#i am not usually a poet so uh

[thatqueerbat]

how do you decipher

the differences and nuances

between friendship and love

platonic attraction or affection

how do you ask

someone to explain

their feelings for you

in a comprehensible way

without making things awkward

is it just too hard to say

'hey this is how i like you'

how do you want to engage?

[iamgonnagetyouback]

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒?

♡ ︎ꜱʜɪᴘ: Charlie Dalton x Reader

You were used to it by now—Charlie Dalton’s constant flirting, his smooth lines, the way his hazel eyes gleamed when he was about to say something utterly ridiculous. And you? Well, you never let him get away with it, always armed with some witty comeback that made the boys around you laugh.

"Hey, beautiful, ever wonder what it’s like to kiss a poet?" Charlie smirked, his voice dripping with that usual arrogance.

You raised an eyebrow, rolling your eyes. "Not quite. Maybe I should kiss Todd and find out?"

The boys howled in laughter, Todd burying his face in his hands as Neil playfully nudged Charlie’s shoulder. But, as usual, Charlie wasn’t fazed. He only leaned closer, mischief dancing in his eyes.

"You know," he said, voice lower, "one day you’re gonna run out of sass and finally admit you’re in love with me."

You opened your mouth, prepared to give the perfect retort, when something strange happened. Your cheeks grew warm. No, scratch that—they were on fire. You blinked, suddenly hyper-aware of how close Charlie was standing, how his teasing smile wasn’t just playful anymore, how his eyes were fixed on you, waiting.

What the hell? Why were you blushing?

You quickly muttered something half-baked, barely coherent, and walked away before Charlie could notice the redness that had surely taken over your face. You didn’t understand. You had always been able to brush him off, but now, for some reason, your heart was racing like it was trying to beat out of your chest.

This was new. And horrible.

What was worse? Charlie had noticed. His teasing eyes followed you all day, smirking like he knew something you didn’t. It was unbearable.

You needed help. Desperately.

So, naturally, you sought out the only person who could possibly understand your predicament—Todd Anderson.

It wasn’t hard to find him. Todd was sitting on the lawn by the lake, writing something in his notebook while Neil was off trying to convince Knox to join his latest idea. You marched over, sitting down in front of him without ceremony.

“Todd,” you said, a bit more forcefully than intended.

He looked up, startled. "Yeah?"

"I need your help. It’s about Charlie."

Todd’s eyes widened. "Charlie?" His voice squeaked a little, and his hand twitched, as if just mentioning Charlie’s name brought anxiety. You could relate.

You groaned. “I think I’m broken or something because today, he said something to me, and I—I blushed, Todd. I blushed. Do you have any idea how horrifying that is?”

Todd’s face softened, but he looked like he was trying hard not to laugh. “Uh, maybe it’s not so bad?” he offered, weakly.

You groaned, collapsing backward on the grass. "It is bad. It’s very bad. You know what it’s like. You blush when Neil says… anything remotely nice to you. What does it mean? Am I… Am I in love with Charlie Dalton?"

Todd hesitated, his face growing red at the mention of Neil. "I don’t know," he mumbled. "Maybe. Or maybe he just got to you. He flirts with everyone… right?"

That hit you like a punch to the gut. You threw your head back, laughing, but there was no real humor in it. “Yeah,” you muttered, a bitter taste creeping into your mouth. “Yeah, exactly.”

He flirts with everyone. Why was this any different?

Why did it suddenly matter?

"But it never bothered me before. Why now?"

Todd looked down at his notebook, fiddling with the pages. "Sometimes," he said quietly, "it hits you when you least expect it."

His words stuck with you, echoing in your mind all day, all night. Hits you when you least expect it. Could that really be true? Could you—no, you weren’t about to fall for Charlie Dalton, of all people.

The next day, Mr. Keating announced a new assignment: "Each of you will present an original poem tomorrow. A poem that reveals a part of yourself you keep hidden."

Great. Exactly what you needed.

The whole evening, you tried to write something, but every word felt forced, every line too… wrong. How were you supposed to write about a feeling you didn’t even understand? You stared at the page, and the only thing that came to mind was Charlie. His grin. His stupid, smug face. The way your stomach twisted every time he called you "beautiful" now.

So, you did the only thing you could think of. You wrote.

The next morning, you walked into Keating’s class with your heart in your throat, clutching the folded piece of paper as if it would burn you.

“Ah, (Y/N),” Mr. Keating greeted warmly. “Ready to share with us?”

“Not really,” you muttered, but stepped forward anyway. The boys were watching, but most of all—Charlie was watching, leaning back in his chair with that lazy grin you hated. No. You didn’t hate it anymore. That was the problem.

You unfolded the paper and took a deep breath.

“A boy with words like arrows, Sharp and playful, but always shallow. Until one day, his arrows land, Not in jest, but in my hand.

How do you laugh when you’re struck? How do you breathe with no air? What do you do when the jokes stop feeling like jokes, And start feeling like… something else?”

Your voice faltered, but you kept going, feeling all the confusion and frustration pour out.

“The world tips sideways, Colors all wrong. Why does he make me stutter? Why do I feel like I’m walking on a tightrope, One wrong word from falling into his arms?”

The room was quiet now. You could feel every pair of eyes on you, but none more than Charlie’s. You didn’t dare look up.

“Maybe this is what love feels like: Messy, sharp, unexpected, Like an arrow in the dark.”

Your eyes met Charlie’s, and for the first time in a while, there was no teasing in his gaze. He looked... serious.

Todd gave you a small, supportive smile as the silence hung in the air. And then, without saying anything, you took your seat.

But the confusion? It remained. Maybe you’d never understand it. Maybe it didn’t even matter if Charlie flirted with everyone.

What mattered now was how you felt.

[angelbowerz]

Can you do a female reader who is the only girl that goes to welton but she sets her eyes on todd? She is very flirty and is really pretty so she makes him nervous

Like her going to the table that they are sitting and all of them saying hi and she just looks todd in his eyes and goes:

-youre not going to ask me how i am todd?

Todd:😳😳😳

Hehehe I'd love to do this

Claiming Todd Anderson

-the second you saw him on your first day, you knew he would be yours no matter how long or hard it took

-you tried sitting next to him in EVERY lesson

-you'd give him some cheesy nickname like 'Toddy Bear' or 'Cutiepie'

"Heyyy Toddy Bear? How's my favourite Cutiepie doing"

"...h-hey y/n..."

-in class you'd always stare at him, wink at him and do the kissie face, poor Todd gets so red from it😭

-you'd hang with the dead poets a lot...not because you want to...you hang with them for your Todd of course!

-When you go to the cave you'd ALWAYS sit next to him and hold his hand. Obviously todd will be in an anxiety MESS, so shy he won't even look at you but atleast he holds your hand back

-When Charlie brings girls to some meetings, you become VERY protective over Todd

-After lights out, you'd force him to hang with you...even if he doesn't talk more than 4 words

"Todd! Me and you are sneaking away after lights out tonight, okay? ;)"

"...i-..uh...I don't think-....okay..."

-the other dead poets (especially Charlie) would tease you both SO MUCH

-you SOMEHOW found out when his birthday is and on the day you'd spoil him so much

-I feel like you being so confident n stuff would actually make Todd less shy (only a tiny bit but it's noticeable)

-on weekends you two go into town together to just chill

-you also have many study dates together

"Toddy! Wanna come over to my dorm tonight for a study session?"

"Oh....sure"

"Good! It's a date then!"

"Wait wha-😳"

-everytime you see him you'd flirt, even if he's very far away...

*gasp* "HEY TODDY MY CUTIEPIE!"

😳 "oh no...."

-when you flirt with him near the others, he'd be even more embarrassed than usual..he might even try to attempt asking you to stop

"Y/n....I was just....wondering...if you could...uhm...stop..flirting with me near my friends..?

"...no Toddy Bear."

"Oh..okay"

-the only way you two could become a couple is if you could make the first move (you probably would anyway)

-always has the BIGGEST puppy dog eyes near you, so adorable

-every time you hug him he just awkwardly stands there 🧍‍♂️ but when you're in a comfortable place (like the common room couch) he'll snuggle up against you

-he let's you play with his hair and its the SOFTEST thing

[feraltragedy]

Just a short Noah drabble, part 2 whenever I can get my thoughts into words.

No content warnings apply for this one, just a hot boy in a mask and mild adult themes.

@thelesbianwithissues @concreteangel92 @madomens @lilhobgobbler

Ghost

I send a text to my best friend telling him I have great news I want to share. His reply a short ‘I'm home bunny.’ With the letter in my hand, I make my way to his house.

Coming through the door of the house I see the faces of my friends except Noah. “Upstairs, he's getting ready to stream.” Nicholas is quick to notice my searching eyes.

“I've got some really good news, let me share with Noah first and I'll come back down and tell you guys too!” I head for the stairs and make my ascent.

Noah was the only one who knew about The Tortured Poet Society reaching out to me after finding a story I had posted. When they wanted me to send in a portfolio for review to possibly land me a seat at the round table, I had called him immediately freaking out. I didn't want to tell anyone else about the application. If they rejected me, it would just be a disappointment. They are like the most elite book club, some of the best authors make up the table.

Reaching my best friend's room I opened the door, stepping inside I almost forget why I'm here. The sight before me clouding my already excited mind.

“You're really gonna stream like that, sweets?” His shoulders only shrugged in response. “I got the letter today.” Holding the piece of paper up, I make my approach.

He sits low in his chair, hips all the way forward and long legs spread wide. My eyes can't help but rake up his form, from his lap where his hand rests on his thigh, up his bare torso and landing on the mask hiding his face. Tattoos on display, and freckles painting the tops of his shoulders.

Normally I wouldn't think twice about plopping myself on his lap. But this all feels too intimate. I'm pretty sure I don't have a thing for masks, but knowing it's him underneath the Ghost cosplay is setting me ablaze. I stand directly in front of him, just between his knees to read the letter.

As I'm reading I don't realize my left leg has risen to rest on his thigh, bent at the knee. A warm hand on the top of my thigh just below the hem of my skirt makes me suddenly aware of just how I am encroaching on his space.

“Uh, so yeah, I'm in! I can't believe I'm actually in!” “I already knew they would love you bunny. You're so good.” He spoke for the first time and his voice is lower and deeper than usual, getting husky with his last statement.

A noise from his computer cuts through the haze, his stream friends are waiting for him. I bite my lip and sit the letter down on the desk, placing both my hands at the top of his chest. My fingers rest against the chain around his neck, the cold material a stark contrast to his hot skin. His hand on my thigh slides up slightly as I lean in, planting a kiss on the mask. I move my head close to his ear and give my best sultry whisper.

“I'll let you get to your stream, sweet boy.” I pull away, making a show of letting one of my hands trail down his torso as I bring myself back to standing. Instead of turning to walk away I opt to back away slowly, drinking as much of him like this as I can. My hands interlocked behind my back, a subconscious move to keep me from reaching out for him more. “I've got an early morning, I'll see you tomorrow.” “You can count on it, bunny.”

I reluctantly make my way out of the room, eyes never leaving his form until the door blocks my line of sight. For once, I don't care if he knows the effect he has on me. Instead, I want him to know.

Downstairs I share the news with the rest of the guys. “Congrats bunny!” Matt says, not knowing the sultry way that nickname fell from Noah’s masked lips just moments before. Each of the boys congratulate me and pull me into an array of tight hugs before I leave for the night.

My car feels quiet and empty. I turn on some music, body still hot and mind cloudy. Pulling out of the driveway, “The Feels” by Labrinth and Zendaya plays.

That boy will be the death of me.

[luminousbeings-crudematter]

Contract Renegotiation (an Alford Plea outtake)

PAIRING:  Chef! Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader  

A/N: please please please go read all the lovely entries for the 141 challenge by the person who carries this fandom on her back: @glitterypirateduck || I first started to interact with duck because of Alford Plea, and I miss these two fools, so here we are || MDNI

Prompts used: “All you gotta do is ask”  “Do everything I say” “Look at me” “I'll take good care of you”

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Epilogue

***

He’s insufferable.

He’s the love of your life, absolutely and unconditionally, and you share the kind of love poets dream of.  You’re a woman well-loved because of him, his brand of affection fierce and all-encompassing.  You have no doubt that you’ll build a life with him, have his little babies, own a pet or two, all of it.  

And yet, somehow, he is the most insufferable man you’ve had the displeasure of being around.

The argument you have at work that morning ruins the whole of your shift, and you're left stressed and fuming and ready to throttle your boss.

When you offer to close down the kitchen that evening, it’s with a spirit of spite that only working for Simon could have awoken within you.  You’re in the middle of mopping the floor when you hear his footsteps and you pointedly ignore them until you can see him in the periphery of your vision.   Like an actual goddamned vision, he leans against the wall, still in his chef whites (with sleeves sluttily folded up to his forearms now that service is over, like he knows you like) and completely silent.  

The most aggravating man in the world and you still want to jump his bones when he looks at you like that.

“Can I help you, Chef?”

Simon sighs and just continues to stare at you expectedly with a look of mild disappointment.  “Love, you—”

“Ah’m gonna head off—oh!”   It’s Soap.  Of course, it’s Soap.  Who else but Johnny would save your life in this godforsaken kitchen that was run by the actual devil.  “Uh…so ah’ll be seein’ ya, bonnie.”  The words are directed at you, clearly, but his eyes keep ping-ponging between you, gripping the mop like it was a lifeline and Simon, whose eyes had not strayed from you.  Soap turns on his heel before you recover.

“Wait!  Will you drive me home?”  you ask Soap, while narrowing your eyes at Simon.  “My usual ride’s…unavailable tonight.”  You finally look at Soap with pleading eyes as you twist the knife.  “Please, Johnny.”

“Erm…I—I don’t know, bonnie.  You, uh,” he hesitates and his eyes quickly flick to Simon before they come back to yours. “You’re a good friend and ah’love you.  But he pays m’wages.  And the two of ye’re screwin’ so—”

“That’ll do,” Simon interrupts.  “See you tomorrow, Johnny.”

“Yes, Chef,” Soap says, and then laughs when you flip him the bird.  And then Soap’s gone.  And you’re left with the bane of your existence.

“I’ll walk home,” you assert.  

“Fine.”      

“Fine,” you mimic and then follow it up with a bastard under your breath.

“Crazy bitch,” he says, and you have to roll your eyes at him when he gets visibly frustrated that you don’t react to his words.  “You don’t really have to walk home.  Take the car.”

“I am not getting in a car with you, Simon, go get fucked.”

“Fuckin—fine!  You take the car.  I’ll walk.”

 “What?  No!  It’s your car.”

“It’s our flat.  We can talk—”

“I don’t want to talk to you right now!”   Your words are met by silence and when you glance up at him, he has the audacity to appear shocked. 

“Okay…Okay.  Will you let me take you home?  And we’ll talk about it there, I swear, love.  Just let me take my girl home, okay?”

You let him take you home.

***

You’re crying before he even properly pulls out of the restaurant’s car park.  At the sound of your sniffles he winces, and puts a warm hand on your thigh, but says nothing else.  You hold his hand in a death-grip the whole way home, and he lets you.

When you finally get home, he leads you up to your flat, fingers intertwined with yours,  and you go willingly, still sniffling.  You don’t know how or why your emotions have gotten the better of you, you don’t even think this is to do with your fight with Simon, but your eyes continue to stream.  He kicks the door shut behind you and pulls you close, and for some reason, that really pushes you off the edge.  All the stress of the past few days finds a release in the only safe place it can, manifested as dark, wet splotches on Simon’s jumper.        

He lets you cry it out, holds you, murmurs to you in soothing tones—this infuriating, terrible, beautiful man does everything for you.  You think about how much has changed, how much he’s changed since that night at the bar when you fell into bed with your boss, and it makes you cry harder.  

When you finally run out of tears, he brings you some water and when you’re more settled, ready to talk to him, he does the complete opposite of what you expect—he drags you to your  bedroom.  

“Know we need to talk,” he murmurs, both hands on your shoulders and eyes intense.  “But I want t’make you feel good first, alright?  Will you let me do that, pet?’

Your eyes widen when you realise what he means.  

“Yes,” you finally whisper.

“I’ll take good care of you, love.  Now strip.”  With those words, he takes a step back from you.

You do as he says, taking off layer by layer of your clothing.  When you’re done, he stands in front of you with a small smile.  “Beautiful,” he whispers.  “Such a gorgeous girl.  And all mine, yeah?”

“Mhm,” you agree.

“Say it.”

“I’m all yours, Simon.”

“Good girl,” he praises, and you feel your breath stutter in your chest.  “Such a good girl for me tonight, love.  Do everythin’ I say and I’ll make you feel good, alright love?”

But he doesn’t wait for you to respond, before he’s unbuttoning his jeans and pulling his cock out.  He gives it a couple of dirty jerks before you’re sinking to your knees for him.  You put one hand on his thigh and your other reaches for him, finding him hard and leaking for you.      

When you put your mouth on him, your own groan of relief is louder than his.           

It’s not new for the two of you—this song and dance.  Sex was what first connected the two of you, and every single time after, and after all this time it still feels like a revelation.  Sex with Simon has you both opening up to each other in a way you can’t otherwise, and you’ve never once denied yourself that connection.  

And when you get too in your head, the connection that sex brings guides you both back to where you belong.  You need his stability, his strength to pull you out of it, and he’s never ever let you down.  

“Look at me, pet,” he murmurs, and when you open your eyes and look up at him, his eyes are soft, melted, worried.  His hands come to gently cradle your face and move your hair out of the way and it floors you, the way he takes care of you.  

He only lets you have him in your mouth for a few minutes though, before he’s tugging you up, already kissing you deeply, already getting you to melt into him.  

For the rest of the evening, you only answer him in yes.

Yes Simon, that feels so good.

Yes, please, make me come.

Yes, I want you to come inside me.

Yes, yes yes.

You don’t think you’ve ever been so agreeable with the man.

***

When you both drift back down to the Earth in the moments after, he runs his hand  down your bare arm and you turn to him with a smile, but end up bumping your head with his.  

“Ow,” you mutter in protest, but he leans forward and kisses the offending part of your skull anyway.  When he lingers, you use the opportunity to cuddle up into him, pushing your face into the crook of his neck and breathing deeply.  “I love you.”

“Me too,” he whispers back.  “Your mind and your body and your tits, definitely your tits, that ass, and fuck, I love your tight little—”

“Alright, I get it, you love my body!” you say, laughing, trying to push away from him, but he doesn’t allow it.  

“And your heart.  Your talent.  The ideas you come up with, y’er insane drive to see them through.  How you stand up for yourself, and for others.  How fuckin’ talented you are.”

“You already said that,” you whisper, your eyes clenched shut from embarrassment.  

But Simon seems to want to persist, and he leans back a bit.  He caresses the side of your face gently, and it makes you open your eyes to see warm eyes, the colour of melted caramel looking at you with so much love.  “‘Ts true.  You are talented.  I wouldn’t have hired you if you weren’t.” 

“What are you trying to say?”

“What do you think I’m trying to say?”

“Oh my god, Simon, seriously!”

 “I noticed that you doubt yourself more.  You look to me for approval more, defer to me more…you didn’t used to.  Not before, well, this.”

“Oh.” 

“Wanna talk about it?” he says, voice muffled because his lips press against your cheek over and over and make you giggle.

“Yeah—I.  Yeah.  Sorry I freaked out earlier.   And you were right to go off at me today, I messed up and I shouldn’t have—”

“Hush about that, sweet girl.  Talk to me.”

You take a deep breath and exhale slowly, trying to calm your racing heart.  This is your safe space, you remind yourself.  All your secrets, all your insecurities, everything that makes you you is safe with him.  Both in his mind and in his heart, always.  That’s what you’d agreed to be for each other.

You reach up to fiddle with the ring you wear on a chain around your neck, instead of on your left hand, where it belongs.

“I’ve been..worried about my career.  Sleeping with the boss was one thing, but now—”

“Now yer more.”

“Now I’m your wife.  And if people find out…I guess.  I guess, I’ve just been worried that it looks a certain kind of way.  You’ve given me pretty much free reign in your kitchen, and if people find out it’s because we went from strangers to married in 6 months, it’s going to be horrible for my career.”

“God, love.  You give a shit what they think?”

“I mean…yeah.  I could pretend that I don’t, but I still have to work with them everyday.  I don’t know, I just…yeah.  Whatever.  Yeah.”

“Eloquent,” he comments and shifts a little, so you lie on his chest now, and you can hear his heart.  The soundtrack to your life together.  “They can fight the wall if they question why you have the kitchen, love.  You’re talented.  Natural leader.  Place is doing well under you.  Besides, ‘ts still my kitchen.  I’m still yer boss and you’re still only the sous,” he grins, and smacks your exposed ass.  “If you want me to ride your ass ‘bout your shitty salads…all you gotta do is ask.” 

“Am I overthinking this?  Is anyone but me even wondering about this?  Or am I just being—“

“Don’t say—”

“—OTT?”

Oh, now he’s riled up.  He pinches the bridge of his nose and screws his eyes shut, tilting his head up to the ceiling.  “You’re allowed to feel this way, pet. It’s not OTT.  You’re just in a situation you haven’t been in before.”

You snort and it makes him glare down at you, knowing exactly what it is you’re going to say.  “Yeah, never been married to my boss before.”

He flicks your nose and you giggle again.  “So what would you like to do, Mrs Riley?  You want to find a new employer…?”

Moment of truth. “Would you—would it make you sad if I said…maybe yes?  And that maybe we would talk about this again?”

Simon Riley’s not a man who smiles a lot.  Being with you may have made him soft and a fool in love, but every one of his shy, dimpled grins are so special, so unique, that you feel like you need to earn them.  So when he graces you with one, you have to lean forward and kiss him.  Again and again and again until you’re smiling against each other’s mouths too much, and your teeth clack together and his grip on your hips tightens.

“Would it make me sad to have my wife in a job that makes her happy?”  He scoffs, but the effect is ruined by the smile he can’t seem to keep off of his face now that it’s here.  “No, I don’t believe it would, pet.  Although...you might have to work hard for a squeaky clean recommendation,” he add, wickedly.

You proceed to work hard, though not a thing you do to your husband that night is squeaky clean.    

[sinni-ok-sessi]

Would love to hear any thoughts on the codification of the poet-persona over time? 👀

Ok so in the spirit of the ask game, I am not checking any citations on this whatsoever, but if you want those lmk (though they uh. largely do not exist for rímur-poets specifically, because only me and Hans Kuhn have ever cared).

This is going to require some context because, as established, the number of living people who know and care about medieval rímur can be counted on my two hands. Probably without thumbs. So, rímur are a poetic form that developed in 14th cen Iceland, which look kind of ballad-y, in that they often use four-line stanzas with ABAB end-rhyme, though actually the ballad tradition in Iceland is quite distinct (on which, see Vésteinn Ólason, The Ballads of Iceland). End-rhyme was very exciting for Icelandic poets because it was only previously a thing in some uncommon types of skaldic metres, but rímur (as their name suggests) have end-rhyme as a defining feature and rapidly become The dominant form of poetry in Iceland until well into the 19th cen.

There are two very distinctive things about rímur, other than their metres: 1) they almost never tell 'new' stories; almost all rímur narratives are attested earlier in other forms, usually in prose, which can sometimes lead to the fun cycle of saga -> rímur cycle -> old saga is lost, new version is written based on the rímur -> more rímur are written based on the new saga -> repeat until the heat death of the universe; 2) as the form develops, it acquires introductory stanzas known as mansöngvar, a term which elsewhere usually means 'love poetry', although that's not really what they're doing here.

Mansöngvar are verses, sometimes in a different metre to the rest of the canto they're attached to, in which the poet speaks directly to the audience. In the medieval period, they're pretty short and often don't say more than 'look, I made you some poetry', but as time goes on, they get more and more elaborate, and the character of the poet begins to develop some quite distinctive traits. What's interesting here is that rímur were (certainly in the medieval period; less certainly later on) performed aloud, presumably by the poet, so there's definitely some questions to be asked about how accurate the poets' self-descriptions are when presumably the audience could go 'you're not pining away for love, Jón Jónsson, I've met your wife!'

So anyway, these mansöngvar are often linked to the medieval German Minnesänger tradition (er. The actual German word might be slightly different because I still don't speak German despite my PhD supervisor's pointed remarks), which is more overtly love poetry and which sometimes features the poet as an abject and despised lover of some cruel lady. This is something rímur-poets from the later medieval period and onwards have an incredibly good time with. You may be familiar with the story of Þórr wrestling with Elli, the personification of old age in the form of an old woman. There are at least two medieval rímur poets who have a whole extended passage about 'oh alas, when I was young I was a terrible flirt but now I'm old and no women like me, except oh no, I am being courted by this ugly old giant lady; Elli is the only ladyfriend for me now, wah'. it's very playful, it's very fun, it's drawing on this general sense that the poets put forward that they're poetically gifted, but romantically unlucky, which is kind of a Thing for poets across a lot of European literature (and probably more broadly, but I don't know much about that), and is especially pronounced in the earlier Icelandic sagas about poets, which usually feature poets failing to win the love of their life for various reasons (sudden attack of Christianity; sudden attack of magic seals; sudden attack of Other Guy With Sword; etc). So in evoking this, rímur-poets are situating themselves in this existing Image of the Ideal Poet, but doing so in a way that ties them into the specifics of the Norse literary/mythological tradition as well. Poets are also frequently old and tired (same, bro), and a statistically improbably number of them are also blind (although that might just be two guys we know about who were really prolific; most rímur are anonymous so it's hard to say. But it is perhaps convenient that this also links them to A Great Poet of Old, namely Homer).

The other thing that rímur-poets really like to bring up in their mansöngvar is the myth of the mead of poetry, which I will not recount here except to say that Óðinn nicked it from a giant, and also that some dwarves used it to buy safe passage off a skerry once, so it's poetically termed 'ship of the dwarves' because it's the thing that brought them safely across the sea. Every single medieval mansöngur, if one exists at all, refers to this myth in some way, even if it's just by having the 'I made you some poetry' bit use a kenning for 'poetry' that references the myth.* And poets have a lot of fun with this too! Iceland's a coastal community, they know about boats, so you get these extended metaphors about poets trying to board a boat to sample the mead of poetry and finding only the dregs because other, better poets got there first. Or they will describe the process of poetic composition in terms of ship-building: 'Here I nail together Suðri's [a dwarf name] boat'; 'Norðri's ship sets out from the harbour [= I'm about to start reciting the main bit now]'; 'the fine vessel has now been wrecked on the rocks [=I'm going to stop reciting now]'. They'll also speak of poetry as smíð, which means a work of craftsmanship, usually physical craftsmanship (obviously cognate with smithing in English), and of brewing the ale of Óðinn, so they're really into metaphors of physical craft when it comes to the intellectual craft of poetry, which I think is really neat.

*kennings = poetic circumlocutions, e.g. 'snake of the belt' is a sword because swords are vaguely snake-shaped and hang from a belt. Common poetry kennings are '[drink/liquid/ale/wine/mead] of [any of Óðinn's literally dozens of names]' e.g. 'Berlingr's wine', and the aforementioned 'ship of the dwarves' - poetic Icelandic has literally dozens of words for different kinds of ships and also literally dozens of dwarf names, so you can get a long way without repeating yourself.

So all these things that I've mentioned that poets like to bring up - old age, unluckiness in love, poets as craftsmen - become more and more tropified as time goes on, which in turn leads to these imaginative and extended reworkings of the metaphor. No longer can you just say 'I'm old and no one fancies me', no, it's 'My only assignations now are with Elli, wink wink, here's a long description of our date'. So you end up with this very codified image of The Ideal Rímur-Poet as an old man,* ideally blind, ideally unmarried, incredibly self-deprecating about his poetry, and because that's how everyone else talks, it's self-reinforcing.

*there is one (1) known female rímur-poet from the medieval period, the poet of Landrés rímur, who unfortunately didn't write many mansöngur stanzas but is doing her best with the 'unlucky in love' bit, although her lover (male) seems to have died rather than ditched her, which is a novelty.

Anyway, it's cool and weird and fun and as I say, only me and Hans Kuhn care, academically speaking.

[thebeeshaveknees]

Uhhhh so I decided my first attempt at a trolls fic would be a rewrite of the whole third movie because I'm Silly and I wanted to put JD x DD as like frenemies but romance but I ended up going heavy on the romance and it made me sad so I'm throwing it to the wolves for judgement

When John Dory had fallen into Delta Dawn's pod yet again, he hadn't expected to wake up with a ladybug on his chest.

He nudged her with his foot to wake her up. "Uh. DD."

She grumbled some alliterate curse at him, but rolled over and also saw the ladybug. "John, on my life if you don't get that vermin out of my bed I'll make you walk to the jailhouse in your underthings."

He picked it up, rolled out of bed and was about to put it on the floor when he got smacked upside the head. "Not on my floors neither', John, it's your woods' bug."

John sighed dramatically, waddling to the window with the bug held at arm's reach. "Could you get the window?"

Dawn opened the window latch and John tipped the insect up trying to fit it through, and he noticed the note. "It's a messenger ladybug?" He showed her the underside with eight squirmy legs and a note tied to it with a string. Dawn cringed but grabbed the note around its spindly legs and JD put it out the window. "Sheriff mail?"

She gave him a short look. "Yes, you snoop, now put on a shirt." She said, sitting herself down on the bed to read the letter.

JD threw on his leather jacket, before peeking over DD's shoulder at the note.

"Nothin' interesting, interloper." She teased, looking up at him. "A troll from Pop Village is missing, I'll up patrols for a little while, but it's already been a month - really, ladybugs for messengers.

Something in John's gut twisted, and he'd been following his gut for two decades without fail. "What's their name?"

She opened the letter again. "Branch. Dark blue hair, teal skin, dull coloured." She read, before looking back up at him.

John Dory froze. He felt his stomach twist in knots. "From Pop Village?"

"You look pale, darlin."

"Did it say anything about his disappearance?"

She put her hand on his shoulder, but went back to reading the letter. "Says he was taken from Pop Village by something, it left a trail to the big folks' road but no farther." She looked at him. "You know the troll?"

"He's my brother." John blurted before he could really think it through, leaning into Delta, eyeing the cardstock in her hand. "My baby brother."

"I'm sorry, darlin." She said very softly, wrapping her arm around his shoulder. "When are you leaving?"

"As soon as the market opens, I need to stock up."

"Any ideas where he could be?"

"Not yet, but it's Bitty, I'm sure I could… Maybe I could ask my other brothers for help."

DD sighed, but put her head on his. "Should I come along, interloper?"

JD let his eyelids droop. "I wish, but it seems a traveler can only ever chase the Dawn."

She snorted. "How on earth did I fall for a poet?" She pulled John further into her side. "Don't go chasing what's waiting for you, cowboy."

"If I didn't, how would I keep you on your hooves, Sheriff?"

She sighed, and both just enjoyed the warmth for a moment. "Be safe, you hear?"

"As safe as I usually am." John replied.

They waited for the market to open, for John to leave, in warm silence.

[mybelovednick]

Crimson and Clover, Honey (Chapter 1)

Main Page

Nick Sturniolo x Male!character

Summary Nick Sturniolo is a Bookstore owner in a small town in Northern Italy. Vayu Arora is an elementary school teacher who is a frequent customer at Nick's Store. Both of them meet and they are suppose to fall in love like faith intended. But what happens when one of them is unable to let go of their past selves?

Nick x male!character Angst Fluff/comfort Hurt/comfort

TW: Too corny ig

******

1

The people we meet in our lives are just stories. Some are more haunting than others. It is one of life's gifts, I suppose. I am a story, so are you and so was the man with the bluest eyes I had ever seen.

The words we exchange, the touch we share, the emotions we experience, the way we live and love, the way we hate - it all comes together to form our stories. The man with the beautiful blue eyes and a magnificent smile had a story intertwined with mine, it was not all the bad parts, and there were parts that I am grateful for. These stories make us who we are, shape our thoughts and in turn, merge with the universe itself when we are gone.

I remember when I first saw him. He was sitting all alone in his beautiful bookstore. He seemed unreal at first. The honeycomb rays of sunlight split through the cracks of the clouds and flowed like a yellow stream of jellyfish into the room, through that slightly cracked window just past him. The dark room was dimly lit and you could barely make out that he was there sitting in silence.

    The room was filled with posters of vintage films, and 80’s rock bands, along with pictures of Saints, and wooden artefacts that looked like they were carved by the Gods, even. In the backdrop, he was immersed in his small, emerald-gold book, in his own little world.

    He was so still, it was uncanny. If it wasn’t for the sun, the dark room would have gobbled him up. It would seem like he was one of the wooden statues himself. Carved by the angels. But his blue eyes gave away the fact that he was not a part of that inanimate silence, rather something living and breathing within the same intimate space. His eyes were as blue as the ocean that Italy herself shared her beautiful beaches with.

“Do you mind?”  The boy’s voice echoed in the dimly-lit room. The tone was unwelcoming, his voice wasn’t ‘smooth as honey’ like the poets usually describe of beautiful men in their lovely poems; it was husky and sharp like a knife- similar to a thunder rolling down the dark clouds. “Hello? Back to earth pretty boy. Aren’t you going to buy something?”.

That made me fluster. I hastily grabbed the nearest book that my hand could reach. In the process, I knocked down a few books and winced as they fell on the ground with a loud ‘thud’ that made one of the window panes rattle. I was about pick them up.

“Leave it be.” The young man said. “I’ll pick ‘em up later.”

“Uh- okay.” I stupidly mumbled and practically sprinted towards the counter. “These books please.” I winced for a second time as I unintentionally placed the books too loudly on the table top for him to check.

I wanted to crawl into a cave and die.

But then I heard a soft chuckle. It was then when I first saw him smile. I caught myself smiling back at him. I loved his nose ring, I loved his freckled cheek, I loved how the sun seemed to give him a faint touch of blush, I loved how red his lips were, I lov-

“Should I give you a carry bag?” His voice once again forced me to snap back into reality.

I simply nodded and handed him a few Euros. “Uhm, I am Vayu… by the way.”

As I extended my right hand for a handshake, He picked up my bag and placed it on my hand, “Nice to meet you. Have a good day.” Why had I expected him to return the favour by providing his name as well?  I knew his smile was forced but I would never admit that to myself. Embarrassed with the entire chain of events, I nodded awkwardly and walked away from the store.

That was three months ago.

~~~

“Damn dude! So you went to the bookstore, saw an average white guy with fake blonde hair which could be his wig. Threw all the books on the ground and practically destroyed his counter top. And he ghosted you right to your face?” Nathan burst out laughing.

“That was a stretch but yes, thank you for summarising my own tragedy to me, Nate.” I rolled my eyes and sat back with my arms tucked close to my chest.

Nathan, Tara and I taught at the same school, St. Maria Elementary. It was a small school in practically nowhere of Northern Italy. I moved into this town, about six months ago. I was born and brought up in Delhi, India. But things changed when I decided to come out to my family. My parents were not okay with the fact that their only son was doomed to not having a child of his own to continue the legacy of the Arora family just because he could never love a woman. I never blamed them, though. I did understand their perspective and respected their wishes. But it was suffocating for me to stay there. I needed to leave and so I did. I had my masters in Zoology and Bachelors degree in Education from some of the most prestigious universities in the country. I could go to the US or the UK or any other place with my own expenditure. But I decided to apply to somewhere safe and peaceful. And the faiths brought me here, in this town.

And I was happy then. I had bought myself a small two storied bungalow down the ‘Via del Canto’ street. The house was dirty and filthy when I bought it but I did do my best to make it feel like home. I knew it was the one from the moment I saw the beautiful backyard which I always dreamed of having. The street was not a very well-known one. It was a chore to ride uphill with a bicycle but I loved my own space. You could even see the ocean from the veranda of my bedroom.

I have always been a practical man. Once I reached here, I immediately had an established job and a place to stay. My aunt, Irani, who lived in Milan, helped me a lot throughout this process. “But you are over-qualified to be a biology teacher in a small school like this, Vayu.” She would say, “You are a talented young man and with a few more years of training, you could be a reputed professor in some of the most prestigious Universities in the world! Why waste your talent?”. And she was right. Why waste my years in a middle of fucking nowhere? I didn’t know the exact answer for this but for once I wanted to listen to my heart. Ever since my childhood I did whatever my parents asked me to do, whatever was expected of me from society. All these twenty-eight years of people-pleasing culminated to me getting abandoned by people I thought were my own. So what was the point?

Nevertheless here I was, all alone in a foreign country. That was until I met Nathan, the English teacher and Tara, the art teacher in the same school I worked in as a Biology teacher; and I felt like I found a place in this world. They were some of the best people I ever met and I will always be grateful to be a part of their lives.  

            As usual, the three of us sat down at our table in the teachers’ cafeteria during recess time. We shared all our stories of our past selves. I talked about almost everything with them and they knew about me liking other men. It was a secret between our trio because Tara was a ‘raging’ (her words) bisexual and Nate was apparently bi-curious and still not sure of any labels. I mean kudos to each of us.

The conversation continued.

“Stop laughing like a fucking hyena Nate.” Tara snapped. Nathan stifled his laughter while wiping off tears from his eyes after all that laughter. “So Vayu.” Tara turned towards me, leaning in closely to engage in the conversation, “You said he smiled too right?”

I nodded like a child about to be given some hope in the form of candy.

“Hey! That does mean he liked your goofy-ass.” Tara boasted proudly.

“I mean I think so.” I whispered, mostly to myself in hopes of self-consolidation.

“That’s great. By the way, what did you buy?” Nathan asked mid bite while chomping on his sandwich.

“Uhh…” I couldn’t say it and my ears were starting to turn red.

“What’s the matter? Say it” Tara was curious too.

“Okay fine I accidentally bought porno magazine along with Shakespeare’s Hamlet. I don’t even like Hamle-..”

Nathan was almost choking on his sandwich. And Tara looked at me like a disappointed mom about to beat his son’s ass.

“You guys, hear me out-..” I was begging for my dearest dignity, “I was in a hurry okay? And the guy was truly very pretty. I got distracted and..”

“And what?” Nathan cut me off while he was gasping for air, “Bought a fucking Playboy and showed him the horny-ass motherfucker that you really are? I can’t. I need air, Tara! Get me some fucking air right now.”

“Nate you are sweating and you look redder than the tomato in your sandwich. Get a grip, man.” Tara said.

“Vayu look,” Tara was serious now, “Don’t be so anxious about such trivial matters. It was just an infatuation. Right? Right?”

“Right.” I lowered my gaze.

“It is not like you have to see him every day.”

“I suppose you are not wrong.” I replied and Tara smiled.\

“And get a bottle of water for Nate. Dying from choking on a sandwich is not a sexy way to go.” Tara ordered.

I really did love my friends. And maybe Tara was right. Maybe it was a onetime thing. Although, I would love to see that smile once again, someday maybe.

**********

Next Chapter

A/N : This is my first ever fanfic series for the Sturniolo fandom. I used to write a lot during my 1D days. I know there is not much nick content right now. Because I want to introduce Vayu to the readers first. More to come, hopefully. Please do comment your honest opinion. <3

Tag: @ohmtoff @loud-sturniolos @matty-bear2 @maria4mari @solarsturniolo @freshloveforthefit @darl1ngdr1sta @tkhzs @thenickgirl @soursturniolo @certifiednatelover

(pls let me know if you feel uncomfortable if tagged)

[roguelov]

horny dream i could handle but romantic dream? im a puddle on the floor he'd say the most cheesiest stuff but he'd make it sound so beautiful he's taking you out for a walks around his palace, to show you the wonders of the dreaming and he'd put all the famous poets to shame with his words

I would be a puddle either way 😂

The gentle breeze from Fiddler’s Green brushed over your cheeks. The soft haze of a perfect sunny afternoon streamed in through the foliage above. Under the shade, you rested comfortably on Dream’s chest while Dream leaned into the tree.

You silently read a new book, a recommendation from Lucienne. A soft smile painted across your lips as you enjoyed this lazy moment. Dream, however, kept his attention solely on you. His arms wrapped around your waist, unwilling to ever let you go. He sighed, and kissed your temple.

“You look lovely, my dear,” he whispered.

You chuckled, still reading the book, “Do I?”

“Yes,” he hummed, starting to kiss down your face and neck. “Lovely as always.”

You sighed, blissfully, “Thanks, that’s very kind of you.”

“Kind? I am merely stating facts, my dear. Anyone can see it.”

A heat rose to your cheeks and bashfully mumbled your thanks.

Dream lifted his head. He gently cupped your cheek, turning your head to look directly at him. “Do you not see what I see?”

“I do - I, uh, I’m just taken back a little. I usually don’t hear compliments so often.”

“My dear,” he purred. “Stars do not compare to the twinkle in your eyes. Your smile could cast out the sun and prevent any dreary rain for eons. Your laughter is the sweetest melody and my most valued treasure. You are the reason my heart beats, and the reason I take another breath. To be in your presence is to live.”

Your eyes widened. Your heart fluttered in your chest like a hummingbird. You let out a shaky breath, “Oh, wow, um, thank you … I … uh … that’s very sweet of you to say.”

Dream smiled softly, and kissed your forehead. “I only know of sweetness because of you.”

[writer-darling]

For All the Sad Mad Poets

Rating: T - TEENS (13+)

Pairing: Marcus Pike (The Mentalist, 2008) x GN!Reader

Warnings: Gender neutral reader. Pre-established relationship. Post-breakup. Whole lotta angst. Cursing. Mentions of being drunk. Love confessions. Crying. If there are any that I missed, please inbox me to let me know and I will add them in :)

Word Count: 1.7k

Summary!: Inspired by Pedro’s “For All the Lovesick Mad Sad Geniuses” monologue for The 24 Hours Plays channel on Youtube

******

There’s a single-note ding and your phone lights up your nightstand in the black of your bedroom. Your eyes squint to fight the intense brightness before they adjust as you grab your device as you turn over in bed. What time is it? The corner of your phone screen reads 12:34 a.m. The banner notification of the new message on your screen has no contact name, just the usual 10-digits number combo, but you recognize it immediately. Without a second thought, you open it up and see that the message has no text, just a video. Now you hesitate, but you still press play after a microsecond’s deliberation.  

He’s drunk. You can tell that almost immediately. The too-red of his face, the glazed haziness of his deep brown eyes. His lopsided, closed-lip smile that accentuates his dimple. All classic symptoms of a very inebriated Marcus Pike. Which makes perfect sense. There’s no way he would’ve recorded this video sober. Even less of a chance that he would have sent this to you. Especially not looking like this. The Marcus you knew always maintained a cleanshaven, neat appearance. But his hair is longer, a slight wave to the fringe that frames the right side of his face. He’s also let his facial hair grow out in a moustache and patchy beard. It’s very unlike him but he looks incredibly handsome.

And you? Well, you’re not doing so hot either. The tears that lulled you to sleep last night have long-since dried off, leaving itchy streaks down your face. The shirt - one of his old T-shirts you’d kept - you’re wearing and shorts that you haven’t even bothered to change out of all weekend. You’re also too damn curious or maybe just too damn stupid enough to open up the attachment. Even after ten months, your heart skips a beat. Even after ten months, you’re still crying and caring about him. You hear a soft exhale and your eyes are drawn to him again, your heart warming at the familiar sight of him and the dimple on his right cheek. He glances down for a second, before looking up once more as he lets out a throaty chuckle.

“Hi,” His voice is steady, confident, but then he drops the smile as if already regretting this. “I was thinking about you. I always do, around this time - every time of the day, actually.” The admission is slightly rushed as he averts his gaze again. “Anyway, uh probably not even thinking about me. Do you ever think about me? A little?” There it is, the famous puppy dog doeness of his brown eyes that gives him an instantly boyish demeanor and made you fall head-over-heels for him what seems like forever ago. He gives a slight shake of his head, even as you’re nodding along to the question. Not that he can see you of course. But of course you think about him. It’s impossible for you not to think about him. Even now.

He glances off as a look of confusion crosses his features, a sigh escaping him. “What was I saying? What am I-?” He cuts off, sighing again, “What am I saying?? Don’t lose track, fuck.” He mutters to himself. He steps back, before dropping down close to the camera again, another drunken smile appearing for a moment, self-amused for losing his train of thought. Or maybe the courage the alcohol gave him, you’re not sure. He suddenly slaps both of his palms over his face and drags them down his face, contorting his features in the process and making a soft laugh involuntarily escape you as he whimpers once quietly. A loud clap from him makes you jump and then he points at you, making you resomber. 

“Do you remember… Do you remember,” He snaps before continuing, “when we saw that uh, what was it, uh?” Two snaps this time, with both hands. “You remember?” He gives up and backtracks, “They used to be in these big ass expensive fuckin’ buildings, you remember? What were they called, um?” His desperation is palpable, even through the screen as he turns to walk directly away from the camera before crossing diagonally to your right. There’s a commotion of sound, as if he’s tossing everything around in search of something specific. As it grows louder for a moment, you almost grow worried but then he’s filling your view again with a familiar playbill next to him and a wide grin on his face. “Plays!” He exclaims, proudly. The site of the cover of the playbill with its tattered edges and faded coloring tugs at your heartstrings. He’d kept it all this time? “This??” He accentuates the question by tapping the title on the cover. You’re reading it aloud along with him, though you know the name of it from memory. “The Last of the Sad, Mad Genuises.”

“Remember plays?” He asks, and his tone is soft in its innocence. “Songs? Poetry?” A brief hopeful smile flits across his features but it's gone in an instant. “Yeah, me neither.” His tone drops instantly from playful to somber and he averts his eyes, ruefully. He talks about these things as if they no longer exist, as if they were from a past life. But you know instantly what he means. Since him, since Marcus, there’s stuff you can’t enjoy anymore. You can’t watch any black and white movie because it’ll just remind you of the countless Cinema Nights you two spent on his couch, cuddled up close as he whispered movie trivia to you ad nauseum. Oogum Boogum by Brenton Wood still makes you cry because all you can picture is when Marcus sang it terribly offkey to you on your third date at a Karaoke bar. 

“Remember we saw this play? And you laughed so hard you peed a little?” You should have been embarrassed, mortifyingly so, but you just couldn’t be. You were so comfortable with him, and he never made fun of you for it. “And, what was that fucking line in the play?? How the fuck did it go??? If,” He closes his eyes, his dark brows furrowing in concentration, “If, If, If-?” He opens his eyes and points again, “If you’ve got one friend when you die, you got something most people never have.” You nod again, impressed he was able to recall it. 

“And I tried to quote that shit back at you, and you laughed at me cuz I fucked it up.” He lets out a reluctant chuckle. “And I kissed you,” He pauses and looks up at you again. Your heart squeezes in response to the look in his eyes, even when he tears his gaze away again. He shudders. “And you let me?” He whimpers again and you release a shuddering sigh in response. “And it-” He swallows, his voice thick as his eyes have a faraway look in them as he looks at anything but the camera. 

“It rained like we were in a fucking movie, and life was never better than that.” You hate to admit it, but you feel the same way too. That moment had been torn right out of the pages of your romance novel and you thanked Cupid himself for allowing you to experience it. Especially with Marcus. “Shit, shit!” As he begins to break down, releasing these gasping, shuddering breaths that move his shoulders, your heart lodges itself in your throat as tears brim your own eyes, even as you recall such a sweet memory. 

The way he had held you close against the sudden chill of the rain, his body warm and sweet and safe. The loud pattering of the raindrops as they hit your bodies and the pavement underneath your feet. The softness of his lips on yours, and the same doeness of his eyes. It had been nothing short of magical. “Why did you have to love me like that?” He asks softly. Your hand instinctively touches your phone screen as if it’s his face, caressing the edge of the device gently. He seemingly regains his composure, but then he covers his mouth and releases another gasp, 

“WHY DID YOU HAVE TO LOVE ME BACK?!” The eruption from him makes you jump so much you almost drop your phone, not realizing you had leaned in so much the further you watched the video. You sit up straight and readjust, “Y’know? Why’d you do that? You… You had to have known that-that it, you’d send me into a kind of madness. Y’know? So-Sometimes, sometimes I think maybe-” He cuts off before trying again. “Sometimes maybe uh, I made you up… uh… sometimes.” Your heart breaks all over again at his confession and this time a couple of tears fall as you continue to watch, too enraptured by his madness to look away. 

“So, I go,” his gaze travels off to glance around the room he’s in for a moment. “into the quietest parts of this house and..,” He looks directly at you again. “I whisper your name.” A shiver runs down your spine at that. “I wish I could scream it.” Your body feels hot all over even as more tears begin to fall at that. “I should,” he continues. “Should I scream it?” You’re nodding again and so is he, a sudden determination in his voice. “I will, I should!”

He draws in a deep gasp. You can see that he’s about to do it, ramping himself up. Your own body tenses in anticipation, the hand holding your phone tightening its grip while the other tightens up into a fist as it rests against your thigh. You swear you can practically see his lips begin to form the letters of your name. But then he releases the energy in a slight hiss from between his teeth, followed by a defeated sigh and a slump of his shoulders. 

“Yeah I… I can’t send this.” He mumbles. He lets out a humorless laugh. He grabs the playbill again and straightens up and away from the camera finally releasing you from his stare. He places the bill with both palms against his chest, his heart, clutching it tenderly before running a hand through his hair. He moves close again, dropping his hands and the bill. “You’re just making a damn fool of yourself, Pike. Fuck it.” The black screen greets you next and you’re up and out of bed in the next moment. Without a second thought, you’ve put on your shoes, grabbed your keys, and headed out. He’s awake, you think. He’ll open the door. You’re sure of it.

*******

So this was fun. My first time writing for Marcus Pike and I was too tempted to do this angsty piece. I rewatch this monologue a lot but to actually study and pause it continuously to try and find the best way to describe Pedro’s incredible emotional performance in this was so challenging, but I adored every second of it. I’m tempted to write a part 2 to bring some closure to the story but I also do like it as a standalone. Idk, I guess you all will tell me what you think. Either way, thanks a million for reading, hope you enjoyed, and see you in the next one!

Tag List: @pedrocentric @luz-introvertida @castleamc @moralesfish @klara-luise18 @supernaturalgirl89 @december-gal1 @pbeatriz @castleamcc @hillarymurray4​ @supernaturalgirl @supernaturalgirl20​ @sherala007​ @littlemisspascal​ @practicalghost​ @donnaa​ @scorpio-marionette​ @kayleezra​ @amandanik23​ @maxpbxtch97 @lowlights @shadesofnerdlygrace @harriedandharassed @carefulnowprincess @amneris21 @horton-hears-a-honk @xdaddysprincessxx @trickstersp8 @mswarriorbabe80 (hope it’s ok that I’m tagging you all!)

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[bluenightcomedies]

uuuugh i keep procrastinating cuz i wanna make new refs n' arts n' all for us all but art slow so fuggit placeholder pinned abt the system better pinned with comm details, other accs, etc later :3 will reopen for commissions once arty verifies me! as a whole we're legally deaf and disabled! we can all draw but have diff styles/preferences :3 body is 30 (eugh i don't like admitting that) so am adult BUT we don't wanna be involved in nsfw art so pls respect that⭐ We can't get a formal diagnosis due to various real life issues, so we're not going to claim any particular diagnosis, but we can't exactly ignore the symptoms and stay masked forever. We're going to stay out of syscourse as much as possible, of course. 🌙 each alter has an assigned emoji so ppl can tell us apart easier if needed, use em as our tags too (when we remember) note- using they/them for any of us fine too!⭐

(doesn't include alters that rarely or never front) ⭐star emoji = Blue! she/her pls~ guess i'm the honorary host cuz i front most. uhhh... nothing rly too fancy i can say abt myself, i'm p affectionate and love y2k art and hanging out, i try to be as nice as i can >w< my art's usually sketchbooky, with thin lines and soft colors/shading!

💠this blue gem/flower emoji is Azure! she/her, she's kinda new to the system. looks n' acts a lot like me but uh... more childish i guess? very silly, very 'cringe culture is dead'. loves to rp, say silly things, n' cling to people. hyperfixates on Dot Hack (RIP) her art looks like mspaint x3 🌙 (Writing for myself since I'm available.) The name's Lune, hence moon emoji, and I use she/her pronouns as well. Formerly "Starry" but people kept confusing me with Blue due to her star symbolism. Used to be the designated mask, I'm glad I don't have to do that anymore... Sometimes I re-mask out of habit so if something sounds like me but wasn't marked as an alter, it probably is me. I have a flat tone and chronic paranoid anxiety so uh... Let me know if I come across as rude, I usually don't mean to. I enjoy doing research and organizing information, so I'm often the one to fact-check things or find guides and how-to's for the system. My art's very bold and colorful, and friends describe it as 'angular'. Clashes with my personality, huh? 🗝️key emoji = Sylverwynd! he uses he/him! he's super laid back and chill, i've never seen him upset or anything, but he's rly long-winded talks... kinda poet-y? he loves reading and talking abt lore and myths so he'll pop in if ur talking abt something he likes or if he has trivia 2 share! fave genres r horror n' fantasy he's still experimenting w/ style but likes drawing rly soft

❌cross emoji= Laceburner! it/its or they/them pronouns! tbh i'm not used to it/its pronouns but Lace wanted em; it's very uh... emotionally empty i guess? aroace, agender, can't socialize or empathize v well. it usually fronts when the rest of us are tired or in pain cuz it just ignores all that. likes 2000's scenemo aesthetics though which is surprising but ye idk how to describe its style, but it's trying to mimic emo art n' likes bright colored lines with dark bg/colors 🗡️the dagger is Kal! he/him pronouns, he gets angry and stressed abt things really easy but he gets too hostile abt it so he tries to not front too much; need to find him a way to de-stress n' chill out... when he's not mad at smth he's a good sympathetic listener imo, still swears and talks all rough tho hasn't drawn much yet but does rly harsh lines and fast/messy sketches when he does (and gets riled up by mistakes =w=;)

❤️heart is Weiss! genderfluid, goes by any pronouns, usually uses whatever they like at the time x3 has a hard time fronting but tries to. flirty, loves dumb jokes, overly confident... (we worry they'd get us in trouble sometimes cuz the shit they want to say) loves demon and monster-related stuff! still experimental style but uses bold colors and thick rough lines a lot, may get suggestive (forbidden from outright nsfw, don't ask >:c) btw ur always welcome to direct asks @ someone specific >w< we just might take a while to respond

[lavender-bundle-blithe]

BSD + Pokemon Pt. 1.5 (ADA + PM Extras!)

I ran out of space on the last one... So here's more! And since it's a shorter list, I don't need to place the 'keep reading' bit WOO-!

ADA

Katai: Rotom (An electric Pokemon for Katai's electric Ability, but very much a helpful companion when it comes to Katai's work as an information broker, even though he's now a former member of the agency. And for the funies, they could either be just like Katai and like to doze or the complete opposite and be like a puppy with zoomies.)

Naomi: Zorua (To match Tanizaki's Hisuian Zorua, really-)

Haruno: Eevee (She just seems like an Eevee girl to me. If I were to give her an Eeveelution though, I would have give her Leafeon.)

PM

Oda: Absol (compliments Oda's "Flawless" with him able to see six seconds into the future and Absol able to detect danger by their horn. [note, I wrote this one before I wrote Dazai's])

Ace: Carbink (One word but several synonyms. Gemstone. Jewels. Crystals. Ya get the gist-)

Verlaine: Midday Form Lycanroc (To more or less match with his color palette [by that I mean his hair] and as well as Chuuya's Lycanroc)

Rimbaud: Pumpkaboo (I dunno, it just seems to fit the man. And- uh- also I took the fact that IRL author is a French poet, and Kalos is Pokemon's equivalent to France, soooo… I cheesed it, I'm sorry.)

Albatross: Revavroom (I'll be honest; I don't know much of the Flags, mainly their personalities, so I'm purely going on the bsd fandom wiki. And here, it says that Albatross was responsible for the mafia's vehicles. It was either this ghost car engine or Cyclizar… O-Or either Koraidon or Miraidon… hm-)

Doc: Litwick (Yes, the Nurse Joys in the anime have the usual Pokemon as their assistant, but they can have other Pokemon. And seeing Doc's description, Litwick seems like the best option when it comes to: "desipite the amount of people he had saved, he had also purposely robbed as many lives in his line of work". Basically Litwick's flame absorbs life energy.)

Iceman: Marshadow (Looking at it now, reading his personality after his occupation, Marshadow seems like the best candidate. Marshadow can merge well in the shadows, keeping itself hidden from people. And in Iceman's description in skills>stealth: "Iceman had the expertise of blending well with his surroundings like a shadow.")

Lippmann: Ninetails (Staring at that man's face, and the fact that he was the one dealing with public relations in the mafia, a really fancy Pokemon suited him. And it came down to Ninetails, Florges, and surprisingly Frosmoth. Unfortunately we don't have them in color BUT we have STAGEPLAYYY, and Ninetails definitely suits this handsome man.)

Piano Man: Gimmighoul (My guy deals with crafting supernotes. Money. Gimmighoul may be a coin, but is the closest to money in the Pokemon universe. So give the funny man a coin for his troubles. I was actually thinking about giving him Chien-Pao, but that's pushing the hc/au[?] that he and Atsushi are related [yes I am on that bandwagon, I adore that hc/au please gimme more unless I write more])

and ye =w= I'll likely do the Guild tomorrow. I already have some ideas for a few of their members, and maybe a few extras as well, maybe the Special Division folks and--to hell with it--Mushitarou ^^

[milk-and-trickery]

@farspirit - “ So, uh, where do you come from? ” it suddenly dawned on him that he never asked. “ I - I mean, I don’t usually see sentient cookies around the kingdom, you know? ” he probably doesn’t, but nonetheless.

"Well well, if it isn't the 'Squishy Giant'.. or wait.. Charles was your name, right? Ah, but that's too boring to say. No flair, no chance for the dramatic!" There was a look of mock disappointment. Uhg.. he really needed to think of something for this.. tall.. giant.. thing!

"Ah- .. Really." That look of disappointment permeated the Beast's face and tone. Did.. did he not do his entire glamorous introduction tot he giant? Showing off his grandeur as Earthbread's greatest.. well.. Everything!?

That or that big head didn't hold as much information as Shadow Milk Cookie believed.

Bah!

"As I have presented before, I am Earthbread's FINEST playwright, poet, director, actor, clown.. Everyone's most BELOVED TRICKSTER!" He rose a hand with a flourish, a little two tailed crown-like hat appearing in his outstretched hand. While the other held a staff with a blueberry like topper.

"Ohhhh where I am from, there are cookies all over the place! So many toppings, icings and doughs! But none are as wonderful, as handsome and as POWERFUL as myself and my friends~"

[woodstoneb-b]

So another day dawns at Woodstone! And here are two of our heroes getting down to the business of reading.

Hetty: Is that sarcasm I detect? As ghosts we're unable to turn pages of books, I am truly jealous of these... pixels?

Alberta: That reminds me...Sam has the new People come in?

Thor: Thor far prefers the moving picture box, a whole world is contained in there -

Sass: The fact you can't actually read has nothing to do with that -

Thor: Also plenty of attractive people, removing clothes because of increasing temperature.

Sass: Actually...television may be a far better use of one's time...

Isaac: Well, I for one am far more partial to the written word than the trivial tales of man versus temperature. I imagine I'm reacquainting myself with the plays of Shakespeare or one of the great poets.

It was actually a children's book about rocket.

Isaac: Well, one must start somewhere.

Hetty: I must say, this is quite a faithfully recreation of my beloved family home.

Thanks, Hetty. By the way, to all our readers if you come to stay at our fine B&B you'll find my discerning eye in all dishes, which are all prepared on site.

Hetty: Well, once again I'm impressed by the accuracy of these little pixels.. Isaac and I often discuss the nature of death...

Isaac: It's spectre does tend to haunt us...

Right, yeah...haunts you.

Meanwhile here's No-Pants showing his amazing *heh* dart skills.

Trevor: Hey! I haven't played in 20 years, I'd like to see you do better.

Flower: Gee, Thor, I didn't think this show of yours was so literal.

Sass: No, Flower, this is Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares.

Thor: Thor often have nightmares involving flames...

Thor: Wait, what is this?! Who is this hairy man that has captured my Flower's attention?! I will rip his head from his body and -

Woooah, OK, let's settle down, it's just a game, Thor.

Flower: Yeah, although...I like the furriness -

No, no, let's move right on.

Hetty: Hmm, Isaac and I usually have a pondering sessions in the Upstairs Den, but I think this location is far better.

Uh, no, the Library of Woodstone is for use of guests, at least in the daytime.

Hetty: ARRRRRRRRGH!!!

Yikes, whoa...what is this all about?

Hetty: I imagine Pixel me is realising that the life of a ghost awaits her and is suitably distressed by this.

Right...uh...well, in the real B&B, there's no screaming in the night.

Alberta: Well, not screaming, but -

There's no disturbing noises at all in this place, I promise you.

Er, this is an interesting development...No-Pants and the Lady of the House talking?

Trevor: Hey, we've got heaps in common!

Hetty: That's true, we both partook in the magical medicine known as coca-

COCOA, yep, hot cocoa is another speciality here at Woodstone B&B, we purchase it fresh from the local market in the nearby town. You can request it be brought to your room every morning.

Hetty: Oh, the portable telephone device! I can't believe Pixel Trevor has one of his very own!

Actually, in this game, you all -

Trevor: Shut up and let me have this, bro.

We also have this fine lake on our property (where there's absolutely nothing like a dead body submerged in it or anything like that)

Thor: But does it have cod? Thor would be very happy to find out!

Alberta: Well, when I was alive I had to wash my clothing myself, and not with these new-timey automatic washing machines, so I won't even complain about doing it.

Flower: Besides! Washing Machines are fun.

DON'T continue that sentence, please.

Hahaha this is just hilarious!

Hetty: Excuse me! The Lady of the Manor should not be shown in such manner, even in pixelated form.

Now, usually the well-stocked and appointed kitchen of Woodstone is the domain of yours truly, but here in the game, our heroes are free to use it.

Alberta: Eating something prepared by Flower? Boy, that could end up very interesting, if you know what I mean.

Sass: Yeah, I know exactly what you mean, Alberta, and I'm not going to risk it.

Flower: Come on, guys, I'm not going to slip weed in your food, I mean unless you want me to.

This is something that will not happen at Woodstone, where all state and federal laws are strictly followed.

Oh geeze, isn't in bad enough you're No-Pants? You want to be No-Shirt too?

Trevor: Hey, if you've got it...flaunt it ;O)

Isaac: I have to admit, your confidence in yourself is quite something, Trevor. How exactly did you come by it?

Trevor: Well, you know a lot of it is just natural, but you -

Let's move right on from that.

Thor: Alberta did not actually do final part of cloth-washing process, drying.

Alberta: Why would I do that when we've got a clean-freak like you to do it?

Hahahaha, did you get sent to the naughty corner, No-Pants?

Trevor: Hey, my favourite colour is green, so I'm just enjoying the ambience here.

Isaac: He was being extremely annoying and when I told him so, he went off to sulk.

Thor: By the Mighty Fist of Odin! How does so much clothing accumulate in this game?!

Well, there are 8 of you, and you change clothes at least once a day, so do the maths.

Thor: Thor is not good with numbers.

Speaking of numbers...once again we've reached the maximum photos allowed! Stay tuned to see Thor's continual fight with the laundry and No-Pants refusing to even put a shirt on.

Until next time.

[huntunderironskies]

Actually. Sorry, I know I said I don't like talking about joseimuke on this account because it makes me sound deranged, but I have to share this (esp since I try to keep my sideblog more positive because God knows we need it.)

So one of the projects I like to keep up with is Cordgem, which. God how do I explain this. Uh, okay, so Cordgem takes place in steampunk alternate history Japan while there's a zombie apocalypse going on, which is only focused on some of the time because we need to think about the REAL drama which is the idol stage battles sorry, I've received a note from the writers the word I'm supposed to use is 歌仙衆 and not idol group, which means.... oh goddamnit how the fuck am i supposed to read this-- oh wait, there's furigana. That means Kasenshuu, of course. What's a Kasenshuu?

Uh, well, that's a great question. I am definitely not stalling for time while frantically tabbing through a kanji dictionary to tell you the answer. In this case, 歌仙 (kasen) is a term used to refer to particularly legendary poets of classical Japanese literature. I think this has been translated into English as "Immortal Poets" (the 仙 in it is used in other phrases to refer to Daoist immortals!) Then the 衆 (shuu) part is a large group of people, so...Immortal Poet Gang Battles. That's what they're having. Not idol stage battles. Important distinction.

Hey, note to my editor, I'm highlighting this so I can come back later and come up with a translation that's not awful. Absolutely willing to bounce ideas off you. Thanks.

You are probably starting to see why translator burnout is an issue and why I don't usually do it in text-heavy mediums. In fact I am absolutely positive I've gotten something wrong here in my research but I've spent like half the day going down rabbit holes trying to work out the worldbuilding here because I don't know that much about Meiji era Japan. In fact this could be Taisho era, I'm getting really thrown off by the fact that one unit seems to be wearing uniforms closer to Taisho fashion and I can't tell if I'm just massively overthinking it.

A final bit of background information: joseimuke fandom in EN-speaking countries survives largely on unpaid fan translators. The number of projects that get ported over to the US and translated properly has only recently exceeded numbers that can be counted on one hand. There are a lot of reasons why that's the case and most of it can be explained as corporate bullshit. Either way, fandoms in EN remain very small, grassroots affairs.

So there's been...an attempt to translate it. I generally avoid trying to do my own work on a project that's already been "claimed" by another translator. One, to avoid burnout because there's way more than you'd think out there that either got orphaned by their translators or haven't been touched yet, two, out of respect for the work of other people who are passionate about the same very niche things I am. I'd considered trying to translate it, saw that someone on a formerly blue bird site was working on character bios, and dropped the idea to focus on Executioner instead. A quick look showed they weren't just manually copying from Google Translate so I decided to leave it be and work on my own stuff.

Anyways, back to steampunk zombie Meiji (possibly Taisho, results unclear) era Japan. One of the groups who's dealing with the zombie apocalypse front is a duo unit of offbrand Catholic priests. Here they are.

Badly cropped screenshot of the site because I refuse to spend any more effort on this than I already have and ripping art assets takes a while. All I will say is, yes, your eyes do not deceive you, Agito (the guy on the left) isn't wearing pants. At least he managed to put on half a shirt.

Now, I can hear you through the computer screen, because I'm psychic. You're saying, "Why does the one priest look like the sole reason he can walk around without flashing people is prayer and an extensive amount of body tape?" This is a valid question, one that has yet to be answered by the writers. I hope such critical information will be addressed in their drama track, it will be very important for cosplayers to know. While often underappreciated, cosplayers are a valuable part of our community. You may also wonder, "Can you back up and explain literally anything about the world, like the Catholic Church We Have at Home who seem perfectly fine with their priests going around only about two-thirds dressed or the zombie apocalypse or the steampunk tech that apparently exists?" Also valid questions. I could but it's funnier if I don't. Besides, you saw how long I took trying to explain one kanji reading.

Anyways, I was very interested in them so I kept an eye for the translated version of their bios. Now, the translation that OP made for their title in the church was "Auror."

Yes, like in Harry Potter.

I was reasonably certain that Auror wasn't a real word, so a friend of mine checked, and it is indeed something that Jowling Kowling Rowling made up. So, how did this happen?

Well, checking back over their JP bios, the term used for their title is 闇祓い (lit. yami-harai). This combines the kanji for yami/darkness with the kanji for harai/ritual purification. Not even close to "Auror." However, 闇祓い was the phrase that the official JP translation for Harry Potter used instead of Auror (I'm assuming because the closest you could get in JP as a literal translation is something like オーラル/ooraru and that sounds...weird? Maybe? I don't know.) This is the term that google will spit out at you if you plug in the two together.

But, you know. Exorcist. The word was supposed to be something close to exorcist in this context, just a lot fancier and using cooler phraseology. You could probably come up with a fun localization if you're smarter than me. But they aren't wizard cops. Free my boys, one of them is a trust fund kiddie and the other is a freak but they still don't deserve to be associated with Harry Potter.

Just. I get it. It uses so many rarely used/archaic kanji readings that a lot of the in-universe terms have to be written with furigana above them just so people know how it's supposed to be read despite being aimed at adults. I made a joke about it above. And translating is really hard. I'm not even opposed to people who are relative beginners to learning Japanese using translation as a way to improve their language skills, I think it's a good way to do it. Also I would be a huge hypocrite if I condemned it because I'm doing it.

But if you see kanji in a combination that you don't recognize or looks off when you throw it into a machine translator, please. Please just get a kanji dictionary. There's online ones to use. Jisho is incredibly detailed. There are even some where if you can't copy in a kanji, you can draw it in a little prompt box. You don't have to get the stroke order right. The detection is really sophisticated. I know it sucks because it slows down the translation process a lot and people can be incredibly entitled about getting translations ASAP at the cost of quality but a little wait is worth it for making something you're proud of and that shows the quality of the series you're working on.

And doesn't commit a plagarism on an extremely cantankerous transphobe too, which is also important.

[wintercoatkiszka]

Poets and Promises

Chilly autumn air gets gently blown back as you open the door to your happy place: the vintage bookstore three blocks away from your cramped apartment. Immediately, your senses are overwhelmed by the smell of old paper and the cinnamon candle that the store’s elderly owner always seems to be burning this time of year. The store itself is bordering overstuffed with the towering bookcases filled with paperbacks and limited editions, dressers filled with steamy romances and tables covered in nail biting mysteries, but it doesn’t feel claustrophobic, at least to you it doesn’t, and you rather enjoy spending your days off curled up in one of the ancient puffy armchairs with a new book spread across your lap. You enter the dimly lit space and wave hello to the woman manning the counter before delving into the shelves in search of something new.

At this time of day, you are usually the only one in the shop as most other adults are at work and children at school, but you can hear the unmistakable sound of someone thumbing through pages as you breach the edge of the poetry section. Ugh, poetry. You roll your eyes and crouch down to check out the leather bound historical fiction that caught your eye, but can’t help the curiosity tickling the back of your brain at the stranger but a few aisles over. Why do they have to like poetry? Every true book lover knows the type that reads poetry; usually a seasonal beverage lover, probably a heartbreaker who will have you wrapped around their finger with the first poem that they say reminds them of you. I need to start dating better people, You think with a snicker, realizing that two of your past boyfriends were exactly like that. 

You go back to reading the first few pages of that historical fiction you picked up earlier and decide that you’d like to give it a try. Standing up, the sudden quiet of the building catches you and you realize that the mystery poet has stopped thumbing pages. Maybe they left? Oh well. You head back to your secret reading chair and are just about too consumed in your book to notice the person sat squarely in it, but at the last moment, they startle you and you let out a gasp. He looks up from the book they were reading, Where The Sidewalk Ends you note, and gives you a radiant smile. “Take your seat?” He asks, readjusting to get out of it. His ethereal beauty stuns you for a moment and the only thing that shocks you out of your stupor is the concerned look that his deep, chocolate brown eyes are giving you.

“Um… No. Yes. Uh, kind of? I usually sit here, but you look pretty comfortable and this one’s just as good.” You point to the chair directly across from the beautiful stranger before another wave of panic hits you. Shit, how am I supposed to act normal and read my book with him sitting across from me? He nods and gestures for you to sit down and you do, smiling awkwardly as you do so. You try to tuck into your book, but the sun is reflecting so perfectly off of the stranger’s golden curls, styled ever so carefully, and you’re finding it harder and harder to take your eyes off of his perfect lips, the bottom one caught between his teeth as he chews on it absentmindedly. 

When you aren’t looking at him, you think you can feel his eyes on you too, but every time you glance up, he’s carefully studying the pages before him. Then, while you’re one again taking in his features, he glances up and catches your eye. “Find something more interesting than that book?” He asks, cracking another one of his award winning smiles. You’re too stunned to speak once again and he sighs deeply, setting the book down and sitting forward. “What are you even reading?” He reaches for the book in your hand and you find yourself unable to do anything but let his soft, sturdy hands pull the book out of your grasp, his fingers lingering for just a moment too long on yours. “This looks simply dreadful!” He complains, reading the back of the book and looking at you with a shocked expression.

“Says the one reading poetry!” You retort, finally able to get your wits about you. Defensively, you take the book back and, for a moment, he grips it tight, like he wants to fight for it, before relenting and letting you pull back into your chair.

“Excuse you! Poetry is an art form. Arguably one of, if not the, best genres of literature out there!”

“Oh really?” You ask incredulously.

And so, the two of you enter into an hours-long debate turned author recommendations, turned conversation about yourselves until a beeping from his watch brings the two of you back to the present. “Oh shit,” He mutters, looking at the time. He glances back up at you, the smile shyer than you’ve seen it today back on his face and his cheeks pink from the soft blush that suddenly appeared. “It pains me to say this, but I have to run. Oh, I’m Josh by the way.”

A matching smile and blush appears on your face as you reach out a hand. A handshake might have been a little formal, but it was the only thing your short-circuiting brain could come up with. “Lovely to meet you Josh, I’m Y/N.”

“Y/N. A beautiful name for a beautiful soul. I hope our paths cross again.” He squeezes your hand and runs out the door, leaving you staring down at your hand.

Over the next few days, you have begun to explore the poetry section more and more and it is on the fifth day since you met Josh, that you finally decide to sit down with one of the longer collections to read. You return to your corner and sit in your usual chair, once again just the slightest bit disappointed that the curly haired poet is not occupying it. As you settle into a poem about the reflection of a dawning sun on the snow, a soft chuckle hits your ears and you look up to see Josh cradling a biography above you. “Fancy meeting you here. Mind if I join?” You shake your head and he sits across from you, kicking his feet up to intertwine with yours, a bold move you think, and you both settle into the warm domesticity of reading books together.

“Oh, so sorry to bother the two of you, but we’re closing shortly. I’m going to my grandkid’s soccer game, so I’m locking up a little early.” The shaky voice of the owner cuts through the silence and the two of you exchange a glance before getting up, thanking the owner and heading out.

“Y/N?” Josh stops you outside the storefront. “I would love it if you’d come get a bite to eat with me? You can tell me how much you enjoyed that poetry you were reading.”

You dramatically roll your eyes and let out a laugh. “Yes Josh, I’d love to. Must we talk about such a boring subject though?”