#shakespeare vibes again

[last-of-the-independents]

ANDY ROBINSON as ELIM GARAK in DEEP SPACE NINE, S5.E24 - Empok Nor (1997)

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompts in Memes 7

[averlym]

some very very quick costume shorthands!

[voxiiferous]

Vox and Alastor: Hunger

Working on one of the music memes that @heavensxstray sent in, and one of the lines in the song just hit me with a thought, that doesn’t belong in that particular breakdown, so here is the post it gets!

One of my favourite things with these two rivals is the three-fold question of: where are they the same? Where are they different? And where are they opposites? The middle is sort of the least important, and can in many cases be chalked up to them just being different characters, those other two though, now that’s where the pretentious English major in me thrives.

Today’s topic: food and metaphor.

Alastor is a character who eats, which on the surface feels like a funny thing to say, but he’s also a cannibal. He feeds his cravings, however seemingly difficult to do so. He is satiated by this. Whereas my version of Vox literally cannot eat, and I get it, this seems mostly boring, but I want to expand for a moment, into the idea that the food is, rather than simply the physical thing, a metaphor for actual ‘fullness’.

Alastor may be bored right now, but he seems, ultimately happy enough. He’s here to cause some chaos and provide some entertainment, but this isn’t a deep set emptiness in the same way. His desires are fed, and in this case, also can be symbolic for the past. He holds onto his era, and is fine with that. He doesn’t feel like he’s missing anything. It might be an acquired taste, but ultimately, he survives.

Contrast that to Vox— and this is whole it’s specially my Vox and not all potential Vox’s, because if they can eat and feed that hunger, and are happy enough, then the whole point falls flat. It has another interesting angle to be made about neither of them being right but finding satiation in different places— but! Before I go down that rabbit hole, back my point. Vox cannot eat— and in this metaphor, that means he has also cut out the past. He tries to replicate and feed it with modernity and technology: a new show, a new building, higher, brighter, more neon lights, but it is all hollow. None of it feeds that hunger, none of it actually does what he wants, because it’s not feeding the same thing.

Cut back to this song breakdown from yesterday, about the fake replication of nostalgia, and you see so much of the point!

Vox might not need to eat, because that would be harder to work with (and interfere more with the sci-fi struggle of humanity, and machinery, his other big, fun metatextual theme), but he still wants to, and the fact that he can’t leaves this starving hollowness in him and his life. Everything must be bigger, and better, and brighter, he’s never full.

Something else that could make for a fun continuation on this idea is the literary use of communion. At its most basic, communion in media is just any time people consume something together, these could be drinks, or a family meal, but what it does is it forges connection between characters. Food is important to people and that trickles into our media! This can be subverted, like if a meal is never finished, but here, you see that made impossible. Vox and Alastor will never be able to partake in communion, they cannot find that common ground on which they could build because one eats happily, and the other does not.

[kangtaehyunzzz]

literally stop. i need a moment to compose myself because holy shit it’s so beautifully written??(? yena i’m in love????

❍ the 2k event: wonwoo + bitter

alternative title: the taste of your name on my lips

pairing: wonwoo x gn!reader

genre: non-idols au, angst, fluff, getting back together-ish

word count: 1954

warnings: none

event taglist (send ask to be added): @slytherinshua @rubywonu @pepperonijem @amxlia-stars @weird-bookworm @hannyoontify @my-moarmy-heart @suminsfav @minhui896 @haocovr @lockburn-castle @sweet-like-caramel @horanghae8 @graybaeismytae @karionice @hopetiger10 @shuabby1994 @blue-jisungs @yonabutnotyuna

Winter, Wonwoo has decided, has a rather distinctively bitter taste.

No, actually. Perhaps it's not winter itself that is bitter, but a winter spent without you. Like chewing on the rind of a lemon, leaving his tongue tingling and feeling distinctly wrong, tasting something that makes his nose wrinkle when he had expected it to be a sweet, sharp citrus. 

It's how he feels right now, the biting scents of winter sitting uncomfortably in his mouth as he breathes in and breathes out, the mist swirling a ghostly grey around him. It's cold, even more so than he anticipated, especially without you by his side. 

He watches as Mingyu flails around on the ice rink, as Seungcheol grabs onto Seokmin before they both fall over almost instantly, and he wants to laugh, wants to react in the way that he normally would, but everything feels… well, it just feels wrong. 

His ears are ringing with the scrape of metal on ice, sharp and scratchy and like nails dragging down blackboard. It's jarring, making him wince, and icicles spring up on his tongue, and everything simply hurts. 

"Wonwoo-ya," a voice says softly, but Wonwoo can hardly even hear it. Joshua is watching him, the warmth radiating off him in waves, but Wonwoo is dry ice, frozen nitrogen, incinerating all warmth that attempts to get close. "Are you okay?"

Wonwoo just shrugs, gloved fingers gripping unfeelingly against the edges of the rink as he and Joshua stand on the outside, watching the others slip and slide over each other.

Joshua rests a hand on his arm, and Wonwoo knows it's meant to be comforting, like a hot water bottle pressed to his side, but he's so cold that he feels nothing. Joshua's touch is a drop of hot water, sizzling and evaporating away into nothing the second it touches ice. It makes Wonwoo wince again, tongue tingling with tastes of dark chocolate and glass shattering on the floor and cold steel pressed to the back of a neck. 

Joshua retracts his hand, burying his face into his scarf, and he's looking at Wonwoo so sadly, like he knows all the sounds and sensations that Wonwoo is tasting in his mouth, and he pities him for having to feel such things. 

Wonwoo doesn't think he deserves that pity, really. 

It's his fault you're not here. His fault that winter has turned bitter, has decided to punish him for his actions. 

"Y/N probably misses you too," Joshua says quietly, and just for a moment his words sound like crystal chimes before they crack and shatter against Wonwoo's teeth as he inhales. "I bet you're missing each other in equal amounts."

"I don't know," Wonwoo says, and it's a shaky exhale of words, smoky with regret, winding around his neck and suffocating him. "I don't think Y/— I don't think they'd miss me."

Your name had almost slipped his lips, but he'd reeled it back at the last moment, not wanting the cherry blossom softness of your name to be tainted by the sticky tar that floods his mouth. 

Joshua tilts his head, and his eyes are glittering, looking both soft and sharp in the way that only he can, like he's comforting and laughing at Wonwoo at the same time. Wonwoo looks back, finding the gentleness in Joshua's gaze almost too sugary sweet to look at, after his mouth and his tongue has been frozen numb by the dark, person-shaped hole in his life. 

And then Joshua smiles, before looking away. "You haven't asked Y/N though, have you? You don't know if you don't ask."

Wonwoo wants to protest, say that of course you don't want to see him, not after what had happened the last time you'd seen each other. But the memory stings his eyes, almost unbearably sour, and he looks down. 

"You need to stop running away, Wonwoo," Joshua says, softly. "Don't you think it's time to finally stop and look at what's around you?"

His words are directed at Wonwoo, but Joshua's gaze slides away from his, looking at something at his left shoulder, and the bitterness on Wonwoo's tongue deepens, pricking his teeth and numbing the roof of his mouth with fear. He knows who's behind him without even having to look, but as he turns around and sees you, nose tipped with cold, it makes his heart squeeze uncomfortably in his throat. 

"Hi," you say, voice small, rattling around like marbles in the air between you. "Joshua… Joshua told me to come out this evening. I didn't know I'd bump into you."

Joshua? Wonwoo turns back, planning to attempt a glare at the man who'd orchestrated all of this, but Joshua had disappeared out onto the rink, an elusive whirlwind of sugar granules and hail, helping up Seokmin and laughing at Seungcheol as if he'd never left, as if he'd never been standing at Wonwoo's side. 

"Sorry," Wonwoo manages, and his own voice sounds wrong in his head, all burnt and frozen at the same time. "He's… like that."

You laugh softly, and while the noise would have normally have soothed over the cuts on his tongue, this time it only serves to carve deeper into them, the metallic taste licking against his teeth, pained by the sorrow in your laugh. 

"That's okay. It's not your fault."

The words make him flinch, and your eyes widen before icing over, and suddenly you've become unreachable to him, unreachable in your thistle prickling of awkwardness. 

"Sorry," you say, biting your lip, and for some reason Wonwoo can feel his own lips bruising at the action. "That was…" You pause. "Sorry. I should go."

And then you're turning on your heel, stiff, like a wooden doll, an abandoned toy next to the Nutcracker under the Christmas tree, and Wonwoo's heart squeezes in his throat as he thinks how he can't lose you, please, he just can't. 

"Y/N."

The sound of your name in his voice rings in the air, curling with the white smoke of his exhale, but it's warm. Your name is always golden on his lips, polished and priceless and beautiful, and as you turn back to look at him, eyes shining even in the darkness, he can taste that preciousness melting on his tongue, melting into the bitter of his loneliness. 

He opens his mouth, then closes it again when he realizes he has nothing else to say. The urge to say "don't worry about it", to ignore what he'd just said, is tempting on his tongue, a slimy eel string of words that will slide out of his mouth so easily. 

But he pushes it down, swallows it away, licking at his lips and fighting the want to grimace at the oily blackness that still lingers in his mouth. 

"It's all my fault," he says eventually, and the words grate against his tongue, shaved ice particles of fear and guilt, turning the inside of his mouth cold with the sudden taste of mint as he bites down on his feelings. "It really is, and I'm so sorry."

Your eyes widen, and he knows you're going to deny it, try to remove some of the blame off his shoulders, but it's been weighing there for days, rough rock that fills his mouth with chalk dust whenever he thinks about it. But it's deserved, and he knows it, and you know it, and if Wonwoo wants to fully get rid of this bitterness and ask for forgiveness once and for all, then it's essential he apologises through the ice and the oil and the chalk. 

It's a horrible combination, tasting dark and remorseful in his mouth, sticking to his teeth, but it's of his own making. 

"I'm sorry," he says, genuinely, an icy riverwater of words. "You—you were waiting for me to do something, to show I cared, but I was… I was just so scared of how I felt. How you made me feel."

"Won—"

"Please," he says, and the sticky honey texture of the word makes his voice thick, and he swallows. "Please. It's okay. I know where I went wrong, and I'm so sorry. It's just—I was really scared, and it's not your fault, it's all because of me, because you were nothing but patient, nothing but kind and I just took that for granted. You were always by my side, and I never thought about how you would feel, never thought about how my silence and my inability to explain what you mean to me would affect you. It's my fault, it really is, just like you said, and I'm sorry."

And then the words keep coming, building up more, more, more, like a snowball rolling down a hill that's growing with every syllable. But he can't stop, won't, not when his teeth are still sunk in bitter rind and everything feels horribly wrong and damnit, he's lonely, he misses you, and he doesn't want you to think that he doesn't need you anymore. 

Because he always has. Always, more perhaps than anything else in the world. 

"I know why you were upset. I understand, I really do, because these past few weeks have showed me that you mean the utter world to me, Y/N," Wonwoo says, earnestly. There's no more chalk in his mouth, no more oil, but the ice is still there, making his words slip and slide and tumble out without a second thought. But it's necessary, and Wonwoo lets the words fall, leaving his mouth as delicate, frozen snowflakes. "You are… you are everything. I mean it."

You stare at him, and he can't tell if you're blinking rapidly due to the cold or due to what he's said, but he swallows again, bites his lip, tongue feeling numbed to the bitterness in his mouth. 

"I love you," he says, suddenly, and it was entirely unexpected but it feels right. "I love you, Y/N. More than you can possibly ever know. I know I messed up, and I know I might not have showed you just how much I love you, but I do. And, if you'll let me… I'd be willing to prove my love to you. For a thousand lifetimes."

You don't say anything to that, stunned, and Wonwoo feels his heart sink, feels the uncomfortable, waxy texture of lemon skin slipping against his teeth, and his entire frame freezes. 

But then you're laughing, eyes bright, glittering like a thousand stars as you step forward to throw your arms around him, and finally the bitterness in his mouth melts away, rose sweet. 

"God, Wonwoo," you breathe, and it sounds like spun sugar, delicate and beautiful and melting in his mouth. "Oh, my god. I was— Shua dragged me out here, but then I saw you and—and I was going to say I forgive you. Because I get it. I understand it's hard to express emotions sometimes, and I was going to say—I'm sorry for pushing you, that was wrong of me, but then—then you said this?"

"It's true," Wonwoo says simply, holding you tight, gloved fingers wrinkling into your coat, but he can feel the warmth radiating off of you anyways, a caramelised kind of golden taste that has him buzzing. "I love you."

You bury your face into his scarf, making a sound so happy that Wonwoo can feel the whoosh of cherry blossom-pink as it swirls so sweetly in his mouth. "Say it again."

The words are golden soft on his tongue, and he wonders why he took so long to say them. To say them to you. He smiles, pressing his lips to the top of your head.

"I love you."

[fourthemarauders]

The marauders era characters when eating a brownie🍃 for the very first time

James

He’s giggling before the brownie even kicks in. Five minutes later he’s lying on the floor whispering “do you think stars have feelings?” He gets weirdly emotional and says “I’d die for all of you” with zero context. Tries to hug everyone at once. Fails. Tries again.

Sirius

Realizes he has cheekbones and spirals into a monologue about how he’s “too beautiful to be emotionally stable" flirts with himself. Tries to fight a chair for looking at him wrong. Ends up crying in Remus’s lap because “no one ever taught me how to be loved.”

Remus

Starts logical, ends feral. At some point says “grief is a spell we cast on ourselves” and everyone claps. Tells Sirius he’s the most annoying person he’s ever loved and then blames the brownie. Spoiler: it wasn’t the brownie. Also has a full-on existential crisis about the moon.

Peter

Thinks he’s dead. Like, genuinely. Follows Lily around asking if she can hear his ghost voice. Tries to walk through a wall. Bumps his nose. Says “it’s the veil. I’m not worthy.”

Lily

Sits everyone down for a lecture on internalized misogyny and then immediately cries about the potential of lesbianism. Makes everyone drink water and calls it a feminist act.

Marlene

Takes off her shirt and howls at the moon. Declares herself a nature lesbian. Kisses Mary. Kisses Dorcas. Tries to kiss a tree. Tried to kiss Sirius cause he looked like another tree. Declares all four experiences life-changing. Later gets into a heated debate with a broomstick about blond visibility.

Dorcas

Doesn’t speak for an hour. Then randomly says “none of us are making it out of this whole.” Throws a knife into the wall. Where did she get the knife? No one knows. But it lands dead center and everyone claps like it’s normal.

Mary

Reads everyone’s auras like it’s her job. Tells Remus he’s “made of haunted poetry.” Says Regulus feels like an abandoned piano. Makes Sirius cry by calling him a disco ball trying to be a mirror. Asks Lily if she wants to move to a cottage and start over. Kind of means it.

Regulus

Claims he’s fine. Five minutes later: lying on the floor whispering “I think I’m a haunted Victorian lampshade.”

Starts rating everyone’s energy: “Sirius is fire, Dorcas is a blade, I’m a dying poem.” Cries because the cat looked at him “with judgment.” Won’t drink water unless it’s called a potion.

Snape

Absolutely not okay. Crying, muttering, possibly hexing his own shoelaces. Says “I should’ve loved better” with zero context. Everyone assumes it’s about Lily. No one asks. Lily puts a hand on his shoulder like “okay. But also? Stfu.”

Pandora

Absolutely off the rails. Eats four brownies, sees the fabric of the universe, draws symbols on Regulus’ arms and calls them “protective blessings.” Starts floating? Might be a spell. Might be vibes. Tells Barty “your soul is a little cracked but it sparkles.”

Barty

Full chaos. Tries to seduce a lamp. Fails. Blames the lamp. Starts narrating everything he does like he’s the villain in a Shakespeare play. Yells “I AM THE DARK LORD OF VIBES” and then immediately trips over a shoe.

Evan

Eats it like it’s nothing, pretends he’s not affected. Fifteen minutes later he’s lying flat on his back whispering “you know, if you think about it, death is just a very long nap.” Stares at the ceiling like it offended him personally. Tries to flirt with both Sirius and Barty in the same breath. Calls Regulus “my tiny goth prince” and kisses his hand dramatically. Accidentally joins Mary’s spiritual circle. Says “this is stupid” but does not move for three hours.

Later claims he doesn’t remember any of it. He does.

Follow for more shit like this

[velvet4510]

You know, when it comes to the four Cherik actors, the old men walked so the young men could run.

We all give McAvoy and Fassbender the love they deserve, but honestly we wouldn’t have any onscreen Cherik at all if those two old Shakespeare vets hadn’t laid such a strong foundation a whole decade prior in the original trilogy.

Remember that Stewart and McKellen had no beach divorce to work off of. First Class wasn’t even a thought in any writer’s head yet when the OG trilogy was filmed. And yet they understood the assignment from day 1 - the “exes who never got over each other” vibes are just pouring off of both of them in every scene, especially from their eyes, starting from the very first moment Stewart’s jaw drops and his breathing stops as he sees McKellen in the shadows of the Congress crowd, and McKellen then manages to make a threatening line like “don’t get in my way” sound so … gentle. Be it outside Congress or in the plastic prison or outside Jean’s house, you can feel the weight of their shared history bearing down on them, a weight so palpable it’s on the verge of crushing them both every time they so much as lock eyes.

And you can see echoes of the young men Charles and Erik used to be in their performances … you can fill in the gaps with First Class details thanks to their level of nuance.

Every time they call each other “old friend,” you can hear the underlying emotions they haven’t figured out how to express aloud, and the hidden knowledge that those two words only scratch the surface of what they really are to each other.

Within Stewart’s heartbroken look in all of his closeups in their first scene on the Congress walkway in X1, you can see the yearning of a man remembering the first time this other man walked away from him and wishing he knew how to convince him to stay now, like he did then.

Within McKellen randomly name-dropping Charles throughout the trilogy (like when Sabretooth reports the X-Men knew about Rogue and when he’s headed to Alcatraz), you can hear the obsession of a guy embittered by years of opposition but with a secret piece of his heart still living in that moment when he first heard a beautiful voice in his head pulling him back from the darkness.

Within Stewart’s whispered “what’s happened to you?” at the sight of a bruised eye, you can see the grief of a man remembering the sense of a wave of horror and trauma pouring off someone down in the water, and now seeing that same someone has been abused again, and just like then, he wasn’t there to stop it, to protect Erik from getting hurt.

Within their suppressed smiles in the prison scenes and their repartee outside young Jean’s house, you can tell these two banged 40 years ago. You can feel faint echoes of the two guys who once sat on a bed showing off their powers and saying stuff like “more tea, vicar?” and “you’ve never looked more beautiful, darling.” (I even noticed that at the end of X1, in the “I will always be there” exchange, the camera placement leaves their hands out of frame, so they’re obviously touching each other’s arms in that moment but we can’t see exactly where - it makes me imagine that Charles briefly touched Erik’s hand before being wheeled away and that’s why Erik sits frozen for a moment before toppling his king. Again, it’s those actors’ nuances that give birth to these implications.)

Within McKellen’s facial expression of pure anguish and his scream of “CHARLES!” at Jean’s house, you can hear the soul being ripped from the body of a man whose life was, long ago, forever changed by the words “there’s so much more to you than you know, not just pain and anger … there’s good too, I felt it…”

You know two actors are at the top of their game when they’re able to convey the exact history of their two characters long before any actual prequels imprint that history in canon.

I do wonder if Stewart and McKellen watched First Class before they filmed Days of Future Past - it’s impossible to tell because regardless, they once again gave it their all, especially in the Rogue Cut. They took a little sentence “in other words, a door” and a little piece of direction to smirk and nod, and somehow made it one of the most flirtatious/erotic moments of the series. And then of course at the end, they gave us the most heartbreaking moment of the series and one of the top 10 most heartbreaking moments in any comic-book movie ever, period. You know the one.

I’m just so impressed with them for what they started. It all started with them. They knew what they were doing.

[pricesgirl]

Mary Janes

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.☁︎

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵

6

Jinx

“What an absolutely fucking tragic story.”

“Boy meets girl,” I say, flipping the book open and letting it smack the table with a loud thwack.

“They swap a couple of lines, maybe a little eye-fucking across the room, and then bam—marriage, murder, and melodrama. Honestly, Romeo and Juliet is just horny teenagers making bad decisions with a death toll. Kinda iconic, but also… pathetic.”

Y/N’s trying so hard not to laugh, but that little twitch at the corner of her mouth gives her away.

She glances down at her notebook like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world, but I know better.

I always know better.

“Come on, admit it,” I press, leaning closer.

“This whole thing is just Shakespeare projecting his wet dreams onto paper. I mean, would you throw yourself into a coffin for someone you just met?”

Y/N looks up, her face a little red, and gives me this look—half-exasperated, half-amused. “It’s supposed to be romantic,” she says, her tone just a little too patient.

“Oh, sure,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Nothing screams romance like poison and stab wounds. That’s hot. Super sexy.” I lean back in my chair, grinning.

“Although, I guess dying for someone is one hell of a flex. Bet Juliet was into some kinky shit.”

“Jinx!” she hisses, her eyes wide as she glances around the library, like the ghost of Shakespeare himself might pop out of the shelves and strike me down.

“What?” I ask, throwing my hands up.

“You think Romeo was all sweet talk and poetry? Nah, that guy was definitely whispering filthy shit to her under the balcony. Bet he was like, Juliet, you light up my world—now get on your-”

Y/N lets out this strangled noise, somewhere between a laugh and a groan, and covers her face with her hands. “You’re impossible,” she mutters.

But I can see her shoulders shaking.

“Impossible, but not wrong,” I say, leaning forward with a smirk.

“You know I’m right. Horny teens and bad decisions—they go hand in hand. Speaking of…” I waggle my eyebrows at her.

“You ever had someone wax poetic about you? Or, I don’t know, climb a fire escape to declare their undying love?”

“No,” she says firmly, her voice muffled behind her hands.

“Shame,” I say, tapping my chin. “You’re missing out. Although, honestly? If someone pulled that shit with me, I’d probably just drag them inside and—”

“Jinx!” she whisper-yells, her voice high-pitched and scandalized.

Her face is so red now I’m almost worried she’s going to combust.

Almost.

I grin, sitting back in my chair and crossing my arms. “What? I’m just saying. Life’s short. Might as well enjoy it. Or are you more of a ‘tragic, yearning stares from a distance’ type?”

She gives me a look.

The kind of look that says I’m pushing my luck.

But I catch the tiniest flicker of amusement in her eyes.

It’s faint.

But it’s there, and it’s enough to keep me going.

“Can we please focus?” she says, her voice trembling with suppressed laughter.

“Sure,” I say, picking up the book again and thumbing through the pages. “But I’m warning you now, I’m not letting Romeo off the hook for being the patron saint of bad decisions.”

Y/N leans back in her chair, pressing her lips together like she’s trying desperately not to laugh.

Her cheeks are pink, and there’s this quiet glow to her that tugs at something in my chest.

I ignore it.

“So,” I say, flipping the book open again with an exaggerated flourish.

“Are we supposed to write some revolutionary take on this mess, or is it just vibes and clichés? You’re the genius here, enlighten me.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s that little curve to her lips, the one that makes her whole face soften. “Themes,”

“We’re supposed to analyze the themes, connect them to modern relationships, and explain why the story is still relevant.”

“Relevant?” I snort, leaning back. “Oh, sure. Because every teenager I know is out here marrying strangers after one dance and dying for them two days later. So relatable.”

“You’re impossible,” she says, shaking her head, but her voice is warm, light, teasing.

“Thank you,” I say, grinning.

She picks up her pen again, her focus shifting back to the notebook in front of her.

Naturally, I lean over, because how could I not snoop, but she slams it shut before I can even get a glimpse.

“Oh, come on,” I groan, clutching my chest like she’s mortally wounded me. “What’s the big secret? Writing a love letter? A sonnet? A tragic ode to unrequited love?”

“It’s not a secret,” she says firmly, though the way her fingers tighten around the notebook tells a different story. “It’s just not finished.”

“Uh-huh.” I narrow my eyes at her, my grin sharp and unrelenting.

“You’re not secretly crushing on Romeo, are you? Or maybe…”

My voice drops, dripping with mock drama. “Maybe you’ve got your own Romeo? Someone you’re tragically pining for?”

Her cheeks turn a brilliant shade of crimson, and her eyes dart everywhere except at me.

“Oh my God,” I say, sitting up like I’ve just cracked the biggest mystery of the century. “You do! Who is it? Come on, spill. I need to know everything.”

“There’s no one!” she protests, but her voice is high-pitched, and her fingers fidget with the corner of her notebook.

“Liar,” I say, my grin turning downright devious.

I tap my chin like I’m deep in thought.

“Is it someone in our class? That broody guy who always acts like he’s too cool to care? Or…” I pause, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe it’s a girl?”

Her pen freezes mid-air.

For a second, she looks at me like I’ve uncovered her deepest, darkest secret.

Bingo.

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Y/N

I can feel my heart picking up its pace, a strange fluttering in my chest that has nothing to do with the subject matter at hand. Jinx’s words echo in my mind, her teasing lingering far longer than I’d like to admit. The way she looked at me, the mischievous grin on her face—it’s enough to make me squirm, but I won’t let her see that.

“No one,” I reply firmly, hoping the edge in my voice sounds more convincing than it feels. “I’m not—there’s just no one.”

She raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but she leans back in her chair, crossing her arms with a soft chuckle. “Alright, if you say so.”

I focus on my notebook, flipping a page with deliberate care. The task at hand should be enough to keep me grounded, and yet the thought of her knowing something I’ve never fully acknowledged myself unsettles me. It feels as though she’s pierced a part of me I’m still figuring out, and that makes me more uncomfortable than I’m willing to admit.

Still, I refuse to let that show. Instead, I straighten up, refocusing on our assignment. “Regardless, Romeo and Juliet is still a farcical tragedy,” I begin, keeping my tone calm and collected, but there’s a subtle bite to it. “The impulsiveness, the poor decisions—it’s a pattern in a lot of Shakespeare’s works. It speaks to the nature of youth, to desire, rather than rational thought.”

Jinx snorts, clearly unimpressed. “Oh, sure, I’m sure that’s exactly what Shakespeare was going for. Desire, right? More like he was just a horny old man trying to sell sex on the page. No wonder those two idiots killed themselves over each other.”

I nod, careful to keep my composure. “Yes. Desire, more than love. They acted on passion rather than considering the consequences. Shakespeare’s portrayal of love is often hyperbolic, exaggerated to the point where it’s almost abs-"

I get cut off by another snicker from her followed by, "You damn nerd."

I pause mid-sentence, blinking at her. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she says, tilting her head, her grin widening. “You’re such a nerd, Y/N. Who even says ‘hyperbolic’ in casual conversation? It’s like you’re auditioning for a Shakespeare reboot.”

I huff, sitting up straighter. “It’s called having a vocabulary,” I reply, my tone clipped but teasing. “Maybe you should try it sometime.”

She gasps dramatically, clutching her chest like I’ve struck her through with a dagger. “Wow. Coming at me with the intellectual smackdown, huh? Careful, or I’ll start quoting Shakespeare back at you.”

“Please don’t,” I say quickly, holding up a hand like I’m warding off some impending disaster.

Jinx grins, leaning forward now, her elbows on the table. “Oh, but wouldn’t you love that? Imagine me up on a balcony, all, But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?” She pauses, fluttering her eyelashes for effect. “You’d swoon. Admit it.”

“I’d laugh,” I correct, refusing to give her the satisfaction. “And then I’d shut the window.”

She cackles, the sound sharp and chaotic, and it’s impossible not to smile. “Cold, Y/N. Ice cold. No wonder you don’t have a Romeo climbing fire escapes for you.”

I roll my eyes, flipping a page in the book to feign disinterest. “Not everyone needs a grand romantic gesture, Jinx. Some of us prefer substance over theatrics."

Jinx leans back in her chair, propping her boots up on the edge of the table like she owns the place. Her smirk is sharp, eyes glittering with mischief.

“C'mon, Y/N,” she drawls. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t want someone to show up, grand gesture and all, declaring undying devotion? Maybe a little dramatic fainting thrown in for good measure?”

I snort. “No. Definitely not. I’d find it mortifying.”

She tilts her head, feigning innocence. “What about some spicy poetry? Like, Oh, Y/N, your... uh, unparalleled intelligence leaves me trembling.” Her voice dips into a breathy almost smutty tone, and I roll my eyes.

“You’re insufferable,” I mutter, flipping through my notes.

“And you’re boring,” she fires back without missing a beat. “Where’s the fun, huh? You don’t think Juliet was secretly hoping Romeo would skip the iambic pentameter and just pin her to a wall?”

I look up, feeling my cheeks heat. “Jinx.”

“What?” she says, her grin downright wicked now. “I’m just saying. The whole woe is me, tragic romance thing might’ve been for show. Behind closed doors, she was probably like, Enough about the stars, Romeo, let’s talk about your sword.”

And I falter, my laughter bubbling up uncontrollably before bursting out so loud that it shatters the quiet of the library. The sound is obnoxious, and I can’t stop it, even though I know I should. Mrs. Clark, the poor librarian, scurries over to us, her face draining of color when she realizes it’s me—me—who caused the disturbance. Her eyes widen in horror, and I shrink back in my seat, wishing the floor would swallow me whole.

“Y/N,” Mrs. Clark says sharply, her voice quivering with disapproval, “This is a library. I expect more from you.”

I swallow, my throat tight, and I can barely meet her gaze. The silence that follows is suffocating, broken only by the scratch of Mrs. Clark’s pen as she writes us both a detention slip. “After school,” she mutters, her voice tight. She hands us the slips, one by one, and I want to crawl under the table, but I can't. Not with everyone staring.

I take the slip, my hands trembling, my face burning with the weight of the embarrassment. Jinx’s laughter, the one that started all this, has quieted, but there's still a mischievous glint in her eyes. At first, it seems like she's enjoying my discomfort, and I can't help but wish she’d be quiet for just a moment, let me process this in peace.

But then, her smirk fades. She glances at me, her expression softening as she catches the way my shoulders slump, the way I'm trembling. I try to blink back the tears threatening to spill, but they’re already in my eyes. It’s stupid, it’s just a detention, but the humiliation is unbearable.

Jinx doesn’t say anything at first, but I can feel the weight of her gaze on me as I struggle to hold back the tears. She slides out of her chair, slowly stepping closer, crouching down beside me with a quiet seriousness I’ve rarely seen from her. Her voice, when it comes, is low, almost soothing.

“Hey,” she says, her words gentle, like she’s trying to reach through the storm inside me. “It’s not that bad, okay? Detention's just... it's nothing. It’s temporary.”

I don’t respond, but I can feel the tears starting to burn in my eyes, and I just can't stop them. I keep my gaze fixed on the floor, trying to hide how I’m trembling.

Jinx doesn’t back away, though. Instead, she reaches out, her hand soft as it rests on my shoulder, the touch surprisingly warm and comforting. “Come on toots, let’s go,” she says, her voice so different from the usual teasing tone, like she’s saying it for me, not for her. “I’ll take you somewhere... just let’s get out of here, okay?”

I nod, my throat tight, and let her guide me out of the library. The hallways feel colder now, like everything around me is a reminder of how utterly humiliated I feel. But Jinx stays close, walking beside me, her presence steady and unwavering, like she’s determined not to let me fall apart alone.

She leads me into the girls’ bathroom, the door shutting quietly behind us. It’s quiet, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, and for a moment, everything feels still. Jinx leans against the counter, watching me with a softness in her eyes that I’ve never seen before. She doesn’t say anything at first, just lets me breathe, lets the silence settle between us.

I break.

The tears come without warning, and I retreat to the corner, curling into myself, trying to make myself smaller. I press my hands to my face, desperate to hide the rawness of what I’m feeling. The sobs are quiet at first, but they soon escape in harsh, ragged breaths. The shame, the embarrassment—it’s overwhelming, suffocating. I feel completely exposed, fragile, and utterly out of control.

I don’t want her to see me like this. I don’t want anyone to. But she doesn’t leave.

There’s a quiet moment, just the sound of my breathing, of me trying to stifle the sobs. And then Jinx moves toward me, her steps slow, careful. She crouches down next to me, not trying to force anything, not speaking. She just watches me for a moment, her eyes filled with something tender, and then her hand reaches out. Her fingers brush through my hair, slow and soothing, the soft strokes almost enough to make me forget everything else.

"Shhh," she murmurs, her voice quiet, barely above a whisper. "It’s okay."

I can’t stop the tears. I don’t even try. But the sound of her voice, the feel of her fingers weaving through my hair, so gentle, so careful—it’s grounding. She doesn’t rush me, doesn’t tell me to stop crying. She just stays there, her touch like a balm for the rawness inside me.

After a long moment, she shifts again, her hand moving to wipe away the tears that have soaked my cheeks. Her fingers are gentle, each movement deliberate, as if she’s treating me like something fragile but important. Her touch is steady, patient, and it’s like she’s saying, without words, that I don’t have to hide. That I’m allowed to feel, to break.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿

Jinx

"C'mon, toots—it’s only an hour, alright? No big deal." I glance at Y/N, tucked behind me like a little puppy, her hand in mine.

It’s like she’s trying to disappear into the floor, and I don’t... I don’t know what to do with that.

I peek into the detention room, Mr. Wheeler’s already there, half asleep

Of course he is.

His glasses are dangling off his nose, like he forgot they even exist.

He’s ancient—like, fossil-level ancient—but whatever.

Doesn’t matter.

I yank the door open.

And there he is. Boy savior himself, sitting in the corner, all quiet and broody.

I waggle my free hand at him. Big, dumb wave. Like, hi, notice me!

Ekko’s head pops up.

His face twists into full-on confusion. Like, what the actual hell?

His eyes dart to Y/N behind me, all tucked in and quiet, and I can practically hear the gears in his head grinding.

I can see it.

The way his gaze softens, just a little, but then hardens again.

Like he’s trying to figure out how to act, what to say, how to breathe, maybe.

And I get it. I do.

Because once, a long time ago, it was the three of us.

Ekko. Y/N. Me.

Best friends.

And now?

Now we’re... this. Whatever this is. Unspoken crap hanging in the air like a bad smell.

After what happened—Vander’s death, Vi’s wrongful juvie sentence, and Silco taking me in...

Shit hit the fan.

Everything snapped.

The three of us? We used to be inseparable.

Me, Boy Savior, and Y/N. We were the kind of trio that people envied—always laughing, always plotting, always looking out for each other.

But after everything fell apart?

That trio was gone. Just... gone.

Ekko and I? We managed to reconcile. Somehow. It wasn’t easy, but we put the pieces back together.

Mostly.

But Y/N and him?

Never.

Whatever they had? Whatever we all had? It just crumbled. And they never found their way back to each other.

The air feels heavy. Like it’s pressing down on us.

Y/N’s hand squeezes mine. Tight. Too tight. Like she thinks if she lets go, she’ll just... vanish.

I glance back at her. Pale. Shaking. Her eyes darting everywhere except him.

Ekko.

The Boy Savior.

He’s staring at her like she’s a ghost. Or maybe a grenade. His jaw’s tight, hands fidgeting like he doesn’t know where to put them.

Say something.

Do something.

But he just sits there. Quiet. Staring.

It’s unbearable.

“Gonna sprain something, Boy Savior,” I snap, too loud, too sharp. “All that thinking’s dangerous, y’know.”

His head snaps up. Eyes narrow. “Jinx.”

That tone. Even. Calm. Like he’s the adult in the room.

Which he's not cause fucking Mr Wheeler's old ass is at the desk asleep now.

“What?” I throw my free hand up, grinning like a lunatic. “Just saying. You look like you’re trying to solve the meaning of life or some shit.”

Still nothing.

He glances at Y/N again.

And she flinches.

I can’t. I can’t with this.

“Seriously? We’re doing this? Now?” My voice comes out sharper than I mean. “It’s detention. Not a goddamn soap opera.”

“Jinx, stop.”

Her voice.

Soft. Cracked. Barely there.

I freeze. Look at her. She’s hiding behind me, eyes on the floor, her face red like she’s about to cry again.

My chest tightens.

Ekko’s watching us, his expression... weird. Guilty? Concerned? I can’t tell.

“Whatever,” I mutter, pulling Y/N further into the room. “Let’s just sit.”

I drag her to the far corner, away from him. Away from everything.

We sit. She tries to pull her hand away, but I don’t let go. Nope. Not happening.

“Uh-uh, toots,” I whisper. “You’re stuck with me.”

She doesn’t argue. Just wipes her face with her sleeve, all quiet and miserable.

Across the room, I can feel him watching.

Always watching.

And I hate it.

I hate all of this.

I hear a grunt and then...

"The hell is she in here for?"

Ekko’s voice slices through the tension like a blade.

Y/N stiffens beside me, her hand still in mine, like she’s trying to hide behind me.

“Y/N’s here because—” I start, but I don’t know how to finish that.

The fuck should I say?

“Because I laughed too loud,” Y/N mumbles, barely loud enough to hear.

Ekko blinks.

“You?” he says, voice full of disbelief.

“Apparently.” Y/N pulls her hand away from mine tucking them into her sleeves like she’s trying to hide.

I snort, rolling my eyes. “It’s ‘cause Mrs. Clark is a total cunt.”

Ekko’s eyes narrow.

His face hardens a little—like he’s getting pissed off, not at us, but at the absurdity of it. “She really gave you detention for that?” His voice drops, angry now. “For laughing? That’s... that’s fucking ridiculous.”

I nod, crossing my arms. “Told ya. Stupid.”

Y/N looks down, trying to disappear into the floor like she can avoid everything.

So, of course, I’m not having that.

I grab her hand. “C’mon, Y/N. Detention? Are you seriously gonna sit here like some sad sack when we could be out there making actual trouble?”

She gives me the side-eye, clearly hesitant. “I’m not sure—”

“Stop thinking, and just do,” I snap, tugging her toward the window. "I’m done with this place, and you should be too."

She hesitates again, her face a mix of nervousness and confusion. I roll my eyes. “Detention’s for losers, Y/N. And you’re not a loser. You’re a rebel just waiting to burst out.”

Ekko’s already halfway through the window, a grin plastered on his face like he’s got nothing better to do than burn this place to the ground. “C’mon, this is way better than sitting in that crap hole. You don’t want to miss it.”

I lean out the window, breathing in the night air like it’s the first breath of freedom I’ve had in ages. “You’re seriously gonna let this lame-ass detention keep you locked up? Or are you gonna live a little?”

She’s still stiff, unsure, but there’s a flicker in her eyes.

She’s fighting it.

I see it. She’s craving a reason to break the rules, but she’s scared.

I pull her closer, voice low but firm. “Look, it’s just one little jump, Y/N. What’s the worst that can happen? Get caught and get another detention? Big deal. You can always blame me. I’ve got it covered.”

Finally, after what feels like forever, she steps up.

Slowly at first, but then quicker.

She's in.

I laugh, watching her climb out. “That’s my girl,” I mutter, watching her face. There’s a spark in her now, and I can feel it.

She’s gonna love this.

We all slide out the window, landing in the cool night air.

Ekko shoots me a look, like we're all in on some big joke. “Now this is how you do it,” he says, grinning ear-to-ear.

Y/N looks at me, her face still a little stunned, but now she’s definitely feeling it. “I can’t believe we just did that,” she says, breathless.

“You bet your ass we did,” I say, with a grin that could cut glass.

“Best decision of your life. Welcome to the rebellion, toots.”

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.☁︎

authors note: the friendship has begun to progress slightly, more where that came from ;)

please like and reblog!

[telvess]

RoR: How they sleep with their s/o (headcanons) 🔞

Jack

Jack likes when you’re strapped to his arm at night. He has a habit of reading a bit of Shakespeare before bed, so being close enough to him that he can smell your shampoo is actually one of his favourite moments of the day.

When the reading time is over, Jack prefers to lie face to face with you and hold hands. Of course, he doesn't mind any other position where he can observe you.

Yeah, Jack is a little creepy because he likes to watch you sleep. He admires your beauty and hearing your calm breathing makes him happy because he never expected to have someone who felt so safe around him.

Since he's the last one to fall asleep, you'll probably wake up first. Jack doesn't mind if you wake him up with kisses.

Poseidon

Poseidon allows you hug him. Feel grateful. He ONLY does it because you’re such a crybaby and he is tired of your big teary eyes you constantly make. He thinks that hugging is useless and doesn’t provide anything, but just for your sake he can get through this…

STFU, POSEIDON. You love cuddling.

He holds you in a tight hug, with his hand on your back and your head on his chest. He likes to feel your warm breath on his skin, but - once again - he would never admit it.

Poseidon has a cold body, so you can use it as an additional reason to cuddle.

Beelzebub

Beelzebub will go to bed the moment he hears you taking a shower before sleep. He doesn’t care if he has something to do. He doesn’t want to miss the opportunity for a cuddle.

Beelzebub is a small spoon. You hold him from behind with your arm around his waist and your forehead resting against his back - he just feels wanted and that feeling kills him.

That being said, he would never ask you for a cuddle, but if you don’t initiate, he gives you that inpatient look over a shoulder. Don’t act dumb.

Beelzebub likes to listens your calm breathing. For him it's the best lullaby. Knowing that someone shares something as trivial as sleeping in the same bed with him is amazing to him.

Thor

He is a living radiator, so you probably don’t need a blanket.

Thor isn’t into cuddling, but isn’t against it either. Definitely wouldn’t say no to you. The important thing to mention is that Thor thinks cuddling is a good introduction to sex.

He prefers to lie on his back and have you on his chest. Considering how big Thor is, you'll feel so small when his arms wrap around you. He likes to touch your thighs and buttocks and kiss your forehead, so if you decide to return the favour and caress his face or muscular chest… you definitely won't fall asleep quickly.

Buddha

That guy is such a mess.

He will elbow and knee you in his sleep. I don’t think rolling him over would give you any good result. He is a heavy sleeper, so he'll probably return to his previous position in a moment.

Maybe he'll calm down a bit if you kick him. But please, play dumb when he wakes up in the morning and ask you where he got that bruise.

Apart from the disadvantages of sleeping with him, Buddha is really cute when it comes to cuddling. He treats you like his personal pillow, wrapping his legs and arms around you, resting his head on your shoulder.

You have to feed him in that position.

Loki

Sleeping with Loki is like sleeping with dozen cats.

Once you announce you’re tired and close your eyes, Loki’s intrusive thoughts will win. He will blow in your face and when you shout at him he will pretend to sleep.

Go on, roll over. How naive of you… Loki will start pinching your ass. Or steal a blanket just for himself. Or tickle you. Anything to keep you awake.

Yes, at this point you know that shouting at him only encourages him. You have to tire him out. And at this time of day, there's only one thing you can do to achieve it. Have fun.

Hades

How comfortable his muscular arms are around you…

Hades just gives these big protection vibes, so there’s no way he wouldn’t be a big spoon. He wants to hold you close, bury his nose in your hair and gives you few kisses here and there.

He can't sleep alone anymore since you two shared a bed together. Your company makes huge difference to him. He likes talk to you before sleep, whispers sweet things in your ear or tells you stories.

It happens that our king talks in his sleep. Of course, in the morning he denies everything because he knows he doesn't do it.

[oopsiedaisydeer]

dying nick's hair

fluff, nick is stressing, you're chill, hair dye, purely platonic vibes

word count - 200ish

Nick is sitting cross-legged on the floor, an old towel draped around his shoulders and a very skeptical look on his face.

“I’m trusting you with my life right now,” he says, peering at you through the mirror. “This is a big deal.”

“You’re literally just dyeing it,” you snort, slipping on gloves and grabbing the brush. “Not jumping out of a plane.”

He narrows his eyes. “Hair is serious. Hair is identity.”

“Okay, Shakespeare.”

You dip the brush into the dye and start painting it onto his roots, working your way in carefully. Things are going smoothly… until they aren’t.

“GIRL STOP YOU’RE GETTING BLEACH IN MY EYES,” Nick screeches at you, blindly flailing around with his hands. You duck in order to avoid him, continuing to massage the dye into your best friend’s strand even as he tries to stop you.

You duck just in time to avoid Nick's swinging arms, and giggling, you remind him “it’s not bleach, Nick,” painting even more dye onto his hair, “and it’s nowhere near your eyes.”

“I swear I felt something flick in my eyelashes,” he grumbles, opening one eye as if to test that he really is safe. “I could go blind.”

You roll your eyes, brushing more dye onto the top of his head. “If you go blind, I’ll walk you around and describe outfits to you. Chill.”

“Okay, that’s kind of sweet,” he mutters, finally settling again. “But also, don’t make me look like a raccoon.”

“You’re gonna look hot,” you promise, tapping the brush against his forehead. “Now shut up and trust the process.”

dividers by @strangergraphics ꨄ

a/n: first nick blurb!!!!!!!! who cheered :D

thank u so much for reading!!! likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated 😇

[pandapetals]

You Make Me Nervous

worst wolverine/logan x fem!reader - inspired by a quote i heard from a rom-com, fluff, cute, happy ending, wade being wade, no y/n used, no reader description

Wade gives Logan relationship advice to help win you back.

read on Ao3

Logan couldn’t believe he was sitting on the sofa, nursing a beer, and listening to Wade Wilson of all people giving him “love” advice. It was bad enough that he’d let the fact he was seeing someone slip in front of Wade a month ago—now he was stuck dealing with the consequences.

“You gotta tell her how you feel, peanut. She can’t read your mind—unless she can? Oh my God, is she a mutant?!” Wade gasped, his eyes widening as he dramatically clutched at his heart. “Please tell me she’s a mutant. Oh, is she telepathic? Does she know all your dirty little secrets already? Can she hear what I’m thinking right now?” He leaned in closer, whispering loudly, “Because I’m thinking about chimichangas and some other stuff I probably shouldn’t say in polite company.”

Logan groaned, his head falling back against the worn-out cushions of Wade’s sofa. He stared up at the ceiling, contemplating how quickly this conversation had spiraled out of control. “For the last time, Wade, she’s not a mutant.”

“Boring!” Wade shouted, throwing his hands up in the air before plopping down on the couch next to Logan. “So what’s the problem then? You messed it up, and now you’re sitting here all broody, which I gotta say—doesn’t look good on you. You’re like a sad puppy with claws. A wolv-puppy.”

Logan shot Wade a glare, though the threat was half-hearted at best. “It’s complicated,” he muttered, taking a long swig of his beer.

Wade gasped again, dramatically clutching his chest. “Complicated? No! Say it ain’t so! Two emotionally stunted, violence-prone badasses couldn’t figure out how to talk about their feelings. The horror! This is literally the plot of every rom-com I’ve ever watched, and trust me, I’ve watched all of them.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“Sure it’s not,” Wade replied, winking and nudging Logan with his elbow. “Lemme guess—you didn’t tell her how you felt, she got tired of waiting, and now you’re here with me instead of—oh, I don’t know—being all naked and cuddly with your very hot, very human girlfriend.”

Logan growled, though there was no real anger behind it. Mostly just frustration. “Look, I don’t do the whole... talk about feelings thing. It ain’t me.”

Wade raised an eyebrow, his mouth twitching into a smirk. “No shit, Sherlock. You’re emotionally constipated. But here’s the thing, bud—women? They like to hear how you feel. You can’t just brood in a corner and expect them to pick up on your ‘bad boy with a heart of gold’ vibe all the time. Sometimes, you actually have to say something.”

Logan took another swig of his beer, his jaw tightening. “I’m not good with words.”

“Oh, I noticed.” Wade leaned back, putting his feet up on the coffee table and crossing his arms behind his head like he had all the time in the world. “But you don’t have to be Shakespeare. Just be honest. Tell her she makes you nervous.”

Logan frowned, setting his beer down with a thud. “She doesn’t make me nervous.”

Wade gave him a look, half-amused and half-exasperated. “Okay, fine, you’re not nervous. You’re Wolverine, Mr. ‘I’ve lived a hundred lives and fought more people than I can count.’ But you wanna know why she walked out on you? Because you didn’t let her in. You didn’t tell her that maybe—just maybe—she’s the one thing in this world that doesn’t piss you off.”

Logan huffed, sinking further into the couch. He hated how Wade was actually making sense. That was the worst part of this—Wade being right.

Wade’s smirk grew, sensing Logan’s reluctance. “Look, just say what I’m telling you. Repeat after me: ‘You don’t annoy me, you make me nervous.’ Simple. Done. Boom. You’re back in her good graces and probably naked by the end of the night. Win-win.”

Logan shook his head, rubbing his temple like Wade was giving him an actual headache. “I’m not saying that.”

“Sure you are,” Wade shot back, his eyes gleaming. “You’re gonna walk up to her, all gruff and serious, give her that intense look you do, and say it. ‘You don’t annoy me, you make me nervous.’ Trust me, it’ll work like a charm. Then boom—kissy-face, maybe a little apology sex, and then you’ll be back to being all... domestic or whatever you do in your downtime.”

Logan groaned, running a hand through his already tousled hair. He wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of taking advice from Deadpool, but he was running out of options. It had been a month since you’d walked out, and he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you since. The way you’d looked at him that night—hurt, disappointed—had stuck with him, gnawing at him like nothing else ever had.

“You know she left because you’re an emotional brick wall, right?” Wade added helpfully, flipping through the channels on his TV like this wasn’t the most serious conversation Logan had had in weeks.

Logan clenched his jaw. “Yeah, Wade, I got that.”

“Well, good. Acknowledging it is the first step. The second step is getting off your ass, going to her place, and saying the thing I told you. Preferably with some dramatic background music playing.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed as he glared at Wade. “I don’t need background music.”

“Oh, you absolutely do,” Wade replied, grinning as he finally landed on an 80s rom-com playing on TV. “Don’t worry, I’ll follow behind with a boombox if necessary. Now go get your girl back, Romeo.”

Logan stood up, finishing the rest of his beer in one gulp before tossing the empty bottle onto the coffee table. “If this backfires—”

“It won’t,” Wade interrupted, hopping up from the couch and clapping Logan on the back. “But if it does, we can always go with plan B: I woo her with my devastating charm and then hand her back to you as a peace offering. It’s the perfect plan.”

Logan shot him a warning look, and Wade held up his hands in mock surrender. “Kidding! Jeez. Relax, Wolvie. You’re way too uptight for someone with a healing factor.”

With one last exasperated sigh, Logan headed for the door, his mind already racing with what the hell he was going to say when he saw you. The thought of telling you how he felt—actually putting it into words—was harder than he cared to admit but the thought of losing you for good? That was something he couldn’t handle.

“Go get ‘em, tiger!” Wade called after him, grinning as Logan disappeared into the night.

You hadn’t expected to see Logan. You weren’t sure if you expected to see him at all, to be honest. Yet, there he was, standing in your doorway, looking as rough and rugged as ever. His hair was a mess, his stubble heavier than usual, and his eyes—those deep, unreadable eyes—were locked onto you with an intensity that made your breath hitch in your throat.

“Logan,” you started, your voice softer than you intended.

“I need to talk,” he said, his voice gruff, almost hesitant. Logan was never hesitant. It caught you off guard.

You stepped aside, letting him in, the familiar scent of leather and smoke filling your space as he moved past you. He stood in the middle of your living room, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, looking like he was trying to decide where to start.

“You don’t annoy me,” he said suddenly, the words coming out fast and a little clumsy. “You... you make me nervous.”

You blinked, your heart skipping a beat as you processed what he’d just said. Logan shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes darting away from yours like he wasn’t used to being this vulnerable.

“I didn’t... I didn’t tell you that before,” he continued, his voice softer now, almost grumbling. “And that’s why you left but I don’t want you to leave. Not again.”

There it was—raw, honest, and maybe not perfectly eloquent, but it was Logan. That was all you had wanted—needed.

“You make me nervous because I... I care. More than I’ve cared about anyone in a long time. And I don’t know how to say that. So I mess it up. But I’m not... I’m not ready to lose you.”

You stood there, your heart racing, the weight of his words sinking in. He might not have been good with feelings, but in this moment, he was giving you everything he had.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped closer, your eyes softening as you reached for his hand. “You don’t have to be perfect, Logan,” you whispered, your fingers brushing against his calloused palm. “I never expected you to be.”

Logan’s gaze dropped to where your hand met his, and for a moment, he just stood there, silent and still, like he was struggling to let himself take comfort in something so simple. You could see the storm of emotions behind those dark eyes—the anger, the frustration, the fear—but also the tenderness he tried so hard to hide.

“I know I’m not easy to be with,” Logan said, his voice rough but quieter now. “Hell, I’m barely around sometimes. And when I am, I don’t—” He paused, running a hand through his already messy hair, clearly frustrated with himself. “I don’t say things the way I should. But I’m here now. And I’m tryin’ to say it.”

His words hung in the air, raw and uncertain, but they were enough. You knew what it took for him to admit this, to let himself be vulnerable in a way he’d always fought against. For you, that effort—his trying—meant more than anything.

You gave his hand a gentle squeeze, stepping closer until you were standing right in front of him, your other hand resting on his chest. “I just need you to let me in. I don’t expect you to be someone you’re not, but I need to know that you care. That this matters to you.”

Logan’s eyes finally met yours, and for a moment, all the gruffness and bravado fell away, leaving just the man underneath. The man who, for all his rough edges and scars, cared more deeply than he ever let on.

“I do care,” Logan said, his voice a low rumble. “I just... I don’t know how to show it sometimes. But you’re not like the rest of ‘em. I don’t want you to be just another person I’ve lost.” He hesitated, his jaw tightening as he searched for the right words. “I’ve lost too many people. I don’t want you to be one of ‘em.”

Your heart squeezed at the rawness in his voice, the way he let those words hang heavy between you.

“You won’t lose me,” you whispered, stepping even closer until your body was pressed against his, your hand resting over his heart.

Logan closed his eyes for a second, as if trying to steady himself, then let out a long breath. His arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer, and you could feel the tension in his body slowly ease as he let you in—finally, fully.

“I’ll try,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll take care of it... take care of us. Just... don’t walk away again.”

You let out a soft sigh of relief, your forehead resting against his chest as you felt the weight of the past month lift off your shoulders. “I didn’t want to leave, Logan. But I didn’t know if you’d ever let me in. You’re so used to doing everything alone...”

He pulled you tighter against him, his grip firm but not suffocating. “I’m not alone when I’ve got you,” he murmured, his breath warm against the top of your head.

A small smile tugged at your lips as you buried your face in his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and something undeniably Logan. For a moment, you just stood there, wrapped up in each other, the world outside your door fading into the background.

“I guess Wade was right,” you said after a beat, your voice muffled against his chest.

Logan groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t just say that.”

You laughed softly, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. “He told you to say all that, didn’t he?”

Logan’s face twisted into a grimace, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah... don’t remind me.”

You chuckled, rising onto your toes to press a soft kiss to his jaw. “Well, it worked. So maybe you should give Wade a little credit.”

“I’m not giving that idiot anything,” Logan muttered, though there was a hint of a smile on his lips now. “He’s probably out there right now, planning some dumb stunt just to celebrate how ‘wise’ he is.”

“You know he’s never gonna let you live this down, right?” you teased, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest.

Logan groaned again, his head falling back for a second as if resigning himself to the fate of dealing with Wade’s inevitable gloating. “Yeah, I know. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

You grinned, leaning up to kiss him again, slow and lingering. “Well, I think it’s worth it.”

Logan’s hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin as he deepened the kiss. When you finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his voice low and soft. “You’re worth it.”

Wade’s grin was almost as big as the ridiculous neon sign he’d stuck outside his apartment, flashing in obnoxious pink letters: "Wade Wilson: Love Doctor."

“So, how’d it go?” Wade asked, lounging on his couch with a bowl of popcorn like he was watching some kind of live soap opera.

Logan stood in the doorway, arms crossed, looking like he was five seconds away from strangling Wade. “You’re an idiot.”

Wade gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “An idiot who got you back with your super-hot girlfriend? I’ll take it.”

Logan glared at him, but the usual threat behind the look was missing. “You’re lucky I don’t gut you right here.”

Wade tossed a piece of popcorn in the air and caught it in his mouth, grinning. “Please, you love me. Admit it. I saved your romantic ass.”

Logan let out a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You didn’t save anything.”

Wade waggled his eyebrows, leaning forward. “So... did you say the line? Huh? Did you tell her she doesn’t annoy you, she makes you nervous? Was it super romantic? Did she melt? Were there fireworks? Wait—did you guys have apology sex?!”

Logan’s eye twitched. “Wade—”

“I mean, seriously, when do I get to meet her? We could totally do a double date! I’ll wear a tux, she’ll wear that leather jacket you’re always brooding in, it’ll be super cute—"

Logan growled. “You’re pushing it.”

Wade grinned, utterly unfazed. “Admit it. I’m a love genius. I’ve got a natural gift for this relationship stuff. Really, I should be writing books.”

Logan turned on his heel, already heading for the door. “I’m leaving before I do something we’ll both regret.”

“Bye, best friend!” Wade called after him, waving dramatically. “Tell your girlfriend I said hi! And that I want her number!”

Logan didn’t dignify that with a response, but as he stepped outside, he couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. Wade might have been the biggest pain in the ass in the universe, but... maybe he was right about one thing.

Some things really were worth it.

[hvacfucker]

Miscellaneous Hector Headcanons! SFW!

A short list of me contextualizing Hector in the real world versus the object world. Please feel free to comment your thoughts! Also, I haven't explored anything beyond Hector's romance route, (yes, I'm talking about [ ] which I don't yet know the details of!!) so please keep things spoiler free if you'd like to comment!

🎭 Hector lived, breathed, slept Shakespeare as a child/teenager. Like ugh, he'd never seen such beauty in poetry before! Every lesser-known sonnet, every underrated play, Hector studied them all, agonizing over Shakespeare's wit and mastery of iambic pentameter, hoping to one day emulate even just the faintest shadow of his literary prowess. In fact, so enamored with the mystique of theater, Hector secretly longed for the stage.

🎭 It probably comes as no surprise those dreams were never realized.

🎭 God, it took him ages to recover from his Hamlet audition. (Or, did he ever?) The hours he spent practicing his lines, the paragraphs upon paragraphs of dense analysis searing his retinas at 3AM. To think it amounted to nothing? Hector still cringes at that particular chapter of his youth.

🎭 He can still see his taped mark from behind the cover of red velvet. Feel how his legs turned to lead, willing them to step up, but they wouldn't— couldn't move. Oh and the sounds of the drama directors shuffling through their clipboards, somehow taking the driest sips of water as they conferred their watches over the winding minutes? Don't remind him. (Sorry Hector)

🎭 Yeah, turns out stage fright and acting exist as such irreconcilable antipodes it's simply possible for them to find any common ground. Let alone cease their vying for control over Hector's autonomy so that he might dare to try again. Life lesson swiftly learned.

🎭 Although, he makes for an excellent stagehand! Working behind the scenes, that's much more Hector's speed anyway. He's content to spectate from the shadows, wistfully mouthing Juliet's lines as she laments her dear Romeo, Hector's arm maneuvering the industrial-grade fan so that her curls gently dance in the synthetic moonlight at just the right rhythm.

🎭 Outside drama club, crew work is thankless, but it's something Hector takes pride in. Without stagehands, there'd be no production to enjoy, after all! (To me, Hector makes so much sense as a theater kid lmfao)

🎭 Side note: I used to live in the heart of a city that had Shakespeare fests/ren faire parades/events. I feel like Hector would attend those?? Fair-goers would even wear those feathered, masquerade-style masks and get allll dressed up. So maybe he'd utilize such costumes to help with his shyness? I could see him taking advantage of the roleplay pretenses to get out of his shell and embrace a crowd of like-minded people!

🏰 Hector also gives me the vibe of someone who adores The Princess Bride. It's familiar, humorously fantastical, oozing romance with juust the right amount of cheesy, and unapologetically sincere. It's so... safe, and brings him unrivaled comfort when he finds himself yearning for a romance a fraction of the fairytale of which Buttercup and Westley have. (And yes, I feel like he'd love Phantom of the Opera and V for Vendetta for obvious, masked romance related reasons)

💝 Speaking of romance, ohmigod, he's so corny when it comes to Valentine's day. The chocolates, the roses, the oversized, overpriced pink-furred teddy bear. Hector bought them all; tolerated the knowing looks as he waited in line at the grocery store, afterwards writing the most heartfelt card his lover has ever read. (Hector's the type to make someone cry with how personal his letters are.)

💝 If his partner were to reciprocate in kind? Well, he could cry too — wait, he is crying! This is the extravagant display he's longed for: the one where someone isn't afraid to show-off how deeply they're in love with him; how proudly they're committed; to the point they're even willing to endure a bit of social heckling, just as he did. Of course Hector's moved to tears. He just loves them so much! To think his lover could match his affections, he's elated and made humble all at once.

[xayspancakeee]

okay, after watching the livestream video again and properly locked in with headphones, allow me to scream about this:

CHAPTER 9: A Long Awaited Revelry.

we can see that MC meets Sylus after that incident in chapter 8.

And from there, next scene we get?

MC PUTTING HER ARMS AROUNS SYLUS SEEMINGLY ATTENDING AN EVENT/ BALL?

like, excuse me sir? pls, give us a minute to recollect ourselves before you shoot us with that look.

the amount of excitement for this update is above the roof. AHHHHH.

he’s giving me vibes similar to that of Lucifer from Obey Me!

they just have this flare of suave-ness but underneath that all, they’re just whipped for MC. (Just spitting out quotes Shakespeare style cause they are just that suave?)

even the kittens had this to say about their first meeting/encounter with Sylus when being told they shouldn’t be here:

placed on the curb. GENTLY.

let a girl breathe man.

anyway, I’m sure there are many more analysis and theories and points about the livestream which the other girlies would point out and phrase it so much better. all in all, I am beyond excited!

so, I’ll end off my screaming here and go play the game to help ease this excitement until 15th July. 🙂‍↕️

okay byeeeeee!

[hotvintagepoll]

hotvintagepoll Hot Men Tournament rundown thoughts

I promised a final recap post and here it is! I'll try to cover the questions I saw the most as we closed out the bracket, reveal my ✨secret faves✨, and talk about the biggest surprises and turnarounds I saw in the brackets.

Yes, this will get silly.

ROUND 1

As I've mentioned before, I worked off submissions for who to include in the bracket, so if your fave was missing—that's why. I used submitted pics when I could, but many submissions didn't have one, so I tried to find decent ones in the couple of days I had to prep the first round (I didn't always succeed). By decent, I mean pics where 1) I could see the hot man's face, so not too much moody lighting, and 2) hopefully conveyed something about his vibe, even if it was a funny thing (yes, I showed Howard Keel in full Shakespeare get-up—I'm not beyond putting up a pic because I think it's funny). I didn't know all of these hotties going in, so some I had to guess with, but when I could I tried to pick shots that had a touch of the humor, class, or genre of the hot man.

For Round 1 and Round 2, I grouped the hotties by each decade, so only '60s actors ran against '60s actors, '50s against '50s, etc. Male beauty standards shifted pretty dramatically over the sixty years this tournament covers, and I didn't think it was fair to pit dramatically different styles of beauty against each other immediately.

I pitted hot men against each other based on opposing energies—hot vs cold, elegant vs rough, comedy vs drama, etc.. I wanted the polls to be interesting and I've never liked brackets where everyone is clearly in different "lanes" until the finals! I also wanted to make polls where I couldn't tell which way they would swing, so by setting matchups that felt opposite but equal, I got to be surprised by the bracket results too.

The only reason we had any three-way matchups is because the amount of men submitted didn't round to a nice bracket number. I don't like them generally and find them really hard to balance.

Secret faves from Round 1—I am a James Coburn girlie and knew he would die immediately, so that was not a shock but a bummer. I similarly knew Robert Preston is only magical to people who have seen him do His Little Dance Routines in That One Iowa Musical, but it would have been nice for him to last longer.

Surprises—Jeremy Brett was a last-minute add and I didn't think he really had a shot, so I put him in as a third wheel on the Sean Connery/Dean Martin matchup. Little did I count on the Granada girlies. (Always count on the Granada girlies.) The Elvis/Peter Falk poll was the first one to gain any momentum—Elvis was winning for the first 24 hours but then, my god, did Peter fight back. I didn't expect the Tab/Toshiro poll to make that bad a mincemeat out of Tab—people have different tastes, and I thought the people who like blonde sunny All American white boys might turn out for The Blonde Sunny All American White Boy. Sorry, Tab. I hope you've peeled yourself off the sidewalk by now. And, of course, I was SHOCKED and APPALLED that James Cagney would be obliterated by, of all people, Mr. Bing Crosby.

SHADOW BRACKET

The fervor of the Harold Lloyd and Fredric March people inspired the shadow bracket, and I couldn't be happier at the way it's gone. You were right, the original photos I had for them did suck. Cunty Harold Lloyd in his little life guard uniform was a revelation.

ROUND 2

For Round 2 I'd gotten a better sense of who was doing well and who was not, so a little of that came into play, but I mostly paired on vibes again. (I genuinely think this is a good way to make a fun, challenging bracket.)

Secret faves—Noooo not hot dilf Dick Van Dyke don't take my hot inventor dilf away uwu!!! (He was up against Marlon Brando. I would have been shocked if he'd won but for a minute there, a glorious second, it was possible.) I am also a big old softie for David Niven's particular brand of repression to the point of volcanic rupture, but he is one of many hotties who does not look good without moving and speaking so I figured he would be going.

So much beef—hey! hey you. I ran a poll asking if we are horny for dancers. Yes, was the resounding poll response. Where, then, did all the fucking dancers go? This round we lost Donald O'Connor, Fred Astaire, Harold Nicholas; Sammy Davis Jr., Danny Kaye, Frank Sinatra, and Bing Crosby all sneak into this category as well, by token of having been in the kind of big MGM bang-a-pan-and-put-on-a-show beloved bedlams we all watch at Christmastime. Round 2 voters HATED musical matchups. Except for one.

The one—SOUND OF MUSIC, the voters said, WE LOVE SOUND OF MUSIC. we will KILL the man responsible for salad dressing because of the SOUND OF MUSIC. every other dance man can die but THIS man dances a FOLK DANCE with JULIE ANDREWS in a GARDEN. I did not go into this poll with strong opinions about Christopher Plummer or Paul Newman but my god did I leave having heard all of them.

Surprises—James Edwards/Anthony Perkins matchup was a nail biter! Conrad vs Oscar kept me up at nights. Surprised to see Basil Rathbone survive against Sabu Dastagir—both very fetching, but Sabu had some top-tier propaganda. Cesar Romero put up a surprisingly stiff fight against Cary Grant (an omen for things to come).

Oh horrors—horror heroes surprisingly fell all over the place. I was sure either Bela Lugosi or Turhan Bey would sweep their three-way matchup, but Michael Redgrave of all people carried through; Boris Karloff went down against Johnny Weismuller (while holding hands with fellow fallen hottie Fred Astaire), but at least we got his guacamole recipe before he went. Delighted to see that the Venn diagram of the coalitions who support horror hero Vincent Price and funny lil guy Donald O'Connor is a circle.

Secret faves pt 2—oh yeah, I fucking love Danny Kaye and Donald O'Connor. RIP funny lil kings.

ROUND 3

For some reason this was the hardest one to make matchups for. Oh no, all the men are hot.

Secret faves—Michael Redgrave i love you SO much you're SUCH an idiot, how did you make it as far as round 3. I want you to sweep the whole thing but you should NOT be surviving this. I love you, here's a kiss, go home.

Surprises—Marlon Brando is gone! Errol Flynn is gone! Christopher Plummer exhausted himself beating the organic oreos man to death and goes out with a whimper. Beginning to actually see the roots of #mifunesweep as Tyrone Power, a hot man very different from Burt Lancaster, who was in turn very different from Tab Hunter, also gets swept under the wheels of the unbeatable toshirobus. Conrad Veidt finds that no amount of purring svelte eccentricity compares to the people who will fuck a young Lt. Columbo.

SHADOW BRACKET 2

Cannot believe it but Veidt loses this one too. Perkins sweeps and becomes Prince of the Shadow Realm!

ROUND 4

At this point I've set a formal bracket that I'm following.

Secret faves—this isn't secret anymore, but losing Jimmy Stewart hurt.

Surprises—The Gene Kelly/Jeremy Brett matchup was the diciest one all round, moving back and forth between the two by sometimes .01%. Far more surprising, however, was Cary Grant getting eliminated before the quarterfinals. Grant has never been my type, but he is famous for being THE type, so while the writing had been on the wall the whole tournament—how on earth did Michael Redgrave even get 36% in his matchup?!—seeing Grant go down was a SHOCKER. Other fallen hotties included Gregory Peck, James Dean, Harry Belafonte, and Sessue Hayakawa. Peter Falk finally met his match in Omar Sharif.

QUARTERFINALS

Secret faves—I don't know if it counts as a secret fave, tbh, as my horses in the race really went out with Stewart, but I do have a soft spot here worth mentioning. Here's my childhood dog, Keaton.

The resemblance is truly striking, and yes, he was short, fast, and not prone to smiling.

Surprises—I couldn't predict how any of these matchups would go down, but I was most interested in Keaton vs Sharif, as they are both SO hot in SUCH different ways.

SEMIFINALS:

This was such a good batch of semifinalist contestants. By this point I think we could all tell Mifune was unstoppable (though I thought Sharif might give him a run for his money), but I really didn't know which way Robeson vs Poitier would flip.

FINALS:

I wanted Sidney Poitier to pull a last-minute sweep out of nowhere, but alas, Toshiro is just THAT GOOD (maybe. I will admit that I find Toshiro's domination a little hard to believe, given the variety and hotness of all his competitors; the man is hot but all these men are hot). I'm still happy with how the tournament went.

FINAL MEDITATIONS:

Biggest shock of a dropout: the loss of Paul Newman

Biggest "you people have no taste": the loss of James Cagney

Biggest victory: Paul Robeson making it to the semifinals over often-assumed champion Gregory Peck

Biggest coalition who deserve justice: dancing men

Biggest ask character: vents anon (currently eating Laurence Olivier)

Biggest, uhh, anything: how many of you are here! I genuinely thought it would be me and 10 other people voting for the whole tournament. I'm thrilled it took off like this!

I think that's everything, but I'm happy to answer addl asks. And THANK YOU to everyone for your tags, rants, impassioned propaganda, beautiful pics, and love for the hot men! See you for the ladies!

[ghost-bison]

a christopher eccleston appreciation post

i will never say this enough because i don't know enough words, nor do i think such words exist, that could even begin to summarize how much i love christopher eccleston, but... i love christopher eccleston. and, more importantly, i have a deep-rooted respect for that man.

i started doctor who as, let's be honest, a sci-fi hater, forcing myself because i was obsessed with david tennant, and i was kind of dreading the first series because of this. but i was dead wrong.

he broadened my mind, gave me so many laughs, and so many cries, and i'm not the first to say that whenever eccleston is on the screen you just can't take your eyes off him, even when he's not supposed to be the main focus of the scene.

the way he can switch from silly goose to traumatized soldier in a matter of seconds will never cease to amaze me. or how he can play with both like he's on a swing by balancing it out with sarcasm?

i think whoever doesn't give him the title role in their shows/films is either an idiot, or they know the main character just isn't always the best.

i think it's downright idiotic and shameful that he gets rejected from ever playing some shakespeare just because of his northern accent (they're just posh elitist pos). now that he's older, and that times are evolving (i mean, i hope the world of theater is vibing with this evolution, but i'm not delusional), i hope we get to see him portray a character like leontes in winter's tale cause i know he'd be absolutely perfect for the role, and who better than shakespeare (this character especially, with his nuances and highs and lows and breakdowns and breakthroughs) to match acting like his?

saw an article where eccleston talked about how the moment he really knew he wanted to be an actor was when he had to wear mascara for a play, and had enjoyed it. i think he talks about it in his autobiography too (you should read it, btw, it's frankly affordable, and he happens to be a marvelous writer as well).

eccleston knows he is mistakenly type-cast, because of his background, as macho men and tough blokes in general. he's aware that it's kind of a big part of his culture. again, he talks about it i think in the very first chapter, how for instance he used to dress up as james bond, the pinnacle of "masculinity", which i think was a disguise in the metaphorical sense of the term, to mask his delicacy and femininity (or at least, that's my interpretation of it).

in his biography, eccleston talks about the differences between him and his dad, ronnie: he was surprised, as a child, whenever his father's affection manifested as a kiss or a hug, cause that usually wasn't his father's way of doing things. he compares it to how he, in contrast, has the habit of kissing his own son, albert, and telling him he loves him.

you can find it as well in how he talks about his anorexia, his body dysmorphia and, i think we can call it that, gender dysphoria. he's from a time when those concepts didn't even exist, they weren't a thing to the public eye. my father and my step-father, both feminine men in their own way, and both around eccleston's age, both told me about the struggle that it represented, not being the stereotype of the macho tough guy, and being surrounded by boys who didn't struggle with that issue. it made my dad a junkie, my stepdad a depressive artist, and, apparently, it made eccleston an anorexic actor.

i think it takes a lot of courage for people that age (the boomer generation as we call them), especially men, from whom we expect toxic masculinity, masculinity pushed to an extreme, to be able to openly call it out and dissect it into what it is: a ridiculous standard. but to be a PUBLIC FIGURE, in his 60s, and still find the strength to express it? damn. takes guts, i think.

most of us on this website, we're babies. most of us are at most in their thirties. the millenials and the gen z, and now the gen alpha, we take that for granted. or get offended and scandalized that being able to express oneself isn't yet a basic standard.

but then, i talk to my mum, and i realize that she had to stray from her catholic, sexist education, she had to make up her own mind about things in order for me to be born a free spirit. and that's just considering my mum's a cishet.

christopher eccleston expressed in other words that he doesn't fully consider himself to be cisgendered. i have mad respect for the way he talks about it, and for even talking about it at all.

then, there's his honesty. the more interviews i watch, the more it impresses me. he knows honesty goes hand in hand with dignity. i'm sorry but i'm tired of people who are nice all the time. you never know when they're being honest, and maybe some of them are, who knows. but i'm not stupid enough to think that so many people are just pure sunshine all the time (respect for tennant for lashing out publically about transphobia, i think he passed the test).

eccleston? he knows how to be both brutally honest and yet respectful at the same time. no ukulele apology from this man and holy fuck, it feels good!

i've seen him call russel t davies out for his lack of professionalism on the set of doctor who, and then list him amongst the great writers he's worked with. which makes me want to believe eccleston's side, because, if you're always either too polite, or too full of spite about eveything, who's to say you're not the problem? i've got way less trouble believing you if you can stay unbiased about a person you're having beef with than if suddenly everything said person does turns into shit just cause you don't like them. that's just maturity and wisdom.

one last thing i love about eccleston is that he is interested in other people's lives. there's a critic by marcus berkmann in his book that perfectly expresses my point: "you know what to expect from the autobiographies of most actors, i think: anecdotes, charm, more than mild self-satisfaction and faux-modesty by the bucketload. but christopher eccleston is not most actors".

and that's it. watch him in interviews and at convention panels, where he lets his younger co-stars speak before himself, and seizes the occasion when journalists ask him questions that are meant to make him talk about himself to praise his writers and other actors instead.

read his autobiography, which is both a love letter to his dad and a big let's-be-honest about the struggles of growing up poor and his personal struggles, because he thinks raising awareness is just as important as protecting himself.

look at his instagram posts where he unabashedly disses the monarchy and stays true and loyal to his background even after getting a taste of money. and his other posts where he shares his love for acorns and spending time with his kids.

i've seen him nearly break down in shame and regret on television for having stolen a kid's crisps in primary school. and not trying to find lame excuses for his behaviour. no ukulele apology, just facts, just christopher eccleston showing us what masculinity in its purest, most beautiful form should be about

[respectthepetty]

The Heart Killers' Colors? - Finale

There comes a moment where I continuously run into walls when I'm trying to figure out the colors in a show, so I finally just start Bird-Boxing it (stop seeing the colors and just start enjoying the feels), and now that I am watching the last episode of this series, I have decided it's time to forget the colors and embrace the vibes. Therefore, I'm Bird-Boxing it.

Because if I weren't, I'd be big mad that even with the divider in the way to give me the perspective of being in prison, Kant and Style are wearing whatever colors they are wearing right now when I fully believe Kant is a Green Guy and Style is a Red Rascal.

But like most white cops, I'm only seeing what I want to.

And what I'm choosing to see is Style FINALLY wearing that amazing pink top as he openly announces that he wants to touch the man he loves to Kant (in blue?!) and this cop who I feel was not homophobic when this all started but is slowly beginning to hate the gays after having to deal with Style regularly.

But it works! And Kant is now teaching art in the prison while wearing . . . orange? Red? I don't know. I said I was Bird-Boxing this, and that's what I'm going to do, so I need to be more invested in the simple fact that Kant did not allow Bison to keep the broken pencil to shank the next man who thinks he can run up on him. Smart move, Kant. We don't want more prison time!

Fadel has been in prison for one whole day and, somehow, looks even more angelic. Baby, not murdering people looks good on you. It makes your skin glow.

Or is it love that makes Fadel look good? Because I'd also look happy if I turned a corner in prison and saw this fine man standing in front of me instead of the little bit of rage I'm currently feeling since Style is wearing green. /Bird Box\

OH THANK GOODNESS! HE HEARD ME! Style, you have always been my favorite . . . after Fadel, so you deserve to get choked by your man today (because we know you like it!).

Kant is going to stay on his bullshit I see, but I am surprised that in this GMMTV prison, they change uniforms every single year when I can't even get tres leches in this economy.

Speaking of GMMTV - Break. Up. The. Ships. We all know what I'm talking about here.

Bison has a big bro and now a big sis. I also sit like this in my chanclas and short shorts when I'm minding other people's business. I trust this one with my life and my sexual exploits.

I know prison sex is happening and that should take priority, but Kant is wearing red, which is Red Rascal Bison's color, on the day that they have sex, and I think that is peak romance. Bison and I are easy. Wear our color and have sex with us in public places, so we know it's real. Simple!

But I am shocked that Style is not having public prison sex too! Instead, he is having to handle Fadel pouting because our Black Brooder is still so scared to lose Style that he will push him away first. Style, you are now my favorite. You show that man you a crazy committed. Emphasis on "crazy."

I know that was Jojo, but I have a 30 images limit AND NOW STYLE IS WEARING RED AGAIN and lying about Fadel going to culinary school! I knew there was a reason he was my favorite. Lie, Laugh, Love, babygirl.

Babe has not been around much, but this is a deep kid with all his Shakespeare books and giving Bison The Count of Monte Cristo. Of course he would want his brother's name. He is going to do well in life because his bother raised him right and especially because while his brother honeymooned on an island for Lord only knows how long after being taken hostage, Babe was fine by himself. I didn't forget that even if the plot did.

Fadel, my little emo homo is a clear case of "you can take the black off the brooder, but he will never stop brooding" because the way he is still upset that he misses Style when he isn't around is so endearing. He needs to go back to that support group when he gets out though because this is ~trauma~ speaking.

BUT THEY'RE FREE!!!!! (and nobody is in their color because this show hates me)

I already knew Style had bought the restaurant back, so I don't know why I'm acting surprised right now, but I think it's the way Fadel is looking at him with so much love that is just hitting me right in my feels.

And even though I know now is not the time to state this as everyone is getting kidnapped, I can't help but notice Khaotung is beautiful. Not Bison. Khaotung. I did not appreciate him enough in this show. I''m sorry, beautiful.

I could tell Lilly had lost her money because her invite was in Sharpie like a last minute garage sale sign. She could've saved the paper and sent a text. Also, when did they learn English in Hitman School? Between Guns 101 and Poisons 210?

I feel this way when I visit my family too, guys. And by that, I mean awkward, hostile, and most times as if I'm there as a forced hostage. BUT BISON AND FADEL ARE WEARING THEIR COLORS!!!! Kant and Style though? /Bird Box\

Forgive me, Father, for I know this devil has done wrong, but I am still very attracted to her. I think I can save her, and if not, at least I can have a good time trying. Amen.

I thought they should've shot her in the bathroom long ago, so I ain't mad that murder is back on the (dinner) table after she was trying to kill the last living parent and Babe! She did trained her sons to finish the job, so she should at least be proud that she trained them well, but I really wanted Keen to come in and finally show her he was capable of seeing a murder all the way through. I also didn't forget abut him even if the plot did.

They just murdered their mother, so shooting the beginning of the scene behind the bars isn't funny, but what is funny is the fact that I know people with felonies can get into Iceland without a special visa unlike other countries. I learned this from a lesbian when I went there for Pride a few years ago. We were discussing sheep, so it clearly made sense within the conversation.

STYLE GOT THE CAR! THE PLOT DID NOT FORGET! And the dots on the die keychain are red!

Fadel is too pretty to be looking at his man like that after five years of being locked up. This man is about to get that good shit! Every. Single. Day.

FADEL LOVES HIM 100%!

Even though I have Bird-Boxed my way through the colors in this final episode (yes, I have), I like that the boys ended up in Iceland seeing the Northern Lights, so they have a green coloring to them (for a Green Guy?!). Also, I highly suggest going to Iceland. Björk, as an institution, makes sense once you visit. Trust me.

And now Fadel doesn't give two shits about Style driving safely because he found love in a hopeless place, and if they die in Bangkok traffic, they'll die together (since Fadel already has the graves dug).

In conclusion, Fadel is a Black Brooder, Bison is a Red Rascal, and much like Fadel in love, I don't give two effs what anybody has to say because according to me, myself, and yo, Style is also a Red Rascal, and Kant is a Green Guy.

But I wouldn't know any of that because /Bird Box\