#sorry shakespeare i'll do my best !!!

[90sbee]

only one month until opening night and oh god. the stupid nerves never leave, huh.

[artemismatchalatte]

I have no idea what I'm going to do for NaNoWriMo this year. I feel very uninspired lately.

I just want to do well in my class and my energy has been low lately (season change on my new medicine, I'm guessing???). I need some energy because it's Shakespeare and I need to keep my grades up to stay in the honors society (no pressure lol).

Much More in the tags as per usual... :P

[mischiefandlies]

You're a pain in my neck

Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Masterlist

Notes: yo, I'm just starting my classics course and Google said Mr. Hiddleston himself also studied it (posh bastard, of course he did). Figured I'd make a little fic, but made it super cheesy and teenagery, bc why not? It's also my first time writing for Tom btw, not sure if I'll do it again.

(Also, sorry if the Shakespeare is wrong, I was doing it from memory b/c i couldn’t be bothered to fact check it.)

Warning: none? but I've left a little note at the end too.

You hadn’t been studying classics for very long, but the gods interested you greatly. You used to read myths as a child, Theseus and the Minotaur, or Orpheus and Eurydice, or even the trials of Hercules. You and your brother grew up on Greek tragedies and tales, so you had chosen to keep learning ten years on. The course covered both Roman and Greek mythology, politics, literature. Along the way however, your studies took you to other types of myth. Egyptian and Greek culture were closely related, but the European mythology around Celtic and Norse mythology was what really took your fancy.

You were sat in the library re-reading the myth of Athena and Arachne when you heard a man’s voice speak. “Is this seat taken?”

You glanced up. In front of you was a young man, blonde unruly curls atop his head, and a shy smile on his face. You smiled back, “Take it. I’m not waiting on anyone.”

He slid his rucksack off and sat across from you. “Thanks. I’m new here, so still finding my feet.”

“Me too,” you reply. “Just trying to get through the week.”

“What are you studying?” he asks.

“Classics and Sociology. You?”

“I’m doing classics too!” he says. “What’s your name?”

“Y/N”

“I’m Tom. Nice to meet you.”

You began to meet in the library regularly. Tom and you seemed to get on really well, helping each other with essays and chatting about life. The two of you began to meet often, catching coffee and studying together, going to the cinema, trips to museums and the like. Fortunately, or unfortunately, the two of you were only friends. When he came to you about advice about girls, asking people out, or just lovelife gossip, you could feel your heart constrict painfully. In all honesty, he was probably one of the most genuine people you had ever met, and you didn’t want to ask him out for fear of ruining whatever friendship the two of you shared. And, even if you did decide to take that leap of faith, there was no way to be sure that he would feel the same. He certainly hadn’t given you any indication of liking you, he had been friendly, and on occasion flirty, but nothing ever came of it. It was like everything you wanted was dangling right in front of you, but you just couldn’t reach to grab it for fear of falling.

Tom, little did you know, was in much the same predicament. His mates had actually nicknamed you “Mrs H” because of the puppy eyes he had whenever he saw you. He admired you; the way you spoke so eloquently, your intelligence, your beauty. The way you could stand your ground confidently, backing yourself no matter what. He often found that when you and he were debating ancient politics or learning Latin phrases, he would find himself zoning out, too busy daydreaming about an imaginary future between you and him.

It was just before the summer half term that Tom and you decided to take a picnic one Saturday, so that the two of you could power through some essays and then chill and enjoy the scenery. And so, the two of you trundled up to Richmond Park, deciding that that would be the best location, sat near King Henry’s mound*, looking out onto the London skyline. Once you’d finished all your essays and eaten enough quiche and salad, you both lay, looking out onto the beautiful scene. You had lay so that your head was resting on his thigh, with his using his pullover as a pillow. He had been asking you to test him on his lines for Macbeth that he was supposed to be learning.

“… life is but a walking shadow,

A poor player that struts and frets about the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale told

By and idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

He waited.

“Signifying nothing…”

…

“Y/N, it’s your line.”

You jolted at the sound of your name. “Huh? Oh sorry, I must’ve drifted of.”

“You asleep?” he chuckled.

“No, you're just really comfy. I wouldn’t mind sleeping with you.”

He froze, smiling. “What?”

“I said I wouldn’t mind sleeping on you.”

“No you didn’t,” he said teasingly.

“Yes I did.”

“You said you wouldn’t mind sleeping with me.” It was your turn to freeze. “Oh. I’m sorry, I must’ve been in dreamland.”

“Are you sure?” he joked. “Might be your subconscious trying to tell you something.”

“Doesn’t matter anyways.” you said, “You’re way out of my league.”

He frowned at you, looking slightly confused. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, you're so handsome, and your tall and pretty and have cheekbones that could cut diamonds and you’ve got all that muscle that I know you hide because I’ve seen you play rugby, and you’re-”

“A lanky beanpole, I know,” he interrupts. “My love, you’ve got it wrong. You’re out of my league.”

You snort out a laugh. “You’re a bad liar, Thomas William Hiddleston.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter, because you’d rather sleep on me than with me.”

“Of course I wouldn’t.” You said before your brain caught up with what you were saying.

He looks at you, staring so intently you feel mortified. Fuck. He could feel his heart going twenty to the dozen, his brain running at the speed of sound. Did you mean it? Could you really be his? After all this wasted time pining over you, trying desperately not to fall for you? You –feeling suitably mortified- turn your head so fast to turn away from him that you pull a muscle in your neck. “OW, fuck.”

He scoots closer to you and looks to see what's wrong. “Are you alright?”

“I’ve pulled my neck. I'm fine.” you mutter back, trying to stay still so you don’t irritate it.

“Let me see,” he says, gently prying your fingers away from your neck, so he can gently press his palm to it. “Do you need heat on it? Did you want me to get you anything?”

“It’ll be fine. It'll just be tense for a little while,” you say.

He is right up against you now, gently rubbing the sore area of your neck trying to get the muscles to relax. Slowly, ever so slowly, you find yourself leaning back into his touch, letting him rub the pain away and relaxing a little more.

“Can you move your neck at all darling?”

You try, but all you do is wince. “Nope.”

“Not at all?”

“No.”

“Then I think now is probably a good time to ask; what did you mean of course you want to sleep with me?”

You can feel yourself turning red. “Tom, I… well, even I have to admit your very handsome, and, I dunno, I guess… I really like you. A lot. And I just thought, if I said anything, then I’d lose you as a friend, and I didn’t want to risk it… but now, I mean, if you don’t want, y’know, we can just pretend I never said anything, it doesn’t have to-”

“Pretend you never said anything?” he repeats. “Pretend you never said anything? Not a chance darling, not when I have been dreaming of you saying that to me. I’m just glad you beat me to it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I… I like you too,” he says.

“Oh.”

There's a bit of a silence. You wait a sec to digest what he’s just said. “Tom.”

“Yes?”

“As much as I’d love to kiss you right now, my neck is really fucking sore.”

He just laughs, and presses a kiss to your cheek. “C’mon. I’ll get you a hot water bottle when we get home, then maybe your neck will fix itself.” He helps you to your feet. “And then darling, I can kiss you all I want. Deal?”

“Deal.”

notes

*I feel the need to clarify, King Henry’s mound is actually the name of a hill in Richmond Park, and unfortunately, is not an old sex joke (like most things in history). There’s an old piece of legislation from the 1500s that states that you must always be able to see a certain part of London from that particular hill, because Henry wasn’t there when Anne Bolyn was beheaded, so told then to send up a smoke signal when she was dead. He saw it on that hill, hence the name “King Henry’s mound”. It's still illegal to build a skyscraper blocking it. Anyways, fun facts, go back to your fanfics now.

[matiixoxo]

How to study - a guide for ♡ good grades ♡

intro

for most of my school years, I never studied. I have naturally good memory and was quick to understand things... up until maybe year 8. Then things got a bit harder, my grades started falling. I only started to truly study during year 10, and that's how I developed my various ways of studying.

i will be listing the methods i use below. these have helped me a lot and hopefully they can help you too! That said, here are my methods:

method 1 - two notebooks

this is my preferred method for sciences, aka, biology, chemistry, etc.

what i do is have two separate notebooks for each subject.

one is to use during class. its messy, disorganised, an info dump of everything the teacher says.

the second one stays at home. there, everyday after school, i rewrite my notes, this time more aesthetic, more complex, prettier. i also research online and check the powerpoints used by the teacher to make sure I'm not missing anything. I take my time with this notebook, because rewriting my notes helps consolidate them in my mind, and is a great tool for revising for tests. it also means that during class, i can pay more attention to what the teacher is saying instead of trying to do pretty titles and such.

method 2 - flashcards

i also mostly use this for sciences, it helps a lot.

flashcards are the best. You can use ones ready made on your computer, or handwrite your own. I prefer to handwrite because, even though it takes time, as I said before rewriting helps consolidate the material in your brain. After every class, I write down questions and answers on white rectangles I bought from the nearby stationary store, punch a hole in them, and add them to the ring where I have all the other flashcards.

when I'm close to a test, I keep my flashcards close to me at all times. when I am bored, or have nothing to do, I take them out and flip through them until I feel I know everything. I try to go through them at least twice a day.

this method has saved me in so many ways.

method 3 - close by

this is the method I use for history, languages, and english.

I rewrite all my notes on my computer (but you can do handwritten, i just prefer computer so i can print many copies) and then print them out. a week before a test, I start leaving the notes in places i pass by often, eg, my desk, my bathroom mirror, taped to the inside of my wardrobe. every time I see my notes, I force myself to read them all. because I pass by the places so many times, I'll be constantly rereading the same thing, helping consolidate it in my brain.

ofc, this might not be enough, so I also suggest reading your notes like this - read the first sentence. then read the first again, and then the second, and read the first again, followed by the second and then read the third, and then reread the first, second, and third sentences. then read the fourth. and reread the first, second, third, and fourth, and then the fifth, etc. this method is amazing and helps memorize stuff so easily. sorry if its confusing ♡

method 4 - exercises

this method, in my opinion, is better for subjects like maths, physics, etc.

it's pretty obvious what it is. just do and redo exercises, correct them, grade yourself, Google past papers and test yourself again. do this until you are confident that you understand everything. and even then, keep doing exercises.

method 5 - essays

this one is for English, and you might hate it. I mean, who doesn't hate essays?

what i do is, I go to chatgpt, and ask it to suggest possible essay questions on possible things that might be on my test (eg., shakespeare).

then, I write an essay (using the PEAEAL structure) and ask chatgpt to evaluate it and rate it out of ten, tell me where I should improve without giving me the exact answer to what I should improve. then I rewrite the parts that were wrong, and send it to chatgpt again. I do this until I get a 10/10. I keep doing this with multiple questions until I'm confident I know the topic well

important:

how i truly, truly, managed to get good grades was making studying enjoyable. I started romanticizing it - lighting candles, installing an aesthetic clock on my computer, spending hours on pretty diagrams, going to cafes with my notes and studying there.

get a friend to study with you too sometimes. Trust me when I say, romanticizing studying is the best study method.

[teruuu]

Yo, First Of all this is my first ask on tumblr so i'll try to not be too much! but i gotta say your art and writing is beautiful (and hot lmao). Second of all, i'm interested in the differences between the compulsion of flesh AU and The Highschool one. it's obvious the high school narilamb is 100x more healthy than the compulsion one. but truth is: are they actually completely healthy? i like to depict them as a polar oposite of your main narinder and lamb but i can't say if everything is going to be okay between these two high school students. thank you very much, have a nice day & sorry for anything (⁄ ⁄>⁄ ▽ ⁄<⁄ ⁄). (btw sorry for any wrong word english is not my first language.)

Oh my god you are SO cute and I mean this in the nicest way possible ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡ gosh, I’m your first ask, what an honor! A little (gentle) side note though, N.E.V.E.R. Hold back on me when it comes to long asks! I love long asks the most. It makes me giggle like a little schoolgirl TEEHEE. I’ll try my best to not go full Shakespeare with my response so it’s easier to understand.

My High School AU is based off of a fanfic that I made in the past for a korean fandom (I already deleted it 😭). The Compulsion of Flesh AU’s genre is horror. Acting as a pretty huge contrast to it is the High School AU, which is Slice of Life. The High School AU’s plot is not (fully) a soft and gentle one, it’s meant to be angsty to reflect the teenage experience. Narinder and Lamb in this AU are not at all experienced in romance. This means that emotions, especially love, will be difficult for them to navigate. Unlike in Compulsion where the two view their obsessions/desires in the same light as love, it’s hard for the two in High School AU to understand whether or not what they truly feel for one another is romantic. After all, they’ve never truly experienced what it feels like to fall for someone. It’ll be a challenge for them especially when they’ve already established their relationship whether or not they still even like each other!

As is already obvious, Compulsion AU’s relationship is pretty dark and twisted. Instead of fixing the toxic flaws in their relationship, they instead support and encourage it. Unlike Compulsion AU however, High School AU Nari and Lamb will recognize each other’s flaws and have conflicts about it. They naturally will fight against one another’s beliefs and they’ll argue with each other like how normal, real-world couples do. They’ll work their way through those conflicts and find methods to fix their own flaws, even if it isn’t comfortable.

Also unlike Compulsion of Flesh, High School AU’s Nari and Lamb are completely different. Compulsion Nari and Lamb are parallels to one another, mirroring each other in many ways, but in High School AU they’re absolute opposites. Narinder is wealthy and has a good life, whereas the Lamb struggles to make a living—but that doesn’t mean Narinder doesn’t experience pain or the Lamb’s life is completely all about hardship. It’s in these differences that they find themselves clashing with one another, even before they become a couple. So, what do they do about it? They talk, of course. In all my more positive works I always make my couples communicate with one another, because that’s the key to a positive and long-lasting relationship.

So, to answer your question, ehh??? I mean think about it, they’re a normal couple. Do you think all normal couples are completely healthy? I don’t think so. But High School AU Nari and Lamb will certainly try to be a healthy couple to maintain what they have. Of course it’ll be a struggle—that’s what life’s all about, struggling—but at the end of the day, they’ll keep trying for one another because of the love they share.

So, TLDR …

Differences:

Compulsion AU — Toxic, doesn’t communicate properly, continually reinforces toxic qualities, mirror each other

High School AU — Normal couple, communicates, discourages unhealthy aspects of the relationship, opposites of one another

Are they (HS AU) healthy or not:

Healthy… or, they certainly try to be.

[sleekervae]

New York Romantic .5

Masterlist

a/n: Happy new year everyone! I'm so sorry I've been MIA in recent weeks. I've been going through a depression spell over the holidays, but I'm trying to come out of it. I promise I'll be updating my other stories, slowly but surely as always. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this update!

pairing: Tom Blyth x ballerina!oc

summary: a soft snow day in new york

word count: 5181

taglist: @watercolorskyy @carolanns-world @alana4610

The hallways were relatively quiet, a handful of students were cleaning out their lockers and studio spaces for the winter break. Tom didn't have much in his own locker, just some loose papers and a couple of text books. He wasn't too pressed to notice somebody walking upon him until the lockers thudded and shifted under the weight of someone's shoulder ramming into them. Tom glanced up to find Daniel staring back at him, sharp almond eyes reminding him of a cat with a mouse narrowed in his gaze while sidling up beside him with a disarming smile.

"Hi!" he greeted cheerily.

"Hi," Tom nodded back, "You're... Daniel, right?"

"Yeah! You're an acting major, right?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm Tom," Tom put his hand out for Daniel to shake, though the spindly dancer shrugged him off. Tom didn't think anything of it and continued to sort his things.

"Nice to meet you. I don't wanna be brash right before the break, but I've noticed you've been talking to Noelle quite a bit lately," he said.

The mention of her name caused Tom to pause; he straightened his posture and turned back to the dancer.

"Yeah... she's my neighbour," Tom replied cautiously, sensing an unspoken tension in Daniel's words.

"Do you like her?" Daniel asked.

Tom shrugged back, "Yeah. I mean she's very nice," he replied, itching to get to the point of why Daniel wanted to talk about this.

Daniel's smile faltered, a touch of protectiveness entering his voice. "Look, man, I've had feelings for Noelle for a while now. We're kind of a thing, you know?"

Tom fidgeted uncomfortably. Not once had Noelle, Bianca, or anyone in her circle mentioned that she had a boyfriend, "She's not your girlfriend, though,"

Daniel's expression turned stern, his tone more forceful, "Not officially, but we're getting there. It'd be best if you didn't get too close. Just to avoid misunderstandings,"

Tom hesitated, struggling to articulate his thoughts, "I-I'm just -- I didn't mean to —"

Before Tom could finish, Daniel's demeanor stiffened, a hint of displeasure flashing across his features, "You kissed her at Josh's party, didn't you?"

Tom's gaze faltered, "Well, yeah... but it was truth or dare," he shrugged back, discomfort tingling up his spine.

Daniel refrained from scoffing, "Well, next time either pick truth or take the shot. Because you may be all cool with your British accent and your Shakespeare, but I saw her first,"

At that, Tom's discomfort turned to a subtle anger, "I haven't done anything wrong. She's not your girlfriend and she can do as she pleases," he replied.

Daniel was about to rebut when his friends called for him at the end of the hall, "Daniel! You coming?"

Daniel straightened up, his expression firm and his lips feigned a smile, "Just mind your business, man," just to add insult to injury, he reached out and popped the collar of Tom's button-down before sauntering away. Annoyed, Tom adjusted his collar back into place, trying not to glare a hole into the back of the dancer's head.

School was out for the winter, Julliard's halls were empty and students had taken off from the break. Tom woke up two days after school's end and found the city glittering absolutely glittering. Overnight, a gentle blanket of snow had delicately wrapped itself around the towering skyscrapers and bustling streets, transforming the usually hectic urban landscape into a picturesque winter wonderland. The snowflakes continued to gracefully fall from the heavens, painting the cityscape in a pristine coat of white. The delicate snow-covered branches of trees along the sidewalks added a touch of ethereal beauty, creating a breathtaking contrast against the steel and concrete structures. As the city stirred to life, there was a palpable sense of awe and wonder within Tom at the enchanting transformation that was downtown Manhattan.

Sunny had left the day previous, fearful that the snow would hinder his flight to Birmingham, so Tom was left to his own devices in the apartment. Noelle's family was supposed to arrive today as well, just in time for her department showcase in a couple days. Tom hadn't spoken much to her after that party, he wasn't sure what to say -- if he should say anything at all.

He would be lying if he said he hadn't thought back to that kiss, replaying moments in his head as he laid awake in bed. He could still feel the ghost of her soft lips imprinted on his, the tang of her cherry lip balm against his tongue, how easy and natural it felt to have her in his embrace. The giggling and snide comments afterwards didn't phase him so much as his own fears did. It was a dare after all, it wasn't supposed to mean anything.

So why was he still so affected after a few days? And why was Daniel so suddenly possessive of Noelle?

He went about his day as per usual, oatmeal for breakfast and lounging on the couch with Netflix. Despite the heavy snow, he could still hear the cacophony of traffic blaring just outside his window, the pane itself was covered in beautiful, delicate curls of frost. He checked in with his mum as well and she spent about fifteen minutes showing him all the decorations she and his sister had put up. She reiterated that it wouldn't be the same Christmas without him, but as long as he was safe and having fun with friends then she wasn't worried.

And Tom wasn't going to be completely alone, there were a couple friends sticking around in the city he would hang around with; Jordan being one of them. And not to mention he still had Doris' dinner offer on the table if he felt so inclined.

It was peaceful, tranquil, and by the time the early afternoon rolled around Tom was close to falling asleep on the couch. That is until he heard a knocking at his door. Tom figured it might've been Doris checking in, but she would've been hollering for him. And then he heard it:

"Tom? Are you home?" it was Noelle.

Why was she still here? She should've been downtown with her family at this rate. Nevertheless, Tom threw on his slippers and shuffled over to the door, and sure enough he found Noelle standing in the threshold, bundled up in her coat, boots and toque.

"Hey. What're you doing here?" he asked, leaving against the door frame to offset his nerves, "Aren't you supposed to be downtown?"

"I was," she nodded, "But my aunt called and their train got delayed because of the snow and it's a whole mess right now. They're hoping to catch the one tomorrow," she explained, "But I mean -- I was wondering if you had no plans today... do you wanna hang out?"

His anxiety lessened, endeared with her big brown eyes and wistful smile, "Yeah, yeah I'd love to," he replied with a nod, "You're going out somewhere?"

"I'm getting some groceries at Paddy's. Leave it to Bianca to forget to stock up before she left," she chuckled, "I should be back in about thirty minutes, I just wanted to catch you early,"

"Well, how about I come with you?" he offered.

"Oh, it's okay. I'll be fine," she assured.

He scoffed back, "Well maybe, but you shouldn't have to take all your stuff by yourself. Not in this weather, anyway," he replied, "-- I'd feel better coming with you, I mean,"

Noelle pressed her lips together, trying hard to bite back her smile. His own lips held a half purse, his big blue eyes blown as he feigned a pout.

"If you're sure, then yeah! I wouldn't mind the company," she said.

He went to grab his snow boots and coat -- grateful his mum had shipped them over a month early -- and ventured out into the cold alongside Noelle. There was a moment of hesitation in the back of his mind, wondering if he should've taken Daniel's warning more seriously. But on the other hand Noelle wasn't his girlfriend, nor was she Tom's, and if she wanted to hang out with him then who was he to deny her?

If he thought he was cold within his apartment then he would've been laughing, a sharp cold wind immediately nipped at his nose and eyes. The usual walk to Paddy's was a little more chaotic then usual, snow had piled onto the sidewalks as high as mid-shin -- well, for Noelle at least. Tom was bemused as he watched her stomp heavily into the snow banks, almost hopping from foot-to-foot. Despite his entertainment, he offered her his hand, helping guide her along until they came to the already shovelled walkways. Neither of them bothered to unlatch their hands on the stroll over.

Stepping inside Paddy's was scarce with people, two store attendants were shovelling snow out of the entrance while another was struggling with a large bag of melting salts. Tom grabbed a cart and his hands stung at the frigid cold on the hand rail. Nevertheless he planted his foot on the bottom rail and sailed in right past Noelle.

Noelle quickly caught up to the young actor strolling down the baked goods section, having now collected a few necessities. Tom already had thrown in some fruit, vegetables, cereal, a gallon of milk and a bag of pretzels. His eyes were scanning over display case filled with cookies, small cakes, and croissants. They were a pretty decent size, dusted in powdered sugar and appeared flakey and soft. He had asked for two from the bakery attendant just as Noelle had come over with a plethora of goodies in her arms.

"What's all this?" he asked curiously, his eyes skimming over the packet of sausages and box of pancake mix.

"You ever do brunch?" she replied, her eyes glimmering in excitement.

"Not very often," he admitted, his intrigue spiking, "Do you?"

Noelle dropped her items into the cart, sporting a satisfied smirk, "Only when I don't feel like eating instant noodles for the third time in a week," the attendant had just placed the bag of croissants on the countertop for Tom, "What's that?"

"Croissants," he replied simply, "Would they be acceptable for brunch?"

"Is the pope a catholic?" she simpered, "We should get some jam, then -- rasp--"

"Raspberry?" they spoke in sync, bashful grins exchanged in tandem with lithe chuckles and blushing cheeks. Tom placed the croissants in the cart along with the rest of their goodies.

The snow had began to fall again as they trudged back home, hand-in-hand. Neither Tom nor Noelle mentioned it, both silently reassuring themselves that their joined hands were merely for stability on the slippery ground. But as they walked along sidewalks meticulously cleared of snow for easy passage, Tom wondered if that explanation held true at this point.

Nevertheless, Tom did his best to help Noelle as much as he could, keeping shells out of the eggs he cracked and doing his best to avoid grease spatter. Frost curled across the glass window panes, snow continued to pile anew across the cityscape, and yet Tom and Noelle remained safe and warm in their little sanctuary, the tantalizing smell of bacon and sausages wafting through the air while music drifted softly from Noelle's small speaker set up.

There was a jar of open peach jam on the table, to which Tom happily took advantage of to smear across his croissant. Noelle had settled for butter on her own, noting how Tom's face seemed to fall in disappointment after one bite.

"Is it okay?" she asked tentatively.

"Yeah, not as crispy as I'd like it to be," he nodded.

"Probably because it sat in the bag for about an hour," she shrugged back, "Or grocery croissants don't usually tend to match up with the elite bakeries,"

"Probably," he agreed, "But I love them, anyway. My dad used to bring us croissants from this bakery on Saturday mornings -- and I swear to you, they were the most amazing croissants I ever had in my life!"

Noelle grinned, his enthusiasm rubbing off on her as she cradled her chin in her hands, "Most amazing croissants? That's a pretty bold statement, considering where you are," she chuckled back, 'But that's a really sweet memory. I bet he was a really great dad,"

"He was. When I saw him, anyway," Tom nodded, "He was always working on the show, even before my parents separated. But he did his best to make time for us, and every time -- even if we just stayed home and watched movies, we always had a great time," his voice harboured a lilt of sadness, ruminating for the things he missed most. He didn't want his face to betray his feelings in front of Noelle, though it wasn't hard for her to pick off his demeanour change.

Her expression softened, her chest tugging at the shift in his gaze, how his words drifted into nothing. Without a second thought Noelle's hand slid across the small dining table, at first her finger tips simply nudged his, then slipped over them. Tom was brought out of his headspace the second her chilled hand fell over his, so small and dry, but nevertheless her skin was so smooth, carrying a few blemishes in the form of paper cuts and unevenly filed nails.

"He sounds like he was wonderful man," she smiled, "I think I would've loved to have met him,"

He began to relax into her touch, it all felt so natural and cozy, although he began to remember:

"-- you may be all cool with your British accent and your Shakespeare, but I saw her first,"

And with that Tom pulled his hand away. Noelle's smile disappeared.

"I'm -- I'm sorry," he stammered suddenly.

"No, no, I'm sorry," she shook her head, "I didn't mean to overstep --"

"You didn't!" he exclaimed quickly, then brashly scolding himself for raising his voice, "Sorry. I just don't want to..." cross a proverbial line? Get his ass handed to him by a neurodivergent hip hop major?

"You didn't do anything wrong," she assured him, her fingernails began to scratch at the faded wood top, "-- I know we haven't really spoken since the party... but if that kiss made you uncomfortable --"

"Not at all," Tom shook his head, "I mean -- I mean, I knew it was for a dare. I just don't want to put you in any awkward position,"

Noelle cocked a brow, "How do you mean?" she asked.

He was a little uneasy as he blurted out, "... Well, I don't want to put you in an awkward position with Daniel, is all," he replied.

"Daniel?" she nearly scoffed, "What does he have to -- oh God," she sat back in her seat, her eyes rolling, "What did he tell you? That I'm his girlfriend?"

Tom shrugged, "In not so many words,"

She began to snigger, "Oh, he wishes. We went on one date at the beginning of the summer, but we didn't have a spark -- I didn't, anyway. And of course he didn't get the hint. I can't really avoid him because we're on the same floor, so I grin and bear it for a few minutes until I find an out. If he said something to you, I'm really sorry,"

Despite how selfish it may have been, Tom began to feel better knowing that. He too let out a chuckle, "He does seem like he's a little bit in his own world," he said, "You don't have to apologize for him, either,"

"I know. But I promise you he's harmless," she replied, "And he has no right going around to my friends and telling them off, either. I'll handle it,"

"That doesn't seem fair to you," Tom noted, "Have you thought of reporting him?"

"To who? The faculty?" she scoffed back, "What're they gonna' do?"

"Well, something if you report him for harassment," he said.

"Honestly it's not that big a deal," she smiled, hoping to settle his worry, "I'm a big girl, you don't have to worry about me, Tom,"

Tom smiled back, "I never doubted you could handle yourself, but I'm still allowed to worry," feeling cheeky, he reached over with his fork and stabbed into a grape, popping it promptly into his mouth.

Noelle gaped dramatically, then she began to pout like a grumpy child, picking up another grape and hucking it at him, "Stop stealing food from me! I'll fight you!" she cried defiantly. Tom simply laughed as it bounced off his chest.

Not soon after the dishes were placed in the sink and the table was cleaned. The pair settled onto Noelle's couch for another movie, with Tom insisting she could pick the movie this time. She decided on Die Hard -- the truest Christmas movie out there. She had also fetched a bottle of gin, from where Tom wasn't so sure, orange juice, and two glasses.

"Aren't you supposed to be twenty-one to drink here?" he asked, giving her a playful side eye.

Noelle glared back, smirking, "Who are you, my dad?" she quipped back.

"Certainly not," he chuckled, "And if you ever call me such, we'll see what happens to you,"

Noelle rolled her eyes, bumping his gently with her elbow as she poured them drinks, "Okay, okay," and she handed him his glass, " -- how would you feel if I called you 'mom'?"

He paused momentarily before taking a sip, eyeing her up and down as she tried to bite back her growing grin. The moment felt all too uncanny, though Tom had no complaints. His best form of retaliation was to reach over and tousle the top of her hair. Noelle whined and tried to push him away, shaking her hair back into place with one last glower thrown his way. Bear in mind she made no move to slide away from beside him.

The movie started as normal, and both Tom and Noelle had seen it a handful of times over to know how the fallout opens, how the terrorists take control of the building, how McClane shoots at the police car as his only form to get help. So it was any wonder Noelle couldn't find herself to focus.

Tom was -- in not so many words -- hot. Temperature hot. She couldn't deny she found him attractive as well, but his body radiated heat like a human furnace, it was near impossible for her to not want to come in closer. The warmth was taking its toll on her, and she had to wriggle out of her sweater to get some relief.

Her movement struck Tom's attention, he couldn't help but peak out of the corner of his eye. His eyes flitted over her chest, skin tastefully covered by her tank top but he still couldn't help himself. He blushed when he met Noelle's gaze, realizing he'd been caught and grinned bashfully. Noelle shook her head and made a face, diverting her eyes back to the screen but on the inside she had to fight to keep herself together.

Paying attention to the film at this point as near-impossible, Noelle's mind was somewhere else. Specifically focused on her friend; emphasis on friend. Thought nevertheless she noted how much bigger he was then her, slim physique overall but he bore broad shoulders, long legs stretched out in front of him. Tom appeared a little younger then twenty-one and despite that, he was so mature beyond his years. And old soul.

Her brain flickered back to that party, that damn kiss, all the same flustering as it was breath-taking. She hadn't kissed many guys in her twenty-years of course, but she had never been as electrified as she had been when she tasted the whiskey off of his lips.

Noelle sipped her gin and juice, hoping to hydrate her suddenly dry throat. Alan Rickman's character was suddenly commiserating on his first meet with John McClane, and she suddenly had an idea.

She turned to Tom, "Would you rather be the good guy or a bad guy in an action movie?"

Tom chuckled, "Bad guy, obviously. But it depends on what my goal is,"

"Okay then, what would motivate you to take over the world?" she asked.

"Power, of course. But I don't want to be a psychopathic trigger-happy, domineering villain. The good villains are slick, charismatic, and well composed, like this guy," he pointed to Hans Gruber, "That guy is so smooth and so compelling he could sell water to a fish. Lulling you into a false sense of security. I'd be that villain,"

Noelle simpered, "Remind me to stay on your good side if you were to go power hungry,"

"Well, how about you?" he asked, "Hero or villain?"

"Villain, of course," she replied, "I'd be an Ursula-type villain. Or Maleficent. Just bat-shit crazy magical and maniacal, and I'd get to turn into a giant monster if I so please,"

Tom cocked a brow, "You want to grow into a giant sea witch?"

"Well, yeah!" she nodded, "You think I asked to be this short?"

He laughed, shifting away ever so slightly as though she may grow at any instant. Noelle pouted back and crossed her arms; but she couldn't help but smile when he moved back beside her.

Tom couldn't lie, he was still nervous around Noelle, but she always managed to put him at ease. She was so laid back, and after all, it was hard to be intimidated by a beautiful girl when she was comparing herself to campy Disney villains.

As they watched the movie, Noelle's gaze darted to Tom now and again. She flitted over his sharp profile, and his cheeks and nose still held their tinge of soft pink, a delightful contrast against his pale complexion. And the curve of his lips was pure... temptation. The inkling struck her, she wanted to kiss him again, she wanted to kiss him so badly.

God, you're ridiculous, she chided to herself. He only kissed her because Iseul dared him to, that was all. And if Daniel was already giving him flack, chances were he wouldn't want to be wrapped up in that in any way. And who was to say he even found her attractive, for all she knew he had a girlfriend waiting for him back in England.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" she asked suddenly.

Tom nearly choked on his drink, "No," he replied, "Why?"

"I'm just curious," she shrugged back, "... You met anyone you'd consider asking out?"

"In drama? Nah," he shook his head.

"What about outside of drama? The opera majors are gorgeous," she noted, why she was talking about this she wasn't so sure why. She blamed the gin for the most part, though her own inhibitions were playing their part.

Tom smirked at her, "Are you trying to set me up?" he asked suspiciously.

She simpered back, "Uh -- no. I don't do the whole match-making thing. Iseul on the other hand is like a friggin Korean cupid," she shook her head.

"Was that her intention at the party?" he asked, "Trying to set us up?"

Noelle refrained from rolling her eyes, "I don't know. I think she's just sadistic of something. But... if that dare made you uncomfortable,"

"-- It didn't," he assured her, his deep blue eyes meeting hers, "If it had I would've said something. So please, don't worry," he assured her with a grin.

Noelle pouted back, "I'll worry about you if I please," she retorted.

He feigned shock, his hand coming over his chest, "She worries about me, oh my gosh!" he mocked, much to her amusement.

"Don't let it go to your head," she poked at his nose just for good measure.

His nose twitched, his gaze falling over her again in a hot, lingering perusal crackling over her skin like a live wire. This time there was no mistaking the interest in his eyes.

Should she make a move?

Could she cross that line again?

Lean in closer, ask if she could kiss him, or better yet ask if he could kiss her. She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts she hadn't even realized the credits playing over the screen.

"Do you want me to go?" he asked.

His posh voice startled her, and she realized she hadn't made a move to turn off the movie.

"No, I mean -- you're more then welcome to stay. If you can handle putting up with me any longer," she tried to joke. But it was reigning true, she didn't want him to leave.

Tom grinned bashfully, "As horrible as that sounds, I'll try to pull through," he replied.

"But if you're tired --" she began, "I don't mind if you want to --"

"I'm fine," he nodded, "If you don't mind having me over, that is," he found it odd how suddenly she seemed so nervous, perhaps he ought to take that as a good sign?

"I don't mind at all," she replied, "I like having you around. It's your turn to pick, anyway,"

She likes having me around, he hoped his face wouldn't betray how his chest swelled, the heat in his body suddenly elevated, "How about Elf?"

Suffice to say, another movie turned into another, and then another, and before neither of them could realize they had fallen asleep on the couch, curled up together as the snow continued to fall over the city.

All was quiet, peacefully so as the sun broke out over the Eastern horizon. The snow stopped at some point during the night, glimmering in sun rays like millions of Swarovski crystals bejewelling the skyscrapers and cars. And in that tiny apartment Tom and Noelle slept soundly, cozied up with arms wrapped the other, the laptop screen having gone black hours ago.

As the light peaked through the curtains, Tom couldn't help but begin to stir, blinking sleep from his eyes as he realized he wasn't in his apartment. The previous night came rushing back in a flood, and if he were more awake he may have jumped to find Noelle swathed in his arms. Though she continued to sleep, her button nose buried in his chest and her lashes fluttering as she continued to dream. He wondered what she dreamed about, if she enjoyed her dreams or if she slipped into a thick state of time-stopping nothingness.

It was Sunday, there was nowhere for them to be, no need to get up, no need nor want to move from that very position. The wall clock, though a few minutes ahead, indicated it was somewhere around nine. He wondered if her asking about his dating life was a ploy, or sheepish way in to test his interest.

Tom settled back into the couch, cradling her close to him, pretending for a moment that maybe, just maybe, this could've been his life; their life.. His eyes slipped shut and he inhaled sharply, unable to help but smile as Noelle wriggled to get comfy against him. He too would've fallen back to sleep, if not for the sudden knocking on the door.

Tom thought he was imagining things at first, but sure enough there was another knock. Perhaps it was Doris? Or Bianca? No, Bianca was out of the city and she had her own key anyhow. Nevertheless, Tom didn't feel it was right to answer Noelle's door.

As much as he hated to wake her, he nudged her gently, whispering her name until she too came to consciousness. Her head lulled from side to side, taking stock of the mess on her coffee table, the mess they were on her couch. She rubbed sleep from her eye as she yawned.

"What's up?" she grumbled groggily.

"I'm sorry to wake you, but there's someone at the door," he mumbled.

The seemed to light a small fire under her, she sat up promptly and did a quick stretch, "Maybe Doris wants to collect rent before Christmas?"

"Is she allowed to do that?" he asked, his eyes never leaving her as she started for the door.

"Probably not, but she's also not supposed to be splicing cable from her neighbours and yet..." shuffling in her fuzzy socks, Noelle pressed up on her toes as she peered wearily through the key hole. Who she saw on the other side made her heart stop, "Holy shit!"

"Who is it?" Tom asked, vividly more awake now. The knocking continued.

"I'm coming!" she then turned to him, sheer panic befalling her face and she clawed her fingers through her hair, "Put the gin bottle behind my bedroom door and smooth out your shirt. You got here ten minutes ago and we're trying to decide where to go for breakfast,"

"-- What?"

"Just trust me! Go!" she waved him off. Tom didn't argue, snatched the gin bottle and glasses for good measure. He disappeared down the hall, figuring the open door was Noelle's bedroom.

Slipping the glassware behind the door, he paused momentarily to take a glance around her room. It was a small space, soft grey sheets and pillows were messed and unmade with a few clothes sitting untouched overtop. Papers and books were stacked and scattered across her little white desk, and Ikea special from the looks of it. There was a clothing rack of clothes hung up, a few more folded and sitting next to the line of the three pairs of shoes she owned that weren't ballet related.

Tom froze suddenly when he heard a loud exclamation from the door, "Surprise!"

Smoothing out his shirt wrinkles and tousling his hair, Tom wandered back into the main area of Noelle's apartment, finding her embraced by an older couple and another young girl. The older gent was bringing the suitcases into the apartment while the young girl was trying to upkeep some conversation with Noelle through the older woman's fawning and preening.

"What're you guys doing here? I thought your train wasn't coming until later?" Noelle gaped.

"We were able to get a late train last night, it just missed the snow storm coming in!" the older woman exclaimed.

"And checkin's not until eleven so we thought we'd swing by and surprise you!" the older man added.

Tom stood in the mouth of the hallway momentarily, just watching, bemused and taken with who he assumed was Noelle's family. The young girl suddenly turned, just to take a look around the space at first when her gaze fell on top. She nearly jumped out of her nikes.

"The hell are you?" she snapped, prompting the other's attention to turn to him. The fawning and happy reunions came to a sudden halt, with Noelle slipping out of the woman's grasp to get everyone acquainted.

"Uh -- right. Sorry, um -- this is Tom. He's my friend from school," she introduced, smiling assuringly at him, "Tom, this is my Aunt Franca, my Uncle Maurice, and my cousin Chiara,"

[eris-snow]

𝐈𝐜𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐝

Tags: bakugou x fem!reader, bakugou x ochaco, angst

Your first love felt as warm as the sunshine, and as welcoming as a fireplace.

Bakugou was your first love.

As warm as the sunshine, and as welcoming as a fireplace, that's exactly what first love was like for you.

The wind picks up speed whenever you see him again, as if guiding you to him...or pulling him away.

Awkward silence engulfs the two of you when you see each other again. He has Ochaco now, and he has a familiar large, protective hand snug around her waist, right where it used to be around yours.

You wish Ochaco's meaner. Wish she was cruel, unkind or even taunting just so it'd be easier to hate her. She's the opposite though. Bubbly, beautiful, strong, all encapsulated in her being displayed like she was an angel from heaven.

You can see what Bakugou sees in her.

You remember the feeling of your heart breaking all too well when you see him dipping her into a kiss at their wedding. You wish you hadn't been invited.

You do your best to feign smiles to ensure the couple that you're over him, over them, but it reaches the breaking point when they start with speeches.

You're not over Bakugou, the wound is still so fresh, and it never really set in for you until you see that dazzling ring on his finger, an identical band around Ochako's on the same hand.

Perfect, smiley Ochako.

It feels a little chilly in here, don't you think?

"I don't deserve you, Ochaco," God, her name sounds so fond when it comes out of Bakugou's mouth. A gentle caress contrasts his gruff, raspy voice that makes everyone coo. "No one here knows what shit we've gone through, the war, the damn PRESS THAT WON'T LEAVE US ALONE!" He emphasises this by throwing a withering glare at the cameraman as if daring him to sell the photos to the internet.

Everyone laughs good-naturedly, and you're the only one that feels a sting to the heart at every sentence he utters. "I'm not good with words, but I mean what I fucking say. I love you, Ochaco," There's a pause, not an ounce of doubt and it's ripping you apart as everyone around 'awws!' at his bold declaration.

"I'm not gonna elaborate about how I'll catch every star in the universe for you, or whatever poetic Shakespear equivalent you're expecting. I love you. Those words, those three simple words? They prove my fucking point."

He just had to say it again.

Your heart is shattering with every word while you gather up the shards with gloveless hands. Each fragment cuts deep, and it feels like there's a messy trail of blood trickling behind as you hug the splintered memories close to your chest.

"Izuku," You whisper, catching his eyes with a pained gaze. "I can't do this anymore. Could you tell them that I'm sorry for leaving so early? I-I just...don't want to ruin their best night and-"

Izuku cuts you off with a tight embrace. "Go," The hero says, smiling gently in understanding. "I'll explain it to Kacchan."

You thank him profusely, saying that you'd do anything to make it up to him for the trouble but Izuku just waves you off, telling you to have a safe trip home.

You hastily grab your coat from the rack, finding a bench to take your high heels off and exchange them for comfortable sneakers.

"Leaving so soon?"

Your head snaps up so fast you thought you'd dislocate something, and your eyes meet red.

Bakugou.

Your guard flies up immediately, expression guarded. You're not faking happiness, simply a void of emotion, neutral and defeated.

It fucking hurts.

"Izuku told me," He said, raising an eyebrow. "Mind if I join you?"

"No, yes, maybe." You laugh at yourself. "It's been quite a night."

Bakugou never meant to hurt you, and never, ever to this extent. He sits down. "Congratulations." His eyes meet yours, and they're so fucking blank like it's your only way to stop yourself from crying. "Ochaco's a wonderful person. I couldn't think of anyone better suited for you."

Bakugou studies you carefully and watches out for a lie but never finds one. Oh, God, you mean it. Bakugou sees what you're doing. Your self-esteem has crashed into the negatives because you don't even believe you were even worth it.

Bakugou can't help but cave.

"L/n, you know that it wasn't you, right?" He insists. There's an arm's length between both of you like you're afraid he gets too close. "It was me, fuck, I wasn't ready for a relationship. Not when I wanted to be the number 1 hero-"

"I get that." You interrupt calmly. You don't smile, you don't frown, simply keep that dumb sangfroid mask on your face. You've always been too fucking respectful. "I know everything, that's why I need to go tonight. It's painful knowing."

Bakugou wishes you'd show him something. You used to be an open book, full of life whether it was large, overexaggerated reactions or the energetic person that'd always make time for him, but now you look...tired. Subdued, if you will, as if the life got sucked out of you. You're so tensed that it makes Bakugou's eyes furrow because, gosh you seem so quiet now.

Just a sign...a tear forming, eyes misting, a bottom lip quivering perhaps? Or maybe he'd get a hearty laugh and a smack to his shoulder for him being so concerned.

Any second now.

The blank look stays in your eyes. There's nothing.

"You were great out there." You continue, finally averting your gaze to slip off your shoes. "Ochaco's lucky to have someone like you. Your speech spoke volumes. I think she'd like those bentos you make for her on the daily. I remember seeing them on her desk when I got the same patrol shift as her-"

"L/n, listen, I-"

"Your skills really improved," You power through, tying your laces on the sneakers now. "You should keep doing them, you know?" your laugh sounds more like a wheeze, like there's glass stabbing your lungs. "Bet they tasted heavenly-"

"Y/n, stop-"

"Her face lights up every time she sees you, y'know?" You stand up, eyes staring up at the stars. "She loves it when you surprise her, I remember that one time-"

"Sunshine!" yells Bakugou.

Your eyes flicker back to his, finally pausing your rant. "That's playing dirty, Bakugou, I thought you'd never call me that again." You frown.

You're like a different person now, so rational and collected it throws him off. "I just..." He runs a hand down his face, and you look at him curiously, guard higher than ever. You fully expect him to do say something worse, and he hates it.

He was young and cruel back then, he should have handled the breaking-up process better, not just...tell you so out of the blue as if he simply wanted to tell you his hero schedule for the month.

"I'm sorry," Bakugou apologises, soft and genuine. You look as if he just grew another head. "I never got to...apologise. You didn't-you never deserved to be let down like that, I should have done it better. I should have done..." Bakugou's eyes drop down to his ring, shiny and beautiful, just like his life ahead. "a lot of things better."

You catch him staring, and shake your head. "You shouldn't dwell on things so far back in the past," You chide. "What's done is done. I forgive you."

Stop.

Show him something, anything. Bakugou knows, he knows you're breaking inside, knows you want to slap him, laugh at him...he doesn't know but just anything!

Instead, you make your way to the door. "I'll be going now," You bow towards him, the corners of your mouth upturning into a small smile. "Have a good night."

Bakugou's eyes trail to your face, but you've already turned your back onto him. His eyes fall on your shoes, the same, battered sneakers he'd gotten you close to a decade ago back when you were together.

"Good night," He whispers softly, staring at your back a little longer before closing the door.

Your high heels dangle on your fingers as you use another to wrap your hands around yourself, a bitter laugh escaping you as your tears overflow.

It's really cold out tonight, isn't it?

---

End notes:

I don't really know why, but I started to tear up while I was writing Y/n talking about bentos. I was really feeling this story, so I hope it came out well.

[nhasablogg]

Better than Shakespeare

Fandom: If We Were Villains

Characters: Oliver, James

Summary: James crawls into Oliver's bed when he can't sleep.

A/N: My first IWWV fic! I love this book. I'm not sure how much I'll write for it, but feel free to send prompts!

Words: 664

James would get into Oliver’s bed sometimes. As a whirlwind of snowflakes outside the window would leave the lake glistening in the early morning light, Oliver could hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps over the wooden floor, the boards creaking just before James shifted his weight from them to the mattress. Oliver would sometimes play around with the idea of not scooting over, leaving James to make the decision for them both. But he always scooted over, even when he kept his eyes closed, not certain if he was pretending to be sleeping or not, or if James wanted him to or not.

“You awake?”

Oliver hummed, eyes remaining shut although he could feel James moving next to him. “Sorta.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Is that why you do this?”

Oliver didn’t specify, but James understood. Maybe, had it been daylight, he would see the rare blush dust over his friend’s cheeks, but whatever James thought of his question his only answer consisted of pressing his forehead to Oliver’s shoulder without a word but the sound of him groaning, the sound almost nonexistent.

“I’m so tired,” he said a moment later, when neither of them had spoken. “But I can’t get myself to relax.”

“Want me to tickle your back?”

“Yes. Please.”

Oliver finally opened his eyes, not that it mattered much, and they both shifted around so that he could reach James’ back easily, fingertips ghosting over his spine. They didn’t do this often - maybe James was too embarrassed to ask for it too frequently, and Oliver too afraid of how much he wanted him to ask - but they’d done it enough times that Oliver knew exactly what to do. What spots made him shiver. What spot was too ticklish. What spot would have him fall asleep within minutes and what spot would force him to remain awake due to how good it felt. Oliver felt selfish that night. Oliver didn’t want him to fall asleep.

“Higher.”

“Oh, he has demands.” But he did as he was told, grinning when James laughed sheepishly. He trailed over the nape of his neck, swiping over the spot he knew to be extra sensitive just to feel him squirm and pretend as if nothing had happened. If he would do it enough times James would ask him to switch spots without explaining why, as if Oliver had no clue. It was endearing.

“Have you thought about the auditions?”

“Please. No talk of school. Not right now.” Oliver didn’t miss the anxiety in James’ voice and so he slipped his hand into his hair to try to scratch it away.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m just stressed.”

“You have no reason to be,” Oliver didn’t tell him, knowing it wouldn’t have helped. Instead he kept petting him, going from place to place in an order that made sense to only him, leaving James melting under his touch. His eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness that he could see him now, sprawled out beside him on his stomach with his head turned in his direction, eyes blinking as if fighting off sleep. Meeting Oliver’s, looking away.

“Hey.” A tap to his cheek. “Are you more relaxed now?”

“Very.”

“Good.”

James sighed, eyes slipping shut. “You’re the best damn thing about this school, Oliver.”

He felt as if he would choke on his next breath. “Even better than Shakespeare?”

“Much better than Shakespeare.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Mm, you should be.” James wasn’t opening his eyes again, his voice low, breathing slowing down. Oliver wondered how he would react if he quickly scribbled over the spot on his back ribs that always made him jump now that he had his guard down, but ultimately decided not to be an asshole when James trusted him so.

He did it the next morning instead, when James wasn’t letting him get out of bed to use the restroom, earning an indignant groan and a giggle he would think about for the rest of the day.

[diorcities]

strawberries & cigarettes — teaser.

pairing: haechan x reader.

genre: angst, smut.

content: high school au, enemies to lovers, boyband haechan, they're on a play, there the mention of shakespeare, haechan's a dick, reader's a dick, a lot of cussing, jisung's a sweetheart. lowercase on purpose.

summary: the school's play is in two days and you're running out of time to put everything together since your known enemy lee haechan decided that the rehearsal day was the perfect day to release a launch party for his new album.

taglist: open — closed

a/n: i plan to write 15k words for this fic (at best) and release it once it's done. i need to clarify that this is a draft from one of the novels that i'm currently writing in spanish. so this is basically a piece of that. let me know any misspelled word or bad grammar!! <3

masterlist — req

full fic !!

“yn, what are you doing here?” jeno looked at you quite confused when you approached him. like being at a teen party was one of the last places he'd find you. honestly, he was right. “ah, i don't know,” you muttered, exaggerating each word. “perhaps looking for answers as to why my characters are at a party and not in the auditorium.” you watched jeno nod slowly, though he didn't look at all guilty of that recrimination. “i apologize,” he said, “but since you're here, you can stay. i'll make sure to dedicate one of our songs to you as a form of apology.” and you would have given in at that moment and place, except for one: you didn't like rock, and two: someone caught jeno's attention.

“hey, jeno!” you froze hearing someone call romeo through the music. jeno waved to some point behind you, coincidentally, where you had seen haechan start a conversation with a couple of girls talking a few seconds ago. “this isn't over, romeo,” you threatened, ready to leave before discovering if the person coming your way was your enemy haechan.

as you turned, fleeing, your face was stamped on a smooth, yet hard surface. you caressed your nose, looking up at the rest of the chest with which you hit your septum, meeting a pair of eyes that seemed to drop sparkles. “oh shit, are you okay?” he asked, looking concerned. “wonderfully,” you hissed. the boy stood up with a spasm, “i'm really sorry.” sure he does. he looked at you, longer than usual, before reacting as if he had remembered something. “wait, romeo?” he suddenly asked, pointing at jeno, looking for an answer.

“mmm…” jeno nodded, “we're in the drama club,” he explained. the star-eyed boy whistled, “and i guess you're juliet," he said, in your direction. “you guessed wrong,” you murmured. even though that answer would have been enough to stop people from talking to you, the boy found it funny. his laugh was heard above the music, and therefore, jeno started laughing too. and consequently to that, you too. “she's our director,” jeno explained. the boy nodded several times, weighing the black-haired boy's words. “impressive,” he said at the end, “that's like…” he added, using his hands to simulate an imaginary ladder, raising his hand above his head, “very impressive. my congratulations.”.

“thanks,” you replied, suddenly feeling weird. no one had reacted like that. as if they took for granted that it was obvious it was impressive. the starboy shrugged, like it was nothing. as if it was easy for him to flatter people spontaneously. “wait, if you're the director, that would make you…”.

“shakespeare,” you said in unison. genuinely smiling was not common for you. you could notice it; jeno had to look at you twice to make sure that you were indeed smiling. on the other hand, starboy…, he must have thought that you smiled often, and that you went to parties every day, and that jeno was your friend. would he still talk to you if he knew the truth? “have you seen renjun?” you asked jeno, remembering why you had come. you watched him think before his gaze was lost in the ocean of people. his eyes widening slightly as he found something in the crowd. he then pointed his finger behind the star-eyed boy, and your gaze followed the route, until you fell on renjun, talking to haechan, a few meters from you.

and as if your gaze could feel, haechan returned your gaze, at first absentmindedly. without recognizing you, until you could mentally feel how his brain went to work and alerted him to look a second time. remembering him that you weren't allowed to his party. however, you reacted automatically faster than him. grabbing the boy by the shoulder, he instinctively leaned forward, within reach. your face moving closer to his, lips going to his lips.

first, there was no reaction. just his lips brushing against yours. your body completely tense from having been so close to finding benvolio. when a sudden movement caused your thoughts to shut up. the boy's lips began to move on top of yours.

he was kissing you.

your hands still on his shoulders, and his hand going to one of them, taking it together and guiding it to his neck, before sliding out of your hand, onto your shoulder, resting on your back. drawing you closer.

his eyelashes tickling your cheeks. and his lips, soft, kissing yours. slowly. your head tilting to the sides when you changed position. the spell of a kiss being broken without warning, when his lips moved away from yours. and your eyes widening quickly, to see haechan take him by the shoulder and pull him away from you. and finally, his murderous gaze falling on you.

haechan shot jeno a look before taking your arm and dragging you towards the exit. you tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but the boy was pretty strong, and his grip was pretty hard on your arm. “i can find the way out on my own, idiot,” you hissed, trying to get rid of him to no avail. “you're an asshole, haechan. i want you to know that.” you continued to rant as he led you to the exit, “motherfucker, you always have to mess things up. oh, i hate you,” you blurted out, seeing that they had passed the exit.

“the exit is that way by…”

“shut the fuck up,” he hissed, leading them into a desolate hallway. he then dropped you between the wall and him. he looked quite angry, his hands were clenching and unclenching into fists, and his breathing was rough. his eyes finally looking at you, burning with rage. “what the hell are you doing?” he released. “shit, are you like this because i snuck in your part…?,” you said, before he interrupted you, “what were you doing kissing mark?” he asked. you were afraid that he would spit fire at any moment.

without noticing it until that moment, your bodies were quite close. your agitated breaths from the discussion entwined in the air in the middle of each other. his gaze trying to pierce your gaze. so close you could smell his cologne, mingling with his marlboro breath. suddenly glancing to his lips, as if you could visualize the cigarette between them. reacting quickly, and cursing for what it looked like you were doing, returning to meet his eyes, only to find that he was doing the same. only you never smoked.

to be continued

[writings-of-an-introvert]

Back on my overwatch bs. Enjoy some Moira x reader angst!

AO3 LINK

CW: weight loss, crying, relationship issues, reader likes Shakespeare (sorry not sorry), most importantly: Moira.

Word count: 2,529

There's no title

Enjoy.

---

The honeymoon stage of your relationship was long over. You knew who she was. You knew what her work meant to her. You knew her priorities. But what you didn't know was if she knew yours. She knew your favorite places to eat, favorite meals, shows, films; she knew you liked reading and theater, she knew you preferred coffee over tea but had a massive collection of herbal and medicinal teas; she knew you preferred sleeping on the side of the bed towards the window, so you could see the moon; she knew your work also took up quite a bit of your time, just as hers did. What she didn't know was that you made the effort to make time. Had she known, would things have been different? She didn't know you sat at home, lonely, in the dim light of twilight waiting for her. She didn't know how many times you'd remind her of a date or dinner reservation, but it didn't matter, she'd lose track of time and miss it. She didn't know how important these things were to you. To her, she could try again next time. Always next time. Because you'd be there waiting for her, waiting for next time.

Moira did love you, she was terrible at communicating it, however. Despite the time and experiences that had passed between you, she still blushed gently when you whispered sweet nothings in her ear. She still searched for you when you'd roll away from her in the middle of the night. She still chased you in her dreams, where she was free. Free from work and commitment and obligations. She still wanted you. And she would promise to make up for the lost time. In her heart, those promises were real, but eventually, the promises started to feel empty to you. Hollow words spoken to soothe your aching heart. 

"I'm so sorry, dearheart, this research is time sensitive. I'll make it up to you, sweetling." She'd say. Or,

"Darling, this amount of testing is intense, it needs thorough examination and observation. I promise I'll make time after this is over, love."

You'd sigh and smile and nod, but you wouldn't say anything anymore. A silent resignation to a new normal. It never stopped hurting. Each new hollow promise, each time she brushed you off, the pain built up. One night it left you crying, you'd gotten tickets to a production of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. It was directed by an old friend, someone you knew could do the story justice. You were thrilled to take her, to show her something small from your world you were so proud of. But when your phone lit up as you stood in front of the will call, you braced yourself. 

"Hey, love. You on your way?" You asked, letting the hope lift your voice. Maybe this time was different.

"I'm so sorry, dearheart," it wasn't, you knew. "My team is further behind than we thought. We need to make observations later into tonight. I-... I don't think I'll be home until the early morning hours." She explained.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, sweetheart," you said, and you were. You weren't sure for whom anymore. You tried to keep your voice even, trying not to let the frustration and disappointment lace too heavily as you spoke. "What time do you think you'll be home?"

"Quite frankly, love, I don't know. We are... we are quite behind." She said, you heard her sigh, you could practically see her pinching the bridge of her nose as she spoke. Something in you stopped, the frustration and disappointment were gone. They were replaced with... something else.

"Hmm, well... best of luck with that, love. I'll see you." You cut yourself off and hung up. Heat raced to your cheeks and anger rose up in your chest. You turned to file into the crowd to find your seat. It wasn't until the curtains rose you realized you didn't say "I love you."

Moira was shocked by your response. The short, quick bite of your words stung more than she realized. A heavy pang of guilt sat like a boulder in her chest. She heard the line go silent and waited. You couldn't have hung up without... 

"Hello? Darling?" No response. She looked at the smoothe black screen, your face now absent. You did. She sighed again and returned to her work. She was distracted however. She made easy mistakes, things caught quickly by colleagues and corrected well within parameters. She was sloppy tonight, everyone could see something was wrong. Her shoulders sagged with exhaustion and somewhere around two o'clock in the morning she realized she was useless. She called a taxi home.

Your show was delightful. You had studied classical text for years and were fascinated by the evolution of language. Though grammar and syntaxes may shift through the ages, the stories still matter. In a million iterations, the stories are still being told, and they'll always matter. You met your friend for drinks after the show and congratulated them on a job well done. They introduced you to the cast and crew and you were able to talk with both Benedick's and Beatrice's actors about the balance and foils of their characters through their names and dialog for quite a few hours. You chatted with Hero's actress about how she truly is the star of the show and complimented her on her performance. After a few more drinks, a quick late dinner, and a raucous good time, you hailed a cab back home around one o'clock in the morning. You made your way to the empty brownstone townhouse you owned, slid the key into the lock and entered the silent house. You were alone. Again.

That anger snapped back in full force. You didn't deserve this. You didn't deserve to be treated like a second or third priority. You loved Moira but enough was enough. It was going to hurt to leave, but it would hurt much worse to stay like this. You pulled your phone out and looked up hotels in the area. If she was going to leave you alone again, you'd show her what it felt like to be left alone for once. You climbed the stairs towards your bedroom, scrolling through options. You threw the phone on the bed for a moment as you knelt down and reached underneath. You pulled out the leather suitcase and plopped it beside your phone on the bed, popping the locks open. You started packing.

Moira's taxi pulled up outside. She looked up at the dark windows of the home she shared with you. She paid the driver, and tugged her bag over her shoulder. She quietly unlocked the door and slipped in. Moving as silently as she could she closed and locked the door again and set her bag down. She took her shoes off to muffle her footsteps up the polished wooden staircase, giddy that she would very soon slide into bed beside you and hold you as long as you wanted her to. She tippy-toed towards the bedroom and froze. A look of guilt slid over her features as she heard your sobs quietly coming from the slightly ajar door of your bedroom. She padded gently over to the door and pushed it open, her eyes widened at the scene. 

You were furiously packing clothes into the suitcase occasionally wiping tears away with the back of your hand. You turned and she caught your eye. There was a moment of suspended silence, neither one of you exactly sure what to say.

"Dearhear-" She started.

"Don't." You barked, cutting her off. Moira flinched at the tone of your voice. "Don't 'dearheart' me. I don't want to hear it, right now." You didn't yell, or shout. You didn't have the energy. You closed the suitcase. 

"I'm so so-"

"Sorry." You snapped, finishing her sentence. She fell silent again. "You're always so sorry, Moira. You're always sorry, and I'm always alone. We're supposed to be together, to be a team, but I'm here. I'm doing this on my own, I'm alone. And I'm tired of it, Moira. I'm tired of being alone. And tired of these empty promises. You keep making these promises that you don’t keep. I've tried to believe you, I want to, to give you every chance, but you have yet to follow through on any of it." With every word, horror dawned on her face, realizing what she had done. There was another long silence, occasionally broken by your sniffling. Moira chewed on her lip, she couldn't look at you, she wanted to say something, anything, but nothing came. You could see her expression shift as her thoughts wrestled with one another, her eyes shifting quickly across the floor. You waited for her to gather her thoughts, a splinter of sadness cracked your heart. Then Moira slumped against the doorframe as she let out a defeated sigh. 

"I know I cannot make you stay," she said, her voice thick and hoarse. She slid down the doorframe until she sat on the floor, covering her face with her hands. She was disheveled when she left work, but now she looked absolutely ragged. In the warm light of the bedroom lamp, you could see just how pale she'd gotten in the last few months cooped up in her lab, you could see the bones in her elbows protruding sharply under her taught skin, even the bones of her shoulder blades could be seen from under her crisp, albeit wrinkled shirt. She'd lost so much weight. She wasnt taking care of herself. It struck you just how long you had gone without seeing her, and you couldn't decide if you were angrier or just heartbroken. There was a long, heavy pause as you waited for Moira to continue. As you watched her, you could see her trembling nearly imperceptible in the gloomy light. Finally, after what seemed like all night, she pulled her hands away from her face. Her sunken eyes were puffy and red, her cheeks streaked with tears, her pale skin was blotchy. As she spoke again her voice was barely above a whisper, choked and weak, resigned.

"But I do not want you to go." She sobbed. You had never seen Moira cry. She got emotional, sure, even vulnerable sometimes, but you had never seen her so broken, so lost. She looked so small, crumpled in the doorway sobbing like a child.

Your eyes shifted back up to the horizon. You stared into middle space as you decided what to do next. You sat down slowly on the corner of the bed. It hurt. It all hurt; being left alone, leaving, seeing Moira like this. It was like your heart was trapped in barbed wire and there was no way out without it ripping apart. You wanted her. All you wanted was her. You wanted her to hold you, and go to dinner with you, and see shows with you, and be old with you. You wanted her to know she was your number one priority, and you wanted to be hers. 

Your eyes burned and tears threatened to further stain your face and neck. The lump in your throat choked all word and thought from you. You slid from the bed onto your knees and crawled the short space between you. You reached out your hand and placed it on her shoulder. You wanted her, just her. 

She flinched at the touch and looked up at you, your face tight and contorted trying to fight back the tears. Her fingers brushed your wrist and when you didn't pull away she pulled you in tight, wrapping her arms around your neck and head. You wrapped your arms around her middle and held her just as tightly, both of you sobbing loudly into the others' body. And for a while that's all you did, cry and apologize and hold each other. Moira didn't make anymore promises that night. 

The sky turned a pale gray as dawn approached and still you two sat in the doorway, not saying much else. As the two of you calmed down, Moira began to stroke your hair, and your fingertips danced in patterns on the back of her neck. 

"Y/n," Moira finally croaked, "I am so, so, sorry."

You leaned back to look at her.

"I tried," you said, "I tried to talk to you, to tell you." 

"And I didn't listen." She said, pressing her forehead gently against yours, "I know I can't ask you to forgive me, I know you don't have to accept my apology, and I know I can't make up for this," Her hand came up to caress your cheek, "But I want to do better, I know better now. I want to try again." 

"And that's all I've wanted." You said, "I just wanted you know how I felt. How I've been feeling. How lonely I am when you brush me off or when you don’t come home."

"I'd be so lost without you, dearheart. I'm so sorry I made you feel this way," she whispered. "Please, stay. Stay with me."

You nodded and she wrapped you up in her arms tightly again, gently rocking you back and forth. Finally, as the birds began chirping outside, and the cold light of dawn streaked through your windows, the two of you stood and walked over to the bed. You shoved the suitcase to the floor with a thud, and the two of you collapsed on to the bed, wrapped in each other's arms. Moira drew the covers over the two of you, she gently pressed a long kiss to your forehead and muttered another string of apologies and "I love you"s, her breath was warm against your skin and the sound of her voice soothed you. You muttered your own apologies and "I love you"s in return. And that was how sleep took the two of you, limbs tangled endlessly together, breath breathed by the other, warmth shared between the two of you. 

Hours later, Moira's phone buzzed in her back pocket. She pulled it out and answered, her eyes still closed. But you looked at her, waiting for the moment you knew she'd have to leave.

"What." She growled, her voice was crackling and hoarse.

"Where are you?" A voice said sternly from her phone.

"Unwell." She said without missing a beat, "put David in charge." You pulled back a little, surprised she was calling out of work.

"You-" 

"My notes are in my top left desk drawer." She snapped. There was a pause. "Anything else?" She growled.

"No." Said the voice, "Rest up, O'Deora-" She hung up and threw the phone on the bedside table with a clatter and promptly settled back beside you. Her eyes never opened. You hand came up and cupped her cheek.

"Thank you, my love." You said. You knew that was more difficult for her than she made it seem. Her hand gently clasped your hand and she moved to kiss your palm.

"Of course, dearheart." She said.

[mid0khan]

Dreamling Week 2024, day 5

Thanks again to @mr-sadman for the prompts!

Prompt: Midsummer

Title: I'll Follow Thee and Make a Heaven of Hell

Summary: Hob would do anything to see Dream happy. Yes, even going to one of Shakespeare's plays. (1,254 words, no TW, also Human!AU)

Read on AO3:

Dream was practically vibrating out of his skin with excitement as he crossed the literature department to reach the history teachers offices. It sucked that Hob’s office was literally on the other side of campus from his. Or maybe it was a blessing, there probably wouldn’t be much work done if they were next to each other at all time.

But it meant that now the literature professor had to keep himself from running as he walked through the whole university to join his husband.

He barged in Hob’s office without knocking, causing the history professor to startle badly.

“Jesus Christ, Dream!” he exclaimed frightfully. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“You will never believe what Lucienne just told me!” Dream exclaimed, doing his best to refrain from screaming. His jaws were starting to hurt from smiling.

Hob chuckled fondly, standing from his desk to kiss his lover.

“It must be really extraordinary, I haven’t seen you so happy since our wedding!” he teased.

“Don’t be stupid, it doesn’t even come close.” Dream rolled his eyes, still bouncing on his feet.

Hob hummed, pretending to think. “Did your sibling break their leg during their last fashion show?”

“Stop it, you make me look bad,” the literature professor chastised, laughing all the same. “No, it’s far better than that!”

“Now I’m really curious! What is it?”

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream will be performed at the Globe in two weeks-” Hob must have made a face because Dream hastily added: “and it’s staged by Kay Culverton Stranger himself!” Hob really tried to look excited, but he must have done a bad job at it considering that his husband’s enthusiasm deflated quickly. “I’m sure you would like it!” the literature professor pleaded. “Stranger has such a deep understanding of Shakespeare’s work, his stagings truly are the bests when it comes to Shakespeare, they always highlight the emotional and political depths of the plays in such amazing ways…”

“I’m sorry darling. You know what I think about Shakespeare…” Dream seemed about to cry, his eyes fixed on the ground. Hob gently tilted his head up, forcing his lover to look at him. “But I would gladly go with you anyway.”

“But you hate Shakespeare.”

“I don’t hate him; I think he is overrated and I don’t like his plays. But I knew what I was signing up for when I married a Shakespeare specialist.”

“I don’t want you to have a horrible time just for my sake,” Dream sulked.

“I won’t, I’ll be able to watch my amazing husband be excited about something he loves for a whole evening!” His lover still didn’t seem convinced so Hob changed his strategy “Let’s make a deal. We go see A Midsummer Night’s Dream in two weeks, and in exchange you let me drag you to the exhibit about the evolution of the guild system during the Renaissance that starts next month at the British Museum. What do you say?”

“It seems like a fair trade,” Dream admitted, a smile growing back on his face. “I accept your proposition.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Hob declared with a mock curtsey, which earned him a playful swat and some delighted giggles. “Now, shall we go back to our mansion for the eventide?” he continued with the poshest accent he could muster.

“Our flat hardly count as a mansion, dearest,” Dream chuckled fondly. “But yes, we shall, if you are done with your work here.”

It was a nice day, and they decided to walk back to their flat. Dream genuinely tried not to talk Hob’s ears off, but he was far too excited about the play, and soon he was passionately info-dumping, hands flapping with enthusiasm. Hob didn’t mind. He basked in it; he remembered, when he had met Dream, how the literature teacher had been distant and silent, barely letting show any interest in anything. Now, after years together (and after going no-contact with Dream’s parents), he could talk for hours about his special interests, eager to share them with his husband. He still struggled around strangers, and he often appeared aloof and cold to those who didn’t know him well, but he made progresses one step after another, opening up a bit more every time, allowing himself to be. Hob delighted every day in being able to watch Dream free himself.

When they arrived to their home, Dream practically threw himself at their PC to book their tickets to the play. Hob watched worriedly as his excitement died down, his shoulders dropping as he let out a disappointed sigh.

“What’s wrong, love?”

“It’s already sold out,” Dream answered sadly. He turned the PC off and went to their room.

Hob heard him cry through the door, but he didn’t dare enter. He knew Dream didn’t like people seeing him cry. He cooked his favourite dish and prepared his favourite movie, hoping that it would cheer him up a bit, and waited.

When Dream finally got out of their room with puffy eyes and damp cheeks, he was grateful for hob’s efforts, but it was obvious he was still crestfallen.

The following days, he tried to act as if everything was fine, but Hob could see he was still upset. When even their colleagues started asking him is Dream was okay, the history professor decided to act. He took advantage of his office hours (which were really calm this time of the year) and made many phone-calls.

There was one week left before the play when he walked in Dream’s office with two tickets in his hand.

The literature professor barely refrained from screaming, springing from his chair and catching Hob in a bone-breaking embrace.

“How did you get them?” Dream asked, in awe.

Hob smiled, trying to keep his bouncing husband from hitting his desk. “The advantage of being overly friendly and changing career path more times than I can count in my twenties is that I know a lot of people. I made a few phone-calls, promised to help with a house move, got ourselves invited to quite a few get-togethers to reconnect with old friends (which you can obviously skip if you don’t want to come), and finally got my hand on two tickets, and we even have VIP seats.”

“You did all of that for a play you don’t even want to go to?” Dream asked, confusion momentarily eclipsing the euphoria.

“I did all of that so my beloved husband wouldn’t be upset anymore. And it was all worth it, considering how happy it makes you.”

Dream rode the happiness high the whole week, spooking their colleagues a few times with his uncharacteristically cheerful behaviour, to Hob’s great amusement. The day of the play, he was so excited he couldn’t stay still. When they got to the theatre, he was shaking so hard with anticipation Hob worried for a moment they wouldn’t be let in, but thankfully they were guided to their seats without a fuss. They were placed on a balcony, with a perfect view on the stage.

Dream kept squealing and bouncing with delight until the play started. When the first actor appeared on the stage, he suddenly became very still and silent, immediately captivated. Hob didn’t look at the stage once of the whole night; instead, he watched as Dream smiled, cried, and laughed, delighting in his husband’s joy. When the curtain fell and it was time to go home, he couldn’t remember a single word from the play.

They both had an amazing evening.

[mywingsareonwheels]

I'm sorry but once you've seen one really superb physically disabled[1] actor play Shakespeare's Richard III, you absolutely cannot go back to watching an able-bodied actor play the role. Anyone else is going to suffer in comparison. Like, having seen Arthur Hughes play Richard at the RSC a couple of years ago, I'm hesitant even about rewatching Ian McKellen's film and a) that was made back when able-bodied actors playing Richard was more acceptable (I don't think less of Sir Ian for it), b) he's one of my favourite actors ever, c) until I saw Arthur Hughes, he was the best Richard I'd seen.

All of which is to say: Globe Theatre and Michelle Terry:-

what the actual fuck

you're better than this; you're literally having the glorious Francesca Mills play the Duchess of Malfi this year, how can you not recognise that casting the able-bodied artistic director of the company as Richard is an artistically and ethically shitty decision

sorry to Michelle Terry fans, but that overly percussive and rough-hewn verse-speaking and lack of subtlety or vocal variety? the last thing you need for Richard, even if she were disabled.

I am very angry and very disappointed. And also feeling very scathing as a disabled person, as a keen amateur actor and theatre-watcher, as a Shakespeare nerd.

Anyway. I'll watch that Duchess of Malfi if I get in a position to do so (Hughes as Bosola, also!), I'm not about to write off or "cancel" the Globe entirely over this, that would be stupid (and isn't what campaigners are asking for, especially as, I mean, part of the point is that they get enough actively right that them getting this so wrong is very out of left-field). But I can't see myself facing watching anything with Terry in it for a long while.

I am going to be rewatching Arthur Hughes' Richard at least once this year though! And relishing the thought. (It's on marquee.tv and digitaltheatre.com, if anyone's interested! <3 )

[1] Ideally visibly physically disabled, but I wouldn't insist on that.

[mommyashtoreth]

crowley's s1 design vs crowley's s2 design go

GREAT question I am so pumped for this bc if you know me you know I like character design and ESPECIALLY goth character design. His design changes a bit within both seasons but I'll say that the 2011-era design (yknow, with the half-bun and the silver chain and the tortoiseshell rims) is like, top tier Crowley design to me. It's also less corp goth than like, s2 Crowley and thus more easily replicable by Me Specifically and as. ahem. The Crowlet Of The Group that does a lot for me. But that doesn't mean I DON'T like the sleeker corp-gothy s2 look, I love the blazer and the shoes and how the scarf works with it all and I truly cannot complain about a season of television that delivers a 50something goth cuntress in a turtleneck and a black leather vest. One thing I'm not Crazy about in the s2 design is the hair, I like the color and think the lighter streaks especially are very fun but I don't Love the way it's styled. Like it's fine I don't hate it but it's just not as good as the half-bun very little ever will be. And in general I prefer the more "natural"-looking s1 color, I default to describing Crowley as "ginger" in most cases and even when I refer to his "red hair" (like when I say his stomach hair is red or his bush is red in any of my terrible terrible writing) I'm imagining a more orangey natural red. That's just personal preference tho! Either way I think he's got a great design, I've lauded it before, I really love how different textures and fabrics and finishes are used to not make the monotone black feel "boring" or samey or anything. Being goth is hard work! You don't want the blacks to blend into each other too much but you DEFINITELY don't want the blacks to clash too much either. It's a delicate balance and I think the show strikes it really well

Bonus lightning round of me ranking every historical Crowley costume I can think of off the top of my head, worst to best:

French Revolution bc it blows, the medieval Black Knight one bc it's kind of boring, Shakespeare bc who cares, Bilbo the Shite or whatever his name is I'm sorry but I'm not into it. the minisode is great but it's nowhere near one of his best looks, 1800s St James Park bc who cares, 1940s it doesn't do that much for me I'm sorry once again (I think it's the slickness of the hair again. I don't dig it), angelmode which certainly isn't hot per se but I still need to see bouncing and moaning on it, 1960s, 1970s, the Crucifixion bc I NEED a milf with a receding hairline or I'll die don't let me die, 1890s Edinburgh because Jesus God the cunt (it's the shape of the shoulders), and NANNY ASHTORETH!!! You thought I wouldn't count her would you. Well you thought wrong that's what we do around here baby

[abcwordsurge]

so! I just finished with the 1st draft of my Houston / Miami / New Orleans story that I'm writing for @kaz-playz (yes I'm still working on it, even after all these months, it's long and I'm slow, sorry, but I promise I'll get it to you someday)

I usually only edit my stories before posting, but I want nothing but the best for Kaz, so I'll probably do a full rewrite of this one. in the meantime, allow me to share with you some hcs for the trio that I stumbled across while writing the first draft

Miami:

I've already talked about this, but just to establish a baseline, I hc Miami as pan, and using they/she pronouns

they're the biggest flirt ever, of course

they're light sensitive, and I think I've said this before, but just in case those in the back missed it: she wears her sunglasses (a gift from New Orleans) almost everywhere, and can't stand fluorescent lighting

they love the beach and cruises of course (cruise capital of the world, you know)

naturally quite pale, but you wouldn't know it- they're always tanned from so much time in the sun because she forgets sunscreen way too often :( (unless Nora and/or Houston are there to remind her)

she likes to go diving to explore the shipwrecks (but can't convince Nora to go with her)

shockingly, they're a Shakespeare fan. this isn't based on anything except, uh, plot convenience, and I like Shakespeare, so shut up /lh. (also she's a huge believer in "Shakespeare should be watched, not read")

Nora (New Orleans):

she/her, bi

literally the most gorgeous girl you will ever meet

not very flirty, but very kind, and there is often confusion regarding whether she's flirting or just, y'know, being a decent person

notably, has a realistic impression of how serious problems are (Miami has a tendency to be too mellow and not realize that something is a problem, while Houston is prone to dramatics- but not Nora, Nora's ~reasonable~)

not opposed to breaking the rules, and doesn't seem to respect authority figures very much (they're just people, after all, who are they to order her around?)

plays clarinet at a low-key jazz club, and is quite proud of it

very good at poker (Las Vegas is her frenemy)

she practices Vodouism (which, admittedly, I don't know too much about, so I'm hesitant to write a lot about it- I don't want to accidentally resort to stereotypes, y'know?- but it stands to reason that she would)

and finally, the star of the show, our girl!

Houston:

she/her, raging lesbian

very prideful and stubborn, and a lot of people find her attitude "disagreeable," but her confidence and passion is actually quite endearing

gets bored easily, especially during meetings, and starts drama for fun

she thinks she's socially awkward because she has a hard time figuring out what people want from her, but most people don't notice when she feels awkward

also has sensory issues, though she mostly combats hers with being very particular about the clothes she wears, and avoiding crowds

had a bit of a sheltered childhood (cough Texas cough) but part of her rebellious phase was learning more about other cultures and people with different experiences from hers

she's found her place in the LGBTQ+ community (as the L) and likes to throw it in Texas's face during arguments (even though he has technically "accepted" her, he isn't exactly thrilled about it, and she knows it)

admittedly, she doesn't know much about polyamorous relationships (at least, at the start of my story *wink wink*)

so that's what I've got for now. to hold y'all over till I finish up the real story. have a good day :3

[galaxythreads]

Hello! I’ve liked your fics for a long time, and was wondering if you would write something with fem- presenting Loki? There are some gender-fluid Loki fics on ao3, but I Need More To Live. I would write one, but I wouldn’t ever finish it.

I really want Loki to join the avengers in 2012 so that the other stuff doesn’t happen. sometimes I want Loki and Natasha to make fun of the rest of the avengers.

Idk I just really like the idea that Loki and Natasha would be friends. Or Loki and Wanda. (Except for all of the aforementioned characters got done so dirty by MCU. Isn’t that like a trope? Kill off the girl so the guy has a motivation to defeat the bad guy? Like from Green Lantern or something?

And Loki and Wanda got rewritten.). Whatever. I’m PERFECTLY OKAY! *eye twitches*

That kind of turned into a rant. Sorry.

Here are more of my headcanons, because I’d rather dm someone on tumblr instead of actually making a post on my blog. I’m weird.

-Loki was friends with Tchaikovsky and Mozart and Shakespeare. Maybe even Paganini, or like Ada Lovelace. Or Albert Einstein. Basically a lot of historical figures and also musicians from the 1980s.

-Loki is an honorary gay, because he’s an alien and aliens don’t have human concepts of gender and sexuality. But also you saw that 🏳️‍🌈hand flip🏳️‍🌈 he did in the 1602 episode. I mean, he was just being so gay in that 1602 episode. It was beautiful.

-Loki is a sad little boi. 🥺🥺

-Loki is a good little boi who got did dirty by MCU and Odin. (🥺🥺)

-Loki isn’t always a boy.🏳️‍⚧️🏳️‍⚧️(unfortunately no gender-fluid flag emojis so 💕🤍💜🖤💙)

-Loki knows all the languages.

-Loki would watch anime and Kdramas if HE WASN’T DEAD.

-Loki is a theater kid.

-Loki is cat

-Loki knows how to play ALL the instruments. He likes cello the best though. Also he has perfect pitch.

-Loki needs therapy. Like two blue whales worth of therapy.

-If Tony and Loki ever had a long conversation, they would figure out how to solve world hunger and climate change and overpopulation AND THEIR MOTHERS. (It doesn’t make sense but just roll with it)

-Loki is a Major Fucking Nerd About Everything.

-Loki likes calculus as a hobby.

-Loki is, (un?)fortunately, a British stereotype.

-Loki ships appledash and narusasu.

Thank you for coming to my Ted talk. Bye, and thanks for letting me dump headcanons on you.

Hi! Thank you so much for sharing all of these with me, it's so fun to see other people's headcanons about Loki and their excitement about his character. I love discussing this blorbo and cracking him open like an onion to peal away layers of trauma and reveal the nerd beneath.

Lol, the amount of times I've thought about doing an MCU rewrite post a1 to fix everything is insane. If I did do this, I'd actually probably start at civil war, because personally, I feel like everything was (generally) actually okay and enjoyable until infinity war. Civil war is just a good place to kick around the fix-its because everything is such a mess.

As far as your request goes, it might surprise you, but you're actually NOT the first person to approach me about a genderfluid, fem-presenting Loki. More like the....4th? or maybe 5th? Idk. I've definitely been approached by multiple people over the years about this. Firstly, thank you for trusting me with your idea and your headcanons, I'm humbled and honored that you would approach me about this because you believed I would be able to write the story in a way that you would find meaningful and enjoyable <3

Second - I really just don't know. My first inclination is to say no, not because I'm not interested or don't care, but mostly because I'm so busy right now I really don't know when I'll be able to get to the story. Plus, I'm really not sure how to go about this. I'd need to figure out what direction I wanted to take the story, because Loki being genderfluid wouldn't change that much except their outward appearance. Loki + genderfluid + Natasha friendship is an amazing concept, but it's not a...plot, if that makes sense? "Fixing" a1 could be 50,000,000 separate things, and if it goes out as a fix-it for mcu, that would be an enormous project. Easily 200k-400k+, which would take me like...uh 1-3 years to write.

Loki being genderfluid IS something I've thought about just adding to my fics in general now (i'm really not sure, because I love cis male Loki, and I know it's canon that he's genderfluid, but I kind of disregard most things from the series anyway?) but Idk?

+ and this is just a personal one for me, but I don't know how to include Loki being genderfluid as a major part of the plot/story right now. Like, for example, I've been in the process of dumping all of my religious lgbtq+ trauma on peter parker in a (massive) one-shot that revolves around Peter learning to accept himself as being gay, but the point of the story is that Peter doesn't accept himself at first and the conclusion is when he does. (I don't know if I'm ever going to share or finish that fic by the way, so don't look for it) I don't know how to take the concept of this story, turn it into a fix-it for Avengers 1 with Natasha, and have a meaningful story about being genderfluid at the same time?

Like to me there's two different ways to go about lgbtq+ stories: a story about being gay that is intended to talk about lgbtq+ experiences and focus heavily on that, vs a story where the character is lgbtq+ and it's just part of their character and not something we spend a lot of time talking about because we don't need to. The story isn't about them being lgbtq+ specifically, it's about the character. Recently, a lot more media has started doing the latter, which is really, really nice because I don't feel like being lgbtq+ has to be justified every 20 lines.

The story I'm writing about Peter Parker is the former. It's about being gay. The entire story revolves around it. What I can tell from what you're saying is that you want something where Loki just IS genderfluid, but it's not something we spend a whole lot of time discussing because the story isn't ABOUT being genderfluid, it's about fixing mcu with genderfluid Loki as the main character, if I'm understanding this correctly? Which is fine and I absolutely support it because there is nothing wrong with writing genderfluid Loki and I wholeheartedly support those authors.

So i guess to shorten this - because this isn't just like a ~5-15k one-shot (which are about the only length of requests I can successfully complete right now), as respectfully as I can, I'm going to have to lovingly turn you down. I'm not saying no, I'll never write about genderfluid Loki, because I'm like 90% sure I will eventually, but I just don't know about a fix-it for MCU from the first Avengers. One suggestion I have is maybe, if you really really need to see this come to fruition, is to just write a bunch of one-shots that are interconnected based on each of your headcanons and then publish it as an interconnected series, not so much a full length novel like I would write. I can easily see this being a really enjoyable series. Best of luck

~galaxy <3

[distilled-prose]

From Facebook - M. A. Rothman 9/26/24

If the English language made any sense, lackadaisical would have something to do with a shortage of flowers.

- Doug Larson

Writers don’t have lifestyles. They sit in little rooms and write.

- Norman Mailer

Learn to write. Never mind the damn statistics. If you like statistics, become a CPA.

- Jim Murray

The dubious privilege of a freelance writer is he’s given the freedom to starve anywhere.

- S.J. Perelman

Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.

- Gene Fowler

If you can't annoy somebody, there's little point in writing.

- Kingsley Amis

Real seriousness in regard to writing is one of two absolute necessities. The other, unfortunately, is talent.

- Ernest Hemingway

Writing is so difficult that I often feel that writers, having had their hell on earth, will escape all punishment thereafter.

- Jessamyn West

I was sorry to hear my name mentioned as one of the great authors, because they have a sad habit of dying off. Chaucer is dead, so is Milton, so is Shakespeare, and I am not feeling very well myself.

- Mark Twain

All autobiographies are alibi-ographies.

- Clare Booth Luce

The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair.

- Mary Heaton Vorse

The world is a hellish place, and bad writing is destroying the quality of our suffering.

- Tom Waits

The average Ph.D. thesis is nothing but a transference of bones from one graveyard to another.

- J. Frank Dobie

An autobiography usually reveals nothing bad about its writer except his memory.

- Franklin P. Jones

Long, hard slog today writing the Great American Tweet.

(That was it...what do you think? Pulitzer?)

- Greg Tamblyn

A bad review may spoil your breakfast, but you shouldn't allow it to spoil your lunch.

- Kingsley Amis

Unless a reviewer has the courage to give you unqualified praise, I say ignore the bastard.

- John Steinbeck

Asking a working writer what he thinks about critics is like asking a lamppost how it feels about dogs.

- Christopher Hampton

The only time I'll get good reviews is if I kill myself.

- Edward Albee

As far as I'm concerned, "whom" is a word that was invented to make everyone sound like a butler.

- Calvin Trillin

Listen up, Internet: there is no "h" in "wacky." Got that? THERE IS NO "H" IN "WACKY." Thank you.

- Dave Barry

Writing and travel broaden your ass if not your mind and I like to write standing up.

- Ernest Hemingway

About the most originality that any writer can hope to achieve honestly is to steal with good judgment.

- Josh Billings

Alimony is the curse of the writing class.

- Norman Mailer

Autobiography is an unrivaled vehicle for telling the truth about other people.

- Philip Guedalla

An autobiography is an obituary in serial form with the last installment missing.

- Quentin Crisp

Practically everybody in New York has half a mind to write a book, and does.

- Groucho Marx

Having been unpopular in high school is not just cause for book publications.

- Fran Lebowitz

Revising a story down to the bare essentials is always a little like murdering children, but it must be done.

- Stephen King

Never let a bad memory get in the way of a good memoir.

- Joanie Levenson

Everywhere I go I'm asked if I think the university stifles writers. My opinion is that they don't stifle enough of them. There's many a best-seller that could have been prevented by a good teacher.

- Flannery O’Connor

It's splendid to be a great writer, to put men into the frying pan of your imagination and make them pop like chestnuts.

- Gustave Flaubert

Writing is a socially acceptable form of getting naked in public.

- Paulo Coelho

All literature is gossip.

- Truman Capote

Your manuscript is both good and original; but the part that is good is not original, and the part that is original is not good.

- Dr. Samuel Johnson, to an aspiring writer

I can write better than anybody who can write faster, and I can write faster than anybody who can write better.

- A. J. Liebling

There's not much to be said about the period except that most writers don't reach it soon enough.

- William Zinsser

It took me fifteen years to discover I had no talent for writing, but I couldn't give it up because by that time I was too famous.

- Robert Benchley

When I was a little boy, they called me a liar, but now that I am a grown up they call me a writer.

- Isaac Bashevis Singer

Never, ever use repetitive redundancies. Don't use no double negatives. Proofread carefully to see if you any words out.

- William Safire

Only kings, presidents, editors, and people with tapeworms have the right to use the editorial "we."

- Mark Twain

Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for love, and then for a few close friends, and then for money.

- Ashish Chauhan ‏@4shish

Did you hear about the little boy who ended a sentence with 5 prepositions? He said, "What are you bringing that book that I don't want to be read to out of up for?"

Let me see if I can put it in words that even the inebriated might understand.

- Tom Robbins

When Thoreau wrote: "Simplify, simplify, simplify!" shouldn't he have edited it down to "Simplify!"?

- CrankyPappy ‏@CrankyPappy

He does not so much split his infinitives as disembowel them.

- Rebecca West

I am a writer. If I seem cold, it 's because I am surrounded by drafts.

- (Unknown Author)

How many writers does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

Six:

One to screw it in,

One to sharpen all the pencils in the house,

One to make more coffee,

One to call a friend to chat,

And one to complain that there's never time to do any writing.

Wait, that's only five — that's why they need editors.