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#Dirge for broken men
joshua-beeking · 1 year
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I'm sorry Andrew, your boyfriend is a scientist first, and a lover second!
A one-shot special DFBM comic as a gift for the holidays since I will be away on a trip for a short while and won't have the time to post Chapter 6 in December, hope you like it and please don't hesitate to let me know what you think and take a look at my webcomic it's from, on the links below! It would also be immensely appreciated to reblog! Thank you so much!
p.s: Pink=Oxytocin
My webcomic| My Patreon | My insta
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coastalmangoes · 6 months
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Day 1 Inktober and who else to draw but @joshua-beeking's Minuamu
(Go read Dirge for Broken Men!!!)
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fireandgrimstone · 1 year
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Minuamu is so right about playing Queen’s Greatest Hits during a major surgery. Honestly, Bohemian Rhapsody could boost my sails no matter the circumstances
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wangxianficfinder · 2 months
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Hi! Do you guys know what happened to JoshuaBeeking's cyborgji comics?
The artworks that inspired the fic A Cybirg's Three Laws by FairyGardenCorgis
http://archiveofourown.org/works/29209530
I can't say for sure why as it's been a pretty long time, sorry, but they were deleted (with other artworks also I think) a while back and there was a post about it either on Twitter or Tumblr. I'll try to search around some more when I get on my laptop.
~Mod L
--
tolrais: It might be because he took the story and turned it into his own original work? Dirge for broken men I think it's called
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danpuff-ao3 · 1 year
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Writ, @writcraft, a creator I've long admired! Writer of excellent stories, thinker of excellent thoughts, human of excellent taste! They've written some of my favorite fics, such as How We Were Warriors and The Beating of this Fragile Heart. Oh and not to forget A Lion's Heart! (Not me sneakily sneaking in extra recs for you all.) (As if this list isn't stupidly long to begin with hahaha.) In fairness, I did strive to choose works I think need more attention and hype! Ones I love dearly that I need others to chat with about! Plenty of people know the above fics...it's the below fics I need to scream about!
But before we get there...Well, Writ is more than just a fabulous writer. They've modded many a fest and event over the years. In fact, you can check out their Fanlore page for more information about those! Not to mention their fantastic meta works (which...oh heck I'm gonna add some of those to the list too.) The point is, they've been in fandom for a very long time, and they've done so much for fandom in that time. The community is so important to them, and it shows. They are so dedicated and supportive. Even now, they manage so much in spite of how busy real life has kept them! They still care so deeply and it shows.
Thanks for being here, Writ. Thank you for all that you do for fandom. And for being so kind to me (even if I'm chatting your ear off! 😂)
Fics
Broken Promises, Shattered Dreams
Harry/Severus. Harry/Draco. Rated: E. Words: 6,995. Angst. Pining. Post-breakup.
This fic practically lives in an open tab on my phone, so often do I reread it.
Also AO3 keeps telling me I left kudos here, which: rude. Let me leave more!!!!
Draco left Harry and regrets it bitterly. He wants him back, but Harry is now in a relationship with Severus. As much as he wants to, Harry will not be able to make both men happy and someone is going to get hurt.
Dressed for Dinner
Harry/Severus. Rated: E. Words: 3,772. Formal wear kink. First time. Established relationship. PWP. Romance.
I did not have a thing for men in tuxedos until now. Hubba hubba!
Harry has a thing for men in tuxedos. Severus finds out.
Dirge Without Music
Albus Severus/Draco. Harry/Draco. Rated: E. Words: 6,029. MCD. Suicide. Dub-con. Knifeplay. Alcholism. Angst. Dark.
Ouch. But also: wow.
Albus is happy because everything seems to be coming together. He is captain of the Quidditch team and his father is getting married again – then one night the bottom falls out of his world. Written for the NextGen Darkfest on Livejournal (2012)
Forget Me Not
Harry/Severus. Draco/Harry. Draco/Harry/Severus. Rated: E. Words: 8,219. PTSD. Threesome. Hurt/comfort.
One cleans, one collects and the other just wants to forget. Somehow, it works.
In the Palm of His Hand
Harry/Severus. Rated: E. Words: 6,969. (Wow what a word count 😉) Hand & finger kink (don't we all?) Glove kink. Getting together. Hot as all hell.
Harry has a thing for Snape’s hands. Snape indulges him.
Independent Love Song
Ginny/Millicent. Rated: E. Words: 6,255. Getting together. Matchmaker Hermione. Coming out. Queer themes.
I'm in love with tailor!Millicent and this does not disappoint.
Millicent Bulstrode is a tailor and Ginny is losing her mind over a woman in a tweed blazer and burgundy brogues.
Life Has Just Begun
Harry/Severus. Rated: E. Words: 6,230. Older characters. Internalized homophobia. Coming out. Romance. Salt and Pepper Fest 2018.
Harry has been carrying the weight of his secret desires for a long time. Severus is there when he’s finally ready to talk.
Stone Butch Blues
Minerva/Wilhelmina. Rated: T. Words: 1,019. Genderfluid character. Gender identity.
Will reminisces with Minerva.
Take Him to the Stars (Cut to the Feeling)
Harry/Scorpius. Rated: E. Words: 9,768. Age difference. Light bondage. Romance.
Scorpius has a thing for older men. For one older man, in particular.
Treading Water
James/Sirius. Rated: M. Words: 1,200. Implied/referenced homophobia. Angst. Closeted character. Ambiguous/open ending.
I’m sorry, Sirius wants to say. I’m sorry that people in this stupid world made you think loving me could only ever be a joke.
Meta
Albus Dumbledore: a Man More Sinned Against Than Sinning?
Comparing and Contrasting Snarry vs Drarry
Canon Critique and Creator Responsibility in Fandom
Fandom Platform Migration: Fandom History and Why It Matters
Tags, Warnings and Freedom of Content: On Non-Con, Dub-Con and Consent
Why dark fanworks matter to me
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for an explanation about Mutuals March, or to figure out why i wrote you a thing, please check out this post.
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lullaebies · 8 months
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Helaegon prompt: Helaena decides to visit Aegon after his Rook's Rest injury
I have been sitting on this one all day excited to write it!! hopefully this will work out well for the prompt <3 -
He returned burnt and broken, they say.
She has gotten used to the whispers, hearing them while the maids cleaned the room around her, coming and going between their duties, from the one dusting the choked room or the one who parted the nasty knots on her unkempt silver tresses. They know she no longer has quite the will to fight, and perhaps it’s because now she knows that no effort will give her back her strength.
The spiraling images in her mind are predetermined abstractness; the kind she knows not how to wield. Poppies bloomed by Aegon in her mind, their petals burying him whole; she told him as much, but that was years prior, and then she only knew how to annoy him, and even now, she doesn’t know how to explain.
How dare she have not known, how to warn her children? To warn her brother? She didn’t know. She doesn’t know how to.
It eats and eats and carves her whole. If she knew, she would have screamed and shouted until the blood in their family’s bodies would curdle in such a way it could never spill.
Her legs feel shaky as she leaves the bed. It feels as if it has been days since she stood upright. Perhaps it has been. She doesn’t know, once more; and perhaps what’s worse is that she is not sure if she wants to.  But while Jaehaerys’s remains have been burnt away from this world, her brother’s body burned and withstood.
It is a moment of contemplation, in front of her door. Aegon only slept and ate, ate and slept. Vegetative at best, she heard one of the guards say, but alive. Has he survived against the dreams, she asks herself; if there is only a chance he rebelled against them, that would be air to lungs. Please, rebel as you always did.
She sees plagues of swords and spikes and stampedes of men, but she casts them away as she steps out of her room.
Helaena walks like a ghost over to Aegon’s secured quarters; only in her shift, the kingsguard posted at the door cannot even look her way; she saves herself the pondering of if it’s due to respect, pity, or disgust. Ser Thorne speaks up before she reaches out to the handle. “The King is deep in his sleep, my Queen..”
Helaena doesn’t bother looking at him. “That is for the better.”
When she enters the room, she walks over to the bed in soundless steps, only the door shutting behind her making a noise. She only wished for proof of sight, but when the sight is apparent to her eyes, she only wishes to cry some more.
By the gods’ will, Aegon is breathing as he slept. He breathes raggedly and in pain, but breathes. But his whole left arm is of scorched flesh and some of the scarrings reached beyond his neck, hinting at his face. His shoulder almost infectious in looks, he reminds her of Father, rotting out on his bed.
She sits on the bed, the crickets’ dirge already being sung around her. Why must all rot around her this way? Why can she not find a way to wits and sense? If only she could understand the future’s will as much as she could see it, they would never live this nightmare. Her words of vague visions are curses; if she could sew her mouth shut, no one would ever be hurt, and no one would ask her to choose.
It’s when her tears fall against the bed, when the mattress creaks with deep, that she sees a twitch in his hands.
Looking at him, she sees open, violet eyes, hazy but watching. He blinks, and groans, and coughs, and his whole body writhes in pain. But his mouth cracks open, dry as it is. “Hel?” he rebels against his body, and pays the price, groaning even louder as pain washes over him.
Helaena bites her lips to not whimper. He still is here, despite it all. And if he goes against his body, if he goes against the stream as he always did, perhaps he could oppose the insistent Stranger, too.
And from the nightstand, Helaena takes a cup and pours in a swig of milk of poppy, before bringing it to his mouth. She knows she is a ghastly figure, no better than the Stranger himself, but if only the gods will hear her this once, and let him oppose his predetermined fate himself.
Only a king can open a way for them all to follow. Aegon drinks it down as if it is air.
Drink, rest, and return, she prays in her head, by her own volition for once. Perhaps if she’ll repeat it enough, that will be true, instead.
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breezingby · 1 year
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Don McLean ~ American Pie
A long, long time ago I can still remember how that music used to make me smile And I knew if I had my chance That I could make those people dance And maybe they'd be happy for a while
But February made me shiver With every paper I'd deliver Bad news on the doorstep I couldn't take one more step
I can't remember if I cried When I read about his widowed bride But something touched me deep inside The day the music died
So bye, bye, Miss American Pie Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry And them good ole boys were drinking whiskey 'n rye Singin' this'll be the day that I die This'll be the day that I die
Did you write the book of love And do you have faith in God above If the Bible tells you so? Now do you believe in rock and roll? Can music save your mortal soul? And can you teach me how to dance real slow?
Well, I know that you're in love with him 'Cause I saw you dancin' in the gym You both kicked off your shoes Man, I dig those rhythm and blues
I was a lonely teenage broncin' buck With a pink carnation and a pickup truck But I knew I was out of luck The day the music died
I started singing bye, bye, Miss American Pie Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey 'n rye Singin' this'll be the day that I die This'll be the day that I die
Now for ten years we've been on our own And moss grows fat on a rollin' stone But that's not how it used to be When the jester sang for the king and queen In a coat he borrowed from James Dean And a voice that came from you and me
Oh, and while the king was looking down The jester stole his thorny crown The courtroom was adjourned No verdict was returned
And while Lennin read a book on Marx The quartet practiced in the park And we sang dirges in the dark The day the music died
We were singing bye, bye, Miss American Pie Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey 'n rye Singin' this'll be the day that I die This'll be the day that I die
Helter skelter in a summer swelter The birds flew off with a fallout shelter Eight miles high and falling fast It landed foul on the grass The players tried for a forward pass With the jester on the sidelines in a cast
Now the halftime air was sweet perfume While the sergeants played a marching tune We all got up to dance Oh, but we never got the chance
'Cause the players tried to take the field The marching band refused to yield Do you recall what was revealed The day the music died?
We started singing bye, bye, Miss American Pie Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey 'n rye And singin' this'll be the day that I die This'll be the day that I die
Oh, and there we were all in one place A generation lost in space With no time left to start again So come on, Jack be nimble, Jack be quick Jack Flash sat on a candlestick 'Cause fire is the devil's only friend
Oh, and as I watched him on the stage My hands were clenched in fists of rage No angel born in Hell Could break that Satan's spell
And as the flames climbed high into the night To light the sacrificial rite I saw Satan laughing with delight The day the music died
He was singing bye, bye, Miss American Pie Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey 'n rye And singin' this'll be the day that I die This'll be the day that I die
I met a girl who sang the blues And I asked her for some happy news But she just smiled and turned away I went down to the sacred store Where I'd heard the music years before But the man there said the music wouldn't play
And in the streets, the children screamed The lovers cried and the poets dreamed But not a word was spoken The church bells all were broken
And the three men I admire most The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost They caught the last train for the coast The day the music died
And they were singing bye, bye, Miss American Pie Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry And them good ole boys were drinking whiskey 'n rye Singin' this'll be the day that I die This'll be the day that I die
They were singing bye, bye, Miss American Pie Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey 'n rye And singin' this'll be the day that I die
(Don McLean wrote the song American Pie as a tribute to Buddy Holly. The lyrics are enigmatic and seem loaded with allusions. What do they mean?)
Link: https://www.theguardian.com/notesandqueries/query/0,5753,-1182,00.html
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rainnows · 2 years
Note
A long, long time ago
I can still remember how that music used to make me smile
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And maybe they'd be happy for a while
But February made me shiver
With every paper I'd deliver
Bad news on the doorstep
I couldn't take one more step
I can't remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride
But something touched me deep inside
The day the music died
So bye, bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
And them good ole boys were drinking whiskey 'n rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die
Did you write the book of love
And do you have faith in God above
If the Bible tells you so?
Now do you believe in rock and roll?
Can music save your mortal soul?
And can you teach me how to dance real slow?
Well, I know that you're in love with him
'Cause I saw you dancin' in the gym
You both kicked off your shoes
Man, I dig those rhythm and blues
I was a lonely teenage broncin' buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck
But I knew I was out of luck
The day the music died
I started singing bye, bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey 'n rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die
Now for ten years we've been on our own
And moss grows fat on a rollin' stone
But that's not how it used to be
When the jester sang for the king and queen
In a coat he borrowed from James Dean
And a voice that came from you and me
Oh, and while the king was looking down
The jester stole his thorny crown
The courtroom was adjourned
No verdict was returned
And while Lennin read a book on Marx
The quartet practiced in the park
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the music died
We were singing bye, bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey 'n rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die
Helter skelter in a summer swelter
The birds flew off with a fallout shelter
Eight miles high and falling fast
It landed foul on the grass
The players tried for a forward pass
With the jester on the sidelines in a cast
Now the halftime air was sweet perfume
While the sergeants played a marching tune
We all got up to dance
Oh, but we never got the chance
'Cause the players tried to take the field
The marching band refused to yield
Do you recall what was revealed
The day the music died?
We started singing bye, bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey 'n rye
And singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die
Oh, and there we were all in one place
A generation lost in space
With no time left to start again
So come on, Jack be nimble, Jack be quick
Jack Flash sat on a candlestick
'Cause fire is the devil's only friend
Oh, and as I watched him on the stage
My hands were clenched in fists of rage
No angel born in Hell
Could break that Satan's spell
And as the flames climbed high into the night
To light the sacrificial rite
I saw Satan laughing with delight
The day the music died
He was singing bye, bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey 'n rye
And singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die
I met a girl who sang the blues
And I asked her for some happy news
But she just smiled and turned away
I went down to the sacred store
Where I'd heard the music years before
But the man there said the music wouldn't play
And in the streets, the children screamed
The lovers cried and the poets dreamed
But not a word was spoken
The church bells all were broken
And the three men I admire most
The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died
And they were singing bye, bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
And them good ole boys were drinking whiskey 'n rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die
They were singing bye, bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey 'n rye
And singin' this'll be the day that I die
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Text
Chapter One
The heavens beat down their percussion on the old tin roofs.
A gaggle of washerwomen sang softly in French on a covered porch, voices wafting across the avenue as the deep blue of this rainy afternoon wore on into evenfall.
Elaine strode on up the street, her heeled boots clopping on cracked flagstones, long black skirt swishing about her legs, the blue ribbon in her hat trailing behind.
This town is where she would find her quarry, a hamlet cobbled from earth, logs and the ruins of some town whose name had long been lost to memory.
What few folk had decided to brave the drizzle to chatter in the eaves of the stores that lined the street, stopped and stared as she bustled past, eyeing the pistol that she held in her gloved hand.
It was an ugly thing, a boxy, mechanical, evil shape of sable steel with a strange wooden handle, it's barrel a fat angry needle that seemed almost hungry for blood.
Elaine came to a halt outside the old bank, its crumbling stone facade towered over her.
Boarded windows withheld all but the barest slivers of golden lamplight that glimmered and rippled on the wet ground.
A Gramophone whispered, muffled through the walls, a long dirge echoing out into the growing twilight.
French shop signs called down from every wall, their once bright words now faded and flaked with time.
Off to her left, a man sat high up on a ladder, lighting the oil lanterns that lined the footpath.
He watched Elaine, frozen, his match burning down to his fingers, he swore as the flickering orange kissed his fingers and as if broken from a trance he slid down to the ground and hurried off into the gloom, with more than a few wary looks thrown over his shoulder.
The match lay smouldering where the old man had dropped it, soon extinguished by the growing puddles that rippled in the light downpour.
Eight men sheltered in the building before her, a gang of highwaymen who had taken to using a rusted old armoured car to pillage outlying farms and trade caravans to the north.
Some wealthy aristocrat from the channel had evidently grown sick of their exploits and issued a bounty out of pocket.
Elaine had found their poster on some Tavern Wall in Belgium, the car and the number of men had scared away most other hired guns.
Yet the reward had piqued her interest, a pretty sum, far more than she would ever earn hunting down debtors, thieves and errant gamblers whose luck had run dry.
So she had tracked them, riding far to the south where the Alps loomed up beyond the long abandoned battlefields of the Western Front.
A farmhand had pointed her to this small outlying town, the group had only been seven when she had first picked up their trail but they had stopped a few miles up the road and taken on food, water, fuel and a hanger-on, the farmhand's 16 year old brother.
Elaine had made some promises of not hurting the would-be bandit in order to get the location she needed, but her intentions were her own and if he drew on her, she'd defend herself.
Upon seeing the boarded up state of the front door, Elaine decided to edge her way down an alley and try round back.
Her boots sloshed in muddy puddles as she sidled over heaped rubble.
She came to a sudden stop as she rounded the corner,she found a youth, remarkable in his resemblance to a certain farmhand she had conversed with earlier that day.
He sat on the wet ground, against an armoured car.
The machine, despite being swaddled in cloth, was unmistakable, it's colourful chassis ornamented in Dazzle Camouflage.
The lad was skinny, his dark hair draped about his shoulders as he buried his face in his knees.
A rifle lay propped against a wall far out of reach, an open door farther along spilled warm light into the alley, the alluring scent of a hot cooked meal came with it.
Mirth, laughing, joking and music.
They had left him outside to guard the car in the rain while they all sat in the warm drinking and eating, Elaine felt sorry for the boy, no doubt he had been lured away with promises of loot, food and drink only to be turned into a servant.
She went on quietly, her foot falls slow and deliberate until she had found herself between him and the rifle.
She had almost been content to leave him to sulk but decided it was better to send him on his way.
Elaine's boot nudged him in the ribs, the sodden lad sat up with a start only to find his mouth clamped over with a leather clad hand, staring down the barrel of a box cannon.
Elaine made a shushing motion, backing away to shoulder the rifle, all the while her pistol remained levelled on the wayward youth.
"How many?" She whispered as she yanked him to his feet.
The lad stared at the ground for a long while, "seven", his voice barely a whisper.
"Go home" Elaine retorted as loudly as she dared, shoving him down the muddy side street, “Be thankful I'm giving you this chance".
He shot her a look before slinking off down the alley and out of sight.
Elaine turned her attention back to the others in the building, she had caught them at an ideal time, out of their armoured motor carriage, drunk and likely less armed than usual.
She would have taken them on the road but she feared what that armoured beast's gun would do to her horse.
The doorway cast its amber light upon her willowy frame as she stepped through the threshold.
She took measured short steps, rounding each doorway with her handgun raised, a cloakroom that stank of mildew, a pair of abandoned offices overflowing with guns, a dusty counting room, all devoid of her prey.
At last she fell upon them in the old Vault, it's treasure long looted, now a trestle table had been erected in place, seven men sat around it enjoying wine and decadent food, the stench of cigarette smoke hanging heavy in the air.
They all turned with a start, despite their faces contorted in confusion, she knew their names, a rough likeness of each had been scrawled in charcoal on the poster Elaine had snatched down from that tavern wall.
Marcelle Dupont, the leader, rose first, scrambling for his revolver but Elaine was faster.
~-~
Across the street a throng had joined under the verandah of the old barber, the townsfolk had gathered in Elaine's wake, eager to see the outcome of this confrontation, others hung out of windows or lingered on balconies, nervous chatter rippling through the crowd.
Their voices rose to a clamour as the dark haired youth, who only hours before, had pilfered food, tobacco and alcohol from each of their homes and businesses at gunpoint, scampered from behind the building and off down the street, struggling to keep his suspenders up on his shoulders.
A hail of stones and insults in a dozen languages followed him long after he had disappeared into the distance.
It was then the shooting started, shouting came first from within the bank, then the loud clap of gunfire, pinpricks of light burst through the boarded windows as they were riddled with shot.
The townsfolk scattered, screaming as shards of wood and brick flew left and right, the rattle and roar of battle echoing down the street.
It seemed to go on for an eternity, only those brave enough to continue watching now lingered in the mouths of alleyways at a safer distance while everyone else took to basements and attics to cower.
Eventually the sound died away and tentatively the throng regathered around the Bank Doors.
Night had fallen proper by then, the inky blackness cast long shadows about them.
The crowd receded in fright when a blow hammered on the inside of the front doors, then came another and another before the tired old wood gave way.
The gentle clop of her boots on the brick stairs preceded her as she stepped from the cloud of smoke and into the rain, an oblong of light burst out onto the waiting crowd as she descended.
That elegant willowy young woman, who had come to town atop a grey horse in a fine white blouse and a straw hat tied with a blue ribbon, now stood before them smeared with dirt and blood.
She tucked away her pistol, limped down the steps and over to the old man from before.
"Have you still got those matches?" Elaine fumbled in her satchel.
"I need a smoke".
1 note · View note
se-07spaceoreos · 6 months
Note
to cure your boredom (and to be annoying bc im bored too):
A long, long time ago, I can still remember
How that music used to make me smile
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And maybe they'd be happy for a while
But February made me shiver
With every paper I'd deliver
Bad news on the doorstep
I couldn't take one more step
I can't remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride
But something touched me deep inside
The day the music died
So, bye, bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to The Levee, but The Levee was dry
And them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey in Rye
Singin', "This'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die"
Did you write the Book of Love?
And do you have faith in God above
If the Bible tells you so?
Do you believe in rock 'n' roll?
Can music save your mortal soul?
And can you teach me how to dance real slow?
Well, I know that you're in love with him
'Cause I saw you dancing in the gym
You both kicked off your shoes
Then I dig those rhythm and blues
I was a lonely teenage broncin' buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck
But I knew I was out of luck
The day the music died
I started singin', "Bye-bye, Miss American Pie"
Drove my Chevy to The Levee, but The Levee was dry
Them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey in Rye
Singin', "This'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die"
Now for ten years we've been on our own
And moss grows fat on a rollin' stone
But that's not how it used to be
When the jester sang for the king and queen
In a coat he borrowed from James Dean
And a voice that came from you and me
Oh, and while the king was looking down
The jester stole his thorny crown
The courtroom was adjourned
No verdict was returned
And while Lennon read a book on Marx
The quartet practiced in the park
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the music died
We were singin', "Bye-bye Miss American Pie"
Drove my Chevy to The Levee, but The Levee was dry
Them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey in Rye
Singin', "This'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die"
Helter Skelter in the summer swelter
The birds flew off with a fallout shelter
Eight miles high and fallin' fast
It landed foul on the grass
The players tried for a forward pass
With the jester on the sidelines in a cast
Now, the half-time air was sweet perfume
While the sergeants played a marching tune
We all got up to dance
Oh, but we never got the chance
'Cause the players tried to take the field
The marching band refused to yield
Do you recall what was revealed
The day the music died?
We started singin', "Bye-bye, Miss American Pie"
Drove my Chevy to The Levee, but The Levee was dry
Them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey in Rye
And singin', "This'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die"
Oh, and there we were, all in one place
A generation lost in space
With no time left to start again
So come on, Jack be nimble, Jack be quick
Jack Flash sat on a candlestick
'Cause fire is the devil's only friend
Oh, and as I watched him on the stage
My hands were clenched in fists of rage
No angel born in Hell
Could break that Satan's spell
And as the flames climbed high into the night
To light the sacrificial rite
I saw Satan laughing with delight
The day the music died
He was singin', "Bye-bye, Miss American Pie"
Drove my Chevy to The Levee, but The Levee was dry
Them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey in Rye
And singin', "This'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die"
I met a girl who sang the blues
And I asked her for some happy news
But she just smiled and turned away
I went down to the sacred store
Where I'd heard the music years before
But the man there said the music wouldn't play
And in the streets, the children screamed
The lovers cried and the poets dreamed
But not a word was spoken
The church bells all were broken
And the three men I admire most
The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died
And they were singin', "Bye-bye, Miss American Pie"
Drove my Chevy to The Levee, but The Levee was dry
And Them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey in Rye
Singin', "This'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die"
They were singin', "Bye-bye, Miss American Pie"
Drove my Chevy to The Levee, but The Levee was dry
Them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey in Rye
Singin', "This'll be the day that I die"
Thank you, I thoroughly enjoyed that 😌
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joshua-beeking · 1 year
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Chapter 6 of Dirge for Broken men is completed! You can read it on Webtoon and Tapas!
Webtoon: https://www.webtoons.com/en/challenge/dirge-for-broken-men/list?title_no=728567
Tapas: https://tapas.io/series/Dirge-for-broken-men/info
Please reblog it to help out, it's the best thing you could do to support the project at the moment, and let me know what you thought of the chapter!
Thank you so kindly!
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mywifeleftme · 10 months
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52: Marianne Faithfull // Broken English
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Broken English Marianne Faithfull 1979, Island Broken English is the best album you can get for $5 at any used record store in North America. I can guess why that might be—that sweet spot of having sold well enough to be well-circulated in its day, but lacking that recognizable hit that perennially re-introduces it to new generations through adverts and soundtrack licensing. (Though I would love it if “Why’d Ya Do It” had a moment on Tik Tok.) Still, in an era where the work of female artists is under intense reconsideration, I’m surprised there hasn’t been more of a move to give the 76-year-old Faithfull her due for this singular testament to resilience.
Broken English is the ideal of ‘living well is the best revenge’ in action, though of course Faithfull had famously not been living very well in the years prior to its release. Like Marilyn Monroe, there was something unique about her appearance-affect that breathed the word “money” in that coded language ambitious men in the entertainment business speak. In an industry with no shortage of blondes with husky voices, producer after producer made the effort to pick Marianne up from whatever hotel room or Blitz-ravaged squat her last go-round with fame had left her in because she had an indefinable it.
Though she never had the vocal power of a Dusty Springfield, she was no blank muse for boyfriend Mick Jagger or the Stones’ conniving ‘60s manager Andrew Loog Oldham either. Few if any of her teen idol peers of either sex could’ve evoked the fever-weak dolour and vampiric yearning she brings to her 1969 version of “Sister Morphine,” including Jagger. By the time she was ‘rediscovered’ in 1978 by guitarist (and subsequent long-time song-writing partner) Barry Reynolds and Chris Blackwell of Island Records, years of abuse had reduced her voice to a scabrous caw. On the re-recording of “Sister Morphine” cut during the Broken English sessions (but relegated to a B-side), she sounds like she’s been writhing in that same hospital bed a long time indeed.
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Lurid as the details may appear from the outside, the cycles of addiction and rehab and relapse can be fatally tedious for a person with any brains, and you don’t survive them without developing a certain gallows humour. Chainsmoking in the blue shadows, on Broken English Faithfull observes Cold War brinksmanship, domestic alienation, and the hustle for a fix with the same crooked smile. Her wracked new voice makes each performance grippingly personal, though only about half the lyrics came from her own pen. She’s aided by superb production and performances. In the late ‘70s, every label tried to squeeze a little extra mileage out of their rust-bitten pop stars by slapping on a disco or new wave paintjob, usually to embarrassing results. But the rhythmic tension and chilly synthesizers of new wave fit Faithfull perfectly, perhaps because she had so recently lived the industrial British squalor that was in the process of birthing post-punk.
On the blackly hilarious “Why’d Ya Do It” she acts both parts of a domestic incident for the ages, getting to play both a jilted woman’s tearful rage and the sour, sarcastic cocksmanship of a cheating man. The band could’ve chosen to read the tune as a dirge, but instead they serve up seven-minutes of irresistible, skanking rhythm, topped by a slithering lead guitar, organ, and sax. (The nearly nine-minute original mix proves they could’ve filled a whole side of vinyl with it as far as I’m concerned.) The combination of Faithfull’s nostalgic murmur and Steve Winwood’s glossy synths turn Dr. Hook’s “The Ballad of Lucy Jordan” into a Euro sci-fi dream, like an elderly woman forced to relive her own unsatisfied youth while she dies in a Holodeck.
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If any song here is ripe for rediscovery by a pop audience, I’d put forth the crystalline ballad “Witches’ Song,” which could’ve been a Stevie Nicks-Christine McVie cowrite (it’s like “Rhiannon” crossed with “Everyday”). It feels like both an escapist fantasy and a nourishing statement of sisterhood, with a beguiling mysticism to its lyric: “Danger is great joy / Dark as bright as fire / Happy is our family / Lonely is our ward.” (Queue me making these noises.)
Broken English gave Marianne Faithfull’s career a new lease on life, and while she’s seldom seen quite the same level of critical or commercial attention since, she’s also been able to hang on to what she has this time. So, in that sense, it’s done plenty for her already—but as a record, I think it stands with the best music of its time, and I probably should’ve had to pay a bit more at the shop to take it home with me.
52/365
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strykingshot · 2 years
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Final Fantasy 7 AU: Subject K- age 22-30 an AU where Kat becomes an experiment by Hojo, a link to more details can be found here
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Final Fantasy 7 Crisis Core: Mechanic Girl- Age: 21, Kat runs a mechanic garage owned by her father called the Copper Carbuncle. Due to being located in the sector 7 plate, the shop will, from time to time, take jobs from Shinra when vehicles or warehouse equipment breaks down. Though not officially a Shinra employee, Kat has been given permission to work repairs on Shinra property due to her father working in one of the local warehouses.
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Final Fantasy 7: Rebel with a Cause- Age: 26-28, Kat is a repair girl living in sector 7 slums but travels to the other sectors to handle any jobs. Usually, it’s small things like fixing a tv or a broken oven, but her specialty is cars and motorcycles.
 She’s well known in the sector 5 slums since she takes care of any repairs for the orphanage for free. The kids also love playing with her dog, Blitz, that travels with her to jobs. She sometimes stops by the church to make basic repairs to keep the place from collapsing under Aerith’s feet when she’s in town for a job. She also has a habit of “accidentally” leaving spare parts or tools lying around that just happened to end up in Avalanche’s hands. You can read a quick backstory tale here
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Final Fantasy 7: Running with Shinra- Age: 26-28, Kat accepts a job at Shinra as a mechanical engineer. Her skill with machines allows her to quickly rise the ranks to head of engineering. Her dislike for Shinra is well known among the employees under her, but she is careful to not to put her job in jeopardy.
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Final Fantasy 7 Advent Children/Dirge of Cerberus: Mechanic Mom- Age: 30-31, Kat has opened up a new shop called the Silver Carbuncle in Edge. Since setting up in Edge, Kat adopted two orphans and has been saving up to buy a proper house for the three of them. If she's not working on repair jobs, she works part-time for Strife delivery service.
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Final Fantasy 14: Adventure Awaits
Name: Kathrine "Cota" Stryker
Age: 27
Race: Au Ra/Elezen mixbreed
Born to adventuring couple Orlen Stryker and Altun of the Mol tribe, Kat's mother fell ill soon after Kat was born due to an injury that she had received from a fight that had become infected. Unable to travel the distance back to her tribe, they returned to Orlen's home of Ishgard to settle down and raise their daughter while Altun recovered. Unfortunately Altun never recovered and passed away a year after Kat's birth, leaving Orlen to raise their daughter alone surrounded by the judgement of his town without enough gil to travel back to the Steppe.
Kat grew up around constant bullying and harassment from the other children her age for her dragon-like appearance which left her with few friends her age. She ended up spending most of her time either at home or spending hours at the Athenaeum Astrologicum learning about the stars or the Skysteel Manufactory learning to build and tinker.
It wasn't a surprise to Orlen when Kat made her interest in adventuring known and by her nineteenth birthday Orlen had saved enough gil to buy her everything she needed to travel safely through Eorzea and a prayer she would be able to see her mother's homeland like Altun wished for her.
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Final Fantasy 16: Leviathan the lost- Age 26-31, Born in Oriflamne, Kat's parents did everything they could to hide her affinity for magic to avoid their only child becoming a bearer. Keeping her magic hidden, Kat joined the army and rose through the ranks to become a dragoon knight.
During a battle where the men under her risked being killed, in a last ditch effort Kat used her magic in front of the soldiers, creating a large wave to drown the enemy soldiers. Instead of being thankful for her saving them, the soldiers threatened to reveal her magic and have her become a bearer. In her anger at their betrayal, she ended up awakening Leviathan and killing her soldiers. When she awoken and realized what she did, she fled, leaving everything of hers in the hope it would look like she died with the soldiers and became a wandering mercenary with a habit of finding and leading escaping bearers to Cid.
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Devil May Cry 4/5: Dancing with Devils- Age: 22-28, After losing her parents in a mysterious accident as a teen, Kat became a minor bounty hunter living out of her truck while taking jobs wherever she can. During a trip to Fortuna, she ends up fighting demons in an attempt to protect some local civilians.
After that incident, she branched out into researching demons and including devil hunting into her business. You can read a quick backstory tale here
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Kingdom Hearts: Radiant Heart- Age: 16-18, Born in Radiant Garden, Kat joined the restoration committee with a focus on keeping the heartless out of the town. Due to an accident around the first heartless attack, Kat suffers from memory loss and deals with frequent headaches when something triggers a lost memory.
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Mortal Kombat: Stryking Emotions- Age 28, Kat was born to Sonya Blade and Kurtis Stryker. For the first 5 years of her life, she was raised by her father by himself until her father was killed. Kat was then raised by her father’s grandparents, who fought for sole custody claiming Sonya was an unfit parent.
Kat’s grandparents were loving but stuck in their grief of the loss of their son. Kat grew up listening to her grandparents about what her father was like as a police officer. After Kat graduated high school, she joined the police academy and joined the NYPD at age 24.
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Resident Evil: Outbreak- Kat is a rookie cop in the Raccoon City police department working under her father when the outbreak starts.
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Persona 5: Take your heart- Kat is a 2nd-year transfer student from New York due to her officer father transferring to Japan.
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Final Fantasy 15: in progress
Genshin Impact: in progress
Fire Emblem Three Houses: in progress
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franki-lew-yo · 2 years
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The Romantic (2009, R, Gothic Fantasy/Horror), aka the most forgotten animated film in the world
What if I told you there was a movie under serious threat of becoming lost media with no clear reason as to WHY it's been lost other than no one has apparently watched it besides me and a few people on Reddit? What if I told you that movie wasn't half bad and would no doubt have some interest peeked if anyone DID know about it?
The name of that movie is The Romantic.
It was released in 2009 and it's Rated R for nudity and sex scenes [insert Robbie Rotten meme here], though none of it too graphic. It was a pet project created by animator Michael P. Heneghan, originally starting as a flash project for his animation class before he expanded it into a feature film. The film was inspired by movies such as The Dark Crystal and Labyrinth, but what I see every time I look at it is a touch of Jhonen Vasquez, Tim Burton, and Roman Dirge- the guy behind Lenore the Cute Little Dead Girl. It's flash animation especially remind me of the puppet-rigged toons of the 2000s (again like Salad Fingers or Lenore). It's not bad, it's just not inherently 'feature film' quality flash, nor is it exceptionally artistic like Sita Sings the Blues in it's simplicity. Like, really, if you happen to find this thing it's not the worst animated project at all it's just amateur for a professional production. I've seen worse flash movies. Heck, if The Romantic were released in separate parts on youtube or Newgrounds as a series (ala Homestuck) I'm sure it would have been really successful and totally in it's element. But it wasn't.
Because next to no one has seen it and I'm lucky to have not only ever seen it when it was available for free but have also found it recently (hush hush, I ain't telling you how) I'm going to actually give you all a plot synopsis under the cut. There will be some details I leave out and I think I've spelled some characters names wrong. It's a bit of a surrealist film as well, so you might need some things explained.
Spoilers ahead:
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The Romantic is set in an autumnal, surrealist world inhabited by humans and monsters and ruled by three gods; Po the goddess of love; Pik the god of Hate; and Pjorrc the god of time though Pjorrc was made to live inside a pumpkin moon as everything he touched rabidly aged and died.
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((Tapestry art featuring the main three gods of the film.))
A young man (called “Romance” or “The Romantic” by the other characters) performs a bull sacrifice in order to summon Abbledepopa, the unseen creator of the other gods and ‘storyteller’ of the world. The sacrifice does not conjure Abbledepopa but, when Romance spares a monster that was ready to eat him, the monster tells him of a profit named Patience. Patience is a foul-mouthed dwarf living alone with an army of babies who points Romance in the direction of Po.
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((Romance outside of Patience's house.))
Romance wants the god’s help because he has fallen out of love with his girlfriend. Po grants him his desire and restores his love only for Romance to return home and find his girlfriend with another man. Blinded by heartache and rage, Romance kills her. He then swears vengeance on the gods for ‘making’ him do it. In the midst of this vow, a corrupt prophet called Fat Daddy kills the queen of Vauxhaul (Romance's home) and her guards, and forges a new body for his newborn son with their bodies. Fat Daddy rallies the townsfolk behind him in supposedly finding the Queen’s murder into follow a new religion called "The Poetic End".
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((Romance (right) besides the monster he spared at the beginning of the movie.))
Patience accompanies Romance on his quest and tells him to take Po’s mask, which hides her true face, once he kills her. Romance buys Po’s trust by weaving her a tapestry that tells her story: in the dawn of time Po and Pjorrc were in love. However, Pjorrc gradually became distant and Po became resentful when their daughter, Love, earned Po's original title as the god of romance and love.
In the present day, Romance sleeps with Po for over a year before finally killing her and taking her mask. He and Patience return to his home of Vauxhul only to be chased out by Fat Daddy’s personal army. They flee to Marshallton, the town nearest to the god Pik.
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((Romance's hometown of Vauxhul. ))
The king of Marshallton, King Crookie, tells Romance of a prophecy he, Patience, Fat Daddy and all the gods are a part of and that the world is soon to change. Romance then fights and successfully kills Pik when he shows the god of hate his reflection in a mirror King Crookie gave him, but not before losing his hand to Pik.
When Romance comes down the mountain he learns from Patience that nine years have passed since his fight with Pik began. Patience reveals to Romance what Pik saw in the mirror that allowed Romance to take the killing blow; after Love had grown up and married, Po asked Pik to tell her where her husband was always running off to. Pik reluctantly revealed Pjorrc was disguising himself as a human and married a mortal woman. Po found Pjorrc and his pregnant second wife, forcing Pjorrc to leave his human family behind, but not before asking his wife to name their son “Patience”. In retaliation for his treachery, Po proceeded to sleep with fifty men and produce the fifty bastard children in Patience’s house.
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((Fat Daddy, the main villain.))
Marshallton and the entire rest of the world has fallen to the rule of Fat Daddy, who captures Romance and Patience. Fat Daddy tortures Patience into telling him how to get to Pjorrc but is unable to convince Romance to take part in his ‘new world’ or give him Po’s mask. Romance and Patience escape and leave the village to be torn apart by the fifty babies Po had, now transformed into veracious monsters after Patience didn’t feed them for the past ten years. Romance confronts Patience when he realizes the latter is Pjorrc’s son. Patience calls Romance out on his mantra of vengeance and points out that all his decisions are his own, not the gods, and instructs him to seek Love herself in Po’s basement. Patience then attempts to confront Pjorrc but is cornered and killed by Fat Daddy before he can do so.
In Po’s basement, Romance finds Love nailed to a wall, her face torn off and half eaten by her deformed husband. Love tells Romance that Po ripped off her daughter’s face in rage over Pjorrc’s infidelity and Pjorrc did not intervene fast enough. Po then threw Love into her basement, turned Love’s husband into a monster, and wore her daughter’s face as a mask - which Romance had broken into pieces moments ago after Patience had shown him his face in King Crookie’s mirror. Romance then finds Pjorrc hanging himself. As he dies, Pjorrc tells Romance to take the hand Fat Daddy had cut off and sew it onto himself, which will in turn help Romance defeat Abbledepopa.
Romance traverses the wasteland and does not find Abbledepopa, but instead a golden loom. Having seen all the destruction he and others had caused, Romance sits upon the loom and accepts his fate as the new ‘storyteller’ of the world, as he begins weaving a new one...
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I mentioned before the animation quality of the film and why maybe that caused people to overlook it. The only other thing I could complain about on a technical level with The Romantic is it's sound design. Some of the voices and music is a little too quiet and so all these key details I had to go through the film a few times to really piece together. But that leads me to the thing I like about this movie and I'm sure others would to: the lore.
It's very hard to create a new fantasy world w it's own customs, religions, history and rules out of the blue as any YA Harry Potter/Hunger Games ripoff book could tell you. The Romantic is so unique in how it handles the pantheon and culture of these three gods and their kin; really only four or five characters throughout the entire story aren't connected to the gods or prophecy in some way, as there's the main three gods, Abbeldepappa, and the prophets Patience, Love and Fat Daddy, who make up your main cast besides Romance. There's a lot that's intentionally left unexplained and other info that must be explained, like Pjorrc and Po's marriage and Romance's feelings towards the gods, if we want to understand the former. The movie is paced pretty well and knows when to follow up on what, it's just that again some of those animation and editting shortcomings might make it hard to understand...but I don't think THAT hard. Look, if someone can enjoy Starchaser: The Legend of Orin or even better surrealist world-building films ((Fantastic Planet comes to mind)), then I say there's no reason The Romantic wouldn't have a following. There's no other way I can articulate why and what doesn't work about the story except just to recommend you watch it yourselves, but before I get into that I want to talk themes...because I love the themes and tone of The Romantic.
I revisited The Romantic a week before I made myself watch Centaurworld and The Owl House for the first time...and what a week that was~! The Romantic has the vibe of those kinds of shows along with Adventure Time and Infinity Train ((so I hear, I haven't watched the latter)). It's surreal and you'll only marvel at 'woooah wut an acid trip' for so long before you get into the vibe of the universe. It also reminded me substantially of the Broadway musical Hadestown and not just because this movie is also a self-contained, somewhat self aware fable about the relationships between humans and gods - it's very raw in how the characters talk. It's very emotional and blunt in how kind and how cruel they can be, and it doesn't make excuses or really worships any one of them. Romance himself is the world's most likable Incel: he murders a woman he thought he needed to love and blames his emotions on the gods of those passions...except the gods AREN'T the manifestations of love, time, and hate - they simply dictate and oversee it in the lives of men. It's a dynamic I really like in religious works where Gods are powerful but not all knowing or puppet masters to everyone's design- they have morality too and there is only so much you can blame and get from them.
"You made your gods into excuses and your excuses into gods!"
-Patience. This here is a cool quote. I like this quote.
No matter what, The Romantic is not gonna be a film for everyone. We all have our tastes - I think I'm drawn to it and accepting because I've come to love these kind of worlds that used to keep me up at night - these trippy 70s inspired fantasy landscapes given a whole Avatar: The Last Airbender degree of worldbuilding and character worth. It also doesn't feel exploitive in it's violence, it's sexuality, it's grimmness - it doesn't feel like it's trying to hard or going over the top because it happens to be an adult animated film, something that I love in movies like 9 or Hair High but really turns me off in stuff like Sausage Party or Wizards. Whatever go watch The Romantic...
if you can.
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When I first saw this film in 2016 it was actually very accessible and was even uploaded to youtube by the creator himself. I don't know WHAT happened to Michael P. Heneghan, but simply put, the man's disappeared...like...REALLY disappeared.
Lookit his IMDB. He has The Romantic and a wapping two other projects to his name. His Twitter isn't very helpful either. He last updated in early 2020 and he says next to nothing about The Romantic. It's so odd that he would one day be happy with the film enough to host it on Vimeo and Youtube but then just cop out.
According to a Reddit user: "On Valentines Day 2011, Heneghan released the film for free online through all kinds of platforms including direct download, bittorrent, Vimeo, and even directly through Archive.org. He even joked about releasing a 300 gig uncompressed version.
I know I watched it on Vimeo probably as recently as 2016. Now I can't find it anywhere. The website is dead, the Vimeo video went private, even the archive.org version has been taken down. It really looks like he wanted to wipe it off the face of the internet. His newer website mentions it, but again, the Vimeo link is dead and even that website is closed for business."
It's weeeird. What happened Michael?
And yes, obviously, other people worked on the movie.
No - I can't find out anything about them either.
I'm betting on three theories at the moment: 1) this film is an SCP or some Candle Cove weirdness with only me and a handful of people ANYWHERE remembering it, 2) something weird is going on w Michael Heneghan and it involves too something about this film. It was a scam or a scheme or a hidden agenda weirdness, 3) Heneghan's doing okay he just doesn't like this film anymore and wants it hidden while he takes a break.
Look, I get it Michael! What was once our life's worth can become cringe as you improve as an artist - you're not the person making the stuff you were ten years ago...but you should still have the film kept alive somehow. Someway.
I'm seriously the only person to have ever made fan art of this movie on the internet. That just doesn't happen, and I don't think I like being in a fandom of one. The Romantic is a testament to the power of design and storytelling > animation quality itself. Too often I see people equate good animation with smooth animation, with a budget with squash and stretch. These animations are good but art is diverse and there's so many kinds of films out there, the value of the medium can't just be in one style/form. There's a lot of honestly wonderful pieces of art out there if you know where to look and you're willing to see where it leads you.
Don't let The Romantic be the most forgotten movie of all time. Reblog this post. Show it to your friends. PM the animation community reviewer people like Saberspark and someone who isn't Saberspark and smuggle them a copy.
Keep telling the story...
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agentrouka-blog · 3 years
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When you think that George wrote Joffrey in such a way that people cheered when he was murdered at 14 years old.
He was only thirteen, actually.
And I'm not sure we are meant to cheer. There is not triumph in the description of his death, even though the POV character Tyrion was the subject of Joffrey's vicious cruelty literally the moment before he begins to choke.
GRRM doesn’t hold back with making Joffrey awful, a selfish and cowardly tyrant, a bully and liar, a sexual predator, vain and cruel and stupid, a thoroughly dangerous and barely stable individual. But he also gives us some glimpses into why he is the way he is, and more importantly, he puts the real dilemma into the fact that this child is just handed all this power and the people around him - and the system they serve - refuse to properly check the abuses that follow because it is convenient to them.
Consequently, GRRM doesn’t treat his death the way he does that of Tywin. Quite the opposite. If you’re cheering, you’re not paying attention.
(Long quote of the scene below cut)
GRRM goes out of his way to emphasize the terror of the scene and reduces the elements to what Joffrey truly is: a boy.
“He’s choking,” Queen Margaery gasped.
Her grandmother moved to her side. “Help the poor boy!” the Queen of Thorns screeched, in a voice ten times her size. “Dolts! Will you all stand about gaping? Help your king!”
Ser Garlan shoved Tyrion aside and began to pound Joffrey on the back. Ser Osmund Kettleblack ripped open the king’s collar. A fearful high thin sound emerged from the boy’s throat, the sound of a man trying to suck a river through a reed; then it stopped, and that was more terrible still. “Turn him over!” Mace Tyrell bellowed at everyone and no one. “Turn him over, shake him by his heels!” A different voice was calling, “Water, give him some water!” The High Septon began to pray loudly. Grand Maester Pycelle shouted for someone to help him back to his chambers, to fetch his potions. Joffrey began to claw at his throat, his nails tearing bloody gouges in the flesh. Beneath the skin, the muscles stood out hard as stone. Prince Tommen was screaming and crying.
He is going to die, Tyrion realized. He felt curiously calm, though pandemonium raged all about him. They were pounding Joff on the back again, but his face was only growing darker. Dogs were barking, children were wailing, men were shouting useless advice at each other. Half the wedding guests were on their feet, some shoving at each other for a better view, others rushing for the doors in their haste to get away.
Ser Meryn pried the king’s mouth open to jam a spoon down his throat. As he did, the boy’s eyes met Tyrion’s. He has Jaime’s eyes. Only he had never seen Jaime look so scared. The boy’s only thirteen. Joffrey was making a dry clacking noise, trying to speak. His eyes bulged white with terror, and he lifted a hand … reaching for his uncle, or pointing … Is he begging my forgiveness, or does he think I can save him? “Noooo,” Cersei wailed, “Father help him, someone help him, my son, my son …”
Tyrion found himself thinking of Robb Stark. My own wedding is looking much better in hindsight. He looked to see how Sansa was taking this, but there was so much confusion in the hall that he could not find her. But his eyes fell on the wedding chalice, forgotten on the floor. He went and scooped it up. There was still a half-inch of deep purple wine in the bottom of it. Tyrion considered it a moment, then poured it on the floor.
Margaery Tyrell was weeping in her grandmother’s arms as the old lady said, “Be brave, be brave.” Most of the musicians had fled, but one last flutist in the gallery was blowing a dirge. In the rear of the throne room scuffling had broken out around the doors, and the guests were trampling on each other. Ser Addam’s gold cloaks moved in to restore order. Guests were rushing headlong out into the night, some weeping, some stumbling and retching, others white with fear. It occurred to Tyrion belatedly that it might be wise to leave himself.
When he heard Cersei’s scream, he knew that it was over.
I should leave. Now. Instead he waddled toward her.
His sister sat in a puddle of wine, cradling her son’s body. Her gown was torn and stained, her face white as chalk. A thin black dog crept up beside her, sniffing at Joffrey’s corpse. “The boy is gone, Cersei,” Lord Tywin said. He put his gloved hand on his daughter’s shoulder as one of his guardsmen shooed away the dog. “Unhand him now. Let him go.” She did not hear. It took two Kingsguard to pry loose her fingers, so the body of King Joffrey Baratheon could slide limp and lifeless to the floor.
(ASOS, Tyrion VIII)
This is not a scene of triumph. It’s not treated with sarcasm or humor. Few deaths are, but this is especially focused on the physical violence of his body reacting to the poison, and the roughness of those trying to save him which is the last thing Joffrey experiences consciously, the panic in the crowd, the absolute desperation of Cersei, the shock and trauma for the children and Margaery.
A cruel child has been cruelly murdered. There is no joy in this, and we don’t see anyone rejoice. Not Sansa, not Arya.
This isn’t justice. Nothing is fixed. This is a broken system where no one is safe.
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kjack89 · 3 years
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An Agreement Between Gentlemen (Chapter 1/?)
Because nothing says ‘independence day’ like writing the participants in a French rebellion as members of the British upper class...
The Bridgerton AU that no one asked for. Will be at least 4 chapters, probably, to be published on a schedule only God herself can predict. Developing E/R, hijinks and shenanigans. All of the shenanigans.
One might recall when, not too long ago, the author of this paper hung up her pen and retired from reporting on the drama that each new season of fresh-faced debutantes and their endlessly anxious mothers brings. But alas, dear Reader, the excitement of this season has proven too much for this Author to suffer without company – which is why the pen has been passed to a new scribe.
But the fortuitous timing of the season has not been met with equally thrilling events for sharing here, as indeed, the most recent ball, hosted annually at the start of the season by the ever-insufferable Thénardiers, was positively under-attended. Not by the eager mothers that are the backbone of any season or their equally eager daughters, but by the young, eligible men who usually at least deign to make an appearance, dance a few dances, and exchange niceties as is expected for men of their station.
Instead, the only poor sap who wandered into the Thénardiers’ den of matchmaking was the Baron of Pontmercy, who was positively beset by hopeful ingénues, the most brazen of which was undoubtedly the Thénardiers’ eldest daughter, Éponine. While this Author notes that Miss Thénardier has had a patchy history with suitors and thus cannot be fully blamed for attempting to sink her claws into one as eligible as the baron, this Author must also sympathize with Baron Pontmercy, who seemed only to find himself with one moment to himself. 
Then again, rumor has it that his single moment was interrupted by an unknown young lady with an equally unknown chaperone who whisked her away posthaste. Her identity is one mystery both this Author and Baron Pontmercy are equally eager to discover, but the more pressing question is where the others of Baron Pontmercy’s gender were when they should have been equally beset by potential brides.
Never fear: Whatever answers I find, dear Reader, I shall certainly share with other enquiring minds. For a nominal fee, of course. While there are rumors of young men meeting in the backroom of a certain gentlemen’s club to discuss the overthrow of society, capitalism, and the King himself, this Author, being of the gentler sex, finds herself unable to obtain an invite, and as such, alas, cannot bring herself to comply with their lofty goals. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 20 MARCH 1831
The air in the backroom at the Musain Gentlemen’s Club was hazy with smoke and thick with plentiful conversation as its guests, all young men dressed in their dinner best, traded stories and jokes in between sips of their drinks.
At least one among them was not drinking, though – Enjolras, who sat in an overlarge armchair towards the back of the room, his back to one of the large windows that spanned almost the entire height of the wall. He alone was also not joining his friends in their merriment, his brow instead creased as he read over something.
When he had finished, he glanced up. “Combeferre,” he called, barely raising his voice despite the cacophony of the room. 
Not that he needed to: the moment he spoke, the room fell quiet as all eyes glanced at him as if waiting for him to continue. In return, he just arched an eyebrow at them. “Well, don’t let me put an end to your fun.”
A dark haired man sitting at a table in the far corner playing cards with two others raised his glass in a mocking toast. “Worry not,” he called in return. “You won’t.”
Laughter broke out yet again at that, and most of their number returned to their previous conversations as Combeferre pulled up a chair next to Enjolras’s. Enjolras pursed his lips, looking unamused. “Why is Grantaire even here?” he asked Combeferre, who, quite to the contrary, looked like he was trying not to laugh.
“I imagine because you have not yet told him that you wish for him to leave and never return,” Combeferre said evenly before giving Enjolras a rather assessing look. “Assuming, of course, that is what you wish.”
Enjolras ground his teeth together. “That’s not the point—”
Combeferre cleared his throat. “No, the point is that you had a comment, I assume, about the pamphlet I gave you to review.”
Enjolras still looked disgruntled, but seemed more than willing to allow the change in subject. “The pamphlet is fine, but I imagine you already knew that.” He handed the pamphlet draft back to Combeferre before asking, “What do you imagine the distribution schedule to look like? With Parliament sitting this week—”
He was interrupted by a thin, rather-nervous looking man appearing at his elbow, the doorman to the establishment who was paid a decent sum by each man inside the room to not interrupt them and to report nothing of their comings and going to any who might enquire. When Enjolras had made that arrangement, he had been thinking of the police; when his friends had followed his lead, most were thinking of their mothers.
“M’Lord Enjolras, I do beg your pardon—” he started, sounding almost as nervous as he looked.
Enjolras’s brow furrowed again. “It’s fine, what is it?” he asked, a touch impatiently.
The doorman bobbed his head and cleared his throat. “There is a, ah, a woman seeking entry.”
Bahorel, seated nearby, let out a wolf whistle. “The young ladies of the season are getting restless!” he crowed, to much laughter. 
“Restless, and bold, if they are coming into the city to seek their groom, and without a chaperone to boot,” Bossuet said with a grin.
“Leave to Enjolras to be the one to cause all tradition to break,” Jehan sniggered.
Enjolras could feel his ears burning red but he studiously ignored the jeers and catcalls from his friends, instead frowning at the doorman. “May I ask why are you telling me this?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice even. “Last I checked, it was your policy to restrict admittance to men, despite my protestations to the contrary.”
“Of course, M’Lord, it’s just…” The doorman quailed slightly at the look Enjolras gave him. “The woman in question claims to be your mother.”
Immediately, all jokes ceased as identical, horror-stricken looks crossed the faces of each of his friends. Enjolras blanched, all the blood draining from his face. “Did you confirm that I was inside?” he asked, a little desperately.
The doorman shook his head, his eyes widening. “No, of course not, m’lord’s discretion being of utmost importance to this establishment.” He hesitated. “That said, she did not appear to believe our denial, and is threatening to come inside and verify for yourself that you are not here.”
Enjolras groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course she is,” he sighed. He glanced at Combeferre as if considering asking for his assistance, but seemed to think better of it, instead standing and drawing himself up to his full height. “Right,” he said. “Well, I think you’ve got everything handled here, so I suppose I’ll just go, er, handle this situation.”
Combeferre again looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. “Of course,” he said. “And, if you do not return, I shall call upon you later this week, shall I?”
“Yes, but the question will be more whether you should call upon me at my house or at the hospital,” Enjolras muttered, and it was to Combeferre’s credit that he still somehow managed not to laugh.
The same could not be said for Grantaire, who started humming what Enjolras recognized vaguely as a funeral dirge as soon as he headed towards the door, and Enjolras gave him the nastiest glare he could muster. Of course, Grantaire was unaffected – if anything, it only caused his grin to widen, and he raised his cup in yet another mocking toast as Enjolras swept out of the room to go deal with his mother.
It was anyone’s guess whether his mother or Grantaire irritated him more.
He started to ask the doorman where his mother was, but found that he did not need to ask – her voice was echoing all the way from the entrance hall. “I am the Dowager Marchioness of Enjolras,” she was practically shrieking, and Enjolras winced, mentally calculating how much money it would take to smooth this particular incident over. Certainly less than when Courfeyrac almost burned the place down, but almost certainly more than when Bahorel and Grantaire had gotten into a fistfight and broken two statues and a chandelier.
He really needed better friends.
And a different mother.
“I demand to speak with my son!” his mother continued, her voice rising in both volume and pitch. “And do not give me this nonsense that he is not here, I know quite well where my son is!”
“M’lady, I apologize, but as I have said, we cannot confirm that your son—”
“I shall confirm it for myself,” Enjolras interrupted, saving the poor proprietor, who had never looked more relieved to see him. “Mother, kindly stop screeching at these gentlemen for doing their jobs.” His mother spluttered incoherently  but Enjolras knew better than to allow her the chance to regroup.
Instead, he grabbed her by the elbow and steered her to the door, glancing over his shoulder to nod his thanks at the proprietor. As soon as they were outside the building, Enjolras dropped any pretense at propriety. “What the hell were you thinking?” he snapped, not releasing his mother from his grip. “Coming all the way into the city to find me? Pray tell what could possibly have been so important to cause such a scene!”
His mother yanked her arm from his grasp and glared up at him. “A scene?” she repeated, her voice deathly quiet. “My dear son, if you consider that a scene, you are ill-prepared for what is soon to follow.”
Enjolras sighed and tried not to roll his eyes. “There is no need for theatrics—”
Without warning, his mother slapped him across the face. “Theatrics?” she hissed. “When I have spent every waking moment these past several years trying to ensure your future and the future of our house!”
She made as if to hit him again but Enjolras caught her wrist, staying her hand. “Madam, you may be the Dowager Marchioness but I am the Marquess of Enjolras, and I will not permit you to assault me in the streets, my mother or not.” He released her arm before adding sardonically, “Besides, think of the gossip.”
Again his mother gave him no warning to gird himself, but this time, she burst into tears, sobbing into his shirt. “Oh, for the love of—” Enjolras took her again by the elbow, gentler this time, and led her to where her carriage waited. “Get a hold of yourself,” he snapped. “You have already made enough of a scene this evening.”
“Perhaps a scene is what it will take!” she half-shouted in return. “For you to finally listen to me, to hear what I have been telling you!” Enjolras rolled his eyes, holding out his hand to help her into her carriage, but she stubbornly refused to move. “Since you clearly don’t listen to me when I make arrangements solely for your benefit.”
“I assure you, you have never once done anything solely for my benefit,” Enjolras said tiredly. “But if it will stop your screaming then please, tell me the latest way in which I have ruined your plans for my future.”
“The Thénardier ball!” his mother wailed, crying again. “All those eligible young ladies, and you could not even deign to show your face! How am I to get you married at this rate?”
Enjolras rolled his eyes so hard he half-feared he would pull a muscle. “Hang the bloody Thénardier ball,” he ground out, hesitating for only a moment before picking his mother up and placing her inside the carriage, swinging up after her before she could protest. 
“What are you doing?” she cried as the carriage moved off at double speed, and Enjolras thanked whatever higher power there was that his mother’s driver also clearly did not wish to linger.
Enjolras sighed. “You wanted me attention,” he said tiredly. “So you have it, albeit not in public where you clearly wanted it.”
For one long moment, his mother just glared at him, tears shining on her cheeks. Then she sighed and sat upright, her pose turning almost prim as she drew a linen handkerchief from her sleeve and delicately dabbed the tears from her cheeks. “Very well,” she said calmly, all traces of earlier hysteria gone in an instant, and Enjolras realized immediately that he had been duped, that he had played directly into her hands.
She had anticipated that making a scene would be the easiest way to get him to leave with her.
And now she had him as a captive audience for however long it took for her driver to reach her house. And while he was not a betting man, he would wager all his money and lands that she had directed her driver to take the long way.
His mother was smiling at him, a cold, unpleasant smile, and Enjolras groaned, tipping his head back against the pillowed cushions. “Please don’t tell me that you really pulled all of that because you wished to discuss the Thénardier ball.”
“Don’t be foolish,” she said before tapping his knee. “And sit upright, you will cause your clothes to wrinkle.” Enjolras groaned and reluctantly sat upright, glaring balefully at her as he waited for her to continue. “No, I merely wished to discuss something and this seemed the easiest way.”
“Then by all means, please tell me: what do you want to discuss?”
“Why, what else?” she asked, a small smirk lifting the corners of her mouth. “Your marriage.”
----------
There were few things that Enjolras loathed more than being hoodwinked by his own mother into a conversation he’d been spending the past several years avoiding, but as he stood staring up at the rather imposing façade of a house he had been to only perhaps a handful of times, he thought this just might rank.
Still, his options were decidedly limited, and he hesitated only a moment more before climbing the stairs to the front door, knocking briskly. In telling of a house less used to visits during the season, it took a moment for the butler to answer the door, and Enjolras shifted uncomfortably on the stoop as he waited. 
“May I help you?” the butler asked as he opened the door. 
“Yes,” Enjolras said. “I’m here to see Grantaire.”
The butler eyed him warily. “And who should I tell Mr. Grantaire is here to see him?”
It took everything in Enjolras not to roll his eyes. “Tell him that the Marquess of Enjolras requests his presence,” he said dryly, hating the way the butler’s eyes widened when he realized just who was standing in the doorway.
“Of– of course, m’lord,” the butler said, immediately opening the door wider to usher Enjolras indoors. “Beg your pardon, m’lord. I’ll just, ah, go fetch Mr, Grantaire.”
He retreated up the stairs and Enjolras finally did roll his eyes, sighing heavily as he wandered a little further indoors. He had spent half his life, it seemed, going from one grand house to another, so very little surprised him, but he was intrigued by what he might find in Grantaire’s house. While his own park-adjoining manor had been in his family for generations, and was decorated accordingly, Grantaire came from new money, and this house had belonged to a different family entirely not even a decade before. 
He paused to examine a small portrait of two young children, a boy and a girl, when he heard footsteps clattering on the stairs and he turned to look up as Grantaire joined him, a jacket rather hastily thrown on and buttoned incorrectly.
“My Lord.”
Grantaire’s voice was pitched just slightly higher than usual, in a way that indicated genuine surprise at finding Enjolras standing in his foyer, but somehow still retained the telltale lilt that Enjolras had long since realized meant Grantaire was making fun of him. 
He scowled automatically. “Enjolras,” he corrected with an exasperated half-sigh.
Grantaire inclined his head, a smirk twisting his lips. “My lord Enjolras,” he said, and Enjolras’s scowl deepened.
“Just Enjolras,” he said flatly, not waiting for Grantaire to escort him into the house, instead crossing the foyer to peer into the front sitting room. 
“By all means, make yourself at home,” Grantaire said, following him.
Enjolras twisted his head to give Grantaire a smirk of his own. “As you seem so keen to remind me, I outrank you,” he said. “And believe me when I say this is one time I will feel no guilt using the trappings of the nobility to my advantage.”
Grantaire just snorted, brushing past him into the sitting room, ignoring the tea that had been set on the table and instead making his way over to the drink cart against the far wall. “Forgive me, but I can think of many instances where you undoubtedly used your title and your family to your advantage without any guilt,” he said dryly, pouring himself half a glass full of amber liquid before pausing, considering it, and adding another finger. “But let’s save that particular fight for a different time.” He turned back to Enjolras and raised his glass in a mock toast. “For now, before I forget my manners any further, let me say welcome to my home, and please, allow me to pour you a cup of tea.”
“I am capable of pouring my own tea, thanks,” Enjolras said, a little stiffly, and he sat down on one armchair before leaning forward to rather stubbornly do just that.
Grantaire did not join him, as if he thought keeping physical distance between them might keep things civil. “Only you would think that hospitality was an insult.”
Enjolras arched an eyebrow. “The way you said it, it was.”
“You underestimate my capacity for being genuinely polite,” Grantaire said dryly, taking a large sip of his whiskey.
“Do I?”
“Tell me, my Lord—” Enjolras gritted his teeth but chose not to interrupt him. “—if not to insult me to my face in my own home, what brings you here, and at tea time no less?”
His voice was calm, pleasant even, but Enjolras felt himself flush in realization that he had done exactly that. And no matter how frequently he might wish to throttle Grantaire with his own hands, that was offensive even for him. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, looking down at his tea as he stirred it. “I have been rude.
Grantaire looked briefly surprised, as if he had not expected an apology. But then his smirk was back in full force. “All is forgiven...my lord.” Enjolras really might shatter his teacup at this rate. “But you still didn’t answer my question as to why you are here.”
Enjolras set his teacup down and straightened, looking Grantaire in the eye. “I came to ask for your help.”
Grantaire laughed. “So you come to my home, uninvited, you insult me to my face, and you still have the audacity to ask for my help?” He drained half of his whiskey in one long gulp. “You are lucky you have been granted the face of a Greek god, Apollo.”
“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras sighed, though he knew it was a losing battle. Grantaire had called him that on the first day they met, when Grantaire was finishing college and Enjolras just beginning, and he had continued to call him that for all the years since. “Look, I am sorry, and not just because I need your help. I am ill suited to polite society and the longer the season drags on, the more foul my temper becomes.”
Grantaire made a small noise of agreement. “You and I both,” he murmured, draining his glass and pouring himself another before finally joining Enjolras, settling into the armchair across from him. “Very well. You have my attention.”
Enjolras leaned forward, sudden urgency in every line of his body. “Word has it that you were instrumental in helping Lord Joly and Mr. Lesgle avoid scandal last season when both were in love with Lady Musichetta.”
“Well, we avoided a big scandal at least,” Grantaire said, eyeing Enjolras carefully. “There must always be a little bit of a scandal or none would believe it.”
Enjolras waved a dismissive hand. “Either way, all three are happy, and living at Lord Joly’s estate, and not a word about them has been wasted in Lady Whistledown’s papers this season.”
Grantaire arched an eyebrow. “I am astonished to learn you have read any of the newly-revived Lady Whistledown’s papers, let alone with enough frequency to speak with such authority on the subject.:
Enjolras flushed a mottled red and looked away. “It’s an easy conversation topic,” he muttered, “when I am forced to speak to those with whom I have nothing in common.”
“Such as the twittering nitwits your mother foists upon you at every turn?” Grantaire asked lightly.
Enjolras met his eyes evenly. “Exactly. And exactly why I am here.”
Grantaire’s eyes narrowed. “You’re here to better learn how to talk with women?” he asked, almost certainly purposefully obtuse. “I admit, I am an expert on the subject, but—”
“Of course not,” Enjolras snapped. “Not to mention if I did need help in that arena, you would be the last person I would turn to.”
Grantaire laughed. “Your loss, he said cheerfully. After all, to have bedded as many women as I with a face like mine requires quite the expert hand at wooing.” Enjolras rolled his eyes and Grantaire smirked before taking another sip of whiskey. “Very well. If you are not here for my help in speaking to young ladies to finally secure a marriage match, then why are you here?”
“Because I do need to marry someone,” Enjolras said, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. “But I need it not to be real.” Again he met Grantaire’s eyes. “And you are the only person I can think of who can help me pull that off.”
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