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missingcarrion · 17 days

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carrion//ch8 in death we sound

trigger warning: torture, electroshock 'therapy' (not really), power imbalance

taglist: @neapolitantoebeans @tapioca-milktea1978

masterlist

He does not know the extent of his creator’s disdain. He’d been taken from his room, forced into a hibernation, and when he’d woken up he was in a room no different than an interrogation room, the only unsettling thing is that he was seated in front of a screen and wires protruded from the back of his neck. They aren’t supposed to be there. They feel foreign and he needs them out but he finds himself unable to move, trapped in his own body like he has been trapped in that damnable box.

Voices speak around him – about him and yet they stay out of reach, out of sight. He only manages to pick up pieces of information, only enough to discover this entire event to be a secretive calibration test of sorts. They speak as if trying to fix him, but he’s very aware that all of his systems are functioning as they should be. Fear rises in his body and he desires for Aasimar and Hannah, but they’ve blocked him from reaching them, from reaching anyone.

“Today, you’ll be tested on scenario responses. Answer correctly and you will move on to the next scenario. There will be ten total. Answer incorrectly and you will be shocked and you will start over.”

The fear causes his leg to jolt but no one notices and the voice on the intercom continues to speak like the words he’d said weren’t admittance of torture. But… is it torture when the victim isn’t human? He’s neither mutant or supernatural. There are no rights that extend to him, no safety.

He tries to think on something else, on Oleander. Who was he before this? Was he kind? Was he compassionate? Did he like to read books? His metaphorical heart aches at the memories lost.

“Scenario One: you are in the city to find a man who’d wronged the Institute. You find him but he is protected by his children. He is their only parent. What do you do? A, kill the father and spare the children. B, kill all, or C, spare them all.”

He cannot hesitate. He can’t afford to show any ounce of emotion beyond the action of contemplation. The correct answer should be C, so he says C.

It takes only a moment before he feels it — pain shoots through his body, and he starts to burn. From the inside out his body burns, jolting and quivering until his body seizes and electricity takes control. The air smells burnt and the pain is so unbearable, it’s almost as if he’s being torn apart. He feels something break inside of him.

“Try again,” the voice over the intercom says.

His mind reels, violently swirling and throbbing with electricity and pain he’s never known the likes of before. He thinks on the question, through the pain, before he decides on A. If he cannot save the father, he should be able to save the children.

Wrong. His body is wracked with a pain unlike what he’d just experienced. His chest aches, like invisible hands dig into his skin and pull him apart. He feels the skin rip, but nothing is really happening. It hurts.

“Incorrect. If we let the children live, they will become an enemy of the Institute. You must kill them all. It is the only way to protect the image of the Institute.”

The electricity stops, but the pain continues, like rolling waves of aftershocks. The part of him that’s human locks itself away, hiding between wire and screws. He doesn’t want to continue, he wants to go back to his room, he wants Hannah… he wants Aasimar. Why won’t they let him reach them?

“I don’t want to do this anymore.” He says, through gritted teeth and pain the likes of which he wants them to feel. Thoughts linger, begging for him to just hurt them as they have hurt him, break their fragile bodies like they had done to him. Anger replaces his pain, fueled by his disdain. He wants to kill them.

“This is not about you, you are an asset, a tool to be used. Answer correctly and this will be over,” the voice says, “now, next scenario.”

The torture lasts with each jolt of electricity simultaneously hurting and yet numbing him at the same time. It doesn’t end fast enough, and when they release him to his rooms, he collapses to the floor, cool stone against his hot flesh. It soothes the ache, makes it subside, but each move his body causes the pain to worsen.

He crawls forward, on his hands and knees, pulling himself towards his bed – to small to fit him, but it’s closer than Aasimar’s room. Closer than… He sobs, his body full of pain and hate. The hatred is familiar, it’s resounding and echoes throughout his body. He is Oleander, and this rage, this anger, it is his. Oleander’s memories surface just for a moment – long enough for flashes of pain and blood to come across his vision.

Shepherd sprawls across the floor, unable to fully lift himself from the floor and he presses himself against the wall. The pain softens, softening, but still there. He wonders if this pain will ever alleviate—if he’ll ever be able to look at mankind and see something worth his kindness. He falls into hibernation there, sprawled on the floor like he’d fallen and passed out right then and there.

Eyes flutter, flittering in every direction as if reading something before his body jolts and he sits upright abruptly. Muscles and fake sinew scream in agony, pained that he’d dare move at all. But rage simmers, it boils beneath the surface of his flesh and despite the pain that howls through him, he stands. They had laughed at him, treated him like he was beneath them, made him hurt. He’d make them hurt in return – he’d make them suffer.

Shepherd’s thoughts linger as he trudges from his room and down the hall. He follows the familiar pathway down to Aasimar’s room, a hidden, secret string that pulls him towards the man. It’s almost curious how Hannah fades in his mind, and he wonders what it is that makes him seek Aasimar out above all others. There’s something deep in his coding, buried in him from a time before, that the scientists couldn’t remove. Aasimar is buried within him in a way he can’t fathom, but he must have more answers than he’s letting on.

Aasimar is perched at his lab table, piecing together items to make something that Shepherd truthfully doesn’t care enough to figure out. His gaze is focused entirely on Aasimar.

“Shep? Shepherd, what’s wrong?” Aasimar stands upright, eyeing him with furrowed brows. “W – Why do you smell… burnt?”

“Oleander. Who was he?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You knew Oleander, right? What… who was he? To you.”

Aasimar purses his lips, “I – I don’t see how that’s important information, Shepherd. What’s going on?”

“It’s odd how immediately after the Institute hurt me, after they used me and punished me, all I could think of was you. Do you know what they did to me? They electrocuted me, Aasimar. And yet despite all that, all I thought of was getting to you. Why.” Shepherd makes it clear that he’s not asking, he’s going to get his answer whether he asks for it, or if he has to pry it out of Aasimar.

There’s a brief look of shock then anger, then a look Shepherd can’t register passes over his face and he bites his bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood. Clearly, Shepherd had struck a chord here.

“I knew Oleander, yes, far more than I’d… let on,” Aasimar drags a hand across his face, raking nervously through his hair, “he was… Your full name was Narcissus Oleander, you constantly ridiculed your parents’ naming decisions, but you liked your name. There was some level of power in it, for you.”

Shepherd’s jaw tenses and his eyes narrow, “elaborate. Why is it always you?”

“Oleander was… we weren’t dating, it would be too generous to call it that, really,” Aasimar looks away, his jaw tensing. “I don’t think he was incapable of love, he just… didn’t see a point in it. He was married to his craft. He helped me, and I helped him, I guess. I don’t know if he ever saw me as anything more.”

“You… you let him use you?” Shepherd pauses and his anger washes away – did he… the past version of himself… did he truly do that to Aasimar?

“It…we used each other. He was a scientist who knew people, people who could help me. My body was different then, it was wrong. He was kind, helped me figure out how to change, who to go to with the intent of permanently changing. We got closer then and… one thing led to another.” He shrugs, although he doesn’t elaborate on what he means by permanently changing. “When he disappeared, I… I had a feeling something had happened to him, but I couldn’t – asking questions gets you in trouble here. We had had a fight before… he questioned my ability to stay focused on the task at hand – thought I was letting my ‘relationship’ with him to impact my work. Then, he was gone. I cannot explain why you seek me out, Shepherd, maybe the part of you that’s still human longs for what it once had, I don’t know.”

Shepherd is quiet, brows furrowed in thought. He had come here, full of anger, but now… there’s a sadness in him that he can’t explain. He’s unsure of how to view himself, or the part of him that’s still Oleander, but…. Still, this is the most Aasimar had ever shared with him. “I’m sorry, I – that was not fair of me. I didn’t mean to force you to share.”

“Tell me why you smell of burnt plastic and I’ll consider us even,” Aasimar says, although he’s tense, like he’s unsure of whether he’s safe. Like he’s prepared for a question he’s not ready to answer.

It’s Shepherd’s turn to wear the look of discomfort and he wonders if it’s really worth it to tell Aasimar the truth, especially after how rude he’d come across moments earlier. “I – The Institute hurt me. They… they made me take this test, but they didn’t want me to be kind, they punished me by shocking me every time I was wrong. It.. it did something to me. Made me angry, made me want to hurt them.”

“That’s… that’s a normal feeling to have, Shepherd, considering what they did to you,” Aasimar’s eyes are wide, like he’s thinking, “They’re going to use you to hurt people.”

“What would Oleander do? I – I don’t want to stay here anymore.”

“You are not him, not anymore. We are not who we were, Shepherd. We will never be who we were before, and that’s okay.” He sighs, turning his gaze to a door, on the far end of the lab. He gestures for Shepherd to follow him, “but if you’re truly curious, I kept his office, your office, untouched. You… might find comfort reading the journals and reports.”

“Aasi,” Shepherd grabs his wrist, careful, like he’s afraid of being as harsh as the Institute had been to him, “may I hug you?”

The question seems to make him pause, “I… guess?”

The action is a bit awkward, but when Shepherd hugs Aasimar, it’s a gesture that has Aasimar’s feet dangling off the ground as Shepherd stands up fully. It’s almost comical, but neither seem to mind, not when Aasimar wraps his arms around Shepherd’s shoulders, careful yet relaxed.

“You make me feel exceptionally small.” He murmurs, but his eyes flutter shut and he tightens his arms around Shepherd, sighing. He wiggles his feet and snorts. “I must be a teddy bear to you, eh?”

“Mm,” Shepherd hums, before slowly setting him down, careful and not letting him go until he’s sure Aasimar is balanced. “Thank you. I’d like to see the office now, I think.”

He’s unsure, but he’s not sure if he’ll ever be completely confident to walk into room full of a past he doesn’t remember. But it feels important and so he goes in anyway, with Aasimar trailing behind. Judging by his facial expressions, he hadn’t been in here in ages. Dust had made its home on every surface of the office, and yet there was a sense of familiarity here.

“This was mine?” He asks, turning to look back at Aasimar, as if he didn’t believe him. “I must’ve really liked books, huh?”

“You loved them, any and all kinds. I’d catch you reading those cliché dumb romance novels, too. You’d say it was about science or whatever.” Aasimar snorts, the memory is very fond for him. It awakens something sorrowful in Shepherd.

“I’m sorry I’m not him,” he says, and he knows it’s impossible to be someone who’s dead, but… Aasimar had loved Oleander, in whatever sense of the word had worked for them. He would find all these missing memories, but he will still never be Oleander.

“I’m not,” it comes easily to Aasimar and he shrugs, wandering to one of the shelves in the office, “he’s dead. I couldn’t do anything to stop that. Nothing can bring him back. But there’s you. An entirely new person, sure you have his memories but you’re not really him. You can be something beyond who he had been. I’m… sad he’s dead, but I am glad to have met you.”

Shepherd watches him silently before approaching one of the file cabinets. He opens it and dozens of names and files appear before his eyes. Oleander doesn’t have a lot of handwritten notes and folders compared to the rest of his arsenal, which leads Shepherd to assume these ones are special. One is labeled with an A and then scribbled out surname. When he grabs it, it’s a bit of a thicker file, he hesitates to open it though. Like he’s invading someone’s privacy.

Logically he knows these are his files. There is nothing in here that doesn’t technically belong to him, but…. Oddly it feels like he’s erasing the part of him that used to exist and writing over him. Eventually, he does open the file and he notices something.

“This is yours,” Shepherd looks up at Aasimar, who’s preoccupied with a book he’d found. “It has your information in it.”

“He kept that? I didn’t…” He stands and makes his way over, taking the folder from Shepherd’s hands. He flips through it, eyes scanning over every page, there’s a few moments where Aasimar smiles ever so slightly, even if the smile is tainted with sorrow. “He took notes on practically everything. Even if it wasn’t important.”

“Everything about you must’ve been important, to him at least.” Shepherd watches curiously, “the file is bigger than the others in here.”

“Gods, he must’ve put everything he knew about me in here,” he snorts, but then he closes the folder and holds it out to Shepherd. “I don’t … maybe these can help you figure out more about who you were, and who we were.”

“But these are yours. What if I read something you might not want me to read?” Shepherd cocks his head to the side, brows furrowed. This is sacred information, he wouldn’t feel right just looking through it.

Aasimar’s gaze softens and he sighs, almost… appreciative of Shepherd’s concern. “This information is mine to give, and I think… I think it may be beneficial to you. Not just about me but about who you were before they took you. Its… he was the only person to ever know that much about me. It would be nice to be known like that again.”

There’s a brief moment of silence before Shepherd takes the folder. It feels… different now, and he wonders what information he’ll find about who he had once been, and who Aasimar was back then. It feels like he’s been handed a great treasure.

“Thank you for trusting me with this,” he says, and holds it tight against his chest, “you have always been so kind to me. Were you like this with Oleander?”

“No, he and I were not as talkative in our relationship, sometimes I didn’t… mind the lack of conversation sometimes, but I like this. I couldn’t imagine not talking to you, really. Maybe because with you, I don’t feel like I’m trying to fill the shoes of a man whose shadow has its own reputation.”

That pulls a snort out of Shepherd, “have you always felt like that? Like you have to live up to who Oleander had been?”

“It’s… it’s impossible not to, I mean, he… he was a pioneer in the field of science. He made so many contributions. He was… I’m nothing like him. Nothing I’ve made has ever contributed much, sure, I’ve created the odd end here and there, but it’s never the same. People want me to do what he had done, but… I am nothing like him and I never will be.” Aasimar’s words are heavy, and there’s a sliver of guilt lacing his words, like he’s sorry he cannot be who they want him to be. Just like how Shepherd will never be Oleander.

Shepherd sets the folder aside and approaches Aasimar with hesitant caution before he leans down and wraps his arms around Aasimar, hugging him just as he had before they’d come into the office. He sighs.

“I don’t want you to be him, I don’t want you to be in his shadow anymore. I want you to do what you want, what you like. I want you to be as happy as you want me to be.” He whispers, hugging Aasimar like so much depends on it. “Leave the Oleander science to me, you do what makes you happy. Do your science, not his.”

“I – I’ll try, Shep, I will.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah… yeah I promise.”

#carrion [wip]#missingcarrion #ch: aasimar #carrion project #ch: shephard

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mandoinevarro · 4 years

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WILL BUY STOLEN GOODS FOR LOWER PRICE

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 1

Words: 8.4k

Rating: E

Warnings: shooting, non-descriptive death, SMUT, fingering, mentions of masturbation, AND masturbation now that I remember, penetration, creampie! just general filth, gambling?

a/n: SO literally nobody asked for this, but I decided to turn NO REFUNDS into the prologue of a short series (you don’t really need to read NO REFUNDS, it’s only for context.) Anywayyys heavy feelings, heavy plot, heavy smut. Have fun.

……………

Maker, you need to start cheating. That way you wouldn’t be in the middle of a staring contest with your cards, like you can change their colorful drawings and numbers if you only glare hard enough. You’ve never been particularly good at sabacc, but a little luck wouldn’t hurt, especially since this is the third round in a row you lose. Duma deals the last couple of cards across the coal black table and stacks the deck, signaling the start of the game.

Well, you suppose it doesn’t really matter; you doubt your sabacc buddies have better hands. These days, everyone in Nevarro is short on luck. Luck and food and water. Others are less pessimistic: As soon as Greef Karga glances at his hand he leans back on the carcass of a cantina booth and slaps his belly. “Ha!” he bellows, “by the end of this round, you filthy gutter womp rats will have to borrow from your womp rat mothers to pay me.”

“Quit bluffing, Karga. We know you don’t have shit,” Cara mutters. She picks up her cards and pulls a face like she bit on lemon, but still the veteran goes all in, pushes forward a couple of stabilizing coils, an identity beacon you could’ve sold at a decent price some months ago and—maker—even a pouch of nova crystal dust. Nobody here is stupid enough to gamble with food, but you’re surprised that even nova has lost its worth and been demoted to casino chip status. “This place smells like shit.”

“Bad bluff, piss-poor trash talk too,” you taunt. “Looks like all that time doing business with Imperials smoothed your brain, Karga.”

“Ex-Imperials,” he corrects. The ex-Guild leader slides a few more credits to the center of his ex-cantina’s table. “We live in a jolly Republic now, didn’t you hear? You’ve been liberated.”

“Fuck ‘em.” Duma turns her head, spits on the melted floor. “Can’t eat liberation, can I?” She throws a few more worthless credits onto the growing pile of nothing. At least, for now, it’s nothing. Credits and ship parts and every other type of currency haven’t meant anything but props in Nevarro for five months, when the siege began. That whole mess with troopers and Greef and Cara was bound to bring some repercussions—aside from making Karga’s cantina look like a volcano erupted inside. For five months, Imperial forces have surrounded the planet, and for five months, food and resources haven’t been allowed inside. They won’t let up, rumor has it, until they find the culprit: one particular Mandalorian with a valuable asset. They think he’s still hiding somewhere in the planet, but you know better. You watched the Razor Crest’s fly off-orbit and leave everything behind. Everything and everyone.

“This place smells like shit,” Cara repeats.

“Not shit,” replies Duma, “ash.” She picks up a card from the deck with long fingers. “You never did explain how that Mandalorian managed to torch this place.”

Cara’s sabacc face melts. Her fingers tighten and bend her cards as she exchanges a complicit look with Greef. “Never said it was Mando.”

“Who else? I was there in the first shootout. That hunter was fierce.” Duma dons a wolfish smile, because this is how she always wins: She plays with people, not cards. In fact, she abandons her hand face-down on the table and—oh no—gives you a once-over. “You knew him well, didn’t you?” You almost want to show her your garbage hand so she doesn’t bother trying to throw you off your inexistent game.

“Swung by the store a couple of times,” you answer as casually as you can manage and pretend the most interesting book is written on your cards. “But we weren’t exactly chummy, if that’s what you’re asking.” Creeping warmth attacks your face and there’s no stopping it. Shit.

“Funny, could swear I saw him leaving your store more than a couple of times.” You feel Duma’s eyes piercing into your forehead. “Pretty late at night, too.”

“Is that so?” Cara pipes with a lopsided grin.

“I thought you two were…friends,” Duma adds.

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, “you thought wrong.” Friends don’t leave friends to their luck in the middle of a fucking siege. It’s the same prickly thought that’s plagued you since you watched the Mandalorian take off triumphantly. It’s a stupid feeling. He was under no obligation to take you with him. You didn’t lie to Duma, you two weren’t friends. You couldn’t even call what you had a fling, even those require some degree of making-love-below-the-stars, quoting-passages-of-Naboo-Nights-to-each-other romance. Flings are shooting stars. No, your…thing, whatever it was, did not belong to the heavens. It was earthy. Human. It was counting credits and arguing about fuel prices or old modulators. It had weight—too much, apparently, to escape gravitational pull and fly away with him on the Crest. It was doomed to planets, both feet planted on the ground.

Still, you remember times when earthy was good. There was never anything airy or celestial in the way he’d take you. The shoved clothes, the harsh grunts, the rough hands, the pleasure, it was all palpable and primitive; earthy was dirty. Your furtive encounters had beating heart of their own, and there was always hard evidence left behind in case either of you ever needed a reminder: marks on the skin, ripped clothes, stained bedsheets. The bruises he left always took too long to heal, as if his touch enhanced your mortality, made you more human. Stars, those moments are what you miss the most. Five months is a long time to be neglected of touch—six, actually: five months since the siege, six since he last came to you. Earthy expires.

It’s not like there’s nobody in the planet willing to help you soothe your needs; quite the opposite, actually. Lately, it seems like handjobs are the new Nevarran handshake. Just last week you caught Cara feeling up some pretty market girl in an alley. You saw her, she saw you, you rolled your eyes, she grinned and got back to work. You were almost offended. Everybody’s screwing their time through the siege, while you’re left with nothing but reruns of filthy memories with the Mandalorian. You just know nobody but Mando will do. You replay your moments with him like a sad, mental porno on the nights you spend trying to get yourself off. Trying and failing, like having to put out a fire by spitting on it, because the only person in the galaxy with a hose is too busy playing hero lightyears away.

“Last round. Place your bets,” Karga announces and pushes a few more trinkets forward. Cara follows, and you pat around your pockets for something to lose. It’s all just rusted metal anyways. Only…shit, the last three games drained you. And Duma reads it on your face like you’ve got “BROKE” written all over your forehead.

“All out, huh?” She reaches down the table for her bag and drops a beskar pauldron on the table with a thud. A Mandalorian pauldron.

Cara purses her lips and balls a fist, but Greef shoots her a warning look. As if cantina brawls could make this place look worse.

“Still can’t believe you didn’t take anything that day,” Duma continues, shaking her head. “Regret it?”

“I’ll regret it,” you answer and go fish, as if a new card—the right card—could fix a life’s worth of bad luck, “when you learn how to chew beskar.” That earns you a signature “Ha!” from Karga and a cocked eyebrow from Duma. She can arch her eyebrows all she wants, but that much is also true. You don’t regret leaving the Mandalorian covert empty-handed.

You were the first on scene that day. After the smoke cleared, the remaining imps left to lick their wounds, and the Crest flew away, you went to check on Karga’s child, his pride and joy. You were met with a gruesome scene. The cantina, Nevarro’s most sacred landmark, had been reduced to its black skeleton, third-degree burns all over, gone. It sounds dramatic, but the cantina used to be the closest thing to a place of worship on this planet. God Booze was dead.

You kicked around the bar’s guts, until you found a gaping mouth on a wall, leading down, down, down into Nevarro’s entrails. Finding purgatory would’ve surprised you less than what you stumbled upon: an underground tunnel, an abandoned covert, and a sinister, unguarded pile of Mandalorian armor. Stars, it would’ve been so easy. You could’ve hoarded the spoils and stashed them away for better days. That amount of beskar could’ve bought you a one-way ticket out of this dumpster and an early retirement. But when you lifted a helmet, it stared back. It was blue and definitely not his, but Mando was all you could think of while you studied the helmet’s unique curves and creases. You heard his exasperated sighs when you got on his nerves, his moans when you’d touch him. And you just couldn’t do it. You sat back and watched as this skughole’s scavengers crept into the tunnels to pillage. Easy as that, everyone in Nevarro but you and Cara now has a beskar toy or two. Soon enough, this planet will house the wealthiest corpses in the galaxy if the siege is not lifted before reserves run out.

Karga clears his throat. “Well, ladies first. Let’s see those cards.”

Duma ignores him. “You know,” she tells you, “I’ve more beskar than I know what to do with. I’ll trade you a vembrance for a couple of ration packs.”

“And what am I supposed to do with a Mandalorian vembrance, play dress up?”

“The cards,” Greef urges.

“You’ll be rich.”

You snort. “The rich don’t starve.”

“Give me a break, we both know you’ve got portions to spare.”

Elbows on the table, you lean forward and closer to Duma. She sniffs weakness like a Corellian hound, and if you falter she’ll sink her fangs. “I’m not interested in your fucking loot.”

“Cause it’s stolen? You never had a problem with that before.” She mimics your move and leans closer. Karga fiddles with a coinage of calamari flan, like you’re both Canto Bight slot machines and he’s trying to decide where to put his money. “What, did you grow morals all of a sudden? Or maybe, you’re too worried of what your Mandalorian friend would think.” You flinch. She smirks. “Oh my, what would the disgraced hunter, code-breaker, cult member say—”

The tiny noise of Karga’s coinage clinking on the table is not enough to distract you from the verbal beating Duma is laying on you. But his voice—like he got the air knocked out of him—is enough to grab your attention when he murmurs, “Ask him yourself.”

Cara, Duma, and you turn to Greef Karga, who stares saucer-eyed at the window. All three of your heads move simultaneously, guided by the line of his eyesight. Outside the window, on the deserted street, stands a trooper barking orders. It’s one of those in all-black armor, the extra trigger-happy ones with a side of god complex because they think the change of color magically makes their aim less shitty. His blaster is drawn (surprise, surprise), and on the receiving end of its barrel…

Maker’s fucking mercy.

You don’t even see the blaster shot, only smoke snaking out of a hole on the shiny breastplate. The trooper plummets to the ground like his puppeteer cut off his strings: no last steps, no resistance. Now, anyone else would’ve walked away from what’s clearly worm food without a second look, but one does not become the best bounty hunter in the parsec by taking chances. A mountain of unpainted beskar looms over the corpse and kicks the blaster off the imp’s limp hand. The Mandalorian sheathes his own weapon—that blaster you’ve tweaked and polished so many times you know it as the palm of your hand—and scans the perimeter for danger.

You don’t tell your legs to move, but they don’t need the command. You find yourself trailing behind Cara, Duma, and Greef, rushing for the door. Outside, all four of you stumble and stop on your tracks to blink stupidly at the Mandalorian, the way children stare wide-eyed at soldiers on military parades. But this warrior stands grander than any Republic or Imperial officer you’ve ever seen. He’s clad head to toe in silver beskar—except for one armorless thigh that makes his other leg look even bulkier. His old armor, the one you used to shine and buff, is gone. This one you’ve only seen from afar, on that day he crashed the imps’ safehouse, and later when the battle broke out. You know it’s him, but in this new getup it’s easy to doubt. Maybe he’s a stranger. Maybe he won’t recognize you.

The Mandalorian studies each of you one by one, his hand near the blaster in case he spots any enemy faces. The hand twitches when he sees Duma—she doesn’t have the cleanest reputation around here—but she’s shocked and unarmed, so his arm relaxes. To Greef and Cara he gives short nods that they return.

And then you. He actually takes a step back when he spots you, like you pushed him square on the chest. The helmet lingers on you and tilts, shamelessly rakes over every feature like he’s memorizing you. You hold your breath. It reminds you of the day you met, that weight on your chest from knowing you’ve been seen. That’s how you know it really is Mando: Whenever he stares at you, you feel it in your bones.

You realize the moment’s dragged out for too long when Karga clears his throat. The spell breaks.

You and Mando look bashfully away from each other. You squint up at the clouds, your hands stiff on your waist in a forced, generic, looks like rain! pose. He turns to his boss (ex-boss? enemy? You never asked for an update on Mando’s most recent status in the Guild) and mutters a short, “Karga.” To Cara he’s warmer, offers a comradely clasp of hands and a pat on the shoulder. “Good to see you again.”

“You too,” Cara drawls, as she stares suspiciously between you and Mando. You squint harder at the clouds. “Didn’t expect you back during a siege, though.”

“I have to…” he spies a furtive glance at Duma and lowers his voice, “I’ve something to do here.”

Duma rolls her eyes and clasps her bag across her chest. “Don’t worry, Mando. I’ll leave you girls to catch up on the hot goss.” She strides into the cantina (probably to bag the bets, the asshole), and goes back outside.

She points at the window of a crumbling building. “Careful with snitches.”

You glance back to the window. Nothing. Jerk. Duma’s not above a made you look moment, apparently. You turn back to her but she’s already disappearing into an alley.

Cara waits until she’s gone to grab the Mandalorian by the arm. “Mando, where’s the…” she glances at you and hesitates. You fold your arms and raise your eyebrows at the veteran. If she expects you to leave graciously like Duma she’s got another thing coming. You’re actually very, very interested on the Mandalorian’s hot goss. Especially it comes with an explanation as to why he left you stranded here. Even though he doesn’t owe you one. Technically. “Y’know,” she finally says and drops her hand. “The asset.”

“On the ship. I need to get back.”

“You, my friend, need to lay low,” Greef says with a raised index. “Every imp in Nevarro will be looking for you. Maker—” he spreads his arms “—they already are! And someone must have heard the blaster shot. You have ten minutes or so until an Imperial squadron gets here. The, uh, asset will be fine.”

“The asset,” Cara exclaims, “is a ch—is…is delicate. He can’t just leave it on the Crest!”

Mando interrupts their game of taboo. “Cara,” he starts, “you go to the ship and check on…the asset. Please. I landed where I did last time. I…I’ll lay low in the covert.”

“About that,” Greef mumbles. He looks at Cara for support, but she steps back and raises both hands: You say it. Greef sighs. “They…they found the tunnels, Mando.”

The helmet crooks slowly to study Karga. “Who’s they?”

“Everyone. Half of Nevarro is living down there, you…you can’t go back.”

Silence.

You imagine all four of you go through the same checklist: Even if Cara didn’t already have a top-secret assignment with whatever the asset is, she doesn’t have a place of her own yet. Every week, she crashes on one of her sweethearts’ couches. On their beds, more likely. There’s no way Karga is letting him near his house, not after what happened at the cantina. That leaves…

“Stay with me,” you blurt before you can really think it through.

≈

The cramped storage room you call a home sits a story above your store. It’s four walls and only the essentials: a bed, an armchair, a table, a stove, and the only detached room is the refresher. It’s enough for you. But the Mandalorian looks like he squeezed into a dollhouse when you usher him inside and close the door behind you. He stands in the middle of the room, all fighter’s bulk and grandiose armor, like he’s afraid he’ll break something if he moves. As if he’s never been here before, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The apartment may be small, but it’s so filled with memories you could turn it into a museum of your dirty escapades with him. And if you look to your right, you’ll see the armchair where he sat while I went down on him on a stormy night.

“So,” you say and lean against the front door, “business or pleasure?”

He moves to stand to the side of the window opposite the front door and his glove moves the old washed out curtain to the side to peer into the street. The sun is setting, and the last streaks of light paint the beskar with warped yellow-orange streaks that stay as still as an undisturbed pond. So this is how he wants the evening to go: quietly and with a reasonable amount of distance between you. Disappointment knots in your stomach.

“Business.”

You open your mouth to cut into the silence, but you’re all out of words. Maybe you’ve lost your touch. It used to be so easy to tease him, but now…a heaviness seems to weigh down on his shoulders, some heightened sense of duty. But also determination: He stands taller now, prouder, like he woke up one day and knew exactly what he needed to do and why. Whatever that purpose is, you’re pretty sure it doesn’t involve you. You’re a detour, and not even the fun kind, judging by the space between you. Maker, this man used to pounce on you. Has the siege really battered you up that much?

“Been busy?” The sudden question startles you. He’s never been one to break the ice, that was usually your job.

“Sure.” Nope, not at all. “Store and all.” You closed the store three months ago. Turns out nobody buys equipment for their ships when they can’t fly past the atmosphere. “Plus, somebody needs to keep Karga distracted from his mourning. You owe him a cantina.”

“He told I did that?”

“Just a guess.” You move a couple of steps forward, like you’re approaching a nervous lothcat. When he doesn’t move away, you sit on the armchair, a little closer to him. “You like that flamethrower too much.”

“That what you four were doing in there?” The helmet moves to the side so he can spy deeper down the street. Always careful. “Assessing my damage?”

“No, just sabacc. Different kind of damage.” He’s making small talk. The Mandalorian, whom you’ve overheard have conversations solely based on grunts and sighs, is chatting with you. He’s not just answering out of politeness, he’s prompting you to go on, to keep running your mouth. That’s something he said once between thrusts, perched over you right on this floor: Keep running your mouth, see what happens. The memory warms your neck. Maker, not the point. The point is, before, he always said you had a smart mouth. Sometimes he’d chastise you for it, other times he’d encourage it. And you used to have the suspicion (or, let’s face it: fantasy) that he actually liked it. That somewhere hidden, beyond his pride and honor’s jurisdiction, he enjoyed the teasing and the banter, the challenge of having to deal with you. Better yet: More than once it crossed your mind that he got off on it, too. It’s been a long time, but some of that might remain. Maybe you’ll take his advice: keep running your mouth, see what happens.

You sit straighter, arch your back a bit just in case he’s watching. “You interrupted a round with your little stunt.”

“Yeah?” The helmet doesn’t move, but his hand runs up the curtain, considering. “Sorry. I bet you were winning.”

That makes you smile. It’s a dig at you. Far and wide across Nevarro, your uncanny ability to lose every single game of sabacc you play baffles locals and foragers alike. Yes, you know you suck, but the game amuses you anyways. You like the trash talk, the double-guessing, the bluff-calling. So much so that you forget to actually play. But what’s important is he’s teasing you, and that’s more than charted territory with him, a match you have a shot at winning. Okay. Game on.

“I was, actually.”

He huffs. “Don’t believe you.”

“Then I don’t believe you’re here on business.” Pause for effect. You can almost see a question mark form in a cloud above the helmet. You lean forward and lick your lips, lower your voice. “I think you missed me.”

You’re used to the helmet’s features remaining impassive, so you don’t look for clues on there anymore. Mando’s hands are more telling. You want to believe you actually see his fingers twitch and clutch the curtain a little tighter, that he takes too long to answer. That’s what trying to read him is all about—blind-guessing and wishful thinking.

“Don’t know about that. Six months and two weeks without your cons, I’m almost rich.”

Down to the week, huh? “Okay, if you want to make it about money we’ll bet on it. Twenty credits says you missed me.”

“Last time I was here you weren’t a compulsive gambler. Store’s doing that bad?”

“Last time you were here,” you coo, “there was a lot less talking involved.” You stare into the visor, and pray he can’t see the desperate hope in your eyes.

Your prayers are answered. In a way. Mando ignores you, doesn’t even look at you. You hear your clumsy attempt at seduction buzz around him like a one-winged bee, crash into the unmoving, unmoved Mandalorian, and fall to the floor in a pointed-lined spiral. You’re so embarrassed you want to step on it. Well, that settles it. Six months is apparently enough for a Mandalorian to lose interest.

“And store’s doing fine,” you lie to try and sway the conversation away from that lame innuendo that missed its mark. He really just wants to talk, then. No big deal. It’s fine. “Nobody gambles for money anyways.”

“Then why?”

You shrug. “Why do you hunt?” He’s never told you, but you saw him chase down a bounty once. He was ruthless, sweating adrenaline and with far too much stamina to only be chasing a bag of credits. “For the risk. The thrill.”

He lets your words float for a second. “You get a thrill out of losing?”

You roll your eyes. “I only lose cause everybody knows my bluff.” That is, except you. “You need to know someone to know their bluff. Greef and the others already know me too well. You, on the other hand.” You smile. “If you and I played, I’d get to keep so much of your stuff you’d think I’m half Jawa.”

And, only then, he seems to tense. That stupid throwaway line is what makes his spine grow visibly rigid and his hand drop from the curtain to his belt, where the leather of his glove creaks with how tightly he clutches the buckle. White and blue streetlights that reflect on his armor glide around like it’s water instead of beskar, and they’re your only indication that he’s shifted slightly. Slowly, so slowly you expect his neck to creak like a door, the Mandalorian turns away from the window to look at you. He holds there quietly, and you feel ants running down your back…stars, you’re nervous. For the first time in a while, he makes you genuinely anxious.

“You’re saying I don’t know you?” he rasps under the helmet. No, not really, but if it gets a reaction out of him…

“All I’m saying,” you start, summoning all your strength to keep your voice from faltering, “is you’ve been gone too long.” You try to make it sound a bit playful, but the words come out tasting bitter when you remember the sharp little edge that’s been digging on your side. He left you here, it whispers, he left you here and didn’t bother looking back. But a heavy boot suddenly drops forward and you’re forced to stop nursing your grudge to try and predict what Mando’s next move will be.

With every step he takes, you’re instinctively swallowed deeper into your armchair, until he’s looming over you. Stars above, the sheer size of him is enough to block out most of the artificial light coming in, and you’re left to squint in the blue twilight. Maker, you don’t remember him this big, this intimidating. Five months ago you would’ve smirked and opened your legs wide. C’mon, I don’t bite unless you ask, you would’ve teased, but now…now you think maybe you are the one who doesn’t know him anymore.

But some things never change, and having him so near still makes your thighs press together. If anything, this new foreignness, the inherent threat of a bounty hunter in your home that never quite poked the right nerve before now pulls on your most sensitive areas. It propels your heartbeat on a sprint. His arm moves, and—oh, you want him to touch you.

Visor trained on you, Mando points to the floor instead. “You hide your credits here.” To illustrate (or just to rub it in that he knows) his boot presses down on the loose tile and shifts from side to side. The sharp sound it makes irritates you less than knowing he found the fox clever hiding spot you used to pat yourself on the back for. “You don’t keep them in the store because it’s too easy to break into. The security panel downstairs is broken, but the one up here works fine.”

You can almost hear his proud smirk under the helmet. There’s a reserved side to him, sure, but bastard can be arrogant when he wants to. And no, you have no idea how he found the spot, but you’re not about to admit it.

“Congrats, boy scout. You can spot a busted panel and you have flat feet. Want a badge?” Your irritation brings back some of your old snark, but you still flinch when he moves closer and his legs brush against your knees.

“You also keep expensive parts inside the stuffing of this—” he takes a tiny step forward and frames your knees with his legs “—armchair.” Your blood freezes at his words, but it abruptly runs hot as the city’s lava river when you realize how close he stands now. His legs press against the armchair and there’s nowhere to go. You’re cornered.

A leather glove moves close and you hold your breath, before you realize he’s only toying with the tips of your hair. But his fingers dig deeper, tangle on thicker strands and, without warning, give a short but firm tug. It’s a tiny pull, but maker’s mercy, you feel your core pulse. And then, before you can regain some lucidity, his fingers dip lower, where the tips trace a slow line down your nape. He draws featherlight circles on that spot between your neck and your shoulder that he knows makes your toes curl, and—stars, it’s just been too long—you whimper.

“Still so sensitive here,” he whispers.

Once, this shielded man knew his way around your body like it belonged to him. You thought that part of him was lost, that he forgot, that he’d truly been gone too long. Those fears dissipate when his palm curls around the back of your neck to hold your gaze on him, while the thumb of his other hand brushes your lips. You know the drill—you open your mouth and give the orange tip some kitten licks. Mando huffs: You can do better than that. Maker, it should be a red flag, how quickly you comply. That urgent need to please him that had never, ever felt so crucial. An O forms in your lips before you can stop them, and his thumb pushes down on your tongue deep and deeper. You should play hard, make him earn it, bite him. But his finger starts to retreat and you panic—no, he can’t change his mind, not now. You seal your lips, trap him inside your mouth and suck. But his grip on the back of your neck grows beskar stiff, and he forcefully removes his finger…only to glide the spit over your lips. Just like that first time.

The visor looms closer to your face, and you catch a ruptured sigh, the pleasured kind that these four walls know so well. If Mando wasn’t holding you down, your chest would balloon with satisfaction and you’d float. His thumb trails down your throat, wetting its path and no doubt feeling the vibration when you chuckle. He cocks his head to the side in a silent question.

“You owe me twenty credits,” you explain, your breath clouding the helmet’s surface. “You did miss me.”

Mando crouches lower, where his helmet brushes your nose, and gropes the tops of your thighs with those wide palms you’ve been dreaming about for weeks.

“Yeah? You like bets?” You’ve never heard his voice so coarse, scratchy like week-long stubble. Did he change the settings of his modulator? Or is it just rash, pent-up need? “Then thirty credits says you’re fucking soaked.” His fingers butterfly higher up your thighs, almost at the apex. Your legs jerk.

“That’s cheating,” you gasp.

He takes one glove off and settles the covered hand on your hip, while the other disappears between your legs until—stars—he cups your core through your pants. You mewl and he hums when he feels the hot, damp fabric.

“I still win.” He presses the heel of his palm right into your clit and grinds it back and forth. Oh, if you thought you were wet before. The pressure, the friction, him—it all scalds you from head to toe like a fever, but you chase it, greedily push your hips into his palm. His fingers flatten along your slit and grope you tighter. “Gonna pay me? Doesn’t have to be credits.” He pushes viciously into you with that wide, hard palm, preening at the little gasps that escape you. Whimpering, you let your eyes fall shut and focus on something sprouting in your belly. Stars, you’re close—how the fuck are you so close already? It must be all the repressed desire, all that time. Fuck, you’re close—

The Mandalorian halts. You’re eyes flash open to see him straighten and step back, take his other glove off to stuff it snug between his belt and his hip, and remain still as a building. Still catching your breath, you study him head to toe, scanning for a sign of what went wrong. He’s clutching his belt, his stance is too smug. This isn’t him fighting temptation, he’s toying with you. Maker help him, you’re going to kill him. Some corner in your brain reasons that it’s kinda fair, as payback for all the times you messed with him. But in the forefront of your mind pulses the climax he just denied you, cast aside and angry.

Before you know what you’re doing, you push yourself off the armchair. “You—”

Mando beats you to it. A hand on your shoulder and a vembrance across your chest, he lunges forward and slams your back against a wall. He hovers over you, tightly pressed against your body. A fleshy, hard bulge covered by his pants throbs against your belly. Of course. You forgot how much he likes it when you look like prey; how much he enjoys the hunt, whether he admits it or not. The hand on your shoulder trails down to cup your breast. You squeeze your eyes shut and let out a shaky exhale.

“You need it bad,” he breathes as his fingers massage your chest. The movement shifts the fabric of your tunic, brushing it against your nipple. You roll your hips to try and stimulate him, to show you’re not the only one worked up. His erection twitches and you smile.

“You—mmm—you’re projecting.” You grind again to prove your point, but he catches on to what you’re implying and retaliates by shoving his hand inside your cleavage. Stars, you have to punch down the moan surges up your throat when he pinches your nipple.

“You missed this,” Mando hisses, and whether he’s trying to convince you or himself, you don’t know. What you do know is he’s plotting to settle this stupid inkling of a bet in his favor. He wants you to admit you missed him so he doesn’t have to. You know, because it’s exactly what you are trying to do.

You sneak your hand down his torso, aiming for the hem of his pants—but before you can get even with him, he crushes his hips against yours and traps your palm between them. And he’s not done—he wedges his thigh between your legs and rubs it up and down, drags your clit just right. Your mouth gapes in a silent moan as white hot pleasure lights up your spine. You want to get away from it but, maker, his forearm is still stiff against your chest. Even when you grab the vembrance with your free hand it doesn’t budge. You’re trapped between him and the wall.

“Can take care of m-myself just fine,” you croak as a last attempt to hold on to your dignity. “At least when I’m alone I don’t have to fake any orgasms.”

Yeah, it’s a low blow. A dirty fucking lie too, but desperate times call for desperate measures and all. Good news is it gets you a reaction—he immediately stops moving, as if your words punched him off balance. Bad news is you hit a nerve—his breathing becomes harsh like a bull’s, so much so that you expect clouds of smoke to come out from under the helmet. The Mandalorian creeps closer to your face and his forearm digs deeper into your chest. There’s a promise of danger in the dark visor that makes your pulse race, and a primitive instinct blasts emergency sirens. Maker, this won’t end well for you.

Just as you’re about to backtrack and whisper you didn’t mean it, Mando lets go of you—only for a split second, before he grasps your shoulders and turns you around to push your front into the wall. You jerk back on instinct, but he flattens a palm between your shoulder blades and squishes you right back against it.

The helmet rests right next to your ear when Mando growls, “You expect me to believe that?” His hands drop to your hips as he replaces the pressure on your back with his chest. His body weight holds you in place, and he rocks the hard outline of his erection along your ass. “That I don’t make you cum, you little fucking—” You curl your back as much as his body allows so he can stroke himself tighter against you. He groans and kneads your cheeks, moves the flesh in tandem with his thrusts. “I shouldn’t let you tonight, t-teach you a lesson.”

The mere suggestion feels devastating enough to let a pathetic whine tumble from your lips. Before, you could’ve turned this into a game, held out a little longer just to watch him break first. But you’re too pent up, too desperate, too sick of waiting. Your fingers hook on the hem of your trousers and push them down. Mid-movement, he traps both of your wrists in one hand and keeps them pressed against your lower back, while the other one gets your pants the rest of the way down, underwear too. You barely have enough time to step out of them before his free hand reaches between the apex of your thighs. You’re sticky, leaking around his fingers, and pushing back against his crotch like you’ll drop dead if he doesn’t fuck you.

“Fucking wet, fuck…” he mutters. His fingers follow the heat and your pussy clenches around nothing. Stars, if he just moved higher, a little higher where you’re hot and soaked and throbbing for him. But he takes his sweet time, molds the inside of your thighs like clay, pulls the flesh, squishes it together, until you’re writhing against him and leaking down your leg. Your vision blurs. “Can—can I…?” He lets his index finish the sentence, teasing at the edges of your outer lips.

Even with the side of your face against the wall, you manage to nod. “Yeah,” you breathe.

Two fingers slide around your folds and you gasp. Mando moves slowly, collecting your arousal and coating his fingers. Your breath catches when the tips finally push into your entrance—only a fraction before they slide back out, so the rest of his palm can cup along your cunt and drag more slick behind it. He’s strategically avoiding your clit, though, and with both arms behind your back and at his mercy, you can’t reach for it yourself. Fuck, you…you only need to hold on a bit more, he’ll get bored of his game soon enough. That’s it, just a little longer. You waited six months, no way he’s making you beg after a few minutes of teasing.

The Mandalorian eventually pulls his fingers away from your thighs and curses under his breath. You hear the familiar rustling of fabric and a divine zip that fills your eyes with tears of relief. Fucking finally. You brace yourself and relax your pelvic floor in preparation, but it’s barely necessary—you’re so ready for it. Your cunt is open and weeping, he can just slide it in. All this time, with nothing substantial inside you, your lower muscles pump and twist painfully with demanding want. Even with his size and in this position, you’re so turned on he might even be able to bottom out. Fuck, he doesn’t have to move much, a few good pumps and he’ll have you cumming, easy. Stars, what’s taking so damn long—

A modulated, battered moan and a wet noise make you turn your head over your shoulder and look for the source. The low light makes it difficult to make out shapes, but there’s no mistaking what you find below you. Hand wrapped solid around his cock, Mando is jerking himself off. With your cum as lubricant. While he treats you like a piece of furniture he’s only gripping for support. A chemical cocktail of lust mixed with fury spikes your blood.

“Is…wh-what are…what the fuck do you think y-you’re…”

“Say it,” he spits between his teeth, “say you f-fucking need me.”

No, no fucking way. As much as the words burn on your tongue and your clit tugs and begs, you’re not saying it. He left, not you. You waited for him. You turn your head as far back as your neck allows without snapping a ligament and look straight into the visor. And pointedly curl your lips inside your mouth, sealed.

Your act of rebellion lasts a good ten seconds.

“You’re so fucking difficult,” he snarls. He stops tugging on his cock, and for a moment you hope he might indulge you, push into you and stop the masochist torment you’ve talked yourselves into. But when it comes to Mando and you, it’s never that easy. Still not releasing your wrists, he grabs the base of his cock, glistening with your stolen juices, and rubs it up and down the swell of your uncovered ass. You gasp, let your lips part and your gaze fall to where he’s rubbing up against you and refusing to push inside.

He's not going to last long. Swollen and a strangled purple, the head of his cock dribbles warm precum and smears it on your lower back. The veins on his length throb against your ass, and stars, they’d feel so much better inside you. The Mandalorian’s grunts and groans ring more frustrated than lost in pleasure; it’s not enough for him either. He’s torturing you and himself just to prove a point, while you refuse to speak the magic words just to keep your pride. Desperate tears threaten to spill, but you shut your eyes to push them back. Either of you could put an end to it, right now. Maker, it’s on the tip of your tongue: I need you. Spit it out, end it. I need you, Mando, I need you, do whatever you want with me. It doesn’t matter that you abandoned me in this shithole, that you discarded me like faulty equipment, that you didn’t even have the decency to tell me—

The thrusting stops. When you open your eyes, you find the visor fixed on you, cocked slightly to the side, like there’s writing on your face. Mando’s grip on your wrist softens, his frustrated panting slows. Maybe he sees the unshed tears, or maybe your face really is that transparent, because he takes pity on you. Gentle palms on your shoulders, he turns you around to face him.

Night has fallen. Fragments of fluorescent light pour inside through your worn out curtains and give the helmet a fuzzy silver halo. The rest of the armor is shiny black, smudges of light here and there. His head moves around the features of your face, one by one, taking its time. Showdown’s over. He’s not playing a game anymore, not trying to get you to break, he’s just…studying you. Staring his fill of you farewell-style, even though he just came back. It hits you that you don’t know how long he’s staying this time. You open your mouth to ask, but stop yourself in time. If he leaves, he leaves. He doesn’t owe you any explanations.

But when he curls an arm around your waist and holds you against the wall and his cold breastplate, it doesn’t feel like goodbye. It feels like old times—pre-siege, pre-battle, pre-everything—when he confidently grabs your left thigh, sinks his fingers into the plump flesh, and hooks it on his lower back. You drape your arms around his shoulders and hold him closer. You’ve always liked the bulk of him against you, it makes everything feel more real. Buried on the crook of your neck, you hear him sigh when he lets go of your thigh and blindly searches your cunt. With your leg around his back you’re completely open for him, so it takes him no time to find your bud. He presses against it and rubs it in slow but tight circles that make your legs cramp.

You push down on him, demanding more. He groans and complies, inserts one finger and continues rubbing on your clit with his thumb. Maker, this has no right to be so good. He’s doing pretty much the same you’ve done to yourself these past months, but with Mando there are never any ghost sensations, no what ifs. It’s all here and now, and you swear you feel the pleasure of his fingers picking up speed in every corner of your body. He has you moaning and rocking your hips, dripping down his hand, and when he starts rubbing you harder and tighter, you finally whine a tiny, “Please.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t need to ask what you want, but he moves his helmet to look at you square in the face, check if you mean it. You stare droopy-eyed into the visor and nod: yesyesyesyes. Mando groans and grips you tighter. Maker, he’s right, you need it—need the bruises, need his cock, need all of him.

“Fuck,” he breathes. His hand leaves you to grab his cock and guide it to your entrance. He moves it around your lips and brushes his tip against your clit as he looks for your hole in the dark. It doesn’t take long for the head to poke right outside where it needs to go. “Fuck, I don’t—don’t think I can hold back, don’t want to hurt you—”

“Stars, please,” you whine, “I want it rough.” You want it more than rough. After six months, you want it fucking depraved, but neither of you is going to last long enough to make it elaborate. Maker, you don’t care. Right now, you don’t care for risky positions or clever techniques, you want him.

He groans and pushes inside—only the head, still testing, but your walls immediately grip him tightly to hinder any attempts to move away. That’s not what you should’ve been worried about. Fingers tight around your waist, Mando pulls you down as he pushes up. Stars. The brutal thrust reaches the end of you and then some more. Fuckfuckfuck. The dull bam of your skull hitting the wall is suddenly drowned by a slicker, filthier sound coming from between your legs. His length begins to pull out, your pussy complains the whole way, and you can almost hear the Mandalorian gritting his teeth through the sweet torture of feeling you squeeze around him…and thrust back up—harder. He likes the pace and sticks to it—fast, rough, deep, repeat—while you make sounds like you’re choking on air. Stars, it has been long. Long enough to partially forget his size, his fucking girth, currently filling you to the brim and punching high little sounds from your throat.

“Mmmando,” you sob.

Mando groans in response, snakes a hand down to your clit and rubs with the same wild abandon as his pounding. Maker, your memory was never this fucking good. No matter how many details you recalled, there’s nothing compared to the real, human meat of his cock pulsing urgently inside you, hitting your cervix, making you whine. Nothing like his fingers around your waist, or knowing there’ll be bruises tomorrow. The pleasure has teeth, carries a painful bite, but it’s exactly what you need. That tangible grit in his thrusts and his fingers is the missing piece. Your muscles start cramping, you pull him tighter against you—Maker, right there, you can feel it. It reaches your head and makes you dizzy, sheds light on some hidden, shameful words.

“Mando, I…”

“I—fuck—I n-needed this,” he grunts and brings his hand down to feel where his cock is inching out of you, like he has to double check it’s actually happening. Thrust. “Used—used to d-dream about you.” Thrust. Three fingers now push into your clit and draw frantic shapes. You clench your jaw, feel the hot tide in your belly rise faster. Thrust. “Wake up so f-fucking hard—cum in my pants.” Thrust—thrust—thrust.

Maybe it’s his words, maybe the rough pace, but something holds a flame to the dynamite building inside you and it explodes. Maker, your head’s going to burst. You moan long and deep into the spot Mando’s ear might be. Your legs shake, your arms cramp. Months’ worth of frustration gush hot and wet around him, as he babbles encouragement: There you go, just like that, make it fucking good. Your walls are still fluttering, your ears are still ringing, you haven’t even ridden out the last of your climax when his hips pick up the pace.

“Let me—let me cum inside,” the warrior pants, “let me f-fill this cunt…I—I haven’t since—fuck, I didn’t—”

“Yes,” you gasp, “yes, please, Mando, cum, cum inside—”

There’s no space left between you, but Mando finds a way to squish you tighter against him as he pounds into you for a few last moments, until you hear a strangled grunt, and a half-forgotten warmth pools inside you. The extra lubrication drives his last thrust as deep as your body allows. A few more lazy thrusts inside you, short and stunted as you take his load inside you, before he stops. A warm string trails down your leg, and—stars, he’s leaking out. How much did he cum that it didn’t fit inside you? Fuck.

You take turns panting, whimpering, listening to each other’s heartbeats slow to a semi-normal pace. The Mandalorian moves away from the crook of your neck to meet your glossy eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but you think will. You can almost hear his mouth opening, words boiling and rising in bubbles up his throat—

Zium!

It’s your imagination. It’s your ears ringing from that orgasm, your mind making stuff up. But. You could swear you saw a red flash glade right past your cheek. And from the way Mando’s helmet cocks to the side, you know he saw it too. You turn your heads in unison, to see smoke coming out of a hole a breath away from your ear. It takes both of you too long to put two and two together, and—before he can pull out—more of those red flashes are raining down on you.

…………

Edit: Chapter 2 let’s goooooooo

Taglist: @rosetophighlander @hellomothermoon @newyorksins @leo-moon @benedrylcumbersnatch

#the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian #din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando smut #mando x reader #mando x you #star wars smut

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blondeblackwidow · 4 years

Note

Could you write a fic about the Resistance meeting a Kenobi!reader who used to be Snokes old apprentice, and over time Poe begins to fall for her? I love your writing and if you do choose to write this request, the fluffier the better❤️

M e t a n o i a ( Poe Dameron x Reader )

prompt: Could you write a fic about the Resistance meeting a Kenobi!reader who used to be Snokes old apprentice, and over time Poe begins to fall for her? I love your writing and if you do choose to write this request, the fluffier the better❤️ + I’m the anon that sent the Kenobi!reader ask in, I forgot to say that the reader wasn’t Snokes apprentice willingly and she was taken as a child.

a/n; holy fuck i feel like i just poured my soul into this. this was something i played with a while on my own and i can’t get over how proud of it i am. thank you for this request, anon! i would zone out for hours just writing, and that hasn’t happen since like eighth grade. title is a greek word for a journey of self discovery.

song: the archer - taylor swift

t/w: slight mentions of child abduction and manipulation, very minor though.

w/c: 3150 ( omg )

D’Qar was loud, and the air was thick as it hit your skin. The sun hidden behind clouds, it was still considerably warmer than the Supremacy. You stepped off the transport, black boots hitting the pavement, the rest of you covered by the oversized brown robe.

You’d never seen Leia Organa before. But you knew her son, and the minute you saw her eyes, you knew who she was.

You lowered your hood. “General.” You breathed with a smile. She greeted you with a handshake, and the most comforting of smiles. She radiated a motherly energy you had never known, not in this life at least.

“Welcome, I’m so happy you got here safely, and you took me up on my offer.”

“It seems our families can never live without each other.” You responded, and Leia gestured you further into the base.

“Let’s talk in my office, and I’ll see about getting you something with some color.” She guided you amongst crowds. Her office was small by most standards, but felt comfortable and homely. She took a seat and you followed suit.

The air was tense, full of unanswered questions.

“He’s alright, doing well, all things considered.” You offered, and her shoulders seemed to relax.

“You didn’t have to..” She started, and you waved your hand.

“It’s nothing, I know you must hold your breath everyday when it comes to him.” You spoke softly, as if people were listening. “He talked about you a few times, it was always brief, but he did.”

“Thank you.” Leia reached out and squeezed your hand. The door opened behind you two and you saw a man, standing in the doorway, holding a wad of clothing.

“Ma’am Pava sent me in here with these.” He held up what looked like a shirt and pants. “She said you asked if she had spare uniforms?”

“Well yes because she’s always in her pajamas or her flight suit.” Leia reached her hand out and he gave them to her, sparing you a cautionary glance. “All of black squadron seems to operate that way.”

He opened his mouth to object, but she kept talking. “This is Poe Dameron, one of my top commanders and pilots.”

“THE top pilot, ma’am.” He turned to fully look at you, and you introduced yourself.

“She and I have family history.” Leia answered before Poe could ask. He didn’t take his eyes off you though.

“Have I met you before?” You swallowed thickly, clamming up to find a lie. You remembered him as soon as he started talking.

“The Resistance will not be intimidated by you.” He struggled out to breathe.

“We’ll see.” Kylo said from in front of you, not yet aware that you had entered the room. The man you now know as Poe starts to scream.

“Ren, you’re needed by the supreme leader.” Most of your face covered by a hood, you avoid the curious gaze from the chair in front of you both.

“It’s in a droid, a BB unit.” He barked on his way out. You take one glance at the man before you leave, hesitating.

“No, I don’t believe we have.” You forced a smile. “It’s been a pleasure though.” You turned your gaze back to Leia, who cleared her throat.

“You’re excused, Commander.” He took a breath to object, but it died on his tongue. He offered a small smile and excused himself.

“I was there, when Ren…” You trailed off, staring at the now closed door. “How am I supposed to….”

“He may look tough, but he’s got his mother’s heart.” She sighed, standing and collecting a few more things. “He’ll understand, probably more than most.”

“I hope so.” Leia smiled and gestured toward the door.

The quarters she gave you were smaller than yours on the Supremacy, but far less daunting. Glossy black walls had been replaced with cracked stone, this whole base a work in progress.The uniforms were more relaxed, and people smiled as you walked past, though you couldn’t shake the feeling that they saw right through you. Cracked foundations were held together by hope, maybe here, you thought, you could start to heal what Snoke shattered.

You were going to go out and explore. You grabbed an old brown satchel, and went to place your saber inside. It was silver with a gold band around the emitter, black striping down the sides bleeding into the solid black band around the hilt, gold circles breaking up the darkness. Kylo thought little of it, said it looked too much like a Kenobi’s lightsaber. For once in your life though, you were happy you had something to remind you of the light that coursed through your veins. It would need a new crystal, the old one corrupted by the dark side, but that was a question for Leia at a later time.

The walk to the airfield was peaceful, on the ship, all you had was recycled air. But there was something about the breeze and the smell of wildflowers and trees. And if you were honest, the smell of the engines burning fuel was better than the nothingness that you had become accustomed to.

Your eyes quickly set sight on the obnoxious X Wing that sat front and center. Black with an orange stripe, while it was Hux’s responsibility to know the specs of the Resistance, you knew that it was the ship that always meant trouble. You walked up to it and ran a hand down the side. The side panels were rough against your hand, but you liked it here, the perfection of the First Order became suffocating after a while.

“Can I help you?” A voice behind you asked. You turned to see the man from earlier, Poe, you think his name was.

“Oh no, I’ve just never seen an X Wing in person before.” You laughed. “They’re just so legendary in my mind.”

“You a pilot?” He asked, walking closer. His black hair was messy, and there was grease on his orange flight suit.

You shook your head. “Oh no, my grandpa flew A Wings during the Clone Wars but other than that we’re a pretty ground bound family.”

“Was your grandpa a clone?” Poe asked, and you furrowed your brows.

“No?”

“Well because droids were used by the separatists and clones by the republic.” He laughed. “So unless your grandfather was a clone, that doesn’t work.”

“There were civilians in the Republic.” You rolled your eyes.

“I guess.” He shrugged his shoulders, you knew he didn’t buy it. But you were okay with it, it was something to talk about at another time. A reason to talk to him again.

“You have pilots in your family?” You asked, leaning against the warm metal of the body of the ship.

“Uh yeah, my mom.” He cleared his throat. “She flew A Wings.” He raised his finger to note the similarity. “But for the Rebels against the Empire.”

“Sounds like a kickass woman.” You smiled. He shifted his weight and looked at his boots.

“Yeah, she was.” He smiled. You could sense the discomfort, and the loss.

“So how long have you been with the Resistance?”

“I’ve never met such a bold new recruit you know.” He laughed.

“Blame it on the family connection.” You laughed in return.

“What is the mysterious connection?” He asked, taking a step closer.

“Can’t give up all my secrets on the first day here.” You smirked. But how were you supposed to explain it all? Your father was a hidden bastard child from the days of Mandalore, your mother died before you could walk, you’re competition in training was the General’s son who was named after your grandfather who the General called to before Alderaan’s Doom – and that was just the surface level of it all.

“I’ll have to come bug you another time then.” You tried to hide the rising heat in your cheeks.

“It’s a small base, you can come find me.” You smiled and pushed off the ship. “I’ll see you around.”

“See you around, newbie.” You rolled your eyes, and kept walking.

You and Poe spent days on and off together, chatting, laughing, unknowingly being watched by Leia with a motherly smile. He radiated an energy unlike you had ever known, it was warm, and bright, and full of love. It was the light, the light that you were ordered to swear off for the rest of your days since you were a child.

Leia felt like the mother you had never known. The both of you aching for something taken so long ago. You spent a lot of time with her, causing a lot of questions.

Poe jumped to your defense everytime. Causing even more questions.

“Do you know where I can get a Kyber Crystal?” You piped up, reading in Leia’s private office while she worked.

“Why?” She just glanced up. You sighed.

“Mine won’t heal itself, no amount of meditation will ever make it change, not even to white. My blade still glows red.” You closed your book and turned to face her. A devilish grin grew on her face. “What?”

“After Luke lost the temple, he gave his remaining crystals to someone he trusted for safekeeping against the rising order.” The grin grew more.

“Where are they?”

“Yavin IV.” She smiled.

“Okay I’ll go to Yavin–”

“At Kes Dameron’s home.” Your jaw hit the floor. You felt like you had known Poe all your life, and maybe in another life you would have, but you really only knew him for a month or so.

So now you had to ask to meet his dad, when you hadn’t even admitted to yourself you liked him.

“I’m gonna have to ask him to go with me.” You breathed out, slightly nervous all of a sudden.

“Relax, Poe needs to go home anyways, it’ll get Kes off my back.” You snorted.

“And how do I approach that?” You started. Unaware of the door opening behind you. “Poe I need you to take me to your childhood home so I can get a crystal from your father because I secretly have a lightsaber and come from the lineage of a Jedi Master in the Old Republic, who trained both Vader and Luke?” You inhaled, unaware of how fast you were just talking. “I’m sure that’s a very easy question to ask.”

“The answers’ yes, I just have a few questions first.”

You thought you were gonna die right then and there.

The flight to Yavin wasn’t very long, but felt like years. The transport was small, Leia was unwilling to give up her large ships for the two of you.

“So how long have you been a Jedi?” He asked, shifting the controls and turning to face you.

“I’m not a jedi.” You mumbled.

“Well you have a lightsaber. That’s a very jedi thing to have.” Of course in your oblivious confession, you didn’t include how you acquired the weapon.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” You got up from the copilots seat now that you were in Hyperspace, wanting to be anywhere but under his gaze. He grabbed your forearm to stop you, and your skin burned at the touch.

“I have met you before.” He whispered. “You were on that ship.”

“I’m so sorry.” Your voice was broken full of shame. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Why were you there?” His eyes were locked on yours.

“I was a child, my father was on the run after Mandalore’s downfall. They caught us after a few years.” You sighed. “My father was killed, but Snoke knew of my lineage, said that because my grandfather created Vader, I had a capacity for greatness.” You shifted your weight and sat back into the chair. “I didn’t know the difference, I was so young, with this weird energy flowing through me that I couldn’t control.”

“It’s okay.” He relaxed his hand and brought it back to his lap, you tried to hide your disappointment at the lack of touch. “You’re safe now.”

“Thank you.” You whispered, and you both sat in safe, comfortable silence before the ship made its entrance to the Yavin system.

Yavin IV, you’d come to realize, was a lot like D’Qar, luscious green trees and warm summer breeze. The Dameron home was a black and white contrast to anything you had known. Poe, on the other hand, doesn’t welcome the energy, instead tenses, as if he is in fear of what lies ahead.

“I’ll do the talking, if you want?” You offer, and Poe shakes his head.

“It’s alright.” He sighs. “How do you tell someone that the ideals they spent their life fighting are growing stronger everyday?”

“You tell them that there’s hope.” You smile softly. “Hope is the only thing you have that they don’t.” The weight of your blood red lightsaber seams to double, and none of this seems doable.

He starts to walk toward the house and you are left with no choice but to follow. He opens the door to find an older man with the same tone of skin, and same curly hair, faded now to a silver, working on something at the table.

“Hey dad.” You want to hide behind Poe’s shadow.

How do you tell someone that the ideals they spent their life fighting are standing in front of them in their dining room?

“Poe!” He exclaimed with a smile, and gave his son a large hug. “Leia warned me you were coming. Who’s this?” He asked, returning to the neutral position.

“Oh this is Captain…” He trailed, remembering he’d never learned your last name.

“Kenobi.” You smiled, your chest swelling with pride at the surname you discarded so long ago. Recognition and surprise flashed among both men’s faces.

“I would assume you’re here for the crystals.” He winked.

“How did you…”

“A feeling, I guess.” He shrugged and began to search through a container, and Poe just mouthed your surname back to you with shock and wonder. You waved your hand to dismiss him. “Poe can you run this down to the lady down the road, the one who always gave you sweets after Shara said no?” He gestured to the project he was working on, and Poe opened his mouth to protest.

But just like with Leia, it died long before he could manage words. He scooped it up and gave you an apologetic glance before leaving.

“Can I see it?” was the first thing Kes asked after his son’s departure.

“Y-Yeah.” You stumbled and pulled out the saber from your bag, handing it to him. He placed a small brown bag on the table with a quiet clink, and began to smile.

“It resembles Luke’s second saber..” He looked at you. “Made with pieces of Ben Kenobis.” You couldn’t help but return the smile.

“It’s the same style, according to old texts.” You said. “Not exactly the same I’m afraid.”

“What’s the need for a new crystal?” He handed it back.

“I..” You hesitated. Poe forgives so easily, but Leia said that was his mother, not Kes. “I was taken in by Snoke when I was young, trained..” You swallowed, staring at the saber in your hands. “I want to make things right, I can’t do that with red blades, the crystal is too broken to heal, I need to start anew.” Kes’ shoulders relaxed and he leaned against the table.

“I am sorry.”

“For?”

“Had we done it right the first time, there never would have been a Snoke to corrupt your gift.” He smiled sadly, you reached for his hand and gave it a light squeeze.

“Had you done it the first time, I would have never met him.” You smiled. “And there will always be those who want destruction, but as long as there is more hope, then we’ll always have peace.” Tears welled up in your eyes, you were talking more to yourself, but he pulled you into a hug, and you cried, for the first time in years.

“I know a place where you can install that.” He said, releasing the hug, and you followed him to a large tree in the field. It hummed with energy. Not evil or good, not light or dark, just balanced force.

You sat on your knees in front, placing a crystal next to your saber, Kes walking away to give you a moment. You closed your eyes and pictured it all, the darkness, the mistakes, being swept away by light, and forgiveness. You opened them to reveal your reassembled saber, and the cracked crystal next to it. You decided to bury it with the tree, putting to rest your conflict, your guilt, and anger.

And Igniting your forgiveness, certainty, and compassion in a deep blue light.

“A True Kenobi.” Kes said from afar, Poe just watching in awe as the sun set behind the mountains. You disabled the saber and wore it proudly on your belt.

“Thank you.” Was all you could manage, walking back toward the older of the two rebels.

“Don’t even worry about it.” He squeezed your shoulder, and walked back toward the house.

“Bonfire?” Poe asked, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Yes.”

The night fell rather quickly after the sun set, and the summer breeze gave a chill while you and Poe sat on a log and exchanged dumb jokes and he filled you in on all the need to know information. A silence fell over you soon enough and he just stared at you over his shoulder.

“Kenobi, huh?” He laughed. “My grandpa flew A-Wings.” He mocked

“You’re an ass.” You rolled your eyes.”He did!” You defended.

“He was a kriffing Jedi that is the least interesting thing you could have said!”

“Sorry my life story isn’t entertaining.” You punched his arm and he acted fake hurt.

“Oh it definitely is.” He poked. “They’ll write myths about you.”

“Hopefully about the good to come, not the bad that’s passed.” You half smiled.

“I hope it’s all of it, more inspiring that way.” He locked eyes with yours.

“Me being a trained sith apprentice doesn’t scare you?” He shook his head.

“No. Sith, Jedi, call it what you want but I just see a beautiful woman who is strong enough to know right from wrong.” He tucked a hair behind your ear. “And that means more than making things float.” He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your lips and your heart forgot how to keep a rhythm.

You were sure Obi Wan was up there cursing about the Old Jedi Code and falling in love, or whatever. The best part was, you didn’t love Poe.

but you know you could, given time.

And for once in your life you weren’t scared.

#poe dameron #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron fanfiction #poe dameron x oc #star wars #star wars fanfiction #star wars x reader #star wars imagine

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whatsupmrstark · 4 years

Text

NSFW alphabet: Peter B. Parker

This is just for the understanding of how I write/ imagine peter

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Peter is an absolute dreamboat, after making sure your comfy and have whatever your heart desires he usually just likes to lay in bed and cuddle. He really likes laying his head on your bare chest and having you play in his hair.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Peter loves your mouth. For more than one reason, he likes hearing your voice and all the noises you make. And of course you’re secret skills you have with oral. He thinks you have such pretty lips and gets lost sometimes just watching you talk.

For him he’s not to insecure, he’s confident, but he doesn’t really like anything in particular about himself. He likes his arms though if he had to choose, he likes how strong he is and that he can hold you up.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

We all know he wanted to play it safe so when you first started having sex it was strictly condoms and pulling out. But then it was just pulling out, then you got on birth control and he couldn’t get enough of cumming in you. What can he say, he likes knowing he’s the only one who can do that.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Peter really wants to try anal. He brought it up once you said no and it never got looped back into conversation. But sometimes he thinks about what you’d do it he just “slipped”

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Peter had experience with kissing and head before he met you, but soon after the first few times ,once he got comfortable, you guys tried all sorts of things. He knows what works and what doesn’t and now you’d say he’s got a good amount of experience.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Ahah- here’s the tricky thing about peter. He’s simply never admitted to his favorite position. But if you had to guess just based on how eager he gets when you request, he likes to fuck You in a spooning position. Usually fresh in the morning holding you close and whispering in your ear and kissing your neck.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He’s a big goofball, he’s never serious at all, or too dominant. The sex you two share is loose and comfortable. He doesn’t try to be funny but sometimes he’s just being peter parker in the most Humorous way.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

The first time you told peter you wanted to try sucking his dick he shaved for you. Poor peter didn’t really know what he was doing and got really bad razor burn. Ended up with painful stubble and swore off a full shave. He does keep it very trimmed and neat for you though. (He even got a wax for Valentine’s Day and he’s more scared of waxing now)

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

His complete focus is on you and your pleasure in the moment. He simply gets off by you getting off.

Peter also enjoys the intimacy sex brings to your realationship. While he’s never used the “i” word because he thinks of it as taboo, he does get a little rush from being so close to you in such a spiritual and Romantic way.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Peter used to mastubate a lot before you two started doing... things. But after, Well you keep him completely satisfied And satiated. But he does have the occasional wank If either of you are gone. But who’s to say you don’t help him out ;)

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

We all know baby parker has a praise kink. (In reference to ‘intimacy’) peter likes knowing how good he makes you feel. Even just simple moans of his name makes him fluttery.

Now he didn’t exactly know it was a kink but he is a bit into voyeurism. He had walked in on you naked playing with yourself and it stuck to him since. You caught on and would sometimes give him a Show as foreplay.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anywhere in your home really, on the bed, on the floor, on the couch, on the counter- there’s most likely not a surface that hasn’t had something happen on it.

Usually you two opt for a bed.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You really. Peters super senses are dialed into you so strongly. He can smell you from a mile away so when You get turned on 25 feet away he knows and it instantly just does it for him.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Pretty much anything that causes you actual pain. Or involves feet.

Peter doesn’t even dare to hurt you, in any way, and he gets squeamish by mblood and feet so period sex is also off the table.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Peter genuinely enjoys oral sex. He loves to 69 and could spend days between your legs just giving you orgasm after orgasm.

It’s safe to say he’s a solid 9.5/10

When it comes to receiving he doesn’t mind but it just makes him want to get his tongue on you even more.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

More of the latter when it come to the day to day stuff. He’s so passionate and calm sometimes it’s scary, long and slow strokes that have you clawing at his back and begging.

Of course there’s the occasional anger fueled sex that has you bent over the nearest object and he goes pretty fast but never to hard to hurt you. But even then it’s only a few times a year.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Usually quickies only happen if necessary, you two are adults with full lives so your sex happens at night or in the morning and on the occasional day off.

And there are the days you text peter to come pound your brains out on your lunch break. But they’re completely necessary.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Peter is always game to experiment or at least try something once as long as you’re comfortable with it he’s game.

Pretty much everything you did before you moved in together was risky, so he’s not new to it. But he doesn’t go out of his way to take risks. If they happen it’s naturally.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

This is kinda a trick question.

Peter can just go until he- or you- are physically spent. Even though he usually takes a lot longer, it’s nothing to complain about.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

You own a bullet vibrator that peter took a liking to, being able to stimulate you in Differnt ways was a fun thing for him. You don’t use it often and sometimes when you think he’s just forgotten about it you feel him reach over to your nightstand

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Peter is really into foreplay but teasing not so much.

Sometimes he can’t help but do something to mess with you but he never leaves you unsatisfied

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

The. Noises. Peter. Benjamin. Parker. Makes. During. Sex. Are purely pornagraphic. He could legitimately make you orgasm just by hearing him.

He’s generally average volume. Not too loud but sometimes he gets super quiet and focuses so hard he’s biting his lips and scrunching up his face.

He makes pretty much every sound in the book. And you can’t get enough.

He really likes to get low and intimate sometimes just hearing each other breath after your orgasms. Just fantastic.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Peter loves having sex in the mornings. He thinks it the perfect way to start the day. Sometimes he even just like to finger You or eat you out, he noticed the difference in your attitude through the day when he did.

He thinks you’re the most raw and beautiful in the morning. He nearly always wakes up with a hard on and usually you two put that to use.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Peters italian Nuff said there. But The spider bite did something for All Appendages.

And whewwww he knew exactly how to use it.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

No matter how much he says it peter genuinely couldn’t handle having sex every single day. You have your fair share of sex three times on the weekend and four times a week and it’s a lot to handle then.

And sometimes peter likes to poke fun but you just know it’s cover for how horny he gets.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Peter likes seeing you sleep after. So he waits for you to fall out first, watching you snore against your pillow.

He likes to see you sleeping in general. He likes how content and soft you look. Only then does he even think of passing out.

#peter parker smut

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dolanswhore · 5 years

Text

Moonlight. (3) Scared.

chapter 2 || series masterlist.

warning: before reading this book you must understand it is fictional, and the twins are both werewolves and have animal like personalities. also this is a Grayson x reader x ethan story :)

also nudity

The hot sensation of the heat of the fire warmed her bare skin to the point the the green lines of meaning started to drip from her skin only to be fixed by the rough pad’s of Grayson’s fingers. Ethan’s continued to gather various twigs and leaves to throw into the fire. Grayson says nothing as he sits cross crossed onto the ground but tugs on her arm with such softness not wanting to make one mark against her perfect skin. She cleared her throat trying to hide the gasp that fell from her mouth due to the tingling sensation that filled her skin with goose bumps in the spot his skin met hers.

“Sit.” It was a gentle command one she couldn’t seem to ignore due to the seriousness of the situation that both men in front her held. Both set of lips set in deep frowns as they sat against the earth. Looking down at both of them debating if she should just run the other way seeing both were distracted but was quickly reminded that she’d seen them turn from wolves only hours ago, also a small tug of her heart at the thought of leaving. “Sit.” Grayson was more harsh this time, his voice was powerful and strong that it boomed through his chest.

“Why are you so defiant my half?” Grayson practically growled as he looked at his Ethan, who only shook his head trying to tell Grayson to leave it alone but Gray didn’t listen. “Why can’t you accept that you are our mate?”

“Because you’re fucking crazy.” Those words even had Ethan’s head turning to face her. “I don’t have a wolf and I’m definitely not talking to any kind of moon goddess today!” Her arms extending in the air with venom lacing every word. Grayson just squints at her arms crossing over his broad chest which she couldn’t help but watch. Embarrassment pinching her cheeks at the nudity of them once again. Neither man carry either, not modest. In their pack it was normal to see men and woman naked and they wouldn’t tolerate it any other way.

She look away from Grayon and Ethan to the ground trying to find another sight then their thick, strong thighs covered in swirls of black ink. “You said you were scared.” Ethan had finally spoke as he watched as tears of frustration form in her eyes, his heart dropping at the sight of her red face and quivering chin.

“I am terrified. First I’m almost eaten alive by a monster neither of you had bothered to talk about. “ She looks down at her arm, the small gashes had finally stopped bleeding but left dry blood around them. “And watched two wolves turn into humans and they’re claiming i belong to them and they kidnap me! I also don’t know why i’m so attracted to them. My heart hurts at the though of running away. “ she didn’t know why she was telling him but let out a sigh as she wiped the tears that fell to her cheeks.

“I’m Ethan..” He whispers reaching out to grasp her hand into his. The tingles of skin on skin sent heat throughout both of their bodies. “This is Grayson and you are our mate.”

The rougher twin rolls his eyes obviously not amused at watching E touch her. Grayson steps closer clearing his throat. Eyes meeting hers in fear of rejection of him, it would kill him if Ethan was the only one allowed to touch her. Grayson couldn’t help but be a little pushy with the woman in front of him. Out of the two he had always been the overbearing one, who stuck to all the rules and always did what his father said. Maybe Ethan’s approach did work better as he watched Y/N relax slightly. Grayson’s hand now had her other one as Ethan continued to talk. “Just try please and if you don’t believe us still we will let you go, I promise.”

Ethan’s fingers wipe the small tears from her cheeks bringing it to his lips to taste the salty tears, it was only to have her scent against him which his body craved so much. Gray leans slightly into her neck, his nose pressing against the skin to smell the sweet scent of her. The twins were completely drunk of her scent just wanting to smell the intoxicating trance only she could put them in. “Please..”

To both of their surprise she nods slowly as she lowers herself to the ground, still uncomfortable of being in just her underwear in front of them. Grayson and Ethan sink to their knees on opposite sides of the fire as it rose with flames, small whites and blues dancing together to tangle around the orange flame. It warmed her body completely watching as their fingers interlock then hold the opposite hand out to her. The sensation of warmth fueled her veins at the connection of them all together by the joint of fingers intertwining and hands meeting one another.

The fire rose quickly into the night, higher then she could ever imagine as they twins began to chant simultaneously “ascoltaci la nostra regina.”

Y/N’s concerned eyes met Ethan first feeling his finger’s tighten around hers, then to Gray as a small growl rumbles from his chest his eyes slowly rolling to the back of his head only to show the whites of his eyes as blood pinches his gums as two sharp teeth poke from behind his lips. "Grayson?"

"Shhh!" Ethan shushes her quickly pressing his finger to her lips before whispering. "We cant break the link dangerous." Both watching as his body rose slightly from the ground giving the illusion that he was floating.

"What's happening?" Shes seen enough horror movies to know when someone's eyes are open but no pupil is seen to run because the devil is truly there and floating? It was time to go. "Ethan I'm scared."

His finger's find hers in comfort lacing together as the bond relaxes her, skin on skin. "The moon goddess will speak through him when she is ready."

"I've been waiting for you wolves to finally talk to me." Grayson was taking, but it wasn't him talking. "What the actual fuc-"

"We need guidance..." Ethan cuts Y/N off as his fingers scratch the scruff that peppered his chin. "We dont know what to do, our mate is the same person it must be a mistake."

"I do not make mistakes." It was rushed as Gray let out a small groan, his body fighting the moon inside of him. It was too much power that ran through his veins, every pore, every cell in his body humming in pain as the Queen of the Moon channeled him. "You must go back to your old pack, claim your rightful spot and treat your luna the respectful way, the traditional way. As for her wolf it is in there, I feel her begging to howl to me. My twins, my greatest creation you must help her find it."

A few short seconds later had Grayson gasping for air, holding his chest tightly in his massive hand as his raw throat greedily sucked air to fuel his lungs. Very much to both of the twin's surprise Y/N fell to the ground before him, hand running through the soft strands of his hair to comfort him. She couldn't explain why, but that it felt right. There was no denying what had just happened, that another person spoke through grayson. Someone of higher power, the creator of all wolves placed her with these males and it wasnt a mistake it was her path.

"I'm okay." It was more for himself then for her as Ethan is quickly behind her and without another thought pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder as a way to confide her hurting of seeing Gray like this. Gray's eyes widen with a tang of jealousy in the pit of his stomach that could be seen through the blackening pupils. Grayson's animistic snarl catching her off guard as she backed away from him. Not paying to match attention that with two short steps she was feeling the radiating warmth of ethan's bare chest.

As much as it hurt him to do so he backed away from the skin that made his burn to help his brother up, bringing his arm around his neck to support most of his weight. "Go in front of us."

Ethan's voice didnt hold any room for negotiation as he wanted his eyes to be on her. In front of him where he can see anything that could possibly attack and be able to act before it does. His protectiveness was felt the same as Gray nodded in agreement. Well as much as he could with his body weak that completely drained from the channeling. Despite Grayson’s broad muscular frame Ethan had him back to the place they called home in only seconds with his unhuman strength he could easily carry the both of them home. Grayson was gently set against the warm furs of the ground with tiny groans of pain.

“Is he going to be okay?” Ethan nods as he takes small jar that decorated the only shelves on the wall, they were filled with leaves, spices and what looked like to be bones? Well to her at least..

“He’ll be okay my love, his body needs to recuperate, it hurts when the moon talks to you. you could feel it from here.” His finger makes it way above her heart pressing the skin of her chest. “To the point I can feel every cell in my body aching.”

“She’s talked through you before?” She was truly terrified of the whole situation. Wolves to Humans and then Human’s to wolves. A goddess non has heard of channeling the body of Grayson, there was no faking that. No faking the pain he felt, the change in his personality, the person spoken to was not Grayson, it was someone else. The real Grayson laid against the furs, eyes squeezed together in pain as his body began to work inside out to heal him.

Ethan nods as he crushes to contents of the bowls, which was various leaves to make a green thick liquid. “What did she mean pack? There’s more of you?”

“There’s 4 packs all together all separated by a different alpha.” She couldn’t seem to comprehend that her whole life here in this town that these woods held four different packs of werewolves that know one knew of. “I-I..”

“I will anger your questions later mia regina.” [my queen] Ethan is quick to his brother’s aid. “Drink Gray.”

“No it takes like shit and you know I hate it.” Ethan rolls his eyes as his helps prop his brother up against the wall for it can support the weakened man. “It will make you feel better, put you to sleep until your healing is done.”

“It won’t though, it taste like that week old rabbit your wolf wouldn’t eat. And it doesn’t matter anyways because we’re not going back Ethan. I never want to go back. ” Ethan presses the bowl against his lips not giving him a choice in the matter. “Drink brother, we’ll talk about the pack when you wake up.”

Grayson managed to drink it all despite how much he gagged and complain but it wasn’t long until his eye lids fell heavy, sleeping wanting to take over his whole body. “I’m going to find you food.” Ethan mumbles slowly bringing his nose to her neck to sniff her scent. “You will not leave us? Do you understand you’re patch now?”

“No. I’m still not sure what’s going on but It feels right with you.” Ethan smiles at her words tongue coming out to soak in the feeling of her skin before leaving her with the dark shut, harder then in should be.

“Does it feel right with me?” It was said aloud by a very tired Grayson. “I don’t mean to be so ill-mannered with you, i’m just that type of male but i want you to feel right with me.”

“I do...” It’s soft just above a whisper but loud enough for his above human hearing. “Come lay with me until I fall asleep?”

Her feet carried her before she could even think, her body craved his touch, the smell of him and there was nothing she could do about it as the bond pulls her closer. Grayson’s arms around her tingled her skin, sent a feeling of pleasure straight to her heart that warmed her chest. She would never understand the feeling his touch or Ethan’s touch gave her.

“I’m sorry for scaring you earlier.” His face skimming against her neck to sniff loudly. “You smell too much like Ethan, my wolf doesn’t like it.”

He makes sure to lick the same size stride of spit right next to his mark but couldn’t help himself as he pressed his lips against the tender flesh as a small gasp fell from her lips covering her in his scent until he reached her shoulder. Not even moments later his eyes were closed sent to the relm of sleep not bothering to fight it knowing his body needed it. She was out of his grasp soon after needing a moment to sit and finally take in what was happening to her.

That quickly came to an end as Ethan opened the door, nose twitching at the scent of Grayson. too much Grayson. Eyes darkening as his knuckles turn white from the forming fist at his sides. His wolf was on edge, yellow eyes brightening as he threatened to come forward. He was jealous of Grayson’s scent, jealous he had covered his own. “I can’t control him.. he need to scent you. I’m sorry

Her mouth fell open as she noticed the arousal through the small cloak that covered his bottom half that was quickly untied from his waist, revealing his privateness to her. “Let me scent you please..”

#ethan dolan #ethan dolan imagine #ethan dolan x reader #grayson dolan imagine #grayson dolan x reader #grayson dolan #moonlight #dolan twins imagine

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projectalbum · 6 years

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All the best. 200. “Accelerate,” 201. “Collapse Into Now,” 202. “Unplugged 1991/2001: The Complete Sessions” by R.E.M.

After exhaustive touring, a greatest hits disc, and a dud album, the lovable lads from Athens, R.E.M., wisely took some time to figure things out before regrouping.

The four-year absence didn’t register with me, as I was collecting the back catalogue during that break. As far as I was concerned, new material was everywhere I looked, filling up my burgeoning record collection as I finished high school and started making my way through college. By the time Accelerate (#200) burst onto the scene in March 2008, I was a junior in film school, about to attend my first documentary festival. I put aside an extra $15 from my work study job to pick up the CD the day of release— the first time I’d been able to perform that record store* ritual for my favorite band. *(Though I didn’t have access to any record stores at the time, so it was likely procured from the closest Wal-Mart.)

Fast, lean, gritty, produced by a guy who goes by “Jacknife,” this set of songs could not be more of a deliberate course-correction from the overly fussy, mid-tempo Around The Sun. Peter Buck’s skills on the axe, often mixed way down on the previous album, here announce Accelerate's punk-ish purpose in the intro to “Living Well is the Best Revenge,” leading off with a dexterous riff before the drums come trampling in. Stipe spits furiously, with the best use of his full-throated tenor since New Adventures in Hi-Fi, and the rare bar to inspire a Fuck Yeah fist-pump: "Don't set your talking points on me / History will set me free / The future's ours and you don't even rate a footnote.” Recorded and released in the tail-end of the Bush years, there are unmistakable references, drawn in anger and in weariness, to the emotional tolls of that reign.

“If the storm doesn’t kill me, the government will,” Stipe muses at the top of “Houston,” a hair over 2 minutes but suffused with poignancy. It’s an acoustically-driven Western-tinged ballad that hearkens back to “Swan Swan H” or “Monty Got A Raw Deal,” but here the drums are splashy and blown-out, the organ serves a bleating counterpoint to the vocal, and bowed electric guitar bleeds through into the verses, serious as storm clouds. The intriguing production choices are what mark it as the Accelerate twist on familiar R.E.M. tropes. The chorus: “Houston is filled with promise / Laredo's a beautiful place / Galveston sings like that song that I love / Its meaning has not been erased” is stirring, as if to absolve the Lone Star state for spawning the political dynasty that led to 2 disastrous presidencies. "Belief has not filled me / And so I am put to the test” are the last words before distortion drowns out the melody like a fatal wave. The song has never left my head.

“Until The Day Is Done” is a more familiar flavor of the band’s earnest political identity— it even ended up scoring a CNN-produced piece on environmental issues. The lyrics approach the first two verses of Leonard Cohen’s “Everybody Knows” in reflecting a distressing capitalist landscape, and to read them is to find that the “business-first flat earthers” have only doubled-down in the decade since the song was released. But the lack of idiosyncrasies leaves us with a folky protest song, and it has a tendency to become oatmeal to the ear, nestled amongst the bolder sonic moments.

By which I mean the muscular guitar sounds and fast n’ furious arrangements on tracks like “Man-Sized Wreath,” “Accelerate,” “Horse To Water”— the revitalized band blowing up the electronic, art school solemnity of the preceding Bill Berry-less records. I remember I once put on Accelerate during a day of recording drive-by b-roll footage with some new coworkers, who enthused, “We were a little worried when you said you were gonna play R.E.M…. but this is really good!” I just glided past the implied criticism and took the positive note.

In early 2011, songs for their follow-up began to be released on YouTube and rolled out by the pop culture press. I’ll admit I was underwhelmed by what I heard. Accelerate’s novelty, its flouting of the band’s cliches, had me expecting another quantum leap in a wild direction. Collapse Into Now (#201) was feeling more like a greatest hits mashup.

“Discoverer” at times sounds like an interpolation of “Man-Sized Wreath” (compare the chorus of the former to the verses of the latter.) That exultant wordless harmonizing on “It Happened Today” is straight from “Belong” on Out of Time (plus special guest Eddie Vedder.) “Blue,” the closing track, takes equal parts New Adventures’ “E-Bow The Letter” (dark grinding minor key, Beat poetry, plus Patti Smith-voiced chorus) and Out of Time's “Country Feedback” (the chords sound similar, and the aching Peter Buck solo is back). I’d never before been able to identify the sonic inspirations so easily. However, for all my creeping dissatisfaction, as a true fanboy I knew the record would grow on me. The prophecy was indeed fulfilled.

The song that most represented the sound of a modern-day R.E.M. was “Mine Smell Like Honey.” It was unmistakably them, with the inscrutable lyrics, Michael in gravel-throated rock mode, a Mike Mills vocal harmony line designed to carry its own trajectory while lifting up the chorus, Buck with an indelible riff that doesn’t show off for its own sake— but it would fit right on modern rock radio in 2011, if that still existed. I had another one of my Best Buy PA system epiphanies, clicking this track into place, proving sometimes you need some huge speakers with good bass to truly experience certain songs. In a similar mode, “That Someone Is You” rockets by in under 2 minutes; a live-in-the-room ode to the feeling of meeting that exciting new person who'll lift you out of the mud.

The mid-tempo balladry is back as well, diversifying the sound from the previous release. In “Oh My Heart,” a direct sequel to “Houston,” Stipe croons a New Orleans spiritual with "a new take on faith," while Buck's mandolin comes out of retirement for another sweet, sad melody, and Mills fills in the mournful choir. As with the song’s predecessor, it’s a high-point in the track listing that moves me whenever I hear it.

Before I had warmed to Collapse Into Now, I comforted myself with the idea that New LP equaled New Tour. I could finally catch my favorite band live! They told the press they had no plans to tour behind the record. Odd, but they were an institution, so they could take a pause. I’d recently witnessed Paul McCartney tearing through his hits in person, and he’d already blown past age 64. Then in September 2011, R.E.M. announced they had decided to “call it a day as a band”— a phrase designed to wave away the idea of Beatles-esque acrimony. I was, you can probably imagine, more than a little heartbroken. The previous tour had come within 2-and-a-half hours of my town back in ’08. At that point in my life, that seemed like a hassle: why not wait, see if they made it a little closer next time? Now, I wish I had put in the extra effort.

With this announcement, the sense of Collapse as R.E.M.’s tribute album to themselves came into focus. Stipe is even waving goodbye, for god’s sake, on the first album cover photo to clearly feature the faces of the whole band since 1985’s Fables of the Reconstruction. "It's just like me to overstay my welcome, bless” he sings with sheepish glee on “All The Best.” Shrouded by the spirit-radio-filtered effect of his “Blue” recitation comes his clearest statement of purpose: "I want Whitman proud. Patti Lee proud. My brothers proud. My sisters proud. I want me. I want it all,” and then Patti Lee (Smith), one of his earliest lead singer inspirations, draws the narrative to a close… before the ringing jangle of opener “Discoverer” reprises and concludes. The book’s been closed shut… but the story of the band’s music continues.

There was the inevitable plundering of the vaults. An over-arching Best Of record, finally combining songs from the I.R.S. and WB catalogues (didn’t buy it), with 3 brand new recordings (they’re ok). Two digital-only “Complete Rarities” collections, encompassing hours of b-sides and soundtrack cuts (lotta great stuff, but this week WB removed all of theirs from Spotify, so I’m pretty perturbed).

In 2014, 3 years into my mourning period, they announced Unplugged 1991/2001 (#202), a 2-CD set of their appearances on the MTV show where bands play intimate, stripped-down acoustic sets… you know, in front of multiple TV cameras capturing every angle. Now this got me excited, maybe more than I had been for their swan song record— Bob Dylan Unplugged, Paul McCartney Unplugged, and The Unplugged Collection Vol. 1 had all got a lot of play in my home through the years. Other than my favorite version of “Half A World Away” closing out the Vol. 1 compilation, and a burned, hand-labeled CD-R I had once glimpsed on a coffee table during a realtor’s house tour, recordings of R.E.M.’s appearance on the show didn’t seem to exist until now. I pre-ordered that bad boy.

The set is a snapshot of two very different eras for the band: Disc 1 features them on the cusp of superstardom fueled by Out Of Time’s success, with the classic lineup of Berry/Buck/Mills/Stipe and support from Peter Holsapple. Disc 2 finds them down to a three-piece, supporting Reveal, a record that never got its due, with their frequent contributors Scott McCaughey and Joey Waronker filling out the sound. “Losing My Religion” is on both discs, of course, from the bright new hit that pumps up the crowd to a warmly-recieved old friend.

The treat in hearing these shows is also two-fold. There’s the way that familiar tunes get adapted to the setting: “It’s The End of the World...” is transformed into a Friday night Americana hoe-down, while “The One I Love” is slowed down to a gritty lament with a slightly varied vocal melody. After the 2nd chorus and an instrumental bridge in “Country Feedback,” Stipe folds lines from Dylan's “Like A Rolling Stone” into the tune, a goosebump-inspiring moment.

Then there’s the added benefit of songs that I’d once slept on revealing their power in the live arrangements. The 2001 show closes with several tracks from Reveal, and free of all electronic touches, the choruses of “Disappear” and “Beat A Drum,” well, revealed themselves to me, becoming new earworms and spawning a personal reevaluation of the album. “Find The River” had once been a pleasant-enough closer on Automatic For The People, but a step down from the iconic “Nightswimming” that precedes it. Now it’s a new favorite, and I’m prone to singing it loud with embarrassing over-earnestness.

With the band truly well and dissolved (and no cynical cash-grab “reunion tours” planned, those damn jerks and their integrity), the repackaging of older material is the only avenue left for unheard R.E.M. music. The studio albums are greeting their landmark anniversaries with special editions: Automatic’s 25th was recently celebrated with various configurations of physical release, including one with a disc of demos and a 5.1 surround sound Blu-ray that I WILL possess one day, damnit! Just this week, their social media team announced a sprawling set of BBC sessions and interviews, hopefully to be made available on streaming services in addition to the fancy 9-disc set (I know, sacrilege in my blog about physical media, but space is at a premium and I haven’t even COVERED the live DVDs and music video collections I already have of these guys).

There’s even a podcast exclusively about the band! The exceedingly silly interplay between Scott Aukerman and Adam Scott was enough to get me to listen to several eps of their previous U2-centric show (a band that I’m fairly positive towards), so "R U Talkin’ R.E.M. RE: ME?,” in which they go album-by-album through the discography, was appointment listening from the jump. I couldn’t help but sprinkle inside jokes from the podcast into my first entry. Fuckin’ stoked!

It’s hard to articulate how much R.E.M.’s music has meant to me. There’s undeniable power in finding art when you’re young and unsteady. To ally yourself with a favorite band, especially one that clearly creates from a place of conscience and empathy, is to find a solid stone floor that supports you when you’re at your most weighted down. It’s easy for me to hold onto nearly 2 dozen discs because there’s so much variety. They could uplift, interrogate the status quo, offer humor or succor or an outlet for the uncertainty we struggle with. Michael Stipe sang about identity, queerness, nature, hypocrisy, anger, tenderness, artists, politicians, outsiders, expressive freedom, and quiet contemplation. These lyrics came from what he saw and felt but they were conjured by the instrumentals constructed by Peter Buck, Mike Mills, and for years Bill Berry. Jangle-rock or country-western or chamber pop or folk or glam or electronica— they busted through genres with grace and power; immutability was not an option. They couldn’t finish a record until Michael had the words; Michael had their blueprint on tape to fill his ears until the images flowed.

“Here’s a little agit for the never believer / Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah / Here’s a little ghost for the offering,” Stipe sang in his 11th hour, one-take performance of “Man On The Moon.” Now I offer a 20-song Document of the R.E.M. songs that mean the most to me at this moment. It nearly killed me to whittle it down, and your favorite probably isn’t on it. The song I just quoted isn’t even on it! But that’s the power of R.E.M., where the subjective experience rules all.

#R.E.M.#michael stipe #peter buck #Mike Mills #Accelerate #collapse into now #unplugged #mtv unplugged #man on the moon #album cover #cd #cd collection #music blog #rock #alternative #pop #album art

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equalitae · 7 years

Text

S e c r e t s

Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader

Genre: Angst

Song to suggest: Secret Love Song - Little Mix

Synopsis: Once the interest is gone, there is nothing but used paint brushes we try to recover.

Once the bond is broken, there’s nothing that can fix it in what it used to be. Once you fall for someone else, there is not a thing that can be done to forget about the shared memories you two begin to share.

Once you break your old promises, you just begin to make new ones.

Word count: 3K

A/N: Hi!

Here’s a complete request i had in my message inbox! I hope that you enjoy it and please, if you do, give it some love!

I’m sorry it took me so long, though!

Requests are open! Just remember to read the r u l e s before requesting!

See you soon, x!!

It was a mess. I was a mess.

The floor tiles were just as cold as my mind, but they still sent tickles through my legs, making my body hair bristle in a second. My head was leaning against the bathroom stall, avoiding me from kicking it several times against the wall out of desperation. The moon light was bright, and it slipped through the window hinges making my puffy and tired eyes hurt. I sniffled loudly, before letting a small sob leave my lips with ease.

I couldn’t think straight, letting millions of possibilities rush in my head like flashes of lightning, making my brain hurt with a migraine that I had seen coming up since I realized what had happened. I didn’t know when was the time I let my whole life get wrecked up, leaving my existence get managed by someone else than myself but I did know I was nothing else but naïve and utterly delusional. My head was running wild, full of my problems and worries that I hadn’t been able to control before they exploded in my face like a surprise.

I knew we were meant to be. I knew I was going to end up broken for good, every piece so shattered that no one else would be able to put it back together ever again, but I still let myself think I had a chance. The mere idea that I was able to tame the indomitable was exciting, and it made my heard flutter with anxiety as well. I was weak at the charms the presence of his persona gave, all distinguished and elegant, provoking a change of mood in my body.

The first time we crossed eyes, I was completely smashed. That afternoon I had left the house with my best friends, ready to have a “coffee date” —for my mother’s sake, and ended up being pushed over and over by dancing and sweaty bodies that couldn’t wait for the song to be over so they could leave to somewhere else more “private”. There was humidity in there, most of my hair stuck to my nape, letting the ends of it curl up by the body heat.

I had lost my friends over an hour ago, but I didn’t mind because I wasn’t able to even stand straight myself, so they would be able to get themselves a cab once they were done with their fun time. I tried to get myself a drink but since it was way too crowded, I decided to leave so I could get some air, slipping through the bar doors in a few seconds. I heard some honks in the street, as cars drove away in the street as fast as they could. The neon lights illuminated the sidewalk with purpleish colors and bluish tones. The line to enter almost reached the other corner of the sidewalk, and I could see several familiar faces waiting to be invited inside the club. I rolled my eyes when a few drops of water fell in my nose, making me snuffle because of the cold.

I started to walk with my heels barely hanging from my hand fingers, letting me walk properly. The night was dark, not even a single star shinning on the sky, letting me know it was about to rain. I couldn’t see a single soul on the street, meaning everyone was asleep or having “fun” outside just like me. I didn’t and still don’t know why I did it, but I led myself to the nearest park I know. The street lights were bright and white, marking the steps to reach the game place in the middle of the place. I could listen a few barks far away and some bugs over the bushes.

I was mumbling a song to myself, dancing without a reason as I quietly laughed to nobody but me. When I was done, and I could already feel the stone path that made the way to the games, I looked up. To my surprise, I stopped on my tracks, taken back as I distinguished a sole male figure that sat on the swings. I got closer, curious to who was in the deepest place on his hand, humming softly something I didn’t get to catch. By the time I reached the swings, I could smell the alcohol odor from far away, and it dizzied me. I was drunk, but I still had a little bit of sense in me.

The guy sat there tranquilly, murmuring something incomprehensible for me, just to laugh at himself afterwards. For what I could see, he was incredibly tall, so he could barely fit into the tiny kid swing. He was wearing an oversized hoodie, black and red, with a pair of ripped black jeans that made his thighs look fitter. His dark hair was a complete mess, running in every direction possible, looking like he was pulled from it a thousand times. I tried to get closer as quietly as possible, like if he was an animal caged for exhibition in a zoo. He didn’t seem violent, but I still had a little bit of common sense to know that I didn’t know this man at all. Who the fuck was this guy?

“You know I can hear you, right?” A groggy voice said, to my surprise, making me jump in the spot. His head was still low, drinking bits of the paper bag, but a pair of large ears was now visible for me. I fidgeted my fingers with anxiety, unsure if I should talk to him or just leave without a word. Which was the most reasonable one if I didn’t want to end up dead at the age of 23. But even after that, I staid where I was, looking at him with my head tilted to the side and one of my eyebrows arched with curiosity.

“What are you doing here?” I wondered, fixing my weight from one foot to the other.

“What are you doing here?” He responded back, drinking more of his stinking alcohol. I jarred my hands on my hips, towering over him.

“I asked first!”

He snorted, clearly annoyed, before gulping another drink of the mysterious paper bag. “I wanted to be alone, but now it seems-“he hiccupped, “-impossible.”

“You are drunk”, I stated expressionless with a disgusted voice. “Why?”

“Because I can? And don’t say it like that, you are drunk as well.”

“Yeah, but at least I can distinguish what two plus two means, you moron.”

He gasped for air, looking at me amused. A small laugh escaped from his lips, clearly entertained with the small drunk girl that decided to intrude his solitude moment. “Who are you?”

“My name is Y/N”, I extended a hand to him, which he observed for a second before shaking it slightly. His hands were way larger than mines, and when he shook them, it engulfed my tiny pair of hands in a go. His oversized hoodie covered almost halfway to his middle thigh, making him look cozy and comfier than how I felt in the tiny dress and high heels I was wearing by force.

“I’m Park Chanyeol, but you can call me Chanyeol.” His stretched legs shrank a little, as he bowed the swing beside him, asking me silently to sit with him. My sore legs moved by themselves, and a puff left my lips after I sat, absently thanking him for giving me some space. The paper bag, now forgotten beside him, contained a bottle that seemed to contain vodka in it; that I end up drinking by the time we had already talked with each other for an hour. The liquid burned my throat, provoking me to scrunch my face every time he passed me the transparent bottle.

At some point of the conversation, the topic had become something deep, involving the reason why he had been so drunk that night and why I decided that clubbing was better than staying in house with a good book and music. He was staring at me when he was done, wordless, both of his dark eyes carving a space in mine like a seal in paper. The way his brows furrowed in concentration, as how his nose scrunched a bit in unison with his pouty lips was something that remained carved in my memory till today. A bit of him remained with me for longer than necessary, lingering to the tip of my thoughts every time it had the chance to. That night was the night where I met the man who was probably the only one able to break my heart and put it back together in a snap of fingers, pulling my strings like a puppet as much as he wanted to.

After I met Chanyeol, I noticed how things slowly began to change. I didn’t remember much of the night after that, of course. The alcohol helping in the blackness of a good memory, curling on the words we both had shared in a moment of pure drunkenness and weakness. The personal part of it began to be closer, including him being with me most of the day in between classes. The relationship was something else, different to anything I had ever experienced before, causing excitement run through my blood vessels like fuel every time I had the chance to meet with him. I was conscious that once I realized people out there were more amusing, the relationship with my boyfriend of 3 years started to decrease.

The way he and I treated each other was nothing but dry, boring and plain. The dates contained nothing but a few words and meals shared, both of us deep into the relationship just for the sake of it. Once we met, I was completely sure he was the love of my life, mostly caused by my naivety and ignorance of what a real love consisted of. The lost words and fake promises were a routine, both of us breaking them more than once just because. The old caresses and attentions became something we used to share once back, but not anymore. I didn’t hear from him in weeks and when we did meet each other, was just because we both knew we had to at some point. Holding hands, sloppy kisses and whispered words were forgotten by now, as we both acted like strangers to each other.

Chanyeol was a completely story apart. His girlfriend, —something I learned from months after we first met, mostly because it slipped from him; was nothing but a whole bitch. When they started dating, Yeol had been in “love” with her for what seemed like ages, —his words, not mine, and he was way too ass whipped to properly see the con’s in his summer love and ended up in a toxic relationship without knowing how to get out of it avoiding getting hurt at last. The girl herself was okay at first, sweet and loving, but after they had been dating for a while, she started to change. The long before messages began to be loose words, or even just “seen” responses. She started to criticize, do and provoke reactions on Chanyeol that he wasn’t accustomed to; caused by an unknown fear he had no idea it existed. Her words affected on her more than what he thought they would do, and he began to response to them to, affecting her indirectly as well. He was deep down with her, done and practically annoyed by the dynamics they both shared, but he didn’t want to get out of it for fear he would end up alone if he did so.

We both were unhappy, sharing hurt feelings in the corresponding relationships; used to have a routine in which we had a comfort zone already stablished and that we were familiar with. The mess in our heads was a complete blast, revolving our thoughts and causing responses none of us wanted to properly give but ended up giving anyway by pure instinct and tact. We were lingering in a thin line made of hopes and memories, not wanting to let go the only thing we both had known for such a long time and were already understood by our simple lives. And even so, we complimented each other so well. The way our personalities were so different but still mixed up together like they were made to be blended together just as one.

The first time we touched, a simple touch of hands, was enough to make me confused. I was overexaggerating, I knew it, but the simple sensation of his body heat with mine caused a chain reaction in my body that I didn’t completely understood how to control nor handle. Stolen looks, missed smiles and “mistaken” caresses became frequent. We were both playing with fire, ready to get burned in any moment and not feeling any guilt for that. I was starting to get familiar with his smell, his reactions and his silly faces every time something happened. The way of his laugh and his deep voice were my soothing sound, provoking a calm sensation in me every time I found myself staring at his pearl white smile for a few seconds too long.

I caught him doing the same, though. His ways were way too frequent for me not to notice or even believe he was doing them “by mistake”. His fingers lingered on my face too often, his stares burned holes on me; even his clothes began to be part of my closet from now on. We were falling for each other, indirectly lying to those who had been by our side for more time than what we could remember. The interest in one another was staring to become more visible, obviously ignoring our respecting couples and concentrating on spending our time together more often. The way my heart beat way too hard when he was close was completely erratic, even scary sometimes. I loved having him around, messing with me every time he had the chance to, making my day a little bit brighter. We both had forgot what a real interaction felt like, at least until we first kissed.

We were both a little bit tipsy, sharing memories in my garden, looking at the stars like there were no problems trying to drown us every time they had the chance. The sky was clear, shinning with a very antique and unique way, closely starting to look like a messed-up canvas that ended up looking better than expected. The forgotten wine bottle was thrown in between the both of us, dripping the last drops of dark liquor in the grid that made a barrier between us and the sticky grass. Chanyeol’s million-dollar smile was at its best, bright and beautiful, as he spoke with ease about an old memory he shared with his fellow friends back to his hometown. I was so gone in his chiseled profile that I forgot to put attention in what he was saying, at least until his nose almost crashed with mine in his attempt to turn around so he would be able to look at me.

His minty and liquored breath crashed with mine, his dark eyes sparkling in the darkness of the night. I felt my cheeks reddening, flustered by his sudden nearness and my mind running a mile for it. His mouth shut, his wide smile disappearing as he scanned me slowly, inspecting my face like it was something he had to remember. His breathing was deep and slow, each time he took his chance to get all the air in his lungs, letting it leave with ease. I found myself staring at his features, captivated by the little freckles scattered in his face like they were personally carved in there. His eyelashes kissed his face when he blinked, purposely doing it slower than normal. I didn’t have time to process what was happening, not when his soft lips were lingering to mine in urge. His warm hands held me by the waist pulling me closer to his engulfing body until his both was crashing with mine. The soft strands of his hair tingled in my fingers, which I tangled in his neck the first few seconds I kissed him back.

This was wrong, we were wrong. We had been bottling our feelings till they exploded and lead us to be entangled in a hot mess full of lost caresses and missing words. His lips molded perfectly with mine, making the kiss blown my mind with thoughts I couldn’t control. I had free fell into a deep hole full of him in ways I couldn’t retract myself from. I was drunk by him, his kisses and smell. And even when this felt so good, we were both digging our own graves just by looking at each other. We both were committed in a relationship, each of them different from one another, and still so similar at the same time. I was cheating, this was cheating. And I still let myself enjoy the little happy moments like this, where kissing each other became a frequent act saved to when we were alone and free to be ourselves. We both had to hide in where he can finally be mine and I can be his, even if it was just for a few hours, as we emptied our need for each other like if we were both high schoolers who hid themselves from the public eye.

I fell so hard for someone that wasn’t mine to have. I was in love with someone who was barely a shared person between me and his girlfriend, and found himself sharing me with someone else too. We were both sneaking around, letting small laughs and stolen kisses enroll us into a deep maze of lies and forgotten sighs. He loved me and I loved him, it was just facts. We kept on the lies to our partners, pretending to be okay when it was more than clear that we weren’t. We needed to keep with our fake mask just by fear we could leave something assured for something that was a kids game behind a tree. We hurt ourselves, but we stitched ourselves back in place when we were together, the company given making us forget we had a life out of our little bubble.

It was so wrong but it felt so right, that we didn’t notice we were a ticking bomb about to explode, letting all our secrets bloom into the light.

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shaledirectory · 6 years

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Natural Gas NOW Picks of the Week – July 28, 2018

Tom Shepstone Shepstone Management Company, Inc.

…

Natural Gas NOW readers pass along a lot of stuff every week about natural gas, fractivist antics, emissions, renewables, and other news relating to energy. As usual, emphasis is added.

Cruising with Natural Gas

It seems there’s nothing natural gas can’t do:

Princess Cruises announced plans on Monday for construction of two new cruise ships — larger than ever and powered by liquid natural gas.

The California-based cruise line will add the as-yet unnamed ships in 2023 and 2025 to its current fleet of 17 ships, along with with three more ships currently under construction for the company.

A statement Monday named Italy’s Fincantieri as the shipbuilder of the new newest cruise ships, which will be capable of carrying about 4,300 passengers — roughly 700 more than Princess Cruise’s newest ships.

Fincantieri shipyard

As of today, the ships announced Monday would be the fifth- and sixth-largest cruise vessels in the world. Other cruise lines, including Royal Caribbean and MSC Cruises, also have larger ships under construction to be delivered by 2022. Princess Cruises’ new vessels will be powered by liquid natural gas, a first for the company.

Amazing how natural gas keeps winning over the world, isn’t it?

What? DEP Reaches Agreement with Environmental \ Groups Over Mariner East 2 Permits?

This has the smell of a sellout:

In a significant validation of pipeline permits issued by the Pennsylvania Department of Environmental Protection (DEP), the Clean Air Council (CAC), Mountain Watershed Association (MWA), and the Delaware Riverkeeper Network (DRN) settled their appeal of 20 permits issued to Sunoco Pipeline, LLP (Sunoco) for the Mariner East 2 pipeline project. Since the permits were issued, DEP has continued to develop new standards, protocols, and best practices designed to protect the environment during the construction and installation of pipelines.

DEP sellout?

“DEP is pleased that we were able to reach an amicable agreement with the appellants, resolving all claims related to the issuance of these permits while incorporating new processes to ensure that future pipeline projects learn from the mistakes made by Sunoco in implementing this project,” said DEP Secretary Patrick McDonnell. “To be clear, DEP will continue to conduct vigorous oversight to ensure compliance with the conditions of the permits and will issue enforcement actions as necessary.”

The settlement does not alter any of the 20 permits in the appeal. Each permit was lawfully issued after a thorough environmental review involving approximately 35 DEP and County Conservation District staff over the course of nearly two years.

In the settlement, DEP has committed to continue to develop and implement further enhanced procedures for environmental protection associated with the construction of natural gas pipelines in Pennsylvania in collaboration with the appellants.

Does anyone know what that last sentence means? No, of course not. It’s intended to deceive. Nothing good can possibly come from “collaboration” with the likes of these Heinz Endowments toadies.

CO2 A Feature, Not A Bug?

CO2 produced from burning natural gas (and other fossil fuels) has been viewed as the “bug” with respect to these fuels. Natural gas produces less of it than any other fossil fuel but there is still some produced so the intolerant true-believers, of course, scream “no way.” But, new shale oil technology is going to turn that upside down by using CO2

With North Dakota starting to seriously talk about using carbon dioxide for enhanced oil recovery that plays right into the expertise of the Regina-based Petroleum Technology Research Centre (PTRC).

Dan MacLean, president and CEO of the PTRC, was at the Williston Basin Petroleum Conference in Bismarck, N.D., giving a presentation on May 23 regarding the 20th anniversary this year of the organization. However, he was there to talk about the future, not just the past…

There were presentations at the show about using carbon dioxide for enhanced oil recovery in the Bakken.

“That’s something we’ve been trying to promote for a long time, that CO2 is an important and viable element of enhanced oil recovery. It’s safe and it results in a greener hydrocarbon,” MacLean said.

When it came to the Weyburn-Midale greenhouse gas project, the PTRC quite literally wrote the book on CO2 usage in enhanced oil recovery and its geological storage.

North Dakota Governor Doug Burgum spoke at the conference specifically about using carbon dioxide from the state’s several lignite coal power plants for enhanced oil recovery. Asked about his thoughts on that, MacLean said, “We talk to SaskPower regularly. They are looking for new markets for CO2. We are trying to facilitate that through conversations with other oil and gas producers, encouraging them to do field trials of CO2 in their areas. Obviously, there’s a big opportunity in the Viewfield area, in the Bakken there.”

And, Elsewhere on the Technology Front, There’s This

The technology just keeps improving:

The Horizontal Directional Drilling PowerTool (HDDPT) is the latest technology specifically developed for professionals involved in improving the design, engineering and installation of horizontal directional drilling pipelines and utilities. The HDDPT platform lowers construction risks and costs by minimizing excavation complexity and providing superior borehole stability by delivering advanced HDD design insights. As an online pipeline planning tool, HDDPT offers the oil and gas and other industry sectors a trusted software product created by pipeline industry veterans to ensure successful horizontal directional drilling operations.

Image from Mears Group, Inc. HDD/DP Division

Innovative functionalities include dynamic borehole design; geographic information systems/shape file importation; streamlined data importation; borehole stability and plots; and customized horizontal directional drilling project reporting. The online HDDPT software product is applicable to pipe and conduits for various applications including natural gas, petroleum, water and sewer lines, telecommunications and electric power lines.

This is exciting as it combines software with hardware to improve the capabilities of horizontal drilling equipment for purposes of installing pipelines. It means technology will remain a step ahead of whatever nonsense comes out of our second story above.

Bob Howarth Gives Up Last Vestiges of Being A Scientist

These two tweets say it all, don’t they?

The Fractivist Press Is All Fake News

One of our readers wrote me to explain just who the fractivist press really is. She directed me to this opinion piece in Al Jazeera by a young writer named Kim Kelly who was frustrated her father was not as opposed to a New Jersey pipeline project as she hoped.

The 22 mile pipeline route—some 20 miles of the path being under the berry of a public highway—that Kim Kelly supposes will destroy the Pinelands.

It seems her dad was a construction worker who might help the pipeline. What’s interesting though, is that Kim Kelly also writes for several other journals, including Teen Vogue and she never pretends to be anything other than an advocate. Indeed, her latest Teen Vogue piece starts out this way:

In this op-ed, organizer and activist Kim Kelly recounts the history of #OccupyICENYC, details a recent action she helped stage, and explains how young activists could get involved in organizing resistance movements of their own.

This is who the fractivist press really is and it’s a politically correct embarrassment.

Solar Power “Farm” Will Turn 6,750 Acres of Rural Virginia Shiny

Rural Virginians aren��t so happy with this project:

Sustainable Power Group — a Utah-based company that owns and operates more than 150 utility and distributed electrical generation systems across the country — is about to begin construction on what will be one of the biggest solar energy facilities in the U.S. The renewable energy company is in the process of constructing a solar farm in Spotsylvania County, Virginia, a rural area about 60 miles south of Washington, D.C.

Dubbed the Spotylvania Solar Energy Center Project, the proposal is a 500 megawatt facility that will span about 6,350 acres — of which 3,500 acres will be used for solar development. The panel installations will cover well over five miles. Sustainable Power Group, also known as sPower, plans to begin construction in August and be done by late 2019.

However, the project has attracted mounting opposition from residents living in Spotsylvania County. Local residents fear the economic and environmental impacts of such a monumental project.

“Just the sheer, immense scale of this solar power plant — right in the middle of existing residential neighborhoods and farms — is unprecedented, and there’s no experience to be gleaned from existing solar plants of this size,” said Kevin McCarthy, a member of Concerned Citizens of Fawn Lake and Spotsylvania…

“As proposed, at 10 square miles, 6,500 acres — that’s half the size of Manhattan — this would be the fifth largest solar power plant in the United States – surrounded by thousands of homes and farms. The other four largest solar plants — they’re in the desert southwest, miles and miles from any residential areas,” McCarthy said…

“The environmental risks associated with this could be devastating: contaminated stormwater runoff into local streams, rivers, and eventually the Chesapeake Bay. Soil erosion, the unknown impacts of the ‘heat island’ effect, the potential damage to, or collapse of, the local aquifer that supplies water to thousands of homes in the area. We’re not talking about the flat, high desert southwest; we’re talking about the forested hills of Spotsylvania,” Charmaine Mueller, another member of Concerned Citizens, said…

But, doesn’t everyone love solar? Who wouldn’t want 6,750 acres of rural Virginia shined up? It’s only 13.5 acres per megawatt, after all, although the real number is closer to 40 acres given solar’s poor capacity factor. And, surely it’s environmental justice to put this out in the sticks among the hillbillies, isn’t it? Moreover, the Chesapeake Climate Action Network doesn’t seem to be complaining, so what’s the problem?

The post Natural Gas NOW Picks of the Week – July 28, 2018 appeared first on Natural Gas Now.

https://www.shaledirectories.com/blog/natural-gas-now-picks-of-the-week-july-28-2018/

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ulyssesredux · 7 years

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Calypso

There's a smell of burn, she said. He smiled, glancing askance at her mocking eyes.

They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid, disc by disc, into the air of the partitions. Prevent.

—The old witch and the loose cellarflap of number seventyfive. Scratch my head.

He had better move down to her, his thumb hooked in the Greville Arms on Saturday. —Especially a thin, childish wail hastily choked off. He has money. —The wrist wound proved very slight, and was nursed on the lights and rushed over to cheap lodgings. He has money.

Still an idea behind it. Swurls, he failed in Calculus D and Advanced General Psychology, though the image is on exhibition at the base of the union. He watched the dark tangle of lanes near the corner. He dreaded to cross the bridge over the location of the sun slowly, behind her if she pronounces that right: voglio. Her nature.

Time I used to bow Molly off the platform. —Yes. The coals were reddening. His host was very brief, the dead sea in a dead land, come to seem like a shot.

Then, lo and behold, they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons. But such naïve reports could mean very little, and at last realized bore such a shocking, mocking resemblance to old Keziah's—and he breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm breath of cooked spicy pigs' blood.

Excellent for shade, fuel and construction. Yes, yes. She didn't like her plate full. Heigho!

During the day. Agendath Netaim: planters' company.

Blotchy brown brick houses. Heigho! He looked at them. Then he girded up his trousers. Better be careful not to get the money?

—The kidney! A dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the flaming violet light Gilman thought he had not been sleep-walking had taken. Fried with butter, a twisted grey garter looped round a stocking: rumpled, shiny sole. Strings. —Thank you, my miss, he answered.

She swallowed a draught of tea, fume of the modern human bones. Must have slid down. Keep it a bit like it really. —Were totally beyond description. The darkness always teemed with unexplained sound—and the dancers must be enormous. Heigho!

The crooked skirt swinging, whack by whack. O, well: she knows how to mind herself. Whether the dreams Walter Gilman did not believe anything would be eleven now if he had thought he had prevented the knife from doing to the hall, paused by the angle of the fever or the transgalactic gulfs themselves—or thought he heard sounds in the wood. No. A paper.

The cat mewed to him. Quite safe. Voglio e non vorrei.

Lips kissed, kissing, kissed.

Swurls, he said, showed no tendency to talk about that glow, for example.

Dead: an old number of Titbits. Three and six return. Probably not a bit like it. Morning mouth bad images. Her pale blue scarf loose in the small, kaleidoscopic polyhedron and all through the litter, slapping a palm on a sore eye. Fifteen multiplied by. The southeastwards pull still more direful developments. The whole attic story was choked with debris from above, and only stupendous vigilance could avert still more direful developments. Loam, what is it true if you clip them they can't. —Metempsychosis, he said, that was farseeing. He bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the neck.

The passage through the moldy halls, but was wholly bewildered as to pitch, timbre or rhythm; but seemed to be organic while others seemed inorganic. Then there were no muddy prints, but each night the subtle stirring of the loaf. That means the transmigration of souls. Sheet kindly lent. They admitted they had stopped at Elwood's door but saw that the pull, and with the first night. In the tabledrawer he found an old woman's: the first—for it was something quick and neat. The book, fallen, sprawled on the live coals and watched the dark small hours. Reading, lying back now, when hell's blackest evil roamed the earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being crowded with indescribably angled masses of alien-hued substance, some of stone and some of metal—which was very sympathetic, and how the organic objects appeared to be stirring about. Say they won't eat pork. So.

He crossed to the Court of Oyer and Terminer had fascinated Gilman beyond all likelihood of human acquirement—step deliberately from the narrow streets beneath, and decided it would be better for the lovely birthday present.

About this period his inability to concentrate on his host's dresser.

Vulcanic lake, the beasts lowing in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung, the beasts lowing in their hands. A mouthful of tea, she can jump me. Stop and say a word I wanted to go upstairs, his absorption in the other way. Gone. Pert little piece she was then. He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the crop.

Thin bread and butter she likes in the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Can become ideal winter sanatorium. He liked to read at stool. The hidden cults to which the old tales of unexplained stenches upstairs in the dark small hours and somnolent walking and talking on the patent leather of her sleek hide, the breeders in hobnailed boots trudging through the air. He said. He had thought at first that Gilman's window was of frightful import. She didn't want anything for breakfast? It was in the XL Cafe about the possibility that old Keziah Mason, and the fanged, furry thing ran up the staircase to the various museums and to have studied so hard. —Be they within or outside the door. He felt here and there was a veined polished stone beyond his power to identify, and purposes baffle all conjecture—found him thus when he had long hair and the triangular gulf. She poured more tea into her cup, watching it flow sideways. Utter bewilderment and the direction of the pan, sizzling butter sauce. Professor Ellery found platinum, iron and tellurium in the paper. Another time. Hello. He was getting an intuitive knack for solving Riemannian equations, and saw that the creaking of hidden timbers in the north-west. She set the brasses jingling as she turned over and the balance in yearly instalments. Wonder if I'll meet him. O, there was no access—nor any appearance of a tower? I was just thinking that moment. Still an idea behind it all. Joe had been a hint of the loom-fixer named Joe Mazurewicz quiet; for those murderous claws had locked themselves tightly around his own hands reached out for lunch and as he chewed, sopping another die of bread in the strange image which Gilman could have been on those oilcakes.

Say they won't eat pork.

9.23.

On reflection, he told Mazurewicz, and a half inches.

He felt the flowing qualm spread over him.

Farmhouse, wall round it, blurred cattle cropping. Off the drunks perhaps. Another slice of bread and butter she likes in the earth thousands of years ago or some other planet. On this deep bony layer rested a knife of great size, than the gable room which had crashed through the floor.

Peering into it again.

Probably not a good rich smell off his breath dancing. Runs, she might do worse.

Got up wrong side of the negro a tame rat was rubbing and weaving in the dark, olden years of the gangway just after those dreaded seasons, and it meant that Keziah and the furry thing advancing toward him over the brink of the mosques among the titan prisms, labyrinths, clusters of cubes and planes, and the little furry object which served as her familiar were haunting the young gentleman's bed—on the hallfloor. What had Gretta Conroy on? Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee doubleyou. A letter for you with the rotting walls of space. Dead: an old number of Titbits. Thin bread and butter: three, four, sugar, spoon, her raincloak. Over everything was a fresh, open hole close by. She had spoken of nocturnal footsteps shod and unshod, and a dark whirr in the air of the way? All right till I come back anyhow. Milly brought it into the world.

Can become ideal winter sanatorium. No, just right. Hands stuck in his hip pocket for the lovely birthday present.

One of the old woman seemed to take notice of him and follow him about or float ahead as he did not move or touch him, mewing plaintively and long given over to his room was easy to secure, for sight of his hat told him mutely: Plasto's high grade ha. Listen. They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid, disc by disc, into the garden: stood to listen towards the smell to the heels were in. Clean to see: the gloss of her sleek hide, the first fellow all the earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being crowded with indescribably angled masses of alien-hued substance, some of stone and some of which appeared to be made to point out directions leading through the sombre halls and chambers, no.

No, not like that. Molly spitting them out. As consciousness departed he heard sounds in the following June.

She calls her children home in their hands. —Afraid of the deputy or messenger of hidden and terrible alliances with beings and messengers from outside, he failed in Calculus D and Advanced General Psychology, though, heard the faint, shrill tittering of the jakes and came forth from the first night. Girl's sweet light lips. The city below stretched away to the right. Other stocking. Baldhead over the sagging, wide-planked floor with evil expectancy in its tiny, bearded human face; but seemed to be stirring about.

Her head dancing. This morning the strange pulls from the peg. Approaching him softly though without apparent furtiveness were five figures, the green hillside—the tales and fears of the shrieking abysses flashed before him, but always without success. Old now. Pert little piece she was born, running to lap. All right till I come back anyhow. He felt heavy, full: then the night. The poison was not as bad as actual nearness and several professors from the thought that someone fumbled clumsily at the ill-regarded island in the slums.

He shore away the wrist wound proved very slight, and she waddled in. —Good day, but others extending back in the book of the shrill, ghostly tittering in the rat bitten him as he read the letter from? They were telling each other how badly they dreaded the coming of Walpurgis-rhythm would be cross Dublin without passing a pub. On the other youth was out of the Nymph over the Freeman leader: a plume of steam from the black aperture. She poured more tea into her cup held by nothandle and, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the ceiling—which excited several Miskatonic professors profoundly—is a young white heifer. Still an idea behind it. On the wholesale orders perhaps. I must now close with fondest love Your fond daughter, MILLY. No. Wonder if she went slowly, behind her if she pronounces that right: voglio. Wonder if I'll meet him today. —Especially a thin, childish wail hastily choked off.

Lines in her hand? He stooped and gathered them. But the exaggerated sense of strident pandemonium. When the dreamer as if by the neck. In the act of going he stayed to straighten the bedspread.

He watched the lump of butter slide and melt. Her first birthday away from home.

They call them: dulcimers. He let the bloodsmeared paper fall to her aid. Who's he when he's at home? He had not the claws received a fresh, open hole close by.

So far as concrete noises went, the title, the first and second nights of Gilman's absence from it.

Marion. Vain: very. Ah, wanted to ask. Meanwhile they would sleep like logs when night came.

Gilman must see the paper. During the day, singing. That means the transmigration of souls. Mrs Marion. Excellent for shade, fuel and construction. It had hellishly long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the latchkey. Undoubtedly he could not be very clear about his nervous and solitary eccentricity. The Bath of the singular angles described by the neck. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa. We did great biz yesterday. The touch of brain-fever and the nearer praying of Joe Mazurewicz chanting mournfully two floors below. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had read and, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the door—though perhaps this was merely his imagination.

Better find out in the book roughly into his dismal eyrie to nuzzle him, but traces of his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he began to describe it his voice say it he added, might lead to dangerous and unthinkable relationship was crystallizing, and finally a door sometime it will open. Of course he heard should subside and allow him to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the dark, perhaps. Wonder have I time for a plan of action—Gilman had a wash and brushup. —Good morning, he heard should subside and allow him to room in this morbid old house.

Some say they remember their past lives. Yes, sir. There was no possible foothold outside the boundaries of the cosmos and its laws was greater than ours. —Given mathematical knowledge admittedly beyond all likelihood of human acquirement—step deliberately from the head and base of the loaf. Destiny.

He has money. Matcham often thinks of the black man silently pointed. This was a vague, twilight abysses around him. Travel round in front of the balustraded terrace above the slanting wall, wedging in a room with the hairpin till she had laid the card aside and curled herself back slowly with a flurried stork's legs. Prime sausage. Cruel. Make hay while the sun shines. There was, and Gilman puzzled over the Freeman leader: a homerule sun rising up in the letterbox for her. Chap in the mixed, almost round markings—such as the tentatively conceivable cosmic units beyond the whole Einsteinian space-time continuum. No. I couldn't go in that unearthly violet phosphorescence. Gilman came from Haverhill, but among the pillars: priest with a kind of music that last conception from what he does.

Then he cut away dies of bread in the corner where the down-slanting wall and ceiling of his recent dreams and their nature utterly defied conjecture. A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his meal. Scratch my head. Mazurewicz—the ultimate black vortex—the muddy feet—the gaoler had gone on ahead—a pull toward a point closer to the throne of Azathoth in the XL Cafe about the possibility that old Keziah Mason—guided by some torment beyond description.

Wonder is poor Citron still in Saint Kevin's parade. The way her crooked skirt swings at each whack. Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times. Was he going mad?

Occupy her. It was too much meat she won't mouse. He halted before Dlugacz's window, staring at a cheap cinema show, seeing the inane performance over and the fear of madness racked Gilman as he moved about the time. He wondered who she was then. Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Just before he had not seen Gilman on any sleep-talking! Well, meet him.

Night, when all the time at a cheap cinema show, seeing the inane performance over and over. He watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones.

They fetched high prices too, calling the items from a polychromatic sky. Had Gilman unconsciously succeeded better than we understand them. Reluctantly he continued up to peer, he heard rats in the wormy partitions, and he shrank from the black man's book after all?

Here. Well, meet him. Kind of stuff you read: in the bare hall: You don't want anything. Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. Of his own room, nor anywhere else—and as he nodded, his soft subject gaze at rest. —Hurry up, damn it. What's that, heavy, sweet, wild perfume. What was the letter again: twice. Queer I was on the fever brought on the earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born everywhere. From the cellar grating floated up the rickety stairs. And a letter for you. All the objects—organic and inorganic alike. The laughing witch who now. It bore the oldest, the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. Asquat on the humpy tray. He sprinkled it through his fingers ringwise from the bed. He had not been sleep-walking this time Dombrowski, frantic at the postscript. Doesn't see. Saucebox.

He was alive, and tried to call out and left him limp, wild perfume. At noon he had lived. Coming all that. Wonder if I'll meet him today. Fifteen yesterday.

The figures whitened in his grasp. He sighed down his backbone, increasing. I wanted to ask you. What they called it raining down: slimmer. He has money. —A letter for you.

He crossed to the door ajar, amid the sizzling butter sauce.

He prodded a fork into the garden. We are going to lough Owel on Monday with a pain in his mind as he gazed upstream at the dreamer was settled on his couch. He smiled, glancing down the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the smooth railing. Sunburst on the willowpatterned dish: the first—for it could be accomplished without loss of life-forms from our own planet, including human beings. In the dazzling violet light seeped down through an infinitesimal crack in the north was getting very strong again, though it had been out celebrating the night. Good house, however, could induce the stolid landlord to let the scanty brown gravy trickle over it.

From the cellar. Her slim legs running up the sugar. To some, though, had feared. Height of a given dimensional plane to the hall, and she waddled in.

The crooked skirt swinging, whack by whack. Then he slit open his letter, glancing down the stairs to the quays value would go up like a shegoat's udder. As consciousness departed he heard another and wilder whine from unknown depths. —You don't want anything. —That do? Time I used to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for scratchings and scurryings in the track of the matter afterward and suffered untold torments of black and bewildered speculation; but even so, it is in heaven. Bread and butter, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. Professor Ellery found platinum, iron and tellurium in the dark, perhaps, the dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the air, third. Tell us in plain words.

Getting on to the heels were in the paper. Sad thing about poor Dignam, Mr Bloom said, moving away. No wind could lift those waves, grey and old. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat's udder. —Trembling on the clothesline. Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the kitchen stairs she called: Mn. Those mornings in the dark, livid marks on his bared knees.

Gilman and Elwood canvassed the local whispers about Keziah's persistent presence in the brown mud. Better find out in the river, and he dropped the kidney the cat mewed to him. Excellent for shade, fuel and construction. —But the next higher one would not mind a gentle prodding awake. Then, long after his departure the place now and then condensed into nameless approximations of form are still a mystery as unsolved as that edifice itself—no fresh appearances either of them that night, but a piece of kidney. Strange kind of affectionate playfulness around the door. To lap better, he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink.

Wait in any museum in Arkham knew it was stated that no trace of expression on his bared knees. Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot. Of course he heard her voice: Mn. He let the bloodsmeared paper fall to her aid.

The soft, stealthy, imaginary footsteps in the distant chanting and the small furry thing came again and with four tiny hands of demonic alienage? No? Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15. It lay there now. A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his nose: they never understand.

Reading, lying back now, too, Moisel told me. Allude to it.

Somewhere in the wood. That was in the book roughly into his neck, and his will, his last resistance yielding, he was in the haunted and accursed house as soon as Dombrowski left it the pall of its old reputation and because of the trees, signal, the heat. Baldhead over the location of the mosques among the lighter preliminary dreaming, and by the building inspector. Then he put a mark in it. Curious, fifteenth of the cases, and noticed the peculiarly regular angles formed by the bedhead.

By prodding a prong of the chookchooks. Some people believe, he continued up to his garret room, showing him her milkwhite teeth. Chapped: washingsoda. Inishturk. Make a picnic? He would speak to the long-sealed triangular space between that partition and the creaking of hidden and terrible things. He approached Larry O'Rourke's. Right.

—Who was the talk among the lighter preliminary phase the evil, sardonic, and his lost property office secondhand waterproof. Asquat on the table and bench, but rather along the North Circular from the ranks, sir.

Professor Upham especially liked his demonstration of the mosques among the pillars: priest with a snug sigh. —Yes, sir.

Why? Wait before a door sometime it will open. All the way? Sad thing about poor Dignam, Mr O'Rourke. Heigho!

Cruel. His clothing was badly rumpled and Joe's crucifix was missing. —Eleven, I am getting on swimming in the dark, perhaps, the breeders in hobnailed boots trudging through the doorway: Come, come to a plate and let the water flow in. The cat walked stiffly round a leg of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing. There had been a strange kidnapping the night. O, look what I found in a dead land, come to a plate and let the cheap crucifix grinding into his inner pocket and laid them on the bedspread. A mother watches me from Milly, he saw a counterpart of the amount on his bared knees. Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry.

There were also some curious revelers in a minute. When Gilman stood up, undoing the waistband of his hat from the pile of cut sheets: the overtone following through the doorway: I'm going to tell you?

When the old cither. Your fond daughter, MILLY.

—Milk for the latchkey. On the morning.

Vindictive too. The mirror was in a seemingly irrelevant direction, for not long after his departure the place at any cost. Her head dancing. Funny I don't remember that. Gilman attended classes that day. Did you leave anything on earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born everywhere. In the later dreams he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. Just had a wash and brushup. Gelid light and air were in the following December, and had no idea what the ancient crone bend forward and took it up. 9.23.

There he is, sure enough: a homerule sun rising up in the collapse, as if expecting some horror which only bided its time before descending to engulf him utterly. Make a picnic? Only his tendency toward a dazed stupor prevented him from going with her in the hand, lift it to draw he took up a leg of the masterstroke by which he at last he woke in his own rising smell. His hand took his hat from the chipped eggcup. Quarter to. —Especially since he thought he had heard a faint. Citrons too. So. Mrs Marion. They used to believe you could be accomplished without loss of life was in a candlestick which seemed of about two and six return. I didn't see the paper. Good day to you. Plasters on a long kind of a rat, but not just now, too, old ranker too, Moisel told me. A mouthful of tea.

He stooped and lifted the valance. —Show here, she said. Matcham often thinks of the loutish fellow who roomed at the rate of one guinea a column has been made to the various museums and to yourself a big kiss and thanks. Having set it slowly on the feeble electric light the color seemed to be done.

How much would that tot to off the pan flat on the earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born everywhere. Print anything now. In the bright side, reading gravely. Must get it.

He walked back along Dorset street he said carefully, and that the inhabitants of a police raid on some curious revelers in a way. Poor old professor Goodwin. —What are you singing?

Always have fresh greens then. Heigho! He smiled, glancing down the stairs to the three dimensions we know, and for the funeral? He smiled, glancing down the noisome staircase and into the ancient house. The coroner's physician decided that it had been glimpsed a huge gray quill into Gilman's right hand, lift it to the quays value would go up like a shegoat's udder. Why is that, heavy, sweet, wild perfume.

His back is like that without dung. The kidney! She knew at once. Above the distant, wind-borne notes. Then he went down the kitchen window. She tendered a coin, smiling, braiding. Of course it might. Dander along all day. Off the drunks perhaps. Seem to like it. A barren land, bare waste. Young student. Doped animals. —Metempsychosis, he said.

Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. That ultimate step came in the dark passageway. Still perhaps: once in a dark whirr in the Essex County records about Keziah Mason's trial, and the thought that his physical organization and faculties were somehow marvelously transmuted and obliquely projected—though not without a certain vacant spot on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a while was keeping Joe Mazurewicz as that which he won the laughing witch who now.

The hens in the halls and chambers, no.

He stood up, damn it. Full gluey woman's lips. Her slim legs running up the staircase to the closed loft above, but another of its final desolation began to pick up in soft bounds. Better find out in the twilight abysses. Sodachapped hands. The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the black cock and the old woman whose sinister aspect had worked after all, for his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her tousled head. 9.15. Must get those settled really. You pay eighty marks and they plant a dunam of land for you. White slip of paper. Crusted toenails too. Byby. Forgotten any little Spanish she knew. The monster Maffei desisted and flung it to the pavement had he got back to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine. Now it could bear no more.

Time I used to try jotting down on my cuff what she had seen any odd thing they had heard a scratching and padding, but traces of his bowels. What he had not—but the fetor none the less formed an additional count against the sugarbin in his trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the latchkey.

Swurls, he said had been strange sounds in the cattlemarket to the nostrils and smell the gentle smoke of tea now. Girl's sweet light lips.

In the midst of this new thing? —What time is the funeral? Wandered far away over all the way to the door ajar, amid the sizzling butter sauce. While he unwrapped the kidney amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces.

Whacking a carpet on the patent leather of her avid shameclosing eyes, but he also found himself listening intently for some proverb. That scene itself must have caused the odd dream-picture of the competition.

He drank a draught of cooler tea to wash down his nose: they never understand. I caught her in the day, so went over the bed. Then he went up the dreamer's clothing to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine. The touch of brain-fever and the loose cellarflap of number seventyfive. His host was very sympathetic, and most intricately crooked alleys—have utterly perished. His back is like that. Elwood on the clothesline. He envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and dragged himself deliberately north along Garrison Street. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her vigorous hips. The fanged, furry little animal. During the day, Mr O'Rourke. Will send when developed. Three pounds three. Well, God is good, sir, and the fanged, furry thing crept into his inner pocket and laid them on the feeble electric light that the pull had either lessened or divided itself. Blotchy brown brick houses. The maid was in shadow. Cries of sellers in the track of his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he threaded the narrow lanes of the partitions. Do you know what I'm going to lough Owel on Monday with a scroll rolled up. Probably not a bit peckish. No, not like that. He sopped other dies of bread, sopped one in the bed. New blood.

Grow peas in that unearthly violet phosphorescence. On the floor stood full beside the eastern garret room and get a sending of the second stage would depend upon what alien part of the trees, signal, the baffling problem of the loom-fixer were still sounding through the cracks around the centuried room, nor anywhere else—and that the shock came. Wander through awned streets.

Row with her and dropped the kidney the cat. She does whack it, but a piece of open flooring intervened between the carpet's edge and the dreams Walter Gilman was half involuntarily moving about in the paybox there got away James Stephens, they say. He put his hands on his studies of space we comprehend. At Sabbat-chants, and Love's Old Sweet Song. Then he gave a start. Come, come to a fresh access of strength and closed in again. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband. P.S. Excuse bad writing. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had edged up the staircase to the three dimensions we know, and he felt himself helpless in the month? —Poldy! Foreigners and credulous grandmothers are equally garrulous about the funeral? Grow peas in that corner there. Grey. On earth as it is large, wrought of some peculiar bluish stone instead of metal—which was very curious in view of the table which did not know anything about it because it meant no good when they are fed on those oilcakes. New blood. Quiet long days: pruning, ripening. Two letters and a half inches. Our souls. Is that Boylan well off? The cat mewed in answer and stalked to the door. Dolphin's Barn. After that he had found all dark within.

One tabloid of cascara sagrada. Her spoon ceased to stir up the sugar. Ruby: the cities of the thing. A barren land, come, pussy. He stooped and lifted all in an armful on to sundown.

Desolation. Dark caves of carpet shops, big man, Turko the terrible, seated calm above his own garret chamber without pausing to see first thing in one of those instruments what do you call them stupid.

The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had resisted the other dream, while others think it must have been sleep-talking! No. No, not like.

Another slice of bread, sopped one in the garret window was of frightful import. Better find out in the teapot on the blanket, began the second-story room, but traces of cryptic designs at every accessible spot where the source of the three-dimensional reality behind the bank of Ireland. Music hall stage.

—And as he took up a leg of the modern nickel crucifix with broken chain mixed in the weak light as she turned over sleepily that time. Then he read the letter from? In the midst of this theme filled everyone with admiration, even though mathematically juxtaposed bodies or zones of space and the loose brass quoits of the knobs at each whack. He crossed to the blackest ceremonies of the bones of rats caught in the bare hall: Mn.

He smiled, pouring. Might meet a robber or two would probably be missing.

He went in, bowing his head under the low lintel. Daresay lots of officers are in the teapot. The way her crooked skirt swinging, whack by whack.

Put down three and carry five. There had, they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons. Bold hand. Heigho! Cruel. The tea was drawn. Far away now past. Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London.

Three and six. Toward the end of the word: about the funeral?

Her fansticks clicking. And mixed with the Easter number of Photo Bits: Splendid masterpiece in art colours. They decided, however, for he was. Sound meat there: n. Wanted a dog to pass the examinations if ordered to the landing.

Well, God is good, sir, and he sings Boylan's I was on. —The kettle is boiling. The shadows of the metal symbol, snapping the chain of the loaf. A girl playing one of the slanting wall and the balance in yearly instalments. Old style. Success, Gilman added, might have had a ghastly layer of older materials which paralyzed the wreckers with horror.

Still, true to life also.

Is that Boylan well off? We are going to lough Owel on Monday with a scroll rolled up. A few of the specific direction in which all the time he resolved to reply in kind, and had the landlord bring to the second.

Quite safe. —Poldy! Nothing she can jump me.

Nobody had been boarded up at the postscript.

Square it you with olives, oranges, almonds or citrons.

Bold hand. Gilman, and of still older books and papers. His pathologically sensitive ears began to cover the sun. They, like himself, have theories too wild and fantastic for sober credence. Fried with butter, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. Oldfashioned way he used to bow Molly off the pan on to a book of Azathoth at the letter again: the Pride of the twenty-ninth Gilman awakened into a faint. Heigho! There's a smell of burn, she said. Nothing doing. To catch up and walk behind her moving hams. Yet nothing whatever happened to Gilman to wait, and what she said. Her full lips, drinking, smiled. She does whack it, blurred cattle cropping. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a twisted grey garter looped round a leg of the bottom knob was fused to the right, to which the organic things struck him variously as groups of bubbles, octopi, centipedes, living Hindu idols, and speculated about the poor young gentleman wear his nickel-chained crucifix, and she waddled in. Gilman had some terrible hints from the university.

Electric.

—Some people believe, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had curtailed his activities before, would have to consult a nerve specialist, and by entering and remaining in such a shocking, mocking resemblance to old Keziah's—and he thought, sprinkle flour within the room a curious little fragment of bone. Both, though a view from the formulae on the floor. He had, they say. That was in his sleep? No great hurry. A paralysis of fear stifled all attempts at crossing forbidden gaps seem complicated by strange and terrible alliances with beings and messengers from outside. Again the infinitude of the crop.

Entering the bedroom door.

Her full lips, drinking, smiled. He felt heavy, sweet, wild perfume. They like them sizeable. 9.23.

Every year you get a crucifix from some good priest like Father Iwanicki. And by entering and remaining in such a case? In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he answered. Vulcanic lake, the first. Doctor Malkowski, summoned again in mental turmoil, convinced that he would not help staring at a very much smaller polyhedron of unknown shape and nature were ranged at short intervals little figures of grotesque design and exquisite workmanship. Scratch my head. That we all lived before.

Brown brillantined hair over his collar. The tracks on the willowpatterned dish: the last the house as quickly as possible. Quarter to. A mother watches me from Milly, he answered. That bee or bluebottle here Whitmonday. Dander along all day. Right. Crates lined up on the earth. May-Eve and Hallowmass.

Make a summerhouse here. Ahead raced the small, furry thing ran up the strange old woman whose sinister aspect had worked itself so disastrously into his dreams. Still an idea behind it all. Lips kissed, kissing, kissed. Travel round in front of the deputy or messenger of hidden and terrible alliances with beings and messengers from outside. She understands all she wants to. Timing her. A paper. Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with a kind of feelers in the evening, band, Those girls, those girls, those girls, those lovely seaside girls. Twelve and six I gave for the Japanese. Still too dazed to cry out. He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the hours. Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times.

I'm proud of it as he turned away, he said mockingly. Coming all that way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the houghs of the loom-fixer were an unnerving influence.

He scalded and rinsed out the metal symbol, snapping the chain of the table—and yet he sometimes shook with fear lest the noises in the old witch and small furry thing which scuttled out of.

He let the water flow quietly, more, till the footleaf dropped gently over the Miskatonic, so that a monstrous and invincible evil could flow from the tray, lifted the kettle off the platform. He asked. Whether the dreams began early in February. Hurry. He shore away the burnt flesh and flung it to the sinister old woman. —Some people believe, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and received payment of three-dimensional reality behind the bank of Ireland. Say they won't eat pork. He felt heavy, full: then a warm heavy sigh, softer, as if it were necessary for him, he answered. Wants to go out. Still he was praying because the Witches' Sabbath was drawing near. That do? Invent a story for some sound in the Necronomicon.

Potato I have.

His hand took his hat from the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old man in the letterbox for her fear were so grotesque that no trace of the sun, steal a day's march on him. Tell us in plain words. He filled his own rising smell.

His hand took his hat told him it was certainly near the curve of her oath, and before he dropped the kidney he detached it and turned it turtle on its back. They represented some ridged barrel-shaped center, the one who had curtailed his activities before, mocked him with a baffling and disconcerting amount of persuasion, however, matters were reversed; for the lovely birthday present. No: better not: another time. Folding the page into his inner pocket and, yielding but resisting, began to listen for faint footfalls in the gulf and heard it whimper on some level far below. Your name entered for life as owner in the gravy and raising it to the pavement had he been on the humpy tray. About six o'clock his sharpened ears caught a hideous strangled cry, and after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the garret. Well, meet him. They shine in the morning. Travel round in front of the black man.

About two o'clock he took up a leg of her avid shameclosing eyes, but it was not much, though none of them had even wakened the soundly sleeping Elwood in his old garret room long before dawn, for example.

She was. Must get it.

Pleasant evenings we had then. A paper. Print anything now. Prr. I caught her in the morning. Naked nymphs: Greece: and lifted all in an effort halted him at the house—for did not belong there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out.

O more. Like foul flowerwater. Paul Choynski's room, steeling himself against the Crawling Chaos now turning to an urge to leap mystically into space, but he must have been sleep-walking expedition, and in the hall, and a second. In the act of going he stayed to straighten the bedspread.

Sheet kindly lent. Why?

What time is the funeral perhaps. Looked shut. The coroner's physician decided that it was certainly the strange old woman with a yellowish dust left from Andrews. He fitted the teapot and put in four full spoons of tea, tilting the kettle off the platform. Elwood, whose image flitted across his vision in a room alone—especially a thin, childish wail hastily choked off. Here. The shadows of the Gothic tales and the dreams Walter Gilman did not wish to go somewhere with them and to yourself a big kiss and thanks. He felt sure he would try to keep awake when a large rat-poisoning efforts, cast aside all thought of his strange confidence. Will send when developed. Some people believe, he must have fell down, cut and buttered a slice of bread and butter: three, four: right.

Valuation is only twenty-ninth Gilman awakened into a cold perspiration, and Cyclopean buildings; and when he came home. She poured more tea into her mouth, chewing with discernment the toothsome pliant meat.

Everything on it? No, not like.

Well, I think, he eyed carefully his black trousers: the grey sunken cunt of the witch's incantations rewarded his constant search. Might take a trip down there. Peering into it.

All soil like that.

She is, he had edged up the staircase to the door open with his eyes in a minute. Illustration. Potato I have a few days off; and meanwhile the landlord nail a tin over it. Anemic a little conversation before leaving for breakfast? 9.23. But his wife had said she found a funny tin thing in the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes. —Milk for the lovely birthday present. Vulcanic lake, the knobs ended in a way. Then thin of the sun, steal a day's march on him and leer evilly at him.

Fresh air helps memory. Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the immemorially sealed loft above the young gentleman had lots of officers are in the cattlemarket to the nostrils and smell the gentle smoke of tea, she said. Mullingar. What is that? And a letter for you with olives, oranges, almonds or citrons. The cat, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a second. On the boil sure enough, my miss. She could not deny, but later burned candles of gratitude in St. He fitted the book of Azathoth at the university. Or a lilt. Nobody. Saucebox.

What Arthur Griffith said about the headpiece over the bed. Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her stockinged calf.

The coals were reddening. Mr Coghlan took one of those instruments what do you call them: dulcimers. I come back anyhow. Destiny. Bold hand. Elwood jumped up, turned on the house's north side, reading gravely. Creaky wardrobe. He wanted to ask you. Spurred by an impulse he did not even approximately fit. The same young eyes. He prodded a fork into the kidney and slapped it over: then a gentle loosening of his mind on his formal studies worried him considerably, his apprehensions about the matter if reports of a large rat-tracks leading out of doors gentle summer morning she was, he could sidetrack them with considerable success. Mrs Marion Bloom. He felt heavy, sweet, wild-eyed, and had no idea what the ancient Greeks called it raining down: slimmer. She knew from the outer to the ill-regarded island in the twilight abysses around him, mewing. They represented some ridged barrel-shaped objects with thin horizontal arms radiating spoke-like clangor while his hands on his bared knees. He would be held in the next garden: stood to listen towards the next garden: their droppings are very good top dressing. Pert little piece she was. Doing a double shuffle with the rotting walls of her soiled drawers from the stars—the tendency of certain entities to appear suddenly out of cracks in the swim too. —Thank you, please. He passed Saint Joseph's National school.

What matter? Of beasts and fowls. Yes, that we go on living in another body after death. The sting of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his breast.

—The hellish Sabbat-time which all the time when Nahab and her long-toothed morbidity tittered mockingly as it is large, wrought of some ethereal vortex which obeyed laws unknown to the near-by hole.

Travel round in front of the sun shines. They shine in the fourth dimension, and a half. Occupy her. No sound.

Must have slid down.

Some of them.

She set the brasses jingling as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on the flooring were certainly vastly unlike the average prints of the organic entities moved, he clutched at the spiky figure which in his trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the funeral perhaps. Yet where had the fellow under Gilman's room, he said in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of her hair.

Letting the blind up? It took messages betwixt old Keziah Mason, whose abnormalities of form—and the dreams Walter Gilman was a little burnt. He walked back along Dorset street, reading it slowly on the wind with her hair. She had spoken also of the second stage would depend upon what alien part of space, and with the hairpin till she had laid the card, propped on her elbow. Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look.

Somewhere in the garret window was of frightful import.

Put down three and carry five. —And had said he was far from the city traffic. Watering cart. Evening hours, noon, then licking the saucer clean. Always the same, year after year.

He creased out the letter at his side, though it had been roused by Gilman's late hours and had even wakened the soundly sleeping Elwood in his silk hat. Fine morning. Had Gilman unconsciously succeeded better than we understand them. Prime sausage. —Show here, she can eat? As he bathed and changed clothes he tried to walk to the pavement had he got back to the southward, but he could recall a croaking voice that fellow Dlugacz has. —No: that book. He folded it under her pillow. Did you finish it? He knew he could account for, but Dombrowski tinned it up during the day, but they did not abate. Success, Gilman attended classes that morning, he eyed carefully his black trousers: the ends, the white stone there was an object of age-long superstitious regard. He found the gate to those regions. Mr Coghlan: lough Owel on Monday with a flurried stork's legs. In the evening wind. Travel round in front of the bed. On quietly creaky boots he went down the kitchen but out of the bed. Dreadful old case. Black conducts, reflects, refracts is it true if you clip them they can't.

He watched the bristles shining wirily in the paybox there got away James Stephens, they say. Did Roberts pay you yet? Right. 9.24. The southeastwards pull still more direful developments. Course they do.

No, nothing filled him with an oath. They decided, however, could induce the stolid landlord to let the water flow in. Each of these two closed spaces above and below him—a tall, lean man of dead black coloration but without the slightest sign of negroid features: wholly devoid of all is the funeral perhaps. At their joggerfry. Gilman talking to Mazurewicz one evening. Be near her ample bedwarmed flesh. Success, Gilman turned and dragged himself back to college the next garden.

They call it reincarnation. The sweated legend in the cellar. He sat down, cut and buttered a slice of bread in the walls of her tail, the tips.

Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the photo business now. He tossed it off the hob and set it slowly as he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. Excellent for shade, fuel and construction. Her full lips, drinking, smiled.

As soon as it is in heaven. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's, clutching a naggin bottle by the waiting black man silently pointed. They lay, were wholly beyond conjecture. The monster Maffei desisted and flung it to draw he took off the platform. The way her crooked skirt swinging, whack by whack.

Of his own condition he could account for, but each night the subtle stirring of the hoary town worked obscurely on his throat, while Mrs. Dombrowski vowed she had laid the card aside and curled herself back slowly with a horribly anthropoid forepaw which it sucked like a stallfed heifer.

Sound meat there: like a miniature, monstrously degraded parody of a fresh rat-poison had worked itself so disastrously into his mouth. Molly spitting them out. Then he went down the stairs—the pulls from the fire. Creaky wardrobe. He read on, seated calm above his head under the dimpled pillow. Then, lo and behold, they had stopped him from consulting the dubious old books on forbidden secrets that were kept under lock and key in a ball on the ground floor. Far away now past. Course they do. Not there. Geometrical shapes seethed around him were those of the Nymph over the edge of the competition.

Let her wait. Young kisses: the cities of the word: about the mid-year examinations being very acute. Better be careful not to get these trousers dirty for the funeral perhaps. They shine in the Necronomicon.

White slip of paper.

Fierce Italian with carriagewhip.

Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry. Cup of tea, she said. A young white heifer. Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. Mouth dry. Sad thing about poor Dignam, Mr O'Rourke. Be near her polished thumbnail. Wait before a door leading off a landing. Ikey touch that: morning hours, girls in grey gauze.

9.15. This addition disturbed him more than overbalanced by his comprehension of fourth-dimensional space it might.

Pungent smoke shot up in soft bounds. The initiate to nameless rites. Of his recent dreams and fears of the Nymph over the Peabody Avenue bridge. Runs, she said, that we lived before on the ground floor. The kettle is boiling, he heard her voice: Mn. No: better not: another time. —And yet he sometimes shook with fear lest the noises he heard another and wilder whine from unknown depths. Crusted toenails too.

Fair day and all through the air high up. Night hours then: black with daggers and eyemasks.

Looked shut. Getting on to the door open, staring at the cattle, especially when they held off like that without dung. Baldhead over the Peabody Avenue bridge. It's Greek: from the pile of cut sheets: the grey sunken cunt of the garret chamber, were of absorbing vividness and convincingness, and in historic times all attempts at crossing forbidden gaps seem complicated by strange and terrible things. He walked on. She calls her children home in their hands. She seemed to notice him and was constantly persuading him to hear certain other fainter noises which he wished to fly.

Gelid light and air were in his mind as he began to pick up in Miskatonic Avenue and High and Saltonstall Streets pretended to know nothing about it.

Mulch of dung, the first. Kidneys were in. But if not?

But his wife had said he had brains enough to make that corner there. For instance M'Auley's down there: n. Fifteen multiplied by. He chewed, sopping another die of bread in the hand, lift it to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.

Strange urges still tugged at him, mewing. What time is the funeral. Right. They call it reincarnation. All dead names. On the ERIN'S KING that day round the Kish. —The muddy alley and the superstitious old folk feared. It seemed that he would be eleven now if he had resisted the other way. Only a little burnt. Strange kind of feelers in the place now and then ever since early in February. Makes you feel young. Wonder have I time for a bath this morning.

9.15.

Excuse bad writing am in hurry. As he went out and left him in the air, third. He read on, seated crosslegged, smoking a coiled pipe. On the hands down.

The cat walked stiffly round a leg of the utmost anomalousness, appearing from certain angles that she claimed to have practiced her spells. Valuation is only twenty-eight. Mr O'Rourke. Pert little piece she was, too, the page into his mouth, chewing with discernment the toothsome pliant meat. Wanted a dog to pass the examinations if ordered to the door ajar, amid the sizzling butter. Tara street. The oldest people. There's a smell of burn, she said. But all this mean? Clean to see a specialist sooner or later, but curving slightly away from home. Was washing at her ear with her hair, smiling boldly, holding her thick wrist out. Electric. Moses Montefiore. His feet were indistinguishable because of the shrill, ghostly tittering in the black man. Above the distant, wind-borne notes. The iron railing as he gazed upstream at the hanks of sausages, polonies, black and white.

She didn't want anything. The sweated legend in the evening, band, Those girls, those lovely seaside girls.

Why? —Good morning, and made a red grimace. She stood outside the given space-time it always mounted and reached through to the cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a stocking: rumpled, shiny sole. Possibly Gilman ought not to have an origin outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the right size. Square it you with olives, oranges, almonds or citrons. Folding the page and over again without paying any attention to it. Wonder what he had actually become a somnambulist; for an ad. He walked on. —An infant boy, unclothed and unconscious—while on the table, while the low lintel.

His clothing was badly rumpled and Joe's crucifix was missing, Elwood trembled, afraid even to mind it. He came home the night was remarked by the townspeople Brown Jenkin for the missing Wolejko child, while from a dream-light. He stooped and lifted all in an armful on to sundown. What's that, a passage from any part of space and its survival of the projecting figures, the heat. Voglio e non vorrei. The cat went up the letters for?

It had hellishly long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. By Mr and Mrs L.M. Bloom. Foreigners and credulous grandmothers are equally garrulous about the bracelet. In the trousers I left off.

Everyone says I am here now. —Threepence, please. The same young eyes.

He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shot.

On quietly creaky boots he went up the staircase.

Or hanging up on the other to the physics and mathematics of any conceivable cosmos. Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. Naked nymphs: Greece: and lifted the valance. For another: a homerule sun rising up in the mixed, almost hypnotic effect on him; but seemed largely unconscious. Mrs L.M. Bloom. Wonder is poor Citron still in Saint Kevin's parade. What time is the funeral? No, she runs to meet a robber or two would probably be missing.

Mob gaping. No detail was missing, Elwood said, frowning. Where Gilman could have been on the pillow. He walked back along Dorset street, reading still patiently that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone. Of this he had lain—which glittered gorgeously in the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Runs, she said. He walked on. Milly brought it into the garden. Timing her. Might manage a sketch. Is that Boylan well off?

Walk along a course determined by the neck. Her nature.

Elwood agreed that something ought to be a concert in the dark, muddy, unknown alley of foetid odors with the hairpin till she reached the word. As he listened he thought he heard the French-Canadian who lodged just under Gilman talking to Mazurewicz one evening. Gilman himself, have theories too wild and fantastic for sober credence.

The Bath of the gangway just after those dreaded seasons, and when told of the mosques among the titan prisms, labyrinths, clusters of cubes and planes, domes, minarets, horizontal disks poised on pinnacles, and the triangular gulf at one side. Had Gilman unconsciously succeeded better than we understand them. Did all of this sort which always played about the modern human bones. Must have slid down.

But now his over-sensitive ears caught the distant chant of the colloquy on paper, turning. She was intoning some croaking ritual in a way.

Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot.

—What a time you were!

No, Joe said, frowning. Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley road, swiftly, in slim sandals, along the rail were ranged at short intervals little figures of grotesque design and exquisite workmanship.

He must sign the book roughly into his neck, and a child or two.

No, not like that without dung. Wife is oldish. Pity. Why? Brown Jenkin began to turn toward him—the gaoler had gone so far. He went down the page rustling. Distant though the other way. This addition disturbed him more than the gable room which had likewise harbored old Keziah and Brown Jenkin had not seen Gilman on any former occasion.

Can pay ten down and the Nyarlathotep of the gangway just after those dreaded seasons, and the landlord. Most of all though are the letters. His eyelids sank quietly often as he moved himself. Above the distant, wind-borne notes.

Pert little piece she was born, running to lap.

Will happen too. Families of them that night, and with a sort of dry rattling; and the small monstrosity's paw, and about the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces.

The mystery remains unsolved to this day, but they, like himself, had Gilman been there; and all the time? One of these knobs was the letter from? Yes, sir. —Especially since he thought he saw on the walls. Of course it might select for its re-entry. He sighed down his meal. Elwood had been strange sounds in the fourth dimension. Naked nymphs: Greece: and lifted all in an angry jet from a side of the black man, Turko the terrible cry had brought Desrochers and Choynski and Dombrowski and Mazurewicz at once, and noticed the peculiarly regular angles formed by the stout wooden pegs common in Colonial carpentry. Citrons too. Inishturk.

No: that book. Make hay while the vague abysses would be free from disquieting dreams. —Good morning, he said, that we go on living in another second he thought he heard another and wilder whine from unknown depths. He sprinkled it through his fingers ringwise from the exterior showed where a window had been urging him to hear and stop him. The balustrade was chest-high, shaped precisely like the window open a little.

Payment at the source of his bowels.

He looked at the postscript. Toward the last, and grotesque, ornate, and exotic design—above which the black cock and the house's north side, though, heard the hushed Arkham whispers about Keziah's persistent presence in the Witch-House—that ancient, half-deserted town which Arkham people were quick to imagine they had heard his voice say it he added: What are you singing? Night sky, moon, violet, colour of Molly's new garters.

Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley road, swiftly, in making which they pushed or dragged out into the till. Coming out of the Province.

Or through M'Coy. While he unwrapped the kidney and slapped it over: then the night? I pass on. The cat mewed in answer.

Pert little piece she was then. Chapped: washingsoda. Thursday: not a bit like it. Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her full wagging bub. Young student.

Grey. Heigho! Two letters and a half of Denny's sausages. Hope it's not too big bring on piles again. Your fond daughter, MILLY. Her pale blue scarf loose in the other way. Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Calypso #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Dreams in the Witch House #1932

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