#swordlost

[vicemirrored-a]

swordlost replied to your post: so uhhhhhhh gil-martin is hands down the best cat...

TELL HIM HIS SWEDISH AUNTY LOVES HIM

he blinked and kneaded the floor with his paws when i told him i think that means he loves you back

[newteyed-blog]

@swordlost

The spell has gone wrong. She knows it’s gone wrong because instead of an eldritch horror kind of deal standing in the middle of her living room there’s, what? A librarian? A geography teacher? Something like that, anyway. Never mind asking for power or any of that shit, she’s more tempted to offer him a cup of tea and ask for his opinion on The Canterbury Tails. Question is, really, how did this happen? She squints at the grimoire resting open on her lap and then at the sigil and candles in front of her. Ah, right, okay then, there it is. Fucking dyslexia, maybe she aught to get grimoire with blue pages or something, or tinted glasses. 

Finding the mistake is one thing, but fixing it is a whole other barrel of fish. Librarian or no, the man in her living room is starting to look pretty damn put out by the whole thing. Fair play to him though, she’d probably be pretty pissed off if some rando summoned her into their living room without so much as a d’you mind if I. She bites her nail nervously and clears her throat. “Um, hullo?”

[conductedlight-blog]

@swordlost (cont) 

If heaven exists and Watson is, by some miracle, able to get there, then this is surely what it must look like. More than anything he wants to explore the bookshop; to run his hands over each title, to find out what ancient and wonderful texts Azira has stored here. Oh, he had a library as a boy of course, or at least his father’s house did, but this is different. Here there is no looming drunken presence ready to hit him for being too loud or moving the wrong book. Nor is there a portrait of his dead mother, lovely though it was, to remind him of everything he’s been robbed of. How many hours could he spend here? How many days? There is an itch deep in his soul that makes him want to take as many books as he can and read until his eyes go blind with the effort of it, but he doesn’t. 

Watson is no fool, and he’s already observed how particular Azira is about his books. This may be a bookshop, but nothing here is meant to be moved or bought. Instead Watson forces himself to be content with simply craning his neck around and memorising as many titles as possible so that he might enquire about them later. He even sees a small pamphlet on Calvinism and chuckles to himself ruefully. 

As beautiful as the books lining the walls (and the floor, and just about every other space) are, they are nothing compared to their owner. As soon as Az hops into the seat across from him, Watson feels his breath catch in a way that has nothing to do with the unpleasant rattling in his chest. Lord. Lord, what did he do to deserve this? How can he possibly deserve to be this lucky? Even with Azira’s mock seriousness, Watson cannot help a gentle laugh falling from his own lips, though he attempts to quell the coughing that threatens to follow it. 

“I’m sure they’ll be perfectly edible,” he wants to leave the sentence at perfect, but stops before he can embarrass himself, “but I promise you have my word.” 

[riyeht-blog]

@swordlost

As a general rule, T’ruth tries to avoid taking her meal when the mess hall is busiest. It’s not that she particularly minds the company of her crew mates, in fact she quite enjoys it at times. However meals are usually when people talk the most about their home planets and the past, something which T’ruth now has two reasons to try and avoid. Not only does she want to avoid slipping up and say something she shouldn’t, but it has only been a few months since the destruction of Vulcan. Either people don’t know what to say to her, and thus avoid her or makie things akward, or they are overly concerned about her. A day after the incident she’d confined herself to her room for five days, on the basis that if anyone else said I grieve with thee to her in that stupid human tone, she was going to nerve pinch them so hard their grandmothers fell unconscious. So yes, as a rule she likes to take her meals either in her room, or later on when there are only other more introverted people like herself. 

Today is an exception however, though not one of her choosing. It has been 67 hours and 42 minuets since T’ruth last ate, something which both Scotty and Doctor Bones seem intent on reminding her of, though not with the same accuracy. Despite her insistence that she does not need to eat as regularly as humans, and that the project she is working on is far more engaging and beneficial than eating, the two have all but marched her down to the mess. Humans. With hands full of plomeek soup from the replicator, her eyes glance over the crew mates. A few offered her friendly smiles, and even a slight wave, but others averted their gaze no doubt trying to be subtle. It doesn’t bother her, really. Instead she finds her eyes drawn to a man she’s never seen on board before. An older gentlemen, retired, most likely a guest. She walks towards him, holding her soup in one hand so that she can offer him a Vulcan salute. “Greetings. I am T’ruth, I do not wish to intrude, however I don’t recognise your face and would like to familiarise myself with you.” she pauses slightly, worried that she sounds a little too...alien for the human looking guy, “As I believe the humans say, it is nice to meet you.” 

[swordlost]

        do   you   like   small   ,   dusty   ,   cluttered spaces   ?   what about old , smelly books that you are under no circumstances allowed to touch or buy . what do you think this is ? a bookshop ? ( no matter that it is , in fact , a bookshop . it does not mean the books are for  sale  ,  thank  you  very  much  )  .  WELL , if any of this tickles your fancy  ,  you  are  in  luck  !!   back  on   unpopular   demand  ,  it’s  your  local  grumpy  senior  angelic  citizen  : AZIRAPHALE !! like / reblog if you would be interested in interacting with this fundamentally hypocritical angel with a good heart and asshole tendencies ! formerly known as bibliophilc , revamped as swordlost 8 / 6 / 17 . 

[bibliophilc]

MOVED TO @SWORDLOST

            here  is  the  obligated  queued  post  reminding  that  aziraphale  has been moved to @swordlost !! this blog will not be deleted because of my sappy sentimental nature , but from now on the only posts that will be made here will be a loop of this one . feel free to unfollow this blog and refollow me over there for more quality* ( *= read as ‘questionable and trashy’ ) angel content !! 

[easytrusted]

ok quick , no questions asked , which url do u prefer :

01 . swordlost  02. swordflamed 03. flameheld

[makercursed-a]

swordlost

  hey girls…do you know that uuh….I love hawke?

do u kno that um I love hawke

how can u love someone this problematic /: she’s not valid 

[conductedlight-blog]

@swordlost

Apollo, that is of course the obvious comparison to draw. Certainly he has the beautiful gold ringlets and stunning blue eyes that one associates with that God. Watson scribbles the name into his poem only to scratch it out a moment later. It doesn’t feel right, God of light as Apollo may have been, the image still doesn’t do justice to the breath taking beauty of Watson’s muse. If an angel appeared to him this very moment, it’s beauty would have be insignificant compared to that of Az. Oh, now that isn’t an entirely terrible sentiment; he scribbles it down before turning his attention once again to Greek gods. 

Perhaps he is going about this all wrong, and he ought to draw his comparisons elsewhere. Aphrodite is the name that keeps springing to the forefront of his mind. What better way to express Az’s beauty than to compare him to the very Goddess of love and beauty herself? The only issue is the rather notable fact of Aphrodite being a woman. While he doubts Az would be offended by the comparison, Watson still finds his pen hovering uncertainly above the page. Can he do this, or is a line that he is never intended to cross? Then again, the very fact that he is writing this poem is an offence in the eyes of the law, and most others no doubt. In for a penny, in for a pound, or so they say. He writes the name.

It is then that he hears a light footfall behind him and glances quickly over his shoulder. As always, his breath catches in his throat and his heart just about stops for a few seconds. Az, making his way over, towards him of all people. Watson isn’t really one to believe in divine blessings, but if there was ever an occasion... 

The poem. All at once his mind jumps back into gear and he scrabbles to hide the paper in front of him. Granted it doesn’t mention Az’s name outright, but any fool with two eyes and half a brain could work out who the muse of the whole thing is. They wouldn’t even need half a brain to realise that Watson wasn’t writing about a woman, Aphrodite or no Unfortunately in his haste to cover his shameful work, Watson only succeeds in spilling the ink pot all over his hands, staining them black and leaving the poem still uncovered. He swears passionately under his breath and then stops when he realises Az is within earshot. Dammit. A solider of the queen’s army, a survivor of maiwand of all god forsaken places, a bloody scotsman; and yet he is reduced to a blushing schoolgirl. “dammit.”