he's not my type, but...

[floorpigeon]

My ovaries think a former football player -- now Texan research scientist at A&M who works with "flame-resistant materials" -- is dream guy material, for sure. I could live with the sideburns, even.


It's just. Looking at this guy, technically I know that romance novels are fiction, but for a moment one forgets. I mean, really? Really??? He's got to be like, really dull at parties. Well, he's just an engineer. Engineers are like the jocks of the sciences anyway, right... :>

And in bigger, better science news, a physicist at a DARPA conference came up with an engineless starship. I, of course, find this a lot more hot, even if he's also not my type.

Comments

[floorpigeon.livejournal.com]

That is a beautiful vision you have, right there. Being the dreamy-innocent type lets you get away with the worst lines. Hahah, yes. He had to have called him Lord Byron. Maybe without batting his eyelashes though (unless he was high). I didn't remember specifically about the opium. It's unsurprising that Shelley never finished whatever it was he started for the contest, hahah. Probably Mary had the least of it, then. I totally think mutually scathing reviews = hot. Forget fighting over Quidditch... no, fighting about a bad metaphor choice, now that's sexy right there.

Keats... yeah, he'd never. But then again, maybe he was feeling vulnerable and horny? But still, I just see him as such a proper, sincere boy. He probably wasn't as unworldly as he's portrayed, though, but the part about Byron criticizing his work would be the real killer, at least if he doesn't hit back. And boy, is there room to hit back.

Hahah oh man. I love that catty!Shelley thing. Why did people stop wearing those shirts-- you know those white pirate shirts. They go so well with wine-stained lips and debauchery, oh yes.

[stellabelle.livejournal.com]

I imagine them all being on opium. All the time. Shelley did for sure, so Mary probably did, and Byron certainly had a taste for claret, though of what else, one never knows. I used to know these things. I have forgotten now.
...WAS IT PEYOTE. No, that was just that great dream I had.

There was a letter Shelley wrote to Byron (though it may have been v.v.?) about his latest work, telling Byron to 'do his worst to it,' as Byron had done his worst to Shelley. NNNNNGH. HOT. And then, completely unrelatedly, there was a letter Byron wrote, asking Shelley if they could not contrive of a way to be together one summer, and Byron specifically requested Shelley come alone (all while offering his fondest regards to "Mrs S," of course). And then of course there were the boating trips, just the two of them, where Byron inspired Shelley to write some of his greatest work ('Hymn to Intellectual Beauty' for one. PROBABLY as Byron lounged, languid from the Mediterranean heat, upon a couch, and allowed Shelley to feed him grapes). Do we need more proof than this, I ask you??

I don't KNOW why people stopped wearing those shirts, but clearly Percy would appear to Byron one night, when Byron was feeling desolate, ethereal in a white dressing gown and promising him beauty, and joy and jsdkfjdsklfjkldsa. This ALWAYS HAPPENS TO ME when I am reading wistful letters and beautiful poetry and how Byron was a man ho.

[floorpigeon.livejournal.com]

At some point in my mind, Shelley merged with my vision of my ex-boyfriend and like, Jim Morrison. It's disconcerting sometimes. Like I know him. Then I remember, no, wait.... anyway, so yes, he'd do peyote if he could. And join a prog rock band. *headdesk* No, I mean I'm sure he wouldn't... it's tragic how limited their selection of drugs was in those days. Poor Coleridge, I'm pretty sure no one writes hot epics about him. I just have this conviction he could not have even clean-shaven or entirely hygienic (frequently bathed).

YES. Indeed that is hot. I was feeling bad for a second 'cause in real life musicians and poets don't like, hang out all day and do art critiques and shag like bunnies, but then I realized this is why we have fiction. :) I totally think they were all like, secretly earnest. This is totally true of Byron. In fact, his whole angst seems to be this one big exercise of suppressing his desperate desire to be earnest. Which is to say, I'm pretty sure Oscar Wilde was more badass than him. Hahaha talk about hot pairings, though. Wow. 'Hymn to Intellectual Beauty'! Grapes! Well, maybe he took breaks and tried to rouse Byron from his stupor. Which seems to be the problem with being constantly high (but what do I know).

HAHAH Oh man. White dressing gown. <3<3. Shoulder-length hair. Making up poetry on the fly. Feeling peevish if Byron was too out of it to properly appreciate. They should go on a road-trip, but it's hard with only carriages. But still, manly bonding time, aww. I think if they didn't do anything improper it would just be so cute (especially if they just napped and talked about poetry and had silent boat trips together). ...Maybe if they were twelve. I am a bad person.

[stellabelle.livejournal.com]

I AM WRITING POETRY NOW :(
Shelley has written Byron an elegy. Man, is it beautiful. HAH.

[floorpigeon.livejournal.com]

Ooh, really? Awesome. Shelley would be happy. :D :D

...I now have to look it up, of course. Um, do you mean the one to Keats? He does call Byron 'pilgrim of eternity' or some such. <3 I guess that's sort of like a monk except with more sex and booze. :>

[floorpigeon.livejournal.com]

Oh wait, you mean 'Shelley has written Byron an elegy'... in your head.

.....funny how these things start to blur. :>

[stellabelle.livejournal.com]

Yes:


With two competent men at the helm, Byron finds himself content to lounge on the deck, languid from the heady Mediterranean sun. "What the devil are you doing?" he asks suddenly, voice thick from exhaustion.

"I am writing your elegy," Shelley replies, a bit too much glee in his voice. "Should you like me to read it to you?"

"Oh, yes," Byron says, voice flat. "Of course, I should like it very much. I should like it almost as much as the walk you promised me would last one hour."

"It wasn't so bad, was it?"

"We spent the night in the woods!" says Byron. "I had to sleep upon pine needles. I awoke with strange creatures assaulting me, and my hair had turned green!"

"They were ants," Percy reminds him, "and it was moss. You lived, did you not?"

"Barely."

Percy clears his throat: "Right. I shall begin now: Of lofty climes and deepest seas / We shall speak not: we speak of fleas / Bit to death, our golden boy / Beneath his pretentious trompe l'oiel / We mourn for him, as brave and dear / Then scuttle off to find some beer."

"Enough," Byron says, though his eyes give him away. "I shall have my revenge. And now, come sit with me. You are to be my servant boy, and feed me grapes till dusk."

"What happens after dusk?" Percy asks, a little frightened now.

"I'm not entirely sure, but someone is going to have to swab these decks."

[floorpigeon.livejournal.com]

<3<3<3<3 I definitely should not be giggling so happily while at work people are trying to write Serious Papers. hee. The fleas! The scuttling! The beginning almost sounding like Shelley! hee! And Byron's eyes giving him away! so cute! :D! I am ashamed that I'm not sure what swabbing decks entails... it can't possibly be cleaning, right. Maybe on his knees, in his nightie...hm.

[stellabelle.livejournal.com]

They're meant to be sailing, thus the swabbing the decks (like, mopping or scouring them). It would most certainly have to be done on his knees, with his shirt undone and all sweaty from the heat.
WHY IS THIS SO HOT. It shouldn't be. It is WRONG, right. Right. Wrong.
(And now I am going to continue to write about wrestling ink-stained boys, because I have no boundaries or sense of moral decency.)

[floorpigeon.livejournal.com]

It is totally in no way wrong (and I know, because this is clearly my expert opinion). Byron would totally get a kick out of it. And possibly take notes. :>

[floorpigeon.livejournal.com]

Note, I had to resist bad puns about Byron's lording it over Shelley.... *facepalm*