#Also you hush about that theatre room

[an-albino-pinetree]

SDDSHFJTFB OH MY GOD KAT

You’re completely safe… until he starts moving..

@an-albino-pinetree I’m trying to do him justice

And please ignore my attempt of trying to draw a theatre room-

[theonottsbxtch]

SAVING HER | CL16

an: chat this is a short one but she’s been sat in my drafts unedited for a while SO PLS DONT JUDGE IVE BEEN BUSY WITH WORK also im about to close my requests for the next month or so because i am very busy

wc: 2.3k

THE ALLEYWAY WAS A THEATRE OF SHADOWS, the high walls narrowing like an unfinished thought. Rain clung to the cobblestones, slick and shimmering under the muted glow of a nearby streetlamp. Charles slumped against the cold stone, his breath a ragged symphony of pain he didn’t feel. The wound on his arm—a careful cut he’d made himself—bled just enough to convince anyone, though the blood seeping into his sleeve was nothing compared to the weight in his chest.

He’d been told she would come this way.

The princess of Monaco was known for walking among the people, her kindness spoken of like an old fable passed from lip to lip. A woman with a crown yet no walls, they said. A woman who saw everyone as a person worth saving. It was that softness—her fatal flaw, his boss had said—that made her the perfect target. Charles knew how to exploit such softness. He had done it a thousand times before, slipping into lives just long enough to end them.

And so he waited.

The footsteps came as if conjured from the night itself, light yet steady, moving towards him without hesitation. He pressed his hand against his wound for effect, his jaw tightening, his body folding into the pose of a man undone. When he raised his eyes, there she was.

“Sir, are you hurt?” Her voice was warm, unguarded, each syllable woven with concern. She knelt before him, her coat already sliding from her shoulders to wrap around his trembling form.

“I—yes,” Charles stammered, surprised by how natural the lie felt on his tongue. “It’s nothing. Just… had uh. You shouldn’t—”

“Hush,” she interrupted, her hands already seeking the source of his injury. “You’re bleeding. We need to get you help.”

Her touch was feather-light, and for a moment, Charles forgot the blade hidden at his hip, the kill he had rehearsed in his mind a dozen times. She didn’t flinch at the blood or the grime, her hands steady, her face calm, her eyes impossibly gentle.

It would be easy, he told himself. The knife would be quick. She wouldn’t even see it coming.

But as she looked at him, her gaze a pool of unguarded kindness, something unfamiliar twisted in his chest. It wasn’t guilt—Charles had never known guilt—but a hesitation, like a string pulling him back just as he prepared to strike. He gritted his teeth, forcing the thought away.

Not here. Not now. Next time.

Instead, he let her lift him to his feet, her shoulder under his as she guided him away from the shadows. And for the first time, Charles wondered if he had underestimated her. Not her kindness—that was as plain as the moon overhead—but its weight, its gravity.

And it terrified him.

Her flat wasn’t far—she said as much while helping him along the cobbled streets—but Charles found himself biting back questions. A princess who lived alone, away from the safety of royal walls? Who brought strangers into her home on nothing more than blind trust? It was absurd. Foolish, even. And yet, there she was, walking him through her unlocked door, her arm steadying him as though his weight was nothing.

The space was modest—unexpectedly so for someone of her stature. The furniture was worn, each piece arranged with a care that spoke of practicality over opulence. A collection of books leaned precariously on the edge of a small shelf, and the air smelled faintly of lavender. It was too… human for a woman who should have been untouchable.

“You’re lucky I found you,” she said softly, easing him onto the edge of a worn armchair. “I don’t usually take this route home.” She offered him a small smile, as though his suffering were a strange twist of fate they should both be grateful for.

“Lucky,” Charles echoed, his voice gruff.

If only she knew.

She disappeared into another room, her movements light and unhurried, returning moments later with a first aid kit. “This might sting,” she warned, already dabbing at the wound on his arm. Her brow furrowed in concentration, and for the first time, Charles could see the weight of her kindness—a heaviness in her eyes, as though she carried the burdens of every person she helped.

He clenched his fists. The knife was still there, tucked against his hip. All it would take was a single motion—a flick of the blade and she’d be gone. The mission would be over. His boss would be satisfied, and Charles could leave this city behind.

Do it, he told himself. You’ve done worse to better people.

But his hand remained where it was, resting on the arm of the chair, his fingers curling into the fabric instead of the hilt.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said, her voice breaking the silence. “Are you in pain?”

Charles shook his head. “No. Just… thinking.”

“About?”

He looked at her—really looked at her. Her hands were stained with his blood, yet her touch was careful, precise. Her face, so close to his, was unguarded, open in a way that unsettled him. No one ever looked at him like that. No one dared.

“Why did you stop?” he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

She blinked, surprised by the question. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you don’t know me. For all you know, I could be dangerous.”

Her smile returned, small but unshaken. “Everyone deserves help when they need it. Even if they’re dangerous.”

Something inside him twisted again, tighter this time. He averted his gaze, fixing it on the floor. The blade felt heavier now, its presence burning against his skin.

He could do it. He should do it. But as she worked, humming softly under her breath, Charles realised something with chilling clarity.

He wasn’t hesitating because of guilt. He was hesitating because, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure he could go through with it.

Not yet.

Not now.

“You shouldn’t walk home alone at night,” Charles muttered as she tied off the bandage on his arm. “It’s not safe.”

She tilted her head, studying him with a faint smile. “I imagine most people would say the same about bringing a stranger home, yet here we are.”

He couldn’t argue with that. She had no guards, no locks worth mentioning, not even a dog to bark at the wrong sort of man. Yet there she was, unshaken, as though kindness itself were a shield.

“Stay the night,” she said, rising to her feet. “I’ve a spare room you can use. You shouldn’t be moving around much anyway.”

Every instinct Charles had told him to refuse. He should leave, disappear into the night, and finish the job another time. But the offer was tempting, and not for the reasons she thought. Staying close to her would give him the perfect opportunity. No more alleyways, no more waiting. If he stayed, he could end this before morning.

“Alright,” he said, his voice measured. “Just for tonight.”

She nodded, satisfied. “I’ll get you some blankets.”

The spare room was small but comfortable, a single bed tucked into the corner with neatly folded linens at its foot. Charles lay down fully clothed, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as the silence pressed in. His work phone sat heavy in his pocket, the messages from his boss unanswered.

He would do it tonight, he told himself. It was cleaner this way, simpler. No witnesses, no complications.

But the hours slipped by, the house silent save for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the soft rhythm of her breathing in the next room. Charles stared at the faint light leaking through the curtains, his body taut with tension, his mind unwilling to rest.

Finally, he rose.

The knife felt familiar in his hand as he moved through the darkened hall, his steps silent. Her door was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of light from the streetlamp outside falling across her sleeping form. She lay curled on her side, one arm tucked beneath her head, her chest rising and falling in an unguarded rhythm.

It would be easy.

Charles stood there for what felt like an eternity, his shadow stretching across the floor as he tightened his grip on the blade. But the longer he watched, the harder it became to move. Her face, serene and untroubled, was unreasonably small in the pale light. There was nothing regal about her now, nothing untouchable. Just a person who had opened her home to a stranger and asked for nothing in return.

He thought of the blood on her hands—not hers, but his, from patching him up without hesitation. He thought of her smile, that maddening softness that made no sense in a world like his.

The knife dropped to his side, his fingers loosening until it slipped from his grip entirely.

He couldn’t do it.

Charles stepped back into the hall, his breath sharp and uneven. His work phone burned in his pocket like a brand, its presence unbearable. He reached for it, his fingers moving mechanically as he scrolled through the messages. The last one was simple, a single word: Update?

His jaw tightened. He moved to the nearest window, pushed it open, and hurled the phone into the night. It clattered onto the cobblestones below, its screen shattering on impact.

For the first time, the weight in his chest lifted.

He closed the window quietly and turned back to the room. The knife lay abandoned on the floor, but he didn’t pick it up. Instead, he returned to the spare room and sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

The mission was over.

It wasn’t enough to walk away now, not with his boss’s reach and the consequences that would follow. If Charles couldn’t kill her, there was only one other option: protect her.

His lips curled into a faint, humourless smile.

He didn’t know what had possessed him to make this choice, but it was too late to turn back.

Now, he was on her side.

Charles woke to the smell of coffee and the soft murmur of a voice carrying through the thin walls. He stretched, his muscles stiff from a restless night, and rubbed his face as he sat up. For a moment, he stared at the unfamiliar room, piecing together where he was and why.

The princess. The knife. The phone thrown out the window.

He sighed and pushed himself to his feet. There was no turning back now.

The voice grew louder as he approached the kitchen, and he paused in the doorway to take in the scene. She was pacing the small space, a mug in one hand and her phone pressed to her ear with the other. Her hair was pulled back, though loose strands framed her face, and her bare feet padded softly across the tiles.

“No, I understand,” she was saying, her tone brisk but tinged with worry. “But I can’t wait two weeks for a replacement. I need someone now.”

She turned and saw him standing there, and her lips curved into a faint, distracted smile. “I’ll call you back,” she murmured into the phone before ending the call.

“Good morning,” she said, setting her mug down on the counter. “Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough,” Charles replied, though his gaze lingered on her tense shoulders. “What’s going on?”

Her smile faltered, and for the first time, he saw unease in her expression. “It’s nothing,” she said quickly, then sighed as if realising the futility of her deflection. “Actually, it’s… something. I found a knife outside my bedroom door this morning.”

Charles froze, the words striking like a blow. She wasn’t accusing him—her tone was too uncertain, too trusting for that—but the implications made his stomach twist.

“I assume it was a warning,” she continued, crossing her arms. “I’ve had threats before, but nothing this… direct. I was on the phone with my head of security. Unfortunately, my current detail is out of commission, and replacements take time. More time than I’m comfortable with, frankly.”

Charles’s mind raced, the weight of her words settling like lead in his chest. If she knew how close she had come to real danger, would she be this calm? Or would she have already called the authorities?

He straightened, forcing his voice into a calm he didn’t feel. “That’s… troubling,” he said. Then, after a pause, the lie slipped out as easily as breathing: “You’re lucky. That’s my line of work.”

She blinked, clearly taken aback. “Your line of work?”

“Private security,” Charles clarified smoothly, slipping into the persona as if it had always been his own. “Before… well, before things went sideways.” He gestured to his arm, still wrapped in her bandage. “It’s what I do.”

She tilted her head, studying him with a mixture of curiosity and cautious hope. “You’re serious?”

“Serious enough to know you shouldn’t be pacing around without someone watching your back,” he said. “If you want, I can help. Just until your new detail is sorted.”

The words hung in the air, and Charles braced himself for her to refuse. It would be safer for her, he realised, if she did. But instead, her shoulders relaxed, and a faint smile touched her lips.

“Really?” she asked, her tone laced with relief.

“Really,” Charles said.

She hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Alright. Thank you, truly. I… I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

The irony of her words wasn’t lost on him. He was the threat she feared, yet now he stood between her and the danger she didn’t even know existed.

Charles watched as she moved to pour him a cup of coffee, her back turned to him, her trust laid bare. The knife she’d mentioned hadn’t been a warning; it had been his own. Yet now, instead of finishing the job, he was stepping into a role he’d never imagined for himself.

Protector.

He wasn’t sure what would come next, but one thing was clear: there was no going back.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow

[vind3miat0r]

random redacted headcanons time (theres a lot of them)

Darlin' let their friend (the one who got attacked by Quinn) do their makeup when they were both teens (Darlin' was the resident grunge/emo kid, and their friend was the preppy/y2k kid :3)

Obscura has scoliosis

Sweetie has an ostomy bag

Sweetie also has a very large dog named Lacey who can see The Caller

The Caller is a Stealth

Angel and Guy are siblings! :D

Adding onto that, Angel and Guy were both theatre kids, and they always did shows together

Angel doesnt have a filter, so theyre always saying unhinged shit. Baabe says unhinged shit too, but they do have a filter, so when they start yapping it sounds very out of pocket and very out of character (it scares Asher sometimes)

Milo and Sweetheart have had their neighborhood's HOA called on them multiple times for hanging pride flags from their house

Coworker and Kody are related (second cousins)

Obscura enjoys horror games, specifically Poppy Playtime and The Intruder. They also like Buckshot Roulette a lot

Treasure is THEE The Orion Experience fan. mf will not shut up about them (self-projection moment)

Porter likes tea. (before you say anything, hear me out) He specifically likes yaupon green tea and chamomile tea. The british tea jokes do get old, and hes had to restrain himself from strangling Vincent and Alexis multiple times before

The listener from the infamous April Fools audio actually had informed unempowered status🧍

Warden is a qualified professional therapist and teacher for children with special needs, specialised in autism. They also enjoy knitting things for their charges

Starlight has four planaria worms that they keep in a jar on their desk (they ominously refer to them as their sons)

Doc has a kitty. just a lil guy. doesnt know what a politic is, doesnt want to know what a politic is. just wants to be lil. Hush likes him a lot.

Angel has a pet preying mantis that they have somehow kept alive for two years

Coworker and Honey know each other because they frequent the same cafe (said cafe is the one thats owned by Obscura)

Freelancer can will and has bodied Gavin onto the sofa out of spite (early relationship) (they were dehydrated and sleep deprived)

Cutie's father is a professional hair stylist and taught them how to do hair. They also learned (of their own accord) how to take care of and style Black hair

Sweetheart is a Satanist (they gave Milo The Look at his "as above, so below" comment)

Asher regularly walks into a room only to stare at a wall, turn back around, and exit the room (ik that people do this occasionally, but he does it on a daily basis)

Sometimes, Freelancer will experience the worst stinging shoulder blade pain known to man (due to spinal fusion surgery). Gavin always panics when this happens, cuz he'll be in another room and all of a sudden feel a wave of agony go through Freelancer, paired with an anguished "AUGH MY SHOULDER BLADES" (this is based on personal experience btw)

[waratah-moon]

oh my god this sounds soo good

"What were you thinking?" "To be honest, I wasn't" (Eddie does something stupid that puts both your names on every single tabloid in the city)”

“I may be an idiot, but I'm your idiot.” Pairing: Rockstar!Eddie x Famous!Reader WC: 1.8k Warnings: set in the 90s, alcohol consumption, mentions of Pam & Tommy, lil magazine cover edit at the bottom for vibe purposes only. masterlist / send me a message 💌 / other prompt drabbles

This was not Eddie’s most sober moment. In the process of waiting for their final category to be announced at the 37th Annual Grammy Awards ceremony, he’d downed three Jack and Cokes and taken one too many shots. In his defence, they’d performed their biggest single earlier in the ceremony and he was still chasing the adrenaline high that came from a lengthy round of applause. They’d also won Best Metal Performance; not that he cared about that too much.

Corroded Coffin was no stranger to Grammy awards. They’d won two Grammys the first year they were nominated. One for Best New Artist, which was a shock to everyone as it had never been awarded to a heavy metal band before, and one for Best Metal Performance for their debut album. That had been a years ago. 

Eddie didn’t care about winning awards. To him the fun part was making the music and performing it. The only opinions that mattered to Eddie were those of the fans. And maybe some of his fellow musicians. But in the end the Grammys for the rock and metal categories were ultimately voted on by people who didn’t even understand the genres, so to Eddie their award didn’t matter. But now they were nominated for one of the big categories; Record of The Year. That meant a little more.

He felt you place your hand on his knee, it must have been bouncing because he suddenly felt it still.

“Nervous?” Your voice was quiet beneath the chatter of the theatre, but he heard you loud and clear.

“Never,” he responded, his signature lopsided grin making an appearance on his face.

“You’re fidgeting.”

“I’m always fidgeting.”

“More so than usual,” you took his hand in yours, twisting the silver signet ring you’d bought him for your one year anniversary. That seemed like a lifetime ago now. “I’m so proud of you.”

“What if we don’t win?”

“I’ll break up with you.” You saw confusion pass over his face and you laughed. “If you don’t win, you don’t win. Doesn’t change anything, Eds. You already have three Grammys, I’m not sure we even have the room for another one.”

“You’re right, the space on the mantel is saved for your Oscar.”

You rolled your eyes, but your chest warmed. You went to speak but Garret hushed you as “Record of The Year” flashed on the screen behind the stage. 

Eddie couldn’t breath as he listened to the presenters read out the nominees, his heart felt like it was pounding out of his chest. He gripped your hand tightly, his toes fidgeting in his shoes. Suddenly people in the seats around him sprung up, hugging and cheering each other. 

"You did it, baby," Eddie felt you kiss him quickly before Garret blindly led him through the audience.

The band made their way to the stage for the third time that night, energy buzzing around them. Garret thanked the presenters and pushed Eddie in front of the microphone for the acceptance speech. the applause died down as the crowd listened to Eddie speak.

“Uh, wow. To be honest I don’t think any of us know what to say right now. Bands like ours never win this award so none of us were expecting it. Thank you for thinking our music is good,” he went to step away from the mic when Jeff said something to him, pushing him back to centre stage. “Oh shit, yeah. We’d like to thank our manager John, Tim and Suzy at Columbia, and Joel who worked his ass off in the studio.” Eddie’s eyes were hazy but they still managed to find you in the crowd. “Finally I need to thank my favourite girl. My muse. My beautiful wife. This is your song, baby. None of it would be possible without you,” he raised the award in the air while his band members shook his shoulders and clapped him on the back.

The rest of the night was a blur. You ended up at some after party hosted by god knows who, but you spotted some familiar faces. Pamela Anderson was in the corner watching after her brand-new husband as he did the drunken rounds pestering other guests. Eddie had told you he’d never liked Tommy, but you both loved Pam. You left Eddie’s grasp as he chatted away to some producer and headed for the blonde.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” you smile.

“I could say the same for you,” Pam pulls you into a hug which you return with a squeeze. When you pull back she takes your left hand in hers and inspects it. “No ring?”

You frown, “huh?”

“You got married and you didn’t get a ring?”

Your eyes widened. What? “Married? Who said I got married?”

“Eddie… When he… wait,” she blinked, her eyes travelling from Eddie back to you. “He called you his wife in his speech, everyone’s talking about it. Honestly I’m just upset I wasn’t invited.”

You flashed back to the ceremony, trying to remember what Eddie had said but blanking on everything past him calling you his “favourite girl.”

“We didn’t get married. We’re not even engaged,” you tell her. Your eyes wandered over to Eddie who had his arm over Garret’s shoulder and was laughing at something Jeff was saying. You’d been together for three years now with them being the happiest of your life. You had no doubt that he was the man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. The two of you had talked about your future together before, both of you certain that you had one together, but he hadn’t popped the question. Yet. “Everyone’s talking about it?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry, I’m sure everyone will forget about it by tomorrow. Come on, let’s get some drinks, I have to tell you about my wedding.”

╰── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╯

You woke up the next day with a headache and an answering machine full of messages. 

“Bitch you got married?!”

“Sweetie, I’ve spoken with a lawyer and we can get this annulled, please call me back when you get this message.”

“Darling, we need to talk about media strategy, the tabloids are having a field day with the shotgun wedding headline. I can get you on the Tonight Show tomorrow.”

It was past noon when Eddie sleepily entered the kitchen, oblivious to your tense state as you sat at the kitchen counter, hunched over a magazine, a half eaten muffin on the plate beside you.

He wrapped his arms around your waist and pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Did you make muffins?” His voice was muffled as his face was pressed into the crook of your neck.

“Nope. Carla dropped them off. Along with this,” you held up the cover of the magazine.

A red carpet picture of you and Eddie was splashed across the cover alongside the title: AMERICA’S SWEETHEART AND ROCK AND ROLL BAD BOY GET HITCHED.

He took the magazine from your hand, holding it closer to his face, “rock and roll? Corroded Coffin is heavy metal.”

You groaned, “that’s what you’ve taken from this? Eddie, everyone thinks we got married.”

He hummed thoughtfully, dropping the tabloid back on the counter. He broke off a piece of your muffin and tossed it in his mouth. “Not that I mind, but why do they think that?”

You spun the barstool around to face him, his hands finding purchase on your hips. “You don’t remember what you said last night, do you?”

Eddie tilted his head to the side, thinking. You could see the dark circles under his eyes, his hair mused from sleep. “No. What did I say?”

“When you won the grammy, after you thanked everyone, you thanked me.” 

“Yeah,” he nodded, his thumbs stroking the skin of your hips.

“You called me your wife.”

He squinted, trying to force his words to appear in his mind but failing. “Oh.”

“What were you thinking?”

“To be honest, I wasn’t. I was drunk, baby. It must have just slipped out.”

You covered his hands on your hips with yours, eyes wide as you watched his expression. “How does that just slip out, Eds?” He was chewing his lip now, trying to think of a way to defuse the situation. “Do you think of me as your wife?”

“Want me to be honest?”

“‘Course.”

“I love you. Our entire lives are intertwined. In all the important ways, you’re already my wife.”

Butterflies erupted in your stomach and suddenly your face felt hot. “But you haven’t asked me.”

“Do you wanna get married?” Yes, yes, yes. 

“You have to ask me properly.”

He huffed, dropping his hands from your hips and as he kissed your forehead. “Wait here.”

As Eddie disappeared from the kitchen you allowed yourself a moment to silently scream, fanning your cheeks. You were overwhelmed; too many thoughts raced through your mind as you tried to figure out what on earth was happening. It didn’t help that there was certainly alcohol still buzzing through your system. You swallowed the rest of the coffee that was sitting on the bench and pinched your wrist in an attempt to wake yourself up. Your mind still felt cloudy.

When Eddie finally returned, your eyes fell to his hands; he was fiddling with something small and velvet. “I was planning on doing this somewhere romantic. Maybe the lookout on Mullholand, but that doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is you and me.” He knelt down on one knee, opening the small box in his hand to flash a sparkling ring. “Baby, you’re the only person I want to go to sleep with, wake up with, spend my days with. You’re my favourite person. You’re my heart, my soul, my everything. You’re it for me, sweetheart.”

“Eds,” you felt your eyes getting wet as you watched the man you loved on his knees before you.

“Will you marry me?”

You were nodding before you got the words out, “yes, of course I will.” Your hands went to his cheeks and you leant down to kiss his lips. 

“Here, put this on before I drop it,” he took your left hand from his cheek, slipping the ring on your finger. You held your hand out, watching as the light bounced off the stone, making it sparkle. It was huge.

“Jesus christ, this weighs a ton.”

“Metal makes money, baby. Do you like it?”

“I love it. It’s perfect. How long have you been hiding this?”

He pondered the question, “I bought it last year.”

“Last year? We could have been engaged since last year? You’re an idiot, Eddie Munson.”

“But now I’m your idiot.”

“You’ve always been my idiot.”

4 months later...

note: Yes, that's JLo's 2000s Ben Afleck ring bc I think it's the height of celebrity extravagant rings lol not my style but sooooo 90s/00s.

taglist: @geekyfifi @livsters @bailey1212@babyfrosty@becca-alexa @munsonology @celestialuna13 @69your-best-night-mare69 @unknowniteminthebaggingarea @micheledawn1975 @neewtmas @silky-luxe @lokis-little-fawn @starrthemushroom @eddies-puppet

[mabelstone]

Prof. Stone.

matt stone x reader

summary: your calculus professor's got it out for you. you're going to change that.

word count: 831

note: a short introductory chapter. no 18+ (yet... hehe)

hes a bit of a dick in this one but he will get nicer. maybe.

pls lmk what you think! asks are always open with suggestions :)

also i dont know why the picture quality sucks sorry

Part One.

You begrudgingly walked into lecture theatre for your calculus class; the one you’d had to take for extra credits. You’d hated math ever since elementary, but since you weren’t doing well in your psychology degree, you had to pick up an extra course over the summer. As calculus was the only class not full, here you were, surrounded by a bunch of arrogant overachievers who seemed to be passing you in every way imaginable.

To make things worse, your professor had it out for you, or at least it felt that way. As the rest of the class piled in filling the seats around you, you rested your arms on the tiny desk, your head following suit with an exhausted sigh.

After several minutes passed, the chatter in the room died down and the theatre door echoed shut. “Morning,” your professor mumbled, placing his things down on his desk before taking out his laptop and fiddling with the projector. He was a tall, sinewy man probably in his late forties, early fifties, with short, curly hair, and a neatly kempt beard. He was a handsome man, and you often heard girls in the class whispering about him, and no doubt, he heard too. You could tell by his demeanour, the way he carried himself. He knew he was good looking, which in his mind meant he didn’t need to go out of his way to be friendly. You lifted your head from your arms and opened your laptop, wishing more than anything you were still in bed.

As you waited, you rested your hand on your cheek, letting out a large yawn. The mumbling in the background seemed to fade as you allowed your eyes to flutter closed.

“Usually, we rest before we come to class,” you jolted awake at the harsh voice of your professor, who was only inches from your face.

“Sorry, sir, I-“

“Alright!” He proclaimed to the class, ignoring you and heading back to the front of the theatre. “I was very impressed with the assessments you turned in, give or take a few.” The class chuckled at his snide comment, causing you to huff and slump back into your seat. That assessment kicked your ass and there was no way you passed. “I’ll pass out your results shortly, but in the meantime, revise chapters fourteen to thirty; they’re relevant to your exam.”

As he handed out everyone’s papers, you flicked through to page fourteen, struggling to keep your eyes open. “Y/N,” your professor approached your desk in a hushed tone, his green eyes piercing through you with a glint of disappointment. “Stay back once everyone leaves, okay?” You nodded, your face turning red as he slid the paper onto your desk; 20% circled in bright red marker. Fuck.

As the lesson wrapped up, he said goodbye to the class and packed his things away. You remained seated at your desk, heart pounding, incredibly embarrassed. You watched as the last two girls in the class went up and thanked him for their grades, batting their eyelashes and claiming that they were so grateful.

“You’re welcome, ladies,” he smiled, ushering them out of the theatre. He made his way over to you, clasping his hands together. “Right, you know why you’re here, yes?”

You sighed loudly, slouching back into your seat. “Stab in the dark, could it be my shit grade?”

“Well, it’s not because of your wonderful attitude,” he huffed sarcastically, leaning on the edge of his desk, arms crossed over his chest. “Why are you even taking this class, Y/N?”

You shrugged, crossing your own arms. “I need the points,” you claimed in a blasé tone.

“You’re not gonna get them with this pathetic effort,” he snickered, watching the way you shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “Did you even try?”

“Of course I did,” you retorted in defence. “I just have no fucking clue what I’m doing.”

He moved toward you, not breaking eye contact, his voice stern. “Maybe you would if you didn’t sleep every lesson.” He walked over to your desk, placing his large, veiny hand onto your paper, chuckling under his breath, "you certainly aren't tired from studying calculus."

You rolled your eyes and shook your head, gathering your things. “Did you seriously hold me back to belittle me? Look, Mr. Stone, I’m sorry I didn’t do well.” You made your way to the door feeling humiliated. You wouldn’t be coming back. “It wouldn’t hurt you to be a little nicer by the way.”

Just as you were about to grab the handle, he spoke up. “I will help you.” You dropped your hand turning back to him. “If you will actually try and not waste either of our time, I will help you. Because you will not pass without it.”

“Okay.” You replied dryly. You knew he was right.

“Stay back tomorrow after class.” He nodded to the door, and without another word, you left.

Okay, maybe you would be coming back.

[pichirobi]

the arcana — voice headcanons

🦊 asra

his voice is breathy, like he's sighing, never louder than it has to be so when he speaks to you it always sounds like you're being let in on a secret. his smile is coy and catlike. his laugh is also airy, and melodic, like windchimes.

🦉 nadia

her voice is clear and never falters, the kind that makes all other conversation stop. her inflection changes with extreme subtlety but the tone comes across clearly, even if her face doesn't give it away (years of practice reprimanding lucio in front of palace guests). her laugh is more of a chuckle, low and short.

🐶 julian

his voice is brash, a bit nasally. it's friendly and when he addresses you it makes you feel like he's shining a spotlight, passing you a microphone. it has so much inflection to it like he's eternally on a theatre stage. his laugh ranges from a sly chuckle to an unabashed cackle, and he loves to laugh as often as he can.

🐻 muriel

his voice is a very deep grumble, croaky. he tries to keep it low and quiet but it always carries across a room anyway. he's shy about his smile, and it's very hard to get him to laugh (he just doesn't understand most jokes). but when he does, it's surprisingly high and soft, a burst of giggles that escapes him and he very quickly tries to shut himself up and return to his default stoic demeanor.

🐱 portia

her voice is high, sweet and welcoming, like coming home. her tone can be gentle, like she's hushing an injured animal, or scolding, like when she's pulling her brother's ear. her laugh is a squeal, extremely infectious. she covers her face when she laughs and turns pink easily.

🐐 lucio

his voice is sharp and loud, and he often drawls like he's bored. he speaks with his nose pointed up. his laugh is often just a curt HA!, a bark, and he always hits something as he does so, whether it be smacking his knee or his chest, or pounding a fist on a table.

[rosieathearthside]

…Well, then. Guess we're doin' this now.

(A.K.A.: A glimpse into the daily life of Rosie and Ichabod; y i p p e e e e e -)

(Wattpad link here!!)

----------------------------------------------------

He knew he was a robot. Pure steel and nerves, as incapable of physical feeling as his platinum exterior was of accumulating rust. But that didn't mean he couldn't feel things in the cavernous, recessive depths of his heart.  What lay there now, you ask?  Well, to put it bluntly, quite a bit of spite. 

"Ichabod," a voice to his right sighed out, "be a dear, would you? Can you hold still for five seconds? Please??" There was a slight lurch in the wiring of Ichabod's stomach at Rosie's words, but he rolled his eyes nonetheless. "Well, if ya'd let me lock my joints, maybe the metal'd keep from slidin' s'bad." Rosie practically glared holes into the side of his face with her silence, but Ichabod found her attitude laughable. (Well, almost. If he actually laughed, Rosie would give him much more than a faulty arm to worry about.) It was her fault they were in this situation, after all, even if she was too stubborn to admit it aloud. The two of them had been down in the theatre when it happened. Rosie had wanted to re-rig the ropes controlling the curtains; according to her father, they were a tad too loose for the comfort of whomever was in charge of maneuvering the heavy drapes. She had set Ichabod to steadying a portion of the rope just above her head. As for her, she tried to secure what was left of the sorry, fraying things to metal hooks fixed on the cedar wall. It was with little success, though.  And...well, even she wasn't stubborn enough to deny her quickness to anger. Right when she was finished with a string of insults enunciating the rope's decrepit quality, she jerked the rope towards her in an attempt to force some semblance of a knot together. Said attempt backfired. Badly. The rope snapped, and the sandbag above them- the one item that held the entire rope together- went plummeting down onto poor Ichabod's right arm. 

...And that also happened to be where his joint-locking gears were housed. Who knew? If he had been able to feel pain, he imagined that it would have hurt like the dickens.  Two flights of stairs and a ridiculous amount of griping later, here they were now, lit in the rose gold splendour of Rosie's room (that, somehow, only she could make chaotic). Various wires and cogs had been strewn all over the bed where she had Ichabod sat. And apart from the occasional snarky quip, the two had settled into...somewhat comfortable silence. But that didn't mean it needed to remain for forever. Rosie's repairs didn't normally take this long; they had been up here for nearly an hour since the incident. What had she encountered? "So..." Trying to sound nonthreatening, Ichabod used his free hand to twiddle with a frayed wire sticking out of his wound. "What's th' damage, Doc?" Rosie took a moment to respond; whether it was out of concentration or aggravation, he wasn't sure. When she did finally speak, though, her words were preluded by a weighted sigh. "Nothing impossible to mend...but that still doesn't mean it'll be done by sundown. I'll have to coax Mama into making you a cast..." Her words trailed off for a moment; in a blink-and-you-miss-it instant, her eyes darted away from her patient towards the left-most corner of her room...towards her Mama's sewing box.  Wait. How much fabric did she have left? The jolts of concern twanging through his crossed wires kept growing stronger. Because...well, it had been her fault. Obviously. Ichabod knew that well. But the way he saw it, that didn't mean her Mama had to coax the estate driver to make a run into town just to repair his painless limb. "Ya know that ain't necessary, man. I-" "Hush." "Aw, but I'm-" "Shut. Up. You know the answer to that well, you goose," she quipped, trying desperately to hide the smirk sprouting across her face... He squinted, looking down a tad. Hm. Should he keep up the bluff? ...Nah.  "Well, honk, honk," he sneered, booping her nose, "ya prissy-" "Oh my God, stop-!" "Aah!! Alright, man, I quit! I quit!!" She had grabbed Ichabod's finger and pulled with absolutely no mercy, the force of her grasp making him fall into a heap on the carpet below. "Take that, you pile of bolts."  "...But I'm a crippled man." "Oh, boo-hoo." The two stared each other down, with all the fake animosity and badly-disguised mirth that best friends have.  And their facade died the moment Rosie's smirk finally slipped.  The two laughed. They chortled in their spots, broken appendages and all, until Rosie could hardly breathe and Ichabod's last remaining wires threatened to burst under the pressure of his artificial oxygen. After all, what else could they do? He was only a robot, true, but he knew a fair bit about life...and this confrontation made him remember one very important thing.  One's time on Earth, whether human or otherwise, is far too short to remain in anger for long.  Let it dissolve...just like rust on platinum skies. ---------------------------------------------------- - Thanks for reading!! - Suggestions are not just appreciated; they're encouraged. ----------------------------------------------------

[themetaphorgirl]

So Maeve prompted this one, but also I knew Brenna would love it and I couldn’t resist.

(trigger warnings for blood and barf. you can probably guess which boys are responsible.)

(Also yes, Haley is directing scenes from the Deaf West production of Spring Awakening.)

—————

Spencer rubbed his nose. He hated it when he was thrown off his schedule- everyone else was in the library and that’s where they were supposed to be- but Alex and Aaron were helping Haley with a project for her directing project, and he would rather be with them in the Roosevelt common room than in the library with the other kids. And besides, Emily needed help with her math homework.

“Okay, so…yeah, I think the blocking will be best if you angle like this,” Haley was saying. “Cheating out. Do you remember what cheating out means?”

Alex huffed, blowing her hair off her forehead. “Not really,” she said. “I’m not very good at being a theatre kid.”

“Me neither,” Aaron said.

“No, no, you’re both great,” Haley said. “So what’s the sign for-“ She paused. “Are you sure Spencer can be in the room for this?”

Alex leaned back. “Bug, cover your ears,” she said. He obeyed, so he couldn’t hear what Haley said, but he understood the sign language.

“Totally fucked?” he said.

“Spencer,” the twins scolded in unison.

“You should have told me to close my eyes!” he protested.

Emily put down her pen. “Suddenly I’m interested in being in a musical,” she said.

“Hush and let the baby help you with your pre-cal,” Aaron said. She offered a one handed gesture and he rolled his eyes.

Haley fiddled around with her laptop. “See, I kind of want the blocking to look like this,” she said. “Oh, hold on. My laptop is about to die and I left my charger in my room.” She got up, smoothing down her uniform skirt. “I’ll be right back, I’ll run upstairs and grab it. Do you guys want anything? I have drinks in my mini fridge.”

Aaron tilted his head back. “Do you still have those strawberry Dr. Peppers?” he asked.

“Yes, I do, I’ll bring you one,” she said. She patted his cheek absently and Aaron smiled at her, sweet and a little dopey. “Anyone else want anything?”

“We’re good, thanks,” Emily said, and as soon as Haley left she wadded up a piece of paper and chucked it at Aaron, bouncing it off his head. “Jesus Christ, Hotchner, you have it down bad.”

Aaron turned red. “I do not,” he said.

“No, you do,” Alex said. She got up off the floor and pushed her long hair back from her face. “Here, let’s try that blocking again.”

Spencer rubbed his nose again. “How much longer?” he asked plaintively.

“Not too much longer, kiddo, we’ll go get dinner in like forty-five minutes,” Aaron said.

“I’ve got some snacks in my room, I’ll grab you something,” Emily promised.

“You’re just trying to get out of your math homework,” Spencer called after her as she hurried down the hall.

He sighed heavily. His nose was starting to run and he rubbed at it again in irritation. He was ready to eat dinner and starting to feel cranky, and he was tired of helping Emily with her math while the twins practiced with Haley. If only there was a good excuse to leave.

Something dripped onto the white pages of his notebook, and it took a second to register that his nose was bleeding. He stared at it in horror.

Without thinking he slid down from his seat and wandered over to the twins, still talking through the blocking Haley had just taught them and working on the ASL they were incorporating. He tugged on Aaron’s shirt, too dazed to think things through.

“What’s wrong, Bug?” Aaron asked.

He swallowed hard and tasted pennies. “My nose is bleeding,” he said in a tiny voice.

Aaron stared down at him. “Nope,” he said, all the color draining from his face. “Sorry, I…nope…”

“What? What’s wrong?” Alex said, but Aaron’s eyes rolled back and he started to crumple. “Oh god! Aaron!”

She managed to catch him before his head hit the floor, letting out a soft oof at the impact and lowering him down carefully. Spencer’s lower lip wobbled as he felt more blood drip down his chin. “What’s wrong with Aaron?” he asked.

“He’s- oh my god!” Alex explained. She looked wildly from Aaron’s limp form, his head resting on her knee, to Spencer with blood running down his face. “Jesus Christ. Emily! Emily!”

To her credit, Emily came running. “What the fuck, Alex? Somebody better be bleeding or dead,” she said. She froze. “Oh god. I was only joking.”

“He’s not dead, he’s got a weird thing about blood and he passed out,” Alex said, smoothing Aaron’s hair back from his forehead. “Can you go get Haley? I can’t take care of both of them at the same time.”

“I can help,” Emily offered.

“Em, I love you, but Aaron is going to throw up when he comes to, and Spencer is gushing blood.”

“Got it, got it, on my way to get Brooks.”

Spencer shifted his weight and made a distressed little whine. “I want it to stop,” he said.

“I know, I know, baby, I’ll hold you in just a second,” Alex said. “Can you get a tissue and put it over your nose?”

“No, I can’t, I don’t want to move,” he whimpered, cupping his hands over his nose. Blood was pouring between his fingers and running down the front of his shirt. “I w-would like be h-held please.”

“I promise, I’ll get you the second Haley comes back,” Alex said.

Luckily Haley ran into the room in record time. “I couldn’t understand what Emily was saying but it sounded like something was wrong with Aaron,” she said. “Oh god!”

“Please take him, they both need me and I don’t have enough arms,” Alex said. The girls traded places, carefully transferring Aaron’s weight from Alex’s lap to Haley’s, and as soon as he was safe Alex swept Spencer up into a hug.

He gripped her shoulders, smearing blood on her uniform shirt, and burst into tears. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” Alex soothed, sitting down on the couch and snuggling him on her lap. “I’ve got you, you’re okay.”

He didn’t feel okay, but he pressed his cheek against her collarbone. Emily walked into the room and set a small trashcan next to Aaron and Haley. “For the big disaster,” she said. She handed a box of tissues to Alex. “For the little disaster.”

Alex took several tissues and pressed them over Spencer’s nose, pinching the bridge lightly. “Just breathe, honey, I’ve got you,” she said.

Haley brushed Aaron’s hair back from his forehead. “If he doesn’t wake up in thirty seconds I’m going to- oh thank god, he’s opening his eyes,” she said. “Hey, baby, it’s okay.” She looked up at Alex. “Is he really going to-“

Aaron groaned, lurched up faster than should be physically possible, and grabbed the trashcan in just enough time to throw up. “Haley, I hate to break it to you, but if you’re going to date Hotchner then you need to be ready for the kid to puke at the drop of a hat,” Emily said dryly.

“And he’s got a weird thing about blood,” Alex said, almost apologetic. “He took one look at Spencer and…that’s all it took.”

“Wow, he goes down fast,” Haley commented, rubbing Aaron’s back as he threw up.

Spencer pressed his cheek against Alex’s collarbone, hiding behind her long hair like a curtain as she rocked him gently. It felt like the pressure of her hand on his nose was helping but he was too scared to check.

Emily crouched down in front of them. “Hold out your hands, squirt,” she said. He obeyed reluctantly; she poured blueberry-scented hand sanitizer into his bloody palms and wiped him down gently with more tissues. “Oh, Jesus, this is disgusting. You’re like the human version of the elevator from The Shining.”

“You want to take Barf Boy?” Haley asked.

“You know what? I think I’ll stick with Carrie White over here.”

“You’re mixing up your horror movies,” Aaron mumbled, his head still deep in the trash can.

“Ari, let’s just focus on getting you to stop vomiting, okay?” Haley said.

Emily tossed the bloody tissues, then dug around in Alex’s bag for Spencer’s blanket. “Here, baby, hold your blankie,” she said. He was too tired and too upset to argue that it wasn’t a security blanket.

“I think I’m okay,” Aaron rasped.

“Yes, well, we’ll take it slow,” Haley said as she ran her fingers through his hair. “No sudden movements.”

“Is Spencer okay?” Aaron asked.

“He’s fine, I’m guessing it’s just allergies,” Alex said. She kissed the top of Spencer’s head. “If I carry him out, will you close your eyes? I have some of his clothes in my room and he needs to change, he’s covered in blood.”

“You’re also covered in blood,” Emily said. “Is there anything left in his little body?”

Aaron instantly turned green again, leaning back heavily between Haley’s legs with his head on her shoulder as she kept petting his hair. “I could not open my eyes if you paid me,” he promised, covering his eyes with his hands.

[cinemanz]

Movie Theatres: Why They Still Matter In Today's Digital Age?

Lights dim, the screen flickers to life, and a hush falls over the audience. In this age of digital streaming and on-demand entertainment, Movie showtimes Christchurch continue to cast a spell that captivates hearts and minds like no other. There's something undeniably magical about settling into those plush seats, surrounded by strangers who become companions in a shared cinematic experience.

Join us as we embark on an enchanting journey exploring why movie theatres still hold their allure amidst today's ever-advancing technological landscape.

Introduction: Why Movie Theatres Still Matter?

In today's digital age, it's easy to take movie theatres for granted. We can watch movies at home on our big-screen TVs or stream them on our laptops. But there's something special about going to the movies that can't be replicated at home.

For one thing, movie theatres are designed specifically for watching movies. The screens are bigger and the sound is better than what you'll get at home. Movie theatres also have a unique atmosphere that creates a sense of anticipation and excitement.

Another reason why movie theatres still matter is that they're social places. Going to the movies with friends or family is a shared experience that can create lasting memories. You can't replicate that feeling by watching a movie alone at home.

Movie theatres are an important part of our culture. They've been around for over years and have played a significant role in shaping our society. They're not just places to watch movies; they're also places where we come together as a community to share in the experience of cinema.

Reasons: Why People Prefer Movie Theatres over Streaming Services?

In today's digital age, Christchurch movie theatres are still a popular choice for many people. There are a number of reasons why people prefer to see movies in theatres rather than streaming them at home.

First, there is the experience of seeing a movie on the big screen. Movie theatres provide a much more immersive experience than watching a movie on a TV or computer screen. You can really feel like you are part of the action when you see a movie in a theatre.

Second, movie theatres offer superior sound and picture quality. The sound systems in most theatres are designed to give you the best possible experience. And the large screens allow you to see every detail of the film.

Third, going to the movies is a social activity. It's a great way to spend time with friends or family members. You can share your thoughts about the film afterwards and have something to talk about for days afterwards.

Fourth, movies are meant to be seen in a dark room. When you watch a movie at home, there are often distractions that can take away from the experience. But when you're in a theatre, it's just you and the film.

There is something special about going to the movies that just can't be replicated at home. Maybe it's the excitement of waiting in line for your favourite film or eating popcorn in the dark. Whatever it is, movie theatres provide an experience that is unique and magical.

Tips for Getting the Most Out of Your Theatre Experience

There's something special about going to the movies. The big screen, the surround sound, the comfortable seats--it's an immersive experience that just can't be replicated at home. And while streaming services have made it easier than ever to watch movies from the comfort of your own couch, there's still something to be said for heading out to the theatre.

Here are a few tips for getting the most out of your theatre experience:

Arrive early: This will give you time to find your seat and get settled in before the movie starts.

Turn off your phone: There's nothing worse than having your movie-watching interrupted by a ringing phone or a text message.

Don't talk during the movie: It's distracting for those around you, and it takes away from your own enjoyment of the film.

Stay until the credits roll: Some of the best scenes are saved for after the credits start rolling, so don't head for the exits too early!

Support independent theatres: These businesses are vital to keeping the magic of movies alive, so consider patronising them whenever possible.

Conclusion

In conclusion, Christchurch movie theatres continue to be a popular entertainment option for many people in today's digital age. They offer an immersive experience that can't be matched by streaming services and provide moviegoers with the opportunity to enjoy films on the big screen with friends or family. Not only do movie theatres provide a unique cinematic experience, but they are also increasingly embracing new technology such as 3D projection and sound systems that make them even more attractive than ever before. There is no denying the power of the cinema - it will always remain a magical place where we can escape into our favourite stories.

[automatismoateo]

Christians bullied an Indiana school district into canceling a school play with LGBTQ characters. The students raised more than $83,000 and put the play on in a professional theatre. via /r/atheism

Christians bullied an Indiana school district into canceling a school play with LGBTQ characters. The students raised more than $83,000 and put the play on in a professional theatre.

(This excerpt is from a Washington Post article written by Hannah Natanson.)

FORT WAYNE, Ind. — Sydney Knipp, 16, tiptoed to stage’s edge and peered around the black curtain at the nearly 1,500 people waiting for the play to start. It was the largest audience she had ever seen.

In a few minutes, Sydney was supposed to stride before them, braids streaming, to deliver the opening monologue as Alanna Dale in “Marian, or The True Tale of Robin Hood,” a gender-bending take on Sherwood Forest’s beloved bandit.

Dotted among the crowd, Sydney saw, were security personnel in bulletproof vests. At the entrance, theatergoers were submitting to bag checks and a metal detector wand. Behind Sydney stood Fia, her 14-year-old sister, costumed as Much the Miller’s son.

Sydney and Fia, and their characters, were the reason for the security — the reason this play was happening not at school but at an outdoor theater in the girls’ hometown. Alanna confesses her love for a woman in the 16th scene. Much declares they are nonbinary two scenes later. The LGBTQ storylines drew complaints from parents, spurring Carroll High School to cancel “Marian” in February out of concern for students’ safety.

But the cast of two dozen teenagers decided to put the play on anyway. Now, on a chilly evening in late May — after raising almost $84,000, booking Foellinger Theatre and whirling through 2½ weeks of late-night rehearsals squeezed between Advanced Placement exams and finals — it was opening night for a show adults had warned them not to do.

Sydney sidled to her little sister. “How are you feeling?”

The teens believed — knew — they were part of something bigger. They knew schools across the country are nixing plays and musicals that feature gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender roles, often due to parent objections. They were aware Republican politicians are passing a record-breaking wave of laws restricting the rights of LGBTQ children, and that Fort Wayne trends White and red.

The teens also knew they had fans: the thousands who bought $15.50 tickets or donated to their fundraiser; the local theater groups who lent decorations; even “Marian” playwright Adam Szymkowicz, whom they had met on a Zoom call.

But in these last moments with her sister, Fia had something to confide.

She was thinking about what producer Nathan Gotsch said a half-hour before showtime. Should any hecklers emerge, he told students, ushers would escort them out. One student, dressed as a king’s guard, had raised black armored gloves and promised to deter disrupters with his fists, earning laughs. But Fia wasn’t laughing now.

“If someone yells something,” Fia whispered to Sydney, “I think I’m going to cry.”

Sydney pointed to the audience. “Dude, there are so many people with dyed hair out there,” she said. “We’re going to be okay.”

She laid her arm on Fia’s shoulder. Fia rested her forehead on Sydney’s hand. The sisters stood, curled in an embrace, as the crowd began to hush.

Three months earlier, Meadowe Freeman arrived early to school for a surprise meeting called by her principal and theater director.

Auditions had just wrapped for Carroll High’s production of “Marian.” The 18-year-old, who chose theater because “I’m not very sporty,” had anticipated teasing from students about the play’s LGBTQ characters. But she never expected what she heard that day: that some parents disliked the play so much it couldn’t continue.

“You read about it on the news,” Meadowe said, “but you never expect it to happen in your school.”

Sitting near the front of the room was Tristan Wasserman, 18. He watched his friends start to cry. Walking from the meeting, he decided: The show would go on.

That night, Tristan hunted up the email of “Marian” playwright Szymkowicz. He researched the name of a reporter with Fort Wayne’s 21 Alive News. He fired off versions of the same email.

“Hello,” he wrote, “my name is Tristan Wasserman … It was actually on my 18th birthday that we found out that we wouldn’t be doing Marian.”

His efforts yielded news coverage and, ultimately, 5,600 signatures on a petition to reinstate the play. One of Tristan’s friends, Stella Brewer-Vartanian, president of a left-leaning political club at Carroll High, launched Twitter and Instagram accounts devoted to reversing the cancellation. But the school stuck by its decision.

So Tristan began recruiting students to speak at the next school board meeting. If enough teens explained why it was wrong, he figured, the adults would have to listen.

On Feb. 27, Tristan, Stella — who wasn’t part of the theater program but felt outraged by what she called adult bullying — and roughly 20 high schoolers showed up, some with prepared speeches.

Before most could speak, a woman rose. Kaye Niman said she was a taxpayer, a mother and a pastor’s wife. “Marian” — with its “LGBT whatever, however many ABCs you want to put on it” — was immoral, Niman said.

“What we believe in is what the Bible says, and the Bible says that homosexuality is a sin,” said Niman, who did not respond to a request for comment. “It’s forgivable, don’t get me wrong, it’s forgivable and we love them, but nevertheless … I applaud whoever made the decision to not have this play go on.”

As Niman wrapped up, 16-year-old Peyton Stratton sat picturing the role she had hoped for: that of Marian/Robin, who leads the troupe of Merry Men. Peyton, who wants to attend law school, admired Marian for her ferocity, wit and determination to protect the people she loves.

Telling herself to summon those traits now, Peyton walked to the microphone. She reminded the board of school anti-bullying initiatives that teach children not to tolerate hate.

“By taking down this play, you’re following the opposite of that message,” she said. “You are teaching students to fold at the first sign of struggle.”

Stella told the adults they were writing themselves into history as “hateful.”

And Tristan gave a promise: “I have not rested,” he said, “nor will I rest until this decision is reversed.”

Students headed home with hope. Tristan was in his bedroom when he got a text alerting him that the superintendent, Wayne Barker, was speaking about the play.

“This came down to an issue where our principal felt that it was going to be an unsafe activity for our students to participate in because of how divisive it was becoming,” Barker said. “I support his decision … I’m comfortable with why he did what he did.”

In a statement to The Washington Post, district spokeswoman Lizette Downey said the decision to cancel “Marian” was due not only to parent complaints, but primarily to “disruptions already occurring between students directly involved within the theater department.” She did not specify what those “disruptions” were.

Superintendent Barker declined repeated interview requests.

For a while, the students were lost. Some pondered putting on the play outside school, Stella said, but no one knew how. Then Stella got a message saying a local man she’d never met wanted to talk to her.

A former teacher born and raised in Fort Wayne, Nathan Gotsch, 40, sympathized with administrators’ plight — but felt more for the students. And, he felt, he was perfectly positioned to help.

Gotsch, who attended film school at the University of Southern California, spent his 20s working in entertainment in Los Angeles. After stints in education and journalism, he had just run unsuccessfully for Congress. Taken together, it meant Gotsch had the know-how and the network of political, activist and theater contacts the students would need to stage “Marian” themselves.

Over a video call, the idea took shape. Gotsch agreed to serve as overall producer, and four teens — Tristan, Stella, Meadowe and Kaitlyn Gulley, head of Carroll’s Gay-Straight Alliance — would become student-producers.

Gotsch set up a GoFundMe to pay for the play; it pulled in $80,000 in under two weeks. Nonprofit Fort Wayne Pride, which advocates for LGBTQ rights, stepped in as fiscal agent, managing the money.

Nathan and others identified two dozen students willing to act in “Marian” and assigned them parts. He hired a professional director and crew to handle stage management, engineering, sets, sound, costumes and lighting. He secured Foellinger Theatre for May 20 and coordinated security with Indiana State Police and parks personnel.

Meanwhile, Stella and Kaitlyn promoted the play at a “No Hate Fort Wayne” rally and a Democratic Party gathering. Meadowe and Tristan liaised between adults and students in the production — while Meadowe learned a role as a guard and Tristan served as assistant stage manager and sound designer, at one point imitating pigeon calls for the play’s soundtrack.

Rehearsals — running after school and on weekends — started May 3. The student-actors had fewer than 4o hours, across less than three weeks, to learn their lines.

Teens were facing APs and fast-approaching finals. They were fielding phone calls from journalists and messages from actors who wanted to cheer them on — support they appreciated but which took time.

The Friday before opening night, Peyton arrived late after ferrying over three students who lacked cars. Her hair was already braided in the intricate coils required for the role she had coveted: Marian.

She fast-walked into a kitchen tucked below the theater to cries of “Peyton! They need you in makeup!” and “Peyton! Go straight to makeup!”

“I know,” Peyton said, crossing to a wall and scribbling her initials onto a sign-in sheet.

She eyed the steaming

(To read the full article go to https://www.washingtonpost.com/education/2023/05/31/marian-school-theater-lgbtq-indiana/ )

Submitted May 31, 2023 at 05:48PM by bitemy (From Reddit https://ift.tt/vSmew4L)

[dukemeropide]

The factories - a reasonable enough request, and one Wriothesley could entertain with more confidence than an explanation of the Fortress’ architecture. He nods - “This way” - then turns on his heel to lead the way down the long corridor away from the elevator. Usually a handful of inmates mill about the area, maintaining the pipes, sweeping the floors, or simply standing around to talk, but today there must be work to be found elsewhere because the only unsuspecting witness to Furina’s visit is the woman behind the administrative desk. She glances up from her book as the Duke marches past, then a second time at the character flitting along behind him. Because /surely/ that’s an actress from the Fortress’ very own theatre troupe, and not—

“Yes, Lady Furina has decided to pay us a visit,” Wriothesley seems to read her mind. He stops at the end of her desk, one hand on his hip, and motions with his other to introduce the lady in question. The woman behind the desk startles up out of her chair, slamming her book shut to stand at attention.

”L-Lady Furina? It’s a pleasure—“

”She’s come to see our factory, so if you need me for anything, send word to the Production Zone.”

”Understood, Your Grace.” She bows and misses the smile the Duke gives her in return. Then she bows again to Furina. With a glance back, Wriothesley resumes the tour.

”With such an interest in meka, I’m surprised you’ve never joined Monsieur Neuvillette on any of his visits,” Wriothesley says over his shoulder, then slows a step to keep pace with his guest. She is not an inmate, he has to keep reminding himself despite her unforgettable and unmistakable presence, because he rarely entertains anyone of such importance, and so he has to make some conscious effort to give her the consideration she deserves. He adopts a more leisurely pace alongside her, which belies the vigilant sweep of his eyes across the room to catch furtive glances and hushed surprise. The other inmates would keep their distance for now, as long as the Duke remained her guard.

”Ah, but you asked about me, didn’t you?” he continues with a drawl. “The Fortress is just like any other factory. As its administrator, I make sure that all its parts are in order - the workers, the machinery, the supplies we get from the surface, and the production output. It just so happens that the workers are Fontaine’s criminals, and the factory is also where they live.”

　PARADE OF THE LADY ｡

[flanaganfilm]

Hey there!

I’m a new writer-director finishing up film school and I keep getting into little spats with some of my instructors over my characters talking too much/for too long.

My stock response at this point has basically become “Well, it works just fine when Mike Flanagan does it.”

I don’t know if it’s because I come from a theatre background or what, but I really don’t like the seemingly common wisdom that characters talking—actors orating—is boring for audiences. That you have to have Something Happening all the time, and that characters “just” conversing or telling a story doesn’t count, as though “to speak” isn’t a verb.

Since you tend to have characters speak at length and it turns out riveting—I’m thinking specifically of the confetti speech from Hill House and Hassan’s speech about being a Muslim cop in NYC from Midnight Mass—I was hoping you could share some of your thoughts on balancing action with conversation, giving actors room to “just” talk, and keeping lengthy oration engaging.

Thanks!

I also come from a theater background. I wouldn't be too hard on your instructors - in fact, they sound like they're pretty in sync with a lot of executives in the industry.

I received similar feedback when I was a film student. My first few student features were very talky. We were studying the breakthrough work of Kevin Smith, Spike Lee, and Jim Jarmusch. The indie movies that were selling at Sundance and hitting theaters were The Brothers McMullen and Chuck and Buck. Tarantino had hit the scene and his characters were dropping pages and pages and pages of thick, unhurried dialogue. Reservoir Dogs posters were hanging on every dorm room wall on campus, and that movie was essentially just a long conversation. We watched My Dinner With Andre in class. So yeah, most of our student films were emulating that.

I have always loved a monologue. Going back to Robert Shaw's hypnotic story in Jaws, to Harry Dean Stanton's jaw-dropping monologue in Paris, Texas. It's an art form. Giving actors room to speak, to find music in dialogue, to transport a viewer just with mere words... that's an incredible feat, I think. It's some of the oldest magic left.

That said, I've always tried to balance that out. It's a visual medium, after all, and whenever I've found myself leaning too hard on the words, I've tried to counterbalance that was a very ambitions visual sequence, a long unbroken camera maneuver, or something else that honors the difference between filmed entertainment and theatre.

One of the reasons I made Hush was to challenge myself to eliminate words from my arsenal and focus on visual storytelling.

I take a fair amount of flack for my monologues and dialogue, first from studio executives and then from a small percentage of viewers whose attention spans are being challenged. The most common note I get on any project is to take out talking. It can be disheartening, but I'm always trying to be fair about it, and to be sympathetic to the fact that a lot of movies and television have actively tried to shorten viewers' attention spans for decades now. Audiences are being trained for things to happen faster, louder, shorter. What good is your amazing 6-minute monologue if people changed the channel two episodes ago?

There are times when it is more important to me than others. I dug in hard on Midnight Mass, where the words and ideas in those soliloquies are a big part of the point of the show... but on The Midnight Club, I didn't push for it. I kept scenes relatively short, and there isn't a monologue to be found.

But my overarching feeling is that an artfully written and well performed monologue is a gift, and a dying art. It celebrates great acting, it requires great trust of the performer and of the viewer, and it has the power to transport us with one of the oldest magics human beings ever discovered - the spoken word.

Storytelling began that way: monologues around a campfire. Over the millennia, we've harnessed that campfire light, we've even learned to paint with it, to pull our dreams out of our minds and put them onto giant screens, so the whole world can dream together... but the real magic still starts with the words.

Which is my long-winded way of trying to encourage you to make your films the way you want to make them. Make the films you want to see. And if you love words... that's a great thing. Try to find a balance, never lose sight of the visual medium, and if you're going to drop a big chunk of words in there, try to earn it with something visually challenging as well.

Or, just tell your instructors you'll make it shorter, and then cut out ten frames of air. ;)

[fbfh]

rocks at your window pt 5 - ricky bowen x reader

disclaimer: this series contains smut and chapter by chapter warnings, so as with all nsfw works, ricky is aged up to 18 and he and reader are both 18 and in their senior year!!

additioanlly we're working towards a ricky x therapy plot, so as the series goes on he'll start expressing more symptoms of mental illness and bpd, and he gets worse before he gets better. also obviously i'm not a professional and this is for entertainment purposes only, I have done research but PLEASE take this with a grain of salt or several.

!! contains spoilers for season 1 of hsmtmts and previous chapters of this fic !!

wc: 7.8k

genre: slice of life, hurt/comfort, smut

pairing: ricky bowen x (afab she/her) reader

warnings: actually proof read thanks cici, anti nini/nini being a pick me, one sided angsty gina pining, reader has professional theatre experience, brief vague mention of your parents marriage falling apart, carlos is struggling, a few paragraphs of ricky spiraling about his mom/wondering if she ever loved them, ricky has some flashbacks about that, nini is a self centered bitch, nini writes sad songs about heartbreak in her little mitchie's song book, reader was in matilda annie and hairspray when she was younger (unspecified as to who), one good boy, a GRATUITUOUS amout of titties/nip play, partially clothed sex, cockwarming/cum plugging, subby boarderline puppy boy ricky, ricky's in subspace a little bit with you, cuddling as aftercare, ricky's mommy issues are so bad (sorry freud), slowburn red x ashlyn, nini is an unprofessional menace

summary: after a fun, only somewhat chaotic photoshoot, you're gearing up for the blocking of when there was me and you, until rehearsal grinds to a halt with the release of some troubling news. ricky finds solace in your arms once again, and is enamored with the way you always know how to solve whatever problems are thrown your way.

song recs: I can't handle change - roar, truth justice and songs in our key - hsmtmts cast, you're my world - atlas

a/n: I finished the second half of this in like a day because I was so anxious about a check up because I hate medical stuff but the chapter's done and it went well. I'm getting my wisdom teeth out next week so I'll probably be so busy distracting myself from that I knock out like 5 more chapters /hj

anyway this was supposed to be short and it's almost 10k cause I have no self control lol anyway ENJOY <333

tags: @yesv01 @afidiofobia @aliyahsutherland @hopefullhearts @pikzel @demirunner @matiere-detoiles @ifilwtmfc @uselesssapphickitten @nxstalgicnxbxdy @ggclarissa @n-slayaaaaa @stormi-ames

You exit the girls dressing room, running towards Seb, who just left the boys dressing room. 

"Oh my god!" You exclaim, floored by his costume. It's pink and sparkly, and fits perfectly - even the heels. It's everything he was imagining. 

"I know!" He replies, matching your energy perfectly. You’re so happy that Seb loves his costume. Miss Jenn even added in a subplot and solo about Ryan finding himself beyond being Sharpay’s brother. He’s absolutely killing this role, breathing new life into it, and you couldn’t be happier for him. He’s still a little nervous, so you and your friends are making sure to hype him up.

You hear it before you see him, a hush falls over the room as everyone on stage around you falls silent. Someone tries (and fails) to hold back a loud snicker while a few people gasp.

“Alright, let’s do this!” 

You turn around at the familiar sound of Ricky’s voice, and he’s happy he got your attention. He’s met with a myriad of reactions at the questionably styled wig, but he only cares about yours. He’s only looking for yours. He gives you a look, a little quirk of his eyebrow that silently asks what you think. You smile radiantly, overjoyed to see him in costume for the first time. You feel like a mother sending her kids off to the first day of school. You have the urge to get pictures before the day is over. 

Standing downstage of you, Nina stares at him with her mouth open in a dramatic gasp, eyes following him as you move closer to each other. 

“Oh… my… god. There is so much to talk about.” She says. She watches Ricky closely, waiting for some kind of reaction to her words, but his eyes are glued on you. She tries again, letting out another very loud laugh, “I literally can’t even.” 

“I think he looks great!” you say with a sincere bubbling smile. You reach up, adjusting the alignment of his wig, the way the hair falls. He’s sure it looks much better than it had when he’d tried to put it on by himself. You tug gently on his hoodie strings, making them even lengths. He watches you closely while you do. He loves the feeling of you fixing his hair and clothes, he wishes there were more things for you to fix. You smile up at him, and irritation prickles in Nina’s chest at how close you are to him. 

“You gotta get the hair flip down,” you say, jerking your head to the side in example. He follows your lead, copying the gesture, and you go back and forth like that for a minute, quoting Troy Bolton and making each other laugh. Your eyes widen as realization strikes. 

"Oh my god, I know what this reminds me of…" you gasp, pulling out your phone to search for something, “I’ll text it to you.”

"Okay…" Ricky chuckles, smiling in anticipation and watching you type. You glance up when you hear Carlos telling Seb how amazing he looks. You pause typing and walk a few feet closer to them. 

"I know, he looks fucking amazing!" You say with a radiant smile, and Carlos thoroughly agrees. 

Spotting an opening, Gina makes her way over to Ricky. 

"Wow," she says with a smile, really taking him in. "You look great, Ricky." Just as she’s working up the nerve to playfully nudge him on the arm, he smiles, motioning over to where you’re talking to Carlos and Seb.

“Yeah, she said the exact same thing,” he smiles, greeting you as you walk back over, “Gina agrees with you.”

“I know!” you smile, radiant, “Not a lot of people can pull off the whole 2007 Mitchel Musso look, but you’re really making it work.” 

His heart pounds when you talk like that. Your words, your praise, your attention give him a sort of high he’s never felt from anyone else before. He craves it, and he always craves it more than he expects to.

“You think so?” he asks. Part of him knows he’s fishing for your attention, but the sweet look you give him, so excited to see him in costume for the first time makes it worth it. 

“Yes!” you exclaim, vibrancy rubbing off on him, “You look fantastic, Ricky.” 

His heart pounds loud in his chest, cheeks flushing at your words. Behind you, Gina’s stomach sinks. Old feelings of discouragement get more and more stirred up inside her the longer she stands there, watching the way he looks at you. It’s almost too much to bear by the time she cuts her losses, making up an excuse about getting something from her bag that she’s not sure either of you hear. 

Nina watches this, her gaze flicking between you and Gina. A gross feeling coats her stomach. She expected to stay friends with Ricky, expected to still be close to him. More importantly she didn’t expect so many girls to just throw themselves at him. It’s disrespectful. It’s disrespectful to how long they were together. She and Ricky have been friends since kindergarten, they have history. They’ve known each other forever, and… it’s just funny, she thinks, that you and Gina think you can just swoop in and replace her like that. Before she can fester in this feeling much longer, Big Red has everyone line up. 

“Okay, Chad,” he calls, pointing stage left, “Taylor, Troy, Gabriella, Sharpay, Ryan… good.” 

Everyone gets lined up and spaced out correctly, as Red lines up the shot. 

“Jump on the count of three.” he states, and begins to count down. The sound of everyone’s feet hitting the floor at very different times echoes through the auditorium. Red squints at the result on camera, which is nothing short of a complete mess. 

“Wait, what happened?” he mutters. 

“Where to begin.” 

“Where do I start…”

You and Ricky say at the same time. You lean forward a little to share a look, a silent conversation exchange you both understand, both of you leaning past Nina to do so. She looks between you for that split second, then Ricky gets right back in line without even looking at her. 

“I think you went early,” Seb says to you.

“Wait,” Gina interjects, “are we jumping on three or after three?”

“Yeah, the count of three. Ready?” Red replies, doing nothing to clear up the confusion. 

“Red,” you say, and he looks up at you. Ricky watches you with a little smile, knowing you’ll no doubt know exactly what to do to get things back on track. “Are we jumping on the third or fourth beat?”

“Third,” he says, like it should be obvious, “on the count of three.” You nod, and turn to the others. “It’s one two jump.” you clarify, hopping as you do so to demonstrate. Your hair bounces and your skirt flounces and your heels make a little clicky noise as you land, and Ricky thinks it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. He’s ready to try again, now fully confident the photos will turn out perfect thanks to you. Next to you, Seb lets out a puff of air. 

“I think I broke a heel…” he says, and you turn to take a look. Something itches at the corner of your mind, then it clicks. 

“Hold on, I saw some glue back here somewhere…” Red flashes you a thumbs up as you run into the wings, searching for the bottle of gorilla glue you remember seeing earlier. After digging around in the stage right wing for a minute, you see it on a shelf, next to what looks like a bucket of old paint. You stretch up as far as you can, but even in these heels, you can’t reach it. Before you look around to see if there’s something you can knock it down with, you turn back to the stage. 

“Ricky?” you call. He looks over at the sound of your voice like a puppy, scurrying over to you without a second thought. 

“Yeah?” he smiles. You point up to where the glue is.

“I found it up there, but I can’t…” 

“Oh, I got it.” he smiles, touching your arm. He reaches up and hands you the mostly full bottle. You thank him, squeezing his arm appreciatively.

“Thank god you’re tall,” you chuckle. His chest puffs up at your words, a soft heat creeping up to his cheeks. He watches you as you and Kourtney fix Seb’s shoe, how cute you look when you’re focused. 

“There,” you state, “as long as the glue holds…” Seb puts his heel back on, and does a few test jumps. The glue seems to hold, and Kourtney sends you back in line, adjusting one last part of Seb’s costume. You type something into your phone, texting it to Ricky as you head back to the front of the stage. Ricky catches the last half of what Carlos is saying. He’s clearly frustrated at the lack of productivity.

“...You leave the earth, you land.” 

“We just need to get back on the same page,” you say. Ricky pulls out his phone at the familiar sound of your ringtone he set. You must have sent him the thing you remembered. As he passes by, Nina sees your name at the top of his phone, framed by hearts. His screen is full of texts between you, but the last text Nina sent him got left on read? Ricky never leaves her on read. She scoffs at how oblivious he is to your blatant attempts to steal his attention from her.  

“Uh,” she says loudly, a performative smile on her face as she holds back a laugh when he gets closer to her, “I can’t look at Ricky, is that a problem?” 

He doesn’t look up, instead he looks at the text you sent him. It’s an image accompanied by the caption ‘you today’, and when it finally loads, he recognizes it instantly as a gif from the Elijah Wood ‘will you wear wigs’ interview. It catches him by surprise, and a loud screaming laugh tears from his throat. It’s so sudden, so sincere it brings a laugh out of you too. Everyone else either starts laughing with you, or looks completely shocked. 

He slaps a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle the noise without much success. A smug satisfaction settles over Nina before Ricky starts to type something into his phone. He starts laughing again, tucking his phone back in his pocket, and when he shares a look with you she realizes it wasn’t her that made him laugh like that. It doesn’t sit well with her. You’re biting your lip, trying in vain not to laugh too loudly or obviously while everyone stares at the two of you, small chuckles echoing through the room. 

“Okay.” Carlos says curtly, very clearly done with this bullshit, “Let’s take five.” 

“Thank you, five.” you say automatically, and Ricky puts his hand on your back as you start to walk offstage to get some water. 

“On five or after five?” he mutters, basking in the laugh you let slip out. Behind you, Nina lets out a shrill laugh at the comment, clapping her hands together in a way she’s sure will get Ricky’s attention. Her smile grows stale and evaporates as you sit next to each other without looking back once. 

“So, why are you supposed to say thank you five?” Ricky asks as you take a sip from your water bottle, today filled with lemon and cucumber slices. 

“It’s a call and response so the crew knows you got their instructions.” you say. He nods, and you continue, “You usually say it after a break is announced, when places are called, when they tell you how long until curtain, that kind of thing.” you conclude. Your knowledge about theatre never fails to amaze him. Hearing you talk about it makes him want to learn even more. 

“When I was in Annie it seemed like something technical was always going wrong, so the call times were all over the place. It was a hot mess, but it was still so fun.” You reminisce with a smile. That’s not the first show you mentioned you’ve been in, Ricky recalls. He can tell you have… probably the most experience of anyone here, but he doesn’t think he’s ever asked how many shows you’ve been in. He would have remembered if you told him. 

“How many shows have you been in?” he asks, watching your expression carefully.

“Uh…” you look over to where your castmates sit scattered about, then back to Ricky. You give him that look that means you have something to tell him when it’s just the two of you. “A lot. It’s a long story, though, I’ll tell you later.” You finish in a hushed voice. He loves when you talk to him like that, he loves the closeness between you in these moments. 

You know you should probably mention you used to do professional theatre in New York before you moved here, but you always hesitate to bring it up. The last thing you want to do is sound like one of those theatre kids. Besides, you haven’t been in the professional circuit since middle school. You stopped in between shows a few years back when your parents' marriage got really bad and your dad left, and you couldn’t exactly perform while moving across the country, but you’re so deeply glad to be back in theatre now that you’re settled in. 

Your mom was also worried about how much pressure was on you, being in a professional environment so young. She promised you that after you graduate, once you’re older, she’ll drive you all the way back to New York herself if you still want to do theatre professionally by then. You couldn’t argue with her, it was a lot to deal with that young, and your shitty dad didn’t make it much easier. She’s been able to watch the joy return, see your face light up when you tell her about how rehearsal is going, the progress you and the cast and crew are making, and you can’t deny she made the right call. 

You think it’s good for you to act just because you love it for a while. You want the full suburban high school theatre experience, so if that means keeping a low profile and not being one of those douchebags who always brags about “doing professional shows” then you’re happy to keep that under wraps, but as you watch Ricky’s face while he rambles to you about how much more fun it is to be in costume than he expected, you feel like you can tell him. He knows you well enough to know your intentions, know that you’re not bragging about it. 

At their next rehearsal, Red is relieved at how relieved Ricky seems. 

“It worked! I just… I really made sure she knows how much I like her, and…” Ricky laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Thank you, for the advice, bro.” he lets out another bubbling chuckle, his mind clearly somewhere else. Red squints, wondering if it means what he thinks it means. 

“Did you guys…” he starts slowly, not even needing to finish the sentence. The flustered look on Ricky’s face is the only answer he needs. 

“Uh…” he says through yet another flustered laugh, the feeling of your mouth around him, the way you taste still fresh in his mind. He locks eyes with you from across the room, and feels his pulse speed up. “Yeah. I’ll fill you in later.” 

Red playfully punches Ricky’s arm.

“I’m glad it went well! Cause I care about you, but also because I live vicariously through you.” They both laugh.

“Believe me, there’s plenty to catch you up on.” Ricky says, a wistful smile on his face, watching you talk to Natalie. 

“Maybe we should get started. Or at least start warming up.” you say. Everyone’s wondering why Miss Jenn and Carlos aren’t there yet. You can sense her hesitance. It's not surprising, this show is new territory for almost everyone. 

"You're the stage manager, you're third in command when Miss Jenn and Carlos aren't here. Why don’t you and Seb get everyone warming up, that way when they get here we can jump right in.” you offer, and she nods, gaining a little confidence. 

“Yeah, you’re right.” she says, walking over to Seb, who’s sitting at the piano. You’re sure the only thing Miss Jenn and Carlos would hate more than starting rehearsal late is wasting time, especially with how tight of a schedule you’re on. Natalie and Seb are discussing said warmups when Carlos enters in a hurry, clearly frazzled, announcing that Miss Jenn won’t be here. One look past his chipper facade and you know whatever’s going on his bad.  

“Miss Jenn had a… small personal matter to attend to, and won’t be here today.” in spite of the confidence he’s trying to project, you can see right through it. You’re sure the others can too. 

“Is everything alright?” Nina asks, only now noticing that Carlos seems off. He laughs a forced casual laugh. 

“Everything is fine.” he says, trying to convince himself, and you know that this is really bad. The next few minutes are spent arranging the blocking for when there was me and you. He introduces it as a forest of boys, and you think it could work really well if you execute it right. Instead of a giant poster of the basketball team to sing to, something in a tableau style will translate much better to the stage. It’s dynamic and expressive, while still making the same point, keeping the integrity of the message made in the movie. It’s also vaguely reminiscent of when Meg sings to the statues and the muses in Hercules, which adds to the whole Disney magic feeling. Overall you think it’s a great plan.

You’re about to express this, when you hear an all too familiar voice pipe up.

“Uh, Troy just broke Gabriella’s heart,” you resist the urge to roll your eyes, having a feeling you know where this is going, and Nina continues, "why would she want to see four more versions of him?"

You're somehow still shocked that she not only can't recognize that her character would handle a breakup differently than she would, but now she's trying to change a fundamental point in the show for no reason. Ashlyn, Kourtney, and even Natalie jump in and agree with her. This isn't the first time Nini has used her character as a thin veil to talk shit, and you're amazed at how bad she is at treating Gabriella like a character she's playing. For someone who wanted the lead so badly, she doesn't seem to care too much about it now. In all your years of acting, you don't think you've ever seen someone so unable to create a distinction between what they would do and what their character would do, and it’s very fucking weird. 

Before she gets literally everyone else to agree with her, you jump in. 

"Actually, I love this, Carlos. I think it’s really dynamic and effective without taking away from the song. Also," you turn to Nina, "it was 2006, so girlbossing your way through heartbreak wasn't really a thing. Plus, you're right; she did get her heart broken, she should be allowed to be sad about it." 

"Yeah," Ricky agrees, looking over at you when you speak, "totally dynamic." He loves the way you talk about theatre, how brilliantly you analyze details or staging and character interpretations. He wishes he could hear you talk more about it, and makes a mental note to pick your brain later. 

Nina looks at you, mouth agape, as Carlos gestures to you. Another perfect example of Ricky following you around like a lost puppy. 

"Thank you, Sharpay, exactly." Carlos states as Nina scoffs, shocked at your response. He lets out a small sigh, grateful for the backup. "Gabriella is heartbroken, she can't stop thinking about Troy, about the guy she thought he was."

Ricky walks back over to his seat to set down his script. He leans down close to you before he does, wanting your opinion before he shares the idea he got. 

"Maybe she could do, like, an acoustic guitar version. You know, strip it down." His voice is quiet, meant only for the two of you. You smile at him with such warmth before your gaze flickers to Nina. You hum, considering. 

"I think you're the only one who could pull off an acoustic guitar ballad in the middle of such a… high energy show." A small, knowing laugh is shared between you, and as every kind word from your mouth does, your message comes across loud and clear, bringing a warmth to his cheeks and a puff to his chest. A rush of good happy chemicals hits his brain. As he heads back to his box, he ruminates on the sentiment. Not only do you think he could totally pull it off, you think he’s the only one who could. He fights a smile, trying to pay attention to the suggestions everyone starts giving Carlos. 

“Or,” Kourtney jumps in, “she could be surrounded by a forest of supportive sisters.” she shares a look with Nina, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. You hope it’s not only obvious to you that no one’s even really talking about the show anymore. A few other girls agree, and you can tell Carlos is losing patience. You walk across the room to check on him when he snaps.

“Okay, guys, this is not a democracy!” he yells, hands falling to his side before one rests on his hip, the other pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Are you okay?” you ask, sincere and quiet, but not cloying, with a situationally appropriate level of concern on your face. 

“Look, it’s not that deep,” Nina says, and you’re glad she’s finally backpedaling - or at least trying to - even though it took her this fucking long to realize she should. “We can just wait till Miss Jenn comes back and-” 

“Well, she’s not here, and I don’t know if she’s ever coming back!” Carlos spits, relieved to finally get the distressing information off his chest. 

Ricky’s stomach sinks, and he’s met once again with that disgusting cold feeling frying his nerves. It’s been a while since he had felt it this strong, this fresh. There were bad moments, sure. Like when he caught the family portrait of the three of them in the laundry room. He felt so sick looking at his mom’s smile. It seemed so genuine, and he hasn’t been able to stop questioning its integrity since. He’s spent every spare moment he’s not thinking about you or the show reanalyzing every conversation, every interaction, every passive aggressive remark and dish towel thrown too hard against the counter top, trying desperately to figure out if hers was the face of a housewife slowly losing her sense of self, unsupported, taken for granted and growing resentful, finally pushed to the edge.

Or did she never love them to begin with? Was everything out of obligation? Did she make him tea when he was sick or stressed or sad because she wanted to or because she had to? Maybe she loved them at some point, when he was too little to remember it clearly, or even know what he was supposed to be looking for. Old memories flood back, and he finds himself scouring them for a time when her tea might have started tasting different. Maybe that’s when she stopped loving him. Loving them. 

He’s dragged into the undertow without warning, breath knocked out of his lungs by the force of it all, by the spike of anxiety that shoots up and stays there at the thought of Miss Jenn leaving. 

“Wait, what?” he manages to choke out after that split second of spiraling, his stomach churning. Your hand finds and grabs on tight to his before he even speaks. You’re next to him in an instant, and he latches onto you, for once feeling like he has a buoy in this relentless sudden storm he always seems to get dragged into. Right when he thinks it’s going to be okay, right when he starts to get a handle on everything, he’s knocked off his feet.

You hold his hand with both of yours as he steps off his box, tighter and warmer and more reassuring than anything, and you rub your thumb against his skin while Carlos begins to tell you guys everything that’s going on. You listen with rapt attention, while keeping a close eye on Ricky. Everything is deteriorating so fast, and soon Nina grabs her backpack, storming to the exit and claiming she ‘needs a minute’. Kourtney follows her, then everyone else, and you feel Ricky’s hand shake in yours. His breaths get quicker as he watches everyone around him, his castmates, his friends, leave without a second thought. 

“Rehearsals are officially canceled until further notice!” Carlos calls out, before leaving, defeated and fighting tears.

You continue to brush your hand over Ricky’s. The gesture is comforting. 

“Well,” Gina says, grabbing her bag, “that fell apart fast.” 

“Nothing fell apart.” you and Ricky say at the same time, yours sure and deliberate, his desperate to be true. Gina lets out a singular breathy laugh, unable to ignore how in sync the both of you are. 

“Everything’s going to be okay. We’ll work this out.” you state, and Ricky latches onto your words, how assured you seem, throwing himself and all the belief within him that you’re right. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, “it’s all going to be okay.” 

Gina’s stomach twists at the way he repeats your words. 

“Do you know something I don’t?” she asks Ricky. You send her a look, clearly asking what the fuck. Before you can call her out, Ricky jumps in. 

“She’s Miss Jenn. She’s unstoppable. The whole show’s unstoppable.” 

“But, what if-” she ignores your glares, demanding she knock it off. “What if it does stop?”

Ricky squeezes your hand tighter. 

“Gina-” you say, a warning tone to your voice.

“Let’s not go there…” he says, a begging tone to his voice. 

“Yeah,” you agree, “let’s not.” You turn back to Ricky, your free hand resting on his arm, rubbing gently. He wants to cry - both at the situation you’re both struggling to deal with, and the catharsis, the comfort he feels when you touch him like this. 

“The show must go on.” You say firmly, “There’s no chance something as trivial as a mistake on Miss Jenn’s resume is enough to do any actual harm to the show.” there’s a light chuckle to your voice, one that he mirrors.

“Yeah,” he agrees, needing you to continue, which you do.

“When I was in Matilda when I was younger, the entire basement full of props got flooded the week of opening night.”

His eyes widen in concern, and you continue. 

“Everything was soggy, and completely covered in mildew by the time we got back to the theater. You know what we did?” you ask Ricky rhetorically, who’s looking at you so intensely, hanging on your every word. “We paired down. We went for an abstract, minimalistic set design. Even threw in some shadow play for effect until the props and sets were all fixed.”

“Really?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you state, “and the critics loved it. They were raving about how genius it was, a brilliant way to showcase Matilda’s imagination and view of the world around her.” you say, quoting one of the more memorable reviews. 

“So,” you say with a new lightheartedness to your voice brought on by the anecdote, “the point is, everything will be fine.” your sincerity is palpable, and you watch as he lets out a small, shallow breath. Gina doesn’t miss the way he relaxes when you put your hand back on his shoulder, the way he mirrors your expressions and body language and words without even realizing. He’s beginning to calm down from the worst possible news they could have gotten just because he’s with you. 

“Y’know what?” she says, swallowing the lump in her throat, “I’m gonna head out, so…” she points toward the door. Ricky glances up, then back at you.

“Get home safe.” you say with a polite wave before continuing to reassure him. You talk a little more, and you’re relieved that you can see he’s starting to feel better. The distraction is helping him, you realize, as you stroll around the empty theater hand in hand. “Why don’t you show me that guitar version of when there was me and you?” He laughs nervously.

“I don’t know…” he mutters. A hint of concern flashes over your face. If he doesn’t even want to play guitar, it must be really bad.

“C’mon, pretty please?” you say, causing butterflies to swirl in his chest, “I want to hear it stripped down, and you’re so good at guitar…” 

He lets out a flustered laugh, butterflies fluttering in his chest as he accepts the guitar you hand him, taking a seat. You watch him attentively as he begins playing the first chords, humming along.

In the hallway, a few feet away from the door, Nina sighs. 

She can’t bring herself to walk away, not this time, not when she knows he’s probably wallowing,  waiting for her. Letting out a loud, dramatic sigh, she decides to be the bigger person. She turns and walks back to the rehearsal room, hovering in the doorway when she hears familiar strumming. She watches Ricky, his back to her while he plays. She starts to enter the room, pausing when she sees that he’s singing to someone. Not just anyone, but you. You’re looking at him fondly, chin resting in your hand. She doesn’t have time to roll her eyes before you start singing along, noting how his voice stops shaking when yours mingles with his. 

She’s having the worst day ever, EJ keeps texting her, and there’s Ricky, serenading you. She can’t even talk to him alone for five minutes without you hovering. She feels sick. She hates this, hates the way you ogle at him. She should be the one in there, the one duetting with him.. She’s known him since kindergarten for god’s sake, she has the right to comfort him. Tears welling up in her eyes, she storms off, pulling her song book from her backpack to pour everything into its pages. She’s ready to fill it with songs of betrayal and heartbreak. 

After some more singing, wandering around, and examining old props from former shows, you and Ricky find yourselves on a stiff couch that’s been hidden in the back of the prop room for ages. Just being around props, costumes, old playbills and other paraphernalia makes Ricky feel better. There’s a restorative quality in theaters he never knew about until now. It’s like he can pretend that nothing is different than it was yesterday, like everything is still the same. 

“Can… can we just stay here for a while?” he asks, hugging a basketball and leaning into you. 

“Yeah,” you say softly, “‘course. As long as you want.” you press a kiss to the top of his head, and you both settle deeper into the couch, rough woven texture rubbing against your arms. He rests his head on your shoulder while you play with his hair, telling him more stories from your time in Matilda. Most notably how nice the person who played Miss Trunchbull was, and how tangled everyone’s hair was from being teased and styled so much. It smelled more like hairspray than when you were actually in Hairspray. 

You trace shapes on his back while you talk. His breath is warm on your neck, and he can smell your perfume, the same peachy perfume you wore to homecoming. He’s flooded with memories of how beautiful you were that night, how you touched him, how you tasted. He lets out a soft sigh at the memory. He’s craving more than holding you, he needs to be closer, needs more. He needs to be inside you. He gives a fleeting thought to your location; it’s late, and he’s sure no one will come sniffing around the prop room in the guts of the theatre department. It’s enough justification for him, and he indulges his desires, beginning to press kisses to your face and neck. He grabs at your waist, drawing an anticipatory giggle. The noise soothes him, and he wants more. 

“I-” he tries not to let his voice waver, but you know him so well by now it’s impossible to hide, “...just need you close. Need you with me.” he sighs into your skin, desperate for your smell, your touch, you you you. You rub his back, your touch so cathartic it makes him want to cry.

“I’m not going anywhere, Ricky.” you state gently, and he latches onto your words, wanting desperately to believe them. You pull him in to kiss you more, and he shoves his tongue past your lips, sighing into your mouth at how much better he already feels from that alone. He was right, he really does just need to be inside you, be as close to you as possible. 

He climbs on top of you as you lace your hands through his hair, embracing the taste of your tongue against his. He lets out a shuddering sigh as you place your soft thigh between his, and he grinds against you, unable to stop his hips from rutting into you. He whines at how good it feels, how much better you make him feel. He tugs at the waistband of your pants, and you smile a little at how eager he is for you. You reach into a pocket deep in your bag, zipped up tight, to grab a condom while he makes quick work of shimmying both your pants down.

“Will- will you put it on for me?” he whines quietly into your neck, and you nod, humming and running your hand through his hair in response. 

He’s already moaning and you’ve barely started to put it on. He’s so needy, so desperate for you that it brings a smile to your face. You can’t deny how cute you find it. He pushes into you, trying not to go too fast, and the air is knocked from both your lungs as he works his way deeper into your wet, welcoming cunt. He fucks you needy and desperate, whining cutely like a little puppy as he humps into you. He grinds his pelvis against your clit, needing to be closer to you, and the noises you let out are like a warm shower after a long day.

“F-fuck, Ricky, just like that… good boy…” 

He speeds up, whining and panting into your mouth as you praise him, and he feels little tears begin to prick at the corners of his eyes. Both for how fucking bad today has been, and how fucking good you make him feel. Your touch, your words, the way you call him a good boy and reassure him as he tries to pull you closer to him even though you’re already as close as you can possibly get, it’s all so addictive. You’re so wet; tighter and warmer and more reassuring around him than anything. You feel so soothing, like aloe on a sunburn, and he wants more and more and more of it. 

The head of his cock keeps rubbing against that spongy part inside you, drawing out more gasps and moans, more noises that make his heart pound. He can’t get enough. He’s grabbing at your clothes and clinging to you, begging, whining your name over and over like a prayer. He feels you tighten up around him, feels the way your legs shake, and it sends him over the edge. He had been sucking a hickey into your chest, but now his teeth and tongue graze your skin as he moans, rutting deeper and deeper into you as he spills all of himself into your welcoming embrace. 

A few moments when he would normally pull out and get up, instead he buries his face in your neck. “Can we… just stay here for a minute?” 

There’s still a fragile quality to his voice, and you begin running your fingers through his hair again, before pressing a kiss to his temple. 

“Sure,” you say, nodding. You play with his hair as he sucks on your tits, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. He runs his tongue over the soft flesh, reveling in the taste, the way your walls flutter around him when he plays and sucks on your hardened bud. He finds comfort in the gesture, the way you taste. You stay like that for a little while, and Ricky feels his brain go fuzzy with how good you feel and taste, how sweet you are to him. If he could live between your legs - and with his face in your tits - he would in a heartbeat. 

Your phone buzzes, pulling you slightly out of the warm little bubble you’ve created. It’s Ashlyn. You know she’s upset, she has to be after today. Ricky freezes, looking up at you to see what you do. You bring your finger to your lips, gesturing for him to stay quiet, then place your hand on the back of his head, bringing him back down to your soft chest. 

You pick up the phone, chatting with Ashlyn, listening as she vents and worries to you, gently scratching Ricky’s back the whole time. You have such a casual, nurturing energy, and being squished between your tits, still deep inside you while you idly chat on the phone makes Ricky’s head spin. He can’t get enough of you, can’t stop thinking about how good you treat him, how nice your attention feels. When he wants a little more, he’ll grind his hips against your twitching clit, just to feel the way you throb and squeeze around him, to hear the little hitch in your breath that you try to conceal. 

You send him a warning look, but you can’t keep a straight face, not when he’s looking at you like that. 

“Hey, what if we did a song?” you ask into the phone, Ashlyn silent on the other end as she listens, “Like, what if we did a huge, original, show stopping number, and, like… a flashmob at the meeting tomorrow. You know, show them what we can do when she’s the one directing us.” 

“I… love that. Oh my god, I’m dead. Yes.” she states, and you smile. “I- god, I’m already getting ideas. Uh… okay, can you meet me at Big Red’s?” she spitballs, excited to work on this.

“Yeah,” you say, gaze flickering back down at Ricky, “we’ll be over in a few, text everyone else - we’ll need as much backup as we can get.” you chuckle. 

“Oh,” she says, a knowing tone to her voice, “is… Ricky with you?” Dammit. Now you have to play this off.

“Uh, yeah, we were just-” you trail off, fighting a giggle as he grinds against you. He chuckles into your tits, feeling them jiggle around his mouth.

“We were just hanging around the theater,” you finish, “he didn’t want to leave yet.” 

“Yeah,” she says, thinking about earlier, regretting leaving so soon, “tell me about it. Anyway, get here as soon as you can so we can work on this.” 

She hears a light, flustered giggle distantly through the speaker, and knows it’s him making you laugh. She could let it slide, but calling you out is too tempting.

“...Hi, Ricky.” she says. It’s silent for a minute. 

“Hi, Ashlyn.” his voice is sheepish, and she hears you both giggle. She’s glad you know she knows you’ve been hanging out together, flirting too, no doubt. You hang up shortly after, then begin the process of finally detangling yourselves from each other, and cleaning up enough to look presentable. Ricky’s chest squeezes when you adjust his hoodie strings and fix his hair. He returns the caring gesture by helping you to his car, your legs still wobbly. 

By the time you get to Red’s, Ashlyn already has some lyrics she’s working on, and part of a chorus. Red looks at Ricky, nodding toward you. Ricky looks at him pointedly, gaze flicking to Ashlyn, noting the flustered look on Red’s face. Red gives him a look that screams HAHAHA WHAT? NO! Why is it obvious?? Ricky makes a mental note to grill him on it later. 

They watch you and Ashlyn work together, brainstorming lyrics and choreo as everyone else arrives, and Ricky is thrilled to see you in your natural habitat like this. By the time everyone else is there, you, Ashlyn, and Carlos have made great progress, with everyone else helping to bounce around ideas and iron out details. 

“You know,” Nina starts, a performative tone of wisdom to her voice, “I think we should go for a power ballad.” 

“Uh…” you look over at Ashlyn, who you can tell is feeling defensive over the work you’ve already done. You look at Carlos, who doesn’t seem to want to do a power ballad either. You choose your words carefully.

“I totally see where you’re coming from, a power ballad would be really impactful, but I think in this case we need to go for something with more wow factor.”

“A power ballad has wow factor!” she says. Even she realizes how flimsy that sounds. She lets out a contemptuous sigh, “But a power ballad would show how much she means to us.” she’s clearly trying to tug on the heartstrings, and it’s not working on you. You check the clock. You don’t have time to debate with her. 

“Realistically,” you start, a decisive tone to your voice, “I don’t think we have time to rework all this into a power ballad. I think we should stick with the direction we’re going in, and commit-”

“Oh, so you want to play it safe?” she asks, seeming like she caught you in something, “I thought music… was about taking risks.” 

You hold back the biggest sigh of your life, when Ricky jumps in behind you. 

“I think we should listen to her.” 

Nina starts to thank him, the sees that he’s pointing to you. The words dry up in her throat.

“She is like,” he continues, “the most talented person I’ve ever seen. She really knows what she’s talking about, guys.”

Everyone seems to agree, except for Nina. You can feel the pissy aura radiating off her already. You send him a grateful look, then turn back to her, trying to be professional.

“A power ballad is still a great idea-” 

“No, no.” she says, passive aggressive and dismissive, “you go ahead. I’ll just be quiet.” everything about her is making your irritation spike, but you know you don’t have time to babysit her or her feelings. If she thinks she can make you feel bad for that, then she’s wrong. 

“Okay, as long as you’re sure.” You state, before getting back into it with Ashlyn. 

As soon as you finish holding out the final note, you’re met with cheers that turn into roaring applause. Your mom and Ricky’s dad both advocated for Miss Jenn, tipping the scales for Principal Gutierrez to agree, letting her keep her job. Ricky finds you immediately, picking you up and spinning you around. He holds you so tight, and you both giggle, elated. You can’t believe it really worked. When he pulls away you can see it on him, the electric energy, the rush of a good performance. He doesn’t even need to say anything because you’re feeling the same thing, and the silent understanding is shared between you.

“This will be nothing compared to opening night.” you say, your smile infectious, and he can’t wait. Like, he genuinely can’t wait for opening night. He’s never been more motivated for anything than he has for this, performing alongside you again. He’s gotten a taste, and he wants more. 

Nina hugs Seb. When she pulls away, she sees you and ricky talking animatedly - and very close together. She deflates at the sight before her. You’re holding each other and laughing, absolutely beaming at each other. A knot forms in her stomach. 

“What are they even talking about?” she scoffs. 

“Probably some cute story about when the basement flooded when she was in Matilda.” Gina mutters. Nina hadn’t noticed she was there, but something about that rings a bell she can’t place. It’s scratching around in the back of her mind, and she wonders why that sounds familiar. 

Across the room, Ricky catches his dad and Miss Jenn talking real close together too. You follow his gaze, eyes widening. You see how his brow furrows, and think now would be a good time for a distraction. 

“You know,” you start, drawing his attention back to you, “if you want to this weekend, I can show you some of the shows I’ve been in.” you offer. 

“Are you kidding?” He asks with a chuckle, his whole face lighting up, “Yes! Yeah, absolutely!” You smile, your expression mirroring his.

“After we catch up on our sleep, though,” you say, exhaustion setting in from both the all nighter and the high energy performance you just pulled off. You rub your eyes, bleary. “Cause I am about to crash, dude.”

“Same,” he laughs, and it quickly turns into a yawn. You both giggle, making your way to Ricky’s dad’s car so he can drop you off before you take Ricky home. Your mom has a meeting starting ten minutes ago, so she had to rush over to city hall right after you got the good news, and Mike offered to give you a ride. He drops you off, watching the way you and Ricky talk. You’re still having a good time together even when you’re this tired. It’s a positive sign, he thinks. Soon they’re turning into their driveway, and he knows he has minutes before Ricky’s out like a light. 

“She seems nice,” he starts, expecting Ricky to brush it off or act all embarrassed, demand you’re just hanging out, or whatever the kids are calling it now. Instead, he’s met with a wistful sigh.

“Yeah… she is.” he says with an exhausted, sincere smile. The openness of his answer surprises Mike. “She’s… the best.” 

Ricky’s inside and falling into bed before Mike can ask any follow up questions, but he intends to a little later. He doesn’t know if it’s because of Jenn, or the show, or you, but he’s so glad to see Ricky smile like that again.

[broadwayandnetflix]

i have a request for bo burnham!!:) maybe like the reader and bo watch the special when he gets done editing it and doing all the other stuff he has to do for it, and he records her reaction to the whole thing and that’s how he announces the special?? i know that’s weird but it’s been stuck in my head, so you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to!

Test Run - Bo Burnham x Reader

Warnings: Language

Theme: FLUFF (angst if you like squint)

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: y’all I wrote this so fast, like kachow. I hope you enjoyed it, and got a break from all of the angst. but angst is still good. but this fic is not me fangirling over inside. never, couldn’t be me. I hope you enjoyed the fic though @bos-a-feminist I had sm fun writing it.

It had been late one evening when Bo had practically burst into the door of your bedroom. You sat puzzled as you gave the man time to catch his breath, as he gave you an eager look.

Trying not to giggle as Bruce yipped at Bo’s feet in pure excitement, it seemed he too was trying to figure out what was going on.

“What? Are we finally gonna have sex again?” you say humorously, causing the man to break composure for just a second.

“No! I mean what the fuck? Yes, yes, and to answer your question, yes. But not right now.”

You giggle as he looks at you with an expression you couldn’t fully decipher. In any constellation, it had been months since you had seen the man this energetic.

Usually, when Bo would come back from his long days in the guest house, he’d tend to be exhausted. Often just giving you a quick kiss before collapsing onto the mattress.

His blue eyes softening towards you as he extends his hand for you to take. Which made you realize that there was an ounce of seriousness in his actions.

Your hands fitting perfectly in his as he pulls you up from the bed, one hand making sure to hold the small of your back.

“Where are we going?” you breathe out.

Bo remained silent, but you found out soon enough as he led you outside to the guest house.

You had stopped dead in your tracks, causing him to do the same. Eyes widening as you realized what was gonna happen, turning to Bo and giving him the biggest grin you could muster.

From the minute he had set foot in the guest house to begin his special, he had been very secretive about it. Something about how it helped him to create something that no one really knew about.

I mean, you had some idea when the UPS trucks kept delivering camera equipment. Or when he had asked if he could take some of your clothes. Other than that, though, top secret.

It had been about roughly a little over a year when he had started the special. A year of emotions and hard work, and by the looks of it.

It seemed as though he had finished.

“Wait are you doing what I think you are doing?” you say, looking at him expectedly.

“Shit babe you catch on quick. Yes, if we are on the same mindset. I think we are, now hush, or I’ll never get to show you it.” Bo instructs before leading you inside.

In all honesty, you didn’t know what to expect. The last time you had seen the guest house had been roughly two years ago. Now? It looked completely different.

Wires and different camera equipment lay waste on the floor, making it almost a hazard. Other lights of various types and sizes filled the room like mini metal trees. It looked disorganized and yet organized at the same time.

Yet Bo walked through the maze of equipment with ease, almost as if it wasn’t even there. You smiled before tiptoeing to the clearing that Bo had made for you.

“Yeah apologies, I wasn’t expecting company.” Bo smirks as you break into laughter.

“It looks…well it looks well used.” you reply, getting comfortable on the chair he had provided.

In front of you sat a projection on the wall of what seemed to be an editing software. You looked back at Bo with an eager grin; he gives you a slight wink.

Anticipation settling in the air as you watched him mess around with the monitor. Until his cursor finally presses on a folder and a video screen pulls up.

You half expected him to sit beside you. Still, instead, he remains behind the computer, amongst his sea of technological instruments and cameras.

“Y/N, I’m showing this to you. Simply because you deserve to see why I’ve been so busy for like a year or more. Plus, you mean the world to me and I wanna know your input.”

Bo says softly. You can detect a hint of nerves in his actions and tone; you practically melt, realizing that was he anxious. Regardless you knew without a shadow of a doubt you were gonna love whatever he puts out.

You open your mouth to reply before he presses play, and an eerie ringing fills the room. Music filling your senses as the special, titled Inside, plays before you.

The next hour or two fills you with a multitude of emotions that you can’t quite place. It seemed like Bo was making you laugh seconds ago, and now you can’t help but feel tears well up in your eyes.

Cinematically it was stunning, breathtaking even. It was hard to believe that Bo had turned the little guest house into a studio. Or at least to the extent that it became, with its gorgeous displays and production.

Performance-wise, it was a completely different ballpark. Bo fucking delivered in more ways than one, whether in humor or just pure raw emotion.

Acting or not, it broke your heart to see the man you loved so dearly in the state that he was in. Of course, you could tell something was up even then when he was filming, but he never gave away the extent of it.

Just hearing him cry made your stomach twist in knots; you wanted to comfort him. Only to be reminded that it was just merely a video of him.

Even at the moment, it took you everything not to look back at Bo; you knew how much he valued your attention. Plus, you wanted to experience the special in full, just as you would if he were on stage.

The special wasn’t the same as his others, but it was well needed for a time like this. It felt personal and introspective, but it was also oh so clever and in-depth. You adored it and the time and effort that he had put into it.

As the credits rolled out and you saw an acknowledgment for your name, your heart soared.

You knew that the two of you had worked hard to be there for each other the past year. Especially with everything that was going on and Bo working most of the time.

To know that you had helped him in any shape or form. It just meant a lot, in more ways than he’d ever know.

The lights in the room flickered on as if he had made a make-shift movie theatre. You wiped away any stray tears, and before he could even say anything, you ran into his arms.

Bo jolting back in surprise before accepting the embrace and holding you tighter into his chest. His head resting gently on top of yours due to his taller stature.

“God I love you so much, more than you’ll ever know. I seriously don’t know if I would’ve made it out alive this past year if I didn’t have you.” he croaked into your hold.

It took you a second to realize that the man was crying, and you pulled away to meet his eyes. Your fingers brushing away his tears before reaching up to give him a kiss.

His figure bending down just a tad to meet your lips as he kisses you back sweetly. It’s light and yet so filled with passion for making up for what time that had been lost.

Yet as he looks down at you, a smile etching across his lips. As he asks you about what your thoughts are on his special, he already knows your response.

Unbeknownst to you, he had recorded your entire viewing experience. Of course, if he were to ever share it anywhere, he’d ask your permission, but it was apparent.

Even as you told him how much you loved it and how much you enjoyed it. You knew that he knew that you understood the special the way he had intended it.

It was one of the many things that made him adore you endlessly. You meant the world to him.

“We should celebrate babe! Maybe order a pizza or something.” you exclaim, arms still wrapped around his neck in your embrace.

“We definitely should, but what pizza places are open at this hour?” Bo smirks as you give him a slight frown.

“I don’t know, that’s a good question.” you hesitate.

“Actually I do know one place that’s really good and delivers.” Bo whispers seductively up against your ear.

You giggle and gesture for him to continue as he swiftly pulls away from your hold. His hand outstretched for you to take once again as he leads you towards the house. Or, more importantly, towards your bedroom.

“Me.”

——————————————————————------------------------------------

Bo sat anxiously beside you as his fingers lingered over the ‘post’ button on his different social media accounts.

The post in question was a video that he stitched together of you watching the special. With your consent, of course.

It had been edited together to be vague enough that he wouldn’t spoil the special. But nonetheless, it was sweet, and he totally made sure to include you tearing up in it.

You made it a priority to tackle him for that one.

The video was sweet and short, but it got the intended message across, and you personally loved it, just like you loved Bo and the special.

“Any-day now Robert.” you tease as you hold his one hand in yours.

“Do you think that they’ll wanna watch it?” he whispers quietly.

“Of course they will, it’s you. Baby you are so talented, your fans will be so excited.” you reassure.

Bo sighs before squeezing your one hand tightly before pressing the button. And letting Inside out into the world.

[mochikeiji]

Come Home

↠ Pairing: Gojo Satoru x F!Reader

↠ Warning: anxiety attacks, pregnancy, manga spoiler! chapter 91 (for those who have not read)

↬ Word Count: 2k

If death was giving you a sign at this very moment, it would be the cold ticks each second the clock on your empty apartment room echoed. Each second comes an outbursts of numerous emotions. On the first tick sent shivers on your skin, the second felt like small pricks of hair slowly rose up as goosebumps followed after, third was the frantic tapping of your foot on the carpeted floor as you bounced your leg.

On the outside, you would've been labelled as overreacting. On the inside, you were slowly dying.

As of now time felt like a never ending torture. It was a tug of war between trust in your husband or the one in your gut; a battle between mind and heart, to whom should you choose to believe in? How long do you plan on standing at the edge of the cliff not knowing the faith that has been laid out for you and the most powerful shaman? To whom do you concede to?

A critical position for you to be in. If Gojo were here beside you, not only would you have to wince at the feeling of his finger flicking your forehead, but also a round of uncharacteristic scolding about how bad it is to be stressed out or anxious because of the growing life inside of you. Well, none of this wouldn't have happened if he didn't left. But as all married couples are out there, you are one of the majority that did not want to tie their partners down from what they were meant to do. Especially if your partner is the most needed person in the world.

You couldn't tell him not to go out. Not out there on the field you've come to grow as a sorcerer yourself. The deaths of your fallen comrades and innocent civilians, the demands of the elders and powerful clans. Most of all, being part of the theatre death had directed. No one knows who'd be next to live another day or to be at forever slumber. And your husband was one of the main casts in this scene. Someone who'd always be near death's door only to keep taunting the horrifying God.

It was all fun and games before. It was either ride or die with Gojo during your youthful days. But as time progressed, and the upcoming family you both had dreamed of was at its peak, from that moment every thing came crashing down. It wasn't hormones anymore. It wasn't simple.

You were beyond terrified.

"Please come home."

Not even realizing you were already kneeling down from the couch you were seated, hands clasps together hard, the veins prodding out as if they were going to pop. A silent mantra of pleads to the unknown world you were stuck in. Chest heaving harshly, tears and snot mixing as they fell down the cushions. You didn't feel them. You couldn't see anything.

There was no way to describe the gaping hole that had swallowed you to your deepest depths of fear.

"Come home, Satoru.."

Was the last thing that had been uttered out from your lips before the dark hushes turned into soft cooes. The once imaginary prickly like nails that was scraping your body changed into gentle strokes on your back and onto your bulging stomach.

If there was no way to describe your fears, what is there to be said for the immense heart break of your own husband coming home to see you knelt down with cascading despair written all over your features? The image of the cheery, and powerful woman he's had of you now haunted by what he had came home to.

Though Gojo never had the brightest personality to everyone, he would trade every thing he has if it meant for you to be pulled out from where he had dragged you in.

He knew from the start loving you would mean a lot. You were every thing he wanted and yearned for in life. The love he always came home to. Cursing his naive self of erasing the fact that you were only human.

You had your limitations and this was it.

"Hey, wifey, shhh." the warmth of his breath next to your ear made you choke a sob. Having his body shield your smaller one from behind with his hands now trapping your still clasped ones. "I'm here, I'm not going any where. Not now or ever." his white hair tickling the side of your cheek as he rubbed the side of his face onto the your tear stained ones. If there was one thing everyone knew he was good at, it was being overly affectionate. Not that you'd complain.

His thumbs massages the back of your hands, smoothing down the veins in hopes of easing your grip. He should probably thank Yuuji for passing out hours ago, if not he'd be still stuck training the young lad and have you deal with this torment possibly longer. Even so, he was glad he had manage to finish up early. At your 7 month of pregnancy he wouldn't dare take longer. He didn't like being away, he never did. Always cursing at those who demand his presence. All he wanted was to stay home with you.

Home where everything is safe.

"Let's get you up, kay? May I carry you?" it was a shock on how uncharacteristically cautious he's become ever since your pregnancy. No one knew the Gojo Satoru knows when to tone it down on situations. It was all heart warming, you wanted to cry.

You gave him a small nod, feeling your body hoisted up from the floor and nested on top of his lap with ease. Never failing to amaze you how you managed to marry this man. The man you'd devotedly pray to the heavens would come back to you alive.

As his arms finally settled on your waist, moving at an upward then downward motion, he rubs your sides. Slowly coming to the globe of your stomach with a soft hum, he watches you deeply with a soft gaze behind his interfering blindfold.

Sighing shakily, you shifted your position a bit to the side, allowing yourself to lean your cheek on his left pectoral, listening to the rhythm his heart beat, sobs died down into sniffles and hiccups. You twiddled with his fingers placed on your stomach. The anxiety inside you barely disappeared, but tamed for the moment.

A light peck on your forehead was placed, snapping you back from the little world that had consumed you, down back in the arms of your beloved husband as he smiles and wipes away the left over tears, "Hi there, honey."

Focused on the warmth his palm emits, you reached out over his covered eyes, sliding away the blindfold, freeing the captivating azure gaze he possesses as they held nothing but love piercing back to your teary ones. His hair framing his adorning features, yet so perfect and lively he was smiling at you. The image of this man you wanted to wake up to every day. To welcome, to smile with, to live, and to love.

"Satoru.."

Cupping your cheeks in worry, the serene peace disappearing from him when his brows furrowed with his lips frantically hushing you. Parental instincts kicking in as he eyed your stomach in wonder how your dear child was holding up with the mountain of negative emotions crowding you, "Honey, you need to stay calm. Our little bun in there might have trouble baking you know?" he whispered close to your lips, foreheads leaned onto yours.

"Oh, Satoru." a broken smile formed from your quivering lips, "You're home, you're home." thumbs coming close to stroke his lids softly down to his cheeks. Fragile, that's how you'd describe yourself in touching your husband. Every day from the moment you lived with him are days you two cannot be separated from each other's lingering touches. Even so, on those days it still felt like it was too good to be true to have each other embraced away from the terrors of the world.

"I'm home, I'm home." sealing away your sobs with his lips to yours, letting you feel all of his emotions and unspoken vows within the action of only you two could share forever. The love he never knew he was capable of only for you and your child to be gifted of.

"I'm scared." pulling away as you shut your eyes. The dark hushes returning, coming back to haunt you of what is in store for tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, and so on. The strings attached upon you two, unknowing who was in control of your faiths. "Satoru, I'm scared. Please don't go anymore."

Confessing all of your troubles, he tightens his hold around you. Not a chance, he curses in his head would he allow himself to be defeated so easily and submitting himself to the awaiting gates of death.

"What if you don't come back to me anymore?"

Not a chance, was he going to die after happiness is just within his reach. Longing for something so surreal his entire life. He wasn't going out without having a taste of the sweetness of he now calls home in his life. Not ever. Not when he knows he's the strongest and will continue to reign as he is.

"Honey loves, I'll always come home to you." a vow he seals with the gaze he has locked with yours. The golden band that was proudly worn on his finger from his left hand above your stomach, "I'll always come home to you both, my sweet loves." a vow for only the two people in his life that kept him going. He will always keep his word by heart.

Though it was known that it wasn't enough to fully assure you. The comfort of today was much appreciated and needed for you to finally sigh out one last bit of the sadness, and giving him a teary smile.

"I love you, Satoru."

A melodic sound his heart would crave for every day. Definitely another thing worth coming home if he could hear it again and again.

Smiling mischievously, he reciprocates the feeling by stealing another one of your kisses whilst cradling your body and stomach. He wonders how long would it take for your baby to come meet him. He could hardly wait anymore.

"I love you more."

Was the last thing he had said before his eyes shut close to bask in the warmth and safety of his domain. His and yours little domain. One day to be shared with either a mini you or him between your arms, erupting small giggles into the air.

He couldn't wait to come home to that very day.

Not to wake up another second.

Or was it a minute?

An hour?

He couldn't tell. For time was unpredictable inside the realm he was kept imprisoned.

"Oh, another dream."

An old memory he has with you over months ago.

A breathy chuckle comes out. Was it another thing to mock him of his moment of weakness? Where he could do nothing but lay down and wait for he knows nothing of what could and what was happening?

His bones were on fire. The caged rage inside of him waiting to be freed as he could hear the cackles of his own enemies having to won over him.

"Come home to me."

No, they have not.

The fight was still going. He knows deep down as his faith on his beloved students remains strongly as his love and promises to you. Somehow, some way, he will get out. Like before, time is the enemy. He could only hope that you're holding up for the mean time. It was only matter of time you would be giving birth as well.

And he wasn't planning on missing out the biggest part of his life.

Nor was he planning on letting his enemies run free easily. They were going to pay.

He was going to pay.

"I'm coming home. Wait for me."

Thus begins the string of faith as every thing is set into motion.

© all content belongs to mochikeiji. Please do not repost or copy, ありがとうございました!! (=^･^=)

[whilereadingandwalking]

An Evening with Neil Gaiman in Chicago

On a warm night on Friday the 13th, Neil Gaiman strode on stage in the Auditorium Theatre in Chicago. A packed crowd held their recently purchased signed books close as he settled in at the podium, dark blue and grey cloud shifting on a curtain behind him. He had to ask the crowd to calm down, before noting that Chicago is one of the first places he did readings back in the day.

Over the course of the evening, Gaiman read “Orange,” requested by Cat Mihos, and a poem about Batman dedicated to Neal Adams; to my delight, he read “The October Tale,” one of my favorite short stories; and he read “The Price,” which he described as a Midwestern story, “a story as much about living here as it is about anything else.” 

He would finish out the night with a reading of “What You Need to Be Warm,” a poem he wrote in his role as United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees ambassador to usher in a 2019 winter emergency appeal to help refugees. The night held hushed, teary silences, but also many laughs.

@neil-gaiman interspersed readings with answering pre-submitted audience questions—he mentioned early on that our stack of post-its, index cards, and torn-off pieces of paper held the best set of questions he’d seen on his tour.

Here are a couple highlights.

Favorite character to write?

Delirium. “Because she did her own dialogue. And most characters don’t.”

A lot of your works are inspired by religion. How do you do that research?

“I would have loved to have been a practical theologian.” Actually, no, he corrected—he would have liked to be “somebody who professionally made up religions.” The job doesn’t exist, he said. “But it ought to.”

How does he feel about people idolizing his works and teaching them in classrooms?

“Uncomfortable.” Why? “Because I loathe Thomas Hardy.” And he suspects that if he hadn’t been forced to read Hardy at age 12, he maybe could have liked him just fine. So he worries a bit about his works being taught in classrooms.

What advice do you have for working with an artist or illustrator?

He advised asking two questions: What do you like drawing or want to draw that you haven’t gotten to much? and What don’t you like drawing? It can get you into an artist’s good graces, and you also want to be able to try and work with what they’re good at and try to amplify it, push them to be even better. McKean hated drawing big crowds of people—Sam Keith enjoyed it—Jill Thompson doesn’t like cars.

Americans Gods the show gave Laura more personhood (”It did,” he agreed). Will Anansi Boys do the same for its women characters, and how do you feel about updating of your material?

Anansi Boys has wrapped shooting and will be a six-episode miniseries. It will have more of Rosie and Daisy and who they are than in the book, and he’s very proud of this. Neil said at the start that while he would write the first and final episodes, he wanted other writers in the room. Ultimately he worked with four writers of color—two of whom were women—to produce the full product of the Anansi Boys that we’ll get on-screen.

I admit I was personally proud that he answered this one, as it was my question.

What fountain pen and ink are you using right now?

He is using a Pilot 823 and a Namiki Falcon, primarily to sign books. He uses a lot of Pilot inks, because they offer well-packaged, secure sample sizes, which he can buy in a wide variety of wonderful colors, and which then won’t be as much of a liability to the rest of his luggage while traveling on tour.

Who is the coolest person you’ve worked with and why is it Terry Pratchett?

Terry was always certain that he wasn’t cool “and he was terrified that I ‘was.’” But Neil will never forget when Terry called him and said, Do you remember that story you sent me? Are you doing anything with that? And Neil said no, he was very busy with Sandman. “I know what happens next,” Terry said. So they had two options: Neil could sell him the idea, or they could write the book together. 

Of course Neil said that they should write it together. “It was like Michelangelo calling you up and saying ‘Do you want to do a ceiling together?’”

Favorite Pratchett story?

One day after Terry’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis, he called up Neil, starting the call (as he always did) with, “Hallo. It’s me.” He was writing a memoir and couldn’t remember something. Could Neil help him? Neil felt a flood of emotion. His good friend, his brilliant friend, couldn’t remember something. “I could be your memory, Terry,” he said internally.

Well, Terry said, do you remember in November 1990, we were on a book tour for Good Omens? And we went to that radio interview and the interviewer had read the cover but hadn’t realized it was fiction, and he asked us what was so interesting about Agnes Nutter and her prophecies, and we told him, and he believed us? And we would see the engineers, and they knew, because they were knocking against the glass to get his attention? And we let him go on for 15 minutes before letting him off the hook? (Neil noted here that Terry was the one who did so, and that he did it very gracefully, making it seem like the host had been in on the joke the whole time.) And remember how we left the studio and walked down the street singing “Shoehorn with Teeth” by They Might Be Giants?

Yes, Neil said. But...what did you need me to remember?

“Was it 30th Street, or 34th?”

When is Sandman coming to Netflix?

He doesn’t know. Netflix will tell us, when they figure it out. “They say they have algorithms and plans, but I think they just go into a dark room with a knife and plunge it into the wall” then turn on the lights and see what calendar date they hit.

Where would your secret lair be, if you had one?

“I’m a traditionalist, so in an extinct volcano above a shark pit.”