#*something vaguely Shakespearean*

[the-ink-repository]

• IMMORTAL BELOVED •

[viaxslz]

⊞﹑ᶻᶻ﹒⪨﹐ꜛ WHEN YOU STOP DURING A KISS ﹒⁂ꜝ

享受 ! .°. ݁₊ 𐙚 gn!reader, cw: kissing/making out, pet names, slightly suggestive, nothing much not proofread :P

CHAN

He blinks, dazed and breathless, still leaning forward like his lips are chasing yours. “Wait, what— Did I do something? Was it too much? Too fast? Was my nose in the way? I knew I should’ve angled more to the left—” He immediately goes into concerned boyfriend mode, rubbing the back of his neck, rambling nervously with furrowed brows. You can literally see the gears turning in his head trying to figure out if he messed up. When you explain that you just got flustered or wanted to look at him, he MELTS. Like full-on gooey marshmallow mode. “You… pulled away just to look at me?” Cue soft little chuckle, hands cupping your cheeks now, and he kisses your forehead.

LEE KNOW

You pull back mid-kiss, and for a moment, Minho just stares at you. Unmoving. Unblinking. He looks entirely unbothered… until you catch the faintest twitch of his brow. “Wow,” he says flatly. “Did I bore you mid-makeout?” You try to explain maybe you were flustered, or your brain short-circuited, or your stomach made a weird noise but he just squints at you, suspicious. “So you’re telling me I was putting in my best effort, and you just exited the app mid-update?” He looks personally offended for 0.5 seconds. Then smirks. “No, no, it’s fine. I’ll just go kiss the cat instead. She never pulls away.” (You hear him muttering to Soonie under his breath five minutes later: “At least you appreciate my affection…”) But he does end up pulling you back in, much gentler now, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “If you ever stop again,” he murmurs, “you better have a damn good reason. Like a meteor. Or Hyunjin screaming.”

CHANGBIN

At first, he’s frozen mid-pucker, lips still slightly parted, eyes blinking like he’s buffering. “…Huh?” He looks around like someone just unplugged his brain, then turns back to you with the most confused expression you’ve ever seen. Like a golden retriever who got told “no” for the first time in his life. “You— You just stopped. Was it me? Was I too aggressive? Too soft? Did I miss? Did I kiss your chin again?! I knew I should’ve practiced more—” You try to calm him down, but he’s already spiraling into self-doubt. Even throws his arms out like he’s in a drama scene. “I KNEW THIS DAY WOULD COME. You found someone with softer lips, didn’t you?” When you finally tell him the reason whether it’s you getting shy, needing a breather, or just being caught off guard by how cute he is, he immediately softens. “Oh. You think I’m cute?” Cue him grinning like a kid on Christmas. “Say it again. Say it three more times. Wait no, kiss me again. Right now. We’re finishing what we started.” Then he makes you reenact the kiss properly, “for closure.” (And yes, he absolutely brags about it for the rest of the day like it’s an Olympic sport.)

HYUNJIN

You pull away mid-kiss with zero warning, and Hyunjin just… stares at you. Lips still parted, eyes wide and sparkly with confusion and betrayal. He blinks once. Then twice. “…Did… did you just cancel me?” You try to keep a straight face, but the way he dramatically slumps back against the nearest surface arms flopping like he’s just been dumped in the most poetic way makes it nearly impossible. “Was it not good? Did I go too fast? Too slow? Was I… too pretty?” You: “You’re literally fine.” Hyunjin: “Fine? That’s it?? Not devastatingly handsome? Not kiss-me-right-now worthy? I’m gonna cry.” (He’s not going to cry. But he will roll onto the floor like an offended cat and mutter to himself in vague Shakespearean despair.) But when you admit you were just teasing him, he gasps. “So you played me?!” Cue playful chaos. He tries to act offended, but he can’t stop smiling. He corners you two minutes later, grabbing your waist like he’s about to perform a slow-mo drama scene. “You’re not getting away with that. Try pulling away again and I’ll chase you into next week.” Then kisses you again just to “reclaim his pride.”

HAN

You pull away mid-kiss, and it takes him a second to catch up. His eyes are still half-closed like he’s waiting for the sequel. “…Did the Wi-Fi cut out or something?” You try not to laugh, but he’s already leaning forward like, “Hello?? I was loading. Why did you press back?” When you don’t immediately explain yourself, he clutches his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “Don’t do this to me. I already have abandonment issues from when my ramen slipped into the sink that one time.” You: “Jisung—” Jisung: “That one time.“ Once you finally admit you were just teasing him, or got distracted, or simply felt like it he flops dramatically onto your lap, face buried in your stomach. “Unfair. You know my brain is slow and my heart is weak. You can’t just hit the brakes like that.” Then he pops his head up, grinning. “But also… if you wanted me to beg, you could’ve just said so.” Cue chaotic, overly dramatic puppy-boy behavior for the next hour. Constantly bringing it up with zero context. “Remember that time you broke my heart during a kiss?” “That was literally ten minutes ago.” “And I’m still healing.” But he forgives you with extra kisses just to “finish what you started.”

FELIX

You pull away mid-kiss, and at first, Felix doesn’t even notice he’s still leaning in with his eyes closed like he’s waiting for the encore. Then he opens one eye. “…Did I miss the cue?” You’re quiet for a second maybe your mind wandered, or you suddenly remembered that you left the laundry in the washer, or you were just overwhelmed by a random intrusive thought like “Do penguins have knees?” Felix tilts his head, trying to read your expression. “Wait… are you okay?” You nod, explaining it’s nothing serious, and that your brain just lagged a little. He chuckles softly, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “You pulled away like you just got hit by an existential crisis mid-kiss.” (He’s not wrong.) Then he gets serious for a second, gazing at you with those gentle, worried eyes. “You sure everything’s okay though? You don’t have to kiss me if you’re not feeling it. I’m just happy being with you.” You were fine, but now you’re blushing over how sweet he is. Felix gives you a soft smile and taps your forehead. “Next time your brain wanders during a kiss, just tell me what you were thinking. Unless it was about taxes. Then keep it to yourself.” Five minutes later, he texts you a meme of two penguins cuddling. Felix: "They DO have knees btw."

SEUNGMIN

You pull away mid-kiss, and Seungmin immediately blinks at you like you just skipped a line in a script he had memorized. “…That’s it?” Deadpan. Expression unreadable. Hands still resting casually on your waist, like he’s not even pressed about it. “Wow. That was… what? Three seconds? Impressive commitment.” You’re trying to explain maybe your brain short-circuited, maybe you remembered you left your phone on the stove, maybe you just needed a moment. But he’s already shaking his head like a disappointed tutor watching you fail basic math. “I rearranged my entire breathing pattern for that.” You: “You’re being dramatic.” Seungmin: “I trained my lips for days.” You roll your eyes, but he’s already pulling slightly away, crossing his arms like he’s filing a mental complaint. “Don’t worry. I’ll just log it in my diary. ‘Kiss: interrupted. Trust: broken.’ ” But the second you lean in again thinking he might actually be annoyed he’s already pulling you back with a smirk, voice low near your ear. “Next time you pull away, you better give me a good reason. Like your soul leaving your body. Otherwise, I’m finishing what you started.” And even though he acts so chill, later that night he won’t stop smiling to himself. Quietly. When no one’s looking.

JEONGIN

You pull away mid-kiss, all innocent, like you didn’t just commit the ultimate crime against his entire soul. He blinks, stunned. Lips still parted. Offended in 4K. “…Did you just— reject me in HD?” You: “Relax, I’m just teasing.” Jeongin: “Relax? RELAX? You can’t just pause mid-kiss like we’re on a Netflix trial—” He dramatically clutches his chest, spinning away like he’s in a low-budget romance drama. “I trusted you. I gave you my lips. My time. My chapstick. And you do me like this?” You’re wheezing at this point, but he’s not done. He turns back around slowly, finger pointed. “Don’t come crawling back when you want more. This factory is CLOSED.” (Factory reopens 12 seconds later when you give him puppy eyes.) Still, he acts like you have to earn it now. He’s all smug, leaning back like, “I don’t know… should I kiss you again? Are you mentally prepared this time?” But when you finally do kiss him again properly this time he just grins against your lips and murmurs: “Took you long enough. I was literally seconds away from texting Chan that I’ve been emotionally betrayed.”

PERM TAGLIST 📌🔖 ──── @the-sea-called-history02 @oc3anfloor @queenofdumbfuckery @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @my-neurodivergent-world @bookswillfindyouaway

[r-memberme]

if I had known | k.m

⎯⎯He chuckled darkly. “I prefer to think of myself as an unreliable narrator.”

warnings: non I think

"Klaus, be honest with me. How accurate is Beowulf?"

Across the room, Klaus barely lifted his eyes from his sketchbook, charcoal smudging the tips of his fingers as he shaded something unseen. "Darling, I was not in the mood to fight sea monsters during that particular century," he said, voice as smooth as ever.

She narrowed her eyes. "You're saying sea monsters did exist?"

A flicker of amusement crossed his face, but he simply turned the page of his sketchbook, dragging the charcoal in long, deliberate strokes. "I'm saying some stories are best left unconfirmed. Keeps the mystery alive, don’t you think?"

She groaned, flopping onto her back with a dramatic sigh, her worn-out anthology held loosely in one hand. "Fine. What about The Odyssey? Was Odysseus real? Did he actually outwit a Cyclops, or was that poetic exaggeration?"

Klaus set his charcoal aside, finally looking at her with something between exasperation and reluctant amusement. "If I had a coin for every fool who claimed to have 'discovered' Troy, I could buy the entire Greek coastline and still have enough left to bribe every historian in Europe to rewrite the tale in my favor."

She bolted upright, gripping her book as if it held the secrets of the universe. "Wait. Wait, wait, wait—so was Troy real? Was Homer real? Did you know Homer?"

Klaus let the question hang between them, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. He tilted his head, watching her unravel in real time, enjoying the weight of her curiosity pressing against him like a storm cloud ready to burst.

After a long, excruciating pause, he said, "Oh, sweetheart." He leaned forward, voice dipping into something maddeningly fond. "You’re adorable when you think I’m about to give you a straight answer."

She let out a frustrated noise and lobbed her book at him. Klaus, the ancient predator, the immortal hybrid, merely caught it midair with one hand, never breaking eye contact.

This was going to be a long night.

༊*·˚

She jabbed a finger at him, eyes gleaming with scandalized disbelief. “I refuse to believe you never met Shakespeare.”

Klaus barely spared her a glance, reclining into his chair like a man who had suffered one too many lifetimes of literary debates. “I refuse to discuss that insufferable playwright.”

Her jaw dropped. “You hate Shakespeare?” She clutched her book as if his words had personally offended the entire English language. “But why?”

Klaus exhaled sharply, tilting his head back as if pleading with the heavens for strength. “Because, love,” he drawled, “every time I so much as set foot in London, people mistook me for one of his tragic villains.” He gestured vaguely, as if swatting away the memory. “I was apparently the living embodiment of ‘sound and fury.’”

She gasped, dramatic, scandalized, delighted. “You’re Macbeth!”

Klaus groaned, dragging a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose like a man on the verge of an existential crisis. “God, grant me patience.”

She ignored his suffering entirely, sitting up straighter, grinning now. “No, wait—this is incredible. You are a Shakespearean tragedy! The brooding antihero with a questionable moral compass, haunted by his past, doomed by his own nature—”

Klaus gave her a flat look. “I am not doomed.”

“Debatable,” she shot back, grinning. “And I bet he based a character on you. Oh my God, were you Iago?”

“I am not Iago,” he said, affronted.

“Edmund from King Lear?”

“Absolutely not.”

Her eyes widened. “Richard III?”

Klaus made a strangled sound, looking like he was deeply regretting every life choice that had led him to this conversation. “For the last time, no.”

She hummed, flipping lazily through her book. “You’re definitely a Hamlet.”

Klaus stood up. “I’m leaving.”

She grabbed his wrist before he could make a dramatic escape. “No, no, wait! Just tell me one thing. Did you meet him?”

He sighed, giving her a long, withering look.

“…Did he base a character on you?”

A slow smirk curled his lips, something secretive and smug. “Now, that is a question you’ll have to spend the rest of your life wondering about, love.”

And just to infuriate her further, he pressed a quick kiss to her forehead before vanishing from the room.

She stared after him, scowling, before promptly pulling out her laptop and searching for every villainous Shakespearean character with a suspiciously familiar personality.

It was going to be another long night.

༊*·˚

She set her book down with deliberate care, leveling him with the kind of suspicious look that meant she was about to interrogate him. “You were alive when The Great Gatsby was published. Tell me—did people actually throw parties like that?”

Klaus barely looked up from his glass of bourbon, swirling the amber liquid with practiced ease. He exhaled a quiet laugh, low and knowing. “Darling, those parties were nothing compared to the ones in the 1700s. Now those were proper celebrations—duels at dawn, masked balls that lasted days, fountains of champagne.” He smirked. “Men wagering their fortunes over a single hand of cards. Women sneaking off into candlelit gardens, whispering scandalous secrets between sips of absinthe.”

She sighed dreamily, chin resting in her hands. “I wish I could’ve seen it.”

His smirk deepened, voice dipping into something smooth, teasing. “If I had known, I would’ve saved you a dance.”

She groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow and launching it at him. “That was too smooth—but you’re still avoiding my question!”

Klaus caught the pillow midair, utterly unbothered, setting it neatly beside him like it hadn’t just been a weapon. “I’m merely expanding your perspective, love. You’re comparing a firecracker to a storm. The 1920s were lively, certainly—an era of indulgence, excess, and a great deal of creative drunkenness. But Gatsby? He was melodramatic.” Klaus took a slow sip of his drink before adding dryly, “And for what? A woman who wasn’t even worth the trouble.”

She gasped, clutching her book to her chest as if shielding it from blasphemy. “Excuse me?!”

Klaus arched a brow, completely unfazed by her horror. “I’m right, and you know it.”

“No, you’re not!” she protested. “Daisy was his dream! She was—”

“A selfish socialite with the emotional depth of a teaspoon,” Klaus interrupted smoothly, eyes gleaming with amusement. “And let’s be honest, love—if Gatsby had even a fraction of my cunning, he wouldn’t have spent all that time throwing hollow parties in the hopes of impressing a woman who barely looked past her own reflection.”

She pointed at him, scandalized. “You are the villain in every book!”

He chuckled darkly. “I prefer to think of myself as an unreliable narrator.”

She flopped back dramatically against the couch, groaning. “You are so lucky I love you, otherwise I’d throw this entire book at your head.”

Klaus hummed, utterly content, as he swirled his drink again. “That’s the thing about literature, sweetheart. Everyone is the hero of their own story. Until they aren’t.”

She eyed him, suspicious. “That sounded like something Fitzgerald himself would say.”

A slow, knowing smirk curled his lips. “Now, that is a question you’ll have to spend the rest of your life wondering about.”

And just to infuriate her further, he clinked his glass against her book like it was a toast and took another sip, smug as ever.

༊*·˚

She hesitated, watching him carefully, as if gauging whether her next question would earn a genuine answer or another one of his infuriating evasions. “So… what do you think of Pride and Prejudice?”

Klaus exhaled a long-suffering sigh, tilting his head back against the couch as though the weight of two centuries had suddenly settled upon his shoulders. “That insipid book has been haunting me for centuries.”

Her mouth fell open. “What?”

He waved a hand, as if dismissing some unseen specter of literary torment. “Do you have any idea how many women have compared me to Mr. Darcy over the years? It’s exhausting.”

That was it—she completely lost it, bursting into laughter so hard she had to clutch her stomach. "You? Mr. Darcy?"

Klaus shot her a flat look, unimpressed. “Yes, love. Apparently, brooding and being emotionally unavailable is endearing.”

She gasped between wheezes. “Wait—do they know you?”

“Clearly not well enough,” he muttered, swirling the drink in his hand. “Though I suppose I should be grateful they don’t go around comparing me to Heathcliff instead.”

“Oh, come on,” she teased. “You do have that whole ‘tortured soul, passionate devotion, morally ambiguous choices’ thing going on.”

He shot her a pointed look. “Darling, I have never buried anyone in the moors out of spite.”

She grinned. “That we know of.”

He huffed, shaking his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement.

She tapped a finger against her chin, pretending to think. “Still… you do have a certain Darcy quality about you.”

Klaus groaned. “Not you too.”

“Well…” She shrugged, all innocence. “I do love a good brooding anti-hero.”

Faster than she could react, Klaus reached for her, pulling her effortlessly into his lap. His voice dipped low, teasing. “Careful, sweetheart. You may just tempt me into living up to the comparison.”

She smirked, tilting her head. “Oh no, anything but that.”

His lips found hers, warm and insistent, though his grin never quite faded. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I knew you only loved me for my library.”

She sighed dramatically, draping herself over him as though she were utterly besotted. “It’s true. The first time I saw all those first editions, I knew I had to keep you.”

Klaus chuckled, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Well, darling, as long as you keep asking me ridiculous questions, I suppose I have no choice but to stay.”

And somehow, she got the distinct feeling that even if she never asked another question again, he still would.

request from anon!🤍

taglist:

@ohapple

@myworldrightnow

@deactiveblogx

@witch-of-letters

@xtwistedchaosx

@liataylorsversion

@pardonmydelayyy

@siredbyklausm

[devilish-cherry]

ᨳ♡₊➳ choso x reader

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack, fluff

"Choso’s closet is officially declared a war crime. It's your moral duty to save him... with questionable results."

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: request from this ask!

When Yuji first mentioned Choso's nonexistent fashion sense, you laughed it off. Big mistake. Because now, standing in front of a closet that genuinely looked more tragic than any Shakespearean play, you realized you had drastically underestimated the problem.

You squinted, double-checked, even triple-checked, but Choso's wardrobe remained stubbornly pathetic. His wardrobe could be generously described as "minimalist," which, in reality, was just exactly one outfit and two of Yuji's hoodies that absolutely did not fit.

You stared blankly at the closet like it had personally offended you. Turning slowly, you leveled a stare at Choso, who stood behind you, perfectly poised, hands neatly clasped behind his back.

“This… is your entire closet?” you asked.

Choso blinked, his expression solemnly earnest.

“Yes,” he answered, voice grave as if this admission held world-ending significance. “This is my entire closet.”

You took a deep breath, the weight of responsibility settling dramatically upon your shoulders. "Choso, I'm not sure how to tell you this, but… this isn't a wardrobe. This is a war crime."

Choso appeared gravely concerned by your declaration, his face hardened instantly and he nodded with alarming seriousness. “I was unaware clothing choices could breach international law. That seems unfortunate. What steps do we take?”

“Oh, they definitely can. And yours? Yours deserve an entire tribunal,” you replied dryly, pushing the closet door shut firmly, lest the sadness escape and contaminate the outside world. “We need to go shopping. Immediately.”

Choso nodded once again. “I understand. We must obtain more… fashion.”

You weren’t entirely sure he did understand, but there was no turning back now. You grabbed his wrist with an intensity that made him make an undignified startled sound, and dragged him toward Shibuya aka the epicenter of youthful fashion, questionable aesthetics, and overpriced branded hoodies.

The shopping district was packed, colorful and loud, filled with mannequins wearing things you were fairly certain qualified as crimes against humanity. Choso, meanwhile, regarded everything with cautious suspicion.

“Do humans enjoy this?” he asked warily, eyeing a mannequin in a lime-green fuzzy bucket hat.

“Define enjoy,” you sighed. “Let’s just find something you can wear without causing physical pain.”

Your first stop was a store that claimed "minimalist streetwear," but you quickly realized their idea of minimalism involved cutting basic t-shirts in half and charging triple the price. Inside, ambient music hummed gently beneath the chatter of trendy customers and staff who looked straight off a TikTok fashion vlog.

Choso obediently tried on a pastel crop top and black ripped jeans, emerging from the dressing room with the facial expression of someone experiencing spiritual torment. He looked great, objectively speaking, but unfortunately, Choso himself appeared emotionally traumatized.

“I feel… exposed,” he said, eyes wide.

“You look like an eboy with daddy issues,” you said frankly. “Actually, you look amazing, but this might be too advanced.”

“I understand. No eboys. No daddy issues,” he echoed solemnly, immediately retreating to change again.

Next was the grunge aesthetic store, which smelled strongly of incense, angst, and overpriced vintage leather. Choso hesitantly appeared from behind the curtain, dressed in distressed jeans that looked like they’d been dragged behind a moving vehicle, a dark band tee from a band neither of you recognized, a leather jacket weighed down with unnecessary chains, and studded boots that screamed rebellion. He vaguely looked like a tortured rock star or a vampire trying way too hard to blend in.

You blinked at him. He blinked back, entirely serious.

“Is this better?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Are you planning on joining a motorcycle gang?”

He paused thoughtfully. “Should I?”

You shook your head quickly. “Absolutely not. Honestly, you look like you sell CBD-infused vape juice on TikTok.”

He looked at his reflection. “Is that… a career path?”

“No.”

You even tried the soft-boy aesthetic, leading him into a gentle-colored paradise where everything was pastel, fuzzy, and alarmingly comforting. Choso appeared, completely disoriented, in an oversized lavender cardigan, round glasses perched awkwardly on his nose, plaid pants, and socks with tiny embroidered flowers.

He turns to the mirror, expression troubled. “This is the outfit of someone who would let enemies live so they could learn the power of love.”

“… Is that bad?”

“Yes. I must kill my enemies. Efficiently.”

The next store was a confusing explosion of streetwear and urban fashion, displaying pieces that were both outrageously overpriced and weirdly tactical. You handed Choso an armful of clothing again and waited skeptically as he dressed.

When the curtain opened, you nearly choked. Choso stood there, in a flashy satin shirt, leather jacket, tight ripped jeans, and obnoxiously large sunglasses.

He stared at his reflection in disbelief. "I appear ready to announce my debut album."

“You’re giving me 'second-tier idol kicked out after two months' realness.”

He genuinely considered it. “Perhaps idol life is not suited for a former cursed womb.”

You laughed, nudging him playfully. “Maybe next reincarnation.”

At your wit’s end, you finally dragged him into a casual clothing store, shoving a handful of basics into his arms with a fervent prayer. When Choso emerged, both your eyebrows lifted.

It was… perfect?

The denim jacket fitted his broad shoulders impeccably, paired casually over the dark shirt that emphasized his lean build. Jeans hugged his long legs just right. He looked good. More than good, really. He looked annoyingly fantastic.

He paused, turning uncertainly in front of the mirror.

“You… actually look really good,” you said, stunned into honesty.

Choso looked down at himself, then at you, expression softened into something so oddly sweet it made your heart stutter. “Thank you,” he murmured, and then, entirely serious, “I did not know denim could evoke positive emotional reactions.”

“Denim is humanity’s greatest accomplishment after fire and WiFi.”

He nodded thoughtfully, clearly committing this sacred knowledge to memory. “I will remember this.”

As you went to the counter to purchase your victory haul, Choso watched with careful intensity, clearly internalizing the exchange as if preparing for future survival in a foreign land.

You patted his shoulder gently. “Congratulations, you survived your first shopping experience.”

He nodded solemnly. “This is an achievement worthy of pride?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

A tiny, rare smile touched his lips. “Then I am proud.”

You smiled back, oddly touched by his sincerity. Shopping with Choso, though exhausting, was also fun. His blunt confusion, strange questions, and unintentionally sweet comments were oddly endearing.

As you exited the store, Choso’s expression softened with unexpected contentment, eyes scanning the vibrant Shibuya crowds with quiet curiosity.

That’s when it happened. He stopped abruptly, eyes wide with sudden, intense focus on a street stall.

“Oh no,” you whispered, already sensing trouble.

Choso approached with deadly seriousness and picked up a knitted panda hat. The panda hat was, objectively speaking, an absolute tragedy. A soft knitted monstrosity that looked like a craft project gone horribly wrong. A black-and-white abomination with floppy ears and uneven stitching. It was undeniably off-putting. The street vendor smiled encouragingly, clearly sensing Choso’s vulnerable sincerity as an easy target.

“I must have this,” Choso stated with absolute conviction, his eyes shining with an intensity usually reserved for dramatic declarations or solemn battle oaths.

You choked. “Choso, are you sure-”

He stared straight at you, deadly serious. “I have never desired an object more intensely in my entire existence.”

You sighed, hiding your grin behind one hand. "Fine, who am I to deny true love at first sight?"

Choso’s expression softened into grateful seriousness. “Your support is appreciated.”

You handed over the yen, accepting the hat as Choso gingerly placed it atop his head. He turned to you for approval, looking expectant and oddly vulnerable.

You couldn’t help it. You laughed, genuine and warm. “It’s somehow perfect for you, actually.” you teased gently, nudging his arm, secretly enjoying the smile tugging at his lips. “Let’s head back before Yuji thinks we’ve been kidnapped.”

“Understood,” Choso said quietly, falling into step beside you with unusual contentment, adjusting his precious panda hat again.

Yuji nearly fell over when he saw him. “WHAT. IS. THAT. HAT.”

Choso, completely serious, stared back at Yuji with his usual deadpan expression. “This is fashion. I have evolved.”

Yuji looked at you. You raised your hands like, “Don’t look at me, man.”

Choso placed a gentle hand on Yuji’s shoulder. “Brother, this hat brings me profound joy. Please respect my choice. It is important to change. To adapt. Also, denim is good.”

Yuji gave a weak thumbs-up. “Sure, bro. Love that for you.”

Choso’s eyes lit up warmly. “Thank you, Yuji. Your approval matters greatly.”

When Yuji left, Choso seemed thoughtful.

"You know," he murmured softly, "Today was enjoyable."

“Even with all the wardrobe malfunctions?” you gently teased.

"Indeed. But more importantly," Choso stated seriously, "your company was comforting. I believe that humans enjoy activities more when they're shared with someone they care deeply for."

You looked at him quietly, your heart fluttering unexpectedly. “Are you saying you care deeply about me, Choso?”

“Yes. That is exactly what I meant,” he nodded, completely unaware of the magnitude of his confession.

You smiled, touched. Choso’s sincerity was always delivered so plainly and seriously you were never sure if he realized just how charmingly awkward he was being. "That's... actually really sweet."

He nodded gravely, considering. "Sweetness is preferable to whatever emotion that bucket hat induced."

You laughed, bumping your shoulder against his. "Agreed."

Choso looked down at you quietly. "Thank you. For being patient with me. I am still navigating the human experience. You help make it... enjoyable."

You gently squeezed his hand, smiling softly. "You're doing great."

He smiled just barely, the corners of his mouth twitching upward slightly. It felt like a victory.

[pinnedmother]

Here’s a list of general headcanons for Messmer the Impaler with a romantic flare. Some of those are kinda obvious, but I still wanted to write them down. The reader is vague and not necessarily tarnished. Enjoy~

Despite being steadfast and unyielding in his actions and appearances, inside all that composure Messmer is full of uncertainties, he tends to overthink everything and convince himself of the worst possible explanation for things. The man needs a great deal of reassurances to open his mind towards anything positive. For example, he can easily believe that you simply have something to gain from his affections, but it would take a lot of persuasion to make him trust in sincerity of your feelings.

It’s not that hard to start a fling with the Impaler. He doesn’t get a lot of action since literally everybody’s terrified of him either out of respect or hate. You’ve come this far and you’re not too afraid, so why not? You can hardly call it a romance, there’s barely any love, mostly satisfaction of physical needs, a matter of convenience, a stress relief if you will. If there’re any warm feelings for him in you – they’re unrequited, Messmer seems cold.

However, a true romance with Messmer is a slowburn. It’ll take a lot of time, effort and patience and can be very frustrating. That being said, while it’s hard to get him to feel the feels, once you finally manage such a feat – it’s like a rolling snowball: he gets more and more romantic as time passes, reaching Shakespearean levels. Roses, poems, fancy pet names, never-ending courtship. At this point he doesn’t expect anything from you in return, just accept his advances and he’ll be the happiest demigod.

He does battle practices every(or almost every)day and regards it as a chore at this point. The Impaler used to enjoy training fights in the days long gone, now, after all these years of iterance, it’s simply vexing and monotonous. However, when you’re invited to either participate or spectate, Messmer’s much more enthusiastic, trying to impress you, showing off his best, most powerful moves. He barely hides his desire to be praised, wanting to hear in full detail which attack of his you liked the most and why. Invents new techniques just to keep you entertained and amazed.

If you’re having a spar, Messmer’s not the one to go easy on you, he wouldn’t disrespect you like this, so most of the time either the win is his or he declares a draw. That is unless he feels you need a boost of confidence, then, and only then, he’ll pretend to lose. He’s a good actor.

The serpents gravitate towards you and enjoy being petted, they love resting their heads on your chest and thighs, but it greatly embarrasses their master, he deems it incredibly inappropriate.

At first he didn’t like you touching his hair: where are your manners? Where did you lost your respect for his authority? He’s not a pet to be coddled and toyed with. And besides, the red hue is cursed, why would you even like it in the first place..? Yet eventually it grew on him, big time. Messmer would take off his helmet around you hoping you’ll get his silent invitation. He relishes in the feeling of your fingers combing through his strands, the way they’re brushing against his scalp gently... He may just fall asleep in your arms like this.

His skin is usually cold (because snakes are cold-blooded, yes), but Messmer can make himself quite hot with his fire magic. Always does it before touching you, incentivizing you to associate comfort and warmth with his presence. Before cuddling Messmer heats up his chest the most, so you’d snug even closer to him. In fact, he does this trick so often that you genuinely think he’s naturally very warm.

The man is bigger than you, so he’s a natural big spoon, yet he would love for you to hold him instead. All these centuries being a fearsome pinnacle of strength… Now he wants to be soft and vulnerable, if only with you and just for a little while.

Messmer is in constant physical pain, equal parts because of the curse and because of the blessing. The pain is just as much of a companion to him as are his winged serpents. He’s so used to that unending, dull ache that when you manage to relieve some of it with your gentle handling Messmer is ecstatic. He gets more sleep, looks healthier and happier, hunches less.

Also, I wanted to touch on his early life. We see Godwyn and Miquella as the gregarious type characters, as much as canon allows it, but I also think that Messmer back in the day was something of a socialite himself. After all, his knights absolutely loved him, so much so that they abandoned their birthrights for him. On top of having admirable combat proficiency, Messmer had a great deal of charisma and possessed a witty sense of humor. He always seemed to know what to say and when to say it. A perfect balance between humility and splendor. He was laid back enough to hang out with commoners and foot soldiers, as if they were equals. Judging by his friendship with Gaius, an albinauric, and his possible inferiority complex caused by his curse, he most definitely had a soft spot for the accursed and destitute, enamoring others even more with his genuine kindness. Now, after all these years of warfare and abandonment, Messmer is, like it’s famously said, “a shadow of his former self” – he’s a sullen shut-in, a paranoid overthinker with severe depression.

[pankowcrumbs]

Blind Date X Paul Mescal

MasterList

Blind dates weren’t usually my thing.

In fact, they were very much not my thing. The last time I let a friend set me up with someone, I’d spent an excruciating two hours listening to a man named Oliver explain, in extreme detail, the differences between various types of wine corks.

So when Fred Hechinger called me up and said, “You have to meet him, Y/N. Trust me,” I was sceptical.

“Who is he?” I asked, twirling the cord of my phone around my finger as I lounged on my sofa.

Fred hesitated. “I’m not telling you that. You’ll say no.”

I groaned. “Fred.”

“Just go. One drink. If you hate him, you can leave.”

I sighed, knowing he wouldn’t let it go. “Fine. One drink.”

Which was how I found myself walking into a dimly lit bar in Soho, scanning the crowd for my mystery date. My heart pounded a little harder than I wanted to admit. Blind dates may not have been my thing, but the thrill of the unknown was undeniable.

Then I spotted him.

Paul Mescal.

My stomach dropped, and I nearly turned on my heel to march straight back out. Fred, you absolute menace. He had failed to mention that my date for the evening was not just any man, but Paul bloody Mescal Academy Award-nominated actor, Irish heartthrob, and the subject of far too many of my daydreams.

Paul’s eyes met mine, and he smiled. A slow, warm, utterly disarming smile.

“You must be Y/N.” His voice was deep and smooth, laced with that unmistakable Irish lilt.

“I am,” I said, forcing my legs to carry me forward. “And you must be Paul.”

“That’s what they call me.”

I let out a small laugh, nerves making me giddy. He stood, pulling out my chair like a proper gentleman.

Fred was so going to pay for this.

“So,” Paul said as we settled into our seats, “I take it Fred didn’t tell you who you were meeting?”

I shook my head, exhaling sharply. “Not a word. If he had, I probably would’ve said no.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Why’s that?”

“Because you’re you,” I said, gesturing vaguely at his ridiculously handsome face. “You’re, you know, Paul Mescal.”

“And you’re you,” he countered easily. “Y/N L/N, incredibly talented actress. I think that puts us on equal footing.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Flatterer.”

“I speak only the truth.”

The bartender appeared, and we ordered drinks. I opted for wine, while Paul chose a whiskey. As the evening unfolded, my initial nerves melted away.

Paul was… easy. He had a way of making me feel like we’d known each other forever, as if this wasn’t some orchestrated meeting but something natural, meant to be. He was quick-witted, dry-humoured, and had an infectious laugh that made my chest feel a little too tight.

“Okay, serious question,” he said after we’d been talking for nearly an hour. “Would you rather only be able to communicate in Shakespearean English for the rest of your life or have to sing everything you say?”

I groaned. “That’s evil.”

He grinned. “Answer wisely.”

“I guess… Shakespearean English. At least that way I could still hold a serious conversation.”

“Ah, but think of the drama! The passion! The eternal sonnets!”

I smirked. “And what about you? Singing everything forever?”

“Oh, absolutely. I already break into song at inappropriate moments, so I’d just be leaning into my destiny.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

I hesitated for half a second too long, and something in Paul’s expression changed just a flicker, like he’d caught onto something.

The night stretched on, our conversation effortless, our chemistry undeniable. At some point, I lost track of how many drinks we’d had. We leaned in closer, our arms brushing against each other, our laughter getting softer, more intimate.

“Do you think Fred set us up because he knew we’d get on?” I asked.

Paul hummed, pretending to think. “Either that, or he’s just a chaos-loving menace who enjoys playing matchmaker.”

I laughed. “That does sound like him.”

Paul’s eyes softened. “For what it’s worth, I’m really glad he did.”

I swallowed, my heart hammering in my chest. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

We fell into a silence that wasn’t awkward at all just charged, filled with something unspoken.

And then, Paul reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering for a moment too long. My breath hitched, and he noticed.

“I’d really like to kiss you,” he murmured.

I smiled, tilting my head slightly. “Then what’s stopping you?”

A slow grin spread across his lips, and before I could say anything else, he leaned in and kissed me.

It was soft at first, tentative, as if he was testing the waters. But when I kissed him back, his hands found my waist, pulling me closer. Heat pooled in my stomach as I melted into him, my fingers threading through his curls.

When we finally pulled away, slightly breathless, Paul let out a low chuckle. “Well, that was…”

“Yeah,” I agreed, equally dazed.

We sat there for a moment, just grinning at each other like idiots.

Then Paul smirked. “Think we should call Fred and tell him he’s officially a matchmaking genius?”

I laughed. “Let’s wait until morning. He doesn’t need an even bigger ego.”

Paul nodded sagely. “Good call.”

As we left the bar, his hand found mine, lacing our fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

[punk-rock-quagsire]

Terry Pratchett Time Again

So I finished Sourcery and Wyrd Sisters a while ago but took a break to read a WH40k book my brother suggested (The Infinite and the Divine) so y'all are gonna have to deal with some delayed thoughts.

Sourcery

This book felt very weird. This is the first time I can feel Terry struggling with the limits of the genre as it is known, and I felt like I started to see the shape of books to come.

The ideas here were definitely still interesting, the daughter of the famous barbarian, the ultimate magic user who's just a child being commanded/instructed by the trapped soul of his father, the man so rich he owns his own version of Central Park et cetera. But reading it the characters still feel boxed in somehow. Conina feels very out of place is the Pratchett world. Her dream is to be a hair dresser, which is a fine dream, but Terry doesn't really do anything with it. It's kind of just a throw away "Girl Job" is how I felt. And it also felt like it was making fun of Nigel for being scrawny but still wanting adventure. And I won't even touch on the old timey not-racist-but-not-exactly-culturally-sensitive depictions of Creosote as the only vaguely non white side character.

I did like Coin. His whole situation sucked, but I always appreciate a character who has been told what their ambition is deciding that they want something else. I'm a sucker for it. Plus I kept picturing him as one of the kids from John Carpenter's Village of the Damned which helped me understand how he intimidated all the wizards so thoroughly.

Final thought is that the books being scared was very well done and it was touching how caring but also business like the librarian was when fixing them up in the Tower of Art. Reminded me of a nurse almost.

Wyrd Sisters

And just when I worried Terr Bear was missing a step here comes probably one of my favorites so far. These women are strong, independent, and they love each other and their homes with such a passion that it's palpable on the page.

Not only do we have the classic crone who lives in a cottage, but we've got ourselves a hippy witch who wouldn't hurt a fly but makes the wood in a door blossom out into a tree again to save her friend, AND we have a granny witch with her own army of various and sundry children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and a collection of in-laws.

Not only do we get our first non-human side character (not including librarians or personifications of concepts) who is also a great writer, but we get Shakespeare joke after Shakespeare joke, enough to make a particularly annoying English teacher blush, AND a fun twist on the chosen one / refusal of the call tropes to end on.

If Sourcery felt like the Terry got himself hemmed in by biases he was only beginning to recognize in himself, Wyrd Sisters feels like the first steps towards addressing those. He sets his feet on ground he's sure of. He knows women, especially older women, especially older women who are a little bit weird (wyrd) deserve more respect than they get. In 1988 that was still progressive, but not exactly radical. He puts on some extras that help him feel comfortable, i.e. Shakespearean framing and story, easy to undermine tropes such as covens and jesters (pin in that), and starts reaching. He doesn't reach too far just yet, but he is willing to acknowledge the souls of animals and ancient peoples, he's able to find the displacement so many of us feel in a dwarf who is driven mad by his creative need, he sees an adopted son and never makes that the butt of a joke. Small steps, but good ones.

He does falter still. An irredeemable evil in the duchess is just in her nature. The old nasty cat jokes sometimes strayed too far for my tastes. But overall I can feel Terry looking around and realizing the genre he's always loved doesn't seem to love everybody else, and I can feel him getting annoyed at that in small ways.

My last thoughts are with the jester. He is probably my favorite. This is the closest I've felt a character has come to a Terry Pratchett self insert. He finds the misery in something that should be joyful (foolery/writing) but sticks to it for probably too long (with the Duke/as a journalist) but eventually got fed up with it and found a way to make his old love work for him. It is, perhaps, a bit of a stretch, but I do not think it's without merit. I also think Terry would find the idea very funny even if he called it total bunk.

So that's that. These two books are the most I've felt Terry changing as a writer so far. My next two reads are Pyramids, which I've heard nothing about, and Guards! Guards! which I hear is one of his best, and probably where I should have started my reading.

(also, if you want my thoughts on the Infinite and the Divine I quite enjoyed the immortal robo rom com and can't wait for the ABC spin off series)

[poetcrowned]

the last time i saw you, you were going to say something... and then you stopped.

PRE ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP PROMPTS

"Do you ever feel like...?"

He'd been too careless with his words, too caught up in how invincible the night had made him feel -- Bill by his side as they snuck around the forbidden parts of the campus, laughter stifled and thoughts set free into the wind. Secrets almost spilled. Neil knew, as soon as he glanced towards Bill's feverish grin and the question began to tumble from his lips, that he was about to make a grave mistake, laying himself bare before someone who could cut him with a proverbial knife. Very Shakespearean, a tragedy waiting to happen.

So he'd changed the subject in one way that he knew how, a shove to the arm and a run to the main building as he laughed away the thudding in his chest, the reddening of his cheeks. He'd hoped that Bill would have forgotten, but it turns out that the universe had other ideas.

"Was I?" God, he was glad he wasn't facing the other, sat at his desk with a fist clenched white against the splintering wood. His voice managed a vague sense of airiness -- Maybe he was cut out to be an actor. "Oh, well, it can't have been that important."

[lottiesnotebook]

Hello hello it's time for the agenda ONCE MORE. Okay I'm leaning towards this being the college AU but you can do anything you want forever of course. "Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends."

College AU is bordering on original fiction at this point but I truly do not care bc it delights me! The set up, if you are reading this and aren't Libri, is a modern day College AU where the Inquisition era characters are putting on a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, directed by my own Melia Surana, and including Libri's Lux working (ofc) on the lights...

Melia Surana/Lux, Melia Surana & Morrigan, College Theatre AU, yearning, internalised homophobia

@librivore42 | @thedasweekend

such shaping fantasies

There’s a point where every production becomes something of a fever dream, where rehearsals and running lines and designing costumes and sets and tracking plots blur into a haze that feels almost like being drunk. It hits Melia early during her first run as director, which is probably her fault for picking a project as ambitious- as exhausting- as A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

It’s popular, in that there are as many speaking parts as there are actors who want them, and it’s a nightmare, in that now it’s Melia’s job to ensure all those actors know their lines, their blocking, and where their props should be at any given moment.

To their credit, most of them are taking their roles in stride: Sera will be an iconic Puck, if she can either stick to the script or at least end up in something close enough to the right line to prompt her scene partner. Alistair, as Oberon, seems to be having more trouble remembering his lines, but he can at least keep up with her in terms of vaguely Shakespearean-sounding banter.

Morrigan… Morrigan is the perfect Titania, shifting from domineering to doting in moments, with all the grace any director could ask of a fairy queen. The problem is that when Melia closes her eyes and envisions the perfect Dream, it’s not Morrigan who slumbers among the flowers or commands her fey courtiers. It’s not even another member of the cast, though Vivienne could probably pull off the role.

It’s Lux, who’d never imagine performing on stage, who descends from the lighting both to perform in Melia’s own dreams, bright and lovely and shining, not dainty and doll-like but tall and regal, a more ancient kind of Fair Folk than Shakespeare’s miniature Queen Mab. The kind Melia would follow into Fairyland without a second thought, if she only asked, no promise of immortality or foresight required.

But Lux does not ask, of course. Perhaps she has never learned to ask for anything for herself, or perhaps, there is simply nothing Melia can offer that she wants.

She tried, once, a long time ago, before the plays and the production, before they were Melia and Lux, back when they were Melia-and-Lux, inseperable as Helena and Hermia. Of course, like Helena and Hermia, unrequited love was always going to tear them apart, though the play would probably have been more dramatic if that particular friendship breakup had been caused by Helena trying to kiss Hermia, or if Hermia had stared at her blankly and said “We aren’t. Meant to do that?”

Time heals all wounds, or at least dulls the ache of them, but despite the time and the distance they’ve put between them, despite the fact that they mostly communicate via notes scrawled onto script pages, despite we aren’t meant to do that, in Melia’s heart, it is Lux in the spotlight, Lux in the bower of blossoms. Lux who wakes with her eyes wide and bright with love-in-idleness, and sees Melia as she never has before.

Of course it’s a fantasy, and a foolish one of that. She scrawls over the marble-and-gold-Titania of her set and costume designs in black ink, substituting light for shadow, Lux for Morrigan, the lighting technician for the actress, the dream for the reality. She does not glance up to the lighting booth as Alistair exclaims, for the hundredth time ‘who would not exchange a raven for a dove?’

Melia knows she would, if given the chance, which only proves the Bard right: the lunatic, the lover and the poet are of imagination all compact, and Melia lost track of which she was the moment Lux walked back into her life. Lunatic, lover, or poet, it hardly matters until the curtain comes down on closing night, and she has to leave the Dream for her humdrum daily life, and let Lux vanish again.

[i-am-arkham-asylum]

Back on my current-era petekey moment, a got-together-in-05-and-stayed-together verse if you will,

My brain goes crazy thinking about Pete Wentz vague posting on all seven hundred of his blogs throughout the middle aughts and how that would look if he was in a relationship with Mikey that whole time. 

Because there is this slow build from Pete romanticizing heartbreak into just cold hard desperation where he's barely getting the words out because they hurt that bad 

I think it was on a home boys life? where he goes from:

"Only telemarketers have more hang ups then me"

To just being beat the fuck down until it's:

"You never call me back"

I can just imagine Pete going from this romantic notion of ""oo this secret relationship is all ours and isn't that romantic that we are something only we know""

Until it's years later and you're no longer emotionally volatile and all you want is the ability to be and feel stable. then suddenly pete realizes he doesn't want to be Shakespearean he just wants to hold Mikey hand in starbucks and it goes from romantic poetry to,

"Only the IRS knows how much I love you and I'm sorry"

And I think Pete Wentz is the kind of person, ESPECIALLY pre-hiatus Pete who did not have a good relationship with boundaries on talking about his personal life; that guy would go crazy with want because he JUST wants to talk about how in love he is but everything has to be under this cover of like, HYPOTHETICALLY.

LIKE, ""your hypothetical brown eyes and your hypothetical knobby knees and your hypothetical mouth that you press into mine every night. I feel how your lips have been warmed by hot stage lights and I wish people knew I was yours ANYWAY BUY OUR ALBUM, WE'RE TOURING NEXT WEEK 

xoxo pete"""

I think there would be something so gut wrenching about loving someone through the most difficult conditions (touring, time difference, long distance, you're both severely mentally ill) and getting to talk about everything except for the love of your life. Especially for someone like Pete who just wore everything on his sleeve for the longest time. 

It's like, "yeah you are quite possibly the person I'm going to die next to but also Wikipedia thinks I'm single and the daily mail thinks I am dating Avril Levine". 

I'm not smart enough to interpret how something like that would also change FOB's discography, but I just know we would have some sort of song that's absolutely gut wrenching and is Pete pouring all of his love and longing for mister Micheal Romance into lyrics since he can't blog about it.

[trustrage]

I snooped through @valorsworn's blog and stole this.

𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓  ,  𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓  𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆!

name :   mango

nickname :    sometimes I go by Sal. I've also had other aliases like Mello and I kinda miss that one but I like Mango more.

age :      31

faceclaim :    none.

pronouns :     she/her

height :    5′5-6 ish??

birthday :    april 22nd

aesthetics :   halloween, pumpkins, autumn leaves, sometimes florals, I love teal, burgundy, and purple. I like gothic aesthetics and spooky things; ghosts, black clothes, witchy things.

favorite  muse  you’ve  written :    lo/ki, my oc morgan, leon kennedy, my oc michael statten, henry fitzroy

what  inspired  you  to  take  on  your  current  muse(s) :    I love him dearly, more than air , sometimes more than life itself. I adore him to the very bone. Sometimes love isn't a strong enough word.

what  are  your  favorite  aspects  of  your  current  muse(s) : the familial issues (cause same), the complexity of him, the tragedy of him, the poetic way he speaks, the way he carries himself, the moral ambiguity of him, his playfulness, his high cheek bones, his blue eyes, his aesthetic, his whole vibe. all of him.

what’s  your  biggest  inspiration  when  it  comes  to  writing : watching the films, listening to songs that remind me of him (which are far too few imo I need more), tom ofc, the fact I just adore loki in general.

favorite  types  of  threads :    honestly I am not sure. rn I want threads where he's stuck in jotun form, sometimes I want to explore child loki, other times I want to expand on his dynamic with the avengers past the first film, and of course all the family drama and struggles and stuff with thor.

biggest  struggle  in  regards  to  your  current  muse(s) :   so so many. I don't always understand him so that makes it difficult. his motivations can be really vague. also the way he speaks is not easy to write. It has to be this sweet balance of modern english and something more vaguely historical and lofty. he must sound like an ancient being, an actual god, he has to sound shakespearean but not so pretentious and unmodern that he starts using thee and thou.

tagged: @agentsofshield @agntwells @agentsterling @asgardianhammer and anyone else.

[livwritesstuff]

I need to know how you chose the names for steddies kids bc they are 👌 perf

hello can I just say that I've been dying to be asked about this bc literally it was borderline detective work on my part istg and I'd love to share the thought process.

Moe's name was the easiest for me to decide. I was already using Maureen as Eddie's mom's name (and believe it or not I really wasn't planning on this series turning into a kid-fic but here we are). A bit later I learned that my younger cousin has a friend named Maureen who goes by Moe and I just thought there was something very Steddie about that. I felt like Steve would adore the name Lucy the second he heard it, and Lucy Maureen flows well so I went with it.

Like with Moe, I already had the middle names for the younger two (Robin and James) picked out early on. Their first names were way harder bc I had to get analytical about what names Steve/Eddie would be likely to like and choose given that they liked and chose Lucy.

(Major thanks to the social security baby name records because you can narrow the stats down by state woop woop)

According to my research, Lucy ranked #306 in MA the year she was born (2001), seeing its previous peak in the late 1800s before slowly falling off – so a relatively unpopular name that they would have jumped on right before a rapid gain in popularity (it was #48 in 2022 – 2023 list hasn't been released yet). As was discussed in ch. 1 of plant a seed, Lucy is also somewhat of a compromise between Eddie's suggestion of Luciana (very Shakespearean) and Steve's desire for their kids to have "normal" names.

SO – whether Steve and Eddie know it or not, their tastes combine into:

old, uncommon names that are about to see a resurgence and are also vague diminutives of names seen in classic lit

From here, my search began.

Amelia's name was absolutely the most difficult for me to figure out by a landslide. She was originally Eleanor, which I liked but didn't love. Then she spent the entire first draft of Plant a Seed as Madeline, but I really didn't like the flow of Madeline Robin (and I see Steve as someone who absolutely full-names his kids when they're acting out so that was definitely something I considered). From there I landed on Amelia.

Amelia ranked #111 in 2003, so it was a little more mainstream than Lucy (which is part of why I didn't just go with it from the start tbh but that's just me being nit-picky). It has links to Evangeline, which Ed would have adored and Steve would have thought was too dramatic. Amelia would have been a solid compromise, and I think Amelia Robin flows really nicely.

As for Hazel, it just seems to me like a name Steve and Eddie would hear and immediately both like, especially paired with James. Hazel was ranked #467 in 2006 and over the next decade, its popularity increased exponentially. It's now regularly within the top 50 names in the US.

And then, after all that work, they go by nicknames 🙃

[eclipsedrawsthings]

Alrighty I finished so let me just type my nerdy analysis through my tears

First off, I went in knowing this was a tragedy (unlike my poor partner, who got smacked over the head with the ending), and this granted me the ability to See The Foreshadowing. Man this show uses the structure of tragedies well.

We are entering the nerd zone. Final warning. I am about to bring up Shakespeare.

In Romeo and Juliet, there’s a specific tipping point that changes the play from a comedy (in the Shakespearean sense) to a tragedy—Mercutio’s death about halfway through act three. After Mercutio dies, there’s no hope for a happy ending; the dominos are in motion and there’s no way to stop it.

Shorter is Mercutio. After he dies, there’s no way to have a happy ending. Heck, he even dies at about the same point in the story—roughly halfway through!

Speaking of Shorter’s death, it’s a perfect example of a tragic scene: one small change could have changed the outcome, but there’s no way of knowing of it would be for the better or for the worse. What would’ve happened if Ash had shot him in the arm or the shoulder, instead of the heart? Maybe it would have stopped him, at least long enough for another solution to come to light, but maybe it wouldn’t have! Maybe he would’ve grabbed the knife in his other hand and killed Eiji—Ash only had one bullet. Maybe the outcome we got, as heartbreaking as it was, was the best possible outcome!

I can’t stop turning the scene in my head, tugging on all the threads to see if anything could have been different, but at the same time… Shorter was already dead the moment he got dosed with Banana Fish. (Another very well-done scene by the way—extremely visceral, especially for someone like me who’s squicked out by needles.)

Moving on from Shorter, Ash and Eiji’s relationship is done fantastically. It’s so easy to imagine them together and happy a few years down the line, partly because they already seem like they’ve been together for years. I love all of the scenes of their morning banter—they’re so full of this feeling of “I love this person so much but goddammit do they know exactly how to get on my nerves” that I love in fictional couples because it’s so real. It’s Han Solo and Princess Leia, it’s Miracle Max and Valerie, it’s my mom and my dad.

And I love the way Ash grows as a character, and how it ties into his relationship with Eiji. Just—the way Eiji meets Ash at his lowest and sees something in him worth loving, which in turn makes Ash want to prove him right—it’s the way loving and being loved by someone makes you want to be better, so you can be the person they see when they look at you.

And the fact that they work so well together makes the ending hurt all the worse. If you’ll excuse my quoting The Princess Bride: “You truly love each other, so you might have been truly happy. Not one couple in a century has that chance.”

Switching gears to the art style—there was something about it that was tugging on my brain, and about four episodes in I realized what it was: stylistically, it looks vintage. If you slapped a noise filter over it and maybe changed how the eyes are rendered, Banana Fish would look like it came from the same era as AKIRA. Based on my vary vague knowledge of AKIRA (I read the first volume of the manga, didn’t particularly like it and understood very little of what was going on 😅) I have to wonder if that was deliberate, since my vague understanding is that AKIRA’s plot also involves shadowy organizations and super soldier drugs.

Not really sure how to end this ramble… basically my thesis statement is that this show hurts you by coming so close to a happy ending that was never actually in reach. Also, as cool as the art style is, it makes it a pain for me personally to try and draw these characters, since my own style is very different XD

Peace out, I’m gonna try and stop crying before I have to leave for work ✌️

[musicboxmemories]

20 questions for fic writers

tagged by @viola-ophelia <3 Thank you!

1. How many works do you have on AO3? 58 on my primary page, 38 on my trash page, and 5 on my catch-all.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count? LOL if you think I'm going to add up the word count of 101 total fics, you're crazy! So instead, I'll just say my longest fic on my primary page is 96,771, my trash page is 34,787, and my catch-all is 11,722, for a total of 143,280. So with that being for just three fics, I shudder to think what my actual word count is for 101 fics lol.

3. What fandoms do you write for? Lately, TURN: Washington's Spies, though past fandoms have been H.annibal, E.mma 2020, and The M.agicians, to name a few.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos? I'm just going to stick to my main page for this:

Wake-up Call (From D.usk till D.awn: the Series) (438)

Changing Winds (S.tranger T.hings) (384)

Lost in the Dark (S.tranger Things) (284)

Anyone But You (That 70s Show) (265)

To Thaw and Burst into Bloom (S.tranger Things) (235)

^^The funny thing is, none of these were fandoms I was overly into/participated in much, but they're way more popular than my favored fandoms, which is why none of what I'm TRULY proud of is listed in my top kudos ranking. Ah well.

5. Do you respond to comments? I do! In the past, I've always made friends through reviews/reviewing, so I always respond to comments and leave comments on works I've enjoyed. :) I really wish engagement/fic friendships were more encouraged these days.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Uhh, probably Folie a Deux (H.annibal) or To K.iss, to Consume (Turn). OH, and Let the Weary Rest (Turn), where I killed off Ben lol.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? After 2020, pretty much all of my fics had happy endings. The World is Made Wrong made me happiest though, I'd say.

8. Do you get hate on fics? I'd rather not jinx myself, but I haven't since I was a kiddo! And that hate was deserved tbh, cuz they were just telling me I wrote xyz wrong since I was a child/didn't bother to research.

9. Do you write s.mut? *gestures vaguely at my trash page* Uh. Yeah. lol I don't really have a specific type I write, beyond M/F, if that's what you're asking -- the specific scenarios are typically a case-by-case basis.

10. Do you write crossovers? I used to write quite a few! Nowadays, I save that more for things like RP and edits, though I do still enjoy them. Sometimes, crossovers work better than canon, I said what I said.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? I have! But I was like 13 at the time, and the person posted it in the same ship/fandom, so Idk what their plan was lol. Fortunately, they deleted it the day I reviewed.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? Yes! A few times, actually (all for the H.annibal fandom).

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? Sure have! They're all RP-turned-fics though, cuz I've never actually asked someone to write something who wasn't an RPer themselves.

14. What’s your all-time favorite ship? Probably David/Maddie from Moonlighting. They're timeless! <3

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? I suppose my time travel romcom. It's basically me rewriting a book I've already created, but altering it for the Turn universe. Even though it's fun, it's kind of boring repurposing my old work, and most especially when there's so little engagement. I flourish on comments, alas. Other than that, I mostly tend to finish my works!

16. What are your writing strengths? An editor once told me my strengths are my dialogue and humor. She equated the first 20 pages of my book (a recent work) to a Shakespearean comedy, which really tickled me, ngl.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? World-building! I've improved with this by a lot, but I genuinely do think fic writers are conditioned to stop describing settings/appearance thanks to our audiences already KNOWING, and thus, our OG works suffer for it. Mine certainly do!

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? I wouldn't do it personally, since I doubt it'd translate well, but I encourage others to do it! I'll still read!

19. First fandom you wrote for? C.owboy B.ebop.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written? Probably The World is Made Wrong, since I've since reworked it and I'm still very proud of how that second run-through turned out (not the one available on AO3 -- that version is in all its heinous first draft glory lol).

Tagging: @retrograderesemblance @pagetreader @ms-march @culper-spymaster and whoever else wants to!

[rainbows-but-the-gay-kind]

fucks me up that i've not instead of i have not is grammatically correct. theres something vaguely shakespearean about it. such is the beauty of common english.

[magratpudifoot]

Finished 6 October 2024:

The Two Gentleman of Verona - William Shakespeare

My new-to-me Shakespeare reading process is pretty involved*, so I haven't been able to do it properly in the last five years of moving and having all my books in storage. But I mostly have my books back and have set a goal for myself to read all the plays I haven't before by April 2026, so we're starting at the beginning of my Shakespeare TBR list.

I did actually read this play in my undergrad class, but that was at least 15 years ago, and the class was awful. I honestly think if it had been the same professor with the three of us who paid attention and maybe a couple of grad students, it would have been really good, but it was a 3 hr Monday night class, and EVERY SINGLE SESSION he would have to explain what having horns on one's head meant. One time I took pity on him and raised my hand to say, "I think it's interesting that all of Feste's songs are really morbid." And he latched onto it in a way that I wasn't quite expecting: "YES! Tell me more!!" Alas, this was YEARS before I actually took this on as a personal research interest, so I was not at all expecting to suddenly be the focus of the class--this was the first time the whole semester anyone actually volunteered an opinion--so I let the poor guy down with "I don't know...I just thought it was interesting..."

Anyway, yes, I know I read this in that class because my copy of the text had annotations in my handwriting, in the type of ink I used to prefer before it became impossible to find**. But I had ZERO memory of any part of the play, except a vague sense that I must have been really excited to Know Something about the story from dramatis personae because I read a lot of Greek mythology as a kid. (I was actually in another class that same semester where we would have been reading Ovid's Metamorphosis right around the same time, but I think it was probably the Hercules Animated Series that taught me what to expect from Proteus. Or Young Hercules. It may have been Young Hercules.)

So, sure, I read this play before, allegedly, but I am treating it as one I hadn't read. And if you know anything about Shakespeare's body of work, it's probably no surprise that my main takeaway this time was "Okay, yeah, I get why no one has even really tried to bring this one back." I think there were good ideas, interesting impulses, and I spent a lot of time thinking about The Importance of Being Earnest, but I'm not sure that there is any satisfactory way to stage the final act, or any way to stage it without the final act and still call it the same play.

It should surprise no one that Speed and Silvia are my favorites. It is perhaps shocking that Posthumus is still my most hated Shakespearean male love interest when Proteus and Valentine are both right there. If I were to write fix it fic, I'm not sure if I would have Julia stay in Verona with Lucetta (who she instructed to make her clothes that she thinks she would look best in, don't think I didn't read too much into THAT), or have her and Silvia return to Milan together and leave everyone else in the forrest.

* I read from the Norton Shakespeare while listening to Arkangel recordings, and then follow up with the entries in Asimov's Guide to Shakespeare and Harold Bloom's Shakespeare and the Invention of the Human--not because I particularly trust either of them as Shakespeare scholars, but because I find arguing with others about what does and does not work for me in classic literature helps me process, and there's no one better for arguing with than Bloom. Of COURSE he likes Launce. OF COURSE. I hope Will Kempe does a little jig every time Bloom sits down to write. I used to also supplement my Shakespeare reads with Dr. Johnson's notes, but I cannot find my copy now and am not sure it wasn't a casualty of Moldpocalypse. I am going to go out to the storage closet again one of these days and see again if I can find it, because that historical midpoint commentary is excellent to have.

** The shitty blue Bic pens with the "comfort grips" and the hollow plastic tubes and the ink that kind of smelled like you should ventilate the room probably.