milliways_bar | (no subject)

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There is a new(ish) wench inside the bar
Tonight, that's not been seen
Before within this space, and likely
Will not be seen again too soon.

Ned Poins hath known the favour of a god
Upon a feast that suits for suchlike things
And waits to see the outcome of his trick.

Also, fieryTrigon is signed on,
As Poins has not yet found out how
The thing is turned off.-

[[OOC: Thread where Poins is changed still in progress, but I promise we will get there!]]

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"What should we, say?" she says.

She sits, she reaches up, and touches her finger to his cheek.

She is Ned Poins. But she is still a woman. Riddle that!

What's he to thee, then? Thy catamite and ganymede?

For his part, Autor battles between fleeing like a bunny rabbit and turning into stone. His heart has settled permanently in his throat, beating like a hummingbird. She's so close but I can't and she's my friend already but do I trust her? and she's right there for the taking but she's Ned is that okay? She smells of apples apples apples...

His breath hitches twice.

Folding his hand around her fingertips, he kisses the air near her knuckles. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "But I'm really not meant to love anyone."

And he says the words because he believes them. He says them because they're true.

"I would not take thy love for aye," she says, still touching him, "but wouldst thou not lend me thy loving for awhile, while I am wearing this new, unaccustomed shape?"

Autor's mouth dries out like an old well. He tries to swallow and can't.

"I--I don't know how?" he says, and kicks himself because she'll offer to teach him, of course.

He drops his gaze to the floor. It's easier that way. "And I wouldn't be able to just... love someone once and forget."

"I'd be offended if thou wouldst forget, as one forgets a breakfast made of porridge," Poins says, and winks.

And despite his worries, Autor busts up laughing. "Curse you, Poins," he says, shaking a fist in his mirth. "A bowl of porridge is too good a comparison for you!"

Oh, that's not fair at all, he thinks. I never used to laugh so much.

"Porridge had never such fine wit as I!" Poins says, pouting, pretend-offended: but laughter bubbles up!

She pokes his side again, where it would make him laugh.

He squeaks and jumps back. "Oh? Are you sure about that? You're both rather thick, I think."

"Gloopy, with lumps and even, boring taste?" Poins says. "I think not so!"

"Well, we know you have--" Autor starts, and then has to lean back, nibbling on his lip.

He almost entered intentional innuendo territory, there.

"We know I have an even, boring taste?" Poins says, pouting again with barely hidden laughter.

"And also gloopy lumps," Autor nods seriously, trying to maintain some shred of dignity despite the thrice-damned blush exploding on his cheeks.

He's going to have to close his eyes for this.

Poins looks down on herself, and pokes herself.

"They do not feel that gloopy."

"That's possible," Autor says, raising a brow. "You likely have more experience with them than I do, given that I only tripped into you."

"Thou hast tripped, indeed," she scoffs, "and never fallen willingly into the apples, as thou werst stumbling about, seeking for the sound of thy dear friend's T-Minus."

"And I did find it, did I not?" he says, pursing his lips.

Oh, right. I was supposed to be annoyed.

"Thou wouldst not have, had I not held it out before thy very nose!" Poins says.

"I wasn't about to go searching for it in your skirts!" Autor says, incredulous.

"Thou mightst have found much to amuse therein," Poins grins.

Embarrassment wins over amusement this time, though he still chokes on his giggles. "You," he says, pausing for breath, "will be the death of me. Or at least my dignity."

"Thou wouldst not mind a small death, just a lasting one," Poins says. "Thy dignity, however, is a mythic beast I ne'er have seen."

"But you are a lasting death, m'lady," he points out, as sure as the girl's name is Poins, "as rot is to an apple." He's not going to even touch the other bits, because ouch.

"Tis not the lasting one I'd offer thee," Poins smiles. And there are many bits Autor may fain touch, if he but dared to...

And because this is clearly important to Poins, Autor has to retreat into himself, to rifle through all the files in his head to try to figure out what the hell he means.

He quickly defines last--German letzt, 'following all others'--and death--Todesfall, mort, the ending of a life--and then digs deeper.

Wait, could he possibly mean Ovid's Metamorphosis? '...No more deny to those whom constant love and lasting death unite--entomb us in a single sepulchre.'

Or Shakespeare himself? 'Then love-devouring death do what he dare; it is enough I may but call her mine.'*

His head is tilted, his lips are parted, and his brow is furrowed with a not insignificant amount of consternation. In short, Poins is the lucky recipient of Autor's confused puppy look again.

*Romeo and Juliet

Edited 2013-02-21 00:48 (UTC)

She giggles.

"Wilt thou then say, for sooth, thou knowest not what I am speaking of?"