#bob strauss

[fandomtransmandom]

“It’s something I’ve always wanted to do,” Hader says. “I’m very proud that I got the chance to finally do it and grow and learn. I feel each season was a step in the right direction of figuring out what the job is, and how to create a story with images; that’s really, really exciting. It’s the best job on the planet.”

[chicinsilk]

US Vogue July 1969

Rounded haircut, curved towards the face. Blunt and uneven edges are turned down. Bangs young prince. Ara Gallant hairstyle. Bob Kelly Hairpieces. Ray Strauss scarf. Model: Ulla Bomser.

Coupe de cheveux arrondis, courbés vers le visage. Les bords émoussés et inégaux sont retournés vers le bas. Frange jeune prince. Ara Gallant coiffure. Postiches Bob Kelly. Foulard Ray Strauss. Modèle : Ulla Bomser.

Photo Irving Penn vogue archive

[myvinylplaylist]

Alice Cooper: Paranormal (2017)

2019 Reissue 2LP white vinyl 180g in a gatefold sleeve.

Limited to 1000 copies

Ear Music

[happyvoidharmony]

Bad

Happy Miraxus Day 2022 !

Found : FF.net AO3

He was mad. Intensively mad. Like never before at her. Veins pumping like he was ready to start a battle. At him though, he may have gotten a bit angrier once or twice. Especially when the boy harmed his whole family, trying to throw a rebellion against him in order to start a reign of terror and misery over the people he loved the most. But that was another story.

How stupid did they have to be ?

Honestly, he wondered. There were some days he even wished he was tall enough to smack them both across the face with his wheelchair, just to get their brains both back into places. If only nature hadn’t been so cruel towards him.

Mavis, he couldn’t believe it.

And the nerve they had. Unbelievable. To just pretend like nothing was happening, right under his nose. To smile and chat like everything was fine, without a thought to what he might be feeling or wondering. To vanish one after the other, not at the same time, oh no, Mavis forbid they even let the slimiest clue that they were actually going back together.

Un-fucking-believable. And he didn’t like to swear. Not when he hadn’t drunk. He shook the habit out after years of hanging in the guild with a thousand children running around.

Not that he wanted to catch it again, even with them all grown.

If only they could stop acting like children.

Those two stupid brats.

And he loved them. To the death. Didn’t even need to explain why. Not when it came to him, but to the girl… Oh, how he grew to love her. Like his own, even if she was one of the only ones to actually remember who was originally supposed to love her this way. And it wasn’t just blind fatherly love, since he spent most of his days in her company, trying to get some work done, or mostly watching her getting the job done.

Watching her grow up, and loving what she was becoming. How beautiful and kind, and caring, and just the right amount of witty. Sometimes, he even wondered if she couldn’t be some angel sent from the sky to save him from his old days. Not that he wasn’t encouraging her to enjoy life as much as she could, even if it meant doing anything, or anyone for that matter. As long as it meant making her happy, and finally taking the life she deserved from the fate that took so much from her.

He just wished she hadn’t taken it so literally.

Because him. Well, he certainly wasn’t going to make her happy.

And it wasn’t as mean as it sounded. Because he loved him and also wished him the best joys of life just as much, if not even more. They just weren’t right for each other.

Too much baggage.

They were too different. Or not enough. He couldn’t tell. But, he certainly could tell how it was going to end. Horribly. Like some cheap heartbreaking show. Actually, there were several ways it could end, since they were both honestly damaged. Not for the rest of their lives. But for now, and until they actually managed to break through a few relationships, to have time to contemplate what their hearts lacked and were able to give.

If only they weren’t so stubborn as to skip all the trials to get to the one that could maybe harm the guild. And he didn’t want that. Not after everything. He didn’t want to die seeing them both tearing each other apart and his life work with them. It was just too much. Too much for his old heart to bear.

The only thing he didn’t know was who was going to bolt first.

It could be both really.

He was just so insecure, so hurt. And with reason. The old man had done his best, taking him in, raising him to the best of his ability, but no grandfather could make up for a shitty emotionally abusive father and a run-away mother. It was actually a miracle the boy wasn’t that messed up. He had character, that you couldn’t take from him. Most men would have wrecked the world and become a drug addict, or a warlord for that matter.

But he was damaged. Didn’t trust anyone. Not even him. Especially not him. But that was mostly his own doing rather than his father’s. Barely even opened up to his own carefully chosen friends, that would never dare break his trust. Sometimes he even thought he chose them to make up for his lack of parental validation, to have people chanting his praises to make up for the years of demeaning.

He was going to crush her. The girl needed steadiness and somebody to confide in and trust with her own life. She was a romantic. Not a goofy one though. She believed in die-hard love and life-long promises, in burning desire and intimate support. He knew it. She wouldn’t say it, but he knew it. Because he knew her, knew how much she had struggled with loneliness and suffering, even with her siblings at her side.

He was going to run. He was going to get terrified of having to trust somebody else, and he was going to crush her heart into tiny little pieces when she would open up and try for it.

And for that, he wanted to kill him.

Or maybe, he was going to be the one to open up. No reason. Actually, she was just as fucked up as him. She could very well be thinking they were just having fun, and unintentionally mislead him with her emotional talk and kindness. It was difficult not to feel close to her. She had a talent for that. People loved talking to her at the bar because she drew them in with her smile and warmth. It was only when you went to bed that you realized she never even said a word about herself.

He was going to fall for it. Way slowlier than the others, but she was going to do exactly what she did all day, except this time in his arms, and he was going to fall for it and blurt his heart out to her to get the affection he was yearning for. And she was going to crush it, ruin every little effort he ever made to let other people know how truly kind and loving he was, just to step on it and take him years back without even realizing it.

And he wanted to cry at the thought.

There was no way this was going to end well. His best chance was to hope they would both keep their bullshit until the end, and go for a quick and clean break. But how could the best scenario be not to grow at all ?

Because the odds of them getting both of their messes together on the first try was just too unlikely.

And the audacity to try when it was doomed. Well, it angered him so much.

It didn’t help that they both acted like children sneaking out to eat candy in secret, or thieves getting ready for the heist of the century. They didn’t even look at each other most days, let alone exchange a few words that weren’t directly related to jobs, or drinks, or the weather, but that was them trying. He knew because he had watched, carefully, weeks after finding out about the deed.

He had heard the rumors before, of course. But nothing quite compared to seeing it on his own. He hadn’t believed them, didn’t want to believe them. There were a thousand rumors going around the guildhall every day, especially about eminent members, and he was too old to pay attention to drunken chitchat, particularly when the two concerned barely managed to talk to each other for five minutes.

It was ridiculous.

He had found out during their trip to Crocus, to celebrate Lucy’s award and drink the night away. He was old but he wouldn’t have missed it for the world. He was too proud of her.

Of course, he thought it was weird when he saw his twenty-five year old grandson leaving the party before midnight, only half an hour after he himself considered calling it a night. But the boy had never been a social butterfly, even seeing him not hating the whole gathering already felt like a win.

He hadn’t thought much about it when he saw that they were sitting next to each other the whole time. After all, they both belonged to groups that seemed pretty determined to mingle, so it wasn’t that out of the blue. Maybe he noticed it, wished they wouldn’t return to their old ways and wreck the place over what color the tablecloth was supposed to be. He prayed for that one.

Didn’t even connect the dots when Mira got up, just fifteen minutes later. Right on the clock, he had to give it to her now, the timing was perfect. She went to congratulate Lucy, and then had the nerve to come up to his table and ask him if he needed help getting back to his room. Like she wasn’t planning on skipping her own to see if Laxus’ wasn’t more comfortable.

He couldn’t believe it.

He felt betrayed.

He trusted that girl. Trusted her with all the comings and goings of the guild, the one thing he gave his life for. Trusted her with his thoughts, feelings, and doubts. Mavis, he didn’t even trust Erza that much. And she knew. She knew how much it meant to him, how he was the most treasured thing he had left on this earth.

And she went for it.

Didn’t even have the decency to tell him to his face.

Didn’t even have the nerve to face him right after he found them out.

He didn’t have the strength to face her either, to be honest.

She didn’t like when he drank, kept on rambling about how it was bad for his health and his heart, how smoking could keep him from seeing his children thrive and be happy, and did he want to miss that ? No. Certainly Not. But he was old, and it was pretty difficult to explain to her, how, despite her best efforts, he could very well be found dead in his bed tomorrow, for no other reason than that it was the time. So, he certainly wasn’t going to miss out on his last opportunity to enjoy a good whiskey or a cigar.

He was too old for that.

But, he didn’t want to hurt her. Not when she spent way too many nights making sure he was going to bed properly and taking care of his way too big of a house. Did he feel ashamed about sneaking out at five in the morning when sleep eluded him ? Certainly. Very much so.

Couldn’t quite shake the irony when they had both found each other uncovered and guilty as charged. Him on his way to join Guildarts and the last partiers, and get some hard-earned liquor, and her getting out, dissheveled and sleepy, from a room whose number he knew to be Laxus’.

Mavis, he didn’t have the nerve to call her on it when she stared at him. Pretty sure he never saw her as red or as flustered. She didn’t even try to articulate a word to him. Just stared, and he stared back at her, before walking past him without another glance. Just walked straight across him and down the corridor to her room. 

She was savage.

“I just caught Mirajane getting out of Laxus’ room'' Was the only thing he could articulate when he found an empty seat beside the fourty-seven year old mage.

He didn’t quite know how to take the warm laugh he had gotten.

“About fucking time.” The brown-haired said, trying to calm his laughter and finish his glass. He was drunk, anybody could have smelled the whiskey in his breath from a mile away.

The old man only smiled awkwardly, and finished his drink straight, to forget about the all too disturbing image.

They hadn’t talked about it. Not for weeks. The woman just pretended they had never seen each other. Even missed the opportunity to scold him about his drinking. Probably hoping he had been too tired (or, too drunk) to remember their encounter. But you didn’t spend fifty-three years running a tavern without developing a resistance to shake the gods. But he didn’t call her on it.

He observed her. Observed her manners. Looked for the slightest tell, the subtlest blush when the blond talked to her, the quickest touch between their fingers when they just stood too close. And they were good. Honestly, only someone in the know could catch it, but they weren’t invisible. He noticed the glance he’d send her before ordering a drink. He noticed the knowing smirk she had when she asked him about his job. Noticed the way he would drag time at the bar, before resigning and going up the stairs when someone else would require her attention.

And it killed him.

It killed him how they could just go along their day acting all innocent and probably laughed at him later, at all of them. About how everyone was so oblivious to it. Like it was their fault if they couldn’t assume a glance in public could mean many more things in private. He wanted to kill them. For playing with fire. For acting like spoiled entitled brats. For hiding things that they knew were bad.

He almost gagged on his drink the day he saw it. That day when she was just so drunk and he saw her grab his arm to rest on it. He even looked around to see if anyone else had seen it, but he was only met with bored eyes that didn’t have a clue about what just happened.

Maybe it wasn’t that important. Maybe everyone knew and he was the only one caring. Maybe he shouldn’t care about it and let them figure their own things out. Maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal.

But, it was to him. Maybe it was stupid and childish, but he was angry. He was angry at them for hiding such a thing from a person they were both close too. From the person that cared most about them, that knew them better than they knew themselves. Even if that person hadn’t been capable of guessing it for himself

Maybe he was mad at himself. Maybe he was sad he didn’t know them as much as he thought he did. Maybe he hated himself. For being so slow. For being so blind.

He wanted to confront her. He wanted to scold. Tell her how stupid she was being. Him too, but it was already so difficult getting time alone with him, he didn’t want to offer him an excuse to skip their rare meals together. He worked too hard for them.

But he never could. For the first two weeks because it was too awkward to bring up. For the weeks that followed because he wanted to see how much time they could go without addressing it. Maybe the boy wasn’t even aware about him knowing. Not if Mirajane had kept it from him.

But why would she ?

He almost choked on his beer the day he asked her out. Out of the blue. In front of everyone. He was pretty sure he heard the whole goddamn guild freeze when they heard. Pretty sure he heard a few ones falling from their chairs when she actually said yes. She tried to hide it of course, but she was red as a poppy, fidgeting as she tried to ignore the questions to go back to her everyday chores.

Maybe it was kind of cute.

“So, you and Laxus, right ?” He had finally asked just a few hours after that. Once they were alone in his office, trying to get through the pile of complaints hoping to touch the ceiling.

He could see her straighten a little, probably not expecting the direct question from him. After all, he kept silent for many weeks, so why now ?

“Right. ” She only responded, not lifting her eyes from the letter she was reading.

“Huh.” He thought about giving up. But no. He wanted an answer and a resistant twenty-one year old certainly wasn’t going to stop him.

She only gave him a glance then. But that was all he needed.

“And how long exactly has this been going on between the two of you ?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, master.” She hummed.

“Don’t play with me, child.” He wanted to scream but instead settled for firm. “I’m old, but I’m not that old.”

Still no glance, she was pretty motivated not to look at him, shrugged her shoulders and kept on working, pretending like the conversation wasn’t making her head burn.

So, he didn’t say anything next, only stared at her, very intensively, very much expecting a response. She kept on working as long as she could but there was just something about the master burning holes into her that became too difficult to bear.

She looked at him then, tried to take on her best teenage-like face about how unimportant it was, but he didn’t let her. He gave her the knowing eyebrows and she felt herself stiffen, feeling like a child whose parent remind that lying only makes the punishment worse.

She swallowed and turned back to the papers, trying to hide the disarray that spread through her core.

“A few months” She maybe articulated with another shrug.

“A few months ?” He sounded angrier.

“More or less.” She scribbled something on paper, probably a bill.

There were not many times when he wanted to unscrew her head from her body to see if she could be as unnerving, but that was definitely one of them.

“You mean you don’t know ?” He tried to control his tone, but he was fuming.

She sighed and lifted her deep blue eyes to uncomfortably stare at him, just for a second.

“I mean it doesn’t have to be that important”

“I see… ” He sighed trying to think of a mischievous remark to throw back but nothing came to mind. So he just drank his beer in silence.

A few months.

It was insane.

They didn’t talk about it again. Not for a long time.

“Why don’t you try minding your own business, for once ?” The blond also shot down every chance he took at warning him.

They both had that way of getting on edge every time he would try to put the subject back onto the table. Even if it was just to tell them that whatever was going on between them, he and the guild certainly didn’t want to hear anything about it.

So he ignored it. He waited. Waited for the day they would become ancient history and he could go back to normal with both of them.

He just hoped he’d still be alive by then.

“I don’t get what’s bothering you.” Bob said to him one day, when he was visiting on a business trip away. “You love that girl.” He put down his drink in exasperation. “If you were seventy years younger, you’d marry her yourself.” The Blue Pegasus master laughed.

Like that was a reason.

A few weeks later, he finally gave in. Just not to die stupid. Maybe he was never going to like it, but he could at least try to comprehend it.

Mirajane was just a little less inclined to answer his questions.

“What do you mean why ?” She only asked back when he went forth and tried to inquire. A bit aggressive, as always when it came to the thunder mage.

“I do not wish to fight, child.” He tried to diffuse the tension but she was already frowning to hell and becoming all agitated it took everything in him not to give up. “I am only curious.”

“I didn’t see you becoming that curious when Gajil and Levy got together.”

“Surely, you can see why that is different.”

“I can assure you, I don’t.”

There was a silence. A long one. One during which she shelved a few more papers before turning back to him to raise her eyebrows again. A bit insolent maybe. She had quite a spark, one that clashed with her usual demeanor, one that he didn’t see often. But he wasn’t going to let her have her way around him. He wasn’t that old. So he was just raised his much more impressive eyebrows back until she turned around back again.

“I really don’t get what you expect me to say.” She was tidying the desk, glancing at him from time to time while he only stared and finished his cigar, ignoring her judgmental look.

“You mean you can’t think of a single reason why you would want to date Laxus of all people ?”

He saw her smirk, but only for a split second.

“I can think of many reasons, master.” She sighed while gathering the glasses on her tray. “I’m just afraid they might be a bit too generic for what you’re looking for.”

“Generic ?”

“That’s the word, yes.” She smiled, then. Like she was having him.

He paused, blowing out smoke. But still staring at her, so she knew she wasn’t dismissed.

“I don’t know.” He sighed again, folding the paper of the day, just for countenance. “I’ve seen you turn down quite a few people from the guild over the years.”

“Well, maybe that’s because he’s not twice my age, nor divorced, or married for that matter.” She tried to giggle but his face looked just too serious for that, so she only grinned. “I like that in a man.”

Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered.

So, he tried seeing it for himself.

“Why don’t you stay for dinner instead ?” He invited her once as she was preparing to leave while Laxus sat on the couch in front of him, eyes widened and everything, as usual, when the boy (rarely) gave in to his passive aggressive invitations and came over to eat alone with him.

He saw her hesitate, he even caught the glance she threw at the blond, seeming like she was checking by him, as he wasn’t ready for any possible reason to avoid being left alone with his old man. “I really doubt he’s going to mind.” He tried adding.

“Well…” She stammered, taking her shoes back off and grabbing a glass to join them on the couch, ignoring the victory glance he had when he understood he finally managed to take them by surprise. “I guess I can spare an evening.”

He didn’t know what he expected, but he certainly was disappointed when they didn’t even try to exchange a few words through the whole night. Well, he was pretty sure they did in the kitchen, but never in front of him, let alone touch. No, not a finger, not a word to each other, only to him. He was less angry than amazed now. What kind of self-control could they possibly have ? 

He tried talking to her sister then. After all, the girl was as close to her eldest as anyone could be, so she had to know something, right ?

“I don’t know, master, they never really hang out with me either.” He was very disappointed with this one. “Not together, I mean.” The white-haired girl tried to smile, but the old man looked too concerned to be taken lightly. “They just don’t like having people around.”

He sighed.

“From the lack of witnesses, I’m beginning to doubt they even hang at all.” He smoked while the eighteen year old giggled with amusement. “You forgot one.” He pointed at the glass left on the table.

“Well, I rather think it's a good sign, you know.”

He was intrigued then, grinning slightly. “And why is that, child ?”

“I don’t know…” She finished piling the glasses up on her tray before smiling brightly at him. “The thing with my sister is that she never talks that much about the things she cares about.”

“That’s an interesting take.”

“Well, not to me at least.” She sighed too. “But from what I heard, she’s a lot more talkative with Erza these days.”

He frowned at the thought. “ Erza, why ?”

“I don’t know, maybe it’s the booze talking.” She giggled again. “Or maybe, it’s because she doesn’t talk under torture.”

He smiled at her as she exited the office. A bit more satisfied with her than with the others.

Erza, huh ?

Now, that was someone he could ask.

Or not.

From the red her head immediately got when he asked, he’d go for the latter.

“I really don’t… I really don’t know what you want me to say, master…” She stammered so hard, way redder that he’d ever seen her before.

“Don’t give me that, Erza.” He cut her, tried grinning to relax her. “From what I’ve heard, you know more than anyone in here.”

She got even more flustered. If that was even possible.

“Maybe…” She swallowed hard. “But, I’m not…” She whispered then. “I’m not really supposed to talk about it.”

He thought hard about making her. He certainly could. She would never hide something from him if he inquired, he knew that. He could order her to talk and she would shamefully confess the whole thing even if it meant betraying her friend. But he hesitated. After all, the guild peace and running greatly relied on the two women’s good understanding, and force a feud between the two just seemed too stupid for that idiotic a reason.

“I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, child, but I’m just looking for…”

“Please, don’t make me tell you, master.” She cut him though, still red as a tomato and looking down. “I really can’t have Mira hating me again.”

He nodded. Sometimes² there was no helping it.

He thought he had gotten to the end of his ressources by then. Maybe he was never going to comprehend it. Maybe he didn’t have to. Some things maybe weren’t made to be understood. They never fought like he used to think they would. They never talked for that matter. He could go on about his day without even having to think about it. He even had to check by the girl, once in a while, just to make sure this was still happening.

Some guild members even forgot and tried to ask the white-haired out, but strangely only when the blond was away. The Thunder Legion didn’t like it though. He himself didn’t like it. Just because he didn’t approve of something didn’t mean guildmates could act this way towards each other. It was a matter of respect.

He did like that Laxus came by more often though. Not too often, he didn’t like exaggerating. But he slowly stopped turning him down for whatever reason he had found that night. He was calmer too, a little bit more relaxed and smily, but that could be very well him taking his dreams for reality. He didn’t know if she had something to do with that.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

But he did see him smile that day. When the guild was dark and packed. When the chatter was so loud he had trouble understanding Cana next to him. He saw them. Up onto the balcony where they thought no one was paying attention. He had trouble at first, catching the hand on her waist, or the bright mischievous grin she had during what seemed to be a passionate and witty conversation.

It seemed like they didn’t catch the ruckus around them. Or maybe they were just too used to it to pay any attention. He wondered what could be so interesting that they wouldn’t even think about looking around. And maybe he felt a bit sad. Sad that he didn’t know what could possibly be the topic at hand. Maybe he almost felt his heart sink that he might never know.

He almost hissed though at the way he had to keep her way too close to him, and let his hands wander a little bit too much. He almost wanted to turn around at the way he dragged her closer to casually lean in and capture her lips. It was swift, or maybe it was longer. He hadn’t gotten a good look, even staring the whole time. Strangely, he couldn’t tell.

But he could tell they were smiling.

And for that, maybe.

Maybe it wasn’t all that bad.

[avoca]

There’s a new guy living upstairs from Alan: Sam, very quiet except when he listens to country music at full volume. Alan usually meets him briefly on the stairs, he wouldn’t mind chatting a bit. But when he delivers Sam his mail, all he gets in return’s a piercing, wary gaze 🤎

[mikeladano]

REVIEW: Alice Cooper - Breadcrumbs (2024)

ALICE COOPER – Breadcrumbs (2024 earMUSIC, expanded reissue of 2019 Edel EP) Wait a second…”Breadcrumbs“?  I thought the full title was The Breadcrumbs EP?  It was, but with the addition of two bonus tracks, it appears that Breadcrumbs has been upgraded to an album, with a modified title and altered cover art.  Interestingly now the artwork highlights the production of Bob Ezrin. Back in 2019,…

[spacelazarwolf]

in honor of that anon who said jews have done nothing for the world, here’s a non exhaustive list of things we’ve done for the world:

arts, fashion, and lifestyle:

jeans - levi strauss

modern bras - ida rosenthal

sewing machines - isaac merritt singer

modern film industry - carl laemmle (universal pictures), adolph zukor (paramount pictures), william fox (fox film forporation), louis b. mayer (mgm - metro-goldwyn-mayer), harry, sam, albert, and jack warners (warner bros.), steven spielberg, mel brooks, marx brothers

operetta - jacques offenbach

comic books - stan lee

graphic novels - will eisner

teddy bears - morris and rose michtom

influential musicians - irving berlin, stephen sondheim, benny goodman, george gershwin, paul simon, itzhak perlman, leonard bernstein, bob dylan, leonard cohen

artists - mark rothko

actors - elizabeth taylor, jerry lewis, barbara streisand

comedians - lenny bruce, joan rivers, jerry seinfeld

authors - judy blume, tony kushner, allen ginsberg, walter mosley

culture:

esperanto - ludwik lazar zamenhof

feminism - betty friedan, gloria steinem, ruth bader ginsberg

queer and trans rights - larry kramer, harvey milk, leslie feinberg, abby stein, kate bornstein, frank kameny, judith butler

international women's day - clara zetkin

principles of journalizm, statue of liberty, and pulitzer prize - joseph pulitzer

"the new colossus" - emma lazarus

universal declaration of human rights - rene samuel cassin

holocaust remembrance and human rights activism - elie wiesel

workers rights - louis brandeis, rose schneiderman

public health care, women's rights, and children's rights - lillian wald

racial equity - rabbi abraham joshua heschel, julius rosenwald, andrew goodman, michael schwerner

political theory - hannah arendt

disability rights - judith heumann

black lives matter slogan and movement - alicia garza

#metoo movement - jodi kantor

institute of sexology - magnus hirschfeld

technology:

word processing computers - evelyn berezin

facebook - mark zuckerberg

console video game system - ralph henry baer

cell phones - amos edward joel jr., martin cooper

3d - leonard lipton

telephone - philipp reis

fax machines - arthur korn

microphone - emile berliner

gramophone - emile berliner

television - boris rosing

barcodes - norman joseph woodland and bernard silver

secret communication system, which is the foundation of the technology used for wifi - hedy lamarr

three laws of robotics - isaac asimov

cybernetics - norbert wiener

helicopters - emile berliner

BASIC (programming language) - john george kemeny

google - sergey mikhaylovich brin and larry page

VCR - jerome lemelson

fax machine - jerome lemelson

telegraph - samuel finley breese morse

morse code - samuel finley breese morse

bulletproof glass - edouard benedictus

electric motor and electroplating - boris semyonovich jacobi

nuclear powered submarine - hyman george rickover

the internet - paul baran

icq instant messenger - arik vardi, yair goldfinger,, sefi vigiser, amnon amir

color photography - leopold godowsky and leopold mannes

world's first computer - herman goldstine

modern computer architecture - john von neumann

bittorrent - bram cohen

voip internet telephony - alon cohen

data archiving - phil katz, eugene roshal, abraham lempel, jacob ziv

nemeth code - abraham nemeth

holography - dennis gabor

laser - theodor maiman

instant photo sharing online - philippe kahn

first automobile - siegfried samuel marcus

electrical maglev road - boris petrovich weinberg

drip irrigation - simcha blass

ballpoint pen and automatic gearbox - laszlo biro

photo booth - anatol marco josepho

medicine:

pacemakers and defibrillators - louise robinovitch

defibrillators - bernard lown

anti-plague and anti-cholera vaccines - vladimir aronovich khavkin

polio vaccine - jonas salk

test for diagnosis of syphilis - august paul von wasserman

test for typhoid fever - ferdinand widal

penicillin - ernst boris chain

pregnancy test - barnhard zondek

antiretroviral drug to treat aids and fight rejection in organ transplants - gertrude elion

discovery of hepatitis c virus - harvey alter

chemotherapy - paul ehrlich

discovery of prions - stanley prusiner

psychoanalysis - sigmund freud

rubber condoms - julius fromm

birth control pill - gregory goodwin pincus

asorbic acid (vitamin c) - tadeusz reichstein

blood groups and rh blood factor - karl landsteiner

acyclovir (treatment for infections caused by herpes virus) - gertrude elion

vitamins - caismir funk

technique for measuring blood insulin levils - rosalyn sussman yalow

antigen for hepatitus - baruch samuel blumberg

a bone fusion technique - gavriil abramovich ilizarov

homeopathy - christian friedrich samuel hahnemann

aspirin - arthur ernst eichengrun

science:

theory of relativity - albert einstein

theory of the electromagnetic field - james maxwell

quantum mechanics - max born, gustav ludwig hertz

quantum theory of gravity - matvei bronstein

microbiology - ferdinand julius cohn

neuropsychology - alexander romanovich luria

counters for x-rays and gamma rays - robert hofstadter

genetic engineering - paul berg

discovery of the antiproton - emilio gino segre

discovery of cosmic microwave background radiation - arno allan penzias

discovery of the accelerating expansion of the universe - adam riess and saul merlmutter

discovery that black hole formation is a robust prediction of the general theory of relativity - roger penrose

discovery of a supermassive compact object at the center of the milky way - andrea ghez

modern cosmology and the big bang theory - alexander alexandrovich friedmann

stainless steel - hans goldschmidt

gas powered vehicles

interferometer - albert abraham michelson

discovery of the source of energy production in stars - hans albrecht bethe

proved poincare conjecture - grigori yakovlevich perelman

biochemistry - otto fritz meyerhof

electron-positron collider - bruno touschek

[zae-heeyyy]

Pastiche

Summary: You and Arthur escape through writing. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x gn!Reader Word Count: 2,345 Trigger Warning: Tuberculosis, death Tags: angst, sadness, high honor Arthur

a/n: Thanks for you kind words on Chiaroscuro. I've enjoyed writing again so much! I'm in my tragedy era. My hs english teacher's voice haunts me when I'm writing, so I spent a lot of time scrutinizing this. Didn't mean for it to be so long, but I hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading!

pastiche: a work of art or literature that imitates the style or character of another, often as an homage or tribute.

You knew there was something special about Arthur Morgan the day you met him. Despite his best efforts to believe otherwise, he was easy on the eyes, and his dry humor combined with his strong sense of honor sealed your crush on the cowboy. Everybody else could see that he was sweet on you, too, noticing when he pulled you to sit at the fire with him or how he watched you around camp. As more time passed, you'd become mostly inseparable, taking every moment you had to sneak away together. One of your favorite places to escape to was the fields of Little Creek River in Big Valley. You'd be reading a book and glance over to find Arthur staring intently at an animal until it was out of sight. Then he'd open up his journal and sketch it.  He wasn't doing that today, though. He was staring across the field, but you could tell he was elsewhere in his mind.

"Got somethin' to say," his eyes met yours earnestly. When he told you he loved you, a laugh erupted deep from your belly. Dumbfounded, he asked, "The hell is so funny?" his own laugh betraying his attempt to be solemn. It was hilarious to you that he didn't think you already knew that and that he didn't know you absolutely felt the same.

Another day, you were lying in Arthur's lap in the grass. Just the day before, he had returned to camp with bruised knuckles and some poor fool's blood on his face—one of Strauss's clients. You longed for a life where bruised knuckles and loan sharking were distant memories.

"Where would you be if you weren't here," you'd asked, holding his hand in yours. He stroked your thumb with his and gazed over the valley like always.

"Hard to imagine." He mumbled, sounding far away.

You nodded in agreement and replied, "You're always writing or drawing in your notebook. Maybe you could've been an artist or a writer." The thought brought a soft smile to your face, and you imagined, just for a second, a life where Arthur's biggest worry was perfecting his latest masterpiece.

He huffed in dry amusement, "Probably wouldn't have known how to read if it weren't for Dutch and Hosea."

You assented again and sighed, the smile on your face growing wider.

 "Arthur Morgan: author and illustrator." You held your hands up in dramatic fashion as if envisioning the words in front of you. Then you untangled yourself from him and sat up, "You could, you know? It's not too late. Maybe a biography?"

"A story about my life, huh?" He looked at you with a dumb smile, "I think a book about dirt would be more interestin'." He bobbed his head up and down as if nodding made his thought more true. You shoved him playfully, and he raised his eyebrow at you and held out his hands questionly. "What? There's all different kinds of dirt," he started counting on his fingers." Brown dirt, red dirt, hard dirt—"

You cut him off, "I'm serious, Arthur! This life…it ain't one normal folks live." A shit-eating grin crept up his face as he fought not to make another joke at his own expense. He shoved it down and kept listening. "Sure, it's just your life to you, but other people might find it interesting, exciting, even."

He thought for a second, then put his hands in the air, mimicking you, "The Confessions of Arthur Morgan: The Detailed Life of a Gunslinger by Arthur Morgan. Sounds like a Pinkerton's wet dream."

 "I see what you mean," you trail off, fingers playing in the grass. "Could change the name. People publish under a different name all the time. There's a word for that, I think."

"Pseudonym," he responded, his accent thick. "Think it's got one of those silent letters in front." He said it so matter of factly, and it confirmed what you already knew about him: he was far more intelligent than anybody ever gave him credit for. Still, you left the idea alone and thought Arthur had, too.

Then, on another afternoon in the fields near Little Creek River, he spoke out of nowhere. "Arthur Callahan or Tacitus Kilgore?" 

"Hmm?" you asked, barely glancing up from your book.

"For the pen name," he confirmed, scratching his chin thoughtfully. 

From that day on, your trips to Little Creek River became writing sessions. He bought a notebook that you two would trade off, coming up with ideas for the dramatized life of the gunslinger. You'd taken some creative liberties, and the story wasn't exactly a biography anymore. It had shaped into a Western love story. Arthur Callahan, after living a bad life, met someone who made him want to be better, an angel sent to rescue the devil himself. Arthur Callahan would get the perfect ending; a normal life. It was all Arthur's idea. 

"It's not my story; it's ours," he'd told you. 

You had been daydreaming about the possibilities for your novel for some time, but the chaos of life with the gang left little room to focus on it. The sudden move from Horseshoe Overlook to Clemens Point made things worse. Somewhere in the move, the manuscript was lost or destroyed—either way, it was gone. You couldn't hold back your tears during your next trip to Big Valley. Arthur's big hands swallowed your face as his thumbs wiped your tears away.  

"Shhh, we'll rewrite it, sweetheart," he promised.

Despite Arthur's gentle nudges, you couldn't find it in you to rewrite the story. Another day, he'd invited you to ride with him, heading off to your usual spot. He'd asked once more if you were feeling up to writing again. When you rejected the idea, he shook his head, seemingly surrendering. 

"Fine! You're so damn stubborn." There was no malice in his voice, though, and his eyes twinkled a little. "Looks like I gotta take matters into my own hands." Instead of stopping the horse in the fields as usual, Arthur stopped short, cutting into nearby woods. Eventually, he halted outside of the small cabin that was Vetter's Echo and hitched the horse outside. 

"Come on," he said, helping you down. "I've got a surprise for you." You walked up the cabin's steps, and he swung the door open to a small living quarters. "It don't got a back door, and I'm pretty sure the feller living here got mauled by a bear, but it's got one of these things." He gestured to the desk in the corner of the small cabin, a typewriter sitting atop it, "I don't have the first clue about using it." So he left it for you to figure out. He'd sit on a stool beside you, reading from a notebook, and you'd type slowly at first, but as time went on, the keys felt as familiar to you as a gun trigger did to him. 

Then things started falling apart. You'd moved from Horseshoe Overlook to Clemens Point, then to Shady Bell in a matter of weeks. The men went on a job to rob the bank in St. Denis, and most didn't return. You'd forgotten about the manuscript while trying to survive and spent weeks worried about Arthur and everybody else.

Then he came home to you, waterlogged but alive. You'd never felt more relieved. He was skinny and had a persistent cough, blaming it all on his rough journey. But it didn't stop him from finishing the book as promised. He'd write whenever he had a chance, and you'd go back to the little cabin in the woods, you typing and him reading.

Then he couldn't get through a page without coughing. You listened, concern etched on your face as he told you about his coughing spell and subsequent visit to the doctor in the city. Tuberculosis: practically a death sentence. After that, he'd step back when you tried to be close to him and wouldn't let you kiss him or be intimate with him. You spent a lot of time crying while he dipped his head in profound shame. 

Weeks later, he woke you up at night, gently shaking you and whispering to not alert anyone else. "C'mon, get dressed and ride with me." He was serious, his jaw set, his voice low but demanding. You didn't know what was wrong, but dread ran through your veins. You rode far away from camp, mostly in silence, your anxiety not letting you say anything. 

"You're gonna live a good life. "he finally said, breaking the silence. Your eyes stung, and you felt a lump in your throat.

"I don't want to hear this right now, Arthur."

He shook his head, frustrated, and spoke through clenched teeth. "Listen to me." His tone made you flinch. He'd never taken on that tone with you, ever. "This whole thing with Dutch, it's over. You gotta run. Gotta get out and make a good life for yourself." 

You wanted to protest; you weren't going to leave him, not now. But then you saw the waiting stagecoach up ahead. Your heart dropped and shattered into a million pieces. You reached around him to pull the horse's reins, coming to a skidding stop. You hopped down and started shaking your head, frantic in your movements and words. 

"No, Arthur. No."

You wiped away the quickly falling tears as you turned, fast walking, almost running back to that godforsaken camp that was Beaver Hollow. Even in his sickness, it only took Arthur a few big steps to reach you, grabbing you by the waist and turning you to face him. And then you cursed at him, pounded your fists against his chest, and wailed into the night. He just pulled you close to him, squeezing you until you didn't fight anymore. He gave you a stack of cash, made you promise to run, and said he'd come find you after it was all over. But both of you knew, deep down, that you were setting eyes on each other for the last time. He kissed your head. You sobbed into his chest, only letting go when the impatient stagecoach driver beckoned you.

"Never could've imagined I'd know somebody as perfect for me as you." All you could choke out was, "I love you," over and over and over again. He slipped a folded letter into your hand and helped you into the coach filled with your things. He stood silently with his hat in his hands while you rode off into the night. You sobbed for as long as your body let you while the coach took you down to Copperhead Landing.

First, Tilly showed up with Jack, and then Sadie came with Abagail. But then John arrived bearing Arthur's hat and satchel with a look in his eyes so terrible that it brought you to a screaming sob. That night, when everybody had finally settled down to sleep, you slipped away, leaving a note of thanks and well wishes. You were alone then, the way you wanted it to be without Arthur.  

Eight years; it had been eight years since everything went to shit. In eight years, you worked your ass off with any odd jobs you could find. Keeping busy was how you cured your broken heart. You'd tried as hard as you could to forget about the life you'd once lived until you read a headline in the newspaper: MICAH BELL KILLED. The memories flooded back to you, and you returned to a place you hadn't visited in a while. You only kept 2 things from that time: a letter from Arthur and the manuscript you'd written with him. Forged in Fire, you called it. After all this time, you couldn't remember who came up with the name, but you remembered why. You two were like tempered metal; the more you walked through hellfire, the stronger you became.  

Then there was Arthur's letter. You'd read it only once before today.

"Things I wanted to say but did not have the courage to say aloud." was scrawled across the top of the page, followed by a list.

"Keep visiting Big Valley.

Keep writing.

Publish the book.

Watch every sunset.

Trust your gut.

Please, be happy."

You heard his voice through every word. He'd underlined the third point: publish the book. In that moment, you decided to take a leap. You wrote to a publisher and sent a copy of the manuscript. And that's all it took. Things went into a tailspin after that, and before you knew it, you were holding a hard copy of the manuscript you and Arthur had worked on together all that time ago.

You'd made an effort, then, to find Abigail and John and Jack. They were held up at a ranch, Beecher's Hope, and were married now. You caught up with the Marstons and apologized for hastily disappearing all those years ago. They were happy for you, and you for them. 

On your departure, John took your hand, "I don't talk about him much these days, but I don't think he loved anybody like he loved you." He paused for a moment and forced his eyes to meet yours. "He's buried out in Ambarino, near Donner Falls. Top of the mountain. I can take you." You declined John's offer but set out east toward Donner Falls the next day. 

You found him around noon and watched wistfully as an eagle flew from its spot on a rock behind the flowery grave. You fell to your knees, no longer able to control the tears flowing down your face. "I did it, my love," you choked through tears. It'd been a long, long time since you let yourself feel this pain—a longing to reach something impossible. You dabbed the tears away from your eyes and sat in the grass, hugging Forged in Fire to your chest. "Thought I'd read it to you," you spoke into the air. You opened the book, cracked the spine, and read "Chapter One: Heaven's Fall, Hell's Rise."

[radiant-reid]

Hello cate blurb on Spencer being stressed about work and reader without words just gets on her knees and gives him a blowie but at first he’s like “y/n that’s not gonna hel-“ but then when she keeps going he gives in and his mind is just clouded and all that stuff ahhh sorry I love this ❤️❤️❤️🔥

"Strauss just makes everything our problem," Spencer complains, pacing around the living room. "When we're one of the best departments in the FBI."

You feel bad for him. He's been stressed all week, working longer than his usual long hours, and still having a stack of paper work to do.

There's one solution that comes to your head, and you stand in front of him, so he has to stop walking before lowering yourself to your knees.

It earns you a very confused look from him. "What are you doing?" He asks.

You don't answer him with words, instead unzipping and unbuttoning his pants to drop them to the floor. He gets the idea then, and so does his cock, stirring in his boxers.

You don't bother waiting for him to properly get hard, pushing his underwear to join his pants pooling around his ankles and kissing the tip of his cock.

“You’re so easy.” You whisper about how quickly he’s getting hard.

He pouts the most adorable pout you’ve ever seen so you stop teasing and take his length down your throat, feeling him harder in your mouth.

With your hand, you pump the rest of his length, making him groan at the feeling.

“Feels so good, Y/n.” He tells you, fingers finally moving to pull your hair up into a ponytail.

You twirl your tongue over his tip before hollowing out your cheeks and taking as much of him into your throat as you can. You bob your head up as down on his length, using your saliva as lube to pump the rest of him.

When you look back up, he has his head thrown backward, eyelids mostly obstructing his view of you.

“Shit.” He moans, prompting you to suck more of him down. “You’re so good at this.”

You suppress a smile because he always praises you when your giving him head. You take more of him down your throat each time, pausing when your nose touches his pelvis each time.

“I-I’m so -fuck- close.” He moans from above you, his cheeks flushed bright red.

You cup his balls with your spare hand, massaging them while sucking his cock. He calls out a few more praising remarks and swears before coming down your throat.

Spencer looks much less stressed then, blissed out as you take him out of your mouth and swallow his cum. “That was so good.” He tells you.

You grin, accepting his hand to help you up. “Needed to get you to relax more.” You explain. “I’m glad it worked.”

“Thank you.” He says, cupping your cheek so he can kiss you. “Love you.”

“Love you more.” You assure him.

[philly-cityboy]

Love you dear ! Eylonah Strauss

Bob Marley once said:

"You may not be her first,

her last, or her only.

She loved before

she may love again.

But if she loves you now,

what else matters?

She's not perfect—you aren't either,

and the two of you may never be perfect together

but if she can make you laugh,

cause you to think twice,

and admit to being human and making mistakes,

hold onto her and give her the most you can.

She may not be thinking about you every second of the day,

but she will give you a part of her

that she knows you can break—her heart.

So don't hurt her,

don't change her,

don't analyze and

don't expect more than she can give.

Smile when she makes you happy,

let her know when she makes you mad,

and miss her when she's not there.

Love with your whole being when you receive love.

Because there are no perfect girls, but there will always be a girl who is perfect for you.."

[eye-candy-film-enjoyer]

I’ve finally cooked it up.

My fancast for a Wes Anderson adoption to A Series of Unfortunate Events

(Quick note, I’m excluded the Baudelaire orphans, Quagmire triplets, and Carmelita Spats because I know fuck all about child actors. All the child actors I liked are all adults now.)

Willem Dafoe as Count Olaf

Ralph Fiennes as The Narrator/Lemony Snicket

Bill Murray as Mr Poe

Saoirse Ronan as Kit Snicket

Frances McDormand as Chief Justice Strauss

Mathieu Amalric as Uncle Monty

Tilda Swinton as Aunt Josephine

Jeffrey Wright as Sir

Dev Patel as Charles

Anjelica Huston as Dr. Georgina Orwell

Bryan Cranston as Vice Principal Nero

Scarlett Johannson as Esme Squalor

Ed Norton as Jerome Squalor

Benicio Del Toro as Hector

Jason Schwartzman as Jaques Snicket

Wes Anderson as The Last Chance General Store Owner

(You are not allowed to question this one)

Bob Balaban as Hal

Jeff Goldblum as Captain Widdershins

Adrien Brody as Dewey Denouement

Brian Cox as Ishmael

Owen Wilson as the henchperson of indeterminate Gender

Luke Wilson as the henchman with a hook for a hand

[dufferpuffer]

HC: Remus liked muggle music - and his family had a deep love for Radio.

A drabble of General Wizarding Music; History; Lyall and Hope Lupin; Remus' childhood - and his particular friendship with Sirius Black.

(1700 words; in the form of a... idk, a short story I guess?)

Wizarding World Music

Music is a simple joy, one even magical folk partake in - but not in the same way muggles do. When Wizarding culture changes so slowly (high density of older population - and they live a looong time) - they don't exactly carry music about with them for casual consumption.

When there is so much magic to study, magical folk rarely have time to learn instruments or songwriting. Music is seen as a Muggle thing. A COOL muggle thing - even Purebloods concede that the mundane folk whittling their time away on the complexities of sound has artistic merit. Most people like classical music - even as modern as Strauss and Debussy!

But in terms of wizarding music... there isn't much that is 'unique'. There's lots of folk music, telling stories of the time (wandering wizard falls in love with muggle dame and thus gets burned by her family) Or are used to remember potion recipes etc. from when being able to read was a rare skill... But such songs are not unique to Wizards. There are often Muggle versions of the same songs (Innocent dame falls for an evil sorcerer and so he was rightfully burned; or a song about trees being about their uses for carpenters rather than wand makers) - it being unclear which came first. Even the most famous modern Wizarding artists are copying the genre and styles lead by Muggles, using muggle instruments - and even electrics and electronics. Music is what you enchant instruments to play for events, to show off your Charms prowess - not to callous your own fingertips on. The proudest wizards and witches are the ones whose hands remain soft their entire lives - who can use their magic for everything...

The Lupin Family

It wasn't until Lyall Lupin met Hope that he truly begun to understand the appeal of muggle music. The simple joy of putting a record on and taking his wife's hand to dance... (cont. below)

Hope's teenage years had been set to the smooth but energetic American voices of Elvis Presley, The Everly Brothers, Ray Charles - Frank Sinatra... Along with slightly older artists, as long as they could really jive: Fats Waller, Cab Calloway, Louis Armstrong etc. She was an avid dancer - attending dance clubs as a hobby. (She was an active, adventurous woman who enjoyed going out by herself.)

It had a sparked an interest in Lyall, who eagerly bought a high quality radio/record player - so his growing family could listen to the music and drama's of the Muggle world he had fallen in love with. He found late-night horror shows most engaging, staying up even as his wife (and soon young child) had gone to bed. He would occasionally wake them with his laughter at what Muggles considered 'frightening'... and found himself fully engaged with ongoing murder mysteries, pondering them even as he was at work. The Beatles, The Beach Boys, The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan - the house ALWAYS had music playing on that radio. His mother would dance to it while keeping the house and his father would sing along. Remus grew up not knowing true silence... and was happier for it. After the bite... music went from a presence in his life to a necessity. As he lay in bed recovering it was all his parents could do to stop him hearing them cry: drown their noise with the radio. As they moved house every few months, the one precious possession they never sold was the radio. It kept them in muggle towns far more often than not (even if it meant Lyall had to travel further to find work) - so they could plug the radio in. (and also because magical folk were sharper at spotting werewolf symptoms)

No matter how tight money got, they couldn't sell a member of the family. Especially not one that kept Remus company.

On Full Moons sometimes music would send Remus into a rage of over-stimulation - and sometimes it would calm him. He would stop banging his entire weight against the door and scratching the paint off the walls of their rental property basements/attics/sheds... and just listen. And howl loud enough that the neighbors complain. Whenever Lyall got just a little money to spare between moves, he would brighten his son's life by buying him records - so he could listen to his favourite songs whenever he liked. He wasn't allowed to have friends... but he could have this, at least.

As his mother's frail Muggle body grew weaker from stress, when she stopped being able to attend her dance clubs (both fatigue and fear she would see people she recognized, even in different towns, and have to try and explain why she kept disappearing) Remus could still listen to music with her. They had all her favorites on record, and even when she was near bedridden (and a young house-bound Remus had to do most of the chores) he would come to her bedside and sing along with her, let her stroke his hair. Sometimes she would get up and teach him how to dance... Starting Hogwarts was a lifesaver for his family. When Remus went away, they could actually stay in the one house. Lyall could work steadily and keep money not for their next move, but for their comfort. He could even take time off to spend with his wife. Hope was still weak but doing better, not having to be the primary person preparing to hold an adolescent werewolf every month.

Every month he got a little bigger, a little stronger... every month both his parents would stay up all night, barricading everything they could... and just waiting. Listening to his movements. Hoping he didn't manage to break the door down and rip them apart. Every Full Moon was a horror story worse than any radio drama. Remus had always been just s worried as they were. They did their best to not let him know how much they suffered, as it wasn't his fault... but he could see it. He learned very early on how to mask emotions and lie to keep others happy - learned from his parents soothing him, and from him soothing them right back.

He would start skipping meals a week before the Full Moon came - and it broke his parents hearts... but it was effective. A starved growing boy made a much weaker werewolf. Lyall and Hope would want to skip their meals with him sometimes, not wanting to make the house smell like potatoes and sausages when their little boy was refraining from eating... But, hardened and matured from his illness, he would remind them they had to have their full strength on the Full Moon. They had to hold him back... and they had to run if it went wrong. They would concede... and eat small meals, at least.

Remus and his Friends

At Hogwarts - Remus didn't have to worry about ANY of this. Locked far away from anyone, safe and contained... He arrived at school small and skinny for his age, but was barely recognizable his first summer: well fed and eager to tell his parents about his new FRIENDS.

He was awkward and meek, having never really spoken to anyone but his parents before... his first friends were purebloods, whom he had little in common with. But that's part of why they liked him! He was interesting and different - and he had a passion to share with them: Music. Sirius, disillusioned with pureblood life, fell in love with Muggle culture... and fell deeply in love with Music. Back Sabbath, Led Zepplin, Deep Purple, King Crimson - music so unlike anything he had heard before, experimental and electronic. Even if it wasn't so much Remus' thing, who preferred rock and pop of the 60s - they BOTH loved Queen and David Bowie. James was less enthusiastic, but just happy to share something with his friends - happy to fund their obsession: Portable radios they could tinker with and listen to in the Shack... they couldn't pick up every station out there, but on a clear day they got some - and it was familiar company on Full Moons. One summer James even paid for them all to go and see a concert. (Sirius and James had to be babied through it, dressed adequately and stopped from making fools of themselves.)

James might have been less enthusiastic about music - but his knowledge of it gave him something to talk to Lily about - so when she finally agreed to go out with him, he scrambled to his friends to ask if they had any of her favourite groups on record - because he told her he liked them too but he has no idea what they are HELP

One of the best presents Remus ever got was a Walkman, after they all graduated, when Lily was pregnant and they couldn't see each-other as often anymore due to the war. When he lost everyone, in 1981... Music, once again, became his only companion. Cassettes were handy: small enough to fit many inside of even a small, cheap enchanted bag. He rarely had spending money - but like his father had with records, he would dedicate money to batteries, to new headphones and to cassettes of his old favourites. No matter how tight money was - music was a necessity. No matter where he was sleeping - a hotel, an old cottage, under a bridge... he had music with him. He never listened to the radio. He didn't want to hear how things were changing. He wanted to stay in the past.

... When Sirius came back, when he got a friend back, he parted with that walkman. Giving it to him was one of the first things he did. It was his way of apologizing for spending the last 14 or so years thinking he was a traitor. Watching his skinny, shaking hands eagerly working the machine, crying as he heard happiness he was forced to forget for 12 years...

...and they danced. Remus was never much of a dancer, though his mother tried to teach him... and Sirius only grew up with formal dancing, as a Pureblood heir expected to attend functions on behalf of the Black family.

Neither of them were graceful. It was terrible, really - a couple of men in their mid 30s moving their bodies in ways they hadn't since they were teenagers... But that memory is one of Remus' happiest. Because, once again, he had a family to share music with.

[johnnyhatesducks]

Ouhhh yeah it's me!!! Your fave alien thingg

Hellyeah, i'm Johnny but i have like lots of names,, you are free to call me any of these: John, Johnny, Steve, Mike, Jim, James, Jimmy, Willy, Bob, Michael, Roger, Burt, Fred, Andy, Alan, Mark, Ignacio, Yuri, Frank, Jack, Lex, Hugo, Gabriel, Duck, Loked and Brick.

Blehhh i draw a lot, my art tag is #my art 👽 you should check it!!! I also have commissions open!!!(⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠) Buy me something pleaseee!!

I'm just a 15 yr mexican old not normal alien with ADHD and possible autism,,, I AM THE REAL MICHAEL SCOTT GUYS!!,,, My pronouns are he/they/it!! I dont actually like labels but for the record im aegosexual/asexual, omniromantic-omnisexual agender. I speak spanish and english is not my first language so i may have some mistakes ::

digitalArt: instagram

traditionalArt Instagram

traditionalArt tumblr

Support me in my Kofi !! (⁠ㆁ⁠ω⁠ㆁ⁠)

Join to The Office server!

i'm just weird, If I or my posts make you uncomfortable, talk to me privately and don't make a stupid post about it;)

Stuff I like : DC, Undertale, Fnaf, Wham city, Children of the mirror, Adventure time, Junkrat (overwatch), Pitbull, Queen, LEGO movies, Bald men, Slashers, The Texas chainsaw massacre, Repo! The genetic opera, Arg's (favs: vitacarnis, Smiles tapes) Jack stauber, the Office,Steve Carell, Baldi's Basic's, What We Do In The Shadows, Good Omens, Our Flag Means Death, Space Force, Anchorman (the two movies), Ghosts (BBC)

Fav characters :Hugo Strange, The Joker, Lex Luthor, Superman, Michael Scott, Andy Stitzer, Mark Naird, Papyrus, Leatherface, Stede Bonnet, Alan Strauss, Crowley, Nandor The Relentless, Curtis, Drayton Sawyer, Brick Tamland, Patrick Butcher, The Captain, Julian Fawcett

Kinlist !!: Michael Scott, Joker (lego Batman), John Doe (Telltale Batman), Chop Top (tcm2), Brick Tamland (Anchorman), Andy Stitzer (The 40 yr old virgin)

stamps are made by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

[criminalmindsgonewrong]

HEAT.

18+, NSFW, pwp. 8.9k words of utter filth.

This is…the definition of shameless. I'll never read this again because I can't reread my own smut, but I hope you enjoy it x

there's Only One Bed. the AC is broken. you know the rest.

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Emily had three problems.

The first was that the hotel room they'd booked only had one bed. The second was that the person outside the door, the person she had to share the hotel room with, was her boss. The third was that, expecting she would get her own bedroom, she had not packed appropriate pyjamas.

No, what she had instead was a tiny, cropped white tank and shorts so tiny she would be hesitant to wear them around her best friend, JJ, let alone Hotch.

She looked at herself in the mirror, at the way the tank clung to the curvature of her breasts. Turning, she tugged down the shorts, but they only went so far before revealing far too much of her midriff. She tugged them up a little, resigned, instead, to half of her ass being on display.

"It's fucking Texas, what was I supposed to pack?" she said to her reflection.

That was fair enough; August in Texas was no joke. Still, she wished she'd been a little more conservative with her choice of attire.

The bathroom was still warm with the steam from her shower, but as she stepped out into their shared hotel room, she realised she'd made a cyclical sort of error when Hotch looked at her from where he was standing near the thermostat.

Did she imagine it, the way his throat bobbed as he took in her appearance? Did his eyes really linger at the hem of her shorts, far too high to be appropriate in present company, or was she making that up?

"It's broken," he said, shortly, about the AC. Emily shivered on the spot, already too cold, and wrapped her arms around herself.

"Can we call reception?" She asked, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other.

"Already tried," Hotch said, gruffly, "They said there's nothing they can do until morning."

"Well, that's just great," Emily shook her head, "Cheapest hotel in the state, the AC is fucked and we couldn't even get our own damn rooms."

He tried not to take offense to that, shaking his head as he crossed to the bed and grabbed for his go bag. "I hope you left some hot water."

Emily, wringing out her damp hair, rolled her eyes, "I was in there all of five minutes."

"Hmmph," was all the reply she got as he slid past her and into the bathroom. As he manouvred around her, his hand grazed her exposed midriff, and she tried not to let her breath catch at the contact, turning with his hand and finding the bathroom door slammed in her face.

Afterwards, she would insist that he made the first move. He, of course, would do the same.

She was already in bed when he came out of the bathroom, too aware of both her state of undress and the possibility of seeing him emerge shirtless and damp from the bathroom. She didn't think she could handle that, honestly.

Aaron Hotchner was stubborn, impossible, immovable and downright rude sometimes. He was also, unfortunately, fucking hot. And, franky, that was Emily's type down to a T. Probably best not to psychoanalyse that.

Their relationship had been rocky from the beginning, and not really improved in the time she'd been with the team. He didn't trust her, after that business with Strauss, and she didn't particularly like him after all the times he'd been harder on her than the rest of them. But she still noticed the way his eyes seemed to darken whenever he looked at her, narrowing with such intense dislike. She noticed his hands, when they held his phone and made the same model that looked huge in her own hand look tiny, and the veins that stood out along the back of his hands, down into his wrist. She'd probably spent too much time thinking about his hands, if she were truly honest with herself.

So, really, the thought of sharing a bed with him was torture. Knowing he was inches away from her, breathing in the dark, all six-foot one of him, and all of him off limits.

She resigned herself to ignore him, turning her back on him and feigning sleep when he came out of the bathroom. She had tucked herself into the comforter, pulling it tight around her shoulders so that only her head was visible, dark against the white pillows. Still, she was shivering.

She felt the bed dip as he sat on the edge of it, tried to keep her breathing steady as he lay down. On top of the comforter. Emily frowned, her brows forming a little divvet inbetween them. So much for pretending to be asleep, she rolled over and looked at him.

In the sliver of moonlight that filtered between the curtains she could see him laying there with his eyes closed, one arm resting behind his head, the other resting on his bare stomach. All of the muscles she had imagined he would have were present and accounted for, more defined than even she had pictured, and she felt her mouth go dry at just the proximity of him.

"What are you doing?" She whispered into the dimness of the hotel room, and tried to ignore the fact that he was shirtless.

"Trying to sleep." He didn't bother opening his eyes, and she could hear a faint trace of annoyance in his voice. She quirked an eyebrow. "Stop looking at me like that."

"How do you know how I'm looking at you if you have your eyes closed?" They were about to start bickering like children, she knew. This, also, was part of their dynamic.

"Because I know you." He said it simply, and the four words shouldn't have meant much, but they made her pause in the act of whatever she was about to say, her mouth closing, softly as she watched him. He opened one eye, surprised by her silence, and then the other followed as he caught the expression on her face. Something like curiosity, something that stirred something else inside of him. Something that pooled low in his belly.

She gave a little shake of her head, rolled her eyes, "Just be an adult and get under the covers."

She rolled over, effectively putting an end to the coversation, and not really expecting him to listen to her order - because when had he ever before? She was therefore surprised when she felt him move, sitting up, standing up, and then felt the covers pull away from her body as he slipped into them.

Aaron tried not to stare at the curve of her waist into her hip as he lifted the comforter to get into the bed, tried not to let his eyes linger too long on her ass in those little white shorts. He turned his back to her, too.

"Goodnight." He said, gruffly.

"Goodnight." She whispered.

Unsurprisingly, neither of them could sleep.

Whether it was the presence of the other, or the chill of the room, they both lay awake, both pretending they weren't.

Emily kept shifting, presuming Hotch had fallen asleep, curling her knees up, tucking the blanket in even tighter around her, tucking her head into the duvet and then back out, anything to try and take the chill out of the air.

Hotch ignored it, at first, closed his eyes and really did try to go to sleep, despite the image of Emily's silhouette lingering unwantedly in his mind.

He couldn't understand her effect on him; from day one, even back when he was still married to Haley, he'd been more aware of her than the rest of the team. She tapped into something inside of him that he didn't fully recognise; something ancient and primal; desire.

He tried to distance himself from her, pair her with other members of the team, mostly Morgan, in the hopes of reigning in the inappropriate way he so often thought of her. Once Haley left him, it only got worse even though nothing had changed, not really; she was still off limits, as part of his team.

But he would have to be blind not to notice her. The others had noticed her, too, he knew. Morgan certainly had. He'd seen the way the younger agent's eyes sometimes lingered on her, the way he looked at her, hungrily. It made him - and he would never admit this to anybody - jealous, whenever she heard Emily laugh at one of Morgan's jokes, or when he heard them bonding over their favourite author, or when she rested her hand on his arm. It was harmless, he knew, but it still made his jaw tight.

So when this case came across his desk, he knew he had two options. He could send Emily and Morgan, or he could go himself. The decision he made was not the professional one, although anybody outside of his own mind wouldn't think twice about it. He was good, almost too good, at withholding his emotions, and confident that nobody knew of his attraction towards the younger profiler.

Still, even he hadn't anticipated that there would only be one hotel room, one bed. He hadn't imagined that those were the type of pyjamas she packed for a case. Well, okay, he had…but he hadn't thought his imagination would be so accurate.

When she moved again, he let out a frustrated growl and reached behind him, grabbing for her and grasping her hip, without really thinking. She stilled, shocked by the touch that sent currents of electricity through her body, made her heart beat that little bit faster. He let her go as quickly as he had grabbed her, immediately aware that he had overstepped.

"Can you stay still?" He asked, frustrated for more than one reason, and she didn't reply, but she didn't move again, either.

For a few minutes.

"God, Emily, what's wrong with you?" He asked, shoving himself to sit up and switching on his bedside light so that he could look at her. He'd pushed down the comforter, but Emily snatched it back around herself again, and not out of modesty.

"I'm fucking cold," she whined, and, true enough, he saw that her lips were slowly turning blue.

He raised his eyebrows, as she glared up at him, nestled down into the thick duvet. Then he rolled his eyes, switched off the light and lay back down.

Emily continued to glare at him in the dark, until she felt his hand back on her hip, shoving her this time, and she rolled back away from him as he nestled himself against her, his chest against her back, his knees locking in behind hers, his arm flung over her ribs.

Oh. That certainly had the desired effect; instantly, Emily was hotter than she'd ever been in her life. She knew he felt it, too, because he had gone so still behind her. She couldn't even feel the rise of his chest, he was frozen. Panicked by his own action, probably wishng he could take it back instantly. But it was helping with the cold, and Emily arched her back, tucking herself in closer to him.

His hand hung right there in the dark, and Emily's breath hitched with the knowledge that just the twitch of his fingers would have him grazing her breast.

She bit her lip, tugging it between her teeth. She would be lying if she said this wasn't exciting; the sudden wetness between her legs was a testament to that. She hadn't been close to sleep, and certainly wasn't now. They lay like that for a while, Emily breathing steadily, and, slowly, he began to do the same. His chest rose against her back (and even that touch had her breath hitching in her chest) eeking out all of the cold from her bones as they breathed together.

She had never been this close to him. Hadn't ever imagined that he could excite her this way, but his proximity had ignited a fire in her belly and Emily felt as though all of her nerve enddings were raw, exposed, the excitement of what might happen next making her almost vibrate with anticipation.

"Are you warming up?" His breath brushed her ear, and Emily had to close her eyes, her lips trembling as she exhaled, hard.

"Yes," she breathed, unable to help herself, and well aware that her tone told on her.

Afterwards, she would insist that he made the first move, but the truth was that she was the one who pushed her hips back into him, feigning the need for closeness, for warmth, and that the movement of his hand, the way he involuntarily cupped her breast, was more of a reflex than anything. He gasped into her hair as she pushed her ass back into his crotch.

Emily's heart stuttered in her chest, beating so hard she was sure he could hear it, the tension between them only increasing now that she could feel that he was hard against her backside, and she knew this was having the same effect on him as it was on her.

He still hadn't let go of her. She still hadn't moved away.

Emily turned slowly, her breathing the only sound in the darkness and Hotch leaned in as soon as she turned. His lips were a hair's breadth away from hers, his breath tickling her upper lip. She swallowed, loudly, and then he brushed his lips against hers, barely skimming them. He pulled away. Emily chased him, but he was out of reach at this angle. She pouted in the dark.

Then, he did the most Hotch thing ever.

"Can I kiss you?" If she said no, he was going to have to get up and leave this bed, splash his face with cold water, because he was achingly hard now, and still pressed against her ass. Emily couldn't help but smile into the darkness, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth as she said,

"You'd better."

His tongue was in her mouth immediately, and Emily lifted her hand to slide her fingers into his hair. He used his mouth like he did his gun, all focus and strength, sure of his aim; she couldn't help whining against his lips at the sudden, welcome invasion. She craned her neck at an awkward angle, her back twisted almost impossibly, but she didn't care as his tongue licked through her mouth, as she tasted him for the first time.

His hand tightened around her, the squeeze almost painful, but still she pushed her chest forward, offering him more, still, even as he ground his pelvis into her ass. His cock was hard, laid up against his stomach, and wedged into the crevice between her ass cheeks. She pushed back into him and even through their clothes, she could feel the heat coming off of him as he pushed back against her.

It was exhilarating. She didn't even really believe it was happening and the pitch blackness of the room only heightened her other senses.

They kissed like that for a long while, like teenagers discovering sex for the first time, afraid to take the next step. Take it they did, though, as Hotch slipped his hand into the neck of her tank top, greedily searching out her nipple with his fingers, his hand moving from one breast to the other, as though he couldn't get enough of her, as though he couldn't believe his luck. He caught her nipple between two fingers, squeezed it, and Emily's mouth fell open in a gasp, releasing the airlock between their lips even as his tongue swept across hers. Her breath was little more than a stutter as Hotch moved on, his lips on her cheek, her ear, her throat. He paid attention to her pulse point, just below her ear, kissing and licking there as his fingers continued their ministration of her nipples, teasing and twisting and tugging them into hard, rigid peaks. He alternated between that and palming her, the soft warmth of his palm a relief after the roughness of his calloused fingertips.

"God," she breathed, shifting just enough so that she could lay flat on her back, unwinding her arm from the back of his head and turning herself into him, seeking his lips once more. His hand withdrew from her shirt as she moved. They kissed quickly and wetly, each as afraid as the other that one of them would come to their senses and stop this before it had a real chance to begin.

Hotch's strong arm went around her waist, pulling her in closer to him still as he kissed her, and then that same hand, satisfied that she couldn't be pressed more tightly against him if he tried, moved down past the hem of her shorts, to grip her thigh. She was sure his fingertips would leave imprints, he grabbed her so tightly, hitching her leg up and over his hip so that he could push his hips forward, and, again, she felt the promise of his arousal. This time he pressed up against her pussy, the thickness of him a familiar feeling as he nestled into her slit. Her shorts were pulled up and tight, and she could feel him even through two layers of fabric, her imagination running wild as she anticipated the feel of him inside of her, and her stomach jolted with just the thought.

He kissed her ravenously, like a man starved, and he was. The divorce was finalised a few weeks ago, making it nearly six months since he'd so much as touched a woman, longer even since he'd been nestled between the thighs of one. He was painfully hard, now, and rutted against her between their clothes. Her hand slid between them, and she suddenly grasped him through his boxers. He felt her gasp as she closed her hand around him and felt his thickness, and couldn't help but smirk to himself, feeling smug. Hotch moved, tilting his head and focusing his kisses on her throat, alternating between kissing, sucking and licking, all the way back up to her ear, again. Once there, he paused, his breath hot on her skin.

"Think you can take it?" Emily's insides seized as he growled into her ear, his words a teasing taunt she had never imagined he was capable of, had never imagined was his sort of thing. It made her curious what else he might be capable of.

"Only one way to find out," She responded in kind, and slid her hand past his waistband. It was his turn to gasp then, as her fingertips grazed the head of his cock, felt the wetness of precum there and then she gripped him, and pumped him once, twice, slowly.

"How long have you wanted me like this?" She asked, certain that his hardness couldn't just be a product of tonight. She continued her movement as he buried his face in her throat, the beginnings of his beard scratching sensitive skin.

"Fuck, Emily, since the first time I saw you," he said, between kisses, as his hips bucked involuntarily, his cock sliding in her hand. She closed her eyes, smiling, smugly, to herself at his admission, and rewarding him with a few quick pumps of her hand. He groaned against her skin, slid his hand up from her thigh. It lingered at the hem of her shorts, tracing soft lines back and forth over her skin, and Emily felt herself grow wetter at the teasing touch.

Pressing kisses down the column of her throat, Hotch moved down, trying not to shift his hips too much, wanting her to keep touching him, keep working his cock, and licked teasingly at the curve of her breast, down into the crevice of her cleavage.

In the dark, Emily was all touch and no sight, and she felt everything as he pressed his tongue flat against her skin and licked her, tasting the salt on her skin. It was a teaser, she knew, a trailer for the movie he would play later, and as his tongue danced quickly over sensitive skin, she knew he was making a promise. The thought of him performing those same moves between her legs made her thighs clench together, a movement that did not go unnoticed by Aaron, his fingers playing at her inner thigh. She trapped them between her legs, felt the brush of him against her pussy, and froze, holding him there. Her hand, too, stilled on his cock.

Her breath was coming in quick, her brain fuzzy, so high was her arousal.

"We can stop-" Hotch started, but she shook her head, quickly.

"No-" she breathed, "god, please, don't, I just-" her hips stuttered, and, smiling, he understood. He moved his fingers, still caught between her thighs, twitched them just a little.

"Are you desperate to be touched, Emily?" he whispered in the dark, and curled one finger down. Through her shorts, his knuckle grazed her slit, and Hotch moved his finger back and forth, more of a tickle than anything. Emily moaned in frustration, releasing her thighs and trying to grind down against his hand as best as she could.

Chuckling, Hotch pulled his hand away, to another frustrated noise from Emily, and instead grabbed her thigh once more.

"Up," she might normally have bristled at the order, but it sent bolts down into her pussy and she was only too happy to oblige, finding that she enjoyed taking his orders in the bedroom. Eagerly, Emily straddled him, all too happy to settle herself across his crotch, to feel his hard cock laid against her slit and grind down against him.

With a growl, he slid one hand into her hair, pulling her down, his lips reclaiming hers as she rolled her hips against him. He wrapped his arm around her, holding her to him, and Emily fisted the pillow either side of his head, scrunching the fabric into her hands, as he kissed her, deeply.

Then his hands were moving, grasping at the hem of her cropped tank, pulling it over her head. He kissed across her chest, quick and brief, then reached behind his head, flicking on the bedside light.

"I need to see this," he was as breathless as she was, she was glad to hear, and she felt herself flush as his eyes raked over her, lingering over her chest, his pupils blown wide with desire for her. She had the urge to cover herself, her arms moving involuntarily to do so, but Hotch caught her hands in his, twining his fingers through hers, and bucked his hips, jolting her. Emily laughed, the sound breaking through the tension. Hotch smiled at that, at the way she lit up when she laughed. A topless Emily was a beautiful sight, but the smile…god, the smile made her radiant.

Emily paused, looking down at him, the smile lingering around her lips but her eyes curious and wondrous.

"What?" Hotch ran soft, reverant hands over her hips, over the smooth skin he found there, into the dip where her hips gave way to her narrow waist. His thumbs grazed the underside of her breasts.

"You're smiling," she said, "I just don't get to see that a lot."

"You're worth smiling at," he said, and then sat up, keeping her on his lap as he kissed across her chest and licked over a nipple, a hand playing absently with the other. Again, his tongue danced skillfully across her skin and Emily's head fell back with pleasure, her own hand tangling in his soft, black hair as he pulled her tight against him with one hand splayed across her back and nipped, playfully. She hissed through her teeth, bucked her hips against him, and he groaned against her skin.

"Do that again and you'll be in trouble," his voice rumbled against her, and Emily felt it low in her belly, pooling between her legs. Curiosity, more than anything, made Emily roll her hips once more, hard, and she could have sworn she felt him pulse beneath her. Hotch chuckled, low in his throat. "Oh, you wanna play it that way?" He asked, and leaned back against the pillows.

Again, Emily felt exposed as he looked up at her from beneath eyes hooded with lust, her rosy nipples standing taut in the cold air now that he'd left them coated in his saliva. He wasn't smiling now, and Emily felt a hint of something that lingered between excitement and fear as he looked very seriously at her.

"Get on your knees."

She laughed, actually laughed, because no man told her, Emily Prentiss, to get on her knees. No, she only did that when she wanted to, and sure, she absolutely wanted to right now, but the order was unexpected and made her giggle, nervously. Then the smile fell from her face as she realised there was no hint of a joke in his eyes. She raised an eyebrow.

"You're serious."

In response, Hotch twisted his hips, Emily falling sideways onto the bed beside him. She yelped her surprise, then watched as he stood up. Her eyes went wide as she watched him tuck his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and push them down. He was…Emily swallowed, audibly, and felt her mouth fill with saliva as she looked at him, as her eyes traced his thick, rigid cock, standing to attention, poking at the air, desperate for somewhere soft and warm to be. She felt herself clench around nothing, her eyes darkened with lust, as images of Hotch burying that thing inside her pussy filled her mind.

"I said," He repeated, his tone measured as he grasped the base of his cock and brazenly, slowly, pumped it, completely unashamed in front of her, "Get on your knees."

Emily met his eyes and saw, for a brief flash, the moment when she could have backed out. His eyes softened just a touch, as through asking if this were okay. She knew if it wasn't, he would come back to bed and they would fuck, all vanilla and nice, and then sleep. But Emily was never one to back away from a challenge, and her insides were turning to liquid the longer she stared at him, the longer she contemplated exactly what this version of Aaron Hotchner could do to her.

In answer to the question in his eyes, she moved slowly, compelled by lust and intrigue, entranced by this version of her boss that was not so different to her boss at work, just naked and painfully hard for her.

Emily sank gracefully to her knees on the rough carpet in only her shorts. Clasping her hands together behind her back, she arched her back, pushing her tits forward as though in offering, and looked up at him with huge, innocent eyes. She looked phenomenal, willing and waiting, and it didn't go unnoticed when the hand pumping his cock sped up, nor when his tongue shot out of his mouth to wet his lips.

"Open your mouth," if she'd missed the signs, she knew the effect she was having on him just from his tone of voice, the way it was lowered and quiet. His eyes had darkened and, again, Emily did as she was bid, opening her mouth and sticking her tongue out.

Hotch didn't waste a moment.

She gagged, involuntarily, as he slid his whole length as far into her mouth as it would go. And then repeated the action. She felt her eyes water at the invasion, Hotch not having given her any time to adjust, but she saw from the way his eyes gleamed that this was the intended effect. He wouldn't keep it up forever, he just wanted to see her gag around him, so gag she did.

"Good girl," Emily's thighs clenched around nothing at the praise. She tried to pleasure him, tried to use her tongue on the underside of his cock, but he slid in and out of her mouth so fast that all she could do was be there. He was using her mouth like a pussy, she realised, and the thought made her mind go fuzzy.

He thrust forwards a few more times, and each time Emily felt herself gag, until her eyes were streaming and he was grinning at her, proud of his handy work. When he stopped, she looked up at him with those big, wet brown eyes, her face flushed, her chest heaving as she breathed, hard.

"You're so beautiful," Hotch said. He held her face, one hand on her forehead, the other holding tightly to her chin, and bent to kiss her, quick and rough, "You're doing so good, Emily," she hummed at the praise, and he smiled against her lips, speaking into her mouth, "You're going to work for it now, though, my girl," he said, and she nodded, only too willing, slowly going mad with lust, "You're going to work for all of the nice things I'm going to do to you, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," the title came out involuntarily, but Hotch closed his eyes, his mouth opening wider against hers, not quite kissing her, but sharing breath, and she knew she had pleased him. When he looked at her again, it was with open lust and approval, and he straightened up, sliding his hands into her hair.

That was all the encouragement Emily needed before she took him back into her mouth, this time using her hands, too. She was no novice, and proved as much, no longer gagging as she was able to set her own pace. He was thick, too thick to fit comfortably down her throat, but she did her best, desperate to please him, to pleasure him.

"Fuck, Emily," his encouragemnt, his open approval, only made her work harder and Emily pumped him, pulling her mouth off of him long enough to spit on the head of his dick, using her hand to spread it, making him slick, her hand moving more easily over his stiff length. He groaned at that, and his hands slid into her hair. She looked up at him, and he nodded, tightening his grip. Emily lined him up and opened her mouth, and then she could only taste him as Hotch bagan to fuck her mouth, his hands so tight in her hair that they almost hurt.

Stars burst behind her eyes as her senses were overwhelmed by him, and the sounds of her throat, of her gagging, of his groans, were obscene.

Emily felt her throat constrict, as her ears bagan to ring, and had to slap Hotch's thigh. Immediately, he withdrew, a string of saliva still connecting her lips to his cock as it stood, red and rigid, and she knew he was close.

Swallowing, hard, she was breathless as she looked up at him and grasped it in a fist, "Are you going to come for me, sir?"

She knew exactly what she was doing, and she felt his dick throb in her hand, to her pleasure. Her shorts, she knew, were ruined, and Emily grinded down against her own heel, searching for any relief she could get. That didn't go unnoticed by Hotch, who stroked her cheek, gentle even as he guided her back to his cock with his other hand.

"You'll get your turn, princess, I promise you that," he said, as she popped him back into her mouth and his eyes rolled back in his head at the pleasure, "But for now, be a good girl and let me come down that pretty throat."

It didn't take long, Emily's mouth and hands working in tandem over his huge cock. She felt his hands fist in her hair, so painful she had to close her eyes, and then his hips stuttered. He held onto her, her nose pressed into his pubic hair, as he came, and she didn't gag as she swallowed his huge load, hot and salty in her throat and when he jerked his hips back, now oversensitive, she caught the rest of it in her hand. Looking him in the eye, she flattened her tongue against her palm, licking the last of him from her skin.

"Fuck, Emily," he growled, grasping her under the arms and pulling her, roughly, to her feet. His lips crashed against hers, and she knew he could taste himself and that he didn't care as he walked her back against the wall. His hand was down her shorts, finally, fingers sliding into her underwear, and when he ran two of them down her slit he found her wet and hot. His fingers slipped over her and he had to stop kissing her long enough to comment.

"You're fucking dripping," he said, appreciatively, his finger gently circling her clit. Emily's legs almost buckled, she was already so sensitive, and she clung tightly to his biceps to keep herself from falling. He smiled, amused and endeared by her. "All this for me?"

He withdrew his hand, much to Emily's disappointment, and brought his fingers instead to his lips. She watched, mesmerised, as he sucked her juices from them. Emily's stomach twisted at the sight, as she watched his tongue dance around his fingers, cleaning every drop of her from them. He pressed his forehead to hers, looked her dead in the eyes.

"You taste so good, sweetheart," he said, running his tongue over his lips, "I'm going to make you come with my tongue, and then I'm going to fuck you, and make you come again, all over my thick cock, okay?" His voice was gravelly, low, even as dropped the hand with his wet fingers to her breast, played with her nipples again, and all Emily could do was nod, weakly, her body feeling like a live wire about to burst into flames. Hotch smirked, clearly proud of the effect he was having on her, and kissed her, again, the taste of them both now mingling in her mouth.

His lips travelled from her mouth to her throat, his lips leaving searing specks over her shoulders and her collar bones, her sternum and across both breasts as he occasionally paused long enough to suck a sore, red bruise into her pale skin. He paused at each nipple, swirled his tongue, nibbled playfully, and she ran her hand through his soft hair. Her head fell back against the door and she sighed, contentedly, at the comfort of that sensation, as his hands circled her waist and she felt him drop to his knees in front of her. She was so engrossed in the attention he gave to her breasts that when he grabbed her shorts and yanked them, and her underwear, down, it knockled her off balance.

Hotch chuckled, darkly, "Sorry, sweetheart," he said, but he didn't sound very sorry. Trying not to feel self conscious as she now stood as naked before him as he was, Emily let him lift one foot, then the other, and stepped out of her shorts. Hotch looked up at her as he threw them elsewhere in the room, maintained eyecontact as he leaned in, kissed her belly button, both of her hips, the very top of the little triangle between her legs.

"Aaron-" she started to protest, and he stopped, sitting back on his own heels. She paused, and he waited, his hands finding hers at her sides. He twined their fingers together, as he had earlier.

"You're perfect," he said, with the slightest shake of his head, leaning in and repeating the same kisses. Tummy, hips, triangle. Then he met her eyes, "Let me."

Nodding, overcome with need for him, Emily breathed out, "Please."

He grabbed her leg, lifted it onto his shoulder and she clenched his hands as she tilted her head back against the door again. His breath was hot against her, and Emily was shaking with anticipation as she waited for him. The first swipe of his tongue against her was slow, drawn out, as was the moan that escaped her lips at the contact. His tongue was hot, pointed, skilled.

"You taste divine," he said, into her cunt, and Emily gushed at the praise. He chuckled, "Oh, she likes that," he said, making her stomach clench at the vibrations his voice sent into her pussy, "My good girl likes that."

It was the my that did it, made her hold his hands tighter, made her whimper, desperately, and then he pressed his tongue flat against her, licked between her lips, tasted all of her, caught her juices with his tongue and swallowed her down as she gushed over his lips. Her mind was blank, her chest heaving as he went to work, his tongue fulfilling the promises he had made earlier, skilfully flitting over her clit, fast as a snake's, or sliding, rigid and probing, against her hole, or flat and wide and wet between her slit. When he circled her hole with his tongue, pushed it inside, his nose slid against her clit and she thought she might lose her fucking mind right then. He alternated, never letting her get too used to his actions, never letting her settle into the motion, building her up and up until she was a frustrated bundle of nerves, until she wanted to hold his head in place and fuck herself against his tongue.

She did wind her hand through his hair, like he'd done to her, did thrust her hips a few times, but Hotch grabbed them and held her in place, and she could hardly fight that. He was much stronger than she was, and held on to her, easily, letting her go only so far as he wanted.

He teased her, tasted her, taunted her with his tongue until she was whining, all but grinding down against his face, and she knew what he wanted, then.

"Please," she breathed, and felt him grin against her, his cheeks in a wide smile between her legs.

"Hmm?" He hummed into her pussy, and she hissed.

"Please," she repeated, through her teeth, tightening her grip on his hair until she knew she was almost pulling it out at the root. He didn't seem to mind, his tongue flitting even faster against her clit.

"Please, what, sweetheart?" He prompted, smugly, and Emily might have shoved him off of her right then if she wasn't so fucking desperate to come, so drunk on this version of him.

"Please, let me come," she gasped, "God, Hotch, I need to come."

"I want you to come, sweetheart," he agreed, "I want to taste you, I want you to lose control all over my face," she whined, hips starting to move erratically, and he let her go, let her hump against his mouth, "Lose control, Emily," then he latched onto her clit and sucked, hard, and she stopped breathing entirely as a searing, scalding orgasm wracked her body, making her blind and deaf all at once. The only thing that kept her on her feet was Hotch's intuition, as he grabbed her hips and pushed her back against the wall.

When she came back down from heaven, Emily felt pleasantly dazed.

"You're too fucking good at that," she said, her voice weak, her hand now soft as she stroked through his hair.

Hotch rose to his feet in front of her and she wrapped her arms around his neck as he leaned in to kiss her, the taste of her still fresh on his tongue. Against her belly, she could feel that he was hard again, and, again, she clenched around nothing, aware that she would soon know how it felt to be taken by him.

Hotch swept her feet from beneath her, lifting her in his arms and carrying her the few feet back to the bed, where he laid her down, her head on the pillows. She looked at him from beneath eyelids heavy with lust.

"I'm clean," she said, without prompting, and he looked at her with approval, stroking his cock as he climbed onto the bed between her legs.

"Good, me too," he leaned over her, and she felt the tip poke against her folds, felt his length slide against her slt. Her slick coated his shaft, and Hotch lazily moved his hips, each gentle thrust bumping the head of his cock against her sensitive bundle of nerves, "I was hoping you'd say that," he said, his lips against her throat, "because I'm going to fuck you senseless until I'm empty, sweetheart, and I'm going to fill you up with come," Emily's mouth went dry, her nails digging into his shoulders where she'd been gently drawing circles, at his words, "How do you feel about that?"

She couldn't believe he still had words left to play with, because she didn't; there was barely a coherent thought in her head as she felt him line himself up against her, as she breathed erratically, anticipating him. Luckily, he wasn't waiting for an answer, and slid, slowly, inside of her. He was even thicker than he seemed, but her tight channel was slick with her orgasm and he slid in easily, even if he did take Emily's breath away with the sheer stretch of him. He went slowly, though, letting her adjust, moving only when she encouraged him with a nod, her eyes closed with concentration as she relaxed around him.

"Fuck," Hotch said, his breath hot against the sensitive skin beneath her ear, "Em, you're so tight."

This time his praise wasn't solely to elicit a reaction; she could hear it in the raspy way he spoke, the effect she had on him and she knew what it was taking for him to not immediately begin pounding into her. His arms shook as he held himself up, and Emily stroked a hand up and down his back, searching for his lips and sliding her tongue into his mouth, kissing him deeply as he notched one last inch inside of her and bottomed out, his balls pressed against her. They were locked together and Emily's breath was shaky when she broke their kiss.

She nodded, shakily, "Go slow," she said, and he did, pulling out of her leisurely, agonizigly, only to surge forwards and repeat the motion. It was bliss. She could feel every contour of him as he slid into her, every ridge as he slid out, and as she grew accustomed to his size, she nodded again and, understanding, Hotch snapped his hips forwards, jolting her up the bed slightly.

"Hotch!" Emily gasped, her mouth open, as the pleasured bordered on pain. He smirked, playfully, at her, and did it again, sending pleasurable waves through her body. "Fuck," she cursed, under her breath. He chuckled, darkly, dropping himself onto his elbows rather than his hands, his chest pressed against hers and bending his legs at the knees to give himself more leverage.

"Fuck, indeed," he said, and started a brutal pace that stole the air from Emily's lungs. He pounded into her with reckless abandon, snapping his hips expertly, his balls slapping against her ass with every thrust. Emily could only hold onto him and she wrapped her legs around him, tilting her pelvis and giving him an even deeper angle. She would have sworn she could feel each thrust in her throat.

It didn't take long until her second orgasm was building, already sensitive from her first. The last thing she wanted to do was become too overstimulated, but she wasn't about to tell him to stop when he was eliciting rivulets of pure pleasure from her body, and as her climax washed over her, she clung tight to him and felt his hips stutter, overcome by the clench of her around him.

"Oh, baby," he praised, the nickname coming easily to his lips, "Sweetheart, you feel so good, milking my cock with that pretty pussy."

The dirty talk still surprised her with every word, unexpected but welcome, and had her coming harder. Hotch dropped his hand between their bodies, rubbing her clit with the pad of his thumb, dragging out her orgasm until she had to push his hand away from her, gasping, and he grinned, slowly thrusting his hips back and forth.

"You're not done yet, Emily," he told her, as she ran her hands over his chest, over the strong muscles she found there, and he lazily thrust into her, giving her a moment to come down, "You're not done until I say you're done, are we clear?"

Again, even through his words, she saw in his eyes the need for her reassurance, her consent, and, licking her lips, Emily nodded, pulling his face back down to hers for a kiss.

"Take me," she said, against his lips, and felt the sudden snap of his hips against her, as his control faltered at her sensual words, eliciting an involuntary groan from the back of her throat, she breathed, hard, and fixed him with her eyes. He stared down at her, as she ran her hands into his hair, and her pupils were blown with lust and desire, her pale skin shining with a thin sheen of sweat, "Fuck me, Aaron, harder."

And maybe it was the use of his name that did it, breaking the last of his resolve, or maybe it was the plea for him to go harder. The permission she gave him to be ruthless.

He pulled out of her, Emily whimpering at the contact and lack of, all at once, and she reached for him. Her hand was on his chest when he grabbed her wrist tightly, bone scraping bone, and pulled her palm to his lips, kissing it, a moment of tenderness before he dropped her hand and grabbed for her hips, instead.

His strength was impressive, and he flipped her like she were a ragdoll, Emily landing on her stomach on the bed, her cheek against the pillow as he manouvred her according to his own will, spread her knees and lifted her hips.

His hand came down, hard, on her ass, the sound splitting the room, and she yeled, her world narrowing to the burning sensation. Hotch stared at the red imprint he'd left on her pale skin, licked his lips, and did it again.

"Aaron," she gasped, pleading.

Hotch stared at her, at where she was pink and glistening, at where her pussy clenched, desperate and needy, around nothing, and couldn't help himself as he leaned in and swiped his tongue through her, once more.

"I'll never get enough of you," he said, burying his face between her legs, and Emily hissed, fists balling up the pillowcase, so sensitive was her pussy. He pumped his cock as he licked through her, high on the scent and taste of her. He fluttered his tongue against her clit, and she groaned, grinding back against his face, as Aaron speared his tongue into her hole. Pathetically, she felt herself winding up again, like a coiled spring, and as Aaron's fingers joined his tongue, his thumb sliding into her hole as his index finger rubbed over her clit, she was coming, again.

She was still coming when she felt him slam back into her pussy and the cry she let out was pathetic, delirious, as she involuntarily tried to escape his overstimulation. Aaron held fast, though, reaching beneath her, grabbing onto her breasts and using them to leverage himself, jamming her back onto his cock roughly, spearing her, hips snapping against her in a relentless rhythm.

"God, you're fucking perfect, Emily," he leaned forwards, biting at her neck, his back pressed against hers and he was everywhere, all over her, all around her, all at once. He was the only thing she knew as she felt her walls clench around him again, and she knew he felt it too by the gutteral moan that came from deep in his chest and rolled over her like a wave. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pressed himself so close to her, deliberately angled his waist so that he bumped again and again against the same delicious spot inside of her, driving her to the point of insanity.

"Come for me, Em, you can do it again," he told her, lips at her ear, and kissed down her throat. He grabbed for her face, turned her to look at him and then his tongue was in her mouth and she did as she was told, spasming beneath him as she came, again, only moments after her last, searing, brainmelting orgasm, and she knew he was close, too, as his lips opened against hers, his breath ragged, "Where?" he could barely manage to breathe.

"Fuck, in-inside, please," Emily gave him all the permission he needed and then she felt the hot spurt of him inside of her as he came, buried to the hilt in her pussy, her walls still clenching him, prolonging his pleasure as she milked him dry. The groan against her ear was gutteral, primal, animalistic and Emily's head was empty of anything but him as she spiralled with him.

He collapsed against her back, spent and exhausted, the delicious weight of him pushing her into the mattress, and Emily realised she wasn't cold anymore. Her skin was on fire, her insides were on fire.

They lay like that for a moment, both of them breathing hard and fast.

Hotch pressed soft kisses across her shoulders, pulling her hair, stuck with sweat to her slick skin, out of the way. Each kiss soothed her, and her breathing began to slow, her heart finally slowing to a normal pace in her chest. She whimpered as he slid out of her, soft now, sensitive after his brutal but satisfying treatment, and felt the gush between her thighs, knew they'd ruined the bedsheets.

Hotch lay beside her, a gentle hand on her back as he tucked himself close and tilted their foreheads together.

"Still cold?" He asked, softly, and Emily chuckled, the sound reverberating through the now silent bedroom.

"Actually, yes," she said, truthfully, the chill creeping back in now that she was exposed to the room and the adrenaline was settling in her veins. He shifted closer to her, pulling the comforter over them both as he lifted his leg over hers and pulled her into him.

"I have to-" she started, but he shook his head, pressed a kiss to her temple.

"In a minute," he said, and she could tell by his voice that he was already falling asleep.

"Alright," she sighed, contented, against his chest, the smell of him, of them, on his skin a comfort she'd never realised she was missing, "Alright, in a minute."

His hand ghosted softly over her back, fingertips tracing patterns she couldn't make out across her soft skin, and he looked down at her with gentle eyes, under tired, hooded eyelids. "How are you feeling?"

"Wow, aftercare, too?" she teased, smiling lazily up at him, and he smirked back, shaking his head a little.

"That was intense," he clarified, flattening his palm against the small of her back, "I'm just making sure you're alright."

Emily reached her hand up from where it lay beneath her head, pressed it against his cheek and pulled him down to her, to kiss him, to reassure him, "I'm great," she said, honestly, because she wasn't about to say I feel like I'm glowing golden.

He kissed her once more, and these kisses were somehow more intimate than those they'd shared before, when they were led by lust. They were soft, searching and almost hesitant as his lips moved against hers.

"We're going to do that again, right?" Hotch said, as Emily finally rolled away from him and stood up on shaky legs. He caught sight of the red marks he'd left behind, whether by his fingers or his mouth, and knew she would be carrying him around for days.

She cast a cheeky glance over her shoulder, caught his eyes roving appreciatively over her body, the slope of her waist, the plump curve of her ass, and grinned. "I hope so."

In the bathroom, Emily caught sight of herself in the mirror and realised that she still had three problems.

The first was the lack of clean - or dry - bedding on which they could sleep tonight. Although she figured they could remedy that by…not sleeping.

The second was the rapidly reddening marks Hotch had left over her throat (over her entire body, really, but the throat was the problem) and the way she knew she didn't have either the clothes or the make-up to cover those the following morning. She traced them with her fingers.

The third was that the man laying in their shared bed, in their shared hotel room, was the best lay she'd ever had, and just so happened to be her boss.

There were, Emily Prentiss figured, definitely bigger problems to have.

taglist: @hopefulfangirl24 @thebewingedjewelcat @platypus-whit-boots @luhwithah @cvtsbutcut3 @acetheticlytired @ccmattis-22 @duchessas @lucreziaq2001 @scorpiofangirl1109 @natasha-barton @lil-koala @themetaphorgirl @sequinsmile-x @emobabeyy @my-mummy-dust @section-chief-prentiss @canyouhearmeyet @psychicmuffinpandasludge @loriprentiss @eobangingwhen @thenerdthatwrites @daffodil-heart @cloudlessly-light

[adarkrainbow]

Pierre Dubois: An introduction

Have you heard of Pierre Dubois?

If you live in a French-speaking country and have interests in fantasy, you probably have. Else, you might have never heard of the guy.

I discovered Pierre Dubois, like many other people, through a trio of big encyclopedias with bizarre, beautiful and disturbing illustrations - each one centered around a different “type” of supernatural being. The Great Encyclopedia of Lutins (Imps/Dwarfs), The Great Encyclopedia of Fées (Fairies), and the Great Encyclopedia of Elves. This trio of encyclopedias, the product of “twenty years of research”, and released in the 1990s, became a MASSIVE hit present in every library and every bookstore across France. And I will speak of them in relation to fairytales - but we need to talk about the man himself.

Who is “Pierre Dubois”? He is the first and most prominent “elficologist” of France (in French, “elficologue”). This word, which designates the study of elves, was originally a joke-word invented by Dubois during an interview about what he did in life - but it soon became a term everyone used to describe him, as a result he also used it himself, and soon it became official. The “elficologie” (elficology) became the word used to designate all those that studied elves and fairies, the study of what Dubois himself called “Faerie”. 

Pierre Dubois is a story-teller, a writer and a scholar who was always fascinated by fairies, folklore and fairy tales. Before the enormous success of his Encyclopedias, Pierre Dubois was mostly known for his work on both radio and television shows: since he was a collector of legends and folklore from every corner of France (and later every corner of Europe), he put it to good use and brought all the legends and folktales he kept finding to the radio or the television - these radio shows of his went on for nearly thirty years. He also started to do some BD (bande-dessinée, the French equivalent of comic books) work but it wasn’t that successful (his BDs really boomed after the Encyclopedias however). 

With his work and Encyclopedias he really created a true “fairy craze” as he woke up back a passion for all the bizarre creatures and unusual monsters of folklore, and ever since all of his books have been hits - because he wrote many more books and encyclopedias, about trolls, about the folklore of the months, about ghosts... He is even called “the Levi-Strauss of the fabulous”.  Pierre Dubois himself is a very excentric and bizarre man with unusual habits. He likes to write by hand, refusing to use computers or even typewriters. His first true reads, during his teenage years (as his father during his childhood disliked seeing him reading and wanted him to focus on more “useful” things) shaped strongly his view of the world: Jean Ray and Sherlock Holmes. As a kid he collected pirate stories, the Grimm fairy tales and the Bob Morane novels , and while he did read some comic books (like Giffey’s Buffalo Bill) he had to do it in secret due to comics ot being allowed in his family. He had a brief carreer as an illustrator before starting to write - and he was an illustrator for the American magazines “Eerie” and “Creepy”. His first attempt at having a book publish was quite unique as, at fiftee years old, he sent his first book to an editor written with a goose feather on parchment and bounded by leather ; and when he got refused, he sent the manuscript again... WITH ILLUMINATIONS AND BOOKMARKS MADE OF HERBS. During the ten years he spent collecting legends and fairy tales in remote corners of France and countryside areas where witches and medecine-men were still a thing, he took the habit of going around dressed all in black, with a cloak, wearing his hair long, and with his pet raven on his shoulder (pet’s name was Nao by the way) - which actually did intrigue and fascinate people so much it eased a lot his collecting work. Oh yes, and his personal answer to who was Jack the Ripper is that it was Peter Pan - an idea he allowed Régis Loisel to use in his own BD about Peter Pan. 

And to such a strange and unusual man, corresponds a strange and unusual writing style. Pierre Dubois has strong likes and dislikes. He admires Jean Ray that he hails as one of the best writers of all times ; but he actually dislikes Tolkien and prefers to him Lord Dunsany. Despite his huge “fae” work, he actually doesn’t like much fantasy, but is a die hard fan of magic realism. His biggest influences are Bram Stoker, Charlotte Brontë, Mary Webb, Lewis Carroll, Walter Scott and Robert Stevenson. Similarly, his tastes of illustrations draw him towards Arthur Rackham, Richard Doyle and Gustave Doré. As for his writing methods, Dubois in his own words can spend “one hour on one sentence”, and he compares his writing to an “alchemy”, as he tries to create sentences so that they would resonate like “magical incantations” or “beautiful music”. When he writes, he always places himself in a specific ambiance - he surrounds himself with photographs, pictures, objects or natural elements tied to the subject he is writing around, all the while listening to “repetitive” music to place himself almost in a trance (such as Gavin Bryars’ music). 

And he became so famous and important he participates to a lot of folkloric festivals, literary salons, he does public story-telling to children in French castles (children usually like him due to his unusual appearance, as he is a big fat bearded guy with wild hair, he is often compared to “an ogre”, “a giant” or “Hagrid” by kids, while Dubois describes himself as a mix between Captain Hook and Peter Pan) ; and he notably is the chancelor of the “Center of the Arthurian Imagination”, a big cultural association/center of the Bretagne area dedicated to keeping alive the Arthurian legends of France. 

Anyway that’s all for the public image. But to speak of my more personal and prosaic experience with this man, I’ll speak of his Encyclopedias, the peak of his fame. 

How did Dubois create those encyclopedias? He compiled everything he could find. His own personal collection of folktales and fairy tales, but also a HUGE compilation of various books from different languages and eras (many of them I could’t find back, either because they are THAT RARE, either because they don’t exist anymore - or maybe even never existed) ; and by everything I mean everything. Fairy tales, folktales, folklore, legends of various kinds, from every country of Europe and even from countries and cultures outside of Europe (Asia, America, Australia, Africa...). He also included folk rites, superstitions, actual historical facts and anecdotes, ghost stories, local beliefs, mythologies, pagan religions, monotheistic and “modern” religions, “folk-Christianity” as it developed itself in France though saint cults and unusual tales about angels, demons or the Virgin Mary... 

And this is both one of the greatness and weakness of his Encyclopedia. It is great because by reading them you’ll have a HUGE side of the world’s culture in your brain and you’ll learn TONS of useful things and get tons of references. But on the bad side, he mixes gleefully witches, fairies, gods, ghosts from very different countries and eras in one big mix-mash without clearly defining the differences between them, and blurring the lines between everyone and everything. This is because Dubois has a very unusual way of presenting his research and descriptions: he doesn’t work in a “scientific” approach, he works with a “writer” approach. His texts are always very flowery, very poetic, using all sorts of words from the local term untranslated to old-fashioned names not used anymore, and when he can tell something through a story or an anecdote rather than a blank description or explanation, he will do it. The result is a fascinating reading experience that can conjure up visuals and ambiances like you can’t have anywhere else... but from personal experience, DO NOT TRY READING IT OUT LOUD! While it can be pleasing to read on your own, you really need to get the hang of his unusual phrasing and rythm, and I can tell you that trying to read his books to someone will turn the text into a boring and uncomprehensible mess because while the sonorities will be good in your head, you’ll need an extensive training to make them go out of your mouth in a pleasant way.

And while it is always a pleasure to have a Dubois book in your home because it is a poetic mine of info and stories, you will never actually see a Dubois book being used for any kind of serious folkloric research. Why? Because Dubois, as a true storyteller, likes to flesh out his characters, to invent new angles to explore legendary figures, to twist the traditional fairy tales. And so he will often for example theorize about what led to a monster being what it is, or what happened to a fairy after a given story. He will often add little trivial details in order to create a full “lifestyle” or “culture” of the species he describes. He uses humor or irony to describe the “fae folk” and so you can rarely read him in first-degree. And in his all-encompasing, all-including view of the “legendary” world he will materialize existing relationships between folktales OR invent them to give more “coherence” to his new Fae world. It isn’t uncommon for him to include in his stories other entities he describes in other articles as a background or side detail, thus creating a “fairy history” with its own chronology and an “elven genealogy” with its own magical evolution - these things never actually explicitely spelled out or described, but that the reader has to recreate by collecting the clues scattered throughout his books. 

Because that’s what he does. A lot of re-creation, a lot of re-invention. At least he does that in these Encyclopedias. The result is an insanely fun read filled with discoveries of little-known folklore and a re-discovery of a entire world of the supernatural and a new “world-mythology”... But his claims need to constantly be checked and countered by more serious works if you want to do actual folkloric or historical research. Dubois is clearly a writer and a story-teller first and foremost. I do appreciate the enormous bibliographies he gives in each of his book, but I would love to see one day all the material he collected during his ten years-trip to France (I haven’t found it published anywhere however).

For me, I appreciate his Encyclopedias as an object of art, as a fantasy work and as a discovery/rediscovery of the “fae folklore”. I will never tell anyone to not look at them (especially since the illustrations are WILD). But I noticed that people tended to take his words in a way a bit too literal, repeating some things that are clearly Dubois’ inventions as if they were cultural facts, and so there should be a warning label when it comes to these VERY famous books.

And to end this introduction post, I’ll list there for the sake of the trivia some of the opinions and points of view Dubois defends.

# He is a great lover and defender of fairy tales, but he has a truly “folkloric” approach to them: he defends the idea that fairy tales are a product of popular culture, and that it existed since the dawn of humanity, its characters being inherited from the original goddesses and sorceresses of humanity. He interprets fairy tales as being allegorical stories about the cycles of seasons and the phenomenon of nature, with a cathartic function (such as providing hope and comfort during winter). He considers these tales and legends as being an encouragement to respect nature, and the result of a collective memory that is passed down from generation to generation, alongside the figure of witches that are for him the embodiment of all “our fears and anxieties”. He also explains how fairy tales are initiation tales that warn children of the dangers of the ogres and dragons, and encourages them to become allies and friends of the spirits of nature - though still keeping fairies as ambivalent entities. 

# Pierre Dubois is very happy with the recent passion and success of the “faerie” genres and the “literature of the imagination”, he does believe that the fame of things such as The Hobbit, Harry Potter and role-playing games allows people to find back “the sense of the marvelous, of the epic, of the knighthood and the fairy tale”. However he does express one big regret, that “special effects replace magic and make the fantastical and spiritual disappear” from those stories ; he also likes to remind people that “fairies don’t like when we speak about them” and fears that there could be an over-abundance of fairy-related books and a “commercialization of the fairy”.

# He is a strong ecologist, though he isn’t so much concerned about stuff like climate change but rather believes how you need to listen and respect nature because only contact with nature can “wake up imagination” - he also likes to remind people how in legends fairies warn humans not to cut some trees or build on some lands before taking revenge on those not listening to them through natural disasters - as a result his motto is “If you hurt nature, it will hurt you in return” and he belives that some of the huge floods France knew in his lifetime were “fairy punishments”. 

# He keeps preaching the virtues and powers of the imagination, especially towards children: he believes they should be soaked in drawings, theaters and songs to wake up their imagination, and he dislikes how for a long time in France all those activities were stopped around six or seven years old, the “age of reason”, due to them becoming “useless”. He insists that adults should never deny the emotional or imaginary sides of life, and he also strongly dislikes any kind of children literature that is “educative and realist”. 

# Finally, Pierre Dubois strongly dislikes today’s society and the modern world due to denouncing the over-abundance of “scientism” and “materialism” in the ruling classes, and how modern culture relies on greed and selfishness. He claims that the “waking up” of the imagination and the “revival” of the Faerie was in France a natural extension of the May 68 revolt (I’ll let you search for that on your own), and he has a great interest and kinship with two type of sub-cultures: the gothics, and the punks, due to him sharing with them the idea of an unconventional freedom. Dubois defends the idea that the fairies are the symbol of the “rebelled ones” and of the “wild ones who say no to an established order” ; and he also strongly dislikes how editors like to divide literature into categories and sub-categories. This all results in his strong criticism of television (that “prevents” a natural transmission of countryside and local culture, and “replaces” the stories of the old folks) and of school+monotheistic religions (that for him work to make “all the small gods of nature” disappear). In fact, his wish would be that school taught less civic classes and more philosophy classes and fairy tales - and while he does preach a return to the ancient “rites of passage”, he also says in our modern day we shouldn’t fall into the same excesses as in the past concerning those rites. 

[maximiliano-aedo]

What could've been Animaze ..iNC during the 2010s

Talent pool (Note: any voice actor marked with * is union-only):

Steve Blum*

Mary Elizabeth McGlynn*

Crispin Freeman*

Kari Wahlgren*

Johnny Yong Bosch

Yuri Lowenthal*

Dave Wittenberg*

Roger Craig Smith*

Laura Bailey*

Travis Willingham*

Cherami Leigh

J.B. Blanc*

Sam Riegel*

Liam O'Brien*

Amy Kincaid*

Troy Baker*

Matthew Mercer

Joe Romersa*

Fleet Cooper*

Dyanne DiRosario*

Jennifer Love Hewitt*

Brian Hallisay*

Spike Spencer

Amanda Winn Lee*

Jaxon Lee*

Kyle Hebert

Ben Pronsky

Bob Buchholz

Richard Cansino

Murphy Dunne*

Carolyn Hennesy*

Jerry Gelb*

Adam Sholder

Ezra Weisz

Cristina Vee

Bryce Papenbrook

Michael Sorich

Richard Epcar

Ellyn Stern

Tony Oliver

Kirk Thornton

Lexi Ainsworth*

Aria Noelle Curzon

Grace Caroline Currey*

Michael Forest

Erik Davies

Adam Bobrow

Joshua Seth

Junie Hoang*

Kirk Baily*

Tom Fahn

Jonathan Fahn

Dorothy Elias-Fahn

Melissa Fahn

Stephen Apostolina*

René Rivera*

Deborah Sale Butler

Kevin Brief

Michael Gregory*

Riva Spier*

Cassandra Morris

Erica Mendez

Erika Harlacher

Erica Lindbeck

Marieve Herington

Kira Buckland

John Rubinstein*

Kim Matula*

Brittany Lauda

J. Grant Albrecht*

Michael McConnohie

Steve Bulen*

Dan Woren

Derek Stephen Prince

Wendee Lee

Edie Mirman

Jason C. Miller

Taliesin Jaffe*

John Snyder

Robbie Daymond

Ray Chase

Kaiji Tang

David Vincent

Christina Carlisi*

Christopher Corey Smith

Cindy Robinson

Rachel Robinson

Jessica Boone

Lauren Landa

Megan Hollingshead

Jalen K. Cassell

Doug Erholtz

Michelle Ruff

Gregory Cruz*

John Bishop*

Matt Kirkwood*

Lara Jill Miller*

Carol Stanzione

Steve Staley

Dave Mallow

Mona Marshall*

Darrel Guilbeau

Robert Martin Klein

Robert Axelrod

William Frederick Knight

Lex Lang

Sandy Fox

Joey Camen*

Randy McPherson*

Jad Mager

Richard Miro

Milton James

Anthony Pulcini

Douglas Rye

Patrick Seitz

Keith Silverstein

Jamieson Price

Skip Stellrecht*

Stoney Emshwiller*

G.K. Bowes

Alyss Henderson

Patricia Ja Lee

Peggy O'Neal

Carrie Savage

Melodee Spevack

Jennifer Alyx

Julie Ann Taylor

Sherry Lynn

Brad Venable

Christine Marie Cabanos

Greg Chun

LaGloria Scott

Steve Kramer

Melora Harte

Rebecca Forstadt*

Kyle McCarley

Mela Lee

Karen Strassman

Faye Mata

Laura Post

Kayla Carlyle*

Brina Palencia

Connor Gibbs

Brianne Siddall*

Barbara Goodson

Loy Edge

Jay Lerner

Jennie Kwan

Max Mittelman

Jessica Straus*

Alexis Tipton

Fryda Wolff

Michele Specht

J.D. Garfield

Debra Jean Rogers*

Julie Maddalena

Carrie Keranen

Tara Sands

Matthew Hustin

Cody MacKenzie

Bridget Hoffman*

Colleen O'Shaughnessey

Grant George

Jessica Gee

Jeff Nimoy*

Peter Lurie*

Brian Beacock

Paul St. Peter

Chris Jai Alex

Dan Lorge*

Ewan Chung*

Steve Cassling*

Philece Sampler

Stephanie Sheh

Sam Fontana

Ben Diskin

Juliana Donald*

Michael O'Keefe*

Christina Gallegos*

Tara Platt

Keith Anthony*

Beau Billingslea

David Lodge*

Kim Strauss

Eddie Jones*

William Bassett*

Kim Mai Guest*

Caitlin Glass

Hannah Alcorn

Ron Roggé*

Camille Chen*

Ethan Rains*

Yutaka Maseba*

Joe J. Thomas

Michael Sinterniklaas

Erin Fitzgerald

Joe Ochman

Marc Diraison

Xanthe Huynh

Brianna Knickerbocker

Dean Wein*

Michael McCarty*