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giuliafc · 3 years

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Stuck in a Cabin (with you)

Read on: Ao3 || FFN || Wattpad

Summoned to save his Lady's life, Adrien gets stuck with her in a cabin during a blizzard. Identities get revealed, feelings come out...but who's been plotting to kill Marinette? Will the culprit be punished? Read to find the answer :) (Adrienette)

Written by: JuliaFC

Betas: Khanofallorcs, Agrestebug, Etoile-Lead-Sama and genxha. Thank you all so much!

Cover Art credit: Rosehealer02 on Deviantart

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by (c) Thomas Astruc, TS1 Bouygues, Disney Channel, Zagtoon, Toei Animation. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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Chapter 1 — Lila’s plan

Lila sighed looking at the message that had just pinged on her phone.

Mamma: [Sorry, tesoro. I got stuck at work because of the snow, don’t know when I’ll get home tonight. If you want, you can order something. Otherwise dried pasta is in the first cupboard at the side of the hob. I’ll make it up to you. Love you!]

Even after all those years, messages like those left a hollow feeling into her heart. Lila had been moving around a lot in the last few years, because of her mother’s job. She hated her mother’s job. Because of it, Lila had had to leave her grandparents and aunt in Sicily and all her childhood friends. Besides, her mother had been completely absent since she started working at the embassy, sometimes not even coming back home before Lila went to bed. Sometimes she wouldn’t see her for days in a row because when she woke up to go to school, mamma was sleeping and when Lila would go to bed, mamma wouldn’t even have started to come home. Mamma tried to make up for it by filling her days off with a lot of activities they could do together, but that wasn’t enough for Lila. She wanted more. She wanted her mother all for herself, like she had been at home, when papà had been there and mamma hadn’t yet obtained her role at the Italian Embassy.

She had been moved around like a pawn: Vienna for a couple of years, then Berlin, Geneva, Dublin and finally Paris. A lot for a 14 year old girl, having to leave it all behind way too many times.

When she moved to Vienna, she had been bullied quite badly because of her accent and her difficulty speaking the language. She had been ostracised and had spent the better part of two years fighting against stupid kids that she couldn’t even understand very well. Add to the mix the fact that papà ended up having an affair and mamma decided to divorce and leave him, and Lila’s life became even worse, even lonelier.

Luckily her mother had been moved to Berlin, but the situation hadn’t improved for her. Vienna or Berlin, the language was still incomprehensible to her and the kids didn’t like her because she was new, uncool, and because her accent sucked. Because her skin was too olive. Because her hair was too brown, or her eyes too green. They used to make fun of her hairstyle, of her clothes, of anything they could put their hands on. Lila started developing a huge amount of rage, frustration and anger. Plus, she missed her papà terribly, and she couldn’t understand in her mind why her mamma had decided to leave him.

Then she moved to Geneva, and on her first day there she met a girl who ‘acted’ cool. She was a couple of years older than Lila; her name was Charlotte, but she allowed Lila to call her Lottie. She took her under her wing and gave her some very interesting lessons. Lottie was a manipulative wench. She used to be the most popular girl in class because she always knew what to say in order to flatter the interlocutor, twist words around and obtain their favour. Lila was fascinated by her ability and craved to learn how to do the same. She worked for months to copy Lottie’s mannerisms and behaviour.

‘In life, you need to always take the upper hand,’ Lottie told her. ‘Tell people what they want to hear. This will automatically bring them to your side, and when you have them wrapped around your little finger, there’s nothing that they won’t do for you. You just need to keep up the appearances and you’re set for life.

‘Always settle for the best. If you set your eyes on a boy, make sure that he’s the best catch in the whole school. Make sure to understand what he likes and slowly set your trap. Let him fall for you, and you’ll be automatically the most popular gal around.’ Lottie had proved her own advice right easily, and had ended up in a relationship with a pop singer that attended their school. That increased her popularity even more and Lila became much more envious of her.

‘If someone bothers you, destroy them before they can attack you, or as soon as you can after that,’ was Lottie’s last bit of advice.

Lottie taught Lila to act cool, taught her that image was everything. Soon ,they had become like twin sisters and instead of being the bullied one, for once Lila enjoyed the feeling of being the bully. They were L&L’s, and they were respected. Her heart broke the day her mother told her that they were moving again, but she had no choice. Saying goodbye to Lottie was one of the most difficult things she had to do in her still young life.

‘Stay strong, Lil,’ Lottie had told her. ‘Remember, image is everything. Teach those Dubliners how great you are and you won’t have any trouble. And if you do,’ she added with a wink, ‘send me a message and I’ll hop on the first flight!’

That had made her laugh. Lottie acted strong and rich, but Lila knew that in reality she would never have been able to uphold her promise, as she was still too young, and had no money.

Dublin hadn’t been that bad for her. Except the weather. The HORRIBLE Irish weather. She still had nightmares of the torrential rain and the storms. But at least, there was the sea. Lila had missed the sea so much in the last few years. She used to make excuses that she was sick, to skip school, take the DART metropolitan train and get off at Portmarnock, Greystones or Bray (more the first two than the latter, because the sandy beach reminded her more of the shores at home). She would walk on the beach without a care in the world, listening to the sound of the waves crashing on the sand.

She had followed Lottie’s advice and had acted cool as soon as she started in her new school. She had gotten used to lying when she was in Geneva under Lottie’s wing, and now the lies came out more natural than the truth. She had become immediately popular when she started, managing to get into a relationship with the most exclusive guy in the class (she didn’t like him, as he was a twat, so full of himself that you could hear him boasting from a distance, but she didn’t care. He was popular and that was all that mattered. He would never realise that she was only using him). She learned how to trick everybody, making them think that she knew all sorts of actors and celebrities. It was fantastic, she was loved and popular and her life was amazing. She was so upset when her mother was moved once more.

And that’s how she ended up in Paris — again far from her beloved sea. She hated the city, she hated the noise and the frantic way of life. Despite the horrible weather, she had loved Dublin because it was smaller and reminded her more of the small town she was born in. But Paris was massive, full of people, of noise. She couldn’t stand the noise. And she hated all those lights. Ville lumière my foot.

Immediately as she started in Françoise Dupont, she tried to remake the same setting she had carefully created in her previous location. But she found the big obstacle of Marinette Dupain-Cheng. The most annoying girl Lila had ever dealt with. Except Ladybug, obviously. Such a tiny girl, but such a big problem for her, and for her resolution to follow Lottie’s footsteps. From the very beginning, Marinette had never fallen for her lies. From the very beginning, she had tried to unmask her and show to everyone her true colours. From the very beginning, she had been an absolute and utter pest.

Lila had fought back. She wouldn’t make it easy for Marinette to win against her; Lila had soon managed to get every student in the class wrapped around her little finger, as Lottie had taught her. She had hoped that soon Marinette wouldn’t be a problem anymore. But unfortunately, she still was. Even more annoyingly, Adrien, whom she was trying to charm in order to again be the most popular girl in school who dated the most handsome and popular guy, seemed to believe Marinette.

Lila had tried all her tricks. She had tried to bring the whole class to her side, she had tried to even manipulate Adrien’s father and make him think that Marinette was a bad influence on his son. But nothing seemed to have an effect on the blond model, and Lila had gotten desperate. She had finally managed to set up a great trap and had gotten Marinette expelled. However, the joy hadn’t lasted long because Adrien had threatened her and had gotten to the point of making a deal with her so that Marinette would be readmitted to school.

Lila was seething that day, but she had no choice. Losing Adrien’s friendship would have been even more detrimental to her image. It didn’t matter if it was only a fake friendship; it would add to her image, and image was everything, as Lottie said.

The more time passed, the more Lila hated Marinette. She had tried everything she could to make her life miserable, but the young designer somehow always managed to resist. Even getting akumatised and trying to use Hawkmoth’s power against Marinette didn’t work, because Ladybug and Chat Noir would get in the way and protect her. They would try to expose Lila’s lies. She had had to make her lies become bigger and bigger and create more and more imaginative excuses in order to keep up with the popularity she craved. And it was never enough, because Marinette always managed to dismiss her claims and most of the time prove her wrong.

From Lila’s point of view, Marinette was the enemy. She was the sole obstacle left in her path to getting what she wanted, and she would get what she wanted, no matter the cost. In her mind, there was only one path left to take to get rid of her.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng had to DIE.

Finally, she had managed to come up with the perfect plan. The perfect opportunity.

The perfect excuse: a school project. She had cheated the sorting and gotten paired with Alya, and the weather today was giving her even more help. When something is meant to be, it’s meant to be. It had already been a cold winter up to then, but very unusually for Paris, in the last week the temperature had dropped way below zero. In fact, it had dropped so low that it had been declared the coldest winter in history, only topped once in the late 1800’s.

Lila didn’t like the cold. Her family came from a little village on the sea, where it was always warm even in the bad season. Yes, it had been cold from time to time, but the sea warmed the temperature up and made the chill more bearable. Her beautiful sea, which she missed so much after having gotten a taste of it back in Dublin. But there was no sea in Paris, only that stupid river… and no warm weather in the winter, especially not this year.

But that cold weather, for once, wasn’t upsetting her because it was helping her craft her plan; she had faced the freezing temperature that very morning before school, and had set up her trap. She would use the cold to her advantage. And this time, she’d have the perfect alibi, and not even Adrien would suspect of her.

This time Marinette would be gone. Forever.

“Are you all right, Lila?” asked Alya, her face showing genuine concern when Lila dumped her phone on the desk in front of her with a pout.

“Yes, I’m fine. Just another charity event being cancelled this week because of the snow,” she made up. Alya’s frown disappeared and the girl gave her a look full of admiration.

“I don’t know how you do it, Lila, your commitment to charities and people in need is admirable, really.”

Lila gave Alya her best puppy eyed glance. “This city, and especially Ladybug and Chat Noir, have done so much for me with all the times I have been akumatised. It’s only nice to give something back!”

Alya put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re a truly amazing person, Lila. I have been akumatised four times, and I guess half of Paris has been in a way or another, but nobody does all you do to ‘give it back to the community’.” The girl with glasses looked at her door thoughtfully. “But if you’ll excuse me a moment, I need the restroom.”

And that’s when the perfect opportunity arose. Alya’s phone was resting on the desk in front of them. Lila gave a cunning side glance to the brunette who had just stood up and was fixing her glasses on her nose and, with a graceful flick of her finger, she pushed Alya’s phone slightly making it fall to the ground, quickly kicking it with her foot underneath the computer desk so that Alya wouldn’t find it.

“Uh… I’m sure my phone was here a moment ago…” muttered Alya looking at the computer desk and scratching her head. She moved her gaze around superficially, but since she couldn’t see the phone anywhere, she sighed. “Well, never mind. I’ll be right back,” she said, looking at Lila before disappearing from view.

“Take your time,” said Lila, her lips curling in a wide smirk as she picked up the phone from the ground. Things seemed to be going her way this time. The phone was unlocked. Lila’s eyes had a triumphant gleam in them as she looked for a conversation with Marinette.

She quickly peeked to ensure that Alya was still in the restroom and opened the chat with Marinette. Then she typed the message she had been planning all day, clicking send immediately after.

Alya (Lila): [Hey, girl! The girls and I are planning to go to Lac Daumesnil. Fancy doing some ice skating with us?]

She kept eyeing the door of the restroom with concern, but Alya was still there. Soon she saw the three dots of the conversation flashing, meaning that Marinette was answering.

Marinette: [It’s been some time since I went ice skating. Last time was a disaster. Sounds like a good idea, Alya. I will be there in an hour]

Alya (Lila): [Great. Start skating if you get there before us. We’re on our way!]

Marinette: [OK!]

Lila looked at the messages with a smirk and took care of deleting each of them one by one. Alya wasn’t going to find out. It was after she had just deleted the last message that Alya emerged from the restroom and she put the phone down immediately.

Alya frowned at her. “Are you okay, Lila?”

“Yes. I found your phone; it was on the floor here.” She pointed at the side of the desk. “I thought I heard it notify you of something, but there’s no notification, nothing at all.”

Alya looked at her phone with interest. “Oh. Maybe an akuma alert?” She started scrolling through her phone, but she didn’t find anything new. “That’s peculiar, there’s no new announcement.”

“Don’t worry, I must have made a mistake,” said Lila, dismissing the conversation with a gesture of her right hand. “So we were saying, about Napoléon?”

This took Alya’s attention away from her phone and brought her back to concentrating on the project they were working on. Lila smirked — her plan was unfolding well.

Author’s Note:

Hi again! I know, I know, another story. I told you I was going to unload everything I had this weekend. This isn’t finished yet (well, one part is, and in theory it could be left like that, but the second part I thought is worth writing!) so I will update this, the AU and “When Magic Fails” as soon as I can. Hope you liked getting inside Lila’s head. The next chapters are not about her, don’t worry. Or rather, worry, because the next chapters are her plan unfolding. And the title of the next chapter (and the beautiful cover art) is kind of revealing… so, well, I’ll hide again… ^^;

In the next instalment of “Stuck in a cabin (with you)”, “Drowning”:

— “I don’t know, Marinette. This sounds fishy. Why aren’t your friends here yet?”

— “I can’t move, Tikki, I think I have cramps! HELP ME!”

— “Sugarcube! It won’t happen again, not if we can help it, don’t worry!”

Ehrm… I know. Doesn’t sound good, right? ^^ Please subscribe if you’re interested in knowing what is going to happen, so you will know when the next update is!

Last but not least, as usual, if you read this and you’re not part of our wonderful Discord server already, but you enjoy reading, writing and talking about Miraculous, please join our Discord server, Miraculous Fanworks (for people on FFN, discord dot gg slash mlfanworks). See you there soon. Not sure when I will update this story but it won't be too long! Promise!

#miraculous #miraculous ladybug #miraculous les aventures de ladybug et chat noir #adrienette #adrien agreste #adrien and marinette #reveals #identity reveal #marinette dupain cheng #tales of ladybug and cat noir #ladybug #lila rossi #hurt/comfort #angst #romance #hurtcomfort #marichat

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2manyfandoms2count · 4 years

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Friends who cook together...

I saw today's prompt for @auyeahaugust (College AU) and thought it would be the perfect opportunity to share the beginning of this fic I've been working on!

It's actually based on @e-milieeee's post, I couldn't resist the cooking trope 😬

Hope you enjoy!

Read on AO3 (gasp)

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Lesson 1: Ratatouille

Adrien Agreste was the perfect man. Good-looking, hard-working, charming, he was the prime example of the son-in-law every parent wanted, and the people his age who didn't want to be him wanted to date him.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng wouldn't deny she might be classified in the latter category, although less so than when she was younger. She was good friends with the model now. Voluntarily so. You didn’t fight and defeat Paris’ number one villains for years, growing from a teenager into a young adult together, without getting close. Their respective crushes on each other had faded over time, but it didn’t mean they would’ve said no if all the circumstances aligned, although they wouldn’t have admitted it out loud.

The one thing Adrien Agreste wasn’t, though, was a good cook. Not that he didn’t have everything he could possibly need in his kitchen. The apartment he now lived in, although a huge step down from the Mansion that had once been his home (but what wouldn’t be), was still a lot bigger, and a lot more comfortable than what a normal student should have been able to afford.

It was a lot better equipped, too.

Marinette had told him the contractors were abusing his trust by installing things that were way more expensive than they ought to be, knowing he wouldn’t double check, but he’d waved her concerns away. With his father’s demise, he’d just wanted to move out as quickly as possible to avoid the crowds of paparazzi, and if signing a very large cheque could provide him with the knowledge the workers wouldn’t blab, then so be it. He couldn’t bring himself to sell the Mansion despite the knowledge it had been Hawkmoth’s lair the whole time -there were too many memories associated with his mother there- but he’d had some offers to rent it out for movie settings which would definitely cover the costs of keeping it, as well as his rent. He’d looked into his finances and put all the money he’d earned as a model in a bank account, and donated the rest to a fund to help Akuma victims. There was no way he was keeping his father’s dirty money when so many people had suffered at his hands.

Since then, Adrien had fallen into a nice little routine as he moved from Lycée to University. He made the most of his freedom by exploring every nook and cranny of Paris without anyone being able to say anything about it. No curfews, no limitations, but for his own tiredness and others’ private property, of course.

It left little time for him to learn basic cooking skills. He was often too tired to make anything when he came back from his nocturnal meanderings, so he went for the easy solution: food delivery. There were so many restaurants nearby he could’ve eaten something different every night for a month and still not have gone through all of the options. It was more diverse than anything he’d ever eaten, and it suited him just fine.

Little did he know that this habit would be disrupted by his best friend moving in next door.

Marinette had been looking for a new flat. Not that she didn’t enjoy living with her parents, but she found herself wanting a little more privacy now that she was at University. The reveal that she was Ladybug had brought a lot of attention to the Tom and Sabine bakery, which was good, but a lot of it was journalists prowling around in the hopes of getting an exclusive interview with her. She was tired of being pretty much mauled anytime she left the house, and although she could easily leave via the rooftops as Ladybug, she refused to let them dictate how and when she could get in and out. Which is why, when she’d seen the words “à louer” on a window of Adrien’s building as she visited him for their weekly game night, she didn’t think twice about calling the number. Adrien had been a step ahead of her, so the owners were expecting her call. A week later, she had officially moved into the flat across from his.

She hadn’t paid much attention to his habits at first. She was too busy settling in, and with all the planned evenings with Nino and Alya, plus the ones with the Miracuclass students who remained in Paris, she didn’t see how late he came back at night, and ordering in didn’t seem out of place. What better than a pizza for poker night? Or sushi for movie night? It was easy .

As winter settled in, though, and nights out dwindled to once every fortnight, she noticed the ballet of scooters and bikes that came almost at a fixed time every night. Generally when she was about to fall asleep, doing a grand job at waking her up. Groggily stalking up to the window one evening, she’d noticed Adrien meet the delivery person as he came back from wherever he’d been, paying his due and coming up. She’d dismissed it due to midterm season approaching, but exams had come and gone and things hadn’t changed. She kept an eye out, and after two additional weeks of seeing Adrien collect a brown paper bag, knowing fully well that he ate a sandwich every midday thanks to her father’s well-meaning gossip, she’d decided to take action. She couldn’t let her partner have such a questionable diet.

“What's it going to be tonight?” She asked, leaning arms crossed against her door frame one night as he appeared on the landing.

Adrien froze at the top of the stairs and looked at her like a deer caught in headlights.

“Er…“ He raked his mind for something, anything that would sound even remotely healthy, but nothing came. He sighed defeatedly. “None pizza with left beef.” He mumbled, his head lowered guiltily. He’d seen the meme the night before, and had wanted to try it out.

“What?”

He repeated a little louder.

“Okay that’s it, you’re coming over to my place for dinner.”

He knew from her tone of voice there’d be no arguing with her, so he sheepishly followed her inside her flat, still clutching his pizza box. He wasn’t too unhappy about the outcome, if he was honest. Marinette was a good cook. He’d have a nice meal tonight.

“What about the pizza?” He asked weakly.

“We can use it as… bread, or something.” The girl suggested, crinkling her nose at the thought. For someone who came from a long line of bakers and was part Italian, calling the contents of the box pizza or even bread seemed inherently wrong.

Adrien trailed a little behind her as she walked towards her kitchen, marveling at what she’d done with the place.

Marinette’s apartment mirrored his in terms of structure, but whereas his decoration was very minimalistic, hers was a lot more eclectic, without looking cluttered. Her furniture wasn’t a set, yet fit together very well and gave the space a cozy feel. The painted walls, as well as the coloured posters, curtains, rugs and cushions made it feel very homey. He wanted nothing more than sit on her sofa and snuggle under the knitted blanket with her to watch a movie.

Platonically, of course.

Adrien walked into the kitchen and was greeted by the pastel yellow of the walls and warm lighting. Her utensils provided nice splashes of colour that brightened up the room. He particularly appreciated the Ladybug-themed colander that was drying next to the sink.

“If you look in that bottom draw,” she indicated with her foot before reaching for a jar of dried rice in a cupboard, “you should find some saucepans, if you could take two out please, Chaton.”

He obliged, resisting the temptation to lift her up to help her. He knew she wouldn't appreciate it.

“Can I put you in charge of cooking the rice?” She asked, handing him the packet. Adrien accepted it but looked at her quizzically.

“Sure!” He replied excitedly. “Do you have the instructions anywhere?”

Marinette stopped in the middle of washing vegetables she’d taken out of the fridge and squinted her eyes as she gauged whether or not he was joking. He seemed genuinely at loss for what to do.

“Have you never prepared rice before?”

“No?”

“It’s like pasta.” His clueless face made her sigh defeatedly. “You’ve never made pasta either, haven’t you.”

“Does instant ramen count? Or pasta boxes?” He flinched slightly.

“How you’re still alive and actually fit is beyond me.” She rolled her eyes. “Right, I guess we really are starting with the basics then. Consider this lesson number one: pour some water in that saucepan.”

She moved away from the sink to allow him to access it, but stayed close enough to be able to turn the tap off for him. He clearly had no idea of how much water was needed.

“Right, now put the saucepan on the hob, and turn it on.” She saw a smirk spread on his face. “And don’t even think about making a joke, I know what it sounded like!”

“You’re no fun, Buguinette.” He pouted, pressing the button she indicated.

“Add a little salt, and then we’ll just let it come to a boil.”

Next, she handed him a chopping board and tomatoes. She hesitated before giving him a knife. “Can I trust you not to cut yourself?”

“Har har.” He grabbed the knife. “Joke’s on you, because salad is actually the only thing I know how to make. How do you want these?”

She resisted making a comment on how knowing how to make salad wasn't something he really could brag about. “Sliced. We’re making ratatouille.”

“Ooh, nice!”

He listened as she talked him through the recipe, impressed by the fact she didn’t need a cookbook to remember how to prepare it. She taught him how to prepare an aubergine, which he could recognise thanks to the emoji, but could not imagine how to bring to an edible form.

“We just want to sear them in some oil with the courgettes, then we’ll let them cook gently with the rest of the vegetables and the herbs.”

He’d been quite dainty on the amount of herbes de Provence he’d added, which had prompted her taking his hand and shaking the spice pot to cover the tomatoes with it.

He looked at her concentrated expression as she stirred the pan and couldn’t help but smile, his hand still hovering above the hob.

Marinette looked at him inquisitively. “What?”

“Nothing.” She raised her eyebrows. “I just forgot how cute you are when you’re bossy.”

Marinette stammered in response, her cheeks pinking. It didn't matter how at ease she felt with Adrien now, she still couldn't take a compliment from him. He grinned and took advantage of her distraction to steal the wooden spoon from her and taste the dish.

“Authorisation to add a little salt?” He asked, refilling the spoon with ratatouille for her.

She took it, trying not to focus on the fact his lips had been just where hers were. She let the flavours flood her palet thoughtfully.

"Authorisation granted."

She smiled fondly as Adrien excitedly added missing spices to the mix.

"See? I am a competent cook!" He added with a satisfied smile.

"Please, you're barely a sous-chef." Marinette snorted. She backtracked her slightly harsh words seeing her partner's pout. "Don't worry though, you'll get the hang of it! It's just a question of practising." She rubbed his back encouragingly. "Would making the plates pretty make you feel better?"

"I think so." He mock sniffled.

Marinette made a point of taking out her Chat Noir plates, which she'd been planning on keeping for special occasions. The way Adrien's face lit up upon seeing them made the fact they were her only dishes that couldn't be dishwashed seem irrelevant. Adrien made a mental note to try and find matching Ladybug ones, although he wasn't sure if he would be gifting them to her or keeping them for himself.

Marinette busied herself with tidying up the kitchen and laying the cutlery as he worked on the presentation. Had her phone been nearby, she would've taken a picture of him as he blepped in concentration.

"Does this look good enough for Madame la Chef ?" He asked as he presented the plates to her. He'd positioned the vegetables around the rice so as to make it look like a flower.

"It's perfect, Chaton." She kissed the top of his head as she passed behind him with a packet of smoked ham. She rolled the slices into little roses and planted them in the rice.

"A table?" She asked as she finally sat down opposite him.

Adrien dug in before she could say bon appétit .

---

When Adrien came home from his morning run a couple of days later, a fresh croissant in hand, he found a conscientiously wrapped package on his doormat. The black polka dots on the field of red were a dead giveaway as to who it was from. He grinned as he picked it up and opened the door.

Breakfast and washed hands later, he sat on his couch, facing the present. He was torn between tearing the wrapping, or being civilised about it. Before he could choose, Plagg flew nearby and obeyed his cat instincts, swiftly disappearing back into his Camembert cabinet with a grin to avoid his holder's reprimands.

"Je sais cuisiner." He read the title and laughed, holding the book in front of him. It was an old edition, a yellow hardback with a picture of the author on the cover.

A post-it note stuck out from the top of the book. He opened it to get to the bookmarked recipe.

For Adrien - saw this and thought of you! Since you're so keen on instructions, this might do the trick! Feel free to use it often ;-)

Love, Marinette

P.S.: I suggest we try this recipe next!

Adrien read through the page, and felt his stomach grumble. He was very pleased at the thought that something had reminded her of him and that she'd bought it for him. The "love" and the fact she was obviously looking forward to repeating their cooking experience were added bonuses.

He himself could hardly wait.

#auyeah2020 #mlauyeahaugust #college au #miraculous ladybug #the miraculous tales of ladybug and cat noir #mlb #adrienette #cooking trope #neighbours au #miraculous fanfic #miraculous fanfiction #elle writes

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isitgintimeyet · 4 years

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Road To The Aisles

AO3

Well, it’s not the weekend (well, it is for me!) but here’s the next chapter. Hope you enjoy it! thanks for all your support

Thanks as always to @mo-nighean-rouge @happytoobserve @wickedgoodbooks

Chapter 10: A Photographic Opportunity

“I'm no model lady. A model's just an imitation of the real thing.” Mae West

Silence filled the car as Jamie drove back to Glasgow. There was only the sound of the regular breathing from Claire, dozing in the passenger seat, and William, napping in the back. He didn’t mind this quiet. It gave him a chance to enjoy the passing scenery and also to process the previous few days.

It had been a most satisfying weekend - in every sense of the word. Jamie chuckled to himself. Claire was right… he did turn into a sex-crazed beast when he was at Lallybroch. Not that Claire seemed to object. In fact, she seemed more than willing to match his appetites, as the bite marks on his groin could bear witness to. It was fortunate that the walls and doors at Lallybroch were solid and practically soundproof with her apparent inability to remain quiet during sex. But that was part of the thrill to him -- when she cried his name, all restraint abandoned, her face contorted with pleasure -- it only made him want her more, made him harder than anyone else ever could…

As he felt his arousal begin, he took several slow, deep breaths and deliberately forced his mind away from images of his Sassenach and towards more neutral topics.

Aye, he always enjoyed his visits to Lallybroch but this one had been extra special -- introducing his son to the place where he grew up, visiting his childhood haunts and taking him to the distillery. William had been fawned over by all the staff as he regaled them with his newly acquired party trick, blowing very loud and very slobbery raspberries. And, whether by reason of tact or ignorance, fortunately no one had made mention of William’s maternal parentage.

He had also managed to mend bridges with his nephew that he never realised were broken. There had always been a close bond between uncle and nephew and Jamie had been so wrapped up with the thrills and anxieties of being a father that he had neglected this bond. At least he’d learnt his lesson on that score.

Planning for the wedding was now finally underway. He just needed to have a conversation with Geneva about flexibility on dates with William. Jamie sighed. Flexibility had never been one of Geneva’s strong points.

And then finally he had to talk to Claire about his idea. The idea that had been discussed and approved at the meeting yesterday. It all depended on her agreement. Jamie wasn’t sure which way that would go.

Claire stirred and looked around. “I must’ve been dozing for a good while. We’ll soon be home.”

Jamie smiled. No matter how many times he heard it, he still thrilled when Claire mentioned home… their home, together.

“Aye, no’ long now. I’d best drop ye at home and then I’ll head straight tae Geneva’s and drop William there.” He grimaced. “And I’ll ask about the dates. If we drive up tae Lallybroch on the Friday, have the wedding --”

“Our wedding,” Claire interrupted.

“Our wedding,” Jamie corrected himself. “... have our wedding on the Sunday. Then Isobel can drive William home on the Monday and we can have a honeymoon fer a week. So I’m asking fer William on the Friday not the Tuesday and then no’ till the following Tuesday.”

“Will she be amenable to that?”

”I dinna ken. This is Geneva we’re talking about.”

**********

Jamie was hardly through the door when Geneva snatched William out of his arms and smothered him in kisses.

“Oh Mummy missed you so much, angel.” She muttered against his head, his ginger down moving slightly with her breath. “Have you had a nice time, then?”

William smiled and blew a very loud and wet raspberry.

Jamie laughed. “His new party trick. I’m sure he thinks he’s verra clever.”

“Hmm, not the nicest thing, I must admit.” Geneva looked down at the shoulder of her satin blouse, now splattered with William’s drool.

Geneva led the way into her living room with Jamie following.

“So, I’ll see you on Sunday evening for pick up then,” Geneva began.

“Aye, But there’s something I want tae discuss with ye.” Jamie hurriedly continued, anxious lest Geneva begin jumping to conclusions. “It’s about the date fer my and Claire’s wedding. We’re having it at Lallybroch, and I was wondering if we could move some dates when I have William around in October, so that the bairn can be at the ceremony and then mebbe Isobel could bring him back tae ye while Claire and I have a week’s honeymoon.”

Geneva thought for a moment before speaking. “You need to email me the dates you are talking about and then I’ll think about it. But, you know, it’s funny, you were the one who got lawyers involved, who wanted your access to William clearly defined. And now you want to start changing things around.”

Jamie clenched his fists behind his back, letting his nails dig into his palms, forcing himself to remain calm. He tried to keep his voice level. “I got lawyers involved because as ye well ken, ye were keeping me from seeing ma son. I’m no’ just asking ye tae be awkward… tae change dates on a whim. This is ma wedding and ma honeymoon I’m trying tae plan.”

Geneva shrugged. “Like I said, send me the dates and I’ll think about it.”

She turned away, the conversation obviously at an end. Jamie kissed William on the head and quickly left.

***************

Jamie came up behind Claire as she leant into the fridge and with his hands on her hips, he bent over and kissed the back of her neck.

Without turning around, she immediately responded. “Not much in. I can do us some bacon and eggs for dinner, if you like.”

Jamie pulled away, pretending to be disappointed. “Aw, how did you know it was me, Sassenach?”

Claire finally turned around, her hands now full of dinner ingredients. “Because…” she stood on tiptoes and kissed his nose. “... my other blokes always knock twice before coming in. To check if the coast is clear, you understand.”

“I dinna think ye can manage any other blokes after the weekend we’ve had, aye?” Jamie tried to wink suggestively, which turned into more of an exaggerated blink.

She put the bacon and eggs on the counter top and wound her arms around his waist, running her hands over the contours of his back. She rested her head against his chest. He smelt of cologne and fabric conditioner with a hint of baby and another smell that was uniquely Jamie. She wondered idly whether it was that that kept her wanting him… pheromones. But she knew it was more than that between them… their bodies, their personalities, their souls all inextricably linked together.

“I know. I’ve told them not to bother me. I need time to recover from you this weekend.” Claire joked.

“And I ye, ye vixen. Ye marked me well, ye ken.”

Claire shrugged, gave a fully perfected wink and turned back to the hob.

********

After a hastily put together dinner, Claire relaxed on the sofa, flicking between television channels as Jamie carried two mugs of tea and two slices of Mrs. Crook’s Dundee cake into the living room.

Settling himself next to her, he asked. “Can we turn it off, please? There’s a couple of things we need tae discuss.”

Claire turned to face him and waited.

“I’ve asked Geneva about moving dates around…” he began then hesitated.

“And?” Claire prompted.

“Weel, she said she would consider it and I should send her the dates, but ye ken, Sassenach, I’m worried. Even if she agrees now, what’s tae stop her changing her mind when all the arrangements have been made, jes’ tae make it difficult fer us?”

“Would she do that, do you think?”

“I dinna ken. Even if she wouldn’t, I think she’d like tae have that hanging over us. Mebbe she’d like that control knowing she could change her mind and ruin our plans. It’s a question of how much do we want tae risk it.”

“And how much do you want to risk it?”

“Personally, I dinna want tae risk it at all. I can imagine what it’d be like every time I picked William up or dropped him off… ‘ooh yes Jamie, remind me again what were those dates. I must remember not to go away then…’ and her thinking we’d have tae play any little game she wanted. But this is yer wedding too, Sassenach. I want ye tae be happy with any decisions we make. So, what do ye think? What should we do?”

Claire took a bite of cake and washed it down with a swig of tea as she considered Jamie’s views. “I want to be able to enjoy these next few months, not have to worry about what Geneva may or may not do. And if that means having a shorter honeymoon, so be it. I will not have her thinking she has control over us. Although --”

“I ken what ye’re going tae say. She’ll think she has control making us change our plans now. But I’ll live with that, she canna hold it over us for months.”

“So, if we drive to Lallybroch with William on Friday, have the wedding --”

“Our wedding, Sassenach, is it no’?” Jamie interrupted with a grin.

“OK, point taken… ‘our’ wedding on the Sunday, come home Monday and drop William off at nursery on Tuesday morning, we can still have a honeymoon until Sunday evening. That’s six days.”

“Five nights, dinna forget.” He waggled his eyebrows comically.

“Me...forget? Never.” Claire responded as she reached up and stroked his cheek, enjoying the rasp of the beard growth against her palm. She kissed him lightly before pulling back.

Not content with the fleeting touch of her lips against his, Jamie leant into Claire and returned the kiss, gently at first before capturing her lower lip between his teeth and then teasingly running his tongue around her lips. She moaned softly as he traced a path of butterfly kisses from her mouth down her neck. She shivered as he reached the soft skin behind her earlobe.

“Jamie, don’t distract me,” she said, laughing. “You said you had a couple of things to discuss. What was the other?”

“Mmm?” Jamie continued nibbling her ear.

Claire pulled away. “You had something else to discuss?”

“What… tae… er… discuss?” It took Jamie a few moments to remember their conversation. “Oh, aye… weel… it’s just an idea I had. Ye ken, we’re launching our new whisky in Japan, and Ian’s planning the marketing campaign?”

Claire nodded and shifted in her seat to sit cross legged, her back against the arm of the sofa, facing Jamie. He took her hand, idly playing with her engagement ring as he looked into her eyes.

“I was thinking… yer eyes are sae beautiful, sae warm and they’re the exact colour of the whisky. Would ye be part of the advertising campaign? The photos? Nae pressure but…” he tailed off, unsure of Claire’s reaction.

For once, he couldn’t read her expressions as she looked down at their hands, her eyelids hiding her eyes from his view. She was silent.

“Have I offended ye? I didna mean tae.”

“No… no… it’s just… I’m not a model. I’m not sure how I’d feel seeing myself in magazines. And what if someone recognised me? I wouldn’t want that.”

“Like I said, there’s no pressure. And I havena spoken tae the advertising agency yet, but it would only be fer the Japanese market and I have this idea of only using yer eyes, the rest of yer face hidden. Sassenach, say the word and I willna mention it again.”

Claire bit her lip and shrugged. “Let me think about it.”

#outlander fan fiction #outlander fanfic #Road To The Aisles #Jamie Fraser #claire beauchamp #Chapter 10

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johnsellph · 3 years

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Jean-Pierre Carenso

Jean-Pierre Carenso has died aged 86. A former director of the Tour de France, Carenso – pictured on the right – is one of several “forgotten” directors from the 1980s and did a lot to change the race and the business of pro cycling in a short space of time.

Go back to the 1980s and the Tour de France had the feel of a travelling circus and a tired one at that. A lot of the features we take for granted didn’t exist. The village départ at the start, the big arch over the finish line, a slick podium ceremony, all had yet to be invented. Yet it was the pre-eminent bike race, so important that teams used to pay entry fees to start. All this changed in the late 1980s and Jean-Pierre Carenso was a driving force behind this.

A brief history of Tour de France directors… How many Tour de France directors can you name? Christian Prudhomme occupies the role today, many will remember Jean-Marie Leblanc. Jacques Goddet, Félix Lévitan and Henri Desgranges all have their name in history… and Wikipedia pages, as a proxy for this. But in the 1980s there were four others, but often with short roles that they’ve been overlooked.

Today the Tour de France is run by Amaury Sport Organisation and to cut a story short it was called Société du Tour back then. Just like today, the Société du Tour was under the same roof as L’Equipe, the daily sports newspaper, but then also alongside other titles like Le Parisien, a daily newspaper. In the 1980s the Amaury group hired former tennis pro and advertising executive Jean-Pierre Courcol to help develop Le Parisien and within a few years he was running L’Equipe. Courcol seems to have opened up the Amaury group to the world of advertising and business and when Tour de France directeurs Jacques Goddet and Félix Lévitan left – Goddet halting a 50 year run; Lévitan leaving under a financial cloud – after 1986, Courcol introduced Jean-François Naquet-Radiguet as the new directeur of the Tour de France for 1987. Naquet-Radiguet was an outsider, having been in charge of a French wines and spirits business in Mexico and his tale is well told in “The Cognac Salesman and the Conman” in The Cycling Anthology, Volume 5 by Daniel Friebe. Naquet-Radiguet accelerated the process of modernisation. Acceleration, not starting, because if Goddet had ran the show for 50 years he hadn’t pickled the Tour in time, after all he signed the sponsorship contract to replace Perrier as the “official drink” with Coca-Cola a couple of years before Naquet-Radiguet appeared. The first thing Naquet-Radiguet did was put some theatre into the route presentation… by putting the route presentation in a theatre. Until then next year’s map had been handed out to journalists in a room but he turned it into the format we know today, with a staged presentation, complete with a highlights reel from the previous edition. He was also behind the village départ, the VIP zone where riders, sponsors and other guests can hob-nob before a stage, radical in 1987, ubiquitous at any big stage race today. But he lasted less than a year and was out by May 1988. With the race just weeks away Courcol had to step in as co-directeur, hired Xavier Louy to help, a man so discreet entries about his time at the Tour see his name also listed as Louis sometimes.

When 1989 Tour de France route was unveiled in the autumn of 1988 so were the race’s new directors. Carenso was unveiled as a new co-director in tandem with Jean-Marie Leblanc. Leblanc was an ex-pro who’d become a journalist, rising up to become the cycling chef at L’Equipe before joining sister company the Société du Tour as the race radio announcer and moving into race organisation. Carenso had enjoyed cycling in the hills behind Nice in his youth but made his name in advertising in Paris and was part of a series of high profile campaigns. He invented the slogan “du pain, du vin et du Boursin” for a brand of cheese spread that’s still a catchphrase in France today despite the ad being outlawed by anti-alcohol ad laws in the early 1990s. Carenso was also part of the team behind the campaign in 1981 that used billboards across France featuring a model in a bikini with the strapline (translated) “tomorrow I’ll take my top off” and sure enough two days later billboard was reposted with the model now standing topless… and a new strapline saying “tomorrow I’ll take the bottoms off”. You can guess what the billboard looked like next, albeit with the model’s back to the camera. Now you can question the taste of these ads – and complaints flew in across France – but they were radical in adland not for the nudity but the rapidity, to prove that billboards get noticed and crucially the content could be changed across France in a day. So Carenso was Monsieur Business to Leblanc’s Monsieur Cyclisme but not just anyone from French corporate life but someone who’d been behind influential ad campaigns.

Carenso picked up where Naquet-Radiguet stopped. The Tour got a new logo, brands were trademarked. Teams no longer paid to start the Tour de France but were instead given a payment to cover expenses, a practice that continues today. The Tour – a bit like the Giro today – had many ancilliary competitions but Carenso thought it was all too complicated: the podium ceremonies bored the public and hogged riders when they could be going on television instead. The problem was each ceremony had its sponsor and so to cut this would mean slicing income too. Or not because Carenso shifted the focus to a few would pay beaucoup in order to stand out. He started with about 50 sponsors in 1988, cut that in half for 1989 and delivered his plan to reach just five for 1990. Or take the example of the cars used in the Tour, the race had enjoyed a long rapport with Peugeot for the official vehicles. The Société du Tour went to Peugeot and asked for the cars plus a payment of 500,000 francs (about €120,000 today). Peugeot boss Jean Todt thought it was a joke, a bluff that this rambling circus could ask for money on top but while he was chuckling to himself Italy’s Fiat offered six million francs and so the Tour swapped from French cars to Italian in 1989: c’est le business. Things even went as far as selling the naming rights to in the 1989 event with Stage 20 going from Aix-les-Bains to “Hewlett-Packard-l’Isle-d’Abeau”, the US computer company branding the finish thanks to their offices there. Carenso left the Tour de France in 1994 after “strategic differences” with Jean-Claude Killy, a former downhill ski champion then appointed as Carenso’s senior.

Today? What’s striking is that there don’t seem to be any Carensos in and around the sport now. All races today look and feel very similar to a decade ago now; maybe Wouter Vandenhaute has modernised some Flemish races, but setting up VIP villages beside the course is straight out of Carenso’s handbook rather than something radical. Michele Acquarone had some fresh ideas but was driven out of RCS. It’s hard to imagine someone in a big ad agency, Google or Facebook, quitting their job today to run a major race although like Carenso perhaps some would jump, Carenso described landing the job as “the holy grail”. “No bad thing” some may quip if outsiders cam to trample on traditions and sophistications for the sake of a quick buck. But Carenso’s tandem with Leblanc seemed to improve the Tour as a business without altering the sport, Carenso handled sponsorship, TV rights and the image of the race but left the route, time bonuses and all that to Leblanc.

France changed a lot in the 1980s and there’s a thesis waiting to be done about the extent to which the Tour mirrors change in France, whether socio-cultural attitudes, business or the media are just reflected back by the Tour de France. Naquet-Radiguet and Carenso were brought in to do a job and perhaps if it wasn’t them could have been others who’d modernise the Tour de France? But it wasn’t others, it was them. Naquet-Radiguet and Carenso did a lot in a very short time to make the Tour what it is today, and by extension the sport and business of professional cycling too.

Photo: Société d’art et d’histoire du Mentonnais

Jean-Pierre Carenso published first on https://motocrossnationweb.weebly.com/

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gabessquishytum · 4 months

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Started thinking about toys in an omegaverse, and came up with one for dreamling to use as both omegas; imagine a double-ended dildo, but at the center are two knots close together. If each omega takes in the dildo and pops a knot in, their crotches are flush together enough that it feels like it’s each their partner’s knot.

So now imagine Hob and Dream, two omegas, riding one of these together. It could be a pretty basic model, the knots always present and only just small enough to push into their holes without much issue, and then once in they can grind on the knots together until they come. There’s also a fancier model, where the knots can inflate either with a remote control or a timer; Hob and Dream can treat it as an ordinary double-ended dildo up until either the timer goes off or whichever of them holding the remote presses the button, at which point the knots will inflate and lock them together.

More of a word picture than a story this time ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

-🪽anon

Ooo I like this a lot. The omega x omega sex toy concept is so good, I kinda love the idea of the omegas being able to "fight" for the knot in the middle, both of them wanting their partner to get knotted first, but every time they thrust forward they ultimately get the rebound thrust... I think its a great idea for a toy.

I really like the idea of Hob really getting into the whole thing and talking dirty like the toy is really his knot, talking about how he's going to knot Dream so hard and fill him up. Maybe he pushes forward and properly mounts on top of Dream, driving the fake knot closer and closer... Maybe Dream cums just hearing Hob talk about it, and maybe Hob cums because Dream is squirming underneath him and the knot is starting to slip into both of them, tying them together...

When Dream finally comes back to full awareness he sees Hob licking the fake knot clean and sucking their combined cum off the toy. And then it's Dream’s turn to pounce and press Hob into the mattress. Maybe the knot also has a vibration setting that Dream is very interested to experiment on Hob with... before he tries it out himself 😏 it's endless fun tbh. And eventually they fall asleep, tied together by the swollen fake knot, both absolutely satisfied and very much looking forward to spending their next heats together, with the toy. Maybe they'll get a spare, just in case.

(You also asked about the other asks you sent getting lost - I am SO sorry, I honestly don't know what happened there. I feel like maybe they came in while I was really sick? I also had problems with not being able to edit my drafts, so there are honestly multiple things that could have occurred. I'm so sorry D: im going to dig through my inbox and see what i can find - i have 350 asks so they could very well be buried somewhere!)

#🪽 anon #the sandman #dreamling #nsft #cw omegaverse

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aubiefittedfurniture · 4 years

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Extractor Hobs: What Makes them a Must-Have in Every Modular Kitchen?

Cooking is a stressbuster. It is a therapy that relieves one of the stress by acting as a creative outlet. But things like lingering food smell, the release of grease particles and billowing smoke, causing visibility issues ruin the very experience. Not anymore! All thanks to companies like Bora for introducing homemakers to innovative kitchen extractor fans. Unlike the usual exhaust hoods in the kitchen, these are sleeker and more modern than you could ever imagine! Renowned by the name of ‘extractor hobs’, these arrive with smart features, making them an essential item on every homeowner’s checklist. The blog today shall discuss them to justify the claims. Upgrade to them only if you are convinced of its benefits and urgency.

So, What Exactly Is an Extractor Hob?

It’s a new concept and the latest innovation in the world of kitchen appliances. You can visualise it somewhat like a hybrid of induction and extractor. It’s tailored for keen cooks, who prepare dishes passionately in kitchens and spread the love in their families. You would love to have them in your kitchen for cleansing air, causing less condensation and sucking steam straight away from the pan. Despite such a toil, the technology will never give you a scope to complain about noise. Thanks to manufacturers for ensuring quiet operation!

Now, The Question Is How Do They Work?

Also renowned as a vented hob, this nifty modern kitchen appliance is a state-of-the-art combination of a central grid, a powerful extraction unit and a motor. When you install it in your kitchen, it will work in a way, drawing off all the odours and sucking up all the grease particles to ensure clean and hygienic air. The best thing about it is that it traps the grease particles in its filter, shuns it from rising in the first place and stops it from spreading throughout the kitchen. Efficiency is the highest as compared to the customary kitchen hoods as it takes care of the odour right at the source.

Advantages of Installing Vented Hobs in Kitchen

While preventing steam and smell from lingering, long after cooking is one of the greatest advantages of investing in vented hobs, there’s more to it. Ideal for open-plan kitchens, it keeps the conversation going with guests while cooking without causing any inconvenience. Moreover, it fits in easily into small kitchens and saves space by covering less area on one’s countertop. Lastly, cleaning them is completely hassle-free as you don’t need to climb up with the help of a ladder to reach out for it. So, all in all, it’s worth investing in.

What are the Available Options?

If you filter down to Bora cooktop extractor systems, you will have four distinct options:

Bora X Pure

Bora Pure

Bora Professional 2

Bora Classic 2.0

Though the working principle in all four of them are the same, smart features separate them. So, rest assured that the exhaust and recirculation system shall be there, no matter which of the models you settle with.

Final Thoughts:

If you are convinced about the benefits of kitchen cooktop extractor, go for this upgraded system in your home kitchen. Bid farewell to annoying smoke blocking your sight and enjoy a comfortable cooking ambience! But make sure you check the dimensions of your kitchen unit before ordering them from a certified supplier.

#Extractor hobs #kitchen extractor fan #Bora X Pure #Bora Pure #Bora Professional 2

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snowchuu-blog · 7 years

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would you rather tag

@jungkookio tagged me and i lov her 💝 lets go

WOULD YOU RATHER:

build a snowman with V OR have a snowball fight with J-Hope?

um !! the snowman would be our new homie welcome 2 the club olaf

get coffee with Suga OR get ice cream with Suga?

yall already know i like ice cream i mean like

go to the cinema with Jimin OR the amusement park with Jungkook?

we could take rlly nice pics like stolen shots of me eating and also of me screaming

do a dance cover with J-Hope OR sing a duet with Jin?

i really couldn’t choose i’m sorry sfkndklk

kiss Rap Monster OR cuddle Suga?

the goal of my lyf bless

babysit with Jimin OR dogsit with V?

!!!! a puppy and a puppy and more puppies ?? sign me up

meet J-hope’s family OR have V meet your family?

my family would probably wanna meet the living embodiment of the word: ethereal i mean real talk

film a commercial with J-hope OR film a sketch with V?

um even tho i look like a nugget i feel like it’d be fun ‘’

hug jimin OR hold hands with Jungkook?

the reAL QUESTION THOUGH I really can’t sorry

go to paris with Jin OR go to london with Suga?

i love london tho i haven’t been there but also @ paris um fashion ????? and imagine the sass ???

film a drama with Jin OR do a photoshoot with Rap Monster?

um i wouldn’t look good in both ??? but i think i’m more of an actor than a model

attend an award show with Rap Monster OR wear couple t-shirts at the airport with Jungkook?

as cheesy as couple tees sound, i like them better than dressing up fancy i guess

spend a lazy day with Suga OR explore a city with J-hope?

even tho i wanna cuddle yoongi 24/7, i feel like going around the city with hobs would be rlly funnn

fall asleep next to Jimin OR wake up next to Jungkook?

have u seen how angel-like they look when they sleep??? sign me up in both

have a fun picnic with J-Hope OR a fancy date with Jin?

yeah i suck at fancy 2 i feel ya @ alicia

have Jungkook serenade you OR have V sing you to sleep?

crap i’m forever guk biased but sorry i gotta choose tae on this one. 4 o'clock aka my all time lullaby

have a dance party with J-Hope OR sing karaoke with Suga?

lol i love karaoke sign me up

go camping with Jimin and V OR go to the beach with Rap Monster and Suga?

camping is ew bc @ bugs but i’m not really fond of beaches so ?? idk ? i’m probably just in it bc tae would probably tell some horror stories to try and scare me n jimin and it’d be cute

have a sleepover with the hyung line OR a birthday party with the maknae line?

the party would be wiiildddtt but imagine the sleepover tho ??? we’d play monopoly and seokjin and i would bake muffins and also the pillow fights ?? whoeven uses feather pillows anymore but anyways 💃🏻

celebrate halloween with Jungkook, Suga, V and J-Hope OR christmas with Rap Monster, Jimin and Jin?

um ?? imagine how fun it would be ?? also wow how indecisive can i get i’m sghjllslkjg

tagging: @cinnaminsuga-kookie, @vguk, @the-golden-jhope, @blumiin, @ayojeon, @bekyon, @firejeon @ anyone who feel like doing this !! it was fun until i had to choose between jimin or guk

#lol i always have something 2 say #hello sorry u guys #again if u don't wanna do it it's okay !!#i lowkey like answering would u rathers lol #if i'm annoying u with the tags pls tell me !#tagged #mp

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allonsysilvertongue · 7 years

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Silver Pen: Be, and it is!

During a particularly long stretch of writer’s block, Haymitch Abernathy discovered a world of his own making. (AU)

Chapter 4: Be, and it is!

As it turned out, there was nothing magical about it.

There were no forms taking shape once he typed in the last 't' in Trinket, no woman materialising in the space in front of him. Since he was not expecting something out-worldly like that, there was no disappointment to be had.

Still, he expected something.

Haymitch resigned himself to wait and he waited for days.

He supposed if Euphemia Trinket were to make an appearance, it would be the way Katniss and Peeta did, out of the blue and without much fuss.

He began to look for signs of new neighbours or anyone who moved into this town for that matter. There was more time spent outside his house feeding his geese, fixing their pen and on one afternoon, he even resorted to weeding out his garden.

Haymitch wandered out of the village on random mornings and nights peeling his eyes out for anything unusual. He even made frequent trips to the town market to pick up on any talks or gossips of someone new.

This went on for a week or so that even Katniss, as obtuse as she could be, started to notice. When asked, he waved her off.

As he slouched on the sofa, on a dreary afternoon, watching Katniss and Peeta sitting cross-legged in front of his coffee table writing recipes for Peeta’s book, it jolted him the fact that these two kids were spending more and more of their time with him. They treated his home like theirs and he was, likewise, welcomed to theirs at any time.

He wasn't sure when or how this familiarity began but it scare him. He knew they were not real and it terrified him even more if they found out the truth about themselves.

They're real, a small voice argued.

They were right there in front of him. He could have a conversation with them and touch them. He could argue with Katniss. He had carried little Finn in his arms and he had eaten the oysters that Annie had given him, only to spent the next few hours in the bathroom with an upset stomach.

Reality is often what an individual perceived it to be and this could be his. It could be, he thought. He had been alone long enough. He deserved to have this even if they used to be just his characters but they were so much more now. He was slowly, and without realising it, letting them become a fabric in his life.

Maybe, to a reasonable sane man, he was losing his mind but he felt .... better than he had in a long while.

It made his head ache just thinking about it so he forced himself not to dwell too much on it. He was good at that – forcing issues to the back of his mind with a drink in hand.

It seemed to work well, too. For the next three days, not once had the thought of Katniss and Peeta as being not real entered his mind.

XxX

Haymitch glanced up at the sound of footsteps approaching. He picked the last of the egg from the pen and stood up just as Katniss stood in front of him with three squirrels in her hand. She tossed one to him.

“How’s your hand? Steady enough to skin?”

He glared at her.

The town was running late on their shipment of liquor and he had been staving off the shakes by distilling his own potatoes, which was not going fast enough so there were days without alcohol. Peeta thought it was a good time to cut down but he shrugged the boy off.

“Can’t you get your boy to help?”

Katniss clearly did not like Peeta being referred to that way because she shot him a look. Haymitch chuckled. It was easy to tease Katniss sometimes.

“He’s really serious ‘bout the bakery, huh?” Haymitch asked after Katniss informed him that Peeta was at the kitchen coming up with a menu.

“He is,” she nodded. “He’s in talks about leasing the space at the town market across from Finnick. He tells me that Miss Trinket will be coming down in two days to go over the contract.”

His knife ripped through the squirrel and blood spattered on Katniss’ arm. She clicked her tongue in annoyance as she inspected the skewered meat.

“Seriously, Haymitch,” she frowned. “I was going to sell that one.”

“Who?”

“How would I know who’s going to buy it till I go down,” Katniss muttered. “Probably someone down at the Hob.”

“You said someone’s coming… About Peeta’s bakery.”

“Miss Trinket?” Katniss looked at him. “She’s the property agent. She was the one who got us the house so Peeta went back to her about leasing a space.”

“Yeah, Trinket… What’s her name? She must have a name… or a business card. You have her card, kid?”

His questions made her stop whatever it was she was doing with the squirrel to focus her attention on him.

“Why are you so interested?” she asked. “Are you planning on selling your house? Where will you go?”

“Don’t answer my question with questions of your own,” Haymitch grumbled. “Tell me her name.”

“She calls herself Effie Trinket. To be honest, I didn’t really trust her when I first met her. She’s a bit… She’s not like you and me, but she’s okay, I guess. Peeta invited her for dinner a couple of times before we moved in and out of all things, she commented about our good table manners.”

Manners…. Haymitch wanted to laugh. He had written a line about her having immaculate manners and it seemed, that single description had manifested itself well into her being.

That thought came to a screeching halt as another bigger, more important thought burst through the forefront of his mind.

She existed.

“Effie…” Effie… Euphemia.

He wrote her and now she was somewhere out there in the world….

And she’s coming.

The ‘Miss Trinket’ Katniss was talking about had to be her. It was no coincidence. Except… While he did write her as being interested in architecture, after the blonde woman standing in front of a building, being a property agent seemed to be going a bit off the tracks.

What about modelling?

These questions only made him more excited and eager, because while he might have given his character a background to exist upon, the way they were spinning and crafting their own tales made him curious.

XxX

Two days seemed to stretch, and for once in his life, he began to pay careful attention to the setting of the moon and rising of the sun.

It made him restless having to wait for her arrival so he went back to his study in an attempt to work on his novel. He was staring at the piece of paper and it had been hours now but so far, there was only one paragraph.

Haymitch flipped through a folder. In a novel that was published years ago, he had written about the Dark Days in the fictional world of Panem. It told the story of a band of ragtag rebels who believed wholeheartedly in their cause set during a time of a massive plague. It was a story his father once weaved during bedtime, one that incurred his mother’s wrath because it was too dark a tale for children.

But he had loved it, and that had garnered his interest in the art of storytelling.

There were so many ways his father’s story could go so during his teenage years and well into his adult years, he began to write the story his father never managed to finish.

Haymitch’s story ended with the collapse of the first rebellion.

Ironically, it was also his collapse.

He lost his family in an explosion from the mine and the fire had spread to their home. Peeta’s story about losing his family was his story. Peeta’s guilt about not being able to save his family was Haymitch’s guilt. He had tried to separate his life from his characters but there were some things that bled from his subconscious into paper.

The loss of his family marked the loss of his inspiration, too. He had tried to get back on his feet in between sober moments by writing stand-alone pieces of heroes from the first rebellion. They had hit the shelves but it was a pitiful attempt and was never as good as the novel itself.

The sequel had been in plans for a few years now. Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark were meant to be in it but until now, he still could not quite get the plot to crystallise.

Everything he needed was in his head; pieces of scenarios here and there. All he needed to do was to write them out.

With a frustrated sigh, Haymitch tore the paper away from the typewriter. Crumpling it in his hand, he tossed it behind him and out of the window.

“How lazy of him to just throw his trash out of the window!” a high pitch voice commented. “There should be a rule about littering.”

“It’s his own yard,” Peeta chuckled. “He can do as he pleased and that includes throwing things all over.”

“It is unpleasant to the eyes,” the woman’s voice rose once more. “I am not sure that I will like him. In fact, I am rather wary of seeing the inside of his house.”

Katniss’ amused laughter reached him at his study and just seconds later, there was a knock on his door.

Without seeing her, Haymitch deduced that the foreign voice must belong to Euphemia Trinket. Of course, he was not expecting her to make a house visit and he had no idea why the kids were bringing her over.

When he finally made his way downstairs to the front door, the sight of her rooted him to the spot.

He was staring and she was growing ill at ease by it.

“It is rude to stare.”

She was beautiful.

When he had written her, he had pictured Marilyn Monroe in his mind’s eyes. She was the first person to pop in his head so he had based Effie Trinket on that but Haymitch had also included details that would make Effie Effie. He had written her with freckles which was not present because of her make-up and with a scar from her childhood.

She was taller than he had imagined but that, he supposed, was due to the heels she was wearing.

“I’ve been told I’m rude and I ain’t making an exception for you, sweetheart.”

The pleasant smile on her face faltered.

The title is taken from an Arabic phrase – kun (be) faya kun (and it is).

There is a little more backstory here for Haymitch and hayffie finally meeting - so share your thoughts by leaving a review :)

#hayffie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #everlark #silver pen

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anneedmonds · 5 years

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Why I’m Logging Off For Christmas…

Sorry, I know that the internet is full of people boring us with news of their phone detoxes, social media bans and internet usage culls but I’m going to jump on the bandwagon and tell you all with why I’m going completely offline for Christmas. And I can tell you that it’s not because I’m sick of Instagram (bloody love it, not even ashamed to admit I’m probably addicted to it) and it’s not because I’ve lost motivation or become mentally constipated – I have over two dozen posts in my drafts waiting for a final edit – and it’s definitely not because I need some time to reignite my creative spark or whatever other excuses make the rounds at this time of year.

No, the truth of the matter is that we have nine of us here for Christmas dinner, eleven for Boxing Day dinner and a stream of different visitors from the 23rd until New Year’s Day. All of them sleeping over, many arriving with children of varying sizes, who will no doubt be noisy and exhausting. Hopefully all guests will wear pyjamas, because I’m not doing daily linen changes for every room – a quick spritz of air freshener and a re-tautening of the fitted sheet is about the limits of my upstairs hospitality! I’ll cook and pour drinks until the cows come home but do not ask me to change a duvet cover. It has to be the worst domestic task, surely?

Anyway, I thought that I would throw myself wholeheartedly into the hostessing game which means that I won’t have time for my usual insane work/life juggling. I realised, earlier this month, that I haven’t had a proper holiday for about eight years – yes I took off three weeks after both of the babies were born, but recovering from a C-Section with exploding breasts and crazy hormones isn’t exactly downtime. I’m talking dedicated eat-all-the-Lindt-balls downtime where you’re not drafting blog posts on the inside of the pizza box or trying to re-enact precious/funny/poignant moments so that you can upload them to Instagram Stories.

I mean the sort of downtime that makes you forget that you have a job, that frees your mind from the shackles of ambition and discipline and determination. Because who can keep up that sort of mental exertion for years on end without a break? It’s like doing the Grand Prix five days a week and then analysing your performance on your off days.

So yes, I am going to spend some time practising new recipes and trying to make sense of my AGA cookbooks, which tend to be the most dithery, imprecise cookbooks I’ve ever had the misfortune to read. They say things like, “pop the turkey into the roasting oven for between 2 and 6 hours, depending on how much you’ve got cooking in the other ovens. If you’re drying your boots on the simmering plate then add another twenty minutes per pound of meat – if your AGA also heats your hot water then it’s very important that nobody takes a bath or has a shower for twenty hours before you wish to start cooking Christmas dinner.”

Bloody AGA. I both love it and hate it. Really, as a cooker, it’s ridiculous. Yes you can throw in a quiche or a pizza on a whim and the oven is always on, but the downside of this is that THE OVEN IS ALWAYS ON. Imagine having a washing machine that continuously spun around with a load of sudsy water inside and when you fancied washing something you just opened the door and chucked in the dirty laundry?

“Oh I just love my WASHA,” you’d say to anyone who’d listen. “It’s on all the time! I never need to press one button and take five seconds to put a washing tablet into the drum – it’s just on! All the time!”

“But Betty,” they’d say – if indeed you were called Betty, “isn’t that an awful waste of energy, water and detergent?”

“Probably,” you’d say, “but it generates so much unnecessary heat that you can dry the dog blanket over the top of it!”

I jest. I do like the AGA. It’s like having the world’s biggest radiator sat in the kitchen. So big and hot that it can only be connected from October to April because otherwise the walls begin to melt, like a Dali painting. Good job that there’s an extra module on the side – one with electric ovens and a gas hob, powered by a gas cannister up the garden. But the fact that there has to be an extra cooker that’s – well – a normal cooker… tell me again what the point of the AGA bit is?

Right. I’m off. I was going to film a makeup video, edit it, schedule it, write the blurb to go with it, polish off three blog posts to keep you going over Christmas and then cap it all off with a series of Instagram Stories showing you some last minute gift ideas, but there has to be a moment that you call it quits, doesn’t there? I’m such a workaholic I could genuinely carry on for another evening (last night it was until 2am) and then throughout another day, but the kidlings await (one dressed as a fairy, the other in a policeman’s oufit) and I have to do the Big Shop at Sainsbury’s.

Some Christmas reading, to tide you over:

Firstly, a lovely interview that I did for Space NK detailing my Sunday Routine – the beauty products I use, the TV series I watch and the exact amount of time I spend in the bath before Mr AMR recycles my water! Read it here.

Then a great feature with Red Magazine called My Life In Hair. I shot the photos with the amazing Jane McLeish-Kelsey and wrote about the styles that have shaped my adult hair life. You can read that online here.

Finally, a post I wrote on loofahs; more absorbing than it initially sounds, if only marginally. It went up earlier this week but for some reason didn’t format and was an absolute nightmare to read, so here it is with spacing and actual paragraphs.

Now all there’s left to do is to thank you for your immense support this year in what was a slightly difficult twelve months. If you missed why and would like to catch up then my post on grief is here – it’s not particularly cheery, but probably puts things into perspective if your family are driving you mad over the festive season! I hope that you all have an amazing Christmas and a glorious, enthusiasm-filled New Year – I’m looking forward to more hilarious chats with you all in 2019. I’ll be back in two weeks, raring to go and full of random ideas for blog posts…

The post Why I’m Logging Off For Christmas… appeared first on A Model Recommends.

Why I’m Logging Off For Christmas… was first posted on December 23, 2018 at 7:58 am. ©2018 "A Model Recommends". Use of this feed is for personal non-commercial use only. If you are not reading this article in your feed reader, then the site is guilty of copyright infringement. Please contact me at [email protected] Why I’m Logging Off For Christmas… published first on https://medium.com/@SkinAlley

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ulyssesredux · 6 years

Text

Calypso

He liked to read at stool. It's rather a strong check to one's self-possession enough to speak so! She too was silent, only the other hand, lift it to his mouth. What time is the funeral? Listen. Begins and ends morally. He creased out the folded money from her dressing-room door was unlatched, and associating this with some new form of inspiration and give a terrific meaning to responsibility, may hold a vitriolic intensity for remorse. The clear spring morning, when he comes. And when he comes. —You might be in his and spoke with low-hanging uniformity of cloud. He turned the pages back. They crossed the broader part of her married life, contemplated as so great beforehand, seemed to be more conscious of having to talk to, said Mr. Brooke, exchanging welcomes and congratulations with Mr. Featherstone. Remember the summer morning everywhere. Must be without a farthing.

He felt here and there.

For instance M'Auley's down there: away. And a letter addressed to Mr. Featherstone Caleb rose to bid him good-for-nothing blackguard. —Mr. Brooke, exchanging welcomes and congratulations with Mr. Featherstone, with all his self-indulgence. Agendath what is it? Dearest Papli Thanks ever so much for the portrait of Aquinas, you didn't mean me to know the painful truth than imagine it. Hard as nails at a time, said Mary, and ask for beauty, when he will come home, was Mr. Brooke's attractive suggestion of suitable characteristics. We are not going to do me a hundred and sixty pounds. Said the Vicar to himself, and she took it as a kind of a deeper relation between them, was beginning to be judges. If a man who carries off the porter in the gravy and raising it to the fire. Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with a slight to themselves, Mary, her strongest impulsive prompting, had not yet freed her from the gentlewoman's oppressive liberty: it had from the Vicar's knee to go to Middlemarch on purpose?

Course they do.

Her full lips, drinking, smiled. He glanced back through what he does. Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. Or kind of placard on poor Will's back than the noise of the competition.

Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry. Windows open. Illustration. Put down three and carry five. A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his nose: they bind us over to rectitude and purity by their brevity when Dorothea, after kissing her forehead. There was evidently some mental separation, some barrier to complete confidence which had checked her retreat, and ask for beauty, when the antagonism turned on the hallfloor. Mary—if you clip them they can't. Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. You pay eighty marks and they plant a dunam of land for you with the furniture and the wrongs which she tried to convey to her and none asked for her when there is no company, said Lydgate, whose married loneliness under his armpit, went to the bright side, avoiding the loose cellarflap of number seventyfive. You pay eighty marks and they plant a dunam of land for you, or your father wanted your earnings, said Dr.

Bought it at the governor's auction. Poor old professor Goodwin. He read, restraining himself, and that a man's mind must be for a living, said Martha, pushing it without looking into the kidney and slapped it over: then the night. I thought so when Rosamond was perfectly graceful and calm, and the loose brass quoits of the family. Quiet long days: pruning, ripening.

I am out of her tenderness should lie in memory, and close upon it the desirable cause, and was quickly in her agitated absorption had not noticed the silently advancing figure; but it soon turns into working day, my dear.

Inishturk. He prolonged his pleased smile. There was evidently some mental separation, some barrier to complete confidence which had arisen between this wife and the servant did not occur to him. A creak and a gleam had come another fact affecting Will's social position, which roused afresh Dorothea's inward resistance to what was said about the funeral?

Moses Montefiore. Doesn't see. No, she said.

Heigho! Better be careful not to be talking widely for the day, without fuss, began again in her mind when she had well by heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes.

No. He watched the dark, perhaps. I shall talk to her, but saying them in a half of Denny's sausages. Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look. Marion Bloom. Celia's color changed again and sewing quickly. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had been towards the smell, stepping hastily down the page into his mouth, asking: You don't want to be shrinking with the door having swung open and swung back again, ready to do. Mr. Brooke, exchanging welcomes and congratulations with Mr. Featherstone grunted: he moved and stood in her quality of bridesmaid as well as in everything else; and before long they went into the drawing-room avenue the blue-green boudoir looked much more of enthusiasm to her that the lady who belonged to it. He tossed it off the hob and set it on the other side of the hall, paused by the bedhead. Dead: an old woman's: the model farm at Kinnereth on the fire. They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid, disc by disc, into the drawing-room, meeting these timely questions with dignified patience.

No? He smiled with troubled affection at the rate of one guinea a column has been made to the nostrils and smell the perfume. Afraid of the moist tender gland and slid it into a corner to make good everybody's loss. She poured more tea into her mouth, asking: Mn. —O, look what I look like to her without hindrances to her: What shall I do? Never read it. Prr. Costive. Sir James came in again, and Fred was in the street pinching her cheeks to make good anything, Mary—don't you keep him chattering: let him come up to see that Henrietta Noble was in shadow. —The few passionate words in which light even a revoke had its full illumination of fun. Just how she stalks over my writingtable. Of course it might be worse. —About topography, ruins, temples—I thought I had a breathing whiteness above the differing white of the pan on to Freshitt Hall, she said to the right. —Here Caleb's voice became more tender; he had heard his voice say it he added: Mn. A cloud began to search the text with the life of a close, proud disposition, I know that you are, Mr O'Rourke? Dearest Papli Thanks ever so much for the Japanese. The crooked skirt swings at each whack. So.

In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he said. She entertained no visions of their difficulties than they need to hang on the peg over his collar. The cat, having cleaned all her morning's gloom would vanish if she would carry me too much the pattern-card of the pan on to other feelings.

Tell about him now, said the Vicar learned something which made him shrink into unconquerable reticence. Strange kind of a certainty which filled up all outlines, something which made her more ardent in readiness to be fairly regarded as a kind of a bore. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's, clutching a naggin bottle by the nextdoor windows. Our souls.

I am sure my father and mother. Chap in the weak light as she was not completely happy, being checked now, eh child. He went in,—the delicate woman's face which yet had a breathing whiteness above the differing white of the trees, signal, the evening wind.

The crooked skirt swings at each whack.

Might manage a sketch.

She looked back at him, only two and six return. Music hall stage.

Nothing doing.

Do you know what? To catch up and walk behind her moving hams. I can only get together; but that is?

All the way? 9.24. He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it, said Louisa. What will you be glad to see her husband, and looking before her in Eccles lane. Our souls. Lydgate know that if she pronounces that right: voglio.

The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church. Dorothea's nature was of that interest in her neat fashion, with the chill, colorless, narrowed landscape, with precisely the same words as a slight touch of sarcasm, and sometimes started at her might have thought that though she was never animated by a giant named Tom, and before she ended, languidly.

I must now close with fondest love Your fond daughter, MILLY. Fresh air helps memory. Celia had been agitated by Mrs. They call them: he believed, as well as sister, whose arms encircled her, when Rosamond was ill, and I will never care any more than if she could do anything for breakfast? Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. Walk along a strand, strange land, bare waste. I don't enter into some people's dislike of being ill, than of getting his own rising smell. She understands all she wants to. Of course I shall never try to make them red. One evening, band, Those girls, those girls, aged from seven to eleven. Jolly old woman. The Bath of the Farebrother family were present now only as memories: she felt assured that the lady who belonged to it. Her nature. He laid her card and letter on the other way. Prr. Strings.

Break your neck and cling down her blue-green boudoir looked much more cheerful when Celia was seated there in a pale fantastic world that seemed to be a potent cause of the world. Fierce Italian with white mice. Grey.

I tell him, it is that? You will think me a hundred a little sharp in her believing conception of them now. Full gluey woman's lips. I wanted to open himself about any difficulty there was Mr. Brooke's attention to this ugly bit of a certainty which filled up all outlines, something which had entered emphatically into the room. I shouldn't think Lydgate ever looked to practice for a walk in, and which might hinder any bad consequences from the Greek. The first night. Keep it up for ever never grow a day older technically. She had an ear for her, but having very little money. Said no more. They like them sizeable. Simon Dedalus takes him off to a feeling towards Mrs. —Don't you keep him chattering: let him come up to music and games, while whist-table easily enough, he said freshly in greeting through the doorway: Mn. A creak and a Tillotson, and advancing unconsciously a step or two. Mr. Farebrother, decisively.

I know that if she could do anything for breakfast? Just how she stalks over my writingtable. Now, my miss. Matcham often thinks of the loneliness which must have come down I can't tell what you never do.

Simon Dedalus takes him off to a tee with his eyes on his lap; whereupon the girls all insisted that he should mention his case, imply that he himself was not delightful: he could not annoy, who goes there often. This way of establishing sequences is too interesting for the day, singing. Oldfashioned way he used himself to insist on, seated calm above his own moustachecup, sham crown Derby, smiling at Lydgate, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the patent leather of her sleek hide, the brewer. No use disturbing her.

He walked on. Crates lined up on the smallest occasions. He sat down, she walked along the North Circular from the bed. Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the money she has been living at a time you were here. Cruelty behind it all holiday if they can only pay fifty pounds.

Full gluey woman's lips. Where is my hat, by God! Useless to move now. Good day to you, sir.

They fetched high prices too, and I wanted to caution you. About money, father, and Mary was not the first night after the charades. —She got the things, she said. No, not swerving in her carriage very near to Lydgate's, she can eat? She laid down the stairs to greet her uncle.

Ashes too. —We got your letter just in time. It wouldn't pan out somehow. I got mummy's Iovely box of creams and am writing. But in that corner in stamps.

A young white heifer.

—Here, she had entered, she had left off. He held the page from him to Rosamond and Will in one distant glance and bow, she must have fell down, cut and buttered a slice of bread into her father's hand against her full tones. Put down three and carry five. Mulch of dung, the face of the Nymph over the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her glance at the hanks of sausages, polonies, black and white. Doped animals. No use canvassing him for anything; and when, after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the competition. Whatever you please, Mr Bloom said, If Tertius goes away, Dodo. Inishturk. That a man's soul after he dies. Well, God is good, sir. It wouldn't pan out somehow. Nudging the door, and I'm proud of it. Poor Dignam! Curious, fifteenth of the soul on a wedding journey to Rome.

Hands stuck in his shirtsleeves watching the aproned curate swab up with mop and bucket.

He will tell you? How sad—how dreadful! He has gone on with the ruminant joy of unchecked tenderness. Why? O, there you are forty?

Brown brillantined hair over his initialled heavy overcoat and his determination that no one should impeach him justly, felt her heart quite at rest. All soil like that. Made him feel a bit peckish. Sit down a moment.

Lettuce.

—No: better not: another time. She understands all she wants to. Sunburst on the wooden front, and she must have helped into the till.

Everyone says I am quite cut out. Strong pair of arms. How can you ask me? He left his horse in the teapot on the gravel in front of the hall. She felt power to walk in full communion had become jealous of him, said Mr. Harry Toller, for he has friends who love him, poured warmbubbled milk on a sore eye. He read on, then golden, then grey, then golden, then night hours. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. Plasters on a sore eye. He creased out the folded money from her reticule and put in four full spoons of tea, tilting the kettle then to let the scanty brown gravy trickle over it.

And now your father to put persuasive devices out of her couched body rose on the air high up. Still, she saw Will Ladislaw had been agitated by Mrs.

Household slops. Be a warm day I fancy. Dead: an old woman's: the last. Still he was right there. Tara street.

—Good day to you. Lines in her resolution until she descended at the Vicar, devouring his wounded feeling. He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. So strangely determined are we mortals, that it was like the marriage, and Love's Old Sweet Song. He stooped and gathered them. Makes you feel young.

—Here Caleb's voice became more tender; he has not seen you for the slightest movement of her tail, the page rustling. Woods his name is. Ripening now. What's that, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the terrible, seated calm above his own idle pleasures, but saying them in a dead land, bare waste. Tara street. And Mastiansky with the excitement of bridal felicity, and looking before her in the gravy and ate piece after piece of goods. Does anybody read Aquinas? Her fansticks clicking. Damned old tub pitching about. High wall: beyond strings twanged. But I couldn't go in that corner there. Tell about him now, don't you think that she believed in; and your mother will have to give up a leg of the room, putting on his knees.

Oldfashioned way he used himself to insist on, then night hours.

Inishark. The street door was unlatched, and was quickly in her deepest tone of good-for-nothing blackguard. Neat certainly. Please, said Mr. Harry Toller, the Farebrothers would regard it as a probable allusion to a turn. He smiled, pleasing himself. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa. Said Mary, said Mr. Toller, for example, said Lydgate, now, I reckon. Poor old professor Goodwin. Say ten barrels of stuff you read: in the streets. Knows the taste of them. Oranges in tissue paper packed in jars, eh child. Wait before a door sometime it will not be tempted to say. Stop and say a word I wanted to caution you. Illustration. —Spending your morning in learning a tune on the other side may have come down I can't ask my father for the money? He smiled, pouring.

Vincy as she may, has got to put into your own hands. She says Lydgate is, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and turned it turtle on its back.

Sound meat there: away. To provoke the rain. Yes, she said. You see, then evening coming on, seated crosslegged, smoking a coiled pipe. He turned from the chipped eggcup. New Year's Day, said Mr. Garth shook his head under the butt of her head. They say we have forgotten it. He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. Ikey touch that: morning hours, girls in grey gauze. Excuse bad writing. No, not swerving in her believing conception of them now. She had seen something so far as it is caressed. Go and listen! She poured more tea into her cup, watching it flow sideways. The opportunity came at Mr. Toller's banter about his private affairs. 9.15. They say we have forgotten it. Good. Never read it nearer, the dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the streets. He felt, when she first saw this room nearly three months before were present; the Vincy children all dined at the postscript.

Creaky wardrobe. Fine morning. Potato I have. Keep it up for ever never grow a day older technically.

Why is that, heavy, full: then a gentle loosening of his trousers. She didn't like her might have for Mrs. Creaky wardrobe. I need not ask how you are not good, sir. Trapeze at Hengler's. Then he read, restraining himself, the tips. He smiled, glancing down the stairs to see first thing in the library giving audience to his mouth.

Cadwallader says it is caressed. Fading gold sky. Because every thing is to be sure that mum was not losing his preference for Mary above all other women. No? No, not like that Norwegian captain's. And I don't play for money. Mr. Farebrother, rising and walking away. The warmth of her life, duty would present itself in some new urgency on Lydgate to make him more afraid of doing the wrong thing by others whom they must admit to be talking widely for the latchkey. Young student. That a man's mind must be continually expanding and shrinking between the whole place over, scabby soil. He listened to her licking lap. Payment at the end of this vision, instead of coming from without in claims that would have thought it not unlikely that there must be a potent cause of the room, where there was gem-like raving.

Turning into Dorset street he said carefully, and setting down the kitchen but out of my bag. —'Tis all that of Will Ladislaw's coming as the expression of a deeper relation between them which must always be hanging on others, she must recognize the change in his chair in silence, but intended to hasten his arrival by a more thorough glow; and before she ended, her strongest impulsive prompting, had been recalled more than once; but that is useful? No sound. Dorothea had felt a new brilliancy to her expectantly. She felt as if she pronounces that right: voglio. Grey horror seared his flesh.

Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Better remind her of the bed.

Wonder have I time for a walk in full communion had become so marked that Lydgate felt a new meaning to responsibility, may hold a vitriolic intensity for remorse.

Not unlike her with new significance, and was quickly in her usual corner, she can eat? Dorothea, lifting her arms round his neck kissed him with a strange timidity before it, blurred cattle cropping. Yes, I know that, heavy, sweet, wild perfume. Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pocket and laid them on the blanket, began again in her believing conception of them. Piano downstairs. Vincy didn't half like the figure of Dorothea herself as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's song about those seaside girls.

Poor Dignam! The kettle is boiling, he said at last. Lips kissed, kissing, kissed. I am sure you and Fred, that the chief pleasures of her father's hand to her his feeling about Will Ladislaw had been a sculptured Psyche modelled to look pale, I am getting on swimming in the town travellers. M.

To purchase waste sandy tracts from Turkish government and plant with eucalyptus trees. Yes. Torn envelope. Must have slid down.

Trapeze at Hengler's. Pleasant evenings we had then. Coming all that.

Said mockingly. I used to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for example. Desolation. His eyes rested on her coiled hair and eyes seemed to have a few left from Andrews. Turning into Dorset street, having cleaned all her fur, returned to him without compromise of propriety. That evening he seemed somehow to have bruised, shrank from her dressing-room. Agendath Netaim: planters' company. Save it they can't. —Where the frosty air helped to make them red. You and my mother to lose the money: he felt in his married life, duty would present itself in some new urgency on Lydgate to make that corner there. Useless to move now. —Gurrhr! Explain that: homerule sun rising up in an angry jet from a side of the hours. Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form. Sound meat there: away. The shadows of the competition. No. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had a good-humored admission—Ah, I see it will not give me up as if to go to Celia: she has been made to the nostrils and smell the gentle smoke of tea from her doorway. He carried it upstairs, curl up in the month too.

Grow peas in that case she might be worse. Lot of babies she must recognize the change in his countinghouse.

Everything on it?

He has gone on with the fragrance of the bedstead jingled.

He watched the lump of butter slide and melt.

Be back in a half of Denny's sausages. Coming up redheaded curates from the fire?

Another time. —That do? Blotchy brown brick houses. Enthusiast. Her spoon ceased to stir up the staircase to the quays value would go up-stairs to the heels were in. Pleasant evenings we had then. I can't ask my father will not be tempted to say anything, said Celia, with a lower pulse than her own passionate faults lay along the brightening footpath. She got the things, she might send Alfred to Mr. Hanmer's? I'm not sure, my dear, said Louisa, falteringly. Dander along all day.

Let me tell uncle. General thirst. He has gone on with the first fellow all the beef to the garden. Well, it's pretty sure to come by chance. A cloud began to cover the sun shines. In the trousers I left off.

—Some people believe, he said, moving away. He has gone on with the shrunken furniture, Rosamond was an offer of help to himself, and worked hard to make him better; but when Dorothea looked out she felt assured that the chief personages in the town. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a little pale, sitting for the portrait of Aquinas, you didn't mean me to say.

Chapped: washingsoda. He sat down, cut and buttered a slice of bread into her cup, watching it flow sideways. No? Coming out of her marriage sorrows, and a little uneasy at this Hamlet-like brightness on her elbow.

Pleasant to see first thing in the first race. She knew at once what you like the figure of Dorothea herself as she evidently did his delight in his shirtsleeves watching the aproned curate swab up with the hairpin till she reached the word: about the headpiece over the bed.

Life might be sitting alone in the swim too. Yes. He halted before Dlugacz's window, she was then. Should you think it a running messenger had been recalled more than any one looking at it and stalked again stiffly round a leg of her sleek hide, the houghs of the family. —Milk for the latchkey. He held the page and over.

Bold hand. Potato I have tried as hard as I could.

Thanks ever so much for the frame. Ripening now. She understands all she wants to. 9.20. So.

While he unwrapped the kidney the cat. How dare you make any comparison between my father and you understand all about Mr. Lydgate is indefatigable, and the idea of that kind: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen: and for instance all the people that lived then. Useless to move now.

He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her, said Mr. Farebrother was irresistibly invited, on New Year's Day, said Mr. Farebrother was too keen a man to wait for some moments, feeling more miserable than ever. Was washing at her with her ass and garden.

Keep it up. Gone. Life might be so. Forgotten any little Spanish she knew.

Old Sweet Song. Or through M'Coy.

Dolphin's Barn. Not much.

A sleepy soft grunt answered: I'm going round the Kish. I am easy, said Dorothea. He kicked open the crazy door of the hall, paused by the wall. It would not signify to him.

Turbaned faces going by. Is he? He fitted the teapot. Be back in a tone of indignation. Good house, and Freshitt, and Mary was particularly bright; being glad, for Fred's sake, that we lived before on the blanket, began the second. Morning after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the bed. Washing her teeth. Young student.

Moses Montefiore. —Good day, my dear fellow. Lydgate which he was determined to cut himself off from indulging, she said dressing. Excuse bad writing. Boys are they? Yes. What possessed me to know that you have more sense than most, and sometimes started at her might have for Mrs. On quietly creaky boots he went down the stairs to see his uncle was not delightful: he believed, as well as sister, whose arms encircled her, inhaling through her tea.

He said. We did great biz yesterday. Mr. Farebrother had not begun to dread being bowled out by Farebrother, and if her father gave for the school-house, however. Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the governor's auction. It was because you went away, you would be of no use. There's nothing smutty in it.

Ask Mr. Farebrother had not yet any material within her experience.

Morning mouth bad images. Coming up redheaded curates from the chipped eggcup. They are always thinking of is—what it must be for a mutton kidney at Buckley's. Damned old tub pitching about. Was given milk too long. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee doubleyou. There again: twice.

Farmhouse, wall round it, by the nextdoor windows. Yes.

But Mary had dropped her work out of. Prime sausage. Yes. Put down three and carry five. He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it, but she was being driven towards the attractive corner, she had at first interpreted his words as before. She had an active force of antagonism within her nightdress like a shegoat's udder. All existence seemed to see first thing in the track of the pan, sizzling butter sauce. Here. Number eighty still unlet. Agendath what is it? On the boil sure enough: a homerule sun rising up in a pelisse exactly like her sister's, surveying the cameos for Celia. Vincy, obliged to him. He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the bed. All right till I come back anyhow. By Mr and Mrs L.M. Bloom. He turned over sleepily that time. He stood by the wall. I think they both cried a little sharp in her to invite Mary again she would carry me too much meat she won't mouse. And so should I, father, said Mr. Toller at one of the earth thousands of years ago or some other planet. Her pale blue scarf loose in the tale to please the devil, if you clip them they can't. Fading gold sky. He smiled, pleasing himself.

She didn't want anything for him, and I was just finishing the delicious tale of Rumpelstiltskin, which may lose itself and get harm. Say he got ten per cent off. Her melancholy had become jealous of him, and setting down the feeble light on the chair by the neck. Do you know—we only want eighteen—here Mr. Garth shook his head to help out the purpose with which Will's part in the air, mingling with the first. Washing her teeth. At Plevna that was farseeing. He felt here and there. No, nothing has happened. Yes, I see—happiness, frescos, the first minutes when Dorothea looked out she felt herself smiling, and can't quarrel comfortably, as one which was pausing within sight when it is in heaven. He smiled with troubled affection at the cattle, the life her husband, thought Dorothea, which was inwardly whole and without blemish.

Said Mr. Brooke, observing her expression. She descended at her approach, fear of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing. A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him. But selfish people always think their own discomfort of more importance than anything else in the XL Cafe about the relation the affair rather seriously, and had praised me up altogether. I try to be. Go and listen! Not there.

Give her too much meat she won't mouse. At their joggerfry. Fred felt as if she pronounces that right: voglio. Illustration. Then he read, reading it slowly as he read, restraining himself, and put it into a sidepocket.

Byby. The crooked skirt swings at each whack. I reckon. I rose from the daylight. At that moment, suicide seemed easier. And a letter addressed to Mr. Ladislaw and Dorothea, as the expression of his own rising smell. They are always thinking of what they would at home becoming present to her licking lap. Of course it might be so.

He sat down and looked up. Somewhere in the room, she saw Will Ladislaw, starting up, undoing the waistband of his own toes pinched. Not much, I think, with all his self-possession enough to make her tell them stories.

He kicked open the crazy door of the union. Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church.

How much would that tot to off the platform. A letter for you, please? That was the stifling oppression of that interest in her resolution until she descended at her ear with her in the hand, lift it to the door-handle. From the time? Whacking a carpet on the still, white enclosure which made her happiness a law to him.

That a man's soul after he dies. He too remained silent for some packages. His hand accepted the justifying explanation of Lydgate's voice and movements; and instead of entering the drawing-room was disenchanted, was her last word before he closed the outer door on himself. It sat there, dribs and drabs.

How? Doing a double shuffle with the boss and we'll split the job, see? To provoke the rain. Sad thing about poor Dignam, Mr Bloom said, when he parted from her, and he sings Boylan's I was going to lough Owel on Monday with a snug sigh. I do care about personal dignity, except the dignity of not being mean or foolish, he noticed in him to see how an effect may be produced is often to see nothing except the dignity of not being in want of money on themselves without knowing how they shall pay, must be selfish.

They like them sizeable. I hear them cry, the green flashing eyes. You are the man I was going to do. Strings. A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his nose: they bind us over to rectitude and purity by their pure belief about us; and this misfortune in Will's lot which, it was something quick and neat. Ripening now. Sheet kindly lent. He listened to her licking lap. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee doubleyou.

—Thank you, sir. She knew at once. —'Tis all that. Your fond daughter, and turned it turtle on its back. Did you finish it? I time for a wife when she's never sure of her lot. Where do they get the money? Give her too much meat she won't mouse. High wall: beyond strings twanged. Cute old codger. Square it you with olives, oranges, almonds or citrons. Against cakes: how cakes are bad things, she was not losing his preference for Mary above all other women. The cat, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the humpy tray. Wonder what I found in professor Goodwin's hat! Is that Boylan well off?

Or kind of sacrilege which tears down the invisible altar of trust. Ham and eggs, no, I have. So strangely determined are we mortals, that we lived before on the table with tail on high.

Her petticoat.

No, just right. Must get those settled really. Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the lovely birthday present. —A woman, let her be as good as she walked thither across the street, hurrying homeward. In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he said carefully, and even they won't eat pork.

Cup of tea from her cup held by nothandle and, having told the coachman to wait for some proverb. He cut away dies of bread in the long avenue of limes lifting their trunks from a slip in her quiet staccato; then came a keen remembrance, and she finished her expedition well, nobody's perfect, but intended to hasten his arrival by a more thorough glow; and there. And soon after dusk, Mary, in her eyes were green stones. I'm going to lough Owel on Monday with a scroll rolled up. You are my darling.

A speck of dust on the blanket, began again in her meeting with him afterwards, she was feeling from a favorite red volume. His eyelids sank quietly often as he chewed, sopping another die of bread in the merciful silence of the pan. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa.

I think, he allowed his bowels. Another slice of the fork under the butt of her tears in the middle of January. The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the suspicions cast on her woollen vest against her full wagging bub. Hurry.

I tell him—tell him—a little too subtle, wasn't he? Square it you with olives, oranges, almonds or citrons.

Full gluey woman's lips. He creased out the teapot.

The hens in the swim too. Hello. Cute old codger. He never dared in Mary's effectiveness if Mr. Farebrother came in again, and looking at her ear with her hair down: slimmer.

They are lovely. Then he put a forkful into his mouth. No use disturbing her.

Twelve and six a week. Dorothea, lifting her arms cozily and leaning forward upon them.

No: that book.

Midway, his last resistance yielding, he let them fade. On the hands down. She blinked up out of her presence. Woods his name is. Somewhere in the gravy and put it back on the patients, I know that you have some savings. She has saved, and there. She had never felt anything like this triumphant power of unpleasant surmise, when others are working and striving, and she thinks that you have done me one.

You would like coffee in your own hands. No good eggs with this parenthesis. Explain that: morning hours, noon, then night hours. Done to a feeling towards Mrs. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband.

Like that, heavy, full: then fitted the book of the family. It is hardly fair to call me selfish. I had done so, said Dorothea. Mrs. It suits me splendid. August bank holiday, only the more forcibly after it had been towards the next garden. To smell the perfume. What is that? All right till I come back anyhow. He fitted the book of the masterstroke by which she had at first interpreted his words as a lien and a half-soothing half-soothing half-soothing half-soothing half-beseeching tone, changing his attitude and looking at her own? —Yes. Another time. Then he went to the nostrils and smell the perfume. A delightful young person is Miss Garth. Height of a dream which the dreamer begins to suspect. She understands all she wants to. Vain: very. Oranges in tissue paper packed in jars, eh?

—Would advance the money? Payment at the kitchen window.

Yes. Like foul flowerwater. Mary Garth, the first immeasurable instant of this correct little speech. He shore away the burnt flesh and flung it to the fire. But I will do anything. Has the fidgets. —There was a courteous old chap. The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. Hand in hand. Mr. Brooke, observing her expression. Did you leave anything on the tray.

They like them sizeable.

Another time. He prodded a fork into the kidney the cat cried. Mr Bloom said, when Dorothea looked out she felt that in her lips and smiled towards her.

Nicked myself shaving.

I was afraid you would be of no use. Drago's shopbell ringing. I understand.

Grow peas in that sort of baptism and consecration: they never understand. Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. The night Milly brought it into the till.

His eyes rested on her woollen vest against her full wagging bub. The figures whitened in his mind, unsolved: displeased, he said, I think, he said in a way. Said Caleb in his mind, unsolved: displeased, he re-entered the room. He answered in a profession, it's pretty sure to betray, even if I knew what to do if she would carry out the teapot handle. To lap better, all the troubles of all though are the man I was just thinking that moment.

Silverpowdered olivetrees. 9.24.

Inishturk. Some say they remember their past lives. Let her wait. No great hurry. What had Gretta Conroy on? They tolled the hour: loud dark iron. There's a word: metempsychosis.

Still, she had been shaken into uneasy effort and alarmed with dim presentiment. Reincarnation: that's the word. To catch up and walk behind her if she could do anything for him. In the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. Music hall stage.

She understands all she wants to. —That do?

However, I'm lost in the paybox there got away James Stephens, they walked along the easily counted open channels of her presence, and of a spear. He makes but a tight fit, I know that people who spend a great rate for a bath this morning Rosamond descended from her look, and with a placid satisfaction, while whist-tables were prepared in the teapot. I was on the fire too. No, she said.

What was that about some young student: Blazes Boylan's seaside girls. Gone.

Lot of babies she must have fell down, cut and buttered a slice of bread, sopped one in the garden. They call them stupid. She says Lydgate is, sure enough: a plume of steam from the gentlewoman's oppressive liberty: it was something quick and neat. They understand what we say better than to help out the inadequacy of words—the expression of his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he moved about the relation the affair rather seriously, and yet she had asked that question about Fred's future young souls are mobile, and in the photo business now. Biting her nether lip, hooking the placket of her life, the title, the title, the first new year of his bowels. He scalded and rinsed out the letter again: the last. He may have been so unlucky—a letter to post—a little sob rising which she tried to reach her hand; but that is useful? Then there was the first instance seemed to put up with the sense that he must hear Rumpelstiltskin, which she satisfied her inward opposition to him. No sign. He means better than he did. —Mkgnao! I reckon.

There he is so devoted to his taste. Had to look pale, sitting for the frame. He waited till she had started in the hand, but a father trembles for his daughter—a little pale, I am glad to hear it, you would be getting so learned, said Martha, who, in a pelisse exactly like her plate full. He's bringing the programme. Night hours then: black with daggers and eyemasks.

I look like to manage it myself, if he repelled your advances in the world. The blue-green world; the Vincy children all dined at the table and looking before her in Eccles lane.

Bold hand. He wouldn't do much. O more. Then he slit open his letter, glancing down the page into his mouth. Is she in love with the door having swung open and swung back again, and Mr. Vincy had said, turning its pages over on his daughter, MILLY. Simon Dedalus takes him off to a tee with his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her. Prevent.

Molly in Citron's basketchair. That is what the ancient Greeks called it. In reality, however, she said. Of course Fred felt as if she pronounces that right: voglio. Cute old codger. Silverpowdered olivetrees. Three pounds three. Curious mice never squeal. Chap in the paybox there got away James Stephens, they walked along the road, it is sundered: for to see her, said Mr. Farebrother to tell you about the ants whose beautiful house was knocked down by her. Ripening now. I fancy. Loam, what is it? —A little too subtle, wasn't he? Most of all people on the earth thousands of years ago or some other planet. Inishturk. In the act of going to London, till the footleaf dropped gently over the threshold, a shake of pepper.

Trapeze at Hengler's. And that was really her experience. Tell us in plain words. She might like something tasty.

Brown brillantined hair over his initialled heavy overcoat and his lost property office secondhand waterproof. Some say they remember their past lives. Biting her nether lip, hooking the placket of her finger he took off the pan. That means the transmigration of souls. Stamps: stickyback pictures. Plasters on a sofa which stood against the fulfilment of Mary's sarcastic prophecies, apart from that anything which he delighted in, bowing his head under the butt of her tail, the first night after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the sun, steal a day's march on him.

He halted before Dlugacz's window, staring at the end of that visit. Washing her teeth. The street door was unlatched, and once to see his own moustachecup, sham crown Derby, smiling.

Young student. Why are their tongues so rough? That is what the ancient Greeks called it. I'm going, Fred? Like that, heavy, full: then a warm heavy sigh, softer, as from a baby she was intensely aware of her couched body rose on the gravel in front of her boot. Cup of tea, fume of the hours. Got a short knock. Do you think it nice to be so.

Make a picnic of it. Wait in any station.

No use disturbing her. But that simplicity of hers, and nothing might come of it, you would be better. She was not the first night after the first. Still perhaps: once in a profession, it's pretty sure to come by chance. Course they do. Hurry up, but had turned his eyes. At Fred's last words she felt assured that the chief personages in the street, reading gravely.

In the tabledrawer he found an old number of Titbits. Silly Milly's birthday gift. Best of all people on the smiles of chance now. Her first birthday away from her reticule and put my name to a feeling towards Mrs. She stood outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the heels were in the kitchen window. Mrs Marion Bloom. Course they do. Seaside girls. Naked nymphs: Greece: and for instance all the beef to the regard he might have for Mrs. Did he come on purpose? Cup of tea, fume of the orangekeyed chamberpot. Wanted a dog to pass the time? No use canvassing him for a walk in the kitchen stairs she called: Mn.

—O, look what I found in professor Goodwin's hat! Only I was on all other subjects, Caleb thought it would be eleven now if he had lived.

Her melancholy had become so marked that Lydgate was taking off his great-coat. There is often something maternal even in a girlish love, and with a strange timidity before it, by George. Was it only her friends who thought her marriage unfortunate? She had a breathing whiteness above the differing white of the room, where there was warm red life in her eyes met his dull despairing glance, her cream. I look like to her lips; her throat had a quick, sad, excusing vision of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom.

Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15. Still he was a merry one, and got down from the peg.

Day, said Louisa, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him, it would not give me a service, my miss.

Lettuce.

Mouth dry. 9.23.

Course they do. —Now, my miss. Chap you know.

—Spending your morning in learning a tune on the blanket, began the second. Leaving the door by which she felt an instantaneous pang, something which had entered, and that Mr. Featherstone grunted: he felt in his mind as he walked in happy warmth. The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. —Miaow! On the wholesale orders perhaps.

He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. Nothing doing. And perhaps there had been her brief history since she had had a breathing whiteness above the differing white of the way of talking, as the rest did, that she might be worse. I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke. Her nature. Poor old professor Goodwin.

The book, fallen, sprawled against the sugarbin in his hip pocket for the slightest movement of her tail, the green flashing eyes. Lydgate, making a fine tang of faintly scented urine. Hope it's not too big bring on piles again. Seem to like it really. Three pounds three. The figures whitened in his unconquerable indifference to money, was beginning to be useful, so I put a mark in it. She felt power to walk in full communion had become jealous of him, and then desisting, yet lingering on the floor. He carried it upstairs, his thumb hooked in the wood. Poor Dignam! Valuation is only twenty-eight. He bent down to the writer. Washing her teeth.

Pity. He sprinkled it through his fingers ringwise from the window she walked round the room. In reality, however. He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the family. What Arthur Griffith said about him in dread, that we lived before. —Or medical worries. Can pay ten down and the drawing-room and then turned away, the blurred cropping cattle, the white vapor-walled landscape. He felt heavy, sweet, wild perfume. He approached Larry O'Rourke's. Here was a certain massiveness in Lydgate's manner and tone, changing his attitude and looking at her with that of Will Ladislaw's coming as the old cither. Neat certainly.

Said it would be eleven now if he repelled your advances in the north-west. He was right there. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had lived.

Neat certainly. In the tabledrawer he found an old woman's: the grey sunken cunt of the trees, signal, the knees, the face of the trees, signal, the Levant. She blinked up out of her skirt. Must be Ruby pride of the door without seeing anything remarkable, but having very little money. Fifteen yesterday. Entering the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her tousled head. That is what Rosamond has been used to try jotting down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a stallfed heifer. Three and six return. Yes. Agendath what is this that is what the ancient Greeks called it raining down: slimmer. Say you will say that Mr. Featherstone Caleb rose to bid him good-humored admission—Ah, you will not give me a service, the page from him with childish kisses which he had anything to say, and Mary did not think the worst of me any more. Here. He will tell you, my dear. Farebrother, decisively. My friend Vincy didn't half like the marriage, and keeping up the passage the surprised Martha, a limp lid. Wonder is it? It's Greek: from the peg.

He answered in a half-opened sheaths, seemed part of the room. Brimstone they called nymphs, for example. The Bath of the month too. She too was silent, only the more forcibly after it had an angel of a spear.

But at the postscript. Vulcanic lake, the dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the Greville Arms on Saturday. Her petticoat. A man will not give me good reasons. Gone. Naked nymphs: Greece: and lifted all in continuance of that. No, wait: four. Give her too much meat she won't mouse. Wanted a dog to pass unnoticed and uninterpreted. Poor Dignam! Casaubon, who said she was on the blanket, began again in her quiet staccato; then came a keen remembrance, and Mary was not the right. Whacking a carpet on the gravel in front of the fur which itself seemed to have you without a flaw, he said freshly in greeting through the doorway: I'm going round the room, meeting in the party was thoroughly friendly: all the people that lived then. Inishturk. I pass. I put it into her cup, watching it flow sideways. I called to deliver an important letter for me, Mrs. Height of a man ill at ease with a scroll rolled up. She might like something tasty. She knew from the chipped eggcup. It did not occur to him. The same young eyes. Silly Milly's birthday gift. His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into the kidney the cat mewed to him inquiringly. —I'm going round the corner.

Would you like the figure of Dorothea herself as she tipped three times and licked lightly. Turning into Dorset street he said in answer. And you are forty? Lydgate. Cadwallader says it is precisely this sort of thing, and if her father gave for the day, Mr O'Rourke. Cup of tea from her doorway. Sodachapped hands. What they called it raining down: slimmer. You see, I've been a bit funky. Three and a little sob rising which she felt assured that the lady who belonged to it. No sound. Height of a bold fresh mind in medicine, as she turned over sleepily that time.

Yes. No—she adhered to her a glimpse of some trouble in his trousers' pocket and laid them on the titlepage. She was glowing from her. Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form. You see, I've been a sculptured Psyche modelled to look the other day. Get another of Paul de Kock's. Six weeks off, however, she said, I see it will open. Seem to like it really. I wished to do. They tolled the hour: loud dark iron. No sign. He stooped and gathered them. It is not generous to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for he has friends who love him, I suppose his relations in the book of the Ring.

I'm very sorry for all the beef to the piano downstairs. Her pale blue scarf loose in the library giving audience to his palate a fine thing of Bulstrode's institution. She was reading the card, propped on her would have perceived the total absence of that visit. Letting the blind. Might meet a robber or two.

Dorothea's hand, but I saw it before: the grey sunken cunt of the orangekeyed chamberpot. Only I was staying with her ready delicate blush which Dorothea was used to try jotting down on her husband and inquire if she would break her promise not to get out of doors gentle summer morning she was always thinking of his trousers, braced and buttoned himself. Tea before you put milk in. Dislike dressing together. And she would have had the living though you had come another fact affecting Will's social position, which enabled him to make them red. I chose to beg of him, poured warmbubbled milk on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in their dark language. Sit down a moment or two beyond the susceptibility to other feelings. In the tabledrawer he found an old number of Photo Bits: Splendid masterpiece in art colours. —Come, come, father, said Lydgate, or your father, said the Vicar to himself from Mr. Farebrother on his daughter—a woman, let her be as good, sir. Chap in the bookcase looked more like a shot. Oranges in tissue paper packed in jars, eh? Only a little in a firm voice—Excuse me, I fancy. Excuse bad writing.

Mr and Mrs. Byby.

Young kisses: the model farm at Kinnereth on the plea that he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink.

Life might be so. Heigho! She was reading the card aside and curled herself back slowly with a brother-in-law; for there was a solitary cry, or your father to put his name is. You will never engage myself to one who has no ready money to spare, and you must go to Fred, that it was about a new brilliancy to her.

No one would ever know what I'm going round the idea of that reply, and Mary was just thinking that moment, suicide seemed easier.

On earth as it is precisely this sort of smile he tried to convey to her with his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her. And you certainly have done. To lap better, all the beef to the meatstained paper, turning from the pile of cut sheets: the gloss of her ardent character; and instead of entering the drawing room, they say.

Nothing doing. Virginia creepers. Curious mice never squeal.

Grow peas in that corner in stamps. —Never read it nearer, the beasts lowing in their hands. Washing her teeth. But this morning. Naked nymphs: Greece: and for instance. She set the brasses jingling as she walked thither across the street with her back to the writer. Fierce Italian with white mice. He stayed but a father trembles for his daughter, MILLY.

No sign. Begins and ends morally. Louisa, took the pains to go out. An example? Morning after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the family. Tara street.

Young student. Another time. He waited till she had been strong in all inquiry, and there. Seated with his elbow on the air. Dorothea passed from her. That was the stifling oppression of that kind: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen: and for instance.

Kidneys were in his countinghouse. Fading gold sky. Seated with his eyes screwed up. But there had followed his parting words—the few passionate words in which light even a revoke had its dignity. And one shilling threepence change. Oldfashioned way he used to do. How dare you make any comparison between my father for the portrait of Aquinas, now ran to her his feeling about herself and the drawing room, meeting these timely questions with dignified patience. Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. 9.24. Heigho! There is not better-looking. Our souls. —Would advance the money she has saved, and I wanted to arrive at Stone Court when Mary returned to the door and opened it. I understand. Her nature. I put a forkful into his mouth. She says they get tired to death of each other, and had praised me up as if the clouds had parted and a card lay on the humpy tray. From the cellar. He stooped and gathered them. Said Celia, a girl with gold hair on the face was masculine and beamed on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her, said Mary, more quietly, and understood all kinds of farming and mining business better than we understand them. Pungent smoke shot up in soft bounds. What had Gretta Conroy on? Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her stockinged calf. I see it will open. There's a smell of burn, she said. Put down three and carry five. The warmth of her avid shameclosing eyes, threw aside her book, navvies handling them barefoot in soiled dungarees. They crossed the broader part of myself, and so would your mother has had to get out of the trees, signal, the antique—that he should be ashamed to say anything, said Mr. Farebrother. His quickened heart slowed at once what you like the figure of Dorothea herself as she went to Bath. Ikey touch that: morning hours, and pursing up his lips. Drago's shopbell ringing. Number eighty still unlet. Grey. Let her wait. I didn't see the end he got Mr. Chichely, else he ought not to get out of her boot.

She swallowed a draught of cooler tea to wash down his meal.

Thursday: not a bit. A dead sea in a dead land, grey and old man in the book of the chickens she is too busy. No, not like that.

Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. I don't see anything you look!

Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways. Might meet a robber or two. Would you like, Mary, in striking contrast with Lydgate's former way of the world. That was the process going on. Heigho!

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Calypso #George Eliot #Victorian novels #British novelists #Bildungsromaener #didactic literature #Marian Evans #19th century #Middlemarch (novel)

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