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#magnificent scoundrels
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Magnificent Scoundrels and Writing Update
Hi.  If there’s anyone still reading this, which I doubt, this is one last update for Magnificent Scoundrels.
Great news: there is a full-length Magnificent Scoundrels in the works.  It will probably be out on Fanfiction.net and AO3 in the next three to four months.  If you’re interested, I strongly encourage you to find me there, under the same name as I have here.
Scoundrels was my intro to writing, and what got me into the business and helped me get on my feet.  While I’ve let this blog slide, I’m very active and writing other stories on the previously-mentioned websites.  While there were few people who read Scoundrels here, and probably few or none remain, I still remember all of you and hope you see this message.  Good luck, and, wherever you are, have a great day!
Yours truly, 
thelordofdarkreunion
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nitr0nine · 5 months
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I was rewatching Facets, and I can't fucking BELIEVE Odo (though it was TECHNICALLY Curzon ik shut up) grabbed Quark BY THE EARS and KISSED HIM ON THE FUCKING FOREHEAD, called him a "magnificent scoundrel" and Quark reacted by ALMOST WALKING INTO A WALL?!?!?!? HUH???????
(NOT TO MENTION HIS REACTION TO SEEING TRILL ODO IN CURZON'S CLOTHING?????)
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ana-lora-rein · 10 months
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Hey guys! I think I managed to translate the first chapter of the fanfic. I want to warn you that I'm not sure about the quality of the translation, but I tried to make the text readable. While I introduce you to the data of the fanfic! Annotation: The year is 2170. The RDA is preparing a program of mass cleansing Pandora of hostile tribes in order to repopulate the fertile territories with earthlings, and Colonel Miles Quaritch has failed in his task: collaborator Jake Sully escaped justice and escaped. The RDA leadership is unsure of the competence of the recombinant, who will never be part of the human world. Characters: Miles Quaritch/Laura Asadi (OC), Lyle Wainfleet, Mansk, Miles Socorro, Ian Garvin, Zdinarsk, Prager, Lopez, Alexander, Kiri, Tuktirei , Jake Sully, Neytiri, Mo'at, Lo'ac, Francis Ardmore, Mick Scoresby, Norm Spellman, Max Patel, Tonovari, Ronal, Tsirea, Aonung. Genres: Science Fiction, Thriller, Fiction. Warnings: Secondary Original Characters, Laboratory Experiments, Obscene Language, Captivity, Postcanon, Consistency with Canon, Murder.
Other tags: Avatars, Magnificent Scoundrel, Xenophilia, From villain to hero. Dedication: Cameron, thanks for the blue kitten.
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hooved · 1 year
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i’ll never get over the quodo forehead kiss scene. there’s so many fucking layers to it that we don’t even get into. the script clarifying that it was “(all odo)” means it was something he wanted to do, not curzon. curzon had no part in it other than lending his confidence to do it. and not only did odo decide to kiss quark’s forehead, but he grabbed his ears while he did it too. odo knows exactly what touching a ferengi’s ears does, yet he didn’t seem disgusted by that and still went for it. “have i ever told you you’re a magnificent scoundrel?”. “have i ever told you” implies this is something he’s thought about saying for a while now. like imagine odo just sitting in his office thinking “quark is a magnificent scoundrel” because that’s sure what it sounds like he was doing. quark’s stunned (and let’s be real here, given he just got grabbed by the ears, turned on) reaction, the weird little moan he does after odo shouts his order at him, his inability to stop blankly staring at odo after he comes back with the drinks, sisko’s “it’s gonna take quark a little while to get over that”. it’s fucking insane like WHAT were they even thinking with this
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willedesbetreibers · 3 months
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in fact, I want to talk more about my skibidi toilet oc, CUZ I REALLY LIKE HIM!!
Meet Rowe Hayles! aka PD-0471.
he's a speakerman :з
he is a cyborg, not a robot. before the war he was a human, and he decided to become a speakerman only because of the death of his family a couple of months earlier(How could we do without this, huh?)
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1st picture: ’ Oh! what a beautiful view from above, isn't it?
Q. Do you have any problems in your work because of your lack of emotion?
2nd picture: ’ Over the years, many have become accustomed to my “peculiarity,” and I have become accustomed to imitating emotions in such a way that they cannot be distinguished from real ones. so I don’t have any serious problems because of this.
...
he was originally planned as a friendly and fearful agent who helps his colleagues at the base. Rowe panics at the mere sight of skibidists, therefore he was removed from combat missions.
He also really dislikes all TV-mans and considers them arrogant scoundrels, who will definitely betray everyone and even themselves in pursuit of their own benefit.
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Q. why don't you like TV mans?
despite all the help they provide us, their habit to abandon agents at the slightest deviation from plans... disgusts me.
...
but then I stopped liking him as a timid agent who is unable to resist enemy forces, and in addition to changing his design, I also changed his character. slightly, just changing the fact about his panic attacks at the sight of skibidi toilets. now he could resist them, but he attacked everyone he felt near him, even if they were his colleagues.
By the way, after this redesign he also received a prosthetic arm instead of a normal one:з
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random art with rowie, because I didn’t find a reference with the redesign..
found it!!
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⠀and he lost his arm for a simple reason - he was distracted on a mission with the titans. Initially everything went well and smoothly, nothing foreshadowed trouble. When he finished with his part, he allowed himself to be distracted for a couple of seconds in order to show "👍" to titan cameraman. and just at that moment a skibidi-lined toilet with a jet pack crashed into Rowe at great speed, taking it with it towards the ruins.
⠀Rowe recovered from his wound for a long time after that, because he was near death - if not for a miracle, then probably the reinforcement would have pierced his heart right through. but it passed by and that saved him from death.
⠀after that he acquired more cybernized body parts, organs, bones.. but he still remains human.
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I need to find a warmer coat...
...
⠀but now I don't like him at all as a character, so I'll be completely remaking him. well, the appearance most likely will not suffer any changes, it is already magnificent.
⠀and this is what I have at the moment with him:D The art below is already a result of the redesign. I'm thinking about adding the ability for him to get rid of the speaker instead of his head... nanotechnology, that's all. and he's also a smoker :Д
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that's all for now!
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madreemeritus · 7 months
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Don Juan Triumphant — An analysis of Erik's masterpiece
Warning: i don't speak French and i don't have english editions of PotO, only Portuguese, so i will translate it directly from my text
Gaston Leroux's novel narrates the fact that Erik was producing an Opera of his own with the theme "Don Juan Triumphant". Unfortunately, we never hear it because it's a book, but a few adaptations brought his work to live with different interpretations.
Let's analyze what Leroux intented to write with Erik's character.
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Don Juan is a Spanish archetype of a lascivious and libertine man, created by Tirso de Molina, a poet and religious playwright of the Middle Ages. His character was supposed to be an antagonist of what society considered to be moral and pure at that time. And as any other story, it has its adaptations.
Don Giovanni (the same as Don Juan) is the work of Mozart (composer) and Lorenzo Da Ponte (writer), where Don Giovanni is a scoundrel who seduces and abandons women; one of his victims has his father murdered by Don Giovanni after he tried to prevent the seduction. The spirit of the Commander (Donna Anna's father murdered by D. Giovanni) returns in the form of a statue and drags the protagonist to hell with the help of demons.
Erik, after Christine asks him to play Don Juan Triumphant, says: "Never ask me that. This Don Juan was not composed for the libretto of a Lorenzo Da Ponte, inspired by wine, by furtive loves and by vices finally punished by God. I can play Mozart if I so wish, which will bring beautiful tears to your eyes and inspire you with frank reflections. But my Don Juan burns, Christine, and not because he has been hit by heavenly fire!" (...) "You see, Christine, there is a song so terrible that it consumes all who approach it. You haven't reached it yet, and that's good, because you would lose your soft colors and they wouldn't recognize you anymore on your return to Paris" (...)
Erik says that his Don Juan "burns" and that Christine was in no condition to understand the somber depths of his masterpiece. He refuses to play Don Juan at first (although he is willing to play other Mozart pieces), but after being unmasked, he plays in a form of escapism. Christine is enthralled by the terrible, somber performance. Erik's Don Juan is a reflection of the pain he feels.
He apparently has no interest in writing a story like Don Giovanni, possibly an inspiration for him is Lord Byron's version, where Don Juan is neither a seducer nor a villain: but a victim of a cruel and false love of a woman. Erik says that it took him years to finish his work, as if each event in his life influenced the work more. He also says that, when finishing Don Juan Triumphant, he would die and be buried along with the scores: he changes his mind when he falls in love with Christine.
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Don Juan is an archetype that contradicts everything Erik is and believes. Erik scares women by his ugliness / Don Juan seduces and conquers them all. Erik wants true love / Don Juan wants to deceive women in exchange for sex. Don Juan is a handsome, seductive man who is admired by people / Erik was born deformed and was abused, humiliated and rejected by (almost) everyone he met. Erik would probably change the character of Don Juan just as Lord Byron changed it according to his own life experience. That's why he is "Don Juan Triumphant", rather than the protagonist's defeat.
Christine's words after hearing Don Juan Triumphant: "His Don Juan Triumphant (for there was no longer any doubt that he had rushed his masterpiece to forget the horror of the present minute) appeared to me only one long, frightening, magnificent sob, where poor Erik had deposited all his misery." (...) "I remembered the notebook with red notes and easily imagined that that song had been written in blood. It guided me through all the details of martyrdom; it made me enter all the corners of the abyss, the inhabited abyss by the ugly man; it showed me Erik atrociously banging his poor, ugly head against the funereal walls of hell, where he had taken refuge so as not to frighten human eyes any longer, where Pain was deified, and then, the sounds that saw from the abyss and suddenly grouped together in a prodigious and threatening flight. the world. I understood that the work was finally done and that Ugliness, borne on the Wings of Love, had dared to look Beauty in the face!" (...)
For me, Erik's Don Juan is an expression of his life and inner demons. The rejection, the suffering, the pain, the hate, the jealousy, and at the same time, the love, the desire and the will to be loved like any other human being. Erik is as much compared with Death as with Sexuality. This duality would be expressed in his work. And since the work is Triumphant, in the end he would find the love and happiness he longed for.
Adaptations
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In my opinion, Andrew Loyd Webber's "Don Juan Triumphant" doesn't make much sense because it only explores a carnal scandal between Don Juan and Aminta. It looks like the same character as Tirso de Molina and Lorenzo Da Ponte, not the alternative — painful and suffering — version of Erik. There is no tragedy, no hellfire and no suffering. It just seems like an empty work made to shock the society of the 19th century. "Oh but it's Erik's self insert", the original work was clearly an escapism, a reflection of his life, a form of expression of the pain he felt. It's not that Erik's work in the book doesn't explore the theme of sexuality, but that's not all. It's not just a horny show between Erik and Christine. Especially because it gives off a weird vibe that Erik just wanted sex with her, and that's a lie. I do love The Point of No Return by its beautiful melody and my E/C bullshit that likes some horny fanfiction.
I adore, however, the 1925s (or 1929s rebuilt) "Don Juan". Not only because it's the main theme scored by Gabriel Thibaudeau, but also because this specifically is the unmasking scene and it captures everything that I imagined as Leroux's description. The pain, the passion, the tragedy, is all there. Lon Chaney's Erik says to Christine that since the first time he saw her, he was inspired to write such a magnificent piece of music. Not 20 years writing it as originally, but more a romantic inspiration coming from his heart. This adaptation, to be fair, is my favorite.
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And another version which I apreciate a lot is the 1989 slasher movie with Robert Englund. It's such a sublime song that remarks the exact 'Dark Romance' vibes of E/C relantionship. Obviously is not the best adaptation, actually it has little to do with the original work as Christine is a time traveler, Erik is a murderous psychopath villain and the story goes totally into a supernatural horror. But if you put in your mind that PotO and A Nightmare On Elm Street were merely an inspiration to a slasher/supernatural movie, it's actually an interesting experience.
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So in conclusion, this was my analysis of the mysterious Don Juan Triumphant. Feel free to disagree or point out new things in the comments 🙏🏽❤️
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dutifullynuttywitch · 3 months
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Pancake mornings
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Takes place after Blades of Light and Shadow 2 (Pixelberry Choices)
Pairing: Mal Volari X f!mc (Autumn Nightbloom)
Rating: Teen
Word count: 650
Summary: Mal tries his hand at making Heroes of Morella pancakes ... and Autumn considers more legitimate career choices for her handsome rogue.
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Autumn awakens to the sweet smell of pancakes and peals of laughter coming up from the kitchen two floors below. She smiles at the novelty of normalcy. Something she never thought she’d have again.
Of course, there was still work to do. She and her friends continued to travel the newly merged realm to help the communities rebuild and fight off all manner of shadow beasts and fantastic creatures. But there were also moments of calm in-between, which she relished. She spent most of those weeks with Mal at the orphanage, making time to catch up with Nia, visiting friends, and Kade, when he wasn’t off to Zaradun with Cherta. Though she kept her room at the Palace, a standing invitation by King Arlan for the Saviour of the Realm, Autumn had pretty much moved into Mal’s cozy attic room.
She slips out of bed and quickly dresses, making her way downstairs towards the joyful ruckus.
“Morning, kit!” Mal calls out from the stove, flipping pancakes dangerously high into the air, to the delight of a dozen beaming kids gathered around.
“Morning, handsome.” She sidles next to him and places a soft kiss on his cheek. “Whatcha cooking up?”
“I call these my Heroes of Morella pancakes!” He proudly declares, to squeals of excited laughter from several kids.
She looks at a growing pile of deformed – faces? Some with elongated ears, others with points resembling horns, others just formless masses – and snorts. “Well, these certainly won’t win you any talent contests. Though I’ll give you points for originality, your magnificence.”
“Hey! I’d like to see you try to do better.” He mock-pouts.
“Sure thing. Watch and learn.” She smirks and grabs a ladle, dropping a dollop of batter onto the hot pan. She concentrates her magic, shaping the sizzling pancake into a perfect nesper shape.
“Oh, come on! That’s cheating!” Mal splutters, scandalized.
“And since when are you concerned about cheating, my handsome scoundrel?” She smirks mischievously, starting a new pile with her perfectly shaped pancakes.
"Since I'm not the one doing it!"
“I want Autumn’s pancakes! They’re so pretty.” “Me too!” “Me too!” The kids clutter around the counter, ooh-ing and ah-ing at Autumn’s growing pile of perfectly shaped heroes and nespers.
Mal huffs vexedly but relents with a magnanimous bow, “You seem to have won this battle, my fair lady.”
“oh, but you had the brilliant idea, so I say we share in the spoils of victory this time.” She sneaks a quick kiss, a promise of more to come.
He grins at her cockily, pressing himself against her back and whispering in her ear “That, I can get behind.”
“Mal!” She bats at him, eyes wide, and distracts herself with plating batches of pancakes for the anxiously waiting children.
Soon, the kids are settled around the dining table, munching away at their hero pancakes in a boisterous cacophony of talks and laughter. Autumn slips back to the kitchen and into Mal’s arms, hugging him lightly. He returns the embrace, sighing contentedly.
“Any plans today?”
“Well, I’ve gotten word that our dear friend Lord Thurgood has recently 'procured' a sword from a temple that belonged to the shadow realm. Apparently, it’s got some engravings that may or may not predate the Elven civilization.” He catches her scandalized look and adds on quickly “… for research purposes! It’s rumored to have magical properties… I’m sure Nia and elf boy would love to examine it.”
“And once they’re done researching…”
“Weeeeell… it’ll be worth a pretty penny.”
“Mal! Do I have to remind you how your last heist in Thurgood manor nearly ended in disaster?”
“Eh! I'd say it ended pretty good, considering I made it out with the statue and … made out with you.” He smirks devilishly, stealing a heated kiss.
Autumn sighs, biting her lower lip to hide an amused smile. “You know, Mal, as a hero of the realm, you should really think about other more legitimate avenues of employment.”
“… Such as…?”
“I mean you’re a pretty good cook, when you’re not trying to get creative with your pancakes.”
“I have to be, since you’re so godawful at it!” He smirks, tempering the criticism with a loving kiss.
“Well, I can’t be good at everything. But you could work at the bakery with Vivi.”
“Hmm… kneading dough all day, kind of like this…?” He grabs her waist, bringing her flush against him and lowers his hands to massage her backside, earning a soft moan.
"Well you are very good with your hands..." she trails off, kissing lightly down his neck.
"I love my sister and Vivi, don't get me wrong, kit, but I doubt they'd enjoy seeing me everyday."
"Well you're great with a weapon - for fighting!" she quickly specifies, growing scarlet at his suggestive leer. "You could join the Whitetower guards."
"Autumn, my love, the king may have absolved me of my past crimes, but I can promise you the Whitetower guards remember me very well, and we're not exactly on the friendliest of terms... any other brilliant ideas, kit?"
She looks up at him, pondering, then sighs.
"Okay your magnificence, at what time are we headed over to Thurgood Manor tonight?"
Mal flashes her a dazzling grin, draping an arm across her shoulders as he walks her into the dining room.
"Well, see, I was thinking we could sneak in right at the change of guard..."
Autumn smiles to herself. Normalcy, with just a dash of danger and adventure. This, to her, was perfection.
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fizzycherrycola · 1 year
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PrUK, July 1815
After Napoleon is defeated, the victorious nations gather to celebrate with beer and wine. The drinks make conversation easy and Prussia finds himself cozying up to England once again, as they laugh and reignite old desires.
Warning: Kisses, injuries, and way too much alcohol
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Eager and Willing
Paris, France; 19 July 1815
Prussia thumps his mug onto the table and grins. Naturally, he always tells the best and funniest stories. He knows this because England is already smirking, and the tale hasn’t even finished yet.  
“So,” he continues, “Austria says, ‘What on Earth are you doing here?’ Right? I’m covered head to toe in armour, with nearly the entire order of knights behind me, and that moron aristocrat asks me what I’m doing!”  
“What’d you tell him?”  
“I said ‘I’m looking for a challenge, could you run and fetch your wife?’”  
England wheezes, his eyes crinkling with mirth, and together they holler like jackals. If anyone in the vicinity turns to gawk or sneer, they must simply be jealous of Prussia’s incredible narrative talents.
As comfortable as an old shoe, the two scoundrels huddle in a deep corner of a Parisian tavern, past benches and barmaids, where the mob of nations and kingdoms has thinned and the stench of booze blends with the soothing mix of oakwood and burning oil. Bumping shoulders, England leans on Prussia, his drunken laughter fading with a sigh as he smiles into his beer mug, body heat radiating from beneath the thin muslin of his dress shirt and baking Prussia’s entire left side. Jackets were unbuttoned hours ago as the alcohol flooded their veins and warmed the air, driving them to find a booth before they toppled over their own unsteady legs.  
And England’s pliant weight has Prussia hoping that all this physical contact is not solely platonic, because the familiar brush of England’s straw hair is distractingly pleasing. He can handle this though, can’t he? Of course, he can! He’s the almighty Prussia, and it’s not as though they haven’t been down this wayward path before.  
Upturning his glass, Prussia swallows another gulp of lager, liquid confidence burning down his gullet and filling his belly.  
At some point during the night, the portraits and prints which adorn the tavern's walls began sloping to the side and the rusted oil lamps started swaying high overhead. So perhaps he's had a few too many drinks, but tonight celebrates a special occasion: the capture of one, Napoleon Bonaparte. The final chapter has closed in a long series of arduous wars that spanned the continent, and isn’t that enough cause for some minor indulgence? After all, how often does a man witness the downfall of a titan, even if he has lived hundreds of years in Europe?
And speaking of the devil...  
Shoving England off him, for just a moment, Prussia clambers underneath the table and retrieves his new prize. He bangs his skull on the way back up and England cackles.  
A glint of gold trim catches the firelight. Disregarding the ache of his smashed head, Prussia haphazardly reshapes the crumpled felt and shakes out the dust until the heavenly bicorne appears presentable once again. Proudly, he displays the magnificent spoil to his companion.  
Slowly, England blinks, swaying and bleary-eyed as he attempts to focus. “...What is it?”  
Prussia smirks. “It’s my trophy.”  
England quirks one of his bushy brows. “It’s a hat.”  
“It’s my hat.”  
Unfortunately, it seems that England doesn’t understand. He takes another swig of amber ale, disregarding the gorgeous hat. With admirable patience, Prussia waits, gradually sneaking the bicorne back into his companion’s field of vision.  
Finally, England rolls his eyes. “Alright, let’s hear it. Where’d it come from?”  
Prussia smirks. “I got this beauty from Spain; bought it off him as soon as I saw it. He was trying to swap it for a bottle of wine, but the barmaids told him off.”  
England scoffs. “Bartering? God, the Parisians aren’t that desperate, at least not from what I’ve seen. What was he thinking? We’re not living in the Middle Ages anymore.”  
“Ja, but it’s not just any hat; he was saying it’s Bonaparte’s hat!”  
“It’s... what?”
“He thought the French people would want it back and they’d be willing to trade for it. But everyone told him to fuck off!” Prussia howls. “I remember when we took the city, I thought they’d hassle us for weeks, but they hate their emperor more than they hate us!”  
“Hang on, you mean to say that – stop laughing! Oi!” England fumbles with Prussia’s lapels. “You're telling me that this thing is....”  
Prussia waves his hat, in the mild-mannered way that women wave handkerchiefs at departing ships. “That’s right: the confiscated property of Herr Bonaparte himself.” England frowns and says nothing, to Prussia’s displeasure. “What, you don’t believe me?”  
“How do you know it’s his?”  
Like a sputtering steam pump, Prussia stalls. If he concentrates, he can probably make a decent case for his claim, but in his inebriated state, that requires significant mental capacity, and he really can’t be arsed. Instead, he gawks at the bicorne, turning it over in his hands. It lacks a name on the inner rim, but it does have the emperor’s tell-tale tricolour cockade; an image that Prussia committed to memory during that fateful October of 1806.  
It must be the one; Spain wouldn’t lie to him. The hat that sat atop the emperor’s head through brilliant and terrible campaigns, war rooms and victory marches, cannon fire and blizzards. The crown of a newly shattered empire.  
Lost in his own little world, Prussia sighs, and wholeheartedly discards any doubts as to the hat’s authenticity. “Perfect, isn’t it?”  
Suddenly, England grabs him by the collar, scowling. “I told you....” Then, he pauses, squinting into the middle distance. “Hang on, what was it? What did I tell you?”  
Prussia blinks. “...That you would only come out drinking if I stopped—”  
“Yes!” England squawks. “I’d only come out drinking if you stopped going on about how much you admired that stumpy twat of an emperor!”  
Prussia’s laughter bursts from his chest. “But with this hat, I can become just like him!”  
“Good God.”  
“Look, here.” Clumsily, Prussia shuffles out of the booth and kneels on the sticky floor, his head peeking over their wooden table to appear as a shorter man. Cheeks sore from grinning, he puts the hat on and prepares his most obnoxious rendition of Napoleon’s accent. “I found dee crown of France in dee gutter and placed it on my ‘ead!”  
He receives a deadpan expression for his efforts. “Really?”  
“What do you mean it ees a terrible idea to invade Russia? Dee winter ees still many months away and I am sure Tsar Alexander will lay down ‘is weapons. Not long ago, ‘e and I were very close friends.”  
Pressing his lips thin, England inhales and sinks, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow.  
“You see, dees beautiful man was spending much time with myself and my wife. In fact, I wondered why my Josephine never told me when she was enjoying intimacy. Then I discover it was because I was never there when it ‘appened!”  
Immediately, England cracks, dissolving into another fit of candid laughter, his cheeks glowing rosy red and tears trickling down his face. Prussia’s heart swells. Sliding back into his seat, their bodies are pressed close again. And while he freely admits to being a fashion philistine, sometimes even wearing the label as a badge of honour, right now, England’s waist looks so narrow in that charcoal vest, that Prussia is ready to worship whichever angel dreamt up this new style of art. Carefully, he sneaks an arm around that wondrously tight torso.  
“Accept it,” he drawls. “You know I would make an impressive emperor.”  
“Oh, yes,” England coughs, his sarcasm revealing his recovered composure. “I’m sure that’s exactly what your ego needs: an empire.”  
“Everybody has one these days, including you. Why can’t I join in?”  
“I can offer several reasons.” Snickering, England gulps down his beer, peach throat bobbing with each sip, and Prussia’s mouth is suddenly very dry.  
“Well, what if, as a token of goodwill from the extraordinary Prussian Empire, I... endowed you with... you know... some kind of bounty?”  
Setting down his mug, England peers. “Go on.”  
Briefly, Prussia freezes, long fingers curling in the folds of his companion’s waistcoat, locking his gaze with England's. A lick of fire ignites in his belly. This is a good sign, isn’t it? He can’t tell; between them, they’ve probably annihilated an entire cask, so accurate judgements are off the table.  
“How about Ardenne? Or Lorraine or Burgundy?”  
England frowns. “The territories you’ve got? I'm not about to swoon over occupying a French farming hamlet for four years. Or however long we’ll have them.”  
Mentally, Prussia kicks himself; he should’ve been bolder. “So, you’re not interested then?”  
“I didn’t say that. You just haven’t offered anything enticing yet.”
“What would you consider... enticing?”
“Another pint, for starters.”
“Huh?”
“We’re out of ale.” England emphasises this by tapping his empty cup. “And it’s your turn to get more.”
Stupefied, Prussia glares at the mug before grimacing. “Scheiße.”
He slips out of the booth, irked and wallowing in self-pity for about five seconds, until he glances over his shoulder and catches England staring at him. And his pulse quickens under that piercing, greedy look. Green, but not like the forests. Instead, more akin to the alluring haze of witchcraft and devilry, the sort that drives even the most pious men wild.
It drives Prussia a little wild too – his pale hairs stand ready at attention.
Licking his lips, he dives into the crowd. He stumbles through the alehouse, pushing Bavaria aside and receiving a slurry of mangled German syllables in response. The air is flushed warm, roiling with dozens of merry voices crammed into a saloon that was never designed for so many boisterous patrons. He bumps into stools and oak tables, getting sprinkled with droplets of wine from overfull glasses, treading through a sea of jolly inebriation.
He finds the bar, scanning the shelves, bottles, and casks in search of a barmaid. Before he finds one though, someone shouts above the ruckus.
“Hey, Spanien! Spain! Do you need a hand?”
A man stumbles toward the main door and slams heavily into the frame. It's followed by a round of chuckling from a nearby table, and the man waves off their offers of assistance. His russet brown hair is matted by the bandages swaddling his cranium, and a weary smile adorns his face. Prussia winces and recognises the man as Spain.
“Ah, fuck,” Prussia mutters. “Don’t do this to me. Not now.”
Prussia tries to ignore the scene, as Spain teeters in place. One of Spain's hands is holding a cup and the other a bottle; he fumbles with the door handle, attempting to turn it without dropping his drinks. Wine dribbles dangerously out of the vessels and Prussia gnaws his cheek, pulled between the desire to snatch some ale and run back to England or to help his long-time friend. The poor Spainard was battered by the wars, struggling for years as a guerrilla fighter in his own land and living under a Bonapartist pretender king. It was only weeks ago that he regained a semblance of shaky stability from the Congress of Vienna.
Though, Spain is a sturdy nation. Perhaps he’s fine. Maybe he doesn’t need any help with his drunken escapades.
Then, said nation stumbles through the door, a thump and the sharp crinkling of shattered glass follows. Several patrons idly turn their heads toward the noise, but soon resume their conversations as though nothing happened. Cursing his luck, Prussia abandons the bar. At the very least, he owes Spain for the fancy bicorne upon his head.
Pushing through the tavern’s exit, he finds Spain flat on his face.
“Spain!” Prussia barks. “I’ve come to your rescue!” He kicks aside the shards of broken bottle and grabs his friend, manhandling him into a sitting position and propping him up against a crate. “Wow, you look like shit.”
“I know,” Spain sighs. The acrid tang of wine is carried on his breath and in his clothes. “Don't remind me.”
Prussia tilts his head to check for blood, thankfully finding none. “Honestly, I wasn't sure if you’d be showing up tonight.”
“Neither was I,” Spain admits with a tired smile, his deep eye-bags wrinkling from the effort. “But I think I needed this. I wanted to celebrate.”
“Of course you need it; we all do!”
“Exactly! We have peace. Everything else, it can wait... for now....” His head is drooping, and his eyes are unfocused.
“Okay, you need rest. Come on; which room is yours?” Wobbling, Prussia drags him up, slinging an arm under his limp shoulders; the drunk leading the drunk.
“Ah...? Oh, I didn’t get a room above the tavern.”
“All right. Do you remember where you’re staying?”
With Spain in tow, Prussia hobbles toward the darkened street, and he hails a cab, waving at the slouching drivers that have crowded their carriages around the bustling tavern. Ever reliable, one of them immediately hops into his seat and beckons the nations to approach. In a short minute, Prussia is heaving Spain through the cab door, asking him for the address of his lodgings and relaying this information to the driver.
“You’re a good friend,” Spain hiccups. “Sometimes.”
“Hey, I’m always a good friend,” Prussia corrects, patting Spain’s arm. “By the way, thanks again for the hat.”
Spain nods sluggishly from the passenger seat. “At least someone wanted it.”
A farewell is just on the edge of Prussia’s tongue when there’s a clang behind him – a creaky wooden door hitting stone.
“Oi! Are you leaving?”
It’s England. He’s stumbling out of the tavern and bracing against the doorframe. “You can’t drag me to some French alehouse, make eyes at me all night, and then just piss off!”
Prussia laughs incredulously. “I’m not going anywhere!”
“You’re getting in a cab!”
He turns to Spain. “Sorry, I’ve got to go. Don’t fall asleep before you get to your bed!”
Spain’s forearm sways, his slack hand flapping goodbye, and the door shuts. Prussia slips off the carriage step and the horses shuttle the carriage away. Then, he wobbles back to England and readies some sort of half-assed explanation. But his torso is already tilting, and he wraps his arms around England first, cooing in the way one would settle a mangy cat.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he repeats.
England squirms. “What are you—? Get off.”
“Nah.” Prussia nuzzles his haybale of hair.
“You’re absolutely legless.”
“So are you.”
“Oh, do fuck off.”
“Deep down, you know I wasn’t going to leave.”
“Is that so?”
“The awesome Prussia would never be so bad-mannered.”
As a matter of principle, England is never one to relent. But he is the type to snort and stop squirming, to slouch into the unsteady hug with his cheek squished awkwardly into Prussia’s necktie.
“Complimenting yourself is poor manners,” he mumbles, fingers groping for purchase in the folds of Prussia’s jacket. “What were you doing out here, then?”
Alcohol buzzing through his addled mind, Prussia blinks slowly. “I was thanking Spain for the hat.” He could fall asleep like this, with the dim lamplight, the muffled hubbub of the tavern, and England in his arms. Eyelids falling, he almost does. But everything shifts, suddenly.
He’s spinning, the doorframe blurring into a side alley, swallowed in near darkness. Fistfuls of his jacket are being tugged and there’s a muttered “you and the damned hat.” He’s shoved against a solid wall, the wind knocked right out of him, totally unsure if he’s about to fight or score.
Prussia coughs, his head swirling. “Sometimes I forget that you were once a pirate.”
“Hmph. Privateer.”
“Oh?” Prussia chuckles breathlessly. “There’s a difference?”
England sputters. “Yes, of course there’s a difference! What— What do you think, I just scuttled about the Atlantic, raiding and pillaging without oversight? Without proper clearances from the Royal Navy?”
Trying his best not to grin, Prussia swallows the ‘yes’ on his tongue. “I mean, I’ve heard stories.”
“Well, they’re wrong.” Lurching, England stabs a wobbly finger at Prussia’s chest. “Understand? Being a privateer... was a respectable way to earn a living.”
Struggling, Prussia’s mushy, waterlogged brain registers that England is mildly upset, and that they're pressed very close together, shirt buttons catching and snug trousers rustling. If he can rescue Spain, maybe he can rescue the night, too.
“I am not judging. I wouldn’t mind if you were a little savage back then. It’s, uh.... It doesn’t bother me.”
“...You?”
“Me?”
“You’re not bothered? You, who wakes up at five o’clock in morning for military exercises, disturbing the bed, waking your companion, demanding he join you, then coming back an hour later to scribble in your journal before the bloody sun is up.”
Prussia halts, his mind fish-hooked on those highly specific details. “That was... at least fifty years ago.”
“It was.”
A smile blooms across his face. “You remember that?”
“Of course I do,” England murmurs. “Why?”
“You never mentioned it,” Prussia replies. “I thought, maybe you’d forgotten.”
“...I didn’t.”
Prussia stares. If England were sober, he’d avert his gaze and deny everything. But far beyond tipsy, with inhibitions washed away, he stares back. The flickering lamplight carves his brow and cheekbones out of the darkness, haloing his blonde mane. Prussia’s stomach twists, and he curls a hand around the back of England’s neck, grazing freshly clipped hair.
With a dry throat, Prussia swallows. “Come here.”
Drunk eyes widen, then slip, falling to a lazy, half-lidded expression. England’s scarlet face is pulled closer. The ruckus of Paris – whistling wind that swirls through the boulevards, creaking carriages full of giggling escorts, little rats scampering down the muddy alleyway – is entirely drowned by the rustling of their waistcoats and the sharp intake of breath that passes England’s barley-sour lips as they finally touch Prussia’s own.
And it’s better than he remembers.
Warmth pours out of England’s chapped mouth and rolls along his tongue in sloppy, pliable kisses. Satisfaction melts into Prussia’s bones as he tastes beer and old ocean salt. Oh, he missed this. England’s firm embrace, the demanding press of arms encircling his ribs, massages a long-neglected itch deep in the pit of Prussia’s greedy soul.
God, they should’ve done this sooner.
He holds England's head in place. Pushing his tongue inside, he wanders and re-explores, yields and plunders. Letting England nip and gnaw, Prussia returns with his own teeth to trace England’s chin, tugging insistently on his silk cravat, exposing the skin, then burrowing into his neck and bruising. Breath steaming his cheeks, Prussia earns a moan, and the sound sets his nerves alive, igniting his spine like a trail of gunpowder.
Quickly, the air suffocates. Fingers claw at silver buttons, crushing fistfuls of muslin fabric and scratching the flesh underneath. Shuddering when England shifts his thigh just perfectly, Prussia’s jaws snap shut with a clack, holding back a desperate noise that threatens to bubble up from his core.
Limestone digs into his back and sanity cracks through the thundering waves of intoxicated pleasure. They’re in public; they’ll be caught. And Prussia’s libido makes a valiant effort to combat his diligent Teutonic upbringing: snarling and tearing at it, a rabid badger throwing itself upon an immovable wall, but it’s no use. Cursing himself and his code of ethics, with sinking regret, Prussia untangles their limbs and wrenches England off.
“Wh—?” England gasps.
“Can’t be arrested,” Prussia pants, his skin swiftly cooling in the most wretched way. “Assembly tomorrow... the generals would kick my ass... if I missed.”
“Oh, come on. There’s no one around.”
“You don’t want to be respectable anymore?”
“No, I— it's just— ...Fine, but we’re at a tavern. They’ll have a room.”
Prussia slumps. “I checked when I arrived. They’re booked for the night.” His drunk yet astute German brothers had the foresight to reserve their rooms in advance.
“...Fuck’s sake.”
Grimacing, England wipes saliva from his mouth. He’s little more than tousled hair and dishevelled clothing, with dark pupils blown wide, eclipsing those viridian irises. He’s fucking glorious this way and hunger coils low in Prussia’s belly, appetite unsated. Heart pounding, Prussia quiets his inner critic, the nagging reminder of that crucial military assembly tomorrow morning, and sucks obscene back-alley air into his lungs.
Then, he asks, “My quarters aren’t far. Do you want to...?”
England, rubbing his swollen lips with the side of his hand, pauses. His irritated gaze turns ravenous, slack limbs straightening with sober purpose.
“Yes.”
Bursting with more excitement than a circus, Prussia’s smile outshines the sun.
Clinging to each other, they stumble into the street and the world swims. Dizzy and high, Prussia clumsily waves at a vague shape that resembles a carriage. Horses slow as the cab pulls up beside them, brass lantern clinking, and the driver asks for their destination. Mangling the French address, Prussia repeats himself twice, before the burly man nods in understanding and yanks open the passenger door.
Prussia can’t get inside fast enough, scooting to make space for England, who clambers on top of him, slamming the door shut and plunging them into total darkness. A hot mouth finds Prussia’s cheek, then his ear, nipping and whispering wicked obscenities.
Leather seats squeak and jostle as the carriage bounces along old Parisian roads. Helplessly giddy, Prussia quakes, his aimless hands skirting over England’s hips, and he cackles. Growling, England bites his throat and tells him to shut up. He tries his best to oblige. The cab scurries off into the night, shuttling its eager and willing passengers, who by their own standards, are not being very clandestine in the slightest.
End / Fin
~~~
Author’s Notes
Napoleon’s surrender on 15 July 1815 marked the end of the Napoleonic Wars. 
While Napoleon was popular in his heyday, by April 1815, French enthusiasm for the emperor diminished. Conscription was extended to married men, and only soldiers cheered for the emperor when he passed by.
Josephine and Napoleon cheated several times during their marriage, and they ultimately separated in 1810 because they couldn’t produce an heir. Later, the Russian Tsar Alexander visited her in 1814 and they exchanged an unusual number of expensive gifts. The Russian Emperor started coming to Malmaison frequently, having long walks and conversations with Josephine. For the Paris political society, this seemed suspicious and led to some unsavoury rumours.
Although some supported Napoleon's seizure of power in Spain, many regions revolted and formed juntas to rule in the name of the ousted Bourbon king, Ferdinand VII, since Joseph I was considered an illegitimate sovereign. Bloody warfare raged in Spain and Portugal in the Peninsular War, much of which was fought using guerrilla tactics.
Unfortunately, in 1815, homosexuality was technically illegal. It was condemned by the Catholic church but, if discreet, it was tolerated in Paris. If it wasn’t flagrant, the police paid it little attention and they would usually look the other way.
The first Anglo-Prussia alliance formally lasted from 1756 – 1762, during the Seven Years’ War. Although relations soured during the American Revolution, they eventually recovered, and the nations co-operated in several joint coalitions from 1787 onward, including the Napoleonic Wars.
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sarcasticsra · 1 year
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Now: imagine you’re Hob, and you meet a fey so stunningly poised, a true gem, in your eyes, of their court. You think their magnificence is only further enhanced by the fact that they, too, understand what it is like to serve others, to work so that others may enjoy the majesty of the Bloom. You share an unexpectedly tender moment, alone in the forest, and then it ends abruptly, and you are unsure as to what you have done.
This uncertainty is only further exacerbated when you are challenged to a duel by their assistant, and even once it is over, she refuses to tell you what offense you have committed. It seems logical to conclude that your foolhardiness in expressing any tender sentiments to someone so majestic was an insult that could not stand. As you are reminded by your superiors, you are a blunt instrument. That is your purpose.
Then you see them transform at the tea party, the lovely elven form fading away to reveal them as they truly are: a resplendent, breathtaking owlbear, eyes kind, nervous. You stumble over your own feet, marveling at the splendor of them. Their magnificence truly knows no bounds.
You realize, then, what an arrogant fool you were, to think anything you did or said impacted their thoughts in any way. They simply had their own inner worries to focus on. As if a humble goblin such as yourself could even begin to factor into any of their considerations at all.
And in the hedge maze, as you turn away from the scent of peonies, you know you are something else, even worse than a fool: a coward.
At the tailor’s shop, you remind yourself that you are an idiot, insignificant to their mind, but you remain enamored by them, the glory of their beauty such that it could inspire a sunrise to jealousy. They don’t say much when the conversation turns to deriding the Court of Wonder, and you are moved, wishing only to comfort them, as they describe their complicated feelings toward their court. You understand them. You know that isolation.
When they tell you that you were used, that it seems as though no one else in the Goblin Court has given any concern to your needs, you feel the coldness of the medal in your hand so keenly, stunned even as you know they are correct, unable to offer any reproach to their words. This wondrous fey before you is like none other you have met, and you are unworthy in their presence. You hurriedly give them your medal, rushing to the door, hearing but not heeding their insistence that you protect yourself.
At the masquerade ball, when the fireworks explode above, your only thought is of them. You act so rashly, ungentlemanly, placing your hands on them without permission, but their response is kind, gracious. You can scarcely believe it when they show you their empty dance card, and you feel the breath leave your lungs when they ask you for yours. You meet their eyes, feeling the magic in the air, and you eat your card, so that their name and their name alone will ever be the one it bears, as close to you as you can keep it.
You dance, and you dance, and you dance again, and even when you muck it up with your typical oafishness, they seem to enjoy it, to enjoy you. You are spellbound in their arms, and when they ask you what the P stands for in your name, you can only whisper it, a secret just for them. They smile, lifting a peony from their ensemble, and place it behind your ear, as if in exchange. For the first time in your life, you feel cherished. You feel pretty.
Their kindness this evening is a gift you will be grateful for forever. They have given you a glimpse of possibility, of what it might be like to be... loved, and it is as beautiful a dream as they are.
Reality, of course, returns the following morning, with your new promotion and your new assignment, and after your conversation with BINX, you think it is no wonder you are so easily cornered by Prince Apollo, as true a scoundrel as you’ve always suspected. You flee, taking substantial wounds for your trouble, but you do find the others, them included. They ask you if you’re hurt, and you try to assure them, but your answer seems to upset them, and you realize you must have looked a fright. Wounds are nothing to you if you may be of service, but of course someone so kind would be concerned. They ask you again about your own wants and happiness, and you do not know how to answer. There is no alternative to obligation, is there?
They simply wish you happiness before they leave, something in their demeanor... dampened, and Lady Featherfowl quite understandably assumes you’ve been stabbed once again, this time right through the heart.
At the theater, when the message from the Court of Sea Foam comes through the blossom, you are frazzled, moving to find more information, and the confirmation of your terrible suspicion feels like ice in your veins.
You are a fool. You’ve known it all along. Of course a fey so wondrous and glorious would not lower themself to entertain a lowly goblin like you. Of course they would not truly care about your wants, your needs. What you took as kindness out of obligation to the Bloom was nothing more than calculated cunning, expertly wielded to keep you off guard, to dissuade you from your mission. You’ve been tricked, made a mockery of, and so easily, too. It mustn’t have taken them much effort at all, to make you feel as you did--as you do.
You confront them, knowing you will be unable to fully conceal the effect they’ve had on you. Even now, in the moonlight, in their red-rose dress, they are stunning. They speak of love as the basis for their actions, as though the damage they have dealt to your court is irrelevant, as though your duty, your service, is irrelevant. You know now their actions toward you were a charade, but still it stings. You thought you understood them. You thought they understood you. 
And then they tell you they love you, and you are caught, frozen, mouth agape, as they explain how much they love you and how much they care, that they’ve professed their feelings and did not receive a response. They explain why they turned away from you in the forest, that you inspired their glorious unveiling, and in that moment, your mind reels, and you feel as though you’ve forgotten how to breathe.
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herrlindemann · 1 year
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Heavy Rock - January 2002
So close and so far at the same time. The capital of Portugal is today without a doubt the best place in all of Europe to see and listen to rock. Good venues for concerts, friendly people, excellent business professionals in a market five times smaller than ours, affordable prices and a most attractive and scoundrel city that keeps that old flavor under a galloping modernity that every day makes it more equal to the Europe of the euro. On top of the brilliant and fatalistic Pessoa in every corner of old Lisbon that he portrayed so well in his books. Good food, a lot to see and it’s next door.
Fool who misses it. I promise to cover many concerts in English, among other things because the films were never subtitled. Some say that if it had not been for those idiot kings that we have been suffering from century after century, the Iberian peninsula would be only one and as powerful as Germany. Can be.
The sports hall of Os Belenense (the third football team in Lisbon after Sporting and Benfica) is a privileged venue for five thousand people, located on top of a hill that has the Jerónimos Monastery under its feet, in whose pantheon is buried Fernando Pessoa and the navigator Vasco de Gama, who set off to discover half the world from the also nearby Torre de Belen, right on the Lisbon pier.
The place is full on the first of the two nights of the Germans, with Clawfinger as opening act, old acquaintances who have had to cancel their concert in Spain, scheduled for the following day, because the first date scheduled in principle, which was sold in a few days, a second had to be added, which caused them to cancel their scheduled show in Madrid. When I find out that they are going to open the concert I am very happy and a few minutes before leaving I chat with the singer and guitarist, the same thing that I had done a little earlier with Rammstein at the hotel. These interviews will be included in the next issue of Kerrang!
In the forty-five minutes that they have been on stage, the Swedes show great professionalism and the new face of their music, more polished, direct, and less 'rapper' with a lineup just like the stars of the night: two guitars, keys, bass, drums and voice. Techno also emerges without losing the gray that put them on the map of the best European rap-metal.
Their latest album 'A Whole Lot of Nothing' is proof that they have brought their message very close to Rammstein, which a few times in the past opened for them when they climbed the charts. They must have treated them very well because now the Germans take them on tour whenever they can, and they are also generous in leaving them all the sound display that they later used. Of course not the pyrotechnic and light display; and therein lies the problem for the Clawfingers.
Because the most Rammstein staging teaches anyone. Good intentions, direct songs and the ordeal is clear is that they do not shrink and continue to make war.
Rammstein is the never seen. With one, if not the best, of the records of the year in their baggage and a lot of imagination, the sextet is a magnificent and impressive show both musically and visually. A lot of money and creativity at the service of a structure that is frightening due to the militaristic connotations of its clothes and postures. Together with the theatricality copied from the Catalans of the Fura del Baus, they create an explosive show where fire, a lot of fire, is also another great protagonist with distressing moments such as when in the first encore, with the theme 'Rammstein', the singer Till Lindemann remains in his burning suit for almost four minutes. The mastery of fire that these people have is incredible, forcing them to demonstrate all the fireworks to the government technicians before each performance. Seen and lived on stage, as I did, it scares a lot. As soon as the minutes allotted to the photographers were up, I ran off the stage as if the devil was chasing me, resembling a scene from 'Apocalypse Now'.
Eighteen songs as checkered as the hackneyed German mentality. It joins infernal industrial machinery that starts with 'Mein Herz brennt' from 'Mutter' to end with the version of Depeche Mode's 'Stripped'. Pure adrenaline that nails you to the ground while from all corners of the stage the fire is projected in a thousand ways (Valencians would have to wear them as stars of the next Fallas festivities) and they look like mutant beings out of a science-fiction movie to make an army of corpses dance. Nightmarish. Wagnerian music, in the classical sense, is like a single score with messianic choruses that tremble in the German language, giving that sinister theatricality that at times brings to mind the 'hail, Hitler' of the most sinister times in history, for course alien to the intentions of the group. The show could not be more heavy. They all form a mass in which no one goes off script and the solos are conspicuous by their absence, inheriting the old legacy of those pioneering German industrial metal bands such as Kraftwerk. Aware that they have made a great record with 'Mutter', they play a lot of it: 'Links 2, 3, 4', 'Feuer frei', 'Mutter', 'Ich will', 'Adios', 'Rein raus', ' Zwitter'… Almost the entire record falls. Moment of maximum intensity that is experienced when they download their great commercial hymn 'Du hast' and the staff bouncing like possessed. They connect with 'Buck dich' which includes the singer's little number hitting the keys from behind for a long time with a giant phallus that generously sprays liquid on those in the front rows. In the end, the drummer's ride in a rubber boat over the heads and arms of grief takes us back to the past because they copy it from what the American David Lee Roth did on his tours with a boat and a surfboard. The six say goodbye toasting with Champagne to the success of a party as brilliant as it is original. For the cretins who preach that rock is dying or that it has no way out, this is heaven open to a great future. The important thing is to squeeze the coconut to stand up to the owners of the circus, the Anglo-Saxons, who with projects like this it is not surprising that they feel threatened.
When a stewardess falls to the ground on a short-haul flight due to the violent shaking of the once imposing and now defenseless iron bird in whose stomach we defy gravity, it is to frown to say the least. They had warned that coinciding with the arrival to the peninsula of the men of the north also came the cruel winter of those of the plane, the snow, or the power cuts in Catalonia.
The storm had its vortex in the Palau Olympic de Badalona, a venue that was filled with, evil eye, nine thousand people eager to see one of the European monsters of metal.
If the capital had enjoyed the privilege of a concert presentation last spring for a limited number of people, this time in Madrid they were left with the desire, perhaps because there are no suitable venues to host this type of event. I know that we get very heavy with this matter, but it is so serious that it requires immediate solutions.
The fact is that Rammstein presented irrefutable arguments about why so different types of audiences like them beyond the gestation of him in the gothic scene. Thousands of people hypnotized by the grotesque, bloody, frightening and at the same time romantic show of the group despite the fact that they sing in German and 99% of the attendees do not even understand, it makes you think.
His repertoire unfolds with the perfection of a recently oiled industrial machine, it is a mechanical tune, reticent, a uniform whole supported by his risky bet on impact theater.
I'm still wondering how the hell do they not get burned by the continuous flames on the stage if I'm fifteen meters away and I feel in my retinas and complexion a burst of that infernal heat that contrasts with the icy outside environment.
By the account that brings you, for your safety and ours, almost everything in your show is perfectly calculated, but that does not prevent that when Oliver Riedel takes a boat ride through a sea of arms, he ends up taking a 'dip' in the masses when losing stability. It takes a second, but it's enough for my head to come up with the phrase: "don't try to do this at home".
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The Future of Scoundrels
Hello everyone.  So, it’s been a very long time since I have written a Magnificent Scoundrels story.  There’s most likely very few people that will read this or actually care, but if anyone still follows this blog for the writing, I’m updating you.
About six months ago, I decided to stop writing Magnificent Scoundrels on Tumblr in favor of writing another crossover, called Technophiles, on fanfic.net. It’s Warhammer 40k and Mass effect (two of the fictional universes featured in Scoundrels).  I have now finished that story.  It’s pretty good.  If you’re interested, my fanfic account is the same name as my Tumblr account, or I will post a link here.  (If the link doesn’t work, please tell me.)  
I am sorry I haven’t updated anyone on Magnificent Scoundrels for a while, but here we are.  I suppose I didn’t want to disappoint anyone because I hadn’t come up with a plan for the future of my writing yet, but I probably did, considering I left you in the dark for half a year.  For that, I am sorry.  It seemed like much shorter to me.  
But I now have a plan.  With Technophiles, I have greatly grown in my writing.  I am planning to write a sequel to Technophiles, which will probably take about six months.  If you’re interested in that, please, read it!  I can promise it’ll be good.  After the sequel, I am planning to write a full-length novel-style version of Magnificent Scoundrels on fanfic.net instead of the short snippets I used to post on Tumblr.  I find fanfic.net is more suited to writing.  For those very few who’ll read this, I’m sorry for letting you down, but I have a full-length story out, and Scoundrels will return in a full-length and much better written form in the future.  Thank you to anyone reading this, and to all who support my writing.
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alessandro-accebbi · 1 year
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Restaurant “Aux Lyonnais”, PARIS, France 🇫🇷 by @lesfacadesdeparis
The period decoration of the restaurant Aux Lyonnais has been magnificently preserved, with the walls covered with ceramics, the wood and zinc counter, the benches in burgundy moleskin or perforated wood, the mirrors and the illuminated globes... This mythical lair in the Vivienne district, founded in 1890, taken over by Alain Ducasse at the dawn of the 2000s, ticks all the boxes of the Lyon Bouchon with Parisian sauce! Marie-Victorine Manoa now rekindles the classic scoundrels of the cuisine gone brilliantly.
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mermaidsirennikita · 11 days
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Hello, I hope you are having a nice sunday, do you have recs with heroes doing good dirty talking?
LOL I love rec requests phrased like this. They delight me. It's like "good afternoon, *tips hat*, do you have recs were they fuck super nasty?"
I hope you're having a good Sunday too! Celebrating my ancestral heritage (on my mom's side at least, which is The Good Side) this St. Patrick's Day.
And yes, love a dirty talker:
--Salt in the Wound which leads into Salt Kiss by Sierra Simone. Sierra writes great dirty talkers in general, across the board. But Mark is probably my faaavorite especially because of the scene in SitW when he takes Isolde's virginity and tells her all about how she's going to be his good little wife, etc.
--Heartbreaker by Sarah MacLean. One of my favorite MacLean heroes! The good girlification of it all, the wry observations. I love it.
--The Duke Gets Even by Joanna Shupe. Joanna heroes in general are good dirty talkers. But I think that this book takes it over the top because there's an entire scene where she's like "I bet you don't even swear" and he's like "O. RLLY." and proceeds to talk her into a storm.
--Every single Mila Finelli hero (Mila is Joanna's mafia romance pen name) has FILTHY dirty talk.
--Eyes On Me by Sara Cate. Kinda necessitated by the fact that the hero begins his relationship with the heroine after discovering that she's a cam girl--she can hear him but can't see him. Also. She is his stepsister. WHOOPS.
--Throne of the Fallen by Kerri Maniscalco. Some FANTASY ROMANCE DIRTY TALK. Ugh, the massage scene in this book. Envy dirty talks to Camilla about all the things he's going to do to her and how she's basically gonna die for it while massaging her and fingering her. It's great.
--Kresley Cole heroes are also "generally good dirty talkers" but books like Lothaire, Pleasure of a Dark Prince, and The Master really hit it outta the park for me with the dirty talk
--The Friend Zone by Kristen Callihan has a delightful accidental phone sex scene in which the hero and heroine, ~platonic best friends~ unintentionally get each other off over the phone. It's GREAT.
--Grace Callaway writes uniformly strong dirty talking heroes. Would especially recommend Pippa and The Prince of Secrets and Charlotte and The Seductive Spymaster on this level.
--Act Your Age by Eve Dangerfield is real good on the "stepfather role play" dirty talk front. REAL REAL GOOD.
--Lady Isabella's Scandalous Marriage by Jennifer Ashley OOOOOH Mac Mackenzie is super dirty. But also so funny? He's always like "TELL ME ABOUT YOUR NAUGHTY SCHOOLGIRL DAYS" fully knowing that she didn't do anything naughty as a schoolgirl lol
--Sweetest Scoundrel by Elizabeth Hoyt has the MAGNIFICENT Asa Makepeace who just talks her through it the entire book. I also love the deranged dirty talk in Duke of Midnight--"TAKE MY COME FOR IT'S ALL I CAN GIVE YOU'.
--A Holly Jolly Ever After by Sierra Simone and Julie Murphy is a great Christmas romcom that happens to have a Big Boy hero who's an amazing dirty talker.
--The Duke Gets Desperate by Diana Quincy has a WHIMSICALLY ZANY dirty talker duke of the "paint me a vivid picture with your dirty talk" variety.
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invinciblerodent · 4 months
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I don't typically like to send him off skulking alone, but I'm afraid there is literally no funnier outcome to this quest than to have a sentient printing press yell "YOU'RE NOT EVEN THAT HOT, DUMBASS!" at Astarion specifically.
What'd my boy even do to deserve this treatment
..... besides the Atrocities.
But, he only snuck down there to sabotage the free press for entirely selfish reasons!! And it's already been sabotaged before, so it's technically counter-sabotage, which is, like, practically a good deed, is it not???
(no worries, his sort-of-gf did greet him on the surface with a "you glorious scoundrel, you, you magnificent panther of a man! ❤️" and a big ol' kiss on his sneaky lil face.)
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captainkurosolaire · 1 year
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Dreamer of Dreams
 How important are dreams? Chasing things beyond us sometimes grant us strength to surpass limits, to courageously endure for our vision. Over time a Pirate’s own became misconstrued, failures, losses piled up and his grandeur became murky. Losing a partial, vital piece of essence. Children call them dreams, but upon nurture, it was called Ambition! Without having a strong-self interest, he couldn’t relate or jump the hurdle for others, initially sought.  Now rectification came to retrieve what was lost. The First-Stage to Healing.
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By plucking his lost spirit within obscurity, a reversion of his zenith came. That horrendous fog vaporized to magnificent sunlight. Matured figure of the boy-to-be, extended his arm’s out, it was time to go home. In their embrace, unbridled warmth quaked from a reunion of resolve. A wide-spread grin surfaced externally Captain’s injuries stung, ached, nevertheless something swelled within himself, the belief to achieve, in absolution. He sprung a bounce to his soles, kip-up. With finesse, began reassembling his own mind-games against his Skull Brethren, since started off this way, donning his original attire, fetching dual-blade’s of Hingan that were sworn off to prevent incidental death. Black-blood face paint ran across his eyelids, not only repulsing the dead itself; used to aid him in becoming brave that required adversity, now just meant to trigger Sol's distress. Sol took aim to shoot-down Captain’s butterfly who came from the cabin’s keyhole to cause misdirection, the spirit-guide, named Perish, fluttered between his limbs, barely evading swatting and squishing attempts. Soon found himself pulverized by a door that flew off the hinges suddenly as the Seeker sprinted with full on collision from a drop-kick, then surfboarding it, trampling his rib-cage. “Always told ye t’ fix that blimey door!” Giving a befitting punishment to the Shipwright, squished with the cabin’s door on him, Kuro kicked Sol’s silver-wind pistol into the waters, then blitzed towards climbing to the top-mast where their sail-flag awaited. Mistbeard’s mask still onlooking their pirate-battle. The ex-Garlean conscript, struggled temporarily, wind knocked out of him, before angrily following pursuit, spare pistol <Live Free> brought out taking shots at the climbing cat-folk, who intelligibly utilized line-of-sight climbing alongside the mast’s with his heritage-expertise, forcing the gun-wielder to pursue, climbing up to the top with sheer agitation, this would be done in a duel-fashion now.
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Atop the mast, where they’d wage their last-sequence as blood-brothers turned enemies. Sol finally arrives behind in his pursuit, seeing Captain more closely. He was unnerved, a deplorable golden-crest smile was on him, the markings of jolly, complete fulfillment, it always brought him anger. As if a Sun was looking beneath him, nothing he could do would discourage the heat, his traditional means to kill, erase, all left meaningless in pursuit. His brow twitched into a frown. That deviant-rogue staring across him spoke, “Thanks t’ ye mate. I found irreplaceable value in me. I’m afraid… I’ll b’ stealing n’ cucking ye, again of something. Could race to see who reaches ascension firstly or lastly there! Like ol’ times… But I’ve got t’ slay your dark-cloud, it’s cramping my vibes.” Candidly bringing back a memento, it’s like time-flowed back, to not-long-ago, they used to rock-paper-scissors for who rigged, or climbing up on the masts, doing contests to one-up another in brotherly competition. “Also – I’ve decided. I’ll become a King.” Calmness and overwhelming peace said with a matter-of-fact from the Scoundrel’s following words, after the storm-breeze howled.
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Sol, overtaken by envy, frustratingly growled, “...Y-You can’t just decide that!” Where did this abundance of confidence come from? Teeth grinding and grating together blood rushing into his temple. His concentration was caught lacking and those winds nearly took him off balance, but Miqo'te remained perfectly still…
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Energy shifted in an instantaneous, an explosiveness out-cried from Captain with a thunderous shout of his declaration. A Challenge against ALL of Destiny, Fate, anything in-between was committed, throughout the rumbling tides and passed air. “I’ll become King ov’ th’ LIVING!” A dream so far-above, outlandish, impossible echoed. Jolly laughter tantalizingly followed, against Sol’s ire, a splitting image of their own Founder was reminded. To know, Living is to understand the existence of infinity! There was no-one way to live. This particular Pirate knew this and had connection to everything that resided between the spectrum's, life to death, and was born from a Mother’s Light and Father’s Shadow. Be that as it may, he ambitiously stared at the path of transcendence. Unwavering determination highlighting his visage. Upon his crew and varied people across in adventuring, to most-natural or supernatural, soul’s encountered.  All uplifting and inspiring him to heights leaving their imprints, scars, traces upon his singular vessel, these were the stupendous keepsakes, to preserve! Wanting this stead. Survival was instinctual because this was his perceived ultimate treasure. A challenge traversed the realm, shaking with a bewilderment of unyielding certainty. An individual-cloaked frozen-between-time peered over to the skies and gave halt from galloping.
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They who stood at the highest summit, a GIANT, woke from disruption. Hinted with Captain’s Presence, awakening. Enraged Sol, lashed out in foul spite, fear, quivering and whining jealousy, “Nonsense. Die, Die, Die!” Pulling his trigger, reloading with rapid-fire, pupils went bloodshot from crazed-fury. The amber-eye, determined Seeker, predicted the trajectory of every fired-shot just by familiarizing Sol’s aim, countering by sliding against bullets with his dual-blades shield, deflecting and parrying him, to having them shred against his flesh in minor grazes, fearlessness, continued forth closing distance. Where Sol was useless in. They battled akin to this when pint-sized deckhands, back then using bb-guns or slingshots versus wooden kendo, this entire scene felt like reversed-time. Captain with a blade-rising upwardly in the air, spun his blade with realignment allowing glaring-rays, letting what all others were seeing. Sunlight had broken throughout the canopies of those undesirable clouds, vanquishing them. His steel-reflecting light, brought a blindness causing the Raen to misfire, his last shot in the chamber, the Seeker predicting this response, taking advantage of his discombobulated state, gave a devastating cross-slash against the Raen’s bare-chest, secondary dual-strike following-through with momentum to strike his gun-slinging wrist, forcing a disarming in one flawless-swoop.
♫Undefeatable♫ - Reference - Last Chapter
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few things will ever be as annoying as the german release of the good the bad and the ugly being called "Zwei glorreiche Halunken" (two magnificent scoundrels)
WHY "ZWEI" IT IS LITERALLY THREE GUYS
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