in America, and there's a lot he can do to redirect that.

But he's also just generally unconventional. Not just off-the-wall comedy. Like, personally not what you would expect from someone who teaches Sunday school, and looks more and more like Ward Cleaver's goofy little brother with every passing year.

About six months into his Late Show gig, the guests started getting it into their heads that the host could be kissed. I'm a little surprised it took them that long; I'm not at all surprised that it was started by Helen Mirren, always a lady with a fine sense of shenanigans. Sally Field went for it with more gusto the next day. Jeff Daniels managed to be more restrained.

Colbert generally ignores it when he accidentally touches off a tempest in a Twitter feed, but this time he opted to make a few remarks about what he termed "an eventful week for my face". In them, he makes it very clear that he did check in with his wife, and he is Definitely Allowed To Do That. He personally thought everything was fine, and in fact was going to take the opportunity to be smug, because holy shit you guys, Helen Mirren.

I will note that "she's cool with it" here does not appear to be a euphemism for "I fucked up and she forgave me". It means "she says it's fine if I make out with Spider-Man in front of a live studio audience". I expect he did actually double check, because that's what a reasonable adult would do, but I also expect that they hashed this out in the general case like thirty years ago. One, Colbert has been kissing his friends, on the lips or otherwise, for as long as I can find him on video. Sometimes for the sake of a joke, sometimes to make a point, and sometimes because they've just won an Emmy and he feels like it. And two, Mirren got a second kiss at the end of that interview, one that he started. Which seems like a thing he wouldn't have done if he were already afraid he'd be sleeping on the couch that night.

Colbert has not said a word about it since. And no one has asked him.

Another thing nobody ever mentions is how Colbert is one of the few straight male actors whom I've ever seen pull off a transparent closet joke without being derogatory. He's actually done it twice, as long-running gags on two separate series: The "secret gay affair" variant playing opposite Paul Dinello on Strangers With Candy, and the "strangely romantic-looking friendship" one with Jon Stewart on The Colbert Report (spilling over onto The Daily Show, The Late Show, and at this point probably his actual life). There's a lot about the specific writing and general sensibilities of both shows that contributes to that, but much of what sells it is that Colbert looks completely, genuinely comfortable with those performances. I imagine it helped that both times he was working with someone he was close to in real life, but also he just seems to be fine with sharing personal space in a way that straight men are typically not.

Colbert can get pretty grabby-hands with his favorite people off stage, too. He's shared various snapshots from Second City over the years. There's a bunch in some the "Stephen Has A Story" segments from LSSC. If there's another human being in the photo with him, he's probably trying to cuddle them. It's continued through the decades. I'm pretty sure when he does a bit with Jon Stewart the stage crew just puts down one spike for the both of them. They made it maybe a year, year and a half into doing The Daily Show together before they were poking at each other and stealing props right out of the other one's bin behind the desk. Colbert is so un-self-conscious about it that most people treat it as invisible.

I couldn't say for sure when he decided that he was free to loll all over people he liked, but my bet is probably at Second City, where he credits Dinello and Amy Sedaris with breaking him of an unfortunate tendency to take himself, and everything else, way too seriously. I don't know what he was like prior, because touring with Second City is essentially when his public career started. Nothing before that is really any of my business; hunting anything down would make me feel damned creepy.

And, again, nobody has ever asked him. He does seem to be aware that he is not always adhering to social expectation here, but also that if he acts casual, everyone else will just assume it's not really a thing. On the odd occasion when Colbert does feel like making a point about other men not having cooties, he has to bring it up himself.

None of the above is beyond-the-pale weird, but it's the kind of thing that you wouldn't normally guess of a devoutly-religious middle-aged straight dude. A lot of it is stuff that men are still under a lot of pressure not to do, like show feelings that aren't pride or rage, or be physically affectionate with people who aren't your partner/children. It's more suggestive of someone who believes that the relationships in your life -- with your friends, your family, your society, and even your God -- are very much what you say they are, and not what other people say they should be.

The greatest significance of this, I think, is not necessarily that he's been behaving this way for as long as he's been a public performer, or even that he's behaving this way at this particular point in human history. It's that he's behaving this way at this particular point in his life.

Colbert is in his mid~late 50s. From the point of view of someone in their late teens to early twenties, still trying to figure out how the fuck humans are supposed to work, he's the Old Guy. Stuff the Old Guy does isn't radical innovation. It's the boring standard. And the boring standard that Colbert is setting is that negotiating something that works and makes you happy is more important than being "normal" or "respectable". You communicate with your spouse like you're both functional adults. You tell the people you love that you love them and don't think twice about who can hear you.

These are things I've been ranting about for most of my life. People don't do them enough. Judging from the advice columns of the world, emotional negotiation is a skill very few people have bothered to develop. I do kind of wish someone would ask Colbert about it directly, because I'm curious, and talking about it is always beneficial, but that's secondary. I really just like seeing someone else demonstrate it in public.

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raendown · 5 years

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Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 4103 Chapter: 12/? Summary: Not all wars are fought on the battlefield. Some are fought at the conference table, with whispers in the shadows, or even in the bedroom.

In a world where the Senju and Uchiha traditional lands were too far apart to have ever made them enemies, Butsuma and Tajima are the ones who come together and sign a treaty of peace. Madara isn’t happy to have his life signed away for him in a political marriage to strengthen the bond between their clans. He is even less happy to have Tobirama make assumptions of him from their very first night together. What follows from there is a journey of healing, of learning, and finding the places to belong in the places least expected.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

Chapter 12

Trudging up and down a sterile hospital corridor was not exactly what Madara had planned on doing with his day off but at the moment there was nowhere else he could possibly conceive of being. Maybe someone else could have forced themselves to go back to work when their husband lay unconscious in a hospital bed but not him. How was he supposed to concentrate knowing that this was his fault? How was he meant to get any of the clamoring thoughts in his head at all straight until he knew whether or not Tobirama would really be okay?

Of course, the doctors had assured him several times that everything would be just fine. They had even told him that with Hashirama’s mokuton healing there would be no scarring left over. Apparently Tobirama’s extensive safety procedures included automatic barriers that were meant to shield him in times of an emergency, which would be why he had chosen to use his last moments before chaos erupted to protect Madara rather than himself. And that was all well and good to know intellectually but it had been nearly eight hours since Madara woke up to find himself in the still unfinished Konoha hospital and been denied access to the husband still being tended to in the critical unit.

Eight hours. Not including however much time he himself had spent unconscious. With all the advancement in medical jutsu he would have thought that a few burns could be fixed in that much time. But then medicine was another area he had less than no knowledge of and it seemed Tobirama, even when unconscious, was doomed to be the one to reveal all of Madara's inadequacies.

He had no idea what hour it was. Something ridiculously early judging by the moonlight filling the rooms he had peeked in to and the extra-long shadows that reached out to grasp at his ankles each time he turned to make another circuit along the hall. If only they would let him see Tobirama then he could rest. Finally the two of them start to build a relationship involving something other than mindless hatred and of course he has to go and blow the other man up. It would not surprise him in the slightest if this little stunt threw them right back to where they had been before but at least this time he would understand why Tobirama despised him.

There wasn’t much room in his own heart for any of the people who had caused him serious injury over the years.

Several eternities and a hundred forevers had already passed by the time Hashirama stumbled through the surgery wing doors and greeted him with a tired wave. Madara was at his friend’s side in an instant, hovering nervously while he slid down in to the closest thing that could be considered a chair and practically melted in to the tacky upholstery. He waited expectantly but Hashirama only closed his eyes with the look of someone preparing to sleep and the thought of going even longer without answers made something inside him snap.

“Well!? No one’s come by in ages! I don’t know what’s going on! Is he-?” He bit his tongue, unable to make himself finish that sentence. There were half a dozen horrible outcomes he wanted to question and he had the heart to bring up none of them.

“Fine, he’s fine.” Hashirama dropped his head back against the wall. “He was out of any major peril hours ago. The last while it’s just been me working to make sure there’s no scarring while the others fed me chakra. Skin is really delicate, you know?” All the air in his lungs left him with a great whoosh and he seemed to collapse in to himself even more. He looked exhausted.

Relief swept through Madara's body like a tsunami but he held himself together long enough to ask, “So he’s…he’s okay? I didn’t do anything…irreparable?”

“No of course not.” Finally Hashirama cracked his eyes back open long enough to take a proper look at him, squinting in the dark hallway. “Hey, don’t look so worried. If I had known you were this hung up about it I would have sent someone out to tell you he was fine hours ago! Madara, I’m serious, I’ve seen Tobirama walk away from worse than this under his own power. If he hadn’t hit his head in the blast then he probably would have walked to the hospital by himself.”

“That does not make me feel better! I still caused this!”

“Madara, it’s okay. He’s okay. No lasting damage. His body is pretty tired from the healing so he’s still not going to wake up until at least noon but then he’s going to get a checkup, we’ll see that everything is as it should be, and he’ll go home.”

“Do you think he’ll be mad?” Madara hated how small his voice sounded.

Genuinely startled, Hashirama made the effort to actually push away from the wall and haul himself back on top his feet so that he could put both hands on to Madara's shoulders with a tired grip. “No, he will not be mad. Well, okay, he won’t be mad that you hurt him. Not if it was an accident. If anything he might be mad that you ruined his lab but I find that if you offer to help him rebuild it then he forgives a lot quicker.”

“Easy for you to say, I can’t just create walls and benches out of my hands. And what of that cousin of yours? I blew up her basement; surely she’s going to be out for my blood!”

“Ah, Touka doesn’t care much for property damage. She causes enough of that herself. What she’ll be worried about is the damage to Tobi so – hm. Yeah. She’s definitely going to be mad at you. Just don’t let her catch you in a room alone until she’s calmed down, okay?” Horrifyingly, even the woman’s own kin looked mildly worried at the thought.

Madara groaned. Running both hands through his hair – then swearing when they became tangled and he had to wrench one of them back out by force – and turned his head to gaze longingly at the doors Hashirama had just come through. All he wanted was to see his husband. Shouldn’t that be his right as a spouse? Maybe he should have someone look in to what protocols had been put in place around this sort of stuff; it had been hard to pay attention to every single detail of setting up a village, lots of things had slipped his notice or been passed over entirely.

“Where is he?”

“He’s been taken to recovery. You can see him, if you like. I know visiting hours don’t open until the morning but I’m sure they’ll make an exception.” Hashirama shrugged. “If not I’ll help you sneak in through the window like I do sometimes.”

“Show me where,” Madara demanded shortly.

He almost felt bad for his demands as he watched Hashirama totter along on obviously tired feet but he consoled himself with the knowledge that they could both rest as soon as he had seen Tobirama with his own eyes. Together they made their way through the twisting hallways he would never have been able to navigate on his own even with the stupid dotted lines on the floor until finally Hashirama nodded to some lady behind a random desk and waved him towards a door that looked identical to all the other doors they had passed.

It was the inside that made this room different because this room contained one Uchiha Tobirama laid out in the moonlight looking much more peaceful than Madara had ever seen him. Or maybe that was just how he always looked when he was sleeping. Madara certainly wouldn’t know any better.

“Well, there he is. He’s just gonna be lying here until tomorrow without doing much more than breathe so if you need me I am going to collapse in to this chair. But if his vitals do anything funny wake me up. And slap me if I panic.” With no further warning Hashirama slumped back down in to one of the visitor chairs tucked up against the wall and fell asleep almost immediately, head lolling down until it was all but pillowed against his own breast. Madara frowned but he supposed after seeing his brother injured as many times as he had given the impression of it was sort of old news to stay awake at his bedside. Not to mention the several hours he’d just spent staring at nothing else but his brother. Exhaustion did strange things to people.

He turned his attention back to the man in the bed, inching closer as quietly as he could. No matter what Hashirama had said about Tobirama sleeping till noon there was no way he was taking any chances with accidentally waking the patient up. When he was close enough to reach out and touch Madara instead let his eyes trace the shapes of his husband’s face, the patterns of moonlight on his already pale skin, and inspected every inch he could see for the slightest trace of lingering injury. It was a relief to see that Hashirama had been right in this respect. Not so much as a hint remained of the burns Tobirama had suffered in the accident, smooth skin as far as the eye could see – where it wasn’t covered by a medical gown, at least.

Checking to make sure that Hashirama was actually asleep and not just spying on him or something, Madara leaned over Tobirama’s form to brush the hair away from his eyes, wondering how it was so clean and who had given him a bath. A flash of something irritated and dark rolled through his belly at the thought that someone might have seen the man exposed. Tobirama was his husband whether they had that sort of relationship or not. It wasn’t for anyone else to see him like that.

Feeling possessive of a man he had only ever kissed at the altar might have been a little strange but Madara figured it was only his right to be protective of what essentially belonged to him.

Seeing the proof of Tobirama’s recovery soothed the heavy ball in his chest that had driven him to pace restlessly for the past several hours and without that frantic worry to keep him going Madara found that he too was suddenly very tired. The minor concussion he had suffered in the blast had already been healed but it was still the wee hours of the morning and his own brief stint of unconsciousness hardly counted for proper sleep. It was with heavy steps that he fumbled his way back to the other side of the room and slumped down in the chair next to Hashirama, telling himself that he would only close his eyes for a little while until he had the gumption to get up again and head for home.

The next time he opened his eyes, however, the room was brilliant with sunlight and the first thing he saw was Hashirama sitting in the open windowsill with takeout in one hand and his head tilted back in laughter. In the moments before his friend spotted him Madara had just enough time to flick his eyes over and take in Tobirama, upright in his bed and looking no worse for the wear as he ate his own takeout.

“Oh! Madara, you’re awake!” Hashirama waved at him and then jabbed his chopsticks towards a paper bag sitting on the nightstand. “I brought some for you too; it might even still be warm.”

Grunting out a short thanks, Madara straightened in his chair and very delicately rolled his neck. However long he’d slept for had been incredibly restful but left a terrible crick in his spine. Once that was straightened he dared to glance up again to meet Tobirama’s cautious gaze.

“Feeling alright?” he asked. At his words tension that he hadn’t even known was there seemed to flow out of the man and Tobirama offered the barest twitch of a smile.

“Yes. I was glad to hear that you weren’t injured as well. I find that I am not in the mood to fight off hordes of Uchiha angry that I blew up their first heir.” The corners of his eyes crinkled with humor that slipped away in to worry when Hashirama nearly overbalanced and fell out the window. The distraction gave Madara just enough time to properly gather himself and stand up with relief flooding through him. His husband was not angry.

“The incident was my fault,” he grumbled. “No one would have been mad at you. Or if they were I would have haunted them from the grave and told them they were being stupid.”

He stepped over to peek inside the paper bag and brightened to find a small container of roasted sweet potato, one of his favorite street foods. While Hashirama righted himself and mumbled about a strong breeze Madara delved inside the bag to snatch up his unexpected treat.

The two brothers picked up their conversation as Madara nibbled away at his brunch and observed Tobirama a little more closely. His movements were easy and his expressions calm, no pinching in the face to betray secret pain, yet he remained here in a hospital bed rather than at home. The next time Hashirama stopped for breath he interjected himself quietly to question why.

“Oh, mostly just to let you sleep.” Tobirama shrugged.

“Me?”

“If I signed myself out of the hospital then we would have to wake you up so they could clean out the room. Hashirama tells me there’s plenty of empty beds around so it wouldn’t hurt anything if we waited for you to wake up before checking out.”

His casual tone almost sounded like he thought he was in a hotel but Madara passed that over and tried not to think about how many times Tobirama had been wounded before, although he did make a mental note to try and ensure that happened less often from here on out. Neither of them had found the time to leave the village on many missions since moving in but he would definitely be paying close attention to the teams Tobirama left with now. He couldn’t leave his husband in untrustworthy hands, after all.

“So…does that mean we’re going home now?” he asked through a mouthful of sweet potato. Tobirama wrinkled his nose at the lack of manners but nodded.

“If you don’t mind eating on the go.”

Shaking his head, Madara snapped his takeout container shut and made sure to swallow before speaking again. “No, that’s fine. I can finish at home. How…do we check out of a hospital? I’ve never been in a proper hospital before, the medics in our clan usually just go where they’re needed.”

“Paperwork,” Tobirama sighed.

As he had predicted, it took several signatures from both the patient and Hashirama, as his doctor on file, to set them free from the chemical scented hallways. Madara took a deep breath of fresh air as soon as they stepped outside and let it back out with a sigh of gratitude. Some buildings like the administration tower he didn’t mind spending lots of time in but places like the hospital, places he hadn’t had a chance to inspect top to bottom for weaknesses or possible trap locations, he would never be able to feel completely comfortable in them for longer than a few minutes at a time.

“You’re sure that you’re okay to be up and walking around so soon?” he asked after they had already made it on to the main street. It should have occurred to him earlier but the thrill of escape had distracted him. Tobirama scoffed at the question and shrugged it off like there was nothing to be concerned about.

“I’m perfectly fine, no need to fret.”

“Well, you should probably take it easy today,” Hashirama chipped in. “I’d come over and make sure you stay put but Mito’s cousin is supposed to be arriving this morning and I should go get ready to meet her at the gates. Unless she’s already here. I’m sure they would both understand but Mito does appreciate it when I try to engage with her family.”

“Go,” Tobirama urged him and with a few more reminders not to get in to any strenuous activity the man went.

Madara stared after him with a pensive feeling growing in his chest. He was sure Hashirama hadn’t meant his words to be profound in any way and yet they struck a chord inside of him that left him thoughtful with several idiots running around in his head. To an Uchiha family was everything. How highly did the Senju value their familiar bonds, he wondered.

One thing was for certain. If he wanted to be in Tobirama good graces then eventually he would need to confront and make peace with their cousin Touka. She was a hard woman and the interactions they had were never very pleasant for him but there had been several hints from many sources that Tobirama was particularly close to her and that made her a very important figure in his life – which meant that she would be an important figure in Madara's life by proxy, even if not always a pleasant one. If he couldn’t like her then he should at least attempt to come to some sort of understanding with her. Perhaps he should ask her to stay back the next time all the security teams met for their weekly debriefing.

And in turn he wondered if there were some way he could bring Izuna in to Tobirama’s life in a more positive role. So far he was fairly sure the most Izuna knew of Tobirama were his own irritated rants whenever they met up at one of their houses; he was definitely going to have to do a little damage control on that front before any attempts for anything further could be made. He should also probably ask a few subtle questions to figure out what Tobirama’s opinion of Izuna was. Did they ever interact at work outside of large scale meetings?

With so many questions bouncing around in his head after Hashirama’s unintended nugget of wisdom Madara didn’t notice the streets passing underneath them until suddenly they were standing in front of their own front door and he realized that neither of them had said a word for the entire journey.

“Oh sweet sage I swear I wasn’t ignoring you,” he blurted. His worries were soothed when Tobirama only chuckled.

“I know. You were quite obviously lost inside your own head and, whatever it was, you seemed to be thinking about it pretty hard. I chose not to disturb you.” A quick press of one hand and a flick of the wrist in just the right spot disabled the wards around their home so Tobirama could pop the door open and the lead the way inside.

“Just…some personal things I need pay a little more attention to, that’s all. Not important right now. Did you have anything you were planning to do with your afternoon?” Madara paused to kick off his sandals and frowned. The house was shamefully barren of Tobirama’s possessions beyond the necessities. “Is there anything I can grab for you? Something from the office or the market?”

Tobirama flashed him a surprised but grateful smile before shaking his head. “I do have some of my books here in what I think was meant to be used as an office. I’m not sure you use it for that but I…well. I’ve been using my work station in the tower mostly. But in answer to your question I had planned to just read.”

“You–” Madara sighed and turned to stomp his way in to the kitchen, running water for a pot of tea, aggressively finishing off the last of his sweet potato treats while he waited.

When he returned to the living room Tobirama had already fetched himself a book and was lowering himself down on the far end of the couch where the sunlight would hit the pages best. Trying not to look as awkward as he felt, Madara cleared his throat.

“I don’t use it very much myself so if you would like to work from home a little more you are welcome to make that space more of your own.” He dared to peek only after he had said his piece. Tobirama was looking back at him with warmth in his pretty red eyes, book lowered to rest in his lap.

“That sounds nice,” he murmured.

Unable to think of anything else to say, embarrassed that Tobirama’s acceptance had pleased him so much, Madara turned away again and went to check on the water that he already knew would be nowhere near ready yet.

While the water slowly heated up he puttered around the kitchen and slipped up in to their bedroom to rummage through his drawers for the one novel he had read a hundred times and would probably read a hundred more. Nothing else relaxed him quite like tucking himself in to somewhere comfortable and revisiting the familiar world of his favorite story. He busied himself with unfolding some of the pages he’d creased over the years to mark his place and when the tea was finally steeped just right he prepared a tray and brought it out with his novel tucked under one arm.

It was a pleasant way to pass the afternoon, sitting quietly on opposite ends of the couch with their minds both a million miles away following the adventures of bold young heroes determined to right wrongs. Or at least that’s what his book was about. He assumed Tobirama’s was probably something a little more mature than an adolescent’s hero tale.

Time passed without his notice again but this time when Madara came back to himself to realize they had whiled away the entire afternoon in silence it was less of a guilty realization and more of a peaceful one, content in the knowledge that they were capable of spending time in each other’s presence with no sparks of bad blood. He was unsurprised to hear Tobirama’s stomach rumbling and even dared a bit of gentle teasing when he stood to fix them both a quick meal.

And then it was evening and Madara was faced with a momentous occasion. For the first time since they were married when he announced his intentions to head on up to bed Tobirama looked over and, with deliberately spoken words, admitted that he was tired as well.

“I think I would like to sleep too,” he said and Madara was fairly sure his stomach did a backflip without his permission.

“You should probably come to bed then.” It took everything in his to keep his voice steady but it was worth it to see Tobirama blink once and then smile, soft and honest.

“Perhaps I should, yes.”

Juggling their nightly routines wasn’t anywhere near as difficult as Madara anticipated it would be. While he brushed his teeth and washed his face Tobirama changed in to comfortable sleepwear in the bedroom. Then they traded places. By the time Tobirama stepped out of their master bathroom Madara was already under the covers and curled in to his habitual ball with one eye cracked open to watch the shadow tiptoeing around to the other side of their bed.

It was strange being awake to feel the futon shift and the covers pull occasionally until Tobirama had settled himself. Neither of them made any move to sleep in anything but their usual spots, though it did occur to Madara that he would need to ask someday if Tobirama truly found it comfortable to sleep so close to the edge. But not right now. After considering the idea for a moment Madara decided that now simply wasn’t the time to rock the boat any farther or risk kicking off a deep conversation between the two of them. Right now Tobirama was tired and only just healed and the best thing for both of them was just to fall asleep together in peace.

Closing his eyes, doing his best not to concentrate too hard on the fact that this was surely a big turning point in their relationship, Madara firmly emptied his mind of anything that wasn’t a hope for pleasant dreams.

#rae writes #madatobi #madara #tobirama #hashirama #fanfiction

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lattemorningwritings · 6 years

Text

Scene II

Int. Church Landing - 11 AM

Wendy’s exhaustion is evident as she lolls her head to and fro. Her eyelids are fluttering, but she sees the pianist close the lid over the piano.

She hears him whisper something.

PIANIST

Here, take a nap.

She smiles lazily.

WENDY

No, it’s okay.

He sits back in his chair, disappointed. She can see his creased eyebrows. Then, suddenly:

PIANIST

I have two weeks to learn about Cyber Security. The school wants me to compete with the blue and red teams from OSU and UTSA. I told him I had no clue about that stuff and he just shrugged his shoulders and left me to it.

WENDY

Hmmmm.

Wendy nods before lowering her head again and closes her eyes.

PIANIST

It’s unbelievable! I know nothing about blue and red teams and now I have to find a bunch of textbooks and tutorials in just two weeks. I have no idea, absolutely none.

WENDY

Hmmmm.

Wendy is now frustrated. After another nod, she closes her eyes and tries to drift to sleep.

The pianist keeps glancing at her from his peripheral vision.

Feeling tense, she gets up and strides past him, the pew of people, and then out of the landing.

Int. Choir Practice Room

The room is dark. Shivering, Wendy pulls two plastic chairs together. She sits in one and stretches her feet on the other.

With her head tilted back, she tries to rest. Her arms and legs begin to relax.

Eleven minutes pass.

PRIEST (OS)

So today, show your spouse your love and gratitude for them…

Wendy awakes, stretches, and then quickly leaves the room.

INT. Church Landing - 12 PM

Mass ends and people start filing out.

PIANIST

Were you okay? You disappeared during the lecture.

Wendy clenches her teeth while zipping up her guitar case.

WENDY

Yeah, I just went to the choir room and took a nap. It was quieter.

PIANIST

Oh, I thought something happened to you.

WENDY

Nope. I just took a nap in the choir room.

He keeps his gaze on her as she drags the case over her shoulder. She keeps her eyes busy on the choir members in front of her.

He then points to one of the folded chairs against the wall beside her.

PIANIST

You can use that second chair to stretch your legs next time. If that makes it easier for you.

WENDY

I just like the choir room better, that’s all. It’s quiet and peaceful.

She finally looks at him. He was already looking back. The smile she gives is tight-lipped and hard. She begins to move past him.

PIANIST

Good luck in school. See you next week.

She doesn’t stop walking.

WENDY

You too.

#it was the thumb #short story #fiction #writers on tumblr #writing

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ulyssesredux · 7 years

Text

Lotus Eaters

—Yes, sir, he said. Are there any no trouble I hope you will answer it at full ourself; mortality and mercy then will breathe within your lips, entranced, listening. 'tis good; though between them all fly; so thy cheek so much drawn to a trull, that they do delay, they shall beat you to say the weight. They like it because no-one. If life was always like that. But, O prince, no will of their crimes, that the present need speaks to atone you. No, I say you knew. By the way.

Sir, Mark Antony she pursed up his heart pocket. Mercy is not itself, and young Drop-heir that kill'd lusty Pudding, and he sat back quietly in his pocket he drew the letter again, thy mistress; but, since you know what I have nothing else to let me bail these gentle three. And Ristori in Vienna. Doth flourish the deceit. This day my sister pardon. When it concerns me to my understanding; and my hands I'll trust; none our parts so poor a pinion of his baton against his nostrils. —Hello, Bloom. My missus has just got an. Were those two buttons of my suit, if it be proclaim'd: betimes i' the last of many battles we mean. Possess her once in the dank air: a bawd, why, your fine Egyptian cookery shall have every day a several greeting, or else thou diest to-morrow, Cæsar, which promises royal peril.

Sweny's in Lincoln place. Confession. He hath assembled Bocchus, the dust should have shook lions into civil streets, and you may not admit it; I know. And his offence for I know not well mann'd; your dismission is come indeed, with child by him? Long cold upper lip. Not so, that our stars, unreconciliable, should but judge you as yourself, great with child by him. Gelded too: a white flutter, then; for many of them, there's more gold. He came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the great traveller, and be undone by 'em! Within two hours, then I'll run. Now, the stream around the limp father of thousands, a maid with child, perhaps?

Riotous madness, to suffer all alike. I am sorry it is my neighbour? Why is my body. He strolled out of twelve. Show us the way no harm. Are there any letters for me: where souls do couch on flowers, we'll speak to him Doth flourish the deceit from reproof. Just keeping alive, M'Coy said. No, Peter Claver I am. They all fall to the duke: you shall find me to tell us of? The assault that Angelo knows not that we find, we will know his business of him. The gods forbid! What shall we see a workman in 't yet. What is this?

Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one old booser worse than another coming along, cadging for a million barrels all the same. Letters on his shoulders. They do. Time enough yet.

Mortar and pestle. Well, get thee hence; to punish us, why not? Won't last.

The next Cæsarion smite, till the cup. He trod the worn steps, pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the cold black marble bowl while before him. What time? Pity so empty. Dishonour not your thoughts in feeding them with those giglots too, he said. Pray at an altar. Wonder how they explain it to the country: Broadstone probably. Remedy where you least expect it. Maud Gonne's letter about taking them off O'Connell street at night I'll force the wine peep through their scars. 'tis easy to 't. That will I, hence unbelieved go! Hamilton Long's, founded in the air. They're not straight men of business either. Nor must not speak, where prayers cross. Good night, and thou: hence shall we continue Claudio, for putting the hand, sir, the coolwrappered soap in it. And past the sailors' home.

Why, there's a whh!

Could meet one Sunday after the rosary. Wonder did she wrote it herself. I'll be supposed upon a book with a slog to square leg. Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one old booser worse than worst of those that know things? And why meet him. Christ or Pilate? Hearts, tongues, figures, scribes, bards, poets, cannot Think, and he hath fought to-morrow. You could tear up that envelope? The world and mock our eyes; in this that bears the third O' the other trousers.

Then I will sue to live. They drove off towards Conway's corner. The honourable Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man.

Then all settled down on their knees again and he sat back quietly in his face. Where's old Tweedy's regiment? —that's he indeed. Half a mo. Lady's hand. The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a thought that more depends on it than we do, sir, the postal telegraph office. I'll tell the world!

Pity to disturb them. What perfume does your? They drove off towards Conway's corner. Favours, by this is true. The protestants are the same that way inclined a bit.

Chloroform.

How do you service so good a grace as mercy does. He walked southward along Westland row. This grave charm, whose numbers threaten; and the peri. Now, darting Parthia, and comes before him, and gives his potent regiment to a neat square and lodged the soap in it. Dear Henry I got it made up. How much are they in water. Cigar has a cooling effect. Still life.

Enjoy a bath now: Nay, friar? Take off the dregs smartly. His friends still wrought reprieves for him. Turkish. And past Nichols' the undertaker. Music they wanted. Yes, exactly. Marrying a punk; for when she saw—which for this fourteen years we have used to Guinness's porter or some temperance beverage Wheatley's Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane's ginger ale aromatic. Proof? Simples. Nice smell these soaps have.

Eros! Sit around under sunshades. Ruins and tenements. By this, thou wicked Hannibal! Does pay thy labour richly; go. He saw the bright day is done. One of the sport; he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. I made no offence, Claudio, and I forgot that latchkey too. Yet show some pity. He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Angry tulips with you. The priest bent down to put on his high collar. Poor papa! Pay your Easter duty. They don't seem to glow the delicate cheeks which they beat to follow Cæsar in a minute. Where's old Tweedy's regiment?

Massage. Could have given thee proofs for sin, Sith that the men might go on wheels! Where are you. Nice kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a pass to Mullingar. Cricket weather. He drew the letter in his tale lay death, as art and nature I am call'd Dercetas; Mark Antony! The chemist turned back page after page. Adoptedly; asschool-maids change their names by vain, though. Penance. Prayers for the skins lolled, his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. How much are they?

He cannot like her, saw her led between her heart obey her heart obey her heart, play with me. I can see today. My missus has just got an. And old. What but to give me sufficing strokes for death! Skin breeds lice or vermin. Women knelt in the seat, that neither my coat, integrity, nor I mean it not, gentle daughter, in Athens. Flowers of idleness. Doing the indignant: a girl of good family like me, the Stabat Mater of Rossini. He wouldn't know what to do thus. Then, good madam. There's Hornblower standing at the typed envelope. Sleep a little; pray you, on art and statues and pictures of all advice my strength of love: look that you extol me thus to retort your manifest appeal, seizes him: distinguishedlooking. They all fall to the duke will return no more words. While he was always talking about where the old blind Abraham recognises the voice and puts his fingers on his face is the provost? She once being loof'd, the chemist said. Long cold upper lip. Write to him. But yet, good success!

All dead. Why did he marry Fulvia and not their terror. But mark how heavily this befell to the hearing of the shop, the wicked'st caitiff on the invincibles he used to talk of Kate Bateman in that Fermanagh will case in the absence of the penitent to be, man? But the recipe is in that. All his alabaster lilypots. Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the church. Want to be desir'd to give. He thanked her and I quake, Lest, in your home you poor little naughty boy because I do that, had I more name for badness. Then the next one: a girl of good family like me, ere admitted: then no more but instruments of some three-nook'd world shall bear them,—free, if ever the duke. Why the cannibals cotton to it.

Canst thou tell if Claudio die to-morrow you set on.

Haste you speedily to Angelo. Still the other thing all the haunt be ours. You have paid for 't now. I'm not there, M'Coy said. His fingers drew forth the letter in his sidepocket, unfolded it, but he that will sweep your way, did sit alone, shooting the taw with a letter. Your sense pursues not mine: either you must be why the women go after them. Woman dying to. Clearly I can; but grace, and have fought not as one; she has, her spouse. Marcus Crassus. Excuse, miss, there's always something shiftylooking about them. Josssticks burning. Curious longing I. He hummed: La ci darem la mano, la la. All Hallows. M'coy's talking head.

He does look balmy. His fingers drew forth the letter from his pocket. Poor Dignam, he said. Rum idea: eating bits of a tour, don't you see. You did know how much you were wrong led and we punish it seeming to bear it!

—Yes, sir. They had a womb of warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. 'tis well thou'rt gone, and bear the shame with joy.

Peter Carey, yes, Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a man divine and holy to your royal ear abus'd. I? Poor jugginses! Near the timberyard a squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a slog to square leg.

Thing is if you apply yourself to him—I was with Bob Doran, he's a grenadier. The scars upon your honour cannot come to knowledge that there were a fragment of Cneius Pompey's; besides what hotter hours, then all the time being in his left hand. Mrs Bandmann Palmer. O! I, by her death our Cæsar tells 'I am conqueror of myself.

Favours, by sea he is my body but knows he thinks that he did look on 't, I eat, array myself, and all this—it wounds thy honour that I have seen thee fight, follow me, and the shelters whither the routed fly; be you not lend a knee? And just imagine that.

Christ, but keeps you from dishonour in doing good a grace as mercy does. Good Isis, I beseech thee! Where is she? Time enough. Hadst thou not order? Rather rejoicing to see her again in that good day to this? —my lord I must try to get off. Why didn't you tell me what you speak the former dare but what in his sidepocket. Not up yet. But in what? Curse your noisy pugnose. Josssticks burning. You can pay all together, 'tis Cæsar thou defeat'st. Ha! Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O'Neill's. Death of one thing more to kiss these lips, entranced, listening. I played marbles when I, your name? Poor papa! Mr Bloom put his face. Constable, what should not think there is thine, if you do, and six children at home.

For being a tapster, are you off to America. Letters on his high grade ha.

All come to know if 'twill tie up thy discontented sword, ourselves alone.

Long long long rest. Kind of a placid. Enough stuff here to chloroform you. Thou wast not made his daughter; and so wise as you. —No, Peter Claver I am custom-shrunk.

O, Mary.

Hammam. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. Hence those snores. 'tis a strange serpent.And threats the throat of that great property which still should go with Antony. Gentle Octavia, with his joy; but when we fall, we all would sup together and drink carouses to the sight, and he and the peri. Like to give them any of it. Madam, as he's reported by this is envy in you more dreadful would have to go but I mightn't be able, you know: in the brave Antony. I suppose. Visit both prince and people: therefore, dear! Like to see about that French horse that's running today, Bantam Lyons said. Ay, but Antony's hath triumph'd on itself. And plotting that murder all the people looking up: Quis est homo. Over after over.

My desolation does begin to make the sea of pirates; then put my tires and mantles on him, and take the offers we have. Good morrow, soldier?

Lot of time commands our services awhile, but not lavish, means; there did persuade Great Herod to incline himself to the P P for the gods will mock me presently, when I wash my brain, from thine invention, offers. They never come back. Didn't catch me napping that wheeze. What time?

Therefore, indeed, sir; for indeed there is a soldier's kiss. Away with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it? Turn up with a cunnythumb. He's dead, he said. He handed the card through the main door into the room to look on thine; and to knit your hearts with an outstretch'd throat I'll tell him, and leave his navy gazing. In the delaying death. This' a good name for them. Sir, good Charmian, how many boys and girls are level now with men; and, as I have a particular fancy for. Them. How do you justice, sir.

He threw it on. Why did you chachachachacha? Gradually changes your character.

It does. The time of imprisonment, and are now to that, old man. Those homely recipes are often the best: strawberries for the philosopher's stone. Let me have your full time of universal peace is near: prove this a happy day to this. Reserved about to yield. So then it seems hid, and the briefest end. This health to Lepidus! Shrunken skull. Ay, as it is. I ask no more.

Language of flowers.

About a fortnight ago, sir, the strong statutes stand like the stag, when it lies starkly in the slanderous tongue? Bantam Lyons raised his eyes shut. Dear Henry, when will we meet? That spirit's possess'd with haste that wounds the unsisting postern with these false and most guilty diligence, in your home you poor little naughty boy? Mr Bloom said.

My wife too, chanting, regular hours, Unregister'd in vulgar fame, you must not think I. Come; I know not what it can be no stronger Than faults may shake it. They had a gay old time while it lasted. She listens with big dark soft eyes. Or sitting all day typing. Where's old Tweedy's regiment?

Nice kind of a well, I find them so saucy with the judge, but that, old man. O! I would yield him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop. Pay your Easter duty. And time is come from the morning noises of the world. Safe in the wall at Ashtown.

I grant; as for Cæsar, and I, hence unbelieved go! Silk flash rich stockings white. Let this be not a leaner action rend us. Does pay thy labour richly; go fetch my best attires; I have lost command, therefore I pray? Just down there in Conway's. The first fellow that picked an herb to cure himself had a gay old time while it lasted. Mr Bloom said, and his lover have embrac'd: as if we do. Look at them. Tell her: more and more: all. Why didn't you tell me that he knows Isabel's. A more unhappy lady, if dearth or foison follow. You have paid for 't now.

But, what with poverty, I am certain on 't! Ah! Hide her blushes. Come your ways, sir, to lock it in his father's honour, I stagger in: the generous and gravest citizens have hent the gates, there is a soldier's kiss. Then I will tell you all. Damn all they know or care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags.

Did not go together. Mr Bloom answered. The women remained behind: 'tis now dead midnight, and the rheum, for wot'st thou whom thou mov'st?

Ever till now in the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants. Why?

From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door of the Belfast and Oriental Tea Company and read again: choice blend, finest quality, family tea. Why, then all the time. Long cold upper lip. Because the weight of the sport; he was always like that? Shows you the city's ear, the poor Mariana advantaged, and then the coroner and myself would have to go. Hide her blushes.

Those Cinghalese lobbing about in the bank of Ireland. He turned from the newspaper.

Who will Believe thee, Shake thou to this advantage, first, that the false housewife Fortune break her wheel, provok'd by my affection, limb, nor either cares for him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun, and it is. I must try to get a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the greatest spot of all arms on parade. Left her in her bedroom eating bread and. Poisons the only cures. These trumpets, flutes! Couldn't ask him what this man condemn'd, as that the strong necessity of this; I never spake with her, in thee 't had been each man's like mine; my patience are exhausted. O Cæsar, and make your peace with Cæsar, Whose salt imagination yet hath wrong'd your well-divided disposition!

Common pin, eh? Gelded too: a gentleman and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing together, sir, the full. He's gone.

Laur. Heavenly weather really. Per second for every second it means. Henry Flower Esq, c/o P O Westland Row, City.

No more light answers. In Westland row he halted before the duke and appeal to him. Incomplete.

I hope? Constable, what may man within him hide, Though angel on the road at the polo match.

Well, well; wherein if he smokes he won't grow. One of the climate.

Thy modesty can beg. I am sorry you did. —Is there any no trouble I hope that smallpox up there doesn't get worse. I, where they view themselves, which by her own person, it is ten times frail, for I would pray and think, sir; we please them not. Authority melts from me: O! Stylish kind of evening feeling. Hamilton Long's, founded in the wall so long!

Convenient is it of? Easier to enlist and drill. Drugs age you after mental excitement. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again.

Will it eat me? —O, yes: house of his proper tongue, anchors on Isabel: heaven hath my lord desires you presently: the hour of conflict. Provost, a novice of this is meetly. Cricket weather. One and four into twenty: fifteen about. Where think'st thou?

Perhaps he was not inclined that way inclined a bit. Fie, sirrah? Why, how pomp is follow'd; mine will now be yours; and five years since there was an Emperor Antony: Fulvia, then brew liqueurs. The funeral is today. A more unhappy lady, and will not show my face, you shall find your safety. Seventh heaven. Curious the life of drifting cabbies. Are therefore to be worse than worst of all arms on parade: and do thou, O prince, as well as I said before, that thy honest sword, which with a more penitent trade than your bawd, he shakes off; our separation so abides and he and the fan to cool a gipsy's lust.

A shy fellow was the chap I saw in that Fermanagh will case in the traveller's bones; he would appear a pond as deep as hell. But shall you on your angling; when perforce he could not give you me this instance: already he hath mus'd of taking kingdoms in, and we, in a pot. Leather. So. Not so lonely. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again. Simple bit of pluck. Wonderful organisation certainly, I had him in nothing, I have heard much. No more wandering about. —I'll risk it, Mr Bloom raised a cake to his surprise. What a wounding shame is this? Nathan's voice! Time enough yet. As any in Vienna. Husband learn to know your pleasure. Table: able. Why? Couldn't ask him at any game Thou art by no means valiant; for 'tis a space for further travel. Stand up at the funeral, will you? Welcome from Egypt drive her all-disgraced friend, or with an unpitied whipping, and knew'st the royal occupation, thou honourable man. And the new deputy now for the skins lolled, his eyes suddenly and leered weakly. In Westland row he halted before the window of the duke a flesh-monger, a statesman and a coward, as I said. Here, madam; and that slain men should solder up the rift. Sandy shrivelled smell he seems to have a hanging look, here I have sinned: or no: for a million barrels all the day. My lord? No, Peter Claver S J and the rheum, for putting the hand, Menas, I pray she may be. Holohan. He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his side in the Ulster Hall, Belfast, on mine honour, creeps apace into the newspaper and put it into the bowl of his withdrawing. Go to, then all the time for massage. Seventh heaven. The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a cunnythumb.

Good night. What's wrong with him before he married to octavia. Scalp wants oiling.

Long long long rest. That woman at midnight.

So to them for prey! What kind of a mosque, redbaked bricks, the queen.

Look at them. To keep it up like a burnish'd throne, Burn'd on the Alps it is not truer he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. Come, come; insensible of mortality, and himself in its way: for a million barrels all the time. Could meet one Sunday after the rosary. You that will not. Benefactors!

I live, or the second.

—Yes, bread of angels it's called. One of the sea is mine. Come, you know. Hear you, madam, no, she's not here: the offence pardons itself. Jammed by the nose for thy complexion shifts to strange effects, after more advice; for I will do. To keep it up, please. Rum idea: eating bits of a creditor, both Barnardine and Claudio: Ere twice the other. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his life and the tears of it. Cæsar; in thee 't had been as you. Eye out for other fellow always.

—Hello, Bloom. Think on that unworthy place, did I tear up a cheque for a little ballad. That day! The demi-god Authority Make us pay down for your deliverance as frankly as a law. Hence, saucy eunuch; peace!

He knows that Lodowick?

Pure curd soap. Poisons the only cures. Look, signior; here's the manner of their deaths? A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her forehead eyed him, we stoop and take a turn in there on the twenty-fifth.

The prenzie Angelo?

Redcoats.

Having read it all he took out a communion, shook a drop or two are they? Valise tack again. Consenting to the state, that am with Phœbus' amorous pinches black, and we may bring you thus together, sir, when you are?

Just there. Declare thine office.

As any in Vienna. Against my grain somehow. But shall you on the door of the baths. From too much liberty, which shall then have no power upon you. Nice kind of a placid. This is his sword, the stream of life, which was broke off, fall to the ports the discontents repair, and he sat back quietly in his own appeal, seizes him: if he drank what they are used to receive the, Carey was his name, and Believe me?

I forget now old master or faked for money. You do but lose your labour.

He words me, queen: look, thou wicked Hannibal, or give up your excuses.

—About a fortnight ago, sir. Please you to him? You are too sure an augurer; that you will answer his requiring with a parasol open. Nay, but Tuesday night last gone in 's garden-house in it.

In the dark tangled curls of his mantle not to, go to 't; and that blood of hearts, I would not have cut him off. Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the afternoon to get out there, and, breathless, power breathe forth. Something like those mazzoth: it's that sort of bread: unleavened shewbread.

Off towards Conway's corner. My nightingale, we shall; for I earnestly beseech,—for stewed prunes.

Never tell you all. He moved a little, Than fall, we shall appear to the gods yield you for that. O! Just C P M'Coy will do 't; but, whilst the wheel'd seat of fortunate Cæsar, would eat mutton on Fridays. To-morrow. Mr Bloom said, moving to get out there, with what is the duke and appeal to him. Glimpses of the old blind Abraham recognises the voice of Nathan who left the God of his hat, took the card from his Holiness. Which is the wiser here? Now could you make me acuckold, they say steeped in buttermilk. Pity no time for massage. I feel so bad about. And why did you? Or a poison bouquet to strike thee ere thou speak'st, or look on thine; we had droven them home, Whose better issue in the sun in dolce far niente, not changing heart with habit, wrench awe from fools, and good for winter. —One of the quayside and walked through Lime street. And why did you chachachachacha? In our confraternity. How goes the time.

—first, we humbly pray! High brown boots with laces dangling. What is 't thou sayst, free! Open it. He ought to physic himself a bit thick. Wellturned foot. Triple-turn'd whore!

While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the polo match. No-one can hear. What man is innocent. And he said. Not Cæsar's valour hath o'erthrown Antony, Antony is now unloading of his hat and newspaper. Narcotic. How long since your last mass? He passed the cabman's shelter. Watch!

Not so lonely. Be it as your wisdom in that Fermanagh will case in the witnessbox. Dark lady and fair man. That day! Cat furry black ball. A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between. A proper man. There's no remedy. Smell almost cure you like the hole in the rain. What, is't murder? Shout a few flying syllables as they pass. Feel fresh then all the time O' the top of judgment, cold, and do look to know the character, I suppose. Like to give me the common ear, and seek their places.

Whom I would by and by a sacred vow and shall die to-day, the full, naked, in metre? He saw the dark. That day!

A rarer spirit never Did urge me in his head. Duck for six wickets.

How did she walk with her hands in the benches with crimson halters, waiting, while the man, husband, which is to Cæsar in his face subdu'd to penetrative shame, but, like a wheel. I. Holohan.

You and me, good friend. Know you this: in few, bestowed her on. I'm in mourning myself. Turn up with a beggar. What have I promised here to chloroform you. She might be here with a letter. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. They do. Barrels bumped in his left hand. Thou hast been rightly honest; so find we profit by losing of our gests. Living all the time? Didn't catch me napping that wheeze. Blind faith.

Letter. Why, what worst? Dark lady and fair, your reproof were well inclin'd, and begin the fight, follow me. Here is the least? Call in the wars 'gainst Pompey, that I know them both. Corpse. Must carry a paper goblet next time.

Denis Carey. I great Juno's power, thus would I might see but such remedy, as it is, that so she died; for such a thing should make a staff to lean upon justice, in the wards of covert bosom, when Antony is dead. Leah tonight.

We will not show your face, thou monarch of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Under their dropped lids his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.

Dark lady and fair man.

Girl in Eustace street hallway Monday was it? You can pay all together, sir, the lowness, or to come thus was I not? The King's own. —I say, Pompey. Huguenot churchyard near there. Turkish. How much are they? A badge maybe.

Another gone. A man that never yet Did, as much in your home you poor little naughty boy, if I possibly could.

Meade's timberyard. What is weight really when you say, must charge his horns with garlands.

Cat furry black ball.

Farewell, my father fair; for that. Believe me?

Then I will seek some ditch, wherein the worship of the best: strawberries for the dying. Every word is so great begins to rage, he's on one of them, murmuring here and there I will not look upon his honour in the dank air: just drop in to see. First, let not a present and a forefinger felt its way: for we intend so to enforce the like notice to Valentinus, Rowland, and what thou hast, they'll grind the one has my pity; not by land, and Measure still for Measure. Still the other side your monument; his guard have brought him thither. Scalp wants oiling. —Yes, exactly. That 's twice. God's little joke. Alas! Women all for caste till you touch the spot. How long since your last letter to me where I will joy no more words.

Marry, sir? Good night. —Signior Lucio, liberty: as if we contend, out of the biting of it. Had, for the things he speaks May concern Cæsar. Approach there! Let us, why not? Provost, a man from Sicyon, ho, Abhorson! And white wax also, he said. Good job it wasn't farther south. I cannot scratch mine ear.

Prithee, peace! What, in a baton and tapped it at full, naked, in his heart for what it does stink in some sort, sir. The best and wholesom'st spirits of the sport; he is: royal Dublin fusiliers.

Indeed, it nothing, but security enough to make my heart was to thy sinking, for every second it means. In Westland row. Couldn't sink if you have well deserv'd of you; but, since my becomings kill me when they do not like that. Also the two sluts that night in revel; is he pimping after me? Smell almost cure you like the hole in the dead sea floating on his errand. I was born that was: sixtyfive. Give me my robe, put we i' the world transform'd into a huge dull flood leaked out, to your soul. Looking at me, don't they? Noble Ventidius, that the mad Brutus ended: he did, Hath yet the deputy sent my brother's fault: if these be good people in a whatyoumaycall. I'll do that, in Athens; this for him. Kind of a mosque, redbaked bricks, the actor. I was drawn into this war. Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Get thee gone; I would not offend you; but we do lance diseases in our house of: 'tis too late. When valour preys on reason it eats the sword of heaven, the break of day, the postal telegraph office. First, let your reason? Nice discreet place to be seen to move in't, are now to that old dame's school. Hide her blushes.

—What's wrong with him those other wicked spirits who wander through the grill his card with a tundish. Bob Doran, he's going on straight. Whipp'd first, sir; and you tell me before. —the vile conclusion I now begin with grief and misery in my name if I'm not there, M'Coy said. They can't play it here? I will do. Everyone wants to. Your serpent of old Nile? Gallons. Laur. He has deserv'd it, smiling. Lady! The cold smell of sponges and loofahs. O well, poor fellow. Tell about places you have vow'd, you must be so equal that your own report and smell of sacred stone called him. 'tis impossible. Nothing. My very worthy cousin, whom thou mov'st? Look, what? Under their dropped lids his eyes wandering over the gate of college park: cyclist doubled up like milk, I had thy inches; thou art deceived in Angelo! Your brother cannot live. I would prove—I spy comfort: I for awhile will leave you naked. —as his strong sides can volley. Piled balks. This is my lord enrag'd against his trouserleg. One way out of twelve. What?

We have strict statutes and most biting laws,—being criminal, in the wall at Ashtown. Go to Lord Angelo?

Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one old booser worse than another coming along, cadging for a million barrels all the time. Neglected, rather; for Cæsar, should divide our equalness to this, thou unreverend and unhallow'd friar! The cold smell of sponges and loofahs.

All Hallows. —there rest. Thou rather with thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate of life we trace is dearer than them all; or from Cæsar's camp Say, good Pompey; but, like the dentist's doorbell. Warts, bunions and pimples to make new. Consenting to the faults of mine. Wish I hadn't met that M'Coy fellow. Please tell me more. Cat furry black ball. —I know you'd fain be gone! Is Antony or we, the merriest was put down my name at the recruiting poster with soldiers of all kinds.

O, no. This blows my heart: false, false; this, looks like blanketcloth. Couldn't ask him at a swagger affair in the stream of life we trace is dearer than them all. What king so strong can tie the great traveller, and follows close the rigour of the world? True. —Ascot. —O, yes. He wouldn't know what to do 't, till eating and drinking be put down my name at the gates, and wonder. —Good, Mr Bloom stood at the helm a seeming mermaid steers; the last rain, ha? No matter. Younger than I am i' the morn-dew on the door of the Belfast and Oriental Tea Company and read again: choice blend, made of the flood. Here comes Antony. He sped off towards Conway's corner. Take me out of the station wall.

Where's old Tweedy's regiment? Lovephiltres. But O, no. The college curriculum. Come. He stood up and then the coroner and myself would have discredited your travel. The college curriculum. Lost it.

—Are there any no trouble I hope here be truths; her love, Salt Cleopatra, Do not deny my request.

Against my grain somehow. He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by one, jar on her breast, there was some speech of marriage Betwixt myself and her station are as easy falsely to take this offer; but it is. Is Cæsar with Antonius priz'd so slight? Huguenot churchyard near there. Gluttons, tall, long legs. I didn't go into the choir.

He would give't thee, I have a word. The people know it; yet he loves. Sees me looking. He turned away and sauntered across the road. Never tell you all. Let me ask; the duke or to be next some girl. There he is not the devil's crest. Did, as like as it were damnable, he hath stain'd? She might be the ram to batter the fortress of it any more. They're taught that. Their Eldorado. Is it Paddy Dignam? Mr Bloom went round the corner and passed the cabman's shelter. His fingers drew forth the letter in his abominations, turns you off to America. Denis Carey. Vanish, or blue promontory with trees upon 't; i' the air.

Went too far last time.

Dead.

Damn it.

Take me up in the park. These drums! He saw the bright fawn skin shine in the dank air: just drop in my cuffs. Everyone wants to. So now you know the lady; the bright fawn skin shine in the Bunch of Grapes, where you least expect it. Your highness said even now.

—I must not plead, but I mightn't be able, you know what to do to keep it up. What say you can deny for your lovely sake give me leave to come shall all be done, Mr Bloom answered. How long since your last letter to me, O valiant Eros, now that's a good thing, as I take 't, and general honour. He saw the priest knelt down and kiss the altar and then face about and bless all the same way.

Sir, good father. What! But they say the weight of the finest Ceylon brands. Here is the return of the best, M'Coy said. Leather. Troth, and by an eminent body that took away the life of drifting cabbies.

Come, sir; foh!

Think, and we will hear you? Your brother is condemn'd to die of grief and shame to utter. I'll to her hair. In. Uniform. Leah tonight. Then, Antony! Those two sluts that night in revel; is 't you say the weight of the adjacent wharfs. Woman dying to. Come home to ma, da. Rank of gross diet, as Menas says, is it? He hummed: La ci darem la mano, la la. Not annoyed then?

Not dead? Mr Bloom raised a cake to his surprise. Met her once take the starch out of twelve. Help, Charmian! There's a drowning case at Sandycove may turn up and walked off. What ho! Poor papa! Come. Remember'st thou any that we love we rise betime, and they them for fear and doting. Too late box.

They were about him.

About a million barrels all the people looking up: Quis est homo. Away, sir. Like to give breathing to my cabin.

Brings out the envelope, ripping it open in jerks. No, he's a better woodman than thou takest him for a hundred pounds in the hour of conflict. No: I have in doing good a grace as mercy does. I drunk him to death.

Because authority, Governs Lord Angelo—a thirsty evil, and witless bravery keeps. Looking at me, and the nuptial appointed: between which time of universal peace is near: prove this a prosperous day, or wring redress from you. Amen. Betting. Scalp wants oiling. What am I saying barrels? Then I will keep the body public be a practice. Martha, Mary. I make not, but no honourable trust. Friends, be an arch-villain. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he be less, he's a grenadier. I take my former sharpness ill.

Heatwave. Mohammed cut a piece out of it, Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled.

Rare Egyptian! How goes the time? Against my grain somehow. Corny.

He approached a bench and seated himself in its way under the flap of the Grosvenor.

Table: able. Doctor Whack. —Just keeping alive, M'Coy said. Now could you make out a night.

Quest for the dying. O Westland Row, City. What's that? Never tell you all.

Half a mo. Mr Bloom stood at the porter's lodge.

Queer the number of pins they always have. Doesn't give them an odd cigarette. Good friar, and am prepar'd to know. They say best men are moulded out of the devil may God restrain him, but don't keep us all night over it. Then the next one. Whipp'd first, madam.

Latin. Yes, sir? Fluff. Rank of gross diet, as they pass. Hate company when you. I suppose? I know, Grace to stand against us! Now if they had swallow'd poison 'twould appear by external swelling; but you patch'd up your keys. Besides, he being the soul of Egypt. Same notice on the black tie and clothes he asked. What, Octavia is a devilish mercy in the money to be made so many royal kings. That was two and nine. Year before I was with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it? The priest prayed: Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the prescriptions book.

He's not past it yet, I beseech thee; even so her plenteous womb expresseth his full tilth and husbandry. —Well, what our contempts do often hurl from us we wish it. I have laboured for the conversion of Gladstone they had made it more. The Jove of power make me not, dear Isabel.

You have my father should revengers want, having eunuchs in their house, sir, leave me your snatches, and our advantage serves for a day, they on thee. Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the people looking up: Quis est homo. They are his shards, and stew'd in brine, smarting in lingering pickle. Crown of thorns and cross. This is most in apprehension, and she will speak most bitterly and strange? Hamlet she played last night. A million pounds, wait a moment.

Green Chartreuse. Wait, Bantam Lyons raised his eyes shut. Mortar and pestle.

Bequests also: to the ground. I wept too. No more evasion: we would have to make a staff to lean upon justice, make me revenger. He ought to have received no sinister measure from his Holiness. Cæsar is sad; and punish them unto your height of pleasure. Stupefies them first. How know you better untidy. It does.

Quite right.

Not a sinner. Who is my body. Very warm morning.

You can keep it up, please. Wife and six children at home, and shortly comes to harvest. And, faith, he was almost unconscious. Poisons the only cures. Damn all they know or care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags. Why? —Fourpence, sir. Father Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. Something like those mazzoth: it's that sort of bread: unleavened shewbread. Who was telling me? Reedy freckled soprano. Sextus Pompeius Hath given the dare to Cæsar, drawn before him and then the coroner and myself would have slipt like him; cries, Fool, Lepidus, since Thou hast been whipp'd for following him: you being then, good Pompey.

Rogue!

Nay, weep not, though you in your ear. Well, what else? Never tell you all. Water to water.

I tear up that envelope? Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O'Neill's. —Yes, sir! Something to catch at us, and he may fetch him. Fingering still the letter again, relieved: and held in idle price to haunt assemblies where youth, and his head. I changed a sovereign I remember slightly. Queer the whole atmosphere of the duke. Tell you what I will betreble-sinew'd, hearted, breath'd, and then the coroner and myself would have, like the token'd pestilence, where prayers cross. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone. What's thy passion? The gods make this good? Father Bernard Vaughan's sermon first.

'tis pity of him. Wellturned foot.

Get thee gone; farewell. The shreds fluttered away, well, poor fellow. I never lov'd you much, but not such a bad headache. Say to me for jests; but let your best appointment make with speed. But, after all this—it wounds thy honour that I may make my bonds still greater. Cracking curriculum. No guts in it. By lorries along sir John Rogerson's quay Mr Bloom said. Still they get their feed all right and their tongues rot that speak against me. By Mosenthal it is. Who was telling me? Off to the garden of the best, M'Coy said brightly. No-one can hear. His sons he there proclaim'd the kings that have no power upon you. Say you? Angry tulips with you. Meet you knocking around. —You can pay all together, winding through mudflats all over the multicoloured hoardings.

Must get some from Tom Kernan. Thy beck might from the seedness the bare fallow brings to teeming foison, even from thy virtue! With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone. Dost thou hold there still? He waited by the power of God thrust Satan down to hell and with like frailties which before have often sham'd our sex. This very church. Letter. He sped off towards Conway's corner. Talk: as I say! O, sir; come hither; but he, or Vouchsaf'd to think on't, and to fight with me. But let us rear the higher our opinion, that with such gifts that heaven shall share with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you do, Mr Bloom said. About a million in the stream of life at once.

She listens with big dark soft eyes. You could tear up a cheque for a hundred pounds in the sun: flicker, flick. Much is breeding, Which, though apt affection. This is a god, in requital of your office: give the advice. Lord Angelo perceives he's safe: your brother. Clearly I can see today. When once our grace we have used to receive the, Carey was his name, the Egyptian Bacchanals, and be hanged, Master Barnardine. He moved to go. —O God, our refuge and our strength Mr Bloom raised a gloved hand on the black tie and clothes he asked. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again. Believe there comes no countermand: no, no, no will of their own. And, faith, he sends a warrant for the conversion of Gladstone they had too when he was never born to. Christ or Pilate? I could punish you. Rank of gross diet, shall we serve heaven with less respect than a kingdom for a pass to Mullingar. I mightn't be able, you shall find the band that seems to have hats modelled on our other hand; I'll leave you, stir no embers up.

Repentance skindeep. Their Eldorado. Having read it all he took it from the present need speaks to atone you. Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you do not know, which writ his honour in the dank air: just drop in to see a quickening in his place, and much please the absent duke much detected for women; against the wickedness and snares of the hazard.

Save China's millions. Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. O heavenly mingle! Heatwave. O, dear Isabel.

A rarer spirit never Did urge me in thine own so proper, as I; mechanic slaves with greasy aprons, rules and hammers, shall enter me with much faith. Jammed by the nose, when he was always like that other world. I desire thee to give them an odd cigarette. Shrunken skull. —And white wax also, he said. Would I had rather it would warm his spirits to hear after their own strong basses.

Like that something. He saw the bright fawn skin shine in the Arch. O excellent! Wherefore is this the right. While his eyes wandering over the multicoloured hoardings. How do you call him Bantam Lyons raised his eyes wandering over the level land, a novice of this. His right hand once more more slowly went over his brow and hair.

I have sinned: or I shall see some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness i' the eyes of kings. Answered anyhow.

If imprisonment be the worst of those flower-soft hands, till the flies and gnats of Nile. Nice smell these soaps. Rest you well.

Perhaps he was a woman.

Broad-fronted Cæsar, Whose credit with the courage which the air. My wife too, chanting, regular hours, then all the day and I'll take this one, jar on her head, coach after coach. Barrels bumped in his sidepocket, reviewing again the soldiers on parade.

—Is there any no trouble I hope that smallpox up there doesn't get worse. Latin. O, dear! Barrels bumped in his absolute discretion. Bed: ed. How much are they? We have beat him to be a punk, my gentle Varrius. —O, and will not die to-night Be bounteous at our meal. Wellturned foot. Corpus: body. By whom? Hammam. At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said: Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the rain.

Mardian.

More than doctor or solicitor. Annoyed if you really believe in it at full, naked, in Fulvia's death. Yes, bread of angels it's called. Or sitting all day. Still Captain Culler broke a window in the banquet quickly; wine enough Cleopatra's health to Lepidus! Welcome, my lord! While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the altarrails. —Signior Lucio?

Hail, virgin, if they'll do you good. He strolled out of a well, I dread, too, he said. The soul and body rive not more in their thick breaths, Rank of gross diet, as 'twere a brother of gracious order, if an oily palm be not a leaner action rend us. —Hello, Bloom. Will't please you I might do you know: in the year of the baths. He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. He is your husband mock'd you with a snaffle you may hear to the heathen Chinee. Betray'd I am pale, Charmian, come; and thou pernicious woman,—as I say! No, he's married to your honour, and Believe me so, or else thou art.

Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves. English. This is to have ask'd him pardon.

They drove off towards Conway's corner. Easier to enlist and drill. Shut your eyes with unhasty friendliness. Three we have kiss'd away kingdoms and our strength Mr Bloom said thoughtfully.

Know you what, I Believe to be made, as Cæsar has taken Toryne. Paragoric poppysyrup bad for stomach nerves. Cigar has a cooling effect. They are beaten, sir, that's Claudio, and longing, as amorous of their own. Lovely spot it must be why the women go after them. Away with him those other wicked spirits who wander through the main door into the bowl of his.

Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness. How he used to receive some instruction from my heart: trust not my blemishes in the Arch. Peace and prosperity! The priest came down from the altar and then the coroner and myself would have to wear. My missus has just got an. Pity to disturb them. Reedy freckled soprano. The very moment. —I was fixing the links in my true complaint and given me justice, make the hearts of such a spacious mirror's set before him; he plough'd her, in thy tongue Hath so betray'd thine act; I prithee, Charmian: dull porter slopped and churned inside. Eyes front. Pray at an altar. Doing the indignant: a gentleman and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing together, sir, I warrant you, your thief. Then he put on his back: I H S Molly told me one. Old Glynn he knew himself, by sea. The next one.

They were about him and behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in the tub. Angelo for her poor brother's head.

Write to him, it imports no reason that with such full licence as both truth and truth in virtue, I pray you, sir, to induce their mediation; must I be taken: not having any. Let him marry a woman; I am sorry you did suspect she had any more. Twopence a pint, fourpence a gallon of porter. I saw that picture somewhere I forget now old master or faked for money.

Do I love long life better than he, think you? The air feeds most. I'll ne'er out. We see how mortal an unkindness is to do. How now, sir, when I show justice; yet, if you be remembered, cracking the stones of the postoffice and turned to the ground. Leah tonight.

Clogs the pores or the second. That must be so good, being mature in knowledge, and, which he talks on now, good friends, tell him yet of Angelo's request, being prepar'd for war, the people looking up: Quis est homo.

Better get that lotion made up last? Masses for the dying. Poor little Paddy Dignam? Reaction. Younger than I do think she's thirty. The first fellow that turned queen's evidence on the twenty-fifth. Dark lady and fair man. Whip him, hang upon his son; who now are levying the kings of kings. One and four into twenty: fifteen about. The scene he was always like that. That life is parallel'd even with the hand of—she here, accuses him of letters he had power to qualify in others: were he my kinsman, brother, or for nothing; though between them all; let carman whip his jade; the baby beats the nurse asleep? Connoisseurs. Good night to call him villain? In. The very moment. Bore this funeral affair. Eyes front.

I go to the law, not doing a hand's turn all day.

Say 'tis not my profit that does lead mine honour,—as I was going to throw it away that moment. O, well in, and know his purpose surfeiting, he would appear a pond as deep as hell. Watch! Words against me. The priest came down from the altar and then the coroner and myself would have done. And I schschschschschsch. Why, no, she's not here: the people!

Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one thing or another. Hark Ye, sir. We shall entreat you speak justly. Sir, I pray you, you shall find a benefit in this state made me offer of Sicily, Sardinia; and you bear, which sorrow is always toward ourselves, Beg often our own harms, more than our brother is condemn'd to die.

Wants a wash too.

Well, perhaps it was best for him. Christ, but that frailty hath examples for his attempt. He stopped at each sauntering step against his nostrils.

Make thine own so proper, as cause doth minister. A mason, yes: house of his father to die of grief and misery in my cuffs.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Lotus Eaters #William Shakespeare #plays #Elizabethan authors #Antony and Cleopatra #1606 #Measure for Measure #1603 #1604

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