floor lords

Romantic Poet movies that haven’t happened yet but should.
  • A trippy Coleridge visual album scored completely in acid rock, in the style of Pink Floyd’s The Wall.
  • A beautiful Wordsworth movie in the style of a Rogers and Hammerstein musical + the 1994 version of The Secret Garden.
  • A weird Blake movie that’s half animated in a very experimental but disquieting style and has a good message but makes little kids cry.
  • An indie, anachronistic Shelley movie that’s got a lot of interesting visual effects and shaggy hair and is scored in 1960s protest songs.
  • A ridiculous, huge-budget Lord Byron movie directed by Baz Luhrmann and featuring an almost exclusively hip hop soundtrack. (It’s the only way to do it.)
  • A Keats musical with lots of Amelie-style reality-bending effects and an entire soundtrack by Hozier and/or Sufjan Stevens.

Hey! Wow! Would you look at that it’s another new project, how about that.  Anyways, if you’re interested in seeing what happened with the past generation, but still want to maintain a healthy dose of the current, then boy have I’ve got a fic for you.  Here’s Hugh and Sylvia, but not how you may expect.

Chapter One

For as long as man has lived, man has sinned.  And for as long as man has sinned, it has been capitalized upon.

From his fifth floor office atop his four-floor prison, Lord Hugh Creighton-Ward the Second looks down upon the city he helped to build.  It is a family business, you see, righting the wrongs of the world, protecting the innocents from the criminals, and it dates back to his father.  To his father’s father, and however many fathers before him until the name is no longer Ward, but rather Warder, and a mere ten pounds is an ambitious wish for the men who serve the Victorian Queen.

Today, a mere ten pounds is exactly that: mere and meaningless, but all must begin somewhere.  Decades of dedication, diligence, and drinks with all the right people have built a fortune so grand that it is untouchable—undreamable, even—to most men.  This is his legacy.  This is his power.  A gift from the generations before him, his fortune enables him to leave a mark on this world that so many men can only ever hope to do.

Lord Hugh Creighton-Ward the Third plans to give that all away.

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‘Lord Vetinari was seen by three cleaning maids of the household staff, all respectable ladies, after they were alerted by the barking of His Lordship’s dog at about seven o'clock this morning.  He said’–here Vimes consulted his own notebook–’“I’ve killed him, I’ve killed him, I’m sorry."  They saw what looked very much like a body on the floor.  Lord Vetinari was holding a knife.  They ran downstairs to fetch someone.  On their return, they found His Lordship missing.  The body was that of Rufus Drumknott, the Patrician’s personal secretary.  He had been stabbed and is seriously ill.  A search of the buildings located Lord Vetinari in the stables.  He was unconscious on the floor.  A horse was saddled.  The saddlebags contained…seventy thousand dollars…  Captain, this is damn STUPID.’

'I know, sir,’ said Carrot.  'They are the facts, sir.’

'But they’re not the right facts!  They’re STUPID facts!’

'I know, sir.  I can’t imagine His Lordship trying to kill anyone.’

'Are you mad?’ said Vimes.  'I can’t imagine him saying sorry!’
—  Terry Pratchett, “The Truth”
(That’s a Carrot Comment through and through, though.  It could easily be taken as him saying he can’t imagine Vetinari TRYING to kill someone.)

Star Wars Dark Disciple: ‘this novel will skew towards adult readers’.

[Two hundred pages of Asajj’s struggles with her haberdashery bill on a freelance Bounty Hunter budget]

teen wolf/superman fusion because everything happens so very much

Derek might be panicking. Just a little bit.

“This was such a stupid idea,” he tells Erica. Accuses her, really. Everything is her fault, after all.

“Has anyone asked you about it yet?” Erica asks calmly. She looks up at him from her desk, thoroughly unimpressed. “Has anyone said, ‘Hey, you look just like Super-’”

“Shut up,” Derek hisses.

Erica snorts. “You’re too easy, you know that?”

Derek finally takes a seat at his own desk across the bullpen from hers, if only to get her to stop talking about their situation in the middle of a busy newsroom. Full of reporters. Almost half of whom are working exclusively on figuring out who “Superman” really is, and all of whom would kill their own pets to get the scoop.

And Derek is fully convinced someone is going to do it because Erica is stupid and Derek was stupid enough to believe her when she said, “Take off your glasses and gel your hair a little more, no one will notice,” what were they thinking-

“Hey,” a voice cuts into his panic spiral. He turns to find the owner of the desk right next to his to find the bane of his entire existence taking his unfortunately rightful seat.

“You know,” Stiles says after moment, “it’s almost comforting to know that no matter what is happening in the world, you will always be an asshole. Aliens are real and are apparently here to protect us, but at least I can count on Derek Hale not being able to deliver a simple, civil hello.”

Derek almost doesn’t want to believe it. It sounds- it sounds like Stiles doesn’t recognize him. Maybe the glasses thing does work. God, Derek feels bad for the human race.

He clears his throat and says, “Good reporters are supposed to be good at listening, so why do you talk so much?”

Stiles laughs sarcastically at him. Then his eyes drift over Derek’s shoulder and his expression turns less mocking and more thoughtful.

Derek turns around to find CNN running a story on the school bus he saved from plummeting into the river last night. His - Superman’s - picture stays in the top right corner of the screen while they discuss…something. Someone muted the tv this morning.

“You know,” Stiles says slowly. When Derek turns to face him again, he’s looking back and forth between the tv and Derek. “You kind of look like him.”

Of course Junior Reporter here would figure it out in 30 seconds. Not for the first time, Derek wishes he’d crash landed in another galaxy.

Before Derek can decide which bathroom on which floor they can use to go over the obligatory, “Please don’t tell anyone,” speech, Stiles laughs and shakes his head.

“Except those muscles are unreal,” Stiles says, turning back to his computer. “No one looks like that. Look at the man’s biceps. It’s surprise we haven’t found him on those puppies alone.”

Derek surreptitiously tries to tuck his arms in closer to his sides and tries to remember how to breathe.

It’s going to be a long day.

Open RP: The King's Court

Lord Varrus sat on his throne, deep in his lair. He was told to expect a visitor, but he wasn’t sure whom he was waiting for. He leaned on his armrest, still clad in his black plate and skull mask. A gaunt, pale fellow in a black robe came into his sight, and spoke slowly with his head facing the crimson floor. “My lord, your guest has arrived.”

“Send them in,” Varrus barked. His grip tightened on the pommel of his greatsword as the doors to the throneroom creaked open and a figure was revealed.



“Deep calls to deep,”
I could feel that verse resonate in my heart. It had been my favorite verse for years, but I had never felt it at this depth. I walked in a deep, crippling fear. The enemy had used every hurt, every failure, every shortcoming to lie to me, and for so many years, I believed the lies. But as that verse swept over my mind, and I lay weeping on the floor, the Lord did a work in my heart.

It was only a few weeks into discipleship school, and I was already broken, ready to quit, and afraid. But the Lord knew. He called me out of that place of darkness, He called me into His light, and it was glorious. I had finally realized that I was crippled by fear, I finally realized that I was called to more. I finally realized that He had already set me free.

So, I took the step & jumped headfirst into His deep. His deep love, casts out deep fear. His freedom brought a light to my life that I had never known but always yearned for. I had found true life & I was never going to give it up.
That was a year and a half ago, and I’ve been warring against fear ever since, but I am winning the battle, because He has won it for me. Every victory I celebrate, because I know it’s all because I said “Yes!” to Him.

My fear drowned in the ocean of His love.

“Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls. All your waves and breakers have swept over me.” Psalm 42:7

Warmth in the night…

pairing: Younger!My unit x Younger!Xander

word count: 1127

notes: Happy late Birthday to Mod Camilla!! Thank you so much for helping me with this blog!! <33

Your name: submit What is this?

The gray-haired teen let out an exasperated sigh as another declaration of not going to bed was made. He watched as the white haired child continued to pout at him and sat straight up in their bed. Their arms were crossed and the covers were kicked off of them to where they were on the floor.

“Please, Lady/Lord (Y/N). You must go to bed otherwise you won’t be able to celebrate your birthday.” Jakob pleaded to only get a rapid shaking of the head to indicate “No”. He was at wits end, and as much as he loved serving them…  They really did need to go to bed before everyone’s hard work was wasted.

“I want to stay up until they all come and that is final!” (Y/N) declared, tears starting to form out of the corner of their eyes.

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