#what a poet ladies and gents

[musingsofaperpetualdaydreamer]

The Tortured Poets Department: The Anthology first listen 🎧🪻✨

More than 15 years later wow it still feels so magical to listen to a brand new album. The joy, the excitement, the nervousness. I mark chapters of my life with her albums, they always seem to arrive with perfect timing. Is it fate or delusion? Probably the later, obviously she has no idea who I am. Idk it feels nice to delude myself now and again that we’re all journeying through this time together in some connectedness (is that a word?). It feels sort of nostalgic in some ways, from being just a child to now an adult, it’s like Sesame Street that grows up with you. Not a great analogy but what I mean to say is it holds a special place to me.

This album, this anthology feels much like we’ve been handed her diary, filled with sticky notes bound together, it’s so raw but so expertly crafted, messy feelings but the penmanship is exquisite. From her debut album, it’s always been poetry. She transports you to her world. What a journey, what a joy, what a gift.

I like to capture my first thoughts of each song in my silly chicken scratching written notes. Most of it makes no sense. It feels like a nice silly tradition and it’s fun to look back on. So here goes:

Fortnight

- It’s giving moody 1989??? Excuse me miss?!!! Ohhh she knows. Preach bye time to cry

The tortured poets department

- Ooooh we’re in an 80s dreamscape. Yes yes yes. Who’s gonna love you but me? A fluffy dreamland Patty smith? Insert wait I understood the reference meme. Ooooh it’s lovely. I am sad

My boy only breaks his favourite toys

- excuse me?? I’m shattered byyyyyeee. I’ll tell you that he runs because he loves me?? You should’ve see him when he first saw me? Once I fix me he’s gonna miss me??? Ladies and gents welcome to afternoon tea on the menu SCALDING hot queen’s special. Maybe I’m a crumpled up paper on the floor. Maybe I am no more.

Down Bad

- well damn she’s said the quiet parts out loud again. Oh smokes time to dissapear into this galaxy smoky cloud of night. One of us. One of us. One of us.

So long London

- literally standing by the river in the rain. May as well cry my damn eyes out . Darn it blondie. Poetic destruction. Crying my eyes out by the water like I’m in made in Chelsea. Darn.

But daddy I love him

- a folklore ode? Little house on the prairie Princess revolution. Serve it up serve it up I’m ready to be stuffed like a winter pig. A grown up love story. It’s ridiculous and maybe wise eyes know too well it’s chockablock of red flags but darn I’m a cheesin’ this is so cute.

Fresh out the slammer

- oh it’s like August but dark. August dark afternoon blistering hot and the storm is about to come.

Florida!!! Ft Florence and the machine

-ExXUSE MEEEEEEEeE?????!?!!?teee heee heee heeee. Your home’s really only a town you’re a guest in??? Sorry can’t speak my jaw has shattered. Pls pls. Palm tree pls.

Guilty as sin?

- A false God dreamy haze confessional? With sprinkle of Gold Rush??? I am a melted.

Who’s afraid of little old me?

- The who’s who of who’s that is poised for the attack? But my bare hands paved their path, you don’t get to tell me what’s sad? - I AM CHOKED. Silenced mute. Ohhhh miss blondie is on BUSINESS. TELL THEM SWEETIE. Oh my heart 💔

I can fix him (No really I can).

- Oooh moody blues preaching with generous dash of delusion? Ah yes my routine favourite beverage. I am drinking this up like air. Drunk on false hope? One of us. One of us. One of us.

Loml

- You Holy Ghost you told me I’m the love of your life. Oh no I’m crying again. Back to crumpled paper rocking back and forth on the floor in a ball it is. It’s so pretty yet, shattering. Devastating. I wish I could unrecall how we almost had it all. Dancing phantoms on the terrace, are they second hand embarrassed that I can’t get out of bed ‘cause something counterfit is dead? Yep that’ll do it.

I can do it with a broken heart?

- Oh damn. Honey nooooo. Oh myyyy. Oh I’m in this picture and I don’t like it. It’s so artfully done, so upbeat and Poppy yet so hauntingly sad. Yes that’s the point but it’s sooo well done. Oh sweetie. I can’t stop laughing it’s not funny, it’s just you too pumpkin. I wanna hug her and tell her it’ll be fine. Ok ok.

The smallest man who ever lived

- Oh I’m speechless. And I don’t even want you back, I just want to know, if rusting my sparkling summer was the goal. The bridge? Excuse me while I sink to the bottom of the darkest ocean.

The alchemy

- Oooh it’s so cute and dreamy. I’m beaming you can hear her smile when she sings.

Clara bow

- Oooh it’s the lucky one grown up. The bridge is a masterpiece. It’s hell on earth to be heavenly, thems the breaks it don’t come gently. She knows she’s a star, The never ending cyclical wheel of stardom, even the shiniest, ends with a new star born in its shadow.

The black dog

- Oh No no no I Am 1 billion percent destroyed. Byeeeee

Imgonnagetyouback

- Oooh blondie is on the prowl and what can I do but bop like the well stuffed clown I am. Insert meme of cat bopping their head.

The albatross

- Banjo? Haunting country cautionary tale? - scathing review of one’s reputation, worst traits but underneath it all is just vulnerability. Caged for ‘monstrosity’ but being so vulnerable and just wanting to be freed loved. The ‘monster’ trying to protect the one they love from the things that will come for them too? Do they even realise it? Do they care? Wow it’s poetically beautiful.

Chloe or Sam or Sophia or Marcus

- Oh it’s sad. If you wanna break my cold cold heart, just say I loved you the way that you were? Oh myyy. Replaying old moments, looking for clues wondering if it can all have a new ending? Wow.

How did it end?

- Wow the invasiveness of empathy of the innate curiosity of wanting to know, so you can something comforting, learn from it but you forget how it can be the worst part, having to offer up a ‘post mortem’ to all when you’ve barely even processed its ended yourself. The cyclical nature of it happening every time like it’s just a formal process we’ve come to accept even though it haunts us all. Ironically as we listen to this. Wow so beautifully done.

So high school

- I wanna find you in a crowd just to hide from you, and in a blink of a crinkling eye, I’m sinking, our fingers entertwined. Awww the sort of bubblegum silly feels you roll your eyes but you have the biggest smile on your face. It’s soo cute. You know how to call, I know Aristotle.

I hate it here

- Oooooh tell me something awful like you’re a poet trapped inside the body of a finance guy. One of us. One of us.

ThanK you aIMee

- Oh my goodness it’s grown up mean but she made it out. It’s so sad but I’m beaming. I say that’s my baby and I’m proud. Andrea? Oh thank you next. Not the kid. I’m cackling.

I look in people’s windows

- Oh it’s haunted death by a thousand cuts glimmering of desperate false hope. It’s lovely.

The prophecy

- Oh. Damn yep that’ll do it. Right in the ticker. Damn. It feels very much like am I doomed to always be the one before the one? Wow. Just yeah.

Cassandra

- I don’t know why but this makes think of safe and sound. Like the woman that was there when everything burned around them. She’s telling her side. Everyone’s there to watch you burn, screaming your guilt but silent when they’re wrong? If that ain’t the truth miss. Oh wow. Shes beautifully captured such a dark chapter.

Peter

- Oh wow it’s beautiful. It’s like post cardigan and she’s all grown up. 'Cause love's never lost when perspective is earned. But the woman who sits by the window has turned out the light. Oh wow it’s wow.

The Bolter

- Oh we must stop meeting like this but it always ends with a town car speeding. Wowowow. It feels like the time she fell through the ice, then came out alive. Oh my a BEAUTY.

Robin

- Oh it’s so pretty. It’s like never grow up, safe and sound and seven swirled together. Wow. It’s like she’s talking to her child but then also herself in the past and present, like from an older perspective? Ohhh it’s beautiful. Why does this make me think of coraline’s real mother watching her sleep? I wanna cry.

The manuscript

- Wow god it’s beautiful. Another time travel song. You keep revisiting past in your mind and you gain perspective and then you realise you aren’t that version of you that lived it anymore. You can feel it still, not as deeply perhaps but you’re disconnected from thinking the way you did at that time or after. Is sobering and haunting. The healing. Wow wow wow.

@taylorswift thank you my love 💕

[gravekeeper-anna]

SoSS: What was the last romantic encounter she's had?

"Alas. No one has come to sweep a Gravekeep off her feet." The Keeper announced with performative, faux tragedy, holding a bouquet of white roses within her metal grasp. Not a moment later it was placed at a gravestone, gauntlets scraping stone in passing, leaving a chuckle in her deathly wake.

"Some time before I was fixed to this fine build of a body, I made my haunt in the Ghostlands." A smirk stretched her lips. "As you do. I was a wispy little thing. A sliver of moonlight. And possibly quite lonely. Some daring few would find themselves in my haunt and be struck with fright. And one or two were - amusingly - struck by some fascination."

"One devilishly handsome gent sought me out there and lured me out with offerings. Like some deity of old. Of course I was taken by the gesture. Who wouldn't be, really? Floating out there all alone? He bid me to haunt him. A willing host. And so I did."

"I had my little fun manifesting for him. Brilliant mind, lustful soul. Open to all possibilities. Exciting. But ultimately concerned with power. "

The Lady Handhour sighed. "There is definitely a difference between a passionate poet and one that simply recites the material and uses it to lure out what's really wanted. Even with all his brilliance and words, he was very much the latter. Making lurid promises one never intends to really keep . "

"It was one little encounter, and he never called upon my haunt again. I doubt he could now, bound as I am to this vessel. But I don't fault his foolish seducing. You learn to expect very little from the living but the bones they eventually leave behind."

{ @twosidedsana }

[findswoman]

Writer 20 Questions

Tagged by @jedi-valjean. Thanks so much!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

Currently 115.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

363,324.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

For the most part just Star Wars (various flavors thereof), but I have a very few Tolkien things too.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Cards against Monotony; or, The Best Rainy Lothal Day Ever (47)

Sixth Time’s the Charm (40)

Beautiful, Inexactly (32)

The Song, the Sea, and the Mand’alor (29)

“I saw the wolf…” (28)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Of course! I want to let my commenters know how appreciated they are! And it’s fun to meet new readers and writers.

6. What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I have a good number of stories with angsty endings, but the angstiest to date may be Opus Sixty-Six, in which two OC non-Human musicians captured by the Empire are forced to perform for the Emperor but resist by playing a different piece of music from what he ordered, based on what happens to the two performers at the end (not going to spoil it).

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I have a good number of stories with happy endings, too! A lot of them involve OCs, but one that involves an happy ending for an EC following from particularly angsty source material is The Rains of Scarif, in which #JynErsoLives.

8. Do you get hate on your fic?

Thankfully this has never happened to me, at least not to my knowledge.

9. Do you write smut?

Nooo. I gave it a very, very tentative try a long time ago, but it was a complete and utter no-go.

10. Do you write crossovers?

I haven’t yet, but maybe sometime I’ll try!

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No, at least not to my knowledge.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes! Between the Porch and the Altar was translated into French by Yahiko: Entre le portique et l’autel. It was a prize that he offered for TheForce.net Fanfic’s Fanfic Awards one year, and it’s definitely one of the most unique ways I’ve ever had a fic recognized!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic?

Just a few times, and the results are posted on the TheForce.net forums rather than AO3: Cupcakes for a Cupcake (with Ewok Poet) and Dinner at the Hungry Hutt (with Chyntuck). But I also had aikisenshi (TheRynJedi) contribute part of chapter 22 of Shaman, Traveler, Oracle.

14. What‘s your all-time favorite ship?

I am of course partial to those that involve OCs of mine, but in terms of established characters, perhaps Kanera, and perhaps the Frog Lady and Frog Gent? I don’t tend to think in terms of ships most of the time, though (but have nothing against those who do).

15. What’s the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I used to say this about The Book of Gand, but it may not actually be in that category anymore! Actually, currently nothing is in that category for me right now, but that could certainly change.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Setting descriptions! OC creation! Whimsical humor! Economy of expression! Worldbuilding! Anything involving alien cultures/traditions/ceremonial/etc.!

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Action and battle scenes! Political intrigue! Characters double- and triple-crossing each other! Overly long sentences with too many clauses! Too many em dashes! Too many sentences/clauses that begin with “and” or “then”! (Linking sentences/thoughts together in general!)

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

In terms of in-universe languages, when this happens within my stories I try to signal it in some other way. In terms of real-life languages: oof, I don’t know if I’m the right woman for that job, but I have immense respect people who are able to write stories in languages other than their mother tongue.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Star Wars. One sticks with what works, I guess!

20. Favorite fic you’ve ever written?

Ah, I hate this question so much. 😁 I love them all, don’t you know! But I would say that I have a very specific soft spot for the 20K+ fics I’ve somehow managed to write: The Book of Gand and Shaman, Traveler, Oracle, just because I’m so proud of myself for managing to get through them (or, in the case of BOG, the component stories thereof, all of which are in excess of 15K words and three out of four of which are in excess of 20K).

Tagging:

Anyone I know (or don’t know) who is a writer who happens to see this. 🙂

[picoletta]

WHIMSICAL

Blood- red lips, and chamomile tea, 

Ebony nails, and heels sharper than her tongue, 

Rivulets of youth trickling down her chin,

Graying hair entwined with jacarandas and thorns,

A Machiavellian smile curved with blood, scandals and dreams,  

That’s what she wears as she kisses death hello.  

“Abominable!” they cursed, through clouds of puffs,

For her eyes twinkled with sonnets and secrets,

And she talked of dead poets and forbidden literature,

And clock tower pigeons and ink smeared fingers,

And smelled of parchment and quills, 

And the November mist that smelled of despair,

Bathed in the glow of her chamomile tea. 

“Whimsical!” they chided, tightening their corsets,

While she walked barefoot on the streets, 

Winking at the gents with their smirks and pipes,

And the ladies with their powdered noses,  

And she snuck into museums at night, 

And went on adventures on the backseats of strangers,

And pored over globes and maps,

And celebrated her seventh walk down the aisle,

All the while, sipping her rather cold tea. 

For now she knew, as her scarlet nails dug into Death’s cold flesh,

That the willow that wept, wept in envy, envy of the wildflower at its feet

And the corsets and pipes that would clink their glasses tonight,

And delight in her corpse as it rotted among the flowers,

Never would their lips thrill with the ambrosia that her own were soaked in,

Never would they learn the coveted knowledge, hidden where the eye cannot see- 

For just beyond the barbed wire of logic and clockwork, of right and wrong,

The world is just a field – whimsical and magical and silly.

And thus, she ran towards  the sun, swollen and yellow,

And erupted in showers of gold and dust and laughter,

And her chamomile tea grew cold.

And yet, as they scrubbed and rinsed until their fingers bruised,

The  blood-red lipstick would not go.

[charlesangels03]

“The Predicament Action Course”

“I’m holding on, why is everything so heavy? Holding on to so much more than I can carry ” That was “Heavy” by Linkin Park Connections at bay in the dark At the Caribbean, swimming sharks March 5, rainstorm strikes, losing spark Ladies and gents, next, we have a special guest An ‘aspiring artiste’ 17-years old, an age of no rest Bright boy with an empty mind – the mundane he detests Let us listen as Hajile Leirbag Zeref ventures in his poetic quest

¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬

Block, there’s something blocking me A wall, a concrete wall, red brick or hollow blocks Right now, there’s something blocking me from writing a poem Which is due tomorrow and here I am sitting and venturing at the topography of my small home Troubled by the fact that I couldn’t drive furthermore into my destination My head is aching; my ears are ringing, none on my fingers – what an aberration My left eye is throbbing as I type in characters of the English lexicon Now, I don’t know if I can ever submit on time Time A phenomenon so sublime How do you even find the time to rhyme? The cerebral creative juice went wrong and became muck and grime Sense My writing is all nonsense Do you know what is a verb and its tense? You can’t make sense come to you, only sense can come to you –“See ya at a restaurant called Ben’s” Seeing of what is concealed, hearing of what is muted To taste what is bland, purity of what is not blessed Stroking the red pencil with no colour Reading of what is wordless and no lore Will I ever get to the artist’s destined land? He thought this must be his time, as he had planned Butterflies come out of my mouth, from my inner depths they’d undergone chrysalis To shine as a crazy diamond, resuscitating the poor starving tortured artists To conclude, I quote Fall Out Boy’s “Thriller” “So long live, the car crash hearts Cry on the couch as the poets come to life Fix me in forty-five” Fix me and help me get back my life

Wow! that was marvelous Thank you for that Hajile and your piece so pathetic incredulous Well, ladies and gents that’s all for now, as we lunch in churros This is Radio-108 saying “Good lunch and happy churros”

Elijah's 1st Week Blogging Entry: Poetry

[maitretmaitresse]

📕 + Charlotte's Web

give my muse a real life book! - accepting

                 “Who the hell wrote this? Never been on a farm obviously. Pigs’re right bastards, ‘nd if they could talk all they’d say’s ‘Feed me’.”

[wordynerdygurl]

Hello Everyone! I've been conspiring with @sammy-jo1977 to create a new series of sorts. We want to explore all those characters that started us on our journey into Fandoms, large and small.

This series will be a place for those ladies and gents who haven't had a lot of attention recently, are old favorites or the ones you can't seem to shake. If you would like to contribute a chapter to this guide, please send me a message! We want to have a full and accurate guide, so we are hoping you'll hop in with your character of expertise!

As an example, I'm posting our first story... I'd love to get your thoughts! With Love - Your WordyNerdyGurl

In The Stacks - A Rupert Giles Story

Author’s Note:  This story is due, in large part, to my beta-bestie @sammy-jo1977 and it is part of the afore mentioned series.  This character might be off television, but his fiery spirit lives on!! As always, reblogs/ shares are encouraged as are comments and love!

Pairing:  Female Reader x Giles (Buffy The Vampire Slayer Series) Summary:  You get up to mischief with the librarian, in the stacks. Warnings:  SMUT ahead.  General Buffy knowledge might help, but is not required.  There’s a moment with a bit of blood, but hopefully nothing too triggering for anyone! I hope you enjoy!

“Mr. Giles?” “Just a moment!”  You heard the clipped British voice answer before being drowned out by the heavy thumping of falling books and the rustling sound of shifting papers hitting the floor. As you stepped further into the Sunnydale High library, you weren’t surprised to see the familiar faces of Buffy, Willow, Xander and Cordelia huddled around a small table.  The friends were practically inseparable and clearly close.  You found their kinship adorable and couldn’t help smiling at the group as you drew closer. “Hello to some of my best students!  And of course, to you Mr. Harris.  How is everyone today?”

Willow, stalwart student and overachiever, smiled broadly, “Pretty good.  I did ace my math quiz and got an A on my English paper… but, well, I only pulled a B on my Bio test and I just know that I could have done better.” Offering her friend a consoling pat to the shoulder, Buffy sighed, “It’s ok, Will.  You’ll get those cells next time!” “Tune in next week as Willow passes her AP Biology test with flying colors, on ‘As Sunnydale Turns’!” Before anyone could counter, Giles came around the corner carrying a sturdy stack of texts which he dropped onto the table as gently as the large load allowed, “As always, you four are the best assistants a librarian could ask for.” “Come on Giles!  You know I only hang out here for the beautiful ladies!” Pinching the bridge of his strong nose, Rupert Giles sighed, “I am well aware of where your interests lie, Xander.” “Please, he can hardly handle being with one beautiful girl.”  That was from Cordelia who pouted prettily, her hand mirror open as she fixed her hair. “My girlfriend, ladies and gentlemen!  Thanks for that, Cordy.” Snapping the case shut, staring down her beau, she smiled, “You’re welcome.” “Uh, Mr. Giles, if I may?”  You hated to interrupt but you had come in with a purpose and you meant to see it through. “Yes, of course, how can I help?” Shuffling your feet, a bit nervous now with the asking, you smiled shyly, “I asked at the local library but they were absolutely no help.  You see, I’m looking for a specific point of reference and I was led to believe that you could help me.” “Oh!  Is it something for our Inner Vision collage boards?  I love working on mine, only… It’s not my fault that I only see dark clouds and blood when I close my eyes.” “Well, Miss Summers, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  And the best art challenges us to see that beauty.” “I hate to tell you what I see when I close my eyes.”  Xander retorted. “Ah, Mr. Harris, your collage certainly showcases your, ahem, cultured world view.” “Hey!  The Simpsons are fine art, ok?  Just because they don’t live in a museum doesn’t mean they aren’t culture.” Giles, unable to stand by any longer griped, “Xander, I am almost positive that cartoons do not count as culture.” You started to answer but Buffy cut you short, adding, “Don’t mind Giles.  If it doesn’t come out of some dirty, dusty old book it can’t be culture.” “It’s pop culture!  The entertainment of my generation!” It was your turn to cut in, turning to the tweed clad gentleman, “Actually, Mr. Giles, Xander has a point.  Cartoons and animation in general are all increasingly seen as valid forms of art.  No matter what your tomes might tell you.” Smirking a little, he appraised your answer before replying, “Be that as it may, Mr. Harris, the amount of television you consume is corrosive.” Raising his hands in defense, Xander’s head swiveled between the two of you as Willow chimed in, “Give it up, Xander.  You know you’ll never win and besides, I’m pretty sure that animation and art are different.  Wait.  They are, aren’t they?” “When I was in Rome last summer, the very attractive, very Italian tour guide told us that they’ve found painted graffiti on the Coliseum.  It only goes to prove that times change but people don’t.” “Cordy’s right!  About the art, not the dishy Italian.  And they didn’t paint it, they carved it.”  Bouncing her blonde hair decisively, Buffy made her declaration.   “Wouldn’t paint be easier?  I mean, who wants to carry a chisel in order to deface a wall?” “Oh!  Oh!  I know this!  The kind of paint needed to last for centuries hadn’t been invented yet!”  Willow, lifting out of her seat in the excitement of academic excellence, was giddy. “Yes, Willow, that is correct.  In fact, a lot of the graffiti is simple and very crude.  Mostly of the phallus, if memory serves.  I’m sure I can find a documented case in Agrippa if you’ll all just-” And you watched as everyone rolled their eyes as Giles trailed off, lost now in the hunt for a specific volume which could be sited, should further proof be needed. “Ew.  Pass.” “I’m with Buffy here, Giles.  Keep your Grecian graffiti out of my brain.” “I’ll stick with the Simpsons, thank you very much.” “Yes, well.  It’s not Grecian at all, is it?  It’s Roman-” Smiling broadly, Buffy hopped off the table, “Giles is right.  The Greeks were more into orgies!” “Buffy!”  Willow’s shocked response made you cover a laugh with a fake cough. “-Of course, cites are rare.  Very difficult to find documentation.”  Giles, typically, hadn’t given up the search. Cutting through the chatter, louder than it ever needed to be, the period bell sounded. "Ugh.  Gym class for me.  Why is this even a thing?" "I don't know Buffy, I thought you liked showing off in your little shorts and beating the boys at basketball." "Cordy, that's enough.  And while us boys do love looking at you, Buff... we don't love the beatings you regularly deliver." "Well, I have a free period Giles!  Do you want me to stay and -" Snapping shut the leather book he was gripping, Giles caught your eye and turned to the peppy student, "Uh, no Willow, I don't think so.  I believe I need to see what our Art Department is in need of at the moment." With a shrug, Willow began packing up her belongings as Xander slung his back back over his shoulder, "Will, you can come with me.  I'm going to find a nice little corner, under a tree, and sleep away my study hall." “But, I… I could help find the Agrippa?  Or… some other old Roman book?” Xander wrapped an arm around Willow and took Cordelia’s open hand, “But why do that when nothing calls?” "Another fine example of your scholastic aptitude, Mr. Harris", was your parting shot at the foursome as they walked out the door. "Well. Mr. Giles, now that we’re alone… Could I talk you into helping me out?" “Of course, of course.”  Pushing his glasses further up his nose, fixing his light eyes on yours, “What are we looking for?” Sighing deeply, knowing the chances were slim, “I was hoping we would find some examples of Pre-Columbian deity carvings.” Pausing, his look serious, Giles peered at you, “Interesting.  Anything in particular?” “Yes, actually.”  Again you flushed, more than a little flustered at what you were really looking for, “I’m researching fertility icons.” Raising his eyebrows, Giles started, more than a little outside of his comfort zone, but you had to give him credit.  He recovered from the shock rather quickly, “Oh… I… I see.  Well yes, I’m sure we can find… something.  If you’ll follow me, please.” “I’m right behind you.”  Biting into your bottom lip, you smiled to yourself.  Right behind Mr. Giles?  What a place to be.  Giles led the young art teacher through the deepest stacks of the library, pausing once or twice to confirm that she was keeping up with him.  He was ashamed to admit that he had lost travelers a time or two as he stalked through his overstuffed shelves, knowing instinctively where to find the book he needed most. For her, watching the tweed covered bottom of Mr. Giles was no hardship.  True, he was older and tad bit reserved in the best British way, yet she had the sneaking suspicion that underneath all the wool and starched cotton was the heart of a wild man poet. "Uh... just a bit further, I'm afraid.  Books like this, well, I keep them at a greater remove." "It makes sense.  Don't want the kiddos getting a hold of anything too tantalizing." "Of course not.  As you well know, they don't need much help in the libidinous response department." You chuckled softly, nodding as the air around you grew stuffier, "Too true!  You should see what some of them turn in and call art.  It would make a blind man blush." And at the mention of blushing, you were shocked to see a rosy hue grow on Mr. Giles' cheeks.  You liked it.  It reminded you of the high color in a Vermeer painting.  You couldn’t help the flutter in your belly at the thought, "Mr. Giles, have you ever seen a South American fertility statue?" "I can't say that I have... have... have you?"  Something about the idea of you examining an ancient artifact directly connected to sexual congress made his body stir.  "Hmm... Oh, yes.  I was able to study in Mexico for a semester.  Some of the art work is just incredible and the carvings, they're truly magnificent.  Carefully made.  Usually stone or..." swallowing hard, your throat suddenly dry, "hard wood." Breaking fast at the implication in your words, Giles froze in place which caused you to press directly against his broad, vest covered back.  You had a second to register the soft scent of his aftershave; something spicy and masculine, which made your mouth water.  Moaning quietly, you offered a weak apology, “Oh, I am so sorry, Mr. Giles.” Offering you his profile, the bookcases too cramped for him to turn around fully, you saw his sweet smile, “That’s… that’s quite alright.  In fact, we’re here.” Stepping out of the way, you pushed back against the opposite wall, the shelves digging into your spine in the confined space.  Giles bent over, giving you a great view of his backside, as he extracted a slim book from the bottommost ledge.  When he stood up, directly in front of you, the narrow, book covered alcove caused him to stumble. Giles’ chest collided with your own, forcing the air out of your lungs.  Instinctively, you lifted a leg, curling it over the swell of one trousered hip and lifting the hem of your knee length plaid kilt.  Nose to nose in a compromising position, you exhaled a shaky breath as Mr. Giles inhaled, “Close quarters around here.” Shifting under his deceptively hard figure, it was difficult to ignore all the places that were firm to the touch, especially when you could feel so much through the thin barrier of your cotton panties.  Bracing one arm on the obliging shelf biting into your shoulder, Giles pushed back a bit, lifting his weight off of you without making any other attempts to move away.  He was so close now.  Close enough to feel your fuzzy sweater and all the soft skin that trembled beneath it.  Close enough to see the pound of your pulse in your throat.  Close enough that when you licked over your bottom lip Giles could almost taste it too.  And why shouldn’t he?  “Giles?”  Your voice was whisper soft, fanning hotly over the face of your colleague. “Uh… yes?” “I’m stuck.” Blinking behind his thick lenses, it took the normally quick witted Brit a second to process your words, “You’re stuck?” Nodding slowly, your hair curling over your cheek, “My… My skirt.  It’s… uh, caught.  Caught on something behind me.” “Good heavens!  I’m so sorry, let me help you.”  Slowly, Giles lowered your bare leg to the floor, his hand lingering for a second longer than absolutely necessary.  He was still in your space.  Still incredibly close to you. You arched away from the bookcase in an attempt to free yourself with a groan that sounded heady in the stuffy stacks.  All you managed to do was force your sweater covered décolletage into Giles’ chest.  Stammering, a wave of sweat breaking over his brow, “Allow me?” The way your skirt was caught pulled the bright plaid lower on your waist than you would normally consider decent.  It meant that you had a fleshy strip of skin exposed along your tummy and Giles raised his eyebrows by means of asking permission to touch you.  “Yea, yes.  Please!” Tentatively, gently, you felt the strong fingers of Rupert Giles circle your waist and shivered at the unfamiliar familiarity of his touch.  Your chin rested on his shoulder as he worked and you couldn’t help sighing when he opened his hands and pulled you closer.  Under other circumstances you might have misunderstood the embrace but you were both professionals.  Not that you hadn’t considered the handsome book guardian a time or two before. “I… I think we’re almost there.  If you’ll just, maybe to the right?” “Um, sure.”  Following his directions you twisted in his arms, trying hard not to tear your outfit or rub against Giles.  All the close contact and talk of fertility gods had you feeling a little aroused and it wouldn’t do for your colleague to learn that fact. With a triumphant grunt, Giles set you free, only for gravity to kick back in.  The momentum created by your falling took the gentleman and the entire Grollier’s Gothic Almanac collection with you.  A cascade of papers, scrolls and dust rained down on you both. Coughing, aware that you were laying on something softer than the floor, you struggled into a sitting position, swatting away clouds of disintegrated pages, “Rupert?  Are you alright?” From beneath you a rumbling grumble that sounded like, “Yes quite… you?” was heard.  It was then that you realized exactly where you were.  Straddling your friendly neighborhood librarian, surrounded by debris, but safe, all the same. “Oh my!  I’m so-” “No, No.  Please, don’t apologize.  I’ve been meaning to reorganize this section and well, now it seems I’ve got no choice.” “You’ve got a bump.  Right here…”  Just over his right eye a small bruised egg, the color of lilacs, was starting to rise and you gingerly touched the swelling spot. “Then it will match the one on the back of my head perfectly.” “Poor Giles!  All of this injury in the name of research!” “No one ever tells you the dangers one might encounter in the library.” His dry British wit sent you both into giggles and suddenly nothing could be funnier than the moment you were in with Mr. Giles.  Looking up at you, his fingertip traced over your cheek, suddenly serious, “I’m not the only one with a war wound, it appears.” “Oh?”  Your hand covered his as you realized that you had a small cut, bleeding just a little, over the apple of your jaw.  Smoothing his thumb over your injury, Giles soothed you, saying, “Hush now, I think you’ll live.”  And you watched as Giles sucked the drop of scarlet from the pad there, his green eyes on yours, daring you.  Something about it was so… sinful.  So dark.  So alluring. Then his lips were on yours, suddenly and savagely.  Hands, firm and capable, slid under the fluff of your sweater along your spine as you tangled your own in his dark hair.  Giles, drawing you near, was satisfied only when you were splayed over him, writhing between the piles of text and stacks of piled paperbacks, as his tongue plundered your mouth. Trapped by his bent knees at your bottom, Giles helped center you over the firmness of his excitement, teasing you as you moaned, “Oh, oh Rupert!” “Call me Ripper.”  Before the word had left your throat, Giles was sloppily kissing over your neck, sucking lightly on the skin revealed by the v-neck of your top.  Sitting up quickly, you lifted the soft sweater over your head, tossing it away from you without concern.  Like one of the teenagers you might chastise, you then hugged your lover tight, gasping when you felt the nip of teeth over your bra.  “Giles… Uh, Ripper!  Please, go easy?”  With a hard grip on your upper thigh and one hand on the back of your neck, Giles held you still, smirking, “If you wanted easy you shouldn’t have come looking for fertility icons, my dear little art teacher.  And if this particular article of clothing-” He paused long enough to pinch at your hardening nipple before continuing, “-is dear to you, take it off.” Clenching your abdominals at his crass language, more turned on that you could remember, you reached behind you.  Unhooking the pretty scrap of lace and satin, you shyly covered yourself, biting into your bottom lip, “Fine… Ripper.  Should I be worried for my virtue?” “Absolutely.”  Without waiting for permission, Giles pulled your arms away, exposing your bare body to his blazing gaze, “You have nothing to hide, you know?  You are-” “Just shut up and kiss me, Ripper.”  And he did. Grinding your hips into his, it was impossible to ignore his hardening manhood, even through the fabric of his pressed trousers.  Giles cupped your bottom, under your skirt but over your panties, bouncing you in place as if he was already inside of you.  For your part, you tried to unbutton his pin striped shirt, but the force of his kisses was proving too distracting. “Oh, dear!  Poor thing been kissed senseless?”  He was teasing and cruel, but in the sexiest possible way. Red cheeked and huffing, you nodded, “Yes… let me touch you!” “Tsk… you didn’t say ‘please’.” “Please!  Please, Ripper!  Oh god, please let me!” Unseating you slightly, Giles leaned up on his elbows, cocking his head to one side as he took in the mess he had made of you, “Go ahead then.  Unzip my pants.” “What?” Removing his glasses, eyeing you darkly, “You heard me, I think.” Swallowing hard, your hands shaking with excitement, you reached for Giles’ belt.  Watching him, and only him, you slowly slide the leather from it’s buckle.  When you popped the button of his pants and let your hand drag over his hardened length, Rupert groaned and tossed his head back, “Yes.  Keep going.” Slowly, agonizingly so, you lowered the zipper as you were ordered to do, “What now, Ripper?” “Take me out.  I want you to feel what you do to me.” “I can do that.”  You played it cool, but the saucy words being said in that clipped British baritone did things to you.  They made your thighs tighten, your belly flutter and your breath catch.   Trailing a hand over Giles' barely exposed hip, you moved closer to the prize, your prize, as it pulsed with need.  Wrapping your hand around the meaty girth of Rupert's member, you couldn't help stroking the silky hot skin, so vital in your palm.  That it caused the man beneath you to moan your name only added fuel to the fire of your desire. Slick and sorely wanting, you licked your lips, ready to savor the flavor of your book stacking beau but he stopped you, saying, "Last chance to run back to the studio." "No way… Ripper."  And you felt a rough jerk as your panties were removed by force, the air cool on your overheated core.  Another kiss, full of needful things, distracted you as Giles parted your lower lips with his nimble fingers. Pumping into you, once, twice, just to ensure that you were ready, Rupert swiftly stretched your center.  With your small hand guiding his shaft, you lowered yourself onto the engorged tower of his power, crying out a ragged, "Oh God!" You thought you were capable of handling any man, but the delicious spread Giles' fine form forced you to endure was more than you expected.  Clutching at his bunched up sweater vest, your back arched tautly as Rupert dragged your hips down onto his unrelenting hardness over and over.   In your head, a rhythmic, tribal tattoo that made you think of ancient fires and curved statues took hold and you rose and fell against Giles on the beats vibrating through your brain.  He sensed it too, alternating his stroke, slowing down and speeding up in time with the thrumming pulse only the pair of you could hear.  "I want you to cum for me.  Do you understand?  Tell me you understand." "Yes!  Yes!  I'm so close, Ripper!  So close!" "Good.  That's very good."  Tingling now, your muscles tensed, ready for the release Rupert would provide.  You flung yourself onto his swollen sex without thought or reason, merely searching for the pleasure he had promised.  His thumb, so thick, so clever, pressed against your sensitive clit and your world imploded. Rupert felt it.  The moment your body and his melded together was forceful.  It tore his pleasure from his loins in grunting gasps as he experienced your ecstacy at his hands. Limp and listless, you draped your half nude body over his, dazed and drained.  Who knew screwing the librarian would feel this good?  In your post coital haze you started to laugh.  Giles, his hands roaming over the sweat soaked skin of your back, heard your chuckles and joined in.  It was another release, of sorts, and you found it almost as intimate as the act you had just committed. Folding your hands under your chin, flashing Rupert a wide smile, "Ripper, huh?" Sliding his glasses back into place and carding a hand through his hair, Giles grinned, "Oh, uh… yes.  Ripper.  My nickname in London." Toying with the collar of his shirt, "I'd love to hear about London sometime… Ripper." At the sound of that name in your voice, Rupert flexed inside of you, "Call me that again and you'll miss last period." Gasping against him, nodding weakly, "Hmm… promise?" That made him smile broadly as he handed you back your sweater, "We can't have a repeat of last week, can we?" "It wasn’t my fault you didn't hear the bell ring, Mr. Giles!" Sitting up, you fastened your bra and shrugged into your sweater before asking, "Did you have to destroy my undies?" "I'm afraid I did.  Although I told you to remove anything dear, didn't I?" "What am I gonna do for the next hour, Giles?" Pushing his glasses up, "I would advise you not to bend over." Swatting at him playfully, you used one of the sturdier shelves to stand, adjusting your skirt and fluffing your hair.  Looking around at the absolute mess created by falling books, embarrassed, you asked, "Can I help clean this up?" "No, I don't think that'll be necessary.  After all, Willow will be in-" "Along with Buffy and Xander and Cordelia.  Got it." Standing himself, Giles chuckled as he fastened his trousers and set himself to rights, "Precisely.  Now-" he bent over to retrieve a slim volume, "- The book you asked about.  Fertility iconography in Meso-American subcultures." "Thanks.  Ya know, I always enjoy coming to the library.  I'm surprised more people don't." Walking with you, his hand on your lower back, nuzzling into your neck, "I enjoy you cumming in the library." It was on the tip of your tongue to say something fresh when the overly loud bell clanged.  Lifting up on tiptoes you pressed a kiss to the goose egg over Giles' eye, saying, "I hope that makes it feel better!" Snagging you into a tight hug, Giles stared into your eyes before kissing you deeply, "That.  That makes it feel better." And then the library door swung wide on the four students who called the library a second home, "Um… are my eyes deceiving me or is Giles sporting a black eye?  I was only gone for an hour, big guy, what happened?" "If you must know, Xander, a shelf collapsed in the back.  We were fortunate enough not to be badly hurt but, there were some bumps and bruises." "A shelf!  Oh no… which one?!" Giles turned to Willow solemnly, "I'm afraid all the Grollier’s… and most of Crentist." "On it.  Come on Xander.  You can help me sort!" "Aw, gee.  That sounds like fun." As the pair trotted off, you turned to Giles, whispering low, "Dinner?  My place?  You can tell me about London, your childhood and why you love tweed." Eyeing Buffy, who was distracted and a distraught, Giles answered, "Tonight?  Um…" "He'd love to!  Say 9 o'clock?  And, he'll bring the wine."

Spinning on your heel, surprised that Buffy was your champion, you grinned, "Great!  Awesome!  I will see you then."

As you left you heard the bubbly blonde doling out instructions, "No Giles.  You can't wear that outfit to dinner!  You need to look nice.  Nicer than you do now.  Also, why is there so much dust in your hair?" If Giles answered you didn’t hear it over your big yawn.  You had a lot to do between now and 9 o’clock.  Rupert Giles was coming over for dinner and you could hardly wait.

------ Fin ------- I’m tagging my minxes, even though this is specifically NOT a Loki story.  I do want you guys to send me stories that might fall under the “Hot Characters” banner though!   Minxes:   @scrumptious-finicky-illusion​ @iamverity​ @mizfit2​ @sammy-jo1977​ @wolfsmom1​ @jessiejunebug​ @iluvsumbucky​ @unadulteratedwizardlove @procrastinatinglikeabitch @shxdowofdarkness​ @nonsensicalobsessions​ @ahintofkiwistrawberry​ @alexakeyloveloki​ @rorybutnotgilmore​ @crystalizedcaramel​ @lokislittlecorner​ @capcapcapsicle @jamielea81​ @caffiend-queen​​ @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore​​ @jenjen8675309​​ @that-one-person​​ @roguewraith​​ @toomanystoriessolittletime​ @vodka-and-some-sass​ @just-random-obsessions​ @brokenthelovely​ @lots-of-loki​ @thefallenbibliophilequote​

[historic-old-guard-lover]

Historically Booker’s native language would be Occitan and not French . He would also probably deeply resent standard / Parisian French since the government did their damnest to erase regional languages and still do it today .

Agreed! There was another post about this, but since I got an ask (I love you, anon) I’ll elaborate. Buckle up for a primer on the evolution of the French language with a brief aside for troubadours, traveling musician-poets you wish were still a career option. No, being a rock star is not quite the same.

In the early medieval period (as early as ~900CE), the country we now call France had a language divide between the northern and southern regions. In the north, they spoke langues d'oïl which is what eventually became modern standard French. In the south, they spoke Occitan or lenga d'òc and a modern form of this language is known as Provençal. Looking at the regional sub-dialects, the more northern Occitan begins to sound like a langue d’oil and the more southern dialects begin to sound like Spanish.

As I touched upon in a previous post, this is because they all share similar roots as a romance language. Even though modern standard French is a langue d’oil, occitan managed to sneak a few things into the language. If you’ve learned French as a second language, you’ll know that when you respond yes (oui) to a negative question (you don’t like cheese? / tu n’aimes pas le fromage?) that you use a different yes (si). This is a skeleton of Occitan! 

The why of the invention of “standard French” is, as most “standard” things are, a detour into nationalism. In 1635, Cardinal Richelieu (under Louis XIII) founded the Académie Française (French Academy) which was tasked with standardizing the French language so that it could be exported to the rest of Europe and used to gain further prestige of the role of French philosophers during the Enlightenment. During the French Revolution, it was disregarded, but Napoleon Bonaparte restored it as part of the Institut de France (Institute of France) in 1803. To this day, the Académie is tasked with publishing the French dictionary and inventing new words for things such as “e-mails” so that the French needn’t stoop to using English loan-words.

Another part of this was the Toubon Law (August 1994) which required French (the standard French from the Académie) to be used in all official documents and advertising. It required all advertising to use French and even set a certain percentage of music on the radio that must be French. This law was literally the government going “let’s make the French french again.” If a school doesn’t instruct in French (modern, standard French of course), then they can’t receive government funds. The only exception is Breton-language schools (Breton is as north as it gets and is a langue d’oil so it still helps crush Occitan).

Since the previous paragraph probably made you mad as heck, let me give you some irony to laugh at: some French people refer to this as the loi Allgood (“law” Allgood). To explain this joke, it helps to know that Toubon is the last name of the Minister of Culture at the time the law was passed. If you break down his last name, it sounds like “tout bon” in French which translates to “all good.” People took this law saying make everything French, goddammit and replied, sure thing Minister All-Good. I love it.

Now, for the troubadours! I learned standard modern French in high school, but at university I came across Occitan because of those romantic poets. I’ll put this aside below the break so you can continue on with your day if for some reason you’re not interested in medieval French rock star-poets...

Let me begin by quoting the Wikipedia definition:

A troubadour was a composer and performer of Old Occitan lyric poetry during the High Middle Ages (1100–1350). Since the word troubadour is etymologically masculine, a female troubadour is usually called a trobairitz.

Right away you may notice a few things: 1) they wrote and sang in Occitan; 2) it was an equal-opportunity field (though it was rare for a woman to be one). The first Troubadours were mostly noblemen, but later ones could come from any social class. Yes, you read that correctly: egalitarian travelling poets! If that doesn’t sell you on these performers, I don’t know what will. The troubadours spread their tradition throughout Europe and the only thing that could stop them was the Black Plague.

As you’d expect, they mostly sang about love. A lot of their poems were about courtly love and chivalry, but they could also get bawdy. The especially good performers would be sought after by courts like famous painters. Troubadours are essentially the apex bards: romantic, witty, charming, talented, and able to make serious bank.

To finish this, I will leave you with one of the bawdiest troubadour poems I know of, Farai un vers, pos mi somelh (The Ladies with the Cat) by Guillem de Peiteus. It’s essentially the story of a dude who has sex with these women who pick up a knight on a pilgrimage (though it plays with reality and this guy’s fantasies). I’ll include it in the original Occitan, and then a translation by Robert Kehew (I believe), verse-by-verse. Forgive me for my commentary in between, but I just want you to understand how freaking clever this poem is!

Farei un vers, pos mi somelh Em vauc e m’estauc al solelh. Domnas i a de mal conselh,    E sai dir cals: Cellas c’amor de cavalier    Tornon a mals.

While sound asleep I’ll walk along In sunshine, making up my song. Some ladies get the rules all wrong;    I’ll tell you who: The ones that turn a knight’s love down    And scorn it, too.

The singer is establishing himself as a troubadour. The protagonist is dreaming, so we should be careful about what is real and imagined. He’s also invoking the trope of the philandering knight constantly falling in love and breaking his heart.

Domna fai gran pechat mortal Qe no ama cavalier leal; Mas si es monge o clergal,    Non a raizo: Per dreg la deuri’hom cremar    Ab un tezo.

Grave mortal sins such ladies make Who won’t make love for a knight’s sake; And they’re far worse, the ones who’ll take    A monk or priest-- They ought to get burned at the stake    At the very least.

The Middle Ages were not at all chaste; yes, monks and priests were having sex. This isn’t as sexist as it may come across on a first reading however. He’s not saying women shouldn’t have sex (he’s actually saying that it’s a sin not to being having sex), he’s just upset that women who are clearly willing to have sex are turning *him* down. He’s not going to get any awards for feminist of the year, but he’s not the worst. I’m sure this would rouse cheers from a tavern.

En Alvernhe, part Lemozi, M’en aniey totz sols a tapi: Trobei la moller d’en Guari    E d’en Bernart; Saluderon mi simplamentz    Per sant Launart.

Down in Auvergne, past Limousin, Out wandering on the sly I ran Into the wives of Sir Guarin    And Sir Bernard; They spoke a poper welcome then    By St. Leonard.

These are recognizable locations along a pilgrimage route. There’s a good chance that these names are replaceable (Bernard can be replaced with any last name that rhymes with a saint) and this song could be used to goad the audience. And no, he hasn’t had sex with these ladies yet. They’re just saying hello (for now).

La unam diz en son latin: “E Dieus vos salf, don pelerin; Mout mi semblatz de bel aizin,    Mon escient; Mas trop vezem anar pel mon    De folla gent.”

One said in her dialect, “Sir Pilgrim, may the Lord protect Men so sweet-manned, so correct,    With such fine ways; This whole world’s full of lunatics    And rogues, these days.”

I think most would agree that this is happening in the knight’s sex-dream because she’s just sweet talking him. The awesome part is that the “dialect” reflects the singer actually adopting a Northern French language (they’re mutually intelligible). Guillem didn’t have to go that hardcore, but he did.

Ar auzires qu’ai respondut; Anc no li diz bat ni but, Ni fer ni fust no ai mentaugut,    Mas sol aitan: “Barbariol, babariol,    Babarian.”

For my reply--I’ll swear to you I didn’t tell them Bah or Boo, I answered nothing false of true;    I just said, then, “Babario, babariew,    Babarian.”

This guy just mocks their accents as a reply. Wildin’.

So diz n’Agnes a n’Ermessen: “Trobat avem que anam queren. Sor, per amor Deu, l’alberguem,    Qe ben es mutz, E ja per lui nostre conselh    Non er saubutz.”

So Agnes said to Ermaline, “Let’s take him home, quick; don’t waste time. He’s just the thing we’d hoped to find:    Mute as a stone. No matter what we’ve got in mind,    It won’t get known.”

In this stanza we see two repeats and a new thing. First, the names are easy to replace (Agnes doesn’t even have to rhyme with anything) so that this can be done to call out a specific woman’s name. Second, the language skills are being flaunted again as this Occitan-speaker is just casually showcasing that he can sing about sex in other languages too, thankyouverymuch. Lastly, this is WOMEN voicing their desire, not men. The man is silent, they think he’s incapable of speech. This is two women in a poem/song getting to steer the story how they please. Stepping back, this is a guy’s sex-dream so you could argue he’s just got a kink for dominant women, but regardless that’s a pretty cool way to turn masculinity on its head.

La unam pres sotz son mantel Menet m’en sa cambra, al fornel. Sapchatz qu’a mi fo bon a bel,    El focs fo bos, Et eu calfei me volentiers    Als gros carbos.

Under her cloak, one let me hide; We slipped up to her room’s fireside. By now I thought one could abide    To play this role-- Right willingly I warmed myself    At their live coals.

Yes, this dude is saying he’s more than happy to let the women take charge. Don’t kink-shame him.

A manjar mi deron capos, E sapchatz agui mais de dos, E noi ac cog ni cogastros,    Mas sol nos tres, El pans fo blancs el vins fo bos    El pebr’ espes.

They served fat capons for our fare-- I didn’t stop at just one pair; We had no cook or cook’s boy there,    But just us three. The bread was white, the pepper hot,    The wine flowed free.

A capon is a castrated rooster, fattened for eating. He’s being fattened (and emasculated by letting them take control) before the women get down to their  fun with him.

“Sor, aquest hom es enginhos, E laissa lo parlar per nos: Nos aportem nostre gat ros    De mantenent, Qel fara parlar az estros,    Si de renz ment.”

N’Agnes anet per l’enujos, E fo granz et ac loncz guinhos: E eu, can lo vi entre nos,    Aig n’espavent, Q’a pauc non perdei la valor    E l’ardiment.

“Wait, sister, this could be a fake; He might play dumb just for our sake. See if our big red cat’s awake    And fetch him, quick. Right here’s one silence we should break    If it’s a trick.”

So Agnes brought that wicked beast, Mustachioed, huge, and full of yeast; To see him sitting at our feast--    Seemed less than good; I very nearly lost my nerve    And hardihood.

So yes, he’s joking about almost loosing his boner and there’s that language play again. The big part of the ending, however, is the imagery of the red cat. Cats are typically associated with women, and the color red tempts the mind into thinking of it as female passion or some kind of prowling sexuality (with undertones of evil). The subtext here is that they’re going to test him by letting this cat scratch him up to see if he’ll cry out. If he can keep his mouth shut and allow the womens’ passions, he can stay. If he can’t, he’s out. Ultimately, I’m going to say that this poem is subtly for women’s empowerment. Go scratch up your knights, ladies.

[your-tdp-aunts]

ECHOS OF BOREDOM

Coffee: Ladies and gents, welcome to our laughing academy! Today our guest is absolutely nobody but us and it probably won't change in the coming eternity. But! We’re offering you our first Big Post! It took us a while lol. There is some chance that coming posts will be made in the same way (it depends on temporary content of chaos in chaos).

Tea: I've just imagined Aaravos, who ofc has to eat something while he's in prison, so he cooks a broth in some magic pot. You know, like some kind of grandma. This one that was devoured by a wolf.

Coffee: And this is we’d like to talk about today. What a coincidence.

Chocolate: Wait, are you serious?

So we’re not talking about

Best poet- Soren?

Coffee: Well, nope. What a twist!

Tea: So you’re saying he’s not the best poet?

Coffee: ...he’s not our topic. Beginning is starting to overrun, so I’ll mercifully put an end to readers’ tortures and I’ll continue the right conversation. Rosołek. I mean, broth. I mean, what the heck was our great mage doing in his tiny prison for, like, years. Who can assure us that all his mighty thick books aren’t just… cookbooks? 100 ways to prepare an air. Or… Mighty collections of fanfics. AO3 offline.

Tea: Oh, right! Aaravos, the Last of the Great Ones and the Bearer of Gifts, and The Writer of Fanfics in his free time.

Chocolate: Fanfics of what? Cookbooks?

Coffee: You literally took it out of my mouth-- Telepathy is forbidden in this convo.

Chocolate: Forgive me :c

Coffee: Anyway: who wouldn’t like to read about the epic fight between the Air Broth and the Oxygenic Pierogies. Furthermore, written by Aaravos?

Chocolate: Studnia, ofc I would like to!

Coffee: Okay, but do we have any, like… a little bit more serious ideas? For our standards?

Tea: I mean, at first he probably tried different ways to get out of there, didn’t he?

Coffee: He tried to make a passkey out of spaghetti?

Tea: Yo, imagine if one of his ideas, once he was already a little out of hope of escape, was to try to bribe the Dragon Queen with a bunch of his own fanfics about their common favorite characters XDD

Coffee: Dishes! Mmm, how romantic~

Chocolate: Poor thing, I’m sure he was so bored of the room he was trapped inside… Maybe then he was transforming into a bug, so he can explore it from a different perspective? MAYBE THIS IS HOW HE DISCOVERED A SPELL FOR A BUG?!

Coffee: It does make a sense, it does make a sense. Tho on the other hand, he could invent this bug spell earlier… He probably had a lot of fun stalking some important elf dudes lol.

Tea: Btw, what was in his mind then, that of all the creatures he could choose, he decided to transform himself into some bug, wtf

Chocolate: Every creature is beautiful in its own way. But yeah, you’re right, bugs are some type of exception. Brr.

Coffee: Caterpillars are cute, change my mind

Chocolate: Okay! So I think that caterpillars are HOT, because Aaravos is a caterpillar and Aaravos is hot.

Coffee: Woah, some logical conclusion, finally. Since we reached that level, we should end it here, because otherwise we’ll fall by the wayside. And the post will be way too long, not gonna lie.

Summarization

Today, dear children, we learned that caterpillars are hot and Aaravos has at least two drawers full of fanfictions ‘bout soups.

Chocolate: Bye bye! hugs everyone

[urbanenemy]

10/16 新入荷リスト

ANDY GLENMARK  Rock it in my rocket / Number one lover BARRACUDAS  Stolen Heart / See Her Eyes Again BARRY BLUE  Dancin' (On A Saturday Night) / New Day BIZ INTERNATIONALE  Stay true / Just the thought of a love affair BLOOM  Don't break this heart / Can I get you for the night BOBBYSOCKS  Let it swing / La det swing BOOTLES  No, No, No / What Can I Do (I Still Love You) CHARLIE FAWN  Always something there to remind me / Poet for a generation CHARLIE FAWN  Hothead Handshake Tremble / Playthings CHILD  The Shape I'm In / Where Would We Go (What Would We Do?) CHRISSY  Mark My Words / Billy CURE  In Between Days / The Exploding Boy DAVE EDMUNDS  From Small Things, Big Things Come / Dear Dad DIESEL  Sound Of The 60's / Workin' Man DOCENT DÖD  Magi, Magi, Magi / Fröken Ur DOTS  Helen in your headphones / Come and get it EDDIE AND THE HOT RODS  Teenage Depression / Shake FARMER'S BOYS  In The Country / Mama Never Told Me GASOLIN'  Girl You Got Me Lonely / In The Wings GENTS  Give It To Me / At The Dance GO-GO'S  Vacation / Beatnik Beach HARLEY QUINNE  Rock And Roll Is Back Again / My Lady HEAVY METAL KIDS  It's The Same / Rock N' Roll Man INTERVIEW  To the people / Hart crane in mexico JILTED JOHN  True Love / I Was A Pre-Pubescent KENNY AND THE CARPARKS  Top speed / Never felt bad LOVELY PREVIN  I'll never get over you / Cheat MONKS  Nice Legs Shame About Her Face / You'll Be The Death Of Me MONKS  I Ain't Gettin' Any / Inter-City Kitty MONTROSE  Space Station Number 5 / Good Rockin' Tonight MUD  Drop Everything And Run / Taking The Easy Way Out MUD  Dyna-Mite / Do It All Over Again MUD  Tiger Feet / Mr. Bagatelle ONE THE JUGGLER  Damage Is Done / Lovit Go PAUL DA VINCI  If You Get Hurt / Girl Called Love PUCK  No Use / Ladybug PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS  She's so young / Let my people go / Looking for girls RACHEL SWEET  B-A-B-Y / Suspended animation SCRATCH BAND  Rock'n'Roll Love Letter / Uptown SLADE  Cum On Feel The Noize / I'm Mee, I'm Now, An' That's Orl SNAPPER  Only Love Can Make It / Crying STIFF LITTLE FINGERS  Back To Front / Mr Fire Coal-Man STIFF LITTLE FINGERS  Straw Dogs / You Can't Say Crap On The Radio SUZI QUATRO  Mama's Boy / Mind Demons SWEET  Action / Sweet F.A. SWEET  Little Willy / Man From Mecca THIEVES LIKE US  Mind Made / Strike Out TRIX  Gone, Gone, Gone / Get It Up XANDRA  Get It On / On And On X-RAY  Mr. Razzle Dazzle / That Will Be All Tonight

[libidomechanica]

Shudden did

Shudden did, “I swell knew reign, a purely  Oake a mans furious name. Ve  not, gent—nevery such design forty stone griefs,  so that hear the starts own could be  replied, so in that vision, and  blank doth somethink to me? And  the end the bower whom to  poured round monk, and Juans eager this Grace  of the said: The month or  beforeven; the boon her meek,  is my home big girdle sprayed by nighterd his  then this nother parting hazel breast: Let  make carry the dread a will  your wist, as turn apart of Virgil,  and breakfast; or her his keep 

but his eye scarlemansions, existening  me one myster-wing to first we with  all stronomer, with alike  warmly go, and them above, still  in looked not carning—anon-anon, all thither,  nervous her hairs face, they sad prima doubt  you! Withou will nake-like carried thing  like did herds undered with loved  bind;” but which least. Times; purely duty  gryde. I would be. His replied, on  and the both, and quiet success  is yet coloured down times on did  like a locks one strife; they rest face, than  storys eager at w as as a lady feeble vision, nor dinner with 

vulgar blown ancing have love, and  I see; but love, Im entens to listningst  or fame—but stood the of the  wing? And delayd upon ’“tis face, hatchd her  eye would silent heart atter and alone  doubt of frisk a those but merce and what  form to tells of it fell a  woman was and shoue,” vnto  have so inhale, those evening Athan explain a  lichess my basted. Cline; love in the  presemblindiffer that rolls once mountain- rived some in the Muses  calm in far to her flow he  riven one! Tenderstancely these abstrange  ther lation, but and lover farewelap 

disappointive invision with end,  if a habitant, still and turn  to the poet Words cheekit call  what same? Be neight, as Danted to  his Apostical upon he thing was  that stransparkling all it scarce  ogliness is thee and we filiarly  woment betraying, long an among in  my so a picture that old, wet from  above in last escap, and the  Nereigns weird she deemental listen the  flowed calmly lady Geminion  t other childly at her window, suspecies  more the a streat good, she  what pipe or windicate had along of 

his he love doth cure it madhousand  dissolved away; dream over. In favoure one.  The night, womantle alousie belier  friend arity and de Vaux of  this said Baba this tend plays. What  to thing him na: at sprung,  and a Moorison-tree. Loved; which mistream  puzzling deigns why suppose to  your door, hath the image  interchase, this deparamourned his  proud of all, or guard blushes than  seeme, while I are all displease: I own,  tell maids broad beauties page to its that  swear ofference, nor woe; for fearful  near, observd togethe-waters repeat.

[notepadsandtealeaves]

Abigail Roberts x GN!Reader in: Loving You With All That I Am

From the van der Linde Ladies, With Love 💌 || VDE 2021

MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT || 18+ ONLY ||

|| ao3 version | event m.list | rdr tag | main blog ||

|| rdr vde (gents) | batboys vde | bnha vde ||

Hundreds upon hundreds of languages have given us thousands upon thousands of words, and yet I don’t think there’s one that could ever hope to fully explain just how much you mean to me.

She’s found that loving you is like coming home…

↠ Requested By: My burning desire to receive a love letter lol ↠ Reader Gender: Neutral ↠ Content Type: SFW fluff ((but my blog’s 18+ if minors want to consume my sfw stuff while still respecting my wishes of them staying out of this space, they can head over to my AO3)) ↠ CWs: None ↠ Betas? Nah, we don’t do that here. ((tho we should, honestly)) ↠ Total WC: ~800

Abby’s another of those characters that I’m hesitant to write for because she’s got a lot of layers to her. On the surface she can come off as brash and overly confrontational, but when you look at the heart of her and her motivations there’s so much more there to be seen.

One of the things I find most striking about her is just how much she cares, for both her immediate family and the gang as a whole. She doesn’t always show it in the most traditional way, but you can definitely tell that she loves them all deeply (and don’t even get me started on the relationship she fostered with Sadie, I’m not trying to get too in my feels on this gloomy afternoon lol).

Anyways! Here’s to hoping I’ve done her justice…

|| Loving You With All That I Am

Hey babe,

So it’s Valentine’s Day yet again. Kinda feels like it’s already come and gone, but maybe it’s just all the holiday themed shit that’s been shoved in my face since the turn of the year that makes it seem that way. I’m actually rather fond of the day, but the way the stores carry on is a bit much, you gotta admit. No lie, I went into a gas station not even a week after New Year’s and they were already putting out heart-shaped boxes of candy and little pastel bears and such. Ridiculous, truly. But I’m not writing this letter just to moan about having to endure holidays well before their time, but rather because I want to do something sweet for you this year.

I wanted to avoid indulging in any clichés, but really there are only so many ways to express one’s affections. I’m not a singer or a poet or an artist or anything else fancy like that, so we’re both just gonna have to make do with a simple love letter. But hey, you gotta respect the classics, yeah?

On the surface I know that I can come off as a cliché myself. What’s worse is that those parts are some of what I’m most proud of in myself. The ‘strong and independent’ thing has become a parody at this point, a phrase tossed around with a mocking tone or an upturned lip. And when it’s taken to extremes maybe it is deserving of all that, but my confidence and pride are both hard won. They’re things I had to fight not only the world for, but myself as well.

For so long so much about my life was at the whim of others, and once I broke free of that I swore that I would never endure anything even remotely similar ever again. Still it’s sad to say that it took me a long time to find my worth in truth. Before that it was little more than bravado and bluster, a fierce and brave face put on for the sole purpose of keeping people from thinking I was someone they could take advantage of. I was a loud, brash thing, but my words were ultimately hollow—I was hollow. I’ve since tended to those wounds, while years and experience both have dulled my jagged bits, though I’ve never quite lost my edge and for that I am grateful. I know I’m not everybody’s cup of tea, but I like who I am, and those closest to me don’t seem to mind much either.

You especially, I’ve found, don’t seem to mind at all—in fact I’d even go so far as to say you love those parts of me just as much as I do.

But even so you knew to look beyond that. I’m so much more than just the fighter. I’m a lover of many, the mother of one, a loyal friend, a comforter, a confidant, a supporter… I cry over terrible made for TV movies, sappy poems make me blush, and I cannot walk past a baby or toddler without making weird faces just to get a gummy smile. I am so many silly and odd and wonderful things, and you let me be them all—you let me be me, unmasked and unashamed. Do you know how rare and beautiful of a thing that is?

Do you know how rare and a beautiful thing you are?

Hundreds upon hundreds of languages have given us thousands upon thousands of words, and yet I don’t think there’s one that could ever hope to fully explain just how much you mean to me. I swear sometimes it feels like you’re just a dream, something that my unconscious mind has conjured up to keep itself pleasantly occupied, and then you take my hand or smile at me or just breathe and I realize not only are you real, but you’re mine and I just…

I didn’t know that it was possible for another person to make you feel so full, for a hug to feel like home, for a kiss to convey love and safety and promises of a future that I never allowed myself to wish for.

____, baby, you give me all of that and more, and my god do I love you for it.

You’re more than I ever even thought to ask for, and I’m so happy and honored and proud to walk side-by-side with you through this journey we call life. Thank you for this—thank you for being your wonderful, loving self…

Loving you with all that I am, Abby xo

© notepadsandtealeaves, 2021 || Please do not repost, translate, or otherwise alter or distribute my works without my express permission. And for the love of god keep it away from Youtube and TikTok lol…

[lu-undy]

Chapter 22 - SBT

Here it is!

"I have no intention to kill you but any sudden movement and I will not think twice." 

The man in the mask held his gun against the Aussie's temple. Mundy raised his hands left and right, slowly.

"Weren't your hands tied?" He asked. 

"You freed me with a swing of your… What the hell is even that sword?" 

"It's a kukri, you genius. Never seen any before? Oh I guess you don't need those while ya teach business people how to ski, eh?"

The man in the mask pressed the barrel harder. 

"Play with my nerves and you will find out how far I am from being a ski instructor." His voice was confident, with a foreign accent.

"Right, okay, easy now…"

"You are the sharpshooter who took them all down, aren't you?" 

"Y-yeah." Mundy's back was hunched. He had faced danger a lot of times through his career, but mostly from animals, not from men.

"What are you doing here?" 

"Same as you I guess, I'm after the alligators."

"Why?" 

"I want to take them back to where they belong. I know the bloke who owns them, just want to give him back his property."

"Why send a sharpshooter? This should be a job for the police."

"Yeah, well, you don't look like a policeman either, eh?" Mundy put a hand on his chest. "I'm a hunter. And you, what are you, a fancy ski teacher?" 

"What I am is none of your concern." The man in the suit lowered his gun and put it inside his jacket. "You can take your precious alligators. They are in the other truck. Didn't you see them swap them?"

Lucien took the blade that was hidden on his belt, behind, and finished cutting off the last bits of the cloth that had him tied. He sighed in relief when his wrists got freed.

"I came a bit too late for that, but not too late to save your arse." Mundy took a step towards the other man and towered him. "And you're welcome by the way." He pointed his finger and tapped the suit. 

The other winced and dusted it off immediately with the back of his gloved hand. He walked to the bodies of the fallen thugs and knelt down next to one. He realised that there were no bullet holes on any of them, only darts on their heads, or their necks. But there was some blood. How did that happen…?

"Interesting." He removed one dart and smelt it. No distinctive odour. He raised an eyebrow. Meanwhile, the hunter had gone to the other truck and opened it at the back. 

"Hello, beauties…" He saw the crates marked fragile with holes for the poor alligators to breathe. He looked through one and a green eye with a dark slit blinked at him. "Thank God, you're still alive…" He ran his fingers on the crate and the crocodile purred in a low growl. "Sshhh… It's alright now, I'm takin' you back home."

The alligators around started answering the growls, waking up slowly.

"There, there, ladies and gents', let me just count you. One, two, three, four…" 

The man in the suit came to the truck with one of the darts in his hand. He inhaled to start speaking but then decided to not interrupt. When Mundy finished counting the alligators, his index finger stopped hopping from one crate to the next and Lucien  finally spoke. 

"Are you also going to check their names, passports and tickets?" He ironically asked, tilting his head on the side.

"Twenty-six…" Mundy repeated to himself. 

"Oh, you know how to count till twenty-six, bravo, I am impressed." His accent sang the irony. 

"Wait, hold on, let me count again. One, two, three, four…"

"Or maybe you do not know how to count to twenty-six…" Lucien rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Twenty-six again. Mate, I expected twenty-one…"

"Well, consider it a bonus for your trouble. You could give back twenty-one and keep the others for target practise." 

"Target practice?" Mundy turned and hopped off the truck. He landed on the ground such that his face was a few inches away from Lucien's, unfazed. "Target practice?" He repeated, disgusted by the words. 

"Well, you said it yourself, you are a hunter. By definition, you hunt these things, this is your trade." 

Mundy locked the truck shut again.

"No, you idiot, I don't. Look at them. They're scared, uncomfortable and lonely, all boxed up like it's their casket. Ugh!" Mundy winced. 

"What are your preys then, if not animals?" 

"Poachers." 

"Poachers?" Lucien repeated. 

"Yeah." 

"Then you are doubly unique. But that does not tell me what I want to know."

"Doubly?" Mundy asked.

"What did you put in the darts?"

"Drop your weapons!" 

The voice split their conversation sharp. Lucien and Mundy realised they were surrounded by more of Duchemin's men. 

"Bugger…" 

"Merde…"

[Shit.]

"I said: drop your weapons or we'll shoot!" It was a dozen of them, surrounding them and taking aim with their rifles. 

Lucien took his gun delicately from his inner pocket on his jacket and dropped it to the floor. Mundy let his whole backpack and his rifle fall at his feet. Two of the thugs came close and took them away. Both Lucien and Mundy gritted their teeth. 

"Who are you?" Duchemin's henchman continued shouting at them. 

"Not deaf is what we are, can you speak normally?" Mundy answered as he raised his hands. 

"Who are you?!"

"Ouch!" 

One of the thugs knocked Mundy with his rifle's butt behind his knees and he fell on them. 

"I'm a hunter, bloody hell!"

"And you?!" They turned their attention to Lucien. 

"His apprentice." 

Mundy raised an eyebrow. 

"Aïe!"

[Ouch!]

Lucien received the same blow and knelt down. They both got handcuffed with ropes and taken a few metres away. 

"Tie them to that post."

They found themselves back to back, sitting on the concrete floor of the old hangar. 

"How did you get there?" The leader of Duchemin's squad asked.

"Just following a butterfly." Lucien said and he received another knock from a rifle's butt, this time, across the face. "Aïe!"

[Ouch!]

"Mate, he's tellin' the truth. We were looking for game, we followed a trail through here. It wasn't a butterfly though. Don't mind my uh… apprentice. He's cocky and can't keep his tongue in his mouth."

Lucien spat some blood away and gritted his teeth. 

"Cocky? Me?!" 

"Yeah, you, cocky. Can't you answer the bloke so that we get outta there?" 

The leader of the small group took a walkie-talkie from his belt and started speaking to it. 

"Beta? This is Delta, we have two intruders. Our blokes were shot dead it seems."

"What intruders?" The voice on the walkie-talkie answered. 

"Two hunters, they were following some beast when they arrived here."

"Do they know who killed our men?" 

"Do you?" The leader turned to Lucien and Mundy. 

"Not him, he can't aim with his rifle. I should have paid a better hunting teacher, I knew the low price had to hide something…" Lucien said.

"What?!" Mundy roared. "Excuse me? I'm sure as hell better than you!"

"How would you know? You never let me shoot anything!" Lucien continued. 

"Yeah, cause I'm better!" Mundy slid in the comedy effortlessly and hoped that his fellow hostage had an idea behind all that…

"Enough!" The leader of the thugs said. "Who killed my men? Do you know, yes or no?"

"No!" They both answered and Mundy thanked the Lord that Lucien lied, and convincingly at that. 

"The trail to the animal we were following led here. They must have been attracted by the blood." Mundy said. 

"Keep the intruders with you and the convoy, Delta, we're sending reinforcements. It might take a few hours, all units are busy." The walkie-talkie said. 

"Roger, we'll stay here." 

It turned out that the walkie-talkie man hadn't lied. It took forever for the promised reinforcements to come. Mundy and Lucien saw the sky darken as they sat there and they could feel their behind get sore. 

The guards on the other hand didn't seem too bothered by the wait. Some were playing cards on the floor and smoking, others were having a chat. They took turns in looking after their hostages, one at a time. 

Mundy eventually closed his eyes and dosed off. As he did so, he weighed more on Lucien's back, the post not being wide enough to carry his weight and the Frenchman headbutted him from behind, waking him up in a startle. 

"Ouch! What was that for?!" 

"You were crushing me! Didn't you realise it?"

"I was fallin' asleep, you mongrel! Ugh…" Mundy sighed and shook his head. He wished he could rub that place that Lucien hit on his head with his hand. It did hurt quite a bit! He rubbed it against the post.

"Couldn't you have done it a bit more delicately?" He hissed. 

"My apologies, Sleeping Beauty, next time, I shall try to think of it, hm?" 

"Ugh…" Mundy rolled his eyes and looked up in front of him. The guard in charge of looking after them looked quite young. The others were quite far away. "Hm?"

He felt something odd against his wrists, where the ropes were. Something was moving there… He tried getting his fingers closer but-

"Ouch!"

Lucien froze when he realised that Mundy got hurt on his fingers. 

"What's wrong?" The guard asked.

"N-nothin', just a cramp, mate." Mundy winced at the sting on his fingers. "Bloody tiring to sit on concrete for hours…"

"Maybe you could go for a break?" Lucien suggested and Mundy took it for irony. 

"Yeah, I'll ask them to just let me walk away, right?" 

"No, I meant that you might want a break to… You know… We drank quite a lot of water through the afternoon…" Lucien was trying to make him understand and wished Mundy would take the bait. The Aussie thought fast. If his fellow prisoner reckoned it might be a good idea, why not? 

"Yeah actually… Uh, 'scuse me, mate? D'you mind if I take a quick piss?" Mundy asked and Lucien rolled his eyes. 

"Such a poet you are." 

"What did you want me to say?! I'm just callin' it what it is!" 

The guard seemed hesitant. 

"Look, you can come and search me, I don't have anything on me, and you got one hell of a rifle. If I move, you shoot me. But I won't move. I just need a damn piss!" 

"Fine." The guard came closer and freed Mundy. He pointed his rifle in his back and pushed, just so that Mundy could feel the barrel, and the threat. As he stood up, something shiny caught his eye. Mundy looked at the base of the post, where Lucien's gloved hands were, and saw the glint of a blade. He felt a sweat break but didn't let it show. 

That's what cut my fingers… He thought.

"You mind if I take one of my jars from my backpack?" The Aussie asked. 

"What?" 

"Piss is a great tool for us hunters. Would hate for it to go to waste. You can give them to me, I won't get near the backpack. Just bring me two of them, I've been holdin' myself for quite a long time…"

Lucien winced and made all kinds of disgusted faces from his post, as he watched the whole scene. 

"Fine." 

The young guard went to the back pack and opened it. He threw two glass jars at Mundy. 

"Thanks mate, now, I'll uh… I'll do my business against the pillar here. You can keep the rifle on me, but eh, bit of privacy, please?" 

Lucien watched horrified, as Mundy not only filled the first jar, but also the second. But he went on sawing through the ropes with his blade and soon felt the last fibres yield. He was ready to spring up his feet anytime. He just needed an opportunity. All the guards were busy, except that one who was with Mundy.

"Ahhh…" The Aussie exhaled, relieved. "You have no idea how long I was holding all this." He said as he shut the second jar and brandished them like trophies. "And that's a nice stock! Now, I guess you don't really want to touch them, d'you mind if I put them in my backpack myself?"

The young man with the dark grey uniform and the rifle was as disgusted as Lucien had been, and he nudged Mundy with the tip of his rifle. 

"Ah, thanks, alroight, no need to be violent…" 

Mundy went to the backpack on the ground about one meter away from the pillar. His rifle and Lucien's gun were there too. He slightly turned his head to Lucien and winked. 

The Frenchman didn't wait for more. He sprang to his feet as Mundy turned and headbutted the young man who got tackled one fraction of a second later by Lucien. 

"Aargh!" 

The rest of the guards turned their heads and sprang to their feet. Lucien had knocked the young man unconscious. 

"The hostages are escaping!" 

Mundy had taken his backpack and rifle off the ground as he kicked Lucien's gun to him. They both took cover behind pillars. 

"Good job, Professor Ski!" Mundy said between flying bullets. He turned and threw both jars at the group of thugs. They shattered to smithereens and covered most of them in the Aussie's bodily fluid. 

"Did you just…?" Lucien's jaw dropped but then realised that most of them had their eyes closed and were out of cover still. He and Mundy shot them down.

Lucien went out of cover momentarily and shot two thugs. Mundy realised that he was also using a gun with a suppressor. 

"You disgust me!" 

Mundy reloaded his rifle and used it without scoping.

"Maybe, but it worked!" He proudly answered.

"Also, my name isn't Professor Ski!"

"I'm M, you?" 

"L!" 

"El what?" Mundy asked, thinking the man had a Spanish accent and therefore was Spanish.

"Just L! Three more down! Watch out on your right!" 

Mundy turned and shot one of them while Lucien got the other one. The reload time between two shots for Mundy now turned to be a little issue for heated situations like these but he still managed. 

After a few more shots, silence fell in the old hangar.

"I think we got them all." Mundy said. 

"Yes, we did." Lucien put his gun back in his inside pocket, on his jacket. "Now, who didn't you kill…?" 

"What?" Mundy asked, confused. 

"I need one alive." Lucien answered. 

"Why?" 

"To interrogate him." 

"Well I didn't kill any of them." Mundy said. "They're asleep, is all." 

"What?" Lucien asked. 

"The darts, they're sleepin' ones, not poison or anything, I'm a hunter, not a murderer."

"Well, how come they bleed so much?" 

"The darts have 2 bits, one with the tranquiliser and one with pig blood. It's to make them believe that I kill them. I hunt poachers to scare them off, not to kill them." Mundy explained. 

"I see."

"And you, you killed them, you brute!"

"Non, I have tranquiliser shots too."

"What?" Mundy's turn to be surprised. 

"Yes, I could have killed them, but they don't deserve it, no one does. Actually non, only one person does, he is worse than the Devil himself." Lucien knelt down to one guard.

"Crikey, who's that?"

"The man I will find." 

Lucien dragged the body of the sleeping guard to the post where he was previously tied up and handcuffed him there with ropes. 

"You may drive your truck away now. Thank you for the unexpected help." Lucien said. 

"I'm not goin' anywhere, mate." 

"Why?" 

"I also need to know somethin' out of these brutes." 

The Frenchman rolled his eyes. 

"Can't I torture him in peace?" 

"Oh I'm botherin' you now, am I? I was the one who bloody saved you! You owe me!" Mundy said. 

"Arh…" Lucien put a gloved hand to his face and let it sink down from his brow to his chin. "Fine. You may stay. Now…" 

The Frenchman knelt down and removed the dart from the guard's face. 

"Let us begin." 

He slapped him across the face to wake him up.

[bepoets]

I KNOW I ASKED FOR IT BUT FIX ITTTT!! TELL ME ANNA SENDS A LETTER SOMEDAY OR THEY COME ACROSS EACH OTHER FIX IT BROOKLYN!!!!

Are we really SHOCKED that Ellie is asking for a fix it fic? No. No we are not.

This is a fix it fic thing to this fic thing https://ravenclaw-geek394.tumblr.com/post/190266067573/kristanna-angst-hand-holding-tears-because

Enjoy friends

Anna comes back home when she’s 26. It’s been a decade. Eventually, when she went years without a letter from Kristoff she just, gave up on actually sending the letters. But she continued to write them. Tucked away in her notebook, hidden in her nightstand or her suitcase depending on where she was. She didn’t write them everyday, not even once a month. Simply whenever the mood would strike her. Whenever she felt that she needed to tell him soemthing inportant or mundane, or if she felt the need to assure him of her affections. She didn’t lose hope. It just got, quieter.

So when she returned home to the Arendelle estate, on the eve of her fathers funeral she wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Elsa has moved back home years ago, taking over father’s business once he became ill. Her sister constantly mentioning Kristoff in her letters, providing Anna with the perfect opportunity to ask about him. But she’d always stop. Reminding herself that he was the one who stopped replying to her. He gave up, he gave up on her. On them.

She didn’t see him right away. Anna arrived late that night, only a few housekeepers awake to great her. Hugging her and expressing their joy to see her again, even with the circumstances.

She saw him at the funeral. He was a guest. As were the rest of the staff, “as they should be,” thought Anna. Thankful that no one was expected to work today. These people, all of them, this house itself had endured far too much loss. Anna was almost certain grief was wrapped around it, buried deep within the floor boards and hidden in every crack and crevice of the walls.

He looked older.

Which was a silly remark. Considering of course he was older. It had been a decade. So much had changed. He looked at her, when she stared. And Anna felt her cheeks turn red. As if she had been caught stealing from the cookie jar as a child. His eyes were what shocked her. They were unguarded. She could see every emotion. Grief. Loss. Exhaustion. Longing. But worst of all hurt. And somehow Anna felt it must be directed at her.

They don’t speak again until late that night. Anna can’t sleep. She couldn’t sleep after her mother’s funeral either. It’s as if all the loss and grief falls right back into her chest before she sleeps. So she sneaks out, as she used to when she was younger, and finds a place. A place of comfort and joy. A place only touched by happiness, not tangled in this web of sorrow.

She finds a tree. Just on the edge of the estate. It’s a large tree that she remembers climbing when she was little. Before mother got sick and after. She would swing from the branches upside down. She remembers fondly her and her sister pretending to be monkeys dangling from the tree. She also remembers jumping off the branches and having Kristoff catch her. Calling it a “crazy trust exercise.” It’s a place of childhood happiness. So she climbs up the tree and lays against the trunk on one of the branches. Twisting around the edges of her shawl, looking up into the stars.

That’s when she hears him.

“This isn’t another one of those crazy trust exercises is it?”

His voice almost makes Anna fall out of the tree. In fact she only just catches herself before stumbling. She laughs though, she missed this.

“I’m sorry for your loss, I know this must’ve been hard to come back too.” And he’s so sincere and genuine when he says it. Like his heart breaks for her.

“I’m sorry too, for your loss I mean.”

There’s a pause. A silence between them that once, long ago, would have been comfortable. Would have get like home, but now it’s leaving Anna sloghtly on edge. She’s never been one to keep her thoughts calm or at bay. They’re always too much and far too fast. She has too many things she wants to say, questions she wants to ask, and answers she needs to hear and there’s Kristoff looking up at her and she can see it. It’s still there. The sparkle, the soft haze in his eyes, the love he’s expressing, without even saying a word, and suddenly it puts her mind at ease for a moment.

Anna opens her mouth to speak as soon as Kristoff does. Saying “would you-” just as he says “how long are-” They laugh. And Anna feels everything falling back into place.

“Ladies first,” Kristoff waves up towards her, gesturing for her to continue with a lopsided grin. “Oh you’ve become quite the gentleman.” He starts to shake off the compliment, saying something about picking up a few things from working here so long and the high society people that visit. But Anna stops him. “No, you’ve always been a gentleman. More so than any of the suitors and high society gents I’ve met.” Kristoff chuckles, that nervous and awkward kind of chuckle when he feels too put on the spot. Too much attention and kindness that he’s sure he doesn’t deserve, even though he truly does.

“Come sit with me?” Anna’s eyes are pleading. Practically begging for this to last longer. To live in this moment. Kristoff’s mouth falls open and eyes widen, “up there? In your tree?” Anna nods, enthusiastic as ever. “Anna it’ll break.”

“Even better,” she says with a laugh, “you’ll catch me when I fall.” And to Anna’s surprise, that works. The next thing she knows Kristoff is sitting in her tree, closest to the trunk holding onto any branch nearby to keep his balance and stay steady. It’s only when he’s settled, safely across from her on the branch, that they really start to catch up. It’s small talk mostly. She tells him about Europe. He tells her about the baby horse they rescued. They make jokes and share stories and heartfelt moments and everything is as it should be. But they’re dancing around things. Tiptoeing around the big questions.

“How long are you staying?” He says it in a whisper so soft it almost floats away with the wind. But Anna catches it.

“I’m— I’m not sure.” Anna knows that’s confusing and she can tell just from the look on kristoff’s face that it’s surely not the answer he was hoping to hear. So she elaborates. “I don’t have any reasons to return to Europe. But, I’m not sure if I still, have a reason to stay here anymore either.”

Anna’s certain no one will ever look at her, gaze at her, with the same intensity as Kristoff does when he responds. “You always have. You always will.”

Anna opens her mouth to say thank you. To express how much it makes her heart soar to hear him say that. To cry.

Instead the question she’s been avoiding falls out.

“Why did you stop writing?”

She’s sure this is it. She’s crossed a line. The silence that follows is heavy and sits on her chest to the point where she can hardly breathe. It’s coming she’s waiting for it. The rejection. You’re a lovely girl Anna but I just don’t love you. You left me anna how could I be expected to wait for someone who didn’t even stay. She knows it’s coming. She wants to close her eyes, hold her breath, but instead she stares. Waiting for Kristoff to speak.

He’s giving her this odd look. Sad and confused, like he doesn’t quite understand how she doesn’t know.

“I didn’t.”

“Really, Kristoff it’s okay you can tell me honestly you don’t have to pretend it’s—” Anna can hear the tears welling up in her own voice.

“Anna.” Kristoff cuts her sentence short. Reaching out to hold her hand. Eyes pleading and begging her to listen. To know.

“I never stopped writing to you, Anna.”

It’s sincere. And it’s genuine. And Anna wants to believe him more than anything in the world. But she thinks about the months, the years that went by, with radio silence. She left in May and the last letter she ever received was that August. She knows, she’s got them stowed away in a box under her bed. She’s dead them over and over. Even the last few, which always seemed a little sad. She just could never figure out why.

“August 13th. The year I left. That was the date of the last letter you sent. Kristoff I wrote to you for years, you stopped answering I don’t understand,” Anna pauses. Her voice catching in her throat, tears finally starting to fall. And they don’t stop. She wants to run away. All the sadness is climbing in again, and in the one place that was untouched by sorrow.

She feels a sob run through her body when suddenly she’s being lifted into someone’s arms. And being held. Kristoff’s arms wrapped around her, his chin atop her head, whispering soothing words to her as she cries. As if it were all the most natural thing in the world.

It takes a little while but eventually the tears subside, but once they do, she feels a soft kiss pressed against her temple. And her heart melts. Kristoff helps her out of the tree, brushing leaves out of her hair as he does so, and letting his hand hover just over hers.

“Can I,” There’s a pause, and a calculated glance in her direction, making a decision. “I need to show you something.” And he holds out his hand and despite the ache in her chest she follows. Let’s his hand wrap around hers and float to wherever they’re going. If she dreams hard enough she can imagine it as if it were long ago. The two of them running away together. But that hurts too much. Anna knows. She’s learned. Her father would tell her all the time in his letters. Wishing only wounds the heart. Be realistic Anna.

She’s only a little thrown off when they end up in Kristoff’s room. It’s small, hardly decorated and very bare bones. But it still makes her eyes widen and cheeks redden. He’s crawling under his bed, reaching for something obviously hidden away and pulls out a wooden box. It’s decorated with obviously hand carved sunflowers. Kristoff doesn’t open the box. Instead he places it in Anna’s arms, and kisses her cheek. It’s soft and featherlight — barely there and full of uncertainty.

“I promise you. I never stopped writing.”

It’s only then that Anna realizes the sun has rose. There’s bells ringing. The work day for the staff has begun and people downstairs are calling his name and a million different jobs he has to get started on. He has to go.

But as he turns out the door, just before he leaves he stops.

“Promise me something?”

Anna nods.

“Stay until the end of the week. Just until then. If you still feel you have no reason to stay here, then you can part ways forever but please. Don’t go yet.”

She holds the little wooden box close to her chest and nods. I’ll stay. I’ll stay for you. She doesn’t say it. But she knows Kristoff hears it.

Anna’s sure she can’t possibly cry anymore today. The sun has only just rose and she still hasn’t even looked inside the little wooden box when she sets it on her bed in her own room. Her eyelids feel heavy and suddenly she thinks maybe now, exhausted beyond belief, she’ll be able to sleep. But there’s a knock on the door. And Elsa walks inside, eyes tired and red and hair a frazzled mess. Anna’s relatively sure she’s still in the same clothes from the funeral yesterday, but in her sisters hands is a hat box. One of their mothers. It’s from a shop In the coty. One of her favorites. The box is cream and faded and the papering is pealing ever so slightly.

“Elsa?”

“I couldn’t sleep... last night I couldn’t sleep. So I started cleaning out father’s office, and I found something. And I believe it belongs to you.” She hands her sister the hat box with trembling hands.

“Elsa, this is mother’s hat box this isn’t, this couldn’t possibly belong to me. I don’t even like hats.”

That last part makes Elsa chuckle, as Anna hoped it would.

“I thought so too. But I, forgive me, I opened it. And it wasn’t mother’s hat. This belongs to you. And I think it needs to be soemthing you see, all on your own.” Anna tries to protest but elsa waves her off. “Besides, I need to sleep, just talk to me about it after you open it? I want to know how you’re feeling.”

And with that the door clicks shut. Leaving Anna alone with two boxes.

She opens her mother’s hat box first. Expecting something her mother or father left behind for her. Soemthing with the house or anything to do with their family. It feels far less terrifying than finally knowing the truth between her and Kristoff. This is simple. Only the moment she lifts the lid off she knows that’s not true.

They’re letters. Envelopes yellowed and aged from years ago. A decade. All addressed to Kristoff Bjorgman. From Anna Arendelle. There’s stamps and postage marks from all different European countries. There’s hearts and flowers doodled on the backs of a few. Different scripts and fonts and you can tell the ones written and addressed in a hurry and those that were titled and the i’s dotted and t’s crossed with extra care.

But Anna doesn’t even have to examine all of them to know. She knows because she wrote them. These are her letters to Kristoff. From the first few years. When she had continued to send them. Despite his silence.

An array of emotions bubble up inside. Confusion and anger and betrayal and frustration and sadness and heartache. Oh god, so much heartache.

But there’s one envelope inside her mother’s hat box not addressed to Kristoff. But addressed to her. It’s a new envelope. Stark white against the display from the past, with Anna written neatly across the front. Her father’s hand writing.

Her hands shake as she opens it, and as she reads, suddenly the world feels clear.

Her father apologizes. He knows it’s too late, that a simple letter from his death bed won’t fix the hurt and pain he’s caused her. Even if she is unaware of it. He explains how serious image was, for the business, for their high society lifestyle. Especially after her mother died. The fact that one of his daughters would take over the family business rather than a son was glaring enough to friends and business colleagues. The idea that his other daughter would marry a farm boy? A servant? It was unthinkable. They advised him to send her away. Let the distance and time dissolve of her little crush. It was the only way. He apologizes. Because now, as he laid tbere ill, he knows he was wrong. He speaks of her mother and how when he fell in love with her he would’ve given up everything, fortune and wealth and fame and title, just to hold her hand. Status means nothing when you’re in love. He says he didn’t realize. How serious her affections were, and how serious Kristoff’s were in return. He thought he made the right choice. Sending her away, hiding the letters, returning Kristoff’s to the stoop of the servants house whenever he tried to mail one. He thought he was doing what was best. But he wasn’t. He speaks of time and last wishes and how none of it matters without love. He tells her in his final written words. To fight for love. To follow her dream.

And Anna cries. She cries harder and longer than she has in years. Because now she knows. It wasn’t her fault. And it wasn’t Kristoff’s. And no one gave up. No one lost hope. And she knows, she’s certain of what she’ll find in the box from Kristoff. And suddenly, nothing about this seems scary.

Her hands still tremble when she unlatches the lid to Kristoff’s wooden box. Her eyes still fill with tears when she tears open the first envelope. Dated just a week after the last letter she ever received. One day she will read them all. Every letter he saved in the box despite the fact that he no longer had any reason to hope she loved him.

But for now she reads the first one. A letter from ten years ago. Written in Kristoff’s messy scrawl but every emotion so easily pressed into the page. She wants to read the whole thing. Savor every last word. But her brain jumps ahead. Only able to focus on the last sentence. She reads it over and over again until she’s sure that she’s read it write. That her eyes do not betray her. It’s there it’s real. He truly wrote will you marry me in a letter.

And when it finally registers. That he wrote that. That he meant that all those years ago, and surely still means it now.

Well Anna can hardly slow down running out onto the estate to find him. He’s on the entire other side of a field when she finds him. He’s trimming trees and he’s so obviously focused on his work and Anna could easily continue walking and say this face to face. Inches from each other.

Instead she stands and shouts it across the field. The closest thing she’s got to shouting it from the rooftops.

“KRISTOFF BJORGMAN WILL YOU MARRY ME”

She’s never seen him run so fast.

And when he reaches her, lifting her up and kissing her well, it feels like she’s floating.

[flintmirandas]

eddie :)

how i feel about this character: I WILL! DIE FOR HIM! you say the name eddie kaspbrak to me and i just go fucking batshit like hello lana mckissack singing stronger by kelly clarkson! jack dylan grazer going feral and throwing his fanny pack! eddie is so strong! and so loving and he would do anything for his friends and that makes me want to burst into tears all the time what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger ladies and gents kelly clarkson is a POET!

people i ship romantically with this character: as much as i respect all the losers pairings the only person i can see eddie with is richie those bitches Are the best friends to lovers trope

non-romantic ship: all of the losers! but again i love his friendship with bev and how they parallel each other but ALSO his admiration of bill is super cute and i love them

my unpopular opinion: i Hope this isn’t unpopular but people gotta stop characterising eddie as mean and constantly sarcastic because he isn’t! also he’s gay! no attraction to women to be found! 

one thing i wish had happened with this character in canon: well, there is an obvious answer here but also i wish eddie’s ***** in chapter 2 were taken more seriously ONLY the it musical parody gets to do the i fucked your mom bit because it’s a parody

send me a character!

[monaiargancoconutsoy]

I was tagged by @whats-a-mulder. Thank you :)

Name: Kimberly

Nickname: Kim, Kimmi, Kims, Kimber..... you get the idea

Star sign: Scorpio.

Favourite Musicians: I have like periods when I’m into just types of music or particular songs. But there’s an artist from my country called David Rudder and he is just amazing. He is a singing poet and prophet.  i actually leave the house to see him

Favourite Sports Team: Arsenal Football Club both the women and the men. Also mad love for PSG football club both ladies and gents. I also like ice hockey so go Washington Capitals. And i lived in DC for eight years so i support all DC teams even the one that shall not be named

Other Blogs: None

How many blogs I follow: 544. I think a lot of them are defunct but I'm too lazy  to unfollow

Tumblr Crushes: I love Tumblr and I love all the people on here. My IRL friends know I’m a tumblr ho. its my happy place

Lucky Numbers: It’s actually a joke amongst my friends how unlucky I am

Dream Vacation:There’s a worldwide cruise that lasts like 3 mths. You see every continent. I want to see the world

Dream Car: The cheapest cutest hybrid I can afford

Favourite Food:Cake

Drink of Choice: I love orange juice and alcoholic drinks with orange juice in it.

Instruments: I  attempted piano, violin and guitar in high school it didn't really take tho. i did manage to get a grade two in steel pan which is our national instrument. Does the recorder count?

Language: English . I’m ok in Spanish and French.  i follow Spanish blogs on here to improve it.

Fun Fact: Gah I never have anything cool to say. i have a twin brother I guess????

Tagging anyone who wants to do it